Chapter Text
Arthur Morgan was dying. He could feel every breath, drawn out and thick. Even besides that, his body ached from the fight with Micah, from the running, from the worry, from the fighting, from the death. The sun felt warm on his face, illuminating the trees and falling on his face in speckles of gold. It felt like the universe itself was painting his body, the warmth slowly taking over and mixing with the numbness that began to settle over him.
Distantly, Arthur mused over his life, he thought of a scrawny teenage John, puffing his cheeks out in anger over not being allowed to go to town again, over the smell of the horses and woodland area on warm summer nights, sitting by the fire and listening to Hosea spin the tale of Arthur's failed attempts to barter down the price of a few bags of flour. He’d failed miserably, and just about worked himself up to shooting the poor bastard, but Hosea stepped in and pulled the unruly young man away. Hosea didn’t mention that part in his retelling, winking at Arthur in the firelight. He thought of the way Eliza smiled, and the way Isaac grabbed onto his fingers, staring at him like he hung the moon and painted the stars.
He thought of the way Jack would call for him, asking him to go out on Arthur's horse. Of the way John would grumble when he did, how Abigail grabbed his hands and ducked her head down in thanks. He’d always offer to take John with the two of them, nudging the man gently into spending time with his son. Arthur prayed they would all make it out.
He thought passingly of Mary, the way she hugged Jamie on the train platform in Valentine. Of the way Mary gripped his hands in their final goodbye. Arthur understood then, Mary was not his. Her world was not his. She would never be his. Arthur supposes he would be okay with that. He’d have to be.
He thought of Charles. The feeling of Charles' chest pressed against his back as he pointed over Arthur’s shoulder. The way the man would hold long drawn out conversations with him, clamming up for most anyone else. He thought of how Charles watched him draw so intently, every stroke of his pencil like a spell over Charles. He thought of Charles' voice, a hint of panic in it. “You still alive, Arthur?”
Except he didn’t say that then, did he? He was saying it now. Charles was there. Arthur hoped he was hallucinating, hoped his brain was comforting him with his friend. But hands rested on his arm, someone crouched beside him, and hair tickled his neck. Charles had leaned his head down to Arthur's chest, listening for his heart. Arthur wheezed, making Charles jolt back. “Jesus fucking christ- Arthur!”
Arthur weakly clawed at Charles' chest, both checking if he was real and pushing him away. Mustering up everything he could, he wheezed again, every word sending daggers into his lungs.
“Y’can’t be that close— can’t get sick–”
Charles shook his head, “I had to come back for ya. I felt… Something told me to come back, Arthur. I did what I could for- You have to come with me. You have to. Oh, Arthur..”
Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. He never wanted any of them to see him like this, broken and dying. A shell of a man. He mumbled something that was supposed to be protests, although he didn’t recognize any of the words. Charles knew him though, knew his tones and his heart.
“You don’t get to just die, Arthur. That isn’t fair. Not to me, not to Hosea, not Lenny, not to that boy Keiran, Sean, Molly… None of them. They didn’t die for you to just join them so soon... Not now, anyways,”
Charles heaved the man up over his shoulder. Arthur couldn’t even begin to fight him. Charles grunted under Arthur's body, and a part of him thanked the earth and heavens that Arthur had grown lighter and weaker, making him easier to carry. Arthur inhaled, his body fighting him. He could smell Charles, a mix of wood-smoke, leather and a musk that muddled the pain shooting through his body just a little bit.
“Charles-” Arthur said, with the urgency of a man confessing his sins. “Charles, it was Micha. It weren’t never Molly..”
Charles grimaced, “I know. I mean- I knew. You knew. I trusted you more than any of them.”
“Dutch he-”
“I know.”
“He left. He left me there, Charles,” Arthur's voice grew more frantic, and he began to cough.
“I know.”
The words kept flowing out of him, a stream of confessions. “I knew n’ I coulda killed him, so many times… I coulda let him hang in Straw—” his voice tapered out for a moment, the coughing rattling every bone and bullet in his body ‘--In Strawberry.”
