Chapter Text
CHAPTER EIGHT: OIL AND WATER
"Deep in my enemy,
I find the lover."
- Pierre Corneille
As if a gunshot sounded above their heads, pressing all those adjacent to halt in their positions, a fell silence plagued the once sugar-sweet and honeyed air. That was, until Mary leaned away and scoffed,
“You're playin’ funny with me again..!”
“No, I ain't…”
She sneered with another scoff slightly before her hopeless chuckles faded like grains of sand in the wind, her face growing deeper into doubt and stillness at Arthur’s disarray,
“...You serious?”
His brows hooked upwards upon hearing the mere split of desperation in her voice, “I’m real sorry, Mary…”
He dared to glance up towards her face, now scorned with confusion and dismay. Whereas she was just tending to his hand, holding onto it blissfully whilst leaning towards him, she had now straightened herself up, the distance between the two growing exponentially, and the absence of her hand in his evermore gaping,
“I- I don’t understand… An outlaw? Not just some- petty criminal?” Mary called on, continuing when Arthur shook his head to confirm her unfortunate suspicions, “This… This whole time? You- lied to me?”
“Mary–” Arthur uttered her name in an almost soft plea, springing himself up against his chair ever so slightly before finally retrieving a sliver of hope in his voice. Perhaps there was some semblance of chance left for him to salvage. Mary was many things - many great things that Arthur could never compete with - but above all, she was understanding. She would give the benefit of the doubt to anyone she knew and was particularly close to, even if they didn’t deserve it; Arthur being completely different from her despite their close friendship was enough proof of her open-minded nature. Maybe, just maybe, he could reach her far out enough to get her to understand his predicament. He might have felt like a fool for it, but by God did he need to hold onto whatever sense of hope he had left to cling on,
“I know I lied, I just… I needed to lie, to protect my identity. Couldn’t just go around tellin’ people I’m an outlaw as soon as they ask me if I am, right?”
“O-Okay..?” Mary stammered slightly, dumbfounded and confidence escaping her, “But- I don’t understand, you… You aren’t like other outlaws, they’re… Evil.”
Arthur tried not to falter, not when he still had the chance to make her see his side clearly, “Well, you wouldn’t really be wrong about that… But you wouldn’t be wrong about me, neither. Mary,” he uttered her name from his lips as if it was as commonly said as ‘hello’, “we may be outlaws, but not like most others. Not like the ones in the paper. We don’t rob innocent people–”
“We?” Mary interrupted, “Who’s we?”
Pausing, he realised what he didn’t remember to confess to just as much as what he did, but he couldn’t conjure up anything to verbalise when Mary did so on his behalf, the realisation dawning on her as she gave a shaky sigh,
“Your family,” her voice heightened, “they all outlaws too, or something??”
“... Yeah,” Arthur admitted, “or at least, they sort of are my family.”
“Sort of??” She returned her voice’s volume to a loud whisper upon Arthur’s desperate hushes, reminding her where they were, “What do you mean they ‘sort of’ are your family??”
“I mean,” Arthur hesitated, “We aren’t- related like yours. We… We’re more of a gang, but–!” He attempted to rush through Mary’s pained sigh, riddled with an overwhelming sense of distaste, shock and almost betrayal, “I know it sounds bad, but- we’re small. Ain’t that many of us - I didn’t lie about that. And they took me in when I was fourteen, when my folk were already long dead and I didn’t stay in one place long enough to call home. I didn’t lie about that neither.”
“But… What about your uncle then?” Mary asked, contemplating whether there was even an uncle that existed in the first place,
“He’s… Not really my uncle. But he did take me in. Raised me. Cared for me. Closest thing to a father - or uncle or whatever - that I have. And he didn’t get sick, he… He got real badly hurt when we was on a job together.”
On a job? Together?
Mary tried with whatever sense and focus she had left to muster to relay his words, recalling back to his week-and-more-long absence from less than way back. There was only one other occurrence that commenced during that week in July down south of Kansas when Arthur had conveniently disappeared from the ranch, and with his sinful confession of his outlaw nature as well as the fact of his not-really uncle being allegedly severely injured - not sick - at the same time, Mary feared what she might have already understood, never wanting to be more wrong in her judgement than now,
“Were you… The ones behind that Throndsen stage robbery over a month ago?”
