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Arthur Morgan has borne witness to many things.
Sights that have torn holes in his heart and wrenched at his guts.
Sights that have horrified him. Shaken him to his very sinews, leaving him frozen in shock and his fingers trembling against a trigger that feels immovable, heavy with the weight of what lies before him.
Then, there have been the strange sights - so curious and sometimes even downright spooky - that even years later, they nibble at the back of his mind and illicit uncomfortable chills on the too-quiet nights.
He has also seen beautiful things - many of which he has attempted to capture with graphite on paper in the hopes that he’ll continue to remember that there still beautiful things in this world.
And shit, he will most certainly attempt to capture this moment in his journal later…
Arthur can confidently say that he has never been privy a more striking sight than Charles Smith right now, his face dressed magnificently in a veil of viscera. Blood and brain matter are strewn about, though Arthur's gaze remain fixed of Charles, a deep curl of arousal rearing inside of him.
Angrier than Arthur has ever seen him, Charles’ eyes are alight with a righteous fury.
Arthur is self-aware enough to admit that he’s a dumbass. But he's not too stupid to grasp that these poachers represent an insult far greater to Charles than simply wasting the lives of a handful of bison. Though he knows in his bones that he’ll never be able to fully understand the outrage Charles must be feeling.
But he tries.
Because Charles deserves for someone to try to understand him.
After everything they’d spoken of throughout the morning, Arthur feels compelled to honor what Charles had been willing to share with him - about his mother, her people, their culture.
Charles’ hands are unnaturally still as they clutch his sawed-off shotgun, end of the barrel still smoking from the buckshot that left it moments ago and whose spray is now partially embedded in the rock-face behind where the poacher’s head used to be attached to his body.
His breath is heavy, deep and measured. Upper lip curled and quivering, it's the only feature that betrays Charles’ unsteadiness.
He turns his gaze to the remaining poacher and points his gun towards him.
The man scrambles frantically backwards, trying to put as much space between him and this beautiful, snarling Rapture-Incarnate.
Charles thunders, “It’s that business of mine!”
The man's mouth is agape as he stares at the battered remains of his companion. His lips flop open and closed, useless, until his mind seems to catch up with him, at last. Unwisely, the first thing out of the bastard's mouth is an insult. “G-goddamn, you’re crazy!” he shouts, pointing a shaking finger up at Charles.
It takes Charles moving to circle him like a cougar before the man realizes his error and attempts a different tactic.
“L-look, I g-gotta family!” he implores. “A family,” he repeats, his voice cracking. "You wouldn’t shoot a fella with a family, would you?"
“Christ…” Arthur mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes.
But it’s time for business. And Arthur is more than happy to call forth his fangs and claws on behalf of Charles Smith.
“You put on quite the show, don't ya? Heh...tryin’ to appeal to my better nature? Is that it?” Arthur snorts - it’s a mocking, ugly thing. “That’s funny, partner..." he says, lowering his voice to practically a growl, feeling it reverberate through his ribs as he curls his lip over one of his canines. "'Cause I ain’t got no ‘better nature’.”
The poacher swallows thickly, and Arthur enjoys watching his Adam’s Apple bob below the line of his wiry, clipped beard.
Arthur claps a hand on Charles’ shoulder and chuckles darkly. “Don’t worry, Charles,” he assures, moving past to stand over the poacher. He stops, smiling wickedly down at the man, eyes alight with the prospect of vengance. “I’ll get you some answers…”
The poacher’s eyes widen and before he can stammer another plea for mercy, Arthur kicks him in the jaw, causing his neck to snap backwards and the back of his head to slam against the rocky terrain. It stuns him enough that all he can do is moan and grasp at his head as he attempts to regain his bearings.
Arthur takes advantage of the poacher’s unsteadiness and sinks to his knees, legs bracketing the man’s flanks. He leans over and snarls before punching the side of his face.
Arthur’s beaten enough men bloody that he can tell he’s broken the man’s eye socket just by the faint crack he hears when his knuckles make contact.
Good.
Satisfying.
“Why’re you killin’ those bison and leavin’ ‘em to rot?” he demands, hitting the man again.
The man swears and lets out a defiant grunt. “I don’t know what yer talkin’ about!”
Arthur backhands him. He can feel the side of his jaw loosen sickly, like it’s been dislocated.
“Goddammit!” he roars. “Tell us, you piece of shit! Tell us, or I'll make sure you die on this damn hillside.”
Another punch.
Another.
Arthur’s knuckles come back warm, dripping with the man’s blood. It adds to the heat growing in his lower-belly, incited by the thrill of violence he knows is gangrenous to his soul.
