dumbshow | highly new, slightly improved open post

highly new, slightly improved open post

assorted morons

optional prompts/ideas

☆ caught in the rain meme
☆ little steps meme
☆ affectionate physical contact meme
☆ picture prompt also acceptable but link them so it's tidy
☆ AU ideas: soulmates AU, reincarnation AU, Bad End AU, canon divergent/roleswap AU, dorky college AU, crossover AU, super indulgent high fantasy AU
☆ melodrama is ultimate tier
★ SHIPPING AND FUCC:
☆ non-fluffy relationship types I'm down for: codependent, master/servant power imbalance type ships, "we're bad for each other but worse for anyone else," other things I am failing to think of tbh
☆ things I am not into: noncon (includes "dubcon"), incest, tsundere shit if your tsundere is just verbally abusive, gratuitous torture porn, you'll probably have to ask me about harder kinks and they will vary by character
☆ I don't have a kink list so pitch me an idea if u thirsty
☆ if you would prefer a locked post I can also make that happen

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[There's really no denying it: Saint Denis, pride of the great state of Lemoyne, is an absolute shithole. Oh, its French-speaking inhabitants will bend over backwards in their attempts to defend it; they'll point out the elegant architecture, the modern amenities, the law and order their hard-working mayor has sworn to provide, but Arthur Morgan isn't fooled. It's awfully hard to care about pretty façades and pretty promises when you know what's lurking behind them.

Like... the mayor himself. Henri Lemieux, an apparently timid man with a passion for the arts - and a strong desire to see Saint Denis ranked among the best cities in the nation. There's nothing wrong with that, of course, but there is something wrong with promising to cleanse the city of crime while keeping the Van der Linde gang—the Pinkertons' most wanted—on retainer for, ah, business needs. Arthur's received a steady check for a month or so now? That's all that matters to Dutch Van der Linde, and, as a member of the Van der Linde gang, it should be all that matters to Arthur; he's never spent much time worrying about who's on the receiving end of a well-deserved beating, but every time the mayor's secretary delivers both a note and a look of stern disapproval... well. Arthur knows what he is. He learned to accept his place in life a long, long time ago, but that doesn't mean he enjoys smacking professors around just because some puffed-up bureaucrat paid him to.

(And once, not so very long ago, Dutch would have agreed with him. Dutch would have refused to stay in Saint Denis any longer than he absolutely had to, and yet... things change! For better or for worse. It's another thing Arthur has learned to accept.)

His feelings regarding his current mode of employment, however, are things Arthur is trying not to think about as he hunches over a table in La Bastille Saloon. The mayor's money may have paid for his room, his bath, and his half-finished glass of (much too expensive) whiskey, but all he wants to do is sit here and observe the many goings-on around him. He's not looking for anything in particular! He's certainly not planning to get involved, even when the poker game right beside him starts getting a little too heated for his liking. Who cares if some rich boy is upset about losing all of his money thanks to one bad hand? Who cares if he throws his cards across the table? Who cares if he draws a gun—

Ah.

Arthur doesn't jump up and grab the boy's arm because he wants to be a good man; Arthur jumps up and grabs the boy's arm because he wants one quiet night before he heads back into this godforsaken city, and there's no way he's going to get that if this dumb kid attracts every cop in the neighborhood. It's why everything—disarming the boy, whopping him upside the head, picking him up and throwing his ass right out the back door—is handled quickly and efficiently. ...Almost everything. Maybe he does yell something along the lines of "Go find a skirt to hide under, you goddamn baby!" before giving the boy one last kick to the rear, but you know, it's fine. It's not like the bartender minds; he even comes over to pat Arthur on the arm as he strides back in, and Arthur promptly shrugs him off. No, no. He doesn't deserve anything other than to be left alone as he finishes his drink.

But that isn't meant to be, is it? The second the bartender slips back behind the bar, Arthur catches sight of a very familiar person shooting him a very familiar look from across the room. Boy, isn't he just having the best luck tonight—]

Well, look who it is! [He dusts his hands off dramatically, grinning as he does so. He can feel the judgment radiating his way.] Just helpin' clean up this fine city of yours. And here I thought you paid folks to do that...

[And with that polite greeting out of the way, he ambles back over to sit at his nice, secluded table. Leave him alone! Or don't. He'll nudge a chair out into the open, just in case, because even if a lecture is imminent... at least Boss, Jr. is interesting. Entertaining? Both.]

