Chapter Text
Since this... thing between them started, on a surreal, star-soaked night on the lakeshore just outside of Blackwater, Charles has learned two things.
One: Arthur Morgan sleeps like the dead. Contrary to his light-sleeper habits when they’re out in the wilderness, in camp Arthur can and will sleep through just about anything – whether it be another late-night shouting match between John and Abigail, Sean’s drunken caterwauling, Miss Grimshaw’s strident bark, Dutch’s scratchy gramophone music, or any of the other usual camp ruckus. Charles, still adjusting from years of relative quiet and solitude, doesn’t know how he does it. It speaks, perhaps, of feelings of safety and security, letting his guard drop entirely when surrounded by his family. Which is endearing, in a way – though Charles would like to think that Arthur could (and should) be able to have other safe havens in his life, outside of a bunch of outlaws.
Two: He’s been with the gang so long that said bunch of outlaws seem to view Arthur – and all he owns – as communal property. Things like privacy and seclusion are luxuries, rarely afforded when you have over twenty people living on top of each other like this. But while a pretense of common courtesy is kept up in most cases – hovering at the edges of canvas unless invited in, loud clearing of throats to announce one’s presence, gazes politely averted when someone’s getting changed – Arthur seems to be as much a staple feature of the gang as the campfire or the butchery table. And that means people will happily barge into his lean-to – whether he’s got the side covers down or not – at all hours of the day and night.
Or in those grey hours between the two.
“Hey Arthur, you got a- oh!”
Lenny stares like a startled deer.
Charles stares back.
Arthur snores.
“...need something?” Charles finally asks lowly, peering over Arthur’s shoulder. Not shifting from his position – curled around Arthur’s back, arm slung over his middle.
“Um...” Lenny’s eyes dart between Charles and Arthur a few moments more, but he thankfully keeps his voice low when he finds it again. “I just, uh, was wondering if he had a hoof pick. Err, Maggie’s got a stone wedged, and I can’t find the camp one...”
“There’s one in Taima’s saddlebags. Left side.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks. Um. Bye then!”
Charles stares at the tent flap for a long moment after Lenny makes his hasty exit, then lets his head thump into the dip between Arthur’s shoulder blades with a low groan.
It had been an unspoken agreement between them as they’d finally made their way back to camp that night, lips and skin still tingling from the kisses and gentle touches neither of them had been afforded in a very long time; as they’d approached the glow of the campfires, got within sighting distance of whoever was on watch, they walked a little further apart. And Charles was sure someone would say something, once they noticed the way Arthur’s eyes soften whenever he catches Charles’, the pink dusting his cheeks, the bashful smiles he tries and fails to hide under the brim of his hat. But no one has – too caught up in their own lives, or too used to the image of Arthur that he projects to the world – gruff, tough, and hardened, reserving his gentleness only for horses and small children.
So they’ve kept... this, whatever it is, a secret – Charles slipping into Arthur’s tent after everyone’s asleep and leaving before they wake up again, or the two of them coordinating their trips out of camp. While Arthur is certain that most of the gang wouldn’t bat an eye at a relationship between two men, Charles is warier – the key word is most, and he’s far too used to other people’s prejudices as it is.
And they’d both agreed that, even if the whole gang was okay with their relationship, the teasing just wouldn’t be worth it. Though some mornings, when the sky is turning pale and Charles knows he has to leave now if he wants to avoid being seen, and Arthur is soft and sleep-warm in his arms... a part of him wonders if maybe it would be.
But now Lenny knows.
Oblivious to all of this, Arthur just keeps on snoring.
In hindsight, of all the people that could have walked in on them, he’s glad it was Lenny – he’s barely more than a boy, but he’s got more intelligence, integrity and kindness than most men three times his age, and knows more about bigotry than most of them too. He gives Charles a nervous smile next time they see each other, but says nothing. It’s not until Arthur mentions that “Lenny’s been actin’ real strange – keeps talkin’ about ‘finding the one’ and ‘true love’. Poor kid, he must’ve been even sweeter on Jenny than we thought!” that Charles’ shoulders ease from the tension he didn’t realise he’d been holding. He gives Lenny a genuine smile as they exchange watch duty, and Lenny grins back, seeming to understand. Their secret is safe with him – the kid’s no gossip.
He’s not sure the same can be said of Miss Mary-Beth Gaskill.
