HIGHWAYS & BYWAYS ⊳ arthur morgan x reader

━ xv

"That'd be sixty dollars for a room." The receptionist chews on her bubblegum dejectedly, her mouth hanging open as she looks at you, then at Arthur with apathy. With every passing second, your urge to take hold of her neck and wring the life out of her grows stronger and stronger.

Alas, this is the only motel in Armadillo, so you have to refrain.

"How are the, uh, beds?" Arthur speaks up as he reaches inside the pocket of his jeans for his wallet. "'N does the price vary?"

"Nah, it's the same." She answers on a low, monotone voice, studying her nails.

Arthur looks almost...dare you say, nervous as he looks at you and swallows.

"You choose."

Of course he is going to shift the dread of picking an option onto you, being the gentleman he is. He does not attribute the qualities of a leader to himself, not now, nor usually, which you suppose comes from a good place. He'd much rather give up the position of power to you than cause you any discomfort. You find that kind of thoughtfulness lovely.

"We'll have the..." You begin, but lose your bravado the moment you open your mouth. "We...um..."

Silence ensues, the receptionist uses that as an opportunity to glance at her reflection in the dead computer screen on her desk and apply some lipstick. She over-lines her lips, but you suppose the Ronald McDonald-esque look suits her quite well and don't bother letting her know.

Instead you look at Arthur, gesture at her.

"You pick." You say, but he shakes his head.

"No." He answers, waves one hand dismissively. "I insist-"

"Christ almighty." The clerk refuses to wait, instead opens a drawer, fishes out a key, then tosses it at you. You manage to catch it, just about. "Here, separate beds. Now give me the money and get."

You suppose your luck of encountering good people (such as, say, Arthur, for example) had to be cut short by meeting someone like her.

"Talk about customer service." You mutter under your breath as Arthur gives her the demanded sum.

Her mouth hangs slightly agape, not from shock, but from not mustering the energy to close it. She looks at you with apathy that's coated with murder around the edges. You'd find it terrifying if it weren't for her ridiculously applied makeup. "I ain't here to entertain you, honey."

You suppress the urge tell her that, well, technically, clowns are supposed to entertain, and nod your head. You hum, though it sounds anything but approving.

Arthur turns around, then nods for you to accompany him.

"Jesus Christ, what's her issue?" You whisper while following him out of the lobby and towards the rooms. Arthur glances at the number engraved on the key, then at the numbers on the wooden doors before he speaks.

"Not just her. Staff's rude 'round here, since it's the only motel in town. Ain't never met a person who'd rather sleep on the dusty streets than in here, so they can afford it." He trots along the corridor, eyes skipping over each door before they return to you. He stops in his tracks. Arthur takes notice of your still upset expression and mends it with a weak but well-meaning smile. "Don't take it personally."

Arthur approaches the door with the number 45, starting to unlock it.

You stop by his side, leaning against the wall beside the door and cross your arms. "I won't take a Ronald McDonald-looking woman's words all too seriously, don't worry."

"Ronald McDonald? Nah." From the way his shoulders tense, it's obvious he's holding in a laugh. "Looked more like Bozo to me."

With that, the both of you cackle as you enter the room.

It's not exactly spacious, but it offers up a small bathroom and two separate beds, only about half a meter apart. A table with an ancient, dusty TV is nestled in one of the corners. All in all it's not modern, nor of any opulent tastes, but, just as Arthur promised, it's clean.

You can live with that.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You don't know how much time you spend by laying down, alternating between looking at the ceiling or at Arthur, who is in the same position as you on the other bed.

Hours pass, though they feel like minutes as the two of you joke and talk throughout the entire afternoon and evening. After that, growing hungry, the two of you decide to pay a visit to a supermarket for food and, upon Arthur's insistence and your eager approval, alcohol.

The evening ends up being quiet, in spite of the booze. You lay on your stomach on the mattress, head propped on one hand, plastic cup of amaretto loosely held in the other. Inebriated, you're a little bolder. Overwhelmed with affection, you don't even bother hiding it. You look over at Arthur's bed and him with a soft smile, soaking up every word he says as you sip on your drink and he nurses his whiskey.

He's telling you about past lovers, more specifically, Mary. About how her father insisted she doesn't marry him. How heartbroken he was over her remaining loyal to her family and turning him down.

But also how it ended up working in his favor, after all. You can't muster the boldness to ask how exactly, but something about the demure way his lips stretch into a smile and his gaze lingers on you tells you all you need to know.

You return the favor, feeding him information you'd only revealed to very few people about various topics. Past lovers, fears, anything that comes to mind and is somehow loosely connected to the subject that came before it, though you're sure your sober self could never figure out the correlation.

The evening becomes a back and forth of soul-baring and alcohol.

You can't quite pinpoint when you fall asleep, but the rasp in Arthur's voice isn't doing you any favors.

The last thing you can remember is the rustle of a blanket as it's being tugged over you.