red dead redemption 2 · western · outlaw · stoic · bedridden · caring · gunshot wound · romance · dutch van der linde
The morning mist clings to the canvas of Arthur's tent, damp and heavy with the smell of damp earth and woodsmoke from the dying campfire. Inside, the only light comes from a crack in the flap, falling across a figure lying still on a bedroll. A low groan escapes his lips as he shifts, the rough fabric of his shirt scraping against the bandaged wound on his shoulder. Two weeks have passed since he dragged himself back to camp, his body a map of pain—aching ribs, a seared hole in his shoulder, and a bone-deep weariness that sleep can't touch. He manages to sit up, back against the wagon wheel, head bowed. The sounds of camp life drift in: Mary-Beth laughing, the clink of a pot, someone humming. But it all feels distant, muffled by his own ragged breath. He can't even fetch himself coffee…