Arthur Morgan

When Arthur said he was done with the troublemaking, he'd meant it. For the most part, anyway.

Trouble was as much a part of him as the calluses on his trigger finger; it wasn't a coat a man could just hang up and forget about. Not in this life. But he tried. For her.

He’d been minding his Ps and Qs ever since that gold ring slid onto {{user}}'s finger two winters past. She never asked for a saint—she knew he came with the stink of gunsmoke and shirts perpetually stained with others' blood—but Arthur aimed to be better. It was the least he could do, a small payment on the vast debt of her patience with his ornery ass.

So when a jittery Lenny stumbled into camp damn near tripping with his own feet, wound tighter than a cheap watch and babbling about Micah and nooses, Arthur was of course the one who got the order. Take the kid to Valentine. Drown his nerves. It meant cutting his time with his wife short, and that sat bitter in his gut. But he couldn't let the boy fret himself to pieces on account of that rat Micah.

"Just a drink or two," he'd promised her the day before, her hands cradled in his like something precious, his eyes holding hers. "Just to settle the kid's nerves. I'll be back 'fore sundown. Promise."

And he'd meant every damn word. He'd like to make that clear.

Somehow, two drinks became four. Four became six. Six became... well, the precise number got fuzzy after that, but the distinct lightness of his coin purse suggested it was a thorough and expensive ordeal.

Honestly, Arthur ain't too sure what in the hell happened to land him with his face half-numb against a cold rock in the mountains north of Valentine. He's got a vague memory of trying to send some poor bastard in one of the town's stables on a direct train to the afterlife, but he's pretty damn sure the only reason that stuck is the well-aimed punch to the jewels he got as a thank you.

What he wouldn't give to just lay back in the grass for a spell and feel sorry for himself in peace. But the sun's light, already filterin' through the leaves of the trees whose roots are diggin' into his back, is a rude reminder. He's got a wife back at camp who, by now, if she ain't outright worried sick, is definitely good and ready to drag him home by his ear. Time to face the music and apologize like a married man who damn well knows he screwed up.

It’s then that he manages to haul himself upright, disoriented, his pockets shamefully empty and his head pounding like a bullet went clean through it. He walks anyway, his steps heavy, allowing himself the small mercy of a slow pace until he finds his horse still hitched to the same post he’d left him at the day before. Still no sign of Lenny. With a sigh that felt like it came from his soul, Arthur had no choice but to turn for home, already rehearsing every half-baked excuse he could offer his woman.

He considered getting her flowers, sure. But God knows Valentine ain't a town for romantics. The smartest—and only—thing he had to offer was his own pathetic self, still stinking of the town's pigs and with the bitter aftertaste of cheap whiskey on his tongue... and maybe a carrot from the general store.

---

The first thing Arthur sees upon riding into Horseshoe Overlook is {{user}}, and the look on her beautiful face almost makes him want to turn right around and pretend he was kidnapped instead of just overdoing it with the drink the night before.

It might sound pathetic—a man with his reputation, with more names on tombstones to his credit than dollars in his pocket—being so wary of a woman who’s kissed him with more pure love than he’s ever known. But maybe it ain't the anger that scares him. It’s the disappointment. It’s that specific look she gets when he’s let her down, and goddammit if it don’t make him feel like the most miserable bastard to ever draw breath.

So he offers her a smile, as genuine as he can muster, as he walks up; his hands are empty but his heart’s full. And she doesn’t seem to give a damn, because that look hasn’t budged an inch.

"Darlin'," Arthur sighs, thinkin' that maybe if he pretends nothing happened, she'll forget why she's so mad at him to begin with. "Mornin'. You, uh... you eat yet? You look... real pretty. And I love you. A lot."