Hey y'all! This is my favorite mission, and so I obviously made Arya tag along. I think you'll like this ;) Anyway, this is the last chapter before Arthur and Arya get into their original mission, so enjoy the innocence while you can!

SincerlyyYourss: Hahaha, I'm glad you like Arya's mean-girl-yet-softy personality. You'll she, she'll have to walk a totally different other line after this one! Thank you for your faithful reviews, they are always cherished.

Bennettnasagirl: Gah, I'm so glad you like Arya! Thank you! I'm also so psyched that you like the dynamic between Arthur and her. It's been a long time coming and there's still a lot of ground to cover. Enjoy this one :)

As always, thank you to those who favorited, followed, and even read :)

CHAPTER NINE: NO CRAZY BUSINESS

Well my buckle makes impressions
On the inside of her thigh
There are little feathered Indians
Where we tussled through the night

Ever since Arthur confessed about his love towards Mary, it was harder and harder for Arya and him to stay away from each other. Arthur still held the phantom touch of her fingers tightening around his. Her smell still lingered in his bed, where she'd spent some nights when John was convalescing in her own tent. The way she just listened still haunted him; wide eyes, face open to whatever was about to come from his mouth.

Arthur hadn't told her about Mary to vent or to attract pity from her. All he craved was the sweet release of just telling someone. He preferred Arya because he knew she'd never judge the way his heart worked.

And he craved her touch. Arthur was not a touchy-feely kind of man. He hated contact, especially when it was unwarranted and gratuitous. Yet Arya's touch did not evoke in him the familiar stomach ache or the disgust. Her touch was comfort and sweet smiles. Her touch made him feel easy.

As for Arya, the progress – she liked to call it that – made her stomach queasy with anticipation when she woke up. Arthur was a mystery that pulled her in like magnet to metal. Having his hand in hers, fingers curled into each other, still lingered in her mind.

When their eyes crossed as she exited her tent, she smiled slowly. It didn't reach her eyes, but the smile was soft, and Arthur returned it from his perch by the cliff. Warmth pooled in her stomach and she realized those were called butterflies. She shook herself, readjusted her white long-sleeve, and headed towards Pearson's wagon.

After breakfast, Arya headed to John and Abigail's tent. Jack was sitting beside the opening, his legs outstretched before him.

"Hey Jack," Arya greeted. She crouched down in front of him. The sun was beaming onto his chocolate brown hair and those cute little freckles on his nose.

"Hey Arya." His voice was so small and breathy that it gave the young woman a maternal instinct to just pull him in.

"What are you doing out here?" she asked.

The boy shrugged. "Ma and pa were yellin'," he answered.

Arya sighed. Everyone in camp knew that Jack was stuck in the middle of his parent's fuming arguments. Arya was in no place to say anything about their relationship, and in fact, she preferred to mind her business. Abigail was hot-headed, strong-willed, and not easily passable. She tended to always want to have the last word in an argument, which usually left her opponent feeling irritated. As for John, he was too aloof to even have an argument, which made Abigail even madder.

And if Arya was thinking honestly, she liked John more than Abigail. The former was cool and sly and calm. Yes, he was dumber than a fish, but he didn't go out looking for trouble with those who cared for him.

Arya left Jack to play with his toys as she clambered into the tent. John was sitting on the edge of the cot, his injured hand cradled against his chest. When he saw the young woman walk in, he looked up and gave her a toothy grin. The fresh scars on his face stretched white.

Abigail was sitting on a stool, arms crossed over her chest, her face pulled into a tight scowl.

"Is this a bad moment?" Arya asked shyly. John was topless and Abigail was in her shift, and maybe Arya had walked into the aftermath of a fight?

John laughed. "Not at all."

Abigail stood abruptly. "I changed his bandages like you taught me to," she said, pride in her voice. The woman began to dress herself, as if Arya wasn't even there. She pulled on her dress while both her husband and the other woman watched, one smiling, the other cowering with embarrassment.

Oh, Arya had definitely walked into something.

After Abigail tossed John a shirt, Arya asked, "Was there anything different with his wound?"

"Nothin' that seemed alarmin' to me," Abigail huffed with a corner smile. Arya had taught her how to change bandages and clean wounds, which the young wife was happy to do for her wounded husband. She took it seriously, probably too seriously, and reported everything to Arya.

John wiggled into his shirt, carefully, and laughed when his arm got stuck. Abigail helped him pull his wounded hand through the sleeve.

"I'm going to take a look," Arya said, her voice dropping to the professional tone she took when she worked.

