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cheesewedge · 8 months

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A Stranger's Keepsake (18+)

Summary: Arthur runs into a strange man on the way back to camp. A strange man with photos of a woman in his tent...a very familiar woman.

Word Count: 4,387

Tags: blood and gore, graphic depictions of violence, stalking, arthur x original female character, established relationship

A/N: This was inspired by the encounter you have with that giant creep who stalks poor Charlotte.

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The crisp Heartlands night nips at Arthur’s fingers on his way back to camp, crickets his only company among silver fields laid out in every direction. A buck’s head slaps against his horse’s rear. Two turkeys dangle from either side of his saddlebag. He picked raspberry bushes clean for Maria, dozens of them wrapped in his bandana and tucked in his satchel with the fresh herbs she asked for.

He yawns. Horseshoe Overlook isn’t much farther but he isn’t in any hurry to return. The simple hunting trip was as good an excuse as any to free himself from camp, and while his mare gently trots down the dirt road, the solitude nearly coaxes his eyes shut.

“Evenin’, friend!”

Arthur’s hooded eyelids flutter open. He frowns, looks around. Atop a nearby hill, a man stands alone with campfire smoke billowing to the stars.

“Er, hey there.”

“You look like you could use a break. Y’ came at a good time, fire’s nice and warm.”

“Nah, ‘m alright, partner.”

“Aw, come on now, friend. Saw you was real tired. I got some coffee brewin’ here.”

A sigh. He looks around again. “Sure, why not?” He steers his horse up to the man’s tent.

A smile blooms on the stranger’s face when Arthur dismounts. “Have a seat. Plenty of room by the fire in case you need ta rest those weary legs. I know how hard it is for a travellin’ man.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Arthur pours coffee black as the night around them. He sits on a crate by the fireside and observes the stranger. He stands tall even though he isn’t. There’s a button popped open over his stomach. Suspenders work to keep his trousers level with the doughy folds of his hips. A bowler hat doesn’t disguise where the hair stops.

The man smiles again. “Coffee’s nice and fresh. Just made that pot but lord knows I’ll need more to see this night through.”

“Is that right?”

“Yessir.” He pops open a lock box to retrieve a pair of binoculars.

Arthur’s eyes flick to the man’s tent. It isn’t the tattered canvas he notes, or its impressive size. It’s not the empty cans and bottles littered all over the grass, the man’s filthy bedroll — it’s the photos. String after string dangle from the canvas, each pinched between the teeth of a clothespin. The lantern below them illuminates the figure of a woman in every one.

“Norman, by the way,” the man says and reaches out his arm.

“Arthur.” He swallows Norman’s hand when he shakes it. “What’s all that there?”

“Oh. I just… I like to see her. Makes me feel like she’s here with me.”

“That your wife?”

“One day, friend.”

Arthur quirks a brow and rises from his seat. Cans clatter at his feet, every step bringing the lavender fields of Big Valley, the mountain range of the Heartlands, further into focus. His vision blurs. The strand bobs up and down in an aggressive ripple when he plucks a photo off the line.

“Whoa, careful there. Took me a while to get all these. Ain’t she a beauty?”

Arthur’s lungs burn from the breath he holds. On the bank of the Dakota River Maria sits with her face tilted towards the clouds.

“Spotted her a few weeks back. No idea where an angel like that came from, but that there’s my future wife. Mark my words.”

Arthur doesn’t speak. All he can do is stare at the photo. At Maria’s long curls that tumble down her back while she rests by the fire, a gingham blanket sprawled out beneath her. Norman continues to leer at the picture and Arthur’s gaze flits to the rest of them. Maria braids Ophelia’s mane in one. Cooks a slab of meat in another. He gawks at picture after picture of her wringing out her clothes, riding down the road, asleep in her bedroll.

“Always see her in and around here. Tried to talk to her once in Valentine. Saw her comin’ outta the saloon with a feller’d had a big scar on his face. Told her she was just about the prettiest thing I ever seen.” Norman stops to rub the back of his neck with a faraway smile. “...She smiled at me. Thanked me. Felt real good to know she liked me too. I tried to get her back into the saloon with me but the feller she was with pulled them along. Nasty piece a’ work. Real controllin’ type.”

Arthur spots a photograph above Norman’s bedroll. Hidden in a cluster of trees Maria sits with her journal in her lap, boots kicked off to the side of her blanket. She rests with her knees tucked to her chest, her slender calves on display and her sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He bends a knee to yank the photo off the line.

“That there’s one of my favourites. She usually gets all undressed just before bed but I seen her a few times like that. It’s like she knew I was watchin’. Almost grabbed her right there.”

Arthur rises like a long dormant god. He doesn’t know what change in him Norman notices first but Norman notices something because his smile cracks.

In the light of the fire he notices Arthur clutching the photo so hard that his fingernail is white. He clears his throat. “T-tell you what, friend. Can see ya like that one. W-why don’t you have it? H-had the shop print up a few of those anyhow. So, uh, you keep it, friend. I should really get goin’.”

For a moment neither move.

The wilderness is filled with song, crickets and turkeys in chorus for miles, yet Arthur still hears the man swallow as he raises his hands to his waist and takes a step back, his eyes filled with a sort of confused betrayal that almost makes him childlike when he packs away his utensils, bends over the fire to retrieve his mug and dump the remaining coffee into the grass. He looks up.

“T-there anythin’ else I can do for you, friend?”

Blood splatters onto half the photographs, remnants of brain and skull sprayed out like shrapnel. Arthur stands with his finger on the trigger, the barrel of a volcanic pistol pointed at Norman’s face. He snarls and holsters his gun.

He snatches the corpse by the collar, no mind paid to the slop that seeps out of his head, and rifles through his coat. Forty cents and a tin of cover lotion is all there is until Arthur reaches into his breast pocket. Another photograph. Maria rinses her face with water from the river, her shirt hung over Ophelia’s rear, in nothing but a camisole and black trousers with a rip on the knee. Arthur flips the picture. Scribbled text indicates when and where Norman saw her, the dates tracing back a week. The film sticks to his fingers. He shoves Norman to the dirt.

He kicks through the discarded bottles and rips down every photo to throw into the fire. Only after the paper curls and disintegrates does he loot through the rest of Norman’s camp, bread chunks and mangled pelts not worth the hassle. He mounts his horse and snaps the reins all the way back to Horseshoe Overlook.

His legs throb by the time he reaches camp and gallops through the trees up to the horses, tossing the reins over the post next to Ophelia. He brings his leg over the saddle and drops to the grass with dinner bubbling up his throat.

