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concussed-to-pieces · 4 years ago

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Whether It Works Out Or Not Part One

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2

Pairing: Eventual Arthur Morgan/Named OFC

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: You guys wanna' join me in yeehell? I don't know what's happened to me. I'm from New England. I shouldn't find this cowboy chicanery appealing, and yet here I am with eighty something hours in the game. So! I've only just gotten to Chapter Three and I have avoided spoilers thus far. Enjoy!

[Spoiler warning for the first three chapters of the game!]

Tag List: @huliabitch @cookiethewriter @pedrosbigdorkenergy @thirstworldproblemss @anonymouscosmos @culturalrebel @karmezii @teaofpeach @crookedmoonsaultpunk @zombiexbody @nelba @gabrielle1776 @toxiicpop @mstgsmy

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains gore/graphic depictions of violence, historical inaccuracies and general peril. Stay safe!]

Irene Craft had lived as a man for six months when she first met him.

Six glorious, difficult, yet somehow simultaneously carefree months.

The fateful night she had decided to leave her husband and make her own way in the world had been a long time coming. Every book, every treatise, every pamphlet she could get her hands on, she had devoured. She had no finances to speak of, everything was in her husband's name, so she knew that her struggle would be long and fraught with peril. But she refused to endure the abuse any longer, especially once he made an idle comment about pregnancy and how it would 'bind her to him forever.'

His bone-chilling chuckle afterwards had stiffened her resolve to steel. She left as the moon waned, her mount's saddlebags full of food and the mended clothes she would need for her new life.

In the city of Saint Denis, she sold her hair. Once her mother's pride and joy; when brushed out it reached the young woman's hips. The curls were unruly and dull russet in shade, but her mother had sworn up and down they bore auburn tones if the sun hit just right. Irene wondered briefly what her mother would say about her doing this, going to be shorn like a sheep, but she quickly put the thought out of her head. Her mother had been dead for nearly five years at that point, and her father in the ground for two. He had lived long enough to see her married off to the man he deemed a suitable match, and then the good Doctor Craft had passed on.

The barber, at the very least, was sober and much more kind than she had anticipated. He didn't begrudge her the few tears she did let fall, and he gave her a fair price for her locks.

With that business settled, Irene acquired supplies with her newfound wealth and headed up into the mountains. If her luck held, no one would come looking for such a delicate, fragile lady in the dangerous climes. She would take her chances, regardless.

…

The first few months were...challenging.

There was a massive difference between having the knowledge from books and having the experience that one could only garner out in the field. Bitter cold and hunger were excellent teachers though, and she had always been a quick study. Her mistakes were not often repeated.

Irene learned how to fletch her own arrows, learned how to snare small game and how to track large prey, how to build her shelters in the lee of bluffs to fend off the howling winds that whipped through the mountains. She made her living by hunting deer and other game to sell for their hides and meat in the nearby town of Valentine. No one would look for a woman if all they saw was a man, so she kept bundled up and pitched her voice into a low rasp when she needed to interact with other folks.

Irene had decided, in a fit of petulance, that she would call herself Frank. Franklin had been her father's name, and no doubt if he had been blessed with a son, the child would have been plagued by it as well. Doctor Craft loathed it when folk called him Frank, always correcting them with a belligerent harumph. Saints preserve them if they dared to call him Frankie.

So Frank Craft she became, the soft-spoken hunter who lived alone in the hills.

It was peaceful, but more importantly she was free.

Until the day she stumbled into a trap.

...

Again, she had been living in the mountains for around six months when this particular disaster struck. It had been a long day spent tracking a bull elk, which she had managed to fell just as night blanketed the landscape. Had it still been daylight out, she doubted she would have found herself in such a precarious position.

As it was, she had debated making camp right there, but ultimately decided to lash the hulking beast to her horse and forge her way back to her previous site.

She had been leading her horse through the fresh powder, not wanting to tax the weary animal, and didn't see the bear trap before her boot landed squarely in the middle of it. A mistake that would have cost her the whole leg, had she not been wearing these particular heavy furred boots. The trap also seemed worn, not crushing her foot outright as she had feared but simply gripping her ankle like a vise.

Though admittedly, it mattered very little. She was stuck. Her horse, a skittish, ghostly pale thing by the name of Bluster, immediately panicked at the sound of the trap snapping shut and fled. Irene swore at the damn animal until her voice threatened to give out, calling him every unkind name in the book while she tried to pry the jaws of the trap open to no avail.

She sat down awkwardly in the snow, bracing her free foot and then straining backwards in an attempt to unseat the tree that the trap's chain was secured to. Unfortunately for her, it held just fine. Then, she tried hobbling over to the tree and seeing if she could shim the chain off with a wedge, but that also proved futile.

Irene growled more obscenities under her breath, flopping onto her back and hammering her fists into the snow at her sides. "Shit." She sighed, the reality of her situation dawning slowly. She was trapped in a device that would no doubt cut off the circulation to her foot. There was a high probability of her losing the foot if that occurred. If, of course, she didn't perish from the cold or lack of food first.

Irene pressed her hands to her eyes, sucking in a lungful of the crisp, pine-scented air while she tried to assure herself that she would manage to escape this mess just like all the others. She wouldn't just give up, absolutely not!

As she sat there wracking her brain and trying to see whether she could muscle the trap apart enough for her to at least wiggle her foot out of her boot, she heard the distinct sound of a horse bumbling through the undergrowth. "Bluster!" She shouted, her voice a strange combination of husky and ragged. "You bastard, runnin' off at the first sign of trouble!"

But the horse that greeted her eyes first was not, in fact, Bluster. It was an appaloosa, still shaggy with its winter coat. On its back was a man in a heavy blue jacket, shearling peeking out at the collar. And in his hands were the reins for the sheepish-looking Bluster, who peered around the appaloosa and whinnied guiltily at her.