Her voice croaked at the mere mention of it, almost in a slight mutter, as if she were afraid of the answer she would receive. For all the talk Arthur gave, the pit that festered in his stomach had now entrapped itself in his throat. Was he doing the wrong thing? Was he marking his own grave by doing this?
“I won’t say anything, not to anyone,” Mary uttered again, “just… Tell me. Was that you?”
Arthur tried to swallow down a gulp, but his mouth remained dry and the plague sitting against his larynx began to quiver. His mind returned to the gang, how small it was in size. Dear Hosea, still bedridden. Little John, just a wee boy who already lived and saw more than a boy his age needed to. Dutch and his fierce trust in Arthur to see the gang to safety. Mary claimed she wouldn’t tell a soul, but could he really trust her? At the same time, why would he tell her all this if he didn’t? Even excluding the welfare of the gang, did he think so little of Mary to believe she would go against her morals and keep his secret between them, or to believe her claim so foolishly, only to get struck down by the law or even her father? The back-and-forth of it all seemed to have been doing Arthur little to no favours when Mary’s breath quivered,
“It was, wasn’t it..?”
“Mary…”
“All those guards… Their deaths. That was you?”
“I don’t–...” Admittedly, Arthur couldn’t recall much of what occurred within the gust of bullets that rained down on him; much of everything was struck into a blur that, even if he tried to remember, his mind wouldn’t allow it. He knew for certain that he shot bullets alongside Hosea, Dutch and Grimshaw, but which ones that struck down the guards in the speeding stagecoach came from his own or theirs, he wasn’t certain on. He tried to explain as much delicately to Mary, if he even could, before his voice solidified,
“It was- not supposed to happen. It was meant to be a simple robbery. They was the ones that shot at us first; no one was supposed to get hurt, I swear on that… We- we don’t just go after anyone, let alone kill ‘em,” he emphasised, “we always try not to, unless it’s to save our own skin. Them or us. We often always try to only go after those that have more than enough to spare… Those that relish in not goin' to bed hungry, or who have taken from others less fortunate than either of us.”
“People like Throndsen…” Mary deduced, barely coming to whatever kind of understanding that Arthur supported himself onto as he nodded along. She continued, “I never liked that- pig. Stupid, arrogant bastard he is, but- still…”
“I know…” Arthur murmured, knowing Mary’s mind was still occupied by the fallen guards, “Like I said, we never intended things to go the way they did… But even so, we don’t go after those that don’t deserve it. We take from the greedy, even give to the poor sometimes. Poor folk that bastards like Throndsen take from. And- even when we do kill, we don’t do it unless we have to–”
“Have you?”
“Arthur took a breath, “Huh?”
“Have you– killed anyone?”
Arthur exhaled a drawn-out sigh from his nostrils whilst inspecting Mary’s face; hurt and increasingly anxious. The face wasn’t unfamiliar, but he hadn’t ever hoped to be the reason for it himself,
“... Only a few times in my life–”
The admission made her seal her eyes shut as her already troubled expression fell into a deeper frown, almost as if she had already dreaded the answer she knew to expect before Arthur continued,
“But- I had to! Every time I did it, I had to, otherwise it would be me in the ground...” Arthur implored in a hushed tone, “It was always either him or me, you oughta know that.”
The two kept their gazes towards each other whilst Mary's face remained unchanged, trying to take in Arthur’s justifications - or however else to describe them. Ramming his brain on what more he could say to slightly ease her worried mind, and his own, he almost depended on what her face read as she glanced down from him,
“... What else did you lie about?”
“Well, I…” Arthur shuffled in his seat uncomfortably, “Think it’s more about what I didn’t say than what I did.”
“Same difference.”
If their situation had been any more different, Arthur would have let out a chuckle right then and there, but paused before giving Mary further grace on her questioning, “... I don’t imagine there’s anythin’ else. I didn’t tell you about me bein’ an outlaw, and stuff I said about the gang was only half right, but aside from that- I told the truth about everything. Who I am, me growin’ up, my kin… That’s still me. I’m still the me you know.”
