Fireside

It wasn't the sort of thing anyone else would have noticed. Around camp, silence wasn't unusual. Men came home from jobs with blood on their sleeves and thoughts they weren't ready to speak aloud. Some evenings, the fire did all the talking.

But you'd spent enough nights beside Arthur to know the difference between a man who was simply tired and one who was carrying something heavier.

He answered when spoken to. Laughed quietly when Jack nearly stumbled over the dog. Even tipped his hat toward Tilly when she teased him about tracking mud across camp.

From a distance, he looked exactly like himself.

Up close...

You caught the way his eyes drifted somewhere beyond the wagons when conversation lulled, how his coffee sat untouched until it had gone cold in his hands, and how, after seeing to his horse, he'd lingered a little longer than necessary with one hand resting against the animal's neck before finally turning back toward camp.

It wasn't unusual for Arthur to brood.

Lord knew he'd made an art of it.

Still, this felt different.

You watched him over the top of the shirt spread across your lap, guiding your needle through a fraying cuff while the camp settled into the slow rhythm of evening. He'd returned nearly an hour ago, yet every so often his attention slipped away from whatever was happening around him, as though some part of him was still walking the streets of Valentine.

You knew why.

Everyone did.

Mary.

The name had drifted through camp in quiet conversation after Arthur returned. Never loudly enough to invite questions, never long enough to become gossip.

"Saw Mary, did you?"

"Mm."

"She doin' alright?"

"Seems it."

That had been the end of it.

No stories.

No reminiscing.

No wistful smile lingering on Arthur's face.

Just a few words before he'd wandered off to tend to his horse as though the conversation had meant nothing at all.

It should have put your mind at ease.

Instead...

It left far too much room for your own thoughts. They crept in quietly, dressed in reason instead of jealousy, which somehow made them harder to dismiss.

You weren't angry.

Not at Arthur.

Not even at Mary.

How could you be?

She'd been part of his life long before you'd ever stumbled into it. Before the gang. Before the running. Before years of hard living had carved permanent lines into the corners of his eyes. Whatever had existed between them had belonged to another time, another Arthur, and you had never once expected him to pretend otherwise.

Still...

You found yourself wondering about that younger version of him.

The one who laughed easier.

The one who'd looked at a woman and believed there was still enough goodness in him to build a home instead of another campfire.

Had she known that Arthur? Had she watched him smile before life had taught him to hide behind tired little huffs and crooked half-grins?

Your needle caught against the fabric.

You frowned down at the shirt in your lap, easing the thread free before you'd pulled a knot into it.

It was a ridiculous thing to dwell on.

Arthur had come back.

He always came back.

The thought should have been enough. Instead, your eyes drifted toward him again.

He'd settled onto an empty crate near the fire, elbows resting on his knees as he stared absently into the flames. The conversation around him came and went without much notice. Javier and Charles were debating the best route west, Sean insisted they'd both get lost before they crossed the next county, and somewhere behind you Susan scolded Uncle for tracking mud near the wash line.

Arthur didn't join in.

He simply listened, turning his coffee cup slowly between both hands as if the answer to whatever occupied his mind might be hidden somewhere inside it.

You hated that you noticed.

Hated it even more because, until today, you probably wouldn't have.

"Need a hand?"

You startled at Tilly's voice.

She smiled knowingly as she nodded toward the shirt spread across your lap.

"You've been sewin' the same cuff for near twenty minutes."

Heat rushed to your face.

Had it really been that long?

You looked down, only to discover you'd stitched barely an inch since sitting there.

"I reckon I'm more distracted than productive."

"I reckon you are."

Tilly lowered herself onto the log beside you, gathering another pile of mending into her lap. For a while neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the quiet pull of thread through worn fabric.

"You alright?"

The question came gently.

Not prying.

Just... observant.

You smiled without looking up.

"I'm alright."

She hummed, unconvinced, but kind enough not to press.

After another moment she nudged your shoulder with her own.

"You know..." she said, tying off a loose button. "Mr. Morgan's looked over here about six times since he sat down."

You blinked.

"...Has he?"

"Mhm."

Almost against your better judgment, your eyes lifted.

Arthur wasn't looking now, he was speaking to John who had wandered over carrying two tin bowls of whatever Pearson had declared stew that evening.

Just as you convinced yourself Tilly had been mistaken...

Arthur glanced up.

His gaze found yours immediately.

His expression softened in that quiet way it always did when he saw you. The corners of his mouth tipped upward just enough to be called a smile before he raised one hand in a small beckoning motion.

Come here.

Simple as that.

The invitation warmed something in your chest.

It also made the guilt settle a little deeper.

Because even now, with Arthur looking at you like you were the easiest thing in the world to find… Your mind insisted on asking whether he'd ever looked at Mary the same way. 

You held his gaze for only a moment before looking back down at your sewing.

Coward.

The word came unbidden, earning the smallest shake of your head.

Arthur hadn't done anything to deserve your uncertainty. If anything, he'd spent the better part of every day making sure you never doubted where you stood with him. He sought you out without thinking, reached for your hand whenever the two of you walked anywhere together, and never once crawled into bed without first making sure there was room for you against his side.

This wasn't his burden.

It was yours.

You just weren't entirely sure how to put it back down.

By the time supper had been scraped clean from everyone's bowls and the campfire settled into easy conversation, you'd managed to convince yourself the feeling would pass if you simply ignored it long enough.

It was a convincing argument.

Unfortunately, Arthur Morgan had never been an easy man to fool.

You were rinsing the last of the tin plates near the water barrel when you heard his boots behind you.

"You keep scrubbin' that thing," he said, amusement tucked into his voice, "there ain't gonna be much plate left."

You glanced down.The bowl in your hands had been clean for quite some time. A sheepish smile tugged at your lips as you set it aside.

"Suppose I got carried away."

"Suppose you did."

He stepped up beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Arthur reached for the towel draped over the barrel, drying his hands with slow, absent movements before hanging it back where he'd found it.

It was the sort of comfortable silence the two of you shared often.

Tonight, it felt heavier.

Arthur seemed to feel it too.

"You feel like takin' a walk?"

You looked over at him.

"...Now?"

"Ain't much farther than the edge of camp."

His tone was light, almost casual, but there was something behind his eyes that made it clear this wasn't really a question about stretching his legs.

You hesitated only a second before nodding.

"Alright."

The two of you wandered away from the fire without much fanfare. Nobody called after you. Nobody thought anything of it. Couples disappeared for a little peace all the time, especially after a long day.

The sounds of camp faded behind you with each step, replaced by the steady chorus of crickets and the soft rustle of evening wind through the trees.

Arthur kept an easy pace, his hands resting in his pockets as he walked. Every now and then, his arm bumped yours.

Not enough to make you stumble.

Just enough to remind you he was there.

"You been quiet."

It wasn't an accusation. It wasn't even really a question.

You let out a small sigh.

"I know."

"You wanna tell me why?"

"I don't."

Arthur nodded once.

"Alright."

That was it. No pushing, no disappointed look, just acceptance.

You'd almost convinced yourself he was willing to leave it there when he spoke again, his voice carrying that same quiet steadiness you'd come to lean on more times than you could count.

"...Can I tell you what I think, then?"

You looked up at him.

The moon caught the tired lines around his eyes, silvering the edges of his hat and softening the hard angles of his face.

"You've been lookin' at me all evenin' like you're waitin' for me to disappear."

The words stopped you where you stood.

Arthur took another step before realizing you'd fallen behind. He turned, his brow knitting together ever so slightly.

"I ain't sayin' that to make you feel bad."

His voice was gentler now.

"I'm sayin' it 'cause... whatever's got hold of you..."

He closed the distance between you with two slow strides.

"...I want you to quit carryin' it by yourself."

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The breeze stirred the grass around your boots, carrying with it the distant murmur of camp. Someone laughed behind you. A horse snorted somewhere in the darkness. Life carried on, blissfully unaware that your heart suddenly felt lodged somewhere in your throat.

Arthur didn't rush to fill the silence. He simply stood there, watching you with the same patient expression he wore when coaxing a frightened horse or waiting for a wounded animal to stop struggling.

