#counter/weight ending spoilers but in a way you look at canon and go “ah. pain. i see. but what if --” | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kbstories · 5 years

Text

@danudaine commissioned me to write a blind!Arthur AU :3c all aboard the angst train, choo choo!

The Weight Of Us

Tags: Arthur/Charles, Canon Divergence, Angst, Near Death Experiences, Blindness, Aftermath of Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery

Content warning: The thoughts/opinions expressed by Arthur about his (temporary) blindness are quite harsh, and don’t correspond with my own.

Set in Chapter 6-ish. Beware spoilers!

>>Read on AO3!

☕ Ko-fi ☕ (Commissions currently closed)

Once, in one of those quiet, few-and-far-inbetween moments when the fires are burning low and the last of the whiskey is gone, Arthur had wondered what would be the last thing he'd see.

A gun, perhaps, and whoever finally had enough of him pulling the trigger?

It's a hard concept to grasp, with a future as uncertain as his and a head full of dreams too precarious to think of too much. Death is coming, as sure as the sun shines and the birds sing – an inevitability written in the margins of his journal, more and more prominent each day.

Then came Blackwater, the Grizzlies, Colm on the plains, Guarma... and Arthur realized death, once it catches up with you, isn't a straight-forward business. It's a messy shot in the head, strong and unrelenting hands around your neck, a run-in with a boar or a sickness settling deep in your lungs, and it doesn't let go until the heart beats its last.

On the day Arthur hears the hiss of a burning fuse, turns to run, too slow, catches sight of a sharp smirk, too late, he thinks death has crossed his path for the final time.

A second, a fraction of a moment– Then Arthur's world lights on fire, the ice in Micah's eyes filling his vision until he knows no more.

Ears ringing, breaths stuttering in used and abused lungs. Arthur comes to utter chaos assaulting his senses and pain, absolute and all-encompassing, licking his skin with flaming tongues and leaving it scorched.

“Arthur!”

Distant, a faint echo of a shout. But Arthur can't respond, can barely find enough air to dispel some of the dizziness swirling within him; he blinks, blinks again, reaches along gravel and splintering wood towards that voice he'd recognize anywhere–

Arthur wheezes out, “Charles”, a weak groan compared to the booming of guns and rifles that doesn't stop, not for him–

Then Charles is there, comes into being by his side with strong hands and gentleness in his voice. “I'm here”, he says, and “Stay down”, and it's not like Arthur has much of a choice with his body heavy as stone, pulling him down and under...

All is dark around him, dark and muted and aching. Arthur drifts, loses track of time – searches for Charles's voice again and finds it, an eagle circling the skies, too far away to be certain.

“Stay with me, Arthur, please–”

There's words on his tongue, words and things he's kept away from Charles: how beautiful he looked, with the morning light gliding over his naked back like liquid gold; how Arthur's fingers had itched to draw him just like that, to trace every line and detail until his profile became as familiar as his voice.

In that void without shape or definition, Arthur thinks of the depths of Charles's eyes, warm and softening with a smile – moisture slides down Arthur's cheeks. I was afraid, he knows now, that you wouldn't love me back.

There's hands cupping his face, the tender touch of a forehead against his. Charles whispers, “I know”, sounding choked. “I love you too, Arthur. Hold on for me?”

Arthur manages a nod, light-headed with it all, and presses a kiss to his palm, the closest part of him he can reach.

“What the hell, Dutch?!”

It isn't the first time Arthur has woken up to those exact words out of John's mouth. Before, it used to be accompanied by Hosea's weary sigh and countered by Dutch's stubborn reassurances: a strategy that carried the four of them year after difficult year, one that worked, back when things were easier.

But Hosea's dead and gone, six feet under for months now, and Dutch... Dutch is Dutch, only what exactly that means, Arthur isn't sure of anymore.

Silence follows, a devastating totality. Sighing, Arthur sits up, ignoring the rustling of movement from across his cot to focus on the warning rumble of “Cool it, Marston” – Bill? – and a scoff that must come from John.

“Oh shut up, Williamson. What, we're all just gonna pretend this ain't happenin'?”

