Entry tags:
pure self-indulgent cowboy h/c
[ It's been a week since he got back from his ordeal with the O'Driscolls, about that point where everybody except Susan, Hosea, and Swanson had used up the bulk of their sympathy. Not that they had necessarily switch to being unsympathetic (save a special couple of cases) so much as there was that general sense of waiting for him to be back on his feet and be useful again. ]
[ Maybe he was just projecting, that was how Arthur felt after all. The worst part of recovering from these kinds of things was that period of time where you weren't all foggy or halfway out of it anymore, now he was coherent and lucid all he could think about was how he could be doing something useful if it wasn't for how much pain he was still in. Didn't help that the few times Dutch would check in, ask "how you holding up, son?" or give some platitude about how it'd be better soon, it felt to Arthur more like being asked when he'd be working again, and he couldn't help but feel like a disappointment. Like he was letting everyone down. ]
[ For that first week, Susan had taken care of him, maybe more than he was comfortable with but he was thankful all the same. She kept him clean, kept him fed, kept an eye on when his bandages needed changing. Grimshaw wasn't a woman known for her tenderness, but she had it in her all the same and though she'd brush it off, it didn't stop Arthur feeling he owed her a great debt. He didn't want to burden her any longer than he needed to though. He could walk — slowly, holding his injured arm to himself, with a lot of pain all over — he could take care of himself now. ]
[ And so he takes himself out while Grimshaw's busy with the girls, grabs a bucket and slowly plods down the riverbank to take himself away from camp to get washed. Just getting out of his clothes is a bit of an ordeal, but he sits on the bank once he manages to get his shirt off and carefully starts unbandaging his shoulder. It's slow going, but he's fine. Nobody fuss. ]
[ Maybe he was just projecting, that was how Arthur felt after all. The worst part of recovering from these kinds of things was that period of time where you weren't all foggy or halfway out of it anymore, now he was coherent and lucid all he could think about was how he could be doing something useful if it wasn't for how much pain he was still in. Didn't help that the few times Dutch would check in, ask "how you holding up, son?" or give some platitude about how it'd be better soon, it felt to Arthur more like being asked when he'd be working again, and he couldn't help but feel like a disappointment. Like he was letting everyone down. ]
[ For that first week, Susan had taken care of him, maybe more than he was comfortable with but he was thankful all the same. She kept him clean, kept him fed, kept an eye on when his bandages needed changing. Grimshaw wasn't a woman known for her tenderness, but she had it in her all the same and though she'd brush it off, it didn't stop Arthur feeling he owed her a great debt. He didn't want to burden her any longer than he needed to though. He could walk — slowly, holding his injured arm to himself, with a lot of pain all over — he could take care of himself now. ]
[ And so he takes himself out while Grimshaw's busy with the girls, grabs a bucket and slowly plods down the riverbank to take himself away from camp to get washed. Just getting out of his clothes is a bit of an ordeal, but he sits on the bank once he manages to get his shirt off and carefully starts unbandaging his shoulder. It's slow going, but he's fine. Nobody fuss. ]