Bards Crossings • Arthur Morgan x Reader

𝐗𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈

Arthur's body lay eye-level to yours; a cascade of scarlet liquid oozed from his abdomen, as you were forced to your knees. Vision compromised by salt-water pools tittering in your bottom lid, you screamed but no noise came from your throat. The hot metal of a shot gun barrel burnt the flesh covering your temple, gun smoke invading your nostrils.

"Told y' not to mess with us, (y/n)." The grip on your neck suffocating as you desperately tried to break free, the older Braithwaite son hissed the same blood-curdling words he did to your Father.

"(y/n)—" Arthur's voice cracked in pain.

"(y/n)?" He called again, clearer this time.

                                               •

"(y/n), darlin'?" Arthur's calloused hands tight on your shoulder as you gasped for breath. Tears bleached tide marks on your cheeks as you pushed yourself into the corner of the cot bed. Your back met the desk in Arthur's tent; various trinkets wobbled with the force.

"Hey, calm down." Arthur reached for you again. His blue irises lost in black pupils widened in fear.

His touch felt alien, you kicked away his arms in defence, you were trapped in a dream you couldn't wake yourself from.

"It's me—goddammit." Arthur pinned you in-between the table and the wagon, "Look at my face, its me." His blue eyes urging you to believe him, shaking your shoulders in encouragement.

Scrunching your eyes tightly, you rubbed the base of your palm over your sockets, praying it would provide some grounding. Dragging your hand down your face, Arthur pulled you into his arms. The material of his shirt providing comfort and familiarity, you dropped your shoulders; melting into his embrace.

"Some dream." Arthur interrupted several minutes of stifled crying into his chest, pealing your head from the wet patch now formed on his shirt.

"Nightmare—awful." You caught your breath, wiping away streams formed on your cheeks.

Night fall still reigned over camp, you recalled the gentle waves lapping on to the shore of Clemens Point once more. A subtle breeze lifted the shades of the canopy back and forth. Calm eventually flooded your mind, all the while Arthur's gaze never faltered, attentively keeping guard for any sign of distress from your part.

Black soot clung to Arthur's clothes. The dust made it's way up to parts of his neck; finger prints dotted on his face. His normally well kempt hair dishevelled with ash and sweat.

"What the hell y' been doin'?" You scoffed, trying to clear the mucus build up in your nose in the most pleasant way possible.

Arthur chuckled, he used his sleeve to wipe under your eyes and nose. "That's better darlin'," he started, "me n' Sean just torched the Gray's tobacco fields." The Outlaw admitted casually.

"As y' do." You smirked sarcastically.

"All part of Dutch's plan," Arthur uttered between a cigarette cradled between his lips, "y' gonna tell me whatchu were dreamin' 'bout?" His candid approach reminded you of why he was Dutch's understudy and Strauss' debt collector—he got answers.

"Ugh—jus' that older Braithwaite brother, haven't dreamt like that since.. well, Strawberry," You let your head rest onto Arthur's shoulder.

"Y'know—Bein' out here, with you lot? I've never felt so well rested." Arthur tucked his brawny arm around your shoulder; wrapping his fingers through your hair.

"Then we get down here and.. We run in to them.." You whispered in seething hatred. You'd had enough of this family plaguing your dreams.

Arthur adjusted himself to face you, "careful not to let this mess with y' head." He reprimanded you, the lines between revenge and the cause were blurred.