[All things considered, coming to this particular saloon on this particular evening was a bad idea for someone else seeking a quiet night, but without the gumption to disarm ruffians and toss them out of doors. All things considered, this particular saloon isn't what anyone who's met him for five minutes would call Reim's type of establishment; surely, he's better suited to sipping expensive wine in an orderly sitting room somewhere, not holed up at a corner table considering some liquor. The expensive part is still there— being the mayor's right hand does have perks, almost all of them monetary— but the rest? Not so much.

Still, his position allows him to more or less do whatever he wants, as long as he doesn't make Mayor Lemieux look bad... publicly, anyway. Overtly. Reim has passed enough notes to enough criminals to feel like he's earned his corner table in this saloon, where a rowdy young man is most certainly going to ruin the night for everyone before long—

Or not. Reim watches Arthur Morgan with a kind of detached interest during the whole, ahem, incident and shouting and so on, not fixing his usual glower into place until Arthur turns enough for them to make eye contact. The mayor's insistence on keeping criminals on payroll is one decision Reim has questioned and been summarily shut up about, not that it ever takes for very long; another liberty he takes when he probably shouldn't so often. He's intelligent enough to be valuable, which he believes affords him, like corner tables, permission to ask the mayor all kinds of piercing questions before he goes out and does his job. Passing notes. Adding numbers. Making wheels turn in the places where a good punch and some accounts paid under the table won't hold up as suitable city grease.

Saint Denis is a rotten city but here he is, sitting behind his expensive glass, watching a man he is only vaguely, professionally familiar with throw another man bodily out of a building. Reim takes a long sip of his drink and considers conveniently losing interest, but then Mr. Bodily Harm himself starts talking to him. Across the room! People are looking!

Somehow it's possible for his flat glare to get flatter. Stop that. He pointedly ignores the comments and the nudged chair for several minutes, enough time to finish his drink and acquire another one at the bar. Then and only then does he approach Arthur's table instead of going back to his corner, giving him a long look without sitting down. The look is the lecture.]

Mr. Lemieux does not reward grandstanding, Mr. Morgan, [he says, like either of them actually believe Arthur did that whole thing for a selfless, noble reason (and he knows how to pronounce Lemieux without sounding like he's got a mouthful of something, which is only petty if you really squint). Reim puts a hand on the back of the waiting chair and then just taps his fingers, irritably.] If you feel your services are not being adequately compensated, I believe you know where my office is.

[Fill out a form instead of complaining, that's what the forms are for.]

[Arthur is neither surprised nor bothered by the fact that Reim doesn't immediately join him, because he's spent enough time around high society types to know how they operate: condescendingly polite in private, condescendingly aloof in public. Such treatment rankled a younger Arthur to no end, but now—well. Thugs have their place; as a professional thug for the past twenty or so years, he (begrudgingly) understands. It makes robbing these rich bastards all the easier.

So he's somewhat taken aback when Reim actually does grace him with his presence, although he tries not to show it; he simply settles back into his chair, taking a second to eye the fresh drink in the other man's hand before finally meeting that Look head-on. Unless Reim is planning to down that expensive liquor in one go, which Arthur doubts, then he's obviously in no hurry to leave. Maybe he's hoping that Arthur will soon call it a night, then? Maybe this glare—along with that casual mention of the mayor—is an attempt to encourage that.

...Ha. Arthur snorts, holding back a comment about the many things Mr. Lemieux does reward as he reaches for his own glass. He dislikes the man, it's true, but he knows better than to bite the hand that's currently feeding him.]

I do. Kinda figured you didn't want me showin' up there, though. [He casts a thoughtful glance down at his whiskey, almost like he's pondering whether or not he wants to finish it any time soon, before he shifts his attention back up to Reim.] Why, I might just scare off all your fancy friends! Is that what you want?

[Almost certainly not, but Arthur raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. Well, well, mister!]

If it is, then I don't see why we can't discuss adequate compensation right here, right now.

[That is 100% not meant to be a flirty line, and yet.]

[He could knock back this expensive drink like water if he felt like it and he doesn't appreciate all these looks he's already getting. Maybe he shouldn't let every single thing Arthur does get under his skin because he knows, of course, that half of it is on purpose— but ooh, this man!! And his chuckling! And his looks.

