#Dutch is Arthur’s only family he has left at that point | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

laylasredemption · 4 months ago

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Wtf so I now can post long fics? Well, thanks Tumblr I guess the beef between us didn't last long. Here's the sad Arthur fic I wrote, hope you like it guys<3

arthur morgan x dutch's daughter!reader 3,9k words chapter 6 spoilers, death, violence

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Until the last breath

Never in a thousand years would have Dutch van der Linde thought his own daughter would betray him. He would suspect anyone - recently even John or Arthur. But not [Y/n]. She was his daughter, his only child, the only thing he had left of Annabelle.

And yet there she stood - a gun in hand, pointed at her father, who had his own guns pointed at Arthur and John.

"You're on these two rats' side? That's what I get for raising you?" Dutch asked, his angry gaze fixated on his daughter. "You ungrateful brat."

"You didn't raise me!" [Y/n] countered. "Hosea was more of a father than you. To you, money has always been more important. You always had a plan to get more, and more, and more. I'd be in Tahiti if I had a dollar for every plan of yours that didn't work out."

"I gave you everything I could!"

"You gave me everything?" She had to stop herself from scoffing. "I spent my whole life trying to make you happy for once. Trying to make you proud of me. I gave my heart and my soul for this gang, and you ruined it all when you took in this rat!" Her voice started to crack, but she forced tears away. She reached for her other gun and pointed it at Micah.

Dutch asked, "You really think Micah is the reason you're turning on me?" His tone was strangely calm, too calm. "You think I never noticed the way you and Arthur were plotting something behind my back? But, of course, he didn't sneak into your tent at night just to plot. You disgust me, [Y/n]."

[Y/n]'s mouth fell slightly open as she attempted to form a sentence, and yet she wasn't able to. How did he find out? She thought her and Arthur had been sneaky enough.

"You lost your mind, Dutch," Arthur spoke up, "we were worried about you."

Dutch turned his eyes to Arthur, his anger growing at the man's comment. "I'm the one who gave all of you a home! A purpose! A damn family! And you had the nerve to get with my daughter behind my back, and turn her against me."

"All these years, Dutch..." Arthur shook his head. "Just to waste it for this snake?"

"Be quiet, Black Lung." Micah said, his gun pointed at Arthur.

"No," miss Grimshaw appeared with her rifle pointed at Micah, "you be quiet, mister Bell. And put that gun down."

It escalated in a moment. Micah pulled the trigger, sending a bullet towards miss Grimshaw. He took the last remaining mother figure [Y/n] had. Miss Grimshaw was a cold woman, but she cared for her, she cared for all the girls. And now she was dead.

But there was no time to dwell on that.

"Pinkertons are coming!" Javier ran up to the group, warning them.

"Now," Dutch spoke way too calmly for [Y/n]'s liking, "who amongst you is with me, and who is betraying me?"

"Bill, Javier, think for yourselves." Arthur spoke, but they didn't listen.

The both of them were too blinded by the doomed loyalty to Dutch. They sided with him, while Arthur was left with just [Y/n] and John. Besides them, there was also Micah and his own friends he had brought to the gang recently. They were outnumbered.

"My own flesh and blood has turned against me." Dutch concluded in a cold voice [Y/n] hadn't heard before. He had never been a good father, but now... his transformation was complete. The man who had once been a leader, had been replaced by a ghost of himself, driven by greed and paranoia

"You brought it upon yourself." [Y/n] spat.

Micah sneered, "And here I was thinking blood runs thicker than water. Seems a good fuck can change a lady's mind so easily. Wouldn't suspect that of cowpoke, but seems this day is full of surprises."

[Y/n] winced at Micah's remark. She wanted nothing more than to shoot him then and there.

And she tried to. But her hands were trembling with anger, and she missed.

"Put your guns down!" An unknown voice yelled out.

The pinkertons. They ran into the camp, or whatever was left of it, and started shooting. The Pinkertons had arrived, their shouts and gunfire piercing through the madness. The world started to crash down. [Y/n], Arthur, and John found places to use as a cover. The girl didn't even care what would happen with her father now. She had to focus on the pinkertons.

After a few minutes, when the trio knew they won't get out of it this way, John called out, "[Y/n], Arthur, into the caves!"

They didn't think twice before running inside the cave, following the gloomy and scary passages. The pinkertons ran after them and [Y/n] hoped John was leading them to some second entrance. They couldn't afford hitting a dead end.

"Micah was a rat, Milton told me." Arthur confessed as they kept running.

"We should've let him rot in that jail in Strawberry." [Y/n] thought out loud.

There was a ladder, leading them upwards. And another one, and a third one. As the surroundings started to become lighter with the outside's air, [Y/n] thought they might be getting out of that cave before the pinkertons get them.

"John," Arthur turned to his friend when the trio reached fresh air finally, "Abigail is safe, Jack too. They're with Sadie." Then he turned to [Y/n], and tried to stop a cough before speaking to her, "You, [Y/n], I want you to go and–"

"Go where?" The girl interrupted him. "Go and do what?"

"We have to separate here. John and I will go this way, you'll go join Sadie."

In the meantime, John called for their horses. Except that [Y/n]'s didn't come, which could only mean one thing.

"They killed her..." [Y/n] mused, and for a moment she couldn't fight the urge to cry. A few tears had escaped. "Now I have to go with you."

But, again, there was no more time to think. They mounted their horses, Arthur insisting [Y/n] rides with John in case they had to go separate ways. She didn't mount John's horse, she sat on the back of Arthur's. She knew that he knew there was no time to argue.

And they ran again. Ran, followed by the bullets shot by Dutch, Micah, Bill, Javier, and those men Micah brought to the gang. Dutch van der Linde was many things, and he never played the role of the father well, but even now [Y/n] was shocked to see him chasing after them, not afraid of the risk to shoot his own daughter.

When they escaped them, they kept running into the pinkertons. They seemed to be everywhere, as if they knew their next moves.

The trio tried to escape running up a mountain, but they were stopped. [Y/n] saw John falling off his horse, and no sooner the same happened to herself and Arthur.

"Buell!" The girl called out, seeing the animal lying on the ground with a bullet wound. "These motherf–"

They had to shoot now. There was no way out if they didn't kill all those pinkertons. And, fueled by the rage, [Y/n] felt as if she could shoot them all by herself. Hell, she would gladly choke all of them with her bare hands if she got the chance.

"Come on!" John called out after they have dealt with pinkertons. He knew this wouldn't last long.

[Y/n] ran up to Arthur, who was kneeling next to Buell, gently petting the horse's mane. The girl didn't even get to be with her mare when she got killed, so she had to be at least with Buell.

"Let's go!" John repeated.

"Give us a moment!" Arthur shouted back.

[Y/n] touched the horse gently and Arthur leaned over his head. This was such a heartbreaking thing to witness. Arthur received this horse from a man who had lost his leg in the war. Found him randomly in the woods, when the horse bucked him off and his leg got stuck in a stirrup. Arthur helped him and became friends, visiting from time to time. They went hunting once, and the veteran got attacked by a giant boar. With his last breath, he asked Arthur to take care of Buell. And Arthur did, until the horse's last breath, too.

With one last final, "Thank you," that Arthur whispered to Buell, they were ready to run further.

"Let's go." John said for the third time.

Arthur asked, "What about the money?"

"Money?" [Y/n] sobbed, wiping away a few last tears. "What about Micah? We have to get rid of him."

"I go down there, I'm dead in five minutes," John stated, "I have a family, that's more important."

"You're right," Arthur admitted, thinking John must be making sense for the first time in his life, "[Y/n], you go with John. I'm going back for the money."

"No, you're not." The girl protested firmly. She wasn't losing Arthur, not like that. "We go together or we don't go at all."

Arthur knew it was pointless to argue with [Y/n]. If she inherited anything from Dutch, it was the subborness.

Arthur also knew that he didn't have much longer left. He was actively dying from tuberculosis that he hasn't even told [Y/n] about yet. If soon he was going to take his last breath, he wanted [Y/n] to go, not see him like this. He had always been a tough man, he couldn't let the girl he loved more than anything in the world see him die beaten by a stupid illness. "Fine, let's go." He muttered and the trio started once again running. He had no idea how to get out of this. There was no way out for him, but he still could help [Y/n] and John.

They needed to find a higher ground, running up a mointain. It was very steep, they had to be careful. At least they knew they were safe from the bullets, for now. The pinkertons would come back to the cave, as Micah most likely told them about the money hidden inside.

"Keep, pushing, Arthur!" John said.

Arthur stopped running. He stood bent slightly, propping his arms on his knees. It seemed to [Y/n] like he has difficulty to take a breath. An expression of worry grew on her face. She knew he had some kind of sickness, but she didn't realize how serious it was until this moment.

"Arthur, let's go, we've made it so far." She said, the tears threatening to appear in her eyes once again.

"I think I've pushed all I can." Arthur admitted, coughing out some blood. He straightened his posture, being able to breathe a bit better momentarily.

John walked up to him, "We ain't got time for this."

"We ain't all gonna make it."

His words hit [Y/n] worse than any bullets. She ran up to Arthur, grabbing his arm, trying to make him step forward.

"Don't talk nonsense," she tried to pull him, but even in this state he was still stronger than her, "Arthur, I'm not going anywhere without you."

"You both go." Arthur insisted. "I'll hold them off. There ain't no more time to talk." With these words, he reached for his sachel and handed it over to John. Then, he took his hat off and placed it on [Y/n]'s head.

She knew what that mean. She knew Arthur was prepared to die. But she couldn't let him. She couldn't imagine a life without him. He truly was the love of her life, how was she supposed to keep going if he died on that mountain?

Arthur turned to [Y/n], his eyes softening as he took her face in his hands. "You need to keep going, no matter what happens. You understand?"

[Y/n] shook her head, tears welling up again. "Don't talk like that, Arthur. We're getting out of this. All three of us."

But Arthur knew better. He could feel the life slipping away from him with every breath, every step. "I need you to promise me something, [Y/n]."

"No, Arthur, no." She closed her eyes, hoping this would at least stop the tears.

"Look at me," Arthur said, gently placing his thumb on her chin and tilting her head up, "look at me, doll."

She slowly did as she was told, opening her eyes to meet his. Her heart was racing, knowing that these might be the last moments they have together. His gaze was full of love, as if in these seconds he wanted to love her for all the time he won't be able to in the future.

"You've been the light in my life, the good in me." Arthur told her.

"You've been my everything." She whispered, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak.

"You get out of here with John. When I'm gone, you'll find a good man, one that'll give you the life you deserve. You're young, you can start a family, forget about me. I don't know what I did to deserve your love, but it's the time you bless someone worthy with it."

[Y/n] shook her head, her hands gripping Arthur's coat as if she could somehow anchor him to this world, keep him from fading away. "I'll never forget you. You're the love of my life."

"You deserve so much more than this life, [Y/n]. More than what I could ever give you. But you can still have it. You can still have everything you want, a future, a family, happiness."

But [Y/n] was stubborn, as always. "There's no future if you're not in it."

For a moment, Arthur looked as though he might break, as though he might give in to the desire to stay with her, to fight for a few more moments together. She tried to kiss him, and it took all the strenght his ill body had to stop her.

"I love you, [Y/n]," sounded his final words, "I love you more than anything in this world. But you have to go. For me. I'll love you till my last breath."

"And I'll love you until mine," that was the only thing she could promise him, "I'll never forget you."

The sound of gunshots echoed nearby, and the trio knew there was no more time. [Y/n] would trade anything to have a few more minutes with Arthur. She would walk down to Hell to speak to the Devil himself if he could grant her a bit more time.

John grabbed [Y/n], as much as it pained him, he had to drag her away. They had to run. That's what Arthur wanted.

As she was being dragged away, [Y/n] watched Arthur climb, trying to reach an even higher spot of the mountain.

