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The others had gone ahead. Dutch had sent them to scout, which really meant "keep Arthur away while he recovers." His fever had finally broken, but exhaustion still clung to him, heavy in his limbs, curling around his bones like a weight he couldn't shake.
It wasn't weakness, he wouldn't call it that, but he knew how the others saw him.
An omega.
No matter how many fights he'd won, how many men he'd put in the ground, that word always hung over him, unspoken but ever-present. Arthur had never been small, never been delicate. He fought, he bled, he killed just like any man, but to the world, he would always be one step beneath. And most alphas saw him the way the world did.
Something to own.
Something to claim.
But Charles, Charles never looked at him like that.
Arthur watched him now, the firelight flickering over his sharp features, his strong, steady hands moving as he prepared their meal. Charles was an alpha through and through—tall, strong, built like he was carved straight from the land itself. But there was no arrogance in the way he carried himself, none of the expectation, the quiet, looming entitlement that so many alphas walked with. He was controlled, measured, and calm. And that, more than anything else, made Arthur uneasy.
Because Charles wasn't like the others, and Arthur didn't know what the hell to do with that.
"You're shaking," Charles murmured, voice quiet but steady as he knelt by the fire. "You need to eat."
Arthur huffed a laugh, low and rough. "I'm fine." His fingers twitched against his knee, his body betraying him, but Charles only sighed, setting a plate of stew down in front of him. The scent of venison and wild herbs curled into his lungs, setting his stomach growling despite himself.
"Eat," Charles insisted, watching him closely.
Arthur scowled but took the bowl. "You ain't my dam, Charles."
"No, but I'm your friend."
Arthur hesitated. Friend. That word felt too small for what was between them. They'd fought together, bled together, saved each other too many times to count. When the nights got too cold and Arthur's body ached from too many wounds left to fester, Charles was the only one who knew how to ease him through it—no pity, no condescension, just hands that carried kindness without softness.
He wasn't sure when he'd started thinking of Charles as more than that. Maybe it had been the first time Charles had thrown himself between Arthur and a bounty hunter's bullet. Or maybe it had been the way Charles' scent—deep, rich cedar and earth—settled over him like safety when the rest of the world felt like it was burning.
Arthur swallowed thickly, forcing himself to focus on his food. He didn't need to be thinking these things. He had more than enough problems already, and Charles—Charles had never shown any interest in bonding.
It was better that way.
But as the night stretched on and the fire dwindled, Charles didn't move away. They sat in silence, the rain tapping lightly against the leaves above, a steady rhythm against the quiet between them. Arthur could feel the warmth of him, even without touching. It made something in his chest ache.
"You should rest," Charles finally said, shifting closer, his voice gentler than before. "I'll keep watch."
Arthur scoffed. "I ain't a pup. I can—"
"Arthur."
His name in Charles' voice made him still. It wasn't a command, but there was something firm beneath it, something that settled into his bones like gravity.
Arthur exhaled through his nose, the fight leaving him all at once. "Fine," he muttered, shifting to lay back against his saddle. He closed his eyes, but he didn't sleep.
Not with Charles so close. Not with the scent of him wrapping around Arthur like a promise he could never ask for. After what felt like an eternity, Charles spoke. "You've been pushing too hard."
Arthur cracked an eye open, glaring at him from beneath the brim of his hat. "Ain't got much of a choice, do I?"
"There's always a choice."
Arthur let out a humorless chuckle, "Not for someone like me."
Charles turned to him fully then, his eyes dark and unreadable, "And what does that mean?"
Arthur hesitated, fingers curling into his coat. He shouldn't say it. He shouldn't- but Charles had never been one for games.
"I ain't blind," Arthur muttered. "I know how folks see me. How Dutch sees me. I can be tough, I can fight, I can kill if I gotta—but I'm still just an omega, ain't I?"
Charles frowned. "That doesn't—"
"They expect me to fall in line. To settle. To let someone take me like I ain't got no damn say in it." He shook his head, jaw clenched, "I remember a long time ago, before you joined us, before Blackwater, when I first joined Dutch and Hosea. It was just the four of us, John hadn't even presented yet. I overheard Hosea arguing with Dutch. I guess Dutch had gotten a pretty large offer to mate me off to this old-ass alpha and Hosea was pissed at him. I had never seen that old man so angry before," Arthur laughed bitterly. "I'd rather die before letting that happen."
The words sat heavy between them, like lead in the gut. Arthur expected Charles to argue, to tell him he was being ridiculous, but instead, Charles was silent.
And then, soft as a breath:
"I would never let that happen to you."
Arthur froze. The fire crackled, sending shadows flickering across Charles' face, his expression unreadable but open, honest.
Arthur swallowed hard, "I know."
He didn't know what else to say. His chest ached with it, with all the things he couldn't put words to, with the way his body knew Charles' presence like it was something meant—like it had always been meant.
For a moment, neither of them moved. And then Charles reached out, fingers barely brushing against Arthur's wrist, as if testing the weight of the moment. Arthur didn't pull away.
"You don't have to fight alone," Charles murmured.
Arthur's throat tightened, "I don't know how else to be."
Charles' lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze searching Arthur's face, like he wanted to say more but couldn't. Instead, he only gave a small nod and withdrew his hand, settling back against the log.
Arthur let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
They didn't say anything else after that. But as Arthur drifted off, the rain still falling in soft, steady drops, he felt Charles' presence beside him—solid, unwavering.
And for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel alone.
-
The fire burned low, casting embers into the night air, and Arthur drifted in and out of uneasy sleep. The scent of damp earth and cedar—Charles—lingered close, anchoring him in a way that both soothed and unsettled him.
He wasn't used to this.
The quiet, the safety.
His body still ached from the fever, muscles sore and unwilling, but it wasn't just the sickness that kept him restless. It was Charles.
Charles and the way he looked at him earlier. The way he touched his wrist—soft, careful, like he was something precious.
Arthur wasn't used to that either.
He stirred, eyes cracking open to find Charles still awake, sitting beside him with his knife in hand, sharpening the blade in slow, deliberate strokes. The firelight flickered against the steel, against the calm set of his face, unreadable as always.
But Arthur knew him well enough to see the tension in his shoulders.
He shifted, voice rough with sleep, "You ain't sleepin'?"
Charles didn't look up, "I'm keeping watch."
Arthur sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, "You don't gotta—"
"I want to."
That made him pause.
