dr. robby’s medical malpratice attorney

Perhaps, the truth was that the sick and twisted part of him he was so very good at hiding, enjoyed torturing you, relished in the way you cowered and stuttered- lived to have you in the palm of his hand, a thing so small and delicate that he could choose to care for or destroy with so little effort.

So he did what he shouldn’t have.

He toyed with you.

He started standing too close as you performed procedures, his hands started traveling too low on your back or too high on your neck when he guided you from room to room.

He started using pet-names, absolutely loving the way you forgot what you were saying whenever he called you honey, baby, sugar... not to mention the look on your face whenever you did a nice enough job that earned you a simple, devastating “good girl.”

That was all, however.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t fucked his fist thinking of you on your knees, pretty mouth open and waiting, many more times than he could count- but he’d never crossed that line.

Maybe he liked the game, or maybe, you’d yet to give him a big enough incentive to do so.

That was until today.

He heard you first.

He heard your pretty, gentle laugh coming from somewhere in the ER, and instinctively, he started looking around.

He was expecting Santos or Javadi to be next to you, anyone but whom he found.

Dr. Abbot was looking at you in a way he knew damn well.

He was a player, a hell of a good one.

Michael knew there was nothing casual in the way Jack was touching your arm, in the look in his eyes, in the tongue wetting his lips.

He’d never been the jealous type. Much less with Abbot, given the history of... well, of the few women they’d shared during the years.

But this was different. You were different.

You were his in a way that meant so much more than it ever had.

He was making his way toward you before he had time to think.

“What are we laughing about here?”

His tone was stern, causing a quiet gasp to escape your mouth as you turned to him, surprised.

“I was just telling our lovely student about a few stories from the pitt.”

“’S that right?” Dr. Robby scowled, shaking his head as he tried to refrain from telling his friend to fuck off.

Jack had a smug look on his face as he smiled at him, one that persisted once he went back to looking at you.

“I have a lot more stories like that. I could tell you some more of them while we get a drink sometimes.”

Your whole face heated up, and your eyes widened as you stared at the night shift’s attending, all the while somehow only focusing on Dr. Robby standing beside you.

“I-I-”

“There’s a patient in South 15 waiting for you, Dr. Abbot. ”

Michael’s hands tightened into fists at his sides as he spoke those words, trying to remain calm while he stopped you from answering.

There was no way in hell Jack didn’t get what he was silently communicating.

Get the fuck away from her.

“Now?” Jack still had the nerve to ask, his eyebrow raising as he glanced pointedly at you.

“Now”

There was no room for argument, especially when Robinavitch decided to take matters into his own hands and, with a palm on your back, started guiding you away from Abbot.

Your breathing was laboured as you mindlessly followed him around a corner, where he decided to stop.

You felt embarrassed, and somehow, this weird... guilt was eating at you.

“I-I’m sorry, Dr. Robinavitch,” you mumbled, panicked.

He was looking down at you with such anger in his eyes that you wanted to hide away and cry.

You’d disappointed him.

And you really never wanted to do that.

“You’re here to learn, Dr. y/l/n, not to flirt with your superiors.”

A pit formed in your stomach.

“I wasn’t-”

Once again, he stopped you before you could finish your sentence.

He wanted to punch something.

It was taking all of his self-restraint not to lock you in a room and show you who you belonged to.

“I don’t wanna hear it.” he shook his head, exhaling loudly as he stared somewhere behind you. “Go find something useful to do... and stay away from Abbot.”

__  __  __

You’d had a lot of horrible shifts in this ER, but this one took the cake by far.

Trying to do anything while replaying the look on Michael’s face as he scolded you proved to make any task almost impossible.

Not to mention how hard it was to see him act so differently. He avoided you when he could, and when he couldn’t, it broke your heart to see him so cold and distant.

You didn’t know why you cared so much.

He was your attending, your boss... you shouldn’t have wanted to make him proud, happy- to impress him, and yet...

Yet you did. The truth was that you knew, for as much as you tried to deny it and get over it, you knew he wasn’t just that.

You’d developed a crush on him from the very first second your eyes laid on him.

He was handsome in a way that took your breath away.

So tall, strong- that beard, that nose, those eyes... and the moment you saw him in action... the moment you witnessed him get all serious and professional and bark orders and know exactly what to do, all the while remaining completely calm... You knew you were done for.

Moreover, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he treated you differently. Maybe you were just being delusional, but you’d only noticed him being touchy with you; his gaze seemed to always be on you whenever you found yourselves in the same room, and you were fairly certain he didn’t use pet names for anyone else.

Not to mention all the “good girl” incidents. You were pretty sure he’d caught you squeezing your thighs at the praise once... and yet he didn’t stop.

Things were different between you. Things were good.

Which is why you needed to fix this. You needed to make everything go back to how it was.

You were changed and ready to go home when you saw him making his way to the hospital’s exit.

Against your better judgment and the pounding of your nervous heart, you quickened your pace to catch up with him.

“Dr. Robby!” You called as the glass doors to the building closed behind you.

He was walking to his car, but he stopped when he heard your voice, giving you time to reach him.

