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Was one of the first things Arthur noticed about the boy, how frail he seemed. Given the circumstances, it's easy to overlook—malnourished, tied to a post, tortured. But even after he'd been granted vagility, access to proper (if occasionally scarce) products of survival, Kieran retained that look of illness. Not carried in his face or organs, Arthur knows, the boy isn't wan nor did he often halt his work to rest, rather, there was a quirk within his gait, his posture.
It takes a few long weeks of observation for Arthur to pinpoint what it is that sets Kieran apart physically from the other men in camp, playing busy at putting something in his journal when he was, in truth, watching Kieran tend the horses. His legs are queer, that is the root of things. Set in his bones, it appeared, a pain or break that never healed properly. A bit bowlegged, but most men of Arthur's company were. His knees aren't rightly aligned, though, sort of kicked out at subtle yet opposite angles, and Arthur catches him walking to overcompensate this—knock-kneed when idle, widely gaited when moving.
Arthur finds himself watching even after he's drawn this conclusion. Ever since they'd gone fishing, a membrane has been pierced, a threshold stepped through. Arthur tails the boy with his eyes as he sets up his fire for the evening, inventories the way he takes extra care when easing himself down to sit.
He's hurt, Arthur thinks. He's hurt and he ain't telling anyone.
Arthur, unsure how to proceed, brings it up to Hosea first.
"Notice that O'Driscoll's got himself a funny little walk?"
"Mm, I had." Hosea nods, uses the edge of his thumb to turn over the next page of the newspaper he's browsing. "Figured he'd got taken out and whipped for something before we got ahold of him."
"What I was thinkin' too."
"Shame," Hosea says plainly, "Such a young age to be deformed."
"Thought at first it was just a confidence issue."
Hosea chuckles. "You had that same drawn look when we took you in. Dutch thought for a while you were affected."
Arthur frowns. "Weren't ever as bad as how Kieran slinks around," he grumbles.
"No, but you slouched an awful lot." Hosea looks up from his paper, his eyes tightened by a smile. "Then you got big and mean and that sorta withered out."
"Don't think Kieran's gonna hit a growth anytime soon." And with that, Arthur eases off the tree he'd been leaning on and goes about his day, a bit embarrassed, but at least confirmed in his suspicions.
It takes him several days to get around to visiting the boy. Hard to find time between basic errands, catch a moment when he feels camp attention isn't set heavy upon him.
When that time comes, it is dusk. Arthur steps up to the fire and plants his boots wide, gives his hat a customary tip of greeting when Kieran looks to him.
"Gonna—You gonna sit, Mr. Morgan?"
"Sure." And Arthur does, holds his hands out toward the meager flame then sets them between his knees.
"Nice night," says Kieran. Filling the air.
Arthur nods.
"Uh—I'm not meanin' to come off rude, but did-did you come by for… for somethin'? Or are you—"
"You got a peculiar gait to ya," Arthur says bluntly.
"Oh?" Kieran tilts his head, eyes flitting to Arthur then back to where his titchy fire is beginning to dwindle. He contemplates this for a moment, his brow drawn tight. "Y-You mean... you mean my legs, don't you."
"Legs, mostly. Wrists, too, by the look of things."
Embarrassed, Kieran covers the edge of one hand with the other, rubbing ruefully, a fine tremor to his movements. "I-I...." He stops, swallows. "When I was a babe, I w-wasn't—My ma had only the teat to give me, didn't eat well aside from that... Weren't nothing to eat. Made me… a little hinky."
"It hurt?"
"What? No... Not now, anyways. N-Not... usually." Kieran shrugs, his jittery hands finding pieces of grass to tedder from the soil, face turned downward. "Just gotta account for it, before I do somethin'."
"Sure."
"Like when I carry a saddle, a bag of feed—I ain't... It ain't like I can't, I just gotta be careful with the weight."
"Noticed that."
"O-Oh." Kieran's face flushes, barely discernible in the low glow of the fire. "I try not to—I try—"
"I was watching," Arthur says. "Figurin' out if you was hurt or not."
"N-No, I ain't... hurt."
A tense silence heaves itself between them.
"You were... watchin'?" Kieran asks, his voice watery with nerves.
"Mm." Arthur isn't ashamed to admit it so plainly. "Reasoned you'd go runnin' off one of these days. Comin' to realize maybe you don't got the capability."
