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Arthur Morgan was not a good person. Not by a long-shot.
In truth, he was a mean, sour-faced, old bastard. He beat debtors for petty cash, robbed trucks and gas stations for money and supplies — if alcohol and cigarettes could also be counted as supplies — stole vehicles, shot and maimed people indiscriminately. Sometimes it was worth it, but most times it was not.
More than once he’d taken a tire iron to a man’s kneecap or ribs, dragged someone behind a truck or a horse, shot someone in the legs to make them talk or just because Dutch had told him to. To teach someone a lesson, persuade them to cooperate, keep their mouth shut, or there was no reason at all.
He ruined people’s lives, there was no sugarcoating it. Taken them, ruined them, spat on them. He would lie if he said he felt guilt or remorse for all of it. Or even most of it.
Often he felt absolutely nothing when he was beating a man’s face into a pulp, threatened a woman into giving up her jewellery, scared a person who committed a sin of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It was only fair to get the same deeds come back to him, he guessed. He lived by violence and he would die by violence, it was the only constant in his life.
Violence and pain.
But, now there was something else, he supposed.
There was Charles Smith.
The man who, despite his imposing stature and scarred face, was oh so gentle with him, as if Arthur was a baby deer. Fragile, weak and vulnerable.
They’d danced around each other for a while, to be honest, and maybe it was the reason for Arthur finally allowing himself to be comforted, to be embraced by Charles’ strong arms as Merlin and Mouse lipped at their pockets in search of treats.
Perhaps he was exhausted, the deep-seated numbness that made a home in his bones wearing him down. Too exhausted to hold up his brittle walls that he put up, brick by brick, ever since that rotten night.
Charles did not hold him like a broken, putrid thing. There was no violence or expectation in his touch, his hands did not snake over him with hidden meaning.
It was soft, and gentle and God, Arthur wanted it to never leave his skin.
He felt safe, with his face buried in Charles’ neck, face hidden away by his hat and the younger man’s soft hair.
Charles kept murmuring things in his ear, soothing things, like he would to a spooked horse.
"You’ll be alright, Arthur. You did good, you don’t need to be alone in this. I’m here, you’re safe. It’s okay, now, it’s just us." Arthur shrunk in on himself, hiding in Charles’ arms, obscured from the camp by Merlin’s broad body.
"Not your horse," he mumbled out, a little soft, a little grumpy.
It made Charles’ chest vibrate with soft laughter, the strong hands not ceasing their soothing movements.
"I know, you’re a bit too short to be Taima."
Arthur grimaced.
"Don't go makin' insults 'bout the lady. Taima's a real beauty. I'm just old an' ugly."
"I think you’re just as pretty, Mister Morgan." It was a good thing Arthur kept his face hidden, because his face flushed a shade of red.
"Charles," he swallowed, tentatively playing with the hem of the other man’s shirt. "Can we go away? Just for a day, or two. I need… I need to get out of here." It took every ounce of his dignity and strength to ask.
He knew he should not expect Charles to agree, not reach for something he did not deserve, but the whimpering, beaten part of him cried for every shred of kindness Charles could give him.
To Arthur’s surprise, the younger man said nothing, only pressed his lips to the side of his head. It was soft, not necessarily romantic. It was just there, a piece of comfort, an unspoken thing.
Arthur wasn’t exactly a stranger to them, he would often kiss his horses’ foreheads after a job well done. He would do the same with Copper, even though the dog had nothing between his ears.
But, no one really did it for him.
Only Hosea would kiss his forehead, back when Arthur killed a man for the first time, the corpse’s face haunting him in his dreams for weeks every time he tried to fall asleep. He’d wake up with tears streaming down his face, throat hoarse from screaming and Hosea rocking him gently like his mother used to do.
Charles steered them both away from camp, Taima and Merlin following them to the edge of the trees and further down.
The latter nudged Arthur’s palm open, demanding sugar cubes.
Charles’ lips twitched into a faint smile, and Arthur found himself missing the easy, calm expression he usually wore.
"I will just tell Hosea we’re going on a hunting trip, that it should take us a few days." He said, leaving Taima to stand next to Merlin.
The two horses got along well enough, though not as much as with Boadicea. Mouse was a bit rowdy with Taima and Precious was too static, Boadicea was the perfect balance for the mare.