“Dr. Y/l/n” he greeted you, his tone serious.

“H-hi, I just wanted to talk to you for a  moment.”

“About what?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat as you tried to maintain eye contact.

“About before- I- Uhm... I wanted to apologize.”

The look in his eyes darkened, as if his mind went somewhere else for a moment.

You watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he weighed his options, before he ordered you to “get inside” with a single nod to the back of his car.

Your heart was beating a mile a minute as you settled in the backseat of his car, but it stopped beating completely once Dr. Robby followed and took his spot beside you.

It wasn’t a small car, but Michael’s presence took away two-thirds of the room and air in the space.

“You said you wanted to talk... now’s the time.”

The sun had already set outside, it was dark, but the street lamps caused a soft, dim light to infiltrate the car windows.

You could still see the entrance of the ER, but your attending had a mostly isolated parking spot, so the people you could glimpse felt far away.

It felt as if you were in a small bubble, a cut in monotony filled with unsaid words and buzzing electricity.

“I’m sorry if I did something wrong before,” you spoke meekly, “I wanted you to know that it wasn’t my intention to... flirt with Dr. Abbot.”

He scoffed, and it felt as if the world came crashing down on your head.

You just wanted him to understand that you’d never do that.

Sure, you had a functioning pair of eyes, you knew Jack Abbot was an incredibly hot man, and yeah... maybe you would have even thought of him that way if it weren’t for the fact your heart was indefinitely preoccupied with the man before you.

“N-no, I promise I wasn’t, Dr. Robby.”

You mumbled hurriedly, your hand absentmindedly finding his on the seat.

“I just didn’t think you were such a slut.”

It took a moment to register his words. He’d spoken them with such gentleness that you considered having misheard him.

“I-I...”

“What?” he raised a brow, looking at you with something that reminded you of... hunger. “Going around batting your eyes at your superiors...” he tsked

“I’m sorry, Dr. Robinavitch,” You sniffed, tears suddenly welling in your eyes, “I-I didn’t mean to- I-”

You were losing all common sense and all composure- while he enjoyed the show.

“I thought you were a good girl.” His voice was hoarse- his fingers moved some hair out of your face.

He watched heat crawl up your neck as you struggled to breathe.

You moved closer, your hand trailing up to his forearm to hold his hand on your cheek.

“I am- I am. I promise”

But while you nodded frantically, he was already shaking his head.

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

You willed your tears to remain confined in your eyes as heat pooled in your belly.

Yes, you hated seeing him disappointed, but he was so close... and his hands felt so good.

“I swear,” you murmured.

A slow, predatory grin pulled at his lips.

“Yeah?” His breath fanned your skin while you felt his other hand slowly land on your thigh.

“Yes,” you confirmed, your voice shaky.

It felt as if everything else disappeared. As if the world stopped existing and all that turned real- important, was you two, in the backseat of his car, in this exact moment.

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest as you stared at him wide-eyed.

His palm was moving up your leg, and you started doubting whether or not this was all a dream.

But the heat of his fingers as they seeped under the waistband of your pants was impossible to imagine.

“Would a good girl let me do this?”

You instinctively spread your legs as his digits traveled lower, finding your dampening core through your panties.

“I-I... I don’t know,” you whispered truthfully.

You didn’t know anything at the moment. You doubted you could remember your name.

He couldn’t help but chuckle.

He’d barely touched you, and you were already melting before him.

He had no clue why he waited so long... he should have done this a long time ago.

“The right answer is yes,” He cooed softly, as if you were the dumbest little thing on the planet, “But only I can do this, right? Not Abbot, not anyone... just me.”

His fingers drew higher, finding your clit, causing a gasp to flee your throat.

“J-just you, yes.” You muttered mindlessly,

“That’s right, good.” He nodded, eyes serious as his thumb traced your cubid bow.

Before you knew it, two of his fingers had found a way underneath your panties.

His skin on your raw heat was enough to make you moan.

“Dr. Robinavitch...” you breathed, as he explored your slick folds as if he owned them, all the while gently caressing your face.

He was watching every single expression you made, willing it to memory- praying to never forget it.

You looked so pretty like this... mindless, horny, wrapped around his finger... just how he wanted you.

He hissed as his digits dipped into you.

“You’re making a mess of yourself, baby.”

Your back arched as you bit down a cry.

“Please,” you whined, the car filling up with the obscene sound of his fingers thrusting in and out of your drenched core.

He grinned as his fingers plunged harder into you just to hear you cry and feel you spasm around him.

“You think you deserve to come?”

“I-I, yes, please- Sir”

Sir? Jesus, it’s like you knew exactly what made him tick.

He suppressed a groan as he slowed his movements, observing the lust and ecstasy in your eyes.

“You sure?” he taunted, his digits leaving you all of a sudden. “I think the only thing you deserve to do is apologize.”

He watched, with sadistic satisfaction, the shock in your eyes as his hand left you altogether.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Robby, I told you- it won’t happen again.” You begged, your pussy pulsating around nothing, your orgasm fading like a shattered dream.

He didn’t pay you any mind as his eyes fell to the moisture on his fingers.

“Jesus, sugar, look at this mess.”

