HIGHWAYS & BYWAYS ⊳ arthur morgan x reader

━ ix

The diner is as empty as a ghost town, but you cannot care less. When the waitress arrives with only one menu, you practically rip it out of her hands.

Arthur is not so impatient, instead he simply demands 'the usual', then starts chatting with the young woman as you read through the menu. You manage to find something that suits your tastes in a fair amount of time, and say it out loud for the waitress to hear and write down.

The place is, aside from its desertion, cozy nonetheless. It has a certain aura you'd only expect encountering in a cottage: old, traditional, but welcoming.

"You're a regular?" It's both a statement and a question, and it's enough to make Arthur tilt his head to one side as he stares down at the cutlery set in front of him.

"Sure. Guess you could say that." He shrugs, takes the fork and knife in his hand, folds the tissue they were set on diagonally, then sets them back down on top of it. "Hosea used to bring me 'n John round these parts when we was still young."

You decide that you've heard the mention of the mysterious father figure of Arthur's quite enough. Not in the bad way, however — you just want him to cease being a mystery.

"Tell me about him." You urge Arthur on. It earns a confused glance from him, he can't quite understand what you're demanding. You can't blame him for it, your request was indeed a tad ambiguous. "Hosea, I mean. He sounds...nice."

"That he was— is." Arthur corrects himself. "Took me in when I was just a kid. Treated me like a son, gave me a family." A somehow sad smile settles on his features.

Silencw takes over once again. You want to ask him more about his past, and more specifically, his father figure, but you hesitate for a few seconds. Perhaps you're prying?

"How'd you meet him?" You manage to work up the courage. Arthur looks at you in slight surprise, as if he can't quite fathom the fact that you want to find out more about him.

But you do.

"It's a...real silly story." He says after a moment of reluctance. His gaze meets yours, and you realize he's seeking the confirmation he needs before clearing his throat and shifting in the wooden chair. "I...um, I was 'bout...13, 14, maybe? Still very young, that's for sure. I'd ended up in the orphanage a few years before. Some of the older kids would sneak out at night 'n pickpocket their way through the city, and soon enough, I'd decided to join 'em too. And things went well, at least for a little while. I'd picked a few pockets m'self, but I was mostly part of the distraction.

That was until one day I saw two men walking down a dimly lit street. One of 'em, who would later turn out to be Hosea's friend, looked like he could have a lot of money on 'im. I tried to convince the others to rob them, but they refused, for some reason. I decided to take the matter into my own hands and dupe 'em myself. Well, I did the classic trippin' and then leaning against someone trick, got the money, and started walkin' away. But I couldn't help myself, and just a few steps away from them, I peeked inside the wallet, and I—" Arthur suddenly stops, pinches the bridge of his nose in embarrassment, shakes his head. He looks very much ashamed to admit what followed. "I...dropped the damn thing when I saw how much there was inside. They obviously caught me."

You smile, both as a reaction to his story and in slight wonder that he's actually telling you this. You'd half expected him to turn you down and refuse revealing anything about his past, however it seems that Arthur Morgan is a man that finds pleasure in storytelling. Or at least when the audience is you. That makes you feel...special, in a very indirect but truthful way.

"And then?" You suppose encouragement is still welcome, especially seeing that he regards himself as a nuisance when he's talking. Arthur seems to appreciate your words.

"I ran. Or tried to. They was faster, stronger, and caught me before I could even blink. After making sure I'd given my pants a proper shittin', they asked me my name. N' then they let me go. Just like that. Next thing I knew, a few days later, a woman popped up at the orphanage and asked for a boy that fit my description and had my name. That was Bessie, Hosea's wife. Before I knew it, the adoption papers had been signed, too."

As if she has a sixth sense for perfect timing, the waitress appears out of the kitchen balancing a plate in each hand. One of them contains the dish you'd ordered, and the other, an almost ungodly amount of pancakes.

Both you and Arthur address her your kindest thank-you's before starting to dig into your meals. You're hungrier than you'd even thought you were. Part of your obliviousness regarding your own discomfort could be stemming from how comforting and distracting Arthur's presence is to you, but that's barely an assumption of yours, at least momentarily.

You look down at the meal in front of you, playing with the cutlery as suddenly two dots connect.

"Wait, so the man that helped you get into university, the one you mentioned in the car..." You stop to shove a portion of food into your mouth, chewing and swallowing quickly as Arthur looks up at you with a tilt of his head.

"Yeah?"

"Was that the same one you tried to steal from?"

He looks at you in pleasant surprise before nodding his head. He's suddenly lost interest in his portion of pancakes. "Ain't you a clever one."

"So that's a yes." You smile in victory, and want to push your luck further. You dig through your mind, trying to remember what exactly the man's name was. Something with D, you're sure about that. "What's his name, again? Douglas, or something?"

Arthur snorts, which can only be the product of a stifled laugh. Wrong answer it is, then. "Dutch." He corrects, the slightest trace of amusement still in his voice. "His name's Dutch."

You take it as some kind of half-victory. You don't know what exactly you're trying to prove, but you know it feels wonderful to see Arthur genuinely smile and also be the cause of it. "See, I'm practically a detective."

"Wouldn't go as far as sayin' that, seein' how you reacted with the canned peaches the night before."

If he were sitting beside you, you'd punch his shoulder. Only lightly, of course, but luckily, he's protected by the fact that he's sitting at the table across from you, and that said table holds two plates of good food.

When you look at his expression, you realize you couldn't punch him even if he was right beside you. Not with that look on his pretty face.