SILVER BULLET ⊳ arthur morgan x reader

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Arthur doesn't have the slightest idea where exactly he's headed, aside from the fact that it's not east. He doesn't know why the O'Driscolls are going the other way when the siren is in his direction, but the one thing he knows is that anything sounds better than running straight back into those bastards' arms.

Speaking of arms, he can feel a replica of his heartbeat thumping inside every single cut. Can feel that same pulsing against his temples while his brain isn't cooperating at all and showing him images of Lenny, of the blood gurgling up in his mouth, mixing with the foamed saliva, dripping down his chin.

"Anyone seen Dean?"

Just like that, it feels like his heartbeat's left his body all over again. Arthur crouches behind the closest thing he can find, which is, conveniently enough, a nearby car.

"The fuck ya need Dean for?" Another voice asks. "I reckon turning off a siren ain't an 80-people-job."

"In case you haven't noticed, siren's that way, and everyone else is runnin' the other fuckin' way." The man sounds impatient, his sigh morphs into an annoyed growl. "Just tell me."

"Went to check on Morgan last time I saw him."

Shit.

"Alright, fuck it, you're comin' with me, then."

"Simmer down, I'll finish this cigarette and be right with ya."

"I don't think the horde the siren lured towards the eastern gate is gonna wait for your damn smoke break."

"Horde— where—"

"Just grab your gun."

Arthur then hears steps, scurrying away from him.

He lets out a breath of relief, thanks his lucky stars. The only conclusion that can possibly be drawn is that the siren must've lured a horde out of its way towards the O'Driscoll settlement, though he supposes it's not for the best to dwell too much on theories.

He drags himself back up to his feet, then checks the sky again to make sure he's heading where he's supposed to: away from all of this.

His feet threaten to give in one too many times, but Arthur always encourages himself to continue; tells himself that every single stumble forward is another step towards freedom.

That thought, aside from a somehow barely yet omnipresent sense of duty is the only thing that keeps him moving. Arthur's vision blurs occasionally, the acid in his stomach always finds the worst moments to climb up into the back of his throat.

By the time he has to brace himself against a wall, the siren's cries stop. Just like that, within the blink of an eye.

Arthur shakes his head like he can't quite believe it, believes for a second that it's his ears which have ceased functioning properly.

They're not.

Someone has succeeded at stopping the siren.

His stomach churns, (y/n)'s face flashes before his eyes: blood running out of her nose, down her lips, glance animalistic and brutal. Just like the day they'd met, in that old diner.

As much as he hates to admit it, that gives him more purpose than his sense of duty. And momentarily, even than his immunity.

His steps, albeit still lacking of their usual balance, regain some semblance of energy. Even though his vision blurs like before, the streets don't seem as confusing as before.

He doesn't know how much time passes, especially since he now has to constantly check the sky instead of letting the siren guide him as well. But perhaps it's for the best that everything's silent, Arthur understands that best when he hears voices once more. This time, they're accompanied by the slow and steady clopping of hooves.