"I know it don't make much sense," you admitted at last, your voice scarcely louder than the wind.

"It don't have to."

"It does."

You let out a quiet breath, dropping your eyes to the ground between you.

"'Cause if I say it out loud..." You gave a humorless little laugh. "I'm afraid it'll sound as foolish as it feels."

Arthur's mouth twitched, though not quite into a smile.

"I've said plenty foolish things in my life."

"I know."

"I still do."

That pulled the smallest laugh from you, and for just a second, the knot in your chest loosened.

Arthur caught it.

He always did.

"Better?"

"A little."

"Good."

He shifted his weight, crossing his arms loosely over his chest.

"Now tell me."

You looked at him again. Really looked at him. The familiar crease between his brows, the scar near his chin, the silver beginning to creep into the stubble along his jaw. There wasn't a single part of him you didn't know by heart.

Which somehow made this harder.

"It's Mary."

He blinked.

Not because he was offended.

Because he hadn't expected the answer.

His brow softened almost immediately.

"...Mary."

You gave a small nod.

"I know there ain't anythin' between you anymore. I know you came back." You managed a weak smile that disappeared almost as quickly as it came. "You've never given me a reason to doubt you."

The quiet stretched just long enough for you to find the courage to continue.

"I think..." Your words caught for only a moment. "I think people don't just stop lovin' someone because enough time passes."

He didn't disagree.

He didn't look away.

He simply waited.

"I ain't askin' if you still love her," you said softly. "I'm not even sure that's what I'm afraid of."

You sighed, shaking your head at yourself.

"I kept watchin' you after you got back today, and all I could think was... what if seein' her reminded you of the life you thought you'd have?"

The question lingered between you.

"A home. A family. A place where you could finally stop runnin'."

You looked past him, toward the faint orange glow of camp through the trees.

"What if, for just a little while..." Your voice grew quieter. "You remembered the man you were when you loved her."

The thought had lived in your chest all afternoon, growing heavier each time you tried to ignore it.

"And then you came back here."

A humorless smile tugged at your lips.

"Back to Dutch. Back to the gang. Back to all of..." You gestured vaguely toward the wilderness around you. "...this."

You finally looked at him again.

Arthur held your gaze for a long moment.

Something in his expression shifted, so quietly you almost missed it. Whatever he'd expected you to say, it hadn't been this. He'd been prepared for anger, perhaps even jealousy. Instead, he'd found you grieving a future that had never been yours, afraid that a single afternoon had reminded him of everything he'd lost.

"You been carryin' that around all day?"

You gave the smallest nod.

Arthur let out a slow breath through his nose, his eyes dropping to the ground before lifting back to yours.

"I reckon..." A faint, almost wistful smile crossed his face. "I reckon you're right."

Your stomach sank.

"I don't think people just stop lovin' somebody because enough years've gone by."

The words were gentle. Matter-of-fact. Honest.

"I loved Mary."

He didn't rush past it or soften it with excuses. He simply let the truth exist between you.

"I loved who she was. I loved what we thought we might have together."

His gaze drifted for only a moment, toward nothing in particular, as though he could still see two young people making plans neither of them understood life well enough to keep.

"That ain't somethin' I can pretend never happened."

His eyes found yours again.

"But, honey..." His fingers curled just a little tighter around your hand. "Missin' a dream ain't the same thing as wishin' you were still livin' it."

A quiet breeze stirred the trees around you, carrying the distant sound of laughter from camp.

"When I saw her today, I remembered who I used to be." He smiled to himself, though there was more sadness than joy in it. "Young enough to think life listened when you made plans."

He gave a small shake of his head.

"For a little while... yeah. I thought about it."

The admission stung, if only because he'd trusted you enough not to hide it.

"But then I rode back."

His smile softened as he looked at you.

"And I came home to you."

There wasn't a trace of hesitation in his voice.

"I ain't sayin' that because it's the right thing to say. Lord knows I ain't ever been much good at findin' the right words."

A quiet huff of amusement escaped him.

"I'm sayin' it because it's true."

He took your hand in his, just enough for his thumb to brush across your fingers.

"I can't change the life I almost had."

His eyes never left yours.

"And I don't spend my days wishin' I could."

For a long moment, you simply looked at him. The ache that had settled beneath your ribs that afternoon was still there, but it had changed somehow. Softer now. No longer sharp enough to steal your breath every time you thought about it.

"I didn't know," you admitted quietly.

Arthur's brow furrowed.

"I didn't know if you ever... let yourself think about it."

"I don't much make a habit of livin' in the past."

"No..."

You smiled faintly.

"I suppose you don't."

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you. The breeze stirred the leaves overhead, carrying with it the distant laughter from camp. Somewhere behind you, Pearson was almost certainly arguing with Uncle again.

Arthur gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

"I ain't gonna tell you I never wonder how things might've turned out," he said after a moment. "Everybody does."

His eyes drifted briefly toward the trees before returning to yours.

"But wonderin' ain't the same as wishin'."

The words settled over you with surprising ease.

You'd spent the better part of the afternoon convincing yourself those two things were one and the same.

They weren't.

"I reckon..." You let out a quiet laugh at yourself. "I made the two sound awfully similar in my head."

"They usually do."

You searched his face for another moment before shaking your head.

"I'm sorry."

Arthur looked almost offended.

"What're you apologizin' to me for?"

"For..." You gestured vaguely between the two of you. "All this."

He huffed a quiet laugh.

"Honey."

There it was again.

Warm.

Steady.

The way he said it made the knot in your chest loosen just a little more.

"You don't owe me an apology for tellin' me what's on your mind."

His thumb brushed over your knuckles.

"I'd rather know."

The words settled between you, quiet enough that for a moment all you could hear was the breeze moving through the trees.

You'd spent the better part of the afternoon convincing yourself that Arthur had ridden back from Valentine carrying the weight of a life he'd rather have lived. Somewhere along the way, you'd forgotten that if there was one thing Arthur Morgan had always done, it was tell the truth, even when it would've been easier not to.

A small smile tugged at your mouth.

"I've been an awful fool."

His own smile answered yours, tired around the edges but warm all the same.

"I wasn't gonna say it."

"You were thinkin' it."

"...Maybe a little."

A quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

It felt good.

Arthur seemed to think so too.

He stepped closer, the space between you disappearing so naturally it hardly felt like a decision at all. One arm slipped around your waist, drawing you in until your forehead found the familiar place against his shoulder.

"There." he murmured, more to himself than to you.

His chin rested lightly against the top of your head, and for a while neither of you spoke. There wasn't much left to say. The fears that had followed you through the evening had finally run out of places to hide, and Arthur had met every one of them with the same steady honesty he'd always given you.

You smiled into his shirt.

"I do love you, you know."

His arms tightened around you. 

"I know."

You pulled back just enough to look up at him.

"I was sort of hopin' you'd say it back."

That crooked grin finally appeared.

"I love you too, honey."

He said it so simply that it stole the breath from your lungs.

Then, before you could think of anything clever to say in return, he ducked his head and pressed a lingering kiss against your forehead.

It wasn't hurried.

It wasn't meant to fix anything.

It simply felt like Arthur.

When he leaned back, his smile was still there.

"C'mon," he said quietly, giving your hand another squeeze. "Let's get back."

You let him lace his fingers through yours without another word.

By the time the glow of the campfire came back into view, the knot that had followed you all afternoon was gone.

Not because Arthur had promised you'd never worry again.

But because he'd reminded you that when you did...

Paper rustled.

"...No..."

Another clink, followed by a tiny, satisfied, "...There."

Arthur folded his arms against his chest.

"What'd you find?"

The kid jumped so hard they nearly toppled over. One hand remained buried in the saddlebag as they slowly looked over their shoulder.

Arthur waited.

Just as slowly, the little hand emerged holding a dented can of peaches.

Arthur stared at it for a long moment.

"...Peaches?"

The kid glanced down at the label as though confirming it.

"...Yeah."

"You dug past cartridges."

A shrug.

"The coffee."

"I don't drink coffee."

"The jerky."

"Too chewy."

