Chapter Text
Arthur knew something was wrong before he’d even opened his eyes. He woke with a sour taste in his mouth, his stomach churned like he’d eaten something rotten and his shoulders ached and creaked. It only got worse when he ran a hand over his face to find a thick moustache that he never once had before. He inhaled sharply, voice raspy, and forced himself to open his eyes.
The canvas above him was ratty with countless rips letting thin morning light seep in. He brought his hand in front of him. His head swimming like he’d drunk bad shine. The hand was joined to him, it flexed as he moved it, but this was not his hand. The knuckles full of old nicks and scars that weren’t his. That reminded him of…
No.
He looked down to see a stained red shirt. A shirt he knew all too well belonged to Micah goddamn Bell and jumped off the bedroll like a shot. Staggering a little on legs that felt all wrong he pushed out of the canvas flap and retched into the grass.
It had to be a bad dream. Couldn’t be real. His heart beat frantic and his lungs felt tight. He barely noticed the early morning sounds of Horseshoe Overlook until a figure loomed over him. He looked up, wiping his mouth with the back of a shaking hand and met his own eyes staring pale faced down at him.
Arthur watched his own lips snarl, “The hell did ya do?!”, but the venom behind it was pure Micah.
“I ain’t…” Arthur pushed himself upright, rolling shoulders that weren’t his to try and loosen the ache, “..done nothin’.” His stomach lurched again. “This… this ain’t real,” his voice cracked in Micah’s throat. “I’m still dreamin’. Got fever. Drunk. Or.. or somethin’.” Arthur scrabbled around trying to make any sense of the situation.
Micah impatiently grabbed his collar and yanked him to his feet, “Wake the fuck up, cowpoke,” he growled the words through Arthur’s teeth.
Arthur shoved him back with borrowed hands against his own solid chest.
“How…?” He stared at the face he usually saw in the mirror as it twisted in a Micah-like sneer. Something inside him snapped. He drove Micah’s fist straight into that face, maybe to feel the pain from the other side, maybe to beat the whole damn nightmare loose. Knuckle smashed against jaw. Micah-in-Arthur’s-body took a step back before surging forward, using the extra bulk to tackle and bring them both to the ground. Arthur gasped as the air knocked out of inadequate lungs but somehow he twisted cat-like and crawled free. That was until a hand found his ankle and dragged him back. He kicked out, boot making contact before Micah grabbed the knife from a sheath Arthur hadn’t noticed at his own hip. Arthur managed to jab one elbow to his own ribs before Micah used his weight to press down. Knife held close to Arthur’s throat while they both panted.
“Arthur! Micah! Just what in gods name are you doing!” Dutch’s voice cracked like whip and the two of them stilled. For a heartbeat they stared at one another, neither man sure of their next move. Micah-in-Arthur still had the knife pressed under Arthur-in-Micah’s chin.
Dutch’s shadow fell across them both.
“Knife. Down.”
***
The two of them sit at the five-finger-fillet table in the centre of camp. Midday sun at odds with the gloomy mood. Micah had Arthur’s boots up on the table like nothing was wrong while Dutch paced nearby, pinching the bridge of his nose hard like he could will the situation fixed. Arthur absently rubs his (or Micah’s) wrist where a lingering rope burn itches. Dutch had had both men tied to calm down while he established just what was going on.
It hadn’t taken much for it to become obvious which man was which, their personalities glaring despite the borrowed faces. More pressing for everyone was to find out how something like this could even happen and how they were going to get it fixed.
“You sure neither of you knows how this happened?” Dutch stopped pacing and looked hard at them both.
“No clue, boss,” Micah shrugged, “maybe Morgan got into some native voodoo shit.”
“Christ, Micah, ya think I wanna be stuck in your stinkin’ skin!”
“Ain’t see why not.”
“For a start you got goddamn lungs like a child.”
“Boys,” Dutch barked, “this is not helping.”
Arthur spits on the ground beside him, trying to rid himself of the stale tobacco taste coating his tongue like fur. “What’re we gonna do, Dutch?” He tries not to flinch when he hears his father-figures name in Micah’s voice.
***
By the time the sun is setting they’re no closer to figuring anything out. Arthur decides to ride into Valentine, sick of being stared at by John and Bill as if they expect him to blow like a crate of dynamite at any moment. Even more sick of watching Micah swagger around in his body like he owns the damn thing.
He wasn’t sure at first if he should ride Baylock or his own chestnut mare but Micah’s bad tempered horse seemed instinctively to recognise Arthur was not his master, despite appearances. Even then, Arthur’s own horse’s nostrils flared as he mounted. Although he couldn’t blame her given the greasy odor that emanated from his borrowed body. So, soon as he arrived in town he hitched up at the hotel and paid $5 for the hottest bath possible and all the soap in the damn building.