Charles never said things he didn't mean, and there was something in his voice—steady, certain—that sent a slow, uneasy warmth curling in Arthur's gut.
He sat up slightly, wincing at the way his body protested. Charles frowned but didn't comment, though his eyes flickered over him, assessing, always watching.
Arthur swallowed, throat tight, "Listen... about what I said earlier—"
"I know," Charles sheathed his knife and finally met Arthur's gaze, "You don't have to explain."
But didn't he?
Arthur didn't know how to put words to the storm brewing in his chest, to the way Charles' scent wrapped around him like something claimed—even though nothing had happened, even though nothing could happen.
Because Arthur couldn't afford to belong to anyone.
Because Charles had never shown any interest in bonding, and Arthur wasn't about to ruin what they had by hoping for something that didn't exist.
So he forced a grin, wry and bitter, "Guess I've been runnin' my damn mouth too much, huh?"
Charles tilted his head, considering him. Then, in a voice so quiet it barely carried over the fire:
"You think too little of yourself."
Arthur's breath hitched.
The words weren't meant to cut, but they did. Not because they were cruel, but because they were true.
He tore his gaze away, suddenly feeling too exposed, too raw beneath the weight of Charles' steady presence. He'd spent so much of his life proving he was strong, proving he was more than what the world saw him as—an omega, something weak, something less.
But Charles had never treated him like that, not once.
Arthur let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "Ain't nothin' wrong with knowin' what you are."
Charles was silent for a long moment. Then—so soft Arthur barely caught it—
"And what do you think you are?"
Arthur clenched his jaw. He had a hundred answers, none of them were good.
So instead, he just laughed, low and tired, "A goddamn mess."
Charles' expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes, something quiet and knowing. He reached for his saddlebag, pulled out a small, wrapped bundle, and held it out.
Arthur frowned, "What's that?"
"Medicine," Charles said simply. "For your fever. And some herbs for the pain."
Arthur stared at him, at the rough, calloused hands that had patched him up more times than he could count, at the quiet care in his every movement.
Charles was an alpha. A strong one. A born fighter.
But he wasn't like the others.
He never demanded, never took.
Arthur exhaled, rubbing at the back of his neck, "You always gotta take care of people, huh?"
Charles huffed a quiet laugh, "Someone has to."
Arthur took the bundle, fingers brushing against Charles' hand in the exchange. His skin was warm, solid, grounding. Arthur lingered for half a second too long before pulling away.
"...Thanks," he muttered.
Charles just nodded.
The silence stretched between them, thick with things unsaid. The rain had stopped, leaving the air damp and heavy, and Arthur could feel it—that pull—the thing neither of them would name.
It had always been there. In the way Charles stood just a little too close, in the way Arthur always found himself looking for him first after a fight.
In the way Charles' scent felt safe in a way nothing else ever had.
Arthur shifted, restless. "We should get movin' at first light."
Charles didn't move. Didn't look away.
"...Alright," he said after a long pause. But there was something else in his voice now, something unreadable.
Arthur clenched his fists. He had made his choice a long time ago. He couldn't have this. Couldn't let himself want it. So he did what he always did.
He pushed it down, shoved it deep where it couldn't touch him, where it couldn't hurt.
He ignored the way Charles' scent settled into his bones and he closed his eyes, pretending he couldn't still feel the warmth of Charles beside him long after he was gone.
-
The ride back to camp was silent.
Arthur kept his eyes ahead, his shoulders tight as he guided his horse down the muddy trail. Charles rode beside him, his presence steady as ever, but something had changed between them since last night.
Arthur could feel it—like a thread pulled too tight, like a breath held too long.
Maybe it was the way Charles had looked at him, the weight of his words still lingering in Arthur's chest. You think too little of yourself.
Or maybe it was the way Arthur had spent the whole damn night wrestling with the ghost of Charles' warmth beside him, his scent in him, filling the space behind his ribs where something hollow had lived for too long.
Arthur hated it. Hated how easy it was to want. Hated how it burned through him like wildfire, aching and unbearable, knowing he could never let it happen. Wanting meant needing and needing meant weakness. And Arthur Morgan had spent his whole damn life fighting against that.
"You're quiet."
Charles' voice broke through his thoughts, even and calm, but Arthur heard the unspoken question beneath it.
He forced a smirk, "Maybe I just ain't got much to say."
Charles glanced at him, unreadable as ever, "That'd be a first."
Arthur huffed a laugh, but it came out hollow.
They rode on, the distant sound of campfires and murmuring voices growing closer as they neared the Van der Linde hideout. The familiar sight of wagons and tents should have been a relief, but instead, Arthur felt the weight of it settle over him like a noose.
Back to reality. Back to the job, to the lies, to the slow, inevitable collapse of everything he'd built his life around. Back to pretending last night never happened.
When they reached the clearing, Charles slowed his horse, looking at Arthur with something unreadable in his eyes.
"You should rest," he said.
Arthur shook his head, "Ain't got time for that."
"You're still recovering."
"I've had worse."
Charles sighed, like he wanted to argue but knew it was pointless. Arthur wasn't going to listen.
Rest meant stopping and stopping meant thinking and thinking about Charles—about the way his voice had softened in the firelight, the way his hand had lingered—that was dangerous. So Arthur tipped his hat, smirking just enough to make it seem like everything was fine. "Don't go worryin' about me, big guy."
Charles didn't smile. Didn't say anything. Just watched him, somehow that was worse. Arthur could handle teasing, could handle a fight, could handle anything but this—this knowing. This quiet, patient understanding that Charles never threw in his face, never demanded anything from. But Arthur knew it was there and that made it so much harder to ignore.
With a rough exhale, he turned his horse and rode toward camp, leaving Charles behind.
But even as he walked away, he felt it—that pull, strong as ever, and the weight of unsaid things pressing against his ribs.
-
Weeks passed and Arthur tried to forget. Losing himself in various jobs, little side quests he would take to help some random people, his favorite being this short little feller named Charles Chatenay. Quite the character and boy did he have quite the reputation.
But Charles was always there.
At his side in gunfights, steady and unshaken. Patchin' him up when he took a bullet, his hands careful, his touch almost gentle. Never asking for anything, never expecting anything, and that was the problem. Charles wasn't like the others, wasn't like the alphas Arthur had grown up fearing, the ones who took what they wanted, who expected things from an omega.
No, Charles was different. Very different and that terrified Arthur. He knew how to handle a regular alpha, but Charles? A mystery, for once in his life, Arthur was at a loss.