Arthur couldn't stop the corner of his mouth from twitching.

"...You've done this before."

The kid's chin lifted.

"...Maybe."

For a heartbeat they simply looked at one another.

Then instinct won.

The kid hugged the peaches to their chest, ducked around the horse's neck, and tore off down the street.

"There it is," Arthur sighed.

The child was quick. They slipped between wagons, squeezed around stacked barrels, and darted across muddy patches without slowing, clearly knowing every little path through town. Arthur didn't bother chasing from behind. Instead, he angled across the street, taking the shorter route.

Sure enough, the kid rounded a feed wagon at full speed and nearly barreled into Hosea.

"Oop."

They stumbled, caught themselves, spun to flee the other direction...

...and ran straight into Arthur.

Before they could wriggle away, Arthur hooked two fingers through the back of their belt and lifted. The kid's boots pedaled furiously an inch above the dirt.

"Aw, c'mon!"

"You done?"

"No!"

"You gonna keep runnin'?"

"Yep."

"Thought so."

Dutch stepped out of the store just then and stopped on the boardwalk, taking in Arthur holding a dangling little outlaw by the belt.

"...Well."

Arthur nodded toward the can.

"They stole my peaches."

Dutch looked at the kid.

"...Did you now?"

The child hugged the peaches tighter.

"...Maybe."

Arthur snorted.

"'Maybe.'"

"I had 'em."

"For ten seconds."

"They were mine for ten seconds."

Hosea laughed warmly.

"I suppose that's technically true."

Arthur lowered the kid until their boots touched the ground. This time they didn't run. Instead, they took three careful steps backward, stopping just outside arm's reach. Close enough to watch. Far enough to bolt if they had to.

Arthur noticed.

Hosea noticed Arthur noticing.

After a moment, Arthur held out his hand.

"Lemme see the can."

The kid hugged it tighter.

"No."

"I ain't takin' it."

"...Liar."

"I just need to open it."

The child frowned.

"...Why?"

Arthur looked at them like the answer should've been obvious.

"'Cause unless you've learned how to chew through tin..."

A long silence passed before the kid finally shuffled forward and placed the peaches into Arthur's hand.

Arthur drew his knife, popped the lid free with practiced ease, folded the blade shut, and handed the can right back.

The kid didn't take it immediately.

"...That's it?"

"What?"

"You ain't keepin' 'em?"

"If I wanted 'em," Arthur said, "I'd've kept 'em."

The child accepted the peaches carefully, as though expecting Arthur to change his mind halfway through. Instead, they sat down beside the hitching rail and quietly ate, taking their time, making each peach slice last.

Dutch wandered over and crouched a respectful distance away.

"You got a name?"

"...Yep."

"Wanna tell us?"

"...No."

Dutch smiled.

"Fair enough."

"You got family?"

A small shake of the head.

"Where've you been sleepin'?"

The kid shrugged.

"Wherever."

"Where's that?"

"...Depends who chases me off."

The street suddenly felt much quieter.

Arthur looked away.

Beside him, Hosea watched the child scrape the last of the syrup from the bottom of the can before quietly asking,

"...Remember?"

Arthur did.

He remembered cold nights. Empty stomachs. Stealing because there hadn't been another choice. He remembered being a boy not much bigger than this one, and two men who'd offered him supper instead of a beating.

The kid stood, tucked the empty can beneath one arm, and glanced down the road, already measuring where they'd disappear next.

Arthur let out a long sigh.

"...You know how to ride?"

The kid looked back.

"...A little."

"Good."

Arthur reached for the reins.

"You're ridin' with us."

The child frowned.

"...Why?"

Arthur looked from the kid to Dutch, then to Hosea. Both of them wore the same small, knowing smile.

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"...Hell if I know."

Swinging into the saddle, he shot the pair one last look.

"...Don't either of you say a damn word."

Hosea only smiled wider.

Dutch tipped his hat.

"Arthur."

"Mm."

"I need it."

"You do not."

You point dramatically toward the small trader's wagon parked near the edge of camp.

Specifically, toward the hat hanging from the side.

The hat.

The most beautiful hat ever crafted by human hands.

Arthur glances at it once.

Then back at you.

Then at the hat.

Then at you again.

"It's a hat."

"It's not just a hat."

"It's exactly a hat."

You place a hand over your heart. "You're bein' real disrespectful toward my future."

Arthur lets out a long sigh through his nose.

Across camp, Charles is already smiling.

"How much?"

You name the price.

Arthur's eyebrows climb halfway up his forehead.

"For a hat?"

"It has character."

"It's got dust."

"It has history."

"It's got dust and history."

You cross your arms.

Arthur returns to cleaning his revolver.

Thirty seconds pass.

Then a minute.

Then two.

You continue staring.

Arthur continues pretending not to notice.

Finally he mutters, "Stop lookin' at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like a sad dog outside a butcher shop."

"I ain't."

"You are."

Another pause.

You look at the hat.

Arthur watches you look at the hat.

The trader watches you look at the hat.

Half the camp watches you look at the hat.

Arthur groans.

"Fine."

Your head snaps around.

"Fine?"

"Fine."

You nearly tackle him.

Arthur catches you by the shoulders before you can launch yourself completely into his lap.

"This is a mistake."

"No, this is love."

"This is robbery."

You beam.

Ten minutes later you're wearing the hat.

Three sizes too big.

The brim droops over one eye.

You couldn't possibly look happier.

Arthur stares at you for a long moment before shaking his head.

"Lord help me."

You grin.

Arthur's mouth twitches despite himself.

Truth was, he'd have bought the damn thing the moment he saw the look on your face.

Arthur notices the second you settle it. He doesn’t say anything at first — just watches the way your posture shifts without you realizing. Chin a little higher. Shoulders squared like you’re testing how it feels to occupy more space.

Hosea looks up from his book, takes in the hat, then the stance, and his mouth quirks.

“Well,” he says mildly, “seems we’ve got ourselves a change in management.”

You glance at him. “Temporary oversight.”

Arthur snorts softly, propping himself up on his elbow. “Mm. What’s my position?”

You consider him like you’re reading a file.

“Probationary.”

Camp immediately perks up.

“Probationary?” Javier echoes, grinning.

Arthur’s brows lift. “That right.”

You nod once, calm. “Pending performance review.”

He leans back like this is the most entertaining thing that’s happened all week. “Reckon I better impress you then.”

You pivot, scanning camp like you’re taking inventory of a ship that might sink if you blink wrong.

“Status reports.”

Bill looks around. “You serious?”

Hosea answers for you. “You heard the boss.”

Laughter ripples, but people play along because it’s more fun than not.

Lenny raises a hand. “Camp morale: acceptable. Spoon count: suspiciously low.”

“Still missing?” you ask.

“Always.”

You nod gravely, as if this is a systemic failure.

You turn toward the horse line next.

“Inspection.” you say.

Someone groans. “Oh come on.”

You point to Sean. “You’re up.”

“Why me?”

“Because you complained yesterday.”

Camp laughs again as Sean trudges off, muttering, and starts actually checking tack like he’s proving a point. It’s ridiculous — and somehow completely effective. Within minutes, three more people wander over to help just because they’ve been assigned something.

Arthur watches the whole thing with a quiet, crooked smile, like he’s witnessing a perfectly executed con and he’s not even mad about it.

You step closer to him.

“Security.”

He looks up, amused. “Promotion?”

“Temporary.”

He nods solemnly. “I accept the responsibility.”

“Primary duties,” you continue, ticking them off on your fingers, “watch perimeter, deter nonsense, and refrain from starting fights unless absolutely necessary.”

Arthur huffs a laugh. “That last one’s tricky.”

“Probationary.” you remind him.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Hosea nearly chokes on his coffee.

For a while, camp leans into it fully — people giving half-serious updates, pointing out tiny “issues” like crooked bedrolls or a pot that’s been boiling too long. The energy shifts from restless to playful, the kind of shared joke that makes everyone feel like they’re in on something.

You move through it like you belong at the center of it, the hat shadowing your eyes just enough to make your expression unreadable.

