#jammed

Charles sighed, carefully tightening the bandage on his hand as not to disturb the hen's rest. Maybe pressure would ease the ache, would make him feel his burnt, itchy flesh a little less. His fingers were stiff and cooler in their hue than normal. Charles' gloves were too small to cover the bandaged wound.

To top his misery, his toes were stiff in his boots and his ass was numb from sitting in the cold wagon for such a long time. The lantern struggling to burn and a shivering chicken on his lap were neither helping him.

"…Mister Smith?"

Charles would've startled if his body wasn't so cold and tired, too worn-down to react before his sluggish brain realized the voice was familiar. Gruff, yet kind in its tone. "…Arthur?" Charles swallowed. His voice was thin in the night.

"What on Earth are you doin' out here?"

Arthur was leaning to see inside the wagon, huddled in his big blue coat. He wasn't wearing his gloves, trying to keep his hands tucked into his armpits—the man had probably stepped outside from the cabin to take a quick leak in the middle of the night.

"I, uh," Charles said, blinking fast. He pulled the blanket on him tighter, the wool covering most of his body as well as the chicken he was trying to warm in his lap. "Needed a break from Micah."

Charles ignored the nervous lump in his throat, and his heartbeat picking up. He shuffled slightly, trying not to stare at Arthur's handsome face, how the dim lantern light made his usually stark and weathered expression seem softer, smoother, like a well-made sculpture.

Maybe Charles imagined the hint of a smile Arthur tried to hide, and maybe he did his best not to stare at Arthur's lips, like he'd done many times before.

"Don't we all," Arthur huffed. "But this ain't right. We were out all day with the hunt—you ain't worn your gloves."

Arthur had noticed that, had worried about Charles' burnt hand all day. It was a weird thing for the man to do. Seeing how downright hostile Arthur had been toward John just a day earlier made Charles wonder why his barely burnt hand was any worry for a man who didn't care if another gangmember was mauled half dead by wolves. "I'm alright."

It didn't help the thick thump of his heartbeat in his chest. Charles wasn't up for being coddled, but he wouldn't deny the fact that getting Arthur Morgan to worry about him made him feel weirdly lightheaded. Like he was worth fuzzing over, if only for one afternoon, and for reasons Charles didn't want to even guess (to hope).

There was no chance Arthur was the kind of queer Charles was, so the less he thought about the wants of his reckless heart, the better he was off.

"Nonsense. You'll freeze your fingers off and then we'll be short one man who can actually aim. I would hate to see that happen." At this point Charles was definitely imagining Arthur's face softening, and the way his eyes going over Charles' hunched form in the wagon carried something Charles couldn't parse.

"I'm not going back in there," Charles said bluntly. "I'm alright here."

"See I was thinkin', if you, well—"

Of course that was the time for the chicken Charles had been trying to warm for over an hour to wake from her slumber, with a resound and demanding cluck-cluck that rudely interrupted Arthur's fumbling over words.

Arthur stared at Charles' blanket-covered lap with bewildered eyes. "…Did your stomach just make that sound?"

"Yes," Charles lied. "What were you about to say?"

It was harder to lie when the chicken stood up, popping her head out from the opening of the blanket by Charles' face.

"Is that a chicken?"

"What does it look like, Arthur?"

"Jesus, Charles," Arthur laughed. "I, uh," the man stammered, "I was gon' ask you to come warm up in my— well, the cabin I sleep in. But now that I see you have a friend, I have to insist."