Arthur didn't know how to survive that.
-
On a random night, weeks after their last proper interaction. Arthur sat alone by the river, the campfires flickering in the distance, smoke curling up into the cold night air. The moon was high, silver light spilling over the water, and he let himself breathe—just for a moment. Everything had been a lot. Tension was growing in camp, everyone was on edge. Grief hit him randomly, more so now. Hosea's death had been something Arthur never thought he would see. Of course, Arthur knew, this life had its risks but Hosea dying? No that wasn't possible. Sean's death, Lenny's death...all these people dying, and for what? Dutch didn't even know what he was talking 'bout no more-
"You've been avoiding me."
Arthur stiffened.
Charles' voice was soft but firm, the kind of calm that didn't invite lies.
Arthur exhaled, rubbing his face, "Ain't personal."
"It is."
Arthur let out a low, bitter chuckle, "You always this stubborn?"
Charles didn't answer right away. Instead, he sat down beside him, close enough that Arthur could feel the warmth of him, the solid, steady presence that never wavered. They sat in silence, the night settling around them.
And then—
"I'm not like them, Arthur."
Arthur's breath caught.
Charles wasn't looking at him, but his voice was steady, careful. "I know what you've been told. What you've had to be. But you don't have to fight me."
Arthur swallowed, his throat tight. "Ain't that simple."
Charles finally turned to him, his dark eyes steady. "Why not?"
Arthur clenched his fists, staring at the river. "Because if I let myself want this—want you—I don't know if I can survive losing it."
The words were barely above a whisper, but they carried more weight than any bullet ever had.
Charles didn't move. Didn't speak.
And Arthur hated how much he wanted him to because this wasn't just about desire. Wasn't just about instinct or biology or the things their bodies told them they should do.
This was about trust.
And trust had never been safe, not for someone like Arthur. Not for an omega who had spent his whole life learning that love was just another kind of cage.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken, and Arthur forced himself to breathe, to bury it deep where it couldn't touch him.
"...Forget it," he muttered, pushing to his feet. "We got a job tomorrow. Get some sleep."
But as he turned to leave, Charles caught his wrist.
Just for a second, just long enough for Arthur to feel it.
The warmth, the steady strength, the quiet promise in Charles' touch.
Arthur froze.
And then, just as carefully, Charles let him go.
"...Goodnight, Arthur," he said softly.
Arthur didn't look back.
Couldn't.
Because if he did, he wasn't sure he'd be able to walk away.
-
The heist had gone to hell fast.
Arthur had known it would the second Dutch started talking. Another grand plan, another vision of easy money, of glory just within reach, another chance to get them all killed. He should've said no, should've listened to the knot of unease sitting low in his gut, but has saying no ever worked in his favor? He wasn't meant to say no, just agree to whatever great ol' Dutch said, he was his prized workhorse after all.
And now here he was, bleeding in the dirt, half-dragging himself behind cover as bullets tore through the Saint Denis streets. He could hear Dutch barking orders, Micah laughing like the sick bastard he was. Arthur pressed a hand to his side, fingers coming away wet with blood.
Dammit.
Arthur could hear Dutch screaming orders from somewhere ahead.
"Keep moving! Don't stop!"
Easy for him to say.
"Arthur!"
He snapped his head up just as Charles vaulted over a crate, cutting through the gunfire, his bow slung across his back, revolver drawn instead—eyes sharp, dark, furious.
Arthur tried to push himself up, but the moment he moved, the world tilted, his vision blurred. Shit.
Charles was at his side in an instant, strong arms holding him up.
"You're hit."
Arthur let out a rough chuckle. "Ain't nothin' new."
Charles ignored the joke, his eyes sharp as he scanned the street. "We have to go. Now."
Arthur gritted his teeth, nodding through the pain but before they could move—
"Arthur! Charles!"
Dutch's voice.
Arthur cursed under his breath.
Dutch stood at the other end of the alley, coat torn, eyes wild with something that looked a little too much like madness. Micah was beside him, grinning, arms crossed, looking like he was enjoying the show. Dutch's gaze flicked to Arthur's wound, then to Charles.
"Get him up," Dutch ordered. "We're finishing this."
Arthur clenched his jaw. "Dutch, we gotta fall back. This whole thing's gone—"
"We ain't done yet!" Dutch snapped, taking a step forward, eyes burning. "You always were a coward, Arthur. Always doubting, always questioning. I have carried this gang—carried you—for years, and this is how you repay me?"
Arthur felt the words like a knife to the gut.
Arthur's pulse pounded, anger rising sharp and hot. "Dutch, I—"
Charles moved.
A growl.
Low. Dangerous.
And then Charles was there, holding Dutch by his collar, slamming him against the alley wall so hard the wood cracked.
The entire gang froze.
Micah's grin faltered.
Dutch's eyes widened, shock flickering across his face.
Arthur barely recognized the look in Charles' eyes.
Dark, furious, his voice was low and lethal, "You don't get to talk to him like that."
A side of him Arthur had only seen in the heat of battle, in the moments before Charles drove his knife through a man's throat—calm, but utterly, terrifyingly certain.
Dutch let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head like he still had control, like he could still talk his way out of this. "What the hell are you doing, Charles? You gonna betray me too?"
Charles' grip tightened.
Arthur could see it—the raw, shaking fury in Charles' eyes. The way his whole body was tensed, coiled like a predator about to rip into its prey.
And for the first time, Dutch looked afraid.
"Arthur ain't the one betraying you," Charles muttered, voice shaking with restraint. Dutch scoffed, "Oh, so you think you're in charge now? That it's your job to tell Arthur what to do?"
Charles' jaw tightened. "No. But it ain't yours either."
Something in the air shifted, sharp and dangerous.
Dutch's lip curled. "You gonna betray me too, Smith?"
"I ain't the one doing the betrayin'," Charles said evenly.
Arthur's chest ached—not from the wound, but from something deeper, something he couldn't name.
Charles' fist connected with Dutch's face so fast, so hard, that the crack of bone echoed through the alley.
Dutch staggered, blood blooming from his nose, his hat knocked clean off.
The gang erupted into chaos.
"CHARLES, STOP!"
Bill reached for his gun—
Charles grabbed his bowie knife and threw it, fast as lightning, sinking it into the crate beside Bill's hand.
Bill froze.
No one moved.
No one dared.
Charles wasn't playing games anymore.
He turned back to Dutch, voice low, steady, terrifyingly calm.
