ᴍᴜʟᴛɪғᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇ | ᴏʟᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴇᴡ ғɪᴄs ғʀᴏᴍ ᴍʏ ɴᴏᴛᴇs

One. Last. Time. (A. Morgan x fem! Reader)

Summary: don't be... Dead

Warning: high angst, blood, injuries, near death experience, love, job went wrong

As usual, I'm sorry if there are any wrong sentences or typos or grammatical mistakes, please forgive me and again English is not my first language, so I try to improve my language and writing in this way.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It started with a job. Just a job, Dutch had said.
A simple ride. A stop on the way to scope out a train. You rode out with a few others — laughing, maybe, before it all went quiet.

And then…You didn’t come back.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The first night, Arthur didn’t sleep.

He waited by the fire, watching the horizon, hoping your silhouette would appear between the trees.

It didn’t.

The second day, Hosea tried to distract him. Charles rode out searching. Dutch said things like “He’s probably just laying low.”

Arthur didn’t speak much. He cleaned your rifle. The one you left leaning against the wagon. He didn’t say why. He just… did.

By the third morning, the whispers started.

“He must’ve got taken.”

“Maybe he ran.”

“Could be dead.”

Dutch was the first to say it out loud. “Sometimes men get lost in this world,” he said, low and heavy. “Sometimes they don’t find their way back.”

Arthur said nothing.

But inside, something cracked.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

And then… the fifth night.

The fire was low. Most of camp had gone to sleep. Rain spit gently from the clouds above, soft and cold.

Arthur sat on the steps of his wagon, hat pulled low, cigarette half-burned between his fingers.

And then—

“...Arthur…”

The voice was broken. Small. Not much more than a croak.

He froze.

Lifted his head.

And there — in the faint orange glow of the fire — was you.

Or some ruined version of you.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You stumbled into the clearing, soaked to the bone. Your coat was torn. Blood soaked the side of your shirt, dark and sticky. Your eye was swollen, lip split, every step a lurch between life and collapse.

But your eyes — those eyes — found him. Only him.

“Arthur,” you whispered again, swaying. “I just— I needed to see you…”

Your legs gave out.

You hit the dirt like a ragdoll, a grunt escaping your chest. Arthur was on his feet in seconds, yelling for help, voice cracking.

“Someone— get Miss Grimshaw— he’s alive— he’s here—!”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

They carried you to the tent. Mary-Beth wept. Charles helped press cloth to your side. Pearson brought hot water with shaking hands. You drifted in and out — mumbling Arthur’s name like it was the only word you still remembered.

Arthur stayed at your side.

Even as Miss Grimshaw barked orders. Even as Dutch stared from across the campfire, pale and silent.

He held your hand.

“You stupid bastard,” Arthur muttered, voice thick. “You don’t get to die. Not after comin’ back. Not after all this.”

You cracked your eyes open — barely.
A ghost of a smile crossed your bloodied lips.

“I thought… maybe if I could see you again… it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

Arthur swallowed hard. Looked away.

“You came back just for me?”

You nodded, weakly.

Arthur leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Damn you,” he whispered. “I ain’t worth that.”

“Yes, you are,” you breathed. “Always were.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You didn’t die that night.

Maybe you should have.

But you didn’t.

And when Arthur woke beside your cot the next morning, slumped over and half-asleep, you opened your eyes.

Barely.

But enough.

His breath caught.

“Hey, sunshine,” you rasped.

And Arthur — Arthur, who had seen death in every form — smiled like a man who hadn’t lost everything after all.