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

[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?

[Listen, Reim has priorities, and right now he wants to know exactly what Arthur has been doing that both necessitated breaking into his home at this hour and did not necessitate, like, changing his shirt. He's very particular. He gives Arthur one last long, scrutinizing glower... but alright, he's a reasonable man; he can put the gun down and just look grumpy in his pajamas.

That said: good god, does the man ever change his shirts? Is he surprised to still be in the same one? One day, Arthur Morgan will have manners like a real person. But, business--]

I don't know what you do with your free time. [He sighs and rubs a hand over his face, pushing his glasses up out of the way while he does so. He's like... half awake, and only that much from the adrenaline rush that comes with someone breaking into his house. Give him a moment here to be properly composed.] I know what you usually might break into someone's home for, but—

[But, and he stops very abruptly. Surely... that... no? No, the Usual Reason Arthur Morgan Does This Kind of Thing couldn't possibly be... could it?

It's times like these that make Reim wonder if life would be easier if he were, say, a drooling moron, unaware of anything happening around him. Maybe so. He lowers his hand to cover his mouth, and the look he gives Arthur would be serious if not for the way his glasses nearly slide off his nose.]

Please tell me why you're here.

[Arthur has, like, three whole shirts, and Reim will have ample time to study all of them—once they actually get this show on the road, which Arthur hopes will be relatively soon. The less people they run across on their mad dash out of town, the better, because the mayor keeps all kinds on his under-the-table payroll.

But first... ah, well. It's not like Arthur enjoys being the bearer of such bad news; there's something almost uncomfortable about it, which is why he shifts his weight from one leg to another as he slowly lowers his hands back down to his sides.]

I think you know why.

[That expression on Reim's face is, you know, rather telling, but Arthur still reaches into his pocket and pulls out the rumpled letter he'd received only a few hours before. Looks familiar, doesn't it? Hmm!! He wastes no time tossing it right over onto the bed, because while he could explain things, it's probably easier for Reim to just... see it for himself. He knows the mayor's handwriting.]

Just... read that, okay? And then pack a bag. A small one. [There is probably so much shit tucked away in that closet over there? He can Feel it.] You need to get outta here.

[Reim doesn't pick up the note immediately, instead giving it the same mildly horrified look he's been giving Arthur. Of course he can recognize the same note he himself just handed over last night, that's easy— what's stranger is how he doesn't feel particularly surprised. He picks up the paper, and of course he had this coming sooner or later; he asks too many questions, has too many opinions about the mayor's style, but surely the mayor isn't this much of a blatant coward...?

He skims the note. No, alright, the mayor is definitely this much of a coward. Okay.

...Thinking about it, he's still not surprised. Arthur here, telling him, that part is a surprise. Not the rest.]

You came to spirit me away before dawn? [He doesn't want to confront the fact that some incompetent jackass he spent so much time trying to help is desperate now to throw his life away, so: sass. Sadly, his heart is just not in it. Stiffly, he puts the letter back down and moves to get a small bag.] You could have left me to be someone else's problem.

[.....]

Thank you for not doing that. [but STILL] Where exactly am I supposed to go?

[Arthur isn't quite sure what reaction he was expecting here, but Reim handles the news of his betrayal with... a surprising amount of grace? Other people would throw something across the room, or lash out at the messenger, or—heaven forbid—start to cry; Reim, however, seems to process this news as quickly and as efficiently as he processes everything else, and Arthur knows that this is either a) a very good omen for their very long trip or b) a sign that Reim is going to break down the moment they leave this town.

...He's banking on the former, honestly, which is why he lets that weak sass just slip on by. Yes, fine, he's ~spiriting~ this gun-toting damsel away from this godawful town; he'll even give the lovely lady an extra minute or so to pack her not-so-small bag as he lays out the framework of his escape plan. He realizes that this isn't exactly an, um, ideal situation to be in? He's trying to be... considerate.]

You can't just ride a train out of here. Can't take a boat, neither. Bronte's boys watch that whole side of town, and they'd notice someone as important as you. [It's what they're paid for!] I'd say your best bet's to head out on horseback, toward West Elizabeth. There's a town out there—Strawberry? You heard of it? Real small place, but it's full of your kind of people.

[Upper-crust people, he means. Some ex-professor is trying to turn a tiny mountain town into a vacation hotspot for rich New Yorkers, but that is something to discuss along the way. He pauses long enough to give that bag a meaningful look—seriously, hurry it up!—before he attempts to wrap it all up.]