"I should kill you," he said.
Dutch, still dazed, glared up at him, "Then do it."
Charles didn't move.
Didn't blink.
For a long, tense moment, Arthur thought he might actually do it.
But then—Charles let go, letting Dutch collapse against the wall.
Dutch coughed, wiping the blood from his mouth, his eyes burning with betrayal.
"You're making a mistake," he rasped.
Arthur finally pushed himself forward, standing beside Charles, voice cold, final.
"No."
Dutch's face twisted, but Arthur didn't wait to hear whatever bullshit excuse was coming next.
He turned. Charles fell into step beside him and together, they walked away.
This time, for good.
-
The night was thick with fog, curling between the trees, swallowing the narrow trails that led away from Saint Denis. The sound of gunfire and shouting had faded behind them hours ago, but neither Arthur nor Charles had stopped moving.
Not yet.
Arthur leaned heavily against Charles, his side throbbing, the bandages wrapped around his wound already soaked through with blood. Charles had tried to make him stop, tried to patch him up properly, but Arthur had shaken him off, voice hoarse and firm.
"Not until we're clear."
So they kept moving, pushing westward, deeper into the bayou, away from Dutch, away from the ashes of what they'd once called home.
Finally—after hours of riding, their horses near dead on their feet—they reached a secluded clearing, surrounded by thick trees and mist-covered marshland. Arthur slid off his horse and nearly collapsed.
Charles was there instantly, catching him, steadying him.
"You're done," Charles said firmly, voice leaving no room for argument.
Arthur gritted his teeth, barely able to stand, "We ain't—"
"Arthur."
He froze.
Charles rarely said his name like that—sharp, commanding, full of something dangerously close to fear.
Arthur let out a breath, finally nodding. Charles eased him down onto the damp ground, kneeling beside him, hands already moving to redress the wound. Arthur hissed as Charles peeled back the bandages, fingers gentle but unrelenting.
"Damn it, Arthur," Charles muttered, frustrated, "you're burning up."
Arthur let out a rough chuckle, "You gettin' sentimental on me, Smith?"
Charles shot him a glare, "Shut up."
Arthur grinned weakly, but it didn't last. The moment Charles pressed new gauze to the wound, a fresh wave of pain tore through Arthur, leaving him breathless. He gritted his teeth, digging his fingers into the dirt. Charles muttered something under his breath in a language Arthur didn't understand—but it was soft, low, almost a prayer.
Arthur let out a shaky breath, vision hazy.
"You gonna stitch me up or just talk me to death?"
Charles huffed a quiet laugh, but his hands remained steady, careful.
"Hold still," Charles murmured, pulling out a needle and thread.
Arthur swallowed, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.
"You always this bossy?"
Charles smirked—small, fleeting—but it was there, "only when you're being reckless."
Arthur snorted but didn't argue. Charles worked quickly, efficiently, stitching the wound with practiced ease. Arthur gritted his teeth through it, jaw tight, fingers curling into Charles' coat sleeve before he even realized what he was doing.
Charles didn't pull away. Didn't say a damn word about it, just let him hold on. And for some reason, that, more than anything else, made Arthur's chest ache. By the time Charles finished, Arthur was drained, slumped against the tree, his breathing slow but steady.
Charles sat beside him staying quiet then softly, barely above a whisper, "It's over, Arthur."
Arthur swallowed hard, staring up at the dark sky, the stars barely visible through the thick canopy of trees.
Over.
The gang. Dutch. Micah. Everything.
Arthur let out a long, slow breath. He didn't know what came next. Didn't know if there was a life waiting for them beyond this, beyond all the blood and the wreckage they'd left behind but he wasn't alone. And for now—that was enough.
"...You didn't have to do that," Arthur muttered after a while, "ya know, sticking up for me."
Charles stilled for half a second. Then—
"Yes, I did."
Arthur swallowed hard. Looked away.
And then—a hand.
Warm. Solid. Resting gently against Arthur's wrist.
Arthur's breath caught.
His eyes flickered open, finding Charles watching him, his gaze unreadable but soft.
"Arthur..." Charles' voice was quiet, careful, but there was something underneath it—something breaking.
Arthur swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Don't."
Charles frowned. "Why?"
Arthur exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Because if I let myself have this—" His voice cracked, his chest tightening. "—I don't know if I'll survive losing it."
Charles didn't look away. Didn't let go.
And then, after a long moment—
"Then don't lose it."
Arthur's breath hitched.
The words settled deep in his bones, in the places he'd tried to keep locked away for so long.
And for the first time in his life—
He didn't know how to run from it.
-
Arthur was tired.
Not just from the fever, not just from the bullet wound, but from all of it.
The weight of Dutch's lies, the endless running, the knowing—deep down—that there was no happy ending waiting for him at the end of this road.
He'd spent so damn long trying to hold it all together, to be what Dutch needed him to be, what the gang needed him to be. He'd ignored the way things were crumbling, ignored the sickness creeping into his bones, ignored the way Charles had been looking at him.
Like he was worth saving like he was more than the broken thing he felt like.
Now, in the dim light of the campfire, with Charles' hand resting gently against his wrist, Arthur felt something inside him crack. Not all at once, not in the way a man might break under torture, or the way a dam might collapse from too much pressure.
But slow.
Like the first real thaw after a brutal winter or the way the body finally gives in after a fight that's lasted too long.
Charles' voice was soft, steady. "Then don't lose it."
Arthur swallowed, hard. He couldn't look away, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but sit there, letting Charles hold him in place like he wasn't afraid of what he might find beneath all of Arthur's defenses.
"Charles," he rasped, voice barely above a whisper. "I—"
But the words failed him. How the hell was he supposed to say it? How was he supposed to explain something that had been sitting under his skin for so long, aching, festering?
Charles didn't press him. He just waited, calm and patient, like he had all the time in the world.
Arthur let out a rough breath, shaking his head. "I don't know how to do this."
Charles' grip on his wrist tightened just slightly, grounding. "You don't have to."
Arthur closed his eyes.
He wanted to believe that, wanted to believe that, just this once, he didn't have to fight.
But wanting had never done him much good.
Charles shifted, leaning in just enough that Arthur could feel the warmth of him, the scent of cedar and earth wrapping around him like something safe.
And for the first time in a long, long time—
Arthur let himself lean back.
Just a little.
Just enough.
Charles exhaled, slow and steady, like he knew what this meant. Like he knew how hard it was for Arthur to let go, even a little.