"Howdy mister." The man shook Bluster's reins. "I reckon this fine specimen is yours?"

Irene had never been more thankful to see a huge, imposing man in all her life. "Yessir, yes he is. I know we've only just met, but I don't suppose you'd be willing to offer me a helping hand?" She gruffed out, indicating her trapped foot with a grimace.

The man's face was in shadow from his hat, the moonlight overhead throwing everything into stark contrast. She caught a brief flash of teeth when he smiled. "Oh sure." He drawled, dismounting and securing Bluster to a nearby tree. His own horse he simply left the reins to trail, no doubt trusting the creature to behave itself. That done, he sauntered over to her, crouched down and with one low grunt, easily forced the jaws of the trap apart. "There. Simple enough. You weren't in there for very long, were you?" He asked, sounding a bit worried while she vigorously rubbed the circulation back into her leg. With any luck, she would escape with nothing but some bruising.

"My sincerest thanks." Irene said gratefully, "no, it's hardly been an hour." She cocked her head curiously. "May I know the name of my rescuer, sir?"

"Uh, Arthur." He replied, shaking her proffered hand. "You sound like you've got some learnin' under your belt there, Mister…?"

"Frank Craft, Mister Arthur, and I don't know what fate would have befallen me had you not stumbled across the," Irene paused, raising her voice pointedly at Bluster, "titanic coward that is my loyal steed. I'm in your debt, my friend." She waved a hand at Bluster, indicating his heavy burden. "As you can see, I had a relatively successful hunt before this misfortune befell me. Normally I'd head into town with it at daybreak, but seeing as you've saved my life and all, it's only fair that you should have it."

"Whoa now, I ain't helped you to get your hunt." Arthur protested, tipping his head to the side and permitting the moon's illumination to reach beneath the brim of his hat. Irene was momentarily struck dumb by just how blue his eyes were, nearly missing when he continued, "too many folk in this world only help other people on account of gettin' somethin' in return. If I was caught in a trap and I ain't had nothin' to give you for freein' me aside from gratitude, would you leave me?"

"What? No, that's barbaric." Irene almost forgot to adjust her voice, wincing when it cracked awkwardly.

Arthur chuckled, getting to his feet and offering her a hand up. She stumbled, her foot still numb, and the man kept a firm hand on her elbow until she regained her balance. "Now, that noble hogwash bein' said, I do got a lot of mouths to feed. So if the offer still stands, Mister Frank, I'd be mighty grateful."

"Absolutely! As long as you'll put it to use." And really, what was one day's worth of work to her? She could always find another creature to stalk and harvest. Bluster whickered nervously when she approached, the horse's ears flicking back and forth to catch the sound of her voice when she grumbled about his cowardice. "Kneel, Bluster." The horse clumsily obeyed and Irene untied the elk from his back, rolling it off onto the snow.

"Huh, that's a neat trick. I wouldn't have thought of that." Arthur remarked. "Teachin' a horse his dancin' steps and such."

"How else would I have gotten it up onto him?" Irene asked, grinning when Arthur chuckled again. "Of course, seeing as you muscled that trap open like it was nothing, I doubt you've ever had to worry about that sort of problem."

As if to prove her point, Arthur shouldered the elk up from the ground and neatly deposited it onto his own horse. The sturdy beast didn't so much as nicker, obviously used to this treatment. "You're more than welcome back at my camp, Mister Frank." He offered. "I reckon there's enough on this big bastard to warrant you gettin' a bowl of stew in the bargain."

Irene was already shaking her head before he could finish, politely declining his invitation. "I'm afraid I'm not suitable for most company, Mister Arthur. Been out here alone for too long. Maybe once the thaw hits, I'll suss out human companionship again."

Arthur chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then spat off to the side. "Well, I am mighty grateful all the same, Mister Frank. I know the others will appreciate this. Adios until we meet again, then?"

He touched the brim of his hat and Irene returned the gesture with a smile. "Adieu, Mister Arthur."

…

Two months went by before their paths crossed once more.

Irene had located a dense thicket of blackberry bushes down in the lowlands and spent almost two entire days stripping the branches of their fruit. A house was coming together just outside of Valentine, and that meant soon enough there would be a gathering for the last push of assembly. As she daydreamed about the most recent time she had been to a party (a dreary affair for her husband's birthday, full of ah the stately beauty and oh isn't she a catch despite her age), she failed to notice Bluster growing severely agitated about something.

Now granted, the horse's name was Bluster for a reason; he was always in a twist about one thing or another. So Irene paid him very little mind. By the time she noticed the problem, Bluster had snapped his tether line and taken off like a shot.

A bear, it was a bear, oh sweet Lord. Irene froze, a handful of berries halfway to her mouth while the beast scratched at the ground not fifteen feet away from her. It hasn't spotted me, she realized, trying desperately to recall what she had read about black bears. Was she supposed to run? Was she supposed to back away slowly? Wave her arms and yell?

Shit.

The bear grumbled, glancing around and sampling the air suspiciously. It appeared to notice her and reared up on its hind legs, unleashing a deafening roar. She was frozen, her knees shaking as the creature lumbered forward. She couldn't even open her mouth to scream. It rushed her with what seemed to be the devastating speed of a locomotive and she was knocked prone, her hand darting to her side, draw your knife idiot!

Her head flew back from the momentum of the assault and struck the ground hard when she landed, the blow sending sparking wheels of color across her vision and fading everything out for what felt like a lifetime. She had assumed she was dead, but someone shaking her shoulder roughly roused her back to consciousness. Irene groaned in pain, stirring.

"Alright, he lives! Wasn't sure for a little bit there." That voice. She knew that voice. "You comin' 'round, Mister Frank?"

Frank. Frank. Right, that was her. She was Frank. And that voice… "Arthur?" She rasped blearily.

