#zanazirawrites

Charles bolted upright, as wide awake now as if he'd been dunked in an ice bath, and turned over to get a better look at his husband.

"Arthur," he said softly. The man didn't so much as twitch, and Charles's heart began to race. "Arthur, wake up," he said, louder, giving his shoulder a gentle shake. "Arthur."

Arthur didn't answer, didn't move. Even through the fabric of his woolen union suit, the arm beneath Charles's palm was unnaturally cold.

"No... no, no, no -" he whispered as dark, oily tendrils of dread began clawing their way up the inside of his chest. "Arthur, no..."

It couldn't be. Arthur was doing so well, it had been two whole years since his last bad flare-up. They had dinner plans with the Marstons tomorrow, they were going on a hunting trip with Hamish in the Grizzlies next week, for God's sake! He was better, he was fine! It couldn't - He couldn't -

Charles reached over to turn on the lamp beside the bed, if only to confirm what he already knew. Even then, he still wasn't prepared for the sight that greeted him.

Arthur's skin was ashen, lifeless, and gray. His face was frozen in what almost looked like a scream, mouth gaping, features tense. Blood trickled out of his nostrils and the corners of his mouth, thick globs of it crusted and congealing in his beard. His eyes, which had already begun to go cloudy, were wide and scared, fixed straight ahead on something only he could see now. His right hand was extended, lying in the center of the bed like he'd been trying to reach for something.

When he realized what that "something" was, Charles had to fight back the urge to vomit. While he'd been sleeping peacefully, blissfully unaware, Arthur had been using his last breaths to try to reach for him, to tell him he needed him. His husband had been dying right beside him, gasping for air and choking on his own blood, and Charles hadn't even heard him. He wasn't there for Arthur, the single most important time he should have been.

Arthur Morgan was dead. He'd died alone, afraid, and it was all Charles's fault.

A raw, keening wail escaped his throat as he gathered Arthur's limp body in his arms, cradling him to his chest and rocking them back and forth. "Oh, Arthur..." he sobbed, clutching him impossibly tighter, as if he could force some of his own warmth and life back into the other man by doing so. "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry..."

He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to those cold, blue lips -

- and then suddenly found himself holding onto nothing, as Arthur dissolved into a cloud of smoke and vanished before his eyes.

Charles woke with a start to find himself soaked in a cold sweat, his chest heaving with panicked gasps and his heart thundering in his ears. His face was cold, damp with the tracks of still-drying tears, and he had to blink to clear more of them from his vision before he could make out more than black, shadowy blurs all around him. He was in their bedroom, lying in bed beside Arthur, just like always. The man in question was stretched out beside him, nestled underneath about three-quarters of their shared quilt and snoring softly.

A dream. It was just a dream. 

Knowing that did little to chase the chill from his blood, though. It had all felt too real, too final. He'd had some variation of this old nightmare many times over the past few years, but it never got any less terrifying no matter how many times he saw it. If anything, it only ever seemed to get more vivid. A quiet sob escaped the confines of his chest before he could stifle it, and he clamped a hand over his mouth, hoping it hadn't been loud enough to wake Arthur up.

No such luck. Arthur was an incredibly heavy sleeper - twenty years spent napping out in the open with a couple dozen other people would do that to a man. But even the slightest noise that was out of the ordinary and he'd be wide awake in an instant, alert and ready for danger. Unfortunately for Charles, "crying husband" definitely fell into that category. As soon as the sound left his lips, Arthur's snores abruptly stopped, and Charles tensed from head to toe.

God damn it.

"Mmh...? Charlie? Y'okay?" he murmured, turning halfway around to look at him. Charles must have looked a sight, because he couldn't even try to answer before Arthur rolled the rest of the way over, blinking the fog of sleep from his eyes and laying his hand on his shoulder. "Hey, 's goin' on? What's wrong?"

"I-I... I was... You -" he stammered, before blowing a harsh, frustrated huff of air through his nose and shaking his head. I can't. That was another awful thing about these dreams; they always seemed to steal his ability to speak properly for a while after. It was humiliating, and made him feel like a child, but whenever this happened he just couldn't make the words come no matter how hard he tried.

"It's okay, you're alright," Arthur murmured, wrapping his arms around him and holding him tight against his chest. "Ain't in no hurry here. Just give yourself a second."

One of his hands gently cupped the back of Charles's head and guided it onto his chest, right above his heart. While he fought to pull himself back together, reassured by the sound of that strong, steady drumbeat beneath his ear, Arthur's fingers worked their way lazily through his hair, scratching his scalp and carefully untangling any knots that had formed while he slept.

Every few seconds, the older man would draw in a deliberately slow breath - slightly wheezy, as it always would be, but still deep, unwavering, alive - and then let it out, before starting the pattern all over again. He didn't speak, just continued that rhythmic, even breathing, silently encouraging Charles to follow along with him. They lay that way for a long time, curled up in each other's arms while they just breathed. Arthur never rushed him, or tried to ask him questions; they'd been through this enough times over the years to know it would only make things worse.

After what felt like hours, but was probably fifteen minutes at most, Charles finally let out an exhausted sigh and slumped against Arthur's chest, feeling as weak and boneless as a jellyfish. "Sorry, Arthur. Didn't mean to wake you," he mumbled guiltily.

"Charles," Arthur sighed. "You never gotta apologize, you know that. Just... are you okay? "

"Yeah," Charles sniffed, wiping his eyes. His entire face felt swollen and puffy, and it was hard to breathe through his nose. Fantastic. "Just a nightmare. Same one it usually is."

