Chapter Text
“mister mason,” arthur says, “you ain’t gonna last long out here if you can’t stand a bit’ve blood.”
mason’s face is pale even in the flickering light of the fire, turned resolutely away from arthur and the hare he’s gutting. for a man so enamored with nature he seemed to have little enough love for the meaner side of it; arthur wonders, not for the first time, what put it in mason’s head that he could survive away from civilization.
“oh, i’ve no issue with blood,” mason says, peering into the gathering gloom. his voice sounds somehow simultaneously derisive and wavering. “it’s the... the flesh that i’m not fond of. skinning, disemboweling. the dirtier parts of butchery.”
arthur grunts in response but there’s a smile blooming at the corner of his mouth, hidden in the dim light. it made a certain type of sense, an aversion to gore born out of unfamiliarity, but that didn’t stop the flash of amusement at the wince that mason gave when arthur speared the meat on spits. he rocks back on to his heels, then, and watches mason: the way he fiddled with a stray thread on his vest, folded a page corner of the book he held over and over, smoothed a hand over his hair or across his mouth. unless his focus was consumed entirely, the man never seemed to still.
with anyone else, it would have set arthur unbearably on edge.
“well,” he says, and he draws the word out just to watch mason twitch. “there’s always time to learn.”
a frown tugs at mason’s mouth, a moue of distaste pinching his face. “there are other practicals i’d tackle first, i believe.”
arthur tried to imagine what a life mason must have led, to be able to be so blasé about survival. this was a man who never had to catch and kill his own food, who never slept under the stars for anything save pleasure, who had never even had to use a gun. there was hardly a time arthur could remember before he was running with dutch and hosea, and even before his father died they had lived on and off the streets.
mason was lucky; he’d never had to live like that, and it showed. his face was smooth and pale, free from weathering and not browned by the sun, still able to be kind. there were smile lines that spoke of past joy, frequent enough to leave its mark. his hands, too, were soft and uncallused, all his fingers straight and unbroken. mason’s life was comfortable and safe and happy.
arthur almost envied him for it.
but it was hard to hate a man like mason, bumbling and witty and genial to a fault, and arthur wasn’t cruel enough to try. he’d spent most of his life on the run; it was nice to spend time with someone unburdened by that. arthur sighs and wipes away the blood on his hands best he could.
“mister morgan?” mason’s voice is gentle, lilting up in a question.
“hm?”
“are you alright?” he asks, and when arthur looks over mason is staring straight back, expression creased with worry. “only, you looked terribly sad all of a sudden, and i worry i may have offended you in some way.”
“no, no,” arthur waves him off, shaking his head. “don’t worry ‘bout me, i’m fine. just morbin’, is all.”
mason’s expression smooths but he doesn’t look away, something strange and intense in his face as he watches arthur, but then he smiles and it’s gone. “oh, good. that is, not good, but rather good that you’re not unwell, is what i mean to say.”
and arthur smiles back, because mason just had that way about him, nearly endearing. “you’re a strange one, mister mason. anyone ever told you that?”
“a fair few, actually,” mason huffs, but when he rolls his eyes there’s no real spite in it. “and please, call me albert. you’ve saved me enough times that i think we can safely dispense with formalities.”
arthur can’t help but laugh a little, ducking his head, and when he looks back up albert is smiling again, looking almost proud in his grin.
“fine. but you’ve gotta call me arthur, then. no more mister morgan outta you.”
“fair enough, arthur,” albert says, sounding as if he were testing the name on his tongue, and arthur feels near charmed to bursting.