He was on one knee over her, blocking out the sun with his large form. He inclined his head, drawling, "in the flesh, Mister Frank! Looks like you hit your head real hard when you landed. Put your own lights out."

Irene grimaced, moving to sit up. "Shit," she swore, touching the back of her head and feeling her fingers grow sticky with blood. The bear. She looked around frantically, spotting the creature slumped beside her with an arrow clean through its eye socket.

Arthur seemed to notice her distress, placing a well-meaning hand on her shoulder. "Easy now, boah. It's okay. You were lucky today, I s'pose." That hand traveled up the back of her neck, the man indelicately tipping her head forward and then whistling as he examined the wound on the back of it. "Damn, you'll have a hell of a scar. Looks like it's already stopped bleedin', though."

"How did you...where did you even come from?" Irene asked in confusion.

The man nodded in the direction of a large, grassy knoll to the west of their current location, adjusting himself absentmindedly in his pants when he settled back onto his haunches. Irene still had yet to maneuver that particular tic into her 'masculine' repertoire. She struggled enough with the spitting in public, and the last thing she wanted was to be labeled a pervert or a degenerate simply on account of her adjustments being 'less than organic'. "I didn't notice you was down here until the bear did, I'm pretty sure." He remarked. "Think you startled him as much as he startled you. You foragin' for berries?"

"Yes, I...I was thinking about treats and parties and I'm afraid I wasn't paying attention." Irene admitted, her face going a little red. Whether from the frank thoughts of adjusting or the shame of being caught unawares, she was uncertain.

"Blackberry pie, right?" Arthur hummed, obviously sympathizing with her distraction. "Means summer's really here. You bake things like that?" He rummaged in his satchel without waiting for a reply, pulling out a bandanna and two bottles. One bottle she recognized as whiskey, but the other was much smaller and made of a greenish glass. "You're gonna' want this to take the edge off." Arthur informed her calmly, pressing the bottle of whiskey into her hand and then uncorking the small bottle with his teeth.

"Edge?" She asked, wary now.

"Eeyup. Take a swig and I'll get started on this."

This was, apparently, cleaning and dressing the wound on the back of her head. Which, incidentally, the lone slug of whiskey she drank did nothing for. She didn't dare consume any more than that, however. Wine in the drawing room was one thing, but whiskey out in the berry patch was a horse of a different color. Arthur was at least capable, if a little more ruthless than the average physician. She had endured worse.

"You're a real lucky boah, Frank. Ain't deep enough to need stitchin'."

"I do feel immensely lucky today." Irene replied dryly, "a dead bear at my feet, a stomach full of fresh blackberries and a bottle of whiskey in my hand. Tell me, how could my life get any better than this?" She cringed in pain but the sensation quickly dulled in the wake of Arthur's gravelly chuckle.

"Gotta' say, you did a damn fine job of distractin' that bear. Let me get the easiest shot I've ever taken." He remarked conversationally after several minutes of silence.

"Mister Arthur, should I ask what it is that you're daubing all over the back of my head? Or is that a fool's errand?"

"What, this? Some uh…" he paused, flipping the bottle over and squinting at the label. "Ginseng and yarrow. Ol' Hosea swears by it and he's been alive longer n' most."

Irene relaxed slightly. The combination didn't sound too sinister, though she was unfamiliar with herbal medicine that wasn't refined tinctures. This was more of a paste than anything, Arthur constantly stopping to coax a bit more of it down the neck of the bottle. "Well, I'm very grateful, Mister Arthur. You don't have to-"

"I know." Arthur interrupted her. "You ain't beholden to me or anythin', don't fret. Though if you'd like to stick around an' help me butcher up that bear, I wouldn't say no."

"Are you still hunting for a small army?"

Arthur sounded rueful when he replied, "feels like there's more of 'em every damn day. I'll be takin' this kill into town. The women want the essentials, their flour and sugar and such." He grumbled, "dunno' why they need so damn much flour."

"Well, how else will they make pies?" Irene pointed out.

"Huh. S'pose you're right." Arthur said after a moment, seeming surprised. "Guess I never grew out the phase of thinkin' pies an' cakes just show up fresh on windowsills."

Cleanly skinning and butchering the good-sized bear was a long and arduous process, even with two sets of hands working on the task. Bluster had reemerged from the woods after a time and now grazed peacefully alongside Arthur's mare, that appaloosa from before who had since shed her winter coat.

Arthur finally sat back on his haunches, wiping the sweat off his forehead and accidentally leaving a rusty red trail of blood in its wake. "Welp, I dunno' about you, Mister Frank. But I could certainly do with a wash-up and a meal." He had taken his hat off while they worked, his tawny, sun-streaked hair curling around his ears and sticking out at odd angles from the sweat. "Join me for supper, won't you?" He requested, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at the stream that flowed in a gully past the knoll. "Ain't nobody can chide me about takin' the best bits of the critter if nobody knows." He continued with a smirk. "Can I trust you not to rat me out, Frank?"

Irene hesitated. She was hungry and tired from the long day. Arthur didn't seem all that dangerous. Or rather, he obviously was, but in a way that was honest and blunt. "Absolutely." She replied firmly. "Your secret is safe with me, Mister Arthur."

"Now, I am gonna' ask for a handful or two of them berries you got." Arthur carried on as he got to his feet, extending a hand to help her up. "As rec...recompense and such."

Irene sighed dramatically. "Ah, I should have known no good deed goes unpunished. And here I thought that offering myself up as unwitting bait was more than enough to justify a mouthful or two of meat."

Arthur's laugh was raucous, the large man clapping her on the back hard enough to make her stumble. "You're a good man, Frank."

"Nowhere near as good as you, Arthur." She retorted with a grin, confused by the way his face darkened.

"'Fraid I'd never be able to claim that title, Frank." Arthur said quietly, the mirth gone from his expression. "Beardless youth like yourself ain't oughta' cast me in any sort of decent light. I ain't a good person."

