Arthur had never really cared who shaved his beard or cut his hair before he had walked into Valentine and met you. Your father was a barber, and evidently had passed down all of his skills and none of his looks- much to Arthur's secret pleasure.

He didn't care much one way or another how he looked- he was an outlaw, not anybody who needed to look well groomed all the damn time. But you always insisted on giving him a nice haircut and a shave, telling him flat out that he was handsome and should use it. He'd laughed and brushed you off.

(Arthur had laid awake that night thinking about it. He'd never admit it.)

One thing led to another between the two of you, and he'd soon brought you back to camp to stay, with a silver ring on your finger. Now you stood between his legs, rubbing on the shaving cream. He smiled a little, just looking at you. "...You know, darlin, I ought to be paying you for this," he murmured.