Merlin fared well enough, even if he was a mean bastard at times and preferred to run into a fight than away from it.
Merlin, in his bastardish wisdom, took commands as suggestions most often than not. When Arthur told him to run away, git gone or anything similar, the horse would instead zero in on whatever the perceived danger was. So far it meant running over an O’Driscoll who had the misfortune of trying to heckle Arthur, kicking the man’s friend straight in the chest, and killing an unknown — at that point — number of birds and critters that decided to spook him or Arthur.
At least Arthur never had to complain about lacking in feathers or pelts of small woodland creatures. Small victories, he decided.
Now, at least, Merlin was busy nosing at his hair which encouraged Taima to do the same and search for more treats.
"Two bottomless pits, the both of ya. You're cleanin' me out," he chuckled softly, giving in and taking out some pressed mints.
Merlin nudged the man with his heavy head, restless and bored.
"I know, boy. We’ll leave soon. Just don’t go around killin’ any more critters, ya hear? I ain’t got no more space for them." Merlin huffed at him, forcing Arthur’s lips into a more comfortable smile. He brushed his fingers over the velvety nose, petting Taima’s neck with the other hand before the mare could get jealous.
He had no idea how long he stood there like that, busy with both horses needling him for affection, when Charles came back with a backpack in his hand.
"Knew I left you in good hooves," Arthur levelled him with a very unamused stare, but it only encouraged Charles to widen his smile. "You love my jokes."
"I ain't shore they oughta be called jokes, partner." He shook his head, hiding the starts of a smile by stepping closer to Merlin, brushing his fingers over the stallion’s black coat.
Charles moved to Taima, the mare bumping her head against his body.
"Hosea said he’s got us covered. John said not to worry too, he’ll handle the others if it comes to it." That did ease Arthur’s worry a little. Hosea’s breaths had been too wheezy lately, the coughs getting more and more persistant. The old man needed Marston’s help even if John still acted more like a boy than a man.
"Got a spot in mind?" he asked, comfortable in Merlin’s saddle.
Charles shot him a glance, hesitating.
"One. I’ll tell you on the way," he said. Arthur decided not to question him. He trusted Charles and knew the other man would not take him anywhere dangerous.
Riding through the forest meant riding at a snail’s pace, but it beat getting branches constantly hitting them in their faces.
The steady pace let Arthur empty his mind and he started to hum, absent mindedly. The humming gradually turned to muttered singing, mostly songs Sean would start around the campfire.
Usually Arthur only ever sang when drunk or alone, but with Charles… he liked the two of them being alone together. It felt right, in a way.
The other man did not interrupt or comment on it, merely riding next to him, admiring the forest in the morning light.
It took them half a day before a beautiful landscape revealed itself before them. Green and yellowed plains with what looked like creeks running through them, connecting to a big lake and a few smaller ones. There was a thick wall of trees, too, some mountains.
Arthur had the urge to sit down and draw all that he saw, immediately.
Charles seemed to catch onto that, smiling.
"We can make camp soon, there’s a campsite nearby." He said, urging Taima to a trot. He smiled as he and the mare passed Merlin and Arthur.
The latter gaped for a few moments before nudging the stallion, quickly catching up with the appaloosa.
"Campsite?" he questioned, confusion riddling his face. He didn’t really feel like meeting… anyone, really. Conversing with any humans sounded like a chore.
"It should be empty, it’s not the tourist season." Charles was quick to reassure him from Taima’s back. "It will be just us. And definitely no cops," he added. It did lessen Arthur’s anxiety a bit.
They truly did not need any close encounters with the police or federal agents, especially since he wasn’t so sure if Dutch would bail or break them out if they got arrested.
A decade ago, yes. He and Hosea took care of Arthur’s many legal troubles, from petty theft and larceny to bar fights that somehow turned into assaults with a deadly weapon.
But in recent years, he was not so sure if they would get him or cut him loose. He did start to become a liability of sorts. Always tired, irritable, questioning Dutch’s decisions more often than not.
Perhaps Dutch was right to be so harsh with him, to punish him as often as he did. Arthur was one of the old guard and it meant some privileges, such being able to leave for days at a time, but it also came with restrictions and special rules.