"Arthur is doing this so you can live. Don't let it be for nothing." John said.

[Y/n] didn't reply. They had to make an escape, and they did so in silence, but the girl didn't even feel her own legs, she just trusted they were there. There was no life for her if Arthur died. This life had been all she knew. How she was supposed to live without the gang, and without him?

"John." She said firmly, somehow finding the strenght in herself to not cry anymore. "I'm going back there."

[Y/n] had been hit by the realization that she doesn't have anything to lose. Everything she had, she already either sacrificed or lost. Her mother, the gang, her father, her horse, and now Arthur, her Arthur.

John stopped dead in his tracks, turning around to face [Y/n]. "No, you ain't."

"I ain't got nothing to lose. Either I'll be dragging his dead body to the pearly gates and bribing the God to revive him, or I'll die there with him."

John looked into her eyes just to see fire in them. He understood her love for Arthur and her desperation to save him, and maybe he would have even done the same for Abigail. Except it was plain stupid to do such thing for a man, who was already dying.

"Damn it," John muttered, knowing he can't stop her, "you're as brave as you're stupid. The both of you."

[Y/n] took off Arthur's hat that he had given her, and passed it to John. "You're the best brother I could've had. When I die, I'll look up at you and expect to see you treating Jack and Abigail well. No more running away."

"You mean look down." He corrected her.

"Oh, I'm definitely going to Hell. And I'll be waiting for you, just wait at least fifty years." She chuckled and pulled John in for a quick hug. When they pulled away, she could see tears in his eyes. But [Y/n] wasn't going to cry, not anymore.

She had no reason to cry now. Her time was over. If Arthur was going to die, she was dying there with him, and she was ready for this. More ready than for a future without him.

"Take care of your family," [Y/n]'s last words for John sounded, "make sure they get the life they deserve. Make sure you get that life, too." And with that, she turned away and walked back to where Arthur was supposed to be.

John nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He knew he would carry this moment with him for the rest of his life. The night he had lost the two people who were like siblings to him. He had lost much more, but it didn't matter.

[Y/n] had nothing left to lose, nothing left to live for but this one last act of love. If she could save Arthur, it would be worth it. And if she couldn't... then at least they would die together, side by side, as they should have lived.

There were no more gunshots to follow, not a sound of any fight. [Y/n] climed up the rocks, finding the path where she had last seen Arthur. She saw someone walking her way, not someone who she yearned to see.

"You goddamn rat!" [Y/n] yelled as she grabbed Micah by his coat. She didn't know where she found this strenght in her body, but she managed to throw him such a powerful punch in the face that he had to take a few steps back, almost falling off a cliff.

"You just won't give up, will you?" He said, his usual malice still audible in his voice.

"Did you kill him?" She asked, pointing her gun at him.

"He's alive. Not for much longer though."

[Y/n] clenched her jaw, her grip on the gun tightening so hard her knuckles went white. She felt her anger building up inside her, threatening to explode at any moment. "I should've put a bullet in your head a long time ago."

"Come on, do it now then," he laughed, the sound getting into [Y/n]'s head as she contemplated the decision, "we both know you're too soft to do it. How can such a failure be Dutch's daughter? I bet your mama wasn't the most loyal to your daddy."

That was it, her breaking point. [Y/n] knew putting a bullet in Micah wouldn't fix what was already broken, but at least she could stop any further damage he would cause if he stayed alive.

[Y/n] pulled the trigger, aiming for Micah's head, right between his eyes. His body fell down the cliff, and [Y/n] watched that happen. She felt absolutely nothing. No remose. But also no ease. Not until she could see Arthur.

She ran towards where Micah came from. She found Arthur lying down, his upper body propped on a rock. His face was turned towards the east, looking at the sunrise, even though he had always loved the sunset.

"Arthur..." She said.

His eyes searched for the source of the sound, Arthur thought he was having hallucinations. He forced a smile on his beaten face when he saw her.

"You damn fool, [Y/n]." He said in a weak, raspy voice. Not the kind of rasp [Y/n] loved to hear in the mornings, but the one that emphasized Arthur's condition. "I told you to go with John."

"I couldn't leave you, Arthur." She said, losing all her power to not cry. She knelt down beside him, looking at his injuries. His face was full of little cuts and bruises, some blood. But he didn't seem to have gotten shot.

Tears shone in her eyes. And she must have been the most beautiful thing Arthur had ever laid his eyes on. The way the orange morning sunrays touched her face made Arthur feel butterflies in his stomach. It was way nicer to die when he had this sight in front of him. But it wasn't fair to her.

"Doll," he breathed out, "I'm dying."

"No, you're going to be fine." She stuttered, the pain in her voice betraying how delusional she was being. She couldn't accept the reality of the situation. She refused to believe that the man she loved more than anything was slipping away from her.

She took his hands in hers. His touch used to be so hot it could put the Devil to shame. But now his hands were colder than the coldest night in Colter.

"I've got tuberculosis." Arthur confessed to her finally.

"What?" A puzzled expression appeared on her face. "Since when?"

"Since I killed Thomas Downes."

[Y/n]'s heart dropped. She had heard rumors about the sickness, the way it slowly drained the life out of a person, but she never imagined that Arthur, her Arthur, had been battling it all this time. It explained so much, the coughing fits, the way he had grown weaker, more distant. And yet, he had never told her, never let on just how bad it was.

"I deserved to know." She replied, her voice cracking. "I could've helped you."

"I didn't want to worry you, doll. Didn't want you to see me like this. You deserved better than that."

"I loved you, I still do, and I would've stayed by your side no matter what. You should've told me. We could–" She choked on her words, realizing there was nothing they could've done to stop it.

A small, sad smile tugged at the corner of Arthur's lips. "You've always been too good for me, [Y/n]. I ain't ever deserved you, not really."

"Don't say that, Arthur. You deserve everything. And now you're dying here. Alone."

"I ain't alone." Arthur murmured, his voice growing weaker with every word. "You're here, right? That's all I ever needed."

She nodded, her heart breaking as she watched him struggle to keep his eyes open. The sunrise was casting a warm glow over his face, and for a moment, [Y/n] could almost pretend that they were somewhere else, somewhere safe, where they could live the life however they wanted to. Away from all the bullshit they had to go through.

But reality was cold and its walls were closing in on them. She could feel Arthur slipping away, his fingers holding onto hers weaker with each passing moment. She wanted to scream, to beg for more time, but it would be in vain.

Arthur stopped fighting the urge to close his eyes. "Promise me, doll... you'll find a way to live... without me." He could barely speak anymore, yet he managed to utter these words.

"I love you, Arthur." [Y/n] said instead, because she didn't want to make a promise she couldn't keep.

His grip on her hands loosened, and his chest rose and fell one last time. [Y/n] leaned in, pressing a kiss to his forehead. She held him close, cradling his head in her arms as they were bathed in the warmth of the sunrise. She stayed like that, long after he was gone, her tears mixing with the blood and dirt on his skin. Arthur was gone, and with him, a part of her died too. She had nothing left to lose, nothing left to fight for, except the memory of the man she loved.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #dutch van der linde #john marston #rdr2 #rdr2 x reader #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 fanfic #red dead redemption x reader #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan one shot #arthur morgan imagines

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heavenlymorals · 7 months ago

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Arthur Morgan's Depression

(Warning: Spoilers for RDR2 and mental health issues)

Arthur Morgan is depressed. Yes, I know the writers haven't exactly come out and said that he is depressed, but it does not take a genius to see that Arthur Morgan is a man who deals with many demons and monsters. Arthur Morgan has some sort of functional depression, and it is shown in many ways. In many missions, he seems downtrodden and sad, but he goes along with it anyway because what else can you do? He talks about himself in such a degrading manner in the mirror, and not just in a way that we all do sometimes, but in a way that invokes actual hatred of himself.

He thinks he's ugly when he's a conventionally attractive man. He thinks he's dumb when he's very witty and smart. He gets knocked down for his intelligence a lot by both Dutch and Hosea (we, as a fandom, need to stop pretending that Hosea is perfect because he really isn't). I know that dudes generally joke like that a lot, but those two aren't his “friends”; they are quite literally his father figures. It's different. His journal is filled with self-doubt, pain, and a general apathetic outlook on life.

But as I was playing “A Quiet Time,” one interaction between Lenny and Arthur stood out to me.

“Why ain't you never married?”

“'Cause no one will have me.”

In the context of this mission, I think this was written as an “oh damn” kinda joke, something out of left field to make the player laugh. But after thinking about it more, I realized something.

If you guys follow my posts, then you probably know that I love to interpret things from a sociocultural perspective—so let's do that.

Now, this is an obvious reference to Mary and how she rejected him in the end for Barry Linton to keep her family satisfied. It might also allude to Eliza or other female love interests that Arthur might've had at some point.

But it may also be a nod to the culture of 19th century America and what it entailed for men.

Arthur isn't married at 36 years old. Men were expected to be married generally by their twenties. He has no children or legacy—the only one he did have died years ago. He doesn't have property or a home—he's always on the move with the gang (given how defensive he got with that woman he picks up to go to Lagras, it's probably a point of insecurity). He has no respectable profession—he should've had an honest career by now.

He hopes that Dutch will get his shit together and have them put their outlaw ways behind them, but Dutch literally cannot, and Arthur is the one feeling the burn for it. He has missed so many milestones that he “should've” reached by this point, yet he is still doing the same thing he was doing since he was a young teen.

He can't bring himself to leave Dutch either, as he feels like he has a debt to pay to the man (“I gotta try! I owe him that, at least.”) that can never be paid.

And that has to fucking hurt. You already hate yourself on the outside by thinking you're hideous. You hate yourself on the inside because you think you're dumb. You feel unaccomplished, like a damn loser. And on top of all of that? You can't bring yourself to let go of all the factors that make you feel that way because “they're family” and “they need you.”

You're trapped, and everything feels awful. I'd be depressed too.

It might also be another reason why Arthur is jealous and angry at John. He has a wife, he has a child, he doesn't feel particularly obligated to the gang (hence leaving for a year), he has a chance to do better, and he just doesn't care. He's reached so many milestones that Arthur misses not because he wants them, but out of pure luck, and I'm sure Arthur feels bitter about it.

It's just sad, man.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #john marston #dutch van der linde #hosea matthews #depression #mental health #story analysis #character analysis

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nthspecialll · 5 months ago

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why do you ship jovier?? i know its common but i swear they barely interacted at all

Well, let me explain to you at least why I ship them, but also thank you for asking! It is an amazing excuse to yap about them.

To me, it is the absolute tragety that they are and the care that they have for one another that we don't always see them show towards others. Take the very first mission with them for example, John is missing, gone, possibly run off and Hosea knows to ask Javier to go find him because Javier will go and he will not complain like Bill or Micah and he is willing to go the extra mile unlike maybe Lenny or Charles and even Arthur.

In this mission we hear the first of John, he is unreliable, he left the gang, his "wife" and his child and everything for an entire year and it also becomes clear that Arthur who has known him for years still doubts him and believes it is possible that John left. Meanwhile, we have Javier who has not known John that long yet he stands certain and defends John saying "he wouldn't do that" even though he would and has. We also see Arthur willing to give up as soon as the trail in the snow becomes semi-hard to follow yet again, Javier pushes on saying "just a bit more." If it has just been Arthur John would have died on that mountian.

And now in chapters 2-6 we get to the "problem" with Javier, he is not in a lot of main quests so to get to know him you have to be around camp because he actually has a lot of camp interactions, and a few is with John, so let's go through them.

While John is reading the newspapers Javier comes up to him and says "scar looks pretty", John replies with "yeah, ruined my fine features" followed up by "thank you, for saving me" to which Javier says "of course, I know you would do the same for me" and then in the end John "I owe you, for life." This interaction generally just shows a form of appreciation as well as softness between them, it isn't a lot of other times you see any other male characters thank another.

