Work Text:
Lemoyne is, in a word, hot. In another word, sticky. In two words, mosquito-infested. And Arthur goddamn loves it.
Ask him a few weeks back, and he would’ve griped about the hot, humid, hillbilly-inhabited hellhole, yearning for the dry heat and refreshingly cold nights of the western plains. But that was before he’d spent near a week half-dead, and then more weeks bundled under every spare blanket in camp, still cold to his bones no matter how many cups of herbal tea Hosea forced down him. Exhaustion, apparently. On top of healing from his wounds, and recovering from the fever that had damn near killed him, his body just didn’t have the energy left for adequate thermogenesis, in Swanson’s expert opinion. In Arthur’s expert opinion, no word’s got a right to have that many syllables when your teeth are chattering like a wind-up toy.
But after much rest, and tea, the chills have finally gone, and now he’s warm enough to sit in his cot in nothing but a loose pair of jeans, wound on his shoulder unwrapped – letting it ‘breathe’ under Swanson’s orders. It’s just about healed over – a mess of bruising, pink, shiny new skin, and burgeoning scar tissue. It’s ugly as all hell – but so’s the rest of him, so he doesn’t really mind. He’s just grateful to still have his damn arm, as he rests it around Jack’s small frame – the boy’s tucked up against his side, delighting in the way lines in Arthur’s journal turn into a dog, a chicken, a moose, and whatever other animals he requests.
“Mama and Uncle took me into town the other day. And there was a poodle dog! It had really funny fur. Do you know what poodles look like, Uncle Arthur? Can you draw that next?”
“Sure,” Arthur agrees, supressing a wince as he shifts a little, trying to get comfy. It’s nice to be able to sit upright this long again without getting dizzy, but the wood of the wagon is digging into his back, and Jack’s weight against his sore ribs is starting to go from uncomfortable to outright painful. But he likes spending time with the kid, wants things to go back to normal, for both their sakes. The frightened look in Jack’s eyes when Abigail had finally let the boy come to see him is going to haunt him for a while (and really, that was when he’d realised just how bad it was. Not the way Hosea seemed to have aged years in days; not the way Susan’s voice was so uncharacteristically soft as she tended to him; not the way Dutch kept coming into his tent, spouting his excuse-apology hybrids; it was the reluctance on Abigail’s face as she led Jack through the lowered side-flaps of his lean-to. Because Abigail had let the boy come see John, up in Colter, and John had looked like death warmed up. Arthur hates to think how bad he must’ve looked by comparison.)
“Oh, and the other day, me and Uncle Sean found a big white rabbit. It was dead, but Uncle Sean said it was a sign. He didn’t know what it was a sign of though. Ooh! Could you draw a rabbit too?!”
“There you are, Jack. Your Uncle Hosea was looking for you – said it’s time for another reading lesson.”
Thank the heavens and all the angels in ‘em for Charles Smith.
“Aww,” Jack pouts, “I wanna do drawing with Uncle Arthur!”
“I think he also said something about chocolate for the best student in class...”
That makes the boy perk up, and he wriggles out from under Arthur’s arm and starts clambering off the cot.
“Okay, I have to go now. Bye Uncle Charles! Bye Uncle Arthur! Mwah!” Jack finishes by pressing a loud (and somewhat drool-y) kiss against the wound in his shoulder.
“Wha- what was that for?” Arthur asks, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice. But the look Jack gives him is incredulous, little face scrunching up.
“Kissing ouchies makes them get better faster! Didn’t you know that?”
“Hah, uh, no, no I did not,” Arthur admits, doing his best to match the serious expression on the boy’s face over this important fact of convalescent medical practice.
It’s hard when he can see Charles smiling like that behind him.
“It’s true!” Jack declares sagely, before scampering off towards the campfire where they can see Hosea waiting with a book. Charles chuckles, turning back to him.
“How are your ‘ouchies’?” he asks as Arthur gingerly shifts closer to the edge of the cot so he can plant his feet on the ground. Whether by design or accident, the bastard who shot him in the leg didn’t hit anything important, the bullet clipping the meat of his thigh. Perhaps didn’t want him to bleed out before they got him to Colm. Or maybe the man just had bad aim. Arthur doesn’t know and doesn’t care, grateful only that the wound wasn’t even half an inch further in - otherwise dragging his ass out of that cellar and up onto Atlas would have been impossible. But Susan pulled out the stitches a week ago, declaring that it’s healing up nicely. He’s even been able to hobble about camp without help over the past few days.