He thinks for a moment, puts his drink down gently enough on the table, but the violent scrape the chair makes against the floor when he yanks it out further to sit earns him at least a couple questioning glances from nearby tables. His face and name are known enough among the other fancy friends here that no one seems particularly concerned nor surprised that he's sitting down to frown some more at Arthur Morgan, which isn't a credit to either of them in the end. If anything, it's just further kindling to throw on Saint Denis' rotten fire.

But besides all that, Reim's frown this time is directed at the phrase fancy friends. Please, he doesn't let any rabble into his office, even the wealthier kind. His office is a sacred place and it's a minor tragedy every time he has to actually have guests in it. He should probably put up a sign, but everyone and their demands would ignore it anyway... it is very difficult to be Reim, don't be a smartass!!]

I've never met someone so impatient to talk about work he doesn't enjoy doing. [Reim, perhaps unlike the mayor, has eyes; Arthur might be very good at being a thug, but having met enough thugs in his time, Reim can see there's a certain line before total barbarism that Arthur hasn't crossed yet. Still, he's here to be petty and drink, not to become town psychologist.]

You do know that complaining to me about Mr. Lemieux's business is a waste of both our time, correct? He flounders without my aid, but he doesn't listen to me.

[And maybe that's another reason to do whatever this is here, instead of his office; he can't complain about his boss when the man is down the hall. Terrible luck. Here, they can be petty.

Reim lifts his drink again, raising his eyebrows, waiting for Arthur to say something with a little more moxie. Go ahead, he's already sat down.]

Fortunately, I am not working tonight, so I suppose wasting time like this is better than nothing.

[Ah, look at the busybodies peeking over this way! Arthur raises his glass to the nearest group of observers, obviously enjoying the (incredibly minor) scene he's caused—until, of course, Reim fires back by reading him like a book. Damn. It's not the first time someone has pointed out his, um, dissatisfaction with his current role, but by the the time that bespectacled know-it-all is nice and settled, Arthur's grin has been replaced by a rather tight frown. Does he enjoy what he does? Of course not. There's a difference between robbing a stagecoach and, say, beating the mayor's political rival within an inch of his life, but the reality of the matter is that he doesn't get paid to feel things. No one keeps him around because he's a good man, so feeling troubled by everything is...

Anyway, in short: That's too personal a thing to even mention, and Arthur doesn't appreciate it, but he takes a quick swig of his drink and forces himself to let it pass without comment. A nice, calm evening—that's still the only thing he's looking for here, even though Reim seems hellbent on turning it into something else entirely. A mayor-bashing session, perhaps. Hmm. Arthur isn't nearly as dumb as people often assume him to be; he picked up on the friction between the mayor and his second-in-command long ago, uncomfortably aware that something about them—Reim's frustration, or Lemieux's indifference—reminded him of... Dutch and Hosea? Dutch and himself. One man going down the wrong path while the other tries to steer him back on course.

But even if that makes him like Reim more than he probably should, Arthur isn't naive enough to trust him. Not right off the bat.]

Better than nothin'... boy, you sure are a friendly feller, Mr. Lunettes. [Does he purposely pronounce that last letter, even though he's heard it enough times to know better? Does he stress it? It's possible, but try to ignore it as he leans forward.] But how much've you had to drink, anyway? It ain't like you to talk about our friend the mayor like that.

[A warning? An out, if he wants one, because as fussy as Reim can be, Arthur really doesn't mind him. He did sit down at this table...]

[Well, good— he's stopped giving Reim so many insipid looks. The frowning is almost better; at least they've made it clear that neither of them really has the smug high ground here, sitting in a saloon being mean about their mutual employer. Well, kind of mean. Reim sips his drink with a considering hum.]

I think you'll find saying that the mayor isn't taking my unsolicited advice is hardly a crime. [As for the other thing... well, it's true!! Reim knows he isn't irreplaceable, but it'd be inconvenient to get rid of him and find someone just as good, and he could say plenty worse things than that.

Also stop saying his goddamn name wrong, you hick. Never mind the mayor, this is an Arthur-bashing session now... No, hardly- he could do that whenever, and it's close to refreshing to talk to someone who doesn't think the mayor is a visionary.]