You have when they are sitting and eating and they start talking about Mexico where John says "I would like to go to Mexico one day" and Javier replies "maybe you will." It is just a heartbreaking foreshadowing.

Possibly my favourite interaction between them, Javier is drinking and John is standing nearby so Javier says "come join me brother, have a drink," John looks over and replies "no, I will sit down and have several" so they just sit and drink, John quickly becoming drunk and poetic and Javier shows obvious signs of concern to the point where even John comments on it saying something along the lines of "why not give me another?"

Now, in chapter six, the end is nearing, people are falling apart and things are going to hell. I have before made several posts about this but Javier is desperate. He built his entire personality around ideals and he joined Dutch because of ideals, should it come to the fact that Dutch is not correct that would mean everything Javier was and everything he made himself into was also wrong, not to mention he wouldn't be able to stay in America nor be able to go back to Mexico because of his family. He is frustrated, and as any other person when frustrated, he becomes agitated and hot-headed, he needs Dutch to be right so he acts out. His "anger" is nothing more than fright.

We see Javier yell at John, yet we also see him defending John. Bill comes up to Javier and starts talking about how John has to be the rat, how it is the only thing that makes sense, Javier replies "that doesn't make much sense either," clearly standing up for John when he needed to. That is until it is Arthur, when it is Arthur he turns on a dime and says something along the lines of "maybe it is John" but that is simply because he is "hating" Arthur on principle.

Now, the final gun stand, whatever you wanna call it, I have made a whole post on this, but in short, Javier pointed his gun on John but he was hesitant because he didn't actually have a hatred against John, he didn't see him as a traitor, he saw him as a brother. Also as soon as the gun fight is over Javier is gone, you can find Dutch, Cleet, Joe, Micah, but Javier and Bill are gone.

1911, the two have not talked for ages, yet Javier knows John has several children, clearly keeping some form of interest on him throughout the many years. Also their meet?? Their entire meet, both had the chance to kill the other but didn't.

Javier could have chosen to shoot John and get it over with instead of jumping out of the window, securing his own life's safety, but he didn't. John could have chosen to shoot Javier immediately and save himself the trouble, but he didn't.

Also, John's talk about Javier to Abraham. "When Dutch started fallin' apart, it hit Javier harder than any of us. He went crazy. It was like the one thing he'd ever believed in turned out to be a fraud." John knew Javier wasn't thinking straight and I personally see it quite obvious that Javier was never angry at John either.

I think in the end that John didn’t hate Javier, not when he killed him either, he just loved Abigail more than Javier and chose her over him, but in any other situation where they stood face to face i think John would have just walked away.

#rdr2 #rdr2 community #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption community #john marston #rdr john #red dead redemption two #red dead fandom #rdr1 javier #rdr2 javier #javier escuella #rdr1 john #rdr2 john #jovier #nthspecialll #nthspecialll asks

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ashs-cardboard-box · 8 months ago

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Heartbroken doodles

~ Arthur Morgan/Older Brother!Male!Reader

~ Familial

~ 3k words

Request :3

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For as long as you’ve known the boy, Arthur has been head over heels for this ‘Mary’ woman. Days on days again, he was as giddy as a child in a candy store after coming home from spending the day with her. As home as home can get, that is. You were an older brother of sorts to both Arthur, at twenty-three, and the new boy, John, at only thirteen.

You were the first kid Dutch and Hosea had picked up to join the gang. No surprise, you were orphaned just as Arthur and John had been. You got along better with Arthur due to being closer in age than the two of you to John, having a decade between yourselves and the teen.

Yet, lately, you’ve noticed how Arthur has just been…off. Abnormally lazy, sure, but other things to accompany. Isolation, constantly stuck in his own head, less of the mouthy ass you’ve known him to be. You try not to impede on whatever stink he’s found himself in, assuming it would pass just like his rambunctious teen phase had many years ago.

Unsurprisingly, John had been unrelenting in his teasing towards Arthur, as usual. Yelling and being a general nuisance on why “he has to work while Arthur doesn’t”, as if John isn’t still learning not to shoot his own fingers off.

Any time it’s brought up, either you or Hosea would scold him. “Leave him alone, John. He’s prolly goin’ through somethin’.” Like a pattern at this point. Often finding yourself wandering around camp with Dutch, not only to check on the things Miss Grimshaw couldn’t due to her hands being full, or to just watch Arthur.

He doesn’t do much. You can’t remember a time in the past few weeks he looked up at anyone aside from the worms in the dirt. His shoulders slumped forward and his posture curved in unspoken disappointment. Aimlessly wandering around camp, keeping to himself at all hours of the day.

That was, however, until he didn’t get up one morning. With your worry for your younger brother mounting, you take it upon yourself to head to Arthur’s tent just to check on him– also to make sure he’s still breathing.

Sighing to yourself as you stare at the closed flaps of his tent, your jaw set firmly and your brows pinched together in concern. Raising your hand and gently pushing one of the flaps open with a small “Arthur?”

You don’t get a response aside from a hint of a sniffle. His back facing you as he lays on his cot silently, staring at the tent wall as if it’s the most captivating thing in the world. It pains you to see your younger brother like this. Not to mention, you hadn’t the slightest clue on what’s been going on with him.

“Arthur?” you call again, softening your voice slightly. Once again, nothing. Not even an over-the-shoulder glance. Sighing, you step into Arthur’s tent completely. Slowly making your way towards his cot and taking a seat on the edge of it, near the bend of his legs.

“Talk to me, kid..” You nearly whisper. Leaning back slightly to be able to properly see Arthur’s face. His lips pulled into a frown as his eyes hold nothing better than utter distraught. Arthur sighs heavily with a brief glance over towards you, before he looks back at the wall.

The only other time you’ve seen him like this was after Eliza and Isaac passed. Having left camp for a good reason, long before John joined, for the sake of family. You were so proud of the man he was becoming– until he showed up again. Left an utter mess after it all. After that, he was a different man. Calmer. More mature. Hardened by the cruelty of life.

Usually, he was trying to copy Dutch’s way of acting as a means of looking up to his father figure, much to Dutch’s ire. Your chest feels tight as the long drone of silence washes over both of you. The moment Arthur’s lips part to try and say something–

“Arthurrr… Get uppp..” John groans dramatically as he pushes open the tent without hesitation, his eyes widening upon finding you sitting with Arthur. “Don’t tell me- Arthur’s cryin’, ain’t he?” He taunts, causing Arthur to grumble quietly to himself. Lifting one of his arms and resting it over top his head, curling his fist behind the base of his skull. His bicep resting against the side of his face and ear.

“Get outta here, John. You eat yet?” you shake your head dismissively, slowly standing up from Arthur’s cot. Crossing his tent again and standing in front of John, folding your arms over your chest as you stare down at him in silent irritation. Despite feeling frustrated with John, you still cared for him. The last thing you wanted was for your youngest brother to go hungry.

“Yeah. Miss Grimshaw made stew.” John informs, yet making his tone as snarky as possible. Crossing his arms over his chest just as you had in an attempt to mock you and be as annoying as possible. “But ‘sea said Arthur gotta quit bein’ a woman ‘n cryin’ so much.”

“Hosea said no such thing, ya little brat. Now go on, get.. Before I actually get Hosea ‘n tell him you’re botherin’ Arthur again after he told you not to. Or tell Dutch you plan on skippin’ his lessons today.” That seemed to shut him up, for a little while, at least.

John groans dramatically and drops his arms down to his sides. “You’re no fun..” He grumbles and marches out of Arthur’s tent with a childish huff. Sighing heavily, you look over towards Arthur, who hadn’t moved the slightest bit aside from the rise and fall of his chest with each breath he takes. That’s a plus, you suppose. Sad but still breathing.

“Alright, Arthur. You get up too. We’re goin’ out.” You make your way back over to him, nudging his shoulder with the back of your hand. Arthur grumbles in protest, silently telling you to leave him alone, but you don’t. Continuously nudging him until Arthur gets annoyed enough to snap his head up towards you, removing his arm and dropping it to his front.

“Don’t you gotta go help Marston or somethin’? I’ll be fine.. leave me be.” Arthur cavils, shrugging off your hand as he lays his head back down. Much to his dismay, you continue to pester him. Going right back to nudging his shoulder with the tips of your fingers. “Either you get up on your own, or I drag your ass outta this tent myself. It’s your call.” You threaten lightheartedly, ignoring Arthur’s protests, causing him to sigh.

Glaring at you, Arthur turns over and pushes himself to sit up on his cot. Swinging his legs over the edge and placing them on the floor of his tent. “The hell you want?” He mutters in annoyance as he runs a calloused hand down his face. You take a few steps away from Arthur and back towards the entrance to his tent, watching him to make sure he actually gets up.

“You’ll see.” You respond vaguely with a grin, to which Arthur rolls his eyes with a huff. Reluctantly, he gets up and makes his way over to you. Shoving right past you, with a few incoherent swears, and out of his tent.

You follow after Arthur and silently guide him over towards your horses. You steal a quick look around camp for anyone nearby, spotting Grimshaw nearby, you beckon her closer. "Y'all headin' out?" She asks curiously. Her eyes flicking over towards a sulking Arthur mounting his horse before they return back up to you.

"Yeah.. uh- prolly just down to the river for a while. Tell Hosea for me, will ya? I'll bring the boy back in one piece, I swear." You joke and take a step away from Grimshaw. She gives a curt nod and turns on her heel to go relay the message to the older man, whom you three boys called a father figure.

Despite the age difference being quite large between all of you, you still acted more like brothers than most you’d ever met in your life. Arguments, rough housing, endless teasing..mostly from John. You were as much of a family as orphans could get. You took it upon yourself to watch over the younger boys when Hosea and Dutch weren’t in your line of sight, despite Arthur entering his twenties and John being a rowdy teenager.

“You comin’ or not?” Arthur calls gruffly, causing you to look back over your shoulder towards Arthur sitting atop his saddle. “Yeah, yeah.. Hold your horses.” You wave a hand dismissively and approach your own horse. Muttering a breathless praise towards the animal as you stick your boot into the stirrup and hoist your body weight up to straddle your saddle comfortably.

With a silent nod in another direction, you take off. Leading Arthur on horseback out of camp, no faster than a trot. The only thing interrupting the long silence shared between the two of you are the rhythmic thumps of the horses’ hooves against the ground below. Your body rocking with the gait of your horse.

“Talk to me, kid.” You break the silence with nothing short of a polite demand. Arthur, however, merely gives a short snort and doesn’t say anything as he follows after you. “You ain’t gonna be able to hide it forever.” You coax, with little success.

“What’s it matter to you?” He grumbles, glaring at the back of your head before his eyes flick ahead once again. His brows pinched in faux irritation, when all he feels is a heavy weight on his chest and an all too familiar lump in his throat. His heart felt like it had been run over by a stampede of every animal in the vicinity, followed by a nice mauling by a gator.

“You’re my brother ‘n somethin’s got your panties all wadded up.” You respond bluntly, no use sugarcoating it. Arthur’s been out of commission for weeks now and your worry only continues to grow. While Arthur wasn’t your blood relative, he might as well have been. You care for him like a pestering, older brother would.

Arthur goes silent for a long, long time. The only thing you can hear from him are subtle sniffles, followed by the ruffling of cloth as he wipes his nose on his sleeve. With each glance over your shoulder towards him, his emotions are only plastered on his face; anger, hurt, bitterness…just plain heartbreak. You can’t help but to feel bad for him.

“She–” Arthur starts, his voice breaking as he fights against the emotions threatening to expel from his throat. “She left me..” He sighs shakily. You gently tug up on your reins to get your horse to slow, wanting to be able to ride next to Arthur. You don’t say anything in hopes he’ll say more.

But he doesn’t. He shuts himself off yet again. With a dismissive shake of his head and a bitter chuckle, wiping his eyes with the pads of his index finger and thumb on his right hand. “Mary did?” You asks quietly, to which he nods in confirmation.

