SILVER BULLET ⊳ arthur morgan x reader

━ xvi

Arthur wakes up with a headache and the taste of blood in his mouth. There's an ache rooted deeply within every single one of his muscles and bones, he doesn't even have to look at his bruises — he can literally feel the exact location of each and every single one.

His entire body is numb, but his instincts are as sharp as ever. Arthur doesn't know much about his situation yet, but there's one thing he's certain about: he needs to leave. Right now.

"Good thing ya didn't kill him just yet." A dull sound of a voice, coming from another room. "Maybe he'll be cooperate."

Great, just what he needed.

Arthur tries to move — no such luck.

His arms are secured to the wooden armrests of a chair. So are his legs, so is his torso. Nausea overcomes him like a punch to the gut when he realizes in just how bad of a situation he's in. Bound tightly with leather belts to a fucking wooden chair, in the middle of what looks to be an old fishing shop.

"Doubt that." Another voice says. "It's Morgan, ain't he Dutch's favorite lap dog?"

"Then why did that other kid say that he was dead?" Another questions. Everyone pauses before a conclusion follows.

"Maybe Morgan ran away?"

"Why?"

Silence follows, a familiar voice speaks up. "I'll see if he's up, you boys go back on patrol. This is the second one of Dutch's boys 'round these parts this week, there have got to be more."

He's not the only one?

Arthur feels the air drain from his lungs, he tugs at his restraints again. They've got someone else in here. Someone from his gang. He needs to find them, talk to them, find a way—

A door behind him creaks as it opens.

"Arthur Morgan." A pause for effect. "'S been a while."

Colm fucking O'Driscoll.

Arthur growls at the back of his throat, but glancing behind himself is futile. "Not long enough."

His snarky comment is kindly ignored by Colm, though Arthur's sure it will bite him back sometime within the next few hours. "How'd you sleep?"

"The best I had in weeks." He answers. "Y'should let some o'your boys go with me so I can let 'em beat me up every evening b'fore bed."

Colm chuckles. "Still a sarcastic lil' shit."

Arthur grins as his rival pulls up another chair, then flips it around to sit down in front of him.

"And yer still a bastard. Reckon neither of us changed all that much since last time."

Colm shakes his head, smiles in a way that's positively sickening. "That's where you're wrong." He gestures at himself with grandeur, like he's someone of a high rank with uncountable achievements. "I'm living a fine life. Unlike you and good ol' Dutch, still crawling around in the dark like the lowlife that you are."

Arthur scoffs. "I'll have ya know we been doin' jus' fine." Not exactly a lie, but not the truth either.

Colm grins like he knows all of Arthur's intricacies and secrets — as if he were a child that had memorized a poem. "Not well enough for you to stay around, apparently."

Shit.

He knows, Arthur realizes. Colm knows he wasn't with the gang anymore, he's found out that Arthur had left them behind. But how?

"The hell's that s'posed t'mean?" The chair doesn't allow much shifting nor comfort, Arthur makes due with just leaning his head back and frowning.