Arthur hangs his head and grabs a wild carrot from his satchel, a slight tremble in his hand while his mare nibbles the snack. He closes his eyes. The stem disappears into his horse’s mouth just as Maria’s telltale laugh rings out across camp and he whips his head toward the noise.

She’s one of the only stragglers left with Mr. Pearson, John, and Uncle by the fire, the four of them bundled under pelts with bottles of beer in their hands. She’s stripped down to her chemise, a sign she’s headed to bed soon. Curls twist and spill from her hair bun onto that red wool coat she refuses to replace. Firelight glimmers on her face. He watches her.

John cracks a joke that sends the four of them into a fit of laughter. Maria weakly swats at him. He fends her off with one arm and a wide smile and Arthur swears she calls John disgusting. John says something again and Maria breaks out in laughter brighter than the fire.

They need to go somewhere. He doesn’t know where they need to go but as her laugh chimes out again all he knows is that they need to go somewhere.

Arthur gathers the spoils of his trip and crosses camp, dropping the carcasses beside Pearson’s tent.

“Good job, Mr. Morgan,” Pearson says from the campfire.

“You’re comin’ in late,” John adds.

Maria smiles when she sees him and takes a sip from her bottle. “You get into any trouble, cowboy? There’s blood on you.”

“Oh, I-I jus’ ran into some folk.”

“And now they’re dead?” she asks with a smirk.

“Ol’ Arthur Morgan!” Uncle bellows from his chair. “Where does all that anger come from?”

He ignores the question. “Ran into an interestin’ lead,” he tells Maria. “Might be worth lookin’ at. A stage ‘sposed to be runnin’ through here.”

“Jesus, another one?” she asks. “We’ve robbed just about half of ‘em at this point. You think someone would catch on.”

“Let’s hope not,” John says and Maria grins, clinking her bottle against his.

“S’ comin’ through Strawberry in the mornin’. Should get movin’ now if we wanna catch it.”

Maria throws her head back. “Ugh. But then I have to get dressed and it’s so late and now I have to—” she places a hand on John’s shoulder to lift herself up, “—spend time with you.”

The men chuckle, Arthur included, and she smiles at him before disappearing into her tent. “Gimme a minute,” she calls from behind the canvas.

Arthur isn’t far behind when he walks into his own, just beside hers. He twists the lantern on his night table to life, a dull glow illuminating the blood on his fingers and something wet and red on the toe of his boot.

His clothes stink of rusted iron and when he sheds his shirt and coat he sees just how much of Norman he brought back with him. He kicks them to the side of his clothing trunk. Changes into a fresh pair of everything. He reaches into his satchel and by the time Maria pokes her head in, Arthur has his canteen tilted, water spilling all over his hands and into a dirty puddle at his feet.

“Hey, you.”

He scrubs his hands over his face and wipes them dry on his pants. “Hey there.”

Maria waits in a white button up shirt over a camisole. Black trousers with a rip on the knee. Arthur looks at her.

“What?”

“N-no. ‘S nothin’.

She looks down at her outfit. “Do I look okay?”

“Y’ look beautiful. Come on. Let’s go ‘fore it gets any later.”

Arthur makes his way to the horses without a word of goodbye to the men, though Maria wishes them all goodnight before catching up to him.

“So, where are we going?”

“Ain’t far. Can stay in Strawberry for the night.”

There’s a smile in her voice. “Yeah, I bet…”

“Ain’t nothin’ like that,” he says with a smirk. “Just wanna get chu outta here.”

“And here I thought there was a stage coming.”

“There is.”

“Mm-hm.” Maria hoists herself onto Ophelia. “Well, whatever your plans are, I do need to be back by tomorrow. It’s my turn to help in camp so I’m afraid I’ll be stuck here all day.”

He mounts his horse, scans the area. “Okay,” he says. “Good.”

They pass through the swell of trees and onto the road embossed with hoof prints and wagon tracks, camp not even out of sight before he narrows his eyes at any shadow in the forest, jerks his head to any animal in his periphery.

Maria’s stirrup clinks against his and she looks over with a grin. “Hey,” she says with a playful shove to his arm. “Move over.”

Arthur glances down. “‘M-’m sorry.”

“You wanna hop in my saddle too?”

He chuckles. “Said I was sorry.”

“I know, sweetheart, I’m only teasing you.” Arthur cranes his head back to glare at something she doesn’t see. “You sure you’re okay? You seem…I don’t know.”

He turns back to the road. “Naw, ‘m fine. What chu get up to today?”

Maria frowns. “...Nothing too exciting. I went shopping for supplies with Lenny and then made a stop in the general store. Though, I will have you know that I almost bought a new coat to replace my beautiful red one you hate so much. And then I didn’t.”

“Ha. Aw, come on, never said I hated it. It looks good on y’. S’ just seen better days.”

“Haven’t we all, Mister Morgan.”

‘So…y-y’ain’t run into any trouble when you was out?”

“Like what?”

“I don’ know. Anythin’. Jus’ wanna make sure you didn’t see anyone or run into any problems.”

“No, my love. I was perfectly safe.” She reaches across the space between them, squeezes his hand, and pulls back. “Did you run into trouble when you were out?”

There’s a grin on her face when he looks at her. He rubs the back of his neck. “I-well, to be honest, I ran into a feller comin’ home. He was just outside a’ camp. Too close outside a’ camp. Ain’t got no idea how long he was sittin’ there. Bastard’s been here ‘least a week from what I saw. But he—”

Arthur stops cold in the road.

“W-what’s wrong?”

A figure looms in the distance and he squints to get a better look. They’re unmoving, a quick appraisal proof of their slender legs and broad shoulders. They stand stiff and defiant, like they’re ready for something. He nods towards them. “There.”

She bends forward. “Arthur, I don't think there’s anything there.”

“Wait here.”

“Arth—”

“Shh. Jus’ wait here.”

The shadow waits, unperturbed. Arthur doesn’t see a gun belt or bandolier as he nears closer, no barrel poking out from behind their back. Stars dust the sky like salt from a shaker but their light can only hint at what’s in front of him. He draws his repeater.

“‘Y got a problem, buddy?”

They remain still.

Arthur cocks the hammer. “I said, y’ got a problem?”

He trots towards the figure until it’s in full view, a cold wavelet of relief and shame trickling through him. He blinks. Two splintered planks of wood point in either direction, nails bent and rusted in their foreheads. Valentine this way. Emerald Ranch that way. He lowers his gun.

Ophelia snorts as Maria trots up next to him. She watches him gawk at the street sign and runs the back of her finger down his cheek. “Hey. What’s going on with you?”

