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Chapter Text

ARTHUR MORGAN
South West of Van Horn, 1904

Been three years since Arthur Morgan was left for dead on the side of a mountain. Having dedicated his life to the man who left him there, it didn’t hardly seem worth fighting to get off it. Thought someone, surely someone, Sadie or John – Javier maybe, with a change of heart – would come back for him. So he waited, weary fingers dug deep into the dirt to ground him, eyes on the sunset, waiting for someone to come for him, to take him down the mountain, or bury him someplace. But nobody came.

Arthur has lived two lives. There was life before the mountain. And life after. Tuberculosis is mean, and the Arthur who survived it ain’t the same man that caught it. It’s most noticeable in his body. Can’t run far no more, needs to rest more, eat more; can’t smoke a cigar without coughing up a lung. He ain’t yet skin and bone, but where he used to be thick with muscle there ain’t nothing but sinew and flesh. Only his legs got any power to them now, his thighs, from riding, always riding… always running     .

Been on the run a long time, and alone a lot longer. Presumably the gang’s still out there somewhere, but Arthur don’t hear from them no more. Suppose they think he’s dead. Until recently, everyone thought he was dead, exactly as he planned it. Can’t arrest a dead man. Can’t hang one neither. He’d managed to keep his nose out of trouble for the better part of five years. But the law knows he’s alive now. He’s a damn fool. All he had to do was keep his head down, not draw any unwanted attention to himself, and stay dead, but— Ain’t nothing ever gone the way Arthur planned. He’s an outlaw in his bones. Was born off kilter, grew up crooked. It was only a matter of time before he stepped out of line again. Especially when it’s just so tempting, when it's just so easy.

His only friend in the world is a horse, a filly named Geo. Georgiana, really, is the name she came with. Like she’s a princess and not hardy and damn stubborn. Pretty as a penny no doubt, a Thoroughbred Palomino with great sparkling eyes, but the girl’s got the grit of a war horse and a snore loud as a bear.

Presently Geo fusses, a headbutt to Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur halves an apple in his palm and passes it over his head for her, the rest he eats himself. Keeps his teeth clean. Her overlong mane ruffles in the breeze; a breeze that smells like rain. They should fend off the worst of it here, Arthur’s campsite nestled into the rockface. The fire only has to last long enough to finish roasting the rabbit haunch, then he’ll put it out himself. Nothing like smoke to give away a hiding place. And he is hiding, ain’t no denying it now.

The rabbit’s nearly done, the smell of salt and thyme setting Arthur’s mouth to watering. He can still hunt, but not like he used to. Used to be that he could ride through the woods and bag a deer in one shot, didn’t have to so much as slow his horse. He relies on bait now, lies in wait. Been days since his last proper meal, not since bounty hunters chased him out of Rhodes. The old Arthur could’ve taken them all and looted their bodies before the law even got wind of it. But there’s only so long you can fight when there ain’t nothing left to fight for.

So when a man cuts off the main path overhead and urges his horse down towards Arthur’s camp, he doesn’t reach for his pistol. It’s been a long day at the end of a long life, and Arthur ain’t got no steam left in him. He grabs a bottle of beer from the ground, flicks off the cap, and sits back on the log, waiting for the man to either pass him by, or shoot him dead. Tonight he ain’t much bothered which. Maybe he could fight again in the morning. But not tonight.

The horse, a handsome Nakota, comes to a stop at the man’s command. He’s a big feller, real big, a dark-skinned Indian, with a solemn look about him. He don’t look like a bounty hunter, and ain’t any Indian Arthur’s ever met that’d work for the law. But times are hard and there’s always a first. The feller doesn’t reach for a weapon when he steps off his horse, and for one foolish moment, just a whisper of a second, Arthur thinks, hopes, the man’s just lost, come to ask for directions out of here.

God, please, get out of here.
But God don’t answer Arthur’s prayers, he never has.

The man clears his throat. “Arthur Morgan?”

Arthur casually sips from the bottle like his stomach ain’t sinking. Like it don’t hurt him to hear his name after all these years. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, playing for time. Could well be the last taste of beer he ever has.

“Arthur Morgan?” the man says again.

He’s got a warm, low tone to his voice, and an accent Arthur can’t place. He don’t look like he means Arthur harm. Ain’t got hatred in them eyes, no killer’s intent. Arthur’s seen that enough times. Knows it better than fondness. More familiar even than civility these days. The feller just looks at him curiously with a calm affect.

“Who’s asking?”

“Charles Smith.”

“Smith. That ain’t an Indian name,” Arthur muses aloud.

“No it ain’t. I’m looking for Arthur Morgan. You him?”

“Tacitus Kilgore.”

“See, that’s funny because you look an awful lot like Morgan’s picture.”

Arthur sniffs, takes another sip of his beer. “Got one of them faces.”

“And Tacitus Kilgore… That name sounds awful made up, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Smith. Only name I’ve got.” He sits forward, rolling the beer bottle in his palms. “What do you want with Arthur Morgan anyway?”

The Indian man shrugs with one shoulder, links his thumbs through his belt loops. Makes him look like it means it when he says, “Talk, mostly.”

“You ain’t a bounty hunter then? Here to take him away?”

“He is a criminal.”

The men appraise each other as this Mr. Smith steps nearer, into the evening light. Maybe Arthur’s a fool, but he finds nothing to fear in them deep-set brown eyes. Pretty brown eyes, almost black. He’s rather nice looking, Arthur thinks. If the man does mean to kill him, he’ll at least enjoy one last handsome face before he goes.

“Think he was just trying to survive,” Arthur says. “Same as us all.”

“That don’t change the fact that he’s a wanted man. Dead or alive.”

“What’s he wanted for?”

“Christ. How long have you got?. Not much he ain’t wanted for.”

“Like I said. We’re all just trying to survive.”

The man’s eyes narrow. “So you are him?”

“Arthur Morgan’s dead, didn’t you hear? Was chased up a mountain by Dutch Van der Linde.”

“Thought Morgan was Dutch’s right hand man.”

Arthur laughs, darkly. “Your information’s old, partner. Was Dutch that left him to die.”

A flicker of surprise passes the man’s face, then it settles on something like understanding. “That sounds rough.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Arthur pulls the cap off another bottle of beer and offers it to the feller. “Drink?”

Smith looks him up and down like before, considering this time, and takes a seat to Arthur’s right, the log sinking under their combined weight. As the feller takes the bottle, their fingers brush, makes Arthur freeze, sets him tingling. It’s been months since anyone touched him. Smith doesn’t react to the touch or to Arthur’s reaction to it, just nods in thanks. Feller like him probably ain’t ever short of affection. Certainly he’s got a Mrs. Smith, or a bunch of women lining up to be her.

The Nakota stands patiently on the path, nosing about in a patch of grass, and Geo watches the interloper cautiously from afar. Smith presses the bottle to his lips and gulps the beer down, throat bobbing. His sleeves roll up to reveal thick arms, a large hand encircles the bottle. Arthur looked like that once. And so he gazes, a little too long, with both interest and jealousy.

“So,” Arthur asks. “How much am I worth?”

The man looks at him, eyebrows cocked. “Oh. Your bounty.”

“Assume you’re planning on taking me in alive since we’re sitting here talking. Unless— You ain’t one of them that takes their time, are you? One that enjoys the kill?”

“Ain’t gonna kill you.”

“Why? You got a conscience?”

“What’s left of one.”

Arthur nods. He can respect that. His is in tatters, but he’s still got one too. “So, how much you gonna get to take me in?”

“Five hundred.”                       

Arthur whistles.

“I know. Surprised nobody’s found you yet. Had to fight for your poster.”

“Can I see it?”

The man shifts on the log to pull a wad of paper from the back of his pants. Arthur unfolds it, flattens it on his thigh, pushing out creases. Coffee stains one corner and there’s a rip in another, the paper worn at the folds, like it’s been opened and closed, re-opened, studied deeply.

There he is, Arthur Morgan, dead centre, looking quite a bit younger and less world-weary than he does now. And then his crimes – from rustling sheep to bank robbing to blowing up goddamn bridges – all from another life. So much so, it don’t feel real. He ain’t the same man that committed them.

All except the last, most recent crime… That one is his. He’s a damn reckless fool. Could’ve kept running; could’ve stayed dead.

Sodomy.

Three months back, the gutters of Saint Denis. Hadn’t been in the city for the better part of two years. Passed a feller just left of handsome – a little too city, too fancy for Arthur’s taste – but a flash of brown eyes said he was amenable. Arthur’s always been a sucker for brown eyes, and the day had been long and rough; he didn’t have it in him to fight it no more. Arthur ain’t a man meant for being alone. And he, like any man, has needs. It wasn’t like his other crimes. Utterly victimless. And worth the risk to feel alive just one more time. So he thought. Damn, damn, reckless fool.

Weren’t sodomy though, that’s a stretch. Was lewd behaviour at most. Was just hands, a little mouth. Arthur ain’t fool enough to fuck proper. Not only can a man not run when he’s on all fours, but he wouldn’t let anyone, not even his a man like him, not even a lover, see how he prefers it. Can’t nobody know that he likes to take it. He ain’t been fucked good since Blackwater. But a warm body was more than enough, this one smelling of expensive soaps, wearing a pretty gold wedding band that he shoved in his pocket as he got to his knees.

When they was discovered it was by lawmen which is about as terrible as a discovery could be. There were two of them, one short and large, the other tall and large, both of them mean, both of ‘em pointing pistols. Arthur should have run. His fancy man weren’t no idiot, he ran, but he didn’t have his pants shoved round his thighs. Arthur almost ran, he really almost did, until them words— “Don’t I know you?”

Oh yes, he knew Arthur alright. And Arthur saw the very moment the disgust that was making his face ugly turned to recognition. “Arthur Morgan,” he growled and Arthur didn’t think, weren’t a rational thought left in him but panic.

Arthur saw the flare of the muzzle just before a shot rang out, echoes dull and metallic, but there was no pain, no blood. The sound though, and the fear, they woke the gunslinger in him, and the gunslinger fired back, aimed right between the feller’s eyes.

And he missed. Arthur Morgan never missed.

If ever there were proof that he weren’t Arthur Morgan no more, it was this. That was the first time he seriously regretted being alive. And again, looking at that word, Sodomy, makes Arthur wonder if he hadn’t made a mistake getting off that mountain. It ain’t a secret now . This is how he’ll be known evermore. Not as a fearless outlaw— not as Dutch’s boy— not even as a man who survived the un-fucking-survivable. A million sins he’s committed and this is the one that’ll follow him until there’s nobody left to remember him. Longer. They’ll write it in his biography.

Everyone will know. Everyone already knows. This man, this Smith… He knows.

A man would get more respect following a feller to his bed to kill him than to fuck him. Better to be known as a coward and a killer, than a goddamn queer.

Arthur’s tongue feels too big for his mouth and his heart’s in his throat when he dares to look up. Smith ain’t jeering, ain’t laughing. Goddamn, the man’s real fine and aggressively masculine, built like a prize fighter. The kind of feller Arthur’s both attracted to and afraid of in equal measure. But it ain’t disgust in his eyes, it’s pity. That’s almost worse.

“Ain’t you gonna ask me if it’s true?”

Smith takes a sip of his beer like it doesn’t matter one bit who Arthur fucks. “No. Do you want me to ask?”

The wanted poster riffles in the breeze and Arthur gazes down at it again, poring over his crimes.

“Is fucking a feller really so awful that it should sit here beside murder on a list of a man’s indecencies? There are worse things, don’t you think?”

Arthur surprises himself by really wanting an answer. He meets this feller’s eye desperately, wanting something from him. Empathy? Absolution? Like a priest. Perhaps this is Arthur’s last confession.

“The feller you were caught with— He go with you willingly?”

Arthur about chokes on his beer. “Hell, Mr. Smith! ‘Course. What kind of a man do you take me for?”

Smith’s eyes drop to the bounty poster a moment, before looking back up.

“I ain’t that kind of criminal,” Arthur says, cold. “I ain’t a good man but—”

“No, I didn’t think you were.” There’s something akin to a smile on Smith’s face, a pleasant curve of his lips. “That kind of criminal I mean.”

Arthur shouldn’t be as relieved as he is. Has him almost hopeful. “You didn’t answer my question—”

Smith don’t play the fool, don’t pretend not to understand. “No, Mr. Morgan. I don’t think your last crime is as awful as the others. But from what I’ve heard you have done some pretty awful things. You emptied the Saint Denis bank, did you not? And you burned down a mansion in Rhodes? With a woman inside?”

“If I told you that she went inside the building of her own accord after it was on fire, would that make a difference?

The man seems to weigh up this new information, chews his lip. “Maybe. What about Strawberry. Heard Micah Bell and an accomplice shot the place up so good that they didn’t let anyone in or out for near a month. Think that was you too.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “I weren’t an accomplice. Got dragged into that. Micah Bell ain’t no friend of mine.”

“No. Don’t imagine he had friends.”

“Had?”

“He’s dead now. Was Van der Linde that killed him.”

Arthur laughs— an odd, dark chuckle from somewhere deep in his throat. “Fucking hell.”

“Why’s that funny?”

Arthur thinks a moment, then stills, a knot forming in his stomach, fractured images of that night on the mountain coming back to him in flashes.

“It ain’t really.”

This is how it always comes back to him. As forks of lightning. Then fear, like thunder, rolls in right after. Memories he don’t want no more, but can’t be rid of, likely won’t ever be rid of. Micah throwing him to the ground, his body refusing to get up, screaming to himself— Get up! Fuck, Morgan. Get up! Dutch kicking Arthur’s pistol out of his reach – his Dutch –looming down from above; a terrible God. Why have you forsaken me? The metallic tang of his blood on his tongue. Lazy footsteps and the crunch of stone fading into an eerie silence. The gasp of his breath. The sunset at the end of the world, the last thing Arthur would ever see.

“No, it ain’t funny at all.”

Smith shifts an ass-cheek off the log again, this time to pull a delicate silver cigarette case from his pocket. Looks like a lady’s. And real silver.

“Smoke?”

Arthur ain’t never turned down the offer of a cigarette before and don’t intend to start now, so he takes one, and leans in towards the feller to light it on his match. He ain’t ever sat and had a smoke with a bounty hunter before. Don’t usually let them get near enough to talk, let alone hunker in and offer up a flame. He must be turning idiot in his old age. Or perhaps, in the weeks, God, months he’s been on his own, on the run again, he’s missed the simplicity of a man’s company, a man’s touch. Ain’t had so much as a handshake. Ain’t even seen a feller up close.

And this feller, this Charles was it? is real nice up close. His faint frown is just the right side of stern and he’s finely-lined with the beginnings of age, perhaps just a couple years younger than Arthur who’s pushing forty these days. The juxtaposition of the man’s face, a severe brow and plush lips, is intriguing. He’s refreshingly down to earth too, Arthur thinks, with a little of his tribe in the way he dresses, and a little of a hunter. He looks like a man who lives out of doors. And not of necessity like Arthur, but because he lives best out of doors.

And then there are his hands, a working man’s hands, calloused fingertips that accidentally brushed Arthur’s when he first took that beer bottle. Smith’s is a body type that’s familiar to Arthur, broad shoulders and powerful thighs that strain a pair of worn jeans. It’s a body Arthur might seek out were they meeting in different circumstances. He knows he’s looking too close, too long, but Smith don’t flinch. Just lets him. Just looks back.

Arthur’s the first to look away. “I ain’t that person no more. I ain’t saying I don’t deserve no comeuppance but…”

“That was a different life?”

“Yeah.” Arthur looks up, eyes meeting, understanding passing between them. “So, you taking me in or what?”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Ain’t threatened him, hurt him, tried to hogtie him… Either Smith’s a goddamn awful bounty hunter or that ain’t the whole of why he’s here.

“Then what are we doing? You take my bounty so we could just… chat like old friends?”

“I’m showing you I don’t mean you no harm.”

“Then what do you want with me?”

“To offer you protection.”

This Arthur don’t like one bit. Protection ain’t never free. “And what do you want from me?”

“Nothing.”

Smith shifts on the log, comes in a little closer. And it’s this motion, together with the blatant lie, that has Arthur acting out of instinct, reaching for his pistol.

Arthur knows men. Men don’t offer nothing out of the goodness of their heart. Men hurt and take and betray you, and Arthur ain’t getting caught out this time. Ain’t gonna pay this feller or suck his cock or whatever it is that he wants. He ain’t doing that again. Promised himself. Never again.

With that vow in mind, Arthur’s raising the gun, but the man calmly stops him, a large hand circling Arthur’s narrow wrist.

“You don’t have to do that. It’s okay.”

“Who are you?” Arthur begs, adrenaline surging. “You ain’t no bounty hunter.”

“I assure you that I am.” The man lowers their joined hands. “But I only take certain bounties. I want to know that if I bring a feller in for a hanging that he damn deserves to be hanged.”

“And me? Do I deserve to be hanged?”

“For killing fellers, maybe. But for fucking one?”

Arthur almost believes him. Almost. Arthur plays at a calmness he don’t feel, pretends his heart ain’t skipping, that his hand ain’t inching back towards his gun. Fingertips brush cold metal, Arthur curls his hand, snatches the gun from its holster, but this too big, too quick, too gorgeous man, pushes him away with a firm shove, a single hand that sends both Arthur and his pistol into the dirt. Smashed to pieces, it skitters like spiders, right off the cliff’s edge.

Arthur pulls himself up, still down in the dirt. He swallows rising bile, forcing himself to laugh in spite of it. “I ain’t afraid to die Mr. Smith!”

“You ain’t gonna die, damn you!”

But Arthur ain’t listening. He’s reaching into his left holster this time. He almost has it then— Goddamn it! He fumbles it in his sweaty hands and fuck!— Smith crashes into him, falls down on top of him, wrestling the pistol free. Large legs pin Arthur to the ground, on top of him, a weight that speaks to a life of eating well and working his ass off.

“For God’s sake,” Smith huffs. “Stop fighting me.”

In The Before, Arthur could’ve taken a man like Smith, tried to at least, gotten a few good shots in. But he ain’t a gunslinger no more, these five years inside the law have left him out of practice. Let himself get lush and lazy, a feral tom turned pussycat.

“I ain’t going to hurt you.”

“What you want? Money?”

Smith gazes down at him, chest heaving, panting, stringy black hair falling into Arthur’s face. And Arthur gazes back up at a pair of eyes, brown as earth and unspeakably earnest. They’re beseeching.

“I ain’t blackmailing you. I want to help.”

It don’t make sense. None of this makes any goddamn sense. Arthur pushes Smith off of him; he’s only successful because the man allows it.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I’m the man who’s gonna save your life.”