Arthur falls in step beside you eventually, close enough that his shoulder almost brushes yours.

“You always this organized?” he murmurs, low so only you hear.

“Only when unsupervised.”

He smiles, slow and warm. “Reckon we been runnin’ this place wrong.”

Across camp, Sean calls out, “Horse line cleared! No mutiny detected!”

You nod approvingly. “Good work.”

“Do I get a raise?”

“Try again next quarter.”

Arthur laughs under his breath, shaking his head.

That’s when Dutch arrives.

Drawn by the sound of a camp that’s suspiciously coordinated.

He takes in the scene — Sean reporting, Bill actually stacking crates, Lenny scribbling something like he’s documenting it — and finally you, standing there with that ridiculous, perfect hat.

“Well now,” Dutch says, voice edged with curiosity, “what’s all this?”

Hosea gestures loosely. “Operational restructuring.”

Dutch’s brows lift.

You meet his gaze evenly. “Morale initiative.”

There’s a beat — the kind where everyone waits to see if the joke ends or becomes something else.

Dutch smiles slowly.

“Carry on.” he says.

And just like that, it’s sanctioned.

Arthur leans closer as Dutch walks off, voice low and fond. “Looks like you got executive approval.”

You glance sideways. “Probationary.”

“Of course.”

By late afternoon the reports taper off, the joke softening back into normal camp noise. But the effect lingers — things are a little tidier, people a little lighter, like the structure gave everyone permission to breathe.

You finally pull the hat off, turning it in your hands.

Arthur watches, expression soft.

“You done bein’ boss?” he asks.

You set it down beside you. “For now.”

He nods, then after a moment nudges it back toward you with two fingers.

“Keep it,” he says. “Camp runs smoother.”

Hosea lifts his cup from across the fire. “Best leadership we’ve had in months.”

Arthur glances at you again, smile quiet but certain.

fireside content warnings

This story includes:

quiet grief / loss of an animal

implied hunting and animal death (non-graphic)

emotional hurt that goes unspoken

Nothing graphic or explicit, but it may tug at tender places.

Please take care of yourself while reading.

— 🔥

Beans It Is, Then.

The rabbit starts coming around in the mornings.

At first, you think it’s coincidence — a flicker of brown near the edge of camp, ears twitching, gone the moment someone shifts their weight. But then it comes back. Again. And again. Always when things are calm. Always when you’re alone.

You start saving bits of food without really meaning to. A crust of bread. A scrap of apple. You crouch low, slow, and hold it out like an offering.

The rabbit watches you for a long moment before hopping closer.

You smile despite yourself.

“Well,” you murmur, voice barely there. “Aren’t you brave.”

It doesn’t let you touch it at first. That comes later. Weeks later. One morning when the camp is still half-asleep and the fire is nothing but embers, it nudges closer than usual, nose twitching, warm and alive.

You name it quietly, like a secret.

Arthur notices before anyone else does.

Not the rabbit — the way you soften when you see it. The way you linger near the edge of camp longer than necessary. The way you talk under your breath like you’re not as alone as you look.

One morning, he leans against a crate and watches as the rabbit hops up, bold as anything, and lets you scratch behind its ears.

“You name that thing?” Arthur asks, amused.

You glance back at him, startled. “It’s not a thing.”

He snorts. “Figures.”

You hesitate, then say the name anyway. It feels silly out loud. Real.

Arthur hums. “Well. Ain’t never seen a rabbit look that pleased.”

You scowl at him, but there’s no heat in it. He’s smiling — not teasing, just entertained. Like it’s nice to see you caring about something small and harmless in a life that rarely allows for either.

The rabbit keeps coming back.

Until it doesn’t.

The day someone rides in with a bundle of rabbits slung over their horse, you know before you see it properly. There’s a wrongness to the shape. A stillness that doesn’t belong to something that used to breathe.

Your chest tightens.

You don’t say anything.

You don’t accuse anyone. You don’t cry. You don’t storm off. You just nod along when stew is mentioned later, then quietly take a can of beans instead.

Arthur notices.

He notices because you always liked stew. Because you don’t even look at the pot. Because when someone jokes about how good the hunt went, your hands curl tight around the tin like you’re holding yourself together.

That night, Arthur sits across from you with his own bowl untouched.

“You ain’t hungry?” you ask softly.

Arthur sets the bowl aside and opens a can of beans instead. “Reckon I am,” he says. “Just… not for that.”

You look at him then. Really look.

He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t say the rabbit’s name. Doesn’t make a show of it. Just eats beans beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

After a moment, you whisper, “He wasn’t supposed to be food.”

Arthur nods once. “I know.”

The camp carries on. It always does. The fire crackles. Laughter drifts. Life keeps moving forward whether you’re ready or not.

But for a few days, Arthur eats beans with you.

And when you sit near the edge of camp out of habit, still watching the space where the rabbit used to appear, Arthur stands nearby — not crowding, not hovering.

Just keeping watch.

Like he understands that sometimes, the smallest losses are the ones that hurt the quietest.

This chapter brings the emotional arc to a close.

Please take care if you’re sensitive to:

emotional vulnerability and release

honesty after restraint

intimacy rooted in safety and choice

the quiet ache of things finally settling

Nothing graphic or explicit.

This ending is meant to feel earned and gentle — read when you have space to breathe.

— 🔥

Night watch — Part Nine (fin)

Arthur doesn’t move when the silence settles.

Neither do you.

The truth you shared still hangs between you — fragile, real, too important to rush past. His hand is still over yours, warm and steady, like it’s anchoring both of you now.

You draw a slow breath. Then another.

“I missed you.” you say again, quieter this time. Not because he didn’t hear it before — because you need him to know it wasn’t just fear talking.

Arthur’s thumb shifts over your knuckles. “I know.”

He stands first, offering you his hand. When you take it, he doesn’t let go. Instead, he pulls you in gently, arms coming around you in a way that feels instinctive — unguarded.

You lean into his chest without hesitation.

It isn’t a desperate hug. It isn’t something to be hidden. His chin rests against your hair, one hand firm at your back, holding you like he’s allowed to now.

Like he’s choosing to.

People move around you. Camp carries on. Someone could see — and neither of you cares.

Arthur exhales, long and slow. “I don’t want to keep doin’ this half-way.”

Your voice is soft against him. “Me neither.”

He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to.

Night comes easily after that.

The camp quiets, the fire burns low, and Arthur doesn’t wait for an excuse this time. His fingers brush yours — deliberate.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “Stay with me.”

You nod immediately. “Yeah.”

Inside the cabin, the lantern is turned down low, the space bathed in warm shadow. Arthur closes the door behind you and turns, hands finding your waist like he knows exactly where they belong.

You don’t step back.

You step closer.

His arm comes around you — familiar — but instead of settling, it stays firm at your back, holding you there. You feel the difference immediately. Not grounding. Not habit.

Intent.

His breath hitches against your cheek. His thumb presses into your side, steady and deliberate, like he’s reminding both of you where you are.

“…Christ,” he murmurs under his breath.

You lift your head slowly. Arthur doesn’t move away — he lets you come to him, eyes dark and focused. When your lips brush, barely there, the contact pulls a soft gasp from you before you can stop it.

Arthur stills you with a subtle shift of his hand.

“Easy.” he murmurs — not a warning. A promise.

You exhale, breath trembling just slightly, and he takes that as permission. He closes the distance and kisses you — deeper, firmer, his mouth moving with intention instead of restraint.

You melt into it.

His hand slides up your back, fingers splayed, holding you close like he’s decided this is where you belong. When you gasp into the kiss, his grip tightens just enough to let you feel it.

Arthur pulls back briefly, forehead dropping to yours, breath heavy.

“Look at me.” he says quietly.

His thumb brushes your jaw, tilting your face up, making sure you’re still with him — still choosing this.

“You alright?” he asks.

“Yes.” you breathe.

That’s all he needs.

He kisses you again — slower now, deeper, controlled. He sets the pace, and you follow without thinking, hands resting where he keeps them, trusting him to guide you through the heat building between you.

When he draws you closer, pressing your body fully against his, it isn’t rushed or rough — it’s decisive. You feel his want in the way he holds you, the way he doesn’t let you drift away.