He moved his hand from Arthur's wrist to his forearm, then to his shoulder—gentle, never demanding, always waiting.
Arthur opened his eyes.
And there was Charles, close enough now that Arthur could see the flicker of the candlelight in his dark eyes, could feel the steady warmth of his breath.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then—Arthur let out a shaky breath and whispered, "Tell me this ain't a mistake."
Charles' gaze softened. "It isn't."
Arthur searched his face, looking for any hint of doubt, any hesitation. But there was none.
Just patience.
Just certainty.
Arthur felt something in his chest tighten—then release, all at once.
He closed the last of the distance between them.
It wasn't a desperate thing, wasn't a hunger that burned hot and fast.
It was slow.
Careful.
Like the way a man might trace the edges of something fragile, something precious, afraid to break it but unable to let it go.
Arthur didn't know what to do with this—this gentleness.
But when Charles' lips met his, firm and warm, steady as everything else about him, Arthur finally, finally let himself stop fighting.
Because maybe—for once—he didn't have to.
-
Arthur woke before dawn, the first pale light creeping in. The air was cool, damp from the night's rain, and for a moment—just a moment—he forgot where he was.
Then he felt it.
The warmth of another body beside him.
Not crowding him. Not claiming him. Just there.
Arthur shifted slightly, just enough to look over his shoulder, and there was Charles, sitting beside him, already awake. His back was to Arthur, broad and steady, the soft glow of early morning light casting long shadows over his skin.
Arthur swallowed, his throat dry.
Last night hadn't been a dream.
His mind should've been racing, should've been panicking, trying to shove this down like he always did, but...
He couldn't.
Because Charles was still here.
And Arthur—somehow—wasn't afraid.
Charles must have sensed his movement because he turned slightly, his dark eyes meeting Arthur's. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, Charles murmured, "How are you feeling?"
Arthur huffed, voice rough from sleep. "Like I got shot, dragged halfway across the city, and spent the night makin' a damn fool of myself."
Charles gave him a look. "You didn't."
Arthur scoffed but didn't argue. Instead, he pushed himself up slowly, wincing at the pull of his wound. Charles was already reaching for the bandages, careful hands checking for any sign of fever.
Arthur let him.
Didn't flinch, didn't pull away, didn't make some half-assed joke to break the tension.
And maybe that was the biggest change of all.
After a moment, Charles sat back, satisfied that Arthur wasn't about to keel over. But there was something else in his expression now—something weighted.
Arthur frowned. "Alright. Spit it out."
Charles exhaled, steady and slow. "We need to leave."
Arthur stiffened.
It wasn't a question.
It was a statement.
Arthur ran a hand down his face. "Charles—"
"You know I'm right."
Arthur clenched his jaw. "We can't just—"
"Yes, we can." Charles' voice was firm but not unkind. "Dutch is falling apart, Arthur. You see it just as much as I do. And after last night—" He hesitated, something flickering in his eyes. "He's not going to forgive this."
Arthur swallowed hard.
He knew that.
Dutch hadn't said anything when they left, but Arthur could feel it in the way he looked at him. That disappointment. That betrayal.
The kind that didn't go away.
Arthur exhaled sharply. "What about the gang?"
Charles' gaze softened. "You think Dutch is still fighting for them?"
Arthur wanted to argue. Wanted to say that of course Dutch cared, that everything he'd done, he'd done for them.
But the words wouldn't come.
Because Arthur had seen the truth.
Dutch had left them in that alley. He hadn't cared if Arthur lived or died. He only cared about keeping his grip on what little power he had left.
Arthur closed his eyes, rubbing his temple.
"Shit."
Charles didn't push him. Just let him sit with it.
Arthur let out a rough laugh, bitter and tired. "You already got a plan, don't you?"
Charles hesitated, then nodded. "I've been thinking about it for a while now."
Of course he had.
Because Charles had always been like that. Always watching. Always waiting.
Arthur sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Where?"
Charles studied him, like he wasn't sure if Arthur was actually considering it. But then he said, "West. Montana, maybe. Or up north. Find land, something real."
Arthur scoffed. "Ain't never known anything but this life, Charles."
"You could."
Arthur stilled.
Charles' voice was quiet, certain.
"You could have more than this, Arthur."
Arthur clenched his jaw, looking away. "You make it sound so damn simple."
"It is simple," Charles said. "You don't owe Dutch anything. And you don't have to die for him."
Arthur flinched.
Because that was the truth of it, wasn't it?
He was going to die if he stayed. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but the end was coming.
It had been coming for a long time.
Arthur swallowed past the lump in his throat. "And what about you?"
Charles frowned.
Arthur's hands curled into fists. "You just lookin' to save me, or are you actually plannin' on sticking around?"
Charles met his gaze without hesitation. "I'm not leaving you."
Arthur's breath caught.
He had expected Charles to hesitate. To pull away.
But he didn't he never did.
Arthur let out a slow breath, feeling the last of his resistance crumbling away. "West, huh?"
Charles nodded.
Arthur huffed, shaking his head. "You sure know how to pick a fight, Smith."
Charles smirked. "You bringing your horse or not?"
Arthur laughed.
And for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel bitter.
It felt real.
Like maybe, just maybe—
They had a chance.
-
They rode hard for days, pushing westward, leaving the weight of the gang behind.
Arthur expected the guilt to follow. Expected to feel hollow, like he had cut out a piece of himself and left it behind in the dirt.
But as the days stretched on, the feeling never came. He wasn't lost or adrift, no, for once in his life, he was free and Charles was right there beside him.
They passed through Montana first, riding through the valleys and open plains, but it was too close to old ghosts, too close to the places that reminded Arthur of everything he was trying to leave behind. So they kept going. Up through Wyoming, past the cold rivers and winding trails, through country untouched by lawmen or bounty hunters. And then—
The mountains.
The land stretched before them, wild and endless, full of possibility. Arthur slowed his horse, taking it in. Charles stopped beside him, watching him carefully. "What do you think?"
Arthur let out a slow breath, "I think," he said, a slow smile tugging at his lips, "we mighta found somethin' real."
Charles nodded.
And for the first time in a long, long time—Arthur wasn't just surviving.
He was living.
-
The valley stretched wide before them, nestled between the mountains, untouched and quiet.
The first winter had been harsh, but they'd survived. Thankfully they both knew just how to handle the cold, Charles was more than good at hunting and Arthur knew his way with an axe. Huddled together in a small pathetic excuse of a shack but it was okay, cause it meant they were free.
