Welcome Home (Arthur Morgan x Reader)

Chapter Twelve: It's a' Getting Closer

The next morning, you wake up with one hell of a hangover. It's odd, considering you didn't drink all that much, but hey: you've always been a lightweight. One beer? Tipsy. Two beers? Drunk. Three beers? Uh oh. Four beers? Hospital time.

The aftermath of last night's alcohol makes you feel like you swallowed a mouthful of sand. You groan, sit up on your bedroll, and spit out some of the bad taste in your mouth. Your head is pounding. It's probably going to take a whole lot of water and whatever greasy food you can get your hands on to make it stop. Here in the 1890s, though, it's not like you can just go to the nearest Denny's for a hangover breakfast. You can only hope that Pearson at least has some bacon on hand. 

The rest of camp is already up and about. You hear the girls chit-chatting as they work, Abigail scrubbing hard at a stain on somebody's shirt, one that's probably blood, while Karen and Mary-Beth argue about who's stuck with mending socks. Tilly is in the process of collecting eggs from the chicken coop, and Molly is... well, doing whatever it is she likes to do. She gives you a halfhearted wave when you catch her eye, then turns to a mirror and starts messing with her hair. 

You wince as you slowly get to your feet. The sun, high in the sky, is far too bright for your liking. You must've slept in. You're honestly surprised that Miss Grimshaw let you, but when you see her, she doesn't snap at you to get to work. Instead, she gives you as much of a smile as she'll ever give anyone and goes back to yelling at Pearson. 

Figuring out how to work your legs is harder than it should be, but eventually, you manage to stumble over to one of the tables. You sink heavily into a chair. Your head is killing you, and you slowly lower it into your arms. The darkness soothes the pain some, but not nearly enough. And to top it all off, you suddenly remember that there's no such thing as ibuprofen yet. Great.

You almost fall asleep again. Before you can, though, there's a dull thunk of a cup being set on the table, and a warm, calloused hand on your shoulder. 

"C'mon," Arthur drawls from somewhere next to you. "Get some water in you."

You groan and don't make a move to lift your head. You've only just gotten the splitting pain to go down to a somewhat less splitting pain. You don't want to ruin that progress.

"I ain't above makin' you," Arthur says, amused. "Trust me: you'll feel better for it."

Then make me, you think. Even through the hangover, the idea kicks up your heartrate a notch. 

Begrudgingly, you lift your head from your arms and take a sip of the water. Your stomach rolls like you're on a boat, and it takes all of your strength not to puke. 

"I think I'm dying," you groan. "Actually: no. I'm already dead. You're talking to my corpse."

Arthur chuckles, his hand absently rubbing soothing circles into your shoulder. You don't think he's aware he's doing it, nor of the effect it has on you, and before you can stop yourself, you're leaning into his touch. 

"You ain't dying," he says softly. Then, quieter: "Not on my watch."

You tilt your head back to look up at him. He's watching you with a fond, gentle smile—such a contrast to the ruthless outlaw he claims to be. It looks good on him. His fingers dig a little harder into your shoulder, carefully easing the knots and tension you've built up over the last few weeks. A sound escapes you. It's small, but the effect is immediate. Arthur's eyes widen just enough to let you know he noticed, and a flush starts creeping up his neck. 

Mortified, you stand up so quickly that you almost trip over your own feet. Arthur reaches out like he's going to steady you, but you're already scrambling away.

"Gotta go help with stuff, sorry!" You call over your shoulder as you get as far away from him as possible.

You make a beeline for Abigail, who's still hard at work with the stained shirt. Before she can even say hello to you, you've grabbed her wrist, hauled her to her feet, and started dragging her towards a secluded spot in the woods not too far from camp. 

"What in the goddamn hell, Y/N?" She demands, rubbing her wrist a little as you finally let her go. "I was in the middle of somethin'." 

You're certain your face is burning as you struggle with what to say. Abigail takes a closer look at you, realizes that you're obviously distressed, and sighs.

"What happened?" She asks in a gentler tone.

"Well," you manage, "I, uh... I have a problem."

Abigail rolls her eyes, exasperated, but not angry. You can tell she's reaching into a deep well of patience. "You're gonna have to be more specific than that, Y/N."

You start pacing, twigs and leaves crunching under your boots. Where can you possibly start? How can you even begin to tell her what happened? There's no telling how she'll react to the truth, that Arthur massaged your shoulder and you made a sound that left little to imagination. 

Dear God. You're screwed.

"I think I like Arthur more than a friend," you say in a jumbled rush. 

Abigail stares at you for a moment, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly parted. You silently wait for your inevitable demise.

"You..." She says slowly. "You're just now figuring that out?"

All of the air leaves your lungs in a startled exhale. "What?"

"Y/N..." Abigail shakes her head, a smile slowly growing on her lips. "The only one who doesn't know you fancy Arthur is Arthur... and apparently you until now."

Your eyes feel like they're going to pop out of their sockets as you gape at her. But... you'd been so careful. You'd made sure that nobody noticed how you felt about Arthur, done your best to hide it since he found you in the Grizzlies. And now for Abigail to tell you that it's all for nothing? 

Uh oh.

"He can never know," you say.

Abigail sighs. "Don't worry. He's about as dense as any man with this sort of thing."

Relief floods your body, and you sag against the closest tree. So far, crisis averted. 

"But if you want my advice," Abigail continues as she kneels next to where you've crumpled, "I'd say go after him. Arthur's a good man, Y/N. He'll treat you right."

You're already shaking your head before she even finishes.

"I can't," you mumble. "I don't wanna ruin things... and I don't think he feels the same way about me."

Abigail chuckles and gently pats your knee. When you look at her, she's smiling.

"Don't be so sure, Y/N."