#angst much?

[say-hwaet]

If I Had to Do it All Again

Chapter Three: The Meaning of Freedom Previous Chapters: Prologue, 1, 2 Summary: Three weeks following the attack against Dutch, you come at a crossroads of decisions. How far will you go in the gang's criminal activities? What do you stand to lose if you don't? Warnings: Language, Mature Themes Word Count: ~7,600 Next Chapter: Coming Soon!

It has been three weeks since the incident. Dutch sustained two broken ribs from being jumped by some tycoon’s goons, but he’ll live. You and Annabelle have been tending to him, and while you’ve been kind, you keep your distance, gladly letting Annabelle be the tender one. The last thing you need is to have your kindness interpreted for something else.

You’ve met the Reverend. According to Dutch, he saved his life by dragging him out of the mire, where John and Arthur eventually found him.

You almost find it hard to believe, but you aren’t one to shy away from miracles.

Orville Swanson, while being called a reverend, is far from carrying the characteristics of one. Sure, he might have been one at one point, but it is hard to take him seriously when his eyes dart around and when he starts quoting passages out of nowhere. He’s a drunk in clergyman’s clothing.

You have Isaac stay far away from him, you aren’t sure what will come out of that old man’s mouth when he isn’t sober. It seems that is all you are good at doing. Distance.

You’re glad that Arthur wasn’t hurt. You’ve been tempted to question him about Dutch’s plans, but for the past five days, you’ve suppressed that notion as best as you can.

But today, you just can’t take it anymore.

Placing Isaac under the care of Susan and putting Alice down for a nap, you seek Arthur out. Being a small camp, he isn’t that hard to find, standing on the edge of the drop-off.

You exhale slowly, bracing yourself for the first conversation you have had with him in over a week.

“Arthur,” you call out, your voice steadier than your nerves. He turns slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he spots you approaching. The afternoon sun casts long shadows, making the lines on his face seem deeper, more pronounced.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says before you can speak another word. It’s not an accusation, more a stating of facts, and it sets the tone. His voice is low and gravelly, weary from the events that have unfolded.

And not thinking this was how it was going to go, you have no prepared answer. “Yes,” you admit, stopping a few feet away from him. The ground beneath your boots is dry and cracked, mirroring the tension between you. “It’s been...difficult since we’ve come this way, and I am just trying to get my head wrapped around everything.”

“It was before California,” he says flatly.

Arthur steps closer, the clinking of his spurs punctuating the silence that follows. His gaze is unyielding, intense as the midday sun above. "You've got worries about Dutch and his plans, don't you?" he asks, his voice ringing with a clarity that surprises you.

You nod, unable to conceal the surprise on your face. Though you’ve barely spoken, he still can read you like a book. “How long does he plan on having us stay here?”

“When we get money.”

“Or into trouble.”

Arthur bristles at this, but it is only brief. He knows you’re right. Sighing, he answers. “Yes.”

“But why? Wouldn’t it be easier to just…get a job?”

Arthur laughs, apologetically, and shakes his head. “That ain’t Dutch’s way.” He looks off into the distance, squinting as if trying to visualize a future that's easier to stomach. "Dutch sees a bigger picture, one where we don't have to answer to no one. Freedom, but it comes at a cost."

You follow his gaze, across the barren landscape that stretches endlessly. You’ve heard this speech before when Arthur first came back to you after disappearing for a year. You only knew him as Tacitus Kilgore, a young hopeful in search of gold. But when he came back and confessed that he was a wanted man, he had expected you to turn him in.

But you didn’t. You kissed him and fell more in love with him than you had ever expected to.

“But what really is freedom, Arthur?” You feel yourself opening up again, becoming vulnerable with your worries and thoughts. “Does this mean we will never have a place like you said?”

His heart nearly catches in his throat at your words. We. You just said we. Do you mean to include him in this dream of yours? After learning about Mary? Have you finally let that go?

Arthur's eyes soften, a trace of the roughness melting away as he truly looks at you. It’s a moment of unguarded sincerity, something rare and fleeting in the harsh reality of your lives. "We might, someday," he says quietly, his voice almost lost to the whistling wind that kicks up sand around your boots. "But for now, we have to keep moving, keep one step ahead of the law and one step behind Dutch. We need to trust him."

