Chapter Text
When a man gifted another man with lubricant, one would think it would jumpstart a relationship. That things would change between them.
But Arthur Morgan was terrible at courting—had to be, considering his track record—and it wasn’t as though he had a ton of experience in sustaining a relationship once built. Certainly not with another man.
One would think camping with another man, sharing the same bedroll under the stars, a roaring fire an arm’s breadth away while they found exactly how close they could become… Well, one would think that would start a relationship, right?
And if not that—Arthur, indecent and self-conscious, tangled with a beautiful boy glowing in the flickering firelight—then at the very least an old-fashioned fishing trip would get things rolling.
Right?
Arthur removed the saddle from his Nokota’s back and dropped it on a post with a long sigh. “Nude swimmer got more action than me since,” he grumbled to himself. He pulled out his curry comb to rub down his mare, fresh from the rain and mud of the road as they were.
It had been a week since, and in all that time, Kieran and Arthur had not stolen one moment alone. The minute Arthur’s boots had returned to Clemens Point, camp consumed him—requests, robberies—and he fell right back into routine. Kieran, too, stuck to the perimeter and the safety of his chores. If he kept it up any longer, he would wear a trail around the camp.
Arthur lifted his gaze from his horse’s muddied coat and scanned their temporary home. Jack lay at Abigail’s feet by their tent, dragging a stick through the dirt while his mother darned socks. John was off brooding in the woods halfway across camp—hot after another argument, no doubt. Charles was knocking a wheel back into a wagon, hammer against wood, Mary-Beth splayed out beside him as she read a book. Knives smacked into the central table as Bill and Javier racked up a new high score in Five Finger Filet. Tilly sat curled up in her tent, fixing up somebody’s shirt—an extra button hole from a bullet, more likely than not. Micah was still blessedly absent, likely shooting up another goddamn town. He couldn’t spend enough time away, far as Arthur was concerned.
And on the outskirts, avoiding everyone’s eyes but Arthur’s, was Kieran, carrying a sack of grain the long way around to Pearson’s wagon. He had stripped off that awful, torn up duster from his O’Driscoll days that had got a tear in the back, right up the seam that stretched every time Kieran bent over to lift something or scrub the table or count his fish by the lake. His stained shirt, once white, clung to his back with sweat from the southern heat.
Arthur could imagine placing his hand there, warm against the small of his back. Kieran was a furnace even at night, a trait that had likely kept him alive while they had starved him in Colter.
Guilt gnawed at Arthur’s stomach.
That was new, at least. Even after Kieran had convinced them to let him stay, Arthur hadn’t felt any type of way about how they had treated him. Tied to that tree by the chuckwagon—that was a particular kind of brilliance, the kind of quiet cruelty Dutch was fond of. But Kieran had been an O’Driscoll, then. That had been enough to clear Arthur’s conscience.
Since having an actual conversation with the man, since Flat Iron Lake, since that night under the stars—well, Arthur wasn’t quite so sure anymore. He wasn’t sure of much, these days.
Arthur shook his head and crossed his arms, taking a step back to survey the disaster that was his horse. “Damn, girl. What am I gonna do with you?”
Dakota the Nokota chuffed and nudged his shoulder insistently.
“Fine, fine.” Arthur patted her side. “Need to get all that mud offa you ‘fore it dries. Now where’s that stable boy when ya need ‘im?”
Dakota shook her head and nosed at the brush in Arthur’s hand.
“Yer right. This is a two man job.” Arthur gave her shoulder one last pat before leaving her tied to her post. He raised two fingers at her. “Stay.”
“You’re talkin’ to the horses again, Arthur,” Lenny teased as he passed, a rifle slung over his shoulder. A soft you’re losing it was left unsaid in his smiling tone.
“Ha! They make better conversation than some o’ the folks here.”
“Careful, or some of ‘em might hear you.” Lenny elbowed his arm.
“With half John’s face tore up like that? He’s only got half a head to hear with.”
“And half a brain?” Lenny guessed with a smile.
“You always were a quick study.”
John turned from his post in the woods and squinted at them as though sensing Arthur ribbing him. Lenny flagged him down and strolled in to meet him.
Arthur finally trudged to the chuckwagon, but Kieran was nowhere to be seen. Two sacks lay in the grass, the only proof he wasn’t a phantom or a figment of Arthur’s lonely imagination. Put together, the grain must have been half Kieran’s weight.
“Looking for someone, son?” Hosea asked, making his way over. There was a twinkle in his eye, and one corner of his lips quirked into a knowing smile.
Arthur bristled. “Now who would I be lookin’ for? I’m just stockin’ up before I head on out.”
“Of course. Ever our man of action.” Hosea patted Arthur’s shoulder. From anyone else, it would feel condescending, but coming from Hosea, it was nothing but fatherly. “Well, if you were looking for anyone, my guess would be back from where you came.”
Arthur frowned. “That so?”
“Yes. I recommend checking the pasture before you head out. To once again provide for this family, no doubt.”
Arthur huffed and hooked his thumbs in his belt. Compliments rankled him; he didn’t know how to handle them, and embarrassment never failed to raise his hackles. Praise never felt earned, and certainly not praise for the bare minimum. Dutch expected far more from him, and Arthur more still from himself.
“I know, I know. I won’t make a fuss.” Hosea raised his hands as he backed away. “Just take this as the ramblings of an old man.”
“Alright, old man.” Arthur waved him off. “Go impart some o’ that wisdom on Marston. He needs it a helluva lot more.”