It was only when he closed the door behind him and stood in the steam-filled room that Arthur actually thought about what he needed to do next. He had to undress Micah Bell.
He took a deep breath, or as deep as Micah’s lungs allowed, and started unbuttoning the shirt. Removing the flimsy fabric and tossing it to the other side of the room like it might infect him. The belt next (and his own holsters as Micah had insisted on keeping his twin revolvers) then Arthur paused a second before starting to peel down pants that felt stiff with dirt. Avoiding the mirror in the corner as he stood now in nothing but a pair of long-johns. With a grimace he whipped them off quick, throwing them to join the rank red shirt on the ground and wasting no time sinking into the near-scalding bath.
Arthur took a second to relax into the water. Sinking down till the suds swam about his head and muffled all sound. He could almost pretend things were normal except for the greasy strands of longer hair that floated about his face. There was nothing normal about this situation. He wanted to scream and rail against it, but instead he sat up, grabbed a bar of soap and set to work.
As he began scrubbing out layers of dirt he felt huge and ragged scars across Micah’s lower back. Given the life they led, Arthur wasn’t surprised to find Micah had scars, but he was taken aback by how many Micah had and how vicious some of the injuries must have been. There were at least three old bullet wounds in his arms, countless cuts and slashes from knives and, most disturbingly, a shining burn on his thigh that looked to be the result of a branding iron. Arthur ran a curious finger over the taut pink ‘X’. “Shit, some folks is animals,” he murmured but a moment later reminded himself just what kind of man Micah was and that he very well could’ve deserved it. Still his gaze lingered a little longer. The burn was deep and must’ve hurt worse than the bullet wounds. Arthur shook his head, water drops flying, before snatching up a fresh bar of soap. Right, hair next. Better than thinking too hard on those marks.
It took four separate washes before Arthur finally felt the hair was decontaminated. That left just one more place to clean. He took a deep breath and pushed a hand below the water between his legs.
When his fingers closed around Micah’s prick he was almost relieved at how ordinary it felt: soft, warm, maybe a little heavier than he would’ve guessed, but nothing that made his skin crawl too bad. He soaped up, washed the shaft and the surrounding creases, caught somewhat off guard to find the area a little more cared for than the rest of Micah’s unkempt body. He slid the foreskin back without looking to clean underneath the same way he did his own. Quick and practiced. However the moment the pad of his finger caught the ridge just slightly the difference hit him.
It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t agony. It was just… more. A sudden, bright focus of feeling, like someone had turned a lantern up inside his skin. The head was slick with soap and felt warmer than the rest of him. When his thumb brushed across it there was a soft, unmistakable throb, almost curious. Micah’s hips gave one small, involuntary shift forward before Arthur locked them still.
He exhaled through his nose hating how he could tell even that sound was Micah’s. All right. It’s just…mechanical. He kept going, gentler now, rolling the foreskin back just enough to rinse properly. Each small motion registered, the faint drag of skin on skin, the way the head flared a little when it was uncovered and the subtle weight in his palm when it started to fill. Nothing overwhelming, but… impossible to ignore. Micah’s body responded like it had been waiting for the attention.
Arthur swallowed and finished rinsing. He sat there a moment longer, water cooling, staring at the far wall while Micah’s length bobbed half-hard against his thigh. He gritted his teeth and climbed out of the now grey-brown water. Towelling off roughly and keeping his gaze fixed anywhere but the body he stood in.
***
Arthur rode back to camp feeling a little more human. His horse was less suspicious now and the blond hair drying around his face smelt of pine with a faint hint of lavender. He’d thrown most of Micah’s clothes in the hotel fire, choosing instead to wear an old black shirt and work pants of his own. The shirt was a little loose across the chest and the pants longer than ideal but they were clean. He’d had to keep Micah’s boots, as his own were too large, so tucked the excess pant legs into them.
His stomach even felt a bit more settled and if anything he was feeling hungry. Enough that he looked forward to Pearson stew.
He arrived back and found camp weirdly quiet. Everyone seemed on edge, like they weren’t quite sure what would happen next. He was midway through ladling out some stew when he heard his own laughter cut sharp from by the campfire and damn near dropped his bowl. He wandered over slow, hesitant, to be greeted by the sight of ‘himself’ lounging on the ground, back against a log and bottle of liquor in hand. Watching his own body from afar was just as jarring as it had been a few hours ago. It only got worse when Arthur saw his journal lying open on the ground. Arthur stopped dead, stew bowl forgotten in his hand. Micah was sprawled like he belonged there, legs stretched out in Arthur’s worn boots, hat tilted just enough to shadow his eyes. Micah’s thumb was smudging across a page as he read, lips moving silently. Then he barked another laugh, loud and ugly, the kind that made dogs flinch.