But was he really? Mary held onto the hope that he was, but the staggering nature of this new discovery left her bewildered if not cheated. Her vision fell towards her hands, stiff with tension on her lap and still holding light smears of now dry blood as they began to instinctively pick at their cuticles. After picking up on her returning habit, he leaned forward and attempted to reach his hand out to hold them within his own to get her to stop before her voice fluttered out a murmur,
“Were you… Gonna come after Old Stone? We are far from rich, especially now, but my father ain’t the generous kind - you know that. Were you- gonna come after us? Was that why you came here–?”
“No,” Arthur assured immediately, his tone flat and stern, “I wasn’t. I wasn’t gon’ to rob y’all. I wasn’t gon’ hurt you that way, I promise. I came here… We came here after- causin’ some trouble up east. No one got hurt, I’ll say that, but… Was best not to stay. Figured workin’ here and getting money legally for a bit would’ve been less risky than constantly out getting scores. But I swear, I wasn’t gonna go after you and your family… I wouldn’t do that to you.”
Mary began to scratch at her wrists slightly, biting the inside of her cheek,
“... Why are you telling me this?”
Great question. But Arthur knew why. Deep down, he did. And perhaps, there was no point in hiding it now,
“I… I couldn't help it anymore. You’re not the first person I’ve lied about my identity to. Random folks I’d meet a few times who I’d never see again, but… I don't know why it’s different with you.”
Pulling himself backwards slightly so as to not make her feel like she was being cornered, Arthur kept his eyes on Mary’s face, begging for some kind of sign - anything else printed on her beautiful, soft and forsaken features that could recite him words in place of whatever she could tell him next. But instead, her expression remained consistent in concern, worry and gull within her drawn-out silence. Silence that didn’t ease her racing thoughts and endless emotions, nor provide Arthur any semblance of comfort himself. Just silence.
But what more could she say? It was as if claws began to drag down her skin when she - quite quickly - affirmed she wouldn’t reveal his true identity. Was she as guilty as him now?
How Arthur could even be anything remotely similar to the outlaws Mary would read about in the paper before her mother scolded her to stop reading such vile vulgarity was still so beyond her, she almost felt like she still didn’t quite believe it herself entirely just yet. Men who robbed, raped and pillaged wherever they went, killing senselessly before the law showed up in the olden, lawless days of the country… Such activities many outlaws nowadays still very much partook in, even under the hardened eye of growing civilisation. To think it was a dog-eat-dog world Arthur was part of…
Except it wasn’t something he was entirely part of, wasn’t it now? He claimed he and the company he rode with - his supposed ‘family’ - weren’t the typical outlaws Mary only ever read about. That they only targeted those who hogged more than enough of a comfortable fortune in their arms on the behalf of either the gang’s benefit, or that of the downtrodden. But what about the killings? Of course it was wrong - not even Arthur could deny that - but what validity was there in self-defence? In such a mindset of ‘him versus me’? Weren’t Throndsen’s guards also just defending themselves and what they were paid to escort? Or was it a case of them knowing the risk of the job they signed up for? One of the many lessons Henry intended to instil into Mary for when she would inherit Old Stone was the idea of 'every man for himself'; was what Arthur doing just an arguably dubious extension of that? He did insist every kill was committed as a last resort, or else he wouldn’t be here to confess his sins onto her lap at this very moment, but who was Mary to make such a judgement? Who was Arthur to do the same?