To his credit, John tries to keep it down. That rough-gravel-voice of his begs to be heard, however, much more so now that–

“Arthur's been blinded, for Christ's sake. Can't see a fucking thing and we're letting that rat stay – yeah, 'm talking 'bout you, Micah Bell, keep walkin'!”

A laugh, uniquely mocking. Micah. “Or what, tough guy?”

Arthur's thread of patience has snapped before he can properly get ahold of it. “Gonna start hopin' that explosion took my hearin' too”, he bites out, “if y'all intend t'keep yellin' like that.”

Around him the camp grinds to a standstill. There's no satisfaction to this either; Arthur doesn't need his sight to feel everyone's eyes are on him, a pack of wolves attracted by the wounded yelp of one of their own. And just like wolves they will soon move on and roam the wilds without him.

Ever the obstacle in their way. A small obstacle, to be sure, an ever-shrinking obstacle.

“Well, well–”

“You heard the man, Micah.”

Javier's calm timbre steps over whatever teeth-grinding thing the man wanted to say, the veiled threat behind his words like one of those knives of his, sharp and deadly – and something in Arthur eases, an entirely different set of doubts soothed by having it wielded for and not against him.

Everything's just so... fucked. Sitting there in ever-present darkness, Arthur is suddenly aware of so much of it: John fighting his fights, more than the scrawny spitfire kid Arthur met him as; the days and weeks it's been since he talked to Dutch, properly talked to him like they used to; and now, he can't even get up to take a piss without help.

Arthur wants to rubs at his eyes, those useless things now covered by bandages, itchy against the raw skin underneath. Susan's presence is enough to deter him, uncharacteristically quiet though she's been – the truth is Arthur can't take it, to hear the worried way she calls his name every time he forgets, for a brief moment.

“'s okay to take a break, Miss Grimshaw”, he mumbles then, sensing her close enough to hear. “Ain't gonna get up to nothin', you got my word.”

Her fond chuckle is unexpected, rare as it has become. “Somehow I don't quite believe that, Mr. Morgan”, light and teasing. Then there's a hand on his knee, stopping it from bouncing with tension.

“Besides, it ain't you who's causin' the trouble. Seems like some peace and quiet has become too much to afford 'round here.”

She huffs, dripping with disdain. It pulls a smile out of Arthur – he can picture the exact expression on her face perfectly.

“Guess so.”

Exhaling slowly, he leans back, resting his back against the wood of his wagon. Maybe not everything has changed.

Susan pats his knee and, after a while, the soft click click of her knitting needles can be heard.

Charles returns to Beaver Hollow in a whirlwind of hoofbeats.

Neck white with lather, Taima worries her bit endlessly, the metal working and working in her mouth even after he's dismounted. Charles's heart aches for her; she's always been sensitive to his moods and with the tension of the past few days, she's as restless as he feels.

Charles takes a moment to pat her damp shoulder, to push a few wayward strands of her mane back in place. “I'm sorry, girl”, he mutters quietly, making to take off her bridle. “Rest now, hmm?”

The crunch of gravel sounds behind him. Charles's hand is on his knife without conscious thought, shoulders squared to one rigid line.

Javier stops in his tracks, eyes flitting to the movement before meeting his gaze. “Easy.”

Charles doesn't relax and Javier doesn't seem particularly surprised by it. A hard man to read, him – yet he's open as a book right now, which begs the question why.

A glance to camp, Charles can't help it. Is–

Javier's expression softens. “Arthur's fine.” He sniffs, shakes his head. “As fine as he's gonna get, I suppose. Figured you'd wanna check up on him so I thought...”

A gesture towards Taima, without the usual flourish. Ah.

“Why do you care?”

The question is all hard edges, no minced words. The truth is Charles is tired, tired of watching those Arthur considers family turn their backs on him. It's why he barely leaves his side anymore, why he hurries back when there's no other choice but to.

There's something like remorse on Javier's face but what does it change now?

“I'm not heartless, Charles.”

A quiet admission of guilt, genuine. Charles shakes his head, turns, keeps his fingers gentle as he coaxes the bit out of Taima's mouth. Javier stays, though, and he must know Charles is considering leaving him there, to wait an eternity for that glimpse of redemption they all crave, deep down.

In the end, that haunting moment of what if wins, the incessant gnawing of worry at the back of his mind. The bridle's leather is slippery with sweat but Javier's fingers close around it with certainty.