"I—I wouldn't...!" Firmer, he repeats, "I wouldn't."
"Can't."
"I could...! But I—there's nothing out there worth... I don't know what you think I-I'd be runnin' toward."
"Colm—"
"I already told you, I was hardly—"
"Colm, is what I first thought. Can see now... that's not it."
"Weren't lying when I told you all I w-was hardly a boot-boy," he mutters. "He ain't so kind to turncoats anyhow. Ain't so kind in general"
Arthur hums. The fire pops, some coals shift, settle, and wink darker. From behind, Karen's intoxicated laugh rings out.
"You go to Strauss about it?"
"No... I don't—I mostly keep to myself." Kieran chances a look in Arthur's direction, whips his face away just as quick, and mutters something that sounds like, "'Cept for you. Only one who comes around."
Arthur doesn't say anything.
"And it ain't—It's been this way all my life. Not sure if there's anythin' to even be done about it."
"Mm."
"It don't affect me too much," Kieran says. He sounds somewhat sullen, like he's trying to convince himself more than he is his company.
"Weren't tryin' to bother you about it."
"You ain't… S-Surprised you noticed, is all."
Arthur considers this. How Kieran does not call attention to himself. Not when he was with Colm, if his word is to be believed. Has spent his time with the Van der Lindes trying to avoid drawing any eyes his direction, always an unassuming distance from the others, demonstrating his understanding of placement. Not encroaching, not fleeing, set perfectly among the horses or quietly by the water.
"You happy where you are?" Arthur asks in hopes to sway the subject just a bit.
Kieran's eyes get owlish and he looks directly at Arthur before his nerve vanishes and he returns to the pile of grass he's plucked. "S-Suppose so… N-Not so bad, when I ain't bein' ridiculed or-or threatened. Happenin' less but… " He worries his bottom lip. "Got some beautiful horses here…"
Arthur's about to respond when Sean's drunken braying calls out from the main fire. "Ar'tur Moooorgin!" over and over like the hellish clanging of a very Irish bell.
Arthur grimaces, gets to his feet. "Won't let up till I entertain 'im," he explains, half apologetic.
Kieran nods his understanding and with that, Arthur departs.
Some days later, Arthur asks, "You have any cures might work for when a fella's got weak bones?"
Strauss squints at Arthur from over the rims of his spectacles. It's very likely Hosea has talked to him about Arthur's sudden concern toward Kieran, even more likely he's glimpsed Arthur squatting beside the fire, making conversation. "Nothing miraculous, but I surely have some treatment options...," he answers vaguely. He stands and bends at the waist to open a steamer trunk. "I'm assuming you do not mean a broken bone."
"Naw... Jus' weak. If that's anythin' to work off of."
"Weak," he repeats in a whisper. Strauss turns back around with a large, leather bound book, sets it at his table, and using his finger as a guide, skims the index. "Defective nutriment," he says with a measure of confidence. He flips some pages, lands on the desired one.
"Come again?"
"Affliction or disorder caused by inadequate nourishment."
"Alright…" Arthur scratches at his chin then puts a palm down on the table top, angles his head to read some of the text, but realizes quickly it is not printed in English and rights himself again. "Anythin' within our means to treat… that?"
Strauss hums as he looks the passage over. "Within our means… I'd say dietary supplements. Foods such as eggs, cheese, most types of fish. And outside of our means, do not strain the bones. Do not overwork. If that is something you or this… 'fella' can manage, I recommend it." Strauss gives Arthur a pointed look, a knowing look, then folds closed the book.
Arthur's hand wavers slightly as he feeds another slender log to the fire, a jolt of energy snaking through him. What that energy is, he can't say and he'd like most to ignore it.
Eggs cook quick, he thinks. He sets his skillet over the flames and considers waking Kieran to ask his preference, scrambled or whole. Maybe the boy wouldn't eat at all and Arthur would be tasked, humiliatingly, with having to eat the eggs himself. In his opinion, there isn't really a way to ruin an egg, unless undercooked or burnt, and Kieran doesn't seem the precious type, no leverage or reason to be particular with what he's served.