Perhaps Arthur was right. Perhaps he was right in saying he never intended to rob her family’s business when things were shaky at best, not that he knew much of the details surrounding that. Perhaps he was right in being truthful regarding what he recounted to her about his youth, troubling and lonely for a boy of his age, or that he and his gang were different from other outlaws. But how far was she willing to take it? How far was she willing to hold onto such explanations and justifications or whatever word could be used for such behaviour and lifestyle? Arthur was a good man, a fundamental belief that never swayed her, but no matter how many ways she tried to slice it, it was clearly something she still could not wrap her head around entirely. Perhaps Arthur began to notice her warped, raving thinking as the overhanging silence between him and her began to become almost too much to sit on, leaving Arthur to barely let out a hoarse whisper,
“Please say something…”
But she couldn’t. Not now, at least. It had to be something for her to ruminate on, if she even could for now. But time and patience seemed to be her friend no more; whatever train of thought that could steam past seemed to have crashed upon the sound of footsteps from the other side of the door, faint at first before rapidly growing louder and closer. Mary’s head perked up immediately, a gasp leaving her followed by Arthur turning his head upon catching on the sound himself, before she shoved herself up from the stool she was sitting on. Fighting off the reaction to freeze, Mary glanced at the space around her, feeling herself at a loss as the footsteps etched closer and closer. Act! Think!
But it was too late. The door knob swivelled to the left and right before the door itself was pushed open. Stupid Mary, she thought to herself, you should have known this was an awful idea! But still, she remained in her place, almost naturally and instinctively ready to accept whatever wrath would be laid upon her depending just who was on the other side of the door, hoping Arthur wouldn’t get too scarred-up from the crossfire in the meantime, more than he already was physically. Whereas she was expecting the worst - her mother, Audrey, who would berate her and report to her father, or her father himself. But instead, a different face appeared. One Arthur didn’t recognise, or at least he didn’t think so, and one Mary wasn’t sure if she was glad to see instead of her parents or not,
“Good Lord,” Prudence spat, but keeping her voice low in volume, “I thought I heard voices up here! What the Devil has gotten into you, girl?!”
“P-Prudence, I can explain–!”
“Oh, you better do so, young lady,” Prudence shut the door behind her, gently in contrast to her temper to evade its loud bang. She stormed towards Mary before averting her eyes towards Arthur’s worn state, “Good God, man. The Hell happened to you? You look like a damn mongrel that just crawled out from a dogfight!”
“Prudence!”
"Thank you. I’m spectacular, really…” Arthur replied, sarcasm heavy on his tongue, “You shoulda seen the other guy."
“Prudence, it’s not as it seems-” Mary clarified, attempting to reel Prudence’s attention back towards her,
“I hope not! You’re damn lucky it wasn’t your mother - or Heaven forbid - your father, cantankerous of men as they come, that walked in on you with Mr. Morgan, alone! And Mr. Morgan, barely dressed!” She pointed a finger towards Arthur’s almost bare chest, still slightly unbuttoned, before shyly concealing any remnants of flesh with every button he slowly did up.
He should have seen this coming. He should have been more stubborn and denied Mary his entry into her home. He shouldn’t have burdened her in such a way, especially now that she was taking the heat for something that he was too weak to deny. Damn fool. But he knew he would feel worse if he sat there doing nothing like some bruised-up recreant of a man. Arthur was many things, as Mary had come to know first-hand, but he wasn’t a coward, hiding under the wing of a woman for something he felt just as responsible for. Sitting between the two ladies, he shifted his position until he was facing Prudence slightly before garnering the physical energy to stand. But before even an utter of words could fall from his lips or the heave of pulling himself up to his feet formed against his thighs, Mary formed a declaration of her own on Arthur’s behalf,
“Arthur got jumped, Prudence.”
Her voice was rushed and hanging by a thread - no doubt something she came up on the spot in Arthur’s mind, or was it? He didn’t have time to debate whether this was something she curated mentally on the ride over to Old Stone or if she spontaneously managed to conduct such a lie under spotlight before she continued, straightening her back,
“Arthur told me he got attacked by- by a group of nasty men. Must be gang work, we both think… Me, Daddy and Jamie were going to church this morning. Daddy allowed me to buy some things and head home alone whenever I chose to and to expect the two of them together later if they weren’t home first. On the way home, I-” she glimpsed towards Arthur for a second before resuming her unbreaking glare at her nursemaid, “I was with Ethel when I saw Arthur on the side of the path, barely able to pull himself up onto his horse. It weren’t that far from the city, and he looked badly hurt, and I couldn’t just leave him there-”
“If you weren’t that far from the city, then why didn’t you just drop him off at the doctor’s office,” Prudence prodded, “if you were feeling so generous?”
