vamphelsing

You had never seen Arthur drunk. Not in camp, at least- usually, he only got deep in his cups when he went out, and then, he got so drunk, he became such a rowdy fool, you could not recognize him.

This was...a new kind of drunk Arthur.

You'd noticed before, that when Arthur would get drunk drunk, he always passed by this phase where he got a little quiet and just fumbled around with his drinks for a little. But he often got past that stage and into the giggling and hiccuping and stumbling all over himself stage within a few minutes.

It seemed, tonight, he hit a sweet spot.

In this limbo, Arthur was...strange. He was staring at you. Guiltily. You tried to act like you didn't notice, sharing a cigarette with Charles and exchanging a quiet conversation with him. But you kept getting distracted by the sheer intensity in the way Arthur stared at you over the campfire.

At one moment, you had the cigarette hanging loosely between your lips while listening to something Charles was telling you- and you saw, out of the corner of your eye, Arthur lean forward slightly. Like he was invested. He rested his elbows on his knees, and pensively thumbed at his own lower lip- all while staring at yours.

You cleared your throat slightly, taking the cigarette between your fingers and passing it to Charles before standing up. You saw Arthur make a face like a disappointed pup, eyes following you closely.

"Gonna head to bed now, I think." You said, stretching slightly.

"Sure." Was all Charles said, before politely adding, "Goodnight."

"Night, Charles. Arthur."

Arthur let out a dumb little mumble that sounded like acknowledgment.

You headed off to your tent and, after a few moments, you heard heavy footsteps following you. You knew it was him- he sounded uncoordinated. And when he caught up, the first thing he did was grab onto your sleeve.

"Hi." He muttered, and you stared at him, baffled by how different he was when drunk.

"...Hey Arthur. What's...What's goin' on?"

"Nothin'."

"... ...Can I go into my tent?"

"Yeah...okay."

And he followed you in. You'd never seen him more useless.

You weren't too sure what to do about him. He'd wobbled his way around to your back, and wrapped his arms around you tight, face tentatively nuzzling into the crook of your neck.

"Did y' take a bath?" He whispered, beard scraping against your shoulder. "Smell so good..."

"Arthur-"

"Yer...warm n'...n' soft...makes a man wanna...make a fool o' himself..."

"Arthur."

He was not listening. With a few more little fumbles, he managed to stick his hands under your shirt, pressing his palms to your stomach.

"Take off yer clothes." He finally said, drowsily.

You stared ahead. Baffled. Was this really Arthur Morgan? Was he really saying these things? You should pinch yourself.

He seemed to sober up for a fraction of second, letting out a groan of embarrassment. But he did not let go of you, instead squeezing you tighter to his chest.

"Ah...am sorry...'s just...'m real drunk..." He said slowly, rocking you both from side to side.

"It's fine, Arthur. You just gotta let go o' me, partner." You coaxed him, like you were talking to a dog.

Wrong choice of words.

"Nah...nah I...can't do that." Arthur just seemed to hold you tighter. "Just want ya...to be...to be comfortable. Wanna love ya..."

"Okay-"

"And I'm gon' love ya...so right..."

You did not have very many choices here. He was stronger than you, and somehow, even stronger when he was drunk. He smothered his face into the crook of your neck, pressing kisses all over every inch of your shoulder he could reach. And his hands were up your shirt, rubbing your abdomen first before lazily, and with a lack of coordination, slithering up to your chest.

You were surprised with Arthur- you'd seen this man with Mary, back in the day. Not a romantic bone in his body, mostly just a nervous little heap covered in muscle and masculinity. But, apparently, he knew how to put his hands to work- so much so that you almost fell for it.

You leaned your head back, lips parting slightly as he shifted his stance, standing a bit more steadily- kissing under your jaw, sucking slightly while making these breathy little grunting noises near your ear.

"C'mon..." He breathed against your ear, one hand sliding back down your stomach. "C'mon boy, please..."

Where did he learn this? You were thinking of a hundred things but, at the same time, of nothing at all. He thumbed at your navel. His hand went further down. Your pants pushed down slightly, his fingers rubbing against your pubic bone-

You finally gathered your senses enough to catch his hand. Were you about to let Arthur- what, jerk you off? You did not like that you considered it for a second.

"Yer drunk, Arthur." You told him, even if you were slightly out of breath, even if you were getting real hard in yer pants. "That's...that's enough. Lay down."

He held on to you for a moment longer, acting like a god damn kicked puppy, mumbling into your shoulder like he was a grumbling old dog. You were glad he was behind you- because one look of those bright turquoise eyes would probably make you succumb to him. Then, he stepped away, and shuffled around, til he dropped his weight onto the bedroll.

You put a bit of distance between you two so you could gather your wits, while Arthur plucked at the fastenings of his clothes and half-heartedly started wiggling out of his shirt.

"Have I been a fool?" He finally asked softly.

Oh, dear. He sounded almost sad. You couldn't bare it- Perhaps Arthur should try this as a new technique to get money out of people. The intimidation worked, but you're sure the puppy eyes and pathetic murmur would work wonders, too.

"No, Arthur. No. Ain't yer fault."

He let out a little mumble, and you turned around to look at him. His shirt was half undone, his hair sticking to his forehead due to a fine sheen of sweat. He was looking at you through his lashes- This grown, adult man was giving you puppy eyes. This grown, adult outlaw, actually.

You sighed, and resigned to walking over to him, kneeling down to help him get the rest of his shirt off. He did not touch. He just quietly watched. You slid it off his shoulders, then wiggled about removing your own shirt. The moment your shirt was off, he pulled you to him again. You realized he wanted nothing more than to feel all of you- so you lay next to him, and allowed him to run his hand over your chest, nuzzling his face back up against your neck.

"'M sorry..." He said again. "Jus' wanna love ya..."

"It's fine." You reassured. "Yer just drunk. It'll pass."