"Hey, what was it you said when you freed me up from that trap? 'Too many folk in this world only help other people on account of gettin' somethin' in return', right?" Irene reminded him, trying to mimic his deep, honeyed drawl. She must have done a poor job, because Arthur cracked a reluctant smile. "You've helped me twice, now! Surely that warrants a smattering of decent light, wouldn't you agree?"

"Aw hell, Frank, I just don't want you developin' any lofty notions about my character is all! Don't want you gettin' your hopes dashed." Arthur protested. "I ain't no saint or role model or anythin' like that."

"Don't worry about my preconceptions, Mister Arthur. I don't view you as a role model at all." Irene wanted to laugh at how crestfallen he looked, despite his big talk. She splashed water on her hands, scrubbing at the blood on them with some of the sand from the riverbed. "I view you as a friend. A friend with flaws and drawbacks just like myself. Just like all human beings have." She elaborated, startled when Arthur crouched beside her on the riverbank and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Thank you." The man said sincerely, his blue eyes warm and bright. "That means a whole lot to me, Mister Frank. I'd like to count you as a friend myself, if I could."

Irene forgot her tongue for a moment, ensnared by the blatantly hopeful look he was giving her. He must have any woman within fifty miles of here falling head over heels for him! "You'll have a remarkably difficult time trying to get rid of me, Mister Arthur. I'm very persistent." She finally managed to respond. "Like a mangy mutt once you feed it some table scraps."

"I reckon it's settled then." Arthur's smile had returned, and Irene found herself oddly pleased that she had been the one to bring it back.

...

They camped there under the stars that night.

Arthur planned to head into town the following day, where he would sell off the bear and then assist in the last few steps of the house building. But for now, he occupied himself with creating a roast fit for a king. Irene watched curiously as he studded the whole cut with herbs, finally daring to ask him a few questions about cooking. He obliged her with answers graciously and freely. Despite his opinionated stance on baking, he obviously had no such reservations when it came to cooking.

"I'm always afraid my ignorance of plants will get me into serious trouble. Lord only knows how many poisonous things I could consume if left to my own devices." Irene admitted, certain that he must think her foolish.

Arthur rummaged around in his satchel and pulled out a worn leather-bound journal. He tossed her the notebook, chuckling lowly when she nearly fumbled it. "I sketch a fair amount, look at the last pages. Check the margins for whether it's edible or not."

When she tugged loose the strap that held the journal closed and obediently cracked it open to the last few pages, Irene was flabbergasted. Sprawled across the pages were both detailed drawings and fleeting sketches of various plants and animals. "Arthur," she said, her voice breaking as she nearly forgot to pitch it lower. The older man glanced up at her, his brow furrowed. "These are incredible."

"What is?" Arthur asked in confusion. It abruptly seemed to dawn on him and he grinned sheepishly, shaking his head. "Oh, my l'il drawin's? They're just somethin' to pass the time, mostly. Done 'em ever since I was a kid."

"They're amazing!" Irene praised, making sure her hands were clean and free of grease before she even dared to hover her fingertips over the sketched snout of a border collie. "You actually capture the motion of the creature, which is a rare talent. I've seen a lot of art in my day, Mister Arthur, but few pieces have the same amount of life in them that your work displays."

"Aw shucks Frank, you're layin' it on pretty thick ain't ya'?" Arthur protested, and his face might not have been pink from just the heat of the fire. "It's nothin' special."

"Oh it absolutely is. These are...I mean all the plants are so detailed. Easily identifiable. Can you draw people and structures as well?"

Arthur took the journal back and carefully flipped through it to a few different pages, showing her that his skill extended to more than just plants and animals. An oil derrick sketched proud and tall against the blank-page sky, a blind man who he had come across in his travels, a two-page spread of a small camp titled Horseshoe Overlook... "Like I said, though, ain't nothin' special." He finished firmly, tucking the sketchbook back into his satchel.

"You ought to make a book!" Irene suggested. "For those of us ingrates that wouldn't know oregano from our elbow."

"Me? A book?" Arthur scoffed at the idea. "Last thing I want is more attention."

"Well...you could do it under a pseudonym!"

"A what? Listen here, Frank, I ain't no good Christian man, but I ain't about to pseudo...seedo...look, I ain't doin' nothin' to nobody's nims, alright?" Arthur sounded absolutely scandalised.

"Arthur, a pseudonym is just a fake name." Irene explained.

"Oh. Oh. Shit. Well I knew that." Arthur blustered at her, huffing out a breath. "Just...makin' sure you knew, is all!"

"Of course." Irene got to her feet, dusting herself off. "So. He can cook, he can draw, he can hunt…" she trailed off, doing her best to keep her tone light as Arthur continued to mumble in a flustered manner and fidget with the brim of his hat. "Is there anything you can't do, Mister Arthur?"

His laugh in reply was devoid of humor, a bitter noise. "Sure. Can't seem to stay out of trouble. More accurately though, can't seem to avoid gettin' dragged into trouble."

Irene squatted beside him next to the fire, debating giving his shoulder a rough shove of comradery. But the concern of accidentally knocking him over into the embers was enough to make her gentle her touch to a light pat. "I'm sorry to hear that, Arthur." She said quietly.

"Ah, don't pay me no mind, Frank. I'm just bellyachin'." Arthur placed his hand over hers absently, like it was an instinctive response. "You're a good kid. Don't get yourself tangled up in someone else's woes like I have, you understand me?" He admonished her sternly.

"I'm hardly a child, Mister Arthur." Irene protested. "I am nearly twenty-seven."

"What, without a lick of facial hair and your voice still shatterin'?" He teased, grazing her bare jaw with a large hand. "Naw, you ain't. But it's okay, your secret's safe with me."

"Arthur." Irene grabbed his hand, staring him down. She wasn't sure why this of all things was what she was caught up on. Maybe it was the notion that he believed she, or rather, Frank, was some fool stripling that had just been lucky so far. "I'm not a child."