“Gettin’ better,” he replies vaguely, shrugging his good shoulder. But Charles is scrutinising his bad one – in fact, looking all over him with a calm, measuring stare. And Arthur – who has lived in a tent for over twenty years, and is well used to the complete lack of privacy life in the gang entails (he’s pretty sure he’s seen everyone’s bare ass at some point, and that they’ve seen his) – all of a sudden feels self-conscious. Finds himself wishing he’d put a shirt on earlier, Swanson’s instructions be damned.
“Anyway, you hear that?” he asks, clearing his throat awkwardly and hoping his changing of the subject isn’t too obvious. “You’ve been promoted to ‘Uncle’ status. Congratulations – that makes you a true member of the gang! You ain’t ever gettin’ rid of us now, I’m afraid,” he grins.
“Wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.”
And Arthur isn’t quite sure what to make of the small smile Charles gives him, or why he suddenly feels warmer. Probably just leftover from the fever.
“Though, I was wondering,” Charles continues, “has Swanson given you any physiological exercises to do? For your shoulder?”
“Fizzy-what?”
“You know. Stretches, and such.”
“Oh – uh, no. He said to just be careful with it. M’sorry, another few days, I reckon I’ll be able to shift sacks again with my good arm, but, it ain’t right you been stuck doin’ all my chores – you should tell some of the other fellas to get off their-”
“No, I didn’t mean- that’s not what I’m worried about. But, what’s your range of motion like?”
“For my arm? ’s okay, I guess...”
“May I?”
Arthur’s been so studiously avoiding Charles’ gaze in an attempt to hide how oddly flustered he’s suddenly feeling, he looks up in confusion. Charles’ hands are hovering over his shoulder and forearm, and Arthur’s surprised at the rush of warmth that runs through him to nestle somewhere in his ribcage. But having spent the last few weeks being manhandled and fussed over by an endless rotation of people, the fact Charles is actually waiting for permission before touching him makes him feel... human again. Seen.
“Sure,” he breathes, softer than he means to.
Charles shifts to the side, gently holding Arthur’s elbow and lightly resting his other hand on top of his wounded shoulder as he slowly pulls the arm forwards, sideways and back again. Arthur tries, and fails, to supress another wince when he shifts it the wrong way.
“That hurts?”
“Ah, it’s fine-”
But Charles just shoots him a disapproving look.
“It’ll be fine?” Arthur tries.
Charles steps back, crossing his own arms over his chest, giving him that same pensive, calculating look.
“First time I tried to use a bow...” he begins slowly, before huffing and shaking his head, a small smile on his lips. Arthur tries to memorise it to put in his journal later. Along with all the others.
“You were a natural?” he guesses. Lord knows, Charles uses his bow – that he made himself, as if the man didn’t have enough hidden talents already – like it’s an extension of his own arms.
“No. I was a cocky little shit,” Charles admits. “I said I’d be able to shoot a goose out of the sky by the end of the day. The men who taught me – they laughed, told me to go ahead, show them what I could do. So I lined up my shot. This big oak tree, not twenty paces away. And they weren’t even watching me – they were just smoking, talking. I was so annoyed, thought I’d show them all right. Went to pull back the string and... couldn’t.” Charles gives him a small grin, that’s somehow both rueful and beautiful, and Arthur tries to memorise that too. It’s just because Charles has an interesting face. Truly.
“Of course, they all thought it was hilarious. But, then they said it wasn’t about how strong I was – it was about how I used strength. And one of them showed me some exercises – said they were for all the muscles we don’t usually use. That they wouldn’t just make me stronger but... better. More efficient, so I didn’t waste my strength.”
“Mighty kind of him,” Arthur says after a too-long pause, realising he should say something.
“Mm-hm. He also said that, if I ever hurt my arms – sprained one, or worked too hard, I should do some of those exercises to help the muscles heal properly. Stop them from locking up.”
If asked, Arthur would blame lingering fatigue, and not that he’s noticed how soft Charles’ hair looks in the sunlight, for the fact it takes him far too long to realise what he’s getting at.
“You... reckon they’d help this mess?” He gestures with the wounded shoulder, and immediately regrets it. Charles tuts at him, but nods.