“Oh!”
Charles jerks awake just in time to see a pink skirt quickly disappear back out through the tent flaps, the pile of fresh laundry that’s been hurriedly deposited on Arthur’s clothes chest listing precariously to one side. Cursing softly, Charles detangles himself from Arthur and, after a peek through the canvas flaps to make sure the coast is clear, hurries out after her, trying to think of some explanation, or bargain, or plea, or even a threat if he has to, that will keep her from telling the other girls.
Because once she does, the knowledge will spread through the camp like wildfire. And because... Charles isn’t sure what he’s doing. Doesn’t think Arthur really knows either. Maybe, when it comes down to it, the both of them just want someone to hold in the night. But he still cares for Arthur, genuinely likes the man underneath that hardened exterior. The prospect of being run out of the gang is painful, but he’d survive. But the thought of Arthur being disowned by his family, this ragtag group he so dearly loves...
Charles can’t bear the thought of making Arthur suffer that for his sake.
But Mary-Beth’s already bent over her (unusually early) laundry work, and refuses to meet his eye for the next few days, keeping her head buried in her notebook. And Charles frets and worries and wonders if he should just leave, now, to try and spare Arthur – right up until Tilly brings him a bowl of stew when he’s out on watch, and complains to him about the latest story Mary-Beth’s been writing.
“Some high-falootin’ nonsense about forbidden lovers and all that,” she huffs, rolling her eyes. “She keeps insisting it’s awful romantic. But Lord, I looked over her latest chapter yesterday – could feel my teeth rotting just reading it!”
Charles laughs, and hopes the relief isn’t too obvious on his face.
As it turns out, there’s one exception to Arthur’s ability to sleep through anything. Charles barely registers the quiet whimper that wakes him up before Arthur’s pushing himself up on one arm.
“Jack? What’s wrong, kid?”
“I had a bad dream,” Jack sniffles, the sliver of lantern light making its way through the canvas flaps highlighting the tear tracks on his cheeks. “Can... can I stay with you?”
Arthur and Charles share a slightly bewildered look – but neither of them are going to deny a frightened and upset child. Much as he doesn’t relish the idea of returning to his lonely bedroll on the cold, hard ground now that the campfire’s burned down, Charles shifts, pushing himself up to leave-
“Might be a bit of a tight fit, but, ’course you can, c’mere.”
Charles looks at Arthur again, startled, just gets the tiniest of shrugs in response. But Jack doesn’t seem perturbed by the fact there’s already someone else in Arthur’s cot, and they manage – Charles on his side and curled around Arthur, who’s on his back with Jack lying on his chest.
“What was the bad dream about, hmm? Not the broccoli monsters again?”
“Uncle Arthur I’m too old to be scared of broccoli monsters!” Jack declares indignantly, fears momentarily forgotten. Charles hides his smile in Arthur’s shoulder. But it falters when Jack continues in a smaller voice, “the... the nasty men. Down by the river...”
Charles can see Arthur bite his lip in the gloom. He’d told Charles about his and Jack’s encounter with the Pinkerton agents as they’d fletched arrows over the scout fire – or rather, while Charles had fletched arrows and Arthur had paced about like a frustrated wildcat. It was hard to tell what the man was more unnerved by – the Pinkertons being so close to discovering their camp, or Dutch’s ambivalence about it.
“Yeah, they weren’t very nice were they?” Arthur says gently. “But you don’t need to worry about them, they’re long gone. And even if they weren’t – you got your mama, and me, and Charles here, and Uncle Dutch and Uncle Hosea, and all the rest of us – we’ll make sure those nasty men don’t bother you none.”
Jack turns his head at that, seemingly only just registering the other man in Arthur’s cot.
“Did you have a bad dream too, Mr. Charles?” he yawns, eyelids already drooping.
“Something like that,” Charles says softly as they settle.
When Abigail comes looking for her son just before dawn, she pauses only briefly, eyebrows raising slightly before she smiles, shooting Charles an apologetic look as she extracts Jack from Arthur’s arms. Arthur mumbles unhappily in his sleep, apparently missing having something to cuddle – because he promptly rolls over and latches onto Charles instead. Abigail huffs a quiet laugh, gives him a wink, and slips back outside.
Charles presses his own smile into Arthur’s hair and goes back to sleep.
“Ahem.”