I can get you there in a week, if we ride hard, but— [Who knows if Lemieux will send people out after them? Who knows how Reim will handle Roughing It™?? Arthur isn't one to lie, which is why he reaches up to rub the back of his neck.] Well, it'll probably take us longer than that. There's no tellin' what we'll run into along the way.

[He says this casually enough, but there's something firm about the way he stresses us and we'll. Running into weird and/or bad situations is a part of his day-to-day life; he knows how to handle himself, which is why he's, you know, insisting on personally escorting Reim the entire way. If Reim were to go it alone—well! Either other outlaws would eat him alive, or one of Lemieux's men would would be hot on his trail in, oh, less than a day. Them's the breaks, buddy! Don't make him point this shit out!]

[Reim does, at least, move around with some urgency while he gathers his essentials and listens to Arthur. No, he's never heard of Strawberry, Saint Denis has been the center of his whole world for ages and maybe that is going to be what finally cracks him in a few days when he's sitting on the ground staring at a campfire, but he isn't thinking about this in terms of his feelings yet. That wouldn't help; Arthur says no trains and no boats and Reim supposes he has to believe him, after seeing the note - the longer Reim can put off actually feeling anything about having a price put on his head, the better.

So: it's fine. He's fine. He is not going anywhere in his pajamas, so Arthur will just have to stand there and talk while Reim goes to get dressed behind one of those fancy rich person privacy screens, which he has despite never having actual company. At least one of them needs to be wearing a clean shirt for this and it's going to have to be him.

Still, he continues to take most of this news with a dull kind of surprise; he's not just going to be left on a horse to fend for himself? Where did all this heart come from, Mr. Morgan??

He skips, however, asking something dumb and obvious like "oh, you're coming with me?" Apparently so! But this is Reim, and if he doesn't calculate a few steps ahead here he won't be able to shake off the shock of being caught, well, off guard. These surprises don't hapeen to him, he's smart...]

Mr. Lemieux will notice you disappearing for a week. Or more. [He is Dressed now and he at least looks sensible if not entirely subtle, because he doesn't own cheap clothing. He tried?] What will you do after Strawberry?

[What a dumb town name, also, but he just frowns over it as he finishes with his bag. That's it, then? This bag is now his life. So many things has to leave behind... like all the fancy paper in his office downtown... terrible. He gestures for Arthur to get out of his room now; they can go.]

[Dressing behind a fancy screen? Jesus! Arthur once again resists the urge to make some smart remark, although he does give Reim a rather critical once-over when he finally emerges from his makeshift dressing room. ...Well. The outfit could be worse, he supposes. Those pants are going to be covered in red dust as soon as they hit the dirt roads, and that jacket isn't going to do a damn thing if it starts to rain, but the outfit could be worse.]

So sure, fine, he'll turn back toward the door with a quiet snort. Oh, Lemieux will definitely notice... not that Arthur cares. Unless he plans on speaking to the Pinkertons—which is doubtful—then the best he can do is, what, send small posses after him? Tell the Saint Denis gangs to shoot him on sight? Small stuff, especially since Arthur has no plans ever return this far east. Who needs all of this civilization...]

Guess he'd better stop pissin' people off, then, 'cause I ain't about to come back here. I've got other plans. Out west.

[Which involve Arthur doing hoodrat stuff with his friends, so that's all he's going to say about that. For now. Hopefully Reim picks up on this meaningful silence and just, you know, decides to quietly follow Arthur through the front door and over to the very, very large horse tied to one of the street's many hitching posts. If Reim knows anything about horses, he'll notice that this monster is... exceptionally well taken care of? And she's clearly happy to see Arthur; she swings her head right around to butt her nose against Arthur's shoulder, and he gives her an affectionate pat before quickly untying her lead.]

You're gonna have to ride with me 'til we get you a horse of your own, but it shouldn't slow us down none. Boadicea's plenty tough. [Boadicea! Hidden depths, part deux!! Anyway: Arthur hauls himself into the saddle with practiced ease, making sure he's nice and settled before he stretches a hand down to Reim.] Hand me that bag of yours.

[He's going to temporarily place it in his lap, you see, before she stretches that hand out to help Reim clamber up behind him. Boadicea is standing perfectly still and everything... love her...]

