Vows of Returning: A Red Dead Redemption 2 Story ( Arthur Morgan xOC )

Intermezzo; An embrace, fleeting

CW: Come on, you know the chapter you came from - there's some smut in this one. ;)

When Arthur kisses Lena, a fortnight of pent-up desire - if not months' worth, since that first dream - fuels the contact. His hand moves from holding her chin to palming the back of her head, fingers entwining in her thick black hair. He crouches slightly, sliding his other arm from her waist to below her hips, lifting her. She clings to him as her feet leave the ground.

Lena pulls back, her face level with his, eyes searching. She touches his shoulder tentatively, where the bullet and burns had been. Arthur lets go of her hair, holds her probing hand, brings it to his lips.

"Nnn-nnn," he tuts, mouth buzzing against her palm, before releasing it, "You fixed me up too good, darlin'." She raises an eyebrow; he's never called her that before. Lena stares at him so long that for a panicked moment he doubts it all, and is about to put her down when she breaks into a radiant smile, climbing her legs up around his waist and holding his face in both of her hands, above him. She kisses Arthur, wrapping her arms around his neck, plunging her tongue betwixt lips and teeth to taste him. They separate again and laugh, delighted; their movements becoming clumsy in their urgency.

He fumbles with the pearl buttons on her blouse until she grows frustrated, pulling down the front of the shirt, sending the buttons flying to clatter along the floor in all directions. She looks around at the departing buttons in disbelief and back to Arthur, saying "tropp'forte, ahimè," before laughing again, clapping a hand to her mouth. He doesn't join in this time; the effortless Italian, the r's rumbling in her bare chest pressed against him, pushing him towards a renewed need.

"New rule, darlin'," Arthur whispers, "no more English out of you." He looks for her reaction to find her smiling wickedly. "Sì, Arthur," she replies, before leaning in to whisper in turn, her breath warm as it rushes past his ear, "ho bisogno di te." Arthur strains against his fly in response, painfully restricted.

He lowers Lena to the ground to remove his belt and she shoulders out of the shirt, stepping out of her skirt and bloomers both. When he looks up after unbuttoning his fly, he finds her completely nude, pale skin glowing in the midday light, dark pink nipples capping small breasts, a small tuft of black hair between her legs. She is scarless, soft. Arthur stares, overwhelmed, suddenly unconfident.

Lena steps to him. Holding his hand, she presses it to her cheek, kisses his trembling fingers. "Venga con me, amore," she says, sweetly, and leads him to bed.

*

Lena smokes a cigarette in sheets as tangled as her wild hair as Arthur frees the caught salmon from its wrappings, shirtless, the arms of his maroon union suit tied around his waist. He runs his knife along the fish's belly, pulling the head and guts out in a swift motion and into the washbasin. He splits the fish into two generous fillets, and then drops them skin-side down into the waiting skillet on the woodstove, where they hiss and sputter, filling the cabin with the scent. He remembers the creeping thyme and garlic scapes he'd foraged to go with their meal and returns to the table to retrieve them.

A letter sticking halfway out of Lena's saddlebag catches his eye, addressed to Tacitus Kilgore, c/o Lena G., Wallace Station. He seizes the letter and holds it up to her, wordlessly.

"Oh, that," she says, suddenly remembering. "The clerk did not let me leave without it this morning, said there were no other Lenas around, that it was sent priority." Arthur feels a panic rise in his chest at the familiar pseudonym, the name the gang used to communicate with each other when away. "Ain't no other Lenas in these parts," she mimics the clerk, poorly, blowing a ring of smoke and laughing. When Arthur doesn't react, she rises from the bed, gathering the sheet around her.

"What is it?" She moves to him, concerned, resting her chin against his upper arm to peer around him at the letter. Arthur cracks the seal, opens it slowly, dreading what's inside. It reads, in Dutch's telltale combination of upright script and block letters:

The Gray family had us into TOWN while you were gone, Tacitus. Our Irish friend left us to go with Mac, Davey, and Jenny. The Braithwaites didn't want to be outdone by their southern hospitality and invited little JACK over before asking his mother. We're going to pick him up TONIGHT, would really hope you could join us after being GONE for so long.

Arthur decodes the letter, word by heartbreaking word. Sean, dead. Jack, kidnapped. And the gang demanding his help - even if he left immediately, he'd barely make it back to Clemens Point in time for the night's ride on the Braithwaites. He glances down at Lena, who's squinting at the letter, painstakingly mouthing the words. "Che difficile, inglese," she remarks, looking up at him, her smile fading after catching his eyes.

"Lena," he exhales, feeling the guilt press against his chest, wrap around his heart. She looks at the letter again, sees "tonight" in the block writing, starts shaking her head.

"No Arthur, no," she stands back from him, clutching the sheet to her chest, lower lip quivering. He tosses the letter into the fireplace, turning from her, picking his jeans up off the floor, pushing his arms into the sleeves of his long underwear. "You can't leave me. Don't leave me."

He tries to ignore her, fishing his shirt out from where she'd tossed it, playfully, behind the headboard, seemingly eons ago. Her voice becomes more desperate, piercing through the hasty wall he's built around himself. "Please, Arthur!" He hears Lena break into a sob and the hate he feels for himself, for the gang, is instant.

He rushes to gather her into his arms, holding her close, kissing the tears from her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Lena, I'm so, so sorry," he says, "I have to go." He hears a plaintive "No!" from her, buried into his chest, more hot tears spilling against him. He holds her by the shoulders, at length, rubbing her soft skin with his thumbs, cupping her chin in his hand.

"You listen to me, darlin'," he says, forcing the words through the lump in his throat. "I'm comin' back. I swear on it." Her face screws up and fresh tears well in her eyes as she lowers her chin to press her lips against his palm.

"Goodbye, Arthur," she says, kissing his hand, and then his mouth, before breaking away from him to leave the cabin, barefooted, in the sheet. He finishes dressing, locates his hat, his guns, his bag.

He departs the cabin, packs Priest's saddlebags, and mounts up, refusing to look at the woman wrapped in bedlinen, clutching at the fence and sobbing over the mountain range, knowing his heart will break completely if he does.