His ears burn when he slings the repeater behind him. “‘M sorry. Jus’...thought I saw somethin’.”

“No, that’s okay. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Y-you’re starting to scare me a bit.”

He reaches over and places a hand on her thigh. “‘M sorry, sweetheart. I ain’t mean to scare y’. Let’s just keep goin’, okay? Please.”

“Arthur, are we in danger?”

“No. No, y’ain’t in danger no more.”

He tries to move his hand off her leg but Maria grabs his wrist. “What does that mean?”

“N-nothin’. S’over now. Come on, let’s go. I don’t want chu campin’ out here.”

“No. You tell me what that means.”

Arthur sighs and hangs his head. “Please, jus’ come wit’ me. I promise to y’ I’ll tell y’ everythin’ once we get to Strawberry, okay? But let’s get goin’.”

Maria hasn’t loosened her vice grip on his wrist, her eyes wide with a kind of fear Arthur hates being responsible for. She watches him, waiting for an explanation, her gaze darting over him like maybe the answer is in the scars on his face. He places his hand over hers until the sting of nails in his skin at long last subsides.

“‘M sorry.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Will y’...? R-ride with me.”

“I am riding with you.”

“Naw. With me. Feel a whole lot better with you behind me.”

The confession brings out a sad, bemused smile. “...You promise to tell me what the hell’s going on when we get there?”

Arthur smirks and crosses his finger over his heart, and she rolls her eyes though her smile gets a little bigger. “Move over then.”

The remainder of their journey is blessedly filled with her voice, Maria answering every one of Arthur’s prompts. Tell me more ‘bout your day. Naw, all of it. I like listenin’ to you talk. That’s good. Charles and I went huntin’ too once a little while ago. Bison. Micah ain’t givin’ you any more grief is he? Y’ sure y’ain’t run into any trouble? Y’ comfortable back there? Sweet girl, you fallin’ asleep?

She’s halfway there by the time they make it into Strawberry, a quiet, drowsy mumble her only response when Arthur announces their arrival. “Come on, darlin.’ Let’s get chu inside.”

He helps Maria down and she leans against the hitching posts to watch him tether their mares, a tired smile gifted to him when he takes her hand to guide them inside. He holds on as they speak to the hotel clerk, clutches her fingers tighter on their way up the stairs, and when they make it into their room the first thing he does is bolt the door shut.

Maria hums on her way to the dresser, her head craned to every new detail of a room they’ve stayed in before. Arthur notices too. The fresh leaves that sprout from a vase on the bedside table. The change in sheets, lily white with an intricate black pattern that makes them look fancier than they are. A stain in the carpet is gone.

She drops onto the bed. “So, are you finally gonna tell me what’s—”

He crosses the room to the closet beside their bed and yanks open the door. Hangers clatter against each other, rushed to one side of the rod, then the other, before he shuts the door. A sheer curtain of lace hangs down to the floorboards over their window, burgundy drapes pinned back in front of it. He tugs the ropes and the thick cloth tumbles down like the end of a stage show.

“What are you—?”

He roots through his satchel and she can hear the clink of metal. He pulls out his little tin mug, a spoon, cursing under his breath until he locates a fork.

“Arthur?”

He walks over to the vanity and opens one of its slender drawers. He sticks the head of the fork inside and closes the drawer over the tines, his hand pressed firmly against the wood to keep it shut. Maria watches him, listens to him grunt and push down on the handle as if pumping water, and when he pulls it out of the drawer again the fork’s head is a capital C, the tines hooked like claws.

“Arthur?”

Back and forth back and forth he bends the metal until the head snaps off. He unlocks the door to their room and sticks the crooked fork head in the latch and closes the door again. She’s off the bed when he slides the broken handle through the tines. He tries to open the door. Jiggles the knob. Every time, the fork quivers but doesn’t break. He sighs and twists the lock below the doorknob too.

“Arthur, look at me.”

She’s behind him when he turns around, arms crossed over her chest and a look of worry he hardly sees anymore. Her boot tap tap taps on the floorboard. “You promised.”

“I know.”

“And you’re scaring the shit out of me.”

“Yeah, I know that too. ‘M sorry, sweetheart, I really am. Here, come with me.”

He takes her by the hand and leads her back to the bed, his eyes on the carpet throughout the entire story. How he was comin’ home and how he found the man and how naw, he seemed fine at first until he saw all the goddamn photos, some of ‘em taken in broad daylight and some of ‘em taken when she was sleepin’ and how he tore down every one of ‘em before comin’ to get her. He tells her all about how short he was and how he kinda reminded him of them things outside a church or big buildin’, yeah, a gargoyle, tha’s it, and how he was fat and bald and probably ain’t never fired a gun in his life.

Maria’s hand is limp by the time he finishes, her eyes lost to the wallpaper. She swallows. “A-and…” She tries to find the words but all she does is take a long and laboured inhale. Arthur shimmies out of his coat to wrap her in, his large hand running up and down her arm.

“How many were there? Photos. H-how many did he take?”

Arthur sighs. “‘Bout a dozen I reckon.”

“Jesus Christ. I…I am so goddamn stupid.”

“Hey, now—”

“How in the hell did I not notice something like that? He was following me around for a week, a week, Arthur, and he took all those goddamn photos and I didn’t—”

Arthur cups the side of her face and draws her head to his lips. “This ain’t your fault,” he says into her hair. “Y’ didn’t do anythin’ wrong. There’s a lotta sick folk out there and there ain’t no sense tryin’ to make heads or tails of it. And it ain’t your fault when they set their sights on y’.” He kisses her head again. “‘M sorry I didn’t see the bastard sooner. ‘S my job to keep y’ safe and I…I didn’t.”

She faces him. “How could you have known?”

“I don’t know.”

“Arthur, if I can’t blame me, you can’t blame you.”

He exhales. “Alright.”

They sit there, tangled in each other’s arms without a word. Maria wraps her fist around his fingers and kisses his knuckles, reaching into his lap to rest her other hand on his. He smiles.

“Thank you, Arthur. For bringing me here and for just…I love you.” Another kiss to his knuckles. “I love you so much.”

“I know, sweetheart. Me too. More than anythin’, I do.”

“Are you okay?”

“Sure. Ain’t about me.”

“Arthur.”

He looks at her. With those big brown doe eyes and those long dark curls and that glorious golden skin of hers. “I’m jus’...I’m jus’ so goddamn afraid of somethin’ terrible happenin’ to y’.”

“Might be an occupational hazard I’m afraid,” she whispers.