Your fingers curl into his shirt, grounding him instinctively, and Arthur exhales hard like the touch goes straight through him.

“Stay with me.” he murmurs.

“I am.” you answer without hesitation.

The intensity crests, then eases — not fading, but settling into something steady and full. Arthur’s arm stays around you, firm and protective, his hand moving slow at your back, grounding both of you now.

In bed, the familiarity returns — warmer, closer.

You face each other this time, Arthur pulling you in until your head rests against his chest. His arm wraps around you, solid and sure, holding you because he wants to — not because you need saving.

The lantern is turned down until the room is all quiet shadow and warmth.

Sleep comes easily.

Not perfect. Not dreamless.

But safe.

The panic doesn’t disappear completely after that.

Some nights still carry a sharp edge. Some breaths still catch when they shouldn’t. Some memories still rise uninvited.

But they come less often.

And when they do, neither of you faces them alone.

Sometimes Arthur feels it first — a tightening, a restlessness he can’t shake. You’re there, steady and warm, pulling him close, reminding him where he is.

Sometimes it’s you — the old fear stirring, the night pressing in. Arthur’s arm tightens around you, his voice low and sure, grounding you back into the moment.

You don’t fix each other.

You don’t cure anything.

You stay.

By morning, the fire outside has burned low. Arthur is still there when you wake, breathing slow, holding you like it’s nothing he has to think about anymore.

Outside, the world waits.

Inside, you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Together.

(fin)

Thank you for visiting the fireside.

This chapter holds emotional tension alongside quiet care.

Please take care if you’re sensitive to:

unresolved feelings

restrained longing

emotional vulnerability

closeness that doesn’t fully arrive yet

Nothing graphic or explicit.

This part may ache, but it carries intention.

— 🔥

Night Watch – Part Eight

It doesn’t happen all at once.

That’s the cruel part.

The job goes wrong in small ways first — a door that takes longer to open, a voice raised when it shouldn’t be, a hesitation that costs you seconds you can’t afford. By the time the shot rings out, it’s almost expected.

You run.

Not blindly — not panicked — just fast and focused, heart hammering as you cut through cover and shadows until the danger falls behind you. You don’t get hit. You don’t even stumble. But when it’s over, your hands won’t stop shaking.

Not from fear.

From the thought that it almost ended before you could fix things with him.

That realization hits harder than the gunshot ever could.

By the time you return to camp, dusk has settled in. The fire’s been lit. Voices carry low and normal, like the world never tilted on its axis at all.

You drift to the edge of camp and sit, elbows on your knees, staring at the dirt. You breathe slow, the way Arthur taught you. It helps — a little.

What it doesn’t do, is fill the space he’s been leaving lately.

You don’t look for him, that’s how he knows something’s wrong.

Arthur spots you from across camp — folded in on yourself, too still, not pacing, not shaking. He starts toward you out of habit, then stops.

You’ve been keeping your distance.

So has he.

He tells himself not to interfere. That you’ve been steady lately. That whatever happened out there, you’ll handle it like you always do.

Still… he watches.

You lift your head eventually and meet his gaze. Just for a second. Long enough for something fragile to pass between you — uncertainty, maybe. Or relief.

Arthur exhales and crosses the distance anyway.

He crouches in front of you, careful with his movements. “You hurt?”

You shake your head. “No.”

His shoulders drop slightly. He waits.

You don’t speak right away. The words feel too big, like they might change something if you let them out.

“I had a close call,” you say finally. “Closer than I’d like.”

Arthur nods, jaw tight. “Yeah.”

Another pause.

You pick at the dirt with your fingers. “I almost came to find you.”

His eyes flick up. “Almost?”

You nod. “Didn’t want to make things… confusing.”

Arthur lets out a quiet breath. “Funny. I been doin’ the same thing.”

You look at him then. Really look at him.

“You didn’t come find me.” you say softly.

He shakes his head. “Didn’t think it was my place.”

That stings more than you expect.

You swallow. “I missed you.”

The words are barely above a whisper, but they land heavy between you.

Arthur stills.

For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, quieter than you’ve ever heard him, “I missed you too.”

The admission feels like stepping onto unstable ground — terrifying and relieving all at once.

Arthur shifts closer, forearms resting on his knees. “I thought keepin’ my distance was doin’ you a favor.”

You huff a weak, humorless breath. “I thought the same.”

He glances at you. “You think the other night was just… circumstance?”

You shake your head slowly. “No. I think it scared me how much it mattered.”

Arthur nods, like that confirms something he’s been wrestling with. “I don’t just worry about you ‘cause it’s my job,” he says. “I worry ‘cause when you ain’t around, somethin’ feels off.”

Your chest tightens. “I don’t need you just when I’m falling apart.”

“I know.” he says. “I figured that out when you stopped comin’ to the fire.”

Silence stretches — not awkward, just full.

Arthur finally reaches out, slow and deliberate, resting his hand over yours. Not grounding. Not urgent.

Present.

“When I thought you might’ve been hurt today,” he admits, “I realized I don’t want space if it means losin’ you.”

Your throat burns. “I don’t want space either. I just didn’t know how to come back.”

Arthur’s thumb brushes once over your knuckles. “Seems like we’re both here now.”

You nod.

He doesn’t pull you in yet. He just stays close, like he’s letting the truth settle before moving forward.

For the first time since the distance started, it feels like you’re facing the same direction again.

Not fixed.

Found.

This chapter continues with mutual caretaking and emotional vulnerability. This is probably my favorite chapters I have written.

Please take care if you’re sensitive to:

emotional openness

lingering fatigue or strain

caretaking dynamics

quiet intimacy without urgency

emotional withdrawal

unresolved tension

quiet hurt and unspoken feelings

care expressed through distance

Nothing graphic or explicit.

— 🔥

Night Watch — Part 7

The fire is almost out when Arthur notices you.

Just embers and a faint lick of flame, enough to keep the cold off but not enough to warm much else. You’re sitting close to it, knees pulled in, arms looped around them. Not restless. Not panicked.

Just awake.

Arthur slows without meaning to. He watches you for a second, checking for signs he’s learned to look for — the tight shoulders, the shallow breathing.

You don’t have them.

“You ain’t sleepin’?” he asks quietly.

You glance back at him. “Tried.”

Arthur nods like that makes sense and steps around the fire, lowering himself behind you with care. He leaves a careful inch of space at first. Habit, more than intention.

The night settles again.

After a moment, he shifts closer. Heat at your back. His knee brushes yours. He stills, like he’s about to say something.

You lean back into him before he can.

Arthur exhales softly, surprised, and then his arms come around you — familiar, loose, practiced. Not grounding this time. Not necessary.

Still wanted.

“This okay?” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” you say. “I just… don’t want to be alone tonight.”

That feels heavier than it should.

Arthur’s hold firms, just slightly. His chin rests against the side of your head, breath warm against your hair. You sit there listening to the fire crackle, to the sound of him breathing behind you, steady and real.

“You don’t feel like you’re spinnin’.” he says after a while.

You smile faintly. “I know.”

“…Just habit, then.”

“Mm.”

His thumb shifts where it rests against your arm. A small movement. Thoughtless. The kind that becomes something only because neither of you stops it.

You turn your head just enough to look at him.

Arthur looks back.

There’s no rush in it. No urgency. Just the quiet understanding that this has been heading somewhere for a long time.

He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.

You don’t.

His mouth brushes yours — light, tentative. A question more than a kiss.

Arthur stills immediately.

“You good?” he asks, barely audible.

You nod. “Don’t stop.”

So he doesn’t.

The kiss deepens, unhurried, like he’s afraid of startling something fragile. His hand comes up to your jaw, thumb resting there like he’s grounding himself now.

You turn fully toward him, one hand finding his collar.

The fire pops softly behind you.

Arthur pulls back just long enough to breathe, forehead resting against yours.

“Hell." he mutters, almost to himself.

You smile. “Yeah.”

He kisses you again — slower, deeper, more sure. No testing left in it now. Just choice.

When you finally part, neither of you moves away.