“Don’t I know it.” Hosea shared one last smile before heading for a book.
Arthur shook his head and stalked back toward the hitching area. Javier had left Bill to whatever Bill did when alone: sitting with a drink. As Arthur passed the table, Bill slammed a half-empty beer onto the wood and glared at him. “What you lookin’ at, Morgan?!”
“A man about to get so drunk, you’ll put Uncle in training.”
Bill curled over the table, the tips of his ears burning. “I’m entitled to a drink!”
“Sure, sure.” Arthur shrugged him off. “I’m only joking. Try to do some work, will you?” He sauntered off, leaving Bill huffing and puffing, gripping his bottle so tight it might burst. Arthur just couldn’t help antagonizing certain people, and Bill was at the top of his list.
Kieran, though. He only liked to tease him, and the man was long overdue. Arthur swept his gaze across the pasture and stopped when he heard a familiar whine. He wove through the horses silently, following the noise.
“C’mon, girl! Please get up,” Kieran’s voice carried from the corner of the herd. “Everybody thinks you’re dead!”
Twigs crunched beneath Arthur’s boot as he stopped behind him.
Kieran flinched and spun around. “It weren’t me!” His eyes widened before he clutched his chest and heaved a breath of relief. “Jesus— Thought you was someone else.”
“Don’t think I warrant that much relief.” Arthur inclined his head to peer around Kieran. Nell II lay prone in the grass, still as a corpse. Arthur gripped his gun belt and snorted. “Like master like mount.”
“It ain’t funny.” Kieran’s nose scrunched up and his lips twisted. He was trying to wrestle a smile. “Mr. Escuella said she looked dead, and I better make sure she’s alright before someone put another hole in my head.”
“Sounds like Javier.”
Kieran groaned and turned back to Nell II. “She’s just rollin’ around in the grass. Well, she was. Now I think she’s sleepin’.”
“Like I said: like master, like horse.”
Kieran huffed and frowned at Arthur. “You just come here to hassle me, then?”
“Usually.” Arthur soaked in Kieran’s answering pout. “Actually, thought I might hunt down our resident stable boy. Ol’ Dakota’s filthy. Could use a hand.”
“Awright.” Kieran spared another sigh at Uncle’s horse before loping past Arthur. He took off his hat and wiped his wet brow. “Where’d you think o’ that name, anyway?”
Arthur strolled after him. “Why?”
“Awful on the nose, ain’t it? Namin’ a Nokota Dakota.”
“Y’know…” Arthur rubbed his chin, scratched his beard. “I never thought about it like that. It does rhyme, don’t it?”
Kieran exhaled, his forehead wrinkling in exasperation. “Your sense of humor is… It’s awful, y’know.” Kieran’s eyebrows drawing together was a common sight—practically his natural state of being—but a new flavor hid in his tone, like a spice Ms. Grimshaw slipped into Pearson’s stew.
That wasn’t… That couldn’t be fondness, could it?
Arthur snorted. “Don’t know what you mean. I’m as serious as a gravestone.”
“Arthur Morgan: most unserious man to have lived.” Kieran swept his hands though the air above them, envisioning the inscription on his headstone. “Enjoys sneakin’ up on folks and, and…”
“Bein’ teased by Kieran Duffy?”
They both froze. Kieran looked up at Arthur with raised eyebrows, a delighted smile lighting up his face.
Arthur flushed. He hadn’t meant to say it, had been thinking it, just happened to blurt it out. His jaw clenched, willing his expression to remain neutral.
“Well, I—” Kieran wet his lips. His boyish smile made him look ten years younger—his proper twenty-something age. “I don’t mind that one bit, to tell it true. I hope your gravestone says somethin’ nicer, though. In fact, I’m sure it will.”
Arthur grunted. He didn’t trust his voice to not betray him. Though he was sure his eyes showed his nerves. Only Kieran Duffy could make Arthur feel true fear.
Kieran cleared his throat. “Anyway. Right, Ol’ Dakota.” Hanging his hat on a pole, he inched over to her hitching post and drew a brush from his pocket. The Nokota’s legs were painted with mud, and splatters from Arthur’s boots speckled her entire flank. “Aw, girl. What did he do to you?”
“Sure, blame the big bad outlaw,” Arthur muttered. “Never you mind the storm.”
“Poor girl,” Kieran murmured sweetly, rubbing down Dakota’s nose. “You’re alright. We’ll have ya brushed down nice, good as new.”
Arthur leaned back against a nearby tree and crossed his arms. He was tempted to relax and watch Kieran work. See that back stretch, watch his shirt ride up his waist as he bent over to wash his horse’s legs. The sun hung high in the sky, and this tree would provide enough shade that the rolled-up sleeves of Arthur’s blue shirt would cool him off. It was mighty tempting. Relaxation and a view.
Kieran shot a questioning glance over his shoulder.
Arthur pushed off the tree with a groan and strolled to Kieran’s side. The small smile Kieran offered him was reward enough. He couldn’t stand by and let someone do his work for him, anyway. Arthur retrieved his curry comb from his satchel and ran it over Dakota’s flank, following the direction of her hair. The mud was already drying, and caked bits rose to the surface. Kieran followed behind Arthur’s work with his dandy brush, and together they cleaned her blue roan coat.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, just two fingers’ width from touching. Kieran’s knobby elbows knocked into Arthur’s arm more than once, and Arthur elbowed him back softer than he would anyone else.
