The Sins and Virtues of Gunslinging and Love

An Unforgiven Past at the Bottom of a Bottle

Just as Arthur predicted, the ride back to camp at Horseshoe Overlook was miserable. Between trying to support the dead weight of your unconscious body and shivering from the ice-cold rain, not a lot of brain power was left for anything else. After what felt like hours, he finally got both of you back to camp.

As Arthur turns into the thick brush around the gang's claimed area, he realizes just how much his body aches from holding you and trying to keep himself warm. Tightening his grip on you, he bares down to finish the last few yards of this ride.

Arriving at the hitching posts, Arthur avoids hitching his and focuses on getting you to your tent. Due to rain, everyone has retreated to their covered spaces — hiding in tents, under trees, and canopies.

"Ms. Grimshaw! Can I get some help?" Arthur yells for assistance as gently dismounts his steed. Sliding out of the saddle he keeps your body supported and does his best to remove you without hurting your leg.

Ms. Grimshaw appears from underneath one of the nearer make-shift shelters, "What happened?" Her voice is rough and shrouded with worry.

"Don't know," he says with a grunt as he adjusts you into his arms bridal style, still careful to avoid your injured leg. "Found 'er outside o' Valentine in some little cave half drunk to death, threw a bottle at me n' then she was out," Arthur says, his voice carrying the same thick accent it always does when he's worked up.

Ms. Grimshaw shakes her head and sighs in disappointment. "Let's get her to bed then," she says, walking toward your tent.

Much like she was to Arthur, Susan Grimshaw is almost like a mother to you. She had been the one to clean you up and get you everything you needed when you were first taken into the gang (something which you feel you can never repay her for). Of course, due to your closeness, she knows much about your history with alcohol. Many times in your younger years you found yourself at the bottom of a bottle, drowning your sorrows with liquor. As you grew older, things changed; the bottles became more shallow and the sorrowful waves grew weaker. The last time Ms. Grimshaw had seen you as drunk as you are now around the same time Arthur started courting Mary which she thought to be quite odd. She would never mention it to you but she would always notice when you drank so much you couldn't even stand on your own two feet. You knew she noticed too but you would never blame her for not talking to you. If anything, it was you who owed her an apology for your atrocious attitude towards her as a teen. However, that was long ago now. At the moment, she's most concerned about getting your bandages replaced.

-

After sleeping through the entire day and night, you woke up with a hangover from hell. Your head feels like it's being cracked open like an egg (the stream of sunlight cutting through your tent doesn't help either). Your mouth is drier than a week-old biscuit and your entire body is sore. Placing your hands over your eyes, you drag them over your face as if you could peel away the splitting headache. Removing your hands, the incessant headache continues. But, your head isn't the only thing that hurts. The all-too-familiar empty feeling in your heart growls like an empty stomach, the feeling that seemingly only alcohol can fill. What's to stop me from rotting away in this cot for the rest of time, you think to yourself, what the hell am I doing with my life? No family, no husband, no kids, no (legal) job... fuck, you're a failure. These thoughts are what keep you up at night. Especially nights when whiskey fills the empty void inside of you. Nights when you can't see the stars. Nights when your bed is cold. Nights when you think of them. Your family. Before you can stop it, a choked sob escapes you.

-

Arthur meanders about his tent completing mundane tasks — cleaning his guns, journaling, putting away a few misplaced belongings — nothing special. When he sets his carbine repeater back down against his table he hears a noise from your tent that almost sounds like a dying animal. His ears perk up as he listens a little closer. Another noise hits his ears which he now recognizes as a cry, coming from your tent. Before he can register his actions, he's already on his feet and marching to your tent.

All of the sudden and protective confidence that filled him a moment ago has now been stripped from him as he touches the canvas flap of your tent. Inside he can hear your quiet cries and mumblings. His heart pounds and his fingers feel numb as he finds enough courage to invade your space. Your eyes clench harder as sunlight floods the small space, splitting your skull once again. In contrast, Arthur squints his eyes in an attempt to adjust to the darkness.

"Y/n," Arthur whispers breathlessly, meaning to put a lot more power behind his speech. His heart speeds up slightly as he waits for your response. "You alright?"

"I-" you begin to speak so quietly that you can't even hear it in your ears. Luckily, or unluckily, you're cut off by another sob that saves you from the embarrassment of having to repeat yourself with a wobbly voice.

"Shhh," Arthur says quietly into your ear, now significantly closer than he had previously sounded. "You're okay," he finishes.

His rough, heavy voice coaxes you to flip over in your cot and face him. He wears an expression that you have only seen a handful of times, worry. But not just worry, worry for you. Your face crumples into a cry again when his face registers in your still-half-inebriated brain.

Deciding it's best to stay quiet, Arthur opts to comfort you physically. His large, calloused hand finds its way to the back of your head and strokes your y/h/c hair. If you weren't so disoriented you probably would've slapped his hand away, refusing comfort or kind gestures from anyone. You feel like you've forgotten how to rebuild your wall of false bravery, your well-practiced skill of shutting out the world.

Ignoring everything you think you've ever stood for, you find yourself leaning into his warm hand when the other reaches to wipe away your tears. His rough thumb traces the high-point of your cheek leaving a feeling that lingers on your skin for a moment. Your heart beats faster as you lock eyes with him. The moment goes on for longer than would have been appropriate, according to your standards, in a clear-headed state.

Arthur opens his mouth slightly to say something but quickly clamps his lips shut into a hard line. He pulls his hands away quickly and turns his head away, avoiding your glassy, blood-shot eyes. "I-I'm sorry," he says before standing from his crouching position next to you. Your mind swims further into a murky grayness.

What the hell was that? The question finds its way to the front of your clouded mind. You roll to lay on your back looking up at the sorry excuse for a ceiling, experiencing far too much throbbing in your head to get out of your cot. Rolling your head to look around your tent, you immediately focus on the torn pieces of a photograph. The one you had torn in a fit of rage. All too quickly, the tears begin to well again. A shred of film looks back at you, an image of your mother (who you always looked too much like). This is hell. A hell I deserve for my sins. Your mind is plagued with all you've done wrong. Murdering, Thieving, Drinking, Gambling, and all other things. This is what I deserve, you think as you stray further into the darkness of your poisoned brain.

The blood on your hands stains deeper than the surface.

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Thanks for reading! <3

Cross-posted on Ao3 under jxkstories.