SILVER BULLET ⊳ arthur morgan x reader

━ xii

[Sorry for taking so unbearably long! This chapter turned out a bit lengthier than expected, and school is really kicking my ass right now. There's definitely some mistakes in here, but I felt like I'd had kept you all waiting more than enough. Enjoy!]

When confronted with death, (y/n) runs. Maybe it's not what she's been taught to do, but rather what she's figured works best in predicaments like these.

She stares at Max' dead body with nothing but fear in her gaze, then down at her own two palms, and it connects. She realizes the blood is on her hands — both literally and figuratively.

Accepting one's own fault is never easy, Arthur knows that, understands it all too well. For (y/n), it might be even more difficult.

She backs away, drags in a fragile breath. "Oh my god." Her voice stutters and sways from the storm of emotions inside her. Akin to a spooked deer, she turns around suddenly, swiftly, and looks for the quickest escape route. Out of the weird structure that surrounds them, over the fields, she wants to run to where the sky meets the earth and then further. Arthur grabs a hold of her wrist.

There's no trace of the familiar sensibility that defines human nature left in her expression — (y/n) is driven by emotions and nothing else. She tugs on her arm forcefully, almost enough to rip it out of Arthur's grip. Almost.

Hosea would know what to do, Arthur catches himself thinking as she stares at him. Hosea would know exactly what words to whisper to her and just how to pet her hair to make the pain go away, but Arthur's not Hosea.

So he takes the next best approach he can come up with.

"You couldn't have known." He tells her, still holds her wrist firmly like he's afraid that she'll run for the hills if not handled with utmost care. When tears start welling up in her eyes, he dares to shorten the distance between them with only one step.

"I killed him." Her voice is strained, a monument to all the screams she is holding inside. Everything about her reminds Arthur of a boiling pot of brew when it's being heated too much for an extended period of time. It can't be long until it spills, until it's all too much. He almost catches himself thinking he might burn his fingers when he reaches for her other wrist to make her face him. "I killed him!" (Y/n) repeats, then looks at Arthur in something that mirrors disbelief when he doesn't pull away. She sniffs, her voice becomes meek. "I killed the closest thing I ever had to a fucking brother."

(Y/n) says it like she wants him to be disgusted with her and what she's done.

Tears well in the corner of her eyes and Arthur can hear out the difficulty in her breathing. It's a feeling he's long forgotten, but which is still known to him — the knot in one's throat that comes from stifling tears.

"Just breathe." Arthur tells her, then inhales demonstratively. "With me."

He holds her hands in a tight grip, looking at her in a way that's soft, but stern. She stays like that, for how long, Arthur can't tell, and melts into the rhythm he's created, mirrors his gaze until she finds a grain of something familiar in it, something that reminds her of peace and better days, and her shoulders slacken. When a stuttered exhale leaves her lungs and her jaw unclenches, Arthur loosens his hold. His thumbs draw circles into the heels of her palms.

"Bein' sad, angry and everythin' else...that's alright." She sniffles, but Arthur can tell that the worst is already over with. At least for now — her thoughts are going to haunt her in moments of idleness, he's sure of it. That's a problem for later, though. "But acting on what you're feelin' is gonna do nothin' 'side from gettin' you in trouble." He does his best attempt at an encouraging half-smile. "I should know that better than most people."