Your gaze followed his, and heat crawled to your cheeks at the proof of your arousal.

“I-I’m sorry.”

It seemed as if those were the only words you knew today.

“’s alright, baby, open up.”

His thumb on your chin urged your lips to widen as he guided his soiled digits into your mouth.

He bit down a growl at the image, his cock begging for attention as you sucked his fingers clean without so much as a question.

“Such a good girl,” he praised, retracting both his hands and leaving you to look at him all puppy-eyed and lost.

If he were a better man, that look would have been enough to give you what you wanted, what you needed... but unfortunately for you, he wasn’t a good man.

“I-I really am sorry for what I did, sir,” you murmured.

He simply nodded while his hands went to unfasten his belt.

“That’s good, honey,” he cooed, “but I can think of a way more convincing apology.”

Your heart skipped a beat as he undid his zipper and, within seconds, freed his cock.

“Be good and suck my cock, y/n”

He was big. Very big.

And he was rock hard, with some precum already leaking from his tip.

You gulped as you watched him give himself a quick tug, before spreading his legs and settling back in his seat.

“You said you wanted to apologize,” he smirked, eyeing his dick, “this is your chance, sugar.”

There was so much you wanted to say- so many thoughts going through your head.

But as you glanced at his expectant eyes, all you could do was what he asked.

It was like you were under some sort of spell as you slowly sank your knees onto the seat and crawled closer to him, until you could lower your head to where he wanted it.

This wasn’t exactly how you’d pictured your first intimate encounter with Robby.

So many times you’d daydreamed of him kissing you and proclaiming his love for you under the rain... but different didn’t mean worse- right?

I mean, this was still very hot, and you were more than excited to do this; it just was... not how you expected.

You looked up at him, and he nodded, softly murmuring , “Go on.”

And that was that.

You couldn’t help but kiss his tip, and when that caused a little drib of precum, your immediate reflex was to lick it all up.

He hissed, and that only spurred you on.

You gave his head a few other kitty licks before widening your mouth and starting to gently suck him in.

His head fell back against the seat as he groaned in pleasure.

You hollowed your cheeks as your head began bobbing up and down his shaft, trying to fit more and more of him.

“Jesus, baby,” he rasped, gathering your hair in a makeshift bun.

He was much too big to get all of him down your throat, but you were gonna try your best.

“Go deeper, baby— Just like that- I know you can do it.”

His hand started guiding you, pushing you even more down, as his hips began to rock up into you.

There was nothing you could do to prevent the gagging.

And yet he seemed to take pride in that, because he didn’t stop- quite the opposite, he started to go harder.

“Goddamnit,” he growled as your throat constricted around him.

Your eyes were blurry with unshed tears, but you were more than willing to take it all just to make him proud.

“Good girl- taking me so well.”

You moaned around his manhood at those words, causing a grin to appear on his lips.

“Such an obedient little thing,” he rasped, as his free hand moved to slap your ass.

You squeaked in surprise, but as he did it again, a whimper of a moan vibrated around his cock.

“That’s right,” he cooed, moving your head up and down as if you were a mindless doll. “This is the only cock you want down your throat- You’re mine, sugar, you hear me?”

“mh-mh,” you hummed around his dick, feeling every ridge and vein of his against your tongue as you made a mess of saliva and tears around his base.

“Good,” he groaned, his hips thrusting up as you kept sucking him like your life depended on it “No more flirting with Dr. Abbot?”

You shook your head no immediately, earning a low, satisfied grunt.

“Got all you need right here,” he chukled darkly, caressing your backside now as he watched you take him in so well and so deep.

“’m gonna come down your throat now,” he muttered, his movements turning more erratic, “and you’re gonna be good and swallow everything I give you.”

You nodded as your hand gripped his thigh to ground you.

“That’s it, baby, that’s it,” he muttered like a prayer, moving you however it pleased him, “take it- like that... fuck- good fucking girl.”

He came with an animalistic growl, his dick spurting all his come down your throat, which you swallowed eagerly.

He exhaled loudly, loosening his grip on you and allowing you get back up.

His head was resting against the headrest as he watched you with half-lidded eyes.

You tried to wipe your face clean for as much as you could, your heart still pounding, your breathing erratic.

He smirked cockily as he tucked himself back in his pants, while you sat back down on the seat- your panties drenched at this point.

“You did good, baby.”

“T-thank you,” you whimpered as he raised his hand to softly stroke your humid cheek.

“You need a ride home?”

“If it’s not- uhm- too much trouble.”

He shook his head, smiling, “Of course not- anything for my special girl.”

Heat rose to your cheeks as you forgot how to breathe.

“C’mon, let’s get in the front,” he nodded.

You turned to do as he said, when he remembered something.

His thumb pressed against your lips, forcing your top lip against your skin. He was staring at you in a way you've never seen in him; it was fascinating. You couldn't take your eyes off him, watching carefully for thoughts and emotions; so many seemed to plague him in the moment. Utterly concentrated on you, he was. It was like he was furious at you for making him feel this way, for making him feel so weak and so pliable. He would drop to his knees and kiss your feet a thousand times right now if you said the word, and he knew it; so scarcely he's combating it with control. 