Smith stands and brushes the dirt off his knees, and with a whistle, he and his horse move towards each other, leaving Arthur to gape after him. He returns with a load slung over his shoulder that looks suspiciously like a man. Smith drops it at Arthur’s feet. Was a man. Ain’t nothing but a corpse now. Been a corpse less than a few hours from the look of him. Was likely an unremarkable man in life, with sandy brown, unfashionably long hair and a scruffy beard.. Could be twenty-five, could be fifty, Arthur don’t know because there ain’t nothing but a hole where his face should be. Been shot right between his eyes, blasted with a shotgun, Arthur reckons. Surprised his head weren’t blown clean off.

Huh. Ain’t that a sawed off shotgun at Smith’s hip?

Arthur ain’t breathing right when he asks again, “Who are you?”

“I’ve told you who I am.”

“Alright,” Arthur says, coolly. Far more coolly than he really feels. He cocks his head. “Then who’s that?”

“Don’t you recognise yourself?”

“What?”

Smith raises an eyebrow and his lips curl into a dark smile. “That’s you.”

Chapter Text

CHARLES SMITH
Travelling South, Bluewater Marsh, 1904

Arthur Morgan ain’t quite what Charles expected. Anyone who passed through Rhodes or Saint Denis at the end of the century heard of the Van der Linde gang, names spoken in hushed voices, sometimes proclaimed in the paper. First time Charles heard the name ‘Morgan’ was in Strawberry. A known undesirable, Micah Bell, recently broken out of jail and a whole town shot to pieces. Weren’t Bell that frightened them though, but the feller with him. Had mean look about him, real angry, and he weren’t just a quick shot, but deadly. Bell was erratic, manic, like all madmen, but Morgan— He wore a gambler’s hat down over his eyes, and rode a white horse. Didn’t take long for the town’s reverend to whip the locals into a frenzy. Had them talking about the man long after he left town.

And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.

But this Morgan ain’t some harbinger of the end times, just a man with tired eyes and a grim smile. Handsome, Charles thinks, if you like your fellers pale in the face and easily fatigued, which he does not.

Far from the rendering of him that Charles keeps close in his pocket and admires time to time, and even farther from the behemoth of a man described to him, this Morgan, with his slim frame and his town clothes, seems more at home with a drafting pencil in his hand than a weapon.

Which is how he appears to him now, as Charles urges the horses on, the wagon jerking at every imperceptible bump in the road. Morgan hunches over a journal, pencil in hand, pink mouth pursed in concentration as he sketches. His spine curves in a way that looks real uncomfortable but it doesn’t seem to bother him one bit, works away with the sort of patience Charles only has for hunting. Charles couldn’t imagine putting so much of himself into something so frivolous, but the way Morgan’s brow furrows, the way his hand flows, it’s… intriguing. Art eludes Charles, it always has, and the advent of the photograph has rendered it all but useless to his view.

But in Arthur Morgan, lost in his drawings, wholly undeterred by the motion of the wagon, Charles recognises a man with something to love, something to keep him busy, keep him focused. Something that quiets his mind. In a world cruel as this one, that can be the difference between life and death, especially for a particular type of man. In a world like this, a feller needs something to anchor him to it. 

For Charles it’s this that anchors him, helping folk, queer folk, to run, or hide, or fight for their life. Started by necessity— an old friend coming to him in the middle of the night. I need you to help me, he begged. I need you to hide me. Was the first time Charles felt like he was doing something good with his life. Became something of a career, not entirely on purpose. Only took money from those who insisted, those who could afford it. Supplemented his income taking bounties. He lives a simple life, don’t need much. Got the clothes on his back and his best boy, Falmouth, and a little lakeside cabin to retire to one day. But it ain’t easy making people disappear. He’s got friends in every town, some with greased palms, others with shared secrets.

He finds his fellow men in the way queer people have always found each other. By accident at first, and then actively, oaths kept, and intelligence shared. Where to make friends. Where to meet lovers. Where folk will turn a blind eye for a couple of dollars.

Turned out there was a whole country of them hiding in plain sight. Men who dress as girls, women who bed other women. Charles didn’t know women went with each other the way he wanted to go with men. Took a while, but he found it. A world of folk, a community, connected by who they fuck, who they love, or sometimes, something so simple as who they really are.

Without community, Charles would be nothing, couldn’t survive this world on his own. Men like them rarely can— they get found out or driven mad with longing. Which is Morgan? The man’s been on the run for months, and alone God knows how long before that. He was a gunslinger once, maybe a man like that is suited to a life of isolation.

But Morgan ain’t that no more. Just someone trying to outrun who he was. That’s Charles’ kind of feller— the kind he’s dedicated his life to in public. And falls in love with in private.

Was from a pair of pretty painted lips that Charles heard the name Morgan for the first time in years. A Saint Denis banker by day, suffocating in a suit and tie, Sara came alive, became herself, at night. There weren’t many places in the city a lady could dress as she pleased without scrutiny. One such place was a lovers’ lane frequented mostly by gentlemen. Was there she saw Arthur Morgan, a man who was supposed to be dead, very much alive. For now at least, given that he was last seen fleeing for his life. Was Sara that pointed Charles to the bounty that brought him here. 

So when Morgan finally puts down his pencil, and with a suspicious eyebrow asks, “Why you helping me again?”, Charles says, “It’s what I do,” and recounts the story as it was told to him.

“What I heard was that Arthur Morgan was left for dead on the side of a mountain. But, given that you ain’t dead, I assume you refused to die. Heard he was a stubborn bastard.”

Morgan hums a laugh. “Ain’t wrong.”

“Word is that you were friendly with the new Saint Denis mayor.”

The way they sit on the wagon, side by side, with Morgan hunkered over his journal and Charles upright, Morgan has to strain his neck to frown at Charles.

“Mercier? I was. Saved his life.”

“Heard you were the one supposed to kill him. Don’t think you can call that saving someone’s life.”

Morgan laughs proper then, and not in the twisted way he has before, but with something that seems just shy of genuine. “Maybe not. But either way he was very grateful—”

Christ! A divot in the ground has the men lurching out of their seats. Morgan snatches his journal out of the air, clutches it to his chest as the wagon settles down to the ground again with a dull thud.

“Damn! You alright?”

“Just about,” Morgan groans.

“And you?” he asks Falmouth as Arthur, already off the wagon, fusses over his Thoroughbred.

Charles looks over his shoulder to check on his other, far less animated passenger. Blessedly, the corpse hasn’t moved from its hiding place beneath a pile of animal furs. To anyone passing they would look like two fellers on their way to sell to a trapper, much in the same way the men they bought it from presumably was. Although, bought perhaps ain’t the right word. They were taking the wagon either way, but Morgan made sure to pay them handsomely for the inconvenience.

The wagon ain’t really made for long journeys. It’s a rickety thing, every pebble or twig beneath the wheels throws the men forward then gravity tugs them back, closer than before, thighs flush, knees rattling. Ain’t a punishment to be pressed near to a man like Morgan, but frankly Charles thinks he’d enjoy it of anyone. Been a long time since he’s been touched nice, since someone put kind hands on him. Even men meaning to bring him pleasure only ever done so fast and hard and rough.

Morgan’s sat crooked, looking at Charles again with a pleasant line between his furrowed eyebrows. “How d’you know so much about me? You one of them psychics, Mr. Smith?”

Charles keeps it vague. He ain’t gonna rat out Sara. Just says, “I know someone.”

Seems Morgan’s a man who respects privacy; he doesn’t push it. “Gotcha.”

Swallowing, Charles asks, “You had a relationship with Mercier, no?”

It ain’t really a question though, not one that Charles needs answering. Sara’s information ain’t ever been wrong. Dressed as a feller she fades into the background without trying, and as Sara she fades on purpose. But how she comes to know everything she does is a mystery even to Charles.

Morgan’s face ain’t got a drop of colour in it when Charles looks at him. He’s wearing his shame in his bloodshot eyes, it’s in the set of his mouth, and he’s staring at Charles with the fear of a hunted animal. A look that says, How do you know the things I have hidden?

“How— How could you possibly—?” Ain’t able to get his words out. “Nobody knows that.”

Charles drops a hand to Morgan’s, just a brush of comfort between strangers. “Queer folk talk.”

“To you?”

“To each other.”

Morgan stares too long, searching Charles’ face, eyes finally widening as he understands the admission. “You?”

“Yeah.”

Understandably Morgan don’t yet fully trust him, but Charles doesn’t miss the way the man’s shoulders relax and his fists unclench, and Charles reckons he doesn’t need to say more, his silence invites Morgan to talk if he wants to. And to Charles’ surprise, he does.

“Weren’t a relationship,” Morgan clears his throat. “Was an arrangement. It weren’t romantic, if that’s what you’re thinking. We weren’t hardly even friends.”

Sara told Charles that too. That Morgan worked for Mercier for a wage and fucked him for free. Was Mercier who got Morgan a doctor. Not some quack off the street but a feller with an old-money name, one that makes house calls to fancy folk and saves the best medicines for them rich enough to pay out the nose for it.

Charles wonders how long it took the fellers to realise they were the same. Men like them will always find each other. Like finds like. Just takes some time.

“But it wasn’t him you were discovered with?”

“Course not,” Morgan says, prickly. “If it ain’t escaped your notice, Mercier ain’t wanted.”

“Mercier’s richer than God. Even if it had been him you were with, would only be you facing charges. Doesn’t help that you’ve got a list of sins long enough to make the devil blush.”

Even wound up like he is, Morgan can’t help but smile. God, Charles is a fool because revels in it. A little boyish, a little crooked, this smile gives Morgan the look of a fox. Makes his eyes shine. Damn if he ain’t half fine to look at. If they’d met some other time, some other place, Charles thinks he might like to see them eyes grow hot and that smile get lazy, and wonders if the man’s body is as lithe as he thinks it might be. But Charles promised protection and security. And a man is only as good as his word.

“You know what happened to the feller I was?” Morgan asks. “He get away okay?”

“Ain’t heard anything to the contrary. And the lawman you shot at is fine too.”

“He shot first, you know?” He looks real hopeful – ain’t the first time – like Charles has the power to absolve him.

“I do know.”

“I ain’t like that no more. Trying not to be anyway.”

“I know that too.” Something tender passes between them.

“I’m a fool. I should’ve just run but—” Morgan looks down at himself, gestures helplessly at a body half the size of the one on his poster. “I ain’t as quick as I used to be. Knew I couldn’t outrun him. I was— Curse me for a coward, Mr. Smith, but I was afraid. He was pointing his gun right at me, eyes damn wild, looking at me like I was nothing.”

“He knew who you were?”

“And he knew what I’d been doing.”

Charles can only nod in understanding. He ain’t ever been caught by the law, but he has been caught— has seen that look.

“Used to be that when I aimed a weapon,” Morgan says, “it was like… time would slow, just me and my pistol. I could think, assess, line up the perfect shot. But in that moment I didn’t think, didn’t asses nothing, I just… I just pulled the trigger.”

“Desperate men do terrible things.”

“Yeah but— that ain’t the point. Point is I meant to kill him. Point is, I missed! I ain’t never missed in my life. I could shoot a bottle a feller’s head while he stood on one leg.”

Charles raises a cynical eyebrow. “Could you now?”

“I did. Twice.”

“What?”

“They were twins.”

Morgan cracks a lopsided smile, and Charles can’t help but smile too. And then he’s laughing. Laughing. Good god, he ain’t sure he’s laughed a day in his life.

“They asked me to, I swear! And if you think that’s mad, you ought to hear about how they had me kick them in the balls.”

“They had you do it?”

“I swear it!” The men share another glance and they’re both grinning again. “Ah! Feels real good to laugh,” Morgan says, echoing Charles’ thoughts. And then, gesturing to the horses, “Want me to take over? You’ve been at it a while.”

As Morgan takes the reins, their arms graze, just soft forearms brushing the back of Charles’ hands. Morgan apologises, gives him an odd smile, and Charles smiles awkwardly back. It’s been a hundred years since he felt the kiss of another man’s skin. And then an apology for it, just in case? Mad.

Forgot that a man’s touch could be soft. How strange that Arthur Morgan, a feller that shot up a town and ran a goddamn train out of the sky, would be the one to remind him.

“We still headed to Saint Denis?”

“Yeah— Yes,” Charles says, grateful for the distraction. “You know Howard’s Saloon? The Bastille? I’m gonna drop you nearby. You’re gonna go in, make yourself seen. You’re gonna book a room for the night. Loudly.”

“Sure.”

“But you ain’t gonna be in it.” Charles juts his chin over his shoulder. “He is.”

“Alright. And where exactly will I be?”

“You’ll be in my room. That alright?”

“Sure.”

If Morgan feels any discomfort, he doesn’t say anything. Ain’t nothing on his face either. He is decidedly difficult to read.

“How you gonna get the body up to the room?” Morgan asks.

“Leave that to me.”

He eyes Charles with… it ain’t suspicion no more but he’s still uncertain, still wary. “Why you helping me?”

That’s easy. “The world won’t look after men like us. We’ve got to look out for each other.”

“So you are like me, Mr. Smith?”

“God damn, call me Charles, would you? No more of that Mr. Smith.”

“My sincerest apologies,” Morgan says, half sarcastic. “‘Mr. Smith’ make you think of your father?”

Charles breathes out a laugh. “Yeah. Something like that.”

“‘Mr. Morgan’ makes me think of mine and I’d rather not. Was Mr. Smith a good man?”

“Ain’t hardly said a word all afternoon,” Charles snipes. “Now you wanna talk?”

“We’ve got another hour at least to the city. Might as well get to know one another.”

“You gonna tell me about you?”

Morgan doesn’t look at Charles, keeps his eyes fixed on the road, the reins slack in his nimble hands. The horses move swiftly, and the wagon far more smoothly under his control. A gunslinger he is not, but Morgan is still an excellent horseman.

Charles lets the silence stretch between them, hoping that Morgan might fill it. It’s only when he stops hoping, that the man finally speaks.

“Alright,” Morgan says, thoughtful. “Alright. Well. My father weren’t a good man. He was a mean drunk, beat me almost as bad as he beat my mother ‘til I was big enough to hit him back. Then it weren’t beatings but fist fights, all out brawls sometimes. One time it were a revolver—”

A thoughtful quiet falls upon them and Charles doesn’t know what to say. His father wasn’t a good man neither, but he never laid so much as a finger on his mother, he wouldn’t have dared. They both loved her fiercely, a love born of respect. She was the ties that bound them, and when she was taken, he and his father nearly didn’t survive it. Well— Suppose in a way, they didn’t both survive it. The man his father became was a stranger. And it’s only Charles left anyhow.

“Wish Mama had stayed to watch him get his comeuppance,” Morgan says. “But she left. Don’t know if she’s alive or dead now.”

“And him?” Charles asks, hardly more than a whisper.

“He did us all a favour and drank himself to an early grave. I hated him every minute he was alive. Every goddamn minute. But now… I still carry his picture with me. I don’t know why but I can’t let it go.”

And that— that’s not at all what Charles is expecting. It winds him. Not only is the confession so vulnerable, as visceral as bloodletting, it’s also staggeringly close to Charles’ own experience. That’s what he should say… should return the trust, and say I understand, I understand.

But he can’t. The words won’t come. All he can say is, “Shit.”

Morgan laughs, unbothered, like he flays himself open this way all the time. Like it don’t hurt him no more. It’s all still so fresh for Charles, even now, decades later.

“You wanna see?”

Lifting his ass off the seat, reins in one hand, Morgan pulls a photograph from his pocket. He doesn’t just keep it then, but keeps it on his person. Charles keeps his photographs too but hidden in a box, shoved under his bed, all the way to the baseboards. Charles fingers the photograph, tracing the shape of the feller’s face, noting all the ways he is similar to the man at his side. The father ain’t half as handsome as Morgan. Some of his looks, his pretty eyes and the spun gold colour of his hair, must be from his mother.

“He weren’t so bad when I was small,” Morgan says, head down, trusting the horses to follow the road. “But something happened to him. Lost his mother when I was eight… nine maybe. Think grief drove him mad. Madness I sometimes think he passed down to me.”

Just hearing another man voice Charles’ pain has him red raw and sore to touch, even now. Has him remembering. His father’s words are hazy, but his face. God, Charles will never forget that face. Not the crack of his fist either, or the ache in Charles’ jaw for days after. Not the way his father changed him. He had Charles, previously a happy kid, confident, flinching at sudden movements, at every loud noise. He still flinches on his darkest nights. He’ll certainly never forget the way he wept in silence the day he found the strength to leave, and the promise he made himself, that he would never weep again.

“So? What was your daddy like?” Morgan looks up. “Oh, boy,” he says, voice low and serious now. “Oh, he did a number on you, huh?”

“That obvious?”

“I know what memories look like. You, my friend, are haunted.”

“Is that right?”

“Yup.” Morgan steers the horses left, sliding nearer to Charles. The weight feels reassuring in a way that Charles doesn’t rightly understand. “I am intimately acquainted with hauntings.”

“Who haunts you?”

“Ha! Who don’t haunt me? My dead boy. His dead mama. My dead friends.”

“You got a lot of ghosts.”

“Sure do. Mostly though,” Morgan says, chewing his lip. “Think I haunt myself. The man I used to be anyway.”

“Mm,” Charles sounds. “You miss that life?”

And Oh! Morgan looks at him. backlit in gold by the setting sun; gives him the look of a saint in some European painting. Suits him perfectly when he gives a sad smile, and says, “I can’t look back. I weren’t a good man, Charles—”

Charles. His name on Morgan’s lips, in Morgan’s voice, made light with a humour that ain’t on his face. He’s just looking at Charles like he’s seen too much. Done too much. Haunted. Yeah, that’s the right word for it. Is that how Charles looks?

“Meant it before,” Charles says. “Desperate men do terrible things.”

Morgan nods thoughtfully, then, head cocked, “You done terrible things?”

“Yeah.”

“Make you crazy?”

Charles breathes, “Yes.”

“You killed someone.” Ain’t a question.

“A man has to protect himself.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “Course. That don’t always make it easier to live with though.”

“The guilt.”

“Eats you alive.”

Their eyes meet, and this man, this relative stranger, feels closer to him than any friend he’s ever had.

“Think me and you get each other, Charles Smith,” Morgan says, echoing his own thoughts, dropping a friendly pat to Charles’ thigh that lingers too long, but not nearly long enough. Then he’s pulling the reins and slowing the horses. “We should wait here a while. ‘Til it’s properly dark out, don’t you think?”

“Right… Yeah.”

It was Charles’ plan and can’t hardly remember it, caught up in Morgan’s eyes and his words, and the sheer damn weight of them.

Think me and you get each other.

Charles hadn’t anticipated this. Knew Morgan had lived a life not all that different from Charles’— there ain’t that many ways to live outside the law. But this was unexpected. That Arthur would be a mirror, reflecting Charles’ fears, his memories back to him. To see the things Charles keeps hidden in full view on another. The wounds that left him scarred, worn so valiantly by someone else. Ain’t it so much easier to see the good in yourself when you see it first in another? And there is good in Morgan. He knows he made the right decision. This ain’t a man meant for the gallows. Charles will die keeping him from them. It is his purpose. What he was put on this earth to do.

