ANYTHING, ANYONE ⊳ arthur morgan x reader

━ i

You've been here for a month, maybe two. Who knows, you've lost count.

Well, not lost count per se — Hosea, a member of the Van der Linde gang you've grown more trusting towards, is like a clockwork and calendar all at the same time, he knows what day and time it is, and thus so do you. But you cannot for the life of you remember when the assemblage of outlaws have found you and offered you a home.

Regardless, you'd have to be considered blind to not notice one thing.

The gang leader's right hand man, Arthur Morgan, is barely around. At first you figure it's just him fulfilling his duty as an enforcer, but upon accidentally overhearing miss Grimshaw scold him and Dutch loudly remarking that he had stopped contributing as much as before, you're sure something is off.

Arthur Morgan, the man you're far too intimidated by to even dare approach, storms off in the crack of dawn every day and returns just in time for Pearson's dinner stew, usually brings some meat with him.

But there's no way in hell he's out that long for one deer.

He's hiding something, but unfortunately, none of the other girls in camp seem to be any wiser on the matter than you are. Anyone in camp doesn't, actually.

Both Grimshaw and Dutch receive nothing but apologies and promises of improvement as an answer, but Arthur never changes. And yet, he looks more and more tired by the day, something is weighing down on him.

But that is not for you to worry about. If he falls apart, there is very little someone like you (alternatively, someone that is pretty much an outsider still) can do.

You sigh, stretch your limbs as you sit at the campfire. The hot New Austin air has turned chilly along with the arrival of the evening, you'd have it no other way. It's a welcome change, and you feel quite at ease when all is quiet in camp and you're stitching away at the hole in mister MacGuire's shirt. The clumsy idiot, he brings in the most clothes that need fixing, but just enough laughs to make up for it.

You perk up when the thundering of hooves can be heard in the distance. Arthur Morgan is returning, about time. He's hit a new low this once, it's well past midnight.

When he rides into camp, he's not carrying a deer. There are no rabbits attached to his saddle, the clinking of stolen belt buckles and rings is not to be heard.

There will be consequences when the morning comes, you realize, not only from Grimshaw and Dutch, but from almost everyone.

Arthur's empty-handed.

Save from a bundle of blankets he clutches close to his chest. A bundle of blankets that starts crying the moment he dismounts.

Oh, Christ. A child?

Has Arthur Morgan brought an infant into camp?

He shushes the baby, tries to gently rock it to get it to stop from crying.

He fails, miserably so.

"Abigail, can you please get Jack to shut it?" Bill Williamson bellows dryly, Arthur freezes.

"It ain't Jack." Abigail responds on a similar tone, but with a raspy voice. She's sick, you remember. John jumps to her defense, tells Williamson to give it a rest and leave her be.

"Well it sure as hell ain't Swanson screamin' his lungs out, for Chrissakes! Shut 'im up!" Another voice chimes in, though you can't identify it.

A mess of voices starts after that, some confused, some angry, some annoyed, some accusing.

"What's with all the damn ruckus?"

By tone and timbre, you know it's Dutch. He's pulled aside the flaps of his tent and stares outside with a look that could kill.