Chapter Text
The air north of Mount Hagen was crisp and as harsh as the mountainous terrain. The persistent, dry winds cut through the many layers of clothing that Charles Smith wore. It needled at his cheeks and nose, ached at his fingers. He blew breath into his hands, a feeble attempt to warm his gloved digits. Unfortunately, the unforgiving environment wouldn’t let up its cloying hold on him, and it was only getting worse by the minute. He knew he’d need to find shelter sooner rather than later, but he was pushing it off for as long as he could.
Taima let out a whinny and a huff, pawing at the snow and dipping her head repeatedly as if to remind Charles that she was, in fact, standing in a three-foot snowbank. He absentmindedly stroked her neck while scanning the area. They were stopped along Spider Gorge, where Charles had spotted some tracks. On the other side of the bank, he could see more tracks that led to a spattering of blood in the snow. Someone had been hunting here, and it couldn’t have been longer than half a day ago, judging by the amount of snowfall.
Charles gave Taima a gentle spur, following the tracks. He had a feeling he knew where they were going to lead, but he figured he might as well follow the tracks while he still could; the snow was starting to come down, covering the hoofprints, and it seemed that visibility wasn’t improving anytime soon.
Sure enough, Charles’ gut was right. He was led straight to Colter. The rotted buildings of the old settlement stooped in the snow like dead trees in a swamp, an empty husk of what the mining town used to be. A column of smoke filtered out of one of the building’s chimneys. Charles could see light peaking through the closed shutters of the abandoned homestead. He knew he was in the right place. Still, he made an effort to stay undetected. A muffled noise of distress caught his attention from the stables, and he fully intended to investigate the sound before entering the occupied building.
He slid off Taima, led her to the stable doors. He paused, holding his breath, listening to what sounded like washed-out sobs. He pushed the stable doors open a crack and peeked in.
The pearlescent coat of Reba, Arthur Morgan’s Andalusian horse, was immediately visible in the darkness. But she didn’t seem necessarily agitated. In any case, she wasn’t a horse with a poor demeanor – she didn’t upset too easily, even if she was a spoilt, picky girl. No… something else in the stables was letting out those pitiful moans.
Or… someone else, as Charles quickly realized.
A man, sat in a crumpled heap in one of the stalls, stared at Charles with wide, pleading eyes. He wore nothing but overalls and an old pair of boots that seemed far too large to even be his. Likely, they were taken off some poor feller that made a wrong move. It’d keep his toes connected to his feet for the time being, at least.
“Halph me,” the man tried to beg around an old rag that had been turned into a makeshift gag, “’am ‘eggin’ you.”
Charles said nothing. He hitched Taima in the remaining stall, looking the man up and down all the while. Whoever this was, he must’ve done something real stupid. His left eye was blackened, his nose and chin covered in old, dried blood. His hands were tied behind his back to the post he sat in front of, his ankles were tied together tightly. His skin had gone pallid from the cold, his circulation failing him in the harsh weather. The feller was shaking, seemingly without control over it.
It was no business of Charles’. He gave Taima a carrot from his satchel before leaving the stables, getting one last look at the man, closing the stable doors, and heading for the building that housed signs of life.
The door opened and closed with a slow and mournful creak. No one was in the main room, but several cuts of venison sat on the grill over the burning logs in the fireplace. In the bedroom on the right of the fireplace, Charles could hear movement. Spurs jingling and the heel-toe footsteps of boots on rotting wood.
Arthur set his journal on the table beside the bed he’d been using. When he returned to the main room to check on his venison, he nearly jumped out of his boots.
“What the Hell--?” He’d instinctively reached for his pistol, but stopped before even unholstering it when he realized who he was looking at. “Charles? Je-suhs. The Hell are you doin’ out here?”
“Looking for you. Dutch sent me.” The answer came deadpanned. He took off his hat so he could pull his black scarf off from around his head his head, the only thing keeping his ears from catching an ache at the very least, frostbite at the worst. He shook the melting snow away from him, draped the scarf around his shoulders, taking a few steps into the room. Arthur was a little put off by the seriousness in his eyes. “Why is there a man tied up in the stables out there?”