Matter squared, Arthur cracks two eggs into the skillet, hissing and popping as soon as they hit, and Arthur glances up from his kneel to see if Kieran is going to wake. He remains asleep on his bedroll, tucked into himself, one arm cupping his stomach as if to protect the more vital areas. Across camp, Charles is repairing the wheel of a wagon, his tools distant but loud enough to be noticed. Somewhere beyond, Bill calls to Brown Jack and this is followed by the thud of heavy hooves. If Kieran can manage through that, Arthur's cooking should settle seamlessly into the mix.
Arthur does not have a spatula. He had woken early to avoid being questioned by the gang, gathered the eggs, taken just one skillet, and walked to the slight knoll designated to Kieran and some of the horses. No time to be delicate about the operation, he has his own fork and drinking tin and few other utensils, but no spatula to turn the eggs over. When he tries, the whites fray. Arthur grunts, repositions how he's holding the fork, and tries to fold the egg over with a touch less firm.
"Damn," he mutters. He was hoping to make something presentable. One yolk fractures and bleeds lazily into the pan and Arthur resigns himself to whipping the remainder into a mess of half-fried, half-scrambled.
"Mr. Morgan?"
Preoccupied, Arthur spooks, nearly drops his fork. Kieran's sitting half reclined, knuckling one eye, face wrinkled with a sleepy concern.
"Mornin'," is all he can think of to get out.
"Mornin'," Kieran replies, his voice unsure, like the response is automatic.
Some stretches of sky are still hazy with thin streaks of orange and lavender, the air foggy from last night's dew. The birds are not yet warbling their tinny songs from the branches, a flock of crickets fiddling in the brush their last notes before dawn breaks to day.
"Eggs're almost done."
"Smell woke me." He pats around for his hat, puts it on.
Illogically, Arthur says, "Sorry."
"What're you…" Kieran trails off, drops the question limply as he eases up into a full sit. "Looks good," he says to turn the conversation.
"Thanks." Arthur grabs the handle of the skillet, takes it off the flame. "Didn't always have Pearson to do all the cookin'."
"Don't sound like such a bad thing."
Arthur snorts. "You never seen Dutch butcher somethin' simple as a pot of potatoes." He transfers the eggs to a plate, stands, walks the short distance to where Kieran is sat, and holds it out along with the fork. Kieran accepts it, looking cockeyed up at Arthur as he sets the plate in his lap.
Arthur takes a step back to unlatch his satchel.
"You ain't havin' any?"
"Naw." Arthur locates the wedge of cheese, wrapped tight in white wax, and goes about slicing that protective layer off with his hunting knife. "This is nothing fancy either," he mutters.
Kieran sections his eggs into a size fit for scooping, raises the portion to his mouth, dithers. "You… got up 'fore daybreak to… cook me breakfast."
Arthur glances down at him blankly. "Plenty other to do."
A nervous frown creases Kieran's face and he inserts the fork into his mouth, and says, around the food, "'M sorry… Thank you."
Arthur grunts and peels back the wax, discards it in the direction of the pan. He proposes the largest chunk to the boy and when he takes it, their fingers touch. Arthur draws his hand back and unsure what to do with himself, sits on the nearest log and starts in on the remaining fragment.
"Go into town for this?"
"Rhodes. Ain't far."
They eat in silence for a few beats, Kieran's pace quickening as he comes fully awake, appetite hitting him. Arthur removes his waterskin from his hip and takes a long swallow before shaking it toward Kieran. In silent question, Kieran inclines his head, then takes the skin, and sips at it like a small animal or child, and when his cheeks hollow with an exertion telling of strong thirst, Arthur turns his face away and squints toward the treeline.
Kieran wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, returns Arthur's water to him. "Didn't have to do this, y'know, whatever spurred you, you—"
"I know," Arthur interrupts. "Most of what I do, I ain't gotta do." Arthur slings his waterskin over his shoulder, pushes the last crumb of cheese into his mouth. "But I never seen you eat more than what Pearson serves. Don't got your own provisions—"
"I'm not exactly allowed t-to go on supply runs, on my own—"
Arthur silences him with a look, frustration rising. He knows, within the far reaches of his rational mind, this sweep of low anger is just a cover, just a way of crookedly expressing what he doesn't want to express directly. That energy that shook his hands, made his stomach tighten when they shared a brief touch.
"Won't be any use to them horses you like so much if you don't have the means to tend them," he says. That flash of irritation mellows and Arthur stands to depart, picking up the dirtied skillet, but before he can go, turned away, Kieran reaches up and grabs ahold of where his sleeve is cuffed by the elbow, efficiently stopping him.
