Bards Crossings • Arthur Morgan x Reader

𝐗𝐗𝐕

Arthur tossed his Lancaster Repeater to you, hastily catching it without falling from the wagon Hosea reigned over the mounds and troughs of Scarlett Meadows. The pair of you took it in turns to reload, covering for each other; avoiding the scattering bullets shot by Lemoyne Raider's. You stood shoulder to shoulder with the Outlaw, matching the swift wielding of the experienced Gunslinger. Remaining Raider's chased on horseback towards an oncoming train. "Hosea!" You shrieked, alerting the elder at the freight bellowing towards you.

"I'll make it." Hosea whipped the Shire's forcefully, wooden wheels vibrated over railway tracks; narrowly missing the iron cow-catcher at the front of the locomotive.

Bullets connected with the remaining skulls of the enemies on horseback, leaving you, Arthur and Hosea safely in the clear. Hosea pulled the battered wagon to a halt; amid a fallen stone wall of a derelict sheep pen. Laboured breath and chuckles filled the air, sweat moistened your face; still feeling the vibration of the train hurtling towards you.

"Y' think we lost 'em?" Hosea chuckled as he adjusted his positioning to face you and Arthur.

"I keep seein' them—y' think it was a set up?" Arthur omitted with a low husk to his tone.

"Na—Just a rival gang, they won't be happy with new competition on their patch." Hosea's wisdom easing the woe's of Dutch's right-hand man.

You slid yourself down the supporting beams of the wagon, checking yourself over for any wounds gone unnoticed due to the raised cortisol levels in your blood.

"Y' hurt?" Arthur knelt down, inspecting your body. His calloused hands raised the material of your skirt slightly. You had forgotten what his touch felt like, igniting the flame deep in your stomach. The cowboy's finger tips traced over a slit in the material of your skirt, separating the tear gently to check for grazes.

Hissing between parted lips, pain swelled in your lower limb. A scrape from a repeater cartridge had narrowly missed penetrating the skin; donning an already cardinal bruise on the pasty flesh of your thigh.

"Looks sore, princess." Arthur gently pulled your skirt back over your legs, looping his muscled bicep under your armpits; aiding you to stand with as little discomfort as he could.

"I'm f-fine." You winced, the pain throbbed in your thigh as you met the foliage with a thud; supporting yourself with your stronger leg.

"I'll go meet with old Ma' Braithwaite—see what I can come up with." Hosea planned, gripping your shoulder.

"Why?" Arthur questioned his Father-figure in disbelief.

"The chest is fillin' up again—not what we had, but, slowly and surely." Both men guided your frame into the darkened clearing of Clemens Point.

"Part of me thinks we can get ourselves lost, good n' proper." The elder Outlaw's tone manifested optimism as you clung to his forearm.

"Count me in for robbin' those bastard Braithwaite's." You heaved, setting yourself down on a crate outside of Dutch's canopy.

Despite the comedic twist of distributing free Moonshine to revellers in the Gray's Parlour house, you had not forgotten the brutality the Braithwaite's subjected your Mother and Father to, leaving you unhinged.

Arthur stroked the back of your head with his palm, "hold y'r horses, darlin', need Grimshaw t' take a look at the damage t' y'r leg first." You rolled your eyes at the Gunslinger, in no mood to be patronised.

"Miss (y/n)? Are you okay?" Dutch's sincerity took you off guard, "yeah—jus' a graze, looks worse than it is." You reassured.

Micah handed you a bottle of Kentucky Bourbon, clearly on his best behaviour in front of the leader.