And yet, in this moment - when he can feel Charles’ eyes boring into his back as he’s bent over his prey, snarling like a rabid coyote - he revels in it. Revels in the blackened rot. In his ability to hone it like a weapon and use it to strike at the behest of those who matter to him.
“Okay, okay!” the poacher screams, relenting after Arthur hits him once more. The blood on his knuckles has smeared across the man's face, connecting the growing multitude of liquid scarlet flecks and splotches that tickle his nose with their iron scent. The poacher holds his hands up in surrender and coughs wetly before speaking. “W-we were told to kill as many as we could. To…”
He hesitates, glancing towards Charles before quickly looking towards the ground, as if afraid to say anything further.
Arthur scowls and shakes him so hard he hears the man’s teeth knock together - something he’s sure is wholly unpleasant, considering the man’s dislocated jaw. The subsequent pained wheeze through gritted teeth confirms this, much to Arthur's satisfaction.
“Keep talkin’,” he demands lowly.
“We was m-meant to make it look like it was Indians!”
Arthur’s blood runs cold.
Goddamn piece of shit.
“Who gave you the orders?” Charles asks, voice tight like a guitar string, pulled taught enough to snap at any moment.
The poacher frowns, but remains silent.
“My friend here asked you a question. Think it’d be in your best interest to answer him,” Arthur warns, leaning closer to the man’s face. He twists his expression into one very familiar to him - one that has made some men piss their pants. It feels good - good to put his monstrous nature to what feels like a more productive use.
Like getting Charles Smith some goddamn answers.
The poacher swallows and, despite his battered state, manages to shake his head. “C-can’t say.”
Arthur leans back and arches an eyebrow high. “Oh?” He barks a laugh. “And here I thought you didn’t wanna die.” He clicks his tongue and sighs. “Must not wanna live that badly, then. Say 'hi' to your friend in Hell for me - if you can recognize him in all that mess, that is,” he adds, chuckling and jutting his chin towards the splattered gore of the other poacher's brains.
The man beneath him remains tight-lipped, and Arthur sighs. One of his hands goes to grasp the man’s wrists and hold them against the ground above his head, while the other goes for his throat.
“Guess you’re useless,” he continues, “And I ain’t got no need for useless men. Or cowards. And you’re about to die like the goddamn coward you are.” Arthur squeezes, feeling the poacher’s pulse quicken.
The man splutters. “W-wait!”
“Just kill him, Arthur,” Charles says venomously, coming to stand beside where he’s still crouched over the poacher. “He doesn’t deserve to live.”
The man’s eyes bulge from his skull in terror. “N-no! Please, please don’t kill me! I’m begging you!”
“Then answer me, you fool!”
“T-the army!”
Arthur’s fingers still against the man's grimy flesh, slippery with the sweat of mortal fear.
“The army?” Charles echoes.
“Yeah, they’ve got plans for s-some tribe,” he explains. “Don’t know anythin’ beyond that, I swear. We were hired to do the job and not ask questions.” His eyes are wet with tears as he looks back to Arthur, whose hand has not moved from around his windpipe. “P-please…don’t kill me.”
“Pathetic,” Charles hisses. “Kill him, Arthur.”
Arthur lets out a shaky breath. He's happy to acquiesce to Charles' wishes, but he can't help asking, “What if they send more?”
He hears Charles hum behind him. Even, contemplative. After a moment, Charles answers, “One terrified poacher won't call off an army, no matter how good we scare him. Even if we let him live, they’ll still send more." In his peripheral, Arthur sees him shake his head. "No, it won't matter. End this, now.”
Arthur’s fingers flex tighter.
The corners of his lips quirk upwards in a smirk. “Y’hear that? Sounds like you just outlasted you’re usefulness, partner.”
His other hand releases the poacher’s wrists and comes to join the other around his throat. He squeezes and the man chokes beneath him, bucking upwards into his hips amidst his frantic struggle for air.
“No!" he gargles, "I told you all I know! Please! Ple-“
The poacher’s scrambling and pleading is cut off swiftly by the sickening snap of his neck. It sends a jolt through Arthur, as it always does when he ends a man’s life with his bare hands. A sickening mixture of the tingle of an adrenaline come-down, curdling shame, and a warped wave of satisfaction.
He wishes he wasn't so accustomed to the feeling, but it's merely another sin to add to the long list of misery he's caused.
But this? This is one he would do again. Twenty times over again, in fact.
After all, it was Charles who asked it of him.
