Chapter Text
Mrs Adler moved through camp like a ghost, pale and wan and not all there, like she was the one the O’Driscolls had killed and not her husband, and she hadn’t realised it yet. Sat on the porch of the women’s house with Abigail by her side, wrapped up against the cold in Dutch’s heavy bearskin coat. He’d given it before they came back from her ranch, offering her something to hold onto as her life burned to splinters behind her; she hadn’t offered it back, and Dutch hadn’t asked.
Her dull eyes flicked to him, shiny-wet and bright as new coins in the pink dawn. Arthur nodded to her, pulled his own coat more comfortably around his shoulders, and she shivered and looked away, huddled more deeply into Dutch’s coat. Abigail nodded back in answer for her, and tipped her head close to Mrs Adler’s ear to murmur more comforts.
Colter was… good enough for now, with the lethal weather easing back more often than not, like the fire at the Adler ranch had chased away the clouds black and heavy with snow. Like gettin’ John down safe from that mountain brought some good luck back with him, the golden sun givin’ its blessing to the golden boy bleeding steadily on Javier’s shoulder ‘cause God forbid he suffer something so awful as a little nibble from a wolf. They needed that good luck, with Davey in the ground, Mac and Sean lost to the winds and maybe dead too. But the awful, gnawing cold was easing with spring slowly clawing its way up the slopes, and there was plenty of clean water nearby and enough time in the day to get some firewood chopped before the night brought on early by the mountain’s heavy shadows chased them inside.
Still somethin’ of a shithole, ‘course; houses and a church further up the street collapsing in on themselves, timbers bared like some carcass’ bones long picked clean, and an awful, biting cold whose teeth scored deep howling through the little valley it was nestled in, the stinging stink of smoke drifting faintly with it. But there was something… pretty, almost, ‘bout the town.
Arthur passed by those houses and the church collapsing in on themselves, admired the snow settled on their timbers stained pink and blue by dawn’s gentle light and the deep shadows it cast, the pines rising tall and proud despite the bitter winters that always clung to mountain slopes. Admired a hawk circling high in the air, dark against a cloudless sky, and the spread of its feathers against the air as it swooped low, skimmed across the snow lower and lower, legs reaching, curved talons stretching, cruel-sharp; the death-shriek of a rabbit its triumph as it snatched up its prize and curved up into the sky. A ram pushing through the snow, agile over the black rock poking through, curled horns proud and strong and unbroken on his head. A tree, gnarled and old and alone; bowed by the driving wind, but unbroken.
His fingers itched for his pencil, and he shoved his hands inside his pockets against the urge, continued his patrol. Time enough later, to sit alone in his room while Dutch paced and grumbled and worked out how to guide them back to safety, stomach stuck to his spine with gnawing hunger as he gave up his share to Jack. Time when the gang was gathered around Pearson’s stewpot waiting for dinner because his food was hit-or-miss at the best of times but he had a real strange knack for turning half a packet of biscuits and a tin of salmon into a stew that lasted a week.
The sun rose, light bright and gold against the mountain slopes, and when Lenny came stumbling out of the shack he shared with Bill and Micah, repeater on his back and bleary eyes squinting into the snow glare, Arthur let him take over and retreated to the warmth of Pearson’s cooking fire.
He liked the mountains well enough, but he wasn’t enough of a fool to enjoy being out in the cold for hours, feet steadily going numb inside his boots and fingers freezing stiff in his pockets.
He enjoyed even less the camp rat loitering around, eyeing the crates of supplies Pearson had stacked in a corner like whatever food stored and stained in the bristles of his beard wasn’t keeping his blubber nice and thick as it was. “You know,” Arthur said, and thawed his hands over the fire, “You could do somethin’ useful, ‘stead of lingering ‘round here like a bad smell. Do some real work like the rest of us gotta.” He flexed his fingers against the ache in his nails, wrinkled his nose at the itch that went across his skin, and the leather of his gloves creaked in warning.