“That? Don’t worry ‘bout it.” Arthur waved it off. He stepped around the mold-eaten chair and used the old fire poker to flip his cooking game. “Hungry? I reckon the ride might've taken it out of you.”
“Arthur.”
“I’ve got enough cookin’ for the both of us. Don’t want it going to waste, anyhow.”
“Answer the question, Arthur.”
Arthur flipped the last cut, leaned the fire poker against the cobblestone wall, and turned to look at Charles. Trying to keep a friendly but stern tone, he emphasized “Don’t. Worry. ‘bout it.”
“In all the time I’ve known you, you haven’t gone around doing this sort of thing. Not unless they’re an O’Driscoll. But I don’t reckon he is.” Charles pushed stubbornly. The bastard never flinched away from just a tone, so it wasn't entirely surprising. “So, yeah. It’s going to raise some concerns.”
“You ain’t known me for very long, Charles.”
Charles’ chin tucked back, and Arthur couldn't tell if he was insulted or just surprised at the strange statement. As neutral as ever, he said “Been nearly a year, now, Arthur. That’s long enough for me to know you ain’t actin’ right.”
Arthur huffed. He’d gone all the way to Colter to have some time to think. It wasn’t that he disliked Charles – it was quite the opposite, really. Charles was a good man, patient but forward and unkneeling. It was just that he needed somewhere to think. Somewhere Susan Grimshaw wouldn’t pester him about donations, where Sean McGuire wouldn’t boast about his below-average hunting skills, where John Marston wasn’t being a moody brat, where Dutch van der Linde wasn’t watching with a sharp eye. He thought he’d be safe in Colter. Evidentially, he didn’t take into account how talented a tracker Charles really was.
“It’s fine, Charles.” Arthur contemplatively rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “He ain’t worth the conversation. Better he’s out there than in here.” He dropped his hands. He gave Charles a “That’s all there is to it,” kind of grimace, returning his attention to the sizzling meat.
There was a pause between them. Arthur crouched in front of the fire, watching fat drip into the flames that hissed and popped in response. He was vaguely aware that Charles was kicking his boots against the old floorboards, stomping the excess snow off. He joined Arthur in front of the fireplace.
“Storm’s picking up out there,” he stated, his voice gone neutral again. “We should set out tomorrow, if we can.”
“I’ll stick around a while longer. You can head back without me.”
“Dutch sent me to bring you back to camp.”
“Well, Dutch’ll have to cope without me for just a little while longer.”
“Ain’t about needing you back at camp. It’s about making sure you get back in one piece.” Charles sat cross-legged in front of the fire, sticking his hands out to get some warmth into his fingers. “Arthur… if you need to talk about something, you know I’ll listen.”
“Not much to talk about, really.”
“We haven’t seen you at camp for over a month,” Charles pointed out baldly, a certain gravitas in his voice that compensated for the fact that he was watching the fire instead of Arthur’s face. “I find you hiding out in this Hellhole, all quiet and squirrelly, with a man trussed up in a shit-covered stable stall. I know you like to act like you’re a cold-hearted bastard, but you’re not. Something happened, and I have no place to judge anyone for it… but sharing it with someone might be more helpful than you think.”
“Nothin’ happened. Really.”
“If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. Just tell me that, don’t treat me like a fool, Arthur. I’m not stupid. Neither are you.”
Arthur chewed the inside of his cheek, shaking his head subconsciously. He didn’t want to voice what had happened in the Bayou. He didn’t want to talk about the patches of memories he had of the event. Coming to in a bed, wrists cuffed to the wall above his head, ankles shackled to the bedposts. The humiliation of having his suspenders snapped off and his pants yanked down to his knees unceremoniously, uncaring hands moving along his skin. Feeling a stranger’s hot breath on his bare neck before biting down on his shoulder and his arms, the sharp sting of tears in his eyes as he felt himself go limp under a stranger's bodyweight. Waking up in mud, hastily dressed, sore in all the wrong places.