"Don’t bring him here." Charles’ voice took Arthur back to the present. The younger man gave him a stern look. "It’s just us here, remember? No one else."
"Sorry. It’s hard." Arthur answered back with an apologetic smile.
"I understand, more than you may know, but this place? It’s for us, no ghosts or demons." He said, dismounting from Taima. Arthur wondered, then, what Charles meant. What demons or ghosts followed him, if he was a better man than most? "Come on, let’s make camp."
Arthur was not going to argue, not when those dark brown eyes were focused solely on him. No, if Charles asked him to do anything, he reckoned he’d do it all without a single question or a crumb of hesitation.
Arthur Morgan, you are in trouble.
***
Arthur could not rightly remember the last time he felt as at peace as he was with Charles. Having the moment to just sit down by a fire, watch the other man cook some canned food, made him realise that. Arthur never had a beef ravioli pasta before and he had no idea who Chef Boyardee was, but he understood now why there were so many canned meals of his at the stores he sometimes visited.
In recent weeks Dutch had him running from town to town, staking out local banks, weed stores, gas stations. Ranches that owned to elderly folk. Places that handled a lot of cash and could be easy to hit with just a few skilled people.
In a way, he was thankful for it. The jobs Dutch gave him were an excuse to leave the suffocating place that the camp turned into, with the girls and young ones itching to go into a bigger city, raise some chaos. He’d heard Karen and Sean speak about missing the scene of bars and clubs, Lenny and Mary-Beth longing for the book stores and libraries, Tilly wishing she could visit some antiquity and jewellery stores.
Hell, even Abigail was sighing that she’d want to find more clothes and toys for Jack, how the boy missed the things they left back at the ranch and struggled to get back on his feet with how hectic everything was.
To top it all off, everyone kept sending him looks. Pitying, concerned from some. Mocking and disgusted by others. Arthur felt like clawing his skin off whenever someone asked if he was alright and flinched like a beaten dog whenever an unexpected hand landed on his back.
He knew Hosea was worried, prodding gently about the cause of his sudden jaded attitude. The old man tried, God, he tried. Brought up his crime books, suggesting they’d read together since Arthur enjoyed the stories much more than Dutch's philosophy books. Offered the younger man ginseng tea, fishing together, even suggested he could help Arthur with his back pain when he overheard Morgan complain about it to his horses.
It felt awful turning the old man down, but Arthur could not bear the possible reactions Hosea could have. No matter if he’d pity or feel disgusted by Arthur, both were equally smothering and scorching in his mind.
John was the weirdest with his approach. Picking fights with Bill and Micah over smallest things, decking the latter when he got too close to Jack when John and him played knights. Not that Bell didn’t deserve it — he did — but John usually was the one to de-escalate. To leave with a snark comment, not throw fists around.
Occasionally he shot Arthur a conflicted glance, one Arthur could not decipher. Marston just turned his head away after few seconds and never spoke a word.
Sadie's way of handling the situation was embarrassing, even if they spoke only once on the matter.
She approached him late evening with some medical supplies, ones he recognised and some he did not. He raised an eyebrow at the antibiotics, asking if she’d robbed a pharmacy when he was not looking.
She shook her head, no snide remark or teasing comment leaving her lips.
“Antibiotics are for the week, one every day. No skippin’, hear me? Rest is for pain, anxiety and insomnia. You take 'em, not store 'em like a damn hamster. No toughin’ it out, ya ain’t the youngest and Dutch ain’t exactly letting you take it easy, so do as I say.” Even if he tried to argue, all he could say was ‘yes ma’am’ because lord, Sadie Adler was terrifying if she wanted to be.
That was not the embarrassing part. That was the other, discreet bag she’d handed him. It had medication he only recognised from times when Abigail and Karen were still working corners.
His face went pale and the only reason why he did not drop everything was the damn voice in his head saying they cannot afford to break or lose any supplies, especially medical.
Sadie did not touch him, but her eyes were enough to force him to maintain eye contact.
“I know you may want to forget it happened, hon, or pretend it didn’t happen but trust me, viruses and shit don’t care for none of that. You get tested, ya hear me? And if anything comes up, you have all you need in that bag. Doses and shit are written out.” Arthur damn near bit through his lip. He was not an idiot, he knew the risks, he’d helped the girls so often with the trips to the clinics but… somehow, when it came to him, it was the last thing on his mind.
