#mick fics

Arthur, slumped against a log with his hat tipped forward, sat with a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He hadn't taken a drag in a while. Just let the smoke curl lazily into the night air, like he was too tired to bother with it.

Then his body tensed.

It started as a tremor in his shoulders, a small hitch in his breath. Then, suddenly, the cough took him- deep, wet, rattling. He lurched forward, his free hand gripping his knee as his chest heaved. It wracked through him, violent and merciless, his entire frame shaking under its force. His lungs burning like he's drowning on dry land.

Charles stopped sharpening his knife.

Arthur pressed a hand to his chest as the fit passed, breathless and shaking. He spat into the dirt, a dark, ugly streak staining the ground, then swiped a sleeve across his mouth. His breath came in short, shallow gasps.

Charles turned the blade in his hands.

"You alright?" His voice was even, careful, measured.

Arthur waved a hand, dismissive as always. "Fine," he muttered, but his voice cracked, raw and frayed at the edges.

Charles didn't take his eyes off him.

Arthur had always been a strong man, built solid, a force of nature when he needed to be. But now, as Charles looked at him, he saw how the firelight cut sharp angles across his face. His hollowed cheeks, the deep shadows under his eyes, dampened by sweat that never seemed to ease. His clothes, once snug, hung looser on his frame. His fingers, resting against his thigh, twitching subtly. Tremors.

Charles let out a breath, setting his knife down.

"You haven't eaten much today."

The older man cleared his throat, shaking his head. "Not hungry."

"You're never hungry anymore."

Arthur didn’t meet Charles' gaze. He stared into the fire, watching it slowly die as he absently rubbed the soreness in his neck.

Charles watched him a moment longer. Then, without a word, he stood, walked to the stew pot, and ladled out a small portion. It wasn't much, but just enough to keep Arthur from wasting away any faster than he already was. He crouched down in front of him, offering the bowl.

Arthur eyed it, then looked up to Charles with an empty smile. "Ain't a kid, you know."

Charles didn't move, he didn't say anything, just held the bowl steady.

Arthur sighed, rubbing a hand down his face before reluctantly taking it. He didn't eat right away, just held it in his lap, staring down at the contents like he knew the effort was pointless.

Charles sat back down. "You've lost weight."

The older man huffed a laugh, short and dry. "You callin' me pretty?"

Charles ignored the ache that suddenly deepened in his chest. "I'm saying you need to take care of yourself."

Charles could hear the exhaustion in Arthur's sigh, the effort of it, the weight of it. He stirred the stew absently, then took a small bite. It wasn't much, but Charles counted it as a win.

Arthur didn't mention how much it hurt to eat, to chew, to swallow. How the pain in his throat was unbearable, how his stomach rejected most of what he ate, how uncomfortable it all was. Instead, he just tried, he tried for Charles.

For a while, they sat in silence again. The fire popped and cracked, the trees rustled, and somewhere in the distance, coyotes barked. Arthur's breath had steadied, but there was still something off about him- the way he rubbed at his limbs absently, how he shifted in place as if he was never comfortable, how his gaze was distant and unfocused.

Eventually, Arthur set the bowl aside, only half finished, and pushed himself up from the log. He swayed, just a little, barely noticeable, but Charles noticed.

The older man cleared his throat. "Reckon I'll turn in."

Charles nodded. "Alright."

Arthur took a few steps, then Charles spoke again.

"Arthur."

He paused, glancing back. The firelight flickered in his eyes, tired and dull, but still holding something, something unspoken.

Charles held his gaze. "Let me know if you need anything."

Arthur stood silently. Then, he gave a slow nod.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I will."

He wouldn't. Charles knew that. But he'd keep watching. Because someone had to.

Arthur disappeared into his lean-to, and Charles sat back down, picking up his knife again. But he didn't sharpen it further.