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emmithar-blog · 7 days ago

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Beautiful this is, emotions running wild (aka, totally not crying at work. Nope)

Drunken Deeds

@emmithar-blog shared with me a scenario from a dream that I could not resist writing, so... blame her?

Dreamt of drunken Arthur running inside modern store where he keeps trying to lasso the little kiddy horse ride and shouting 'he's getting away!' each time he misses.

Modern AU; Tilly summons Hosea to help sort a situation with an inebriated Arthur.

cw: alcohol/drunkenness, grief/mourning, child loss

Drunken Deeds

Lord knew judgment weren't the reason Hosea went for him. Sinners like them, well. They knew better than to throw stones in glass houses and his being the fine, crystalline structure it was? Made it clear, in every ironic sense, that claiming piety wouldn't do more than put a new window in what had to be a solid wall. Only so many times even a silver-tongued shyster like himself could patch up the fractures and make the illusion of it being whole.

No judgment, then, spurred him into action when Tilly caught up with him between the aisles of books and across from the jewellery counter, his eye on a lucrative little piece kept displayed under lock and key. Had himself an angle, a real nice thought to go with the wilted widower, seeking something fine to honour his late wife. In his pocket, tucked in a velvet bag, he had the cheap glass duplicate ready to switch when the attendant turned to fetch him a tissue as his old eyes misted up with fond memory of dear, sweet Bessie - sadness summoned at the drop of a hat in his line of work, the years having dulled the ache of loss.

"It's Arthur," Tilly said in a hushed voice, looking over her shoulder to ensure no one peered to close at them.

"Arthur?" Hosea shook his head and set a gentle hand on her arm. "No, Arthur's not here, my dear," he assured her. "Dutch has him covered." In a sense. Keeping Arthur from trouble were a two-man job at the best of times, but with how close the young man'd become to the whiskey bottle of late, well. It meant a certain degree of supervision needed to keep him from drowning and it weren't his lifeguard shift quite yet.

Tilly fidgeted with the hem of her jacket, a lovely flowing yellow piece which lent her a sense of innocence that the world'd otherwise stolen from her sweet soul. "That's just it," she insisted. "Me and Mary-Beth both heard him holler and she's there right now, trying to talk some sense into him."

"I'm afraid Miss Gaskill will run out of air before making any headway," he said. "Boy never did possess a lick of sense." Hosea gave her a crooked, confident smile - something to ease the tension that tangled her fingers together worriedly. He patted her arm gently, knowing that none of Miss Grimshaw's ladies aimed to cause a fuss when the matriarch weren't around to cause it for them. They were observers, sharp-eyed and sharp-witted, able to find the smallest opportunity and make it lucrative when the airs were peaceful.

That worried him some, then, that Tilly spoke of Arthur and hollering, a disruptive shift to her subtle efficiency. He paused, head tilted back with some consideration, then nodded as though his decision made - one already decided when she insisted on it being Arthur. Never had a son, him nor Bessie, and with his wife gone to heaven, well, Arthur were the best son he could hope for, so he'd always be ready to go after him. "Why don't I go speak with him? Then you and Mary-Beth can continue on your day."

Many things existed which Tilly Jackson could handle and he had no doubt that she'd've done herself justice here if he hadn't been around, but ability didn't mean comfort, nor the confidence needed to snap Arthur back off whatever track he'd gone down. The man wouldn't never hurt no lady, of that they all knew, but he could be right ornery and a headache all the same. Ruinous for a lovely shopping afternoon, or for a scouting foray hid amidst feminine wiles.

She smiled, a bright ray of sunshine and relief, and took his arm when he offered it, guiding them towards the back of the department store. The deeper they went, the more apparent it became that the ladies hadn't made the call to fetch him lightly. Hollering he heard loudly, and the plaintive requests from store employees doing their best to stop the chaos that'd started unfolding. He could hear Mary-Beth's voice pitched louder than the lady preferred, asking Arthur to let things go and come walk with her. A last-ditch appeal to those few gentlemanly manners he kept hidden beneath the gruff.

Then, as they came around the final corner, Hosea understood the extent of disruption his not-quite-son'd gone and done. Toys lay scattered everywhere, the aisle one for toddler treasures, and Arthur stood in the midst of it. Swayed more like it, glassy-eyed and clearly drunker than a skunk bathed in moonshine. He, in turn, faced off with a truly formidable opponent that seemed to have him bested: A small horse on four wheels, the sort that one might give a toddler to scoot around on in the house.

