SILVER BULLET ⊳ arthur morgan x reader

━ ii

While Charles makes his way to Pearson's tent, Arthur is still stuck at the edge of the camp. He looks at the women, chatting by the campfire as they deftly stitch up clothes and listen to Javier strumming his old, still barely functioning guitar.

He takes a moment to dedicate little Jack to memory as well, the way his eyes light up when Charles offers him some chocolate he'd found in the abandoned supermarket. Arthur takes in Dutch's tent, in the middle of the camp, in all its minimalistic greatness and glory, he listens to the wary but soft voice of Hosea, and the strong, imposing one of Dutch. Finally, he dedicates John to memory as well. The way he and Bill sip away on some old beer they'd found two or three days ago. This raw, mundane scene before his eyes is something he wants to remember, it's what he wants to replay in his head as he takes one final breath. His family, just as they have always been, and as they'll always be.

This will be his end. But it won't be theirs.

"This is suicide, Dutch." Hosea's voice rips Arthur out of his daydream. "The military already hates us, we ain't allowed into any quarantine zones anymore, and now you want to piss off the Resistance too?"

"Think about all the supplies, Hosea. We take a little from good ol' uncle Sam, a little from the rebels, and we'll live without a care in the world for the next six months! It's perfect."

Hosea says nothing, only stares at the folded, worn and ripped map on the wooden table, hesitates. Arthur suspects the old man has lost the will to rival and tame Dutch's stubbornness. That makes his stomach flip.

"All we need is a distraction, a lotta smoke, and we can pull this off." Dutch insists, tapping his finger on the map to punctuate every word he deems important. At the end of his sentence, he leans back in his chair, taking a drag out of his pipe. The smoke smells weird, unusual. Arthur realizes Dutch must've ran out of tobacco and made due with what herbs he could find around. The gang leader takes notice of his right hand man standing just a few steps away. "Arthur! How did you and Charles get on?"

"Not too good." Arthur crosses his arms in front of his chest as he puffs it out as he approaches the two. "Didn't find much, 'side from a bunch of Infected."

Dutch takes another drag from his pipe, stifling a cough before he blows out the smoke. "Damn. Someone must've gotten there before we did."

Arthur wants to roll his eyes. Of course there's been others in there, it's been roughly twenty years since the outbreak, for chrissakes! Supermarkets would obviously be the first target for survivors, it's clear as day.

Reason seems to become increasingly scarce ever since Micah has joined their group. Arthur, for one, doesn't like it one bit. But there isn't much he can change. Not anymore.

"Hosea, can I talk to you for a moment?"

He realizes how suspicious the sentence sounds only after it's been said out loud. Dutch says nothing, but watches with a tilt of his head and a feral glint in his eye. The fear of betrayal, the want to be in complete control.

"I found one of those...uh...detective novels you like. Back in the supermarket. Was wonderin' if you'd like to see it?" Arthur tries to play it off, but it is not excessively effective.

Hosea is quick enough to play along though — he is a born conman after all.

"Sure." The old man says, rising to his feet and leaving Dutch behind at the table. He leisurely trots beside Arthur, his pace and face relaxed and calm. Hosea's presence is comforting in the most familiar of ways. "What is it, Arthur? I'm guessing it's not really a book you want to talk about." The born conman asks as soon as they reach Arthur's tent.

He doesn't know why he feels like quipping, but Arthur gives in to the urge. "You're still too smart for me, old man."

Hosea smiles.

The blond man sighs, gathering his thoughts. Where should he even start? 'Sorry for interrupting that conversation back there, Hosea, but I've only got roughly two days before I lose my mind to the Infection and go full genocide on every living creature'?

"I...ain't got much time left, Hosea." Words are hard to come up with and scarce, if they haven't ceased existing in Arthur's head at all, that is. He fidgets with the rolled up sleeve of his blue shirt.

"What do you mean?"

The horror in Hosea's voice were indecipherable, easily missable, if Arthur hadn't known him for 20 years. "I mean I...I got infected. A few hours ago, I reckon. Didn't— Didn't quite notice— How, or, or when, I, um..."

A pause follows. He tries to gather his thoughts, calm himself.

"What do you want to do?"

Ever so thoughtful and respectful of his wishes, Hosea is and remains the most humane person Arthur has ever had the honor of meeting.

"I don't...think I want the whole..." Arthur swallows down the knot in his throat. He takes a deep, shaky breath, and Hosea, bless his soul, is looking up at him still so demurely and patiently. "...the whole mercy killin' act. I wanna leave. Be far away from everyone when it happens. Think you could...tell Dutch not to send anyone after me when I don't show up no more? It's all I ask."

Hosea lays a hand on his shoulder. A gentle reminder of all the times the gesture had happened before, but also a monument to how quizzical those past dilemmas had been. Nothing could compare to knowing one was doomed and being completely powerless to it.

"Of course."

Arthur closes his eyes, draws in a deep breath. Ignores the pain in his left leg, glances to his right, where his weapons are. He's got a purpose, a final one. Protecting his family from what he'll become. He exhales, steadier now than just a few seconds ago. Arthur has accepted his fate, however tragic it may seem.

"Thank you, Hosea."