The burden of his words settles between you, heavy as the heat of the desert. “Is that what you believe?” You lick your dry lips and look down. “Do you really trust him?”

He doesn’t know how to answer that, but if he says no, what will you do then? Will you lose faith in him, too?

He wants to take your hand, but decides against it. “I trust Dutch,” he says. “He saved my life and gave me a chance while others didn’t.”

And as though he could hear them talking, Dutch’s voice rings loud through the camp. “Arthur…!”

Arthur feels himself tense up. What now?

The call is urgent, like a whip crack across the quiet evening. Arthur's body stiffens, his gaze snapping toward the sound. You watch him, see the conflict playing out on his face. His loyalty to Dutch, his fear of what might come next, and his love for you—all warring within him.

"Stay here,” he tells you, with the budding desire to continue your conversation. He doesn’t wait for a reply and heads back into camp.

You watch him go, the breeze from the sea swirling a salty air around you. Your heart pounds as you watch his retreating figure, the sand swirling around his boots, caught in the relentless wind. The camp, a hodgepodge of wagons and tents tucked between the rocky arms of a barren valley, seems suddenly ominous. The voices of men, rough and boisterous earlier, now drop to low murmurs as Arthur re-enters the fold. John watches him closely as he disappears into Dutch’s tent.

It is but only a few seconds does Arthur come back out, looking beyond the camp and at you.

He waves you over.

You? Dutch wants you?

You swallow, unsure of what is to happen, and you begin to walk to meet Arthur.

When you reach him, you search his eyes, but he offers no explanation except to say, “Dutch wants to talk to us.”

You merely nod, and Arthur pulls back the flap of the tent to let you in first.

Dutch is sitting up on his bed, his shirt buttoned only halfway, and you can see the bandaging from when you and Annabelle wrapped up his abdomen. You told him to see a doctor, but he refused, instead taking whatever it was that the reverend offered, and resting.

He meets you with dark eyes. He’s planning something.

“Eliza,” he begins. “How long have you been with us?”

You feel like this is a stupid question. If it had been years, you could see where such an inquiry would be valid, but now? What is he getting at?

Still, you answer. “About three months.”

He nods approvingly. “Yes, and in that time, you've shown yourself to be more than capable. We've been watching you, Eliza. You've got a knack for this life—a real aptitude for the challenges we face.”

You feel a cold shiver trace down your spine. What does this mean? Why is he praising your adaptability now? Your eyes go to Arthur, and he is only watching Dutch closely, his chest tightening and his hands gripping his gun belt. Does he know what Dutch is doing?

“I am not an outlaw, Dutch,” you say plainly, hoping to remind him. “I don’t intend on being a burden, but I will not rob or kill anyone.”

“Kill? That doesn’t explain the men you shot in that mountain pass on our way here.”

You lick your lips. “They were going to kill my children. I had no choice.”

Dutch nods, seemingly agreeing with you. “Yes, your children. It would be terrible if something were to happen to them, wouldn’t it?”

You look back at Arthur, and you see his intense gaze. Something is happening. Something is going to happen.

“What do you mean, Dutch?” you ask.

Dutch, even with his injury, still carries an air of authority that makes the walls of the tent seem to close in. He leans forward, his eyes piercing into yours as if he could read every thought behind them.

"Eliza, out here, it's eat or be eaten. You've been a valuable part of the gang, whether you chose this life or not. Your skills are just the thing we need to push back an enemy that casts a higher threat to your family than any actions we ever take as outlaws with guns.” And he pauses for effect. “The rich.”

Your eyes widen at his words. Really? The wealthy? “What?”

His eyes narrow at your blunt reaction. “Arthur, haven’t you explained to her the importance of freedom?”

Arthur shifts uncomfortably, stepping a bit closer to you, his eyes darting briefly toward Dutch before settling on you. “Yes.”

And feeling the necessity, Dutch states it for you. “Freedom isn’t a gift, Eliza. It’s something we take for ourselves, something we fight for every day. Out here, it’s the only currency that holds any real value.”

Arthur opens his mouth to speak. “Dutch—”

“And to get freedom, you must fight for it.”

You find yourself tangled in a web that you never knew you were ensnared in. “Fight?” you ask.

“That’s right. All I ask is that you help us help your family get to freedom.”

Arthur tries again. “Dutch—”

“Arthur, we have already talked. It is up to Eliza now.”