“So—” Morgan says, untying his horse from the wagon. She nickers happily; nudges her head into his hand. “You wanna sleep?”

“All good.”                                      

“Okay. Well.” He looks up, hopeful. “You wanna talk?”

Charles surprises himself as he breathes, “Yeah, alright.”

Morgan throws his satchel down beside a tree and collapses in front of it. He uses the trunk as a backrest, sits with his legs stretched out, crossed neatly at the ankle. It ain’t safe to make a fire this close to the city, someone or other will come nosing about, so Charles pulls on his jacket and sits opposite. He can see Morgan better this way. Long fingers needle through the length of his hair, mussing it up on purpose. He’s unfastened the top button of his shirt now, revealing a thatch of dark hair. Charles doesn’t think there’s any harm in looking. Appreciating. The journal rests open on his thighs – Charles can’t help but take note of those thighs, the size of them, power in them in comparison to the rest of his body. He’s too busy appreciating Morgan, he ain’t hardly noticed the journal and the sketch on it. It’s a man. From here it looks like an Indian man, with—

“Is that me?”

If Charles expected Morgan to lie, to at least cover the image with his body, he does no such thing. He just gives an airy laugh and tosses Charles journal. The rendering is— there ain’t no other word for it, it’s wonderful. You wouldn’t know it was made on a goddamn wagon ride. Every line forms a part of him, Morgan ain’t missed a single detail from the beads in his hair to the wrinkling round his eyes. He ain’t a vain man, but the wrinkling gets him overthinking sometimes. But he don’t look old and tired, Morgan’s made him handsome. He's captured a sort of sadness, though, too. This is the man Morgan sees.

“Why’d you draw me?”

“I draw all the strange and beautiful things I come across.”

“Which one am I?”

Morgan twitches his lips, then smiles. “You’re both.”

Oh, that’s a dangerous smile, and those are some pretty words. Gonna remember moment long after they’ve parted ways.

Morgan’s so easy-going, all things considered. It ain’t long before he has Charles laughing again. They’re sharing a beer, Charles taking the excuse to sit nearer to the object of his attention. Morgan talks of adventures, of a wild life Charles can’t hardly imagine. He tells of fool’s errands. Of a time he was sent to track down a zebra. Turned out it was a donkey, painted up real good, Morgan laughs. And sucked the venom out this feller’s leg not once but twice. And then he’s talking about them twins again, fighting over a woman, climbing into barrels, throwing themselves off waterfalls, all to prove their love was true.

“And after all that,” Charles says, drying his mouth and passing Morgan the beer. “They decided neither one of them wanted her?”

“Mad, ain’t it?” Arthur says, shaking his head.

“Can’t imagine going to all that trouble for a woman.”

“What about for a man?”

“He’d have to be real special,” Charles laughs.

Morgan presses the rim of the bottle to an amused smile. “So you got a feller in every state then? Ain’t the type to get tied down?”

“I ain’t got any feller. And I’m strictly a one-at-a-time kind of man. Ain’t many men who want the same, that’s all.”

“Too dangerous,” Morgan says.

“Exactly.”

“Could be worth it though. With the right person.”

“You sound like a man who’s been in love.”

“Think I was once,” Morgan says, shy. “A friend of mine. We grew up together. Was just a punk kid, and then one day… he weren’t no more.”

“He didn’t feel the same?”

“Christ! No idea. Doubt it. He had a woman, he had a son. Weren’t ever gonna ask.”

“Ah, Morgan,” Charles says, nudging the man’s knee with his. “I’ve been there.”

“Hold on now, partner. If I’m gonna call you Charles, you’ll call me Arthur.”    

“Okay… Arthur.” Charles looks over his shoulder, checks on the body again. “What do you think? Is it time?”

Morgan straightens, hesitates only a moment. “Think so, yeah.”

They gather their things in silence and ready the horses, they don’t look at one another until they’re seated in the wagon once more, the reins curled tight in Charles’ hands. Morgan’s smile ain’t all there; his eyes search Charles’ face. There’s a sort of tension passing between them, and Charles ain’t sure if it’s fear or anticipation, or tension of some other kind.

Charles swallows. He’s the first to speak.

“Well, Arthur Morgan. You ready to die?”

Chapter Text

ARTHUR MORGAN

Saint Denis, 1904

Been five years since Arthur stepped into the Bastille and ain’t much changed, not even the people. Same dark wood, same smell of stale smoke, same warm yellow glow. Same feller playing the piano, same drunks, same barman. Blessedly, Saint Denis has a short memory. If anyone recognises him they don’t so much as bat an eye. As instructed, Arthur greets people, looks them head on. First time in his life he’s trying to get noticed.

He makes his way to the bar, nodding at fellers, complimenting the women. Five years and only one thing’s changed: the damn prices; even more outrageous than the last time he was here, looking for Bronte. Up close, Arthur notes that this ain’t the same barman after all. This feller’s younger, the son of Elijah Howard no doubt. Got his daddy’s face; same neat haircut, same tired eyes. He ain’t a barman, but the owner, and the man Arthur’s here to see.

The feller introduces himself as Thomas Howard and gives Arthur a meaningful look. “How can I help you?”

“I’d like a room. One with a view of the city,” Arthur says, following the script he and Charles agreed upon. “The red room, is it? Oh, and a bath.” The bath ain’t part of the script, he just ain’t had real a good soak since Mercier’s place.

“The red room’s up in the attic, got a balcony that sees for miles. But it ain’t ready.”

Arthur’s wrong-footed, but remains firm. “I want that room.”

“You happy to wait?” Howard talks loud and clear, like he’s addressing the entire room. Arthur supposes he is. Another flash of meaning from Howard’s eyes. “You could maybe play some cards? Have a drink or two?”

Play cards. Act drunk. That’s the plan. A plan Howard is apparently privy to.

“That suit you? Be about an hour.” Howard slides over a glass of whiskey. “I’ll put it on Mr. Charles’ tab.”

Arthur drops his voice. “He here?”

“He will be.”

Thank God, Arthur’s thinking. Thank God.

Then, “Oh,” Howard says. “Here you go.”

And Arthur ain’t ever believed in God before but maybe he’ll start because Charles Smith ain’t nothing less than a miracle come to life, and standing at the bar beside him. They don’t acknowledge each other, but Arthur feels better, safer, just knowing he ain’t alone.

“Mr. Smith. Good to see you again. What can I get you?”

“Thomas,” Charles says, the greeting pretty cold for two fellers on a first name basis. It speaks of history. Unhappy history. Romantic history? “The blue room free?”

“Course.”

Howard procures a key and Arthur don’t think he’s being unkind in suspecting that it takes all of Charles’ will not to snatch it out the man’s hand. Got his jaw clenched, and his fist curled tight when he says Thank you and smiles and heads for the stairs. It ain’t a smile that goes to his eyes. It ain’t the smile Arthur’s seen on him, that’s for sure.

Hey. Stop that, Arthur tells himself. It don’t mean nothing. But he can’t help but feel smug, can’t help but leak a smile. He ain’t clever enough to hide it.

A crease forms between two thick eyebrows as Howard’s face turns to one of suspicion. He speak so quiet it takes Arthur a minute to understand him.

“You together?”

Arthur shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

It ain’t quite relief that falls onto Howard’s face, but it ain’t far from that, Arthur don’t think. And what had been an idle wondering before is a certainty to him now. Charles and this Howard were lovers once, and not casually. Arthur ain’t jealous, he tells himself – he ain’t, he’s got no damn reason to be – and knocks back his whiskey in one, smacking the glass on the bar top. He’s supposed to be acting drunk, but it won’t hurt nobody if he drinks a little. Turns out he needs the courage.

When they’ve been silent too long, Howard starts making small talk. He asks where Arthur’s travelling from, asks about his plans for his stay in the city, making sure to drop Arthur’s name into conversation as often as he can. It feels so obviously false to Arthur, and unnaturally loud, surely everyone around must be on to them. But nobody seems interested. That’s the thing about the city… ain’t nobody paying attention to nothing but themselves.

Arthur answers the questions presented to him, even asks a few of his own, but not what he really wants to ask: When were you and Charles together? For how long? Why can’t you hardly look at him? You do him wrong? Instead he asks, How’s business?

They’re pulled from conversation as a body appears at Arthur’s side. Another patron, large and smelling strongly of hair pomade, arms on the bar. An ass if Arthur ever saw one, with greying temples and an immense orange moustache, clicks his fingers to beckon Howard from less than two feet away. Arthur readies himself for a fight— he ain’t above picking up his stool and beating some manners into the feller, but Howard remains perfectly calm. A stalwart professional through and through.

“City folk,” Arthur mutters, with the sort of disdain normal people save for criminals and wastrels… fellers like him.

“I’ll call you when your room’s ready, Mr. Morgan.” And Arthur is dismissed.

Air thick with cigar smoke, the pleasant playing of an old familiar song, the sweet tang of whiskey on his tongue… It feels like old times. Arthur could almost pretend the last five years ain’t happened. He chooses the cards table nearest the door, takes the seat with full view of the room. He does the math. Could be out on the street in twenty seconds; could get to Charles on the top floor in a less than a minute.

Acting drunk ain’t difficult, just mimics Swanson. Arthur loses a hand on purpose but wins the second by sheer dumb luck. He ain’t played nothing but Solitaire for months but turns out he can still play a mean game of poker. When he wins a third round, his last win – he plans to lose and lose big for the rest of the night – Arthur hollers for a round of drinks for the whole table. Cheers and claps on the back come loud and heavy. No better way to be remembered than as a generous, drunken idiot. No better way to be underestimated.

Arthur plays into the night, until the table empties and there’s just one other feller left. It’s the man with them fat, impatient, clicking fingers and that great orange moustache. Arthur had sized him up correct from the beginning, a city-slick, no good bastard, taking far too much pleasure in robbing a drunk man of his money. In another time, this feller would find himself come the morning relieved of all his valuables and sporting a black eye. Lucky for him there ain’t gonna be no morning. Arthur Morgan dies tonight.

Takes longer than expected, but finally Howard comes to him, key in hand. “Sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Morgan. Shall I take you up to your room”

Arthur slurs, staggers as he stands. What would Swanson do? Act an ass, that’s what. “What took you so goddamn long?”

He don’t like grumbling— don’t like treating working folk this way, but it’s easier than it should be. Between trepidation of what’s to come, and the absent thought of Howard with Charles… Arthur ain’t liked someone for so long. Feels kinda nice. Feels utterly humiliating. Both at the same time. It ain’t hard to play at unhappy.

“You said an hour.”

“You were adamant about the balcony room, Mr. Morgan. We had to clean some furnishings and make some repairs. But it’s ready now.”

“Alright, well—”

Arthur looks back at the table, wistfully. All that money. Gone. Did he really have to lose so much? Weren’t long ago that seemed money was the only thing that mattered. Just one more hit, just one more score, and they’d be free. Arthur has more money on his person than most fellers ever see in a lifetime and he ain’t felt free since he was a boy.

“Good game,” his opponent says, reaching over the table to extend a hand and belatedly introduce himself. “Rick Johnson. I’d happily play you again.”

“Course you would, Mick Johnson.” Arthur lets himself lose balance as he takes the man’s clammy hand. “You took all m’money.”

Johnson laughs, moustache twitching, as he settles back into his seat to count Arthur’s chips.

Takes real effort for Arthur to laugh too, allowing Howard to lead him away from the table. “In the morning, I want a rematch.”

Johnson smirks. “You won’t remember me in the morning.”

“Well you’ll remember me. Arthur Morgan,” he calls. “Name’s Arthur Morgan.”

Arthur sways, letting himself be guided round tables and chairs, to be led up the stairs. He drops his head near to his confidant, and Howard moves close to hear.

“I’d really like that bath now.”

Ain’t nothing in the world better than a bath. Only thing better is a bath with all kinds of flowery soaps and a bottle of champagne, and a pretty girl with deft hands. Just because Arthur don’t like to make love with women doesn’t mean he don’t appreciate the soft touch of one. He closes his eyes, lets her fingers trace his chest, his flank, sink into the meat of his calves, but he opens them again as those fingers graze up to the top of his thigh, circling, asking… You want it? The question’s on her face too, in her big blue eyes and her freckled pink cheeks. Arthur’s been so lonely, he’s almost desperate enough to agree. Ain’t really a conscious thought to shake his head.

“I’m—” Drunk, he’s going to say.

“Not interested?” she suggests instead.

“It’s not— Not that,” he stammers. “You’re… You’re—”

“A woman?”

Arthur swallows thickly, but the girl, she just smiles, real sweet, real honest. “We get a lot of fellers like you. You’ll find we’re very discrete here.”

“Fellers like me?”

That smile again, gentle and knowing and completely without judgment. “The attic rooms are reserved for a particular type of gentleman. All they gotta do is ask for the red room – that’s your room, with a balcony and a convenient fire escape – or the blue room…”

“Aw! It’s a code,” Arthur laughs, sinking deeper into the tub, water sloshing warm and delightful over his body.  He can’t help but grin, taking a swig of champagne right out the bottle. “What the hell is this place?”

“A safe place, Mr. Morgan.”

Huh. Arthur stills, the bottle rim pressed to tight lips. “How long’s it been… safe?”

“Hm,” she thinks. “Couple years. Since Mr. Howard – Mr. Thomas Howard that is – took over from his daddy.”

Arthur hums a laugh. It’s a hollow sound that gets stuck in his throat. He got caught less than a mile from here. This place, right here under everyone’s noses— right under Arthur’s goddamn nose.

“I’ll leave you to it,” the girl says. “Think your feller’s waiting for you.”

Arthur don’t have it in him to correct her. Don’t even have it in him to enjoy the mistake. He aches. This hellhole city has taken his life from him more than once. And this— Hell! This is some kind of joke.

The temptation to stay where he is, to finish the bottle and drown in the tub is almost too much. Almost. Arthur ain’t a man prone to sulking. Sulking don’t get nothing done. He carries the bottle up the stairs though. It’s gonna be a long night and he sure as shit ain’t gonna fall asleep. Might as well enjoy himself.

He smells blood the moment he opens the door and regretfully pushes into the red room. It ain’t that it smells strong, or even bad, Arthur don’t think. It’s that it smells familiar. There was a time he couldn’t make it through the day without getting covered in some feller’s blood.

Seems that the red room is so called for the wallpaper, wall to wall damask in an imposing, rich scarlet. This ain’t a room for sleeping. This is a room made for fucking. Arthur lets the thought linger as his eyes land on Charles, sleeves rolled up over thick arms, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. Behind him is a bed, and on the bed, Arthur assumes, is the body. But Charles shields Arthur from the sight, like it weren’t him that lugged it into a wagon just a few hours previous.

“It all go okay?” Charles asks, “No setbacks?” and Arthur feels like some civil war spy in one of Mary-Beth’s romance novels. All he needs is a shirt he can’t keep closed, a depressing backstory, a secret lover, and a big old cock. He’s got one of those at least. Shame it ain’t his cock.

“No setbacks.”

Charles eyes him, face to face at first and then head to toe. It ain’t suggestive. Is it? Still, Arthur grows hot under Charles’ gaze, the room made for fucking getting him all turned around.

“I see you had a bath,” Charles says.

“I did.”

“You meet Lucy?”

“She the girl who offered to stroke my cock?”

“You mean you didn’t let her?”

“Shut up,” Arthur snorts.

An interested smile flickers across Charles’ face, but he don’t say nothing more on the subject. He gets down to business, handing Arthur a leather case, a little larger than a saddle bag.

“There are clothes in it for you. They might come up big… They’re mine.”

He and Charles exchange glances. Arthur’s worn other men’s clothes before, stolen hats and coats and jewellery, but this feels different. Feels… intimate. At least that distracts from the comparison of their bodies. He don’t want to think about that overmuch. How thin and slow and weak he is now, particularly beside Charles who is everything Arthur thinks a man should be. Everything Arthur once was.

Arthur sucks in a breath; looks past Charles to the dead man behind him. “What do I do with my clothes?”

“You don’t have to dress him,” Charles says. “Someone else will sort that.”

“Someone else?” Charles raises his eyebrows and Arthur nods. “I don’t need to know. Gotcha.”

“Leave everything you can bear to part from. I mean everything.” The words are a whisper, may as well be an apology. “Your clothes, your hat, your guns. Don’t take anything you can’t live without. He needs to be you.”

Breathing real heavy, telling on himself, on his worry, Arthur nods, but he don’t say a word. His clothes? Fine, take them. His hat? Sure. John took his father’s gambler’s hat, he ain’t attached to this one. But his guns? Solid silver and every inch engraved. It ain’t just that they were goddamn expensive, which they were, by God! but that he had them made special at a time in his life he’s afraid to forget. A time when the gang was together. When Dutch loved him. When he thought he’d live forever. Maybe he ain’t ready to die after all.

Maybe Charles sees that in him. He looks at Arthur like he’s volatile as dynamite. “You okay?”

No, he ain’t okay.

“We can do it later,” Charles says. “Come on.”

Charles is a good man with a kind heart. He meets Arthur’s eyes, and holds out his hand.

And Arthur— Arthur stares dumbly, like he don’t know what to do with it. He can’t take it. Christ. Why can’t he take it? It all feels too vulnerable— too dangerous. Feels way too close to admitting to wanting something he swore he weren’t ever gonna want again.

“Sorry,” Charles says, dropping his hand, giving a faint smile. “Sorry, that was presumptuous.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, and he is, he really fucking is, because even though Charles says, “Hey, no problem,” when he turns, the smile falls off his face.

“Shall I leave you to it?”

“Yes,” Arthur hears himself say. “Please.”

Charles don’t react to the way Arthur’s voice cracks; doesn’t comment on the set of his jaw or the wet of his eyes. He just nods, and quietly exits the room.

Now Arthur’s alone with the body and that’s almost worse. He studies him properly for the first time. Charles hadn’t said precisely what the feller had done to deserve a hole through his face, but he’d had been adamant that the man had it coming. That was enough for Arthur.

True, he didn’t have much choice but to trust Charles, but he did. It came effortlessly. There was just something about him. It was in the way the man held himself, confident in his skin, comfortable with the way that God had made him. It was in the way he talked— little but often, not a word misspent. And a smooth voice, breathy and low, made him easy to listen to. Mostly though, Arthur ain’t ever met someone who wears their feelings so plainly. Charles didn’t need to say nothing about his father, Arthur watched the memories play out on his face, might as well have been one of them moving picture shows.

On the subject of fathers— Arthur pulls the photograph from his pocket. He’s kept it near a quarter of a century for no reason but stupid sentimentality. There’s another photograph here he keeps for the same reason, of him and Dutch and Hosea years ago. Ach, Hosea! He would’ve loved this. Arthur faking his own death. Feels like one of his cons. Goddamn, Arthur misses Hosea, but he don’t need no photograph to remember him.