He presses his forehead to hers. “That ain’t funny.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Arthur, I—whenever you go out on a job, whenever you head into town, whenever someone so much as looks at you funny I’m always so goddamn scared that something bad’s going to happen.” She runs her thumb across the scar on his chin. “It’s been a long time since I’ve loved someone as much as I love you…” Her voice trails off, a fine glaze over her eyes when she drops them to her lap. “A long time since I’ve lost someone I love as much as you, too. And I…I don’t have it in me to survive that again.”

“Sweet girl. Yer talkin’s if y’ already lost me.”

“Some days I’m terrified I will,” she whispers.

His calloused finger rests under her chin and lifts her face to his. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere. And I ain’t lettin’ you go anywhere neither.”

“We keep each other safe.”

“I love you.”

“I know. Me too.”

He tilts her lips to his. The kiss is short, timid, and when she pulls away with a blush on her cheeks it reminds him of their first. He smiles.

“Well, cowboy. Guess we better get to sleep so we can catch that stage.”

“You know damn well there ain’t a stage.”

She laughs. “I do.”

“Still. That don’t mean we gotta head back right away. Maybe it came late,” he says, a second kiss pressed to her lips. “Maybe it didn’t come at all.”

“Mm. And what do you reckon we do with all our free time?”

“Got a few ideas.”

“Nap?”

“Ha. Well, there’ll be plenty a’ time for that too.”

“Not with you there won’t be,” she says with a smirk, and rises off the bed.

Arthur chuckles and works himself out of his clothes while Maria undresses beside him. She finishes first and snuggles under the bedspread in only a camisole and bloomers, her hair freed down the curve of her back while he strips down to his union suit.

She wolf whistles before he slips in next to her. Dons a southern accent. “My, my, Mister Morgan.”

“Shut up,” he says with a grin.

“My stars. I ain’t seen you this indecent in a long time.”

“Sorry I don’t go gallivatin’ around in my bloomers all the time.”

She laughs. “Oh, I’m sorry. Sorry for not wanting to fall asleep in my clothes like a barbarian. Who goes to bed with their boots on?”

“I do.”

“Well I think you’ll find this much more comfortable.”

“Y’ may have to lose a few more layers ‘fore I’m really comfortable.”

“I will if you will.” She inches closer to wrap an arm around his torso. “I love you.”

He yawns wide and long and silent. Kisses the top of her head. Sleep is already heavy in his bones when he closes his eyes. “Mm, me too.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve said that a lot tonight, haven’t I?”

“Don’t be sorry, darlin’. I ain’t ever gonna tire of hearin’ you say it.”

“Okay, good. Cause I've got a lifetime more of ‘em.”

“Tha’s a real long time to spend on an outlaw.”

She smiles and closes her eyes. “Looking forward to it.”

#rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 arthur #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead redemption #red dead redemption arthur #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan rdr2 #cheesewedge writing #red dead fanfic #arthur morgan x oc #arthur morgan fanfic

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cheesewedge · 9 months

Text

cheesewedge masterlist

AO3 link

All of my work is Arthur Morgan x Original Female Character

legend

🙃 = angst 🌻 = established relationship 🌶️ = smut 🥰 = fluff 🩸= violence

angsty friends one-shots

Slow Dance (18+) 🙃 🌶️ 🥰 Summary: When Arthur returns bloodied and bruised from a bar fight in Valentine, his closest friend and occasional FWB tends to his wounds.

Word Count: 3,238

----------------- established relationship one-shots

A Stranger's Keepsake (18+) 🌻🩸

Summary: Arthur runs into a strange man on the way back to camp. A strange man with photos of a woman in his tent...a very familiar woman.

Word Count: 4,387

-----------------

Faces in the Flames (18+) 🌻🩸

Summary: On their way back to Clemens Point, Arthur and Maria encounter a gang they've never seen the likes of.

Word Count: 2,230

#arthur morgan #masterlist #rdr2 #rdr2 oc #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 arthur #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead redemption arthur #cheesewedge writing #red dead redemption

65 notes · View notes

cheesewedge · 9 months

Text

Slow Dance (18+)

Summary: When Arthur returns bloodied and bruised from a bar fight in Valentine, his closest friend and occasional FWB tends to his wounds.

Word Count: 3,238

Tags: mention of injury, sexual themes, dialogue-heavy, arthur x original female character

A/N: Hello, everyone! I've had an AO3 for a while now, but really wanted to jump into the community here since there's so much writing. I apologize in advance for any incorrect formatting or tagging, so please let me know if I did something wrong!

I first published this in May 2022, but I cleaned it up a bit to post here. Thank you for reading!

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The sun dips its head behind the horizon, setting fire to the sky with a blend of pinks and oranges. Maria sits inside her tent, nose curled in a book loaned out by Dutch. A light breeze rustles the flaps and stirs a few thick curls loose from behind her ear.

At this point, she’s only pretending to read. Bill stumbled into camp an hour ago, jabbering about a bar fight he started in Valentine. He tells the men how valiantly he, Javier, Charles, and Arthur fought, his embellishments growing louder the longer he prattles on. Maria rolls her eyes. Though she’s angry that Bill put Javier and Charles in danger, her blood thickens and boils at the thought of him getting Arthur hurt.

Nestled directly beside his tent, she waits for Arthur’s return. She’s grown to fret over him more than anyone else over the years. Being the enforcer, the errand boy, the beloved son, comes with its responsibilities and she’s watched his fatigue gradually worsen. Arthur often dismisses her demands that he slow down, insisting that he’s fine or that “someone’s gotta do it.” They’ve even argued about it, neither willing to admit where their emotions come from.

But as the minutes roll by, it’s obvious to her that she won’t feel any better worrying herself ragged. Pearson’s spoon banging on the serving pot announces that dinner’s ready, which is a good enough excuse to finally vacate her tent.

Hosea and Reverend Swanson are already at the poker table by the time Maria arrives at the bowls. They exchange amused glances, hiding their smiles behind their spoons the angrier Bill gets.

Bill slams his half finished beer down. “Walked right into me! Then told me to calm down. Goddamn idiot.” He looks to the others. Noticing that he’s finally lost their attention, he storms away, muttering to himself.

She dumps out a portion of venison stew and makes her way over to his vacated seat. Bill acknowledges her with a quick glance as they cross paths.

“Have a seat, my dear.” Hosea says. Swanson gathers enough energy between spoonfuls to smile up at her.

She grins back and slides in next to Hosea.

“So. What the hell happened now?” she asks.

“Oh, you know how they are,” Hosea says. “Bill would fight a hitching post if he thought it looked at him the wrong way.”

She snorts.

