WOLFISH ⊳ arthur morgan x reader

Ch. XXI

[Have this, since my speed in writing has increased by a lot lately, for whatever reason. I'm trying to take advantage of it as much as I can before it eventually goes away. Trying to emulate Arthur's writing style was both a blast and a nightmare lol. Enjoy♥️]

After an idleness of roughly ten minutes, which you had used to sort your thoughts, you decided you had spent just about enough time sitting around. You wanted make yourself useful, and the first thing that came to mind was washing Arthur's bloodsoaked clothes and stitching up the holes.

But you couldn't deny your little hero some spoiling either. Especially not when he had padded up to your side and nuzzled his head under your hand with a tired yawn. Lobo was deserving of some recognition. So you dished out the finest meat you could find in the house and served it to Lobo, all while whispering words of praise and scratching him behind his ears.

When all that was done and your dog had curled up in the corner of the room, you blinked away the tiredness from your eyes and stood up. You lazily walked into the kitchen, cleaned the blood off the floor, then picked up Arthur's clothes and a washbasin. You started with his plain white shirt, which was an absolute pain to clean. Second came his jacket, which you noticed seemed...unusually heavy. You checked the pockets by patting them down — lo and behold: there was a booklet in one. No, not a booklet, you realized as you retrieved it, but his journal.

You shouldn't be prying, you knew that. That object, that small, trivial little notebook, which was in your hands right now, presumably held all of Arthur's thoughts and hopes and dreams—

And drawings.

You told yourself that, well, it wasn't technically prying, seeing as he had shown you the drawing of the white horse before. He wouldn't mind you looking at it a second time, would he?

Of course not. You wouldn't peek at anything else, obviously.

With that in mind, you began flipping through the pages, quickly enough to not allow yourself to make out any words, just the drawings. Your jaw almost dropped at all the picturesque illustrations you'd stumbled across. Places and people and animals and plants, and all of them drawn so utterly true to life that even looking at them felt like seeing them with your own eyes, as if you'd been there in person when he had put those artworks on paper.

No. You were prying. You were only looking for the white Arabian, not—

A drawing of Lobo made you stop abruptly. He was drawn in a sitting position, facing towards you — or Arthur, in that case — with his head curiosity tilted and ears perked. The curious glimmer in his eyes had been captured perfectly.

Woke up to a dog licking my face. A German Shepherd, I reckon. Cheerful little fellow. I wonder who he belongs to?

More than curious now, you turned over the page, where you found a quick sketch of a wolf pelt. And on the other side, one of you, scowl on your face as you stared at a minimalistically drawn bottle of whiskey.

Saved a woman from the wolf I had been out hunting for. (Y/n) was her name. (Y/n) (l/n). She said she was looking for her dog so I connected the dots and told her I had found it. I offered to take her to my camp, where the dog was.

She was scared of going with me, which I cannot blame her for. I offered her some of my supplies so she could nurse her wound. I have no idea why I did that. Maybe Williamson is right and I have truly gone soft, or maybe she was acting like such a fool that it only seemed natural for me to help. I offered her to stay overnight, since I didn't particularly like the thought of finding her dead in the morning.