ANYTHING, ANYONE ⊳ arthur morgan x reader

━ ix

Arthur's hand lingers between your shoulder blades, thumb traces reluctant, but soothing circles into your back. He's not a man of words, but you appreciate the effort he makes to ease your mind.

He senses you looking when you glance at him, and meets your gaze with his own, warm and comforting in spite of its cold color. Arthur smiles at you like you matter. Maybe not to him, you tell yourself, but at least you matter objectively. And that's enough for you.

"Can't be long till we get to camp." Arthur says with an air of finality, his touch on your back fades as he retracts his hand. "Wouldn't want Dutch to think w—"

His words get stuck in the middle of his sentence, you feel him tense. Arthur clasps the reins of the carriage in both hands, then frowns as he sniffs the air.

"Smell that?" He asks, and you nod. "A bit like—"

"Burning paper." You say with certainty. "Or cotton."

"Cotton?" Arthur frowns, urges the horses to a halt. He climbs on top of the carriage bench and stares into the distance with a squint. A sharp intake of breath later, Arthur comes to a conclusion you dread to hear, but have a vague idea about. "The tents are burnin'."

Your heart drops. Only figuratively, but it does a stellar job at feeling otherwise.

"Shit, Isaac."

Arthur drops back down next to you in the blink of an eye, gripping the reins like his life depends on it.

"Hold on tight." He instructs, then whips the reins with enough force to leave the horses neighing in surprise.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"Arthur, where the hell have ya been?!" Dutch's voice rips through the air like the fireworks you once heard near Saint Denis. If there were cats around, they'd be running for cover — and quite frankly, you would be too, if it weren't for Isaac.

The women are gone, you note, where to, you don't know. The tents have burnt down for the most part, only ashes and some pieces of furniture remain. Corpses of men with worn clothes and greasy hair litter the ground, you'd recognize those rascals from miles away. O'Driscolls.

"What happened?" Arthur shouts as he leaps from the wagon, making his way towards the rest of the gang with big, hurried strides. "Where's Is—"

"Colm goddamn O'Driscoll happened, Arthur! Those bastards have graduated from their neanderthal status and started usin' fire arrows. They set the whole damn camp ablaze!" Dutch answers on a tone that sounds blaming, condescending, like Arthur was the one that gave the O'Driscolls the very idea. "And you were out shoppin'!"

Arthur does a stellar job at ignoring whatever Dutch is throwing at him, he has more pressing matters. You wholly agree with his priorities. "Where's—"

"Quit moanin' about progeny o' yours, he's with Abigail and the other women, hidin' near Armadillo." Dutch clasps his hand over Arthur's shoulder, grips it tight, then pushes him towards the rest of the men that scout the remnants of camp. "Go 'n help the others, see what can be saved."

Arthur nods, trots over to the rest to do as he's asked.

What you don't expect is Dutch calling for you.

Without even wanting to, you jump to your feet like a soldier, ready to execute any order thrown at you. Perhaps that's the reason Dutch not only is, but also remains the leader after all — his voice, stance, his very demeanor demands respect.

"You can sew." He says matter-of-factly, then motions for you to follow him. "Edward needs a wound closed."

You're more than glad to lend a hand where possible. You don't know Edward all that well, he's joined the gang maybe a month ago, but you remember him asking to hold Isaac once, and confessing that he'd had a little brother back in Yorkshire, and that he'd carry him around all the time when he was not older than fifteen and his brother a toddler. He'd told you his dream was to earn enough money to be able to finance a journey for his mother and sibling to travel to America, for all of them to lead a better life here.