And shit, if Micah didn’t make a picture perfect example of someone who’d not care about giving another person something like that.
The thought of going there, to a clinic, by himself though… everyone seeing him, judging him. Assuming things. Knowing what happened to him. It was suffocating.
“There’s a clinic a ride away. In Valentine, ain’t it?” He felt himself nodding. “Good. I’ll take ya. Pearson said he needs supplies from there anyway. Go on, git on cowboy.”
She went with him. Walked him in, talked to everyone from the receptionist to the nurse and anyone else who tried to speak to him. He remembered it through a thick fog, a jigsaw of memories rather than anything solid. He remembered having his blood drawn, other tests. Waiting in the corridor with Sadie busying her mouth with a cherry lollipop and pushing a chocolate bar into his hands. Her leg was bouncing for what seemed like eternity while he all but checked out.
When the nurse gave him the papers saying he’s clean, a weight disappeared from his shoulders. One less thing to worry about at least, he thought. Sadie said he still needs to take the antibiotics and use the ointments she gave him, said no amount of pride can fight the infections for him.
He knew she was right, not that it made the regimen any easier. He was never too happy about taking medicine, believing it to be wasted on someone like him. His body was already scarred and aching, joints creaking and stiff whenever a storm or winter rolled around, skin wound tight from the cold. Any day he could get shot or stabbed during a job or by the cops, or hell — gored by a boar — so what was the point?
Still, he didn’t skip a single day. He’d be damned if he let Micah Bell wear him down anymore than he already did. Besides, Sadie Adler had eyes on the back of her head and he had no doubt she’d whoop his ass nine ways to Sunday if she caught a whiff of him not following her instructions. No, he preferred to keep whatever was left of his dignity and just do what the lady said.
He wasn't sure what made him think of that day with Sadie, when he was sitting down with Charles at their modest campsite. He hadn't thought of it in days, since he and Sadie came back to camp, really.
"Are you okay?" came a soft, deep-voice from Arthur's left. Charles was watching him carefully, the tin dish already washed and ready to be packed.
Arthur let out a breath he wasn't aware he held.
"Yeah, I'm doin' fine. Just lost in thought, I guess. Been a spell since I had a moment to think." Charles seemed satisfied enough with that as an answer.
The full moon was high above their heads, sky clear with stars shining bright. Arthur used the campfire's and tent lamp's light to sketch the scene before him. The lake, with the sky reflected on its surface as if it were a mirror. Merlin and Taima drinking from it, relaxed and calm. Charles, illuminated by the fire, looking up like an angel missing his home in Heaven. Arthur thought, for a moment, 'he's beautiful'. It was so frighteningly easy to think that, to remember Charles' earthy scent, how soft his hair felt, how those rough, big hands felt on his head. In his hair. Pulling in such a gentle, skilled way.
The drawing took up both pages of his journal, sketched with more reverie than anything else he'd drawn recently. He liked drawing Charles. He was a mystery, a man who spoke so little and when he did, he rarely ever mentioned his own story. He'd speak of others, give only bits and pieces about his parents or skills. Never recent life, or what he actually did before saving John. Hell, he wasn't even keen on speaking about that.
Arthur knew Dutch was distrustful of Charles, Micah openly antagonising him whenever possible, but Arthur saw no reason for Charles to be anything but what he presented himself to be. A capable, open and honest man who needed to be able to rely on someone else than just himself.
"We should catch some sleep, probably." Arthur looked up from his journal, meeting Charles' sparkly eyes. His own expression matched the younger man's soft smile.
"Yeah, probably." He mumbled, closing the book. They only packed one tent, out of frugality or forgetfulness, Arthur did not remember. At least it was big enough for two people, with two sleeping bags and their backpacks and satchels.
Arthur watched Charles as the man laid down next to him, careful and steady as ever. The world seemed to slow down for a moment as they both laid on their sides, eyes caught in a moment. Up close, Arthur couldn't help but stare at the scar on Charles' face. He reached out, absent-mindedly, caressing it with his calloused fingers. Charles did not swat his hand away, did not pull away or question him about it.
"Must be quite a story," Arthur murmured, letting his hand fall back to the sleeping bag.
Charles waited a beat.