“Where are the others?”

“Well, the boys stumbled into Josiah on their way back from their little adventure. It seems he’s found where Sean’s holed up. Javier and Charles are scouting so we can grab him before he’s moved any farther.”

“Damn. That’s great news.”

Hosea chuckles. “Yes. Shouldn’t be too hard to retrieve him.”

“And Arthur?”

He flicks his eyes to hers for only a moment, careful not to draw suspicion or rouse her annoyance. Between the jokes over the years and the girls’ persistent gossiping, she’s grown tired of the tittering. Still, Hosea knows her and Arthur better than they know themselves and he’s grown tired of their eight-year-long dance.

“I’m not sure. Bill mentioned that he got into a scrape with one of the regulars. Big fella by the name a’ Tommy. Apparently they put on quite a show.”

Maria looks out at the setting sun and shovels another spoonful into her mouth.

“I bet,” she mumbles, clenching and unclenching her toes inside her boot.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Hosea says. “Arthur’s never been one to back down from a fight.”

“That’s the problem.”

Hosea chuckles and gently pats her wrist. Arthur’s returned to camp bloodied or broken more times than she can count. He’s had a few close scrapes in the time she’s known him, but Hosea’s right — he’s never been one to take anything lying down. Still, a lump bubbles in her throat.

Hooves trotting into camp break through her nerves. She swivels her head just in time to see Arthur slowly lower himself from his horse, a hand on his back once his feet hit the grass. He pats his appreciation onto his mare’s neck, though he winces and rolls his shoulder. It’s hard to tell at this distance, but it looks like he’s covered in mud.

“Excuse me,” she says.

“Make sure he takes care of himself,” Hosea says into his bowl.

“Oh, I will,” she replies over her shoulder.

She strides over to Arthur’s tent, appraising his wounds the closer she gets. He’s already on his cot with his arms draped over his knees. Mud cakes his clothes and hair and his jaw is stiff, tinged red under the scruff he won’t shave. Pink blotches dot his face, one above his eye and another on his forehead. She leans against his shaving station, her arms folded, frowning.

“Evenin’,” he greets.

“Arthur. You look like shit.”

“You just noticin’?”

She makes a face. “Lemme look at you.”

“Naw, I’m fine—” he starts, but Maria’s already in his tent. They glower at one another before he gets up with a grunt.

“I mean it. I don’t need a nursemaid.”

She doesn’t move.

“What?”

“You know, this would go a helluva lot faster if you weren’t such a stubborn ass all the time.”

He opens his mouth, but she gently traps his chin between her fingers, her eyes wide. He stares at her, smothering the urge to kiss her.

“Damn it, Arthur. You have glass in your cheek.”

Small shards pepper his face and he gently pokes them, unable to pull away before she sees the cuts on his bruised, swollen knuckles.

“Shit. I didn’t even notice.”

With that admission, she points to her tent. He struggles for another excuse but she’s statuesque, resolved to care for him. Arthur sighs, but relents once she narrows her eyes. They make their way inside and she cinches the flaps of her canvas closed.

“Alright, first thing’s first. I gotta get that glass out. Also, coat, shirt, and union suit — off. I need to get a look at your back.”

“I’m alright.”

“Right. Cause I didn’t just watch you struggle like an old man to get off your horse. Take ‘em off, you fool.”

“You spyin’ on me?” He asks with a smirk, his coat slipping to the ground.

“Oh sure. I got nothin’ better to do than watch over you.”

“Mighty big a’ you to finally admit it.”

He earns a smile and she hates herself for blushing. “Shut up. And don’t sit on my cot, you’re filthy,” she says. Maria grabs a blanket from her trunk and smoothes it out at the end of her bed, shuffling back her nightstand to light a lantern.

“My bein’ filthy ain’t ever stopped us from lyin’ on your cot before.”

She gnaws the inside of her cheek, begging her smile to disappear. Heat radiates between her legs and she presses her thighs together. All she can muster is an irked grin over her shoulder.

“You’re a pig.”

He laughs and shimmies out of his blue shirt. His union suit is harder to wriggle out of with the pain and she turns around when she hears Arthur hiss.

“Here, let me help.”

“I got it.”

“Let. me. do. it.”

He huffs out a chuckle and raises his hands in defeat, letting her roll it down to the waist of his work pants. Across his back, bruises bleed into each other like watercolours and small scratches lay fresh among his scars. She runs her fingers along the untarnished skin between his injuries. Arthur closes his eyes.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Nothin’. Bill started a fight and we all got involved. Ain’t a big deal.”

“Was it against a goddamn bull?”

“Just about. Big feller was causin’ problems and I stepped in. Threw me through the wind’w and we landed in the street. I got a hold of him but some little do-gooder stepped in ‘fore I could finish it.”

She applies gentle pressure to his sore spots and he flinches. “Well, at least you didn’t kill anyone.”

“Not this time,” he says, dropping to the blanket with a sigh.

Though it shames her, she can’t help but plummet into her fantasies as she watches Arthur. In recent years they’ve taken to occasionally sleeping together. Lonely or drunk or both, they’ve turned to one another for comfort in the privacy of hotel rooms or each other’s bed rolls. Once, under her coercion, Arthur snuck into her tent at camp. But between the creaking cot and their feeble attempts at silence, they never tried it again. She indulges in the memory now, her eyes tracing the curves of his muscles as Arthur sits shirtless on her bed.

“Whatchu lookin’ at, woman?”

“The man responsible for all my grey hair.”

“I’m fine,” he says with a grin. “Ain’t like it’s the first time I’ve gone through a wind’w.”

“It’s not the first time you’ve worried me half to death either.” She snatches a chair from the opposite end of her tent. “Scoot,” she says, tapping the inside of his thigh. He obeys without question and she settles in between him.

As soon as their knees touch, sweat trickles down Arthur’s back, his pupils like dollars when she leans forward to wrap a hand around his head. Even shirtless, the scent of horse and pine needles mingle with cigarette smoke.

“You ain’t gotta go to all this trouble,” he mumbles.

“You’re never trouble to me, Arthur Morgan,” she replies and he smiles despite himself.

“What would I do without chu?

“Die. Without a doubt.”

They both laugh before Arthur groans and clutches his jaw. She furrows her brow and tightens her grip around his head. “Okay. Now sit still.”

For the next twenty minutes she plucks out piece after piece and deposits them into an empty can of strawberries. She’s too lost in her work to notice the way Arthur fidgets. The way he wrings his hands. The way he taps his boot. The top two buttons of her shirt are undone and Arthur can’t help his eyes from sliding down the seam of her breasts, wishing he could bury his face in them once more, relishing in the sounds of his own little songbird.