Arthur felt something hot and sharp crawl up his throat. His grip tightened on the bowl.
“Put it down.”
Micah made a show of turning another page. “Oh, this one’s rich. ‘Mary smells like lilies and regret—’”
The bowl hit the ground. Stew splattered across his (no, Micah’s) boots. Arthur crossed the space in three strides, snatched the journal up and slammed it shut against his thigh.
“Shut the hell up, Micah.”
Micah leant back on his elbows, grinning toothily with Arthur’s mouth. “Touchy, touchy. Didn’t realize you was keepin’ a diary like a lost little girl.”
Arthur’s breath came shallow and whistling. He hated how small he felt, how the ache in these narrow shoulders never quite went away. From the corner of his eye he saw Dutch finally stirring from his tent, but before Dutch could speak, Micah leaned in, voice dropping to a murmur only Arthur could hear.
“An’ see how pretty you got me smellin’. Bet you had yourself a real nice bath today, didn’t ya? Bet you learned all kinds of interestin’ things about my body.” His tongue wet his bottom lip. “Wonder how much you liked it.”
Arthur shoved him hard.
“Enough! Both of you,” Dutch bellowed as he strode over.
“Dutch, he… he ain’t respectin’ my things!” Arthur grit out through clenched teeth.
“Well you ain’t respectin’ my skin, Morgan,” Micah chimed in, “stinks like a goddamn whore.”
“Both of you, keep your hands off each other’s property,” Dutch looked exasperated, staring between the two of them. Arthur tucked his journal safely into his satchel as Micah raised his hands and smirked.
“Sorry Dutch, ain’t easy when Morgan’s makin’ me look a fool.”
Arthur didn’t want to hear anymore so turned and went to get a fresh bowl of stew.
***
Later that night and things had calmed down somewhat. The two of them still glared daggers at one another across the campfire but that wasn’t anything too out of the ordinary. The fire crackled low, throwing long shadows across the circle. Most of the gang had drifted closer, no doubt curious about the strange situation, and likely wanting to decide first hand if they believed it. Bill spoke up from the edge of the firelight. “So what do we call you two now? Can’t keep hollerin’ ‘Arthur’ and ‘Micah’ when you’re wearin’ each other wrong.”
Micah grinned with Arthur’s mouth. “Call me whatever you like.”
“Please god don’t you call me Micah.” Arthur hunched forward, elbows on knees, Micah’s too-long blond hair falling in his face. He kept pushing it back like it personally offended him.
Nearby, Hosea eased back into his chair. “Until this is fixed, we’ll use your proper names. You’re still you, bodies be damned. And we’ll act like it.”
“An’ what if it don’t get fixed?” John chimed in.
“Then I’ll put a bullet in each of us,” Arthur said flatly. John snorted into his beer, half-amused, half-believing Arthur meant it.
“Doubt it, Morgan,” Micah stretched forward, lazily lighting a cigarette in the camp fire, “even with your fat fingers bet I still got the quicker draw.”
“Hah, that what you think?” Arthur laughed around a snarl, “I’d be more’an happy to show ya.” His fingers twitched toward his holster. Micah just exhaled slow, smoking curling from Arthur’s nose, eyes alight with excitement. Eventually lowering his voice to a rumble in Arthur’s chest.
“Then what’s stopping ya, cowpoke?”
“Enough!” Dutch’s voice cut in, “we need to focus on a plan for fixin’ this a you two killin’ each other ain’t it.”
“We don’t even know what caused it,” Arthur sighed, “so how we gonna fix it?”
“Hosea, you ever read of anything like this?” Dutch asked practically.
Hosea looked thoughtful, “I ain’t sure, but I’ll see if I can find anything, books are as good a place to start as any.”
“Right, the rest of you start asking around,” Dutch addressed the gang, “see if there’s any strange folk or witch doctors or anything that might give us a clue.” He looked pointedly at Micah and Arthur, “For now you boys stay close to camp an’ no fightin’”
“Sure.”
“‘Course, boss.”
Shortly after, Arthur drifted over to his cot. He pulled the flaps down and lay in the dark, surrounded by the familiarity of the ammo wagon and his things. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about the scars on the back he now wore, or the way Micah’s cock had felt in his hand, or how long this nightmare might last.