𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐗

                                    

                                          
"It ain't a good idea, Arthur." 
Sitting up from the cot bed, the springs of the flimsy bedsit coiled releasing a metallic twang underneath your thighs. Pulling your legs into a fold, your (e/c) eyes pleaded with Arthur to not leave just yet.
The Cowboy pulled a black cotton shirt over his shoulders, fastening the buttons hastily. Dutch had asked his presence in Saint Denis relatively quickly, a number of jobs lined up in aid of this dubious 'one last score' prospect he'd been laying on thick ever since the garden party.
The knotting in your stomach tightened with tension like a hangman's noose. You didn't think it was a good idea to be kicking up dust in a city as big as Saint Denis, crawling with lawman on every corner like roaches; under the nose of a hitman as calculated as Angelo Brontë.
Arthur crouched at the end of the bed, his big hands covered yours. A gentle squeeze of reassurance did nothing to ease the anxiety. Displeasure tugged the corner of your lip downward, Arthur ceased his grip.
"I dunno what t' tell y', darlin'—I ain't got a choice." Arthur stood from his positioning before you, dropping his boots to the floor beside his feet.
"Try n' persuade Dutch to not follow this through—for all you know, Brontë could be settin' us up. Who tells a gang of Outlaw's to rob a tram station in his own city?!" You hissed desperately.
Arthur let out a sigh, "y' think I ain't already told him all this? Look—I'll do my best, but, Dutch.. he—well," Rubbing the back of his neck, "he's done a lot for all of us, if he thinks this is it, then, all we gotta do is go with him on it, no matter how crazy it seems." Despite the apparent optimism in his tone, Arthur's furrowed brow and sunken eyes said different.
The Outlaw sat down beside you, tucking the (h/c) waves of your hair behind your ear. "I ain't totally sold on the idea neither, darlin', we had a bad run of luck lately, n' things just keep gettin' worse." 
You placed your head over his shoulder. You skimmed the room with your eyes, looking aimlessly over the ammunition on the shelves. "When we gon' stop runnin', Arthur?"
Another sigh escaped Arthur's lips as he stood, placing the worn leather Gambler hat over his untamed, mousey-brown locks. "Hopefully soon, listen," he started, "keep busy t'day, y'r too inside y'r head." Arthur's smile hid a thousand of the same questions you had, relief to the fact you weren't alone in your worries of the current trajectory of the Van Der Linde gang.
"I will." You forced a hopeful smile, standing to wrap your arms around Arthur's neck. "Be safe out there, Mr Morgan." A small peck over his cheek dropped Arthur's shoulders, melting his worries away. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, scraping the delicate skin with the stubble still grazing his face.
"N' get a shave t'night, will y'." You teased, pushing away from his grip.
He stood back for a second, casting his eyes over your complexion. A small, nervous smile presented over Arthur lips as he fumbled over his next words. 
"Spit it out, Morgan." You mocked, still standing in the middle of the room. Your bodies were close together, separated slightly by Bayou morning rays that flooded through the broken glass windows of the old plantation house.
"I love you." His hesitancy already prepared him for rejection. Arthur's eyes cast to the floor, afraid of your next move. The insecurities that plagued his mind painted a pale hue to his complexion, the constant self-loathing tormenting his mind that only you could put to rest.
You gently traced his forearms with your palms, pulling them around your waist; burying your head into Arthur's shirt. "I love you too." 
Nothing else needed to be said. The flame in your stomach that had ignited the moment you laid eyes on him in Valentine dissipated into a warm, burning hue. The worry and fear melted away like thawing snow after a cold, lonely winter. You felt safe as long as you had Arthur.