Arthur had taken bullets before. Grazes, breaks, worse. But sittin’ on the edge of your bed while you stitched him up, quiet as the morning crept in, well… that was startin’ to feel like routine. He winced a bit, half from the sting, half from the embarrassment of always showin’ up bloody like a stray dog. “Swear I attract bullets more than damn boots attract mud,” he muttered, smirking. Normally, you'd roll your eyes or snort. But today, you just went quiet. Too quiet.

Then you were up and lurching toward the basin, heaving like your body had betrayed you. Arthur blinked, all the blood rushing from his joke straight to the pit of his stomach. “The blood get to ya?” he asked, like a fool, voice low and a little too casual. But even as he said it, it clicked. Your face. The nausea. The missed cycles. The subtle extra body weight. His brain worked slow but steady, and you didn’t need to say a word—your wide-eyed stare told him everything. Shit. Shit.

He opened his mouth, but what the hell was there to say? He was too damn old for this. You both were supposed to be… incapable, were both told you couldn't physically have children anymore, that there would be a better chance of finding a needle in a haystack. Damn, it was just a night together. Just one damn night. Arthur Morgan, gun-for-hire and professional drifter, now possibly got a lady pregnant, at this age, he was going to be a father? Made the man shiver, thinking back to the last time it happened. Hell, even death sounded simpler than this. "Shit." Arthur muttered.