Bards Crossings • Arthur Morgan x Reader

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐕𝐈

Poking at the vegetables of tonight's offering from Pearson lumped in a metal bowl, you were in no mood to eat. The sinking sun burnt through the fog that weighed heavily through the swampland, leaving a cooler climate in its wake.

You half listened to Abigail and John trying to entice Jack into eating instead of playing, but your mind was elsewhere.

"Aunt (y/n) ain't eatin' so why do I have to?" Jack whined at his Mother.

"Well, Aunt (y/n) ain't feelin' too well, Jack—eat your vegetables now, boy, c'mon." Abigail handed her son a bowl of stew.

"Okay Mama." Defeated, the boy took his plate, slumping down on the side porch of Shady Belle.

"Don't forget to go hunting, Mr Morgan." Pearson called at the sight of the Cowboy striding his way into Shady Belle. Your heart thumped, instantly lifting your head from the dirt.

Not wanting to make it too obvious, you decided to stay put. Abigail peaked around the corner, waiting for Arthur to grab a bowl from the pot. She crashed back into the chair at the sight of Arthur making his way over. The pair of you giggled into the stew; desperately trying to keep straight faces.

"Marston, Abigail." Arthur's gruff voice melted over your ears like molasses.

"Morgan." John husked, tipping his head to his brother.

Arthur stood cumbersome, cradling the tin dinnerware in his hands. Looking everywhere but in your direction. "Sit down, y' moron." Having had enough of the lost puppy act.

Slumping down next to you, Arthur's body took up the majority of the step, leaving you little room. Metallic scrapes filled the silence, stifling the awkwardness for a few moments.

"Are y' mad?" Arthur giving no context, his straight to the point attitude as subtle as ever.

"Uh—we, I'll.. C'mon, Jack." Abigail abruptly upped and outed her chair, hitting John's shoulder who didn't take the hint.

"Why have I got'a move?" Marston protested, "just—move!!" Abigail scurried her clumsy partner along, "see y' in a bit, (y/n)."

"Y' could'a waited for them to finish their supper, Arthur." You chuckled at his ill-timed reconciliation effort.

"I've wasted enough time already." Spooning the last of his stew, he placed the bowl down by his side.

"Y' were right, I should'a told you about Mary," he started, "'n I should'a never compared you to her, y' ain't nothin' like her." Arthur scoffed.

Your (e/c) eyes watched his face, "I just get so nervous around y', constantly afraid I'm gonna mess up, somehow." Arthur interlocked his fingers, tipping his head to the mud.

"I met with her—Mary, t'day." Your stomach churned, "'n before y' get any ideas, I told her, about you, n' that she can't be usin' me as her errand boy no more."

Arthur explained that Mary wrote to him, when the gang first arrived in Valentine; begging him to help her brother leave some religious cult leading him astray.

"This time, she wanted me to help her Father—the same man who turned his nose up at me." He chuckled, exposing old wounds.

Arthur turned to face you, "Anyway, none'a that matters now." Cupping your hand in his. His hands decorated with cuts and scrapes, old scars healed fleshy white over the numerous indentations.

"I'm real sorry, princess." Turquoise irises soft in acknowledgement illuminated by dappled evening sunlight, cascading the hanging branches of the Cypress trees rooted deep in the marshland.

You examined his face. His tired eyes sought forgiveness, the thoughts he held so close eating away at him.

"I'm sorry too." You eventually spoke, "I was jus' drunk, I guess we ain't all that different, me n' you." Nudging Arthur's shoulder.

The Cowboy let out a breathy chuckle, "I guess not". Smile lines tracing the corners of his lips, creasing the corners of his eyes.

"Mind y', leave me hangin' like that again—" You reprimanded, alluding to the disheveled, unsatisfied mess he left you in the night prior.

"I been thinkin' 'bout it all day, darlin." Heat rosed your cheeks. His low, gruff tone ignited every primal instinct in your body, it took everything not to drag him up the stairs there and then.

Arthur stood from the step, looping this thumb through his worn leather gun belt. "I, uh—we need to do somethin' tomorrow." His ominous instruction hurled you down from the high you were experiencing.

"What's that? One of Dutch's leads?" You questioned through furrowed brows.

Arthur rubbed the stubble prickling his face, "uh—sort'a, you'll see tomorrow."