Arthur stared at her, and for a split-second Irene was certain she had sold herself out. But then the older man abruptly guffawed, clapping her on the back. "No, I s'pose you ain't. You got old steel in them eyes of yours, Frank. Seen too much for your time on this earth, I imagine."

...

The final day had come at long last.

Irene hurried to help finish the last few clapboards for the outside of the house, nearly crushing her thumb with the hammer in her haste.

Various men and women from Valentine proper had already started to gather in the yard. Tables were being shuffled together, delicious smells coming from the freshly-christened firepit. Spirits were high and laughter was loud in the sunshine of midday, and Irene couldn't help her smile as she looked around.

It was truly a marvelous thing to be a part of a community that willingly accepted anyone who would help, regardless of their past transgressions. She felt utterly at peace here, even in the midst of such organized chaos.

A heavy arm landed around her shoulders and she felt a hand nearly shove the hat clean off her head. "There he is!" Arthur announced gladly, making her laugh. "It's finally time for the fun! You gonna' be stickin' around this evenin'?"

"Maybe." Irene allowed, letting him haul her into his side with his grip on her shoulders. Arthur didn't seem to actually know just how strong he was, which strangely enough made her feel safer around him. "And you, Arthur?"

"I wouldn't miss it!" The man replied, his voice bright with excitement. "Been too long since there was a reason to celebrate. Was a hard winter. Folks need this shit."

"Absolutely." Irene ducked out from beneath his arm and straightened her hat. "I'll see you later, Arthur. Gotta' go get washed up!"

Valentine was barely a five minute walk down the road, but impatience ate away at her and she broke into a jog. She'd hatched a plan for tonight. A foolhardy, stupid plan. She still had no clear idea why she was doing this, even as she sauntered up the steps to the Valentine hotel.

Irene slapped her money down on the counter, paying up front for a bath and a room for the night. Her spurs rattled loudly while she made her way up the stairs, nerves building in her throat like frantic bird wings beating away just beneath the skin.

It had been a short eternity since she had even seen herself in a looking glass, much less worn a dress.

The dress itself was nothing like the elaborate ones she had worn during her marriage. It was a plain fawn-brown color, lacking in lace trim or cumbersome whale bone buttons. A dress for this new life she had made, one that she could don and doff unaided.

Once she had scrubbed herself pink with the provided tub of hot bathwater and lye soap that threatened to be iris-scented, of all things, Irene stepped into the dress and slowly buttoned the tiny buttons that ran the length of the front. Thankfully, the cut was modest enough that she wouldn't need a fichu to cover up with.

She had been avoiding looking at herself in the mirror until she absolutely had to, and when she finally did gather her courage she was shocked by what met her gaze. She looked older, of course, a bit more weathered, but she looked alive. She had haunted her husband's house like a ghost, gaunt and battered and seen not heard. Now though, her eyes were clear and her cheeks were pink even without pinching, a byproduct of the fresh outdoor air. Her shoulders were freckled liberally as well, though the dress hid them well enough with its high neckline and long sleeves. Her mother had always tried to dull her freckles out with those blasted rose tea treatments and lemon, but the spots had stubbornly persisted.

Her hair though…

She grimaced, raking her fingers through the sun-lightened corkscrews that bounced and sprang back around her ears. It seemed that, as usual, her hair would be hopelessly unmanageable. Mercifully, since she always wore a hat, at least her hair wouldn't be the thing to give her away. Wonder of all wonders, it did appear that there was some auburn mixed in with the brown.

Irene emerged from her room, locking the door securely behind her and tucking the key into her pocket. She paused to straighten out her skirts, smiling a little dumbly downwards at the pleats while she swished back and forth in a brief moment of indulgence. However, no sooner had she stopped to do so than a large body in a hurry nearly toppled her over. She heard a startled grunt as the person managed to catch her, and then a familiar voice apologized, "sorry ma'am! 'Fraid I'm like a bull in a china shop sometimes."

Arthur, it was Arthur. Oh Lord. Irene stared at his boots in an effort to buy herself time to collect her thoughts, noticing dimly that he too had bathed and clearly attempted to tidy himself up. Did she come clean right now? Confess that she wasn't Frank at all, but Irene? Lord, this whole plan was stupid! What had she been thinking?! "Oh no sir, I should be the one apologizing. I was so excited for the festivities I appear to have forgotten my sensibilities." Her voice was soft and she looked up at him through her lashes, wondering whether he would even recognize her without a layer of grime on her face. "Forgive my inattention, won't you?"

Arthur, for some reason, swallowed hard. "Well, ain't you just as pleasant as punch! You must be from outta' town. My name's Arthur, ma'am, and it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He gave her a little half-bow and Irene barely contained her relief at his blatant unfamiliarity with her. Obviously she needn't have worried.

"My name is Irene, Mister Arthur, and trust me, the pleasure is all mine." She replied, automatically accepting the hand he offered. "Are you looking forward to the party as well?"

"Oh sure, Miss Irene." That drawl lingered sinfully on the syllables of her Christian name and Irene felt herself blush. "It's a rough life out here, only makes sense for folks to take what joy they can find where they can find it." Arthur glanced down at her, his smile a bit melancholy. "House raisin's hard work, but it's less tedious if we all know there's somethin' lighthearted waitin' at the end. Good food, good company…" He trailed off, clearing his throat.

"Of that, I'm certain!" Irene dared to continue holding his arm once they reached the street, and Arthur made no move to dislodge her. "Do you think there will be dancing, Mister Arthur?"

He chuckled at her obvious excitement. "I s'pose there might be. I'm not much one for dancin', though."

"Well," Irene said boldly, "I would be just delighted if I could steal a dance with you at some point this evening."

Arthur's eyebrows shot up to his golden-brown hairline. "You sure you got the right feller, ma'am?"