He'd cried. Jesus, he'd sobbed. And he just let it happen. It wasn't something he wanted to talk about, not with anyone. The vulnerability of it all made him feel like some defenseless child, and that wasn’t exactly something he revelled in. If he voiced it, he'd have to confront it. He feared reliving it.
“Arthur?”
He cleared his throat and removed the meat from the grill. He passed some over to Charles, who thanked him, but didn’t drop the expectant expression. Arthur, admittedly not so gracefully, changed the subject once again. “How’d you even find me? I didn’t exactly come here straight from camp.”
“Mm. You’re a hard man to find, Arthur Morgan, but not as hard to track as you’d like to think.” Charles muttered, finally leaving Arthur off the hook for the time being. He ripped a bite out of the venison, wiping away some juices that ran down his chin. “Asked around. Not many folk see a feller with a cream perlino Andalusian on their day-to-day business. And I ran across an O’Driscoll camp on my way past Cumberland Falls.” He gave Arthur a dry look, though there seemed to be some admiration behind his eyes. “Only people I know who can get a whole camp of O’Driscolls between the eyes are you, Sadie, and John.”
Arthur scoffed. “That don’t mean much. Them boys are all dumb as trees.”
Charles shrugged in response. They finished eating in silence. It felt like it should’ve been awkward, given the circumstances, but Arthur was used to Charles’ distaste for small-talk. They’d been on many a hunting trip, scouting trip, and raid together. Enough that Arthur wasn’t intimidated by the swathes of silence between them. He kind of enjoyed it, actually. If Dutch had to send anybody to come find him, he was glad it was Charles. Anyone else would have been talking his ear off. And they spent most of the night that way, with Arthur retiring to the back room to slip into his bedroll that he’d laid out on the cot, and with Charles remaining in the main room. Arthur spent a lot of the night with his eyes closed, awake, listening to the howling wind outside, and the creaks of the cabin as it settled and shifted with the storm.
In the morning, Arthur stumbled back into the main room to pour himself a coffee. Charles had woken up before him – or maybe just hadn’t slept at all – and was busy cleaning his sawed-off shotgun. “Morning,” Charles greeted quietly without looking up from his chore.
“Morning. When are you heading out?”
“I’m not.” Charles holstered the weapon. “Dutch asked me to see to it that you got back to camp in one piece. I’ll leave when you leave.”
“Come on, Charles, I don’t think he meant it literally.”
“Maybe. But I’d also like to see to it. And I want to help with whatever needs doing to that man in the stables.”
“Pft.” Arthur downed the rest of the coffee, tucking the tin cup away in his satchel. “I ain’t even sure what needs doin’. Brought the son of a bitch out here to kill him, but that seems like too nice of an endin’ for that miserable bastard.”
“I ain’t asking what he did, Arthur, but… what is it that Dutch is always saying? ‘Revenge is a fool’s game?’”
“Yeah, well… this is different.”
“If it’s just a case of you wanting him dead,” Charles started, watching Arthur sit in the chair opposite him, “I can do it for you. If you’re not able to yourself, I mean. For whichever reason.”
Arthur sat back in the old chair. “No, no… it’s fine. I can handle it. It’s just that—” He sighed heavily. “Look. Not a word about this to anyone, okay? I mean it. Not even Dutch or Hosea.” It’s not that he didn’t trust Charles – he just knew that there’d be no end to the comments from other gang members if it got out. Especially from Bill.
“I have nothing to gain from telling anyone else your business, Arthur.” Charles pointed out plainly, though he’d dropped his voice to something a little less gruff. “No one’ll get it from me.”