Charles shook his head, “Arthur don’t. Save your breath.. Nothin’ you could have done would have made anything better in time. We were doomed from the moment that whole mess in Blackwater went down and Dutch–” Charles cut himself off before he could say any more. As they made it further down the mountain, Arthur's breathing leveled out. Not by a ton, but by enough that Charles didn’t find himself worrying how long it would be before he was carrying a corpse.
Charles had thought ahead, in the chance Arthur was still alive. He’d brought along two horses, Taima, of course, and another one for Arthur. Although, he put Arthur up on Taima, trusting her far more to keep him steady. “Keep him safe, girl.”
Arthur reached down to pat the horse's muscled neck, slumped forward. Charles began to speak, although Arthur had begun drifting in and out.
“It was a disaster, you wouldn’t believe.. I sent Rains Fall and his tribe ahead, they have what they need for at least a little bit.. I’ll take care of you. At least try to get you better.. If not, at least you won’t die alone.” Charles himself felt like he had to talk. Count breaths. Listening to every little choking wheeze, his mind tuned into both Arthur and listening for any lingering Pinkertons. He was sure they had presumed Arthur dead.
The ride lasted far too long, it felt. Occasionally Arthur would gasp, wheeze, and sputter out again. But he was alive, and there, and Charles felt an odd sense of peace. Like he said, if anything Arthur would not die alone on top of a mountain blanketed in Dutch’s betrayal and Micah's venom. He hoped the cowboy wouldn’t hate him for that, that the snake curling inside his stomach and whispering angry admonishments into his chest wasn’t right. ‘Arthur will be angry at you’ ‘He would hate you’. Perhaps, Charles thought to himself, he was being selfish. Taking the man from a beautiful death into what could possibly be a painful life. But, he had to try. He loved Arthur too much to just let him die. Again, selfishly, he wanted to be there for him. To hold his hand into death.
For now, Charles had to get them away from the area. Away from Beaver Hollow, and their sins. Somewhere he could hunker down for however long it took. It was days. Days of camping, of watching Arthur struggle and days of silence. Of course, Arthur wasn’t conscious for most of it, Charles would still ensure he was eating when he was awake. Giving him medicine whenever possible, crushed herbs and health tonics.
Finally, after about a week and some change of ensuring nobody could follow them and they were far enough away to actually rest, Charles found an abandoned shack, nestled amongst the trees and in a perfect spot to rest. They had enough food to last a while without Charles needing to leave to hunt, for which he was grateful. The sun dipped woefully below the horizon, coaxing the moon out of its slumber. Charles lugged Arthur onto the bed, ensuring he was comfortable and still breathing. The man had been more responsive today than most, and now he mumbled asking for water. Charles obliged, sitting him up and raising the canteen to his cracked, pale lips. As Arthur drank, one of his hands resting on Charles' wrist, Charles let his mind drift off, thinking of when things weren’t as much of a mess as they were now. He thought of Clemens Point, and with a shudder the days following Arthur's kidnap and torture.
— — — — — — — — — — —
Flies irritated everyone, nondiscriminate between horse and human. Arthur sat on the dock off of camp, drawing in his journal as he watched the boats pass by on the river. He’d been forced into camp duties by Mrs. Grimshaw following his encounter with the O’Driscolls. Surprisingly enough, he’d spent much of his time lingering near Keiran and Charles interchangeably. Keiran had spent time at his bedside, mumbling quiet prayers and apologies. Keiran weren’t much of a believer, but nonetheless he prayed. Arthur would smile at Keiran, in a haze of pain and subsequent booze to melt the pain. To him, the scrawny man's apologies fell on deaf ears, and Keiran'd atoned for his sins as an O’Driscoll; He was one of them now.
