WOLFISH ⊳ arthur morgan x reader

Ch. XXIV

The rest of that blissful day had been a blur of fragile giggles, occasional roaring laughter, steaming stew, and warmth, blossoming deep inside your chest and burning hotter with each minute. Heaven on earth.

You couldn't complain — hell, you wished this could last forever. You wished Arthur could stay forever, but you knew that was a distant dream. He had obliged to spending another night at your ranch before returning to his gang. You'd agreed to his terms.

You had also pulled up a chair beside your bed for you to sleep on, which Arthur did not agree with in the slightest. He insisted he take his bedroll and sleep on the floor or that he take the chair, you insisted on the exact opposite, and after an unfortunate (or in your opinion actually quite fortunate) string of events, you both ended up sharing your bed.

You had fallen asleep faster than you would have liked to admit.

Arthur had jolted awake around midnight, startling you. He had been practically drenched in sweat, and you had taken it upon yourself to soothe him. Turns out — you were a lot better at it than you'd expected.

You had successfully distracted Arthur for whatever fantasy had been traumatic enough to get him in that pitiful state, and that only with the power of trivial, little stories that had happened to you in the past combined with soothing, careful brushes of your fingertips over his skin. Soon enough, Arthur had also started to take part in the exchange, and was now telling a story of his own.

"...and then, the next day, just as we was passin' by the butcher in Blackwater, the damned fool pipes up and asks me, with Dutch 'n Hosea watchin', if I liked the fish I bought the day b'fore." His sentence fell apart at the end, turning into amused snickers. Arthur's chest bumped against your back lightly, breath fanning the back of your neck. His calloused fingers traced gentle patterns over your forearms — though the touch had only taken place after explicitly given consent and encouragement for you. Not that you minded.

You snorted too, in spite of the fact that your mind had been miles away just seconds ago, you had still paid attention to his little anecdote. Something from his early twenties about how he had been sent out by his gang leader to catch a fish, and proudly returned home with a huge one...only for Dutch to realize he had actually bought it from the butcher the day after, while they were strolling through town.

You made and offhand comment about the fact that a particularly good fisher wasn't what you were looking for in a man anyways, which earned a hearty, melodious chuckle from Arthur, and caused his grip around you to tighten, alluding to somewhat of a hug.

"Does this happen often?" You asked, setting your palm over his knuckles and squeezing gently. "This whole...waking up thing, I mean."

"I guess." Arthur admitted, voice a shushed whisper. You could practically imagine the gears in his head turning, looking for the right words. "But that's what I got my journal for. B'sides, I ain't gonna be here every night to wake you, anyways. You'll have your rest."

That sentence did a particularly stellar job at reminding you that this bliss was built on a very much shaky basis. Whatever your new relationship with Arthur was, no matter how perfect it momentarily seemed, you knew his inevitable departure would follow, tomorrow, or the day after, if you got lucky. And while you really wanted to spend every second of the rest of your life with him, you knew it would be impossible to do so. Clandestine meetings seemed to be the only solution that worked within reason, and that terrified you more than you wanted to admit.

Aside from the fact that you felt like an absolute hypocrite for asking him to pay no mind to the future, but still doing it yourself. Goddamnit.

"That's not what I meant, Arthur. " You tried to explain, hooking an arm behind yourself, combing your fingertips through Arthur's locks as you thought. He shifted against you, forehead rested on the back of your neck while he embraced the physical affection with open arms and a soft grunt that made a shiver crawl up your spine. "What I was trying to say was that it all must be so draining. Everything. The other gangs, the law, the needs of your people- I wish...I wish I could..." You bit your lip. What exactly were you trying to say?

The foolish, borderline outrageous thought of running away with him crossed your mind, of becoming a gunslinger yourself.

Were you ready to become the very thing you had looked down on for all those years, ready to become what you had hunted?

One part of you screamed yes. You had fallen in love with such a man, after all. Surely, being an outlaw yourself could not cause more inner conflict than loving Arthur had. Which, surprisingly, was almost unsettlingly small.

On the other hand, you couldn't. What about aunt Cathy? The ranch? The life you had known and treasured?

"It's okay." Arthur's sigh against your flimsily clothed back caused some well-deserved goosebumps to flood your forearms. "Me too."

You could not think of an answer worthy of him. Worthy of the raw feeling you were overwhelmed with in that moment, worthy of your relationship with him. So you hoped intertwining your fingers with his and bringing his hand up to your lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the inside of his wrist would suffice.

To you, it didn't. To Arthur, however, it was more than enough.

You didn't need to look at him to know he was grinning, and that made you happy in a way you could not explain.

Not until the both of you flinched simultaneously at the skull-rattling knocks coming from somewhere outside your room.

You glanced at Arthur over your shoulder. His entire body was practically oozing tension as he positioned his frame above yours to push you down into the mattresses as if to shield you. He peeked out the window.

The hitch of his breath did not foretell good news.

"Shit." He hissed, shifting out of bed, gesturing for you to stay. "Pinkertons, I reckon. Or the law. Maybe both."

"But how—"

"Wonder how much Colm got paid for this crap." Arthur whispered back.

"What are we going to do?"

"You got a back door, or somethin'? Maybe—"

"Arthur Morgan! I know you are here, and I demand you come out of there right now with your hands above your head." Another three knocks, even stronger, followed by a kick against your front door and a warning shot. "You have twenty seconds until we set this building on fire."

Arthur scurried into a corner of the room, where he picked up his satchel and his rifle. You were about to ask him what he actual hell he thought he was doing, until he tossed you the rifle, then unrolled some rope. He positioned his hands behind his back and looked at you with urgency.

"Quick now, tie me up. Not too tight." Arthur instructed, and you complied. "You're gonna point that rifle to the back of my head as I walk out the door, and you're gonna ask for fifty percent of my bounty. Twenty, at the very least."

"And you? What about—"

"This ain't the first time I'll be escapin' from the law. If I don't show in three days, you write to the name Tacitus Kilgore and send that to the post office in Rhodes. Say Arthur needs help, nothin' more." The gunslinger instructed as he walked towards the front door, giving your aunt, who had also woken up and was confusedly staring at both you and Arthur, a curt nod. "Ma'am. 'S been a pleasure."

"(Y/n), what the hell-" She spoke up, but refrained from saying another word when she saw you and the rifle pointed at Arthur.

You didn't know if she had actually understood what was going on, or if she stopped talking from the sheer amount of confusion. You didn't even want to know, to be honest.

Arthur stopped in front of the door, giving you one last glance, which contained an equal amount of an unsaid farewell as it contained hope.

"Don't you worry 'bout me, (y/n). Now, come on."