A few moments ago, you and Arthur were laughing at the bar when he'd suggest getting a room. A gesture with a fool's hope, stumbley and pathetic. 

‘Not in any way that's-’ His hands were fidgety, nervous, and climbing to rub the back of his neck. 

‘It's late, and I reckon you deserve rest- I'll uh- I can…I'll be comfortable outside.’ He was shrugging, but he could feel every vessel of blood in his being gushing with embarrassment, among other feelings. He could feel the aching desire of blood begrudgingly filling what he could only dream of pleasuring you with. His pants stiffened. 

But now he was pushing his thumb into your mouth, past your compliant lips, kept happily parted. Your teeth graze his thumb before it hits your tongue. His heavily, hallucinated eyes meet your awaiting ones. You enclose your lips around his thumb and suck softly. Tingles travel through your body and down to your growing need when you catch his obliviously on display. He frowns so pained and desperate as he watches you suck on his thumb; it looks like he could whimper. He looks so sad with desire. 

Your lips twitch up, and he notices himself. 

Sliding his thumb out of your mouth, he straightens his back, trying futilely to fix his broken expression. 

“No…” Exasperated, the plea falls from your lips without your comprehension, and it seems he obeys your word, stopping instantaneously.

He swallows; he's nervous.

Just hit the fucking target. You think to yourself scoldingly.

You're not sure why this is so much harder for you than just about anyone else in the gang. And as much as it isn't your job, you've grown determined to be able to handle yourself if trouble ever comes knocking.

You thought that with a gunslinger as fine as Arthur Morgan himself, you'd learn a thing or two — a foolish idea that's dissipating quickly before you.

Adjusting your clammy grip on the pistol cradled between both palms, you shift your stance and squint again, rolling your shoulders back.

Empty lungs. You pull back the hammer and line up your best shot, feeling the kick of the recoil.

The lack of shattering glass is answer enough, but even so you lower your extended arms an inch or so to see closer. Scrunching your eyes to try focus, you wince at what you can make out.

No bullet holes on any of the crates, all six bottles still standing.

You're beginning to sorely regret asking for shooting practice when it only seems like a surefire way to prove yourself a fool. And in front of Arthur no less.

Arthur who—well, you'd be lying if you said you weren't fond for.

Quick to boil, your frustration wells, an itch behind your eyes. You drop your arms, lowering your gaze to the ground with another sigh.

"How you do this every damn day is a miracle to me."

You force a half-hearted laugh into your words. It's better than letting him hear that wallowing, pitiful feeling you can feel rising up your throat.

"It's jus' lots 'n lots of practice," Arthur says gently, his voice somewhere behind you.

Christ knows his intense, watchful gaze isn't helping you either.

You can't help but feel it burning into your back every time you raise the pistol—and every time you fail miserably.

Your frustration rises again and you finally lift your head, turning back to the cowboy.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," You say sincerely. "I— this was a mistake." You begin to hold the pistol out in your outstretched hand, grip lax.

You don't get very far before he's stepping in closer, his hand reaching up to yours and pressing your fingers to close around the grip again.

"C'mon now," He rasps. "Yer not just gonna give up 'cos it's hard, are ya?"

Skin against skin is enough to draw your heart up your throat, rabbiting fast and all too revealing. You pointedly ignore the spike in your pulse and let him manoeuvre you, his hand moving up to nudge your shoulder. You face the targets.

Six bottles in the distance glint tauntingly beneath the afternoon sun, as if teasing you for your failure.

"Arthur," You sigh dejectedly.

It's kind of him to keep offering encouragement but you only need ten minutes of this to realise it's a severely lost cause. "It's not use, I'm awful—"

"Hush," Arthur cuts you off, voice gruff this time. "You ain't no such thing. Just—"

He hovers just behind you, the heat of his body blazing against your back. With a quiet hum, his fingertips square out your angled shoulders, fixing your stance. They trail down to minutely adjust the twist of your hips, pressing one further forward gently.

The sun seems to burn brighter suddenly. You fight to keep your face forward and pray Arthur can't heart the traitorous inhale you give at his touch.

"'Kay. Shoot again." He murmurs lowly, his hands retreating but staying close. "Lemme watch closer this time."

You're not brave enough to tell him that you're even less likely to hit the target with his close proximity.

Instead, you just follow his instruction, raising the pistol to the bottles once more. Slowing your breath as much as your racing heart will allow, you squint.

"Wait," Arthur's voice interrupts.

You falter, suddenly unsure. Moving out from behind you, his hand comes up to push the gun down, barrel facing the dirt.

Standing close, he tilts his head up, his eyes assessing you intently from beneath the brim of his hat. It's as though he's looking at a puzzle he can't quite figure out.

After a moment, his eyes cast out to the shooting range he's set up for you. You get a stolen glimpse of his chiselled jaw before he's stepping forward, broad shouldered, with one hand resting on his gun belt.

Turning to face you, he takes a few wide steps back, then halts, raising his hand.

"How many fingers?"

Brows raised, you will yourself not to scoff. "You bein’ serious?"