"My father... after my mother was taken, he struggled. Found solace in the bottle and did not take too kindly to me trying to take it away from him," he shared and Arthur inhaled sharply. That was such a familiar story, wasn't it? Lyle Morgan liked his bottle too, swinging it at young Arthur at the smallest inconvenience. Even more often when Beatrice Morgan died.
"What happened to him?" he asked.
Charles shrugged.
"Haven't seen him since I was thirteen. I... ran. Ended up in foster care for a while. Then got taken in by Rains Fall, at the Wapiti Reservation. Grew up with his son, Eagle Flies. A good kid but trouble is his first, last and middle name. Did more of covering for him and bailing him out than anything else." Arthur chuckled at that. It reminded him of John and himself, once John entered his edgy teenager phase.
"Ever thought of finding him? Or your mom?" he asked, voice quiet and gruff.
Charles was quiet for a while, long enough for Arthur to start regretting ever asking the damned question. But, eventually the man spoke.
"No. I decided to let the sleeping dogs lie, a long time ago. It might be stupid, but I... I feel it, that they're gone. There's no use in chasing after ghosts."
"True, there ain't. But man's not always reasonable." Charles chuckled at that.
"Fair enough. I suppose I just never found myself wanting to do that. I was happy enough at the rez. Then... well, then I fell with you lot, and you're decent."
"We're a bunch of crooks and whores, Charles, ain't no sugar-coating it. We might not work corners but we're workin' our hides just the same. Ain't nothing but cannon fodder for Dutch's newest plans." Arthur looked up to the tent's low ceiling. "You'd be better off without us. We ain't doin' nothin' but bringin' you down into the mud. You ever shot at a cop before?" Charles shook his head. "'S what I thought. Now yer gonna have a target on you like the rest of us. Cops ain't merciful when you take out one of their own."
"They're not merciful for people like me either way, Arthur. I'm already a criminal in their eyes, even if I'd be a saint."
"Well, you are." Charles blinked, taken aback. "Yer a saint, Charles. Yer the best man I've ever met, and I met plenty. Ain't no one I trust as much as I trust you." The words spilled out of him like a dam in his mind just got broken to pieces, letting all of his withheld emotions and thoughts flood out of his mouth.
"Oh, Arthur..."
"If anyone deserves to get out of this, make a life for themselves, it's you. You're a good man, Charles. Don't matter none what these varmints think." Something shone in Charles' eyes. Something soft, something sad. Arthur desperately wanted the latter to be replaced by the spark he'd seen whenever Charles teased him or spoke to Taima. That little spark of happiness.
"You're a good man too, Arthur." The older man scoffed at that, eyes falling down. Charles' rough fingers gently grabbed his chin, forcing eye contact between them. "You helped everyone on the ranch, no matter how exhausted you were. You make sure everyone's cared for at camp, go out of your way to find pens for Mary-Beth, books for Hosea and Jack. You do all of the chores, care for the horses, chickens, Cain. I've seen you come empty handed after fishing because you let all your catches go. You eat last, sleep last, but wake up first. You teach Jack reading and writing, they all look up to you, Arthur." Charles spoke with raw conviction, confident in every word, it seemed.
Arthur swallowed a rebuttal, biting his lips. It felt like blasphemy, hearing it. Thinking it. The family should look up to Dutch, rely on Dutch for everything, be grateful to Dutch. Not Arthur. Arthur was nothing but brawn and no brains, a dumb enforcer of Dutch's iron will.
Yet, somehow, he didn't even notice when, it changed. He became a main provider, he guessed. The one fixing everyone's problems when Dutch was too busy.
Charles' lips brushed over his forehead, soft and gentle.
"Sleep. We both need it." He whispered, dimming the camp light.
Arthur thought about saying something, defending Dutch, but all he could do is close his eyes, curling up under the blanket in his sleeping bag. It'd been a long day, he guessed. He just didn't have the energy to argue, that was all it was. Nothing else.
***
Arthur Morgan woke up with a pair of strong arms around him, keeping him close and safe. He looked around, blearily, before his eyes settled on Charles' soft expression. The man was awake, perhaps just a little sleepy still, watching Arthur patiently.