Arthur nodded. He’d thought about it overnight, and figured Charles might be right; telling someone else about it might actually feel good. Well, not good – nothing about the situation felt good in any capacity. But better. He might feel better. “I, uh… I was ridin’ through the Bayou, heading into Saint Denis. It was rainin’ buckets out there, almost cool enough to be real chilly in that rain, in spite the fact it was the Goddamn Bayou. That feller called out to me and invited me in for some shelter and a meal. Figured it’d be better than payin’ for it in the city, and he seemed… nice enough. Soon as I walk in, get hit over the head with somethin’ hard, and he--… He…” Arthur searched for words and let out an irritated sigh when they alluded him. “There’s no real nice way of puttin’ it. The piece of crap… he had his way with me, chained me up while I was out.” Charles expression didn’t change to that of pity, as had been Arthur’s worry. Good. Pity wasn’t what he needed. “Like I said… he’s better out there than in here. I ain’t just gonna let him do that to more people. I know what Dutch says about revenge, and I agree, but… just don’t feel that way, in this case.”
“I see…” Charles hummed understandingly, “… fair enough, I guess. I can’t blame you.”
It did feel a little bit better, almost like a bit of guilt was lifted off his shoulders. Guilt for what, he wasn’t too sure. Guilt for being a moron? Guilt for walking into what was an obvious trap? Guilt for feeling annoyed with himself? It didn’t matter. “Thanks, Charles.”
“Don’t mention it. Just glad you’re okay. We were worried you was locked up somewhere, or—”
The sound of splintering wood, followed by a thunderous crash, interjected Charles’ words. They both nearly fell out of the chairs, scrambled to their feet, eyes wide as they looked to the source of the noise. The small storage room adjacent to where they’d been sitting was no more – where there’d once been room to walk into, there was an old, rotted out beamer, parts of the roof, and a massive pile of snow. With it came the cold from outside.
“Shiiit…!” Arthur breathed, glancing at Charles before cautiously approaching the doorway to peer out of the hole in the roof. Snow was still coming down heavy enough that Arthur could barely make out the snow-pregnant limbs of the Douglas-fir that towered over the cabin. “It’s a Goddamn blizzard out there.”
Charles sidled up next to him, following his wide-eyed gaze. He clicked his tongue. Still surveying the damage, he said “We should block out this doorway. It’s gonna to get real cold, real fast, otherwise.” He then disappeared for a few moments in the other room. When he returned, he had the musty blanket from the room that Arthur hadn’t been using. “Hook it over that nail, there.” There were a few old, rusted nails jutting out of the wood, both on the doorframe and above it. They’d probably once been used for drying herbs.
“Well…” Arthur stepped back to look at their sad attempt at keeping the heat in. “Ain’t gonna do much, but it’s better than nothin’, I guess.”
“Mhm. I’ll be right back. Gonna get my bedroll.” Charles gave Arthur a pat on the shoulder. “Don’t think we’ll be leaving any time today.”
Arthur laid down the old blanket from his cot in the main room, close enough to the fireplace that they'd keep warm, and they slept heads and tails. They both had food in their packs to last them a while. Their main concern was having enough tinder to wait out the rest of the storm. Arthur didn’t bring that much in, not really anticipating getting hit with a storm of this magnitude. The pile of chopped wood outside the cabin was mostly saturated with melted snow, and they really had to sift toward the center to find the drier wood. They brought a good armful of wood into the cabin each, laid it out in front of the fireplace to try drying it out. It was only the second day, and they were already starting to run low on what they could salvage. Problem was, they weren’t going to find any dry wood within reasonable walking distance, and they weren’t about to risk getting lost in the storm to test that out.
They were laying in their bed rolls, Arthur on his side, watching the flames dance around in the fireplace. He couldn’t see Charles’ face, but he could tell he wasn’t asleep either. “Charles,” he called softly, just in case he was wrong, “m’sorry you came all the way out here just to get stuck in a damn blizzard.”
Charles shifted slightly. “Nothing to apologize for. There’s always a chance of getting pinned down in these mountains. Better to be pinned down with someone else than stranded alone.”
“Do you reckon he’s still alive?”
“Not sure. Body heat from the horses might help, but… it’s damn cold. We’ll have to see when things die down out there.”
“Saves me the trouble, if the cold gets him. Was thinkin’ of just leavin’ him in there anyway.”
“You know somethin’? I really don’t blame you.”
