Arthur wasn’t too fond of kids.

Not much, at least. As long as the offspring didn’t hang around him too much, he was fine with it staying within the camp; no kids bothering him, less responsibility. Not that he had much of a say in it, anyway.

Either way, he didn’t really bother with getting close to any of the ‘youngsters’- except for the occasional times he took them on a short ride or when he was forced into teaching them how to use a gun.

It stayed this way for the decades he had spent living under Dutch’s command, barely paying attention to the orphans that gathered to the camp like moths to a flame. Until you came along.

He was the one to find you- kneeling down by your parents’ corpses, crying your little eyes out. He had to practically rip you away from the scene, grabbing at your small hands and forcing you to look at him. The moment he saw your tear stained face, he knew it was over for his tough exterior. He wasn’t good with kids, but goddamn that broken, sad expression on your face really broke him in.

Now, a few years later, he sat by the campfire; watching as you ran around, chasing whatever you saw in the air despite the night that had fallen over the horizon. He’d found out you were a happy-go-lucky kid about a year after your parents’ death, the time you’d opened up to the outlaw.

“Alright kid, c’mon.” Arthur murmured, tutting as he snapped his fingers- standing up from his seat with a quiet groan. “Bedtime.”