“Oh, Arthur..” you mutter quietly with a small sigh. Your eyebrows knit together in concern as you idly chew on the skin of your bottom lip, occasionally glancing at your little brother to check up on how he’s holding up.

It all makes sense now. You knew Mary’s father never cared for Arthur, as evident by Arthur’s many, many rants about it mere months prior. You never could’ve expected the two to part, especially not after seeing how in love the pair were.

“Listen, kid..” you swallow what saliva pools in your mouth. You didn’t even know what to say. How do you help a broken man? You sigh and tug up on your reins again, getting your horse to slow fully to a stop. Arthur looks over towards you in confusion, but does the same.

Not another word is shared is the two of you dismount your horses and guide them to the nearest tree, tying a slip knot with the reins and securing your horses to a sturdy branch for a minute. You give a vague gesture with your hand further through what little trees surround the riverbank. Dead leaves crunch underneath your boots as you follow an uncertain Arthur, constantly looking over his shoulder for reassurance that he’s going in the right direction.

Just past the trees, the two of you make your way down to the riverbed, covered with rocks and stones alike, maybe an arm if you tried to look far enough into the water. “Things ain’t always gonna work out like you had hoped.” you finally speak, causing Arthur to exhale a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He looks over at you as you take a seat right in the grass, holding your knees to your chest and resting your forearms atop your knees. Your eyes scanning over the river in front of you, as Arthur stares at you, dumbfounded. The sun blinding you as it glistens along the surface, barely able to see the way natural debris is swept away by the current.

“I know for a fact Miss Linton loved you with all her heart. It ain’t like she hated you, Arthur. She ain’t got much a choice with that daddy of hers.” Arthur sighs, sitting down next to you with a huff. The stones are far from comfortable to sit on, but who could complain? Save for John, that boy has a mouth like no other.

“I know..” He mumbles with a sniffle, his gaze falling to his hands, idly collecting pebbles and putting them in arbitrary piles. You glance over towards him silently before your hands move back behind you to your satchel. It’s not much effort to pull out the worn journal from the pouch. A graphite pencil hidden in the spine between the pages for safekeeping.

“Still hurts.” Arthur adds with a huff, pushing over his small pile with the back of his hand, causing the pebbles to topple and a few to roll down into the river. He leans forward and pulls his legs into himself, sitting cross legged and resting his elbow atop the inner side of his knee.

“I know it does.” You murmur as you pull open your journal. Grabbing ahold of your pencil and beginning to sketch the sight in front of you. The rushing, deep blue waters hidden snuggly between two parts of the land. On one side, a field with muddy roads leading into Blackwater. Just behind you, trees, foliage, and the occasional rabbit..good for hunting, you assume. Less visible roads leading right back to your camp. The place all of you call home for a little while. Rocks barely visible beneath the shallow waters, certainly no place for any sort of fish. “And it will for a while. That’s just the way things work.”

“But you gotta understand, there ain’t much y’all can do– not ‘til that sour old bastard changes his mind on his daughter. You jus’ gotta focus on yourself for a while, you hear? I don't wanna see you balled up in that tent of yours again tomorrow.” Your voice drops a bit softer as you speak, your gaze flicking between the beautiful environment, and the journal in your lap.

Arthur nods slowly, looking over towards you upon hearing the scratching of your pencil on paper. Sitting up and leaning over slightly to get a good look at what it is you’re doing. His eyes widen slightly as he looks between your drawing, then the river, and back again.

“How the hell’d you do that?” He points to your journal, the tip of his fingernail just barely grazing the leather exterior. You grin bashfully with a hint of a chuckle, removing your pencil from the page and opening up the leather bound book further, offering it to Arthur.

“It ain’t much at all. Just- figured it’d be nice to commit to memory I s’pose.” You shrug, Arthur eagerly snatches the journal from your hand and begins flipping through some of the pages in awe. He and John were far from similar, but in that moment, you could really see a resemblance with the stars in his eyes. His eyebrows raised up to his hairline and his lips slightly parted.

“You gotta teach me how to do this.” It was more of a command than a request, but you could hardly gripe. Chuckling as you shift to sit a bit closer to him, shoulder-to-shoulder. “Calm down, kid.. It takes a lotta time to do this.”

Arthur pouts and tears his gaze away from the journal to look at you, silently begging you to cave and teach him anyway. He extends his right hand out, palm facing up, to accept your pencil, as if not giving you a choice in the matter.

With a heavy sigh of mock irritation, you place the pencil in Arthur’s hand, causing him to immediately grin. “You’re just as much a pest as John is..” you tease, yet Arthur ignores you completely. Too busy ruffling through the pages until he finds a clean one to draw on.

It was hard to deny his excitement, especially after all that he’s been through. Slowly, you begin to guide him through the ins and outs of creation. Sappy shit about “letting the pencil guide you” and “use that head of yours, Morgan.”

His first drawing wasn’t great, if you had to be honest, yet there was a genuine spark in his eye to say he was proud of himself and wanted to keep going. You make a mental note to buy him his own journal, so he doesn’t tear yours to pieces even further. It was far from perfect at an artists’ standpoint but as a brother? It was the greatest thing you’d ever seen.

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I hope you like it !!! :3

#rdr2 x male reader #rdr2 x reader #arthur morgan x male reader #arthur morgan x reader

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pandaspwnz · 11 months ago

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So I don't think this is actually the case but what if Eliza and Isaac's deaths werent over a petty amount of cash and a robbery gone wrong? What if, instead, Dutch had seen Arthur spending time with them, had perceived him slipping away as a threat: a threat to himself, his gang, his security, his family, afraid of losing his lead enforcer - whether he truly at that point did love him like a son, or not. And in his insecurity or fear or whatever other reason, he finds someone rotten, unrelated to the gang, and he pays them to murder Eliza and her little boy, so no one will ever tempt Arthur away from the flock, and he instead puts all his energy and time into the gang, the only family he has left.

#i am kombucha girl memeing over this and don't actually think this is the case but 👀👀👀 WHAT IF???!#the theory just popped up in my head #cause it's always seemed a little dodgy how and why they died - which is fair enough it's traumatic as hell and not something you want to #deeply delve into #but still WHAT. IF.#and yes i am clearly opposed to the head-injury dutch theory because that man was a narcissistic power hungry egomaniac long before then #anyway #i can actually see dutch doing something like this but there's no actual evidence for it so I'm just theorizing!#arthur morgan #dutch van der linde #rdr2 #rdr2 eliza #isaac morgan #rdr #rdr2 spoilers #ish #my post #also I'm sure someone else has had this thought before and if it was true a writer might have confirmed it but I haven’t seen it and I'm #just having fun okay

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say-hwaet · 10 days ago

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If I Had to Do it All Again

Chapter One: Find Your Place Previous: Prologue Next Chapter: II Summary: You try to adjust to your new life with Arthur's gang, and learn some information about his past. Meanwhile, Arthur opens up to the only one who will really listen. Word Count: ~7,300 Warnings: Mature Themes, sexual harassment, language

The steam envelops your face as you pour the hot water from a wooden pail into a wash basin. You hold your breath a minute, as the heat mists your face, and once the water is poured out, you set the pail onto the ground.

You then look at the pile of dishes beside you on the table and after swishing the suds around, you take a handful of stew plates and dip them in.

Kitchen duty, nothing that you aren't a stranger to. This used to be second nature. After all, a waitress doesn’t just wait on tables.

Wow. It’s been a long time since you’ve thought back that far. You were so very young, then. Eighteen. Working as a waitress since you were orphaned at 16. You had companions in Bethy, the sassy middle-aged woman who you looked up to, Clarence, the cook who you thought of as a brother, and Joe, the soft-hearted boss with a sand-paper exterior. They were like family in their own way.

Oh, it’s been years.

“Once you’re done with all those, I’ll have you wash the stew pot,” Pearson, the swashbuckling personal chef of the gang, tells you as he walks behind you. “It’s been due for a good cleanin’ and your fine work has got me inspired.”

He isn’t rude to you, by any means, and you’re grateful, but you still feel so out of place. It’s only been four days since you’ve, for lack of a better word, joined, the gang, but you feel more of a stranger now than when Arthur was telling you stories about all of them.

Arthur. You miss him. Every moment he’s out of your sight you long for him. He’s all you know.

He’s gone off with Hosea on a job. You question the pairing of people when Dutch sends his boys off. John and Bill, the rising stars, with their brazenness and energy as they run off and come back as they were bid. Arthur and Hosea, the two fading lights, who are suspected to take longer and to keep sounding off their hums of dissent or supposed doubt.

You can’t help but feel protective. Hosea stood up for you and already knowing enough about him, you trust him, just like Arthur does.

Whenever he comes back from a job or a hunting trip, you are the first to race out into the field, baby in your arms. You always find yourself stopping short of ramming into Boadicea and standing awkwardly while he dismounts and then takes Alice from you to hold her.

He has hardly touched you or even kissed you. It almost seems impolite, to dare in the presence of the other men and women. You’re back in that limbo again…just like you were years ago…just right after Isaac was born.

You lift your head to keep an eye on your son. He’s close by, on some flattened grass, keeping an eye on his baby sister as she soaks in some sunshine. You have her laying on her tummy and will soon put her back in the fabric carrier you had fashioned years ago for when you gardened with Isaac. You’ve always liked working with your hands free and have grown to be quite creative over the years.

“I knew a cook once,” you start to say, but then realize that Simon probably doesn’t want to hear your stories. You exhale sharply and rinse off the plate before setting it down on a nearby towel.

“Well, are you gonna keep me in suspense?” Pearson’s raspy chortle startles you and you stand straight and look over your shoulder. He brings down a meat cleaver on some deer leg, looking at you expectantly. “Was he a navy man?”

Still stunned, you softly shake your head. “No…” You swallow. “We worked together at a restaurant. Back in what is now Utah.”

His eyebrows lift, his forehead moving his balding scalp. “Utah, huh?” He points the blade of his cleaver in the direction of where Arthur and Hosea left four hours ago. “I thought here is where, uh, you and him met?”

He’s curious? You don’t know enough of the deeper dynamics of the gang to know if he’s a vocal piece for everyone else’s inner thoughts, but you don’t see any harm in answering his question. “It isn’t. He came to the restaurant one day.” You look down and smile, the memory painting a picture in your head. You were so captivated by the tall figure sitting at the table, his dark hat shading his eyes. Your small frame was frozen until Bethy shoved you in his direction. “Wanted some pie.”

Pearson chuckles. “Didn’t think him the type. Always seems to gnaw on jerky all the time.”

You manage a smile as you speak with a soft, but prideful tone. “Not my cooking. He’ll lick the plate clean.” Your eyes widen at your sudden openness as your face loses its color. “Erm…”

But Pearson doesn’t seem to mind, laughing heartily at the thought of Arthur actually doing that. “I find that hard to believe…!”

Not pushing your luck, you decide to drop it. “Anyway, Clarence, our cook, he always had better ideas and recipes than our boss did. He wanted to save enough to open his own restaurant someday.” You lift your eyes. “I hope he made it.”

Pearson sees the thoughtful look on your face. He knows that you are like a fish out of water here, or rather, a mermaid out of the sea. He studies your long, chestnut tresses, the sun-kissed face, and freckles that scatter across your cheeks. If you were resting on a rock near the cape, all bare and singing, he could very well mistake you for a siren. He shakes it out of his mind. While it is not crystal clear, there is something between you and the newly outcast enforcer. “Do you know any of his recipes?” He asks, hoping to remove his thoughts.

You nod, completely oblivious to his musings. “I remember how he cooked turkey and a couple of stew recipes. They were delicious.”

Pearson smiles. “Maybe you could write them down for me sometime.”

You turn to meet his gaze. “Maybe.”