Arthur had to use a gentler hand with Kieran. His usual friendly gestures—slapping a man on the back, shoving him—weren’t appreciated by Kieran. It jostled him more than anyone else, nearly knocked him off his feet, and only earned a sour face and complaints. Kieran was all ribs and elbows, still hadn’t put on enough weight since they finally started feeding him. Maybe it was normal for him.
Another bump of Kieran’s elbow, and Arthur nudged his hip with his own. Kieran chuckled under his breath, shaking his head at Arthur’s antics.
“What, you want more?” Arthur said, light-heartedly egging him on. “I’ll have you know the last time I got covered in this much mud, I only just won a bar brawl.”
Kieran giggled. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. It was a close thing—this big dumb feller nearly put me in the ground—but…I could take you.”
“Only just, huh?”
“That’s right.” Arthur knocked his brush against Kieran’s. Dakota’s skin shivered. “Ya look like a mean feller, when you’re fightin’ for your life. Bet you’d give me a run for my money.”
“I think we know what happens when it’s you against me.” Kieran’s shoulders kissed his ears. “Me in the snow and you hog-tyin’ me.”
“Oh. Well.” Arthur clicked his tongue as he searched for the words. “‘M sorry ‘bout that.”
Kieran’s hand dropped. He turned to Arthur. “What?”
Arthur scowled at his horse’s flank and growled, “I ain’t in the habit of repeatin’ myself, boy.”
“Sorry! Sorry,” Kieran squeaked and rushed back to brushing Dakota, combing too fast and too hard. She stamped her hoof, and Kieran startled. “Oh. Sorry, girl. Sorry…”
“You apologize too damn much.”
“Sor—” Kieran grimaced. His shoulders drooped, and he muttered, “I know.”
Arthur hummed. Considered dropping the subject. It would save him a lot of embarrassment. But the guilt and shame whenever he thought about how they treated him might ease if he just came out and said it. Might as well force it past his teeth, get it out of the way. He cleared his throat. “Was a real nasty business, torturin’ you like that. Didn’t think much of it, on account of who you were runnin’ with.”
“It was just for a couple months!”
“I know, I know.” Arthur raised his free hand as though Kieran were the horse, and he was calming him. “And some folks’ll never forget it. But it was… Well, we ain’t nothin’ like those O’Driscoll boys. But starvin’ a man… It still weren’t right.” Arthur took a breath as though to continue, but when no more words came to mind, he clamped his mouth shut, and he exhaled.
Kieran’s eyes flitted to Arthur before flickering away. Flighty feller. Or maybe he was waiting for Arthur to continue.
Speaking had never been Arthur’s strong suit. He didn’t have the time he did when piecing together a letter or gathering his thoughts in his journal. He huffed and elbowed Kieran in the ribs.
Kieran yelped and danced away, waving off phantom hands prodding him. “Hey—!”
“You could stand to eat more,” Arthur gruffed. “Ya don’t gotta be the very last to take from the stew pot, y’know.”
Kieran hunched over, his eyebrows pinching. “I do. You don’t know what it’s like…havin’ to avoid fellers like Bill or, or… Well, nobody wants me here, not really. I get it, I don’t hold it against ‘em. Well, most of ‘em…”
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
“Anyway, I don’t wanna be a burden. And I got no right to skip the line in front of…Miss Abigail or, or Mrs. Adler.” Kieran shuddered.
Arthur nodded sagely. “That woman’s glare alone could kill a man.”
“Y’see?” Kieran squeaked, his voice breaking. He grimaced and cleared his throat. “It’s just… It’s best if I stay outta the way. Think I’ll live longer.”
“Not the way you’re starvin’ yourself.”
Kieran leveled Arthur with an oddly stony look. His grip tightened on the brush, his empty hand curling at his side.
Arthur raised his hands. “Awright, fine. I’ll stay out of it.”
“Thank you. Arthur.” It was the most forceful Kieran had spoken in a long while. Force and finality. Kieran tucked away his brush and crouched to inspect Dakota’s legs, perhaps just to escape Arthur’s gaze.
A long moment passed with nothing but the chuffing of horses and the soft shift of horse hair under Arthur’s brush. Even the murmurings of camp felt far away, outside the small world they had crafted there by the pasture. Arthur let it slip away, gave Kieran his time.
Once Kieran spoke, his voice was quiet. “I’ve…always been like this. Since I was real small. So…you don’t gotta worry.”
Always? It must have been some sort of medical condition. None of his business. Shouldn't have pressed. Arthur nodded and slipped the curry comb in his satchel. “Right. Need a bucket o’ water if we’ll be washin’ them legs down.”
Kieran shot to his feet. “Oh, I—”
But Arthur marched away before Kieran could offer. He nabbed the bucket by the washing station and filled up at the lake shore. Only once he was staring at the water’s surface, a perfect mirror to the cloud-streaked sky, did he realize they could have brought Dakota to the water’s edge. The familiar feeling of stupidity rose in his chest.
Aw, well. Dodging Grimshaw would have been a pain and a half. Arthur took his time so he could clear his head and avoid saying anything stupid to Kieran. When are you gonna start mindin’ your own damn business, Morgan? Finally, he grabbed a rag and trudged toward the horses.
“Leave. Me. Alone,” Kieran’s voice grumbled from the posts.
“What’re you doin’, Jack?” Abigail called.
Arthur strolled up to the scene and stopped, resting one hand on his belt buckle.
“Throwin’ rocks at the O’Driscoll,” Jack spat, the same venom in the name as the adults used when speaking it.
You don’t say? Arthur thought to himself. And here I thought you was dancin’.
