WOLFISH ⊳ arthur morgan x reader

Ch. IV

"It ain't the best whiskey out there, but you're in no position to complain. Catch." Arthur mumbled before tossing a halfway spent bottle of whiskey in your direction. You used your uninjured hand and managed to do as he had demanded of you quite easily.

"Thank you, mister Callahan." You smiled at him thankfully and held the bottle using your thighs, then unscrewed the lid with one hand. Without a second thought, and almost too eagerly, you tossed a few swigs of the alcohol down your throat. The liquid burned pleasantly, leaving a toasty sensation behind in your gut. It didn't take much alcohol nor time for your head to get dizzy and for the pain to morph into numbness.

You hadn't even noticed Arthur retrieving a rag and approaching you reluctantly.

"Ain't gotta thank me for somethin' I picked off a dead man's corpse." Corpse? He paused for a second, processing his words and the subtle furrow of your brow. Then, he added a rushed: "Found 'im in the woods a few days ago. How's the uh...wound?"

"It's...not as painful anymore."

"Good. Here." He dropped the rag in your lap, then casually strode away, towards his horse.

You picked up the piece of fabric, which admittedly did look like it had seen better days, and dampened it with some of the whiskey.

Meanwhile, Arthur was cutting the ropes that secured the wolf carcass to his horse. You couldn't help but stop to watch: How easily he'd lifted it off the steed's back, how easily he'd carried it closer to the campfire like it was nothing, how he kneeled down next to it, and how he did finally catch you staring, then looked down to hide a smirk under the edge of his hat.

"You sure you wanna put that much alcohol on an open wound?" He nodded at the rag, which you had accidentally soaked with whiskey by then. You were fully aware of that, of course you were, you'd treated injuries before, and yet—

"I think I can handle it." Damned be your stubbornness and pride. You folded the fabric neatly, hoping that it would give you more precision when cleaning your wound.

"Sure." Arthur shrugged, and, without another word, pushed his hunting knife into the wolf's belly, slashing a straight line across it. There was something oddly...calming about the sound of ripping flesh, considering the context of it: belonging from the beast that had almost gotten the best of you.

You spun yourself around a bit, just enough to face away from him, and undid the top buttons of your shirt. Peeling off the blood-soaked fabric from your gash was just about as pleasant as you'd expected.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, then brought the rag against the tender flesh. A hiss of pain slipped from your mouth, and you had to clench your jaw to stop any other sound of utter displeasure from escaping.

Arthur only watched you wordlessly, an amused look plastered on his face, which practically screamed 'I told you'.

You did your best to ignore him and carried on with nursing your wound. That however was made nearly impossible from the waves of pain going through you at even the smallest touch.

Come on. You'd been foolish enough to claim you could take it, and you'd be damned if you were going to back down now. You squeezed your eyes shut, clutched the rag tightly—

"You either got a knack for pain or ain't ever treated an injury before, so which one is it?"

Pride, you wanted to say, but refrained. You didn't need to open your eyes to know he'd stood up and began walking towards you—the sound of a knife being sheathed and rustling of fabric were enough to give it away. "Neither." You answered through gritted teeth, pressing the rag to the injury. Setting your skin on fire could've been considered a pastime compared to this.

"Gimme that." His big hand was on top of yours and pulled it away—his grip was cautious but firm—then peeled off the rag as well. "Now, unless you're eager to be the first person to get a hangover from treatin' an injury, you mix the alcohol with water. Clean water."

A quick glance over your injured shoulder confirmed that he was unscrewing a flask. He took the lid between his teeth, then poured out some of the content, which you guessed was water, onto the rag.

He twisted you around unexpectedly gently, so that your back faced him, and dabbed the cloth over the wound.

An awkward silence plagued the air, nothing but the hushed sounds of his and your breath to fill it. From the slight reluctance in his moves, you could only guess he wasn't used to touching others a lot. Or at least not treating injuries.

You took that as a good sign—Arthur Morgan was, as far as you knew, part of a gang. A really important part too. It would only make sense for him to be extroverted and good at communicating. Which this Arthur clearly...wasn't the best at.

You almost caught a part of you hoping this man wouldn't be the outlaw you were after. Wouldn't it be a shame, after all? He seemed genuinely kind.

You supposed there was only one way to really find out.

"And what brought you to the Cotorra springs, mister Callahan?"

It was obvious your question had startled him in the slightest: Arthur drew in a deep breath, and momentarily stopped the careful process of cleaning your wound.

"The wolf." He answered simply.

That sounded like a rather...bland purpose. Perhaps he was a hunter? No, that couldn't be it. The wolf hunting season, as far as you knew, started in the autumn. September, if you were correct. "The wolf? That all?"

"Why, you wanna know where to act as bait the next time too?" He asked, and you could literally hear out the smirk in his tone.

"Well, I-" You were cut off when the bloodstained rag was dropped in your lap.

"You can take care of the bitemarks on the front, can'tcha?" He shuffled away from you. You heard him plop down next to the campfire, a few meters away from the wolf carcass. "I guess you could say I'm just here to earn some fair money."

That sounded both exactly like the Arthur Morgan you'd imagined, but at the same time, radically different.