Dutch's gaze never wavers as he watches for your reaction, the silence thick between the words spoken. You feel the weight of his stare, pressure mounting inside the tent like a storm ready to break. “Think about it this way, if Arthur hadn’t brought you here, under my careful watch, you and your children would be dead by now.”

“Dutch!”

Dutch quickly snaps at Arthur, his face turning red. “Leave us, Arthur! Now!”

Arthur’s hand balls into a fist. He wishes Hosea were back, but he knows that is wishful thinking. This must be why Dutch sent him off. The less opposition, the better he can work his slippery tongue into the minds of those unprepared, himself included.

But he doesn’t want to leave you.

But suddenly, surprising him, you place a hand on his arm. “It’s alright, Arthur,” you say softly. “You can go.”

Arthur hesitates, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he looks from you to Dutch. His eyes are filled with conflict, but he nods slowly and steps back, exiting the tent with a last hesitant glance at you.

Once he's gone, the air seems to grow even heavier. Dutch’s expression softens slightly as he turns to look at you, a victorious smile on his face. “I knew you’d come to reason.”

You stand taller, your chin lifted. You don’t want to be any part of his planning, but you saw the way he treated Arthur. This was not what you wanted. If you owe anyone, you owe it to Arthur. To protect him. To save him from himself. “This has nothing to do with reason,” you say. “But everything to do with survival. Tell me exactly what you need from me."

Dutch leans back, his chair creaking under his weight as if it bears the burden of his schemes. "It's simple, really. It is clear that this tycoon of Half Moon City is aware of several men scoping out his underground money scheme and so he is on higher alert than I wish.” His eyes narrow, his grin curling at the corner of his mouth. “But he won’t be expecting a clergyman and a beautiful heiress, now, will he?”

***

Arthur’s footfalls would sound like thunder if he was on cobbled streets. His spurs jingle with every step, and all eyes at camp witness him storming out of Dutch’s tent. 

He doesn’t want questions or assumptions. He needs to do what he’s always done. Get lost. 

He turns on his heels, in the opposite direction of the edge, where he was headed. 

He dodges glances from John and Bill and eyes Boadicea. She hears him coming, perking up her head and nickering softly. 

He smiles. If anything is consistent, it’s the loyalty of his horse. He reaches out his hand, palm out, and she presses her muzzle into his hand. “Hey, girl,” he says softly and scratches her velvety muzzle. “Can you get me outta here?”

“Where ya goin', Daddy?”

Arthur quickly whips around and sees his son approaching. Susan is chasing after him, calling his name. 

“Isaac, get back here!”

But Isaac ignores her demand, brown eyes curiously watching his father. “Where ya goin'?” he asks again. 

Arthur pats Boadicea’s neck, softening his demeanor before the boy. “Just for a ride.”

The boy cocks his head, his eyes pleading. “Can I come?”

It’s then that Susan catches up, and she takes Isaac’s hand. “Your mama told you to stay with me today, young man…!” 

“But I don’t wanna be with you today, I want my daddy…!”

Susan gasps, trying to conceal her smile. “Well…!”

Arthur chuckles, offering to take his son’s hand from her. “It’s alright, Ms. Grimshaw. He’s comin’ with me.”

Isaac’s eyes sparkle like the sea below the cliffs and he smiles wide. “Really?”

Arthur only winks at his boy. 

Susan sighs, relenting. “Alright, but don’t be gone too long, I expect we will be having supper soon.”

Arthur tips his hat politely and picks up his son. “Alright.”

While Isaac giggles in his arms, Arthur returns to Boadicea. He lifts Isaac high, sitting him down on the saddle and the boy instinctively holds onto the saddle horn. “You gonna give me another riding lesson, Papa Bear?”

Careful not to encroach on his son, he hoists himself onto Boadicea, sitting right behind Isaac. “Not today, little bear.” And he takes hold of the reins. “Let’s just enjoy the ride.”

Isaac smiles. “I’m with you, Daddy. That makes me happy.”

Arthur feels his heart swell. To only think he could have lost chances like this. He holds onto his son tightly with one hand, turns Boadicea away from camp, and they ride off together. 

They ride for about a mile in silence, and Arthur is fine with it. He’s like both his parents that way, taking the time to look around and enjoy the scenery. He doesn’t always have to be talking to be content.

Isaac is such a good kid.

“Daddy?”