The last picture is his favourite, Copper, his best friend for many years. Ain’t no way to connect this photo to Arthur Morgan. Just a beloved dog with a spirit too wild for a camera to catch. This photograph he decides to keep.

Having emptied his pockets, with the exception of lint and a stray apple seed, Arthur removes his holster. The metallic clinking reminds him of evenings years ago, undressing for bed after a long day. The days have been long lately too but for a different reason. Time drags these days. Hiding is boring. Running is exhausting. And that’s all he’s ever done in one way or another. He’s so ready for a change. And he’s so goddamn tired of being… Arthur Morgan.

With a sigh, Arthur looks at the body again, the overgrown beard and the overlong hair, the same sandy colour as his own. No eyes, no nose, hardly a mouth, just shattered teeth and part of a bloodied lip. Fucking hell! Arthur laughs. It ain’t funny, it ain’t funny one bit, but Arthur laughs so hard, for so long, that he has to catch his breath.

“You poor son of a bitch,” he wheezes.

Arthur’s made his decision. Again. Yes he backtracked for a while – let fear distract him – but he knows what he wants. He’s sure this time. What he’s been living ain’t a life. Would rather be that feller, this, faceless and rotting. At least the poor bastard’s at peace.

Case open on the foot of the bed, Arthur pulls out the contents. Clothes, as Charles said, but scissors, a razor, some sort of black tincture in a stoppered glass bottle. And right at the bottom, a pair of shoes.

Shoes? Arthur thinks, looking down at his boots with a frown. This is a damn fine pair of boots, lasted him years, and worn down to perfection. Had them fitted as he waited to have his guns engraved. But the boots, like his pistols, belong to somebody he ain’t no more. Arthur kicks them off and don’t so much as look down as he pulls on another man’s clothes.

Leaving everything on the bed – his satchel, his money clip, his bandana, even his hunting knife – Arthur stands before the door with nothing of his own but his drawers and a single photograph. He looks upon the man a final time. He knows once he leaves this room, he won’t be able to step back inside if his life depends on it. Which, hell! it might.

Squinting, the dead feller does look sort of like Arthur. Takes him aback. Makes him feel like a ghost. He can’t bear it another second. With an ear to the door, Arthur checks there ain’t no sound from outside. With Charles’ case in one hand, the other wrapped around the doorknob, it’s almost like they ain’t trembling. Almost like he ain’t a coward.

For what he hopes will be the last time, Arthur calls upon courage he don’t really have and leaves the room, locking the door behind him. He stalks across the landing, forcing his hand to still, to form a fist — but the door opens before he’s so much as raised it. Inside is Charles who don’t say a word, just tugs Arthur inside and closes the door with a soft thud.

Charles has his feelings on his face again. He wears worry in the grim set of his mouth, anticipation in his wide eyes. Then he steps back and properly takes in the sight before him. Arthur in Charles’ too big shirt, half buttoned, a pair of jeans belted tight so they bunch at the crotch. Arthur ain’t ever cared too much for fashion, but he can’t believe he’s standing in front of another man this way; a man that looks like Charles Smith no less. Arthur looks like a boy playing dress up. And feels like a damn idiot.

There’s intrigue in Charles’ brow, then a quirk of laughter on his lips. Arthur looks down at himself and back up, meeting Charles’ eyes, crinkled in amusement. God damn, but it makes Arthur smile too in spite of it all.

“We’ll fix them… The clothes.”

“You don’t think they suit me?” Arthur asks, grinning. How ridiculous.

Charles laughs real warm, real lovely. “Come in.”

But Arthur doesn’t. He asks, “What do we do now?”

“Now we wait. It’s still early.”

Arthur reaches for his pocket watch, remembering, as his fingers catch at nothing, that it’s attached to the jeans he left behind.

“It’s just past midnight. We’ve got a few hours yet.”

Charles tucks a strand of that hair behind his ear— the action gentle, almost feminine in its manner. This juxtaposed with Charles’ power and undeniable masculinity catches Arthur’s attention… has him interested. He finds himself wondering if Charles likes— Fuck, Arthur tells himself. Cut that out!

Arthur ain’t like Charles, he’s pretty good at hiding his thoughts, his feelings. Got the way of a poker player – a skill that, thank God, he ain’t lost – because when he looks back at Charles, the man is eagerly searching his face.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Arthur clears his throat. “Yes.”

“Do you… plan on coming inside?”

Oh. Arthur’s still lurking by the doorway. Ain’t moved hardly an inch inside. What good is a poker face when he’s got a damn traitor’s body?

“Come on,” Charles says, like before except—

Arthur stares at Charles’ hand, fingers twitching, but pressed to his side. He doesn’t offer it. And it’s a shame, he thinks, because he might have dared to take it this time.

He didn’t take it before. It ain’t no secret that Arthur Morgan’s a goddamn fool.

But come tomorrow morning, Arthur Morgan will be dead.

Chapter Text

CHARLES SMITH

The Blue Room, 1904

All the pieces are in place now, everything in motion, there’s nothing for Charles to do but cross his fingers and wait. Well. To wait, and to fix up his clothes to better fit Arthur’s smaller frame. Gives Charles something to do besides ruminate himself to the point of madness. Something to distract him, both from what’s to come, and from the man knelt before him, bruised knees in the cream carpet, wearing nothing but Charles’ shirt and a pair of tight drawers.

Charles sits opposite, at the foot of the bed, decidedly not looking at Arthur. Instead he squints in the dim light, just a couple of old oil lamps in here, moving the needle and thread with the dexterity his mother praised him for, hemming the pant leg the way she taught him. It drove his father crazy, her teaching Charles to sew and cook and clean. What Father called women’s work. It’s possible his mother saw it in him even then, when he was still just a boy, that he wouldn’t ever have a woman to do that sort of work. Would that they could see him now, doing it for another man. A white man at that. His father would keel over on the spot. But his mother—

“Could you think out loud?” Arthur’s voice tugs Charles from his imagination.

He looks up, frowns. “What?”

“You ain’t said a word in gone half an hour and I’m…”

“Worried?”

“No,” Arthur huffs. “Maybe. If you could do me a favour and distract me?”

“I’m already doing you a favour,” Charles says, nodding down to the pants in his lap.

“Talk to me?” Arthur’s looking at him real eager and Charles is looking back, strictly above the shoulders, mind you. “Tell me about your man, Mr. Howard?”

“He ain’t my man.”

“But he was.”

Charles sucks in a breath. “He tell you that?”

“Didn’t have to.”            

Arthur’s eyes are lit up with a curiosity that’s visible even from here, even in the half-light. Charles knows they’re blue, as blue almost as these walls. It ain’t hardly changed in here over the years. The same huge four poster bed, same powder blue paisley wallpaper. Charles don’t remember the other furniture well but he’d wager this is the same ornate dresser and the same shining, cherry wood nightstands. Inside, he reckons there will be the same bible, that for obvious reasons don’t see much use in here. Not any church-sanctioned use anyhow.

How strange to be in this room with a man after all this time. Was Thomas once or twice. Otherwise a stranger.

“So what happened between you?” Arthur asks.

“You want my heartache for your entertainment?”

“Hell no.” Arthur blanches, the white of his face in complete contrast to the iris root poultice that’s turning his hair black. “That ain’t what I’m asking for. I just wondered is all.”

Charles clears his throat. “You can wash that off now.”

“Howard thought we was together, you know? Think maybe he’s jealous.” Arthur continues to talk as he shoves his head in the basin, even as he rinses his hair. “Reckon he wants you back. You want him back?” Arthur pauses. “Don’t answer that." And he falls quiet while he towels his hair dry, and studies his reflection.

Damp, Arthur's hair sits on his shoulders, parts in thick strands, at once too dark for his face, but striking in its severity. Charles had suggested Arthur cut that hair. Rightfully, Arthur had fought him. You can take my boots, and my guns, but you ain’t taking my hair. Charles had thought it vanity. Seems like sacrilege now to have even suggested it. A smile pulls at Charles’ lips but he drops his gaze to his needlework and ties off the stitch.

“Wish I’d known about this place.” Arthur paces. “Knew I weren’t the only one, course. Knew fellers wouldn’t be out roaming the streets looking for a man if they could find pleasure enough with a woman. But if I’d known there were places like this—”

“Try these on,” Charles says, and bundles the pants into Arthur’s open arms.

“A place for queer fellers that ain’t a jail cell. I’ll be damned.”

Charles laughs and cocks his head as Arthur tugs the pants over his thighs, watching with the interest of a craftsman, nothing more… They don’t sit quite right around Arthur’s waist, but like they ain’t been tailored to him, and not like they belong to someone else. Charles nods with approval.

“Now throw me your shirt.”

Arthur complies. And Charles doesn’t watch him undress. Doesn’t note fingers sliding under buttons, or how the buttery blue fabric shrugs off pale shoulders. Charles doesn’t linger over a chest, over clavicles, doesn’t swallow thickly thinking about running his tongue along them. Arthur mutters to himself, blessedly too preoccupied with that last stubborn button to look upon Charles’s face, where he would surely see a fierce and foolish attraction. Been ages since Charles felt heat like this. Been ages since Charles has been alone in a room with a half-dressed man though too. This room of all places. A room he associates with sweaty, aching, awkward pleasure.

As though he spoke aloud, Arthur says, “Who ever heard of a room for fucking?!”

Charles can’t talk as plain as Arthur about these things, and struggles to word a reply. And it ain’t because Arthur’s holding out his shirt for Charles to take. It ain’t because their hands brush. And it ain’t because it smells good. It certainly ain’t because Arthur’s wearing nothing above the waist.

He runs the fabric through his hands, decidedly not looking at Arthur. “Think most rented rooms are used for that.”

“But they’re meant for sleeping.”

“Men sleep here too.”

Arthur pauses, looks at Charles real thoughtful. “Together?”

“Sometimes.”

"You ever slept in here?"

Charles doesn’t need to answer. Reckons it’s written on his face. A teasing smile crosses Arthur’s lips but if he’s tempted to taunt Charles, he mercifully decides against it. Then Arthur laughs and leans back, hands flat on the bed behind him, fingers brushing the navy linen.

“Can’t believe you left a corpse in a room made for fucking.” And he’s laughing again. “You’re a sick man, Charles Smith. If I die tonight, please don’t lay me to rest in a room made for fucking.”

“He ain’t laid to rest!” Charles says, laughing too.

“Still—”

“It was either him or us. Thought you'd appreciate a less... aggressive room. Didn’t think you’d wanna be holed up with me in there.”

Arthur’s voice is different, laced with playful euphemism. “You don’t think so?”

“What? Arthur!”                                       

“Charles!"

Charles laughs, because if he doesn’t laugh he’s gonna goddamn choke. He ain’t a fool. Two men, inclined the same way, shut in a room with nothing to do but kill time. That story writes itself. But Arthur ain’t hinted at so much as a passing interest in him before now.

“Seems like a wasted opportunity is all.”

“You gonna flirt with me?” Charles asks, schooling his face into one of disinterest. “Because you’re anxious?”

“Nah.”

“You ain’t anxious?”

Arthur sits up and Charles ain’t able to look anywhere but at the man’s face. Got a real wicked smile and neat teeth, paired with them mischievous blue eyes and that long, blackened hair gives him the look of a devil.

“That ain’t why I’m flirting with you.”

“It ain’t?”

The devil shakes his head.

They’re teetering on the edge of painfully honest, Charles thinks. But hasn’t Arthur been that way since the off? He's so close, Charles feels Arthur's warmth radiating off of him. Mere inches separate them. Charles need only shift his foot, slide a hand, and—

Charles’ voice is hardly more than a whisper. “Then why?”

“Damn, Charles! Ain’t you seen yourself?”

Pretending like he can’t feel his goddamn heartbeat in his ears, Charles says, cooly, “This that distraction you were looking for? Gonna get me all worked up for something to do?”

Arthur meets his gaze. He’s halfway to arrogant now “You getting worked up?”

Wonder if this is this is a glimpse of the feller Arthur used to be. It’s intriguing in a way Charles doesn’t know how to fight. So of course his eyes drop to the column of Arthur’s throat, to the light and the shadows that shape it. Drop further to Arthur’s shoulders, to his chest... Charles only looks a second but it’s long enough to note that the hair there tapers below his pectorals, narrows to a point that trails deliciously downward—

Charles snatches his gaze upward, rights himself, but damn, Charles is only a man and Arthur is… Looking at him. Seeing him.   

And Charles knows, surely as he knows that east is east and north is home, that Arthur wants him as much as he wants Arthur. Feels it in his gut. In that goddamn thunder in his ears, pulsing at his temples. And his groin. Fuck.

“When you spoke of distraction—”                

“Just wanted your attention,” Arthur says. “You’re distraction enough just sitting there.”

“You think it’s fair,” Charles says, swallowing. “To talk to me that way when you ain’t dressed.”

Raised brow, eyes suggestive. “Ain’t I being fair, Charles?”

God damn! “Arthur.”

Arthur leans back, wets his lips, grins. “Want me to stop?”

There’s not a rational thought in him when Charles replies. “No.”

And Charles doesn’t know exactly what happens next, except Arthur shifts on the bed to move towards him, and Charles moves in response… in anticipation. Charles thinks maybe he’s about to be seduced. He ain’t been seduced before. His fingers twitch, hands opening and— Ach! A sharp prick at his thumb. He looks down. A shirt in his hand, and a needle and thread. Right. Of course. Charles huffs out a laugh as a drop of blood blooms red on the pad of his thumb. How had the world narrowed to one man? This man.

This man who responds before Charles does. Who takes Charles’ hand into his, lifts it upward, Charles’ eyes trailing behind it. Arthur’s long fingers neatly encircle Charles’ wrist as he lifts it to his lips and Charles gasps, damn him, when Arthur takes his thumb into his mouth. Seems overly intimate, even in this room meant for strangers to come together for the most intimate of exchanges. Arthur’s tongue swirls the pad of Charles’ thumb, the red disappearing into his mouth. All the while, he fixes Charles with a warm gaze, fond almost, sucks hard, a graze of teeth, and all Charles can do is stare wildly back and remind himself how to breathe right.

Growing hot, holding Arthur’s focus, Charles feels exposed in a way he didn’t know a man could. Arthur eventually parts his lips, freeing Charles’ thumb, but keeps hold of Charles’ wrist, gently circling the thin skin there with rough fingers. Charles wants to speak but he can’t settle on anything that feels correct.

“Will you distract me, Charles?”

Charles’ breath catches; a sigh, a laugh. He can’t trust himself to speak. Yes, he’s thinking, want thrumming through him. Yes, yes. Because there’s only one thing Arthur can mean while he looks at him that way. With damn embers in his eyes.

Strange and beautiful, hadn’t Arthur called him? That’s how he looks at Charles now.

But even as every part of him calls, Hell yes, absolutely, Charles errs, pauses, just a moment. Arthur’s been up front with him. Seems only fair to be up front back. To say, What of the morning? Will we part ways as strangers? What if we could have been friends, allies, but instead— What if I regret you? I don’t want that. (I don’t want that.) Will you take something from me? the way men always take something from me. Will you’ll treat me the way I am always treated? Or could I ask you for something more? Something closer to what I want.

In those moments of silent apprehension, of hesitation, Arthur goes still— that grin falls off his face. “Have I misunderstood?”

And Charles, who ain’t ever been one for words, lets his hands talk. He falters on the first try, grasping not at Arthur but at the air before him.

How could hands say that sometimes men are violent? That it started with his father and the pattern repeated itself until it weren’t so much a pattern as a way of living, and even when it was good, like with Thomas, it still wasn’t ever...

How do hands ask for softness? To be treasured? How could he even form words to ask that of a stranger? An outlaw at that.

But Arthur smiles, crooked, and meets Charles’ hand with his, two halves of one prayer. Their fingers lace. Charles can’t remember a time sex began with fingers laced. Didn’t expect Arthur to begin this way. Charles discards the shirt, lets it fall to the ground, as Arthur puts his hands on him for the first time, pushing him, guiding him, onto the bed.  

Charles’ hands meet bare flesh, soft skin, his fingers stroke in circles. Arthur closes his eyes and hums happily, a gentleness in sharp contrast to the weight he bears down on Charles… to the hand he curls around Charles’ hair.

“You’ve been in here with other fellers, right?”

“Arthur,” Charles warns.

“What do you like?” Arthur’s hand turns to a fist, gently tugging Charles’ hair. But there’s nothing but patience, but intrigue, but want writ on his face. “You don’t strike me as shy.”

“I’m not. I just don’t talk like that.”

“Like what?” Now Arthur’s tucking strands of Charles’ hair behind his ear. “You don’t talk about sex?”

“Not really.”

He knows how it sounds but he ain’t a prude. Would simply rather do than talk.

“If you don’t talk, how do you get what you want?”

That is an awfully good question, Charles thinks, stumped. “Guess I don’t, really.”

Arthur’s voice is breathy. “You afraid to ask?”

“Y— Maybe.”

“Me too.”

“What is it that you want?”

Arthur avoids the question. “I like anything, Charles. What I like best is giving people what they want.” He walks two fingers up Charles’ chest, threatens to unfasten his collar button. “Tomorrow I’ll be dead. So there really ain’t a better time to ask for it.”

Charles smiles. “You’re a fool.”

“That I am. Tell me.”

The thing Charles hasn’t ever dared asked for. “It ain’t for everyone.”

Arthur sucks in a breath. “… Go on.”

“I want to kiss.”

Hands go still. “Kiss?”

“Yeah.”                            

Then, laughter. “Christ, Charles! Thought you wanted me to choke you or something.”

“Think for some fellers that’s easier.”

Arthur furrows his brow. “What kind of fellers you been with?”

“Strangers, mostly. It ain’t… romantic.”

“You want romance?” The face before him ain’t teasing, his voice ain’t mocking. Looks down upon Charles, half-damp hair spilling into his vision.

Charles, brave, pushes the hair off the man’s face. “Yes.”

Arthur, appreciative, smiles back. “You’re full of surprises.”

“I don’t want it gentle. Ain’t no pretty little flower.”

Arthur hums, strokes a crooked finger across Charles’ cheek. “No you ain’t a flower, but you sure are pretty.”

Charles can’t hide his reaction; ain’t quick enough. He’s a simple man. Been to bed with fellers for far less. In fact he ain’t much more complicated than a dog, really. Just needs treating nice and petted occasionally and he’ll be loyal to the end. He wears all that and more on his face, he’s sure of it.

“Ah!” Arthur says. “That’s what you like. Compliments?” Then, “No,” he says. “Affection? Love?”

Love. The word makes Charles wince. But that’s it, exactly. What he ain’t ever dared say out loud. What he can hardly even make sense of alone in his own head.

“What if I loved you?” Arthur says. “Tonight, I mean. What if we was in love?

“If we were in love, would you tell me what it is you want?”