Free from Dutch that is, there still was a pretty penny over Arthurs's head but they were so far from home, that the chances of it catching up were slim to none.
The second year was better. They managed to work with the local town carpenters to get some wood brought over to the valley and slowly but surely Arthur and Charles made the valley into their home.
And by the third year, the land felt like theirs.
A small three-bedroom cabin stood against the edge of the trees, sturdy and well-built, its wooden walls darkened by rain, its roof strong enough to withstand the worst of the seasons. A small barn stood off to the side, housing three horses—Arthur's old mare and two of Charles's horses, his old mare Taima, and a young stallion, Falmouth, Charles had broken in himself. Little touches of both decorated their home and the barn. The fields weren't much, but they were enough. Enough to grow what they needed.
Arthur sat on the porch, rocking slowly in the chair Charles had built for him, the arms of the chair had carved vines snaking around meeting at the back of the chair to resemble Lady of the Night Orchids. One hand resting over his belly, the swell of it warm and solid beneath his palm.
Pregnant.
The thought still felt strange sometimes, settling in his bones in a way he hadn't expected. He'd never let himself imagine a future like this, never thought he'd live long enough to have one, have another at that. Issac and Eliza's deaths had been hard on him. At the time, it was better if Issac stayed with his other parent compared to Arthur, everything was too much for a baby. Nothing was stable or lasting but Arthur tried real hard to be there whenever he could. Whenever Dutch hadn't been working him like a dog, he would spend his time at Eliza's home and sweet on his lil Issac. Finding their gravestones had made Arthur feel something he had never felt before. The pain, the anger, it just consumed him. He was a real hallow man after that, bitter and just plain angry at the world. Some years had passed and Charle's joined them and the world felt little more tolerable and then everything went to shit...again.
And yet—here he was.
Charles had been cautious when Arthur told him. Not hesitant, not unhappy, just cautious. He never once questioned whether Arthur could handle it, never treated him like he was fragile, but Arthur could see it in the way Charles moved, the way his hands lingered on Arthur's back after a long day, the way he was always watching, making sure Arthur wasn't pushing himself too hard.
Arthur was shy to admit that he didn't mind. Not when he knew it came from love and not the feeling of needing control.
A small movement fluttered beneath his palm, and Arthur let out a slow breath, lips twitching into a quiet smile. "Feisty little thing," he murmured, rubbing slow circles over his belly. Since entering his 3rd trimester, his little pup had been making its presence known, kicking all day every day. Every night, when the two of them settled in for the night, Arthur would lay against Charle's chest giving him full access to his belly. Charle's loved feeling their pup move.
Speaking of said man, he would be back soon. He'd ridden out that morning to trade in town, leaving Arthur behind with strict instructions to rest. Arthur had rolled his eyes at that. He wasn't fragile. Wasn't some delicate thing that needed to be coddled. But still...he found himself missing the solid weight of Charles beside him.
Arthur let his head tilt back, closing his eyes, letting the warmth of the sun soak into his skin. He loved the simplicity of his life right now.
Then—
The sound of hooves on dirt.
Arthur cracked an eye open just as Charles rode into view, his stallion moving at an easy pace.
Charles swung down from the saddle, his eyes immediately scanning over Arthur, checking.
Arthur smirked. "You always this worried, big guy?"
Charles huffed a breath, a small smile on his face as he shook his head, stepping up onto the porch, "You always push yourself too hard." His tone was playful, accusing nonetheless.
Arthur rolled his eyes, but before he could fire back, Charles leaned down, pressing a warm, lingering kiss against his forehead. Arthur sighed, closing his eyes, letting himself melt into the touch.
Charles pulled back, hands settling against Arthur's hips, thumbs brushing lightly over his belly. "How are you feeling?"
Arthur exhaled, slow and steady. "Alright."
Charles arched a brow.
Arthur huffed, "Fine. Sore, but fine."
Charles nodded, satisfied. His fingers tracing slow, thoughtful circles against Arthur's side. "Kicking a lot?"
Arthur snorted. "Like a damn mule."
Charles smirked, warm and fond, "takes after you, then."
Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. But he didn't argue. The truth was—Charles had been his rock through all of this. Through the sickness, the exhaustion, the nights when Arthur lay awake, hands curled protectively over his stomach, fear settling heavily in his chest. Not fear of the pregnancy itself—but fear of what came after. Fear of being a father. Fear of failing again.
Charles had never judged him for it, never pushed, never expected Arthur to have all the answers. He just stayed and somehow, that was enough.
Arthur let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his belly. "Y'know," he muttered, "I ain't never pictured myself livin' this kinda life."
Charles hummed. "And now?"
Arthur tilted his head back, looking up at him. For the first time in his life—he wasn't running from the answer.
"...Now, I don't want nothin' else."
Charles' expression softened, his hand pressing warm and steady over Arthur's.
Arthur swallowed, something tight settling in his chest. He reached up, gripping the front of Charles' shirt, tugging him down into a slow, lingering kiss. Charles sat beside him, stretching his long legs out, eyes on the horizon. "We got another letter today."
Arthur raised a brow. "Yeah? From who?"
Charles reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded envelope. Arthur took it, flipping it over.
The name on the back was scrawled in careful, practiced handwriting:
Jim Milton.
Arthur smirked. "That dumb bastard actually used the fake name."
Charles chuckled, "Guess Abigail keeps him in line."
Arthur tore open the letter, his eyes scanning over the words.
-
"Arthur,
"I don't know if this letter will even reach you, but I figured it was worth a try. Abigail and I got out a little after you left. We took Jack and moved out to a ranch. I became a ranchand for a nice feller named David Geddes, he owns a ranch over in West Elizabeth. I worked there for a while before finally moving on my own. Bought a piece of land called Beecher's Hope, trying to build something real. It ain't much, but it's ours. Feels damn strange, being honest for once."
"Jack's doin' real good. He's got a proper home now, books to read, a bed to sleep in. Sometimes I look at him and think about how close we came to losin' everything, and I just... I don't know. I ain't good with words, but I wanted to say thank you. For everything."
"Sadie's out west too. That woman just don't know how to sit still, but she's doing good. Think she's still chasin' bounties. Tilly wrote, too—she married some banker out in Saint Denis. Can't say I ever expected that, but she sounds happy."
"Dutch... he ain't the man we knew. He lost himself. And Micah... well, let's just say if I ever cross paths with that bastard again, it ain't gonna end well."