Arthur looks down at his son. “Yeah, kid?”

“Are you and Mommy mad at each other?”

Arthur’s brow pinches. It has been important for both you and Arthur to hide as much conflict from your son as possible. If he has picked up on anything, it is because you failed to keep it from him.

Even so, Arthur doesn’t want to lie. “We…we just have some things to work through, Isaac. It isn’t bad.”

Isaac nods, his little face scrunching in thought. "Is it like when Nancy stole my apple and we had to talk about why it hurt my feelings?”

Arthur chuckles softly, ruffling his son’s hair, a smile forms on his lips despite the melancholy he feels. “Something like that, yeah. But your mother and I, we’ll figure it out. Don’t you worry none.”

Isaac sighs. “Good, ‘cause I like it when you smile at each other. That’s how I know you love each other.”

Arthur feels something in his heart at those words. “Your mama loves me, huh?”

“Of course, she does! She loves me and Alice, too.”

Arthur wants to believe that you love him, but lately, it seems that the notion is more of a wish rather than a truth.

The horizon begins to turn a dusky orange as the sun starts its descent, casting long shadows across the rugged terrain. Silence falls between them again, but this time it is heavier, strained by the weight of unspoken worries.

Arthur guides Boadicea along a familiar trail, one that twists through the sparse juniper trees and tall pines as they ride further away from the coast. He doesn’t want to be out for much longer, but this ride with his son is good for his soul.

“I like it here,” Isaac says after a while. “I think the ocean is pretty.”

“Do you?”

“Yep! If I had a way to draw it, I would.” He tucks his chin. “I left all of my drawing paper back home.”

Arthur pulls his boy close. “I’ll tell you what, next time I go to town, I will get you some.”

“Really?”

“‘Course. I like that you wanna draw.”

Isaac beams. “Of course, Daddy! I wanna be like you!”

Isaac has told Arthur this before, and he feels the same. Most fathers would be happy to hear those words come out of their son’s mouth. But him? Well, he would hope his son would become anything but.

“I think it’s time to head back, little bear,” Arthur says with finality. “Your mama might start to worry.”

“She won’t, Daddy,” Isaac reassures him. “I’m with you…!”

Still, Arthur turns Boadicea around, and they head back to camp, their little outing over.

***

You leave Dutch’s tent, letting the flap close behind you slowly. You see the sun beginning to set and you feel drained. Exhausted. With all the speech of freedom, duty, loyalty, and faith, you begin to wonder why so many have come to believe it. The inside of you is screaming not to go through with this. Just take your losses and run. You can’t imagine doing this much longer. 

But you can’t leave yet. Not until you’ve talked to Arthur. Not until you’ve done what Dutch has asked. You’ve come to understand that you need money to start over and this plan, if it works, will be your ticket out. 

First, you need a fancy dress. Fancy hairpins, and makeup. Three things you have never actually had. Most clothes you’ve made yourself, your hair is usually braided or down, and you’ve never worn makeup or have known how to use it. 

Dutch suggested you talk to Susan and Annabelle. This makes it awkward for you, to pass his orders along. The more time you spend with the gang, the more integrated you become. You were on the outside, you had your own circle, with Arthur stepping in and out of it. And now, it is as though something has severed that line and its contents are threatening to spill out. 

But first, you need to tend to your daughter. You can’t go too long without checking on her.

You head in the direction of your tent, where you left your baby to sleep in the cradle.

That’s where you find Annabelle sitting beside it where Alice sleeps, her soft eyes casting adoring looks at your baby as she rocks the cradle gently. She senses your presence but doesn’t look up at you. “I envy you, Eliza.”

You blink. “Me?”

“Yes. Your children are beautiful.”

You know what she’s told you of her past, you can’t imagine losing a husband and a baby all at once. While you aren’t married to Arthur, you don’t know what you’d do if you lost him, or your children. 

Though you’ve come close, and that is enough for you to never desire it. 

“I know they are. Thankfully they take more after their father.”

Annabelle emits a light chuckle. “Don’t deprecate yourself, Eliza. While Arthur is a handsome man, you are also a beautiful woman.”

You feel your cheeks burn in embarrassment. “No one ever really told me that before.” 

“Not even Arthur?”

You try to think back. You really can’t think of a time when he told you you were beautiful. Maybe indirectly, but not where it was clear. “I don’t think so.”