"Feel any better?" He asked in a low, deep tone that vibrated through his chest. It made Arthur want to lay his head back down, listen to Charles speak as if it were a lullaby. "You were pretty restless, through the night."
"I don't remember," he admitted, pulling away. It took all of his strength to do so, stretching slowly. "Damn, Charles, you're a living furnace. Anyone told ya that?"
The younger man chuckled, sitting up.
"Could say the same about you, Mister Morgan. Felt like hugging a human campfire." Arthur definitely did not watch how Charles' shirt moved up, revealing some of the man's stomach as he stretched. If Charles noticed it, he did not comment on it. "In the best of ways, of course."
"Of course." He snorted.
They had some coffee and tea along with some dried fruit, nuts and energy bars. Charles said he had something special to show Arthur, asking the older man to keep his gun and rifle holstered. Their hunting trip had less to do with hunting and more to do with sightseeing, but Arthur did not mind. He enjoyed watching and sketching the new landscapes. The hot springs, the bighorn sheep, pronghorns and majestic elk.
Charles was kind enough to point out a sitting eagle to him, knowing that Arthur would trip over himself to draw the bird as faithfully as possible. He even managed some quick sketches of chipmunks, when they broke into Charles' nut reserves during one of their breaks, to Arthur's amusement.
Merlin was decidedly less enthusiastic about meeting so much new wildlife, especially the coyotes which begged to be kicked by the black horse as they ran around the standardbred, yipping and barking when Merlin retaliated with stomping and snorting.
The main attraction of the day was supposed to be something else, though, as Charles told him.
Bison.
There were so many of them, peaceful and unbothered as they grazed the field near the lake. Arthur never saw one in real life, as Charles once correctly guessed, and damn if these animals weren't as imposing as they were beautiful. Strong, deadly but so gentle looking at the same time. As they ran, the entire ground shook as if suffering an earthquake. Arthur could not and did not try to hide his wonder, watching the herd with its young ones.
They stayed long enough for him to sketch the scene before them, wanting to commit it to memory as faithfully as possible.
Charles explained the significance of the bison in his mother's culture, what they meant for the tribes and their people. Arthur felt like a stranger invading another's home, but he listened to every word as if it were a sermon. Charles shared that with him, something so important and personal, and he'd be damned if he took it for granted.
They stayed with the herd well until the evening, just watching the animals from a safe distance, admiring them.
The sun started to set when Charles' serene expression turned sombre as he spotted something in the distance. The immediate change made Arthur's muscles tense, ready for the incoming trouble.
"Something wrong, Charles?" he asked, bringing Merlin closer to Taima. The other man looked to the tree line, seeing something Arthur had trouble making out. Perhaps his sight wasn't what it used to be, or he simply did not know what to look for.
"Vultures. Been seeing them all day but... there's too many of them for just one carcass, even a big one." Charles murmured, biting his lip, deep in thought.
Arthur sensed the other man's anxiety as if it were his own.
"Let's check it out, then. Could be poachers, or some sickness doing the animals in." If it was the latter, they could always let the rangers know. Charles did say he'd been to the place before and knew the staff somewhat.
Soon they were riding towards the place Charles spotted, both men's expressions turning sour.
There were, indeed, carcasses. Many of them. Bison, all in different stages of decomposition. Some shot, others caught in traps. Wires, bear traps, other poacher crap that Arthur was all too familiar with. Bill often resorted to things like that when hunting, before Arthur knocked him on his ass for being lazy and cruel.
Arthur could feel Charles' anger rising, bubbling just below the surface the longer they rode. Why was this overlooked, he wondered. How come no one noticed so many dead animals, or the poachers hanging around? But there was no one around to give them the answers.
"Let's go, I've seen smoke nearby. Could be them." Charles urged Taima into a full on gallop, leaving Merlin and Arthur behind.
"Wait- Damn it, Charles! Wait up!" The cowboy shook his head. Merlin was bred for racing and it did not take him too long to be back at Taima's side, however both horses were tired after a long day and spooked by the presence of so many scavengers and corpses alike.
They only stopped once on the edge of a makeshift, poor-looking camp. Charles slid off of Taima's saddle, fists clenched, the emergency gun holstered on his hip. Arthur was close behind, hand hovering near his revolver as they approach two rough looking men lazying around.
