Sickfic

The rain over Clemens Point had been relentless for three days, turning the camp into a soup of red mud and misery. It was the kind of damp that seeped into the marrow, and for Arthur Morgan, it had brought something more than just a chill. It had brought a heaviness to his lungs and a fire to his skin that no amount of coffee or whiskey could douse.

Arthur sat on the edge of his cot, his head hanging low between his broad shoulders. His blonde hair was matted with sweat, and his green eyes were glassy, struggling to focus on the dirt floor. Every breath felt like inhaling shards of glass. He knew he should get up, should go see Pearson about the lack of game, or check on the horses, but his limbs felt like they were made of lead.

"Arthur? You look like you've been dragged through the mud and back again."

Arthur looked up slowly. It was Mary-Beth, a pile of laundry tucked under her arm. She was looking at him with genuine concern, her brow furrowed.

"I’m fine," Arthur croaked, his voice cracking. He tried to stand, but the world tilted violently to the left. He slumped back down, a low groan escaping his throat.

"You are most certainly not fine," she said, setting the laundry down on a nearby crate. She reached out to touch his forehead, but Arthur flinched away.

It wasn't that he didn't like Mary-Beth; it was that he was hurting, and when Arthur Morgan was hurting, he only wanted one person. The secret they had kept for years—the quiet touches in the dead of night, the shared glances over the campfire that held more weight than a thousand words—was the only thing he wanted to cling to now.

"Where's Hosea?" Arthur muttered, his voice thick.

"He's with Dutch, I think. Discussing the situation in Rhodes," Mary-Beth replied. "Let me get you some water, Arthur. You’re burning up."

"No. Just... just get Hosea."

Mary-Beth blinked, surprised by the intensity in his tone. Usually, Arthur was the one insisting he didn't need help, the one who would rather die than be a burden. But now, he looked small, despite his broad frame. He looked like a man who was losing his grip on his own strength.

She hurried toward Dutch’s tent, where the two older men were hunched over a map. Dutch was gesturing wildly, his voice a low rumble of ambition and frustration. Hosea sat opposite him, leaning back in his chair, his lean frame draped in a worn duster. His grey hair caught the dim light, and his brown eyes were sharp, scanning the map with the weary wisdom of a man who had seen too many plans go wrong.

"Dutch, Hosea? Excuse me," Mary-Beth interrupted softly.

Dutch looked up, annoyed. "Not now, Mary-Beth. We are in the middle of—"

"It's Arthur," she said quickly. "He’s ill. Very ill. And he’s asking for Hosea."

Hosea was on his feet before Dutch could even finish his huff of indignation. The calm, calculated mask Hosea usually wore slipped for a fraction of a second, replaced by a flash of raw, unfiltered panic. He didn't say a word to Dutch as he brushed past him, his long strides taking him across the muddy clearing toward Arthur’s wagon.

Dutch followed, more out of curiosity than concern, and soon a small crowd began to gather near the edge of Arthur’s space. Charles, John, and Miss Grimshaw watched from a distance, sensing the shift in the camp’s gravity.

Hosea reached the wagon and stepped into the small circle of light. Arthur was swaying, his hands gripping the edge of the cot so hard his knuckles were white.

"Arthur," Hosea said, his voice dropping into a low, soothing register that the rest of the gang rarely heard. "Arthur, look at me."

Arthur’s head snapped up. When his eyes landed on Hosea, the tension seemed to bleed out of him all at once. He made a sound—half-sob, half-sigh—and reached out.

To the shock of everyone watching, Arthur didn't just lean on Hosea; he grabbed the older man’s waistcoat and pulled him close. Hosea didn't hesitate. He sat on the edge of the cot and wrapped a thin, strong arm around Arthur’s shoulders, pulling the younger man’s head onto his chest.

"I’ve got you," Hosea whispered, his fingers moving instinctively to brush the sweaty hair back from Arthur’s forehead. "I’ve got you, son. Easy now."

"Stay," Arthur mumbled, his face pressed into the wool of Hosea’s vest. "Don't go back to the meeting. Stay here."

"I'm not going anywhere," Hosea promised. He looked up then, realizing that the camp was watching. Dutch was standing a few feet away, his arms crossed, his expression a mix of confusion and a slow-dawning realization. Miss Grimshaw looked stunned, and John Marston was staring with his mouth slightly agape.

Hosea didn't pull away. He didn't try to make an excuse or hide the way he was cradling Arthur’s heavy head. He simply looked at Dutch with a gaze that said *try me.*

"He’s got a fever," Hosea said loudly, addressing the group but never letting go of Arthur. "Miss Grimshaw, I need cool water and clean rags. Charles, see if you can find some feverfew or ginseng in the bags. The rest of you, give him some air."

"Hosea," Dutch said, taking a step forward. "I didn't realize... I mean, he's a grown man. He just needs a bit of rest."

"He's a man who has worked himself to the bone for this family," Hosea snapped, his voice sharp as a whip. "And right now, he's sick. Now, do as I asked."

The gang scattered, moved by the rare authority in Hosea’s voice that brooked no argument. Only Dutch remained for a moment longer, watching the way Arthur’s hand remained firmly clenched in the fabric of Hosea’s shirt, like a drowning man clutching a lifeline.

"You’ve been keeping secrets, Hosea," Dutch said quietly, though there was no malice in it, only a strange sort of melancholy.

Hosea looked down at Arthur, who had closed his eyes, his breathing heavy and ragged. "Some things are private, Dutch. Even in a life like this."

