#mailtime

Instead, he stopped walking, folding his arms over his chest and tilting his head expectantly. “You sure you’re feelin’ alright?”

Charles sighed softly, turning around to face him. “Arthur, it’s just a supply run. I’m fine.”

“You ain’t look fine.” He took a step closer, giving the other man a quick once-over. Perhaps it was the trick of the afternoon sun, but Charles looked quite pale, his shoulders sagging with a seemingly invisible weight. “You might be able to hide it from the others, Charles, but you can’t hide it from me. So, out with it.”

For a moment, it was a stare-down, dark eyes glaring at blue, until Charles finally scoffed, breaking the eye contact to turn back around, perhaps so Arthur couldn’t see his face. “I’m just feeling a little sick, ‘s all. You don’t gotta worry about me.”

Arthur squinted, remembering how nonchalant Charles had been each time he’d gotten injured in some way or another. He always seemed to under react. “Think it’s too late for that.” Of course, he knew, if the roles were reversed, he wouldn’t be much better. So he wouldn’t agitate Charles further. He stepped up closer, and they walked side-by-side, with Arthur purposefully slowing his steps so that Charles could keep up.

Quite suddenly, Charles stopped in his tracks, his breaths coming a little shallower, as if it were a chore. He was blinking quickly, shaking his head as if it would rid him of whatever was ailing him.

“Charles? Charles, what’s wrong?” Arthur stopped too, stopping in front of him, trying to get a better look at his face and trying to push down his increasing panic. Much to his surprise, Charles swayed forward, right into his arms, almost completely dead weight. “H-Hey! Jesus, you’re…you’re burnin’ up…”

He was so hot that Arthur immediately felt a bead of sweat appear on his own brow. Trying to ignore how his own heart was beating, he pushed Charles backward a little, watching his head loll forward as he did so, his eyelids fluttering.

“Arthur,” he whispered, barely audible, “I don’t feel so good.”

“You ain’t look so good neither,” he murmured, wishing he was more than half-conscious so he could tell him he told him so. Keeping one hand on his shoulder to ground him, he lifted the other hand to his mouth, whistling for his horse as his adrenaline began to spike. Why was Charles so damn stubborn? Fevers weren’t something to take lightly.

A plethora of anxious what-ifs tugged at Arthur’s mind as his trusty Tennessee Walker trotted up to them. As gently as he could, he lifted Charles up onto the saddle and then followed suit, sitting behind Charles with his arms around him to support him. Charles leaned back against Arthur’s chest, his breaths still coming shallowly, frequent shivers wracking his body. Arthur yanked the reins, directing his horse to move as quickly as he could without jostling Charles too much.

They were barely to the edge of camp when Arthur roared, “Reverend!” He brought his horse toward the gate, glancing down at Charles. His eyes were still closed, but the look on his face was anything but peaceful. He was so hot that Arthur felt the need to shake him a little. “C’mon, Charles, hold on…”

After what seemed like hours, Swanson finally appeared, helping a semi-conscious Charles down off of the horse. Arthur hopped down, too, hiding his nerves the best he could as he helped Swanson carry Charles to his tent.

“Mr. Morgan, get the cool rag.”

“Is he gonna be alright, Reverend?”

“…Arthur, the rag.”

Wordlessly, he did what was asked of him, watching the rag be placed over Charles’ forehead, watching him force Charles to drink some water, watching him give him opium for the pain. It felt like days, but eventually, Swanson pulled away, turning to Arthur.

“Now we hope the fever goes away.” He placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, then quietly walked away.

Without really thinking about it, Arthur pulled up a nearby chair, sitting by Charles’ side. His face was still twisted in pain, but it seemed he was finally properly sleeping, breath coming in congested puffs through parted lips. His hair splayed out in all directions on the pillow, his hand and fingers twitching every so often.

If it weren’t for the fear that gripped Arthur’s heart, he might have let his thoughts wander about how handsome of a feller Charles was, even sick with fever. Perhaps the fear was a good thing, in that case.

Hours passed. No one really disturbed them. Arthur sat in silence, every so often replacing the cool rag over Charles’ forehead. It was dark when Charles brows furrowed, awaking with a cough that seemed to reverberate in Arthur’s brain.

“Easy, now,” Arthur huffed, grabbing the nearby canteen. He held it gently to Charles’ lips, who drank as if he hadn’t drank in days.

When he finally pulled back, nearly gasping for air, he murmured, “What happened?”

“You collapsed in Valentine,” Arthur answered, capping the canteen to place it back down. “Been sleepin’ ever since. Seems you gotta nasty fever.”

Charles’ eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and when he opened them again he had a guilty look on his face. “I’m sorry.”

Waving a hand dismissively, Arthur leaned back in his seat a little. “I’m just glad you’re alive to tell the tale. For a minute there I wasn’t sure.”

Charles was quiet for a moment, looking up at Arthur as if he’d hung the stars themselves. “Have you been here with me this whole time?”

“Well…” Arthur rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Didn’t want you wakin’ up alone, an’ all that…” To busy himself, he took the rag from Charles’ forehead, dipping it into the bucket of water, and gently placed it back. “Somebody’s gotta make sure that fever of yours goes down, and it ain’t gonna be Swanson.”

A small, rare smile pulled at Charles’ lips. “Thank you, Arthur.”

“‘Course.”

For a moment, their eyes lingered on each other, and they each broke the gaze at the same time. Arthur felt hot all over, as if he was the one who had the fever. He decided not to think about it.

They both talked for a while longer until Charles fell asleep again, and Arthur took care of him through the night, gladly sacrificing his own sleep for his. It was common sense.