Arthur doesn't move, only his head tilting forward an inch, the brim of his hat dipping lower. He smiles wryly. "Humour me."

Dropping your arms, you let the gun swing idly to your side. With a shrug, you focus on his hand.

"Two."

Arthur nods. He turns and paces back til he's in line with the bottles this time. It's far enough from you that the details of him begin to blur out, but you can still see his figure just fine.

"And now?" He calls out, voice raised to reach you over the distance.

Your careless shrug from before is nowhere to be found. A sudden sheepishness crawls up within you as you quickly try to strain your gaze.

God, is he even holding up a hand at all?

You don't get a moment to guess before he's approaching you once more, his features getting sharper as he draws closer. You can see his smile, a rare sight. He seems to have solved his puzzle.

"What was that for?" You question curiously.

"It ain't yer aim, that's for damn sure," Arthur says, coming to a stop before you.

His blue eyes assess you once more, before he extends his hand out for the pistol at your side. You hand it over wordlessly, waiting for his explanation. A dragonfly swoops by you with a loud hum.

"It's yer eyes." He says, holstering the pistol without a glance.

You blink, confused at the implication. You're sure if there was something wrong with your eyes, you'd know about it at your grown age.

Your confusion must be clear on your face because Arthur continues, resting his hands on his gun belt casually.

He nods to you. "Not all bad. 'Betcha can see just fine up close. But in the distance, not so much."

"Oh," The word escapes in a soft breath.

It hadn't really been something you had considered—that your poor performance shooting was due to that blurriness surrounding the targets. That it was due to anything other than you being utter shit at shooting.

Turning your stare out to the bottles again, you blink and squint, as if to check. You realise he may just be talking truth.

"Lord, I think you might be right." You admit, a relieved laugh colouring your tone. The frustration you felt from earlier drains rapidly, taking with it your souring mood.

A different part of you deflates at the knowledge you'll never get better at shooting. Cursed vision. You wrinkle your nose in distaste, pushing down your bitterness.

Arthur gestures to the horses with one hand, lesson clearly over.

The pair of you begin to meander back towards your horses hitched in the treeline. Side by side, it doesn't escape you the nearness you're inclined to, drawn to him, a flower facing the sun.

The leather of his jacket brushes your bare arm. You think you must be suffering sunburn, considering how your skin seems to burn in response.

Eyes flashing in his direction, you think you see a hint of colour on Arthur’s face.

He’s tilts his head, his features covered by the brim of his hat, so you can't be sure. You chalk it up to a wishful imagination.

Always unknowable. Maybe it's his private nature that's part of what allures you to the man.

Pushing forward, you approach your mare, Dragon, with a gentle greeting. You're rewarded with the butting of her muzzle against your palm, a smile curling onto your lips instinctively.

“Y'know, chances are, you're not nearly as awful as ya think.” Arthur says, his tone softer than usual—perhaps sensing your blue mood.

Despite talking to you, he keeps his gaze steadfast on his own horse, Hypatia. He dotes on her with a loving pat, hands usually meant for violence, now gentle.

After a moment, he says. “I’ll see what I can do fer you at the general store.”

Pleasant surprise curls up in your stomach in a sharp bloom.

“Arthur,” You say with a smile, sounding a bit awed. He does look up at you this time, blue eyes bright from beneath the edge of his hat. “That’s very kind but, well, you needn’t do that—“

"I ain't makin' you any promises," He cuts your rambling response off. "I'll just have a look. That alright?"

Feeling your face glow warmly, you force yourself to meet his strong gaze. "Alright."

Then after a moment, you say, "I guess I'll allow it."

Arthur guffaws lightly at that. He pushes up on strong legs to mount Hypatia in one fluid motion, one he's done countless times before. You watch, pretending you aren't staring at the powerful flex of his thighs as he settles into the saddle.

Christ alive. It takes effort to avert your eyes, stepping up to sling yourself into your own saddle.

“If she allows it…” Arthur repeats, almost incredulously, his head tilted toward you. There’s a tug on his lips, like he’s holding back his smile, even as he shakes his head at you.

A laugh titters out of you and you nudge Dragon forward, if only so he can't see the grin on your lips.

And if you spend the ride to camp lingering on the feeling of his hands covering your own hands, adjusting the twist of your waist?

Well, that was your own damn business.

—

After your shooting lesson, Arthur leaves camp for four days.

Some bounty given to him by the sheriff in Valentine that he was tracking up into the mountains — at least that’s what he’d said as he bid you a polite goodbye, early in the morning light, the day after your lesson.

You’d murmured your drowsy goodbye over your coffee cup, eyes barely open — making Arthur snort quietly — and then watched intently, your sleepy gaze softened, as he disappeared between the trees on Hypatia.

Perhaps you’d been too spoiled with his company in these last couple weeks.

He hadn’t taken any longer jobs, always back at camp for the evening, with a tip of his hat to you. Always prepared to lend a helping hand or to escort you and the girls into Valentine. You'd almost call yourselves friends. The familiarity of his presence was something you'd gotten used to.

It was one of the good reasons you found yourself particular afflicted with him — Arthur Morgan was far kinder than he ever gave himself credit for.