Arthur nodded and hummed, a low rumble that vibrated through his chest beneath Charles's ear. "I figured as much." Arthur's lungs weren't the only things left scarred by his long illness, and they both knew it. "But you gotta know I'd never do that to you, darlin'. After everything we've been through, all the things you put yourself through for me, you think I could ever just up 'n leave without even tellin' you goodbye?"

Charles chuckled, a watery, fragile thing. "You'd better not, you bastard. Or I swear I'll find a way to bring you back just so I can kill you again."

"And it would be well deserved," Arthur said with a smile. He wrapped his arms tighter around Charles's back, shifting both of their weight until the younger man was lying fully on top of him like a very warm, very heavy blanket. "But it ain't gonna happen, I promise you."

"I know," Charles whispered, turning to press his lips against Arthur's - no longer cold, like they had been in the dream, but warm and soft and perfect. "I love you."

"Love you too, sweetheart." He pulled the quilt over them both, smirking when he realized Charles had once again let him steal the vast majority of it while they slept, and brought his hand back up so he could comb his fingers through the long, silky waves of raven hair. "Go back to sleep. Still a few hours 'til morning, yet."

"You still gonna be here when I wake up?" Charles teased, knowing full well that Arthur was now completely pinned until he decided to move off.

In truth, "those bastards" had only targeted Charles, at least at first. Their lips had been curling the second he stepped through the swinging double doors of the saloon, cold gazes fixed on him with a brand of distaste so familiar he rarely paid it any mind anymore. If they kept to their own business, then so would he.

Of course, his luck couldn't be that good. This particular group of men seemed to take an exceptional degree of offense to his presence in "their" establishment, and it wasn't long before they sidled up to the bar on either side of him and Arthur, casting dirty looks their way between every shot of whiskey. Charles sighed, prepared to simply pay his tab and go. Their hunting trip had been more than successful, both horses' saddlebags stuffed full of game to bring back for the stew pot. That was more than enough of a reward for him; a buzz and a bellyful of this rotgut certainly weren't worth a brawl or a shootout.

But before he could make it to the door, one of the group decided to take matters into his own hands. As Charles walked past, he stuck out a leg to try and trip him; would have succeeded, too, had Charles not already been expecting something like that to happen and moved out of the way. Arthur's hackles were up instantly, but Charles gave a minute shake of his head and a pointed look from the corner of his eye: Don't. He kept walking, head high, shoulders squared, and jaw clenched.

He'd just laid his palm on the door to push it open when the youngest and cockiest of them decided Charles needed to be given a new nickname on his way out.

Arthur's fist knocked out three of the bastard's tobacco-stained teeth before he could even get the entire word past his lips.

After that, everything predictably dissolved into chaos. It was a pretty standard bar fight, all things considered, and each of them held their own pretty well - at least until Arthur somehow got himself thrown through the front window and out into the barely-solid mass of muck that called itself a street. Charles, who couldn't care less about finishing this pointless fight, leapt after him, whistling for the horses as he plucked Arthur out of the mud. He hauled them both into Taima's saddle, uncaring of the absolute filth that now coated him too, and fired a few warning shots over one shoulder to discourage any of them from pursuing before beating a hasty retreat.

They'd made it out alive, but not without injury, which left Charles - not for the first time - cleaning up a mess created by his partner's well-meaning but misplaced attempts at chivalry.

"I'm sorta impressed, in a way," Arthur continued, a crooked grin pulling at his split lip and wrinkling the corner of his unblackened left eye. "Didn't think any o' those fellers were even strong enough to pick me up, let alone put me through a window."

Charles shook his head, lips thinning in displeasure as he extracted another piece of glass from Arthur's bicep. "There shouldn't have been any reason for them to try. I had things under control. This ain't my first time in a saloon, Arthur, I can handle myself just fine."

"'Course you can, Charlie, I know that. But I couldn't just let 'em stand there and talk about you that way right in front of me!"

"They weren't saying anything I haven't heard a thousand times before."

"That don't make it right!"

"Of course it doesn't, you fool," he snapped impatiently, fixing the older man with a glare. "But I'm not gonna risk my life, or yours, trying to fight every sad, bitter drunk who calls me a name I don't like. It accomplishes nothing, except to prove to them that everything they already think about me is true. It's not a hill I'm willing to die on, and I also don't need you trying to die on it for me."

A pregnant pause lingered between them, the silence broken only by Arthur's stifled grunts of pain and the quiet plinking of the bloodied glass chips Charles dropped into the bowl by his knee. Then, in a fragile voice, he whispered, "Watching you get yourself hurt for me will never feel like victory, Arthur."

After a few tense minutes, Arthur breathed out a long sigh through his nose, looking up at Charles from beneath the brim of his worn gambler hat. "Hell, Charles, I'm sorry. Ain't ever meant to cause you more trouble, or make you worry. But I still did, so... 'm sorry." His right hand slipped into Charles's left, squeezing gently. "I can't say I agree, or really even understand," he added slowly, chewing carefully on his words before he spat them out. "But... if that's how you feel, I'll respect it."

Charles had felt himself tense as soon as Arthur began speaking, bracing himself for an argument he absolutely did not want to have, but released his held breath when he realized that wasn't where this conversation was headed. "Thank you," he answered, a relieved smile pulling up the corners of his lips as he squeezed Arthur's hand back. "That's all I ask."

"Just so you know, though, I'd do it again. If you asked me to, I mean," Arthur amended quickly, when he saw the reproachful look Charles started to turn his way. "You're worth being thrown out a window for, Mr. Smith."

Charles let out a startled bark of laughter at that, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth as he shook his head fondly. This man, this crazy, infuriating, wonderful man... What would he do without him?