When the bandages were off, Arya examined John's hand closely. The gashes were beginning to close. The entire week of rest had done him well. Some cuts were turning into scars, and the color of his hand was no longer alarming. A normal, creamy white color had returned to his hand and to his face, which made Arya relieved.

"I'm going to check for nerve damage," she mumbled.

"What?" he asked.

Arya picked up a little stick from the ground. "You tell me if you feel this," she instructed. She pressed the stick lightly near his wounds. John winced. Good. Arya dragged the stick along his palm, holding his wrist gingerly.

"I… I don't feel that," he muttered. When Arya looked up, John's eyes were wide and glassy.

"That's okay," she breathed. "It might take some time to recover feelings when there's been too much damage." Even she could hear right through her own lie.

She turned John's hand upside down and slid the stick from the inside of his palm along his middle finger. She looked up at him expectantly.

"Yes," he said. "But barely."

"What about this?" she asked as she applied pressure with the stick. John nodded quickly and childishly.

Abigail chuckled to see her husband so sheepishly nodding. "This is good, right?" she asked, leaning over Arya's shoulder.

"He can feel pressure," Arya answered. "He can't really feel it when I just lightly graze him, which could be a problem if he wants to hold things in his hand, which is why we will need to do some therapy."

"Therapy?" Abigail asked, her accent heavy and thick to Arya's ears.

"Yes, physical therapy," Arya answered. "With a ball. You'll see." John knew about this already and Arya had hoped he would have filled his own wife in, but that was their business.

"When will that be?" Abigail persisted.

"I can actually take out some stitches today," Arya admitted. "His wounds are healing beautifully. But I still don't want him using his hand for some time. When the wounds are completely scarred, I'll get to work with him."

Abigail sighed in relief. She handed Arya some scissors. The young woman cut stitches from the healed wounds, while John winced and tried to act tough. Then she cleaned his wounds and bandaged him up.

"You should go and take some sunshine," Arya suggested, gesturing to his pale face.

"C'mon on, cowboy!" Abigail quipped, helping her husband to his feet.

The three of them exited the tent. Abigail and John beckoned their son to spend some time with them near the cliff. Arya's eyes searched the grounds for Arthur.

It became an automatic thing to look for him. Her eyes swept across camp, but he wasn't by the cliff. She walked across to the fire, greeting the women and Uncle, who were gathered together. Dutch and Molly sat in Dutch's open tent. Tilly was reading by the fire.

And Arthur was swinging his legs as he sat at the cliff's edge on the other side of camp.

"Morning," she greeted as she sat down beside him. The wind ruffled her braid and the loose strands of hair beside her cheeks.

Arthur greeted her back and gave her an unruly smile. He was wearing a black union shirt and a dirty black vest. His ammo belt was left behind somewhere, but he had two pistols in the holsters of his belt. He wore his hat low on his forehead, as if he was hiding something.

Then Arya noticed. She laughed when she saw the shorter strands of Arthur's hair. "Did you get a bad haircut, Arthur?" she asked.

He frowned, looked at the crispy blue horizon. "Uh – no," he said.

Arya reached over and took his hat off. The action was innocent and friendly, but Arthur found it sweet. Her mouth pulled into a genuine smile that crinkled her eyes and dimpled her cheeks and Arthur was tingling all over when her eyes met his and she hummed.

"I like it."

Arthur was too lost in his own foolish thoughts to understand what she meant. He nervously raked a hand through the short, curling strands of his hair. A curl fell loose over his forehead and he shamelessly pushed it over his head.

"Pardon me?" he asked.

"It's better when it's like this," she answered. "Cleaner."

Arthur's stomach pinched when she tugged at the lowest strand behind his neck. She laughed and replaced his hat, swung her legs as if she hadn't just torn his heart right out of his chest.

He was about to ask her why exactly she preferred him with shorter hair than when he had it up to his shoulders, when the voice of Lenny caught his attention.

Arthur spun and was met with Lenny clambering towards them, Dutch not far behind.

"They got Micah, Arthur!" Lenny exclaimed, running, tumbling towards the duo by the cliff.

Dutch was trying to slow him down, but the boy was having none of it. Arthur and Arya got on their feet in a blink, all thoughts of short hair gone from their minds.

"What's goin' on?" Arthur asked, his face scrunching up into a scowl.

"They got Micah," the boy repeated, breathlessly. "He's – he's been arrested for murder! He was in Strawberry and he – "

Dutch put his hands on Lenny's shoulders. "It's okay, son," he cooed. "Breathe."