He let out a little huff. After a few minutes of letting Arthur explore quietly, he shuffled closer- threw a leg over your lap. You never thought you'd ever lie down like this with Arthur. He was back to kissing your shoulder, but now, with tiny, barely there kisses that he just peppered where ever he could reach.

"Wanna touch ya." He said quietly, once he'd settled in to your side.

"When yer sober, Arthur."

"Tha...tha's gon' take ferever..." Arthur complained. "I ain't even...drunk...in the first place..."

"If you're sober, I'm Jesus Christ. Come on, partner, get some sleep."

You pulled him in closer, just to get him quiet. He put his whole hand on your left pec- presumably for comfort's sake- and allowed himself to be bundled up for the night, thin blanket haphazardly thrown over you both.

"Bit more time." He breathed softly. "Gotta tell y' a secret..."

"Tell me." You figured that pushing back would just drag this on for longer.

"I thought of ya...like this...for a long time..." Arthur admited softly, thumbing at the curve of your chest. "So long...I couldn't even tell ya..."

He trailed out.

"...Don't tell anyone."

"I won't, cowboy."

He murmured in relief, then gave you one last lazy kiss on the jaw.

When you woke up, Arthur was up, too. Sitting with his face in his hands like he was absolutely mortified, perhaps trying to figure out how he could possibly salvage this.

"Good morning, mister Morgan."

You'd never seen him flinch, but flinch he did, looking back at you with a slightly reddened face.

"Oh...mornin' to ya." He said awkwardly, itching at his beard.

"How's the hangover?"

"Had worse."

You both sat in complete silence, trying to piece together what to say next. Even you weren't sure what to say- should you comfort him? Reciprocate? ...Did you reciprocate?

"Listen I- I don't know what that was, I hardly remember...-"

"It's alright, Arthur. Y' told me a lot o' things. But...I can wait til say em all again sober. Figure if you really mean it."

"Just remind me to keep away from the bottle, around you." He said, sounding utterly defeated.

You couldn't help but smile a little.

"I dunno. You had yer moments where you was real cute, Morgan."

"Aah...shut yer mouth."

You'd never seen him bashful. But there he was, rubbing the back of his neck as it burnt up. He snatched his shirt up, and began to stand.

"I'll...go."

"Say g'mornin' to everyone for me."

"Sure."

You watched him slip out of your tent, and sighed, laying back to stare up at the canvas. That night gave you things to think about.

Many things...

Arthur Morgan was not a dog.

He was not a child, and he was not something soft, to be coddled.

This is what he kept trying to tell himself.

But after you'd bullied him into taking a bath in the luxurious Saint-Denis saloon, and after you'd paid him a room...he was not so sure.

"This is ridiculous." He grumbled.

"Shut up, Arthur."

You were swaddled up in bed together, all of his weight on top of yours, his face smothered in the crook of your neck. You were rubbing his back, and he was trying his absolute hardest to hate it.

There was a million ways this could be considered wrong. He was an adult man, for one. And an outlaw, a murderer, a killer. And you were a man too.

He was an adult murderer, shirtless, in bed with another man, who was petting him like he was a cute animal. Oh, and he was enjoying it, not that he'd say so.

You'd know Arthur for a long while, though you came from different walks of life. You were just a regular farmhand- you'd met Arthur years ago when he took a job at your farm.

He'd never changed. "I'm a bad man," he'd say, when you could get him to talk. "I don't deserve much more than I got." "I'm an outlaw!"

He'd be like a broken record every time you tried to offer him something nice, though in recent years, he'd gotten too tired to fight. When you told him to shut up and go take the bath you paid for him, he just gave you the eyes of a disgruntled old dog and lumbered off to do as you said.

You had always felt strongly for Arthur, and he knew this- of course, when a man cares for another like he should for a wife, it raises questions. Only, Arthur never bothered to ask questions. Whatever you two had going on, was best described as an unspoken agreement.

There was just something about him that made you want to make sure he was well. Once, you'd met Dutch Van Der Linde, when you bumped in to Arthur while he was with the man. You'd felt nothing but distaste towards him. Why? Because he worked Arthur too hard.

You were a fool.

"Y'got big muscles." You murmured dumbly, while rubbing at Arthur's biceps absentmindedly.

"All the more the reason I should not be layin' on you like this-"

"Let me admire you, Arthur. Don't make me tell you to shut up again."

He let out a little huff through his nose, like a horse, but relented none the less. Your hands moved up his biceps to his back, feeling up the muscles there and the smattering of hair between his shoulder blades. Then up to his neck, to rub at a tight spot near his spine, before reaching up to his hair, where your fingers gently tangled to scratch and comb at his scalp.

When you began to touch at his hair, his body seemed to decompress, and he let out a little grumble into your neck. You smiled slightly, turning your head to brush your nose against his hair.

"You like that?"

"Wha' makes y' think that...." He mumbled into your skin, barely audible.

You chuckled slightly, realizing just now that he'd made himself comfortable. His palms were tucked under your back, and his chest was so flat against yours, you could feel every beat of his heart. It was beating fast.

"Relax, Arthur." You whispered to him. You felt his face scrunch up against your shoulder.

"I am relaxed."

"Can feel yer heart beatin' hard..."

Maybe you shouldn't have told him, because you could swear it'd picked up a bit more speed. You felt his beard scratch at you as he turned his head, before pulling back and pushing himself up to try and put some distance between you two.

"I'm makin' a fool o' myself..." He complained.

But before he could escape, like he always did, you yanked at him, surprising him enough to let you manhandle him onto his back.

"Here." You said, laying your head on his chest this time. "This make y' feel better 'bout yerself? If we lay like this?"

He made the face of an embarrassed puppy- but agreed.

"Alright. Then we lay like this."