"Of course! Please Arthur, won't you save me a dance?" She implored sweetly.

Arthur sighed, shaking his head. "Alright, which one of 'em put you up to this? It was Karen, weren't it. Woman won't stop interferin' in my personal affairs." He growled, "I ain't lookin' for pity, Miss Irene."

"What?" Irene asked in confusion. "No, I haven't been put up to anything. I...I simply wanted a dance. Have I offended you, Mister Arthur?" This could be an irreparable blunder! Her plan might be in shambles.

"Aw hell, now I feel like a fool." Arthur rubbed a hand over the back of his neck sheepishly. "Pardon my suspicion, Miss Irene. I'm used to bein' passed over is all." He mumbled.

"What?" Irene gasped theatrically, loving the way his laughter rumbled in his chest. "A fine man such as yourself, passed over? That's deplorable, Mister Arthur!"

"Shucks ma'am, I'm passable decent, but I don't know if I'd ever call myself fine." Arthur smiled, his face a bright, endearing pink. Oh, complimenting him elicited the sweetest results! Irene was enraptured.

"Would you accompany me along the path to the festivities, Mister Arthur? I'm afraid I have no chaperone this evening." She implored. It was so strange, sliding easily back into being able to make polite conversation or clinging to an arm with rapt attention while a man spoke. She supposed all those etiquette lessons had done her some good. At least with Arthur she didn't have to feign her attention.

He nodded, swallowing hard again. "Sure, I can do that, Miss Irene."

"Oh!" Irene said suddenly like a thought had just occurred to her, the young woman making a move to pull away. "I apologize, Mister Arthur. It is so presumptive of me to monopolize your time. Did I interrupt you on your way to the Mrs. Arthur? Or perhaps a tryst with your beloved? I'm afraid I've always been rather self-absorbed, do forgive me."

He chuckled sadly, shaking his head. "Ma'am, there's no need for all that." He said, patting her arm in a way that he probably believed was soothing. Irene barely refrained from laughing at the knowledge that he calmed people like he calmed his horse. "All I'm headin' for tonight is some merriment with the local folk." He paused, still patting her hand absently. "Y'know, I think you'd get on real well with a friend of mine by the name of Frank." Arthur remarked, appearing oblivious to the way she froze. "He's got some real hellfirin' opinions and a noble heart. Nothin' like me at all, a genuine, sweet boah. Outspoken, but kinda' shy 'round lots of folks. If we stumble across him, I'll introduce you."

"Oh I very much doubt that we'll see him tonight." Irene muttered under her breath to herself, a little puffed up by the praise Arthur had inadvertently lavished upon her.

…

There was indeed food and drink, and Irene found herself in the midst of conversation more often than not. It was incredibly amusing to know that all she needed to do was wash the dirt off her face and don a dress to make 'Frank' disappear into the ether. But again, that had been the whole point.

The musicians were tuning up when she noticed something odd. There was an unmanned violin (or fiddle, perhaps), sitting forlorn and silent on the front steps. Irene straightened out her dress and made her way carefully over to the stairs. "Pardon me, sirs," she called cheerfully. "but where is your violinist?"

"Ah, I'm sorry ma'am, but ol' Jefferson died durin' the winter." The guitarist informed her, looking a touch morose. "Figured we'd bring out his Hyde so it could at least listen to all the hubbub. Be a shame to leave it to gather dust."

"My deepest condolences." Irene murmured, going to turn away and then biting her lip as she paused. "Sirs, I...perhaps I could be of assistance? I have...some prior experience with violin." Nobody needed to know about the years spent learning, and the few bright moments in her marriage being her improvising quick, jaunty tunes alone in the drawing room. Leaving the instrument behind had been like leaving a piece of her heart, but it was so delicate and fragile…

"Well if you think you can keep up, you're more n' welcome to rosin the bow ma'am." The man smiled, gesturing at the fiddle. "It would do it some good to be played again, I'll wager."

Irene was scooping up the instrument almost before he had finished speaking, immensely pleased to find out that it was relatively in tune. The man that she assumed would be the step caller graciously handed her a handkerchief to pad her cheek when she tucked the violin into place, and Irene spent several minutes hurriedly tightening and rosining up the bow.

The first draw emitted a note that was clear, if a bit flat. Irene grinned sheepishly, fidgeting with the tuning pegs and then trying again. Ah, there it was. The instrument had a beautifully rich voice, no doubt facilitated by the stockier body it bore.

"Ladies and gentlemen, finish up your food! It's time for the real fun to begin!" The caller announced over the buzz of the populace. Tables began to move out of the way, clearing the front yard.

"I see you're the fiddler this evenin'?" Irene started at the sound of Arthur's voice. She had lost track of him shortly after arriving to the party, the man apologizing to her even while he was getting dragged off by a dark-haired woman in a beautiful green dress. Now, he reclined against the railing, his eyes troubled but smile firmly in place.

"Hopefully, if the good Lord is merciful. It has been quite a while." Irene admitted. "I'd still very much like that dance, Arthur, if your other beaus don't keep you occupied." She jibed. Perhaps it was a bit bold for a woman to comment on an older man's pursuits, but she did feel that she could get away with a touch of good-natured ribbing.

"Welp," Arthur drawled, doffing his hat. "I s'pose we'll just have to see how the night goes, Miss Irene. I wouldn't call 'em beaus though. Just folks that want somethin' from me."

Irene tilted her head to the side, but Arthur managed to avoid her gaze. Following his line of sight, she noticed he appeared to be watching the dark-haired woman from earlier. "Who is your friend? I must know her seamstress, Mister Arthur, because that dress is lovely."

"Mary." Arthur muttered, the name sounding like it was dragged out of him. "Uh, that is, the widow Linton."

