Arthur hadn't never struck him hot-blooded for the lady folk like himself; rather the sort to unknowingly stagger his way into endearing himself to them. Hapless and without guile like a right and proper country boy trying to remember not to wring his hands or show them the whites of his eyes. Arthur was surely easy on the eyes and possessed of an even easier temperament when he was of a mood, but Erron doubted it was nothing deliberate on his part. Learning how to convince ladies to let him stick his hand up all them skirts had been a beloved pastime of his ever since his balls dropped and that was all Erron could rightly think about.
That, and how best to kill a man.
"The nerve on you, tryin' to make off with a lady above yer station." Erron teased, but the lopsided slope of his grin was sly with admiration. He leaned down to fish around in his saddlebag for his cigarettes and matchsticks, had to slip his fingers down multiple interior pockets before he found what he was looking for — and then some.
"You ever think 'bout what it'd be like to have a daughter?" An odd question, and an even odder thought. Maybe it was all that heat and tension bleeding out of him for the first time in months, or the question of his unnaturally long life and mortality that had gotten into him all the sudden. Erron plucked out a cigarette and put it between his lips, scraped the match head against the floorboards and then pitched it into the fireplace once he'd finished with it.
"I thought about it," his voice was strained as he hauled himself across the bed to lean his back up against the wall, reached across to offer Arthur a drag off his smoke. In his other hand, he thumbed a yellowed photograph creased ten times over and fraying around the edges. "'bout settlin' down and havin' myself a little devil of a baby with a face like an angel just like her mama," he murmured. "Small enough to fit in my own two hands."
shattered dreams, shattered dreams for *erryone* :{
That, and how best to kill a man.
"The nerve on you, tryin' to make off with a lady above yer station." Erron teased, but the lopsided slope of his grin was sly with admiration. He leaned down to fish around in his saddlebag for his cigarettes and matchsticks, had to slip his fingers down multiple interior pockets before he found what he was looking for — and then some.
"You ever think 'bout what it'd be like to have a daughter?" An odd question, and an even odder thought. Maybe it was all that heat and tension bleeding out of him for the first time in months, or the question of his unnaturally long life and mortality that had gotten into him all the sudden. Erron plucked out a cigarette and put it between his lips, scraped the match head against the floorboards and then pitched it into the fireplace once he'd finished with it.
"I thought about it," his voice was strained as he hauled himself across the bed to lean his back up against the wall, reached across to offer Arthur a drag off his smoke. In his other hand, he thumbed a yellowed photograph creased ten times over and fraying around the edges. "'bout settlin' down and havin' myself a little devil of a baby with a face like an angel just like her mama," he murmured. "Small enough to fit in my own two hands."