Grey clouds loomed over the camp and as the women pulled shawls tighter around their shoulders, the men found comfort and warmth in beer and whiskey. Arthur Morgan, on the other hand, was not doing either of these. Sat alone at his tent (which was a poor excuse for a tent really, being just a blanket held up by two poles), his eyes glued on the paper he held in his hands. He was too engrossed in the writing that he didn't notice the hairs on his arms stand up, or the cloud that escaped his lips upon every breath.
"Yours, Mary." he repeated in his head, her voice rattling around in his skull. She was never really his, and that still stung his heart. When she wasn't there, she was easy to forget about, but these letters and the occasional meeting did nothing but cause all those memories return. Her touch against his skin, the lines on her face as she laughed... A sigh left his lips, and he shook his head, folding the letter and sliding it into his pocket and just in time, it would seem.
"Everythin' alright, Arthur?" a familiar voice came from the darkness of the night, the face of Abigail Roberts lighting up as she approached the lamp that Arthur was using to read with. Her face was soft and, in her hands, was a bowl of untouched stew, still steaming and fresh. "Brought you this."
"Thank you, Miss Roberts," he said quietly, dismissing her first question for want of peace from the pain of Mary Linton. "Very kind of you," he spoke again as he accepted the stew when offered to him. He wasn't one to join in with the others when it came to cold nights at camp – all huddled around a fire, drinking and telling stories. He quite liked the idea of being alone on the outskirts, alone and yet always somehow involved, though it was clear Abigail would not allow him this time alone. He couldn't blame her, mind. She was the same, craving the solace of loneliness, though she lingered around his tent even when the stew was no longer in her hands. Nothing more was said, but a small gesture to the bed beside him invited her to join him.
Her head was low, and her hands rested on her lap. Her face did not show it, but the silent companionship of the other had already made her feel slightly lighter in her woes. She had been in love with John Marston for at least four years now, but the last ten months had been the hardest. Not only had she had to mourn the loss of her daughter, she had had to deal with the man she loved leaving her and the gang. She had never felt more alone, and thus she had taken to the company of the only man in the gang that didn't terrify her, and he knew exactly why she was there.
He hadn't touched the stew and he leaned to put the almost full bowl aside, causing Abigail to lift her head and watch. The silence continued, only broken by a small clear of the throat from Arthur, who had finally met the woman's gaze. They both knew why she was there, so why pretend like it was something else.
He lifted a hand to her cheek and lured her closer, easing a soft kiss against her lips, which she responded to by raising her hand to his and sliding it slowly down his forearm. There was a shared peace, neither being forced to talk of their issues and yet both being on the same page in what they both needed. The silence continued along with the kiss, that only grew more desperate and needy, and the hand that was no longer on Arthur's arm but now on his thigh, stroking gentle patterns in order to more smoothly get to its destination.
There was no point in fully undressing, neither person needed that. Instead, she had used the opportunity where he was stood to turn the lamp off to pull his trousers down just far enough to expose the tops of his thighs too. There was to be no mistake that this was out of desire for him, no. This was out of desire to be touched again. In the darkness that covered them from onlookers, Abigail relied heavily on her hands to see, and the small sound Arthur made as her cold hand wrapped around his cock was a sure sign she needed to hurry up – though he wasn't cold for long.
The warmth was swiftly running to his groin as her hand moved carefully against it with teasing flicks and strokes of her wrist and, as soon as Arthur was stood to attention, she was rolling up her skirt and straddling his lap. She had obviously done away with all the underclothes before coming to Arthur's tent, as she knew full well she was going to get what she wanted and, before her thighs could really feel the cold, she had used her hand to guide Arthur's cock into her entrance which was warm, wet and a welcoming thing for Arthur. He'd undone his waistcoat ever so slightly, allowing his room to be more flexible and move more freely, which came into use when Abigail's hands curled around his shoulders and she started to slowly roll her hips against him.
Her hands moved to his neck, her thumb slowly creating circles against the bone of his jaw. His hands were rested on her hips, melting into the rhythm of her rolls, though soon he couldn't help himself but move his own hips against hers. Quiet grunts left his lips as he thrust his way into the woman whose warm body seemed more appealing second by second. He'd almost forgotten the letter and the face of Mary Linton, just as Abigail had nearly forgotten the touch of John Marston. Neither had replaced their perspective partners, but they had found comfort in the minutes they were not alone to think about them.
The whole ordeal was over soon, with Arthur's thrusts and Abigail's rolls causing one to come to the point of climax, a white cloud of air leaving his lips in a deep breath, as result of him not being able to audibly express his moments of pleasure, for fear of waking the rest of the camp. A few moments more of Abigail rolling her hips, just to make sure the man was done. He'd slouched, panting quickly and quietly, his hands moving from her hips to flop on the bed beside them. Abigail got from him, rolling her skirt down and smartening herself up like the professional she was.
"Goodnight, Arthur," she spoke quietly before leaving the man to dress himself and rest, which he would have done. Yet all he could think about as he tucked himself away and pulled up his trousers was:
"Great. Another woman to use me."