His breath quickens at the thought, though she doesn’t notice that either, and Arthur drags his eyes away. Desperate for something to distract him, he attempts to stare at the canvas wall behind her. It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t work. Almost immediately his gaze falls back into her orbit, landing on the thick curls of her hair. They’re piled against one side of her head, rich and dark as fresh soil. Arthur inhales. Wildflowers. A bit of campfire. He bites back a smile.

Maria pulls another shard out and he winces.

“Sorry. You okay there, cowboy?”

“Yes ma’am.”

She smiles, inspecting a particularly large piece that pokes out from his cheekbone. Half juts out while the other lies lost in the skin. She frowns and leans closer, mindlessly tangling her fingers deeper in his hair. Arthur swallows.

“This one might hurt,” she announces. “You ready?”

“Sure.”

It comes out easily enough, but blood weeps down his cheek and drips onto his pants. “Shit,” she whispers, slithering out from between his legs to fetch gauze from her nightstand. She presses it to his face.

“Everythin’ alright there?”

“You’re good,” she answers. A red splotch stains the bandage like a scarlet letter, but with enough pressure it stops pulsing out. She applies a fresh square against his cheek, holds, and grazes his jaw with her other hand.

Her other hand grazes the swelling on his jaw. It doesn’t look as bad as it did when he first arrived, the skin more pink than red. Stiff, but nothing broken.

Maria inhales and Arthur looks at her. “Wha’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on. Spit it out.”

Her fingers continue along his beard, thumb boldly grazing his bottom lip. He flits his eyes to hers. “I just… I hate seeing you hurt, Arthur. And yes, I know what you’re gonna say. You’re gonna tell me it’s not a big deal and that you can watch out for yourself. But that doesn’t mean seeing you like this worries me any less.”

“I know.”

“I just want you to be safe, Arthur.”

“I will be.”

“Promise?”

He grins, crossing his heart with his index finger, and she ducks her head in laughter. After another dab or two, she pulls the gauze from his cheek.

“That should be the last of the glass, you silly man.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Uh-huh. Now lemme take a look at your back.” She pushes off her thighs to lift herself up, breasts almost knocking into the dimple of his nose. Arthur blinks once, twice, ten times to will the swell in his pants down.

“Sounds good,” he says thickly.

“Alright,” she says as she unscrews a tin of lotion. “Brace yourself. This is the good stuff.” He only grumbles. “You’ll live, tough guy.”

The balm is a gift from Hosea. He hasn’t shown her how to make it yet, but she knows from experience that it burns like hellfire, but also soothes tough wounds. It’s thick, the smell faintly of yarrow and cayenne pepper, and her nose scrunches as she scoops out a glob. She smoothes it across the bruise on his shoulder, and winces in anticipation.

A few seconds is all it takes before he sharply inhales through his teeth. Arthur squirms on the cot and twists away. “Jesus, woman. What is that?”

She laughs, holding him in place. “I don’t know. All I know is that it works. Calm down, it’ll be over soon.”

He grimaces and tries to wrench away again, only to be guided back by Maria’s hand. “Would you sit? We’re almost done.”

When his muscles soften she grins and tilts to face him. “You done being a baby?”

Arthur makes a face but says nothing.

“How’s it feel?”

He rolls his shoulder. “Bit better,” he admits, twitching as the sting fades. “Remind me to never let you near me with that stuff again.”

“Well, the good news is that you’ll only get better over the next day or two. That bad news is we’re not out of the woods yet.”

Arthur mumbles incoherently as she plops down beside him. “Alright. Hold onto something, cowboy.”

This bruise is larger, and it paints his lower back a sickly combination of blue and violet. She steadies him with one hand as the other works his wound. Without thinking, Arthur latches onto her thigh. A white film coats his back and its buzzing tingle graduates to pricks along his skin. Arthur digs into the meat of her leg.

It doesn’t take long for the pain to subside and he breathes deeply once it’s over, adjusting to the sensation. His grip remains a vice on her thigh and she sighs, waiting for him to catch on. When he doesn’t, she smacks his arm.

“Ouch,” she squeaks.

He glances at her. Underneath his claw-like hold she bobs her leg up and down to get his attention and Arthur’s expression hardens as he lets go.

“Shit, ‘M sorry. Didn’t mean to squeeze ya that hard.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Arthur’s eyes dart to hers and the corners of his mouth twitch upward. “Don’t start.”

“It doesn’t even hurt that much!” She scoffs, tapping his hand away. “‘Big, bad gunslinger.’ What a wimp.”

Pink spreads across the tips of Arthur’s ears. “...Wha’ d’you call me?”

“You heard me…”

Arthur’s gaze smolders. Flames dance along her lips, her pulse point, her breasts. That familiar heat rises again between her legs but she doesn’t fight it this time. It isn’t lost on either of them that a mere look would initiate another night together. A deep kiss, all tongue and greedy hands, would follow. If she’s lucky, he would let her take over. Allow her to climb on top, Arthur’s starving hands pressed into the flesh of her ass as she chased her climax. They’d stare at one another and she’d drown in his eyes, hands dug into his pecs, singing his name to the sky.

Arthur holds his stare until she breaks, dropping her eyes to her lap to reach behind him. A waft of her hair oil hits Arthur’s face and his self control threatens to snap inside his chest. He blinks, slowly.

When Maria leans back, her fingers work to unscrew another tin of ointment. The colour of an early sunset, this one doesn’t smell as offensive. She reaches her hand out and repeatedly slaps her fingers into her palm, beckoning him. “Lemme see your knuckles.”

“Aw, you’ve done enough. I’m sure I’ll be fine in a few days.”

“Are you… are you seriously gonna keep doing this?”

“What?”

“Denying me.”

Arthur swallows. “No, ma’am.”

He places his bear paw in her palm, knuckles buried underneath a mosaic of pink splotches and scrapes. His fingertips are calloused, nail beds lined with a thin layer of dirt, so unlike the china of her skin. Maria smoothes the paste into his knuckles with her thumbs and even in the low light, Arthur sees she’s flushed.

“...Don’t worry,” she says. “This one won’t hurt ya.”

A nervous chuckle trips out of Arthur’s throat. “I ain’t worried.”

She lays his slathered hand on his lap and retrieves the other one without permission. Neither say a word as the seconds scrape by, though she soon begins to hum a tune.

“Tha’s real pretty.”

“What is?” she asks, too shy to look at him.

“Yer song. What is that?”

“Oh. Well, thank you. It’s not anything. I made it up.”

“It’s nice.”