Kieran heaved a sigh, but he kept his back to the kid, brushing Ol’ Dakota in areas he and Arthur had already worked on.
“Why?” Abigail drawled.
“Because, he’s an O’Driscoll! You always said that was bad.”
“Leave him alone.” Abigail marched over and shooed her son. “Go on, away with you.”
“But you said…”
“Get away with ya. Leave the rock-throwin’ to the grown-ups.” Abigail sighed as Jack toddled away.
“Hey,” Arthur stage whispered as the kid passed. “Nice throw, Jack.”
“Thanks!”
Kieran leveled Arthur with the most long-suffering, sick-of-your-bullshit stare he had seen in weeks. Arthur had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.
“Kieran…” Arthur barked with the same force he had in Horseshoe Overlook and Colter. Just in case Abigail was paying attention. Definitely not teasing him. Once Abigail followed her son, Arthur strolled up to Kieran’s side, lowered his head, and murmured just for his ears, “Teachin’ the boy with some target practice?”
“Oh, shut up,” Kieran grumbled.
Arthur chuckled and set down the bucket.
“He’s just a kid…but he’s learnin’ all the wrong things.” Kieran frowned at Jack’s small form disappearing into the trees. “I can’t say I’m any better, I, I mean…I didn’t exactly have the best start neither. But…well, I just hope he grows up to live a normal life, I guess.”
Arthur hummed—an agreement, but one he wouldn’t voice in camp. “It’s a good thing you don’t talk back to the boy, or we might toss you in the lake.”
“Oh, har har. Right, like everyone needs another reason to kill me,” Kieran finished dramatically.
“No.” Arthur straightened and scratched his beard. “Guess they don’t. Might add a few myself, just to get a list goin’.”
Kieran huffed. “Thanks, Arthur. Thanks for, for… Tormentin’ me, after everything we’ve been through together.”
“Oh, shut up.” He tapped his fist to Kieran’s shoulder. “You know I’m jokin’.”
Kieran’s drooping head and sorry expression told him that no, he in fact did not. A kicked puppy, that was what he was. “First it was Bill, and then little Jack, and then you… It just piles up sometimes, okay?”
Arthur frowned. “What’d Bill do?”
“Nothin’! Nothin’…” At Arthur’s scowl, Kieran continued in a stutter, “Well, he wanted me to have a drink with him, practically ordered me to—did, I guess. So I did ‘cause that man scares me somethin’ fierce. Then Tilly distracted ‘im and I ran off.”
“Ahh. That’s why he was more of a pathetic louse than usual.”
“What?”
Arthur waved him off. “Just steer clear of Bill, awright? He ain’t nothin’ but trouble.”
“Believe me, you don’t gotta tell me twice. Me an’ my parts, they—they remember.”
Arthur guffawed. “Well. Wouldn’t want nothin’ to happen to your balls now.”
Crimson washed over Kieran’s face. Arthur was enjoying a rare moment of abandon, surprisingly not embarrassed the minute he came close to considering his pathetic love life. Probably because the humor of the moment overshadowed Bill’s gelding tongs, which covered up anything to do with Arthur.
Lips parted, Kieran watched Arthur laugh as though he were the starry sky itself. That finally dredged up Arthur’s self-consciousness from the depths. He petered off into a breathy chuckle, and finally he cleared his throat.
Kieran’s gaze dropped as though he had seen Arthur naked, and propriety demanded he look away. Arthur supposed he had, a week ago—what little the firelight could show. He hoped it hadn’t shown much.
“Right. Well.” Arthur dunked his rag in the bucket at their feet. “Get to work, Duffy. This mud’s long since dried.”
Kieran sighed. “Poor Dakota…”
Together they washed her legs and groomed her until not a speck of dirt was left on her coat. Arthur refilled their bucket once, and Kieran lugged it to the lake and back next. By the time Kieran returned, he was drenched from waist to toe.
“The hell happen to you?” Arthur asked with a lopsided grin. “Badmouth Little Jack afterall?”
“No.” Kieran shook out his arms. “Sean decided to bully me. Don’t know why. Had to go back and get more water, on account of he got most of it on me!”
Arthur snorted. “Didn’t he break your nose couple weeks ago? Thought you Irish stuck together.”
“I ain’t that Irish,” Kieran grumbled as he pulled off his shirt to pat down his pants. “I mean…never enough for fellers like that, anyway.”
“Hmm.” Arthur watched every divot in Kieran’s torso wax and wane as he bent around every which way. Those two lines at his hips that trailed down, promising more, curled like toes in the sheets. It impressed him how confident Kieran was with his body, how uncaring he seemed at anyone seeing him in a state of undress.
“It’ll take me hours to dry off, and the hay always sticks to me when I’m wet.” Kieran muttered, “Least it’s cooler, though, like this. I can hang my shirt while I work, I suppose. It’ll dry faster that way…”
“Well,” Arthur heard himself say, “Why don’tchu borrow some o’ mine?”
Kieran froze. Stopped in the middle of patting his knees with his drenched, stained shirt, he gaped up at Arthur. “Really? You’d do that? L-lend me your clothes?”
“You’ll be swimmin’ in ‘em. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all!” Kieran blurted. He straightened so fast, it was a miracle he didn’t get whiplash. “D’ya think—I mean… Thank you.”
Arthur grunted, tipping his hat down. “Don’t mention it.” He lifted his chin to glare down at him. “I mean it. Don’t.”
“Alright! Alright…” Kieran raised his hands placatingly. “It’ll be our secret.”