“Not even then. Now, about that kiss—”

Charles replies with fingers clutching Arthur’s jaw, drawing him close, and Arthur goes to him eagerly. When their lips touch, pleasure thrills through Charles. He should be ashamed, he supposes, to be undone by so simple a gesture. It’s over too quickly. Kisses always are. Thank you, Charles is about to say, but Arthur frowns, puzzled.

“That it?” he asks. “That’s how you’d kiss me?”

“How would you have me kiss you?”

A question Arthur answers happily, with fervour, pressing into him. He kisses long and deep and open-mouthed. Breathless, Charles responds in kind. Arthur kisses hungrily; gives Charles something he didn’t know he could ask for. Charles, surprised, delighted, moans into Arthur’s mouth and Arthur swallows every impatient vowel. Charles smiles, changing the shape of the kiss, and when he feels Arthur smiling back, Charles makes himself stop, lets himself look, eyes greedily roving Arthur's face. Arthur groans, a sound Charles thinks sounds like ‘You’, and pulls Charles in to kiss him again.

“What d’you think, darlin’?” Arthur pins Charles to the bed, grinning boyishly down. “Wanna be in love?”

“Yes,” Charles swallows. “Yes.”

Charles hasn’t had anyone undress him before. Arthur is the first. Usually he’s the one that does the undressing. Something he does slowly, with reverence, especially when they look like Arthur, nicely-built and masculine and flushed pink with anticipation.

“You’re real fine, Arthur.”

“Yeah?”

There ain’t words for his desire. Just says, “Yes.”

When Charles tugs Arthur’s pants down, Arthur shamelessly ruts against the friction. When they lay bare before each other, Arthur nods in appreciation, murmurs incoherent sounds of satisfaction. And Charles— Christ! Charles drinks in the sight of the man, all long, fine lines in the dim light. Got this sort of rugged elegance to him. Got meat on his thighs, on his ass, and a surprising strength about his body, evident as he pulls Charles effortlessly up on the bed so that he’s seated, Arthur knelt before him.

When Charles wraps a hand around Arthur’s waist and curls a fist around his cock, seems neither of them breathe a moment – just stare at each other – Arthur heavy lidded, Charles with eyes wide open… mouth open. Arthur covers that mouth with a kiss and Charles tightens the hollow of his hand, sliding it up, sliding down, tossing Arthur roughly, quickly, keenly— Charles can’t pace himself. Wants to see Arthur lose control.

Arthur’s sighs become moans become cries.

“You good?”

“Real good, darlin’.” Between hitched breaths. “You feel real good.”

Darling. Has anyone ever addressed him this way? It’s so easy to pretend. Wants to say something back, but Charles just ain’t good with words. Arthur however, he ain’t got no restraint. He clings to Charles, an arm around Charles’ neck, his head pressed into his shoulder. It’s sharp there. Feels good. Arthur ain’t biting so much as burying his teeth with each long stroke, as Charles fucks him with his fist.

“Real good,” Arthur murmurs, like he ain’t got another thought in his head. “Real fucking good.”

“Yeah?”

Arthur moans as Charles loosens his grip, but it’s only to shift on the bed, to lay Arthur down, to take his cock into his mouth, thick and salty. Arthur’s hands go to Charles’ hair, greedy fingers needling through, tugging at his roots. His thighs press either side of Charles’ his head, legs resting on his shoulders. Charles digs his fingers into the meat of those legs, takes Arthur’s cock down to the root. Wants to swallow every inch of it. Wants to goddamn choke on it. All the while he wants Arthur to call him pretty again. To call him darling.

It doesn’t take long – not nearly long enough Charles doesn’t think – of hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard, for Arthur’s hands to still, for his body to tense, to flash his eyes wide and say I’m gonna—

To say—

“Not yet. Come here.” And Arthur presses panting kisses into Charles’ throat. “I wanna look at you.”

But— Arthur’s just playing, ain’t he? Charles sees the error he’s made. Any real connection has been lost in the pretence.

Charles can’t believe he hears himself say, “How much of this is for me? How much is pretend?”

“I’m an outlaw, Charles. An artist maybe. I ain’t no actor. I ain’t pretending— Put your hand on me again.”

Charles complies, goes back to working Arthur with his hand, revelling in the way Arthur responds to him.

“You’re damn good, and damn gorgeous, and you taste like—” Hands either side of Charles’ face, Arthur brushing kisses along his jaw, gasping breaths. “Like tobacco, like sage— Ah! Ah!” Ain’t a better sound Charles doesn’t think, than Arthur’s pleasure. “That just you?” Arthur asks. “Some kind of perfume?”

“Soap.”

“You got me out of my mind, Charles. Gonna fuck me damn feral. I wanna howl at you! I’d give you anything you want and it wouldn’t be a hardship.”

Charles slows the motion of his hand. “Anything I want?”

“Yes,” Arthur grinds out, pushing himself into Charles’ fist. “Yes.”

“You’re impatient.”

“Yes!”

Hand tight, nails ever so gently teasing Arthur’s cock, Charles whispers, “I want to fuck you.”

Arthur swallows so hard that Charles hears it. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I do.”

Charles has done it once before. It wasn’t easy. Wasn’t even good, truth be told. But he’d make it good for Arthur.

“I don’t— I don’t do that. Just the thought of it—” Arthur’s chest hitches, his eyes blow wide, betraying him.

“See,” Charles breathes. “That look in your eyes… It says otherwise.”

“Charles,” Arthur groans.

All the while Charles ain’t stopped handling him, Arthur’s eyes closed, hair mussed, face pink and gorgeous.

“That what you can’t admit to wanting, Arthur? You wanna be fucked?”

“Charles!” Arthur cries, too loud, and like it’s two syllables. “God!”

And then Arthur’s throwing his head back, and he’s whimpering, jutting his hips, and with a bitten back cry, he spills into Charles’ hand. Charles don’t feel the need to act for once, to pretend like he doesn’t love this part, licking spend off his fingers. Arthur urges him close, panting, sweat-slick, and they embrace like sweethearts. He doesn’t shy away from the affection. Doesn’t act like it unmans him to want it.

He presses his lips to Charles’ shoulder, mouths desperate, breathy kisses. Has Charles half-wild himself. Charles drops a kiss to the crown of Arthur’s head, runs a hand through the pretty waves of his hair. Wants to tell Arthur a plethora of mortifying things. Forgets for just a moment that they’re little more than strangers.

“You’ve got me out of my damn mind, Arthur Morgan.”

“Me too.” Arthur twines their legs, pulls Charles near. “Okay,” he’s whispering. “Yes. Please Charles.” Even alone he daren’t say the words aloud. “I do. I want it. I wanna… be the woman.”

“I don’t fuck women, Arthur, I fuck men. Let me show you how?”

Arthur’s shy but he ain’t reluctant. He moves with Charles, trusts him, keeps his eyes on him at all times, and Charles ain’t ever felt so on fire his whole life. He lays Arthur onto the bed, presses kisses along his jawline, down his throat, to his chest. Charles closes his mouth around Arthur’s nipple; grins at the way Arthur hisses at the touch. And again a dozen kisses later, when Charles teases him open, gently pushes a finger into Arthur’s channel. Charles crooks the finger but he doesn’t quite find the spot that he knows will make Arthur crazy.

Oh, but he finds it with his cock, Charles buried to the hilt. Arthur crying, Goddamn! Yes! with his knees up to his ears, and two hundred and sixty pounds of weight above him.

“You’re doing so good.”

Arthur responds gorgeously, with a soft moan of pleasure, and his hand curled just left of gently around Charles’ throat. With his inky black hair spread out on the pillow like that, and naked and wanton and pining beneath him like that, Charles thinks that tonight, with Arthur, might be the best it ever gets for him. Thinks he’d better appreciate every second of it, better hold out as long as he can, even as he feels the threat of heat rising in him.

Charles wants his mouth everywhere, wants his hands everywhere else, and to make Arthur feel as good as he does. But when his fingers rake across Arthur’s ribs, Arthur pauses. Apologises. Says he don’t like this new body of his. Like this ain’t the body that’s got Charles knelt in worship. Like it ain’t the sight of this body that has Charles so hard it’s almost painful. Like it ain’t this body that’s gonna make him—

Two hands clasped behind Charles’ neck, he and Arthur exchange kisses, as his motions turn jagged, and he spends hard. Keeps going and going. Empties himself in Arthur’s ass. Breathing heavy, Charles collapses on top of Arthur, shifts off to the side so he can pull him to his chest, press him in and hold him real tight.

Arthur strokes a finger along Charles’ collarbone saying, “Charles. Charles. Wouldn’t have done that with no-one else.”

And Charles, head buried in the crook of Arthur’s neck whispers, “I’m so glad I was the one.”

That’s when the moment starts slipping through Charles’ fingers; the evening already feeling like a memory. Arthur pulls himself from Charles’ arms, from the bed, and then he’s pulling on his clothes. Charles lays, still and spent and bewildered, watching after Arthur as he covers his body, pink with Charles’ kisses.

Because, Right, Charles remembers now. Yeah. They’re not lovers. Was just a distraction. Arthur hadn’t pretended it was anything more. And yet— hadn’t it felt like more?

Charles ain’t gonna get upset about it. Or won’t show it, at least. He dresses in silence. The uncomfortable silence of strangers. Is that really what they are? Charles is a damn fool but he ain’t stupid.

“Stay here,” Charles says. “I’ll be back.”

“Where you going?”

Charles grabs his shotgun and cocks it. “I’m gonna go put a hole in our friend.” At the door, he stops, turns back into the room and forces himself to smile. “Any last words, Arthur Morgan?”

Chapter Text

A NAMELESS MAN
Bastille Saloon, Saint Denis, 1904

A man stands on a balcony in ill-fitting clothes, peels a smoke from another man’s cigarette case, and holds a match to the tip. A pair of spectacles sit crooked on his face, and he frowns as he forces himself to look past the unfamiliar frames to the street below. There he watches, enraptured with the rest of the early morning lookeyloos, as the law coordinate and descend on the Bastille Saloon, the building he currently stands in. Inside are guns and boots and photographs he will never see again. He owns nothing but the journal in his back pocket and a photo of a dog he loved a lifetime ago. He has nothing of his own. Not even a name.

Across the hall is a room meant for keeping men’s secrets, with red walls and red carpet, and a red velvet four-poster bed. On it lies whatever is left of a bad man with a shotgun hole for a face. Standing at the door with his arms folded defensively and a sawn-off shotgun shoved in his pants is a bounty hunter, a handsome feller, holding the poster of the man he’s made a corpse. Arthur Morgan, a known gunslinger, wanted dead or alive, has finally been captured very much dead. Even without a face, ain’t no doubting it’s Morgan. That's his city boots at the foot of the bed, and his revolvers on the dresser, both engraved in perfect detail and made of solid silver. On his nightstand is a half-drunk cup of water and a photograph of two fathers. Lyle Morgan, the man who created him, and Dutch Van der Linde, the man that made him. Ain’t nobody gonna cry for the outlaw. Ain’t nobody left to miss him.

The nameless man on the balcony waits for the sun to rise, and the commotion to die down. He stubs out a cigarette on the railing, the butt crushed beside three others, held in gently trembling hands and smoked down to the filter. The room he steps into is blue and blue where the dead man’s room is red and red and red. Though less overtly indecent, the blue room is also a room for sex and for secrets, and the nameless man leaves both behind like countless men before him. On this bed is an empty briefcase, in which he slings his journal and his photograph, and the bible from the nightstand, just for a third item to call his. Just to own one more thing.

In the hallway, he nods in greeting, in acknowledgment, as he passes two men: the bounty hunter, and a lawman. Both men look right at him; both men look away. On the stair, he passes another lawman, this one stops, his hand out, and the nameless man’s heart sets to beating quick. Can I help you? the lawman asks.

Just checking out.

And he does, without further interference, without incident.

Mr. Thomas Howard stands behind the bar with a towel slung over his shoulder like some busboy and not the hotelier. Is that you leaving? Hope you had a pleasant stay Mr…? He waits for the nameless man to fill that void, to come up with a name. He ain’t thought of one yet, knows he needs something commonplace and easy to remember. He says the first name that comes to mind. Smith, he calls himself, and Howard pins him with jealous eyes, but smiles all the same. Of course. I hope we’ll see you again, Mr. Smith. The nameless man rattles his empty suitcase. It’s Doctor, he says, ain’t sure why, with a smirk on his lips, and certainly something dark and smug glittering in his eyes.

On the street, the new Dr. Smith passes a horse who fusses in recognition, pulling on her tether, and it kills him to ignore the best friend he’s ever had. He buys himself a paper with the few pennies in his pocket and takes a seat on a bench in the square. There he moves his eyes over an article but he ain't reading, pushing his newly dark hair out of his eyes, running two fingers along the early morning prickle of an unfamiliarly smooth jaw. The spectacles that have blurred his vision all morning surprise him by clearing before his eyes, words coming into focus on the paper. Reading glasses, the man thinks. They’re reading glasses.

Sometime between six and seven thirty, he doesn’t know exactly since he no longer owns a pocket watch, the man is relieved to be joined on the bench by a feller he recognises. But the bounty hunter doesn’t hardly look at him, not even when he clears his throat, speaks clearly, and loud.

“You were at the Bastille,” he says to the man he pretends is a stranger, dropping his newspaper to his lap. “The saloon.”

“I was.”

“There was a gunshot. Lawmen.” He enunciates, keeps his sentences short; to the point. “Someone was killed?”

“Yes.”

“An outlaw, I heard. Someone nobody will miss.”

The bounty hunter finally looks at him proper. He narrows eyes are that are real pretty and deepest brown, bloodshot with lack of sleep. “Think everyone’s missed by someone.”

Not me, he thinks. “Was anyone else hurt?”

“No. Nobody was hurt.”

The nameless man holds his breath. “So it’s over?”

“It’s over,” the bounty hunter says. “Everything is well. Now if you don’t mind—” He claps his thighs, real big thighs, and stands. “I need to see a man about a horse.”

My horse, the nameless man thinks, and hides his smile behind his newspaper.

Two days later, Arthur’s holed up just north of Rhodes at Ringneck Creek, half-starved and frozen, running on an hour of sleep and a packet of biscuits. He left his coat in the Bastille, hung on the back of a corpse’s door, and the coat Charles had brought for him is fuck knows where, with fuck knows who. The tent, at least, was where they stashed it, along with a wool blanket and a bottle of whiskey. The bottle’s been empty the better part of the whole time, and the blanket ain’t quite long enough to keep both his head and his toes warm unless he curls himself into the foetal position, which is how he currently lies, a screwed up pullover on a briefcase propped under his head. Shame neither of them had the forethought to leave behind a pillow… or any real goddamn food. Perhaps Charles thought Arthur would hunt it. Arthur ain’t done nothing but think and wait and think and think, poring over his future. What comes next. If Arthur Morgan’s dead, who am I? Can’t be nameless forever. Can’t be nobody, peaceful as that sounds. Arthur thinks so hard he gives himself a headache, and when he finally falls asleep, it’s with a frown on his face.

Arthur wakes to the sound of approaching horses. Arthur Morgan would have reached for a weapon. This Arthur, whoever he is, does not. For one thing, he ain’t got no weapons; his pistol went skittering off a cliff and his revolvers are presumably in the trophy case of the St Denis jail, if not already on some asshole cop’s belt. This Arthur ain’t afraid neither. He’s already died. Twice, technically. And there was that time he was supposed to die on the side of a mountain. Feels like a second (third, fourth) chance. He ain’t just on borrowed time but stolen. Anything that happens from here on, good or bad, is nothing short of a miracle.

A miracle he owes to the man who approaches. That’s the other reason Arthur ain’t afraid. Even if he didn’t recognise the irritated clip of those hooves – God how he’s missed that stubborn horse – he’s been waiting these two long days for their arrival. Arthur tears out of the tent, the blanket trailing behind him as he tugs it over his shoulders. First he throws his arms around Geo’s neck and apologises for acting like he didn’t know her outside the Bastille. Next he's reaching for Charles, pulling him down from the Nakota and throwing himself into the poor man’s arms. Arthur don’t care that he’s pathetic and probably smells like he ain’t showered in two days because he is pathetic and he hasn’t showered in two days. Charles lets Arthur cling to him, saying not a word, just holding him near and patting Arthur’s back.

Charles pulls away, illuminating Arthur in his lantern light, and laughs. “Damn. Forgot what you look like.”

“What do I look like?”

Charles takes a handful of Arthur’s dark hair. “It coloured well. The spectacles suited you too. You looked almost respectable. Cosmopolitan. A professor maybe.”

Arthur grins. “Told your Mr. Howard I was a doctor.”

“So I heard. Doctor Smith.”

With the lantern in his hand, Charles is behind the light, not enough of it casting back at him for Arthur to properly read his face. All Arthur knows is he ain’t breathing right. Ain’t breathed right in two days in fact, not since he ate his fear and stepped out the blue room.

“You gave him my name,” Charles says, voice even, betraying nothing.

The heart in Arthur’s chest don’t know whether to beat twice as fast or not at all. “Don’t mean nothing,” he says, sure there’s a note of fear in his voice and not a drop of colour in his cheeks.

“I didn’t say it did.”

Arthur hums in acknowledgment but can’t bring himself to look Charles’ way. “It’s a good name,” Arthur mumbles. “Common.”

Mercifully, Charles don’t press the matter, just sets about fussing over the horses, hitching them, feeding them, while Arthur slinks back into the tent. He’d been so smug, hadn’t he? so pleased with himself. Gave Howard Charles’ name ‘cause it was common, sure, and forgettable, but mostly because he wanted to lay claim to Charles in some way. Wanted Howard to know, didn’t he? that Charles and he had been together, even if only for the night.

They ain’t spoken about it since. There’s so much Arthur wants to say, but nothing he’s been able to settle on that didn’t flood his body with shame. Was it as good for you as it was for me? Would you do it again? he wants to ask. (Needs to know.) You won’t tell nobody, will you? That’s the one that circles, vulture-like in his head. Promise you won’t tell nobody.

Even if he could get his mouth around the words without choking on them, they’ve had no more than an hour or so together, Arthur left alone to stew in the blue room while Charles went down to the jail to talk to the lawman there. That was part of the deal with Howard from what Arthur has pieced together. He didn’t want the law hanging around a minute longer than necessary. Was happier with a corpse in his establishment than the law. And who could blame him? Charles only brought them to show them where it happened. To guide them through the story they concocted on the ride into St Denis. How Charles stumbled into Morgan by chance; couldn’t believe his luck when he recognised him from his poster. He pushed into Morgan’s room behind him, Charles will have told them; confronted him, tried to take him alive, but it didn’t go that way, it rarely does. They fought, Charles will have said, both raising their weapons, Morgan reacting just a second too slow.

It’s a sorry end for a man like Arthur. There’s a part of him, the ego in him, that wonders if he made a mistake going along with Charles’ plan. It’s almost better to go out fighting, really go out, not fake it. Better to die a legend than live in obscurity? Almost.