They ran out of large tinder on the third day, despite trying to ration it out. They attempted to burn some of the old wooden cupboard doors that’d fallen off their hinges, but they didn’t take. Everything in the cabin was spongey and rotten, no matter how hard they tried to dry things out. Snow was starting to pile into the room from underneath the blanket they used to block out the cold, a sign that their ride home was going to be a long one for the horses.
On the fourth day, as the last of the wood logs in the fireplace smoldered, Arthur and Charles sat huddled under one of the bedrolls, wrapped up tightly in the other.
“Don’t know why I ever came back to this Goddamn place…” Arthur hissed, mostly to himself. “These mountains are a fuckin’ deathtrap. How Sadie ever managed to settle down out here, I’ll never know.”
“She’s a determined woman,” came a dull response from Charles. “Gets done what she sets her mind to. I can respect that.”
Arthur nodded. He had a lot of respect for Sadie Adler. She was a woman cut from a different cloth. She kind of reminded him of Tilly when they first found her, after having run off from Foreman’s gang. She looked like this lovely young lady, and she certainly was – but she was always running the mathematics on stealing a man’s wallet right in front of his face without him noticing. Not to mention… the girl was kind of scary when she was angry. Sadie, similarly, seemed fairly innocuous upon first meeting her – until she opened her mouth, of course. She could be chilling when she wanted to, and her determination and quick-thinking gave her the makings of a real leader, more so than even Dutch at times it seemed. Arthur had to admire that about her.
“You’re starting to shake.”
Arthur snapped back to the cabin. Indeed, he was shaking. He noticed that Charles was too, but he seemed to be trying to control it… not very well, of course. It was fucking cold. “It’s fuckin’ cold.”
“I know.”
Arthur shifted closer, trying to share some body heat. “I hate this Goddamn place.”
“I know.”
“Is there anything you don’t know?”
“Mm. Not much, I reckon.”
Arthur chuckled with Charles. “You’re probably not wrong.” He started to shift, turning himself around on the spot. “Come on. You lean on my back, I’ll lean on yours. We should get some rest.”
“Ain’t gonna get much body warmth doing that.” Charles scoffed matter-of-factly. He pulled the bedroll that they’d draped across their shoulders down and snapped the buttons shut. “Get in. We can use the other one as a blanket.”
“It ain’t meant for two fully grown men.”
“It’ll keep us warm, Arthur. Just get in. Unless you want to catch your death, out here?”
Arthur sighed with capitulation as Charles laid the bedroll flat on the old floorboards. Arthur crawled in first, and then Charles squeezed his way in, laying on his side with his back to Arthur. He wasn’t sure how Charles managed it, but he did. Arthur folded his arms against his chest, trying not to encroach on Charles’ space, though that was practically impossible at that point.
Every movement Charles made rubbed against Arthur, sending a tingling sensation through him each time. He tried not to think about whether the friction felt good or bad. It wasn’t the time to be dealing with unwarranted arousal. He had to focus on something else, something other than the fact that his dick was pressed directly into the cleft of Charles’ ass.
Calm down, Morgan, Arthur scolded himself, resisting the urge the rock his hips. Don't be that feller.
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the arousal away. “What a mess this all is…” he muttered, half to himself. Louder, he said “Have I mentioned how bad I feel that I got you trapped out here with me?”
“You have,” Charles’ laugh rumbled through his ribcage and against Arthur’s arms, “but, I told you… I’m not worried about it. I was just relieved nothin’ happened to you. Anyways, be glad Dutch sent me instead of Micah.”
“That was the option?”
“You can understand why I didn’t argue with Dutch when he sent me after you. Imagine getting stuck out here with Micah… He’d get you both killed.”
“Some sacrifices need to be made for the greater good of the world…”
“Don’t worry. Micah’s track record hasn’t been amazing. I’m sure he’ll get himself killed sooner or sooner.”
“Oh, that I do not doubt.” Arthur let that hang in the air for a moment, revelling in the warmth, watching Charles’ shoulders bounce with another quiet laugh. “You know somethin’? I think this is the most time we’ve spent together in one place. Alone, I mean. Not with the rest of the gang.”