"Ye- You ain't gettin' no away, y'bastard," Arthur muttered, words slurred together as he readied up a lasso made from skip rope. "I ain't- You ain't-" The effort of talking too much, he raised up the lasso and cast out, missing the horse by a good foot. "Dang-- Stupid-- Horse, stop! He's gettin' away!"

Hosea gave Tilly one final, gentle pat on the arm and stepped away, an understanding sinking deep into his bones to what was going on. Three weeks ago had been the phone call that severed the faintest threads of hope for a life away from his past. Three weeks since Arthur broke his phone by punching it and his fist into the wall until something broke. The phone could be replaced, but his knuckles still bore bruises and half-healed scrapes from repeated impact against the brick wall. Three weeks since the young man'd been sober and, based on Hosea's own experiences with grief and liquor, likely three months or more until he'd return to it.

He held up both hands, calling up the attention of the employees and passersby that were staring wide-eyed as Arthur tried and failed once more to lasso the toy horse. "Ladies and gentlemen, I implore you to forgive my son," he said, voice one of authority and apology both. "Things have been quite difficult of late and, as you see, he doesn't have much sense to be dealing with it sober. My humblest apologies for the disruption - and I assure you, any damaged merchandise will be paid for." This he said with a hand over his heart, a promise he could later wheedle them out of. "If you could all just move along, I can promise there will be no further disruptions."

Mary-Beth, looking rather relieved, took that as her sign to start shuffling gawwkers away, while Tilly took a rather more blunt approach against the stubborn few clingers that remained. "Shame on you, with the phone? Would your mamma want you recorded when you're in need?" She shook her head and the filming rubberneck drew back, interest curbed and phone lowered. "Why don't I help you delete that, so no one needs know better, hmm?"

Content that the ladies had that part of the process handled, Hosea approached Arthur, who'd sunk down to his knees and held the skip rope tightly between his hands. "Okay, Arthur," he offered, calm and steady, as he crouched down. "Why don't we get up now, leave these folks to their day."

Arthur blinked slowly, focus broken from his horse nemesis, and looked up when Hosea offered him a hand. Bloodshot eyes, shadowed by weeks of drinking and despondency, flashed recognition, than the heaviness of understanding that he'd gone and screwed something up. "What're… 'Sea?" he mumbled, looking down at the skip rope, around at the toys.

There'd been a part of him that hoped to get Arthur out of there before he realized quite where he had ended up, and that part must've lost its bet with fate and luck. Hosea did not sigh, nor did he judge, as he let his knee rest on the ground, providing a barrier between Arthur and the few store employees left to deal with his mess. "That's right, Arthur, it's me," he assured him, reaching to gently pull the lasso from his hands. "Why don't you and I go for a walk?"

"That- Dutch said." Arthur shook his head, grasping blindly through the fog of intoxication for whatever sense had led him here. "Dutch said I oughta walk… get some air. Some space. Be good for me."

Hosea bit back the desire to curse, to pull out his phone and send Dutch a sharp text reminding him that Arthur needed folk around him, not to be sent away. Foolish, prideful desire to go off on one of his plans no doubt spurring Dutch to encourage the boy outside the confines of their safe house. "I think you've had plenty space for today," he replied, setting said the skip rope and shifting to haul one arm over his shoulders. "Let's get you up."

Arthur tried, lord did he, but he must've found and drank the good whiskey by the way his legs kept turning to rubber and dragging them down. Then, halfway through a third attempt, Hosea heard a small, choked sob and the man's full weight pulled them both to the ground.

"S'gotten away, 'Sea," Arthur muttered, miserable and hoarse as he stared at the little toy horse. "Don't- It don't matter hows far I try, he's…"

"Gone, Arthur." Small and softly spoken, for all the ache it awoke in his chest. He let the man slump there a moment, shielded him from prying eyes so the tears that tracked down his face had no witness to haunt him later. The mourning, the loss - he knew this pain. From going through it himself with Bessie, drunken and cussing for months on end. Now watching Arthur go through it, his heart shattered because it ain't never been true love with him nor Eliza, no. But Isaac? Weren't no love more true than that father to his son.

Lord knew judgment weren't the reason Hosea worked hard to get Arthur on his feet, thanking Mary-Beth when she came back and offered her assistance. And judgment wouldn't never be the result of seeing Arthur broke down like this, shattered since the day he got the call, the day he'd learned his son'd been taken from life. Judgment had no place here, never would - Hosea'd make sure of that, a small consolation for a young man dealt one of life's worst hands.

#kichi writes #rdr2 #modern au #hosea matthews #arthur morgan #tilly jackson #mary-beth gaskill #emotions

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