"I hope you and Charles are alright. I hope you got that peace you always talked about."
"If you ever find yourself near Blackwater, we got a place for you. Always."
"Take care of yourself, Arthur. You deserve it."
"Jim Milton (but you already knew that, didn't you?)."
-
Arthur let out a slow breath, running a hand over his face.
John had made it.
Hell, all of them had, in their own way. Sadie, Tilly... even Mary-Beth had sent a letter a few months back, talking about how she'd found work as a writer, finally leaving the outlaw life behind. Arthur swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in his eyes. He hadn't expected this. Hadn't expected to feel so damn relieved to know that the people he'd fought beside, bled beside, had actually gotten out. Charles' hand settled over his, grounding, warm. Arthur exhaled, flipping the letter closed. "Guess we weren't the only ones who saw the writin' on the wall."
Charles nodded. "They all found their own way." He hesitated. "You ever think about visiting?"
Arthur was quiet for a long moment. Then, he smiled, "Maybe someday." Charles nodded, not pushing. He never did. Arthur let his gaze drift over their land, their home. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't easy. But it was real.
And for the first time in his life, Arthur Morgan wasn't running anymore.
-
The storm rolled in fast.
One moment, the sky was clear—bright and blue, the kind of peaceful summer day Arthur had grown to love out here in the valley. The next, dark clouds were swallowing the horizon, the wind picking up, carrying the distant rumble of thunder.
Arthur sat in his rocking chair by the fireplace, rubbing slow circles over his belly. He was big now, carrying low, the weight of it pressing deep into his hips and back.
He had never been a man to sit still for too long, but the last few weeks had forced his hand. The baby was coming soon, and Charles had been hovering, making damn sure Arthur wasn't pushing himself too hard.
Arthur had rolled his eyes, muttered something about not being fragile, but the truth was—he was exhausted.
And now, Charles was gone.
He'd left that morning for town, just a quick trip to trade some pelts and pick up extra supplies before the baby was due. He'd planned on being back before sundown.
But then the storm came.
Arthur shifted, trying to ease the ache in his lower back. He didn't think much of it at first—he'd been having false pains for days now, his body teasing him, not yet, not yet.
But then the ache sharpened.
A deep, twisting pressure that stole his breath for half a second.
Arthur's hand clenched against the arm of the chair.
"...Shit."
He sat up straighter, waiting for it to pass, but before he could settle, another wave hit—sharp, insistent.
Arthur sucked in a breath, exhaling slowly through his nose.
Alright.
This is happening.
His heart pounded, the realization hitting like a freight train. The baby was coming, and Charles wasn't here.
Arthur forced himself to his feet, gripping the chair for balance.
His instincts screamed at him—move, do something, prepare, but what the hell was he supposed to do?
The cabin was stocked with supplies, but Charles had planned to be here—he was supposed to be here. Arthur had counted on that.
Another contraction hit, harder this time.
Arthur gritted his teeth, bracing against the chair, his body curling in on itself as he rode out the wave of pain.
Lightning flashed outside the window, followed by a sharp crack of thunder.
Rain pounded against the roof, the wind howling through the trees.
Arthur's breath came in sharp pants. It's alright. It's alright. You've handled worse.
But deep down, panic was clawing its way up his throat because this wasn't a gunfight a bullet wound, or a bar brawl. This was something he couldn't fight through-and he was alone.
-
Charles cursed under his breath as he urged his horse faster, rain lashing against his face.
The storm had hit faster than expected, the roads turning into thick mud, slowing him down.
He had a bad feeling. A twisting knot in his gut that had started hours ago, long before the first crack of thunder.
Something was wrong.
He could feel it.
He had never liked leaving Arthur alone—not this late into the pregnancy, not when Arthur was already pushing himself too damn hard.
And now, the storm was keeping him away.
The wind roared through the trees, but even over the storm, Charles thought he heard something—distant, faint.
A sound carried by the wind.
A voice.
Arthur.
Charles' heart slammed into his ribs.
He didn't hesitate.
Didn't think.
Just kicked his horse into a full sprint, thundering down the trail toward home.
-
Arthur gritted his teeth, half collapsed against the edge of the bed.
The contractions were coming fast now, each one hitting like a fist to the gut, his whole body locked in a relentless grip of pressure and pain.
His breath came in ragged gasps, sweat slicking his skin.
The storm raged outside, the wind shaking the walls, rain hammering the roof.
Arthur let out a rough, frustrated laugh. "Damn kid," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Pickin' one hell of a night to come."
A sharp, crushing pain tore through him, and Arthur let out a low, guttural groan, his fingers clenching in the blankets.
Too fast.
It's happening too fast.
Lightning flashed, and for a brief second, the world outside the window lit up—just enough for Arthur to see a figure racing toward the cabin.
Arthur blinked, breath catching in his throat.
Then—
The door slammed open.
Charles stood in the doorway, soaking wet, breathing hard, eyes wild.
"Arthur—"
Arthur let out a shaky laugh, half relief, half exhaustion. "'Bout time, big guy."
Charles was already moving, dropping his soaked coat, his hands on Arthur immediately.
"You're in labor." It wasn't a question.
Arthur shot him a dry look. "What the hell gave it away?"
Charles ignored the sarcasm, his eyes sharp, assessing. He took in Arthur's strained expression, the sweat on his forehead, the way he was holding himself.
Arthur could see it—the tension in Charles' shoulders, the barely restrained panic under all that calm.
Charles took a slow, steadying breath, then, he nodded.
"Alright," he murmured, voice steady now. "I'm here."
Arthur exhaled sharply. "Damn right, you are."
Another contraction hit hard, and Arthur cried out, body curling, breath ragged.
Charles moved instantly, pressing his forehead against Arthur's, grounding him.
"I've got you," he murmured, voice steady, sure.
Arthur let out a shaky breath, clutching Charles' shirt, his body trembling. Charles pressed a hand to Arthur's belly, feeling the hard, tight pull of another contraction.
Arthur gasped, his body tensing, pushing on its own.
"I need to push," Arthur gritted out, teeth clenched.
Charles nodded, his calm never wavering. "Okay. Then push."
Arthur bared his teeth, bearing down, body locking up, shaking.
A sharp, white-hot burn, then—
Something shifted.
Charles' hand was there, steady, guiding, and Arthur let out a ragged groan, body trembling.
"One more," Charles urged, gentle but firm. "You're almost there, Arthur. Come on."