You continue with the dishes in silence, listening to Pearson as he chops more of the deer leg and disposes of the bone. You hear Isaac giggle as he plays with his sister, talking nonsense to her as she tries to look around. She’s already starting to hold up her head, and her smile is one of the few things that bring joy to you, outside of Arthur’s homecoming each day.

After finishing the dishes and putting them back in the chuck wagon, you go over to your children before moving on to your next chore. Chores are something to help keep you busy when you aren’t reading to Isaac or feeding your daughter.

Isaac sees your shadow cast over him and his sister and he lifts his head as he lays on the grass. He smiles at you. “Hi, Mommy.”

You beam. “Hi, darling.”

He looks back at Alice. “I think she wants to talk.”

You decide to pause and enjoy this moment with them, so you motion to sit down. “She’s too young to say words, but she does try.”

Isaac doesn’t seem too concerned. “What was my first word?”

You pause to think about it. You had been much to busy to record every milestone. It wasn’t until two years ago that you started writing in a journal. You wish that you had done it much sooner.

“It was Mama, I think.”

He almost seems to frown, but it is clear that he tries to hide it. “Not Daddy?”

You aren’t sure how that would be possible. He was only ever around every few months. Isaac was too little to discern the difference between coming and going. “I don’t think so, sweetheart.” You reach a hand and card your fingers through Isaac’s hair. “Your hair is getting longer, I’ll have to get out the scissors and trim it.”

Isaac shakes his head. “No, I like it like this.” His hair sweeps over his eyes and he giggles. “See?”

“I think the problem is that you can’t.” You chuckle and reach over to pick up your baby. Alice squirms in your arms, batting her tiny hands at the air with a gurgle of delight. The sun in the sky, warm against your back, makes the red in your hair reveal itself, and in its light, you see it cast a similar shade in your daughter's fine wisps. “You have my hair,” you say softly and you bring her close to kiss the top of her head. You love the smell of her skin, her sweetness, and how she has hardly given you any grief.

Isaac gets up and leans against you, watching his little sister. “She likes it here.”

You can’t help but pinch your brow, do you really want to hear your son say that? “Is it because Daddy is here?”

He pauses before answering. “I don’t know.” The melancholy in his answer gives away a hint that that is the reason why and before you can ask him to clarify, he walks away, the distant call of a coyote mixing with the rustling of grass in each of his steps.

In the waves of the grass, you turn your head, scanning the horizon where the sky meets the earth in a line so thin it almost slices the world in two. You imagine yourself like a doe with her fawn, exposed to anything and anyone that could be hiding beneath the grassy waves. Your heart tightens with a pang of worry for Isaac. His small figure seems so vulnerable against the vast, untamed wilderness.

“Eliza?”

You nearly jump and notice the shadow over you. Looking up, you see the soft, round face of Annabelle. You feel yourself relax, but your hold on your baby doesn’t lessen.

She must sense your unease and so she crouches down to your level. “Isaac is following Susan around. She doesn’t mind.”

You look back at your daughter and she coos with a gummy smile. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

Annabelle clicks her tongue. “No one's a burden here, Eliza. This is family, this is what we do. We look out for each other.” Her voice holds a firm conviction that soothes you momentarily. She looks over your shoulder, her eyes tracing the path Isaac took. “He’s just curious, and Susan loves the company.”

Your gaze doesn’t lift from your daughter, and you let her words sink in. “I thought this was a gang of outlaws. A family hardly seems to fit in around here.”

Annabelle could reply quickly to that, but what you need is a guiding hand. Patience. She has faith that you will come around, as she did when she met Dutch. She looks at your baby and wrestles with whether or not to share something in the hopes of removing some of your doubts. “I��I had a child…once.”

You lift your eyes and look at her, dumbfounded. “Was Dutch…?”

She shakes her head softly. “No. I was…in bad circumstances.” Annabelle looks away, eyeing Isaac as he tries to grip onto Susan’s skirt. She quickly turns around, chuckling, and gives chase as he tries to flee from her. Their laughter carries over to them. Annabelle continues, “I had lost my husband and baby to cholera. I was a widow, trying my best to make ends meet.” Her green eyes look back into yours. “When I met Dutch, I had hope again.”

You shake your head. “I wanted to come here, once, like in a fairytale storybook.” You chortle bitterly. “I guess I got what I wished for.”

Annabelle, unsure how you feel about her, takes the risk to put her hand on your shoulder. You don’t flinch and with a feeling of relief, she offers some thought-provoking words. “Is it truly all bad? Being with the one you love so dearly?” Your eyes widen and you feel your face grow hot. And she smiles. “It’s only been a few days, but I see the way you look at him.”

Your throat tightens, the weight of her words hanging heavily between you. You glance back at your daughter, her bright eyes oblivious to the complexities swirling around her. You swallow hard, the reality of your situation pressing in. "It's not him, Annabelle. It’s this life... this uncertainty.” You haven’t cried in days, and you wanted to make a habit of it, but now you feel them well up in your eyes. “I had a home. A place of my own.” You tuck your chin and let Alice grab your finger as she lays against your bent knees. “I’ve ruined things for Arthur, just being here.”

Annabelle’s lips flatten to a thin line. She can’t deny things are bad between Arthur and Dutch right now, even Hosea. But they are the dynamic trio, the old guard. About 15 years they’ve been together, surely things will work themselves out. She rubs your shoulder with her thumb in compassionate sweeps. “Don’t worry, Eliza. things have a way of resolving themselves. You’ve not ruined anything. Believe it or not, we are as close to family as Arthur has ever had, and families fight. They also face hardships, but they endure. It’s what makes them a family.” Her voice is soft yet firm, carrying a certainty that you desperately want to believe. And seeing her words sink in, she rises to her feet. “Let Isaac explore a little. He’s got more people to watch him, now.”

After what happened four days ago, you have been more cautious than ever, but you so desperately want to relax. You want to go a few minutes without looking over your shoulder. You nod at Annabelle with a feigned smile and she turns to leave you with your daughter.

***

Arthur pulls back on the reins and Boadicea skids to a stop on the top of the hill. He hears Hosea and Silver Dollar slide up beside them.

Down below into a grassy valley is a herd of antelope. Food. Another way to help his family not starve.

Dutch is being petty, bitter. Not letting him go on bigger jobs to bring in money, so he isn’t deserving of any praise at all. Sure, food keeps bellies full, but there’s nothing like the shine of coin to stir Dutch’s heart.

Arthur knows that it isn’t like the old days, when they took gold bars from banks and offered them to the poor and orphaned. Since that first clipping, the stakes have been higher and the money box needed to be kept full.

Even so, he knows that it isn’t Hosea’s way. Hosea has always taken on tasks that involve little to no violence. Just some good fun to keep things interesting. Arthur has begun to like those jobs more. It makes him use his brain, though he would never say that out loud.

“Just look at them,” Hosea sighs. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

Arthur nods softly, his mind still somewhere else. “Shoah.”

“What’s say we take down a couple? If we get decent enough pelts, we could sell ‘em, or have Pearson craft something.”

Now, that is a thought. He could craft a gift. A gift for you, perhaps?

Hosea sees the soft smile on his son’s face and forms a glint in his own eye. “I see that look. You thinkin’ of something good?”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t begrudge an old man his pleasures, what is it?”

Arthur turns to look at his mentor and father figure, and leans back. “Old? I’d hardly think at your age you’d be callin’ yourself old.”

Hosea shakes his head. “Never stick with flattery when you do con work, son,” he chuckles. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Arthur lets out a low laugh, the tension easing from his shoulders as they both look down at the valley again. The antelope graze peacefully, unaware of the hungry eyes scrutinizing them from above.

"Alright," Arthur finally says, his voice firm yet still carrying a hint of warmth from the exchange. "Let's do this.” and he readies himself to spur Boadicea on.

But Hosea stops him. “No, not just yet!” And he takes Arthur’s wrist. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

This has been the most conversant Arthur has seen of Hosea since Bessie died. Something has changed, or healed, for him to want to talk at all. There isn’t a bottle in his hand and he is actually smiling for once. He didn’t quite feel as guilty for wanting to leave the gang and go to you and Isaac, but now, he feels the pang of it. What would Hosea have done if he wasn’t there to support him? It seems that nobody cares about Bessie anymore, or they’re so quick to pack up and go, that they have begun to do that with their feelings, too.

Hosea can feel his eyes intensely looking at him. “What is it?”

Arthur shrugs. “How do I begin?”

Hosea grins. “From the beginning, of course.”

Arthur chuckles. “That could take forever.”

Hosea pats Arthur’s wrist before letting it go. “So, get started.” But he then decides to offer a little help. “Tell me about Eliza.”

Oh, that. That’s what he wants to know. But if he were to tell anyone, it would be Hosea. Arthur swallows. “Well, she’s a waitress I met.”

And Hosea seems to be ready with questions, he isn’t about to let Arthur leave out any details. “Where?”

“A settlement in Utah.”

Hosea thinks on this, and remembers that they had been out that way. He thinks of you, your face, your hair, and suddenly he remembers.

That thin, young lady with the pencil and tablet, taking down orders of flapjacks and coffee. Dutch sat beside him.

“Ah,” Hosea sighs. “I remember now.” And he smiles. “She was a young thing, wasn’t she?”

Arthur nods. “She was eighteen when I met her.”

Hosea nudges Arthur’s arm. “And a strapping buck like you somehow swept her off her feet?”

Arthur feels his face grow hot. “Not exactly.”

“What, got too fresh?” Hosea teases.

Arthur leans back. “No!”

“What then?”

Arthur begins to feel embarrassed talking about this. He only ever had written thoughts like these in his journal. He pauses, searching for the right words. "It... it weren’t like that. She was different, Hosea. Sweet, but curious about everythin’. She always talked about Rome and her eyes always…just…” He runs a hand over his face to cloak his bashfulness. “Not just a girl to pass the time with. She... she mattered."

Hosea's teasing smile softens into something more understanding. "I can see that," he says gently. "Tell me when you knew she did.”

He blinks, thinking it through. “When…when someone else saw it, too.”

Hosea furrows his brow. “Who?”

The memories begin to flood back to that time. When he had heard a ruckus at the edge of town. It was dark, and he was going to scope out new leads, as usually all towns have their dark crevices to look into. That’s when he heard the low tones, the sheepish threats.

It was trouble.

With each calculated step, Arthur closes in on the source of the commotion, carefully avoiding the bright lights and staying hidden in the shadows. He sees you, the waitress from earlier today, pressed against the bank wall with a man looming over you like a predator ready to strike. The man's back is turned towards Arthur, but his expression is unmistakable - one of sadistic pleasure.

"Why do you always try to run from me?" The man taunts, his hand reaching out towards your face. But before he can touch you, you slap it away with a fierce strength that even surprises you.

The man, now revealed as Willy, takes a step closer and snarls,"Oh, the little doe fights back, huh?" He then leans in close to your trembling form.

"Leave me alone, Willy," you manage to choke out in a feeble attempt at defiance.

Willy tilts his head and leers,"And why would I do that?" His eyes gleam with malice as he prepares to unleash his full intent on you.

Arthur's patience snaps like a brittle twig. Without hesitation, his hand instinctively reaches for his gleaming revolver, fingers wrapping tightly around the grip as he takes determined steps toward the glowing light on the ground.

You desperately try to scare off Willy with another empty threat, but your voice quivers with fear. "If you lay a finger on me, I-I'll scream."

Willy's response is slick and slimy, dripping with wicked intentions. "That's what I was hoping for." His hand inches closer to your face, leering at you as his mind continues to wander, his eyes traveling your body with hunger.

But before he can touch you, Arthur's gun is out and aimed at him, his arm extending into the light while his face remains shrouded in darkness. He speaks through gritted teeth, a low growl of warning. "Touch her and you're dead." The tension in the air is palpable as both men stare each other down, ready for a deadly showdown.

