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It really was better this way. He reminded himself of that over and again in answer to the throbbing of his skull. It was better this way.
This way, he was the only one who had to suffer, and he wasn’t even suffering all that bad so really, truly, this was fine. This way, folks wouldn’t be on his ass all damn day asking after him, checking to see if he was up yet to do them favors, scolding him for taking naps… And besides, a little cold like this tended to rip its way through camp like a wildfire burning dried summer scrubs. If one of them got sick, the rest of them did too and not everyone handled illness as well as he did. This way was better. It definitely was.
Even though the very last place he wanted to be right now was on the back of a goddamned horse.
Scout swayed beneath him, gentle as ever, winding through the trees of… somewhere. Arthur had lost track sometime after the last river crossing. He knew it couldn’t be too long ago, he still felt damp from the splashing of the current, but after a while his mind seemed to numb and all these damn trees looked the same.
And every step of the beast beneath him was another nail driven into his aching head.
He just had to get somewhere quiet; someplace far enough from camp that nobody would find him before he was back on his feet again— or well enough to fake it. Some place he could ride out this fever in peace and quiet and let his body heal itself a bit. He’d be back in a few days with arms full of fresh game and supplies and nobody would be any the wiser.
He’d be sure to clean the drying vomit stains from Scout’s hide too.
Arthur’s hands gripped tighter around the reins. He bowed his head, tipping his hat low enough to fend off the beating sun. That bastard was definitely brighter than usual and in some odd way it felt nearly spiteful.
He let Scout carry him, absolutely certain that the horse knew where he was going better than Arthur did.
As the horse walked, Arthur absentmindedly fumbled through his saddlebags looking for— for something. For something he was sure he packed, so it was definitely there, but he couldn’t quite place what. He was pretty sure he didn’t need it yet anyhow; he could get it, whatever it was, when he got wherever he was going, which… should be soon, probably. Arthur squinted at the sun, hoping to judge the time, but that bastard was definitely brighter than usual and in some odd way it felt nearly spiteful.
Arthur’s hands gripped tight around the reins. He dipped his head to ward off the sun. Spiteful. Bastard. Bright. Need— he— he had to find something, but he wasn’t sure what. Arthur absentmindedly fumbled through his saddlebags looking for— for whatever it was, because he definitely packed it but it was too damn bright to open his eyes and—
And then it wasn’t.
Arthur took a deep, rattling breath as the world slowly filtered in around him, dim and cool. He was… somewhere. Inside. Laid out on a cot with a thin blanket tucked tightly around him and a cool rag draped over his head. His mouth tasted foul or too-strong herbs and bitter medicine, but oddly enough his head was quieter. Quiet enough, at least, that he could hear his own thoughts.
His body ached now, the tell-tale pains of a man who had thrown up too much for his own damn good. He groaned quietly, hoping to muster the strength to sit up and take a better look around, but failed miserably.
“Think you ought to stay in bed,” came a gentle warning from just beyond Arthur’s sight. Usually he’d be confused, alarmed even, but this time he simply couldn’t find it in him. And that voice was awfully nice. He squeezed his eyes shut, only opening them again when a hand found the back of his head and lifted him slightly off the pillow, drawing a cool metal cup to his cracked lips.
“Charles?” he asked, staring the man dead in the face, tracing each of his features but still entirely unsure.
“Drink,” Charles commanded, “It’s good for you.”
Arthur hazarded a sip, immediately choked by the sticky, pulpy mixture within. Obediently he drank; either a testament to how absolutely shitty he felt or a holdover from the times he refused medicine from Hosea and ended up pinned to the cot and having the stuff shoved down his throat anyhow.
“What…” Arthur croaked between scant swallows, “What..?”
“You’re sick,” Charles hummed, and if Arthur didn’t know any better he’d think the bastard sounded amused, “I noticed you seemed a bit off before you left. Hosea had me track you down. I found you out of your mind in the woods— he warned me that might happen.”
“And did you….” Arthur squeezed his eyes shut again, stifling an awkward cough, “You… undress me?”
“You did that yourself. You’re just lucky I’m the one who found you; I doubt anyone else would have been as forgiving, seeing you naked as a jaybird and threatening murder.”
“Christ, I’m… sorry.”
Charles withdrew the bitter medicine, replacing it instead with blessedly sweet water. Arthur wanted more than anything to gulp it down; to somehow relieve the itch in his throat, but Charles held firm, only allowing sips before taking that away too.
“Why’d you leave?” Charles asked, “We have medicine in camp. Could have avoided all of this.”
Arthur let his head fall hard against the pillow, hating how it rattled his teeth, “Couldn’t… I… Didn't want 'em to... worry... and...”
His words slowed; his thoughts dragged as if through honey. He felt his entire body sink deeper and deeper into the bed beneath him, Charles’ hand on his forehead as if pushing him all the further down.
“M’... Okay,” Arthur muttered.
And all he knew before he was swallowed anew by sleep was Charles gently sweeping his hair from his face.
_____________
When he woke up he was alone and wasn’t sure why that was so upsetting. After all he’d… he was supposed to be alone, wasn’t he? Arthur sat up from the bed, blinking his eyes against the hard morning light.
He was in a small cabin, likely abandoned though he didn’t recognize it. There wasn’t any sign that anyone else had been there, save for the strangest glimpses of memory that flashed by like falling stars. He couldn’t grab hold of any one of them; they were just as likely to be feverish dreams anyhow.
Arthur dressed himself slowly, hating how his muscles creaked and ached and his head, though miles better than it had been, felt like it was full of gravel. He carefully gathered his things, taking quick stock of himself before setting back to camp.
Everything was as he left it. He dropped a pair of rabbits and a deer at Pearson’s table, waiting for someone to ask where he’d been, or what had happened, or why he looked so foul, but nobody did. They merely cast him sidelong glances, their questions unspoken but heavy in the air.
Already, he was set upon by Dutch, calling out orders across the camp, reminders of the things Arthur hadn’t gotten to yet, and Grimshaw hounding him, reminding him of just how dismal he looked. Arthur waved them both off with grumbled promises and reassurances. He just needed a moment.
Arthur stumbled to his tent, exhausted, and sat on his bed, refusing to let himself relax too much. He just needed to sit. To breathe. To give his aching bones a rest.
“Back already?”
Charles stood in the entrance of his tent; Arthur stared at him for a moment, unsure exactly why his breath caught slightly or his chest ached so horribly.
“I’m… yeah. Sorry for uh… leaving so suddenly. Something came up and… I know I said I’d go hunting with you but I just… I got a few things to do beforehand so—”
Charles’ face melted into an awfully gentle smile, “No worries. You get your rest, Arthur.”
And oddly enough, though his mind was full of tasks and needs, Arthur did.