Dutch nodded slowly, then turned and walked away toward his own tent, leaving the two of them in the shadows of the wagon.

For the next few hours, the camp was uncharacteristically quiet. The usual bickering and laughter were replaced by a hushed reverence. They all knew Arthur was the heart of the gang, the muscle and the soul, but seeing him so vulnerable—and seeing Hosea so openly protective—had shifted something in the atmosphere.

Inside the wagon, Hosea worked with a practiced, gentle hand. He bathed Arthur’s face with cool water, ignoring the ache in his own back from sitting in a cramped position. Every time he tried to pull away to rinse the rag, Arthur would stir, his hand searching blindly for Hosea’s.

"Hosea?" Arthur whispered, his eyes opening just a crack. The green was clouded with pain.

"I'm right here, Arthur." Hosea took his hand, lacing their fingers together. Arthur’s hand was massive compared to Hosea’s, calloused and scarred, but it trembled like a leaf.

"I'm sorry," Arthur breathed. "The camp... they saw."

"Let them see," Hosea said firmly. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against Arthur’s. "I'm too old to care about their gossip, and you're too sick to worry about it. We’ve spent twenty years looking after everyone else. It’s time I looked after you."

Arthur let out a shaky breath, a small, ghost of a smile touching his lips. "You always were a silver-tongued devil."

"And you were always a fool for listening," Hosea retorted softly. "Now, drink this. Charles brought the tonic."

Hosea helped him sit up, supporting the bulk of Arthur’s weight against his own chest. He held the cup to Arthur’s lips, murmuring encouragements as the younger man swallowed the bitter medicine. When Arthur sank back down, he didn't go back to the pillow. He turned on his side, pulling Hosea’s arm over him, tucking the older man’s hand against his heart.

"Stay," Arthur whispered again, the word slurring as the medicine began to take hold.

"I told you," Hosea said, his voice thick with an emotion he usually kept under lock and key. "I'm not going anywhere."

As the night wore on, the rain finally began to taper off into a light drizzle. One by one, the gang members retired to their beds, but their eyes often drifted toward the light in Arthur’s wagon.

John Marston sat by the dying fire, staring into the embers. Abigail came up behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"You okay, John?" she asked quietly.

"I just... I never knew," John admitted. "I mean, I knew they were close. Hosea practically raised us. But the way he was looking at him... the way Arthur wouldn't let him go."

Abigail smiled sadly, looking toward the wagon. "It’s a hard world, John. We take our comfort where we can find it. I think it’s beautiful. Hosea’s been the anchor for this whole mess for as long as I can remember. Maybe Arthur’s the only thing keeping that anchor from rusting away."

Inside the wagon, the fever was finally starting to break. Arthur’s skin was cooler to the touch, and his breathing had leveled out into a deep, restorative sleep. Hosea remained exactly where he was, his arm starting to go numb under Arthur’s weight, but he didn't move.

He watched the way the lantern light played over Arthur’s features, softening the harsh lines of a life spent in violence. To the world, Arthur Morgan was a debt collector, a gunman, a force of nature. But here, in the quiet of the night, he was just a man who needed to be loved.

Hosea reached out with his free hand and traced the line of Arthur’s jaw. "You big oaf," he whispered affectionately. "You’re going to have a lot of explaining to do tomorrow."

Arthur stirred in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent, and pressed closer to Hosea’s side.

Hosea leaned his head back against the wooden frame of the wagon and closed his eyes. The secret was out, and tomorrow would bring questions, perhaps even judgment from some. But as he felt the steady beat of Arthur’s heart against his palm, Hosea realized he didn't care. For the first time in a long time, the weight he carried felt a little lighter.

The morning sun began to peek through the trees, casting long, golden fingers across the camp. When Arthur finally woke, the fever was gone, leaving him weak but clear-headed. He blinked against the light, realizing he was still being held.

He looked up to see Hosea watching him, a tired but relieved smile on his face.

"Morning," Hosea said.

Arthur shifted, realizing how much of a spectacle he must have made the night before. "Hosea... the gang. I... I was out of my head."

Hosea squeezed his hand. "They know, Arthur. And the world didn't end. Dutch didn't cast us out, and Bill didn't start a mutiny. They just saw two people who care for one another."

Arthur sat up slowly, rubbing his face. He looked out the back of the wagon and saw Javier and Charles talking by the fire. They looked over and offered a small, respectful nod. No mockery, no judgment. Just acknowledgement.

"I suppose it’s a relief," Arthur admitted, his voice still a bit rough. "Tired of hiding."

"Then don't," Hosea said, standing up and stretching his stiff limbs. He offered a hand to Arthur. "Come on. Pearson’s making coffee, and I suspect you’re starving."

Arthur took the hand, pulling himself up. He didn't let go immediately, standing there in the quiet of the wagon, looking at the man who had been his compass for half his life.

"Thank you, Hosea," Arthur said, his green eyes steady and warm.

Hosea reached up, patting Arthur’s cheek. "Don't thank me yet. You still have to deal with John’s questions. He’s been staring at this wagon like he’s seen a ghost all morning."

Arthur chuckled, a low, honest sound. "I can handle John."

"I know you can," Hosea said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Now, let’s go. I believe we have a life to live, and I’d rather do it with you by my side than ten paces behind."

They stepped out of the wagon together, into the crisp morning air. The secret was gone, replaced by a truth that made the camp feel a little more like a home and a little less like a hiding place. And as they walked toward the fire, side by side, Arthur Morgan felt stronger than he ever had before.