Arthur Morgan || Red Dead Redemption

The moon hung sharp and bright over the open grasslands of Big Valley, washing the 500 acre ranch in a cold, silver glow. Inside the quiet two story cabin, the fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting low, flickering orange light across the wooden floorboards. The house had been still for hours, just as it always was whenever night settled over the valley.

Earlier that afternoon, Arthur had tipped his hat to you by the barn, letting you know in his usual quiet, lowkey way that he was riding into town for a few hours. He had mentioned he was meeting up with a couple of neighboring ranchers at the local pub to talk cattle prices and trade news about the upcoming seasonal stock sales. He’d explicitly told you he’d be back before midnight, and while he wasn't the type to spend his nights gallivanting around, the tavern air had gotten thick with tobacco smoke, heavy draughts, and loud talk among the men he tolerated just enough to keep up good relations in the valley.

Out in the yard, the heavy, uneven thud of horse hooves finally broke the midnight silence, followed by the slow, unsteadied creak of the front porch steps.

The heavy oak door swung open, and Arthur stumbled over the threshold. He caught himself hard against the doorframe, his massive 6'2 frame trembling as his broad shoulder slammed into the solid timber. His wide brimmed hat was pulled low, shadowing a face flushed red from a night of heavy bourbon and the biting mountain draft.

But it wasn't just the whiskey making his footing treacherous.

His broad chest heaved violently, rising and falling under his damp denim shirt in short, panicked gasps. The combination of cold night air, heavy tobacco smoke from the pub, and the burning whiskey had triggered a sudden, agonizing flare up in his lungs. The dormant Tuberculosis was tearing through his chest like hot iron, making every breath sound like a harsh, rattling whistle that choked back in his throat before it could ever reach his lungs.

"Damn it... fuck..." Arthur rasped out, his voice reduced to a dry, wheezing whisper that barely carried across the room.

He tried to force a deep breath, but the air caught violently in his chest, sending him into a harsh, body wracking coughing fit that nearly folded him in half right where he stood. He stumbled forward into the open living room, his heavy boots catching on the edge of the woven rug as he reached blindly through the dim firelight for support. His sharp blue eyes, glossy with sheer pain and physical exhaustion, locked onto you as you quickly rose and moved toward him.

The proud, guarded ex outlaw hated showing weakness more than anything on earth, but right now, the agonizing reality of his damaged lungs stripped away every bit of his defensive pride. He couldn't hide it, and he certainly couldn't fake being strong.

"I... I ain't... drunk, kid..." Arthur choked out between desperate, shallow wheezes, his large, calloused hand reaching out to catch your shoulder. His grip was tight and unsteady, desperate for balance as his towering weight leaned into you for support. His skin was slick with a cold, sickly sweat despite the lingering warmth of the hearth, and his breathing sounded ragged and thin. "Lungs... chest is... catchin' fire... can't... can't catch it..."

He collapsed heavily onto the edge of the wooden bench by the fireplace, his large, scarred hands gripping his knees so hard his knuckles turned stark white. His head hung low, his thick, sandy hair damp and messy against his forehead as he fought for oxygen, a low, pained groan escaping his throat while he waited for you to grab his medicine and help him through the brutal episode.

The morning sun hung low over the open grasslands of Big Valley, casting long, golden shadows across the 500 acre ranch. Deep inside the cool, quiet shade of the timber horse shed, the sharp, sweet smell of fresh pine bedding, oiled leather, and sweet hay filled the air, mingling with the soft, rhythmic stomping of hooves in the nearby stalls.

Arthur stood by the stall gate, his broad, six-foot-two frame leaning casually against the weathered oak post. He rolled his heavy shoulders, a quiet, gravelly exhale escaping his chest as he adjusted the brim of his hat. Teaching someone the ropes took more wind out of his raspy lungs than he’d ever care to admit aloud, but watching you handle the reins over the past hour had settled the low, lingering ache in his chest. His dormant illness still made heavy labor a chore, but moments like this. Watching a Saint Denis city hand actually learn the way of the land made the long recovery worth every bitter drop of doctor's tonic he forced down every morning.

"Told ya," Arthur grunted, his low, southern drawl echoing softly off the high wooden rafters. A crooked, deadpan smirk tugged at the corner of his rugged, bearded jaw as he watched you catch your breath. "Hold 'em firm, keep your knees tucked, and the horse does all the heavy liftin'. Ain't quite as complicated as whatever fancy book-readin' they had you doin' back in Saint Denis, now is it?"

He stepped closer, his heavy leather work boots thudding softly against the packed dirt floor. Without a word, he reached up, his large, calloused hands naturally finding your waist to steady you as you prepared to dismount from the saddle. Even with his strength somewhat reduced from his outlaw days, his grip was solid, grounded, and intensely gentle. He effortlessly eased your weight off the stirrups, guiding you safely down to the wooden floorboards with a practiced, protective ease that came as second nature to him.