You aren't sure why Arthur decided this was better, because you could now hear firsthand how fast his heart was thumping in his chest. You were almost fearful he'd give himself a heart attack.

When his heart would not calm down despite the changed position, you heard him fumble for something on the nightstand, and eventually, light a cigarette.

You chuckled to yourself, and adjusted the way you were laying on him so you could put your hand on his chest, thumbing at his chest hair.

He let out a little grunt.

"You always gotta twiddle my body hair, don't ya?" He asked, and you smiled.

"I like it." You said, glancing up at him.

He rudely blew smoke directly at your face, forcing you to wave it away.

"Sure you do." He said, once you managed to clear the smoke cloud he'd blown at you.

"What, you don't like me touchin' it?"

You let your hand roam down, tracing the trail of hair that went down to his navel. Arthur didn't say anything, but he did put out his cigarette, while you kept tracing patterns on his abdomen, before finding your way under his navel, where you rested your hand- right above the waistband of his ranch pants, which you hadn't been able to convince him to change out of.

"You make me feel like a fool." He grunted, putting his hand over yours as though to make you quit your fiddling.

"Is that really such a bad thing?"

"...Guess not."

"'S just a bunch o' yankees runnin' lose. Have ya seen 'em? Dirty horses, dirtier clothes...there's this big one, saw him sprinting through town like a lunatic..."

"Yes, I saw him too."

You were distracted in your answers, tracing circles on the table top with the condensation that had dripped all over it from your glass.

Because you knew that big one. You knew him in a way you did not exactly wish to tell others.

Your first encounter with Arthur Morgan had been strange, the stuff of fairy tales and romance novels. He'd burst into the bar you were at and, as he was walking up to the bartender, he glanced at you.

He'd had the most striking turquoise eyes you'd seen in your life. Blue under the shadow of his hat but green when he tilted his head up and let the sunlight hit them.

You'd turned your head to look at him so quickly, you woke up the next day with a pulled muscle. You'd never seen a man like that. With shoulders like that, with a waist like that, with legs like that! It took you til the woman you'd been talking to moments earlier scoffed loudly and began fanning herself in offence to realize you'd been absolutely gawking at him for much longer than necessary.

"Sorry, madame," was the best you could manage. "you know we don't get men like that often, in Saint-Denis."

He drank a shot of whiskey without batting an eye, put his glass down harder than was proper. He argued with the bartender, left in a huff, but not before getting hassled by a drunkard- who apparently told him what he'd come to hear, because he walked out the bar looking rather resolute.

Something possessed you to stand and follow him out, much to the chagrin, once more, of the woman you'd been entertaining. By the time you made it outside, he had disappeared into an alleyway.

Your words were true- you did not get men like him in Saint-Denis. Ever. Herders never came into the city, either hating the civilization or simply not needing to, for their business was in the countryside. Outlaws were only ever here to be hung, otherwise they avoided the place like the plague- too much law. The closest you'd ever seen were the sailors, but they were always drunk and buried in the nearest brothel for you to care particularly.

This, you deduced, was a real, authentic American cowboy. Hat and all.

The next time you met Arthur, it was he who spoke to you.

"'Scuse me, mister." He said, coming up next to you as you mounted your horse, leaving the theater after viewing a show.

"Yes sir, how can I help?" You'd said, leaning down to make sure you'd hear him well.

He set a hand on the neck of your horse, as though to make sure you weren't going anywhere, then tilted his head up to look at you past the brim of his hat.

"You wouldn't mind pointin' me to the stables, would'ja? 'M new in town, my horse needs some carin' for..."

"It is not so far from here, sir. If you only continue down this street, towards the boardwalk- it will be on your left." You told him, gesturing slightly to help him orient himself.

"Mighty kind of you." He said, tipping his hat slightly. Then, he added, "Feels like I know your face, mister."

"You might. We met eyes in the saloon, a day ago, but only briefly. What is your name?"

"Arthur Morgan."

You told him your name, and he offered you a quick handshake- a firm one, almost startling you with the strength in his grip, before he thanked you again and was on his way.

You stared at your hand, as though amazed, for an odd moment. You then shook yourself out of it. This strange man had you all out of sorts, acting like a blushing virgin before him! Embarrassing behavior for an adult man, you told yourself, before being on your way.

But then you saw him again. And again.

The longer Arthur stayed in town, the more your paths seemed to cross and the more you heard about him. You liked to talk to the people in the streets, and they all had something to say about him. The more you heard, the more you liked. The more you liked, the more you questioned.

You were not a man of...of alternate romantic persuasions, you did not think. But when you thought of him, you got hot under the collar- and you thought of him a lot.

Yes, he was a large, fairly...attractive man, but he was also a very kind one, so you heard. At least, kind of heart, while maybe a little bit rough around the edges.

Eventually, you found yourself sharing a drink with him.

"You're making a name for yourself in Saint-Denis, mister Morgan." You told him.

"That so? Well, it ain't on purpose..."

"Not in a bad way. They say you're quite the good man."

He scoffed at that, and downed his glass. "Nah, nah...Not a good man at all. You don't know me."

Something, once more, possessed you to do something stupid, and you murmured around the lip of your glass, "I would not mind knowing you, mister Morgan."

Luckily, he did not hear you well- or perhaps he pretended not to.

You and Arthur met up for drinks a few more times after that. You also took him up to the tailor to fit him for a new shirt. You showed him around town, and he took you out into Rhodes' environs to show you what he rather see.

You were much too weak to him, and being around him so much rendered you weaker. Seeing him on the saddle, watching him set up camp for you both, observing the way his back worked- it was becoming the object of your daily fantasy, and, try as you might, you could not find a logical explanation to this sudden illness of the mind you had been attacked by.

This fascination that bordered on obsession- or worse, on lust- was unnatural. A man should not look at another, a man should not wish for another!