Uncle swayed, and squinted, and when he raised a bottle to his lips the drink splashed across his face.“‘S that any sorta way to greet y-you’re dearest uncle, Arthur?” He shook his head, rocked back on his heels, aghast. “Ohh, you’re a sssad man, Arthur Morgan. Real sad. The kinda… the sad kindaaa man who ain't never seen love or, or fun or… joy. The sad kinda man that m'makes me wanna shoot 'im 'cause he ain't never gonna have a good time like ol’ Uncle has!”
“I’m all heart,” Arthur agreed, and nodded to the stump across camp they were using to chop logs. “Heard Javier say firewood’s gettin’ low, git.”
“Sad man, Arthur Morgan,” Uncle mumbled, disappearing behind Pearson ducking inside to hide in some other warm corner.
Vaguely, Arthur wondered what kind of luck it would be if he died in that corner; if it would be one less belly to fill and mangy hide to protect or if Arthur would be the one who had to dig the grave. But, Arthur supposed, Uncle had learned well enough not to tease and press his luck with Arthur, and if he let the man die now it was a lot of wasted effort he’d gone to for a bit of peace and quiet.
“Thank God,” Pearson said, “Thought he'd never leave.”
“Didn't do it for you.”
Pearson snorted, held his hands to the fire too, and smoothed down the clump of fur of his moustache. “Well if that's you selfish I'd hate to see your charity,” He said. Flexed his fingers, licked his lips. Anxiety in the tight line of his shoulders below his coat. “But things ain't looking good Morgan. We're in real bad shape, I mean real bad, it's…” He sighed, rubbed his hand over the bald patch on his head. His mouth thinned, dark eyes grave. “The way we're going,” He said, “We'll starve before we get off this mountain. We’ve got a lot of mouths to feed, and we keep trying to keep ‘em full the way we have been we’re dead before the week is out.”
Arthur had noticed. Seen Pearson watering down the food to make it stretch, chopping jerky and hardtack into smaller and smaller pieces, putting less and less in the pot. Seen him hounding Charles into going out and scavenging what little could be found, mouth set thin and wrinkles carving deeper as Charles could only bring back pine needles for tea and the white inner bark for the pot, or came back with a skinny rabbit over his shoulder, or his head shaking miserably, hands empty. Seen him despair, face the dark with his head in his hands.
“We’ll be alright,” Arthur said, because it wasn’t his place to say that. Even if optimism was stilted, awkward in his mouth, and Pearson spared him a glance that said he knew it was stilted and awkward, and to stop before he made it worse. Even if he knew the situation was as bad as Pearson said it was. He rubbed his eye, where frustration sat as a dull, thumping ache. “Weather’s easin' back for now, might be able to leave before long. And we always got you; push come to shove we eat you instead, you’re the fattest.”
“Funny,” Pearson grumbled, and pushed himself away from the fire, turned to fling himself at the bench leaning against the barn wall. The seat creaked under his sudden weight. “We’ve got three cans, tree bark, and half a rabbit for, what, fifteen people?” He shook his head again. “We need food, Morgan. Real food.”
“And what’chu want me to do ‘bout it?” Arthur demanded, bared his teeth as his jaws ached, the leather of his gloves creaking in warning, skin prickling hot. Between them the fire spat, crawled along a log, as Pearson bowed his head, rubbed his face. “You heard what Dutch and Hosea said as well as I did; no guns, no going out if we don’t gotta.” And Hosea was the hunter, not Arthur - Hosea who put his nose to the ground, barked the orders Arthur followed to down an elk, a moose, a bear. And the weather was playing havoc on him, keeping him camp-bound and fireside.
