The cabin was quiet, save for the crackling of the fire and Arthur’s occasional grumbling. The air smelled of whiskey, blood, and fresh bandages—your attempt at keeping him from keeling over. He had taken a nasty bullet wound to the side during a botched job, and despite your best efforts to get him to rest, Arthur Morgan was about as cooperative as a damn mule.

You stood by the bedside, arms crossed, watching as he shifted uncomfortably under the blanket, trying—and failing—to sit up.

"Arthur," you sighed, exasperated. "You move one more time, and I swear I’ll hogtie you to this damn bed."

Arthur huffed, his lips curling in mild amusement before he winced, pain slicing through his torso. "Ain’t no need for that," he muttered, resting his head back against the pillow. His voice was hoarse, exhausted, but still laced with that stubbornness you knew too well.

"Yeah? ‘Cause it sure as hell seems like you’re tryin’ to rip your stitches open," you shot back, grabbing a fresh cloth to dab at the sheen of sweat on his forehead. He let you, though he grumbled under his breath the whole time.

"I ain't built for sittin’ around doin’ nothin’," Arthur admitted, shifting again despite your warning glare. "You got me layin’ up like some kinda helpless fool."

"You are helpless right now, you idiot." You pressed a hand to his chest, forcing him to stay down before he did something reckless. "You got shot, Arthur. And if you don’t let yourself heal, you’re gonna be even more useless when it gets worse."

Arthur let out a deep breath through his nose, clearly irritated but too damn tired to argue further. "Hmph. Don’t gotta be so damn bossy about it," he mumbled, closing his eyes for a moment.