“Worth a try, if you’re up for it.”
“Sure, why not? ‘Specially if it means I’ll be able to do more than lift damn a cup of coffee without gettin’ yelled at.”
“Well, good,” Charles chuckles. “Come on then.”
“Now?” Arthur asks in faint alarm. Right now? While he’s in his jeans and nothing else? Not like that matters, of course. At least, it shouldn’t. Why would it? What the hell’s wrong with him?
“It’s... all right if you don’t want to,” Charles says slowly, giving him a bemused look. “If you’re not feeling up to it now I can go-”
“No!”
Charles raises his eyebrows. Arthur swallows, trying not to grimace at his own accidental outburst.
“I mean, uh, no, that, that sounds great. Be good to get out of this damn cot for a while.”
“All right, let’s go then.”
Charles smiles at him again, and Arthur thinks he’s going to have to buy himself a new journal, because at this rate he’s going to run out of pages.
Ten minutes later, he finds himself standing a little ways down the beach, soft sand between his toes and a warm breeze blowing across the lake. He’s not exactly sure why Charles has brought him to this spot, but he’s grateful – they’re still close enough to be able to hear Pearson banging about with pots and cutlery, but this is the furthest Arthur’s been from his tent ever since he returned from his ‘stay’ with the O’Driscolls.
“Ok. I’m really no expert, but, I figure we can at least see what you’re capable of, what any weak points might be.”
Arthur can’t help but wrap his good arm around himself, glaring dourly at the sand. It’s not like he needs any reminders that he’s a ‘weak point’ in the gang right now. Even if he did, that’s being taken care of by Micah, the few times he’s dared pass by Arthur’s tent (the man seems to have developed a healthy fear of Hosea, for some reason; Arthur has yet to get the full story out of someone). While he’s feeling a hell of a lot better than he thought he might ever be again when he was dangling in that damp old cellar, the thought that he might never heal up fully, that he might forever be a weak link in the gang’s armour...
But Charles Smith appears to be a mind-reader.
“We find the weak spots, so we can make them stronger,” he assures, so calm and matter-of-fact that Arthur thinks he can believe him.
“Sounds good,” Arthur nods, clearing his throat again. “So, what did you have in mind?”
“Well...” Charles reaches for him, but also pauses and waits for permission again, and Arthur can’t help but smile as he nods. Charles carefully handles his arm and shoulder once more, gently bending it this way and that. Arthur does his best not to wince, but he doubts much gets past Charles. Sure enough,
“It seems to give you the most trouble when you reach forwards,” Charles says thoughtfully.
“Uh-huh,” Arthur says unintelligently, far too distracted with the heat that seems to radiate from his shoulder underneath Charles’ palms, somewhat similar to how it had felt as it burned with infection, but entirely more pleasant.
“But, you can still grasp things with your hand fine, right? I’ve seen your, heh, chicken feed dispensary.”
Arthur scoffs at that.
“Hey, it works!” he says, equal parts embarrassed and defensive. As soon as he could get around camp again (or at least purposefully careen between various tent poles/pieces of furniture/amused gang members), he’d nearly begged Susan to give him something to do – hanging laundry, chopping vegetables, anything. She’d finally relented and let him be in charge of the chickens – and hey, it’s a task that Jack can do, but it beat lying in his cot staring at canvas. But the first time he’d headed over to feed them, he’d run into a problem. Holding the feed bucket in his right hand and scattering feed with his left worked for a while, but soon aggravated his shoulder from a background ache to a throbbing pain that Hosea quickly caught onto and ordered him back to bed, threatening to make him wear a sling again. And hefting the weight of the feed bucket or egg basket with his left hand turned out to be a good idea for all of two seconds. But, never let it be said that Arthur Morgan ain’t a problem solver; after a few misguided attempts, he’d come up with the solution of putting on his empty gunbelt, shoving a sock into each holster, and filling them up like miniature sacks, so he could carry the weight of the grain and then the eggs on his hips and keep both his hands free. It’s worked a treat so far.
If the chickens have started following anyone wearing a gunbelt, loudly squawking demands for millet, well, that’s not his problem. In fact, watching John get chased around camp by a rooster the other day has been the highlight of his week.
Or at least, it was until now, with Charles’ warm hands on his bare skin.
...Christ, perhaps he’s still a bit delirious.