"Oh no, the poor thing." Irene said sadly, meaning every word. There had been a time in her life where she had been utterly devoted to her fiance, believing that she had truly loved him. She could not begrudge anyone their own happiness, as wary as she had been made from her past experience. As the saying went, 'see how the bear behaves in its den before you decide to live with it.'

"Eeyup, real shame. Pneumonia got him." Arthur informed her curtly.

Irene was sure her sympathy was evident on her face, because Arthur's sharp blue eyes had softened slightly when he looked back at her. Pneumonia was so sinister in its onset, the way it settled into the chest and by the time most patients realized it wasn't a cold, they were too far gone to help. "You should ask her to dance! Get her mind off of things." She suggested.

Arthur chuffed out a breath in a manner that was so similar to his horse Irene had to chew her lower lip to stave off her laughter. "Nope." He said firmly. "Mary shall not dance with me, Miss Irene. Not if I have anythin' to say about it. I doubt I'll dance much at all, honestly."

…

Arthur appeared to be sticking to his word throughout the night. He was indeed not much for dancing, but as he drank he got progressively more mobile. It was like his body loosened up, he smiled more, laughed louder…

He seemed absolutely thrilled when she found him later that evening, saying plainly, "There she is! I figured you forgot about me!"

Irene shook her head, smiling up at him. She had politely declined her way across nearly the entire yard in order to reach him. "I don't think I ever could, Mister Arthur. May I ask for a dance?"

"Obliged to oblige, ma'am." Arthur extended a hand, drawing her in almost indecently close. "That was some fine music you played earlier." He drawled after a moment.

Irene simply let herself be swayed back and forth, one hand on his shoulder and the other still entwined with his own. "Thank you." She replied softly. "It has been a while since I was able to indulge myself."

"Fiddlin' ain't a vice, ma'am." Arthur protested.

Irene chuckled. "Some might disagree, Mister Arthur."

"Well, they're wrong. How the hell could music be bad for someone?" He removed his hand from her hip to wave over at the group of men who were still currently playing away. "Music's good for the soul. Makes everythin' lighter. What miserable fools have you had to deal with?" Arthur grumbled.

Irene rolled her eyes comically. "Lord, you don't know the half of it!"

Arthur pressed her even tighter to his body, his breath hot over her ear when he murmured, "well Irene, they're dead wrong."

"Mister Arthur…" Irene went bright red at his proximity, at the heat that flooded her. What a strange sensation! Even back when she had been newly betrothed, before she had known her then-fiancé's cruelty, she had never experienced such a fierce reaction from a simple close whisper. Was it only to be chalked up to the newness of the experience? Or was it because it was Arthur doing it?

"Irene, I hope I ain't bein' too forward when I...would you like to…" Arthur trailed off, clearing his throat. "I mean, I ain't got anythin' to offer you aside from a good time," he continued to hem and haw. "You seem like a genuine lady and I...someone like me ain't never really been allowed to touch that sort of person. I sleep under the stars and drink too much for anyone's good, never mind my own." His eyes met her own and a slow, almost forlorn smile played across his mouth.

Despite the ribald impropriety of his words he looked so utterly tender, his hat slightly tilted and his eyes drowsily gentle. Irene found herself nodding before he even managed to actually ask her. "I have a room for the night, Mister Arthur. I am…" she hesitated. "Not...very experienced, but not inexperienced."

"Thank God." Arthur replied, surprising her. "You wouldn't want someone like me for somethin' like your first time."

"Oh?" Clearly, they had careened past the point of polite or appropriate conversation. But now, she was curious. "Why is that, Mister Arthur?"

He coughed, fidgeting with the brim of his hat. "I'm just...I'm not...fit for that sorta' thing. Not worth it. Fine ladies deserve a proper gentleman an' I ain't that." He stated.

"Arthur…" Irene took his hands and tugged on them, leading him out of the yard and towards the roadside. "You're more of a gentleman than most, I can promise you that." She insisted.

"Miss Irene, wait!" The sound of her name being yelled made her pause, and Irene found herself abruptly confronted with the step caller as he thrust the fiddle's sturdy case at her. "Me and the boys, we got to talkin'. We figure you ought to keep the old Hyde, as a thank you of sorts." He said, sweeping his hat off his head. "Besides, if you leave it here it'll never be played. And there's nothin' worse than an unplayed fiddle. Believe me, I would know!"

"I…" Irene wanted to burst into tears. This was so unexpected and kind. The case settled into her arms, like an old friend already. "B-But I have no way to-"

"Not for money ma'am. Simply for liftin' folks' spirits tonight. You take that Hyde and you spread that gift of yours around."

"Thank you." Irene said sincerely, "I...you have no idea how much this means to me, sir."

"Mighty kind of you fellers." Arthur added, his grin a little sheepish when the caller turned his attention on him to express his thanks for Arthur's help in acquiring the remaining lumber for the house. He tried to wave off the praise to no avail, looking increasingly awkward the longer he was subjected to the step caller's enthusiasm.

The woman from earlier (Irene wracked her brain for a moment before remembering Mary, Mary) approached on Arthur's opposite side while he was preoccupied with the step caller. However, she didn't miss the way Arthur's posture went tight as he noticed Mary standing there expectantly. Arthur suddenly seized Irene's hand, muttered a curt, "obliged," to the step caller and set off at a brisk pace down the road.

"Don't forget that you promised, Arthur Morgan!" The widow Linton called after him, her voice sharp. Arthur just waved a dismissive hand in her general direction.

Irene struggled to keep up even after Arthur scooped the case out of her arms, the man's longer legs easily outstripping her own. "Arthur, can you slow down?" She implored, a little fearful now. He looked like he was stewing, his shoulders squared against some invisible adversary.

Arthur obliged her in silence. He maintained that silence until they reached the outskirts of town, where he clarified, "you had a room, right?"

"Yes, I...yes. For the night." Irene answered softly. Arthur just nodded in reply. "Arthur, you don't-"

"I ain't gonna' hurt you." He cut her off. "You have my word, Miss Irene. Ain't got nothin' to fear from me."

