Chapter Text
“I’m sure I caught my death out there,” Arthur bemoans. The bed squeaks underneath his weight as he sits down. Boots first – no, no, jacket, sodden with barely-melted snow. He fumbles with the buttons all the way down.
Yes, Arthur. After everything that’s happened, I’m sure it’s a bout of pneumonia that’ll take us out.
“What have you got to be grumpy for? I’m the one who has to feel the brunt of the cold.”
John’s icy moodiness erupts into familiar lava. You think you’re the only one that can fee l it? There’s snow in both of your boots.
“Ah. That there is.” Wet socks aren’t any more pleasant to gods, he supposes, and Arthur dutifully removes his boots and socks alike. Next go his shirt and trousers. Thankfully, his undershirt and boxers are dry enough, if not the most warm, and Arthur flops back into bed proper. The entire thing wheezes under him. A lock of his hair, frigidly wet, flops onto his forehead.
Arthur sighs and brushes it away from his face. “You know, when we get to New York, we ought to find a hotel. I’ve been in this cabin for five seconds and already, I can’t see myself staying in any more abandoned shacks."
We’ll have to take up a job, eventually. Larson’s car didn’t have that much money, and we haven’t even made it to Albany.
“Let a man dream. God, this is comfortable.”
It’s no mansion, but Arthur nevertheless thinks he might like to spend the rest of his life here. A little cabin next to a little valley. They had spotted sister cabins along the winding road, but they’re spaced out enough that Arthur doesn’t fear any visits from neighbors. The man at the rental office was surprised by their presence (you really drove here? In all that?), which made Arthur feel even better.
No getting chased, for now. Sure, they’d gotten a bit lost trying to find the cabin and had to get out of the car and stomp around, but…
A bed! A warm bed and a kitchen with food in it and a radio in the corner. A shelf full of books, a fireplace they’d have to prod at sooner or later, and –
Christ, Arthur couldn’t have asked for anywhere better.
We should get up. Start the fire.
“We should,” Arthur says, not moving. “We absolutely should.”
Arthur.
“Just give me a minute to rest my eyes. It was a long drive,” he adds, trying not to sound too pitiful about things. But, well. He’d been impaled through the stomach earlier. It’s been an excessively long day.
Though John heaves a sigh fit to blow down a straw house, he nevertheless relents. Arthur feels his arm shift and tug at the blankets until they tickle the underside of his chin. Alright, John says. Goodnight, Arthur. Tomorrow, we’ll take a look at the map again and –
And Arthur is certain they’d do a great many more things, but the moment passes, and he drifts off.