Perhaps your dissatisfaction is catching. [Maybe, but... this is a joke. Reim is not good at jokes. He shrugs.] In any case, I am not drunk, but thank you for your gracious concern.

[So... not drunk, but just comfortable enough in current company to vent a little bit. Huh. Arthur inclines his head in an overly gracious manner, openly studying Reim as he swirls the tiny bit of amber-colored liquid around the bottom of his glass. It must be nice, he thinks, to trust someone you barely know. Maybe that's another one of those luxuries only rich people can truly afford? Rich people, and good people.]

You know the people he sends me after. You wanna tell me their crimes?

[And the last drops of whiskey go right down the hatch, because he certainly doesn't want to think about that. No, thank you. Just give him a second to tilt his head back, to take a nice, deep breath, before he looks back over at Reim and shakes his head.]

Listen, Mr. Lunettes—I'm a simple man! You pay me to do a job, I do it... and I keep my mouth shut. You know the price on my head? [He has. Surely he has. A five thousand dollar reward is nothing to sneeze at, but he places his glass on the table—a little too firmly, maybe—and tries to keep his voice low and steady.] It's awfully difficult for me to be dissatisfied with the way things are when one wrong word here could cost me my damn life.

[And quit telling him that he's unhappy with this stuff! Jeez!]

[Reim shrugs again and says nothing about anyone's crimes. Henri Lemieux simply has greater means to put down the people he wants put down before they can come after him in return; Reim isn't about to defend that by saying something like oh, actually, they didn't pay taxes. All he does is pass notes, and maybe that makes him complicit in more than a few back alley beatings, but everyone in this town is guilty of something, eventually.

So, shut up, or he'll keep making piercing comments.]

I know enough about you, [he says simply; the price on his head, the violence, and so on-- enough. But he's still sitting here having this conversation, so that isn't necessarily him passing some kind of judgment; just, you know. He's aware.

And speaking of,] But I have yet to understand why you haven't just left. There are other cities to skulk about in.

[Arthur brought up the whole bounty thing, in Reim's defense. He's just making conversation. Innocently.]

[Hopping from one touchy subject to another, are we? And right when Arthur is all out of whiskey. Damn! He looks down at his empty glass, like he's sure it'll be refilled if he wishes hard enough, before settling for a simple shrug. Skulking about... sheesh, but this man is really trying to push his buttons...]

Maybe I like this place? [Bad mood or no, he can't even say that without chuckling.] Or maybe it ain't my decision to make.

[The Van der Linde gang isn't a democracy, Reim, and Arthur isn't the man making calling the shots. If it were solely up to him, he and the (few) people he cares for would be somewhere out west by now—but when Dutch wants something, Dutch gets it. That's the way of the world.

But it's easier, somehow, to talk about that with this Reim than it is to bitch about the mayor at this point in time. It's not like Reim is going to run right back to Dutch and tell him that Arthur doesn't seem completely committed to the cause, so... this is a good enough place to start? Something like that, anyway. Maybe it even earns Reim an extra point or two, because even though there are plenty of people here who know that Arthur Morgan is out and about in Saint Denis, very few of them are brave enough to casually bring up such a thing. This man must really want Arthur out of his city! He can respect that.]

Guess you don't know as much about me as you think you do.

[Listen, this is skulking. Reim doesn't skulk, he is just out for a drink, but Arthur? Very skulk-y.

Still, skulking or not, Arthur has such an attitude about him. Reim isn't trying to watch his mouth, but if he was, he might be bothered by how he can't say ten words without Arthur apparently being so very, very irritable about at least six of them. It's true that he doesn't know know everything about the man- why would he!- and it's also true that this isn't his attempt to get to know him, but...

Well, please. Relax. He waves a hand a little, much to that effect; honestly, it's not that big of an issue.]

I did say "enough," you'll recall. If that's a sore subject, ["IF".......] then by all means, talk about something else. Or shall we sit here in silence, ignoring each other?

[That he could have done from his corner, but Arthur went and made suggestions that he come over here...]

