Awoken by few hushed mumbles of far away good mornings carried in the tepid fog covering Flat Iron Lake, you found yourself nestled into the side of a wagon on top of a cot bed. The elasticity offered support to your injury, as you turned to face the opposite way. Gathering your bearings, you noticed you were tucked into Arthur's canopy once more, the shades drawn; offering some privacy as he changed out of the Union suit he slept in, pulling on his usual work attire.
You tugged the thin blanket, just covering your modesty, over the bottom half of your face. Hiding blushed cheeks as you revelled in the sight of the fine male specimen stood in-front of you. His back speckled with freckles and moles, like constellations in the night sky. Few hairs graced the top of his back and across his broad shoulders; faded into the dark neck tan he'd developed after years of labour.
Scattered scars, some faded, some newer, littered the central part of his frame. Cicatrices of battle wounds told a thousand tales, you wished you could trace them with your finger tips and hear the stories behind each of them.
His thick thighs distinguished with dark androgenic hair, twitched as he pulled saddle pants over his bare legs. Your eyes followed the trail they left up to Arthur's hips, daring to linger not a second longer; all the while desperate to take a peak.
"Enjoyin' the view?" He turned to you. Buttoning his white linen shirt that made his skin appear darker than usual in the morning sunrise.
Curling your legs up to your chest, flashing a little more skin than you probably should, you pulled the soft blanket over your head in embarrassment.
Arthur chuckled in his low, husked tones. "Ain't no point hidin', princess, I saw y' takin a good look." Jesting at you, he pulled the blanket from you face, planting a delicate kiss on your forehead.
"How did I end up here?" You questioned, trying to detangle your (h/c) bed hair with your fingers.
"Y' passed out in Grimshaw's tent—she figured my bed would be more supportive, for y' leg n' all." Arthur shrugged, using his arms to support his words, gesturing to the bed you were hurled up in.
"Wouldn't be wantin' Karen bootin' that bruise in the middle of the night." He knelt down, inspecting the mark blemishing your thigh.
The swelling and pain had eased some, leaving a hefty blood blister stretching slightly further down your limb; fading into purple just above your knee.
Wincing as Arthur skimmed his index finger across your thigh, the cowboy took his hand away as quickly as he'd placed it there, afraid he'd hurt you.
"It's okay, Arthur—just sensitive." You giggled at how tender he viewed you, his desperation to not hurt you so sweet indeed.
"Coffee?" He offered. You were certainly not used to this luxury hotel treatment you were receiving. A glimpse of what it would be like in some distant, alternate universe, where yourself and Arthur woke up together every morning. Perhaps getting to work on a ranch the pair of you owned or taking a morning stroll by a river.
"Mm—yes please." You hummed a half-lid, soft smile at the cowboy, wishing not to escape dreamland just yet.
With that, Arthur disappeared out of the shaded canopy. You chucked the soft linen blouse from yesterday over your arms. Unsure whether you'd be able to take saddle pants over your swollen leg, you felt the floor for the prairie skirt you'd seemed to have lost in the blank moments from entering Grimshaw's bedsit, to winding up under the comfort of Arthur's tent.
Arthur used his head to create an entrance through the canvas material, placing both coffees on a side table. "Uh—how's it you get to watch me gettin' dressed but I don't get to take a look at chu'." His lips pursed like a child's when they don't get their own way.
"I ain't much to look at." You teased, still fumbling to find the lost skirt.
"I doubt that, darlin'." Arthur growled under his breath. A chuckle escaped your lips, "easy cowboy—have y' seen my skirt?"
Arthur made his way over to the chest at the foot of the bed, "here." He placed your skirt, he'd so neatly folded into his chest the night prior, next to you.
Your fingers traced over where the bullet hole once ripped the material, now sewn competently back together. Placing the skirt down by your side, you flung your arms around Arthur's neck, smothering his cheek in chaste kisses.
"W-What was that for—I didn't stitch it?" Dumbfounded, the Outlaw placed his hands on the waist band of the underwear fringing your hips.
"No—but the fact y' asked one of the girls to fix it for me last night," you squeezed Arthur's neck a little tighter before relinquishing your grip, "it just.. it means so much that you'd even think to do that." A smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you smoothed his linen collar down with your palms.
The Gunslinger straightened his leather suspenders that had slipped slightly down his shoulders from the affection you'd shown him. Dazed by your half-naked body that had wrapped itself so tightly around his core.
You knelt down to collect the skirt over your waist, giving Arthur a final opportunity to take in a lasting image of your body; before setting yourself down gently to drink the warm coffee he had fetched for you.
"Uh—sure, it wasn't any trouble." Arthur looped his thumb through the worn leather gun belt hanging slightly off his hip. Taking a big gulp of coffee to settle his racing heart.
"Have y' thought anymore—about the stuff y' were sayin' last night, to Dutch?" Arthur evaded recalling specifics, but you knew he heard you clear as day.
