Property of George Weasley

It was already warm, despite the early morning, when you sat at the table to have breakfast. The air was humid, and you were already dreading the suffocating hours of heat that were still ahead. You despised the humidity. You could endure on some days in Clemens Point, for everything else in there was better than you’d had for months.

But today was not one of those days. 

Your eyes were lost somewhere far away, on the surface of the lake. There wasn’t much wind to nudge the lazy current of the water, further from the edge. 

Nothing to your naked eye but a flock of ducks and the occasional water snake, rippling the water. 

“Mornin’” 一 Abigail’s melodic voice brought you back to the table. “Good morning, Auntie Y/N,” Jack followed right after, sitting in front of the bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with pear cubes his mama had just placed down for him.

How you loved the little boy. He was a ray of hope in a camp of troubled pasts. Helping him with his letters was a favourite “chore” of yours. But you didn’t mind getting down in the dirt with him — playing castles, knights and explorers with just mud, grass and sticks.

“Morning, y’all,” you replied before scraping the last of your breakfast from the bowl and into your mouth. Scrambled eggs from your resident camp hens were not to be wasted.

The warm coffee in your mouth tasted of comfort — bitter and just a tiny bit sweet — you had snuck a cube of sugar into it, as always.

You chatted about nothing in particular, as per usual.

From behind Abigail’s shoulder, you caught sight of something gleaming — Bill’s Deputy badge catching sunlight, sitting proudly atop his union suit as he snapped his suspenders, making you snort quietly into your mug.

She must’ve noticed your expression, and when she followed your line of sight, she only muttered a quiet “Good lord”.

Only two days ago, they robbed a bank in Valentine. You remember it well, when Karen talked about it excitedly. She and Bill seemed to think working a town without robbing the bank made things feel incomplete.

You felt uneasy about the job, though, as you told her from the start. The earlier scrape with Leviticus Cornwall made the muddy streets of Valentine searing hot, you thought, and you told her as much. It didn’t ease your nerves when she came back later that day, telling you Arthur was coming with them — reassuring you in her mind, no doubt.

Of course he did, the old fool.

You set down your washing and your little stool by the water — not only did it make the job easier, but much more peaceful too. The sounds of the camp were just a quiet murmur in the distance, replaced by the gentle sounds of water, the rustling of trees and an odd quack or two. You felt yourself relaxing as you felt the cooler breeze on your hot neck and sneaking down your cleavage.

The work was calm, methodical — in a different way than the other work you do for the gang. Your hands, although capable with a gun, were familiar with the quieter ways of contributing to the family, too. Long past were the days when they could be mistaken for the hands of a lady, smooth and soft, untainted with work.

The sun continued its travel, far up the sky, as you made your way through the pile.

Your back welcomed the stretch when you finally got up. The bright sun made your brow furrow on your otherwise relaxed walk back towards the camp, where the clotheslines hung. 

As you got closer, you heard the familiar voices of Arthur and Micah. You didn’t listen much at first, uninterested in their usual bickering, you got on with hanging the laundry to dry. Then you noticed Dutch approaching them, his greeting calm and usual.

“Pearson!” Micah called out, and the camp cook set down something or other with a distinct sound of glass against wood, then made his way over.

“Tell him, fat man!”

Your interest piqued, you slowed down your movements to hear them better. Though after a moment, you thought you must be mishearing.

“They want a parley? It’s a trap!” Hosea added from where he was sitting with his newspaper. Words straight from your mouth.

“Well, of course, it’s probably a trap…” Micah continued, “But what do we got to lose finding out?” You could practically see his ratty eyes gleaming with glee.

“Get shot,” said Arthur simply.

“We ain’t getting shot because you’ll be protecting us.”

And there it was, that cold, sinking down to your stomach. You tried to shake it off, as you shook off a shirt, then pinned it down in front of your face. 

The rest was a blur, until Dutch’s clear, final — “Let’s go! You, and me, with Arthur protecting us… no one else.”

As you finished, you met eyes with Hosea across — he blinked, slowly, knowingly.

The afternoon trickled by, and you found yourself wandering over towards the horses, smiling weakly to yourself when your stallion noticed you, raising his head, waiting for you to come closer.