[Arthur is an emotional man, Reim, even though he likes to pretend that he's just too darn tough for all of that nonsense. Spending a month in this city when he'd rather be camping out in the middle of nowhere, sketching birds and talking to his beloved horse... well, it's taken its toll! He's tired, he's grumpy, he's constantly on the lookout for the same two Pinkertons who insist upon making his life a living hell—

And none of that is this man's fault. There's no sense in alienating the one okay-ish person he's met in Saint Denis, especially when said person just so happens to be very well-connected, so... fine, Reim. Fine. Arthur sighs and holds his hands up in front of him, almost like he's surrendering to whatever nonsense will make Reim happy here.]

Silence ain't a bad option, but... I'll tell you what. You get me another drink, and we can talk about whatever you want.

[Lady's choice, he almost says, but he gets the feeling that Reim won't appreciate his refined sense of humor. Just bring him a whiskey, please. He is Too Old to argue.]

[He's moody, that's what he is. Reim doesn't need his concessions; once again, Arthur is the one who spoke to him and made vague overtures for him to come over here. Still, he supposes he can... humor this... behavior. Somehow. What can he talk about besides pettiness? He'll figure it out.

But first,] I'm beginning to see the true intentions behind getting me to come drink with you.

[Making him pay... classy. Fine, hold on, he'll be right back with another pricey whiskey. He can afford it, and there's no harm in being decent to Arthur, as long as he doesn't get too drunk. Reim can't handle that. The bartender knows Reim can't handle that, either, and gives him an uncertain kind of look that he studiously ignores while he gets them more drinks.

He also brings back some water. Drink both, lush.]

While I appreciate the offer, I don't think you're going to be very interested in what I want to talk about, unless you've recently developed a passion for stationery.

[Get used to this moodiness, Reim, or find ways to snap him out of it. Actually bringing him a drink is a great first step; he's not drunk—nowhere near it, thank you—but another glass of whiskey will move him from sleepy to pleasantly buzzed. He accepts it gratefully.]

Much obliged.

[And he wastes no time taking a sip, eyes widening ever so slightly when it becomes clear that Reim didn't ask the bartender for a glass of his cheapest stuff. That was... kind of him. Arthur knows full well that few people would waste a full dollar on a man like him; hell, he wouldn't waste a full dollar on a man like him, so that's yet another point for Reim here. It's ultimately what makes him stop to seriously consider this stationery question instead of just, like, waving it off. Arthur Morgan, talking about fancy paper. If only the gang could see him now...]

Stationery? Can't say that I have. I don't write too many letters. [He hesitates, wondering if he should just end it there, but... hmm. There's common-ish ground to be found here, which is why he pats one of the many pockets his coat has to offer.] Mostly I just write things in my journal. Or draw, I guess.

[Arthur will drink his fancy whiskey and his fancy water, or so help him, Reim will find a way to handle a big, moody drunk, and it will probably be dragging him around by the ear. But that can wait until later— humoring his fancy paper discussion earns him a few points in Reim's book. Somehow. Maybe Reim has been drunk this whole time after all, and this is a fever dream...]

Draw...? [Really? Is he a little too surprised by that, he wonders, and looks down at his glass in an effort to look less so. Arthur Morgan the artist definitely was not in his mental list of things-he-knows-enough-of.]

I wouldn't have guessed. What do you draw, then?

[Arthur will consider drinking the water at some later, dizzier time, but for now—whiskey, because it helps numb that slight twinge of annoyance he feels when Reim looks so surprised by his little admission. It's always like this! Dang.]

I know, I know. I don't really seem like the artistic type, now, do I? [His grin is back as he reaches into his pocket to actually fish his journal out, but there's something rather wry about it. Yeah, he's heard it all before. Laugh it up!] Probably 'cause I ain't. Never had any lessons or anything like that, but...

[But. When he sets his journal onto the table, it's clear that he didn't just buy it on a whim. It's small, yes, but bound in real leather, and the thick paper is some seriously high quality stuff; it's something a discerning customer would pick, something that wouldn't look out of place on Reim's desk, and as Arthur begins thumbing through it, it's obvious that he takes very, very good care of it. It's probably much cleaner than anything Arthur is currently wearing.

And the inside! Well! He shows a few carefully chosen pages, shifting a bit in his seat as he does so. This isn't something he often does? People make fun of him for this type of thing, even though he never really pays them any mind.]

I just draw little things, I guess. Anything that catches my eye.

[Feel free to notice the abundance of animals and/or plants as Arthur swipes through a few more pages, Reim. Hidden depths!!!]

