Welcome Home (Arthur Morgan x Reader)

Chapter Nine: Paint It, Black

You manage to catch a grand total of three fish. After that, you decide you've had enough. And yes: it has everything to do with the four hooks you had to dig out of your hand. Helping out camp is one thing. Actually putting in effort? That's another entirely.

By the time you hike up the hill to Horseshoe Overlook, the sun is starting to set. You look around. Hopefully, you can go straight to Pearson's wagon. The fish weigh heavily in your satchel—the one that Arthur gave you. That thought alone brings a blush to your cheeks, and you hurriedly give Pearson the fish to distract yourself from it. 

"These'll do nicely, Y/N," he says. "Let's see, bluegill, pickerel, and..." He heaves out the largest one you caught. "A smallmouth bass."

You bite your lip, suddenly a little unsure. "They're okay?"

Pearson blinks, taken aback. "Well, sure. Why wouldn't they be?"

Because I caught them, you think. Instead of saying that, though, you shake your head and smile.

"No reason." You turn with a wave. "See ya, Pearson."

Whether he notices your obviously fake attempt at lightheartedness, you'll never know. Still, it's not like it matters. Pearson, you've decided, isn't the most observant of the bunch. But he does cook a damn good stew. 

You find yourself drifting toward Arthur's tent. He isn't back from Valentine yet, though you think he'll be back soon, if the sun is any telltale sign. The wagon doubles as ammunition storage, and you figure you might as well take inventory. Being from modern times—modern jobs—has its perks, apparently. 

Although you barely know the difference between rifle and pistol cartridges, you manage to count and organize everything. The wagon looks ten times better by the time you're done. 

If only I could do that to the rest of camp, you think with a smirk. Maybe they wouldn't be outlaws if they knew how to take care of themselves.

You pick up a box of bullets. Revolver, you realize. They're not all that interesting, but they are bigger than you thought. Briefly, you wonder if you'll ever learn how to use a revolver. The one Arthur gave you back at Six Point Cabin still sits by your bedroll, practically untouched. You've thought about practicing. Hell, you've thought about a lot of things. But somehow, you just know that if you try anything by yourself, you'll wound up with another burnt hand.

You hold the bullets at arm's length. It's not that you're afraid to try. You're not really afraid of anything, save for the obvious. And yet with the way things have been going, you might as well play it safe.

"They ain't gonna bite you, you know."

Barely stifling a shriek, you whirl around. Of course—of course—, Arthur's standing behind you. There's an amused half of a smile on his face, and you feel your cheeks burning for the second time that evening. 

"I know," you say. "I was hoping they would, though. I'm into that shit."

Sometimes, you wish you could control the things that come out of your mouth. 

Arthur stares at you, clearly trying to process what you just said. You don't really want to explain yourself. Honestly, that's a conversation you never want to have.

"When did you get back?" You ask, changing the subject. 

"About five minutes ago." Arthur reaches over and takes the box of bullets from you. "You thinkin' of practicing?"

A laugh escapes you, loud and a little too forced. "No, not in the slightest." 

Arthur seems to know you're lying through your teeth. He gives you a look, then glances down at the ammo again. You can practically see the thoughts going through his mind. It's... slightly unnerving—and slightly adorable.