John was sitting on a nearby hay bale, oiling his tack, and you exchanged a brief greeting before you produced an apple from your satchel and held it out for Prince. It’s calming, watching him eat. Caring for him has always been grounding.

You pressed a gentle kiss to his face when he asked for it, the spoiled boy. Your hand slid down his neck, petting him in long strokes, feeling his warmth and strong muscles underneath the smooth coat. 

Time passed by with you seemingly hypnotised, until John’s gravelly voice brought you back to reality.

“You worried?”

You scoffed quietly. “No” was all that left your mouth, met by John’s nod. What an idea.

“I-uh… heard that horse job for the Grays didn’t pan out the way you guys wanted,” you changed the topic. The conversation you had with Arthur last evening still fresh in your mind.

“Seven hundred dollars, can you believe that?” Arthur asked with a cigarette waiting in his mouth, his hand gesticulating with the match. “Last time I let myself get dragged by that fool Marston.”  You watched the flame emerge before turning back to brushing Prince’s coat. “Five thousand, my ass…” he muttered angrily under his breath. “Wonder what the old Gray had in mind. Is he sharp enough to manipulate, or is he just dumb enough to think somebody around would pay five thousand for branded horses?” you mused. “I don’t know,” Arthur waved his hand around. “Doesn’t matter now, I suppose. We were dumb enough to go for it.”

“That’s an understatement,” John replied curtly, setting down his rag.

“Cheer up, it’s not like everyone in this camp remembers all your mistakes and keeps reminding you of them,” you joked.

“You’re a bad person,” he said, turning to you, without real heat behind it.

You chuckled, turning to help him return his gear to its place. You’ve known John Marston since he was a boy, and he’d always been sort of like a little brother to you. You didn’t always need to exchange words to have a conversation.

The sounds of horses interrupted you, your banter forgotten. Both you and John turned towards the woods, where you could hear Dutch exchange a brief word with Lenny at the guard. A moment later, the two riders entered the camp proper. Two.

Your eyes skimmed over Dutch and Micah, then turned toward the woods once more.

“So? How did it go?” — you heard Hosea’s voice from near Dutch’s tent. His voice betrayed slight irritation, noticing the tension in Dutch’s posture.

Your feet took you in their direction seemingly on their own.

“As well as can be expected,” Dutch replied, waving a match after lighting a cigar.

“I still don’t trust that bastard one bit, but no one got shot, on either side,” he summed up.

“Where’s Arthur then?” Hosea took words out of your mouth again, with a slight furrow to his brow.

“We split up. I’m sure he’ll turn up soon, you know him.”

Hosea straightened his back, brow relaxed. He took in a breath and seemed like he was about to say something, holding Dutch’s gaze, but then he shook his head without a word, dropping his eyes to the ground.

“Relax, dear friend,” Dutch dismissed with a hand flourish before stepping into his tent to rest.

That didn’t sit right with you at all. Arthur Morgan didn’t simply wander off.

The next few hours passed too slowly, and too quickly at once.

You took to mending your duster coat. You’ve been meaning to for a while now, even if the weather in Lemoyne was usually too hot for it, it was still your favourite. You’d gone and ripped a hole in it on your last fishing trip with Javier. The memory of him nearly collapsing with laughter was still vivid in your mind.

The fabric was stiff and unforgiving in your fingers. Every single push of a needle, then pull of the thread, took an effort.

In and out. In and out. Like your breaths. The sounds of the camp, all the voices blending into one white noise, as you pushed the needle in, then pulled it out the other side. In and out.

Like the worries creeping their way into your mind, you strained yourself to pull them out.

“You haven’t had any dinner.” 

Hosea startled you, despite his gentle tone. You looked up quickly, noticing the plate he carried in his hand and the neutral expression on his face. He put the plate on the crate next to you before pulling up a chair for himself. You put your sewing aside carefully and took the plate into your lap. You felt like a teenager again. But you didn’t wish to talk about it. Whatever it was. You didn’t.

“I finished the book you gave me,” said Hosea with a small nod towards his tent, where the book probably lay. You chuckled quietly, remembering.

“How did you find the ending? The reveal?”