[Hmm, out west, very exciting... Reim is satisfied with this answer, it seems, since he doesn't press the issue further. He wouldn't want Arthur harassed for his sake, but if he's just going to shepherd Reim out of town and then disappear, then that's-- better? Perhaps Mr. Lemieux will have to clean up his own messes for once, with the both of them suddenly gone. This is very clever and funny of him and so he almost says it to break the tension as they head outside, but--

That is a giant goddamn horse and he's instantly not very funny or clever. Now, Reim has ridden a horse before, sure. He's fancy and rich, he's even owned several, but they were ordinary sized... Even the apparent affection this creature has for Arthur can't get the look of vague terror of Reim's face. Big horse...??]

That's what you named your horse...?

[Help, he's paralyzed by Big Horse and hidden depths. It takes him an extra few seconds to hand over his bag, and even more before he'll consent to letting Arthur pull him up onto the horse. Really, he only volunteers to get on this horse for fear that Arthur will just throw him over the back of the saddle like a sack of potatoes if he takes too long, so don't worry-- he's still mortified. This horse makes Arthur look child-sized? Help him.

So while he is up here on the horse, he is also stiffly uncomfortable and more than a little clingy. Do not let him Die from this, Arthur Morgan...!!]

She's-- very calm.

[It's a compliment. The best he can do, given the circumstances.]

[That is indeed what Arthur named his horse, but as this is hardly the first time someone has asked him that question, he just, you know. Continues expectantly holding his hand out for that bag, which he places in his lap as he helps this poor, scared little dweeb climb up behind him. How many horses has this man been around, anyway? Ponies, all of them... Arthur can feel it...

So this, uh, clinginess? Not entirely unexpected, and yet he unconsciously tenses up the slightest bit as he adjusts to being touched. Arthur Morgan: the toughest outlaw.]

She's used to— [Gunfire! Screaming! Hmm!! He reaches up to scratch the side of his neck.] ...Well, I suppose this is an awfully quiet night for her.

[The understatement of the century, really, but as he steers Boadicea to the side and urges her forward, he finally seems to settle down. It's hard for him to feel ill at east atop a moving horse; he'll feel even better once they're out of the city limits for good.]

She ain't gonna throw us off, if that's what you're worryin' about.

[Even if it does get a little loud, but why add another worry to the pile? Catch that slight hint of amusement in his voice and suffer, Reim.]

[Arthur had better shut up and get them to their destination as quickly as possible, so Reim can get off this horse! Reim doesn't even notice him tense up, like a fancy rich boy grabbing him like this is so much more intimidating than his life of crime... incredible.

Okay, so he notices that a little, but as much as he isn't comfortable on the horse, he also doesn't want to get kicked off the horse for sassing too much. Give it time.]

I am concerned to the exact degree anyone would be about this arrangement, thank you. But no, I don't think your horse is the greatest threat to my life at the moment.

[Hmph!! The man wakes him in the middle of the night to rush him out of town, and now he has even more attitude. Let Reim cling to these tiniest scraps of dignity, please.]

[Poor Reim, stuck on the back of this horse while Arthur cautiously picks his way through these winding streets. It's not his fault that these things loop around in highly confusing ways? This is what we call poor city planning!

Still—as houses shrink, so, too, does the police presence. Arthur is still keeping a close eye on everything around them, but soon he's able to pick up the pace as he considers Reim's words. The greatest threat, huh... well, that's very true...]

Probably not.

[He slowly exhales, thinking of Lemieux and Bronte and all the other nasty people who call Saint Denis home. And, you know, of tourists like himself. Lord.]

No, I'd say you've got other things to worry about, [he says in that casual way of his, trusting that Boadicea will continue trotting down this avenue as he looks back over his shoulder.] Now, I don't know much, but you? You're a smart man, Reim. A real smart man, but here you are... 'cause of that letter, I know. But did you ever stop to think that this whole thing might just be some sorta set-up?

[Just... professional curiosity, all while they continue making their way out of so-called "civilization." But he quickly holds up his hands as high as the reigns will allow, adding:]

And before you pull out that tiny gun of yours, it ain't.

highly new, slightly improved open post

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i'm back on my bullshit

the dawning of a new cowboy age

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howdy, partner... haw yee

drops this thread

ouch... my achy breaky heart

i hate this

i will spare you... for now

thanks.....that's merciful

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