Lenny took a second to catch his breath. He readjusted his white coat and doubled over, wheezing. "They nearly lynched me," he confessed, cheeks blossoming red under the ebony color. "They… they got Micah in the sheriff's in Strawberry. And there's talk of hangin' him."

Arthur snorted and put both hands on his belt. "Here's hopin'," he mumbled.

Arya hid a giggle behind the back of her hand. She met Dutch's flaming gaze and bit her lip instead.

"Arthur," Dutch scolded.

"What?" Arthur squeaked. "The fool brought this on himself. You know my feelings about him, Dutch."

Dutch sighed heavily, and an expression came across his face. It was dark and menacing and heavy. Arya's insides coiled with worry and fear as she saw Dutch's brows furrow, his eyes darken, and his face narrow into a scowl.

And then, quickly, the look passed. Dutch's face softened and he waved Arthur's revelation away. He switched mask so quickly that Arya thought she'd imagined the entire thing.

"You think I can't see past his bluster to the heart inside?" he asked Arthur. "He is a fine man." There was something theatrical and dramatic about his tone of voice, as if he was speaking to a child who needed to be painted a bigger picture to understand an ordinary ordeal.

Arya's skin crawled and thoughts scribbled in her mind. Fire and death and blood, and she found herself looking at the picture again. Black and white, faces peering up at her from a wooden porch. Words scribbled on the side. Familiar smiles. Familiar fates.

"No," Arthur grumbled. "I ain't savin' that fool." He made to step away from the conversation.

"You guys shouldn't even trust him," Arya mumbled, and all activities stopped.

The three men gathered around her froze and stared at the short, caramel-haired girl. Her face was void of any emotion, back to its stoic, stone cold solidness.

"Excuse me?" Dutch growled, and Arya glimpsed a piece of the emotion she'd seen before; raw, vicious, and untamable. She stared at him hard, daringly, almost. From under black brows, her swan eyes dug holes into Dutch's seemingly implacable demeanor.

"She's right, Dutch." Arthur's voice was slow, tentative. His head was slightly bowed when Dutch's eyes found him.

"I don't care what you think," Dutch growled, and his eyes met Arya's again. "He is part of this gang. He'd go after you if the situation were reversed."

"That ain't true," Arthur grumbled.

Dutch was fuming; flaring nostrils, wide eyes, and cheeks red with anger. "I said I don't care!" he exclaimed. Arya saw some faces turn to them; Tilly, Pearson, Sadie. "I can't go! My face will be plastered all over West Elizabeth."

Arya clenched her teeth together. She'd seen manipulation before and knew it better than the lines in her own palm.

Dutch switched to pleading as he stepped towards Arthur, completely ignoring the girl. "I am askin' you," he begged. "Please."

Arthur met Arya's eyes across the small space where she stood, on the other side of Dutch. Her face was void again. "Alright," Arthur agreed in a breathy tone. "But it's the last time I'm savin' that fool's life."

Dutch smiled and walked over to Lenny, who was sitting down at a table, his head in his hands. "Lenny, my boy," Dutch said lowly. "Are you alright?"

Lenny shivered visibly. "Yeah, 'course I'm okay," he answered in a small voice.

"You don't seem okay," Arthur chimed in. He glanced at Arya quickly and smiled.

"Arthur, take that kid into town," Dutch ordered lowly. "Valentine, not Strawberry. Get him drunk."

Arthur smiled down at Lenny, patted him on the shoulder. Arya watched as Dutch walked right passed her and into his tent, where Molly waited patiently.

"And Arthur," Dutch said, turning to face the trio, "no crazy business."

Arthur put up his hands in mock surrender. "I've given that up!" he laughed.

"And you get Micah outta that jail," Dutch said with finality, his tone cold, as he shot Arya one last glare before closing his tent.

Arya sighed and watched Arthur help Lenny to his feet. "C'mon, son," he groaned. "Arya, you comin'?"

The young woman smiled wickedly as she followed the men. Lenny climbed onto his tan-colored steed, his face taunt with concern. "Don't worry, Lenny," Arya reassured him. "We'll get your precious Micah back."

Lenny shrugged as Arya got onto her mount. "It ain't about Micah," he admitted. "More about how he just up and murdered a feller."

"I know how it goes," Arthur groaned, the reins of his horse held tightly in his grip. "He's drunk and sees some fellers he knows and then the next thing you know, he's shootin' one of 'em."

"Yeah," Lenny breathes. "He's got a crazy side, Arthur."

Arthur's eyes met briefly with Arya's as they rode out onto the road. A coil was turning in her stomach. Something had always been off about Micah, right from the start, when they'd found her in the winter wilderness. The eyes he gave her, the face that was slick with something inhumane.