“Utterly disappointing,” he replied with a small smile. 

“I thought as well,” you mumbled, chewing. “I’m sure the world holds plenty more literature yet to disappoint us.”

“I shall look forward to it,” he replied, relaxing into the seat a little more.

The sun continued its descent upon the sky before hiding behind the hills completely. 

The evening was relatively quiet, with a few people out and about, some by the fire, some sitting by themselves.

You had a hard time convincing yourself to settle for the night. You set the kettle on the fire to make yourself some tea. The calming nature of watching the fire did very little, and you welcomed the sight of steam rising from the spout, the water ready to pour over the leaves.

You settled under a tree by the edge of the camp, scradling the mug in your hands. Listening.

The woods at night were not silent. That was the mistake people made. They breathed. Branches shifted high overhead with a dry, papery sigh. Leaves whispered against one another like secrets passed between strangers. Somewhere far off, an owl called once — low and hollow — and the sound seemed to fold into the dark instead of echoing.

Every so often, a horse shifted in its sleep, metal rings on its tack chiming softly. Each sound pulled your head up, heart lurching before your mind caught up. Not him.

A breeze moved through the branches and carried with it the scent of distant water, cold and mineral-sharp. It brushed your cheek like a warning. The trees swayed, and for a moment the shifting shadows looked almost like figures moving just beyond sight.

Waiting could do that to a person. Make ghosts out of branches.

The fires in the camp began to die down a little when your tea grew completely cold. You drank the last of it before rising from your spot, making your way toward the washbasin. Only when you set the mug to dry did you hear a different sound.

Quiet hoofbeats, then heavy breathing as they approached closer.

That’s when you saw him. Arthur, sliding off his loyal horse, then collapsed on the ground.

You didn’t even notice when you rushed to his side. The world stills around you, and your voice sounds like somebody else’s, repeating his name, calling for help from the camp.

His face was pale, exhausted. The back of his neck was cold with sweat as your hand came to cradle his head. His clothes were gone, leaving him in just a union suit, covered in rips, blood and dirt. His skin, too, was bloody and bruised, as your eyes moved from his face down to an angry gash on his upper chest, just below his shoulder.

You felt a sudden cold trembling in your body. There’s a rush, people coming to your side, then helping you pull Arthur to his feet. Hurried voices — Arthur’s tired, coarse, explaining how the O’Driscolls kidnapped him — others, reassuring.

“It’s festering,” you noticed, falling to your knees by his cot after his glassy-eyed person was laid down. You shouted for supplies to no one in particular — boiled water, whiskey, clean rags, bandages, carbolic acid, and poultices. Footsteps shuffled around you, people bumping into each other, but you remained focused, stepping back into familiar territory.

Your fingers went to his buttons, carefully removing the fabric sticking to his chest with dried blood. 

You saw the burned edges, meaning he cauterised it. The smell of burned tissue hit you as you examined the cracked, hardened surface.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, as what you had to do next wasn’t pretty.

He tried to save himself, but you had to hurt him yet again to truly save him. 

He stopped mumbling words — only quiet groans and cries left him as you worked with your knife to open and drain, then flush. Only then, when you packed and dressed it, did he go quieter, stop writhing as much.

It was hours after his arrival that your breath had finally evened out. He had drifted off to sleep, the lines on his face smooth, as you gently cleaned him off. Rubbing his skin, hot with fever, with a damp cloth was soothing. The worst was behind you.

Steady was all that was left. Again.

“Careful, idiota! You’re gonna trample the tracks!” Javier scolded, waving John away from the line of hoofmarks on the ground with an angry expression. “I’m not-!” “Shut it, Marston,” Arthur interjected before John could defend himself. “Just how would you feel if it was Abigail they’d taken?”

“Abigail’s not…” John tried explaining as the frustration on his face transformed into a look of sympathy. “Y/N’s tough. I’m sure she’s fine,” he attempted to calm Javier down, before Charles shushed them all.

“There,” he pointed, “smoke, behind the trees. Campfire or a chimney. That’s where the tracks go.”

The four men continued the rest of the way in silence.

They left their horses amongst the trees a safe distance away, then communicating with gestures, prepared to survey the enemy camp.

