Micah was being a dick (as usual) but fortunately for the brooding Arthur, the sniveling suck-up was nowhere in sight. Considering how drunk he was, it was for the best. Wouldn't want his smart mouth to insult Dutchy's new fav-or-ite son! Nah! woudn want that now would we.

Arthur swayed slightly as he lifted the jug and gulped down another healthy swig of moonshine. The liquid swashing around the almost empty bottle as he dropped it heavily to the ground.

And there he sat, drunk as a skunk, staring into the warm glow of the campfire. So naturally, the inebriated outlaw turned his attention to pondering human advancements and the "what ifs" of modern inventions. "Duuutch!" he called out, slurring the name as he saw the vague shadow of the vested man passing by. "If you flapped your arms really reeeally fast, you think we could fly to Tahiti like an air'o'plane?"

"Go to bed Arthur." was all he got from his father-figure, marching past... off to do something like scheme with MICAH, probably.

The thought churned his stomach like alcohol.

Was a time when Dutch would've called him 'son', would'a laughed. Would'a stopped to sit with him, ask him if he was ok. Maybe even help him off to bed cause he was probably to unsteady to manage it on his own anyhow... but those days were over. He could feel it.

He sighed, these were thoughts too complex for his drunk mind to comprehend right now. Hell, they were probably too complex for him to comprehend sober. He laughed at his own self-deprecating humor like the drunken idiot he was.

He sat alone.

He drank more.

The fire had died to coals when he finally left for his tent. Scuffling forward he'd somehow managed to collide with the solid frame of a tree. At least he thought it was a tree. Just as well, he needed to piss anyways.

"Arthur, what are you..."

The drunk blinked up in surprise at the gruff voice of the tree. Maybe they could sell it? He immediately thought. Seemed like a good idea. Dutch could get a ton a moneh froma talkin tree. Maybe the lumber could talk to? Split it up. Make little baby talkin trees. Science can do wonderful things.

"What the hell are you going on about Arthur?" Perhaps he confused the tree, maybe that's not how little trees are made? Are there mommy and daddy trees?

"God, you smell horrible."

Not a very pleasant tree now was it?

"Ok, whatever you say you drunken fool." The tree laughed.

Wait, could trees read minds?

"You really think I'm a tree?" the tree said.

Arthur tried not to think. An easy task for him to do. He was testing his psychic tree theory.

"Alright, let's get you to bed."

What a thoughtful tree, it'd be a shame to chop it up.

The tree, already close from Arthur knocking into it, pulled him closer. It's branch-like arms wrapped around him and turned him in the opposite direction he was facing. "your tent is over here."

Head spinning from the turn, Arthur couldn't think of a reply so he just grunted.

"I hope you know I'm never letting you live this down." the tree gave an abrupt barked of laughter as Arthur stumbled, probably tripping over one of the trees god damn roots.

"don matter, you'll be kindlin come morning."

The tree laughed again, jostling Arthur with its jerky movements. He leaned further against its otherwise steady presence. There was something about it. Something familiar, something sure like the foundation of a massive monument. He found himself aching for something this steady in his life. Dependable, strong something he could lean on when the weight of the crumbling camp fell on his shoulders.

But no, he was alone. Just as much now as always was, like he was at the campfire.

"You're not alone." the tree said.

Arthur, ever the doubter according to Dutch, remained in doubt.

The tent flaps parted as they entered his tent. At least he thought it was his tent. Nothing was really in focus anymore, what with it being so dark... and him so drunk.

He flopped down on his cot with an unceremonious plop. The swaying feeling of walking still swam in his head as the tree took off his boots.

Arthur closed his eyes as a blanket was tossed over him. It was all over. He had already lost everything. Dutch, Hoesa. Hell, he'd even managed to push John away. Fool may have deserved some of it but now Arthur was alone. Their time was over and he was going to die alone, he could taste it like bitter moonshine.

Arthur was too groggy to startle as a cool hand cupped his face."Good night Arthur." a disembodied voice said gently. But Arthur couldn't have cared less about talking shadows. Besides, he'd already met a talking tree that night.

The next morning had Arthur regretting all his life decisions.

His body ached and the current pounding in his head had never come close to being rivaled. Miss Grimshaw got some sick amount of glee by demanding, very loudly, he wash up. He'd never been manhandled by a woman before but after being slapped upside the head (with the sort of hangover he had) he was willing to admit defeat. Cause for this fight at least, he was outmatched.

Arthur curled into himself as he sat at the wooden table, nursing a glass of juice. Compliments of Abigail.

He looked up as a tin cup was set down in front of him. This time raw eggs. Hosea smiled knowingly. "tough night?" he asked.

"Something like that," he grunted, downing the eggs in one go before finishing off the juice just as quickly.

And he must have looked especially pitiful that morning since even Dutch came over. Something dark in his expression had Arthur flinching away.

A strange silence settled around them and for the first time since he had Joined up with them, Arthur felt like an outsider.

"So," Dutch began. "John said you had an eventful night last night."