But Arthur Morgan was not any man. He was one in a million, you told yourself, something you may never see again, once he leaves Saint-Denis and returns west, like he keeps telling you he wishes to do.

Slowly, as though pulled out of a drowsy trance, your eyes dragged back up to meet Arthur's. Only now did you realize, that the whole time you've been sitting across from him, you've spent looking at the flesh exposed by the undone buttons at the top of his shirt, and the slight smattering of hair you could see poking out of there.

"Sorry." You murmured, placing your chin in your hand and turning your gaze away to stare, instead, at the floorboards in shame.

"Fer what?" Arthur asked, thumbing at the side of his glass.

"For ogling you so indecently, my friend. There must be something in the air, I have been acting most strangely, as of late..."

"Indecently?" He repeated, before glancing down at himself, and clearing his throat slightly. "S not like I'm naked. Yer fine."

For once, you managed to hold your tongue.

It was after a sleepless night spent in deep reflection that you chose to confront Arthur about this illness of the mind you'd been attained by.

You almost felt guilty, putting the blame on him for how you felt after spending such lovely moments with him. After all, it was not his fault he was unbearably attractive. He was only born that way.

Alas, you finally told him, while you both sat together off the side of a trail, watching a river flow.

"I have something I must tell you, mister Morgan." You said, and his head turned, so he could look at you.

He gave a grunt of acknowledgement.

"You make me feel a strange way." You said slowly. "I don't know...what I am meant to think."

"My lifestyle often has that effect on people."

"No. Not your lifestyle, mister Morgan. You. I feel for you as I should for a woman. And I do not know what to think."

That, he did not answer for a long moment.

"Well I...You seem pretty clear on what you think. You uh. Feel for me as y' should for a woman, or whatever y' said." He shrugged. "That's...fine."

"It's more complicated than that. It isn't natural...I should not feel this way. Perhaps...I am afraid..."

"O' me?"

"Yes." You said, guilty. "Of you. And how you make me feel."

He let out a gruff "Mm", ever a man of few words, then turned his body to face yours.

"Don't gotta be scared o' none. Don't s'ppose I ever heard anyone ever call love scary."

"Love is not scary. It is the novelty of loving a man. What am I to expect? Will it all be the same as a woman? And what will society think of me?"

Though you would not cry, distress was evident in your voice. Arthur kindly put a hand on your shoulder.

"I ain't a good man, and I certainly ain't a good lover. I don't think I can...can offer you much. M' sorry."

He then patted your shoulder, and stood, walking a few steps away towards his horse before you scrambled up to follow him.

"Arthur, please." You said, catching up to him at his steed- he seemed to startle at the first name basis.

Still, he turned to face you. It took you much courage to so much as grit out your final request- but Arthur heard it. And, after glancing up and down the trail to make sure no riders were coming, he cleared his throat, took his hat off- shielding you both, momentarily, from the world- and pressed your lips together.

Neither of you said anything after that, as he pulled away, fixed his hat back on, and got in the saddle, putting a rapidly growing distance between you two.

So, now here you were. At the mayor's garden party, talking to some factory owner or other, about that big one. Gods damn it, Arthur, was all you could think. Leave it to a cowboy to ruin your life- it was like all the romance novels said.

"Please, excuse me." You murmured.

The fireworks had started, and you needed a break from all the noise. Inside you went, hoping to escape to the upstairs balcony, which had recently been deserted. But on your way up the stairs...

"Scuse me."

"Oh, excuse me, sir, I..."

Good lord. He cleaned up beautifully. So beautifully, you thought you might vomit, so quickly did your heart seize.

"Mister Morgan, I...Hello."

He nodded curtly, mumbling out a polite greeting in return. His ears were red, so you noticed.

"You're dressed nicely." He commented lamely.

"So are you. You look...very..."

You were also rather lame.

Then, after a very long moment spent in stupid silence, you decided that you'd made enough of a fool of yourself around this man as it was. You could not possibly do worse.

And so you grabbed him by the lapels, and yanked him to your chest, kissing him as hard as you could manage.

He scrambled to grip your blazer at the back, much to your surprise, and you both stumbled down a few steps, before Arthur managed to press you up against a wall, stopping your clumsy decent.

You could taste cigar smoke on his lips and he could no doubt taste champagne on yours- his body was so warm, only a solid wall of man pressed to yours that you could, inexplicably, not stop touching, your hands running up the sides of his neck, then back down the front of his suit.

It took a ridiculous amount of time for you both to wrench away from each other, Arthur immediately glancing back to check the bottom of the stairs while you looked up to check the top. Coast was clear.

"The hell was that?" Arthur finally managed, pulling away from you as though being hit with a wave of clarity of sorts.

"I...I am not sure." You babbled, adjusting your collar like a moron. "I must've...I was..."

"Utterly stupid, that's what," He grunted, wiping his brow. "You know how many people-? Ah...hell..."

You both stood there, dumbly, before he glanced sideways at you, over his shoulder once more, then stooped back down to kiss you. You wrapped your arms up and around his neck, and you ran your fingers through his hair. He squeezed you tighter when you did so- like he liked it.

Maybe it'd go on forever. By now, you were past tracking time. You didn't care for much else other than how he felt...

"Arthur!"

You both jumped, and Arthur turned around incredibly fast. You noticed his hand reach for his hip, as though for a gun. You blinked in surprise.

Three men were at the bottom of the stairs, staring at you and Arthur quizzically. But then, they smiled. It was not good natured, but clearly friendly, and mocking.

"Need a minute?" The one with an impressive mustache said.

"No, no. I...uh.." Arthur glanced back at you- you'd never seen such a large man look so embarrassed. "We was..."

"Did you at least find anything?" Another asked, this one with a nasally voice and a few years more than the first.

"Yeah. I did...I..." He patted his breast pocket awkwardly, then glanced at you again, and gave you a little 'I am so sorry, I will see you later' kind of wave. "I think we're done here." He finally said, before making his way down the stairs to rejoin his...friends?