As you turn your head, you catch a glimpse of him and your eyes narrow with suspicion. But when you try to follow your gaze, all you see is darkness. Willy slowly lowers his hands, a sly smirk spreading across his face. "We were just having a little fun," he says with a shrug, his tone dripping with suggestions. “Heck, you could’ve—”

But Arthur takes a step closer, staying hidden in the shadows cast by the street lantern. "How about I end you before you finish that sentence?" he growls, his voice low and dangerous.

Willy's expression turns from smug to contemptuous. It is clear to Arthur that this chump doesn't understand the meaning of no. "You wouldn't dare," he spits out defiantly, but there is a hint of fear in his eyes.

With a cold, calculated movement, Arthur closes the distance between them until the barrel of his revolver is pressed firmly against Willy's temple. He relishes in the sound of the hammer being pulled back, a satisfying click that echoes through the tense air.

"Try me," he challenges with a deadly calmness.

Like a coward, Willy raises his hands in surrender. But as he begins to back away, he makes one last desperate move, reaching for your face. You instinctively turn your head just in time to narrowly avoid his grasping fingers. With a smirk of false bravado, Willy taunts, "Catch you later, doe." But there's a hint of fear in his voice that betrays his false confidence.

You quickly avert your gaze, feeling your chest tighten as you inhale sharply. Willy doesn't even acknowledge the shadowy figure who saved you, instead disappearing into the darkness behind the partially constructed bank.

Silence envelopes the two of you for a moment, broken only by your heavy panting and the frantic beating of Arthur's heart. He slowly holsters his gun and approaches you, his voice gentle and concerned. "Are you alright?"

You nod, still in shock from the adrenaline rush. Your eyes flicker with recognition, but it’s clear to him that you try to play it cool.

But Arthur can see through your facade and he steps into the light, revealing those piercing marine eyes that seem to hold all the secrets of the ocean. As soon as you see him fully, your breath catches in your throat. "It's you!" you gasp.

A soft smile spreads across his face as he takes in the sight of you. "Hi, brown eyes."

“And so I walked her home,” Arthur's voice carries on the gentle breeze as he finishes his story. The graceful antelope have moved on, but both men remain seated, still captivated by the conversation unfolding between them.

Hosea nods, content with the tale he has just heard. He knows it a privilege to hear much more than he ever would have gotten if he wasn’t sitting here on his mount beside Arthur. "And the rest is simply history?" he asks inquisitively.

Arthur's boisterous laughter echoes through the open plain. Far from it, but he’ll keep that to himself for now. “I guess so.”

***

It won’t be long before you have to put Alice down for bed. She will be awake in the middle of the night for a feeding, and the sooner that gets started, the more sleep later into the night you and Arthur will get.

Alice is in the wrap you fashioned as you feed the four chickens that the gang appears to own. You’re grateful for a little piece that reminds you of home. Aside from Farm Boy, you didn’t get the opportunity to take Little Maid, your dairy cow, with you. You miss her, as cumbersome and stubborn as she was. If anything, she got you to get outside when you didn’t feel up to it. Lord knows, you needed fresh air.

“It’s nice having someone who knows how to work.”

You turn your body to see Susan Grimshaw approach you. She hasn’t spoken much to you, but you can tell she has some holding power on the gang. When Dutch and the leading men aren’t around, most seem to respect and listen to her. Arthur hasn’t spoken to you much on her history, and it really isn’t your business.

But by golly, if you aren’t curious.

“Yes,” you say, then remembering what she was just talking about. “I mean, I am certainly trying.”

Susan crosses her arms and studies you. “Arthur said you had a homestead?”

“Yes, we did.” You rarely have ever included Arthur in that topic, given that you are the one who had done all the work yourself, but it only seems fit and proper to include him for the sake of showing his worth and accomplishments. Maybe, eventually, they will reach Dutch’s ear just like everything else around here. “He’s good at building things.”

Susan doesn’t seem too enthralled, as she crosses her arms. “Uh-huh.” And she goes quiet for a moment before speaking again. “Does…uh…Isaac take after his daddy?”

You narrow your eyes, your brown eyes piercing. “Of course, he does.” You only hope that she asked out of curiosity, not in the spirit of the Spanish Inquisition. Arthur is the only man you’ve had, or ever will have, and you aren’t about to encourage rumors being spread about anything otherwise. "Alice does, too. I don’t doubt that she has his eyes.”

Susan looks at you long and hard, almost sizing you up. You remain still, your expression unflinching as you toss out another handful of corn. Her gaze lingers a bit longer before she nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement. Then, just as quickly as the moment of tension had arrived, it dissipates as she turns her attention to the chickens pecking at the ground.

"Well," Susan starts, shifting her stance slightly, "it's good to have young ones around again. Keeps everyone on their toes, and gives us all something to fight for." Her voice softens just a touch, a rare hint of warmth in the typically stern woman.

“Again?” you ask.

Susan actually lets out a smile. “Well, Arthur and John weren’t as young as your little ones, but they could sure keep me, Dutch, and Hosea on our toes.” She looks at Alice, contently pressed to your breast in her wrap. “Like yours do, no doubt.”

You nod, feeling the tightness in your shoulders loosen slightly. "They certainly do."

The moment of understanding between you and Susan is cut short by a distant thunder of hooves. Susan's head snaps up, her eyes narrowing as she peers into the distance. “Riders,” she mutters, her voice hardening.

You feel your heart skip a beat. Riders could mean trouble—bandits, lawmen, or…

Instinctively, you set the pail of feed on a lone tree branch, and hoist your skirts as you break into a jog, careful not to jostle your baby too much.

You hear Isaac calling out to you, clearly aware of the oncoming sound. “Mommy…!”

Your curiosity lets you stick your neck out most times, and with this chance, you are rewarded.

It’s Arthur, riding in with Hosea.

They have several ducks tied to their saddles, the corpses dangling near Boadicea and Silver Dollar’s legs.

Your heart beats even faster, and not for the short jog. Arthur stops his horse near the others that are grazing, and they seem unperturbed. He dismounts, leaving the ducks tied to the saddle, and walks in your direction.

You stand there motionless, your eyes never leaving his as he draws closer and closer to you.

Suddenly, something brushes up past your skirt and you look down to see Isaac running in the space between you and his father, arms outstretched. “Daddy…!”

He wears a warm smile at his son, and that makes you happy. Arthur sweeps Isaac into his arms, lifting him high above his head before setting him down with a gentle roughness that only a father possesses. He then looks over at you, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "Miss me?" he asks, a playful tilt to his voice that you hadn't realized how much you'd missed until now. His presence, strong and reassuring, washes over you like the first rains after a long drought.

"Yes," you reply, your own voice a mix of relief and nervousness. "But what about those ducks? Looks like trouble followed you home."

Arthur's smile grows at your tease and he nods toward Hosea. “Ask him.”

Hosea dismounts and waggles a finger. “Don’t you go blaming me, son. We would have had those antelope if you didn’t stop to chat.”

Arthur whips around, scoffing. “Me? You talked my ear off the whole ride.”

You haven’t seen Arthur this happy in a good while.

The light-hearted banter fades as the dust settles behind the returned riders. Hosea slaps Arthur on the back, then walks over to join you. His eyebrows knit together under the brim of his hat, casting his eyes in shadow. "We need to talk," he says quietly, just loud enough for you to hear.

Hosea? Talk to you? Why on earth for? You look for Arthur to return his gaze at you once he sets Isaac down. He does and seeing your confused gaze, he only shrugs his shoulders.

Well, that isn’t much help.

“Keep an eye on Isaac. Dinner will be done soon.” You turn and follow Hosea as he walks to a more secluded spot on the other side of camp. You fold your arms and feel the silence unbearable. Is he going to bear the bad news? Dutch has finally decided to kick you and your children out?

You need to prepare yourself for the worst.

So, you give yourself the opportunity to say something first. “Hosea, before you say anything, I just want to—”

“Please, Eliza, I don’t mean to interrupt, but I have something very important to say.”

You blink, caught off guard by his forwardness. But if you thought about it longer, it wouldn’t really be that surprising. “Oh.”

He takes off his hat, his blonde turning silver hair shining like wheat in the fall, and he looks softly in your eyes. “I know who you are.”

Your brows pinch, trying to read his calm expression. “I wasn’t hiding anything.”

Hosea then lets out a smile. “Of course not, but I know where I’ve seen you before.” He lets there be a pause before saying it, “The restaurant. Joe’s Place.”

You let out an exhale and nod. “Yes. You and Dutch came for breakfast.”

Hosea nods, letting out a chuckle. “Did you buy into our stories? No doubt Arthur told you we were gold prospectors.”

You nod. “Yes, but he acted like he was alone.”

Hosea’s smile falls. “I could see why. He wanted you all to himself.”

This untoward comment shocks you. “What?!”

Hosea quickly raises his hands. “Oh! Please don’t mistake me, Eliza. I only mean that he didn’t want anyone to know you. It is clear to me that he did that for good reason…on account of Mary and all.”

Your eyes widen and you feel your heart plummets to your stomach. Mary? You’ve never heard that name before. Ever.

As you struggle to process this new information, Hosea sees the fear in your widened eyes and senses the tightening of your chest. He realizes his grave error, but it's too late to take back his words now. His voice trembles as he speaks again, "He never told you about her, did he?"

Your response is sharp and cold, laced with betrayal, "No."

He tries to reassure you, his voice hesitant and filled with longing. But deep down, he hopes that Arthur will be the one to tell you. It isn't his place to speak of something so personal and heartbreaking from his past. “It was a long time ago, before he met you. We…we knew it wouldn’t end well.”

Now your curiosity is piqued. You can't help but wonder why this news has suddenly come to light. If you had been with another man, you would have told Arthur without hesitation. You were always open and honest with him about everything that mattered, at least in your mind.

You fold your arms, hoping to shield yourself from the feelings welling up inside you. “Oh…”

Hosea touches your arm. “Let him tell you. I’m sure he has healed by now.”

Was it all a convenient coincidence? Had he been pining for Mary while out at camp, only to return to you when it was convenient? Were you just a temporary escape for him when you first met years ago? Just a naive young girl, easily charmed by a knight in shining armor? The thought makes your brow furrow and your breaths come sharp with anger and hurt.

“Eliza?” Hosea asks, concern in his voice. Your gaze hardens, steeling against the churn of betrayal and confusion. "I’m fine," you say, your voice barely above a whisper but slicing through the tense air like a knife.

Hosea hesitates before speaking again, his eyes darting left and right as if searching for a way to salvage this moment. "He told me how you met.” And then his eyes return to yours. “Back in Utah.”

You snort. “I’m sure he did.” It seems he will tell everyone about himself except you. Most of it you had to figure out on your own.

He shakes his head. “It was also what he thought of you.”

You find the intensity in your eyes lessening, and your desire to know daring to push out your hurt, if but for just a moment. “What did he say?”

Hosea smiles again, sensing his chance to make things better again. “He said that you mattered.”

You feel conflicted at this. Love was what you were looking for, and while you normally would have settled for such vague, empty words, you aren’t sure you’re willing to buy into it this time. “I’ve mattered for the last five years.” And you motion to walk away. “But that isn’t good enough anymore.”

You begin to head back into camp and Hosea calls out to you. “Eliza!” You stop, looking over your shoulder. “He’s only a man and you’re only a woman. You both have a place with each other, even if you don’t see that.”

You feel your heart soaking in his words. You feel yourself leaning into them, but just as quickly as the feeling appears, it leaves, the bitterness cloaking it all.

You walk away.

***

After dishes are cleaned and put back into the chuck wagon once again, everyone beside those on guard duty retires for the night. Dutch had been quiet all evening, and only chose to talk to those who were in his good graces for the time being. The charismatic savior that Arthur praised in his stories looks less than the heroes in the fables you read to your son. Fictional, unreal. You can't make sense of him, and you aren’t sure you want to.