That isn't... I wasn't going to say anything. [But he was thinking it, so he deserves that bit of sass, probably. Let the record show these two things: first, that Reim is more sheepish about this callout than all the other ones before it, when he was being prickly, and second, that Arthur pulling out a nice journal to show him drawings of ducks (and etc) is the historic moment his opinion of the man shifts from "thug who isn't horrible" to "person he can get along with."

Priorities, see. He leans forward just slightly, to see these lovely ducks and plants and things, and he is genuinely interested. A nice little journal with some surprisingly good drawings in it? This is his new number one Arthur Fact, top of the list. Hm!]

"Little things"? Give yourself more credit than that, Mr. Morgan. [There's a whole landscape there! Please!] You are a man of many talents, it seems.

[Punching... and drawing flowers. Truly incredible.]

Well, if you do find yourself with a passion for stationery someday, I might have some to spare.

[For ART!! This is not a joke, he will donate fancy paper for this.]

[Aside from the ladies back at camp, has anyone ever actually complimented his little sketches? Hosea, probably. Dutch, maybe. The simple fact is that Arthur usually catches more shit for doodling than anything else he may or may not do, and while he'll happily go toe-to-toe with anyone who smarts off at him... well. It's nice to prove someone wrong the polite way for once, especially since it doesn't feel like Reim is simply humoring him.

But that doesn't mean that he believes he deserves any praise. He likes drawing things every now and again, it's true, but would he call himself a talented individual? Nope. He's talented at stealing, and threatening, and killing; as far as he's concerned, he's absolutely terrible at everything else, which is why he looks pleased, yet so darn uncomfortable as he snaps his journal shut.]

Talented at this? Nah. It's just, uh... an easy way to pass the time while I'm—

[Staking out homes to rob? Lying in wait to ambush a carriage or two? Ha. He shrugs once more as he tucks his journal back into his pocket, because it's not like the, ahem, finer details of his day-to-day are suitable to discuss with a proper gentleman. Let him just oh-so smoothly segue into other important points.]

It's a good way to remember things. People, too, even if I'd rather just forget most of 'em. [Arthur-level humor, everyone! He does indeed chuckle to himself as he reaches for his glass, because that's just how he is. Embrace him.] But maybe I'll take you up on that offer, Mr. Lunettes. One of these days. Paper can be awfully hard to come by.

[And maybe, just maybe, he'll wind up sending Reim a letter with a sketch of a western landscape added at the very bottom. A new type of duck doodled in the margins, too? Who knows! Anyway, the truly important thing here is that Arthur attempts to properly pronounce Reim's name this time. Attempts. It's FAR from perfect.]

[Ah, so he's a child, good to know. Reim gives him a look, like, that's complete nonsense, but he's not going to argue about it. He'd need a few more drinks to get up in arms about the quality level of duck doodles, but trust him, they're... better than expected, at the very least.

In any case, please learn French, these pronunciations make his soul ache.]

Not for me. [Paper is hard to come by because of Reim, personally— if only. He's just Rich and fancy stationery sets are his actual, real vice, not expensive liquor. Don't think too hard about it.] Well, keep it in mind.

[Hmm. Now this feels... almost like... friendly acquaintances, rather than vaguely professional associates. Ducks did this. A friendly acquaintance wouldn't harshly correct Arthur every time he fails to pronounce Lunettes properly, but still... It's going to bother him! He taps the side of his glass, like he's thinking very seriously about something.]

You know... why don't you just call me Reim, while we're out of the mayor's office?

[Or learn French, whichever's quicker. This is the gentlest way he can criticize Arthur's horrible fumbling, just take it.]

[He's the main character from a video game aimed at male twenty-somethings, What Did You Expect. Anyway: Reim, huh. That is, without a doubt, one of strangest names he's heard, but he wisely decides to keep his smart-alecky comments to himself. This is how he repays Reim for not laughing at his (very cute) drawings.]

Reim. [He says it slowly, almost like he's taking great pains to get that one syllable as correct as possible. He is, but then he goes and ruins it with an incredibly thoughtful:] ...Huh.

[He's an outlaw, not a fancy man used to fancy names, etc, etc. Forgive him? Especially since he stretches out a hand and waits for Reim to, like, give it a shake. At least he didn't spit it his palm... this is a prime example of Cowboy Manners™.]