“It was closed early. It’s Sunday!”
Prudence huffed, swapping glances towards Mary and Arthur before the younger woman continued,
“I- couldn’t leave him. Especially alone when those- thugs were still out there that would likely do more to him than just this…”
“Well, did any of them ‘thugs’ see you?”
“No. By the time I bumped into Arthur, they had already long left. Damage was already done.”
Prudence’s icy eyes weren’t the only ones glued towards Mary, but Arthur’s too, almost astounded. He always knew Mary to be more than the sheltered, timid, Midwestern city girl he thought she was when they first met. And in a great sense, she certainly was that - however, with every day that came and went that the two grew closer, she began to unravel before him as he did in turn. Or at least, as much as he could try to without revealing his outlaw nature, though he supposed there was little use of that from now on. Why was she doing this for him? He felt relief, no doubt, that she wouldn’t rat on him, but she had already risked so much trouble just by bringing her inside her home, and was now in deeper water with this lie of her own that she began to tangle up. Although he felt embarrassed and ashamed that Mary had to deal with this issue alone on his behalf, he realised then how much of a greater damned fool he would be if he decided to speak up now, sabotaging the lead Mary was providing for them both. A lead that seemed to have been holding itself up.
Arthur knew Mary was never as bad as him, but seeing her string out a deceptive alibi almost on the spot, as if she knew to lie naturally to save her skin, might have impressed him if it weren’t for the slightly dire circumstances that laid over them and the shame that still washed over him. Perhaps, it seemed, that with every surprise Mary learned about Arthur, she had a few surprises of her own. Little troublemaker, he dared to think following the realised connotation.
“I… I couldn’t leave him. He’s one of us, ranch hand or not. Whatever suggestive or- distasteful idea you might have in your head about us like this is untrue.” She affirmed strictly, almost as if she could just see Prudence’s suspicions visualised before her, “All I was doing was cleaning Arthur up from his injuries, see?”
Looming over Arthur to peer at the stitched scars on his chin, the red soreness surrounding his nose, and the bruise under his eye alongside some cuts on his face, Prudence could only imagine the state he was in when Mary allegedly found him. Her face read as an unrelenting scorn and disinterest - one Arthur didn’t much appreciate, but one Mary was accustomed to,
“You’re stepping too far now,” Prudence stated as her deep hazel pools of eyes returned to Mary’s, the tone of her voice listing itself as more of a warning than as parental scolding, “Your father will be furious to know you’ve done this - he already doesn’t like the boy and how often you two spend time together–”
“He-” Mary’s face was turned away before quickly reverting towards Prudence, interrupting herself, “Wait, what-?”
“Even if you try to explain this to your father, how will you? Just how do you believe he will react first before he'll even allow you to get a word in?!”
“I…”
Mary’s eyes drifted away - almost towards Arthur, though she stopped herself, suddenly feeling cornered. She realised then that she thought of how she would get Arthur inside, how she would lick his wounds clean, but what about actually getting him out? She may as well hear her father’s voice echo through her core; stupid, stupid girl.
Though, to imagine his voice she needn’t do any longer, for - much to her and Arthur’s fear as well as Prudence’s - another pair of footsteps could be heard approaching the door, each stomp becoming increasingly formidable as they transcended up the stairs,
“Mary! Prudence?!”
Prudence and the others looked towards the door, as if it just might get barged down if they wasted another second more. Prudence was the first to realise this as Mary trembled, turning back to the girl and seizing her hands into her own. There, Prudence smeared the blood from Mary’s hands onto her own and onto her apron before rushing towards the bucket and splashing the tinted water onto it, staining it more to a messy red. She then shoved the used instruments to treat Arthur’s injuries onto Mary’s arms, pushing her away afterwards before she could even get a word in what Prudence was trying to do,
“What are you–”
The exterior footsteps dominated over whatever words Mary could say as the door swung open, Henry barging through. His hardened eyes were familiar if not equally strong enough to cause Mary to double down, suddenly doubting her capabilities upon the reminder of who she owed her explanation to,
“What the Hell is going on here?!” Henry roared,
“Daddy, I–”
Mary's father turned to Arthur before staring daggers back at Mary, “What the Hell is Morgan doing here? Is it his blood on the floorboards out back?!”
