Chapter Text
The stamping of massive hooves. Dark, dense fur and beady eyes that seem to hold miles of depth. The grand slope of a spine that crests in a regal crown, horns jutting out at a precise angle that Arthur grasps for in his memory.
“Morning, Arthur.”
He opens his eyes as a hot cup is pressed into one of his hands. The other snaps his journal shut to hide the half-finished sketch of a bison, stubby pencil wedged in the pages.
“G’morning.” Charles drinks from his own cup, an earthy-smelling tea of some sort. He very graciously makes no comment about the journal. For a long time, Arthur had been convinced that Charles was a cold, taciturn man by the way his face hardly moved an inch. Now, he can see the softness in the creases by his mouth when Charles takes a seat beside him by the campfire. Can see the sleep in the tilt of his brow, hear it in his low voice.
Arthur sips his coffee and gives an appreciative hum - black with a bit of honey. He’s not sure when he’d made his preference known, but the bit of familiarity warms him up in the cool morning. “Thank you,” he says, belated. Charles barely nods, the tea tucked close under his nose like just the smell will wake him faster.
“I’d like to go hunting today.” Charles looks over at him, lowering the cup just enough that Arthur can watch his lips move with the words. He is immediately distracted, wholly and without clear reason. Wonders idly what that earthy smell would be like mixed with the gunsmoke that Arthur can always smell on him. Wonders if he’ll ever be close enough to tell.
“Arthur?”
His eyes snap back up, seeing a curious look flit across Charles’ face before it disappears again. He had said something else, something Arthur had missed completely. Ah, hell.
“Huh?”
“I asked if you wanted to ride with me,” Charles says, mouth twitching at the corner. Arthur looks back down at his coffee, tilting his hat down with some strange fear that Charles could see something unspoken there in his face. Not even sure what that something is, Arthur hides it away. Apparently, he’s more a fool today than usual.
“Sure,” he agrees, before he’s even considered it. Doubts he could refuse even if he had good reason to. “Always.”
--
Arthur Morgan has never considered himself a clever man. A good shot, sure. An intimidation tactic and provider for the gang. Not stupid by any means, but whatever thinking he did was only for himself. Left the strategy to Hosea and the like. Cleverness did more harm than good when it came to Arthur’s responsibilities. It’s easier for a dull lout to kill and maim, to bend and break the edges of one’s moral code. Smart men can be wicked just like anyone else, but they don’t tend to be the heavy hitters.
He’s a thug more than a schemer, for sure. A man with simple needs and simple thoughts.
Recently, he has not been having simple thoughts.
There’s always been a degree of attention that he pays to those in the gang. It’s a part of living with people, being by their side day and night. Tilly loves a good game of dominoes, and Miss Grimshaw always asks for fresh peaches when they have a bit of spare coin for delicacies. Javier will only buy guitar strings from Valentine or Strawberry, says the sound is better the way they make them. You get to know people whether you’re trying to or not, and Arthur has never minded a bit of familiarity. He likes that timid sort of surprise a crook gets when you remember that they like peanut butter cookies the best. It’s silly, something he’d never voice. But that’s not strange to him.
What’s strange is just how much he notices Charles in particular.
He brushes it off at first, figuring that everything he learns about Charles just seems so unassuming. Hands that can effortlessly shatter bone carve delicate shapes out of wood, careful and adroit. That hulking form of his gliding silently across the forest floor like a ghost, so graceful it takes the breath out of Arthur the first time they hunt together. Arthur is a damn good judge of character, and his rationale says that Charles is on his mind so often because the man is a mystery. A broken compass, the surface always pointing in the wrong direction.
For a while, it stays like that - plain old curiosity. Nothing too alarming if he doesn’t think too hard about it.
Sometimes, by the time you realize something is falling it’s about to hit the floor.
The celebration upon Sean’s safe return is raucous, everyone light of spirits. They crack open a case of whiskey they’d been saving in a corner of the chuckwagon for this sort of occasion, the usual worries faded for a moment. Arthur is sloshed, to put it lightly, not sure how he got there and not done heading in that direction.
Everyone is around the fire or within earshot, shout-singing bawdy songs to Javier’s guitar and chatting loudly over the din of the crowd. There’s only one missing, someone that Arthur’s been keeping an eye out for since the festivities began.
