Playing Dangerous ? ||RDR2 // Arthur Morgan X Reader||

'Honey, don't ignore me;
I just wanted things to be the same.
You said you'd love me like no tomorrow,
I guess tomorrow never came.'

-

The passing weeks had only succeeded in making you stronger, both in body and in mind. Your injured leg was soon no set back, and as usual you were back to helping the other girls tend to the management and maintenance of the camp. Besides, the constant flow of chores also helped take your mind off of a certain Mr Morgan who still, was being as evasive as ever.

It was something you still couldn't quite figure, you knew he was watching you at times because you would catch him making fleeting glances; as if he was checking up on you. But as quick as his grey-blue eyes had been upon you, he would look away. Arthur did not once make an attempt to approach you for a full conversation. In fact the most you had got out of him over the 3 weeks was a passing 'Good mornin'' and that was all.

He had all but wholly convinced you that you had sank back down into just another member of the camp, you were no speciality – no girl with real attributes or feelings that needed any concern with him. So, as best as you could, you tried to set yourself the same outlook. If he didn't care, then why should you feel obliged to wonder about him all the god-damn time.

It was mid-may at Horseshoe Overlook, the camp was surrounded by dense and untamed greenery, long green grass and winsome wild flowers that scantly decorated the uncultivated foliage. The sun above was bright and torrid, hot white in the vivid blue sky. It was unforgiving as the temperature mounted towards the approaching summer, both nurturing the land and culling it with the wavering periods between heat and rainfall. A fragrant breeze perfumed the air around you, the scent of the beautiful fresh countryside and the mixing heat of the day was something that never ceased to lift your mood and heighten your senses.

Particularly perky now summer was well settled in, you were rather enjoying the more laborious tasks around the camp. There was nothing you liked better than when Mr Pearson handed you a long list of supplies to get from Valentine, or taking a big basket of washing down to the river to get clean. You put this slight obsession with being occupied constantly down to the fact, beneath your smiling exterior and focused attitude – if you stopped for one second your mind would could tripping back to all the events of the past year. All the toiling changes you went through, the despondency you felt – if you paused for merely a heartbeat, it would consume you. Your conscience knew that this was the best way, to just keep moving forward.

----

On a tepid morning, grateful for the relief from the blazing heat of the past few days – you had been set upon preparing some of the vegetables for the night's stew.

Your (hair colour) hair pulled back into a loose bun, twists of fine locks fell into your face, tickling against your skin as you looked down at your victim vegetables facing the knife on the chopping board.

Deep laughter and chatter forced you to look up – there they were, the dream team. Crossing the camp, dressed up to their eyes in all the relevant weaponry. Morgan, Van Der Linde and Marston. All bantering away like best friends, clearly off on a mission of some kind. You glared over with a level of turbulent malice in your eyes, reflective of the unsettled frustration you felt about Arthur and his determined ignorance.

"Pa!" young Jack Marston's tones chirped, and you had to smile at the sight of the lad running towards his father. John however, stopped in his tracks and looked down at his son like the boy was a strange animal bounding about by his feet, yapping and making unclear sounds.

"Uhhh... what is it Jack?" Marston answered with a broad awkwardness to his tone, probably conscious Dutch and Arthur were watching on as a bit of an audience. It was a well known fact that John didn't like to really think jack was his boy, much to Abigail's dismay, he didn't make much time for the boy at all. Resilient as ever, the poor thing, Jack simply didn't see it that way at all. He saw his father every time he looked at John.