“No doubt he thinks it. Still, that’s a shame he hasn’t told you.”

Alice begins to stir, her little nose scrunching up and her cheeks turning red. You motion to pick her up but Annabelle holds out a hand. “No, please, let me?” She waits for your permission, and you nod your head. She smiles, turning to the baby and scooping her hands underneath the little fussy creature, picking her up and cradling her in her arms. “I know I can’t hold her forever, but just a moment.”

Alice settles, but only slightly, still vocalizing her hunger. You feel your own body reacting to your baby’s cries and you are eager to hold her, but you also want Annabelle to clarify something. “How do you know he even loves me, and not Mary?”

Annabelle’s eyes finally lift to look up at you and she tries to stifle a chortle. “Mary? That girl was sweet, but she needed a good slap from reality.”

You blink, stunned by Annabelle’s bluntness. 

And she continues without you asking. “Arthur did love her, I won’t lie, but he was young. He thought all real women were like her, all delicate and proper. He liked the attention she gave him, and she liked the escape he gave her.”

“So, she was wealthy.”

“She came from a wealthy family, yes. Born and raised on typical morals and looking down at those less fortunate, but not too proud to lend a hand.”

“Why didn’t it work out?”

Annabelle studies you. “Are you sure you should be asking me this and not—?”

“Yes,” you interrupt. “Tell me. Please.”

Annabelle sighs. “It was her father. He didn’t approve of Arthur being an outlaw. They were going to get married, but she called it off.”

Married? He was going to marry her? “How long were they together before the engagement?”

Annabelle looks away pensively, thinking back. “About a year, I think.”

A year. That was all it took. And you’ve been here, devoted, loyal, for five.

The air thickens with the weight of your thoughts, the sharp sting of betrayal needling at your heart. You can’t help but compare yourself to Mary, wondering what made her so special, so ideal in Arthur's eyes that he'd considered marrying her. Yet here you are, with his children, fighting every day just to survive, and the man himself nowhere in sight. The silence stretches between you and Annabelle, heavy as the summer humidity.

"You're better for him," Annabelle finally says, her voice soft but firm. "Mary wouldn't have lasted a day out here, and her judgmental demeanor was like poison. And Arthur, he knows it too well. He’s a man-made for the harsh realities of this land, not for the delicate parlors and silk dresses. You give him something real, something he can’t just walk away from.”

You nod slowly, digesting her words, but they do little to quell the swirling storm inside you. “Love shouldn’t equate to one’s ability to endure, Annabelle,” you say with sadness. “If he hasn’t married me now, he never will. I will just always be the mother to his children. Nothing more.”

Annabelle adjusts Alice in her arms, as she is getting more fussy. “Look,” she says, her eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that pins you in your boots. “Arthur’s world is cruel, unforgiving. But it’s also straightforward, and he can't afford distractions. Mary was a distraction.”

You furrow your brow. “Is that what I am? A distraction?”

Annabelle shakes her head. “No, not at all. You’re his anchor. You’re the reason he keeps fighting, even on the darkest days. That’s why he comes back, why he will always come back to you. Not Dutch, or anyone else.” She pauses, her eyes softening. “You and the kids, you’re his home.”

You shake your head. “I…I don’t know…”

Annabelle speaks firmly this time. “Trust me. I know what love looks like. If it came down to it, I think he’d pick you over us.”

You decide not to argue with her. You can keep your reservations, but you should still consider her words. After a moment of pause, she gives you your baby and when she leaves your tent, you close the flap, sit down on the cot, and unbutton your blouse to feed your baby.

After Alice is fed, changed, and secured in the wrap, you decide to go find Susan. You want to check on your son anyway. 

You scan your eyes about the camp. You see Bill sitting by the fire next to the reverend, and they seem to be having somewhat of an intelligible conversation. 

Then you hear giggling and laughter. The voice of your son.

You follow the direction of the sound and find Susan trying to do laundry, but Isaac is running circles around her.

Isaac sees you and his face lights up with a grin that reaches his ears. "Mama!" he shouts, sprinting towards you with open arms. You take his hands, twirling with him in a quick circle before kissing him on the head, his laughter filling the air. “Daddy and I went for a ride!”

Your brows lift. When did that happen? “Oh, you did?”

He nods eagerly. “Yep! We saw all kinds of birdies and talked.”

