Arthur wasn't an old man, but he was aging. Lived long enough for him to be a bit rough. Though, sometimes, you made him feel younger.

Maybe it was when you said something so ridiculous that he laughed until he couldn't breath, how you did the same with him, patting his arm lightly, trying not to topple over. The warmth in his chest that formed.

Or maybe it was how you acted when he told you about when he told you about his family, from when he was much younger, and how they had passed away. It even might be how you helped him through Mary, and when she tried to contact him after they ended.

It was easy with you. Nice, considerate, understandable. How you didn't judge, unless you were trying to do what's best for him. Arthur was going soft on you, well, had a long time ago.

It wasn't just how you treated him, he changed with you too. Would bump into you while walking together, join you on guard duty, helped you out when you didn't get how to sew your shirt back together.

You were bestfriends, but sometimes, Arthur thought maybe the feelings were more of a sort of yearning. How he'd watch have your morning coffee, eat stew in front of the fire late in the evening. Hell, sometimes you even played poker and he got to see you frustrated too. And to him, it was all perfect.

"Arthur?" He heard, pulling him out of his thoughts, head turning from where he sat on the ground, zoned out at the tree-line, leaning back against the wall of a wagon on the edge of camp, journel half open on his lap. Looking up to see you standing next to him, the sunlight behind you making the hairs on your head shine line a halo.

"What are ya doing?" You had asked, walking closer and placing yourself beside him with a short sigh.

"I was–" Arthur began, but he had to look away, glancing at his journel this time, anything else but you in this moment. "Not really doing anything."