⭒

you tell yourself it’s just one of those nights.

the kind where sleep refuses to come, no matter how long you lie still in the dark. the kind that has nothing—absolutely nothing—to do with the fact that arthur morgan rode out hours ago and didn’t come back when he said he would.

you almost convince yourself of it, too.

almost.

he returns without announcement. just the soft rhythm of hooves against dirt, followed by the heavier thud of boots hitting the ground. his horse snorts, unsettled, and arthur pats her neck before turning towards his tent as if everything is exactly as it should be.

it isn’t.

you see it the moment he steps into the firelight. the way he favors one side—not enough for anyone else to catch, but you know him too well to miss it. when he looks up and his eyes meet yours, he sighs, already bracing himself.

“i’m fine,“ he says, defensive before you’ve even had the chance to speak.

of course he does.

you don’t argue. you just set your mug aside and stand. he watches you approach with that familiar look—half irritated, half resigned—like he knows what you’re about to do and doesn’t have the energy to fight it.

you stop in front of him, close enough now to see the dark smear of blood staining his shirt, dried stiff along the fabric. his jaw is tight. his shoulders sit just a little too high.

“it’s nothin‘,“ he mutters, quieter now, like saying it softly might make it true.

you bite the inside of your lip, swallowing down all the things you want to say. the sharp words. the worried ones. the kind that would make him leave faster than you could stop him.

sometimes—ridiculous as it sounds—he really reminds you of a fawn. arthur morgan. outlaw. gunslinger. a man with too much blood on his hands. and still, there’s something skittish about him when it comes to the people he’s let close.

you’ve learned how careful you have to be. so instead of pushing, you keep it simple.

“sit.“

he huffs softly through his nose. “bossy,“ he mutters—but listens. he carefully lowers himself onto a crate near the fire. the movement pulls a sharp breath from his chest before he can hide it. you pretend not to notice.

you grab the supplies—water, a clean rag, the salve—and kneel in front of him. for a moment, neither of you speak. you take advantage of the closeness and allow yourself to look at him.

the firelight softens him in a way daylight never does. it traces the exhaustion he wears like second skin. his eyes look darker like this. heavier.

“i can—“ he starts.

“no,“ you say gently, cutting him off before he can finish. “hold still.“

his mouth closes. he doesn’t argue. doesn’t pull away.

that’s how you know it’s bad.

you unbutton his shirt slowly, refusing to rush. the fabric pulls away to reveal a shallow but angry gash along his ribs—nothing fatal, but messy. painful.

you suck in a deep breath.

arthur notices.

“told you,“ he murmurs. “ain’t serious.“

you glance up at him, unimpressed. “you bleed like anybody else, arthur.“

something flickers across his face before he looks away.

you start cleaning the wound. the rag comes away pink, then darker red. his muscles tense beneath your hands, but he doesn’t make a sound.

when you’re done, your fingers linger longer than necessary, pressing gently.

arthur exhales, the sound shaky, like he hadn’t realized he was holding it.

“…hell,“ he mutters.

“that hurt?“ you ask softly.

he shrugs. “reckon it should.“

you open the salve and apply it carefully. he flinches despite himself.

“sorry,“ you murmur.

“don’t,“ he says immediately.

your thumb smoothes slow circles along the edge of the cut. his breath catches—just once. he freezes, like he’s waiting for you to say something.

you don’t.

you just keep going, just as gentle

without meaning to, his posture shifts. his shoulders loosen. he leans into you like gravity’s finally won. your other hand comes up instinctively to brace his side, supporting him.

to your surprise, he doesn’t pull away. instead, his hand closes around your wrist. big, calloused, warm. he doesn’t stop you. he just holds on.

your chest tightens.

god. you’re already in too deep.

because something about this—about seeing this unbreakable, hardened man finally allow himself to be cared for—does something to you. something you don’t let yourself name.

“this ain’t…“ he starts, then trails off.

you glance up. “ain’t what?“

he swallows, eyes fixed somewhere past you, jaw clenched like the words are caught in his throat.

“…nothin‘,“ he finishes quietly.

but his grip tightens, just a little.

you don’t comment. let the silence settle, then reach for the bandage and hold it up, silently asking.

he hesitates. looks at you. then at his hand wrapped around your wrist. his fingers curl once more—subtle, almost unconscious—before he lets go.

you smile at him and begin bandaging him, thorough and unhurried. when you finish, you don’t move right away.

neither does he.

the fire crackles low. arthur’s still leaning forward, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath. he looks tired—worn thin in a way he never lets anyone see.

for a moment, you think he’ll pull away.

he doesn’t.