He stands, John giving an indignant shout as Arthur realizes his brother must’ve been telling him a story that he wasn’t listening to in the least. Whoops, he chuckles. Waves an apology to John over his shoulder and gets a grunt and eyeroll in return. Arthur figures that means he’s forgiven and wanders a bit, tipping his hat to Mary-Beth and Karen where they’re tittering in the corner. He’s so busy looking that he smacks his hip straight into one of the tables, the impact almost upsetting his balance if it weren’t for a hand on his shoulder to steady him.
“Oof, Christ. Thank you, Hosea,” he says with a laugh as he sees his savior, the hand redirecting him into one of the chairs at the table that so rudely attacked him. Damn thing. He knocks it with his knee as he’s sitting down and manages to hurt himself more.
Maybe he is an idiot. Oh, well.
“Not at all, Arthur. How about you sit with me for a second, get your wits about you before you hunt down Mister Smith. Won’t be much of a conversationalist at the moment, will you?” Hosea’s smile is warm and only slightly teasing when Arthur finally focuses in on him. He holds out a waterskin, which Arthur gratefully swallows down.
“No, I s'pose- Wait, how’d you know I’m lookin’ for Charles? You seen ‘im?” Arthur takes another swig from the waterskin and refuses to think about the widening of Hosea’s smile, what it might mean. Hosea is a prime example of cleverness only getting you into more trouble than it’s worth.
“I have, indeed. And I know you’re lookin’ for him ‘cause you’re always lookin’ for him. Or lookin’ at him.” Hosea stares him down for a moment, and Arthur looks anywhere and everywhere else. Hosea is an intelligent man, keen eyes that can pick up most things about a stranger. Arthur is, for all intents and purposes, his son. There are few that Hosea knows better, that he’s known longer. Dutch knows Arthur well, but Hosea was always the one who could tell by one look at him if he was lying about a job or if he was back late because he’d been rolling around in the hay with some farmer’s boy. John too, both of them caught red-handed near every time. Hosea always knew. And while part of Arthur still felt warm and good at the thought of having a real father who knew even as a grown man now, he was also sure that he was about to hear something he had no interest in hearing.
“Now, don’t get that look in your eye,” Hosea chides. “I know when you’re dyin’ to dodge a talk. I ain’t gonna make you admit to anything you’re not willing to.” Arthur gives him a dry look in response, and Hosea kicks him under the table with a snort of laughter. “Don’t you give me that, I give you my word. I just want you to be nice and aware before you go find him, less likely you’ll put your foot in your mouth that way.”
Arthur scoffs, knowing full well it’s the truth but unwilling to give Hosea an ounce of credit for it. “I am not likely to-” And Hosea kicks him again, right in the shin this time, prompting a loud curse and a laugh as they scuffle at each other harmlessly.
Hosea actually keeps his word - no teasing other than a few pointed looks whenever Charles comes up in their conversation. Which is often, much to Arthur’s chagrin. They hunt together, do odd jobs together. If they’re both in camp, Charles is always the first and last person he speaks to during the day. Shit, even their horses have bonded well enough, his young mare Adelaide always beside Taima and grooming or resting against her. Despite all of it, Hosea doesn’t do much but look fonder and fonder each time that name falls out of Arthur’s mouth. Charles, he says like he can taste it. Charles, he says like the mere name of him will conjure his broad shadow.
They talk until the sun finally hits the horizon, gold light starting to darken into night. Hosea stands with a groan and stretches, old bones popping in a way that almost tempts Arthur into ribbing him. He’s been so good for the last hour or so that Arthur can’t bring himself to do it, just chuckling to himself instead and following suit with far less but still a few cracking joints.
When he stands, Arthur finds that he’s sobered up just enough to be steady and sure-footed. The world isn’t spinning so badly, his cheeks still warm and tongue a bit heavy in his mouth. It’s perfect, and he almost thanks Hosea when he’s beaten to the punch.
“Mister Smith is taking the night watch, good man that he is. Bring him a drink or something, hm? I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” Hosea winks at him and shoves Arthur off into the night, that soft chuckle reassuring at his back.
Arthur swings by the chuckwagon, hunting for a fresh bottle of booze to bring along. There’s a small pouch on one of the shelves, the bright beading on the strings unmistakable. When he opens it, the smell of something sweet and woody wafts up - Charles’ tea.
He spends another few minutes fiddling with a kettle and cup before he wanders out of camp and into the dark.