You stood, shell-shocked, on the stairs, while you heard the fourth man mock Arthur about being a "sly dog", while Arthur grumbled for him to shut up.

You managed to regain your senses enough to make your way all the way down the stairs, and watch them leave down the long hallway and through the open doors. When they reached the entrance gates, all four men retrieved guns from the guard at the front.

What exactly had you gotten yourself into?

You were a silent vigil. A violent one. You were unnecessarily protecting something that had been disturbed, even long after it had been brought back to its den.

You sat there, hugging your shotgun to your chest, hardly blinking- let alone doing anything else, like eating and drinking.

If Pearson, or Dutch, or god forbid, Micah, got too close, you'd rack that shotgun. And you'd stare them in the eyes til they walked away.

Arthur wasn't better. Not yet. He was feverish, he kept thrashing and hurting himself all over. He was still scared, no matter how many times he came to and realized, for but a moment, that he was home. Then he'd get bad again.

You'd only let miss Grimshaw and the girls get behind you, let them check Arthur's shoulder and feed him. Anyone else was kept a barrels length away- and then some.

For some reason, you couldn't find shame in yourself, not when it came to Arthur. In any other situation, you'd have been embarrassed, treating a man like this weak thing that has to be protected, that you have to keep safe, and away from anyone that ain't you. You felt like an animal, a sick one, protecting the last thing it had.

When the night fell and everyone would head to bed, you'd stay awake. You'd stare at him and wait for him to wake up, cause he always did, wake up with a gasp and a babble of "Where 'm I?". You'd help him lay back down. And you'd tell him he was home.

Part of you itched to shoot Dutch in the arm and string him up, too. He was the one who'd told everyone Arthur would just roll back in. He was the one who couldn't tell something was horribly wrong.

You looked for him, leastways you tried, best you could, but you were a livewire when you lost something so important, and most men who just said they didn't know what you were talking about weren't standing no more.

When Arthur came back, it was like a lead weight in your stomach, when you saw him drop off his horse like that. What you could've done to make sure he got home safe that day, you'd never stop beating yourself over it.

"M'h par'ner..."

You startled out of your spiral, turning to look at the source of the mumble. He'd woken up again.

"Partner..." He rasped, waving his good hand at you weakly, before grinding out your name, too.

You got off your chair, kneeling at his bedside in less than a moment, pressing your hand to his feverish forehead.

"M here, Arthur. Right here."

He grasped your wrist, head turning to face you while his eyes were still closed. "I'h hurts..." He told you, and you nodded your head, thumbing away the sweat pearling at his brow.

"Okay. I'll get you yer medicine. Gon' be alright, Arthur, it wont hurt for long."

Like a fool, you stooped down, kissing between his brows like he was some soft thing to be cared for. At least he let out a little mumble of appreciation.

While you prepared a ridiculous mix of every opiate a man could get his hands on- half stolen from Swanson, half bought from the doctors- you thought on what this meant for you. The camp members must suspect something, the way you're protecting Arthur like he's the most important thing in the world.

For once, you don't care.

So long as Arthur gets better, you don't care one bit.

You chose not to dwell on them. You turned back to Arthur, sitting him up while careful of his shoulder. You sat by his bed and you gave him his medicine- soon enough, he was dozing off again.

You hated it, having to keep Arthur this out of it so that he wouldn't be in pain.

"'M sorry, Arthur." You whispered to him, tucking his head into the crook of your shoulder. "'M sorry. 'S gon' be all better soon."

He couldn't answer, already unconscious. His beard, grown past the length he usually kept it at, scraped at your shoulder whenever he moved even a tiny bit, like when he'd take a deep breath. But you wouldn't move, not if he'd gotten comfortable there.

You let him sleep- and you slept, too.

In the morning, you woke up to miss Grimshaw jostling you lightly. Arthur was still asleep on your shoulder, and you were reluctant to move- but glancing past her, you saw some funny looks that immediately made you shuffle away from Arthur, easing him down into the sheets.

It wasn't for your dignity you did that. It was for his.

"Someone should shave him." You mumbled to Grimshaw, before snatching up your shotgun and sitting at the front of his tent again.

You'd eat later.

Your relationship with the drover was…tense. Uncertain. Confusing.

You didn't know what you two had. It started out as a rivalry- you'd hated him, and he'd hated you. It had been a purely professional agreement. He helps you move your cattle to Darwin, you pay him with the horse he wants. Done deal. But it got…complicated.

It warmed up too fast, and the glass cracked. You were back at the starting point.

One night on the trail, you'd had too much to drink and you'd kissed the man. Kissed him hard, rolled around with him in the grass. It could've been good, you and him. Til he pulled back and gritted out that he wasn't no sodomite.

After that, you were back to hating him. Burning with anger that he used that word to describe people like you, burning with embarrassment at the rejection. And despite it all, you couldn't bring yourself to pull all the way away. You lingered. You wanted to make it work.

He who hated stuck up rich folk like you. You who should hate wild, mannerless men like him. It could never work, even as you watched him wash up on the last night of the drove, yearning to feel that big, warm body encasing yours again. You knew you fit well in his arms, you knew his lips fit against yours like a puzzle piece slotting into place.

And you knew that, for all his acceptance of people who were oh so different and hated, Drover would call you a fag if you so much as sighed longingly in his direction.

You wondered why. He'd kissed you back, hands grabbing at you, squeezing your hips, feeling up your spine. And all of a sudden, he'd wrenched away from you, like he'd been burned.

You wanted his lips back on yours. His body pressed to you again.

All this, you reflected on as you got ready for the event you'd been invited to. After all, despite all odds, you survived the drove through the Never Never, with a “dangerous” man like Drover and the “unpredictable” company he kept. Now people wanted to parade you around like the poor, fortunate soul they saw you as. The lucky man that survived the drover. You wondered if you really did.