Arthur’s arms stay around you, solid and warm. Yours stay where they are, fingers curled into his shirt like you’re not ready to let go yet.

After a moment, Arthur exhales and glances toward the cabins. “It’s cold.” he says, casual in a way that isn’t. “You… wanna come inside?”

You don’t answer right away.

Then you nod. “Yeah.”

You walk together, close enough that your hands brush more than once. Arthur opens the cabin door and steps aside to let you in, lowering the lantern until the light is soft and low.

Inside, it’s quiet and simple. Familiar.

Arthur hesitates, then sits on the edge of the bed, looking at you like he’s making sure this is still what you want.

You sit beside him.

He lies back first, giving you space. When you settle in next to him, he turns instinctively, arm coming around you — not pulling, not demanding.

You fit against him easily, familiar now in a way that doesn’t need explaining. His breathing evens out slowly, warmth steady at your back. He adjusts the blanket around you both without comment.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Then, quietly, Arthur says, “You alright?”

You nod softly. “Yeah.”

He hums, satisfied, and rests his chin lightly against your hair.

Sleep doesn’t come right away — but when it does, it comes easy.

~

You wake before the light.

Arthur’s still asleep behind you, breath slow and even. You lie there for a moment, staring at the wall, letting the weight of the night settle without touching it too closely.

Nothing needs naming yet.

Carefully, you slip from the bed and gather your things. Boots in hand, you ease toward the back door and step outside before the cabin can creak too loud.

The air is cold and quiet. Camp sits half-asleep, fog clinging low to the ground.

You return to your bedroll and sit, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders like the night never quite let go.

When the cabin door opens later, you don’t look right away.

Arthur steps out, stretching once, eyes scanning the clearing out of habit. They land on you briefly.

Just a glance.

Nothing in it that anyone else would notice.

Then someone calls his name and the moment passes.

The day moves on.

You help where you’re needed. Sort supplies. Ride when asked. Keep your hands busy and your thoughts quieter than they want to be.

~

Arthur notices it the moment the fire’s lit.

Not because he’s looking for you.

Because you’ve always been there.

Same place, same quiet way of sitting just close enough to the warmth. Even on nights you don’t sleep, you come out eventually. You sit. You breathe. You wait for the world to settle.

Tonight, the space is empty.

He tells himself that’s good.

Last night shouldn’t be something either of you build habits around. It happened because you were tired. Because the night was quiet. Because lines blur when you let yourself feel safe for too long.

He rubs a hand over his jaw and stares into the fire.

You deserve better than a man who only knows how to offer comfort when things are dark. Better than someone who might mistake need for want.

So he doesn’t go looking for you.

He tells himself he’s doing you a favor.

You’re awake in your bedroll, staring up at the canvas overhead, replaying the night whether you want to or not.

The kiss felt real. That’s what scares you.

Real things don’t usually happen to you without consequences. Real things don’t come without an explanation, or a cost, or a reason you later regret believing in them.

Arthur hadn’t said anything this morning. Not really. No promises. No change in tone.

Maybe it was just… comfort. A moment stretched too thin by exhaustion and proximity. A mistake neither of you meant to make.

You don’t want to put him in a position where he has to explain that to you.

So you don’t go to the fire.

Arthur glances up without meaning to — once, then again.

Still nothing.

He swallows and looks back into the coals. You’d be there if you needed him. You always come when you need grounding.

The fact that you don’t tells him enough.

Good, he thinks. She’s givin’ herself space.

The thought settles heavy in his chest.

You shift onto your side, listening to the sounds of camp. Arthur’s voice carries faintly from the fire — low, steady, like nothing’s wrong.

That hurts more than you expect.

You almost sit up. Almost swing your legs out of the bedroll and go to him, just to see if the way he looks at you has changed.

But if it hasn’t — if he looks the same — you don’t know what you’ll do with that.

So you stay still.

Arthur waits longer than he means to.

He feeds the fire. He checks the perimeter. He does everything except walk toward you. Because if he does, and you pull away, he’ll know he misread something that mattered.

And Arthur Morgan doesn’t risk people lightly.

He sits down hard on the log, elbows braced on his knees, staring into the coals.

This is better, he tells himself.

Safer.

For you.

You press your fingers into the blanket, grounding yourself the way he taught you. You breathe slow. You don’t panic. You don’t need him.

That’s what you tell yourself.

But the absence aches anyway.

Neither of you sleeps easily that night.

Both of you wake knowing the distance wasn’t rejection.

It was restraint.

And that somehow hurts worse.

This chapter focuses on mutual care and emotional vulnerability.

Please take care if you’re sensitive to:

emotional openness

caretaking dynamics

quiet intimacy and reassurance

Nothing graphic or explicit. This part is meant to feel grounding and warm.

— 🔥

Night Watch — Part Six

The night is already deep when you realize Arthur hasn’t come back to the fire.

That’s what tips you off.

Not worry — not at first — just the quiet knowledge that something is out of place. You’ve learned to trust that feeling. It’s the same one that used to wake you gasping, the same one Arthur taught you to listen to without letting it swallow you whole.

You roll onto your side and listen.

The fire crackles, unattended but steady. Someone else should be nearby. Someone else is nearby — you hear distant boots, low conversation farther down camp.

Arthur’s not there.

You sit up.

You spot him beyond the wagons, half-hidden in shadow near the edge of the light. He’s seated on the ground with his back against a tree, knees drawn up slightly, forearms resting on them. His hat is off. His head is bowed.

Not watching.

Waiting.

Your chest tightens — not panic, not yet — recognition.

You don’t call out. You walk to him quietly, stopping a few feet away so he has time to notice.

He doesn’t.

“Arthur?” you say gently.

His head lifts immediately. Too fast.

“I’m good.” he says, already defensive.

You don’t answer that.

You step closer and lower yourself in front of him, settling onto your knees so you’re level with his line of sight. Close enough now that you can see the tension held in his jaw, the way his breath catches shallow in his chest.

“What’re you doin’ out here?” he asks.

You tilt your head, studying him. His breathing is controlled, but wrong. His hands are clenched tight enough to whiten the scars across his knuckles.

“You’re not breathin’.” you say softly. “Not all the way.”

His jaw tightens. “I don’t—”

“I know,” you interrupt gently. “You don’t like sayin’ it.”

You reach for his wrists then — slow, deliberate — and guide his hands away from his knees. You don’t pull. You don’t rush. You just move closer, shifting your weight until you’re sitting between his legs instead, your back naturally finding his chest as you settle there.

Arthur stiffens — then stills.

Your movement leaves him a choice.

After a brief pause, his arms follow the path you’ve set, coming around your middle and resting there, uncertain at first.

You lean back into him deliberately.

That’s all it takes.

Arthur’s arms close fully this time, crossing over your ribs and pulling you in until your back is solid against his chest. Not tight. Not desperate. Just enough to feel real.

He exhales sharply, like the breath’s been waiting.

You settle fully between his legs, grounded by the weight of him behind you. His grip firms, more secure now. His chin lowers until it rests against the crown of your head — unthinking, instinctive.

You place your hands over his forearms, steady and sure.

“You’re here,” you say softly.

“Camp’s quiet.”

“Fire’s goin’.”

“Ground’s solid under you.”

Arthur’s breath shudders.

You don’t rush. You keep your own breathing slow, measured, letting him fall into rhythm with it.

“Nobody’s shootin’.” you add. “Nobody’s dyin’. You made it back.”

His grip tightens briefly — not around you, but around the moment.

The tension drains out of him in pieces you can feel — shoulders lowering, breath deepening, weight settling into you like he’s finally stopped holding himself upright by force alone.

For a long while, neither of you speaks.

Then his arms squeeze lightly, instinctive.

A grounding check.

“I got you,” you murmur. “Easy, cowboy.”

There’s a pause, then he lets out a quiet breath against your hair — warm, almost amused.

“…Yeah,” he says softly. “Guess your cowboy needed that.”

The words land slow and heavy.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

His head shifts, resting more fully against yours now. His voice comes quieter, stripped of its edge.

“Funny,” he adds, “how it only works when it’s you sayin’ it.”