“I can hold on to things fine, just... aches, after a while,” he mumbles, gaze skittering away from Charles’ amused one.
“Just in your shoulder? Or all the way down your arm?”
“Uh, down my arm, I guess?”
Charles slowly runs one hand down Arthur’s arm, pressing gently, and Arthur has to swallow hard.
“Any of that hurt?”
“No,” Arthur says, more hoarse than he’d ever admit to.
Charles hums thoughtfully, stepping back. Arthur misses the touch more than he’d ever admit, too.
“Like I said, I’m no expert,” he says slowly, rubbing his chin. “But, I was taught never to let an injury stay idle too long, or it can heal badly – the muscles stiffen up, and stay that way, which just makes it hurt more. I think you could try some of these stretches, see if they help your shoulder loosen up a bit. But I don’t want you to get hurt,” he adds seriously, catching Arthur’s eye. “So if you think things are getting worse, you need to say so and take it easy for a bit longer. Maybe put the sling on again.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Arthur huffs, having had much the same lecture from Hosea and Susan.
“I mean it, Arthur. Don’t be a hero. Don’t want to ruin all my hard work by overdoing it, right?”
The look on Charles’ face is kind but playful, and Arthur yearns for his journal.
“I know,” he nods, a little bashful. “And, thank you – for offerin’ to help, y’really don’t have to-”
“I want to,” Charles says simply. Arthur swallows again, and just nods, because he’s not quite sure he trusts his voice right now.
“Okay. So, first, can you do this? To one side, then the other?” Charles slowly tilts his head sideways towards his shoulder, then back again. Perplexed – because that seems far simpler than what he’d been imagining – Arthur copies the motion.
“That feel okay? No pain?”
“Just peachy.” Besides the tugging sensation on the newly-healed skin, but he guesses that’s to be expected.
“Okay. Well, I guess try this one...” Charles demonstrates, bringing his left arm up across his chest, holding the elbow with his right hand and pushing it. “Don’t squeeze too hard,” he warns as Arthur copies him, grimacing slightly. Charles reaches out, adjusting the height of Arthur’s arm, watching him carefully.
“Is it uncomfortable, or painful?”
“Just feels... achy.”
“All right. Let go, carefully.”
Arthur does, making a face at the rush of sensation in his shoulder. It hurts, sure, but kind of in the same way standing up straight after sitting in the saddle all day does. He tells Charles as much, so Charles has him repeat the motion a few times. After the fifth one without complaint, Charles beams at him.
“Looking good,” he says approvingly. Even though the afternoon is getting on and the temperature should be dropping, Arthur notices it’s getting warmer. Odd. Must be something to do with the near-tropical climate down here.
Charles has him use his right arm to brace himself on a nearby rock and bend over, spinning his dangling left arm in small circles one way, and then the other, then makes him try to repeat the motion but standing up straight. The ache becomes a bite after a little while of having to hold his arm up, but, clearly due to his mind-reading powers, Charles catches his elbow just as he’s about to drop the arm in defeat, gently helping him continue the rotations while bracing him with a hand on his back.
Arthur is once again distinctly aware of the fact he’s not wearing a shirt. He’s also newly aware of just how large Charles’ hands are.
“So, now, pretend there’s a pencil between your shoulder blades, and you’re trying to squeeze it to hold it there,” Charles instructs. Arthur does his best to comply, jumps a little when Charles’ hand slides up, pressing gently on his upper back. “Uh-uh, bring them downwards, not up towards your ears. No, like- hang on, I’ll show you.”
There’s a rustle of fabric, and Arthur turns to find Charles tugging his own shirt off, tossing it over the rock. And, it ain’t like he’s never seen Charles shirtless before. But, he’s never been up close, never allowed himself to stare... and he kind of misses whatever instructions he’s getting, because turns out Charles is beautiful. And it’s a good thing his back is turned as he shows Arthur what he’s supposed to be doing with his shoulders, because Arthur’s fingertips are halfway towards brushing over rippling muscle or through silky-looking hair before he gets a grip and yanks his hand back to his side.
Good Lord, he is definitely still delirious. Must be.
“Okay, now you try.”
Shit.
“Um, like this?” he tries, turning and hoping it isn’t glaringly obvious that he wasn’t quite listening. Can’t help but jump a little when Charles’ hand appears on his shoulder blades again, fingers pressing gently.