Not that much stayed secret in this gossip-mill of a camp. Arthur grumbled under his breath and stomped over to his tent. Kieran hung back to give Ol’ Dakota a treat and release her to the rest of the herd, then stumbled after Arthur.
The back of Arthur’s neck tingled with someone’s stare. He hoped it was Kieran. Not that he cared who saw him with the boy. Arthur’s concern was the comments Kieran would have to endure should anyone notice he was wearing Arthur’s clothes. He imagined Bill in particular would have a lot to say.
Well. Arthur was willing to take that risk. It wasn’t as though anyone would guess the truth: the great camp enforcer, Dutch’s workhorse and brainless muscle, had fallen for their most recent stray.
Arthur stopped, a hand on his wagon to stabilize himself. What? Fallen for? The hell was running through his fool head? They had spent one night together, that was all. He shouldn’t get ahead of himself.
Boots scuffed the dirt behind him. Arthur turned, his face carefully impassive. Kieran had stopped at the entrance to Arthur’s tent, his fingers worrying themselves as though he were weaving some invisible shroud.
“Well?” Arthur gruffed. “You gonna come in or you gonna stand there like a moron all day?”
Pine-green eyes darted around Arthur’s space, surreptitiously taking in details he had never been allowed to see—personal photos, a book on flora and fauna. Yet Kieran hovered, toeing the invisible border to Arthur’s private space as though he felt he didn’t belong there.
Arthur crossed his arms. “Longer you hang around, more chance someone’ll catch you loiterin’.”
That seemed to jolt urgency into him. Kieran stumbled inside, and Arthur pulled the privacy flaps closed. Somehow, Kieran seemed to vibrate with energy, as though being in an enclosed space with Arthur was a terrifying notion. Arthur huffed. It wasn’t as though he dressed in front of the entire camp, himself. If Dutch or, Hell, Marston got tent flaps, then why not him?
“Sit down, Duffy,” Arthur muttered.
Kieran squeezed past him and dropped stiffly to sit on Arthur’s bed, hands curled on his knees. Stood up as though burned, swung his arms around awkwardly.
Arthur shook his head and peered into the chest at the foot of his cot. Various hats, jackets, and other pieces of unfinished outfits lay beneath his weapons stash. Between the trapper and a few general stores, Arthur had accidentally gathered a few decent-looking outfits. There were even a few things he didn’t hate himself in, the scout jacket in particular. Too bad it was too warm for it.
As Arthur drew items out and dumped them on his cot, Kieran stood on his toes and peered into his chest. Arthur braced a hand on his knee and glanced up from under his hat. “See somethin’ you like?”
Kieran’s tongue flicked over his chapped lips as he looked at Arthur. “Yeah. I mean, um.” His gaze dropped back to the clothes.
Arthur’s cheeks warmed. He returned his full attention to his things and dug through them unnecessarily. Kieran would need a hat. Pants. A shirt. Were his shoes drenched? He should ask. Couldn’t have him getting an infection of the foot. No way in Hell would Arthur’s boots fit Kieran, though. Arthur scowled.
“Um. You really don’t have to…” Kieran twisted his ruined shirt in his hands. “I don’t mean to be a bother.”
“You ain’t,” Arthur grumbled more forcefully than he meant to. Kieran flinched in his periphery. Sighing, Arthur set his hands on his knees and pushed to his feet. “Take what you like.”
“What?” Kieran blanched. “All this? No, Mr. Morgan, I couldn’t.”
Arthur frowned. Only a few shirts, a yellow vest he regretted buying, and a few pants lay on his cot. “Well, I…” Arthur took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. It had grown to his collar. He should get a trim soon. “I don’t know, what do you like?”
“What do I like?” Kieran turned a mortified stare to the clothes. “I don’t… I don’t rightly know. I never, I mean. I ain’t never had a choice. In what I wear. It’s just… Even what I got from the O’Driscolls was from a, a dead man. This all looks so…new and, and clean.”
Arthur exhaled. “Then…here.” He snatched a blue dress shirt from the pile and held it up to Kieran’s bare chest. His voice dropped of its own accord, rumbling low and quiet in this intimate space. “Blue suits you. Take the jeans, too. You’ll need a belt, else they’ll fall off those slim hips o’ yours.”
Kieran flushed. “Uh. I— Awright?”
“That one.” Arthur pointed. “Should do fine. Your boots soaked?”
The toes of Kieran’s shoes shifted as he curled his toes. Kieran ducked his head, and his blush reached the tips of his ears. “A little.”
Arthur grunted. “Reckon mine’ll dwarf yours. Can’t have you walkin’ ‘round here without boots, though, all the broken glass we got lyin’ around.”
“Mr. Morgan, you really don’t have to—”
“You finish your chores?”
“I— What?” Kieran blinked. “Yes. Yes sir, I have, but—”
“Come into town with me.” Arthur met Kieran’s gaze with a giant’s amount of courage. His scowl deepened even as he swallowed past a lump in his throat. “I got some things I need to buy, anyway.”
“Y-you mean leave camp?” Kieran’s eyes shone with hope. His gaze bounced from the pile of clothes to Arthur, back and forth. “You really ain’t messin’ with me?”
Arthur fought the nerves swirling in his gut. If Kieran kept pushing back, Arthur would reach the limits of his bravery. He was very nearly there. He snarled, “Why in the Hell would I go through the trouble of pullin’ out half my wardrobe? Just to play dress up?”