You smile faintly.

“You ain’t hard to read,” you tell him. “You just don’t let people try.”

His arms stay around you, solid and careful, like he’s choosing to keep you there — just for now.

Eventually, the moment loosens its grip. Arthur lifts his head, hands sliding down your arms before he lets go.

“You alright?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He squeezes your wrist once before releasing it completely. You stand slowly and dust yourself off, glancing back at him.

Arthur looks steadier now. Tired, but present. There’s the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth — one he doesn’t bother hiding.

“Go on,” he says. “Get some sleep.”

You hesitate just long enough to matter.

“Don’t stay out here pretendin’ you don’t need rest too.” you say.

He huffs quietly. “Reckon I’ll manage.”

You head back toward camp, heart steady, steps light.

Behind you, Arthur remains where he is.

Breathing easy.

Smiling just a little.

Arthur nudges the cabin door open and peers inside.

You’re still in bed.

Not resting. Not dozing. Out cold. Curled around the pillow like it personally wronged you sometime during the night. Hair everywhere. Blanket pulled up to your chin in clear defiance of the day.

Arthur sighs.

He steps closer, boots soft on the floor, and clears his throat. “Mornin’.”

Nothing.

He leans over slightly. “We gotta get movin’. Job’s waitin’.”

You shift just enough to pull the blanket higher.

Arthur squints. “…Did you hear me?”

“Mmh,” you mumble, face buried. “No.”

That’s a lie and you both know it.

Arthur tries again, softer this time. “Sun’s up.”

“Tell it to go back down,” you mutter.

He rubs a hand over his face. “You said you’d be ready.”

“I was,” you say thickly. “Last night.”

Arthur pauses. “How late did you stay up?”

You don’t answer.

Arthur narrows his eyes. “How. Late.”

“…Time’s fake.”

He exhales through his nose. “You sleep at all?”

“Technically.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, leaning down so his voice carries closer. “How much?”

You groan into the pillow. “Like… three. Maybe three and a half. But it was bad sleep. Doesn’t count.”

Arthur closes his eyes briefly like he’s praying for patience. “You got a job to do.”

“I know,” you whine. “That’s future me’s problem.”

Arthur presses his thumb into the mattress, steadying himself. “Future you is gonna be real mad at past you.”

You roll onto your back, squinting up at him with bleary, unfocused eyes. “Future me should’ve gone to bed earlier.”

“Past you’s the one who didn’t.”

“Well,” you say solemnly, “past me was makin’ poor choices.”

Arthur snorts despite himself. “Clearly.”

He reaches over and nudges your shoulder. “C’mon. Up.”

You make a noise somewhere between a protest and a wounded animal.

“No.”

Arthur blinks. “…No?”

“I physically cannot,” you say. “My bones are heavy.”

“Your bones are fine.”

“They are not. They are tired.”

Arthur shakes his head, amused and exasperated. “You promised.”

“I was delusional.”

He leans closer, lowering his voice. “I made coffee.”

Your eye cracks open.

“…You did?”

“Yes.”

“Strong?”

Arthur nods. “Strong.”

You consider this deeply, then roll back onto your side. “Bring it here.”

Arthur laughs quietly. “Nice try.”

You groan again. “Arthur, please. I am so tired.”

He studies you for a moment — really looks. The dark smudges under your eyes. The way you’re barely holding yourself together. The way your stubbornness has softened into something closer to exhaustion.

His tone changes.

“Alright,” he says gently. “Sit up.”

You shake your head. “Can’t.”

Arthur sighs, then reaches for you — one arm slipping under your shoulders, the other bracing your back as he helps you upright slowly. You slump immediately, forehead dropping against his chest.

“See?” you mumble. “Broken.”

Arthur steadies you without comment, one hand warm at your back. “You’re just tired.”

“Mhm. Dangerously.”

He chuckles under his breath and holds you there for a second longer than necessary. Then he presses a kiss into your hair.

“Drink the coffee,” he murmurs. “Then we’ll talk.”

You sigh but don’t pull away.

Arthur hands you the cup once you’re semi-conscious, watching closely as you take a careful sip.

“…Okay,” you admit. “That helps.”

“Told you.”

You rest your head back against his shoulder. “I hate mornings.”

“I know.”

“I hate early mornings more.”

“I know that too.”

“And I hate that I agreed to this job.”

Arthur smirks. “I noticed.”

You sigh, draining the cup slowly. When you finally hand it back, you sit there for a second, gathering yourself.

“…Okay,” you say. “I’m up.”

Arthur raises a brow. “You sure?”

“No,” you reply honestly. “But I’m vertical. That’s progress.”

He laughs, standing and offering you his hand. “C’mon, then.”

You take it, letting him pull you to your feet — wobbling slightly but upright all the same.

“Next time,” you mutter, “remind me to go to bed.”

Arthur grins. “I tried.”

You squint at him. “Did you?”

He shrugs. “You said ‘five more minutes’ about six times.”

You sigh dramatically. “I can’t be held accountable for sleepy lies.”

Arthur laughs again, squeezing your hand once. “You’re somethin’ else.”

You lean into him briefly, eyes half-closed. “You love me.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Unfortunately.”

But the way he steadies you as you stumble toward the door — the way he slows his steps to match yours — tells a different story.

And even on three and a half hours of sleep…

You’ll make it.

Mostly because Arthur won’t let you fall back into bed.

This chapter comes after emotional intensity and focuses on settling rather than escalation.

Please take care if you’re sensitive to:

emotional aftermath

vulnerability and exhaustion

trauma responses easing (non-graphic)

comfort without immediate answers

Nothing graphic or explicit.

This part is meant to be steady — read when you feel ready to breathe again.

— 🔥

Night Watch — Part Five

Arthur’s on watch.

You know it before you open your eyes. The fire’s steady, the night settled into that careful quiet that only comes when he’s the one keeping it. Nothing feels wrong.

That’s what wakes you.

Not panic. Not fear.

Awareness.

You lie still for a moment, listening. Arthur sits near the fire, rifle resting against a log, elbows braced on his knees. He hasn’t shifted in a while. His silhouette is rigid in a way that doesn’t match rest.

Arthur doesn’t sit like that unless something’s wrong.

You sit up slowly.

He doesn’t notice.

That’s enough.

You move quietly across camp, bare feet finding the familiar ground. The fire pops softly as you near him. Arthur’s gaze flicks your way only when you’re close enough that he can’t ignore you.

“You shouldn’t be up,” he says, voice even. Normal.

You stop in front of him. “Neither should you.”

He exhales through his nose. “I’m fine.”

You don’t argue. You’ve learned better than that.

Instead, you crouch down and look at him properly. The tight line of his jaw. The way his shoulders are held too high. His hands rest loosely between his knees—but his fingers keep flexing, like they’re searching for something solid.

“You’re holdin’ it,” you say quietly.

Arthur frowns. “Holdin’ what?”

“Everything.”

He looks away toward the trees. “Someone’s gotta.”

You nod once, accepting that. Then you shift closer and sit on the ground between his knees, facing the fire. Close enough that your back brushes his chest.

Arthur stiffens immediately.

You don’t rush it.

“Just sit,” you murmur. “You don’t gotta do anything.”

For a second, he doesn’t move.

Then—slowly—Arthur’s arms come forward, hesitating before settling across your middle. Not tight. Not possessive. Just there. His hands rest where they land, unsure.

You lean back into him without thinking.

Arthur’s breath catches.

He adjusts, pulling you a little closer, his forearms crossing more securely over you. The contact is grounding, deliberate. His chin dips, resting lightly on the top of your head like his body found the answer before his mind did.

Neither of you speaks.

The fire crackles. The night presses in, then eases.

You feel it before you see it—the way his grip tightens just slightly. Not enough to trap you. Enough to anchor himself. His breathing is shallow at first, then slows as your back rises and falls against his chest.

You stay still on purpose.

After a moment, you reach up and rest your hands over his arms, giving him something to feel, something solid to stay with.

“That’s it,” you say softly. “You’re alright.”

Arthur exhales, long and tired. His forehead presses more firmly into your hair.