You smile and, taking his hand, you turn your attention to Susan.

"Ms. Grimshaw," you start, your voice a bit hesitant as you approach her with a forced smile. "Dutch wants me to get ready for...for something important. He mentioned I should ask you for help with a dress and some other things."

Susan straightens up, wiping her hands on her apron as she assesses you with a swift glance. Her eyes soften a bit when she notices your discomfort. “Sure, I reckon we can find somethin’ for you. What exactly are you needing?”

You hesitate, feeling the weight of the task. “A fancy…alluring dress,” you admit, almost embarrassed by the request. “And maybe some advice on hair and makeup.”

Susan’s eyebrows lift, a mixture of surprise and curiosity lighting her face. “An alluring dress, huh? You’re really stepping out, aren't you?” She chuckles, but there's a hint of concern in her tone. “Come on then, let’s see what we can rustle up.” She leads the way to her tent, pulling back the flap of the lean-to. Of course, it’s small, not that she really needs much space, anyway. You hang back with Isaac while Susan goes to a trunk in the corner of her tent, kneeling down and opening it. “Now, let’s see…” She begins to remove wrapped parcels, most likely treasures that she has kept over the years.

Inside the trunk, the fabrics glimmer with the rare shine of silk and satin, materials that seem alien in the dusty grime of the camp. Susan holds up a deep blue dress that catches the light with every fold. "This here might just do the trick," she says, laying it out on her bedding. The dress is in good condition, but you can tell that it is from a time long ago.

“Do you think this would convince a city tycoon to give up his millions?” you ask blankly.

She studies you for a minute, raising a brow. “Is that what Dutch is havin’ you do, hm?” And she looks back at the gown. “Never thought he would go that direction.”

You don’t know how to feel about that. You don’t like the idea of being a temptress of sorts, anyway, but the fact that one of his trusted members has her reservations, you are more concerned.

But you remind yourself why you are doing this. You have to follow through.

Susan sees the doubt and hesitation flicker across your face, her own expression softening as she pats the bed beside her, inviting you to sit. “Listen, honey,” she begins, her voice gentler now. “Dutch may have his reasons, odd though they might seem. But you— you're strong, capable. And if anyone can pull this off without losing their head, it's you."

You nod, unsettled but bolstered by Susan's confidence in you.

She pats your back. “Go ahead and try it on. Isaac and I will step out for a moment.” You nod l and, taking Isaac’s hand, she leads him out of the tent.

Taking a deep breath, you stand and approach the dress. The fabric feels like a whisper against your fingers, soft yet laden with the gravity of the task at hand.

You remove Alice from the wrap and lay her down for a moment. After shedding all of your clothing aside from your chemise and bloomers, you slip into the gown, the bodice hugging your form in ways that make you both self-conscious and strangely empowered. You wish you had a mirror, but you think it best to wait until everything is done. Wouldn’t want to discourage yourself sooner than you need to.

You’ve never been in a dress like this before.

What would Arthur say?

You shake that thought out of your mind and decide to call Susan back in. “I’m done.”

The tent flap is drawn back and Susan and your son come back in. Isaac’s eyes sparkle as the light from the sun catches on your dress, making the train look like it’s a piece of the sea.

“Woah, Mommy!” he sighs in awe. “You look like a princess!”

You look at the gown and feel your cheeks burn hot. “It’s the gown, not me.”

Susan shakes her head. “Sure, a corset would make it, but I’d say it has a lot more to do with the woman in the gown.”

You wave off the notion. “I feel ridiculous. How does Dutch expect this to work?”

Susan begs to differ. “You’d be surprised, especially if you saw yourself in the mirror.” There is a pause before she speaks again. “It is getting dark, so the lighting won’t be good for much longer. Why don’t we resume this in the morning? Take the dress with you.”

You shake your head. “I’m only just borrowing it, Susan, I couldn’t—”

She holds out her hand, stopping you. “I insist. It might do these men some good to see elegance walk by them tonight before they turn heathen.”

That’s why you don’t want to wear it. You are afraid it will have the opposite effect.

Susan begins to collect your clothes, preventing you from changing into them. “These are due for a wash, anyway. Go take your baby. I am going to see if Pearson is done cooking that supper.”

And with that, Susan leaves you.

You turn and see your son still staring at you.