"Did you two fools kill those bison?" Charles did a great job of holding himself together, Arthur thought. Even if he was maybe one second away from bursting, not that he'd blame the man. He had very little connection to the animals and still was ready to blow holes in the poachers for how they treated these creatures. "I said, did you kill them?!" the dam came down with a deafening crash.
One of the men blurted out a comment - one meant to jab at Charles' mixed background - clearly misjudging their situation.
"What's it to you?" the other one spat at the ground, lips curling into a cruel smirk. "Yeah, we shot 'em. Shot 'em and more. What of it? We'll do you worse if you don't git."
The first man, the one with too loose lips, advanced on Charles. Arthur felt his blood go cold.
"What's business is it of yours what we-" a gun. The man had a gun in his hand, and Arthur didn't see it. Did not notice the filth reaching for it, unholstering it. Charles' gun went off, the blast throwing the poacher to the ground. The man's companion fell to the ground in shock, either from witnessing his partner gunned down or from the loudness of a gun going off.
Charles was furious, wound tight, and Arthur didn't think he'd ever seen the man so furious before.
"It's that business of mine!" he shouted out, putting the gun away, fists clenched.
"Good god, yer crazy!" the poacher held his hands up, trembling on the ground like a worm about to be stepped on. Arthur could feel nothing but disgust when looking at his crawling form. "Look- Look! I got a family, don't shoot me!"
"Shoot you?" Arthur's own, cold voice suddenly piped up. He wasn't aware of his body moving until he was holding the poacher by the throat, nails digging into the sweaty, dirt covered skin. "I ain't wasting my bullets of vermin like you." He hissed in the man's face, spit hitting sunburnt skin. "Now tell me, why are ya killing those bison, leavin' them to rot?" Each word was followed by a punch, his knuckles splitting.
"We were paid!" the man squeaked out. "Some rich guy, said the bison crossed on his land- and, and he said somethin' like... 'every buffalo dead is an Indian gone' said he wanted them fellas gone to buy 'em out, or somethin', please I don't know anymore! Let me go!"
"Just kill him, Arthur." Arthur's entire world stopped. Charles, he sounded so angry. It wasn't an anger someone would feel at spilled beer, or being robbed or even cheated on. No, it was something deep, so personal and long fought it had festered into an ugly, wretched thing. A thing grown on the misdeeds of others, injustices and transgressions that piled on over the decades.
Arthur shot men before, beaten them into pulps, dragged them behind his truck. Waterboarded men, burned them, choked them, hell even broken bone after bone to make them talk. He did it all on Dutch's orders, sometimes even without anyone asking him to. All it took was the desire to be praised, to hear a 'good job' and see that look in the steel eyes.
Arthur's hands wrapped around the worm's throat and squeezed the life out of him as easily as he would break a branch. He could feel the man kick from under him, struggling until he fell limp onto the grass. All Arthur could think about is 'this man hurt Charles, he hurt Charles and tried to hurt his family and now he can't do that no more' and that thought made the ugly, mangy coyote inside him purr with satisfaction. He did good, he killed the man just as Charles asked.
Then why was Charles looking at him so angrily still, so distraught?
"Charles?"
"I've seen enough of this," the man muttered under his breath, heading back to Taima.
Arthur felt confusion wash over him. Had he done something wrong? Was Charles expecting a more gruesome death? Was the strangling too peaceful in his opinion, too generous?
"Where are we goin'?" he asked, quieter now, back on Merlin's saddle.
Charles took a deep breath, anger still simmering beneath the surface.
"You know, you're allowed to be angry, Charles. You can scream, shout, hell, shoot something if ya want to. Punch me if it makes you feel better." He shrugged, but Charles' expression only darkened, raw hurt flashing in his eyes.
"I don't want to punch you, Arthur. I would never do that. How could you even think that?" He sounded so betrayed, so hurt. Arthur shrunk on himself, arms hunched forward as his eyes snaked over Merlin and the ground beneath the horse.
"I don't know. It was a stupid idea, forget I said anything." He muttered out.
They rode in silence until the sun disappeared behind the horizon, the moon lending its light to them. Charles hadn't looked at Arthur, not even a glance, the entire time. Not when they got back to their camp, not when they untacked Taima and Merlin, not when Arthur started the fire, nor when Charles prepared their food in absolute silence.