You finish tucking in Alice after feeding and changing her and you begin to hum the melody of the Scout’s Lament. You used it with Isaac when he was fussy of has had a nightmare, and it still seems to work on her.

You hear the tent flap open, and turning, you see Arthur come in. For the past four days, he has continued to sleep on the ground beside the cot, and now, after what Hosea told you, you aren’t sure how you feel about it. On one hand, you still desire him, need him, his presence a mere symbol of safety and care. On the other, you want to push him back, resist the temptations that you have wrestled with, and snuff out the flames for good. Your focus should be on your son and daughter. If anything, you can keep the peace for them.

Arthur regards your position as you kneel beside the cradle. You’re in your nightgown, your figure hidden beneath the straight cotton and ruffled cuffs. Your hair is in a loose braid, and it drapes over your right shoulder like a long rope. He wants to touch it, maybe lure you closer to him.

The look in your eyes when he came home, it brought a heat into his belly. Maybe he can tell you now, now that some things have settled. He can tell you the reason why he had come back that day, and why he’s carried a small box in his pocket for the last month.

He smiles at you. “Hey.”

You don’t look up at him as you reply. “Hi.”

Instantly he feels something is wrong. Your words, the sound that came from your lips, was a dullness without any feeling at all. Your hand is in the cradle, Alice clutching onto your forefinger. He swallows and decides to try to lighten your mood. “Pearson said you helped cook the supper tonight. Shoulda known, it was too good.”

You don’t smile.

Then, he decides to not beat around it. “What’s wrong?”

And you, still looking at Alice, speak three words that cause him to freeze. “Who is Mary?”

His eyes search you, his heart beginning to thrum. “Who told you?”

“Why shouldn’t I know?”

His voice tenses up. He doesn’t want you to be concerned over something that has nothing to do with you. “‘Cause it was a long time ago. It don’t matter no more.”

That’s when you turn to look at him. From the lantern hanging, he can see the shine in your eyes. “It matters to me.”

His nose wrinkles and his brow pinches. “Why? She ain’t here now, is she?”

“Would she have been?”

His breath hitches. Would Mary have been here if things went how he had planned? If she did agree to marry him and run away with the gang? Would her lavish ways and upstanding manners have lasted, or would she have adapted and grown to love the wind in her hair, and the sound of a firing gun? How does he answer that?

And since he doesn’t answer, you ask another hard question. “Did you love her?” You blink. “Be honest.”

Hell, you had to ask that question.

He shifts on his feet, the dead grass crunching under the weight of his hesitation. His gaze drifts away from yours, out toward the flickering shadows cast by the small lantern. "Yeah," he admits, the word barely more than a whisper. "Yeah, I did. Once."

Your eyes narrow slightly, and he can see the hurt flicker across your face, quick as a prairie storm. "And now?" you ask, your voice steady but low, carrying a weight that makes his stomach twist.

He turns back to you, sees Alice's small hand in yours, and feels the crushing weight of his past decisions.

But I love you, he thinks. Say it, you fool!

But he can’t find the words. Just like last time. Like a fool. How long can this go on? “I don’t anymore. Mary…Mary’s just a ghost from my past.”

The room goes quiet aside from the steady breathing of your two children. Two living examples of something that was more real to you than anything else. And now, a stranger, a name, has entered in it, and Arthur’s answer has only made it more concrete. You look away. “Okay.”

What? That’s it? The tears? The quivering lips? And all you can say is okay?

Arthur doesn’t want it to be like this. If you are mad, say it. Do it. Tell him why.

“That ain’t just it.”

Your voice is still calm and you rock the cradle absentmindedly. “It is.”

“Eliza—”

“It’s fine, Arthur.” And you won’t let him say anything more. Not tonight. “We should get to bed.”

Like this? No.

Hastily, Arthur bends over, reaching below his cot to grab his sleeping roll. He makes his way out of the tent. “I have guard duty in a couple hours. Don’t wanna wake you.”

And he leaves you alone with the children.

The wind picks up outside, howling like a lone wolf on the prairie, shivering its way through the canvas of the tent. Arthur quickly glances back to make sure the flap is secure, and satisfied that you’re safe, he continues on, tucking the roll under his arm.

He makes his way to the edge of camp, to one of the few scattered trees. Standing a few feet away from the tree is John, gun ready and eyes watching.

“My turn, Marston,” Arthur states, holding out his hand for the gun. “Go now.”

John, not realizing who was behind him, whips around. “Arthur?” And in the moonlight, he sees the gloomy expression on his brother’s face. “What’s eatin’ you?”

Arthur takes the gun right out of John’s hands and points back to camp with the barrel. “Go now.”

John knows things are uneasy right now, and while they haven’t always gotten along, they always seem to be there for each other. John has never admitted it, but he’s looked up to Arthur, the closest to a brother he’s ever known. He’s never made above-and-beyond attempts to get sentimental, but knowing now that Arthur has the capacity to father and love children, he’s been questioning what else is Arthur holding out on?

“Arthur,” John begins, unable to remove the raspiness from his voice, but managing a softness that shows compassion. “What’s wrong?”

Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Except I found out a heart can be broken twice.

But that isn’t what he says. He lowers his head to where the brim of his hat covers his eyes. “Go to sleep, John.”

John, realizing that his attempt to be open is futile, quietly leaves Arthur to the howling wind and moon.

Alone, you sit in the tent, the weight of the conversation anchoring your heart to the cold ground. Alice stirs slightly in her sleep, and you gently rub her tummy, soothing her into sleep.

If only Arthur's presence could soothe the turmoil churning inside you as easily. But even if he were next to you, you know it wouldn’t be so. It’s better this way, he’s out there now, under the vast expanse of starlit sky, wrestling his own demons in the silence of the night.

You don’t know his thoughts, and he doesn’t know yours. That’s the trouble. If only you both could just get over the fear of losing one another and speak what you ought to have said, maybe things would be better.

But just like Hosea said, you both have a place with one another, even though you don’t see it.

Thank you so much for reading! Leave a like if you want the next chapter!

Tag Requests:

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#red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #arthur morgan #fanfiction #ao3 writer #arthur x eliza #rdr2 #you are Eliza in this story #Isaac is a sweetheart #Annabelle takes you under her wing #Motherhood #parenting #angst #return to love #Simon Pearson #you try to find your place in the gang #Arthur's past #flashbacks #Arthur rescues you from a creep

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spoonsand · 4 months ago

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CONTAINS SPOILERS

Just finished my second playthrough and I have to say: I hate Dutch more than Micah. Don’t get me wrong Micah is scum, but Dutch knew (mostly) everybody in the gang for over a year. Sometimes over a DECADE- and he still turns his back on them. All the kids he and Hosea raised, didn’t matter, the ‘last’ score mattered. The last robbery mattered. Not the orphans or runaways he raised, taught and loved.

Micah is a superficial type. You know he’s evil. When you first meet him, you know he’s bad. But I liked Dutch in definitely the first 3 chapters, I was still liking him in 4. Guarma was iffy. Beaver Hollow is where it all goes downhill. I noticed the decline since chapter 3, but I feel it really steepened in 4 and 6 (Guarma didn’t happen). But back to Micah- you know he’s evil. The way he talks, the way he acts, his beliefs, you just KNOW that this guy isn’t who you’d want to come to your rescue (RIP SADIE). Micah did what he had to do to survive. He never had loyalty in mind, he has his own being in mind.

The Van Der Linde’s whole gang/family was so BASED on loyalty that people killed and died for the gang. Miss Grimshaw mentions killing another traitor. Molly (mistakenly assumed as a traitor) is killed because that’s how strongly they value loyalty. Loyalty (mostly to Dutch) was how the whole gang was founded.

Hosea had the same loyalty, but he actually cared about the people. I think Dutch only cared about the image. Hosea said that he cared for the people that died following Blackwater- that they mattered to him. He wanted closure. Dutch used their deaths as ammunition for his speeches. As a reason for the gang to keep on going. The only thing that set him apart from the O’Driscolls was the fact he cultivated the image that they were a family and that he might have cared. The O’Driscolls didn’t have the same loyalty to their members. When Kieran was captured they didn’t try to get him back. He said he was as good as dead if he wasn’t with the Van Der Linde’s. Dutch took Kieran in to set himself apart. The loyalty. The image.

Hosea kept Dutch in check. After Hosea died, Dutch couldn’t be kept in check. He didn’t have someone he valued highly who truly cared anymore. Micah took over Hosea’s place as the highly valued peer. Micah’s influence was never for the good of the gang- and that wasn’t a secret. Micah’s influence was for his own gain. But what I can’t get over is once Micah had that influence, Dutch didn’t care about anyone anymore. Especially towards the end. He used Eagle Flies, he left Arthur, left John (TWICE), didn’t care about the women, didn’t care about little Jack. Dutch cared about Tahiti. One last score. Reallllly messing with the Pinkertons. Getting the gang to safety wasn’t a priority. As I mentioned earlier- loyalty to Dutch was how the whole gang was founded- Dutch says something about John and Abigail and that women are poison. At the end, John was more concerned with Abigail and Jack rather than Dutch. He didn’t like that. Dutch didn’t like that John was more loyal to his FAMILY than him. He didn’t like that Arthur was more loyal to John than him. Micah, Bill and Javier didn’t have family available to have that stronger loyalty to. They had Dutch and only Dutch. I’m sure that Dutch also had beef with Hosea and Bessie; especially when they left.

But Dutch turned his back on John and Arthur- his sons. He raised them. When Susan was shot, he didn’t bat an eye. He loved her at some point. All these people he’s known for 20 ish years. Or the newer ones, that again, he either raised or feigned affection. And nothing. Turned his back.

FUCK DUTCH YOU BASTARD I HOPE HELL IS AS NICE AS TAHITI

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famesau · 3 months ago

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Before I get into this rant, I want everyone to know that I do not know much of Bill's character so if I mischaracterize him in any way I apologize and feel free to correct me.

In my first playthrough of this game, I was always outside of camp, not interacting with characters other than Javier and Kieran, to be honest. Now that I'm on my second playthrough I got the chance to get this clip and it's helped me understand Bill a bit more.

I didn't realize Bill picked up on people's wavering faith in Dutch this early, I always thought he jumped to conclusions. Not only did this clip help me understand him a tad bit more but it also helped me realize why he sided with Dutch in the end and it was all because of this line in this interaction.

"And that makes me so angry because he saved me. He saved Bill Willaimson! And he can do it again."

The way he yells out "He saved Bill Willaimson" made me really understand why he is so loyal to Dutch. Dutch, saw something in him and saved him. Dutch thought he was worth saving. At the lowest point of his life, Dutch took him in and gave him a purpose again. And in every low point in the gang, Dutch lifted them up. He believed, like Javier, that if any man could save him and the gang it was Dutch. Javier, in my opinion, loyalty isn't as strong as Bill's. Why? Let's look at chapter 6

In the end when Bill and Javier side with Dutch, unlike Javier, Bill aims his gun at John and Arthur. We hear many times how he doesn't like how disloyal Aruthur and John have been. Bill refused to think that Dutch was in the wrong. He didn't question him or what would happen next, all he knew was that he was going to stick by Dutch. Javier obviously had second thoughts about Dutch, but he still loved John and Arthur. That's why he aimed at the sky and not at them. His loyalty falters but in the end, he stuck by Dutch. Bill's loyalty didn't wavier. He always defended Dutch. We hear and see how the others often treat Bill, so that's another reason why he would side with Dutch.

Bill has the most loyalty to Dutch than any other character. In the wiki it states

"Bill's loyalty to Dutch is implied to be at least partially motivated by fear; not of Dutch himself, but of what the future holds for him should he end up alone again."

And keeping this in mind further helps me and others understand Bill. Bill may lack intelligence, he may be reckless or looked down upon by the others but Dutch chose to save him and that act alone was the reason he is so loyal to Dutch Van Der Linde unlike some of the others. Dutch gave him family after he lost everything and was left alone.