"I appreciate it mighty, Arthur," he says softly, "I really do."
Arthur's heart seizes at the contact, wrenches like a fist is closing over him, and he glances back, says, "'Course." Their eyes meet, Kieran's the color of celery, and Arthur shrugs gently out of his grasp. He'd reciprocate the touch, somehow, the mechanics of it no more than a faint and primal feeling, if he wasn't at such an awkward angle, skillet in hand. "Weren't a hassle," he adds, voice hushed.
Kieran smiles, shows a sliver of teeth. He nods.
Arthur walks toward Pearson's wagon, hopes to slide the skillet in among the others without question. On his way, he's fiercely aware of the eyes watching him from behind, one set, on the knoll, polishing off his last morsel of cheese.
The next time they're together, they're fishing. Kieran had approached him, pole and tackle bucket in hand, asked if he weren't too busy to accompany him.
"Lousy fisherman, if you don't recall," Arthur answered. Didn't decline the offer, though, and that was enough to set Kieran into a fit of smiles.
Kieran's rod clicks as he reels in his line to recast. "Thank you," he says, not looking over. "For breakfast the other day." His line whizzes out, hits the water with a satisfying and distant pop.
Arthur half wishes he wouldn't say anything on it, struggles stubbornly under accepting the praise. "Welcome." He adjusts the way he's holding his rod, impatient.
"S-Sorta figured out your intentions."
Arthur gives him a questioning look and Kieran squirms under it, rushes to explain, "You—Figure you think it'll help. With what ain't right with me."
"Somewhat."
"Well, I-I don't know if whatever it is I've got, if that is somethin' to be cured, like I said, but… Well, I… appreciate the gesture." He tries on a faint smile. "A-And there's no harm either which way…"
"At least put some meat on ya. Try to."
Kieran chuckles, eyes crinkling up. He sways his rod in a manner that demonstrates his practice in fishing, something Arthur is still catching up on, if reluctantly.
"Maybe I could… get you back for it. I mean, I-I could cook somethin'. For you." Kieran clears his throat and tacks on, "For us."
"Yeah? And whaddyou know how to cook?" Arthur asks, his mouth tilting up with amusement.
"Fish…! J-Jus' 'bout any fish we might catch here…," he says, eager, wilts from there. "Uh. Probably not much else. Maybe manage eggs, but you already done that."
"Lotta ways to cook eggs."
Kieran repeats the sentiment to himself under his breath, sounds pleased, as though they now have a shared joke between them.
They fish a while longer in blissful silence. Kieran hooks and receives twice as many fish as Arthur even interests, but he's not too sore; good haul to bring back to camp, might ease the rest of the members into some acceptance of Kieran.
When packing up, they both go to grab the bucket and, leaning down for it in tandem, nearly knock skulls. Kieran skitters back, nervous, embarrassed, but a smile comes over him. "Takin' what I caught, Mr. Morgan?"
"No one'd believe this were mine."
Kieran's smile widens and he steps closer, back into Arthur's circle of being, and reaches out, hovers his hand just above where Arthur's is on the handle of the pail. "I can carry it," he says, "'M the one who asked you out here in the first place."
"I don't mind."
"Can't weigh more'n 5 pounds."
"So lemme bear it." Arthur lays his eyes on Kieran's and that energy zings through him once more, sets his nerves to trembling.
Kieran giggles, whispers, "Plum-crazy." His hand stutters with uncertainty before he sets it over Arthur's, gives him a short squeeze.
Arthur's eyes widen and foolish or not, he bridges the meager space between their mouths and presses a slight kiss to Kieran's chapped lips. They both stand there, stunned, and Arthur goes to apologize, thinking he's read things incorrectly, but Kieran tips up on his boots, unnecessarily, and kisses him again.
"Oughta get back," he whispers, "'fore the fish go."
"Owe me that meal you was talkin' 'bout."
"Oh, s-so I owe it to ya now?"
"Gotta prove yourself somehow…" With a cheeky grin, Arthur adds, "O'Driscoll."
Kieran, already a few steps ahead, glances over his shoulder, eyes mischievous, and says, "Arthur Morgan, you are a cruel, cruel man…"
Arthur chuckles. "Somethin' like that," he says and starts up to follow Kieran back to camp.