Maria smiles. “Well, it was either that or ‘One-Eyed Riley.’”

For the first time all evening, Arthur belly laughs and she can’t help but join him. “I don’t know if we’re allowed to sing that without Uncle,” he says.

“Pfft. I’ll do whatever I like, thank you very much. Unless you want him to rub your knuckles.”

Arthur groans and she chuckles. “Ain’t no one need Uncle rubbin’ ‘em.”

Her laughter rises an octave and she swats Arthur’s thigh. “Shut up. I don’t need to think about that.”

“You started it.”

“Well, I’m regretting it.”

Maria smears the rest of the ointment onto his other hand, but doesn’t have the strength to let go. “All done, cowboy. Think you’ll live?”

“Reckon I’ll be alright.”

“Good,” she replies, and her fingers wind themselves in his. The moon has since taken its place in the sky, her lantern their only light source. The glow washes every ounce of her in gold and Arthur watches her the same way he does a sunrise — silenced by the unadulterated beauty.

He unspools his fingers to lay his hands on top of hers, drawing small circles with his thumbs. “...Thank you.”

“...You’re welcome, Arthur.”

They share a glance, skittish as spooked deer, before Maria softly smiles, collecting the tins and soiled gauze. She reaches to the grass beside her bed and grabs a crumpled bandanna already stained with crusted blood, wipes off the remnants of ointment. She drops it back where she found it, heading back to her abandoned bowl at the poker table. “You coming?”

“‘Course,” Arthur replies. “Just lemme get ready.”

“See you out there, Morgan.”

She smiles over her shoulder, slipping through the tent flaps, and Arthur misses her before they even close.

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cheesewedge · 5 months

Text

Faces in the Flames (18+)

Summary: On their way back to Clemens Point, Arthur and Maria encounter a gang they've never seen the likes of.

Word Count: 2,230

Tags: graphic descriptions of corpses, dialogue-heavy, violence, arthur x original female character

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Thick fog drowns the swamp in mist. Moonlight leaks through the tendrils of the weeping willows and brings forth skeletal shadows of the bald cypresses. All air is heavy with the stench of rotten eggs. Maria looks around. Dozens of eyes red and unholy poke up from the water. Mosquitoes keep time with the gnats and flies, the odd bullfrog, and she swats the air to keep them away from her face.

“Jesus, it’s creepy out here.”

“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry, we’re almost home.”

“Not really.”

“Y’ain’t gotta worry, I’ll keep you safe.”

“You always do. But that isn’t the point.”

“It ain’t?”

“No.”

“Okay, then what is it?”

“The point is I am this close to climbing in your saddle and staying there until we get home.”

Arthur laughs. “Well, you won’t get no complaints outta me.”

“Pff. Is that why you didn’t listen when I told you it was too late to travel?”

“Naw. I did it ‘cause I love hearin’ you chew my ear off.”

She raises her eyebrows and bends over her saddle horn in silent laughter, rising only to smack his arm. “I hate you.”

“Aw, ‘m only jokin’. But y’ain’t got nothin’ to worry about. ‘M always gonna keep y’ safe.”

“I know.” She reaches to place a hand on his thigh. She runs her thumb over him and smiles when he looks at her.

“Can’t say it weren’t worth it for that trip.”

She pulls away. “That’s true. As awful as this is, I’d do it again to fuck you on silk sheets.”

“We can always turn around.”

“Yes, when I can walk again, we can turn around.”

He laughs. “‘M-‘m sorry. I weren’t too rough was I?”

“No rougher than I asked for.”

His eyes flick to hers. He smirks, but she reserves her smile for the road.

“Y’ know, there was a time when fellers had t’ pay for that kinda—”

Ophelia whinnies, stomping in place as if there’s a fire at her feet. Maria wraps the reins around one fist and grips her saddle horn with the other. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Easy. Take it easy. What’s wrong with you?” Through the shushes and pats to her neck Ophelia calms down just enough to avoid bucking Maria, but when nudged forward, she won’t move.

“Think I could tell y’.”

Maria turns to Arthur, his eyes fixed ahead of them. A man hangs bloated and still as stone from a cypress branch. His head droops toward his bound hands, waxen skin grey and cold as a winter sky. One of his shoes lies on the grass beneath him and the naked foot has long since rotted, consumed by fly eggs and a callous buzz of insects.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Ain’t been here more than a couple days it looks like.”

“We should cut him down. See if he has any identification. He may have had a family.”

“Ain’t no business of ours. Poor bastard.”

“Arthur.”

Before he can protest she draws her pistol. A shot rings out as the body crumples down with an ugly thud. She dismounts. The man’s legs lie bent unnaturally beneath him. There’s a sweetness to the fetid odour of vomit and meat and the stink of shit clung to his trousers. Foam seeps from his nose and out past his protruded tongue. She buries her face in a handkerchief.

“Come on, leave it. We gotta get outta here.”

She squats and tries his vest pockets. An opened bottle of gin and a few coins are left in one pocket before she searches the other and pulls out a folded piece of paper.

if you find this i am dead

the Nite Folk haunted my dreams and now they haunt my waking hours too. I have tried to evade them but it is only a matter of time I feel before I am bested

the silence is overwhelming

pray for me

She doesn’t move.

“What is it?”

An arrow skims the bridge of her nose. She cries out, the burn immediate as another bolt pierces the air to take her hat with it and bring forth freakish hissing and a rush of bare feet from the trees, a trio of so-called men armed with machetes and clubs, their faces smeared in white paint and one’s naked torso slathered in blood with his bare teeth exposed as he hisses and chases after her.

Ophelia cries out and bolts to the other end of the road, Arthur’s mare just behind her after he dismounts and fires another round. One bullet punctures the stranger’s shoulder, another one his neck, but he raises the blade over his head and swings at Maria. She jerks away and lands on her rear, hands drowned to the wrist in mud as she kicks away. Blood, almost black in the moonlight, bubbles from his throat and spills down a rosary of human hair woven around his neck, tongue clicking in a manner only the others understand. She kicks. A bone snaps somewhere in the leg and he pauses, the whites of his eyes like distant moons when he swings the machete to catch the meat of her thigh. She lets out a pathetic sound, kicks again. He staggers to a knee without a sound and she fires her shotgun, closing her eyes against the splatter of teeth and blood. She fires again, though there’s nothing left to shoot at.

She holsters and claws at the mud to lift herself up. Both who went after Arthur lie dead in the road. She stumbles toward him with fire pulsing through her leg and hollers for Ophelia.

“C-creepy bastards. Jesus, y’alright?”

