SILVER BULLET ⊳ arthur morgan x reader

━ xiii

When he awakes, Arthur's not blinded by a bright light, not staring at the face of a deity. There's nothing but the pale morning sky up above, and the quiet forest around him. His back still aches, his throat's still dry. His chest still rises and falls with every breath, he still feels last night's cold rooted deep inside his bones.

Arthur's alive, against all odds, he's still alive.

Why?

He'll be damned if he knows.

When Arthur stirs, blinking away the tiredness from his eyes, he hears the click of a loaded gun.

"Wait!" He says, glancing in the source of the sound. (Y/n) holds a revolver aimed at him, the slightest of trembles in her arms. Her eyes glimmer in the early morning sun, first with sadness, and now, confusion. "I ain't—...I'm still here."

A breath leaves her tense frame as her shoulders slacken, but confusion remains. She doesn't understand whats and hows, but she trusts him enough to drop her gun and kneel beside his form to reach for his bound wrists. She undoes the knot with practiced ease, then stares at the marks the rope has left behind.

"But, you..." (Y/n) pauses, frowns. "You said it was two days ago. It was two days ago."

Arthur gives a short nod, then shifts to untie his ankles as well. "I know."

(Y/n) plops down beside him on the bedroll.

"Are you sure a zombie bit you?" She continues. "Maybe it was some dog or something, and you just didn't—"

Arthur shakes his head. "Take my word for it. It was a zombie, 'm sure."

A heavy pause follows. Arthur can practically hear the gears turning in her head as she tries to make sense of it all — and he respects it. Mainly because he himself is too tired to try, his mind is still sleep-addled, he needs a second, maybe two. Some coffee sounds good, but that's a distant dream.

"Then how...?" She asks. "Everyone I know says just the luckiest still have two days left, but for you, it's been—"

"More than that. I know." Arthur rolls up the rope that bound his wrists, stores it neatly in his backpack, then rolls back his shoulders.

"Well, how are you feeling? Nauseous? Dizzy?" When he shakes his head, she shifts to sit in front of him, then brings a palm to his forehead and the other to hers. "You don't have fever either."

Arthur shifts away from her, more out of instilled instinct than will — it's unusual for someone to reach out towards him without ill intent.

"Maybe your...immune system's really strong and fighting off the virus for longer than average?" (Y/n) suggests something that sounds like the least outlandish explanation one could think of (not like Arthur has thought of many himself, but he digresses).

So he nods and shrugs at the same time. "Could be."

He's been disappointed by both himself and fate time after time. Arthur won't bother putting too much faith into something that's pure luck. Maybe he'll already turn by noon, why should he waste energy on getting his hopes up?

Truth be told, part of him is annoyed. Annoyed with the fact that he's still alive, that he's still been cursed with having to pull through all of this. He'd been hoping for an ending, not a grand one by any means, but an ending. Some peace and quiet, a break from all of this.

But then again, looking back at how miserable his life was, how many souls he'd wronged and killed, maybe he'd never deserved any of that to begin with. How foolish of him to believe he'd be granted such an easy death.

"We better keep movin'." Arthur groans as he gets up, back cracking with even the smallest movement. He misses his cot dearly. As he starts to pack up his things and kick dirt into the dead campfire, (y/n) comes up to him. "All the way up north, 'til we find those rebels o' yours."

"But what if—" She begins, sets her hand atop his shoulder to catch his attention. "What if you're not going to die, neither today nor tomorrow? Don't you want to go back to your group?"

It's surprising to hear something like that — not because it's (y/n), but because he's not used to hearing questions that regard his preferences or wishes.

Arthur shakes his head. "What if I die on the way back? Hell knows how long I still got until this damn...thing eats me up from the inside."

"What if you're immune?"

Arthur frowns, then laughs dryly. "Ain't ever heard of anyone bein' immune to this."

"Maybe you're the first one." When she sees him sigh in exhausted desperation and turn towards the car, she grabs a hold of his wrist. "Here, listen. I'll make you an offer — a good one."

Arthur looks her up and down with a raised brow, crosses his arms before he gestures for her to continue.

"You've been...very kind to me, ever since we met. With the car, and by fighting alongside with me, you helped me a lot. So I think it's fair I thank you by letting you have the car and go back, and I'll continue on foot. I've got time to find the rebels, lots of time, but you don't know how much you've got left."

For a second, he can't tell if this is all some stupid trick to make fun of him, but judging by (y/n)'s expression, she means it, sincerely. She's granting him so much kindness under what could almost be regarded as an excuse. Sure, he's helped, but not enough to have earned something as valuable as a car.

"I won't take ya up on it." Arthur says simply, then pushes past her, to the front seat door. "Let's get goin'."

She will not be so easily brushed off, it seems. (Y/n) puts herself between him and the car one last time. Her glance is so intense that Arthur feels like it's piercing right through him in ways he'll never understand.

"What about Hosea, John, Abigail and Dutch and everyone else? Are they dead to you now, or what?"

Her words hurt much harder than he'd ever like to admit. For the first time in a long while, he finds himself at loss of words, without a sharp, threatening reply at hand.

She knows too much.

He's told her too much.

When Arthur doesn't answer, she insists. "Why don't you want to go back?"

Arthur steps closer, drags his shoulders backwards in an attempt to intimidate (y/n) into dropping the whole subject. It appears she's seen much more fear-inducing things than his expression, since she doesn't back down one bit. She raises her chin to meet his gaze. "What are you so afraid of, Arthur?"

That's enough, she's gone too far.

Her guess about the gang's situation is blind, but it hits the nail on the head like nothing else — because Arthur is afraid of turning back. He is afraid of what he's left behind. He is afraid of what's become of the people he abandoned, he's utterly terrified of them finding out he'd deserted them and that he's still alive. Dutch would never believe him. No one would believe him.

They'd think he was a traitor. A coward.

"I told you about them—" Arthur pauses, he realizes he's talking through a clenched jaw. "Because I was supposed to die. Not because I trusted you, not because you pretended to care. Only 'cause I was dyin'. So don't." He steps closer, (y/n) moves backwards this time. "Ever. Mention them again."

She casts her glance downwards — he's hurt her.

When his words have such an effect on his enemies, Arthur feels unusually proud. Proud of how he managed to intimidate someone by sheer size, words and gestures, but now he feels none of it.

Because (y/n)'s not an enemy.

He's just hurt the only person that could ever believe that he's not some scum of the earth liar. He's hurt the person that's been his partner in crime, his makeshift family for the past two days. He's hurt the person he'll probably die with, because he's not going back.

But apologizing's never been his strong suite. So he takes a step back, slackens his posture to appear less threatening, then gestures to the passenger seat.

"Let's get goin'."