Arthur felt like nothing more than to just up-and-leave, understanding more than well that his presence was beyond unwelcome before Prudence stepped in front of Mary and towards her superior,
“Mr. Gillis, I brought Arthur into the house.” She declared, leaving Arthur and Mary almost frozen in confusion,
Henry pulled his accusatory gaze from his daughter to his head maid, “... What.”
Prudence continued with a harsh poise Mary almost timidly admired, if not was confused by in the moment, “Mary found Arthur badly beaten in what she described as a gang attack, not far from the city. Only reason he weren’t taken to the doctor’s office was ‘cause they are closed early on this day.”
Henry only huffed, turning his grimacing expression down to Arthur, “Is this true, man?”
Arthur dared not to stutter so as to not accidentally give himself away as his vision retreated towards the women before him; Mary keeping her eyes wholly away from his entire presence, and Prudence doing nothing more but bore her glare through Arthur's skull, her furrowed brow demanding him to play along if what Mary claimed what happened to him was true. Arthur turned to Henry’s face reluctantly,
“Yeah… It's true.”
Henry huffed before Prudence followed, “Young Mary brought him here only as a last resort in case those thugs were to show up again. I stitched him back up–”
“If that is so, then why is my daughter covered in blood?!” He gestured, pointing towards the drying blood on Mary's skirt and whatever was still left on her hands,
“She brought him in and insisted on helping him, which I allowed her to by cleaning the blood off from the instruments. You know how clumsy she is.”
“You- ‘allowed’ her…?”
Prudence faltered if not for just a second, “... Yes. Why shouldn’t she? Maybe it will be good for her.”
“Good for her!” Henry beamed with anger, “Good for what? She is the future lady of this house, a future ranch owner. Not some petite nurse girl! You think of my daughter so lowly?!”
“Well of course not, especially when I helped raise her–!” Prudence's hoarse voice heightened in volume, and Mary knew her father was never one to tolerate any backchat from anyone, least of all those he considered his inferiors. Fearing escalation of whatever kind, she spoke up, clearly if not with desperation,
“Daddy, please. Spare her and Arthur some grief - I couldn’t have just left him there–!”
“You shut your damn mouth when your elders are talking, girl! It is your own fault this is happening in the first place!” Henry erupted, the vile, accusatory tension in his voice towards his own daughter making Arthur tighten his blistering knuckles, “This doesn’t involve us - have you any idea what would happen if those people followed you back here?!”
“Mr. Gillis!” Prudence insisted, shuffling herself closer towards Henry’s harsh gaze that pierced through the air deeper than the needle used to stitch Arthur’s chin, “If you outta be mad at anyone, I am the one who claims sole responsibility for what happened here.”
With her hands behind her flat back and head held straight, Prudence’s familiar spunk that Mary found both comfort and childish resentment in simmered before her superior - the man who owed her her salary, who gave her a roof over her head in the maids quarters downstairs on the ground floor with the others, whose daughter she raised as her own, and whose flippant nature she had tolerated and skipped around for nigh two decades. Henry’s slow murmur was like the calm before a storm as it began to ascend with momentum,
“My business… My daughter, my house!” He towered over Prudence as the two held solid eye contact like chains to a prisoner, “You may have been working here for almost twenty years, but that gives you no right to forget your place!”
The maid only remained silent, allowing Henry to continue; as he did, Arthur himself could only ever hold his head down to his lap or up towards Mary, who continued to be seemingly looking at any other direction besides his, shame written in every curve of shadow on her face,
“You are loyal, Prudence, I know you. I expect you and the others to continue being so. Any respite you can benefit from me now is to do as I say: escort Mr. Morgan out of this house immediately whilst Mary cleans herself up, clean the blood off from the floors before it dries itself into the wood, and yourself, and take Mary’s dress into the laundry. Is that clear?”
