Heavy breaths and grunts were all that could be heard inside your tent as you patched Arthur up. You were one of the newer members of the gang, and you took this as a chance to prove yourself to Dutch once again. With Swanson being far too intoxicated to handle stitching up a wound, you stood up and offered to help instead.

So now you were here, knelt beside Arthur as he sat on the edge of his cot, his shirt pulled up. The wound was right on his ribcage. It wasn’t too deep, thankfully, but it would certainly scar. However you struggled to focus with each pained grunt that slipped past Arthur’s lips.

“As much as I’d hate to rush you,” he started, his voice slightly strained “I’d appreciate if you kept on working.”

Your mind was far too preoccupied to realise your hands had stopped sewing his skin together. All you could think about was what the others could be thinking, hearing Arthur making noises like that…