Charles tells him, “Then act like it”, staring into the almost-black of Javier's gaze for a moment longer before he walks past him.

The walk through camp is a straight line, no distractions, no time to dwell on anything other than Arthur.

Today marks a week since the incident but it seems like eons to Charles, that explosion that changed everything haunting every step he takes. The hours that followed were a chaotic mess of soaked bandages and desperate pleading for Arthur to stay awake, don't leave me – it was when he regained consciousness a day later that the extent of the damage done to him became clear.

And Arthur... accepted it with a small nod of his head, smiled towards where he could hear Jack's upset cries.

Only Charles bore witness to his tears that night. There had been nothing he could've said or done to change any of it so he just held him, repeated the words that might've otherwise been lost to gunfire, and watched Arthur shatter apart in his arms.

None of them had slept much that night. Charles still doesn't, not really, can't escape the memory of Arthur's blood on his hands every time he closes his eyes.

It's that same helplessness that drives John's incessant pacing out of earshot of Arthur's wagon now, all frustrated anger with nowhere to put it; another day of Dutch holed away in his tent, Charles guesses, pausing just long enough to exchange a look with Abigail.

He's sleeping, she mouths and Charles nods, grateful.

The scene he steps into is peaceful: Tilly sits in the spot usually inhabited by Susan Grimshaw, idly flipping through a book, watching over Arthur who is indeed asleep, napping by the looks of it, back propped against his wagon and hat pulled down far enough to keep the light out.

An old habit rendered pointless, and the ache in Charles's chest grows.

“Hey”, he mumbles, smiles a little at the silent wave Tilly gives him. She motions for him to take her seat, collecting her things without a sound; her hand brushes Charles's arm on her way out, squeezing in a gesture of comfort, and that alone calms him more than he wants to admit.

Here, with Arthur safe and resting, Charles finally allows himself to breathe. They needed the supplies, badly – the skirmish that caused it all didn't just take Arthur's sight, but a decent chunk of their ammunition and medicinal inventory, too – and he had believed Arthur on the spot for who's to blame.

For the rest of his days, Charles will never forget the rattling of Arthur's lungs as he tried to draw enough breath to warn them. Needless to say, Micah has avoided the ground Charles walks on like the plague ever since.

Charles shakes his head, shooing away those thoughts that wait for a moment to strike like hungry vultures. There's no point in wasting energy on Micah when Arthur is right there, snoring away under his hat.

There's still room by the foot-end of the cot; it's not the first time Charles squeezes himself into it by Arthur's side, although the circumstances are something else entirely. Arthur's sleepy grumbling when he moves his legs into a more comfortable position is the same, though, and Charles hums, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over his knee.

“Charles...?”

“Yeah. Sleep, Arthur.”

Arthur's hand reaches out and Charles meets him in the middle, interlacing their fingers gently. Arthur asks, “Everything okay?”, worry starting to seep into the cracks of his sleep-roughened voice.

Always concerned for everyone but himself. Charles bends down to kiss his knuckles, letting him feel the smile on his lips. “Just missed you”, he tells him quietly, about to return the same question when he notices the slack-jawed surprise on Arthur's face.

“Arthur?”

A moment later and Arthur is clawing at the bandages over his eyes, knocking his hat down in the process. By the time Charles finally reacts, shielding the tender-red skin of Arthur's temples from his nails, they're dangling around his neck like a broken halo, tattered–

Heart thundering in his throat, Charles demands, “Talk to me”, trying to catch Arthur's eyes out of habit–

Eyes that flicker left to right and back again, widening gradually.

“Can you–?”

“Fuck, Charles”, Arthur laughs until he's wheezing, a few tears slipping out the corner of his eyes, “you're a damn sight for sore–”

“Don't you dare finish that sentence”, Charles growls and hugs him, the weight of the world lifted off his shoulders.

>>Read on AO3!

#red dead redemption #RDR2 #arthur morgan #charles smith #charthur #RDR fanfiction #oh jeez it's been a hot minute since arthur almost died in one of my fics #anyways enjoy the suffering(tm)#reblogs much appreciated <3 #my stuff #fanfiction #commission #RDR

45 notes · View notes