“I’m fine. Let’s just get the fuck out of here.”

Ophelia trots down the path and rears when she steps over one of the men. Maria hobbles next to her and mounts with some difficulty, not daring to look at the thing by her feet as Arthur whistles for his mare.

“Y’ sure you’re okay—?”

Maria whips her head to the trees. Torches bob not thirty feet behind them, another four, maybe five heads of caramelized rags amid hissing and clicking and the squelch of toes in mud. She watches them, her entire body tense in a war against itself to move, but all she can do is stare at the sickly parade of white faces seemingly born from the flames.

A gunshot. She looks at Arthur, unshaken with a snarl on his face before he fires again. An arrow lands in a tree trunk.

“Let’s go.”

Another arrow whizzes by her head and she digs her heels in the stirrups, urging Ophelia toward Rhodes with Arthur right beside her.

A defeated screech emerges from the fire and demands life of the swamp, Arthur and Maria’s vision clouded by the tattered apparitions of the Spanish moss, their faces assaulted by weeping willow limbs, everything like great beings from hell that scratch and snap at their heels until the swamp is so far behind them it’s like the remnants of a bad dream.

By the time they reach Clemens Point sweat leaks from their mares’ chests down their legs. Maria pats the side of Ophelia’s neck, whispers words of encouragement, but she tosses her head in the crownpiece until she’s hitched by the water trough.

Maria stumbles off and inhales through her teeth when she lands on the grass.

“Sweetheart, y’ okay?”

She hobbles to her tent without an answer.

Arthur sighs and flicks his eyes to the shadow in his periphery. Kieran lugs a saddle toward Taima and hoists it on her back with a small grunt.

“O’Driscoll.”

“Evenin’, mister.”

“Y’ mind givin’ our horses a look at? May o’ pushed ‘em a bit too hard comin’ back here.”

Kieran shuffles over with a look of concern that only worsens when he sees the mares. “Oh, Arthur. What’d ya do to ‘em?”

“I know, I know. Can y’ help?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Thank y’.”

He makes his way to the firelight shadows that stretch behind the cinched maroon fabric of Maria’s tent, pitched just beside his. Arthur shakes off his jacket and drops it onto his clothing trunk. Peels off his overshirt. His pants and boots. He pinches the fabric of his union suit and tries to fan himself dry but eventually relents, tucking a clean one under his arm as he steps into the night.

The stench of blood chokes him on the way into Maria’s tent. Her clothing lies abandoned — the front of her pants, her shirt soaked crimson. She stands with one foot on an upturned bucket and runs a rag down her naked leg, her camisole and bloomers spread like dead birds at her feet. He watches her glide the rag to one of her breasts.

“Hey.”

“What’re y’ doin’?”

“Bathing.”

“How many a’ those you gonna take? Y’ just had one ‘fore we left Saint Denis.”

“Yeah, well, that was before I was covered in shit.” She bends to wring out the cloth and clutches her thigh.

“Sweetheart, let me see.”

“I’ll be fine.”

He sighs. “Am I gonna have t’ tie y’ to the bed?”

She limps to her cot. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” she says as he kneels in front of her, lifting her calf with both hands to bring her foot atop his leg. The wound isn’t as deep as he feared. It stretches across the width of her thigh and smells faintly of whiskey, already disinfected.

“Y’ should wrap it.”

She reaches into her nightstand and hands him a roll of gauze and a small pair of scissors for him to wrap strip after strip around her leg, tucking it in on itself. “Thank you…w-what?”

He frowns at another cut, deeper than the first and curled across the bridge of her nose. She touches it. “Oh. Yeah, I know. It should be okay. I cleaned it, so all we can do now is let it heal.”

He doesn’t answer.

She looks at him, and in the silence spots the exact moment his eyes glass over with blame. She grazes the scar on his nose with a small smile, her voice quiet. “Now we match.”

“I ain’t ever wanted y’ to match all my scars.”

“Oh, me neither,” she says, and it gets a laugh out of him.

She sighs. “Arthur, I’m sorry. I should have left him there. Those things were just waiting for us.”

“S’okay. We got outta there.”

“I almost got us killed.”

“They was probably gonna ambush us anyway. Folk like that are jus’ waitin’ for folk like you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He grins. “Kind folk. Yer an easy target.”

“You mean a sucker,” she says, and when he grins a little wider she laughs and smacks his arm. “Go to hell.”

“Ha. Well, I told y’ to leave him.”

“Yes, and for once, you were right.”

He scoffs but doesn’t say anything else, the two of them smiling through a quiet moment born and lost in the breeze.

“Arthur?”

“Mm?”

“Arthur, will…will you stay with me tonight?”

“‘Course I will.”

Her eyes sink to the goosebumps on her thighs. “Thank you.”

“Hey. Look at me. S’over now.”

“I know.”

“Then how come y’ look like y’ just seen a ghost?”

She scoffs. “Maybe we did.”

He gently brings her foot to the grass and puts his hands on his thighs, rising with a grunt. “Y’ been spendin’ too much time in them books o’ yours.” He walks to her clothing trunk and pulls out a clean nightgown. “What’s it called?”

She smiles and takes it. “Dracula. And he’s not a ghost, he’s a vampire.”

“S’all the same to me.”

“It is not the same. You can kill a vampire, Arthur.” She slips her arms through the lace sleeves. “You can’t kill what’s already dead.”

He unbuttons his union suit. “Good thing they ain’t real then.”

“And how do you know what’s real?”

“I ain’t ever seen one. And you ain’t ever seen one neither.”

She opens her mouth to speak but blushes instead, the dampened legs of his union suit peeled down his calves and discarded next to her underthings. He unfurls his clean one and navy fabric tumbles to his feet, a smirk on his face when he quirks a brow over his shoulder.

“Whatchu lookin’ at?”

She rests her elbows on her knees, cradles her chin in her open palms. “The scariest thing I’ve seen all night.”

“Yeah, y’ should see me up close.”

“That was always my favourite view.”

“Guess you’ve officially lost yer mind then.”

“That I did,” she says, and they smile at each other.

It doesn’t take long to assemble a makeshift bed on the grass—a bear pelt, her pillows, a worn out blanket that lost its colour years ago. She sinks onto it first, patting the space beside her before he turns out the lantern.

He barely lifts the blanket over his frame before she curls next to him, an arm draped over his stomach so she can lay on his chest, and when he presses his stubbled chin to the crown of her head she knows he’s smiling.

“G’night, darlin’.”

She hums long and high, fingers working the button just below his navel. “You know I’m just gonna open these again, right?”

He chuckles. “Y’re already takin’ too long.”

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