ᴍᴜʟᴛɪғᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇ | ᴏʟᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴇᴡ ғɪᴄs ғʀᴏᴍ ᴍʏ ɴᴏᴛᴇs

A Bit of Warmth, A Bit of You (Arthur Morgan x Male! reader)

Summary: bad day? don't worry ehehhe

Warning: ARTHURRRRRR MORGANNNNN, grumpy reader, male reader, fluff, soft,  wholesome, muah

based on this request, tq!

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 had been raining since dawn.

Not a soft, misty drizzle — no, this was the kind of southern downpour that came down sideways, that slapped the ground like it had a vendetta, that made you feel like the sky was trying to drown the world out of spite.

Which would've been fine, if you weren't stuck standing guard outside the goddamn camp.

Dutch, in all his wisdom, had declared that Lemoyne was "tense." Something about Pinkertons, something about locals being twitchy. It didn't matter. The result: you and Charles drawing watch duty on rotation, which meant you got to spend five solid hours on the edge of camp under a tree that wasn't nearly big enough.

The rain soaked through your hat in twenty minutes.

By the first hour, your boots were little bathtubs.

By hour three, you were pretty sure your spine had gone numb and your shirt had glued itself to your soul.

And by the time Charles tapped you out — bless his silent, thoughtful, dry-hatted self — you were nothing but a walking, dripping, grumpy silhouette of a man.

You didn't say a word to anyone on your way back.

Not to Pearson (who offered soup).

Not to Dutch (who was rambling at Micah again).

Not even to Javier (who whistled and said, "You look like a pissed-off river rat," which you took as a compliment, because talking would have taken effort).

You headed straight for the house.

Straight for Arthur.

He was in one of the side rooms of Shady Belle, seated on an old creaky chair near the window, sharpening a knife. His hat was off, his hair loose at the nape of his neck, sleeves rolled up.

He looked up when you stepped in.

Then blinked once.

"...You fell in the lake or somethin'?"

You glared, water dripping off your nose.

"Rain," you muttered.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "That ain't rain. That's you swimmin' through water."

You peeled off your jacket with an audible squelch and dropped it on the floor.

Arthur winced. "I—okay, you know what? Stay there. Don't move."

You grumbled something about "too late for dignity," but you didn't resist when Arthur stood, crossed the room, and tugged you gently by the wrist towards the cot.

"Sit your dumbass down before you catch somethin'," he said, already heading to the chest at the foot of the bed. "Jesus, you're shakin'."

"I'm not—" you began, but your teeth chattered halfway through.

Arthur shot you a look. "Not what? Cold? Soaked? A fool?"

You sniffed. "I was bein' responsible."

He pulled out a shirt — a soft, worn one you'd seen him wear on colder rides — and tossed it at your head.

"Then be responsible and don't die of pneumonia," he muttered.

You peeled off your wet undershirt (with some difficulty — it made an awful sucking sound), and tugged the dry one on. It smelled like tobacco and pine and something warm underneath it all. Him.

Arthur handed you a towel next and sat back down, watching you pat your hair with lazy amusement.

"...You look like a wet cat."

"Say that again," you warned.

"A real wet, surly barn cat," he repeated, smirking now. "All fluffed up and mean."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

You glared at him.

He smiled at you.

And for a minute, the only sound was rain pounding the roof and your own breath settling into something calmer.

Once you were mostly dry, Arthur stood again and, with no fanfare at all, peeled off his coat and sat beside you on the cot. Then he opened the coat like a blanket and tugged you under it, pulling you close with one arm.

You made a noise of protest — weak, instinctual — and he didn't even blink.

"Shut up," he said gently. "You're cold. M'sharing."

"...You're warm," you mumbled, surprised.

He leaned his head against yours.

"Yeah, well. Don't tell anyone."

You chuckled and let yourself relax into him, the weight of the day slowly bleeding out of your limbs. His hand found yours beneath the coat and squeezed it lightly.

"I like it when you take care of me," you whispered.

"I know."

"...You ever gonna let me return the favor?"

Arthur was quiet for a beat. "Maybe," he said. "But not tonight."

"Why not?"

He looked down at you.

"Because tonight, I get to keep you warm."

You stayed like that until the storm passed.

Tangled up, quiet, sharing body heat and dumb smiles.

And when the rain finally stopped, the world smelled like wet grass and second chances.

And you weren't cold anymore.

Not even a little.