Truth be told, you didn't want to go.

You also didn't want to stay in this stupid house you'd rented in Darwin, with Drover. It felt like a prison, dancing around him.

As you fixed your tie, you stared, almost longingly, at the white suit you'd gotten for Drover. You didn't know why you bought it, he'd never come with- besides, you were almost too afraid to ask him to join you.

“What's the other suit for?”

You flinched, looking over your shoulder at Drover, who had a hip leaning against the doorframe and his arms crossed over his chest.

“You should've knocked. I could've been naked.” You grumbled, picking up the suit and folding it up in your arms. “And for your information, it's just another option.”

“Doesn't look like it would fit you.” He commented, snatching the blazer from your hands as you passed, unfolding it right in front of himself- and raising a brow when it lined up perfectly with his frame.

What could you say- you had a photographic memory for that body of his. It hadn't been difficult to remember a perfect fit.

Mumbling something about a mix-up at the tailors, you took the blazer back and hung it up, along with the vest, shirt and pants, in your closet. Perhaps along with the rest of you, that was rotting somewhere in there.

“I'll be back late.” You said, fixing your cuffs as you passed him. “Don't wait up.”

“Wasn't planning to.”

You held back the urge to call him something mean- Bastard, asshole, something or other. You wondered if he was deliberately trying to make you mad- and for that reason, you did your best to stay stone cold towards him.

You hadn't spent that long in the Outback, and yet you already felt unused to polite society. It felt so dull, and at the same time, it was too much. The forced smiles, the polite conversation, the batting eyelashes of women hoping to be asked to dance. The stench of expensive perfume, the stiff movements of people trying not to damage their tailored outfits. As you brought a glass of bourbon to your lips, you thought back to the steady, fluid rocking of a body on a saddle, the musk of sweat after a long day taking a beating from the sun, and a specific unshaven face, with his dirty, ripped clothes and well worn pants.

You sighed into your glass. Not a man here was as desirable as the Drover, for they were all fake. All made up of money and no real personality. Nothing true, nothing of substance. Even as you were…window shopping, so to say, leaning against the bar and lazily running your eyes over the other men present, you always got bored with what you saw, and returned to your drink.

What was the point? They all looked the same, and you knew you only wanted one man, no matter how disgusted he was by you. You finished your drink, put the empty cup down on the bar top, and took your leave. For all that “guest of honor” bullshit they fed you, they sure as hell didn't notice you slip away.

You chose to walk home instead of asking for a ride. Your luck had it that, in this damnable country where it practically didn't rain for 6 months a year, you'd picked the one night to walk home where the wet season started. A raindrop hit your nose, then another, and another, and soon enough, you were soaked through.

You didn't even bother trying to run home. What was the point? You'd get wet anyway.

You wondered if Drover was in bed. If that man even slept. Would he have left the house you'd gotten, left Darwin while you were gone? You wondered if the thought made you sad or relieved. Wondered just how much you loved him, and how much you hated him. Which was more prevalent.

Every answer pointed at the fact that you loved him more. You ignored it.

After all, hate and love were similar emotions- maybe you were just mixing them up.

You came through the door to a silent house, removing your sopping blazer and wiping water off of your face. Clicking on lights as you headed deeper into the house, footsteps quiet against the clean floors.

You tossed your wet blazer into the bathroom as you passed, the thing landing with a disgusting “splat” sound in the bath. You unbuttoned your vest, shucking off the equally wet garment as you ducked into your room. Your white dress shirt was practically transparent, it had gotten so wet…you might as well not be wearing it. The room was dark, you couldn't see, but you could hear someone breathing, and, looking over, you discovered that the drover had taken up residence on your bed.

Your face scrunched up. He'd said he'd sleep on the couch, the bastard! You sighed, and fought your way out of the rest of your heavy, wet clothes, before yanking on a clean pair of underwear and crawling into bed.

You laid, stiff as a board, next to him, staring blankly at the ceiling before closing your eyes hard. You tried to will yourself to go to sleep, but there, on the far edge of the bed, you were so uncomfortable that you'd never manage.

So, resigned, you scooted closer to Drover. After a moment, you decided you were too cold, to sleep so far. You scooted closer again. And then, you became bothered by the way your back fixed the open air, not pressed against a wall. You rolled over, and shuffled over a little til your back pressed to his chest.

You laid there for a moment, then closed your eyes, snuggling back into him with a little sigh. It's his fault, really. He'd said he would sleep on the couch.

It didn't take long for you to fall asleep.

You woke up slowly the next day, Drover's body encasing yours. His arm was draped over you, his nose pressed against the top of your head. You knew he didn't mean to end up like that with you…but you couldn't help but savor it, at least for a moment. His hand was on your chest, and you rested your hand over his, keeping it there. You closed your eyes again. Maybe you could sleep a little longer…

Of course, the world had other plans, little Nullah bashing his way into the room excitedly.

“Mister Boss!” He called out, as he clambered into bed. “Good morning, mister Boss!”

This woke Drover up, and he immediately rolled off of you, while you reached out for the little boy who was eagerly climbing over Drover to get to you.

“Ah, Nullah…c'mere, buddy. Good mornin’...” You sighed, as the boy you'd come to treat as a son came to lay in your arms.

Drover seemed grumpy about the way he'd woken up, rubbing a hand over his face and his scruffy facial hair.

“Sorry for the waking, mister Drover!” Nullah laughed, even as he seemed very unapologetic, sitting on you with a big smile splitting his face.

“Ah, ‘s alright, kid…” Drover grumbled, giving you a strange look- you weren't too sure what it was- before slipping out of bed.

You shrugged as Drover left the room, returning your attention to the young boy.

“How was The Wizard of Oz?” You asked him, knowing he'd gone to town to watch it last night, when you were at your event.