I certainly can do that, Reim—but only if you call me Arthur.

[Thank you, he's definitely not acutely aware of having an incredibly strange name at all, that isn't a sensitive subject in the slightest. Reim just looks at Arthur not comprehending his name for a moment, like, alright... that's enough. It's German, but that might confuse Arthur's cowboy brain, so he'll save that one for some other time.

Shaking hands at this point, long after they've met, and sitting in this saloon, is ridiculous— he'll do it anyway, putting his drink down to briefly shake hands, but it's ridiculous.

He isn't going to get all distracted and obvious about Uncommon Names, so, you're welcome.]

Not the deal I was expecting to make, but alright.

[How many times will Arthur embarrass Reim by doing silly things? A count should be kept, honestly, but—oho! So this man was possibly expecting something from this maybe-not-so-impromptu meeting! Ah, well. It's one thing to talk about soft things like art and fancy paper; that type of chitchat happens so rarely that Arthur couldn't help but to relax a little, to enjoy it as long as he possibly could, but when people bring up potential deals... hmm. His skillset is, um, rather well-known? It's really no wonder that the small smile slides right off his face as he briefly considers what, exactly, Reim was hoping to handle when he spotted Arthur from across the room. Something about the mayor, probably... where's the nearest bookie...]

So you had a thing in mind when you sat down, huh? [Of course he did! No one is nice(-ish) for no reason! He's terribly cynical, you see, but he doesn't sound particularly annoyed as he taps a finger against the side of his glass.] Well, I've still got half a drink left, if you want to tell me what that thing was.

[Well, is. Who does he need to rob, threaten, and/or kill?]

[Reim will start keeping a list of Arthur's dopey mishaps in the back of his notebook to look at on rainy days... But, oh, yes-- business. He'd almost forgotten there was an offhand mention of business when he sat down over here. Credit to Arthur, then, for getting Reim to stop thinking about work for ten minutes, but he's not going to tell him that. Arthur will have to piece that one together on his own.

So! Business! It's less egregious (to him, personally, no one else cares as much) that he briefly forgot, because--] I had something to deliver to you tomorrow, actually. Mr. Lemieux insisted it wasn't an urgent matter...

[And I guess he just carries his shady crime notes around on his person instead of in a professional file, you know, because that would actually be egregious, so give him a moment to tug a neat little folded note out of a vest pocket and hold it out. It's sealed; he hasn't read it, but then, he doesn't usually. Most of the time he doesn't like to be too involved, or the mayor tells him outright it's in his best interest not to stick his nose in; he doesn't need to read them to know he doesn't like the business, anyway.

So he has not read this one, not for any particular reason. It's not urgent! Apparently. This person must not be going anywhere in a hurry, he supposes, or he'd have been tasked with doing this faster than what amounts to "at your leisure, Mr. Lunettes."]

Here you are. Have some discretion and don't wave it around in here.

[So they're not actually going to talk about this, just pass a secret mayor note. This isn't suspicious in the slightest!!]

[So it is mayor business! How... wonderful. Arthur plucks the paper from Reim's hand, unable to resist shaking his head as he does so, because he is a professional thug? He knows how to properly handle his business.]

Really? You mean I can't just read it out loud?

[Aw, shucks!! The note, however, gets tucked inside the same pocket as his journal without any further commentary, and Arthur does his best to shove it right out of his mind. He can worry about his new task later, when he's alone and there's no more whiskey to be had; until then, he's free to focus on other things, like whatever Reim is carrying on about in that strange accent of his. Why is it so hard for these French people to pronounce even the simplest words? Goddamn.

Reim, however, eventually goes along his merry way, and Arthur eventually stumbles up to his rented room, where there are no further distractions to be found. He could just turn in for the night! It would be nice to enjoy a deep, hopefully dreamless sleep before jumping back into work, but... welp. It's better to get things over with than keep putting them off, which is why he pulls out that note, settles into a chair, and forces himself to skim through it.

And then, you know, forces himself to properly read it, for that is a name that—okay, so it's one that he isn't entirely surprised to see, if he's being perfectly honest with himself, but he certainly didn't expect to see it quite so soon. Reim Lunettes, huh? Reim Lunettes, in quarter so-and-so in house such-and-such, who lives alone and who needs to be, ah, removed at the gentleman's convenience. Arthur has to chuckle as he folds the paper back into a neat little square, because even though he doesn't like Mayor Lemieux—even though he honestly detests the man—there's something undeniably stylish about making someone hand-deliver their own death warrant.