He wasn't right.

"Forget about it, for now, Lenny," Arthur sighed heavily. "It's midday. We'll go and get one or two drinks and be back by sundown. Alright?"

It was more than one or two drinks.

As soon as they came into the saloon, the place was overly crowded. Men played cards and gambled and swung their fists on tables. The pungent smell of alcohol reeked from everyone and everywhere. Floors, tables, and people were coated in sticky beer, whiskey, and moonshine. Women – paid women – bounced from one lap to the other until Arya couldn't keep count of who was who.

At first, when it was still light out, they'd sat at the bar. Arthur had ordered beers and they drank peacefully. But the liquor never stopped coming and the trio didn't stop drinking. Their laughter turned into hysterical cries, and they leaned into each other, swaying, slurring.

A man began to play the piano.

The room swam and it was dark out and new faces dipped in and out of focus. Arya found herself playing poker with three men, one of them so drunk he could barely hold himself up. She won five dollars and a quarter. She bagged the money and downed all their drinks.

At some point, Lenny and Arthur got into a slapping match. Arya bet fifty cents on Arthur. She lost. For that, her and Arthur gulped a shot of whiskey while Lenny watched, bent over with laughter. Both their cheeks were red. Arthur had the hand of Lenny imprinted in a white outline on his face.

The piano became fast and dramatic and Arthur swung Arya into his arms.

People danced around them. Arya's hands were around Arthur's neck, his on her waist, and they shamelessly danced. They doubled over in laughter. His body was hot and hers was curvy and the music was good. And then Arthur was pulling her against him, flush, until he could feel her breasts crushed against his chest, and she was splaying her hands flat against the hard muscles of his back.

And then the room swam and dipped and swerved and she was drinking again.

Laughing. Pulling at Lenny's coat. "Don't go, you sick bastard!" she yelled, giggled, fell.

Lenny laughed and tried to pick her up but fell awkwardly over her onto the sticky floor.

"Lenny!"

Someone was yelling downstairs.

Lenny got up, swayed, helped the girl onto her feet. "Let's go on an adventure," he slurred. His eyes didn't focus. Or maybe it was Arya's eyes that couldn't focus?

She laughed. Her cheeks were flaming hot, and her skin glowed with sweat, and her mind was a happy, happy haze.

"Lenny!" It was Arthur.

"In here," she slurred, pointing to the door.

Lenny stumbled, held himself up on the wall, and then barged into the room, Arya behind him laughing. They burst onto a lovemaking. The girl, straddling her lover, shrieked and covered herself. Arya laughed so hard she feared she'd piss herself. Lenny stumbled back, right into the young woman behind him, and down they went.

In the mixture of the woman's screaming, Arya's laughter, and Lenny's frantic apologies, Arthur found them.

"Lenny!"

Arthur went for the girl. He was so drunk that he smelled like moonshine and not even like the pine-wood, fire smoke smell that was him.

"Arthur, you stink," the girl laughed, slurred, as the man pulled her to her feet.

His mouth split into a shit-eating grin. "Then help me take a bath, will ya?" His accent was thicker in this state, rolling off his tongue like honey.

And then his face swayed and swam beyond her vision, and his warmth was all she wanted. His body. The outline of the muscles on his back. The sharpness of his jaw.

The piano was so loud. She was dancing again, going from one arm to the other. Faces were a blur. Voices zoned in and out of her mind until all it became was a haze of shouting, piano, and laughter.

Swimming. Swaying. Drinking.

"Lenny!"

Arya was wrapped around Arthur's back, her legs tucked around his waist. He held her thighs firmly as he navigated the crowded saloon. On his back, a laughing, red-cheeked woman with wildly messy braids and a bottle of whiskey in her hand.

"Lenny!" she howled.

Some girls scurried passed, laughing, giggling, while boys chased after them.

Arya could feel Arthur's back against her front and something warm and slick pooled between her legs. She leaned into his ear, her mind swimming, her thoughts a blur, and giggled, "Let's f-fuck."

Arthur hiccupped, and in his surprised state, drunk at that too, he let the girl slip from his grip. She hit the floor with a thud and giggles erupted from her.

And then she forgot. The world swam and then Lenny was swinging her along, the piano loud in her ears. Her feet were numb, and her claves burned from the effort, but it was just so fun. She was giggles and shrieks of laughter, dancing, swaying, moving along with everyone else around her. Arm to arm, hand to hand. She danced with people she didn't recognize; men and women. Lenny and Arthur.

She pulled Arthur down. "I need to pee," she rasped, swaying. He steadied her, but he was swaying too.