And far nicer to look at than he seemed to think so too.

To say you’re a bit put off by not having your usual pretty-boy cowboy to provide somewhere nice to rest your eyes wouldn’t be a lie.

“Someone’s head in the clouds.”

The jeering words from Karen pair with a playful nudge to your shoulder.

Distracted, the dish in your hands slips and lands back in the water-filled basin with a splosh. Narrowing your eyes at Karen, you fish it out and resume your abandoned scrubbing.

“Ain’t sure what you’re talking ‘bout,” You hum, nonchalant as you can manage.

Liar. You’d definitely been casting your gaze towards the trail that leads into camp and slipped away into a daydream, sweet as the cowboy’s eyes you were imagining. Surely he wouldn't be away much longer, right?

“Mmhm,” Karen says, telling you exactly how much she believed you.

At her side, Mary-Beth smothers a giggle in her palm. Clearly your attempts at subtlety are wholly ineffective.

Despite your intent glances as you work your way through the remaining chores of the day, none prove to be fruitful. The sun lazes across the sky and sinks toward the horizon and even then, Arthur is absent.

Your lovesickness abates with a sigh. The outlaw could be gone for weeks at a time, you knew that. If it was a shorter trip, he'd be back already. Tonight, you depart from around the campfire earlier than usual, heading back to your shared tent with Mary-Beth.

It’s with an absentminded hum that you potter around, straightening out the space as the sunlight dwindles. You had worked hard today and it’s filled your bones with a weariness ready for sleep.

An oil lamp burns on the crate acting as your bedside table, casting a mellow, amber colour through the tent. The idle sounds of the wildlife of Horseshoe Overlook fill the background, mixing with the crackle of the campfire.

Maybe you should journal a bit, before bed. Eyes narrowed, you scan your cot for the little book you keep nearby—you had used it just last night.

Coming up blank, you huff and crouch to your knees to hunt for it. Countless times you’ve fallen asleep with it in your hand and found it gone in the morning. It worms its way down the edge of the tent with a mission to escape you, you swear.

Peering beneath your cot, the red leather of the book gleams back at you. You smile and reach out, having to duck a little further to reach it, giving a victorious little aha! when you close your fingers around it.

Shifting back, you sit on your heels, right as someone clears their throat behind you.

Spooked and not unlike a deer, you startle with a violent jump. Whipping around, pulse jumping, your panic recedes as you narrow your eyes at the cause of your panic.

“Christ, Arthur,” you seethe at him. You put a hand over your racing heart to calm it. “You damn near scared the mickey out of me.”

“My apologies, miss,” Arthur says, tipping his hat. He sounds sincere but even so, you catch the glimmer of amusement on his lips. “Weren’t my intention.”

He’s lingering at the entrance of your tent, not quite entering. His big hands rest of his gun belt, hovering somewhere between casual and proper.

How Arthur manages both is a mystery to you; every bit at home amongst the rough of tumble of camp, yet ever-so polite to you.

He treats you like a gentlemen treats a proper lady; though both of you are neither.

Pushing to your feet, you let your journal drop atop your cot. Then you regret it, wishing you had something to occupy your hands. The all too familiar buzz of nerves that come with being sweet on someone makes you prone to fidgeting.

You brush down your skirts just to do something. “And just what was your intention?”

Amusement abiding, a different expression skitters across Arthur's face. He raises one hand to scratch the back of his neck.

“Gotcha somethin',” He murmurs, dragging his hand forward, across his beard. Rather hastily, he stuffs his hand into his satchel.

He digs for a moment and then pulls his hand out, extending it out. Something shiny glints in the low light of the tent, resting in his big palm.

You step forward and squint for a moment, realising with a jolt of unexpected delight that it’s a pair of round spectacles.

An infectious smile tugs the corner of your lips up, your eyes brighter upon seeing the gift he’s brought you. Your hand reaches out, then halts in mid-air, glancing back up at him.

“May I?”

“‘Course. They’re for you.” Arthur grunts, feigning nonchalance even as he beckons you to take them from him.

Smile turning to a grin, you pluck them out his hand, stepping closer as you do. You turn them over in delicately, drinking in the details greedily. They’re finely made.

With an ebb of guilt, you realise they must’ve cost him a fortune. If he paid for them, that is.

“Took me all the way out past Emerald Ranch to find a fella who did them.”

Gaze snapping up, the ebb of guilt grows. He hadn’t just got them for you, he’d gone out of his way to find a spectacle maker specifically.

There’s a silver lining to the guilt — the feeling sprinkled through your chest like gunpowder, kicking up sparks. He certainly had to be keeping you in mind, to some capacity, to do such a thing for you.

The thought of being more than a passing thought in Arthur’s mind is enough to set the gunpowder alight. Your chest glows brightly like a firework.

“What happened to just having a nosy in the general store, hm?” You ask.

“Well, now,” Arthur begins, giving a hesitant cough as if it’ll cover the sincerity of his actions. He tilts his head down, the brim of his hat covering his eyes, as he always did when he felt too seen.

After a pause, he says lowly, “I know how much you wanted to shoot.”