Now, though, Grimshaw finally let Arthur up to stretch his aching joints, and get use from his arm. The cauterized wound burned occasionally, sending searing needles through his entire body. He pushed through that, settling onto the dock. The sound of the water lapping against shore, the gang chattering behind him, and the scribble of his pencil brought him some form of sober peace he hadn’t felt in weeks. From behind him, he heard the dock groan in lazy protest as someone stepped onto it. From the way they walked, he assumed it was Charles or perhaps Hosea.
The musky smell that hit him confirmed his thoughts of Charles. He didn’t say anything, however. Charles settled in next to Arthur, silent for a moment. There was an awkward amount of distance between them, Charles cursing himself for not having accompanied him. For not having watched Arthur's back. Arthur closed his journal, turning to look at Charles with those eyes that so easily captured him up and swallowed him whole. “You okay, Arthur?”
Arthur rolled his shoulder, grunting. “Eh, Sore as hell, But gettin’ better. Maybe you can take me huntin’ when I’m back on my feet?”
Charles would love nothing more. “Maybe, old man.” He teased Arthur, tilting his head to the side. Arthur laughed, and it sounded almost lyrical. Charles drank in the moment, mapping out the pitch and inflection of the older man's voice. The laughter dripped from his chest like sweet honey, coating Charles in a warm feeling. “But, yeah. I can.” His voice dropped again, as he watched Arthur move to put the journal into his satchel.
“How do you draw like that?” Charles blurted, worried Arthur would leave his side if he didn’t find a reason for him to stay. Arthur's eyebrows raised slightly. “I didn’t take a man like you for one interested in my silly drawin’s…. I can show ya, though.”
Charles nodded, scootching closer until their sides pressed together. He really didn’t need to be this close, but he of all people knew how Arthur deprived himself of touch. He himself would do the same. Arthur leaned into him, opening his journal to a blank page. “Here.. Ah, would you mind if I drew ya?”
“Be my guest, cowboy.” Charles tilted his head, letting his long hair fall in ribbons and spilling onto Arthurs shoulder. Arthur didn’t seem to mind, sketching out the stoney set of Charles' jaw, “I usually start in a random place, whatever I think of first…” He moved on, filling out the rest of the man's face and head. He took extra care on his eyes, mapping them out with the faithfulness of a celebate priest. Drawing Charles' hair, he kept glancing over his shoulder. Charles didn’t portray much emotion, although he watched, zeroed in on the way Arthur's hands moved deftly across the paper, pencil marks strong and sure.
Arthur finished the drawing, scribbling in some shadows where they were needed. “I know I probably ain’t the best teacher, ‘Sea says I couldn’t teach a fish to swim… Or a John to drown,” He chuckled lightly.
Charles shook his head, lifting it from where he had at some point rested on Arthur's good shoulder. “I think you’re much smarter than anyone wants to admit.”
Arthur's ears burned, his face dusting with a pink colour. “Ah,, Naww, they’re right. I ain’t as smart as you, or- or Dutch, or Strauss” the last two names tumbled out of him, an attempt in vain to cover up what he’d said. Charles leaned his chin back down on Arthur's shoulder, staring at him.
“You need to give yourself more credit, friend. The rest of 'em? They blindly follow behind anything that shines like gold. Most of ‘em, anyways. You follow your heart. You’re a good man. You ‘help them as need helpin’,’” He accented his voice, shooting his one arm out to make a wide motion. A mockery of their ‘leader’. Dropping his arm and returning to his normal voice, he laughed.
“The rest of ‘em don’t see the man I’ve seen, stopping to help people even if they’re going the complete opposite way. I see you, Arthur Morgan.”
Arthur shook his head, dropping his arm around Charles. “I hear ya, Charles Smith.” He squeezed the man closer to him.
They stayed like that, chatting about local fish, things they’d seen, about Arthur catching the strange glances John kept throwing Javier's way, about Charles swearing he saw Hosea and Dutch sneak off together and come back looking breathless and embarrassed.
It felt like it could last forever, this moment.
And, in the warm dying light, in this perfect moment rested against Arthur, where he was back, alive, and safe? Charles wished nothing more for it to last forever.