As they got closer, instead of foes, they were met with eerie silence. Not a single conversation, not a hum, not a step, not even a creak.

The camp in question consisted of a few buildings - a cabin, a shed and a small barn of sorts. The clearing was filled with crates and old, broken furniture turned over as if to be used as impromptu covers.

Creeping closer and closer, they noticed men’s bodies hiding behind them.

“Dead.” Arthur was the first to approach the man lying the closest, behind a rock by the treeline.

“You think they’re the ones who took Y/N?” he asked, as confused glances were exchanged.

“Looks like it,” replied Charles.

One by one, the rescue party slowly rose to their feet, still careful of getting jumped by one of the men. “We should check them.”

So one by one, they checked the bodies.

“This just happened,” said John in bewilderment, examining a bullet hole. “Who did this?”

Javier was silent, nervously looking around, fearing he would soon find your own body amongst those of the bandits.

“They’re all dead,” Arthur summarised after checking another pulse.

Just as Charles was going to suggest something, you quietly emerged from the cabin, clutching your side.

“Yeah, I… might’ve gotten carried away” you called out, your voice a little hoarse.

Javier thought he was hallucinating when he saw you. Hair disheveled, a knife mark, cutting across your eyebrow, cheek and lower lip. The skin above your collar, bruised. Your hand covering an angry bloodstain on your shirt. You were slightly limping, but you were alive.

“How..?” asked John, barely above a whisper.

“I’m not surprised, I saw her once break a grown man’s neck with her thighs,” replied Arthur, a hint of humor in his voice betraying his relief at your sight.

“Mi amor!” called out Javier, breaking out of his trance, hurrying to your side.

“Thank you, gentlemen, for what I assume was a rescue mission,” you winced, moving to support yourself against Javier's shoulder. “I cleared the cabin, but help yourself to anything else,” you gestured at the mess you planned to leave behind.

“I’ve got you,” Javi murmured, helping you up on his horse, before he saddled up himself, in a hurry to get you to camp.

The ride itself was a bit of a blur. “How do you feel, querida?” He asked you softly, his free hand holding onto your arms wrapped around his middle.

“I’m alright, though I reckon I’m still running on adrenaline,” you said with a faint chuckle. “We’ll see in a bit, when we get to camp.”

“What did they do to you? Did they…?” He dared not say it aloud.

“No, no,” you shook your head slightly against his back, stopped his train of thought before his mind put him through more torture. “They just roughed me up a bit. I got lucky,” you scoffed quietly. “

Their leader wanted ‘a go’ in privated, civilised man. That gave me a chance to take care of him, I took his weapons and… well, you know the rest.”

“Mi pobre ángel,” he cooed. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“Sh-sh… no need…” 

You arrived in the camp before long. Javier helped you down amongst gasps, and questions and answers you weren’t particularly listening to, just as all your aches, stings and pains started creeping up on you.

After Miss Grimshaw stitched you up, Javier patiently cleaned you up, then helped you put on your nightclothes.

Exhausted, you brought your fingers up to your face, brushing them gently across your sore skin, careful of the stitches.

“That’ll probably leave some new scars,” you whispered absentmindedly.

Javier stopped in his tracks, mid buttoning his union suit, to analyze your face.

He looks at you with that gaze that sees right through your soul, reading your mind.

“Just when I thought you couldn’t get any more beautiful, you go and prove me wrong.”

You let some air through your nose, ready to dismiss his antics. You’re about to turn onto your uninjured side, your back to him, when he adds -

“Tell me this, mi amor, how do you feel about my scars?”

You look at his face in all its sincerity, in all its adoration, and it dawns on you.

You sit near the fire, sandwiched between Karen and John, the blonde slouched lazily at your side, her cheeks flushed from the too many whiskey glasses she downed. Javier is in a contagious good mood, sitting on the ground near John strumming another lively tune as he leans toward you, his bronze skin glowing in the campfire’s light and he’s grinning like at you like the charmer he is.