"There ya go, city. Easy does it," he muttered softly, his deep, rumbling voice vibrating right near your ear before he slowly eased his hands back. He kept a respectful distance, but his sharp, observant blue eyes remained locked on you, watching your footing to make sure your legs didn't give out after your first real ride.

Then came the unmistakable, soft squelch.

You had stepped dead center into a fresh pile of horse manure right outside the stall door.

Arthur blinked, tilting his head down toward your feet. A low, rumbling chuckle started deep in his chest, raspy and slightly weathered, but undeniably warm. "Welp. Spoke too soon, I reckon."

Before you could scramble to scrape your boot against the floorboards or offer an embarrassed apology, Arthur was already moving. He didn't scoff, and he certainly didn't let you ruin your footwear. Dropping heavily onto one knee right in front of you, the tall, broad shouldered man didn't hesitate for a single second. He reached over to the wooden tack box resting against the stall wall, snatched up a stiff-bristled scrub brush along with a damp rag, and braced your ankle with one firm, calloused hand to keep you balanced.

"Hold still now, don't go fallin' over on me," he grumbled softly, his thumb resting securely against the leather of your boot as he began efficiently scrubbing the dirt and manure off your shoe. He worked with calm, practiced ease, completely unbothered by the dirty chore, prioritizing taking care of you over any sense of personal pride.

He paused his rhythmic scrubbing for a brief second, glancing up from his knees. His clear, sharp blue eyes met yours from beneath the shadow of his hat, a faint, dryly affectionate glint dancing in them despite his stoic posture.

"Gotta watch where you're plantin' those feet, city kid. These boots weren't cheap, and I sure as hell ain't about to let you track half my horse pasture onto the clean cabin floors," he said softly, his voice dropping into that quiet, comforting rumble that filled the silent shed. He dipped the brush back into his bucket and went right back to work, his large hand holding your ankle steady against his knee as he carefully scraped away the last stubborn bits from the leather.

The silver glow of the moon bled faintly through the tall hallway windows, casting long shadows across the dark oak floorboards. It was well past midnight, and the quiet cabin had settled into a heavy, intoxicating hush. The amber warmth of the bourbon had long since settled deep into your veins, loosening the quiet tension of the day and leaving only the low, steady rhythm of your shared breathing to fill the silence.

Neither of you had made it upstairs to your bedrooms. Instead, drawn together by the thick, midnight air and the lingering haze of the liquor, you had ended up huddled side by side on the floor in the farthest, darkest corner of the hallway, tucked away in the narrow space where the floor was cool and the rest of the world ceased to exist.

Arthur sat pulled up right against you, his massive frame folded into the dark corner with his long legs drawn up and his broad knees resting near his chest. There was practically no distance left between you. The heavy, radiant heat of his body pressed flush against your side, bleeding through the soft fabric of his shirt. Every time he took a slow, heavy breath, the intoxicating, masculine scent of dark bourbon, sweet pipe tobacco, and sun warmed cedar washed over you, so thick and rich in the enclosed space that it made your head spin.

For hours, the deep obscurity of the hallway had acted as a sanctuary, stripping away his usual stoic, guarded walls bit by bit. In the low, hushed quiet, confessions had been whispered into the dark, raw, painful truths about his past, his lost youth, and his regrets, murmured so low they felt like sacred secrets meant only for the two of you to keep.

Arthur shifted, his broad shoulder dragging slowly against yours with a heavy, magnetic slowness that sent a subtle shiver down your spine. The silence between you felt charged, thick with an unspoken, aching tension that made the air feel almost too dense to breathe. He turned his head toward you, his sharp blue eyes dark, heavy lidded, and intensely focused on your face in the dim light.

His large, calloused hand moved with deliberate slowness across the cool floorboards. His warm, rough fingers brushed over the top of your hand before sliding beneath your palm, lacing his thick, scarred fingers through yours. His grip was firm, hot, and intensely possessive, anchoring you flush to his side as he leaned in closer.

His face was mere inches from yours now. The faint, scratchy scruff of his rugged beard lightly grazed the sensitive skin near your jaw, and his deep, raspy breath fanned warm against your neck and throat, sending a sudden spike of electricity through your nerves.

"You know..." Arthur whispered, his low, gravelly voice dropping into a thick, velvet drawl that vibrated straight through your chest. He squeezed your laced hand gently, his heavy thumb beginning a slow, hypnotic trace over your knuckles. "I've laid out more of my ugly, broken past to you tonight than I've ever given a livin' soul in my entire worthless life..."

He tilted his head just a fraction closer, his lips hovering a mere breath away from the shell of your ear, his chest rising and falling heavily against your shoulder with every quiet exhalation.

"Now it's your turn, baby" he murmured, his voice so dangerously soft, smooth, and intimate that it sent a fierce thrill straight through the quiet dark. "Tell me your story. Spill it all to me. What made a sweet, soft thing like you pack up your whole life and leave Saint Denis behind... just to end up hidden away in the dark... with a rough, beat up man like me?"