lover, should've come home arthur morgan x f!reader (1480ish words) cw: rdr2 spoilers! non-canon ish (journal changes, camp changes ig very minor lmao), character death, grief, angsty. it's not the happy ending i had started writing :) sorry a/n: thank you sm @softlygentlydesperately for reading & encouraging me to post, ily sm jana🦦💕
the first thing arthur noticed was the trunk. not you standing beside it. not the coat folded over your arm. not the way your face looked pale and strange in the grey morning light.
the trunk. packed. latched. ready.
for a moment, he said nothing. he only stood there in the mud at the edge of beaver hollow, hat low on his brow, his hand resting loose at his side. then he looked at you.
hearing the question should make you angry. after everything. after weeks of dutch’s unraveling and micah’s poison. weeks of arthur coughing blood into his handkerchief when he thought no one was watching, anger was the easiest thing to reach for. instead, you only felt tired.
arthur’s jaw shifted. his eyes dropped back to the trunk.
the word hit worse than any plea would have. you gave a small, humorless laugh. “that’s all?”
he looked away. “ain’t safe here.”
the silence between you stretched thin. all around camp, people moved like ghosts through the damp morning. but arthur only looked at you. he tried not to. that's the way arthur us. always glancing toward what he wanted, then punishing himself for wanting it.
you reached into your coat and pulled out the folded envelope.
arthur’s eyes narrowed. "what’s that?”
he went still. you stepped closer and pressed the envelope into his hand before he could refuse it.
“there’s a train leaving annesburg tonight,” you said. “northbound. after that, i don’t care. we can go anywhere.”
arthur stared down at the envelope like it might burn him.
“you haven’t even listened.”
his name stopped him more than your hand ever could have. he looked up then, and for one awful second, you saw it. want, not hesitation. not pity. not guilt. want.
it passed through his face so clearly it nearly broke you. you softened your voice. “come with me.”
his fingers curled slightly around the envelope.
and there it was. john. abigail. jack. the family arthur had decided could still be saved, even if he could not. anger rose fast and hot behind your ribs.
arthur looked toward camp. toward john sitting near the fire with his shoulders hunched and jack leaning against abigail’s side.
“if i leave now, they don’t get out.”
he didn't answer. you already knew he wouldn’t.
your voice cracked despite yourself. “what about you, arthur?”
his gaze fell. “i’m dyin’ anyway.”
the words took the breath from you. you had known. of course you had known. you had seen the blood. heard the coughing. watched the sickness hollow him out day by day. but knowing was different from hearing him say it.
“then come with me,” you whispered. “please.”
his face changed at that, not because you begged. arthur stepped closer, his steps slow and uncertain, and lifted his hand to your cheek. his palm was rough and cold, his thumb trembling near your mouth.
those three words hurt more than no. your eyes filled.
he closed his eyes. for a moment, you thought he might. you could almost see it pass through him, no dutch. no micah. no more running. just quiet. just you and him. then his hand slipped from your face.
“i gotta see this through.”
you nodded, though something inside you broke cleanly in two.
“keep it,” you said, folding his fingers over the envelope. “i’ll be at the boarding house near the station. green shutters. i’ll wait until friday morning.”
“i’m not asking permission.”
his mouth tightened. you touched his cheek once, gentle despite everything.
his eyes lifted to yours.
for a moment, he only stared at you. then he kissed you. not like a man taking what he wanted. like a man saying goodbye to something he had wanted too late. his hand slid into your hair, careful and desperate all at once, and when you kissed him back, you felt him break beneath it.
years of almosts. years of looking away. years of loving you quietly enough to deny it. when he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“i should’ve said it sooner.”
that hurt him. you saw it. but you were done making his pain easier to carry. you stepped back before you could change your mind.
“friday morning,” you said.
arthur said your name, soft and ruined, you didn't turn around. if you did, you would stay. and you had already learned what waiting did to a person.
john came to the boarding house on friday morning.
you knew before he opened his mouth. knew from the way he stood in the hallway with arthur's hat in his hands and grief written plain across his face. behind him, rain streaked the windows. in his arms was arthur’s satchel.
you stared at him. then at the satchel. then at the empty space next to him where arthur should have been.
john’s mouth tightened. “he saved us.”
the words should have brought comfort. they did not. you wanted to hate john then. for breathing. for standing there alive. for being the reason arthur had not come.
but john looked haunted enough already. so you only reached for the satchel. it was heavier than you expected.
“he wanted you to have it,” john said. “said there was somethin’ in there for you.”
you nodded once. no thanks were given to john, you couldn't.
after john left, you sat on the bed for a long time with arthur’s satchel in your lap. inside were the small remains of him.
a worn pencil, a folded handkerchief, a few coins, pressed flowers tucked inside a scrap of paper. and his journal.
you opened it with shaking hands. at first, the pages were older. sketches of horses, trees, birds, jack reading by the fire. little notes in arthur’s rough hand.
she laughed with tilly today. sounded nice. lent me a book. says i might improve myself. doubtful. she had a blue ribbon in her hair. looked pretty. didn’t say so. she asked if i was all right. lied.
you pressed a hand to your mouth. page after page, there you were. not loudly. not like a confession. but in the margins. in the quiet spaces. loved the only way arthur seemed to know how. carefully.
near the end, the writing changed. shakier. darker.
she is leaving. good. should have gone long ago. should never have stayed for me.
beneath it, after a long blank space:
had money for two tickets. northbound train. green shutters at a boarding house in annesburg. god help me, i wanted to. wanted it more than anything. saw it clear. her books on a shelf. coffee in the mornin’. my boots by the door. just her.
the words blurred. you wiped your tears quickly, terrified of smearing the page.
but john needs out. abigail and the boy too. if i leave now, then what was any of this for?
you kept reading because stopping would not save you.
told her i loved her. finally. should have said it years back. she said come home. meant herself. never had much of a home. had camps. rooms. bedrolls. places to run from. but i think it was her. all this time.
then, at the bottom of the page, written harder than the rest, dark enough that the pencil had nearly torn through:
that was all. not forgive me. not i loved her. not i tried. just, should’ve come home.
you bent over the journal and sobbed. because he had known.
arthur had known exactly where home was, and he had still turned away from it. not because he did not love you. because he did. because john needed saving. because jack deserved a father. because abigail deserved a life.
because arthur morgan had only learned how to be good when it was already killing him. you hated him for it. you loved him for it.
both things sat inside you, sharp and inseparable.
outside, a train whistle split the grey morning. you held the journal to your chest and closed your eyes.
“you did,” you whispered, voice breaking. “you came home too late.”
the room stayed quiet. the world kept turning. and in your hands, arthur’s last words remained open on the page.
thank you to all who read, comment, like, share, it means the absolute world to me! i hope u all enjoy this sad arthur fic! i was listening to the song by jeff buckley and it just came to mind! once again, thank you so much for reading 🥺💕 credits for images: x x x
andulkaphoto
theartofmadeline
titsay
jbbartram-illu