Breathing heavily, he rises to his feet, steps away from the dead man, and turns to face Charles.
He’s staring at the poacher, expression stoic. Though his eyes betray the fire still raging within him. They flick towards Arthur.
“You killed him.” There's no inflection, but Arthur's godforsaken brain can't help but warp it into an accusation.
Arthur shrugs and clears his throat. “You asked me to.”
Charles huffs, a phantom whisper of what could be a laugh, in lighter circumstances. “I asked, huh?" His tone still betrays nothing of what might be going on in his mind. "It's as simple as that?”
Arthur shrugs again and, suddenly feeling oddly unworthy of even meeting Charles' gaze, distracts himself by rifling through his satchel. He pulls out his bandana and begins to wipe what he can of the drying blood off his knuckles. “Sure," he says, eventually licking the cotton to help with a stubborn spot. "Rotten bastard, killin’ all those creatures. Tryin’ to make your people look bad…” He sighs and shakes his head. "It ain't right."
His guts churn, worried he’d made the wrong call. Worried that Charles’ gaze on him throughout the kill carried judgment, not encouragement.
Arthur swallows, suddenly feeling every bit the brute he’s become over the years. And yet, better him than Charles. Charles didn't need to dirty his hands with that work. Arthur was more than happy to do the ugly thing while Charles looked on and gave the orders.
“Thank you," comes Charles' voice, unexpected.
He looks up at Charles, brows furrowed deeply, rottenness temporarily forgotten in lieu of confusion.
“The hell you thankin’ me for?”
Charles takes a step closer.
“You understood.”
Arthur snorts and stuffs the bandana back in his satchel before crossing his arms against his chest. “I’m dumb as rocks, Charles. Ain’t no way I understand how you’re feelin’ about all this shit. Frankly, I ain’t even gonna pretend I can - that’s somethin’ personal to you.” He chews the inside of his cheek, glancing down to the gore beneath their feet. “All I can do is kill. And I took pleasure in killin' a rotten bastard like that. 'Specially considerin' you requested it.”
Time passes silently, each of them still long enough for a passing cloud to block out the sun. There’s a rustling of cloth and Arthur stiffens when he feels the unexpected weight and warmth of a firm hand grip his bicep.
Charles is staring at him intensely, though the fire in his eyes has dulled to smouldering embers. He shakes his head. “You still made an effort to understand. That’s more than enough. More than most do.” His voice is little more than a murmur, but it’s clear and biting in what little space remains between them. “So, again, thank you.”
Arthur finds his tongue suddenly too big for his mouth and all he can do is nod.
“’Course.”
Charles nods back. His hand squeezes before dropping from Arthur’s arm.
The heat returns in Arthur’s belly, curling languidly, cresting as he watches Charles turn away. He curses himself, getting worked up over such a little bit of contact. He breathes, trying to quell the want that threatens the corners of his mind.
“I’ve seen enough of this mess,” Charles calls over his shoulder on his way over to Taima. “See you back at camp, I guess.”
“Or we could head to Valentine,” Arthur offers, unable to strangle the words before they clamor out from his throat.
Pathetic fool.
Charles, hoisting himself up onto the saddle, pauses and looks over his shoulder. “Valentine?”
Arthur shrugs. “Been a shit day for both of us. I’d understand if you just want some quiet, but…I’ll buy you a whiskey, if you don’t wanna head back to camp just yet." He sighs heavily and scrubs the back of his neck. "I ain't to keen to go back yet, neither. But the sound of wanderin' around and settin' up shelter right now also don't sound too appealin'.”
Charles resumes his motions, situating himself in his saddle. He pats Taima’s neck, thinking.
Arthur’s breathing grows shallow as he waits for a response.
“Alright,” Charles finally says.
Arthur snickers, relief and excitement washing over him. “That easy? Color me surprised, Mister Smith.”
Charles shrugs. “You said you were buyin'. And besides, a drink with you is probably gonna be less annoying than being back at camp with everyone else.”
“Sounds like I’m the best of a bad situation, then,” he jokes.
Charles’ lips twitch. If it were a lighter moment, Arthur swears it would’ve become a full-on smirk. But he drinks in what he can of it - of Charles’ slight amusement, despite the heaviness of their surroundings.
“Something like that,” Charles replies. “One drink, though.”
Pleased with even that, Arthur gives a two-finger salute. “Fine by me. I’m gonna see what’s of use around here and then I’ll be right behind you.”
“Fine by me,” Charles echos.
Arthur watches as he departs before getting to work searching through the camp, all the while his skin tingling and chest tightening with every thought spared toward his new evening plans.