#arthurxoc

Arthur Morgan x female OC.

"In which he survives. In which they meet again and again and again. In which starcrossed lovers find redemption in a twisted way."

hi! just wanted to let you know that english isn't my first language, there might be quite a few mistakes. ♥ whole story is already planned, i've got a few chapters ready! tysm for reading this if you are :( ♥ 

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Strawberry, 1901.

The decrepit saloon was louder than usual, its worn wooden floor groaning under every step, every shifting weight. The man, seated at the far end of the bar with a dry gin in hand, scanned the room as if his life depended on it; the faint jingle of spurs barely perceptible to the untrained ear. He drank. He drank, and his shoulders remained tense. Paused. Scanned again—his gaze straight, sharp, unyielding... worn.

With a slow movement, he tilted his hat up. The saloon doors swung open, creaking, exhausted from a lifetime of fights and liquor, of sin and sweat-soaked bodies pressed against its curve. Thick fingers tapped against the bar—one... two... three. Oh my darlin', oh my darlin'... played faintly in the background. The piano was too sharp, out of tune.

The door swung open again. Another creak that made him clench his teeth; blue eyes snapped toward the source of light—and widened. He froze.

"Hellcat."

His voice carried just enough to make the woman stepping inside take notice. She tilted her head, amber eyes adjusting to the dim saloon light, and then—finally—lips, painted in hastily applied red, stretched into a smile he hadn't seen in years.

"Thought you were layin' low, same as me." He grunted, his broad frame pushing against the too-small barstool, making it groan.

"You weren't thinkin' nothin' at all, Morgan.."

Arthur's fingers drummed against the counter—dry, restless. Rose's voice cut through the murmurs of the saloon, sharp as the knife she used to skin her rabbit at sundown, dry as lips left too long under the desert sun, parched for water.

"I just didn't expect to see you here. Not... after all this time."

He swallowed. His voice was rough but steady—never wavering. A moth landed near his glass; he crushed it without a second thought. A dry chuckle rasped past cracked lips.

He barely looked at her.

The man's eyes, sharp as a wolf on the hunt, flickered down to the twin revolvers at her hips—the same damn ones she'd worn the night she up and disappeared. No note. No warning. Just gone. His gaze lifted again, blue locking onto amber.

"Still carryin' them old relics like a trophy?"

The question weighed heavy in his mouth, but rolled off hers like nothin' at all. He thought of that night, the way she'd walked away—no farewells, no second thoughts—leaving the gang, the camp, him behind. She thought of those pistols as nothing more than proof of her will, her strength.

She slid onto the barstool beside him, her steps smooth, blending into the saloon's hum of voices and clinking glasses. It was true—she'd left. Just like that. But she'd seen through Dutch's madness long before the others, a slip of a woman who never had much patience for prophets. She ordered a whiskey. The glass landed beside his gin, close enough that their hands almost brushed—just enough to feel the warmth of the other. She cleared her throat, long black hair cascading down her back, catching on the high chair. She reeked of confidence. Arrogant. Untouchable.

Arthur's gaze drifted past her, locking onto two men arguing near the back. Any excuse to not look at her. A few years ago, he'd hated her for leaving—traitor, slippin' away in the dead of night without a damn word. But after Dutch's madness, after everything... he reckoned she'd been the only sane one all along.

"Surprised you ain't locked up yet. Or hangin' from a rope." Her voice was smooth, lazy, whiskey glass now smudged with red lipstick. "Heard 'bout Blackwater, and I was states away."

Arthur's dry thumb ran over the worn leather of his satchel, the creases old, familiar. He smirked.

"Lawmen these days couldn't track a damn mangy coyote if it dropped dead in front of 'em."

She burst out laughing—a sharp, crystalline sound that cut through the saloon noise, lodged itself in his ears. She had that way about her, always had. Not 'cause of a skirt swapped for pants, not 'cause of the fine shirt that probably cost more than half the town made in a month. No, it was the way she carried herself. That hungry stare. That silk-spun hair. That something sharp, teasing, always caught on the curve of her lips.

"Guessin' you're here for the bounty on those three ex-Pinkertons turned raiders, Morgan." She knew. Of course she knew. She cast him a glance from the corner of her eye, slow and searing, and he went rigid, knocking back the rest of his gin in one hard swallow.

"They're holed up in an abandoned mine." Arthur's worn boot nudged her chair under the bar, the ghost of a smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. "You left before Dutch lost his damn mind. Smart." The glass hit the counter with a dull thud—too rough, but that was the only way he knew how. His voice dropped, edged like a blade. "Fifty-fifty on the bounty. That is, if you ain't gone soft after all these years."

She arched a brow, nostril flaring just slightly. Arthur's jaw tensed as he watched her, throat bobbing with a slow swallow. He bit his tongue, waited. Then, finally, she gave a small nod. Wordless, he reached into his satchel, fishing out a half-crumpled bounty poster, nearly lost beneath the junk he carried. No care in his movements, he flattened it out with a rough hand and shoved it toward her, knocking against the half-full whiskey glass, smudged with red lipstick stains he couldn't bring himself to look at without sneering.

"There's dynamite rigged up 'round that mine," he muttered, voice dry as gunpowder. "Better watch that pretty little face of yours. I ain't scrapin' up pieces of you just to give you a proper grave."

She tilted her head, sizing him up, before a slow smirk unfurled across her lips. "Fifty-fifty and your hat."

"Deal."

Arthur pushed himself to his feet, but before he could move, Rose swiped his hat clean off his head and settled it onto her own. The old thing, cracked and worn with time, sat like a damn crown against her dark hair. His fingers twitched, curled into a fist. He tossed a coin onto the counter, enough to cover both their drinks. "Got a shitty room above the saloon. Meet me 'fore sundown."

She didn't answer, just adjusted the brim of his hat like she'd been born wearing it. He exhaled sharply, muttering a curse under his breath, too low to be heard over the saloon's din. Oh My Darling wheezed from the out-of-tune piano.

"Shoulda known you'd still be a damn thief."

He walked off, shoving a man too drunk for midday against the railing, the wood groaning under the sudden weight. His fingers brushed over the twin revolvers strapped to his belt before he climbed the stairs back to his room. Just a few hours of rest before another damn job. He could feel those honey-colored eyes burning into his back as he left, but he didn't turn around. Didn't say a thing.

Rose and Arthur had never been close, not when she was still running with the gang. Maybe they'd talked once or twice by a campfire, ridden out together on a few lousy jobs. Maybe, in passing, she'd told him about her dreams, her dime novels filled with love and tragedy. Maybe he'd told her about Mary, voice rough, gaze lingering just a little too long. Maybe, one night, they'd fucked in some run-down saloon after a few too many glasses of whiskey, and for a fleeting moment, he'd felt alive again, his fingers burning against soft skin. Maybe he'd started bringing back extra cans of peaches, just in case. Maybe he'd caught himself, like a fool, sketching the sharp lines of her face in the pages of his journal.

Maybe.