What a fool he is.

His skin is so accustomed to dried grime and blood that it almost feels dirty, having washed it all off. In his wardrobe, he grabbed the newest looking vest, shirt and pants that he owns, and after much deliberation he ditched his favorite (but ugly) jacket. Though he didn't have the heart to give up his gambling hat. The matted beard he'd let grow wild is long gone, scissored off in front of his mirror — and, fool that he is, here's hoping that the cut on his cheek would be mistaken for the result of a good old fashioned pub brawl. He even went and tossed fifty cents at the barber in St Denis to get a decent haircut.

But as Arthur Morgan stands outside of Bastille Saloon and regards his reflection in the darkened window, he can still spot all of the signs. Reddened eyes, dark shadows beneath them; an overall pallid complexion. And the cough. Let's not forget the damned cough. Well he's a damned man on borrowed time. What, exactly, was he hoping for?

He stares over his shoulder at Brutus, who merely snorts and paws at the cobbled street. Just get on your horse and ride back to Annesburg.

"Arthur!" He flinches. "Oh, Arthur!" Well, that settles that.

Arthur swivels around, clearing his throat and shuffling as she trots out of the group pushing through the saloon's entrance. Her honey-warm eyes sparkle in the dying sunlight, and since the first time he'd seen them he finds himself enchanted by them. Mary. Oh, Mary.

"Mary," he murmurs, pulling off his hat as she draws closer.

She stops a foot away from him, though she doesn't quite stop moving. Wringing her hands and shuffling about. Acting real antsy. He wonders which one of her family is in trouble now. Maybe it's that wretched cousin of hers… what's-her-name. More lizard than woman.

"I'm… I'm glad you came," she says, trapping her lower lip beneath her teeth.

He looks down at his boots, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Sure."

"It's…" He tenses, waiting for the name. If it's her father again, he might just walk away. Even if she begs him. Mary sighs. "It's easier if I just show you."

That piques his interest. Arthur turns up his head, an eyebrow raised. Her eyes are darting between him and the saloon, but what makes him frown is the sweat beading on her forehead. He wonders if that was there before.

Mary sets off towards the saloon's entrance, and he, with a cautious glance around him, follows suit. He clicks his tongue over his shoulder for Brutus to stay put. Then he's pushing through the double doors, merging into the rowdy crowd behind Mary. The rich people's version of rowdy, he means. Which consists mostly of red faces, tantrums, horrific singing and a few pitiful slaps. They'd get eaten alive in Valentine. Arthur rolls his eyes, until someone blows smoke into his face — his lungs immediately seize up, and he clutches his already aching ribs as he doubles over. The hacking coughs draws some dubious attention, but all he needs to do is glare up at any onlookers, and he suspects the blood dribbling down his chin helps his case. A pair of dainty hands grab his arm; he knows they belong to Mary, so he doesn't resist when she guides him towards the staircase.

If his world hadn't been swaying, he might have had the energy to tell her he can damn well walk fine on his own.

Once they're halfway up the quiet stairs overlooking the crowd, she demands, "What's wrong? Are you sick?"

"I'm fine."

"Oh, Arthur," she reprimands. A pitiful part of him is glad to see the crease in her brow over him.

"Just show me what you brought me here for."

For a moment, Mary looks like she'll argue with him. Her honey-glow eyes set alight, summoning a burning stare that cleaves right into his soul. Her lips tighten and her brows draw together, making her normally soft features look hard-edged and sharp as a freshly cut blade. It was this aspect of her that always made him such a fool for her. Something wild and crazy. For as fond as he is of her, Arthur doesn't spend much time with Mrs. Adler, because she reminds him too much of what Mary tamed. Tamed, so those flames douse within seconds and her face softens again.

"Alright. It's the first door on the right… Though, you wouldn't be able to miss it." He raises his brows. "Come on."

As they make their way up the rest of the stairs, he wipes the blood off his chin with the back of his hand. Pride won't allow him to tell her the climb is getting more painful by the second — the air is thick with tobacco, spices and drink, and he's doing everything in his power not to cough again. The pristine landing with its set of doors shows a bit of mercy, once he heaves himself onto it.

He stares at the first door on the right. "I see what you mean."

"Bartender made me pay fifteen dollars for that," Mary sighs. Arthur turns his head incredulously to her.

"Fifteen dollars? For a door?"

She scoffs. "I doubt it. But I didn't want trouble."

"Yeah, well," he grumbles, returning his eyes to the crude sketch on the door, "if you ever need to wrangle that money back, you only need to say."

"Oh, no, none of that." She sighs again. "It's fine."

He studies the etching in the wood. It looks like some sort of ape. In other words, it looks like Uncle.

"Want to meet the artist?"

He wheezes a chuckle, glancing down at his boots. "Sure."

The tentative steps that Mary takes towards the door is something he takes note of. Arthur's already sketching an image in his head: some wayward boy, perhaps in his early adulthood, on the run for a streak of illegal art. That's the only kind of outlaw Mary would keep cooped away.

She creaks the door open, then exhales a shuddering breath. And then, she looks over her shoulder at him with imploring eyes. Frowning, Arthur places his hat back on his head with one hand and settles his palm against his holster with the other. His boots clunk over the polished wood, his spurs clicking at his heels. As he passes Mary, he shares a look of apprehension.

So when he steps in the room, to say he's taken aback is an understatement.

If the bartender found out what happened inside it, he reckons it'll be more than fifteen dollars from Mary. Strange doodles, drawings and etching are splattered all over the walls. It's the strangest thing he's ever seen, and yet he can't help but admire the beauty of it. The culprit, as it would turn out, is not an aspiring outlaw.

Sprawled over a litter of notebooks, pencils and chisels on an unspared bed is an equally strange looking child. She stares up at him with huge, almost owlish eyes, her gaping mouth revealing slightly buck teeth, and, well shit, her hair is blue. Shakespeare couldn't make this up.

Arthur rounds on Mary. "Your letter said you were in trouble, right?"

She starts wringing her hands again. "Arthur, please—"

"I got a lot of problems, Mary. I ain't got time for mothering or—"

"This isn't mothering!"

"Then what is it?"

"I… She… Arthur…"

"This is mothering. She wants to get rid of me. But she wants to sleep easy too," pipes up the girl. Arthur turns back around, not entirely surprised she would have some cheek about her.

"Well how 'bout you just let her sleep easy?" Arthur retorts.

She scowls. "It's not like I'm stopping her."

"You got quite a bit of cheek on you, Missy." She merely glowers up at him.

Mary's hands land on him again. This time, he shakes her off. "Arthur," she murmurs into his ear, "Don't rile her up. Please." He wheezes a small laugh.

"Why are you acting like we're facing an alligator here? She's just a goddamn kid."

She sighs again, then steps into the room. There's rummaging through drawers and cabinets he's all too familiar with. Arthur continues matching the little girl's unwavering stare. He'll admit, she's doing a good job of it. Mary's heels click back into his direction, and then several newspapers are shunted into his chest. He looks down his chin at them.

"I presume you don't read much of the news?"

He hums, grabbing the papers. "I guess I'm too busy making it."

Arthur feeds Brutus an apple as his hooves clip-clop through the derelict streets of St Denis, with a heavier heart than he'd had a few hours ago. What a damn fool he is.

He can feel a tiny finger doodling on the back of his vest.

"I, uh… I never caught your name."

"It's Jinx," she mutters.

Arthur nudges Brutus with the heels of his boots. The horse breaks into a trot. "I don't believe you," he says, and then they are silent for the rest of the trip.