“No! N-no, ‘course not!” Kieran waved his hands erratically, dropping his shirt in the process. “I’m sorry. Thank you, really. I just…” He dropped his hands, and his shoulders drooped with shame. “Ya might’ve forgot. I don’t got any money.”
If the hundreds of dollars Arthur had put into the camp funds weren’t meant to be used to clothe its members, then what use was it? Arthur huffed. Dutch wouldn’t look kindly on it being used on an ex-O’Driscoll, though.
“Don’tchu worry ‘bout that,” Arthur snapped. He had given Abigail five dollars for Jack’s clothes. He could afford a few for one of their hardest workers. “And before you turn me down, I ain’t askin’.”
“Alright…” Kieran bent to pick up his shirt, then realizing he had no place to put it, bundled it up and tucked it under Arthur’s cot. He gingerly held up Arthur’s blue shirt, inspecting it as though it were some great treasure. It still smelled faintly of soap. After carefully unbuttoning it, Kieran slipped into it.
Arthur crossed his arms and nodded at Kieran’s pants. “Those too. Take ‘em off.”
Kieran’s face turned as red as the scout fire. “If I didn’t know any better, Mr. Morgan, I’d think you were enjoyin’ this.”
Arthur’s cheeks heated. Maybe they had never cooled. He fought to control his expression, keep it as stony as it had been. “It’s a good thing you know better, then.”
“Right.” Kieran chanced a small smile. “Good thing.”
Kieran worked his buckle loose, unzipped his work pants, and held Arthur’s gaze as he slowly stepped out of them. He kicked them beneath Arthur’s bed. “Think my boots might be stuck. Think you could, uh…help me out?”
Arthur swallowed. “Sure.”
Kieran sat on Arthur’s cot and splayed his legs out over the ground. The toes of his shoes nearly touched the tent pole. There was only just enough room for Arthur to squeeze between Kieran’s legs and kneel.
So Arthur did just that. Quiet as the grave, he knelt before Kieran and gently took one boot in his hands. With Kieran’s calf in his left palm, Arthur slowly worked Kieran’s muddy shoe off with the other. He kept his eyes trained on Kieran’s legs and ran his hand across his skin, the soft hair tickling Arthur’s palm. Kieran shivered. His leg hair was thinner than most men’s Arthur had come across, as though the patch on Kieran’s chin where his beard refused to grow extended elsewhere. Arthur found he liked it.
Taking great care to move slowly, Arthur moved to the other foot. With a hand under Kieran’s knee and his other gripping his shoe, Arthur’s eyes flitted up to meet Kieran's.
Kieran stared down at him, lips parted, eyes dark and wide, his pupils completely swallowing the green around them in an eclipse. He was holding his breath as though if he did not breathe, he could pause the moment forever.
Arthur held his gaze, took complete possession of it. He could get used to this.
And it was entirely because he could get used to it that Arthur dropped his eyes to his task, slipped Kieran’s second shoe off, and set both carefully to the side.
Kieran exhaled. Arthur sensed Kieran bite his lip, swallow whatever words he had considered breathing to life. The cowardly part of Arthur was glad for it.
“Thank you…” Kieran breathed. He wiggled his toes, and only then did Arthur realize he was still holding his leg.
Arthur set Kieran’s heel down on the dirt. “Guess you’ll be stompin’ around in my boots afterall,” he murmured.
“Yeah.” Kieran swallowed, and Arthur glanced up in time to see his Adam’s apple bob. “Guess so.”
Arthur cleared his throat and pushed to his feet. Without another word, he selected the smallest pair of shoes he had—a pair of black cowboy boots he had never really taken to, so they had yet to be broken in. The crazy notion to kneel between Kieran’s legs again and work them onto Kieran’s feet came and went. Once more the coward, Arthur merely handed them to him.
Kieran mumbled another thank you before setting them down. He stumbled into Arthur’s dark jeans with all of the grace of a newborn fawn. All of his earlier bravado had swept away with his released breath like a leaf on the wind.
Arthur pinched the edge of his hat and tilted it over his eyes. He was acting a damn fool, and he had no idea how to stop. It felt as though he were tumbling down a hill with no idea when he would hit the bottom. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. This falling sensation, it didn’t hurt half as badly as any thought of Mary did. But oh, did it ache.
“Um.” Kieran cleared his throat and spread his arms. “Whaddaya think?”
Arthur lifted his head. The blue dress shirt draped loosely from Kieran’s shoulders, leaving only a suggestion of the figure within. Arthur’s black jeans fit him nicely, though, reminding Arthur that they were around the same height. Wrinkles accentuated his bow-legged knees, whatever it was that caused him to limp across camp. It was part of what made Kieran Kieran, and therefore Arthur liked it just as much as the rest of him. With the boots as black as midnight, threading the silver of stars, the ensemble was nearly complete.
Arthur stooped and dug through his chest. After a moment, he produced a hat and shoved it onto Kieran’s crown. “There. Now you look like a proper cowboy.”
Kieran gripped the sides of the hat and popped it up off of his ears. He grinned crookedly from underneath the brim. “D’you think I look like one o’ Dutch’s boys?”
A shadow crossed over Arthur’s face, and a storm brewed in his chest. “No. Don’t think that’d be wise.”
“Oh.” Kieran’s face fell. His shoulders drooped, and only then did Arthur realize he hadn’t been slouching until that moment. “You’re right. Guess that’s— It’s not really my…” His face scrunched up.
Arthur’s heart broke.
Big doe eyes blinked up at Arthur. “When are y’all gonna accept I’m part o’ this gang, anyway?”