That's all I got :)

#rdr2 #red dead 2 #red dead redemption 2 #dutch van der linde #bill williamson

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2demondogs · 5 months ago

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Name of the Game, Boy | Dutch & Arthur

Tags: Young VanDerMatthews and Arthur fluff, Dutch teaches Arthur how to roll a cigar; Hosea's not really present Word Count: 2.3k A/N: Have a Cigar by Pink Floyd, while on the nose, is unexpectedly fitting overall. I'm a cigarette aficionado myself, so I did my best to describe an unfamiliar process.

They've been cornered between city-smog and marsh-heat for days now. Tents were pitched under the shade of a grove, but when its the air that is assaulting them, there's not much the penetrable material of their enclosures can do. It's times like these he wishes they had found somewhere abandoned to shack up, even if it didn't have all four walls.

Hosea's lungs were beginning to struggle with the thickness, and the dampness. Dutch worries. He would have protested his going hunting if it weren't for the emptiness of their metaphorical pantry, and would've joined if it weren't for Arthur. What food's left has wandered off via the saddlebags on his horse, most certainly to the find the nearest watering hole and non-mudstuck grass to graze on. Hosea dislikes them being out of sight, but Dutch's only complaint is his things being carried into the wind.

His upper lip was soaked in sweat when he woke up — hardly unusual, but positively unbearable with the thick hair trapping every bit of it. The same could be said of where his back and behind were drenched in sweat when Hosea roused him to announce his early morning hunt.

While it's still cool out, he said. Even in half-sleep, Dutch laughed.

Always the reasonable one, the older man continues to insist that long sleeves keep the sun off and, therefore, they will sweat far less if they wear them.

Arthur can listen to him all he wants. Maybe, just maybe, he has a point somewhere in that advice.

But Dutch has been feeling choked in anything beyond his singlet. He cropped the sleeves off in their first days wandering this area and, being comfortably outside of society, has worn nothing but his shirt and trousers since they set up proper camp. His arms are beet red and bubbling with burns from the sun, but at least he can feel those rare breaths of relieving wind right on his skin.

Hosea's eyes wander, too. Pleasant, besides the additional heat of them.

The kid is already sitting in his tent with the flaps open when Dutch peels himself from the bedroll once and for all, a modest-sized tin in hand to roll himself a morning smoke. Sleep here is fitful and yet hard to swim out of, like a limbo, even with the sun coming up on its early noon position.

Across the yard or two between the tents, he can tell Arthur is dozing off with his eyes open; he's been growing suspicious that the boy has heat poisoning, his usual alertness having faded into something almost docile — if such a word could ever describe that scrappy mutt of a teenager.

"Mornin', mister," Dutch greets, seating himself between the men's tent and the dead campfire.

He looks up from where he was lazily picking the dirt from beneath his nails with his pocket knife. "Mornin'."

For such a young man, his voice is getting gruff, and fast. Dutch feels a twang of pride thinking on how its dropped since they took him in, as if he has any right to feel that fatherly way.

Even if he tries, the situation doesn't feel... committal enough to warrant himself a label which so many men desire. His mock-son could scurry off any time to try his hand at another orphanage, at finding some wealthy family with a nice homestead who will pity him. They wouldn't, but Hosea and Dutch could just as easily abandon him in his sleep or send him on a goose chase while they flee.

Their relationship isn't tied the same a father and his offspring's is. One mistake from either party, and it could be gone without nearly the same sorrow. Dutch grows older and softer by the day, but he fears wiser is not part of that.

Hosea suits the role of patriarch just fine; the youngin' has begun to say something like Pa and quickly changed his mind with a flush once or twice. In those moments, Dutch always jealously wonders what type of father he'd be.

Is he a Pa, too, perhaps an Old Man? Maybe he could be Daddy, the way his father was to him. Will Arthur ever call him anything but you old coot and yessir?

He's grown fond of the damned critter, and he seems to have met the age where most men feel a certain emptiness in their bachelorism.

Eyes are burning into him as he pops the tin lid and takes out the beginnings of his first cigar: a bundle of tobacco leaves and a bottled shot of whiskey for moistening them. It needs refilled when they cross the next saloon.

The pre-rolls he purchased in Saint Dennis have already molded in the heat, much to his dismay.

Looking up from the bunch of tobacco he's binding to absentmindedly check the horizon for Hosea, he finds Arthur turning his eyes down fast at nothing in particular.

"What's on your mind?" He asks, amused.

Arthur rarely turns away when he's caught watching something; in fact, he seems to stare harder as if to assert his authority. It'd be impossible to say he weren't Dutch's kin, if it weren't for that mop of dirty blonde hair and those blue eyes.

"Nothin'."

"Naw, come on, son."

How he perks up at the name is mostly imperceptible, but it softens Arthur's face as it softens Dutch's sudden, self-imposed jealousy of Hosea.

Raising on gangly legs — still so, even after being fattened with some of Hosea's best game meat — Arthur comes to stand before Dutch, hands stuck in the pockets of his trousers.

"That a cigar?" He nods to the roll in his hand. The question doesn't seem to warrant the interest, but he lets Arthur be timid about his real intent.

"Yessir," Dutch says. He rolls it smooth along his thigh, considers the opportunity he has before him. "You want to learn how to roll one?"

Hilariously, his only response is: "Could I smoke it, too?" His voice is even, total seriousness in it.

Dutch laughs. It is one his first real, hearty ones since they pitched in this miserable swamp.

"'Course you can," he says. He looks up and squints into the light, follows his eyes as the teen plops himself on the ground next to him. He warns with a dull severity: "But if you tell Hosea, he'll hang me. You're too young for smokin'. He worries you'll grow a pair of lungs like his."

"When will I be old enough?" He asks.

He purses his lips, picks up the razor he keeps in his cigar tin for trimming the ends. "I'on know," he admits. "Guess I smoked cigarettes before I was your age." He offers a wry smile. "But I weren't no role model for anything, so don't listen to me."

"They were too expensive f'me," Arthur says. "No one'd let me bum any."

It's one of the few looks into his previous life that he's ever given them. As always, delivered without a missed beat. Arthur doesn't realize how solemn his life was, not really — not beyond the animal discomfort it brought him. It was all he really knew.

Dutch is never sure how to respond beyond the tight knit of his brows. "Well, you're gettin' to try one now," is all he says.

He feels the yearning for a son again while Arthur watches him intently. Explaining his more practiced skills in words has never been Dutch's strong suit, so he's decided he'll either smoke a second or save it for Hosea, depending on when he returns.

Usually, he wouldn't care for one, but Dutch knows he likes the whiskey-River Valley combination real well.

It is strange to have someone so intent on learning from him. Dutch knows he can command a room of people rather easily — it's his job. A genuine attempt to teach makes it feel different, fulfilling; Arthur is hooked, blinking sweat from his eyes as it forms. Seems he's been wanting to ask Dutch to show him this process for a long time. It makes the heat of the risen sun feel bearable.

"Why do you use the drink?" He asks. He spilled a splotch of whiskey on his trouser leg, and Dutch hopes Hosea doesn't smell the liquor on him when he comes back. He'd have to say goodbye to his own hide.

"Makes the leaves flexible." He starts to bunch them to form a core, eyeing Arthur to his side. He learns quick enough, but he's pressing together too hard. "So they won't crumble when you manhandle 'em."

He struggles with wrapping the bunch, but shakes his head when Dutch offers to fix it for him. "I won't learn if you do it."

"A'right," Dutch says. "You want help, you jus' say it. You can try again next time Old Girl's out."

When they're finished, he knows Arthur's cigar isn't going to burn too well. What exactly will go wrong, he isn't sure — but his fingers, though skinny and precise, are unpracticed with this art.

It is an art, one of practicing the tactical differences between excess and moderation, and he makes sure to tell Arthur as much.

He does insist on toasting both cigars. It's hard to explain, the words his own father told him on the matter long forgotten in favor of muscle memories, and Dutch isn't sure that he could even think how to pick apart the delicate process.

He'll probably have to offer Arthur his own cigar if he wants the boy to not hate them forever over one low quality roll — he is fond of him, but it takes practice.

As expected, Arthur's acne-pocked face scrunches upon his first draw. The density of the smoke gives him a mighty cough, and Dutch slaps his back as he hacks.

"Sorry, son," he says, smoke furling from his nostrils as he speaks. He means it. "I probably shoulda known you wouldn't know how to smoke it right."

"There's," — a group of final, shorter coughs, tears forming in his eyes — "A right way?"

"Ayuh," Dutch nods. He barely notices he's adopted Hosea's favorite affirmation, mind focused on finding a flask to offer him a drink of water. "You don't inhale the smoke.

"I still cough like that if I do and I've smoked 'em longer than you been breathin'." Arthur seems mildly surprised by the reminder someone is so much older than him; oh, youth. "When you drag on it, keep that smoke in your mouth and let it sit there. With cigarettes, you smoke 'em. A cigar is for tastin'. Watch."

He takes an exemplary drag. Arthur mirrors him carefully, face still somewhat twisted as he waits to exhale alongside Dutch. The clouds mingle and fade into the air before them, over the unlit campfire.

"All I taste is some nasty ass leaves an' itchy throat," he admits, sounding disappointed.

Dutch laughs. "Sounds 'bout right. It takes time to learn how to appreciate it," he says. "Like all good things in life. Try mine."

They trade. Arthur's is bitter, and he notices the skin of it is cracking at the end. He rolled far too tightly in his efforts to do it right; the taste is tolerable, but only just, and it is difficult to pull on. Arthur immediately hits his cigar once he's gotten it and he bites his cheek to avoid protesting too rashly.

Over the year he's been riding with them, he's noticed the boy struggles with enacting much patience.

"I wouldn't smoke them so fast," he warns. "You'll make it into even more nastiness." Dutch taps the cigar on the boot of his folded leg, Arthur copying him. At least the ash falls off easy. "If you savor it, they can taste real sweet."

Arthur near balks. "Sweet?"

"These are a sweeter kind," he says, and the information takes a moment to be believed at all. He's sure Arthur still thinks he's pulling his leg once it registers that this sour little roll-up tastes sweet to his companion. "Hosea likes these ones 'cause they're some of the easiest to stomach."

It isn't entirely fair to say, but he is absent now and Dutch hasn't influenced Arthur with a good-natured jab at his partner in one too many days.

As they finish them in relative silence, the only sound the thrumming of the heat in the atmosphere and the chirps of birds and insects milling through it, Dutch relents to the sneaking feeling that Arthur looks up to him in some way.

The kid watches him close, nearing the end of his own cigar and yet still learning how to draw it right from how little Dutch's cheeks hollow when he pulls the smoke in. He tries his hardest to wait between drags like he does. He didn't think being mimed could feel so rewarding; he didn't think teaching anything could be much beyond an inconvenience or the mild satisfaction of knowing that he's smarter than someone else.

Probably it speaks to all his own mentors — at least all the ones before Hosea — that such egoism was all he found in it.

The man of the hour rides in shortly after they tap their last ashes, and he is equal parts dismayed and proud to see Arthur studying how Hosea smokes on his cigar once he's passed the responsibility of dismantling the sizeable deer onto Dutch.

He'll give their little smoking lessons away before the month is over, but he has a feeling he can talk his way out of being skinned. When it comes around, he'll tell Hosea he shows Arthur how to survive, and Dutch shows him how to live, and his hubris will endear Hosea too much to say anything besides: don't go rolling him one everyday.

#rdr2 fanfic #oneshot #red dead redemption 2 #good parent hosea matthews. questionable parent dutch van der linde #cigars #rdr2 oneshot #arthur morgan #dutch van der linde #sfw #fluff #hosea matthews #Time for my weird tagging that I won't change because I'm not lazy just dumb #arthurmorgan #dutchvanderlinde #hoseamatthews #vandermatthews #young arthur morgan #young vandermatthews

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