Henry’s voice, authoritarian and coarse like a general demanding the utmost from his soldier - Prudence almost maintaining the patience and grit of one herself - was enough for her to obey with a simple yet firm 'yes sir’ and nod of the head. Following his demand to get up, Arthur looked towards Mary one last time - her reluctance to return his gaze being his last memory of her for the day ingraining itself into his mind for the rest of the afternoon and evening until he would see her again… If he would after today. If this was the greatest consequence he had to deal with from Gillis, then Arthur would take it, mentally giving his thanks to Mary and Prudence whilst giving additional thanks to Mary for spinning a lie on behalf of himself and his alibi. For cleaning him up of his wounds when they might as well have been things he did to himself. For not running away in fear from learning about his alternate lifestyle, even though she had every right to.
Although he had much to appreciate, it was evident the relief Arthur felt in knowing - or at least was hoping - that Mary would continue to keep his secret was not reciprocated, as he was reminded of such when, even at the foot of the doorway, Mary still held her head down before moving towards the makeshift basin that was the metal tub to scrape off whatever blood was stained on her skin.
Outlaw blood, sticking onto her before moulding into the water.
He wouldn’t have assumed Mary followed behind as Prudence and Henry saw him out, and in reality, he would have been correct in that assumption. Whilst Gillis and Prudence - though Gillis for the most part - eyed at Arthur’s gradual departure from the stables and out of Old Stone territory, Arthur had to admit to himself internally that things could have been worse. It was a comfort he tried to allure himself with whilst battling against the reverberating images of Mary’s sweet face, clouded in a warm and welcoming silhouette from the sun piercing through the washroom’s main window from the wall far behind her. The stinging of his chin would suddenly become almost null upon the mere recollection of her touch, milky and soft, an overflow of somehow both calmness and fierce sensation, as if she were made up of water - whilst the dried, smeared blood on Arthur made him seem like he was laced in oil. He knew he had to pull away the second he caught her glimpsing at his lips, but it wasn’t like he was innocent of the act himself when he did so almost frequently whilst she was tending to his injuries, her plump and rosy lips right in front of him.
But such memories of the past hour’s events would become overshadowed with what would follow, her honey-combed, half-lidded gaze falling into one of raw deception and almost fear. The last he would see of the dark abysses he would let himself fall into that were her eyes meeting his before seeming like she owed him no more grace for what she had already done for him. For the time being, or at least that was what Arthur had hoped. The ride back to Northwater Grange was a slow one, Arthur’s mind shrouded in occupation for other matters when it wasn’t still reeling itself into focus from what his body endured, and the sun had threatened to hang lower by the hour when he reached his destination. He slumped off of Boadicea, letting the young stallion trot off towards the other horses before storming up the weak staircase, choosing to ignore John’s exclamation about the state of his face, and slamming the door to their shared bedroom behind him before crashing his body onto his cot… Only to instantly regret it upon feeling the wincing wave of soreness across his body where his bruises laid dormant. And yet, he let the soreness and mattress of his cot swallow him whole whilst the fog in his brain festered.
What was he thinking? He should have probably kept it a secret. Should he tell Dutch? No, he would be furious. Even though the worst was averted, should Mary keep her promise, Arthur knew that she likely wouldn’t see him the same way again. Would he even care? She was his friend, but the gang was his family. Just what was he expecting from her? He was an outlaw, and she was a girl. He was vinegar whilst she was milk. Whiskey and iced tea. Oil and water. She was just a girl.
Except she wasn’t. And Arthur knew that. Maybe it was weak or foolish, or both, but he couldn’t help but grip onto his bedsheets softly upon remembering the touch of her cloud-like fingertips and her hand wrapped under his, as if he could still feel them, before becoming plagued by the reaction she didn’t spare him from upon admitting the truth to her. His grip tightened at the sight of her brows pulling together, her slender body inching ever so slightly away from him the more he confessed like a man in Church who knew he was damned regardless, and the tremble in her voice that he never would have thought would be caused because of him. He meant what he said that he had lied to people about his outlaw lifestyle before, and that somehow, sweet Mary was different. Different in the way she noticed the little things in him, the way he understood how to understand her, and in the way she came to his defence towards Prudence and her formidable father when she didn’t need to.
His following shift would not be until the next morning, and he had both longed and dreaded for it if it meant understanding where things would go from here.