Charles blinks awake and finds himself looking up into the cold eyes of Leopold Strauss. There’s a distinct curl to the man’s lip.
Charles glares right back, arms tightening protectively around Arthur.
“What do you want, Strauss?” he growls lowly.
“Good morning,” Strauss says curtly. “I need to speak to Herr Morgan.”
“If you hadn’t noticed, he’s sleeping. Keep your voice down.”
“Well then he should get up! There is work to do!”
“Then go do it yourself, and keep out of other people’s business.”
He hopes the unspoken threat is implicit enough, but Strauss just tsks.
“This,” he huffs, gesturing at the two of them, “is none of my business. This is,” he brandishes the large book in his hands. “Herr Morgan assured me he would collect our final outstanding debt yesterday, but he has not!”
Charles blinks at him in disbelief.
“The sun’s not even up!” he hisses.
“Every day he tarries, we risk losing our investment. That man, Downes, owes to other parties besides ourselves! If Herr Morgan doesn’t get to him first-”
“Then the other vultures will get all the best scraps?” Charles wonders darkly. Strauss’ function in the gang hadn’t been clear to him, at first – he just knew the man kept the gang’s accounts and helped with the odd forgery job. It was only once they’d left the foothills of the Northern Grizzlies and started staying near more populated areas that Strauss’ other line of business became apparent. Charles’ jaw clenches at the thought of this horrid little man preying on those who are beyond desperation.
And at the remembrance of how long it takes for the light to come back into Arthur’s eyes every time he’s sent to collect.
“We were up half the night robbing a train, send someone else.”
“But Dutch insists Herr Morgan is the best man for the-”
“Send. Someone. Else.”
It’s low, and menacing, and it does the trick. Strauss swallows.
“I... very well,” he mutters, before shuffling out of the lean-to, clutching that damned ledger to his chest. And not a moment too soon – Arthur stirs in his arms, eventually cracking his eyes open to squint at him.
“Y’say somethin’ jus’ now?” he asks through a yawn.
“I said I’ve got to go,” Charles lies smoothly – partly because he doesn’t want Arthur to worry. And partly because he suspects, if he knew the purpose of Strauss’ visit, that Arthur would drag himself out of his cot to go and do his bidding, returning with bruised knuckles and dull eyes. But they were up until the small hours of the morning on the train job, and he knows Arthur didn’t get much sleep the night before either, too busy running some stagecoach scam with Hosea.
“Go back to sleep,” he soothes, carding his fingers through Arthur’s sleep tousled hair until he relaxes.
“Y’could stay...” he murmurs.
Charles feels an odd... pull in his chest. It’s incredibly tempting – to just curl up under the covers again, Arthur in his arms, and to hell with the world beyond the tent flaps. But Strauss’ sneer sticks in his mind.
“You know I can’t,” he says quietly. Arthur makes a face, but nods.
“Hunting trip soon?” he mumbles.
“Sure. Maybe we could head into Cumberland Forest.”
“I was thinkin’ over Strawberry-way. Big Valley. Lotsa game over there – deer, elk...”
And it would take them away from camp for several days.
“Sounds good. I can’t be the only one getting sick of pronghorn.”
“Sounds good,” Arthur echoes, giving him a sleepy smile. Just because he can, Charles leans down and steals himself a kiss before reluctantly pulling his boots back on and creeping back to his own bedroll – Strauss is nowhere in sight, and the rest of the camp isn’t up yet. Careful not to disturb Javier, he climbs into the cold covers, holding back a sigh. Instead, he lets thoughts of another hunting trip – just the two of them, a campfire, and the stars – lull him to sleep.
A few days later, they ride out in the evening – not west towards Big Valley, but east, in search of a new campsite, after Dutch starts a shootout with half the population of Valentine. And despite the urgency and worry and barely-concealed anger over the situation, there’s a moment when they crest over the hills of the Heartlands and come to a stop to give the horses a small break after the climb; a moment where Arthur is silhouetted against the night sky, head tilted up and searching, as if he can find the answers to their problems in the stars, and Charles is close enough to see them reflected in his eyes.
And he feels that strange sensation in his chest again, spreading beneath his ribs – like the first few sips of a hot drink on a cold day. And part of him is worried, nervous of these feelings, of their intensity. He has learned, over and over again, that it’s best not to get too attached – to places, possessions, people...
The rest of him ignores it, and admires the beautiful sight in front of him.