“Why don’t you sing with me, cariño,” he says, his voice playfully teasing. A chorus of groans and exaggerated complaints come from around the campfire, the gang all too eager to tease you about the first and fortunately the last time you sang around the campfire in Horseshoe Overlook after you had too many to drink. You remember waking up the morning after with a terrible headache and the sweet memory of laughter shared around the warmth of the campfire.

You laugh at their reaction, shaking your head. “I think I’ll save everyone’s ears this time, thank you.”

Javier chuckles and with that resumes playing, his voice low and smooth. His energy is infectious, pulling easy smiles and a few soft laughs from everyone. But in the back of your mind, you can feel that there’s a subtle shift in the air—a pull, a presence that tugs at your attention like a ping you can’t ignore. It’s faint at first, almost imperceptible, but it grows stronger, undeniable, familiar. You glance toward the edge of camp, and as suspected there he is.

He’s leaning against one of the wooden posts near the horses, half swallowed by the shadows, the dim firelight barely reaching the brim of his worn hat. His broad shoulders are hunched, arms crossed tightly over his chest like he’s trying to protect himself, to keep something away though you’re not sure he even knows what it is. His aqua eyes are sharp even in the shadows, and they’re fixed directly on you.

As the weight of his gaze settles over you like a heavy fog, thick and tangible, despite the distance between you, a shiver runs down your spine. Your chest tightens, as if the very air around him has thickened with unspoken things.

You’ve known him long enough to feel a quiet storm building in the depths of his quiet, unshakable composure. It’s not indifference nor anger. It’s something else—something raw and unspoken but you can’t, and maybe won’t, put a name on it.

When Javier nudges you playfully, you force yourself to focus back on him, offering him a smile that you hope conceals the tension swirling inside of you. Still, the weight of Arthur’s gaze doesn’t leave you, not even as the evening stretches on.

As the night deepens, the fire crackles low. One by one, people begin to drift off, leaving just you, Tilly, Lenny, Javier, and Karen around the fire. Tilly, who had joined your little circle a few hours earlier, is lively chatting with Lenny about some gossip she’d overheard in town, her voice bright with excitement seemingly unphased by the late hour. Meanwhile, Karen has fallen asleep with her head resting on your shoulder, undoubtedly drooling a bit on your blouse. This leaves you and Javier alone, the conversation between you two flowing easily, until he eventually sets his guitar aside with a stretch, breaking the comfortable atmosphere.

“Already going to bed ?” you tease, nudging him gently on the side. “Won’t you play me another song before you go to sleep ?”

He smirks, shaking his head with a wink.

“Tomorrow.” He promises winking at you. He stands up and disappears into the shadows of the night. After a few minutes Karen stirs awake, mumbling something about needing another drink before bed, lazily getting up on her feet, shuffling toward the camp’s supply.

After that it’s just you, Tilly and Lenny sitting near the dying fire. From your peripheral vision you can see the dark silhouette of Arthur sitting at the worn wooden round table under the tall tree in camp. You don’t look at him, not directly, but you feel his presence like a thread pulling between you. You sit there, looking at the fire contemplating if approaching him or calling it a night.

When you finally stand, your feet move before your mind can catch up with your actions. You carefully walk towards him, finding him hunched slightly over the table, his broad shoulders tense as he stares down into the nearly empty glass in his hand.

“Mind if I join you ?” you say pausing a few feet away. The sound of your voice softly filling the cold air around you both.

Arthur doesn’t immediately look up, his focus still fixed on the amber liquid swirling in his glass. You nearly contemplate leaving when after a long moment, he tips his head in a slow, deliberate nod. “Suit yourself.”

You take a seat across from him, your hands folding in your lap playing with a few loose threads as you settle into the quiet. For a long moment, neither of you speak. The noise of the evening has faded away, leaving the camp wrapped in the soft rustle of trees and the distant sound of crickets.

“Tired ?” you finally ask, your voice hesitant, breaking the silence.

Arthur huffs a low breath, his eyes never leaving the glass. “Long day,” he mutters, a simple response that tells you nothing.

You nod, though his answer feels like a wall, a quick, easy way to avoid revealing something deeper. There’s something bothering him, and maybe it’s the alcohol in your system or maybe you simply care too much for him but you’re determined to find out what.