“Down, there, just like that. You’re doing really good.” Charles murmurs, voice as warm as his hands, and horrendously close to his ear, and Arthur’s mouth is... oddly dry.
“Thanks...” he rasps, wishing he’d brought his canteen with him. He’s just grateful for the fact it’s so warm out – hopefully that’ll excuse the blush he can feel creeping up his neck. Especially when Charles reaches around and catches Arthur’s jaw with his fingertips, feather-light.
“Don’t let your head tilt forwards,” he warns, lightly tipping Arthur’s chin into the correct position. “Aim is to keep your back and neck straight.”
“’kay,” Arthur says distractedly, more worried about managing to keep his tangled thoughts straight.
They carry on, Charles taking him through the motions of some more complex exercises, and it’s all a lot more... hands-on than Arthur was expecting. And part of him really appreciates the fact Charles has taken the time to show him these stretches, with such patience and care – because his shoulder’s aching, but in a good way, or at least in a way that’s different to how it’s been hurting these past few weeks.
But a bigger part of him is starting to wish the O’Driscolls had just finished him off, because it would’ve been less painful than the way his heart is currently trying to beat its way out of his chest. How the hell Charles can’t hear, let alone feel it, he doesn’t know. Especially when – one hand resting on the back of Arthur’s neck, the other cupping his ribs in an attempt to correct his posture – Charles asks for the third time,
“Are you sure you aren’t feeling feverish again? You look flushed.”
“I’m fine,” Arthur squeaks.
He thinks he might be about to combust.
At one point, when Charles has got him trying to clasp his hands behind his shoulders, he does something wrong, a hot flare of pain bursting through his shoulder and radiating out through his arm and chest, making it hurt to breathe. But it’s a good thing, really, that his face is scrunched up with pain – because Charles goes and pets the wound lightly, murmuring an apology. Arthur mumbles some dismissal, too preoccupied with trying very hard to get both his breathing and his increasingly complicated feelings concerning one Mr. Smith in order.
It’s proving difficult with Charles resting his hand on the back of Arthur’s shoulder, thumb rubbing soothing circles into the trembling muscle.
“You want to stop? Remember what I said about not overdoing it.”
“I’m fine,” Arthur repeats, even if he is feeling a little dizzy. He really does think it’s helping, after all – his shoulder’s hurting, but he can move it a hell of a lot more than he could when they started.
And if, as Charles gets him to repeat the motions, he maybe purposefully gets some of them a little wrong, just to feel Charles’ warm, careful hands on him again...
Well, he’s done more foolish things in his life. Probably.
So he ignores the faint buzzing in his skull, carrying on, relishing the newfound freedom of movement, the cooling breeze off the lake, and Charles’ gentle encouragements and praise.
Right up until he leans over to brace himself on the rock again to do the spinning arm thing, and finds the ground tilting up to meet him far more than it’s supposed to.
“Arthur!”
He grunts in pain as Charles’ arms catch him around his torso as his legs buckle, squeezing his tender ribs. Any complicated thoughts are notably absent as Charles manhandles him into sitting on the rock, urging him to put his head between his knees. Arthur sits there, scarce able to hear his own panting breaths over the whining in his ears, trying to blink away the shadows flickering around the edges of his vision.
“...thur? Stay with me, okay? Try to take some deep breaths. Come on, nice and slow...”
He winces as his ribs protest, but he tries to do as Charles asks him, and eventually he stops feeling his heartbeat in his skull and his vision returns to normal. He becomes aware of Charles sitting at his side, bracing his good shoulder with one hand, the other grasping the back of his neck more firmly to keep his head down. It feels more solid than the rock beneath him.
“You okay?” Charles asks.
“I think...” Arthur mumbles as he gingerly rights himself, “...I might’ve overdone it.”
“You fool.”
There’s still a low whine in his ears, and that’s probably why he’s mishearing things – because if he didn’t know better, he’d say Charles sounded downright fond.
“So I’ve been told,” he agrees absently, watching the water while he takes a few more careful breaths. He feels like his strings have been cut all of a sudden, limbs and eyelids heavy. And sure, he’s been hurting like hell, but the weariness has been the most irritating thing about this whole mess, the way he gets tired out by simply brushing down Atlas or feeding the chickens or doing some simple stretches. Because Charles’ hand is still on the back of his neck, arm warm and supportive against his shoulders, and it’s all Arthur can do not to lean into the touch.
