ANYTHING, ANYONE ⊳ arthur morgan x reader

━ iii

They return with tiredness etched into their expression and putrid hate in their eyes. Dutch looks the most frightening, imposing as always, riding ahead in front of the group. The men are covered in blood (both their own and their victims'), dust, and sweat.

You don't notice the sharp glances Arthur receives right away, but they're there. You can feel them.

You've brought Isaac outside to feed him, he sits on your lap, nibbling on his fingers like he can feel the tension as well. You know it's serious if even a baby can sense something is wrong.

"Maybe if Arthur hadn't been so busy bein' a mommy to some whore's child, we coulda set up the dynamite on time!" Davey Callander barks, it sounds so low and animalistic that you for a second fear a dog has walked into camp and started talking.

But no. It's just Davey, with Mac trotting up behind him.

The sight promises trouble.

Arthur frowns and squares his shoulders as he jumps off his horse and darts towards the brothers. Scratch the dog comparison, they all look like roosters puffing up their feathers, ready to gouge each-other's eyes out. It's terrifying to witness, you turn Isaac towards yourself so that he can't see them. Arthur clenches his fists, his chin is raised when he talks to Mac. "It ain't my fault Williamson butchered the—"

"Gentlemen." Dutch appears almost out of nowhere, places one hand on each of their chests, pries Davey, Mac and Arthur apart slowly but firmly. "Gentlemen. Ain't anyone's fault things was the way they was, save for that damn conductor's."

Mac has a retort on the tip of his tongue, Dutch cuts him off by nodding towards the man's tent. "Mister Callander, you and your brother must be tired by now." Dutch turns towards the rest of the men with an air of calmness and superiority. "All of you must be. Get some rest, men, this ain't over."

Both Arthur and some others sigh, but listen to what Dutch says. It's terrifying to witness how much control one person has over the men, you cannot imagine how empowering it must feel. All that raw power at one's fingertips, ready to execute anything that is ordered.

Arthur finds you with his gaze, a small smile forms on his lips. Tiredly, with languid, but wide steps, he makes his way past his leader, in your direction.

Dutch grabs Arthur's arm with force and firmness, the enforcer stops dead in his tracks. "A word with you, Arthur?" Dutch's tone is different and honeyed no more, he speaks through a clenched jaw.

Arthur frowns, but accepts with a plain nod.

"We need you here, Arthur. With us." Dutch begins his speech as he drags the man towards the periphery of the camp. "You ain't been nothin' but absent ever since that—"

You don't get to hear much more, Isaac starts to mess around with the food inside the bowl. He clumsily smears it over his own face with his little hands, then grins at you widely.

You sigh, but can't hold back a small amused sigh of your own.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Isaac is already asleep when Arthur returns. Abigail and Pearson have helped you build a provisionary baby bed out of old wooden crates and blankets, which Isaac seems to like, at least to some extent.

The enforcer looks bigger even when he ducks under the leather flaps of his tent to step inside. The blood on his face and hands does his intimidating aura no favors.

"How're you feeling?" You speak up, though your tone remains quiet. You'd hate waking up Isaac.

Arthur blinks like he can't quite believe you've just asked him that. He takes a second to process the question, until a gentle smile settles on his lips.

Arthur shakes his head, gaze downcast. "Don'tcha worry 'bout me, I've taken far worse than this."

You look at him like you care, he thinks he could get used to something like that. "Doesn't make it any more pleasant, though, does it?"

He smirks at your knowing gaze, shrugs his shoulders as if he can't be bothered to come up with a response worthy of your observation. It's true — he can't.

"Wanted to...thank ya. Again. For takin' care of Isaac today." Arthur frowns, words don't come easy to him when he's saying nice things. But he tries. You can appreciate the intention. "It...It's— You're kind."

You shake your head, his frown deepens. How could you be in dispute about something so true?

How can a woman that has nothing to do with him and offers to take care of his child not be kind?

You give him an explanation as you walk towards him and pick up a dampened rag you've set on his bedside table.

"I'm just doing what I think is right. He's— Well, I don't know the whole story, but I don't think your son deserves what he receives from Dutch. No child does." You put your hand on his shoulder, squeeze it softly. Blood stains your palm, but you don't let your expression shift into one of repulsion.

You figure Arthur has been treated with enough of it already.

"You should clean up a little, mister Morgan." You quip and drop the rag in his hands. Almost by command, he unfolds it and runs it over his weathered visage with rough movements, as if he can't quite stand the thought of his own face. He bunches up the fabric in his fist once he's done.

A spot on his left temple is still smudged with blood.

You make a sign towards your own face and where the stain roughly is, giggle when he scrubs more furiously. Only a smidge too low, unfortunately.

You roll your eyes, however playfully, and Arthur finds that it's a sight he could see himself smiling at. The rag is taken out of his hands with a professional movement, it's a reminder of how good of a thief you are. Your other palm comes to rest on his jaw as you angle his face downwards. Arthur closes his eyes, the apples of his cheeks turn a slight, barely visible red when you exhale more sharply in amusement.

The blood stain is gone, and you for a second fear he's figuratively swallowed his heart. He looks the part.

"There." You say with an air of finality as the rag is pressed into his hand again.

Arthur is left speechless, watching you like a blind man that's seeing for the first time. You pass by him and exit his tent.

"Take care, Arthur." You give him one last glance over your shoulder, he nods almost solemnly, but can't bite back a small, gentle grin once you're out of sight.