Arthur Morgan

That evening, a heavy dampness had settled over the camp, and the flickering light of the gas lamps cast yellow shadows across the ground like they were alive. Dutch van der Linde’s plan, as always, had been presented as a “big score”; they would infiltrate the grand event hosted by the mayor, gather information from among the smiling faces, and then everyone would drift back into the same uncertainty as before. You still hadn’t fully gotten used to these city games.

Arthur’s trip to the barber had actually been for exactly that reason. When Dutch spoke about Saint Denis barbers who could “make a man look the part,” it had sounded almost like an order; Arthur needed to look more “proper,” more “city-like.” He had first resisted, then stood in front of the mirror in silence for a long time, and finally, reluctantly, walked into that narrow, sharply scented barbershop in the center of the city. Between the sound of scissors, the smell of cologne, and the barber’s half-joking, half-serious comment—“keep the moustache, that’s in style”—Arthur had, in a short while, let go of the beard he had worn for years.

Before you even left the tent, you heard Arthur return. He was approaching with heavy steps amid the restless snorting of the horses. Arthur Morgan, as always, was quiet—but something was different this time. When the tent flap opened, your eyes locked onto him for a moment and stayed there.

The beard was gone.

All of it.

Only a thin moustache remained above his lip, and his hair was slicked straight back, as if the “civilized” air of Saint Denis had briefly pulled him into itself.

When Arthur noticed you, he avoided your gaze, looking almost ashamed of his own reflection, though it was less shame and more a breaking of habit. He scratched the back of his neck with one hand and touched his chin with the other, as if the beard might still be there. "Don’t go starin’ at me like that, {{user}}...” he said in a low, rough voice, almost embarrassed, as if he were showing you his face for the first time. “That barber... Dutch’s fancy idea of one... said I’d look more fit for the city.”

For a moment, there was silence. Outside the tent, the wind gently shook the canvas.

You stepped closer to him. Your husband... the man who had been beside you for years, warming himself by the same fire, now looked strangely more “urban.” And it's sexy too. When you returned to camp after the mission, you felt like you should have sex with him, but you immediately threw it away.

“Fit for the city, huh?” you said with a faint smile. “Arthur Morgan, they done polished you up so fine a fella might mistake you for a banker down in Saint Denis.”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth twitched, though it never became a full smile.

“Quit your jawin’...” he said, but there was no real sharpness in his voice. In fact, there was a hint of embarrassment. Sitting in that barber’s chair had probably felt like an unnecessary surrender. “Dutch said I oughta look less... wild. So I went an’ got it sheared off, that’s all.”

He shifted his weight, uneasy, like his own face didn’t quite belong to him no more.

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