“That’s... mighty kind of you, Mister Morgan.” You say, hoping your voice doesn’t betray the racing of your treacherous heart. “Though, I’d hate for you to go to all this trouble if they don’t even work right with my eyes.”

Holding the pair of spectacles up, you unfold the arms and peer through the lenses. They’re certainly magnifying something—Arthur looking further away in the one lens you peer through. It’s almost like a funhouse mirror. The smile on your face widens, cheeks nearly aching.

“That don’t matter,” Arthur says. He pats his satchel gently. “If those don’t work, I got three more pairs in here.”

“Three?” You lower the glasses, bewilderment colouring your voice.

“Where the devil did you get so many?”

“Turns out, folk rich enough to take the stagecoach can usually afford ‘em.” Arthur chuckles.

Somehow the image of Arthur out there, picking through the loot box, then demanding folk hand over their eyewear is enough to inspire a laugh out of you.

You stifle your laughter behind your hand, endeared even more when he opens his satchel to prove it, a shy smile on his lips.

Sure enough, he draws three more pairs out. Even the thickness of the glass even varies from pair to pair — god, who knew one could be so thoughtful whilst robbing?

“You know, that might be the most sweet thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

The words come out softer than intended, your affections surely obvious.

You don’t risk a glance up at Arthur’s face, too fearful your feelings are written over your own, plain to see. In doing so, you miss the dusting of pink across his own cheeks.

Arthur clears his throat, sending a single prayer for strength to a god who’s surely abandoned him. The way you sound, he’d almost believe you’re sweet on him.

“Cmon, then,” He says, adding a touch more gruff to his voice. “Better try them on after all the damn time I spent hunting them down.”

You roll your eyes at his faux annoyance. There’s no real heat to his words.

Tilting your face down, you bring the pair up to tuck over your ears hesitantly. The world around you shifts as the lenses settle. Your sight is sufficiently more blurry than it was a second ago.

“Woah.” You murmur, looking up just to check.

Arthur’s figure swims before you, entirely out of focus. You blink, unbeknownst of the way the glasses magnify your eyes to a comically large size. It makes Arthur's smile grow, teeth peeking out, knowing for sure you can’t see for shit.

“Not those.” He says decidedly and when you slide them off, he’s already holding out the second pair, arms unfolded this time.

You mutter a quiet thank-you, feeling warmth creep your neck at the simple, polite motion.

This pair, when you slide them on, has a rather different effect. Instead of the blurriness alike to being underwater, the entire world sharpens.

You inhale at the difference. The sounds of the campfires and people around you dims and you blink rapidly, eyes jumping from detail to detail. There's something new to notice in every corner.

Head dipped down, you can pick out the individual blades of grass underfoot. The stitching on the hem your dress, the same as on the sleeves, you can see properly now. As in, see the stitches.

You swish you dress, watching, entranced.

Arthur’s comment during shooting practice may have been wrong —saying there was nothing wrong with your vision up close — because suddenly everything seems so much more. Maybe you’ve been blinder than you think.

Swinging your head round, you survey the inside of your tent with a renewed interest.

The fraying hole in your blanket, scribbled words in your opened journal, the splinters in your wooden crate bedside table — things you normally need to see up close, clearer than ever.

“I take it those ones are workin’ just fine.” Arthur says amusedly, having watched your wide-eyed and wandering gaze.

At the sound of his raspy voice, your head jerks up — and then your heart lurches forward with a hiccup, nearly tripping over itself.

Arthur is… He’s… Holy heaven, has he always been that handsome?

A dozen new details spring out at you, little secrets you've been missing. You can see the crook in his nose from being broken too many times. A scar you’ve never noticed on the edge of his chin, given away by the small patch in his beard.

He has freckles, dozens of little ones, from all his time spent under the baking sun. They gather at the edges of his eyes, blending into the crows feet. You can trace the cupid's bow of his lips.

It occurs to you that you should totally, definitely say something. You’ve been silent too long, just taking in the lines of his face, awed, but your throat has dried up.

Lord above, he’s pretty.

How are you expected to continue your day with the knowledge that Arthur Morgan might be the prettiest man you’ve ever laid eyes on?

Lord, if you’d been fond of him before, you’re surely smitten with him now.

Arthur shifts uncomfortably under the attention, taking your prolonged silence for the worst. His already jittered nerves fry under your stare and he ducks his head to hide himself from you.

“Probably can see what an ugly bastard I am, now you can see proper.” He huffs offhandedly, scratching at his beard and keeping his gaze low.

It hadn’t occurred to him, this downside of fetching this gift for you. You’ll see him clearly now — flaws and all.

“What?”

You sound a mixture of bewildered and crestfallen and it draws Arthur’s gaze up.

Your eyebrows have knit together in the middle and you take another step, bringing you closer together still.

Arthur forces himself to keep breathing, even as his nerves flutter. It’s an awful lot like one of Mary-Beth’s books, where she talks about romantics getting butterflies.

It feels more like a hive of bumblebees, Arthur thinks, trying to shove the feeling down. ‘Sides, the two of you weren’t romantics. You didn’t see him that way.

“Not in the slightest.” You say, eyes never leaving his face.

