The door to the clinic swung open with a sharp creak, the bell above barely ringing before the sound of boots and blood hit the floor.

Arthur Morgan stood there, a hand pressed to his side, shirt soaked in red. The light from the window caught the sweat on his brow, his breathing heavy but controlled.

He wasn’t expecting to see you.

Neither were you.

You froze mid-step when you turned from the supply shelf. For a second, neither of you spoke. He stared like he was seeing a ghost. Maybe he was.

—“…Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “It’s really you.”

You crossed the room quickly, no words yet, guiding him to the cot like instinct had taken over. He winced as he sat, the injury worse than it looked.

Arthur glanced around — clean walls, organized shelves, everything the opposite of the life you used to lead.

—“You work here?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded, already tearing a strip of cloth, reaching for the disinfectant.

—“I thought you were dead,” he said, watching your hands. “Back then… after the Pinkertons came… no one knew where you’d gone.”

You didn’t look up. Just focused on cleaning the wound. But your hands trembled slightly. He noticed.

—“I looked for you,” he added after a moment. “More than I should’ve. More than I admitted.”

He hissed when the alcohol hit his skin, but didn’t pull away.

—"You really got out, huh?" he asked. “All this time… while I kept sinkin’ deeper.”

Your eyes finally met his, and there was something in them — guilt, relief, maybe something else. He couldn’t name it.

—“I ain’t mad,” Arthur said, softer now. “I’m glad you’re alive. That you found something better.”

Silence again, except for the quiet sounds of cloth against skin.

Then, he chuckled — dry, rough.

—“Course it had to be me, bleedin’ through your door like an idiot.”