Irene was still more than a touch anxious as they ascended the stairs, and she almost dropped the key, fumbling to get it into the lock. Arthur hummed low in his throat, that comforting horse pat landing on her arm again and soothing her enough that she managed to get the door open.

Arthur carefully set the case against the wall, and then he was on her. He kissed hungrily, his whole body pressed to hers before the door was even fully shut behind them. His tongue plunged into her mouth without so much as a warning or a by your leave. Irene had only read about this kind of kissing and experiencing it firsthand was composure-shattering. She found herself weak at the knees, grateful for the weight of Arthur's large form to anchor herself as he boldly coaxed her tongue to reply.

Irene shyly licked into his mouth, making a soft noise that had Arthur shuddering and offering his own groan in response. He pulled away, slow, like he was being dragged, and struggled to bring her with him.

The man sat down hard on the bed, urging her close in between his spread legs. Then, Arthur grabbed two handfuls of the back of her dress and rested his forehead on the spot directly beneath her breasts.

Irene froze, confused until she felt his shoulders tremble.

He was crying, like his heart was fit to break. Deep, shuddering sobs that came from somewhere by the floorboards and ravaged his entire body on the way up. Hesitantly, Irene carded her fingers through his hair, cradling the back of his head. She could feel the tears seeping into the fabric of her dress, slowly dampening the material.

"It's just never enough." Arthur finally said thickly. He stayed where he was, wearily slurring into her abdomen, "I give an' I give an' I do an' it's just...never enough to make folks happy."

"Arthur..." Irene whispered. She felt silly for not noticing sooner than something was very wrong, guilt rushing her as she realized that she had been so caught up in him giving her attention that she must have missed the signs.

"It's never enough that I'm just there, still alive, still willin', even though I'm a damn fool. Never enough." He mumbled, "God, I'm a fool."

"No you're not." Irene said firmly. Arthur looked up at her. "You're brave, you're loyal and you're kind, Arthur. It's not your fault that the people around you seem to have taken those traits for granted."

"We was plannin' to be married, y'know. Me an'...me an' Mary." He confessed abruptly, not that he needed to. "Or maybe it was just me plannin'. She...I just don't know."

"What happened? Did she call it off?"

"Her daddy, he didn't approve of me. I didn't have...enough," Arthur explained, his words stilted as he recounted probably more than he meant to. "I was orphaned pretty early on and I...well shit, I hung around with folks bad and good an' to Mr. Gillis, that was worth a condemnation. Forbade it. Said I was filthy, that I'd c'rupt...corrupt her. Ruin her. Break her with these turrible hands of mine." The hands in question gripped Irene's dress even tighter and he fought back a sob. "So I...I had to let her go. Watched her fall in love with some rich feller and it made me wonder, made me scared that she ain't never loved me at all. And then tonight..." He shook his head.

"What about tonight, Arthur?" Irene prompted him gently.

"She come to me askin' for a damn favor. After everythin' that's happened, she still had the damn gall to ask me for shit. Her little brother's gone off to shack up with some cult ." Arthur cleared his throat. "So I'm too rough to marry, but I'm sure as hell good enough to ask to rescue her precious baby brother. She said she thinks of me often and I just...dammit, it ain't right for her to tell me that!" He erupted, hiccupping out yet another sob. "It ain't right, I finally thought I was--I mean I was doin' okay, I was better, an' now…"

"It feels like you just hit a patch of shale and slid your way back down into the bottom of the gorge you were crawling out of."

Arthur sniffled. "Well, yeah. Kinda'. H-How'd you know?"

"You think you're the only person in the world to have troubles with people you were trying to recover from?" Irene's laugh was soft and sad. "My situation is a bit different, but no less weighty for it, Mister Arthur."

Arthur huffed out a breath, rubbing his forehead back and forth on her stomach. "I just hate myself. Can't hate her, all I can do is hate m'self." He sighed.

"Don't." Irene admonished him, trawling her fingers through his thick hair and dragging his head back with the motion. Arthur groaned again, this time lower, his eyes half-lidding as he appeared to enjoy being ministered to. "Don't hate yourself for being kind, Arthur, and don't let the world beat that kindness out of you. There are people, so many people who will love you for it. Hell, there's probably some that already do."

Blue eyes blinked open sluggishly, still glassy with tears as he looked up at her. Liquor-honest words tumbled from his lips, "why the hell are you bein' so nice to me? Led you up here for a reason an' now I'm all a mess about another woman." He shook his head, not waiting for a response before continuing, "I just wanna' sleep. Forget about all of this. I...lay down with me? I need...I need...somethin' to hang onto." He mumbled, tugging at the back of her skirt. "Clothes on is fine. Just need to hold you. Few minutes, even." He pleaded.

Irene bit her lip uncertainly. Laying down fully-clothed? It seemed a bit strange. But she didn't have on a corset, so at least she wouldn't be uncomfortable… "Alright." She agreed softly after a moment, reaching down to unlace her boots. Hopefully Arthur was too inebriated to notice that 'her' boots were also Frank's boots. He seemed more than a few sheets to the wind, if his weeping was anything to judge by.

Arthur clumsily kicked off his own boots and laid on his side, catching her arm to guide her down with her back to his chest. It was somewhat awkward at first; Irene had never actually been held in such a manner and the bed was incredibly small. She knew she was probably too stiff, and slowly urged her shoulders to loosen a bit. Arthur draped his arm over her hips, not even holding her so much as he was simply laying his hand on her stomach.

"Thank you." He mumbled into the back of her neck, still sniffling a little.

Irene tentatively placed her hand over his own, lacing her fingers through his. "Shh, sleep. You'll feel better in the morning, Arthur." She whispered. Then, so quiet she wasn't sure he would even hear her, "thank you, Arthur. For everything."

Part Two: Friends

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