Charles looms in the tent opening as he kicks off his boots and extinguishes the lantern. He doesn’t ask to be let in. With what he’s done for Arthur, Charles needn’t ask for anything again— could take the shirt off Arthur’s back, the food off his plate, and Arthur would go with it.

“Shift over.”

Arthur does. Ain’t a big tent and Charles ain’t a small man; there’s hardly room to sit up, let alone stand, but two men can lie comfortably side by side, and in the darkness Arthur can pretend that they’re looking at one another.

“Any problems?”

Arthur shakes his head, not that Charles can see it. “None. All good. You?”

“All good,” Charles sighs, stretches, shifts – lying on his side now, Arthur imagines. “Let’s catch up in the morning? I need sleep.”

“Sure.”                                    

Takes only a moment or two for the man’s breathing to change with the tell-tale thrum of sleep. For the first time since St. Denis, Arthur gives an inch and lets himself consider relaxing. Spent all this time half waiting for the other shoe to drop— for the law to catch on and find him. But nobody’s looking for him, and even if they were, Charles is so close Arthur could reach out and touch him. Oddly comforted by the idea, Arthur closes his eyes. It don’t take long at all for sleep to swallow him.

***

The morning spits Arthur back out with a jolt. Unfamiliar sounds pull him upright, have him shucking off his blanket and wiping bleary eyes with the heels of his hands. It ain’t fully light out, still mostly dark in the tent— can’t be much past five. Outside, something smells good. Wood smoke. Meat. Breakfast? Another sound, something melodic. Singing. Charles singing. Charles sings? It’s a song Arthur doesn’t know, slow and sort of mournful, low and quiet, and pleasant. Charles sings nice.

Arthur exits the tent already lighting a cigarette. He can’t smoke his favourite cigars no more, but his body at least hasn’t taken this best of pleasures from him yet.

“Mornin’,” Arthur tells Charles but it’s Geo who nickers in reply, demanding his attention. “Good to see you,” he tells her, “You’re a good girl,” combing his fingers through her white mane, scratching her real nice behind the ear the way she likes.

Charles is hunched over an established fire, one built at least an hour ago, probably longer, prodding a fork into something on the grill. He stops singing but he don’t look up. “You didn’t make a fire while you were out here?”

“No.”

He frowns. “You do know how?”

“Course I know how. Ain’t that useless.” Arthur huffs a self-deprecating laugh. “How long you been up?”

“Couple of hours. When’s the last time you ate?”

“I had biscuits.”

“When’s the last time you had a proper meal?”

“Hm. How long since you found me out at Van Horn?”

“That’s what I thought. This’ll be ready in just a second.” Charles gestures at the meat— some kind of bird, looks like, gently browned, perfectly cooked. “You gotta eat.”

“You trying to take care of me?” Arthur snorts.

Charles meets his gaze; presses his lips tight, defiant. “Yeah,” he says. Don’t so much as flinch. “So what?”

Arthur don’t know what to say to that. Can’t do nothing but let it pass without argument. Charles ain’t much of a talker so they eat cross-legged in the grass, Arthur humming appreciation between mouthfuls, Charles gazing up at the clouds. Arthur doesn’t know what will happen next— if Charles will stay a while or hurry off, but for now he’s happy enough, gonna try not think too hard on it, and the morning unravels in companiable silence.

Seems only half an hour since breakfast when midday approaches, the sun beating down on the clearing. Charles has fletched a quiver full of arrows, flights made of turkey feathers. Arthur ain’t done nothing all day but sweat and sketch. Started out drawing Geo, the horse unknowingly sitting for her portrait for the infinitieth time. Drew Charles for a bit after, trying to get the seriousness of his face right, brows drawn in frowning focus, while capturing the softness in it too. He gave up on that— ain’t possible to put the appeal of the man down on paper. What Arthur has actually spent most of the morning on is a rendering of himself. Not how actually looks, he ain’t been drawing from reference, rather how he sees himself, the person he is now. Gave himself the spectacles and the dark hair and left off his beard. Left off his eyes too, the unfinished picture haunting. He can’t get them right. Keeps drawing them tired, and sad. Perhaps that is right.

Dissatisfied, Arthur snaps the journal shut. “Wanna go for a ride?”

“Sure.” Charles ties off a strand of deer sinew, cuts it off with his teeth, and admires his arrow. “Now?”

“I could do with some air on my face. Think the horses would appreciate it?”

“You wanna leave the tent?”

“Why not? Ain’t got nothing of any value.” Arthur stands, brushing off his pants, adding like it don’t hurt him to say it, “I ain’t got nothing at all.”

“I have a cabin,” Charles says.

“Show off.”

Charles throws his head back and laughs. It’s a real gorgeous sound, rich and warm, from a real gorgeous man, shining bronze in the Lemoyne sunshine like a statue of some ancient hero. It has Arthur in his head again, thinking (can’t stop goddamn thinking) about being with this man, Charles above him, Charles inside him— No. He can’t go down that road, can’t think on that too long, not without bursting into flame.

“I meant that if you’re not stuck on being out here, we could head up there.”

“It close?”

“No, but it’s safe. You know O’Creagh’s Run?”

Arthur knows it, fished a little out there in his previous life. “You’d just let me stay?”

“Sure. As long as you want.”

“Why?”

Charles shrugs. “Why not?”

The things Charles has done for Arthur, presumably done for countless other folk… This man is everything Arthur ain’t. Healthy and handsome and honest and good. Arthur could be good. With the time he’s got left— He could try.

The men travel north, following the path of the Lemoyne train tracks, just off the beaten path. It ain’t fair to run the horses in this heat, but Arthur pushes Geo to a quick trot just to get some air on his face, a breeze through his hair. Lemoyne ain’t a place he’s comfortable for long. Got some beautiful scenery and some good folk, but too many alligators and too many ghosts. Lost more friends than he cares to admit in this swampy hell-hole. The air ain’t so thick once they pass the Scarlett Horse shop where they briefly stop for peppermints to bribe Geo on. Charles’ horse, Falmouth, doesn’t need bribing, just the kind voice of his rider. Arthur thinks he too would do anything Charles asks but for different reasons. Charles ain’t half nice to look at, Arthur can’t help but fall behind to admire him.

Arthur ain’t one for talking today— too in his head, would prefer to enjoy the view: the trees, the hills, the company. That don’t mean he wants to ride in silence, would like to listen, but as Arthur has come to expect, Charles ain’t all that talkative, ain’t forthcoming. He has to be pried open. But he does sing: low, beneath his breath, and Arthur stays close to listen. When they do talk it’s of home, this concept they’ve both heard of but neither has ever really had. Charles’ cabin is as close as he’s got.

“Used to belong to a Veteran, a feller by the name of Hamish.”

“How’d it end up yours?”

“Helped him out.” Charles don’t say in what way and Arthur doesn’t ask. “We was friends in a way, allies mostly, ‘til he upped and died and left me his house on the lake and devil of a horse. He didn’t obey a single command.”

“What did you do with him?”

“Took a shine to a friend of mine. I left him there and went and bought Falmouth here from the Saint Denis stables,” he pats the Nakota’s shoulder lovingly. “This is a horse. Damn Buell.”

“Buell your friend?” Arthur asks. He doesn’t know why he’s needling.

“Buell’s the horse. My friend’s name is Sara. Think I told you about her”

He does know why the idea of Charles having other friends has him prickled all over with something suspiciously like jealousy. The relief he feels hearing a woman’s name surely ain’t good for him. Charles talks of the girl fondly but he ain’t forthcoming, not even when prodded. Charles is obviously a man who keeps confidences. This bodes well for Arthur since he ain’t got a single secret from the man.

Dark settles in, as they approach Emerald Ranch, turning the sky red and purple as berry juice. Next will come the black and Arthur doesn’t want to push Geo to ride through it if he don’t have to. She’s a finnicky creature, needs to see where she’s putting her feet. Ain’t a girl made for dirt on her hooves. Get a pebble in one and she’ll throw Arthur clean off— Drama queen, he thinks, petting her lovingly.

Charles reads his mind it seems. “We’ve still got a little way to go.”

“There’s a pool two hundred yards or so west. We could stop there and let the horses drink.”

“Alright. Wanna make camp then?”

It ain’t ideal here really, too open, the land too wet, too close to civilisation. But Arthur’s gotta get used to civilisation again. He ain’t died just to be reborn to a life of recluse. But the marshland has its advantages. It’s flat for miles— gives way to some nice views. The animals here are game mostly, and birds, an owl somewhere hoots overhead. Ain’t no wolves or bears gonna bother them here. And best of all. Water.

“Yeah, here’s good,” Arthur says, pulling Geo to a halt. She canters in a giddy circle the very moment Arthur steps down off her, relieving her of her terrible burden. “Was a time I was twice this size, missy.”

“Speaking of,” Charles says, swinging down off Falmouth’s back with a grace befitting a smaller man. “I salted some turkey. I’ll get us a fire going, start on something to eat. Will you set up the tent?”

“I can do that,” he says, feeling suspiciously like Charles is trying to feed him up. Feels an awful lot like Charles is trying to take care of him again. It’d be goddamn infuriating if it weren’t… nice? Been a long time since anyone cared about him enough to try look after him.

Ain’t long before the tent’s gone up and the sun’s gone down, and their bellies are full of turkey. It ain’t as good as breakfast was, just plain salted, but it’s better than nothing— better than biscuits. The horses have filled up too, on apples and sage, and Geo has nosed about the dandelions, picking out the yellow flowers. She’s settled close enough to Falmouth to share his warmth and steal his blanket, but not so close that he might misunderstand their relationship.

After the horses fall asleep, and the evening sounds from nearby Emerald Ranch fade to silence, Arthur strips off his clothes, kicks off his boots, and finally (finally!) steps into the water. It’s been just three days since his bath in the Bastille. Could just as well be a lifetime. Got muck coming off him in droves, feels like. Charles stands sentinel by the tents, thick arms folded. Arthur stands, the water pooling at his middle, and waves him over. Seems Charles ain’t sure at first, scanning his surroundings. Ain’t nobody gonna see them here, and even if they do, they’re just two normal fellers who ain’t fucked, bathing in the moonlight.

“Careful not to soak your hair too long,” Charles calls, wandering idly over, one eye still on camp. “That dye ain’t permanent.”

“I know,” Arthur says, curtly. “You told me that already.”

“Sorry.”

Mouth open to snap back with something sarcastic, Arthur snaps it shut at the sight of Charles approaching. He watches, shamelessly, as Charles tugs his shirt over his head. Arthur curses the sun, wherever it goes when the stars come out. He can only squint at Charles, moonlit in silver outlines. For a moment, Arthur considers asking him to stop where he is while he grabs his journal. Wishes he weren’t a charcoal artist. Charles looks like an oil painting. Arthur doesn’t mean to but his memory fills in the shadowy blanks of Charles’ body. Remembering how his hands slid over Charles’ flank, his skin suede-smooth until his hairs stood on end. Arthur knows that the muscle of Charles’ chest is defined— goes in and out in ripples, remembers how his fingers had traced the shape of them in wonder. He’s got the lightest dusting of hair on his navel, and clavicles like handle-bars, and biceps to dig fingers into. Arthur’s gonna get himself half-hard just thinking about it. And that’s just above the belt. When Charles unfastens his pants, Arthur plunges under the cold water, iris root dye be damned.

“Better?” Charles asks, wading Arthur’s way.

Arthur sighs happily. “God, I needed this.”

“You didn’t bathe back at your camp? Was a pond right there.”

“Spent those two days on watch.”

“Ah. You can relax now. It all went off without a hitch. Now you’re just some feller who looks sort of like a dead man.”

Dead. That was the plan. Still it don’t sit right. Has Arthur deep in his thoughts again. If Arthur Morgan’s dead, who am I?

“Will I get a funeral?” 

Looks like Charles shakes his head. “Ain’t nobody to throw you one.”

“Right.” It’s a mercy he can’t properly see Charles’ face, and he’s relieved Charles can’t see his. Shame he can’t keep the emotion out his throat. "Right, yeah."

“Arthur.”

“It’s fine.”

“Arthur?” Charles says again.

Arthur sets to scrubbing at his arms. What’s the use with this scummy pond water? “Feel like I ain’t ever gonna be clean.”

“I can help with that—”

“You gonna wash me now?” Arthur snaps. “Would you quit trynna take care of me?”

Charles stands, water running off him in rivulets. “Meant I’ve got soap, you bull-headed bastard.”

“Oh.”

“What if I did wanna look after you?" Charles points at him. "Why does it bother you so damn much?”

“It don’t. I just figure if you wanna take care of someone so bad, maybe you should take a wife? Just ‘cause you fucked me like a woman don’t mean I ain’t a man.”

“Damn you, Arthur! You regret it that much?”

“Regret? Why would you think that?”

“You couldn’t put your clothes on fast enough afterwards. Now this.”

“I don’t regret it. Not really. Just feel…” Arthur swallows. “I feel ashamed, okay?”

“Good to know,” Charles deadpans, and steps out of the water without looking Arthur’s way. “Left you a towel on that rock,” he says, and leaves Arthur to soak in his regret.

***

At camp, Charles is dressed and two thirds of the way through a bottle of whiskey. Arthur clutches his towel around his middle, tucks it tight as he can, and drops to sit on the floor in front of the fire, at Charles’ side.

“Thought we were sharing that,” Arthur says.

“It’s mine, ain’t it?”

There’s a sulk in Charles’ voice that delights Arthur in ways it categorically should not. But if he’s pouting, means he’s disappointed, right? Means, maybe, that it ain’t only Arthur out here making a fool of himself. Makes him brave. Or stupid. Ain’t they just two words for the same thing?

Arthur snatches the bottle and drinks. Charles snatches back. They look at each other, half a smile on each of their mouths— cuts the tension an inch. The orange glow of the fire warms Charles’ skin, has embers dancing in the dark of his eyes. Arthur thinks for the first time that Charles ain’t just handsome or pretty, but real beautiful. Thinks, pleasantly, that his is a face Arthur would never grow tired of. Then alarmingly, that Charles is a man he could fall in love with.

“Wish I could tell you I didn’t mean what I said.”

Charles nods, takes another sip from the neck of the bottle. “So do I.”

“I am ashamed, Charles, and yet I know if you so much as raised an eyebrow in invitation, I’d give myself to you again. Ain’t that awful?”

“Is it?”

“Yeah! God-awful.”

Charles huffs out an insulted laugh. “Forget it.”

“I can’t,” Arthur says to the floor. “I’d love to forget it but I can’t.”

When Arthur finishes the last of the whiskey, Charles don’t argue, just looks right at him. Got an odd look on his face that Arthur knows won’t shift until he explains himself.

“I can’t—” He sucks in a breath. “I can’t forget how I gave myself to you, how I— Fuck,” he whispers through gritted teeth. “I swore nobody would ever know me like that.”

“Enough with the shame! So what I fucked you? So what you liked it?”

“Charles.”

“You were supposed to like it.”

“Charles,” Arthur says again, this time with a twitch of a smile on his lips.

He looks upon Charles’ face, wishes it were less serious. Charles gazes back, eyes darting about Arthur’s face. What he’s looking for, Arthur doesn’t know.

“I made it good for you, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“Well?”

“That’s worse,” Arthur laughs.

"Damn it, Arthur."

“How am I supposed to forget it? I’m really asking, Charles. How?”

“What if you don’t forget it, and I kiss you?”

“Shit," Arthur's breath hitches. "Charles.” 

Charles’ eyes drop firmly to Arthur’s mouth, look back up. It ain’t the reflection of fire that’s in them eyes, but something from inside him.

“That a yes?”

Arthur nods, swallows. “Yeah. Yes.”

“Yes?” Charles is asking, already closing the gap, already kissing him.

Lips salty, tongue smoky, hair damp, Charles feels different to before. He’s so good at this though – so good like this – and the obvious pleasure he takes from simple kisses thrills Arthur to his toes. But Arthur won’t settle for simple kisses, bodies side by side, stretched towards one another. It ain’t enough. Arthur shifts off his ass, reaches for Charles, a hand either side of his face, one hand raking through his hair from beneath, tugging him near. Charles reaches too, pulls Arthur as close as he can get without dragging him into his lap. Arthur finds himself there anyway, half panting, half naked, prick aching.

Arthur waits for Charles to tug off his towel and push him into the dirt, but he never does. The kiss never becomes sex, just a kiss for kissing’s sake. It’s what Charles asked for in the blue room, asked it like it was a hardship. Arthur had given it to him then without question. Arthur would give it to him again and again.

“You think anyone will hear us here?” Arthur asks, eyeing the tent.

“Ain’t gonna fuck you, Arthur. Not out here in the open, and not if it’s gonna cause you shame.”

“Charles, listen—”

“I get it. I don’t like it but I get it.” Charles pushes strings of hair off Arthur's face to better see each other. “I can work with shame. We can work on it together if you want. But you ain’t allowed to regret this.” Charles drops a kiss to Arthur’s eager lips. “Not this.”

This. Kissing.
Kissing that don’t go nowhere. Kissing for kissing’s sake.

“Aw, Charles.”

God, Arthur’s been an idiot. He ain’t the only one who laid himself open in that bed. And Charles ain’t acting an ass, is he? He sure ain’t making Arthur feel bad the way he’s surely making Charles feel bad. But Charles is braver than Arthur, ain’t he? Arthur’s a coward. He wasn’t always, but towards the end, he was. The end, he thinks. Arthur Morgan was a coward. But this Arthur doesn’t have to be.

“I’m serious,” Charles says. That bravery again. “If you regret this—”

“I don’t.”

“Arthur,” he warns.

“I won’t. Couldn’t.”

Arthur reaches for him— wants another kiss. Greedy for it. Wants a hundred of them. Charles stops him, pushes Arthur’s hand away, holds it gently, circles his wrist.

He looks right in Arthur’s eyes when he says, “Call me a fool but it means something to me.”

“I know. Darlin’ I know.”

Darlin’. Didn’t mean to say it. Doesn’t regret it.

“Please,” Charles breathes. “Don’t pretend.”

“I ain’t.” It’s true, he’s not. Arthur’s in trouble— such extraordinary trouble.

Charles don’t stop him when Arthur reaches for him again, presses kisses along his jaw, before catching Charles’ lip gently between his teeth.

“I ain’t pretending,” Arthur says between kisses. “I ain’t pretending no more.”

Chapter Text

CHARLES

O’Creagh’s Run, 1904

Though the cabin still retains much of the veteran’s things, there’s enough of Charles in it to feel like home. Travelling like he does, as often as he does, there’s an essential comfort in the act of returning, coming up over these familiar hills, riding a habitual path. The pink of the sky. The earthy scent of the water. The wind whipping through the trees. Everything is as it should be. He closes his eyes on the descent, something of a ritual. Close as Charles ever gets to prayer.

Difference is, this time Charles ain’t alone. He’s never had anyone here before. He’s never liked anyone enough to invite them. Except perhaps Sara who is far too much of a lady to be this far from civilisation.