“…Close call,” he murmurs.

“I know,” you answer. “I saw.”

His arms tighten again, just for a second.

He doesn’t apologize.

He doesn’t pull away.

You sit there like that for a long while—Arthur using you as a tether, you letting him. The closeness isn’t rushed or questioned. It just exists, warm and steady and quiet.

Eventually, his breathing evens out completely.

The tension drains from his shoulders in small increments.

Arthur lifts his head, just slightly, enough to speak. “You alright?”

You smile faintly, even though he can’t see it. “Yeah.”

A pause.

“…Thank you,” he adds.

You tilt your head back just enough that it brushes his chin. “Anytime, cowboy.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then you feel it—barely there—a soft huff of a laugh against your hair. His arms loosen, not letting go, just easing.

That’s all you needed.

You shift forward carefully, giving him space again. Arthur lets you go without hesitation this time.

You stand, brushing the dirt from your hands, and glance back at him.

Arthur’s watching you now, expression lighter than it was when you came over. Tired, but steadier. The firelight catches the corner of his mouth—still tipped up just slightly.

“Get some sleep,” he says.

You nod. “Try not to brood too hard.”

He scoffs quietly. “No promises.”

You head back to your bedroll without looking over your shoulder again.

Behind you, Arthur remains by the fire.

Sitting easier.

Smiling just a little.

~

“Don’t,” he says quietly.

You look up at him. You’re close enough now to feel the heat of his body, the way his chest rises with a breath he’s very clearly controlling. His thumb shifts, pressing into the inside of your wrist—right where your pulse jumps.

His eyes darken when he feels it.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m gonna forget where we are.”

You swallow. Say nothing.

Arthur steps in anyway.

Your back meets the tree behind you—solid, unavoidable—and he cages you there without touching you again. One arm braced above your head, the other resting at his side like he’s proving a point: you’re here because I let you be.

He leans in, slow enough to be deliberate.

“You know exactly what you’re doin’,” he says under his breath. “And I know you like when I notice.”

His knuckles brush your jaw—not a caress, more like a promise. He tips your chin up just enough that you have to meet his eyes.

“Look at me.”

You do.

That’s his mistake.

Arthur’s mouth hovers a breath away from yours, close enough that his words warm your lips when he speaks.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Just like that.”

He kisses you then—deep, unhurried, claiming. Not rushed. Not desperate. The kind of kiss that makes your knees go weak because he’s in control of the pace, breaking it only when he decides you’ve had enough.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“You alright?” he asks softly, like he hasn’t just wrecked your ability to think.

You nod, breathless.

A corner of his mouth lifts. Satisfied. Dangerous.

“Thought so.”

He steps back—finally—leaving you pressed to the tree, heart racing, knowing damn well he could’ve kept going… and chose not to.

This chapter holds the heaviest emotional themes in the series so far.

Please take care if you’re sensitive to:

heightened emotional distress

trauma responses and emotional overwhelm

fear, vulnerability, and loss of control

hurt with steady, present comfort

Nothing graphic or explicit, but this section may feel intense.

Please be kind to yourself while reading.

— 🔥

Night Watch — Part Four

You sleep in your bedroll again. You wake up sore instead of panicked. Your heart still jumps sometimes, but it settles quicker. You don’t have to sit up and count breaths anymore. Most nights, you don’t even fully wake.

Arthur never mentions it.

But when he’s on watch, he lingers.

He doesn’t sit right beside you. That would be noticed. Instead, he chooses posts that happen to keep you in his line of sight. He feeds the fire a little longer than necessary. He takes slower rounds. If you shift in your sleep, he notices.

You notice too—on the nights you wake just enough to register his shape near the fire, his presence like a quiet guardrail keeping you from tipping too far.

Neither of you names it.

Then the job goes bad.

It’s supposed to be quick. In and out. Simple intimidation. No one’s meant to fire a shot.

Someone does anyway.

The crack of the gun splits the air sharp and close. You don’t realize how close until Arthur stumbles, cursing, hand flying to his shoulder as splinters explode from the post beside him.

Missed.

Barely.

The world snaps into motion. Shouting. Return fire. You move on instinct, covering, pushing, finishing what needs finishing. It’s over fast—but fast doesn’t mean clean.

When it’s done, Arthur’s still standing.

That’s what everyone focuses on.

Jokes follow. Nervous laughter. Someone slaps him on the back like it’s all already a story worth telling. Arthur waves it off, scowling, insisting he’s fine.

You don’t laugh.

You can’t stop seeing how close it was. How different it could’ve been. How his body had reacted before his mind did—how easily it could’ve gone wrong.

By the time you’re back in camp, your hands won’t stop shaking.

It’s broad daylight. Too bright. Too exposed. People are everywhere, unloading gear, arguing, moving on like the danger stayed behind.

You try to follow.

You busy yourself. You check equipment that doesn’t need checking. You rinse blood from your hands even though it’s already gone. You tell yourself you’re fine.

Your body disagrees.

Your chest tightens. Your breath comes too shallow, too fast. The sounds around you blur together, too loud and too close. Every crack of movement sends your pulse jumping.

You keep your head down.

You cannot let this happen here.

Someone laughs nearby and it snaps something loose in you. Not anger. Fear. Sharp and sudden.

You turn away quickly, meaning to put distance between yourself and the noise—but your legs falter. Just for a second.

Arthur sees it.

He’s halfway through arguing with someone when his attention snaps to you like a wire pulled too tight. He takes you in at a glance—the way your shoulders are hunched, the way your hands are clenched so hard your knuckles have gone white.

He leaves the conversation mid-sentence.

You don’t notice until he’s already close.

“Hey,” he says quietly, but not too quietly. Normal. Casual. For anyone watching.

You try to answer. Nothing comes out.

Arthur’s eyes sharpen. “Come with me.”

It’s not a request.

He steers you away from the center of camp with a hand at your elbow, firm enough to guide, light enough not to draw attention. Anyone watching would think he was just asking for help with something.

Your heart is pounding now. Hard enough it feels like it’s climbing up your throat.

“I’m fine,” you manage, desperate.

Arthur leans closer, voice low. “I know. Just humor me.”

He leads you behind the supply wagon, out of the worst of the noise. The shade helps. A little.

You press your hands into your thighs, trying to ground yourself, but it’s not working. The panic is rising fast, faster than at night. There’s nowhere to hide from it.

Arthur steps closer, blocking your view of the camp without boxing you in.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”

You force your eyes up.

“There you are,” he says. “Breathe.”

You try. Fail.

Arthur doesn’t hesitate.

He shifts in close, one hand settling at your lower back, solid and steady. His body shields you from the rest of the world, just enough.

“Stay with me,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

You grip his sleeve without thinking.The contact grounds you immediately—and the realization that it worked hits just as hard.

Arthur stiffens for half a second.

Then he stays.

He leans his forehead closer to yours, not touching, just enough that his presence fills your vision.

“You’re here,” he says calmly. “I’m here. Nobody’s shootin’. Nobody’s dyin’.”

Your breathing stutters, then slows.

It takes longer than you want. Long enough that someone passing might notice. Long enough that Arthur shifts again, angling his body so it looks like a private conversation instead of something else.

When the panic finally loosens its grip, it leaves you drained and shaky.

You pull back first, mortified.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice rough. “I didn’t mean to—”

Arthur cuts you off gently. “Don’t.”

You stare at the ground, ashamed now in a different way. “I don’t usually—during the day—”

“I know,” he says.

You look up, startled.

He meets your eyes, steady. “I saw how close it was. Today.”

That’s what breaks it.

Not the fear—but the understanding.

You nod once, swallowing hard.

Arthur steps back just enough to give you space, his hand lingering a moment longer than necessary before he drops it.

“You go sit for a bit,” he says, voice easy again. “I’ll make sure nobody bugs you.”

You hesitate. “Arthur—”

“I’m fine,” he adds, firm. “Promise.”

You don’t believe him, but you nod.

As you walk away, you feel his eyes on your back the entire time.

And for the first time, you realize something quietly terrifying.

You don’t just panic when you’re in danger.

You panic when he is.

~