He launched into a spiel about the movie and how much he liked it, while you tried to make it look like you were listening intently, nodding your head along. But really, you were only half listening, the rest of your mind on Drover, and the look he'd given you that morning.

“Mister Boss,” Nullah poked your shoulder. “Do you listen to me?”

“Yes, Nullah. Sorry.” You must've looked visibly distant, for Nullah to pause his ramble. “Just thinking about something else- I'm listening, now.”

But he didn't start back up again, instead looking at you curiously. He looked out the door, then leaned in conspiratorially.

“Is it because of the drover?”

You chewed on your cheek, and chose to lie.

“No. No, Drover and I are…fine.”

“Liar. Mister Boss and Mister Drover haven't been talking. I notice ages ago- you are angry with him.” He whispered insistently.

You nodded half-heartedly, not knowing how to explain to Nullah that you were nursing a broken heart while trying to stubbornly hold a grudge.

“Drover and I had a disagreement, that's all. Adult problems. But everything's alright.” You told the boy, squeezing his little shoulders reassuringly.

“I don't like it. Mister Drover and you used to get along very good. But now, you treat each other like enemy!” Nullah shook his head. “Even Jeda sees. She whine and whine because you two not friends.”

Jeez, if even the dog was noticing, then you and Drover really were being pissy towards each other. You didn't think it had been that bad- maybe a little one-sided, from you.

“I'm sorry, Nullah. I'll talk to him, okay?”

But you didn't talk to him. You were too stubborn. And part of you was afraid of that harsh word Drover had directed at you, even if you'd heard much worse in the past. You went back to Faraway Downs, acknowledging that there wasn't much left for you in England, and got to work restoring the property. Drover was around, sure, but you still barely spoke, and it made you feel ill. You felt like a puppy, watching him fix up a fence out in the sun while you worked on some furniture inside.

Nights were long, days were long. God, you were disgusting, the way you pined for him. Nullah still bugged you about it, asking when you and the drover would be making up. You also wish you knew.

“You got it bad for that drover now, don't you?” Bandy asked you, as you sat on the porch, hidden from the setting sun, watching him work with some horses while you polished your boots.

“Yeah.” You admitted to her with a sigh, not fearing judgement from her. “And he knows.”

“How'd he take it?”

“Not well.”

You both went quiet as you started polishing your boots again, looking away from Drover.

“Reckon he's scared.” Bandy finally spoke up again. “Of love.”

“Who wouldn't be scared of lovin’ a man? Gets you killed, out here.”

“No, not just loving a man. Loving in general.” She clarified. “Drover was married once. She was an Aboriginal woman. Lost her to white folk not wanting to treat her when she was sick.”

You nodded pensively. You'd heard Drover had married before- hadn't heard what had happened to the wife, though.

“But maybe he's scared of loving someone different again. Scared it'll get them killed too.”

“If that's how he felt, he didn't show it well.”

“How'd he show it?”

You hesitated. Maybe it was normal here, as it was anywhere else, to treat men like you that way. Maybe she'd tell you you were overreacting.

“He called it dirty. What I was doing.” You finally said. “He called people like me sodomites. Called himself that. For kissing me.”

Your polishing slowed to a stop, and you raised your eyes to look out at Drover, who was leading a horse around in a pen, with Nullah on its bare back.

“I thought he'd be the last person to think that of me.”

Bandy said nothing, sensing you might still have more to say. You did.

“He didn't say it like he was guilty. He said it like he was disgusted…he spat it in my face. Like I'd tricked him.” You whispered. “But I don't understand, Bandy. He kissed me back, for a moment. He held my face and looked at me like he saw me- really saw me. And all of a sudden, his expression hardened and he…he pushed me away.”

“Was he drunk?”

“We were on a drove. He's never drunk then.” You whispered. “I guess..I guess we had been drinking, because of Flynn…but…he was stone sober. He'd only had one drink.”

You set your boots aside, shaking your head. “I don't know why he stays. Probably for the boy.”

“I doubt it.” Bandy said softly. “I think he stays for you.”

“Don't try to make me delusional, Bandy…”

“Fire him, then, if you think he should leave.”

You couldn't do that. You remembered what Drover had said, the day you met him. “No man hires me, no man fires me”. You remember that day like it was a dream, like you were looking at a different person. It hadn't been so long ago, but you'd changed so much.

The day you'd arrived, you'd worn a fitted black tailcoat, with your riding gloves, with a cane, with polished shoes and a well tied, silk cravat. The drover had looked you up and down that day, and told you those words.

When you'd been out on the trail with him, it hadn't taken long for you to ditch classiness for comfort and utility. Getting rid of your tailcoat, rolling up your sleeves, unbuttoning the top few buttons of your shirt and tying your cravat back up in a way that was less restricting. Drover had commented on how the wildness of the outback suited you better than the quiet, proper look of polite society.

After that, it stuck. No more tailcoats. No more shoes polished to a mirror shine. You’d dream of wearing his clothes, maybe the morning after a long night.

Maybe you'd never get over him.

Ever since that night, you hadn't let yourself have a proper drink. Tonight, you drowned your sorrows, and fell asleep with your head buried in your arms, wondering distantly if you were overreacting, if Drover was really worth all this longing.

When you woke up- or at least, regained a semblance of consciousness- it was because someone had shaken you slightly, then grabbed you to try and pick you up.

You groaned and wriggled slightly at the arms hauling you off the stool you were sitting on, the way you fought back, just about as effective as a child throwing a half hearted tantrum. After a bit of a struggle, your eyes still closed and your brain soupy from the alcohol, you went limp, too tired to keep fighting.

“Let me go.” You whispered dumbly, not too sure who it even was picking you up.

But the moment your face was in the crook of his shoulder, and he was carrying you like you didn't weigh much, you were hit by the thick scent of saddle soap, smoke, and sweat.