The form that fills the cabin doorway is certainly no lady. Arthur, with his five o’clock shadow, and his iris-blacked hair, slicked back with summer sweat, in his borrowed clothes, ain’t no gentleman either. What he is, Charles thinks, not for the first time, is fine as hell. And he’s stepping over his threshold. Assessing his home. Kicking off his shoes.

Charles sees his cabin as if for the first time, imagining it through Arthur’s eyes. The sparse furniture, most of it rudimentary and handmade. The soft furnishings chosen for comfort over style, great ugly cushions, and a merino skin rug. The things that remind him of another kind of home. The blanket from Wapiti. His father’s bible. His mother’s paintings. The dust too, and the cobwebs, from all this time away.

“Let me show you around, then we can rest. It won’t take long, there ain’t much of it to show.”

“It’s real nice, Charles.”

Charles nods. It is real nice. Charles is proud of the life he has made for himself. He hasn’t had anyone to share it with before now. It should feel weird, Arthur being here, shouldn’t it? Another man in his most personal space? But it doesn’t.

“There’s only one bed, but the couch is plenty comfortable. We can take it in turns sleeping there if you don’t want to bunk up.”

Charles swallows, hoping it ain’t obvious how very much he would like to bunk up. Not just for the animal reasons, though absolutely those too. Charles just ain’t never had a second person in his bed made for two. Ain’t never fallen asleep with someone he likes by his side. Charles doesn’t want much from life. Simple pleasures.

“I ain’t got one of the Bastille’s fancy French showers, but I have a tub.” Charles leads Arthur the fifteen feet back to where they started. “And um… that’s it.”

“It’s perfect.”

“Kitchen’s there. Help yourself to anything.” Charles fetches two beer bottles from the cabinet and tosses one to Arthur, who catches it effortlessly. “I mean it. Make yourself at home.”

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do next, but I swear, Charles, I won’t overstay my welcome.”

“You don’t have to decide now. And I told you already.” Charles sinks into the familiar sag of his couch with a sigh. “Stay as long as you want.”

“You’re just gonna let me stick around indefinitely?”

“Not ‘let you’, Arthur. I want you to.”

Arthur tugs up his overlarge pants at the thigh and settles at Charles’ side, legs wide, his knee lightly brushing Charles’. Arthur looks at him, brows neatly drawn in genuine confusion.

“Why?”

“I like you. That so hard to believe?”

Arthur laughs in a gentle huff. “A little, yeah.”

“You’re a fool.”

“Hm,” Arthur nods, looking at Charles with those grey blue eyes. “Sure am.”

Arthur knocks his knee against Charles’, on purpose this time. A nudge. To get his attention. Like Arthur doesn’t already have every goddamn scrap of it. As though Charles could possibly think of anything else. They fall quiet, but Arthur doesn’t like quiet like Charles does. Only takes a moment for him to break it saying,

“Charles?”

God. Just the way the man says his name has Charles’ mouth dry when he says, “Yeah?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Charles laughs. “You don’t have to ask.”

And then he ain’t laughing because Arthur doesn’t just kiss him, he kisses him, pulling him near, bodies pressing, Arthur sliding his fingers into Charles’ hair, a thumb tracing his mouth, gently tugging at his bottom lip.

Arthur tucks a strand behind Charles’ ear, and whispers, “I’ve been thinking about doing this all day.” Another kiss. “Just this.”

Charles hums happily, Arthur’s breath warm on his neck.

“I didn’t get it before you,” Arthur says, between kisses. “Kissing for kissing’s sake. Felt like a waste a time. It ain’t a waste of time.”

“No,” Charles agrees, and Arthur laughs. “What?”

“Forgot how little you talked last time. At first anyway.”

“Last time?”

“Last time we fucked,” Arthur says flatly.

“That what’s happening?”

“Hope so.”

Charles sighs, yeah, he hopes so too, and sinks back into the sofa with a groan as he watches Arthur tug off his shirt.

“Will you talk to me?”

“I don’t really like to talk,” Charles says.

“I know but I need you to.”

“Need?”

Arthur meets Charles’ eyes and there’s desire there yes, but fear too. Goddamn. It shouldn’t be like this.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Tell me something true.”

“Deer can run at speeds of—”

“Not about deer, jackass. About us.”

Charles smiles fondly at this man. This man he hardly knows. But a man he understands in intangible, inexplicable, intoxicating ways. A man he carries in his bones.

“I know.”

“Please,” Arthur asks.

Charles never could deny a handsome man. Especially not one who slides his fingers into Charles’ shirt collar. Who grazes the skin of Charles’ throat with his teeth. Who kisses him just for kissing’s sake.

“You said before that you couldn’t forget about it...”

He still can’t bring himself to say the words out loud. He doesn’t know why. Maybe because no words feel right. Fucking? If only it had been so simple. Making love? They’re little more than strangers. (A stranger Charles carries in his bones?)

“I did but—”

“I couldn’t forget either,” Charles says. “Not even if I tried. Difference is I don’t want to.”

Arthur sits up, has his hand out as though to ask Charles to stop. Charles wraps a fist around that hand and brings it to his lips. It ain’t like him to be bold, but it is like him to give his partner whatever the fuck he wants. Especially when that partner has pink, parted lips, and blown pupils, looking like every one of Charles’ most private imaginings.

“It ain’t right you getting worked up into knots over what makes you feel good. I want you to take pleasure without spiralling into shame.”

“Charles—”

“I want to be the one you take it from.” He leans in, whispers, “I want to give it to you.”

“Christ.”

“If you could have seen yourself. Arthur you have no idea.”

Arthur Morgan, fearsome outlaw, drops his head and blushes. By God, it would be the funniest thing in the world if it wasn’t the very thing that’s gonna make Charles lose his goddamn mind.

He knows he’s a goner when he says, “Pretending with you was better than anything I’ve had that was real.”

“Better than your Mister Howard?”

Laughter eases any tension. Laughter always does. “Shut up.”

“Come here,” Arthur says, and Charles does, sinking into Arthur’s open arms.

***

The sun is halfway into the ground before Charles wakes, his head on Arthur’s chest, Arthur’s arm slung around his shoulder. Arthur’s overlong hair falls into his face, his head resting on the back of the sofa. Charles does his best not to wake him, but the absence of Charles’ weight draws Arthur back to consciousness with a disappointed frown.

“I’m just going to stable the horses,” Charles says.

This is something of an overstatement. He doesn’t have a stable, but he does have a small lean-to that should comfortably fit the two horses for the night. In the morning he and Arthur can figure out a more permanent solution.

It’s not so easy to feed the horses in the dark, to draw them a trough of water. They should have done this hours ago instead of all that talking, and kissing, and sleeping.

How is it that all they did was sleep? It’s so close to what Charles wants. Something more than mutual backscratching, the fulfilment of each other’s basic desires. Beyond that which you can pay for and into something more personal, more meaningful. Something that, Charles thinks, is crucial. The thing Thomas always held at arm’s length. A thing he’s hardly dared hope for. ‘You wanna be in love?’ Arthur had teased in the blue room of the Bastille. The man had no idea.

Inside, Arthur has the kettle on the stove. He’s whistling to himself, a tune Charles faintly recognises but can’t name.

“You making coffee? Thought we might go to bed.”         

Charles doesn’t mean it to sound like it does. Arthur smiles but lets it slide. “Not coffee. Thought I’d wash your boots, get some of that dirt off them. And in the morning, I want to get my own boots.” He kicks out his foot, looks at one of his borrowed shoes with disgust. “Can’t stand these flimsy things.”

“You’re washing my boots?”                                         

What? The man can’t get off without feeling like less of a man, but washing a feller’s boots is no big deal? Maybe Charles doesn’t understand Arthur as much as he thinks he does.

Arthur must read some of the disappointment on his face, because he frowns. “You sure this is okay? Me making myself at home?”

“I’m sure.” Nothing he’s more sure about.

Ain’t this what he’s always wanted? Someone who likes him enough to do the boring things together. Someone he could wake up next to, do chores with, work with, go to bed beside. A lover who’s a friend first. Someone who might stick around. Charles curses himself for letting his imaginings get away from him. This is how he gets hurt, he reminds himself. By wanting things he ain’t allowed to have.

“Charles? You’re okay?”

“Yeah.” He shakes off the thought with a physical jerk of his head. “Sorry, yeah. Come on. Leave that.” Charles holds his hand out. “You wanna go to bed?”

Arthur hesitates before taking it, and lets Charles lead him to the bedroom. There he hesitates again, as Charles tugs his shirt over his head, kicks his pants off, and climbs into bed.

“Arthur?” Charles quirks his brow in question.

It’s this third time, this lingering at the side of the bed, fully-clothed, looking for all the world like he’s been invited to a hanging, not to sleep, that has Charles feeling suddenly sick.

“What is it?”

“Charles, I—”                                                                    

“You want me to take the couch?”

“No, I just— I don’t think I want it. I’m tired and I’m sore from riding.”

“Yeah, I know.” Charles says, laughing, relieved, throwing open the blanket. “Come to bed.”

“Just to sleep?”

“Just to sleep.”

Comforted, Arthur slides in beside him and places a single, simple, gorgeous kiss on Charles’ shoulder.

Just to sleep. Charles is going to make a goddamn fool of himself over this blue-eyed cowboy and he ain’t gonna regret it for one minute.

News comes to Charles of a bounty that next morning. No accompanying note, no sender information, just the bounty poster in an envelope from one of his anonymous allies. Arthur pores over the poster in a spindly wooden chair that Charles is too big for, an unlit cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. Charles has already read it twice over. Anna Lefoy, a year shy of thirty, from only twenty or so miles north of here, wanted for adultery. It ain’t a large finder’s fee and Charles ain’t surprised. Adultery is hardly a crime, even by law. Likely a husband just wants his absent wife back.

Arthur hands the poster over with an unimpressed expression. Charles knows what it looks like. He’d have flat out ignored the poster had he seen it hanging in some window, but he trusts that someone made sure it got into his hands for good reason.

“I don’t always know what I can do but—”

“You going?”

“Yeah. You coming?”

“I’m invited?”

Charles laughs and Arthur’s lips split with a smile and the cigarette falls out his mouth. “It ain’t a party.”

“Shame.”

Arthur’s on his feet though, tugging on the borrowed shoes he hates sand he’s halfway out the door before Charles has so much as put the poster in his pocket and grabbed his guns.

“That’s a yes then?”

“What else would I do? Sit here and wait for you?”

“You could go into town. Get yourself some boots. Some clothes that fit you.”

“You don’t like me wearing yours?”

Charles absolutely likes Arthur wearing his clothes but he ain’t going to say so now. It ain’t the time. Perhaps later. Between kisses.

“You could visit the gunsmith? Replace those pistols.”

“With what money? I ain’t got any.” Arthur beckons Geo, who goes to him eagerly. “You made me leave it on the dead guy.”

“I have money.”

“You showing off again, Mister Smith?”

Charles opens his mouth to argue, but Arthur purses his lips playfully and smiles. Goddamn, Charles loves that smile.

“Come on,” Charles says, with a rare smile of his own.

The horses ride as if they’re not tired, though surely they are. Charles quietly suspects that Falmouth is determined to keep up with the much younger Thoroughbred, who has gone from cold disinterest to tepid acknowledgment at some point overnight. Geo may be faster than the Nokota, with more energy, but Falmouth knows this terrain, and proudly walks the uneven ground with ease.

Once the horses are back on the beaten path, the ride is easy and pleasant, with a pretty view and good company. They switch between telling stories and companionable silence, Arthur, more at ease with the quiet, and Charles more comfortable filling it. Arthur talks of the gang he used to run with, the good times, back when there were good times. Charles can’t talk of friends, he’s never really had them. He tells Arthur about that instead, about running by himself after he abandoned his father.

Arthur listens with the rapt attention of a man hanging on his every word. Charles knows he ain’t that interesting. Men look at him, sure, he ain’t so bad to look at he doesn’t think, and he takes care of himself, but he’s not sure a man’s ever really listened to him. Even Thomas. Even when things were good. Always too busy for Charles, understandably with running the Bastille, and less understandably with drink and cards. Sure, Thomas wanted him, loved him even in his own way, maybe. But Charles can’t remember a time he felt that someone just liked him. Enjoyed his company. Not in the way that Arthur likes him and enjoys his company. 

Charles ain’t ever wanted more than htat. He’s a simple feller. One getting simpler by the minute, with every one of Arthur’s glances, every time he says Charles’ name.

He says it now, “Think we’re pretty much here, Charles.”

Falmouth comes to a quick halt behind Geo, moving in beside her without direction so that the men sit side by side. Arthur holds out a hand for the poster and again for one of Charles’ scatterguns. Seems Arthur’s in charge, and Charles is the one along for the ride. He ain’t going to complain. It’s good seeing Arthur like this. Damn attractive, no doubt.

This is probably who Arthur used to be, Charles thinks. The Arthur Morgan who glared out of the bounty poster that brought them together. A poster Charles looked at far more than he needed, just enjoying the look of the feller. The same feller sits before him now astride the palomino, except he’s almost boyish with his long, black hair, and the glasses he doesn’t need, and the close cut shave. Just as pleasing to look at as the poster. More so. Because this Arthur doesn’t glare, he smiles and he flirts, and he listens.

When Arthur rides on, his hair whipping in the wind, and he looks back at Charles with the glitter of excitement in his eyes, Charles realises, knows with a certainty that should scare him, that he’s going to fall in love with Arthur Morgan.

“You coming or what?” Arthur calls from up ahead, grinning like a tom cat, backlit by the golden sun.

And, with the sun in his eyes, and his heart in his mouth, Charles nods and urges Falmouth onward.

***

Arthur’s practically vibrating with adrenaline all the way back to the cabin. All the woman needed in the end was safe passage, and just enough to see her across the border into Canada where her lover, a so-called Lady Alan, waited for her. That part had been easy. The finding her had been easy too, she was not particularly adept at hiding, much to Arthur’s distress. Getting into town, choosing a fine but reasonably-priced pistol, finding a man to fit Arthur a pair of boots, ordering a couple of simple shirts and a pair of trousers that don’t fall off Arthur’s hips. That had all been easy.

No, the part that had them firing their weapons, and riding for their damn lives was what came after. A woman crying for help on the side of the road. Charles unsure, Arthur kind enough and dumb enough to jump down from his horse. Then, of course, came the men from the bushes and the warning shots, and the, “Give us your fucking money.”

Arthur had laughed like he didn’t have three guns pointed at his head. “I ain’t got no fucking money.”

It might have spooked Charles had he been alone, being held up like that, but with Arthur at his side with that laughter on his tongue and near-perfect aim, the fear never came.

And then there was the other thing. The thing Charles has been replaying in silence the whole journey home.

“You stood in front of me.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “Course.”

“You put yourself between me and three loaded guns.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It ain't nothing.”

Charles watches the hypnotic swing of Geo’s tail and the expert way Arthur rides her. They slow as they approach the turn off to O’Creagh’s Run and Arthur turns back to face him.

“You upset with me?”

“You could have died.”

Arthur shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you, darlin’. I’d do it again.”

Charles doesn’t hardly know what to say. He swallows a thousand sentimental words and says instead, “We’re almost home.”

Inside, Charles stands dumbly in the doorway as Arthur places his new boots side by side at the door, smiling proudly, and hangs his new hat next to Charles’ holster. Charles could buy every hat, every pair of boots here to Tumbleweed and it wouldn’t even come close to what Charles wants to give him. He’ll make Arthur coffee every morning for the rest of his life, Charles thinks, cook him dinner every evening. He'll bring Arthur flowers if he likes flowers, or whiskey if he prefers whiskey. Charles is going to kiss him and fuck him and fall in love with him, and god damn it, he’s going to do everything in his power to make the man stay.

And if he doesn’t stay? he asks himself. If Arthur doesn’t stay then Charles will carry on. He was fine before. He’ll be fine again. He will have done what he set out to do.

Charles grabs another couple of beers from the kitchen cabinet. They’re running low. They’ll need to head back into town tomorrow for supplies. As he hands the bottle to Arthur, he lingers a little too long, searching the man’s eyes, quietly pining, wanting, hoping for things he’s not dared hope for before.

“You gotta stop looking at me like that. You saved my life, Charles. Gave me a whole new one. I’ll stand in front of a whole arsenal of guns for you, you hear? Now I’m gonna kiss you,” Arthur says. “That okay?”

All the tension sloughs off Charles’ body at just the thought. When faced with the reality, Arthur’s arms around his neck, and Arthur’s tongue in his mouth, the feel of him heady and solid, the taste of him smoky and lovely, Charles ain’t got a single thought at all.

“Been wanting this,” Arthur says. “Wanting you.”

“Been right here.”

“We was busy.”

Charles murmurs agreement, closing his eyes as Arthur traces kisses along the column of his throat.

“I had fun with you today.”

Arthur’s lips become his tongue, become his teeth.

“This is even more fun,” he says.

“Hell, Arthur.”

Charles feels Arthur’s smile against his skin, Arthur’s hands sliding down his back, cupping his ass, pulling him nearer so that their bodies press together. Delicious pressure, delicious heat.

“Arthur.” Charles is dizzy with want. “God.”

“Love hearing you call out for a god you don’t believe in, Charles.” Arthur drops his voice, low and thick with meaning. “Come to bed with me?”

“Yeah? You’re sure?”

Ain’t anything more than Charles wants than to take Arthur to bed. To get some goddamn relief - not just for his aching cock, though God, yes, that too - Charles needs the relief of knowing that their one time together wasn’t the only time.

Arthur swallows. “Yeah. Come here.”

Here into the bedroom. Here into Arthur’s arms. Here onto the floor, Charles on his knees, lifting Arthur’s ass off the bed, tugging down a pair of form-fitting town pants. Had Charles imagined taking them off like this while he stood watching Arthur barter with the shopkeeper? Course he had. He’s a red-blooded man, ain’t he? And Arthur’s a man and then some. Got the courage of ten men. The heart of a hundred more. Yet Arthur’s hesitating again. Doubting. All that hot shame creeping back in. Charles can’t stand another second of it.

He slows their motions, pushes the hair off Arthur’s face, nips gently at his jaw as he whispers, “Do you wanna fuck me instead?“

Arthur’s lips part and he’s frowning again. “Thought you didn’t get off that way?”

“I don’t really. But it might change the way you feel about it. You wouldn’t think of me as less of a man, would you?”

Arthur smiles fondly as he shakes his head just as Charles knew he would. His eyes crinkle. A dozen pretty smile lines.

“No, darlin’. Course I wouldn’t.”

“But that’s how you see yourself?”

