Chapter Text
They are long gone by the time the clerk knocks on the door to demand his pay.
The day still has a few good hours of light in it; energetic from a day spent at rest, Dyani is more than impatient to pull ahead, prancing and parading within the firm hold Arthur has on her reins, and after sharing a look with Charles, he lets her have her will with Taima following suit.
They ride.
Luck is on their side, weather-wise – just a few clouds in the sky to interrupt the sunshine warming their shoulders yet the drop in temperature is undeniable as the road gets steeper, their horses' breaths more labored. Closing in on their target, closer still to the snow-laden slopes of the Grizzlies; its jagged ridges are painted red and gold by the setting sun, and despite the bad memories it brings, Arthur can't deny how beautiful the vista is, this far up North.
Regardless, he grumbles over the crunching of brittle ice under Dyani's hooves, “Sure as hell didn't miss this”, slightly muffled as he pulls the lapels of his thick, fur-lined coat up to his chin. A few weeks in the humid summer of Lemoyne and those miserable days they spent fighting both the cold and gnawing hunger seem like something out of a storybook.
“That ahead is Lobos territory”, Charles remarks behind him, not sounding too thrilled about it either. “We need our wits about us when we cross.”
“Mh. Camp?”
“Yeah.”
The prospect of a warming fire is as welcome as a respite from sitting in the saddle with his body this sore. It's got him stiff around the shoulders and wanting to wince every time he bends to set up the tent. Before long, Charles's hip nudges against Arthur's, his hands smoothly taking whatever Arthur was about to reach for next.
I got this, his eyes say but his mouth mercifully stays shut; Arthur squashes down the near-immediate flare of his pride – the indignant need to protest any help, his help – and nods.
He tends to the horses, then, muttering words of comfort as he throws one of the spare blankets over their backs and ties it around their necks. It's not a perfect solution, pitiful in fact but better than nothing to replace some of the thick fur they lost in gentler climates. “Just a few hours, ladies”, Arthur tells them, rubbing Taima's soft nose affectionately. “We'll be back an' at it in no time at all.”
With the fall of night swiftly approaching, the wind picks up considerably, slips through the seams and holes in Arthur's jacket and makes him shiver in the few steps it takes to join Charles by the fire.
“Ain't fair'a Dutch to send us back up here so soon”, he complains as he ducks into the tent, his hat taken off and thrown beside the two pushed-together bedrolls in its midst. Arthur shuffles into the space offered by Charles's open arms, too greedy for his warmth to comment on the teasing glint in his gaze.
“Not like them O'Driscolls're gonna wanna stick around here either, given their losses. They're dumb as the day is long but not that dumb.”
Charles's chuckle is but a huffed breath against his ear. He rests his chin on Arthur's shoulder, hands rubbing up and down his arms to spark some feeling back into his limbs. Around them, the tent trembles with every gust but it holds, keeping the worst of it at bay.
“Don't think we'll find anything either. Can't say I mind, though. Feels good to be back out here and just ride for a few days.”
Arthur hums, leans his temple against Charles's, smiling as the other's lips brush his jaw in a barely-there kiss. “Didn't have to join me in goin' stir-crazy in camp, Charles. I'd never ask that of ya.”
Charles's arms snake around his chest, holding Arthur steady against him in a way that feels oddly familiar. “You didn't have to”, he mumbles; and Arthur takes his hand, places it over the spot where his heart is melting through layers of clothing and skin and bone, just for him.
They stay like that, for a little while, watching the fire flicker to and fro in the storm, safe in each other's embrace. Arthur doesn't feel cold anymore, wrapped up in the walking furnace that is Charles, but after the second time he catches himself dozing off, he manages to convey they should settle in for the night between jaw-cracking yawns.
Only when he moves does he remember why he shouldn't – Arthur hisses a low ouch as the ache in his lower back reminds him pointedly it still exists.
Charles steadies him, looking a little blindsided himself as he asks, “Your shoulder?”, voice soft with concern.
“Nah, don't worry”, Arthur tells him, teeth clenching as he crawls into his bed roll and flops down on his side, sighing a moment later when Charles doesn't do the same.
“Charles, please, jus'... Trust me, 'kay? It's fine.”
Getting themselves comfortable is a silent affair, after that. Charles looks almost unsure of himself as he lifts their remaining blanket and waits for Arthur to decide what to do, and Arthur huffs and makes it clear he intends to sleep as close to Charles as he can get, chest-to-chest and with his hands digging under the back of his jacket until he meets skin.
“'m a bit sore, is all”, Arthur says into the sudden quiet, nuzzling his face into Charles's collar. “Don't want ya to feel guilty, or anythin' like that.”
Charles breathes a low “oh”, swallows, starts running his palm up and down Arthur's back the way he did just that morning. It's a force of nature, this ability he has to calm and soothe until his lids are heavy with sleep – this time, however, Arthur fights to stay awake, squeezing the softness around Charles's waist with loving hands.
“Don't go all shy on me now, Charles, I ain't complainin'. Only reason I'm not jumpin' your bones right about now is 'cause my dick'd freeze off before we'd get anywhere interestin'.”
Charles's laugh sounds all the more comforting up close, where Arthur's ear is pressed against his shoulder and he can hear it rumble from deep within. “Good to know we're on the same page, then.”
Then Charles sighs, his hand coming to rest over his hip, idle.
“I've never had... this. Something more– I don't know. Permanent? It makes me nervous, believe it or not.”
Arthur can't help it, that fluttery jump that his heart makes; he chews on his lip to stop himself from smiling, contents himself with thumbing the raised lines on Charles's back that he knows for a fact came from his own hands. He admits, “It's just us, y'know”, safe within the intimate space between Charles's neck and his jaw. “Just you an' me. Nothin' changing about that.”
Charles's hand is on the nape of Arthur's neck, now, covering it with fingers rough and calloused from work, and a lifetime of hardship. He says, “I'm glad I found you, Arthur Morgan”, voice quiet and full of emotion, something more, and Arthur would be hard pressed to remember a time when his name was said like that – like he is worth more than his good aim, and the violence his hands can cause.
Arthur wishes he could commit it all to paper, this moment in all its precious details: how every breath he takes carries Charles's scent; the distinct sound of his heart, beating in time with his; but he's always been better with a pen than with words, and Charles is drifting off, arms going slack around Arthur.
Tomorrow, he swears, finds the dip of Charles's scar on his cheek by memory and kisses it, carefully. I'll tell him tomorrow.