It drove Arthur crazy.
He would have preferred Charles screaming at him, hitting him, spitting on him. At least he knew what that meant, he knew how to react to it. He had no idea what to do with silence.
"I'm sorry." He said finally, staring into his now empty plate. Charles looked at him, then, confusion written in his eyes and furrowed brows. "I hurt you. Made you upset. I apologise."
"What?" Charles stared at him, shocked. "You hadn't- Arthur, what?"
"I made you angry, killin' that poacher, didn't I? Did you- did you wanted me to do it differently? Beat him up more? I'm sorry, I just-"
"Arthur, no." Charles cut him off. "I'm not upset that you killed him- or I am but... I'm upset that I asked you to do that. I shouldn't have. It was wrong of me." He sounded so sincere it hurt Arthur's teeth. Now it was his turn to be confused.
"What do you mean? The man was a cruel bastard, he messed with your folk, he needed to be gone."
"Arthur, people don't just go around killing other people." Arthur stared at Charles like the man grew two heads. "It's not wild west, anymore. Murder is not- it's not acceptable, and especially not over something like poaching. I had no right asking you to do that, not when Dutch uses you like his personal gun, too."
"He ain't making me do anything I didn't want to, and neither did you," Arthur started, lacking conviction behind his words. Charles caught that, like a dog with a bone.
"But I did. And he is. Making you beat on debtors, rob people trying to make an honest living, he made you a criminal, Arthur. He took away your choices, a chance at a normal life." Charles took a deep breath, pacing around the camp. "Every day it takes everything in me not to knock his teeth out when he speaks to you like you're nothing but an attack dog. You are so much more, Arthur. You're kind and gentle, you would spend an entire day just watching animals without a single complaint."
Arthur watched the younger man unclench and clench his fists again and again, pacing still.
"I owe everything to Dutch," he tried, "I'd be dead without him. I was nothing but a street rat, would've ended in the morgue the same year if he hadn't picked me out."
"And how many times did you narrowly die, since he took you in? How many times did you get arrested, how many warrants do you have for jobs he had you do? Arthur, he... He keeps hurting you and you thank him for it. That's not what a father does. It's not even what a friend does, it's what a monster does. He controls you, uses you. Would you do what he does to John? To Lenny, Sean, Jack? Me?" Arthur shook his head, not able to even imagine it. Sure, the kids annoyed him from time to time, did something stupid but he'd never dream of whipping them bloody, no matter what they did. "Then why is it okay when he does that to you?"
Arthur chewed on his lip, picking at the skin of his fingers.
"I deserve it, don't I? After all them things I did, all the sins... I reckon I'm owed some of it back, ain't I?" he asked in a whisper so fragile even the cicadas would drown it out if any of them sang that night.
Charles' stormy expression melted into something softer, something sadder. He knelt in front of Arthur, Smith's big hands clasping over Morgan's.
"No one deserves it, Arthur. No one has the right to hurt you." He said, quiet but confident. His brown eyes shone with unshed tears and Arthur felt a pang of shame knowing he was the cause of them. "I wish you'd see that you're worth kindness, Arthur. That you deserve good things."
Arthur felt a pang behind his heart.
"I haven't got the slightest idea what you see in me, Charles. I'm a no good criminal, I'm beyond savin'," he sighed, glancing down. Charles raised his head by the chin, staring into his eyes with pure determination. It was intoxicating.
"No, you're not. I will repeat it to you everyday if I have to, Arthur Morgan. I can promise you that." Arthur felt Charles' breath on his skin, they were so close. "You're a good man."
And then his lips were on Charles', moving slow and unsure, out of practice by a good fifteen years. He'd thought of it so often since Charles came into his life, it was embarrassing. He felt scared and shy like a teenager again, unsure if he'll be met with a punch or a kiss.
Charles did not push him away. Did not punch him, curse him out.
He kissed back. The strong hands snaked over his body, gentle and slow, never straying from Arthur's upper torso. Their lips moved as if they were made for each other, remembering an old dance from their past.
It could've been minutes or hours that passed, Arthur could not tell. His cheeks were flushed when Charles finally pulled away, the calloused finger brushing over Arthur's face.
"Every day, Arthur Morgan." He rasped out. A promise. "Every day."
And Arthur believed him.