"I still feel the same, if that's what y'r getting at." You replied, emotionless. Trying not to depict the tyranny ever present in your mind - your decision was final. You wanted any part in these jobs Dutch had planned, to ruin the Braithwaite's. Forcing them to feel the anguish you'd felt for the years after your parents demise.
"I don't want y'—y' shouldn't.. agh—dammit." He thrust his metal coffee cup down with a thud; spilling the brown liquid slightly on to the table.
"What if y' got hurt? Worse than this?" Tossing his hand towards your thigh.
Arthur's tone bore low and angry. His actions startled you, Arthur always remained collected; even when you tested his patience.
"I—, well," your voice cracked, speechless, you didn't know what to say to make it better. Instead, you fiddled with your fingers, letting your (h/c) hair shade your face.
"I didn't mean t' frighten y' princess, what scares me is how much I care for y'—n' if y' got hurt.. well, I—I wouldn't forgive myself, or you, or Dutch for that matter." Arthur's honesty appeased the flickering deep in your stomach, he validated your need to see this through. He adopted your trauma as if it were his own.
"Like I said, the revenge business ain't none a' mine, but, if it'll put that head o' yours to rest—then, I guess, I'll do anythin' I can to keep you safe." Sincerity matched as he took your delicate hand in his.
•
The remainder of the day passed slowly. Arthur left to meet with Sean, you were ordered to rest.
Hobbling around camp on your good leg, you were in no state to be riding horseback just yet. You felt a burden, it would've made for better reasoning if the bullet had penetrated the muscle. Instead, you'd shown constant gratitude to Jack and Abigail; who'd grabbed baskets of linen for you to sew and clean. That way, you weren't rendered utterly useless.
"You shouldn't be workin', (y/n)!" Uncle lazily strode towards you, bottle of Whiskey in one had. The man would look incomplete without it.
"And imagine Miss Grimshaw if I wasn't? She'd drown me in the lake—I still got arms." You chuckled back at the old man.
"Yeah—well, she's a pussy cat at heart." Uncle exasperated as he manoeuvred in to a comfortable slouch at the foot of the tree trunk opposite you.
"Aunt (y/n)," Jacks sweet voice sounded from the opposite end of camp to where you perched, the boy's little legs carried him over to greet you.
"Mama told me to make you somethin' pretty to help you get better." Jack held up a daisy chain, identical to the one he made Abigail at the North Dakota River a few weeks ago.
You cupped your palms as Jack placed the delicate necklace in your hands, inspecting the petals with your fingertips. "Jack—y' are truly the sweetest little man." You pulled his shoulders in for a hug and tickled his neck, causing the boy to shriek with laughter.
"Here, gimme a hand to take this to your Mama." You grabbed one handle of the linen basket, pulling yourself up using a wooden crate inside the girls' tent.
You took the brunt of the weight as yourself and Jack headed to Abigail's canopy. Surprisingly, the pressure in your thigh had subsided enough for you to cease limping.
"Y' don't take a tellin' do ya?" Abigail flashed a smile as she took the pile of fixed clothing from you and her son. You rolled your eyes at your friend, "I'm fine—walkin' much better now anyways."
Yourself and Abigail took shade in her open canopy, a fresh brew of coffee nestled in each of your hands. Her iced-blue irises examined her son with adoration; playing with sticks and rocks in the late- afternoon rays that melted over Lemoyne. She smiled sympathetically, taking a sip of the warm liquid. "I wish I could give him more." Her omission felt more indirect; as if she were voicing her thoughts rather than addressing you.
"He's got everythin' he needs, here.. with you and John." You pressed your hand against her upper arm in reassurance.
Abigail scoffed, "yeah—what little he sees of John, Arthur's done more for the boy than John ever has." Hurt overcame her complexion as she confided in you, "I know this.. life—it's hard, hell, I met John through it. But—John.. he never stepped up. He—" struggling for words, Abigail chewed the inside of her lip.
"What I'm tryin' t' say is—he's not here, like he should be.. I feel like I'm raisin' the boy on my own." Abigail stared at the steam rising from her metal cup.
"It won't be like this forever," you started. With no experience raising a child, you could only offer the optimism Hosea shared with you and Arthur the previous night. "We can get a place of our own—no more robbin', n' killin', John can make time to be a proper father to the boy." Letting a sincere smile curve your lips.
"I hope y'r right, (y/n)." Abigail stood, setting her metal cup on the desk in her tent, helping you to your feet.
Nightfall came with no release, the sticky climate clung to your skin like mildew beads on fresh spring grass. Relaxing into the pages of some steamy romance novel Mary-Beth borrowed you; the gentle lapping of waves on the shore hugged you in tranquillity. The feral life the Van Der Linde gang had its moments, this being one of them.
You stole another evening in Arthur's bed, irresistible and there for the taking. You needn't have asked permission, Mrs Grimshaw checked in to see if you needed anything before she went to sleep. Convinced you'd gotten away with the perfect crime, you fought sleep as you propped your lids open, waiting for the Outlaw to return home.