Arthur sucked in one last breath—
Then pushed with everything he had.
And then—
A sharp, wailing cry.
Arthur's whole body went still.
For a moment, everything was silent.
Charles let out a shaky breath, lifting the tiny, wriggling baby into his arms.
Arthur collapsed back, his chest heaving, his heart pounding as he watched Charles wrap the baby carefully, gently, moving like this was something he was born to do.
Charles turned to him, eyes soft, and placed the baby against Arthur's chest.
Arthur's breath hitched.
Small. Warm. Real.
The baby shifted, snuggling against him, tiny fingers curling into Arthur's shirt. Arthur stared, something tight and overwhelming rising in his chest.
"...We did it," Arthur rasped, voice hoarse.
Charles let out a breathless chuckle, pressing a warm kiss to Arthur's temple.
"You did it," Charles murmured.
Arthur let out a tired, disbelieving laugh, tears pricking his eyes.
He had never been a man to cry easily.
But this?
This was something else.
Charles cupped his jaw, brushing a thumb against his cheek. Arthur let himself lean into the touch, his free hand finding Charles', holding tight. The baby let out a small, contented sigh, tiny and perfect.
Arthur let out a shaky breath, pressing a kiss to his child's forehead.
Then he looked up at Charles and whispered—
"We got ourselves a family now."
Charles' grip on his hand tightened and with a soft, steady certainty, he whispered back—
"Yeah. We do."
-
The road to Beecher's Hope stretched wide under the late afternoon sun, golden fields swaying in the breeze, the mountains standing tall in the distance. Arthur sat tall in the saddle, one hand steadying the small, bundled-up baby strapped securely against his chest.
It had been three years since he and Charles had left the gang behind.
Three years of peace.
Three years of learning how to live instead of just surviving.
And now, for the first time in a long time, Arthur was going home.
Charles rode beside him, his steady presence grounding as always, his dark eyes flickering toward Arthur with quiet warmth.
"You nervous?" Charles asked.
Arthur snorted. "Ain't the word I'd use."
Charles smirked. "Excited?"
Arthur grunted. "Maybe."
He wouldn't admit it out loud, but—he was.
He hadn't seen John since the day they left the gang. Hadn't seen Abigail or Jack in even longer. He'd kept in touch through letters, but that wasn't the same.
Finally—they were going to see them again.
The baby stirred against his chest, and Arthur instinctively placed a hand over them, rubbing small, soothing circles.
It still hit him sometimes, out of nowhere, how much his life had changed. He'd spent his whole damn life running from anything soft, anything good, thinking it wasn't meant for him.
Now, he had a child. A home. Charles.
And for the first time in his life—he wasn't afraid of wanting it.
-
The ranch house came into view as they crested the last hill, smoke curling lazily from the chimney, a couple of cows grazing near the barn.
Arthur let out a slow breath. "Well, there she is."
Charles gave a small nod. "Nice place."
Arthur smirked. "Looks better'n I expected. Guess Abigail's got John workin' real hard."
As if on cue, the front door swung open, and John Marston stepped out onto the porch.
Arthur could see it immediately—he looked different.
Happier. More settled.
John squinted toward them, then froze.
Arthur saw the exact moment recognition hit.
"Well, I'll be damned!"
John was already moving, practically bounding down the steps as Arthur and Charles pulled their horses to a stop.
Arthur barely had time to swing down before John was on him, grabbing him in a rough hug.
Arthur grunted, but his chest ached in the best way possible.
"You son of a bitch!" John pulled back, grinning ear to ear. "I thought you were gonna be some damn mountain man forever!"
Arthur smirked. "Maybe I am."
John's eyes flickered down, and his grin faltered.
"...Wait a damn minute."
Arthur adjusted the baby's blanket, pulling back the fabric just enough for John to see.
John's jaw dropped. "You—you had a kid?!"
Arthur snorted. "No, John, I found one on the side of the road."
John let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. "Holy hell. I—I don't even know what to say."
Before Arthur could respond, another voice rang out.
"Arthur?!"
Arthur looked up just as Abigail stepped out onto the porch, Jack peeking around her skirts.
Abigail's eyes went wide, and within seconds, she was rushing toward them, gathering Arthur into a bone-crushing hug.
"You big idiot!" she scolded, but her voice shook with emotion. "We thought—God, Arthur, we thought you were gone."
Arthur swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Nah. Just livin' quiet."
Abigail pulled back, her eyes flicking to Charles, then the baby. Her lips parted.
"Oh my God." Her voice was soft now, awed.
Arthur chuckled. "Yeah, yeah. Everyone's real surprised, this little lady is Nettie."
Abigail let out a small laugh, shaking her head before reaching out, brushing a gentle hand against the baby's cheek.
"She's beautiful," she whispered.
Arthur's throat tightened.
Charles stepped up beside him, resting a warm, grounding hand on his back.
John cleared his throat. "Alright, this calls for a drink. Uncle!"
A loud groan came from the porch.
"Damn it, Marston!" Uncle limped down the steps, squinting at them. The moment he saw Arthur, he snorted. "Well, I'll be damned. You ain't dead yet?"
Arthur smirked. "Nice to see you too, old man."
Uncle crossed his arms, grumbling. "You got fat."
Arthur barked a laugh. "That's called pregnancy, you dumb bastard."
Uncle blinked. Then—
"...Huh."
John rolled his eyes. "Come on inside, you two. We got a lot to catch up on."
Arthur sighed, smiling softly.
For the first time in a long time—he felt like he was home.
-
The sun was low, painting the sky in burnt oranges and deep purples.
Arthur sat on the porch, the baby nestled in his arms, their soft breaths even and steady. Charles sat beside him, silent, content. Inside, John and Abigail were bickering over dinner, Jack giggling at the table.
The sound of hooves on dirt made Arthur lift his head just as a familiar figure rode up.
"Well, I'll be damned," Arthur muttered.
Sadie Adler swung down from the saddle, grinning wide.
"Took ya long enough to visit, Morgan."
Arthur smirked. "Had my hands full."
Sadie's eyes landed on the baby, and for the first time, Arthur saw genuine softness on her face.
She exhaled, smiling. "Well, shit."
Arthur chuckled. "Yeah."
Sadie shook her head. "You did good, Arthur."
Arthur looked down at his child, then at Charles, then at the home full of people who actually gave a damn.
He let out a slow breath.
"Yeah," he murmured, "I did."
FIN