WOLFISH ⊳ arthur morgan x reader

Ch. XVI

[I had a busy week so far and just wanted to get this out asap! Written while I was on the verge of dropping dead from lack of sleep, so excuse any errors. Please do point them out, since I'll take care of them in the morning. I just really didn't want to leave all of you on a lack of updates for too long, and also celebrate the fact that this booklet has reached #1 in the rdr2 tag — for now, at least. Thank you for reading!]

Arthur had reluctantly followed you to the bartender, where you had asked and paid for a room. In spite of your still slightly inebriated state, the two of you had made your way to the assigned dormitory in orderly silence.

Disappointment seemed to be a foreign term when it came to the room you would be staying in. It looked effortlessly lavish, with a huge queen sized bed in the middle, decorated with shiny red duvets, a white velvet couch in the back of the room, just in front of the windows.

You flinched when the hiss of a match getting set on fire rang out behind you, and the room was flooded by warm, orange light. Arthur had lit his lantern and set it on the nightstand.

Good lord, if you'd tried denying the fact that he was dashingly handsome before, it was indisputable now. He was absolutely gorgeous, bathed in the low lamp light that caught on his sharp, rugged features, but especially in his blue-green irises, which were then of some yet undiscovered, impossibly warm aquamarine. As a whole, Arthur looked tired, but at the same time soft, especially with the bruise on his jaw then in full bloom of vivid indigo.

He grit his teeth, touching the tender injury with his fingers before his gaze slowly found yours, and he caught you staring.

"How's your jaw?" You asked, and suddenly the carpet in the middle of the room was the most intriguing thing in the world.

"The fella could punch for a pianist, I'll give him that." Arthur answered with a grunt.

"I honestly thought he'd rather spare his hands from punching you, but I was wrong."

"He was a fool, alright." Arthur scoffed when you grasped the sleeve of his shirt and tugged him towards the bed. "I'd choose the piano over my ugly mug. Hell, I'd choose just about anythin' over it."

You frowned, but didn't look at him. Surely, he couldn't have meant that? Was it some kind of drunken joke you hadn't understood?

A glance at his expression confirmed otherwise. Arthur had very much meant it.

That made a deep, dull ache settle in your chest. "You know you're not ugly, right?"

"N' you know that's the alcohol talkin'." He answered, easily freeing his arm from your loose grip, padding over towards the white velvet settee. "I'll take the couch."

"I ordered a room for two people, you know."

"Exactly. A bed 'n a couch."

You sighed, but at least had the sensibility to realize that bending Arthur's will required superhuman strength. Which you, especially considering your current state, were not going to muster.

"Let me have a look at that bruise first."

"'S just a damn scratch."

"A scratch I caused." You argued, then pointed at the invitingly plush mattress. "Now sit."

"I ain't your dog."

"Never said you were." Part of you told you to just let him be, the other told you to use the moment to your advantage and pull a gun on him or point a knife to his throat, or for god's sake, do something, and the other told you to insist, and that he deserved this at the very least. You decided for the latter, for unknown reasons. "Besides, I don't think it's against the law to let someone help you, for once, Arthur."