“reckon i’d be worse off if you weren’t here,“ he says finally, voice low, like the truth feels unfamiliar in his mouth.

you look up at him, caught off guard. “that so?“

he nods once. doesn’t meet your eyes. “yeah.“

the silence that follows settles heavier than before, fragile enough to feel like it might break if either of you moves too fast.

his knee shifts, brushing against your side. barely there, but intentional.

“thanks,“ he murmurs, softer now.

you swallow. “anytime.“

he exhales, long and tired, and lets his hand rest against your arm. not quite holding you. just enough to test how much he’s allowed to take.

you don’t move.

you never do.

nothing dramatic—just steady. a soft tapping against the windows like a reminder that the world is still there, and you’re safely separate from it.

the base is quiet in that rare, almost comforting way. no comms. no boots in the halls. just the ticking clock and the sound of rain.

you’re curled up on the couch, blanket pulled over your legs, the mug in your hands long gone cold. half watching the window. half lost in thought.

“you planning on drinking that,“ a deep voice you know all to well asks, “or just stare it into submission?“

you don’t bother looking up. “it had potential. then it disappointed me.“

price snorts—a warm, unguarded sound—as he steps closer. thick thighs come into view. he reaches for the mug, brings it to his lips, and takes a slow sip without asking.

“bloody hell,“ he mutters. “that’s criminal.“

you finally glance up, catching the way his sleeves are rolled up, forearms relaxed instead of ready. no mission, no captain, just john.

it feels… strange.

nice.

he hands the mug back and lowers himself beside you, close enough that your knees brush. he doesn’t comment on it. doesn’t move away. neither do you.

thunder rolls outside. it’s distant, but enough to make you flinch. just for a second.

a second too long, it seems.

“you don’t like storms,“ he says casually. not asking—just observing.

you blink. “i never told you that.“

“didn’t need to.“ a shrug. “you always tense when it gets loud.“

you scoff quietly. “you notice too much.“

“because i’m paying attention,“ he says, low and easy.

you let the silence stretch, unsure what to do with that admission. john leans back, one arm draped along the couch behind you—close enough that if you shifted even a little, you’d be touching him.

then you catch his scent. coffee, smoke, gun oil—something unmistakable him.

another crack of thunder follows. closer this time. your body reacts before your mind can catch up.

john moves immediately—slow, deliberate. his arm comes around your shoulders, firm and steady—like he knows you’ll settle once you feel him there.

you freeze for half a heartbeat.

then you do exactly that.

his hand is warm through your sweater, his thumb moving in slow, absent strokes. it’s such a small thing, and somehow it’s already grounding, already soothing. your breathing evens out before you realize it had gone shallow.

“you’re alright,“ he murmurs. not asking—telling.

you swallow, leaning into his chest. “...yeah.“

“you can tell me to move,“ he adds, softer now. still giving you the choice.

you shake your head, inhale his scent for as long as he lets you. “don’t.“

his grip tightens just a fraction, pulling you into a protective embrace. then his chin rests against the top of your head.

“good“ he says quietly. “i’ve got you.“

outside, the storm keeps going.

but the one inside you—the one that’s been raging for years—finally starts to quiet.

we all know he’s someone who is confident and sure of himself. but what if underneath the mask he shows the world, there are deep insecurities buried inside him?

for his job he has to be the ever-composed captain. always in control, never unshakable. that’s what’s expected of him—human lives are at stake, after all.

still, sometimes you notice it. like when you catch that split second of his mask slipping as he stares at his reflection in the mirror. or when you’re out together—your hand never leaving his—meeting some of your friends. when you tell them what a perfect boyfriend he is, or how lucky you are. he just looks at you then, that one familiar glint in his eyes, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips.

because he’s a bad man. he’s done terrible things, seen worse. his hands will always be covered in blood, no matter how much he tries to scrub them clean—hoping every last hint of red, and the memories with it, will flow down the drain.

so could he ever be what you deserve?

you’re his sweetheart. his love. his ray of sunshine in a life full of darkness. and isn’t it selfish of him to keep you—to cage you—and stain the possibilities waiting ahead of you, all while dragging you down with him?

he tells himself you chose this. that you knew who he was when you took his hand, when you pressed your forehead to his and whispered that you loved him, over and over again. he believes you—of course he does—but that doesn’t quiet the guilt gnawing at his chest.

and on some nights, it’s worse. seeing you sleeping peacefully, wrapped in the safety of his arms and breathing softly, while he lies awake, wrestling with his demons and wondering if love is enough or if he’s just looking for excuses to justify his selfishness.

he watches you then. the way your face relaxes in sleep, unaware of the things he sees whenever he closes his own eyes. and it hits him how easily everything could shatter if you ever saw him the way he sees himself.

he fears the day your hands might flinch when they touch his. when the warmth he feels from you turns into something else—something like fear, or pity.

so he holds on even tighter. not because he wants to trap you, but because letting you go would mean admitting he was never deserving of something good. of something like love. of something like you.