“Don’t think you want to be,” Arthur said stiffly, his tongue heavy in his mouth.
“I do! I’m here, ain’t I?”
“That’s not what I—” Arthur huffed, frustrated with himself. How could he voice that something felt off with the gang when he couldn’t even admit it himself? “Comes with a heavy price is all.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Kieran snapped and threw his arms out. “I ran with a gang before, before Colm, and… Arthur, they’re all dead. I know I might not make it another year, much less another month. But I don’t want to join another gang. I just…I don’t. I’m tired. Tired of losin’ folks.”
Arthur knew the feeling.
“So…” Kieran stood taller. “I’m a Van der Linde. Even if none of you ever see it.”
Arthur bowed his head, let his hat cast a shadow over his eyes. He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and exhaled. “You should listen to Karen more.”
“Huh?”
“You think too damn much, and that’s a shock, considerin’ how much of a damn fool you are.”
“Hey!”
“Don’t remember?” Arthur tipped his hat up as he tilted his chin back, all intimidation and challenge. “I seem to recall Miss Jones sayin’ somethin’ about how you’re fine.” He couldn't keep a mocking drawl out of that final word. “So act like it.”
Kieran blinked. The conversation between him and Karen had been weeks ago, but recognition flickered in his eyes. His brow furrowed into its usual lines. “You mean… When she said I, I was one o’ you?”
By way of greeting, Kieran had told Miss Jones the boys hadn’t killed him yet. When she had told Arthur to tell Kieran he was fine, Arthur had growled, “You ain’t fine, boy… Watch yourself.”
“Ignore Arthur. He’s only teasin’.” She had been right on the money.
Arthur reached out and pressed two fingers to Kieran’s forehead, smoothing it out. It was big for his face, but that only accentuated his eyes. His fingers lingered over Kieran’s brow. “Stand up to folks more, like you do with me, an’ they’ll start to respect you.” He shrugged one shoulder. “A little, at least.”
Kieran’s breath stuttered. “Right,” he murmured. “Or Micah will kill me.”
Arthur’s expression soured. His hand fell away. “That snake wouldn’t know respect if it bit him back. Just steer clear o’ his type, and you’ll be fine. Think if you stopped quiverin’ like an abused dog, some of these fellers might come to like you.”
“Well gee, Mr. Morgan, th-thanks. I know I ain’t brave like you, but… Well, I already get my ass beat for existing in their general area. I don’t think givin’ ‘em lip will do me any favors.”
“Mouthin’ off got me where I am,” Arthur said sardonically. Folks thought he was third in line for power as though Dutch were a king, but being the enforcer offered him no authority. He was the muscle, nothing more. “And you’re plenty brave. Just don’t show it much.”
Kieran frowned, squinting. “You messin’ with me again?”
Arthur palmed the back of his own neck. “Naw.”
“Well, I…” The tip of Kieran’s tongue flickered over his lips. “I’d like to hear some more, then. Nice things you got to say.”
“Oh, no. That’s all you’re gettin’ from me.”
“C’mon!”
“No.” Arthur turned away and rubbed his hand over his mouth to hide his smile. “It’s a one-time deal. Just expired.”
“Oh, compliments go on sale now?”
“That’s right, and I’m all sold out.”
Kieran chuckled helplessly. “You’re crazy, Arthur. Just crazy.”
Ain’t about to argue that. Wouldn't say exactly what—or who—he was crazy about. He pressed his fist to Kieran’s chest and gently shoved him. Kieran rolled back on the balls of his feet. “Come on,” Arthur said. “Let’s get you a shirt that fits that spoonbill frame o’ yours.”
“Right.” Kieran reverently rubbed the collar between his thumb and forefinger. “Guess you’re just…lendin’ me this.”
Arthur turned and began pinning up the tent’s flaps. “Aw, keep it if you like it so much. Somethin’ to catch your eyes when I ain’t lumberin’ around.”
“You…” A smile lit up Kieran’s voice, warming the surprise in his tone. “You givin’ me somethin’ to remember you by?”
“And what if I am?” Arthur rumbled over his shoulder.
“Well, I’m— I’m mighty grateful.” Kieran worried at the hem with nervous fingers. “I’ll take real good care of it. Won’t hardly get any dirt on it before I, uh…wash it somehow.”
Arthur trudged out of his tent and headed for the chuckwagon, expecting Kieran to follow. “Why don’tchu give it to one o’ the girls? They wash most everythin’ else.”
Kieran’s eyes widened as he stumbled after him. “Oh no, I couldn’t! They got better things to do than, than clean up after me.”
“Right…” Arthur nabbed a block of cheese and a can of peaches from Pearson’s wagon. “Because smellin’ like horse shit and spreadin’ disease with dirty bowls is better for everyone.”
“Aw, shut up,” Kieran muttered.
Arthur tucked the food in his satchel and turned toward the horses. “Reckon they’d lend you some soap if you wanted to wash it yourself.”
Kieran ducked his head. “Ain’t as though I hadn’t considered it… I just…don’t wanna bother Mary-Beth, is all.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m sure those eyes she makes at ya has nothin’ to do with it.”
Rather than get flustered like Arthur expected, Kieran sank into himself dejectedly. “I— Well, she’s a sweet girl, a real fine lady, she’d be happy with anyone, deserves that, really. I, I hope she one day prints one o’ them books she’s been writin’ and…” Kieran dropped his voice as he continued, “And lives a happy life.”