“Hmm. I think so, too. There was that time down in New Austin, but… well, we hardly knew each other. Didn’t do much talking.”
“You’re one of the better ones that Dutch has brought on, I’d say.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”
Charles turned slightly, as if trying to look back at Arthur. “For a man who claims he don’t do much thinking, you overthink things a lot, Arthur.” He laid his head back down. “I ain’t offended, uncomfortable, or annoyed. So… quit worryin’ about it.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Let’s just try to get some sleep.”
Arthur woke up first. It was a pleasant surprise to wake up as cozy and warm as he was. He was mortified to find that he'd been resting his hand on Charles’ hip while they slept, though. His arm must've cramped sometime during the night, and that's where he ended up when he stretched out. He drew his hand back as if he'd been burnt, glad that Charles was still out.
He laid there for a few minutes, listening to Charles’ calm, sleeping breaths. Only then did he realize that he could no longer hear the howling wind outside. After unbuttoning the side of the bedroll and slipping on his blue coat, he pulled aside the makeshift blanket-door and leaned over the collected pile of snow to check on the weather. It was a beautiful, sunny morning. All that remained of the storm were a few wispy clouds. It was still cold as Hell, though.
Behind him, Charles stirred. “Hey, get up.” Arthur gently prodded him with the toe of his boot. “The storm’s passed. We should get out of here before somethin’ else picks up.”
“It’s passed…?” Charles groggily echoed. Then he sat up suddenly. “It’s passed. Yes, let’s get out while we can.” He sounded just as eager as Arthur felt to leave the mountains. Without even taking a moment to wake up properly, Charles was on his feet and puttering about the cabin.
Not having brought much into the mountains, it didn’t take long for either of them to collect their things and head outside into the cold air. The snow drift against the door was nearly waist-high, which they practically swam through to get to the stables. Charles paused outside the door. “Do you… want to go in first?”
“Doesn’t really matter now, does it?”
Charles shrugged, pushed the doors open. Inside, Taima and Reba had pulled their leads off their posts and were lounging beside each other in the same stall. When they saw their boys enter the stables, they hurried to get up, letting out little whinnies of relief.
In the last stall, the man from the Bayou was unmoving. He was still sitting in the corner, eyes closed, with stiff, pallid skin.
Wasn’t much of a loss, in Arthur’s opinion.
“Hey, there, girl…” cooed Arthur as Reba trotted up to him, letting out little trills of contentment when he ran his hand up and down her neck. “Been a few days, huh?”
Charles brushed off Taima’s flank, then pulled himself into the saddle. When Arthur was mounted up, he gestured to the doors. “Lead the way, Arthur.”
The weather started turning sour again just as they were leaving the mountains behind them. As they transitioned into the valley, the weather, too, transitioned from heavy snowflakes to a wet, cold sleet. It was worse, in a way; the freezing mixture caught in their hair, soaked into their clothes, left their hands feeling numb. Since the sun was setting anyways, they decided to make it as far as they could before stopping to set up a small camp. They ended up making it just past the train station, setting up under one of the rocky alcoves by the river. It was still cold as Hell, but at least they could set up a small fire that would be mostly protected against the sleet.
Arthur was sitting by the fire while Charles was finishing setting up the tent, having insisted on letting Arthur rest so he could layer the tent how he liked. Arthur didn’t want to be sat doing nothing, so he was cooking up the few strips of game he’d saved. When Charles seemed satisfied, he joined him by the fire.
They ate in silence, enjoying the sound of the campfire and the nearby rushing water. They stayed there for a while, drying themselves by the campfire, Arthur doodling in his journal. Charles spent time sharpening his hunting blade in the light of the fire, occasionally pausing to warm his hands, or to use a stick to prod the embers. Tens of minutes passed before one of them broke the silence.
“Hey,” Charles started, speaking without looking up to Arthur’s face, “I feel like this goes without saying, but I wanted to thank you for sharing what you shared. Takes a lot of bravery. I’m… glad you felt comfortable enough telling me.” There was a pause, as Arthur didn’t quite know what to say to that, so Charles continued “You didn’t do anything wrong. These things just happen.” He finally lifted his head to catch Arthur's eye. “It's shit, and it's a shame that it happened. But you're here, and that takes strength.”