“Javier kept everyone entertained tonight,” you say lightly, your words casual, trying to spark a conversation, though you’re watching him closely.

Arthur’s grip on his glass tightens just enough for his knuckles to go pale against the clear glass. “Yeah,” he replies, his tone flat. “He’s good at that.”

The space between you feels heavier now, filled with something unspoken, a tension that neither of you acknowledges directly. You lean back in your chair, letting the silence settle between you, but you can’t ignore the flicker of his eyes as they meet yours, then quickly shift away like he’s afraid of what might show if he stares at yours too long.

“What’re you drinking ?” you ask after a moment, breaking the quiet.

“Whiskey.”

“‘S that the good whiskey Pearson’s been hiding, or the usual watered down crap ?”

Arthur’s lips twitch, almost imperceptibly, clearly fighting a smile. “Usual crap,” he murmurs. “Pearson ain’t that generous.”

You laugh softly, the sound easing some of the tension that’s built between you. But still, it lingers, just beneath the surface, like something you both know but can’t put into words.

“You seemed quiet tonight,” you say after a pause, studying him closely.

Arthur shrugs, lifting his glass to his lips, the movement slow, as if every motion is carefully measured.

“Didn’t feel like talkin’.”

You watch him, your gaze tracing the line of his jaw, his wet lips and the way his fingers absently trace the rim of his glass. He’s not being completely honest—that much you know, but you’ve learned to read between the spaces of his words.

“Or maybe you just didn’t like the company,” you offer, your tone playful but with an edge to it.

Arthur’s eyes snap to yours, sharp and unmoving. “I didn’t say that,” he replies, his voice low, almost a growl.

He holds your gaze a beat longer than necessary, and you feel the weight of it settle deep in your chest, making your breath hitch. There’s something in his eyes, something raw, vulnerable that makes your heart stutter. You’re not sure if he sees how your composure falters, but he’s the first to look away, tipping his hat lower over his brow to shield his expression.

You’ve always hated when he does that—you’ve always hated the way he uses it to put a distance between you, but now more than ever you hate it because it feels like the wall between you is growing thicker and you’re not sure if you can get through anymore.

“You’re a hard man to figure out Arthur Morgan,” you say softly, the teasing edge gone from your voice. He doesn’t answer right away, and when he does, it’s in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Maybe that’s for the best.”

You bite your lower lip in frustration but then you force yourself to swallow down your disappointment. The conversation shifts then, moving toward more trivial things like the weather, the horses, Pearson’s latest disaster with the stew. But even as you talk, you know that there’s another conversation happening in the spaces between words, in the glances you exchange, in both your body language, in the way the silence sometimes wraps itself around you both.

You don’t speak of it. You don’t name it. Neither of you can, but you know it’s there.

“Good night Arthur,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended. You give him a sweet smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, before you stand, the weight of your own tiredness forcing you to seek the sweet embrace of your bed.

He doesn’t reply right away, just gives a slow tip of his hat. “Night.”

As you start to take a few steps away from the table, you feel his gaze on your back—steady, unwavering. It feels like it’s burning into your skin.

You glance over your shoulder, just once, and meet his eyes. For a moment, they’re distant, almost lost, like he’s somewhere far away in thought. But as your gaze lingers, you catch something else, something in the way his eyes soften, the barely perceptible softening of his eyebrows. It’s not a look of anger or frustration that he gives you, no, he’s looking at you with something deeper, something raw.

It’s the kind of look that makes your chest tighten, a sweet warmth settling between your ribs. He doesn’t need to say anything, you can feel it in the glance between you—the weight of all the things neither of you will dare to speak aloud.

In that brief moment, you understand. And it’s enough to leave you walking away with butterflies storming in your stomach and the strange sense that you’ve just shared something deep, something fragile with him without ever needing to say a word.

☆ Clumsy and groggy, he drags himself from the cot, a gentle coo leaving him when he hears you make a tired, wheezy sound in response to the shifting. “Arthur, where’re ya goin’?” He shushes you and kisses your sheeny forehead before he begins pulling on his clothes, “T’warm you some rum. N’then get you some supplies from town.”