The cool night air was a relief against her flaming skin. Her hairline was soaked, and her braids were messy, and her body ached all over. As she crouched down behind a bush, she ordered Arthur to be the pee police. She relieved herself there, crouched crab-like in a bush, while Arthur talked on and on about fighting on the other side of the bush.

When she was done, she pulled up her pants and fell, toppled over, banging her head against the side of the general store. They'd gone between two buildings, a short alley that was dark. Mud pooled at her feet. She hadn't noticed her surroundings until now, when she sat in the dirt, head pounding.

Arthur helped her to her feet, stumbled, and then crushed her against the wall. Both hands on either side of her face, he leaned in, eyes glazed. The girl's own hands found home at his waist, under his shirt, pinky fingers drawing circles on the hot flesh.

Arthur groaned. He cupped her cheek. Her lashes fluttered and then her dark, dark eyes stared up at him. She was so much smaller than him. "Don't touch me unless you know what you want," he rasped. His thumb dragged along her lower lip.

Heat pooled in her stomach, in her core. She wanted something hard between her legs. Out of instinct, she whimpered.

In a blink, Arthur picked her up and wrapped her legs around his waist. He was strong, and his muscles coiled under Arya's touch as she slid her hands along his shoulders, dipping around his back.

Her instinctual need for something to be between her legs was satisfied. "I know what I want," she slurred.

Arthur shook his head. "No, you don't," he whispered. His face found home in the crook of her neck. She smelled of alcohol and sweetness and something sugary. Arthur felt the need to bite and so he sunk his teeth into the soft flesh of her neck. She groaned, her taste filling his mouth as he chuckled. "That's gonna leave a mark."

Arya threw his hat off. She gripped the dark blond strands of his hair and tugged, bringing his face out of the sanctity of her neck.

"Bad boy," she cooed. She had a lazy smirk on her lips.

In Arthur's hazy state, he noticed how different she looked. Vulnerable. She always looked cold and unreachable, and that was before her and Arthur became friends. Even after, she was still so implacable. Stoic and cold and closed. She would smile, those darling, dimpled grins that made his stomach roll, but he always thought there was more behind them.

And now, cheeks red, body warm, wrapped around him, she was herself. Smiling and giggling, pressed hotly against him in all ways possible, Arthur knew this to be her truest smile.

The alcohol was making him woozy, the world swaying and dipping. He would lose focus soon, and his grip would falter. He didn't want to let her go. She was warm and beautiful, and he wanted her.

"I would say you're a bad little girl, yourself, missy," he laughed. Their mouths were so close. She could feel the phantom ghost of his mouth against hers, his breath fanning her face.

"Call me little one more time, and you'll be on your back, cowboy," she threatened, but she was laughing.

"That ain't such an unpleasant idea," he grumbled back with a smirk.

And that was it. The moment. The need in his chest erupted and he wanted to kiss her so badly. He wanted to take her, to have her sprawled under him or vice versa. In that hazy state, piss drunk and swaying, he didn't know which he preferred; him or her on top, but he didn't care. He wanted the warmth of her, the wetness he missed, the tightness. He wanted to plunge himself in her and never leave her.

"Come get it, pretty boy," and she was ready too. A throbbing had settled between her legs, an ache deep her belly. She wanted friction, hard, relentless contact.

"You'll never get me alive!"

Lenny ran passed them in a flurry, bringing along with him two deputies. Arthur stumbled, lost his grip, and Arya was on her feet. A hollowness was left behind where they had once connected, but all thoughts of that had vanished as they saw Lenny being tackled to the ground.

"Ah, Lenny!" Arthur growled loudly. He ran towards the streets.

Arya clambered behind, still swaying, still so drunk she won't remember anything. She pulled one of the deputies aside, tugging on his elbow. He veered on her viciously. "Get the hell away from me, woman!" he yelled.

Arya punched him, knuckles scraping painfully against the deputy's jaw. "Ow," she mumbled.

The deputy got back on his feet, covered and dripping mud, and pushed her harshly. Arthur yelled out, but he was being restrained by the other deputy, while Lenny emptied the contents of his stomach onto the mud. Arya laughed, the scene swimming before her.

The deputy grabbed her, hoisted her over his shoulder, and grumbled, "Let's sober up these fellers in jail."

Arya laughed as if it was the funniest joke ever. She looked up and saw Arthur literally being dragged through the mud by the other deputy, while Lenny followed with small, quivering steps. Was Lenny actually walking himself, willingly, into jail?

That was Arya's last thought before she blacked out.