Arthur, however, isn't Dutch; style has never been high on his list of priorities, especially not this cowardly version of it. It's why he doesn't go to sleep at all? Why he reads over the short letter again and again, rubbing his eyes as he thinks about Dutch, and loyalty, and what it means to go from knocking decent men around to killing decent men for no real reason. There are many questions here—pertinent ones, like who, exactly, will take the fall if a prominent member of Saint Denis' high society turns up dead?—but Arthur isn't terribly concerned with the legal consequences of cold-blooded murder. Other consequences, though? Ones that are, say, rather difficult to define... well, what will murdering Reim cost him? Him, not Dutch. Not the gang. How much will he, personally, have to pay, on top of everything he's already spent?

...It's one of those questions that doesn't really have an answer, and he knows that, but it's still on his mind as hauls everything down to his horse and sets off for the nicer side of town. Reim's house isn't all that difficult to find; it's even easier to break into, although Arthur finds the stairs to be a bit too noisy for his liking. He's positive that he'd hear himself coming from a mile away, but as he continues making his way up to the second floor—hey, what's the point in being quiet at this point in time? It's not like he's a particularly sneaky individual to begin with, so...]

Mr. Lune— [Oh, wait a second.] Reim! You awake yet? You sure as hell need to be!

[Good (early) morning, sunshine. Please don't shoot this incredibly loud home intruder as he throws open what is presumably your bedroom door, because hey! You know him!!]

[Now, for the record? Breaking into his house in the godforsaken hours of not-yet-entirely-dawn is rather what someone planning on murdering him would do. Reim is not conveniently wide awake and waiting with a suitcase; he doesn't read the notes, after all, and of course nothing in life can be that easy. It's early, and while Reim is an early riser by nature, he isn't prone to being ready to face the day before the sun has entirely risen.

Which is all to say that when Arthur noisily breaks into his house, Reim is half-awake and still in his nightclothes, like a decent person should be at this hour. He doesn't make an effort to run; there are only so many ways (like, one) out of his nice house and who is he to pretend he can defend himself in any way beyond hastily pointing a gun at his bedroom door and waiting? Of course he has a gun, he's rich and employed by the mayor and not a fool-- this was all inevitable, he thinks when he hears hasty footsteps on the stairs, but he doesn't connect the dots immediately to the note he'd delivered the night before.

And his gun is a tiny purse-sized pistol with fancy gold detailing, but don't you dare make fun of his rich boy purse gun, Arthur Morgan.

Anyway, the morning has taken a surprising turn - Arthur smashing his way into both Reim's house and bedroom, shouting at him. Reim's expression shifts when he actually sees Arthur, a twitch from horrified to irritated, and he doesn't put the gun down.]

I ought to shoot you for stomping around my house this early in the day! [MANNERS... UGH. Only when he's judged that Arthur does not have a bunch of fellow thugs in tow does Reim lower the fancy pistol. Good morning??] What do you want?

[Then, after looking at him for a moment,] Have you even slept? You're wearing the same shirt as last night.

[He knows Arthur has more than one shirt. This is the priority right now, please course correct him accordingly.]

[This isn't the first time Arthur has popped into a room to find someone pointing a gun at him? Call it an, ah, occupational hazard. This is, however, the first time someone has threatened him with something so tiny while also questioning his current attire, and that is—

...Huh. He slowly raises his hands in front of him, palms facing outward, but there's no stopping his brow from furrowing as he looks down at his shirt in genuine confusion. Who pays that much attention to what someone else is wearing...]

Have I—

[That fourth of a sentence is said with such wonder... but he's not about to finish it. There are other, more important things to attend to here, which is why he (awkwardly) looks right back up at Reim. Get serious! And leave his clothing out of this!]

Listen, mister, but I think you've got bigger things to worry about than what I'm wearin'. Maybe I'll even tell you all about 'em—if you lower that gun of yours. [You might shoot one of the buttons off my good shirt, he almost says, but there is a time for jokes—and it's generally not when he's staring down even the smallest of barrels.] You really think I'd be here if I didn't have a damn good reason?

snippy saloon date before cowboy lessons

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