☆ Once he’s dressed, he can’t resist a few more touches and kisses. He wraps one arm under your waist, his other hand cupping the base of your skull as he plants a tender kiss to your forehead and brushes his nose against yours. You give a sleepy, weak smile, your usually flushed lips now so pale and dry. Arthur shifts you in the cot, helping you get comfortable, “Now, you ain’t movin’ from here until I say. We can take a walk later on, okay?”

☆ He fetches you a tin mug of warmed rum and sits on the edge of the bed, lifting your head and carefully pours some into your mouth. You swallow and grimace, which warms Arthur’s worried features with the softest and fondest of looks. “There’s a girl, take some more. S’good for ya.”

☆ Despite his slight neuroticism when it comes to taking care of you, the worry that scribbles about the lining of his stomach, the need to get you better, Arthur is one of the best people to have around when you’re sick.

☆ He will only leave your side if it’s to get you something that will help you, like leaving for town to get you supplies such as cough drops, syrups, blankets, mustard packs, the works. If you’re really sick, he’ll politely but firmly order someone to make the visit for him.

☆ He’s a sweet but unyielding nurse. If you grouse about taking medicine, he will not hesitate to just shove the spoon into your mouth and clamp your mouth shut until you swallow, giving you silly kisses about your face and making playful “Nu-uh” “M-mm” sounds of reprimand with an impish glint in his eyes.

☆ Or if it’s about leaving the tent for a little fresh air, he’ll scoop you up and walk you to the edge of camp. He’ll sit himself down, letting you nestle in his lap swaddled in a blanket, “You musta caught the stubborn flu, th’way you’re actin’.” He’ll lean his cheek against your shoulder, tracing your poorly features with his concerned but fond gaze.

☆ He’s always tender with you, and it increases tenfold when you’re not well. He’ll help you change clothes, planting soft kisses on your shoulders and knees as he dresses or undresses you. “My sweet girl, take it easy.” “Lift your arms for me, sweetheart.” “That’s my girl. I know, I know, you’re feelin’ outta sorts. I’m here.”

☆ When your head starts to pound, he’ll cup the back of your head with one hand and hold the back of your neck with the other. He’ll kiss your forehead and very tenderly massage your scalp, “I see you frownin’. C’mon–” He’ll whisper, rubbing small, slow circles into your skin, urging you to let your head rest heavy in his palms, “That’s it, that helpin’?” When your lashes flutter and a weak affirmative sound slips from you, he continues for a long while, and will continue if you don’t ask him to stop.

☆ He’ll be the first at the stewpot, grabbing you a large bowl, whether you finish it or not– he just wants you to have enough. He’ll even prop you up on pillows and feed you bit by bit if you’re too unwell to feed yourself. “Can’t have my girl spillin’ stew over herself. Sit up for me darlin’.”

☆ He won’t care if he catches whatever you’re sick with, as long as you’re being cared for, nothing else matters. He’ll cuddle you as though you’re not damp with sweat. He’ll kiss you as though you’re not congested and have a good chance of coughing or sneezing into his face– he just laughs and wipes your face. If you’re very adamant about him not getting sick, he’ll at least kiss the pads of his fingers and press them to your skin, against whichever part of you he wants to love in that moment (usually quite a few places, until you’re giggling and coughing).

☆ He’ll spend so much time just laying with you, cradling you against him, talking about whatever comes into his head. He keeps his tone low and soothing, knowing full well that it helps you fall asleep and after all, sleep is the best medicine. “Did I tell you ‘bout that dog I saw yesterday? Little scrawny coppery-coloured thing, he was. Followed me ‘cause I’d been huntin’ an’ he could smell the blood… Come t’think of it, he reminded me of our Sean.”

☆ Sometimes he’ll quietly sing to you, some old camp songs, vague remnants of a song he remembers his mother singing, even humming pieces of songs he’s heard you sing while you work. Songs that he’s grown to love, songs that he has made an effort to sit and listen to, to learn from you, for you.

☆ Even when you’re pretty much better, he’ll make you take “jus’ one more day, darlin’.” To really make sure that you’re well. You’ll notice him checking you over, your complexion, listening to your breath, pressing his palms to your neck and chest and forehead, feeling your temperature. You’re not better until he deems you better in his mind.