--
Charles likes the quiet. He also likes the sound of distant merriment, voices a quiet thrum with the occasional individual rising above the din. That sound is enough for him, the celebration itself a bit too wild for his temperament. Usually, he’s happy to drink a bit and just watch everyone bustle about, their drunkenness entertainment in and of itself. Someone needed to take watch tonight though, and Charles wasn’t feeling very festive at the moment.
There’s a small oil lantern on the ground with him where he’s seated against a wide tree, whittling down a bit of horn from the bison that he and Arthur had hunted together. A rearing stag is starting to form out of the vague proportions he’d started with, antlers and legs slowly defining themselves.
When it’s done, it will be a gift for Arthur. A sort of ‘thank you’ for how kind and attentive he’d been while they tracked the herd, not only listening to Charles talk about his mother and her people but asking questions. Hearing him, taking it all to heart. It had been a while since that trip, but Charles could see clear as day the way Arthur had stroked the bison’s head when they’d taken it down. Reverent and awestruck. Arthur had murmured something to the creature, low enough in that rasping drawl of his that Charles couldn’t make it out.
That voice. Charles was a grown man, considered himself to be a man of composure. Somehow, that cowboy drawl got to him every time. Tugged at his gut, left him a little weak-willed some mornings when Arthur was hungover and hoarse, voice low in his chest. He could conjure that voice if he focused. Throaty and warm, distracting.
“Charles.”
He doesn’t startle, but it’s a near thing. “Arthur,” he says, turning to find the man standing a few trees away, bottle of whiskey in one hand and a cup in the other. “When’d you get so civilized as to get drunk from a cup?” Charles inclines his head, inviting him over.
Arthur seems relieved, sitting beside him more gently than Charles would expect. “Hah, well. Don’t get your hopes up too quick. It ain’t for the drink. It’s for, uh- It’s- Hmph.” Arthur grunts, seemingly flustered as he gives up explaining and just hands Charles the warm cup.
It’s his tea. He realizes the second he reaches for the cup, cherry bark and rosehip drifting up in his direction and soothing him almost on instinct. Arthur is very deliberately not looking at him, hat tilted down in that distinctive way of his as he wedges the cap off the whiskey bottle. Still doesn’t look him in the eye as he offers to pour some whiskey into the tea cup, an offer Charles gladly takes him up on.
This strange man. This roughneck thug, called a brute or dullard at every opportunity, made him a cup of tea. The whole thing is so oddly tender. Charles is still staring at him, and Arthur has not yet acknowledged his action.
“Saw you weren’t ‘round the party,” Arthur starts as he pulls a cigarette out, lights it with a deep inhale. Charles takes a sip and waits, the blend warming him up wonderfully. “Hosea’d told me that you was down this way, and I thought I’d, uh. That I’d come do this instead, if you was open to company.” Arthur steals a quick glance at Charles and hides his face again when their eyes meet, clearly unsure what to do with the scrutiny. “Them bastards just get annoying after a while. Prefer some quiet.”
“And the tea?” Charles asks, unable to bite back his curiosity. There just has to be some reason. It’s not like he could just grab a mug of it - Arthur made it for him. It’s steeped too long, heady and cloying flavor only exacerbated by the whiskey, but he hardly notices. It only confirms that Arthur’s never made a cup of tea in his life, that he’s just watched Charles closely or often enough to figure it out. The idea of Arthur’s eyes on him while unawares sent a pleasant thrill through him.
“Well, ain’t nobody else drinkin’ it so I knew it was yours.” Arthur chuckles, shrugs. He's incredibly skilled at answering questions without saying anything at all. Charles wonders when he learned that, whether he even noticed he was doing it. Arthur finally looks over at Charles, brim of his hat shading his eyes. “And if it’s yours, knew you’d like it. Wanted to bring you somethin’ you’d like.”
You did, Charles thinks warmly. You did.
“Thank you.” Arthur looks up at that, finally meets his eyes without cowing away from the attention. Charles hasn’t looked away for longer than a moment. “You’re a sorry excuse for an outlaw, Arthur Morgan.”
Arthur laughs, startled. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
Charles has to hide his smile behind his cup best he can, looking out into the night. He looks back at Arthur just in time to catch his gaze. “You’re too soft, cowboy. You keep bringing me things, I’ll start to think you’re sweet on me.”
He watches Arthur’s throat work, the stubbled skin cast gold in the lamplight. Arthur looks stricken for a moment before he seems to collect himself, humming thoughtfully. “Well,” he says, lighting a cigarette with fingers deceptively deft for their size. Takes a long drag. “We wouldn’t want that, would we Charles?”