“Well… it wouldn’t’ve happened if I hadn’t been stupid enough to go along with him, so I’d have to disagree.” Arthur finished what he was writing, closing his journal. “Any feller stupid enough to make a mistake like that deserves what he has comin’ for him.”
“That ain't true or fair. But…” Charles sighed, sheathing his blade and pushing to his feet. “We don’t need to talk about that now. Just wanted to let you know that I get sharin’ it with me wasn’t an easy thing to do.” He spoke as he dusted his ass off, looked back to Arthur. “I’m going to get some rest. Don’t stay up too late – I wanna set out at first light, get close to the Lemoyne border before the end of the day. I’ll be waking you up whether you’ve slept an hour or six.”
He patted Arthur's shoulder and left him by the fire, crawling into their tent and getting comfortable. Arthur sat by the fire a few minutes longer, just staring aimlessly at the embers. Exhaling tiredly, he slipped his journal away and turned on the spot, crawling on his hands and knees into the tent, sitting beside Charles. He closed the flaps, leaving just a crack open for fresh air and to let some of the warmth from the fire waft in.
Charles was already laying with his eyes closed, hands on his stomach. Arthur observed him quietly before taking off his hat and laying down beside him. There was a gap between them that kept them comfortable, nothing at all like how they needed to sleep in Colter. Not that Arthur wouldn’t complain if they were sat closer. He was just glad they left some room for the holy spirit, and that there weren’t going to be any more embarrassing sensations between them. The last thing he needed was to make things even stranger between him and Charles.
“We was beginning to think you weren’t coming back, cowpoke.”
Arthur hitched Reba, not even sparing Micah the glance. “And I’m sure you’d just be tickled pink if I didn’t.”
“Now, come on, Morgan.” Micah followed Arthur from the hitching posts, back into camp. “You know I’d be real torn up if my favourite sour-faced gunslinger vanished. I know he’d feel the same ‘bout me.”
“Oh, of course. I’d be real torn up - only ‘cus I would’ve rathered that you was hanged.”
“You’re no fun, Morgan.” Micah waved him off and sauntered away, probably to bother someone else.
There would’ve been no greater torture than being stuck in those mountains for nearly a week with Micah Bell. Arthur was so very grateful for Charles’ thoughtfulness, regarding that.
Besides… it wasn’t a fun experience by any stretch of the imagination, but it wasn’t the despondent nightmare it could’ve been without Charles. He was always good company. Arthur had taken a real liking to him since his arrival in the gang, and his respect and admiration for the man only grew the more they interacted. He could trust Charles, and he hoped Charles trusted him. He was smart, resourceful, stubborn… and one of the only fools in the camp with any manners, short of Tilly, Lenny, Mary-Beth, and Kieran.
“What’s that look on your face for?”
Arthur jumped. He hadn’t heard Charles walk up behind him. “Je-suhs… Quit sneakin’ up on me like that.”
“I didn’t realize you were so easy to scare.”
“You didn’t scare me, you just caught me off guard.”
“Sure, Arthur…” Charles crossed his arms, pretending to accept the correction, though he was still clearly entertained. “I know we just got back, but I just promised Pearson and Grimshaw that I’d run out and get them some herbs they’d asked for. I was going to head out tomorrow afternoon. Did you want to join me?”
Arthur tucked his chin back in faux surprise. “After all that time in the mountains? You sure you ain’t tired of me, yet?” Though the question was posed mostly as a joke, there was some genuine curiosity behind it. He was all too aware that he could wear folk thin without trying too hard.
A ghost of a frown passed over Charles’ lips. “’Course not. I’m just tired of those mountains, and I’m tired of the cold. That being said, I’m keeping within Lemoyne’s borders for a while… I need to thaw out.”
“That sounds about right… Sure, I’ll head out with you. Wanted to do some huntin’, anyhow.”
“Good. I’ll come find you when I’m ready to head out, then.”