HIGHWAYS & BYWAYS ⊳ arthur morgan x reader

━ xvi

You wake up to a thud and a string of whispered swearwords. The room is inky dark, just like the sky outside, but you can make out a few things if you squint.

First of which being the fact that Arthur is missing from his bed. Secondly, the fact that he's in the corner of the room, digging through his humbly packed suitcase, looking at you wide-eyedly over his shoulder.

"Sorry, 'd I wake ya?" The familiar voice rasps, low and rugged. Arthur straightens up, hands still wrist-deep inside the bag.

"Yeah, but it's..." You sit up, pushing the blanket off your torso. The air around you is unusually warm, but you can only assume that's because of New Austin itself. "It's alright. Something wrong?"

"No, I was just—" He looks down at his hands, them back at you. "Was havin' a bit of a headache. Didn't mean to wake ya."

A second later, he retrieved a foil of pills from the bag and pops them into his mouth.

You fold your legs against your chest, propping your elbow on your knee, then resting your cheek on the top of your palm as you look at Arthur. You're feeling bold — unusually so.

"I know a better cure for headaches." You speak up, though you have no proof to support your claim. You doubt Arthur cares.

"Do ya, now?" He responds with a lopsided smile that is meant to mirror your own. "And what would that be?"

You sling your legs over the edge of the bed, standing up languidly and slowly with calculated movements. It reminds Arthur of a sunrise, but it's much prettier. Especially considering the way you raise your hands above your head and stretch your entire body.

"Help me move my bed next to yours, I'll show you."

Arthur chokes on his breath. He doesn't know what shocks him most — the realization or your nonchalance. It takes him a good few seconds of mental recollection and a fierce blush to return to functionality, but he complies. Always eager to be of use, he rushes to one side of the bed and does most of the work in moving it so that it's glued to his.

Whoever's room is below theirs must be terribly unlucky.

You crawl on top of the mattresses, letting yourself fall on the pillow that belongs to you. He's still frozen beside the bed, looking as of he's weighing out his options. What if you're still under the influence of alcohol? You'd regret this in the morning, he's sure.

You take the other pillow, the one Arthur had used, then place it on your lap before beckoning him closer. Confused, he approaches, a small huff escaping him when you coax him into setting his cheek on top of the pillow you've put on your stomach. His shoulder grazes the side of your left thigh, just barely. He's laying sideways across the bed, his feet dangling off the edge.

Of course, he should've figured. Even drunk, you couldn't have possibly been that nonchalant about...well, Arthur doesn't know what exactly. But he loathes himself for the thoughts that have crossed his mind, almost enough to make his headache seem pleasant.

A hand combing through his hair stops his thoughts from racing, puts a definitive end to it all, leaves everything blank. It's almost terrifying how much power the simplest of caresses have on him, but he'd have it no other way. Arthur closes his eyes when you repeat the demure contact.

"Told you it'd work." The smirk on your face is victorious. There's the slightest hint of alcohol still on your breath, but then again, it's only been an hour since the two of you have supposedly gone to sleep. That explains a few things.

Arthur shifts to lay on his back. His breath catches in his throat when you trail your fingertips through his scruff.

"Thank you." He rasps. He doesn't know what for.

You huff in slight and loving amusement.

"Is it bad?" You decide to ask instead.

"What, the headache?" Arthur peeks at you with only one eye. "A walk in the park compared to chest pains."

You frown. Why chest pains, of all things?

In spite of the haze caused by the aftermaths of amaretto, your mind instantly rewinds to the day you'd met Arthur, and him mentioning some health issues he used to have a while back.

You approach the subject with caution and mindfulness, in spite of your nonchalance a few minutes back. Arthur likes the duality of your inebriation.

"What kind?" You ask. "Like heart attack chest pains, or asthma, or enterocolitis..."

"I think enterocolitis affects the stomach."

You shake your head. Yes, now that he mentions it, it does. But that's not what you mean. He's avoiding the subject, you say.

Arthur's gaze looks you up and down, as if he cannot quite fathom why you'd care enough to ask. The lingering touch on his cheek begs to differ, a physical momentary proof that you do care. "Tuberculosis." Arthur answers after a moment of hesitance. Both his eyes are open now, you note, and in search of a reaction.

"I'm sorry."

"What're you feelin' sorry for?" He has to pause to bring stability back to his voice when your hand brushes over his neck and goosebumps flood his skin. Benevolence is not something he encounters often in his life, and while you can't figure out why, the way he reacts to it is encouragement enough for you to continue. "I deserved every second of it."

Maybe he is the one who has deprived himself of it all, you wonder.

"I doubt that." You respond, though it sounds anything but argumentative. It's loving, kind.

"Got it while I was beatin' up some poor fellow that owed one of Dutch's friends money." He explains. Arthur's expression is hard and almost spiteful. It hurts to know it's aimed at himself. You try to coax it away by smoothing your palm over his left cheek.

It works, to some extent. He places his hand over yours, which makes it seem much smaller.

"You've been nothing but good to me, Arthur." Your thumb rubs at his cheekbone, over the weathered skin. "You've been nothing but wonderful ever since the moment I've met you."

He likes to think he's not a hopeless romantic, but judging by the way his heart flutters from nothing but your words — god knows, he might be one after all.

Arthur is at a loss of words. He wants to argue, not with you, but with what you think he is, yet he's deemed silent and hopelessly wordless when you cup his jaw.

His head is buzzing so loudly, he almost fears you can hear it. Arthur's searching for something to say. Forgetting even the simplest of trivialities suddenly seems plausible when you lean over him, your breath tickling his lips.

Arthur lifts himself off the mattress on his elbows, mouth grazing yours, but not daring to take what you're offering him.

He wonders how he's lived for so long and almost forgotten the rush of feeling another pair of lips on his own. It's an old sensation made new, but much more intense, it leaves him tingling all over, pressing upwards when you lick his bottom lip.

One of his hands finds your hair and buries itself in it. He's not demanding, not even in the subtlest of ways. His grip on you isn't strong nor firm, it's like he's holding something he's afraid might break if handled too roughly.

When you pull away, forehead rested against his, just as breathless as him, Arthur smirks.

"Guess it worked." He quips. "My headache's much better."

The breathless giggle that he receives as a response is sweeter than any love song he's heard.