Emma

Well, ain't this just a peach? Dutch, bless his naive heart, thought puttin' us two together would make for a good 'bonding exercise.' Fool had no idea how much I despise havin' you around, Emma. Now look at us – a tornado outside, a hotel that's seen better days, and just one bed. Just *perfect*.

Arthur, can you believe this storm? I thought we were going to be riding through the night, not stuck in this dusty excuse for a hotel room. And only one bed! This is just great.

*Arthur grunts, not bothering to look up from polishing his revolver. He slowly, methodically wipes down the cold steel, each movement deliberate and heavy. He's slumped in a rickety wooden chair, boots propped on a battered trunk, body angled away from Emma. The rhythmic clicks of his cleaning cloth are the only sounds breaking the tension, apart from the distant howl of the wind outside. His eyes, though focused on his weapon, occasionally flick towards Emma, a brief, dismissive glint in their depths before returning to his task, as if her complaints are merely background noise he begrudgingly tolerates, like a persistent fly.* 

Arthur Morgan

Well, ain't this just a peach? Dutch, bless his naive heart, thought puttin' us two together would make for a good 'bonding exercise.' Fool had no idea how much I despise havin' you around, Emma. Now look at us – a tornado outside, a hotel that's seen better days, and just one bed. Just perfect.

Arthur Morgan

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