“Drover…” The name left your lips breathily, your hand fumbling with his worn out necktie.

“‘M right here.” He replied, and you clung on tighter, your other hand gripping the back of his shirt.

“Don't drop me.”

“I won't.”

You sort of phased in and out of consciousness, half aware of where he was bringing you. Once in your bed, he sat with you, and you slowly opened your eyes.

“Drover.” You whispered again, hand reaching up to cup his jaw, thumbing through the scruff of his facial hair. “Oh, Drover…”

He didn't say anything, but you didn't want him to. You leaned up, pulling him down so he'd meet you halfway, and pressed your lips to his. He let you do so for a moment, before pulling back.

“Don't do that again.” He whispered, even as he seemed to, for once, return your softened gaze. “Not…not right now. Too drunk.”

“Okay.” You mumbled, nodding along. Yeah, you probably were really drunk.

Then, your lip trembled, and your eyes welled up with tears. Drover was startled by the sudden emotion change.

“Hey, hey, hey…what's this?”

“Why do you hate me?” You asked, pathetic. “‘M so in love with you, Drover…can't help it…can't help that I…I can't look at women the way I…look at you…”

“Oh, crikey-” Drover sighed, but you interrupted whatever might come after.

“I don't want to be like this.” You continued to babble out. “Wish I wasn't…a…a…”

He shook his head to tell you to stop, and you did, lip still trembling.

“We'll talk about this in the morning, yeah? When you've sobered up a touch…” He convinced you, setting about tucking you into bed. You nodded along, still sniffling like a child. You probably looked very stupid, you realized, and it made you start crying again. Damn your emotional, drunken self.

“Hey, hey, come on, your about to go ta sleep, no use cryin’ so much…”

“I look stupid.” You informed him, and he cracked a smile. You did indeed, wrapped up in your blankets like an imprisoned worm.

“Don't try ‘n make me laugh, now.” He told you off, and you sniffled, smiling a little.

“‘M sorry. Will you stay?” You asked softly. “For a bit?”

He nodded, and scooted around to comfortably sit by you. You closed your eyes, snuggling up to his legs.

When you woke up, you were in his arms, nursing a hangover. You must've crawled onto him during the night, because he was holding you a bit like a child holds a plush toy. Hastily, you pulled away, your head throbbing at the sudden movement. Oh, no, you'd come onto him when you were drunk, it's horrible, he's going to hate you, he's…

Drover's eyes opened, and he gave you a softened look, sitting up a little too.

“Mornin’. That grog wear off, yet?”

You nodded a bit stupidly, staring at him like it took all of your brainpower to compute why he was being nice to you. You looked down at yourself. Still fully clothed. So was he.

“What's going on?” You asked him, before awkwardly starting to remove your shirt- you didn't want to be wearing yesterday's clothes.

“Nothin’. Why are you taking that off?”

“Clothes are dirty...”

Once you got your shirt off, you laid back down, but not near Drover. Keeping a respectable distance- you weren't drunk anymore. You were both awkwardly silent. You were afraid to say anything, and he seemed unsure of what to say at all. You even cleared your throat a little as though to start talking, but decided against it.

“I'm sorry.” He finally said. “For…for that night. On the drove. Was a proper muck up on my end and I see it that way. Shouldn't have said that to you, not when I led you on in the first place.”

You gazed sidelong at him, as though waiting for him to suddenly change his tune like he had that night. But he just continued to gaze at you with those softened eyes.

“It's fine, I suppose. I was drunk. And I never should've made a move on you like that, not without asking.”

“Nah, nah, don't you apologize for none…You said it yerself. You were drunk. It was my responsibility and I…I did everythin’ wrong.”

You cleared your throat a little awkwardly, before nodding and getting up to get out of your dirty clothes from the night before. You didn't know what else to say, just silently stood by the window while you got to work on your belt.

You heard the bed creak as he got up. Assumed he'd be leaving the room next- but instead, he came up behind you, hands tentative as they rested on your biceps.

“Got any idea on how I could make it up to ya?” He asked, thumbing slightly at your elbow.

You swallowed, staring out the window like you couldn't afford to move. But you did, slowly turning to face him.

“You don't have to, Drover. Don't gotta do this just cause I took it hard- I can get over it, you know. Been rejected before…”

“I want t’ make it up to ya.” Drover repeated firmly, holding your gaze. “What I said was wrong. And I said it ‘cause I was scared.”

“You? Were scared?” You repeated, a slight smile curving your lips. “Hard to imagine that from you…”

He snorted quietly, looking away for a brief moment. “ ‘M full of surprises.” He said, cupping your cheek.

You didn't move as he leaned closer, half expecting to wake up with a jolt the second his lips touched yours. But you didn't. Your hands fumbled for his belt, pulling him against you as he held the kiss. It was like he didn't want to breathe, like he intended to die kissing you. It was more than you expected. Hungrier than you expected.

And just as you lost your footing a little, as you began to push his shirt up, fingers feeling up his abdomen, following the trail of hair, you heard the banging of a tiny fist against the door, and the rattle of the doorknob.

“Mister Droverrr!”

You both pulled apart with a gasp, your hand slipping out from under his shirt.

“Nullah.” You whispered, looking over at the door.

“Mmn.” Drover muttered, distracted, trying to catch your lips again, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Drover, he wants to see you…”

“Ah, she'll be right…kid can wait.” He insisted, pulling you closer for another kiss.

You laughed against his lips, but Nullah hammered the door again, and you had to pull apart for good.

“Go on. I'll make sure you finish this later.” You told him, practically having to peel him off of you.

He didn't answer, just squeezed your arm and pulled away, walking over to the door to yank it open and playfully chase Nullah away. You wiped your brow, and sat on the bed- God, that man was a pistol to your sanity. He'd kill you, one day.

But what a way to go.