They reached the pasture, where most of the horses were tearing into a bale of hay. The grass at their feet had long since been cleared over their weeks at Clemens Point. Kieran whistled for Branwen, and the flaxen roan trotted merrily to him.
Arthur inclined his head as he watched Kieran rub Branwen’s nose and scratch behind an ear, earning a nicker. “Fine ladies not your type?”
“Oh.” Kieran blanched. He kept his eyes trained on his horse, one trembling hand on his neck. “No. Not— Not really.” Finally, he chanced a furtive glance at Arthur from under his borrowed cowboy hat. “I’ve… I’ve heard you got a bit more experience in that, uh, area, though.”
Arthur felt his expression shutter as his heart closed its doors. He turned to Dakota and began saddling her up.
“Oh, I— I’m sorry, it’s none o’ my business. Don’t know why I said nothin’, it’s…” Rather than dig himself deeper, Kieran busied himself with Branwen’s tack. He never left camp, so his saddle lay unused on a post nearby. Despite that, the leather was not neglected; he must have polished it alongside everyone else’s every day. He brushed down Branwen’s coat, ensuring the saddle would rest comfortably on him.
Only silence passed between them as both men readied their mounts. Arthur swung up into the saddle and patted Dakota’s neck. He clicked his tongue twice, and the Nokota trotted out of camp. Branwen picked up to a cantor to catch up.
Once Kieran was riding alongside Arthur down the trail, past Lenny’s watch, Arthur finally spoke. “I like women. If that’s what you’re askin’. Don’t know what makes you so special.”
Kieran blushed, his shy gaze dropping to Branwen’s mane. “Oh. So that’s why… I’m…” He exhaled. “Thank you…Arthur.”
Arthur grunted, his eyes on the road.
“I’ve had, uh. Well, it’s only fair that I—” Kieran wheezed what was likely supposed to be a steadying breath before rushing out, “You’re important to me too.”
Arthur nearly tipped off his horse. His head whipped so fast toward Kieran, he got vertigo.
“I mean…I feel, uh.” A funny little smile quirked up one of Kieran’s pink cheeks, as though he couldn’t believe he was saying this aloud, either. “I feel the same way. You’re special.”
“Goddamn,” Arthur muttered, doubling over his horse’s neck.
“Mr. Morgan?”
“All that sentimentality is gonna be the death of me,” Arthur mumbled into Dakota’s mane. “One o’ these days…”
“A-Arthur?” Kieran expertly steered Branwen closer until both horses were nearly brushing shoulders. He reached out and laid a hand on Arthur’s back. “You alright?”
“Oh, peachy.”
“Ya look…peaky.”
Arthur’s shoulders shook with a breathless, helpless laugh.
“What?” Kieran’s hand retreated, and a pout bled into his voice. “Ain’t no worse than any o’ your jokes.”
Arthur snorted. Finally, he straightened in the saddle and leveled Kieran with a half-lidded stare. “Please. My jokes are the height of comedy.”
“You know, sometimes you talk like you should be on stage, with all them fancy words, the way you thread them together. So…maybe it is.”
Arthur waved him off. “I’m no Dutch.”
“And good thing, too. H-he ain’t really my type.”
“Please don’t make me imagine that. He’s like a… Well, he practically raised me, him and Hosea. I really don’t need to be picturin’ you an’ him together.”
A look of horror crossed Kieran’s face, and Arthur nearly lost it right then and there. Instead, he merely shook his head and urged Dakota to pull a little ahead. “I can never find the words, when I’m speakin’. It’s only hours later, when I’ve got a pencil in hand, that I piece together somethin’ of an idea.”
“In your journal?” True interest colored Kieran’s tone. “What, uh. It’s none o’ my business, so you don’t gotta say, but… What sorta things do you write in there?”
Arthur shrugged. “My thoughts, I suppose. What we been up to. Interesting things I find, out in the world.”
“Ya ain’t worried some lawman will find it one day?”
“Huh.” Arthur shot a frown over his shoulder. “I never considered that.”
“W-Well, I…” Kieran’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull in panic. “That don’t mean I think you should stop. I think it’s…proof you’re, uh. A thoughtful person. Shame I can’t read it, really. N-not that I would! That’s your private… They’re your private thoughts.”
Arthur turned back to the trail and grunted noncommittally.
“So…” Branwen trotted forward until he and Dakota were neck and neck. “Where we headed?”
“Rhodes. It ain’t far.”
Kieran nodded, then startled when Arthur tossed him something. He fumbled the catch, but ultimately saved it. He peered at the wrapped package. “What is it?”
“Venison. Cooked it myself. Free up my satchel for me, if ya don’t mind.”
“O-oh. Thank you.” Kieran nibbled on a large chunk as he tucked the rest of it away.
Arthur smiled to himself. Don’t think I didn’t notice you don’t eat breakfast. Actually, after all his time watching Kieran, noting his habits and routine, he was pretty sure the man only ate once a day: late at night, right before Pearson took the pot off the fire. A man should eat more.
If nothing else, after this trip, Kieran would be clothed and fed. A goddamn shame he needed to rely on Arthur Morgan to take care of him. He barely took care of himself.
But nothing lasted forever. Maybe by the end of things, Arthur would have taught Kieran to care for himself, fight for himself. Who else would, once Arthur was gone? If Arthur managed nothing else in his life, he’d be happy knowing the younger members of the gang could handle themselves. Lenny. Sean. And, maybe especially, Kieran.
At the very least, by the end of the day, Kieran would be pampered to hell and back. The boy deserved it, if Arthur could manage it.