Pearson launched himself out of his seat. “I’d say not starving counts as needing to go out!” He bellowed, brows low over his eyes, stare hard and unyielding - leaned close and tall as if he wasn’t an old, worn pillow of a man, soft and short and portly, and about as threatening as. “We’re running out of time, Morgan,” Pearson said. “You leave it too long and we’ll all be too weak to do anything about it, and we’ll die. All of us.” Arthur held still, and met Pearson’s gaze until he deflated, turned away to sit on his bench again, head bowed. “We need food, Arthur,” He said, as quietly as a voice not made for quiet could go. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t dire.”
Arthur let himself soften, turned to keep his eyes on the fire that glowed warm against the biting cold of the morning. “I know,” He said. “Things ain’t good for us right now, but… it ain’t safe. You know what the O’Driscolls are like, for folk like me.”
“I’ve watched you kill, Arthur,” Said Pearson, and there was a flicker of that old fear deep in his eyes, never quite gone away. The smartest part of him still that blustering navy man taking command of the cooking to hide how terrified he was of them. Fear that was faint, but still sour, on the still air. “I’ve seen what you do to idiots who pick fights with us. You werewolves aren’t that fragile.”
“We ain’t that strong, neither,” Arthur told him.
But he was going to go out, was always going to go out as soon as Pearson brought it up. He was weak for the gang, those degenerates and lost souls with nowhere else to go that Dutch had gathered together. Always had been; old instincts in his head and heart traces that kept him bound, made him the workhorse who dragged them all where they needed to go, and maybe Pearson knew that. Maybe he’d learned more about werewolves than Arthur had ever given him credit for, knew that Arthur would grumble and growl and always, always comply when he needed to.
Maybe he just knew Arthur, right down to the bones because he was a simple man and a simpler beast; a dog dressed up in a man’s clothes and not welcome anywhere else, wild and feral like the wolves calling from deeper in the woodlands. But that was giving Pearson too much credit, making him someone like Dutch and Hosea and maybe even John. Making him someone who had seen the ragged, raw wounds of Arthur’s heart that beat for very few.
Arthur sighed, and took off his hat and boots and belts, left them safe in the corner wrapped up in his coat. Let his suspenders hang loose at his thighs, unbuckled his jeans, shivered and bared his monster’s teeth at the cold that sliced deep. “Go get Charles to help, and I’ll see what I can do,” He said, because he certainly wasn’t going to promise anything, and added, “If any O’Driscolls are about and I get turned into a rug 'cause of you you’re the one tellin’ Dutch.”
Pearson nodded, answered, went into the barn to tell Charles to get Tamia ready while Arthur changed. Rare privacy in a life that didn’t allow it and Arthur let himself stretch out, slipping between shapes as his bone stretched, skin prickling with fur growing soft and winter-dense, wolf’s teeth filling out the mouth they were always meant to fit. Kicked his jeans from legs, shrugged off his shirt before his arms popped loose from his shoulders, breathed deep as his ribs pushed out, chest deepening, muscle rolling beneath his skin as his form took shape, and he dropped to his paws, the long toes and claws of his hands digging into the packed dirt.
Big and bulky, ugly scarring all along his flank and a hole in his ear, Arthur sat down a wolf, the brush of his half-tail tucked neatly by his side.
The cold bit at his nose when he wetted it with a lick, but the soft brown fluff of his wolf’s winter coat was blessedly warm; a relief to wear after so long human, nice and loose over his bones. Charles blinked at him, and stared, and huffed at himself. Arthur stretched out a few aches - odd, that in six months running with them he hadn't seen Arthur change, but at least he didn't seem too perturbed now that he had seen it. Too many men Dutch had brought in had turned their eyes from it, cringing and frightened of his shape resting by the fire. They were usually the first to run when they were chased into trouble, but here was Charles, head tipped to the snowy valley outside Colter’s broken fence, fearlessly meeting Arthur's blue wolf's eyes. “Come on,” He said, swinging himself into Taima's saddle, flexing his wounded hand. “I found tracks just south of here - we’ll catch something.”