“I reckon that’s probably the longest you’ve been standing in weeks,” Charles muses, not taking his own eyes off the lake. “It’s amazing, if you think about it, how quickly you’ve improved. I’ve seen people bedridden for months by a gunshot wound – and yet, you managed to do all of that with two.”
Charles definitely must be a mind-reader. Because Arthur’s heard all the same assurances from the others – you nearly died, you’re still healing, you need to rest to get better, you’ve come so far already – but, as the days dragged on, doubt had begun to creep in. But hearing it from Charles...
He trusts Charles. The man isn’t one to mince his words or offer platitudes – if he says Arthur’s improving, then he must be.
It feels like a balm on his frayed and frightened heart.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard...”
“Pfft, weren’t your fault. I’m the idiot who got himself-”
“You’re not an idiot, Arthur. A fool, sure. But not an idiot.”
He says it with a playful smile, but Charles’ eyes are so sincere, Arthur starts feeling giddy for entirely different reasons. Finds his own eyes drifting down towards Charles’ lips...
“Come on, you should get some rest.”
Yeah. Having a lie down is probably a very good idea.
Charles stands, slipping his shirt back on (and Arthur definitely doesn’t feel something like disappointment, not at all) before clasping Arthur’s good arm to haul him upright. The world swims a little bit, and the idea of being back in his cot, which has felt closer to a prison these past few weeks, is suddenly getting more appealing by the second (so is the idea of being alone for enough time to get a hold of his ridiculous runaway feelings, because the way Charles is keeping a hand at his elbow is not helping.) His first few steps are unsteady, but Charles keeps him balanced, holding his arm as they make their way back along the beach. He drops it when they come back into view of the camp – and Arthur’s grateful for that too, because he’s had a hard time fending off the suggestions that he should use a cane for a while as is – but he stays close, a reassuring presence at his side.
He doesn’t quite manage to stifle a groan when he lowers himself onto his cot, ribs and leg joining in the complaints alongside his shoulder. But Charles helps him ease back into the many pillows (where Susan found them all is still a mystery), propping them behind him.
“Thanks,” Arthur breathes, stifling a yawn.
“No need to thank me,” Charles says softly – and he sits on the edge of the cot, watching him with concern. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? You still look a bit flushed.”
At that, he reaches out, brushing Arthur’s hair aside to lay the back of his hand against his forehead. And Arthur hopes he doesn’t keep it there too long, because otherwise he’s sure Charles will be able to feel his temperature rising. Maybe he really is still feverish...
“I’m fine,” he manages. “And thank you, really. Shoulder feels a helluva lot better than it did before.”
“Good.” But he doesn’t leave right away – stays sitting there, watching him with that same calm, scrutinising look like he did earlier. And Arthur is clearly still both feverish and delusional. Because Charles’ hand rests atop the blanket only half an inch from his own, and the urge to twitch his fingers over is nearly overwhelming-
“Okay,” Charles declares, “try and do those a few times a day, carefully, and I reckon you should be able to use your arm like normal in no time.”
He shifts, as if to stand and leave, and Arthur has exactly half a second to feel disappointed – before Charles dips his head and presses a kiss to Arthur’s shoulder. Except, it’s at the very edge of the wounded area, more on his throat than his shoulder. His lips are soft and warm. And when he straightens, they catch on Arthur’s jaw, nearly on the corner of his lips, in a way that could maybe possibly just about have been accidental, perhaps.
But there’s nothing accidental about the look Charles is giving him.
Arthur forgets how to breathe.
“What was that for?” he croaks.
“I have it on good authority that kissing ouchies makes them get better faster,” Charles murmurs softly, still hovering only inches away. Then the bastard gives him that playful little smile again, stands up and leaves.
Arthur stares after him for a long moment, before flopping back down onto his cot, flinging his good arm over his face. Doesn’t even register the approaching footsteps before it’s too late.
“Uncle Arthur! We read a story about a big hippo-potty-mouse! Can we draw one of those?! Oh, are you okay?” Jack – sweet, innocent, oblivious little thing that he is – chirps from somewhere near his feet.
“Yes, you all right there, Arthur? You’re looking a bit... flustered.”
The smirk he can hear in Hosea’s voice tells him he saw everything.
Arthur just lets out a weak whine in response.