Arthur isn’t sure what your expression means but even as the attention makes him shift, something within him more selfish preens. Having your undivided attention when he’s surely unworthy of it has him standing a little taller, chest puffing out more.

“Say, has anyone ever told you that you have…” Your voice trails off, your words soft as the dawn’s first rays of light. Arthur forces himself to meet your eye again. “A little bit of green in your eyes?”

This time, you don’t miss the flush of colour that creeps up Arthur’s neck.

He clears his throat, breaking your stare so he can rub the back of his neck; a futile attempt to cover his nervousness.

How in the hell else is he supposed to react to you all but waxing poetic about his eyes? You, enigmatic and more beautiful than a mayflower in the spring?

He’d wanted your attention, getting you the glasses, but now he has it, he’s melting beneath it like butter in the sun. He's a grown man for heaven's sake. How is it that you can make him nervous like nothing before?

“No, er, can’t say they have.” He says, stealing a glimpse back at you.

God, Arthur was a fool. You look even more beautiful in the spectacles. He’ll surely embarrass himself with his besotted stare, unable to curb his fondness for you.

There’s something new in your expression too. Your smile turned more feline, as if you’ve clued in to something he hasn’t.

His hands fall to clutch his gun belt, prepared to retreat and perhaps spend his evening drowning himself in the river to escape the mortification of feelings. He's giving himself away — and if he isn't, the heat colouring his cheeks sure is.

“Right, well,” He nods, clearing his throat once more. “If they workin’ jus’ fine, I’ll leave ya be.”

“Will you let me thank you first?” You ask tentatively.

Arthur doesn’t know what that means but he nods nonetheless. He tries to keep himself from fidgeting, his hands flexing on his belt all the while. Blue eyes dart from you, to the ground, then back to you.

You only need another half-step to get close enough to do what you wish. Pressing up onto your toes to reach, you bestow a gentle kiss onto Arthur's cheek, just above the scruff.

It takes a great deal of courage to keep your eyes steady, heart in your throat, as you sink back down onto flat feet. You don't relent your closeness.

For one long moment, you drink in the politely stunned expression on his face. This close, you can smell the scent of cigarettes and woodsmoke on his clothes. It makes your head spin. Makes your heart tremble. Your lips still sear from the kiss.

Though your heart threatens to bruise your ribs with how hard its beating in your chest, you refuse to regret your boldness.

Besides, as Arthur seems to grapple with what's just happened, his smile and blush return in equal measure.

"...Why'd you think she left dinner so early? She's probably—oh!"

Mary-Beth's voice cuts through the charged air.

Snapped from your tender reverie, you tear your eyes from Arthur and take a timid step back. You're well aware it's too late and both Mary-Beth and Tilly had seen the nearness you had been sharing with Arthur. You'll be hounded about it tonight, no doubt.

"Sorry, didn't realise we were interrupting." Tilly finds her voice before Mary-Beth does, the latter spluttering her agreements. Before they can retreat, Arthur cuts in.

"Weren't—" His voice comes out rougher than usual and he clears his throat, hat tipped down. "—interrupting nothin'. Don't worry bout it, I was just leavin'."

He takes a few steps back and then pauses, heaving a heavy breath as if he was gathering his strength. Still lingering just beyond the entrance of your tent, you wait with baited breath.

Arthur's eyes dance over to the other girls. If you could be bold, hell, so could he. He finds your gaze.

"Shootin' tomorrow? You 'n' me?" He asks, voice low.

If you didn't know him so well, you might miss the slight apprehension in his tone. As if you'd say no.

You have to sink your teeth into your bottom lip to try contain you smile. Your fervent nod betrays your excitement anyway.

Arthur smiles then, more brazenly than you've seen before, before he bids you a goodnight with a final tip of his hat.

—

The crates where targets once stood are now gloriously empty, the six shattered glass bottles banished to a life in the dirt.

You stand, pistol still smoking in your grip, and grin triumphantly. The sun glints off the delicate frames of your new spectacles. Your vision is clear and your aim is true.

Hovering just behind you, as he had some days ago, Arthur hums his contentment. "'Atta girl."

You turn, looking over your shoulder at him, and in an instant, your smile in reflected back. More reserved than your own, but entirely for you. Arthur nudges you to look forward with a gentle hand, gesturing to something out in the field.

"See if you can hit just the edge of the crate next. We might make a gunslinger of you yet."

You huff, leaning back an inch to feel more of his warmth. Arthur smiles to himself, well aware of your tactics.

His hands drop to your hips, twisting them in a minute adjustment they don't need, just to hear the slight stagger in your breath.

"Why, Mister Morgan," Your voice is threaded with humour, exactly the colour of sunlight. "I'd nearly think you're just making excuses to put your hands on me."

With a low hum, Arthur lets his hands drag up an inch to rest on your waist. Your skin is warm, as is your smile. He can pretend the hot buzz of the day threatens make his knees buckle, though he knows it's entirely your effect.

"Maybe. That a crime?"

"Even if it were," You say, gaze slicing back to meet his. The taunt of a smile on your pretty mouth rivals all the beauty Arthur's ever seen. "Thank heavens you're an outlaw."

—