Sinking back onto the bed, Arthur sighs. He ain’t angry, which Charles thought he might be. He’s just thinking it over. Preparing an honest answer. Charles, still on his knees, between Arthur’s thighs, should feel awkward, shouldn’t he? How come he hasn’t felt more at ease anywhere else? Especially when Arthur leans towards him, runs his fingers through Charles’ hair the way he does, tucking his hand under Charles’ jaw the way he does. It’s wonderful, it’s strange, it’s goddamn dangerous, how familiar it’s all becoming.

“I think…” Eventually Arthur finds the words. “I think I just don’t see myself as that sort of man.”

“A man who fucks men?”

“No,” Arthur laughs. “No, I am definitely a man who fucks men.”

“Then what?”                                          

“I ain’t typically a man who submits.”

Charles finally gets it. He’s sorry he was so slow on the uptake but he gets it now. Charles pulls himself to full height, still on his knees because he likes being on his goddamn knees.

“Then don’t submit. Who said you had to submit?”

“What?”

Fingers under Arthur’s buttons, the practised flick of his thumb, and Charles is slowly unfastening Arthur’s shirt. He runs a single finger along the thick length of Arthur’s collarbone.

“Don’t submit.” Charles says. “I’ll submit.”

Arthur’s breathing hitches just enough for Charles to notice. “But I gotta go beneath you.”

“I’d go beneath.”

Arthur wets his lips, breathes heavy. “And I would?”

“Take your pleasure.”

“Charles?”

“You heard me. Whatever you want.”

Charles stands and Arthur gazes up at him from the end of the bed, shirt half off his shoulders, hair mussed, pink lips parted, wanton and gorgeous. Charles is used to undressing himself, he’s even used to being watched while he does it, but seldom are the eyes on him so wide with anticipation. Like it’s the first time. Charles is the one going to submit, and he hasn’t felt so powerful in his life.

Leaving only his drawers on, quietly hoping that Arthur will keep those wild eyes on him while he removes them, Charles arranges himself on the bed. Has this urge to position himself sexy. Arthur doesn’t give him half the chance. Is crawling up Charles’ body in a heartbeat, and Charles sinks into the mattress, and he’s boneless, everywhere except his cock, rock solid with wanting. He ain’t convinced it won’t shatter when Arthur takes it into his hand.

“I take control?” Arthur asks.

“You take control.”

“You’ll just lie there?”

Charles laughs. “If that's what you want.”

“What you laughing at?” Arthur asks, fondly.

“You. You’re not at all who I thought you’d be.”

“That a good thing?”

“Yeah, Arthur.”

“Good. That’s good then.”

“One thing though,” Charles says. “You’ll still kiss me?”

“Course I’ll kiss you. Ain’t a favour I’m doing you.”

“If you’re sure.”        

“Hush, darlin’.”

Charles does. He’ll do anything Arthur wants if he calls him ‘darlin’ again.

Arthur, finding himself this way, his growing confidence, his shaky gasps of pleasure without so much as the slightest touch, might be the most beautiful thing Charles has witnessed in his life. Seen sunsets less impressive.

“You can put your hands on me.”

Charles doesn’t need telling twice. There isn’t a place on Arthur’s body he doesn’t want to get his hands all over. His tongue too. Been killing him, lying here without touching. But he starts with Arthur’s mouth, just a finger at his lips, silently wondering at how lovely the man is.

“Stop thinking,” Arthur says.

And Charles, letting his hands move by instinct, closes his eyes and obeys.

Soon Arthur hangs above Charles, hair spilling into his eyes, looking like some fallen angel; a crooked smile that promises sin. The devil from the blue room is back. No shame. No doubt. Charles could howl at the man. God, look at you! he wants to say. Look at you. But he holds his tongue, then his breath, as Arthur takes hold of Charles’ cock and lines up their bodies. Charles feels the brush of skin against his cockhead and he’s torn between closing his eyes in reverence, and watching in awe at the way Arthur’s eyelids flutter, in a moment of discomfort, then a flood of satisfaction.

There’s just a flicker of uncertainty on Arthur’s face as he seems to figure out the angle that works best for them both, tentatively moving his body.

“Lean back a little,” Charles says. “It’ll feel good.”

Arthur does.

“I can take your weight. You can anchor yourself.”

Arthur nods, caught between thought and pleasure. He lays his hands on Charles’ chest, lifts his hips, and Charles sighs with encouragement as Arthur flattens his palms, bears all his weight onto Charles’ chest.

“Yes,” Charles growls, digging his fingers into the meat of Arthur’s thighs. “I can take it.”

“You can?”

Oh, he ain’t really asking. Arthur’s playing.

“I can take it.”

“Fuck.”

Charles sees the moment that Arthur’s pleasure wins out and he begins to rut on Charles’ cock. Arthur’s head thrown back, his hard length sliding against Charles’ stomach. The man’s a sight to behold.

Yet it’s Arthur who says, “You look real pretty.”

“Goddamn, Arthur,” Charles says, leaning up to meet him, looking firm into those eyes.

The devil grins as Charles wraps his arms around his waist. “Tell me what you want.”

“Hell. More of you. This.”

“Tell me, Charles.”

“Kiss me.”

“And?”

“Grab the hell on to me,” Charles says. “And call me pretty again.”

Arthur laughs from deep in his belly as he presses Charles into the mattress, greedy hands on his shoulders. With a filthy smile like that, throwing his head back like that, grinding his body with abandon like that. He’s a dirty sketch come to life.

And then a kiss, and they’re not playing anymore, because Arthur knows Charles doesn’t play about kisses. When Charles comes, it’s with his eyes closed and his face buried into Arthur’s shoulder. It’s with the devil banished, and it’s just Arthur above him, Arthur making love to him. Charles ain’t going to call it anything else. That’s what it is for him. Call him a goddamn fool, Charles wouldn’t care, because Arthur calls him pretty; calls him darlin’.  

Chapter Text

ARTHUR

Home, 1904

Arthur wakes to the sound of heavy rain on the cabin roof, and morning light flooding through the crack in the drapes, dust motes circling each other in a golden sunbeam. Beside him Charles’ chest rises and falls, breath gently rumbling in deep sleep. Arthur ain’t ever thought of himself as particularly fortunate, his luck ran out not long after that mess at Blackwater, but there is a man at his side, a good man, one who Arthur finds so inviting, it’s ungodly, the breadth of his chest and all that soft skin. God damn! Good job Arthur ain’t worried about God. And if he ever had been, he wouldn’t be no more. Not here. Not after last night.

He hadn’t thought of himself as particularly stupid, either, yet there were things he learned in this bed that he hadn’t even considered. Had this notion, a now so obviously foolish notion, that wanting to have a feller fuck him meant… He don’t actually know what he thought it meant. He’d never really let himself consider it. Just knew what he’d heard. Men who fucked like that were laughed at, reviled. Thought maybe there was a reason for it. Seems stupid now. He’d never let anyone show him otherwise. The only queer fellers he met were gone within the half hour, and they didn’t exactly talk. If they’d ever tried to, Arthur can’t remember, and knows he would have shut them down and sent them packing unspent. Shame had Arthur in a chokehold and he’d never once thought to fight back.

In bed, Charles had shown Arthur how wrong he was, and then told him, sharing a cigarette on top of it, their legs tangled, both of them sweat-slick and sated, content as a pair of drunks. Arthur didn’t have to dismantle his identity piece by piece, Charles said. Put like that it seemed so obvious. There were a hundred ways for men to fuck. A hundred ways for them to live. But Arthur’s afraid it won’t get better than this. Won’t get better than Charles.

Maybe Arthur thinks about him so hard that he wakes the man. Charles turns over, don’t even open his eyes, just throws an arm around Arthur and holds him near. Arthur kisses him. Ain’t never cared one jot for kisses and now he can’t get enough of them. And it ain’t just because of how Charles reacts, though that wouldn’t ever get old. It feels. It feels. Makes Arthur feel. Arthur ain’t let himself feel for so long. Feels like he’s been dormant. A whole winter. Charles feels like spring.

How the hell is Arthur ever gonna move on from here?

Arthur’s morning voice cracks when he says, “Darlin?”

Charles smiles, eyes still closed. “Yeah?”

“What if it ain’t like this again?”

“What do you mean?” His eyes open. Brows furrow.

“Afterwards, I mean.” Arthur’s voice cracks again and he tells himself it’s still with sleep, with lack of use. “What if I don’t get this with nobody else?”

The body beside him goes completely still, then Charles pushes himself off Arthur and sits up. But he don’t say anything. And not in his usual quiet way. And not like he’s thinking.

“Charles? You okay darlin’?”

“Every time you talk about ‘afterwards’ my stomach drops.”

Charles looks… disappointed? Damn. Hurt, even. Arthur don’t want Charles to hurt. Even if it makes his duplicitous heart fill with hope.

“Don’t you hear me?” Charles’ eyes are wide open, pinning Arthur. “Have I somehow been unclear? Wasn’t last night clear?”

“Charles?”

“I don’t want you with anyone else.”

Arthur knows he’s grinning far too much to be coy, but he can’t fight it. Too afraid to truly say what he means. “You possessive, Charles?”

“A little. I know what I want.”

“And?”

Charles says what he goddamn means. “I want you.” Then, “Wanna see where this goes. Don’t you?”

He does. God damn it, yes. “Yeah.”

“Yes?” Them deep brown eyes scan Arthur’s face. “You’ll stay with me?”

Arthur laughs, damn buoyant. “Yes,” he says, and Charles covers him with eager kisses, laughing too.

Then he shifts on the bed, so Arthur’s flat on his back, gazing up at Charles’ face. God, Arthur loves this face. The strong nose and the ruggish scarring and the rough stubble. Contrast that with his plush lips and long, feathered hair, and the pretty creasing around his pretty eyes. Charles is perfectly lovely and goddamn delicious. What a man.

“I could use a partner,” Charles says. “Someone mad enough to risk their life.”

“You wanna work together?”

“Yeah. For starters.”

“What else did you have in mind?”

“Hm. You want breakfast?”

Arthur’s laughing again, “Yeah, I could eat.”

So Charles is frying up half a dozen hen eggs and Arthur’s making another pot of coffee when Geo and Falmouth begin their whinnying. If ever anyone was to sneak up on them here, he and Charles would know immediately. The horses won’t let nobody pass them, not man, not a baby rabbit, without making a fuss and riling each other up. Arthur’s gonna build them a proper stable. Keep them close. He don’t feel afraid here, but can’t be a bad thing having them nearby. Geo’s nosey, with a keen sense of smell and ears that could overhear a private conversation in goddamn Saint Denis. And Falmouth is fiercely protective of his home, more likely of his owner.  

The cause of the commotion is a skinny feller on a tall horse, making their way off the beaten path, down towards the cabin.

Arthur stays inside, watching through a small window, but overhears the feller say, “Mr. Smith?” and sees him hand over some kind of letter.

Charles kicks the dirt off his boots as he steps into the house. “Odd,” he says. “I don’t often get mail here. Don’t give out this address.”

“What is it?”

“Looks like we got another bounty. It’s in up near Blackwater, though. You up for it?

Been a lifetime since Blackwater. Two lifetimes, more accurately. “Yeah. Why not.”

“Ah.” Any misgivings Charles has melt away. Starts nodding. “Sara sent her our way. Says she can be trusted.”

“Who’s she?”

“Another bounty hunter. If she’s handing over posters, presumably she knows something we don’t.”

“A lady bounty hunter,” Arthur says, impressed. “Sounds like my kind of woman.”

“Yeah. A Mrs. Adler.”

“Sadie Adler?” Arthur’s saying it before the reality settles in, and then he’s saying again, half-giddy. “Sadie Adler?”

“Yeah,” Charles says, laughing. “Why? You know her?”

“Know her? She’s Sadie. The one I told you about. Closest thing I had to a friend.”

“Your Sadie? Thought she was dead.”

“So did I. Thought for sure she would have gotten herself killed.”

“Sounds like she is very much alive. Aw, Arthur.”

Charles smiles like he’s real pleased. Arthur ain’t had nobody be pleased for him in so long. Ain’t had nobody care like that.

“I wish you could meet her.”

“Well. She leaves an address. Wanna see if we can find her?”

And they do on a rainy Sunday afternoon. Sadie, her hair longer, clothes darker, jumping off her barstool calling, “I knew it. I goddamn knew it!” throwing her arms around Arthur in a gesture so unlike her, that Arthur has to study her face, making sure it ain’t no pretender. But it’s definitely Sadie alright. Older, a little more world-weary, but his Sadie who is so glad to see him alive, holds him so dearly, he ain’t even mad that she didn’t climb up the mountain to bury him. But she’s mad, she’s so goddamn sorry. She thought he was dead. John thought he was dead. Then they heard word of his final end in the Bastille Saloon and they definitely thought he was dead. Wasn’t until she spoke of Arthur to an unassuming lady down at the docks of Saint Denis who pointed her in the direction of a Charles Smith, that Sadie first suspected.

“You’ve seen my poster? Know what I was hanged for?” You’ve seen my last crime, he means. Seen that cruel word. Sodomy.

She nods, eyeing him meaningfully. “Read every word.”

“And?”

“And I knew you was alive!”

She don’t care. She really don’t care? Arthur’s laughing. It’s that or he starts crying, and he knows if he starts crying, he’s gonna fall to pieces on the floor of his here saloon.

“You got nine lives, Arthur Morgan. I told John!”

“Is John still…? And Jack? Abigail?”

All alive, Sadie says. Ain’t really settled down anywhere yet to her knowledge. She’s keeping tabs on them from afar. Keeping them alive, like she swore she would.

Sadie wants to know everything, what Arthur’s been doing, how he ain’t really dead, and there are a thousand things he could tell her but only one really worth mentioning. Just finished tethering the horses and in off the street, damp with rain, there he is.

“Sadie. I want you to meet Charles.”

This is the beginning of their worlds colliding, their lives joining. Soon Arthur meets Sara, thanks her profusely for bringing the men together. Then Charles introduces him to safe people, takes him to safe places, kisses him in crowded rooms, where nobody so much as bats an eye. They can’t ever fully let their guard down, Arthur ain’t stupid, but there are ways to live without fear.  

Epilogue

Arthur don’t know exactly when he fell in love with Charles Smith, only that it happened sometime between that first night in the blue room all those weeks ago and eating his lunch this afternoon. Now that he knows, there’s no unknowing. It’s obvious. There’s a lump in his throat that doesn’t shift, and a restlessness in his bones that remains throughout the evening and it ain’t gone by morning. His body don’t feel right unless it’s attached to Charles in some fashion, hand in hand, asleep in his arms, or just idle toes touching toes, as they spend their quiet evenings lazing, lounging, reading, sketching together on the couch. Yeah, Arthur’s in love, no doubt, and it would be all the more terrifying if he weren’t sure that Charles is in love with him too.

It is still terrifying though. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and the knowledge that there are myriad ways this can bite him in the ass, not least that Charles could stop loving him, or goddamn die. This is why he ain’t let himself get attached to no-one but Geo since Dutch left him for dead on that mountain. Arthur ain’t got nobody to blame but himself. What did he expect, living and fucking with a man lovely as Charles? It ain’t the black hair or the pretend glasses or his slim build that differentiates Arthur from the man he was before. It’s the recklessness. Spent too long living a hollow life, one of secrecy and isolation and restraint. The first sniff of a man who wanted to free him of that and he’s tumbling head-first into foolishness.

Arthur Morgan, Arthur Callaghan, Tacitus Kilgore, Doctor Smith, whoever he is now, Arthur ain’t running no more. He ain’t looking over his shoulder every time he takes a piss. And he don’t want for nothing. Got everything he needs right here. Got the sun and the lake and an old veteran’s cabin. Got Geo most important, and Falmouth. What a horse. Loyal and steadfast and easy to love. Same could be said for his rider. Charles ain’t just given him a new life but something to live for. A purpose. Suppose this is what folk mean when they call themselves ‘happy’? Arthur ain’t sure he’s ever been happy before.

Charles is part of him now. Arthur don’t think as a single being, got this whole other piece of him to consider. He’s got someone to tell when he leaves, and who would miss him if he was late coming back so Arthur leaves places early now, and rides Geo a little faster than he needs to. It’s other things. He brews his coffee real strong because that’s how Charles takes it. And it ain’t just about what Arthur fancies for dinner. Say he catches a decent perch. Doesn’t matter. He’s gonna throw that back and wait for a nice sockeye. Simple things. Things that mean he ain’t on his own no more.

And. He ain’t exactly proud of this, how soft and sentimental he’s become, but Arthur leaves love notes in his journal that Charles might never read. Knows Charles wouldn’t ever look without invitation, but what if Arthur dies, really finally goddamn dies, Charles might flip through it, just to be close to him. Wants to leave something behind for the first time that ain’t destruction and chaos.

That’s part of what Charles does, the life he lives, part bounty hunter, part vigilante, part freedom fighter. Mostly just a man helping out his fellow man. A very different kind of outlaw to the folks Arthur ran with. What Charles is doing ain’t strictly legal but it ain’t illegal neither. And it certainly ain’t wrong. That’s how it felt in the beginning with Dutch. (Save folk as need saving, shoot folk as need shooting, feed folk as need feeding, weren’t that how it went?) It’s like that with Charles. Except with him it ain’t bluster. Charles wants to leave a legacy to be proud of. Something Arthur could have been doing all along. It’s this that gives him purpose. Gives him reason to stay alive. When was the last time he had such a precious thing?

It ain’t just the life and the purpose though. It’s Charles himself. Ain’t nobody like him. A man of few words, Charles shows love through what he does. Arthur’s never returned from late-night fishing without a full, hot bath to step into. And Charles won’t fall asleep until Arthur has, keeps his gun in the nightstand, sleeps closest to the door so Arthur don’t have to. He can’t go nowhere either without bringing Arthur something back. Something he thinks Arthur would look good in, a silver chain for round his neck, or something Arthur can use: charcoal, a new journal, some fancy soap. Usually it’s simple as a posey of daisies picked from down at the lake. Makes sure Arthur knows he was thinking of him when they were apart, almost as much as Arthur thinks of Charles. He ain’t been loved like this. Didn’t know he could be.

Ever since he shucked off his old life, and left Arthur Morgan dead in the red room, he’s felt like a nobody. But then Charles comes back from hunting with a bighorn slung over his shoulders, grinning at the cabin window, and Arthur don’t feel like nobody. Not when Charles kisses him as Arthur groans playfully, both of them covered in dirt and blood now. Not when they prepare the sheep together, planning a week’s worth of dinners, arguing over whose turn it is to cook. Not when Arthur soaks in the tub, Charles propped up against its side, reading his book out loud. Not when Charles don’t let Arthur have his towel right away and groans with desire at the sight of Arthur stepping out the tub anyway, water sluicing off his body. Not when they make love on the bathroom floor, both of them soaking wet and laughing. Not when they feed the horses. And secure the cabin. And relax on the couch. And fall asleep in front of the fire. And wake up together. And have breakfast together. And go out riding together. And spend their lives together.

Arthur might be nobody. But he ain’t nobody’s. He is Charles’.
And Charles is surely his.