Isaac's innocent gaze anchors you in a moment of vulnerability. He reaches out and touches the fabric of the dress, his fingers tracing the intricate silk as if exploring a map of uncharted waters.

"Can I touch it, Mommy?" he whispers, his voice tinged with wonder.

You nod, trying to hide the conflicting emotions on your face.

He smiles, eyeing the gown. “So pretty.” He steps back and goes to his sister as she lays down, kissing her forehead. “You should make a dress like that for her to wear.”

You chuckle. “She’s only a baby.”

“Princesses can be babies, too!”

You nod. “You’re right. Babies can be princesses, too.”

***

Arthur sits on the log beside John and Hosea with a plate of stew in his hand. He can tell that you didn’t have a hand in preparing it, for it is bland with little to no flavor. Just meat, with a hint of seafood, reminding him of the clam chowder he had in Oregon once.

John seems to have a similar thought, his nose scrunched and lips snarled.

Arthur decides to tease him. “You gotta get some hair on your chest, Marston.”

John keeps his expression and looks down at his plate. “Think I’d rather just go hairless and starve.”

“You’ll think differently when you have a lady,” Arthur says with a wink, his gaze turning to the fire burning in front of them. “Women like a man who's got some hair on ‘em. Makes ‘em look less like boys.”

John grunts, "Not much use for ladies out here except to make life complicated."

Arthur chuckles, a low rumble deep from his throat. “That’s what you think?” He makes a general sweep in his direction. “You speak from experience?”

John shifts where he sits, clearly uncomfortable about the topic. “Ain’t none of yer business.”

Arthur decides to let it go. He figures he shouldn’t be going around giving relationship advice, given the fix he is in with you.

Hosea, however, feels the need to impart some wise words. “Never underestimate the power of loneliness, son. You won’t realize how much you care to have a woman until you meet one.”

John doesn’t reply, merely grumbling before trying to put another spoonful of stew in his mouth. “This tastes…awful.”

Behind him, he hears Pearson approaching. “I heard you!”

Arthur, feeling a confrontation, tries to act as nonchalant as possible. “What, Pearson?”

“You were both saying somethin’ awful about my cooking!” Pearson's voice is louder than the crackling fire, his cheeks flushed from the heat of the pot he was cooking over or anger, or perhaps a bit of both. 

Arthur places the plate down beside him and crosses his arms, meeting Pearson's fiery gaze with a cool, indifferent one. “We ate it, didn’t we?”

Pearson snorts, not satisfied with the response. “Eating ain’t the same as enjoyin’, Arthur. I put my back into that meal.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his eyes. “And I put it into my stomach. We’re square.”

John chuckled quietly beside him, easing the tension a little. “We had thought that having Eliza around would help, but it looks like you ain’t had yer cookin’ lessons yet.”

Pearson points a finger at John, stammering. “Y—You—! I'll show you what good cookin' is tomorrow, mark my words!”

Arthur smirks. “Lookin’ forward to it, but make sure it’s edible, alright?”

Pearson throws his ladle to the ground, and sensing the tension increasing, Arthur rises to his feet. "It wasn't nothin’ personal, Pearson. Just making an observation is all.” He doesn’t manage to conceal the snicker on his face. 

Hosea has had enough of observing and tries to mediate the situation. “Now, gentlemen, let’s not—”

Pearson points his finger at Arthur’s chest. “Need I remind you that I prepare your food? Best hope that I—” He instantly quits speaking, his eyes wide as he looks past Arthur. “I—”

Arthur furrows his brow. “Pearson? What’s gotten into you?”

He only points in the direction behind Arthur. Curious, the food critic turns around.

That’s when he sees you.

You are walking across camp, your son following you with a plate of food, and your baby in your arms.

But that in itself isn’t what has him, Pearson, John, and Hosea gob-smacked. It’s how the remaining light from the setting sun, the campfire, and scattered lanterns catch the milky white skin of your shoulders and chest, and the blue of the gown you wear.

Arthur is speechless. Frozen. He notices how the dress clings to your form, making you appear almost ethereal in the fading light of dusk. The men watch you in silence, and you seem to not pay them any attention as you make your way to your tent.

John is the first to speak. “Ho-ly shi—”

Hosea silences him by placing a hand on his shoulder. “Careful, son.”

Arthur clears his throat, for it feels thick with cotton. Hosea sees the look in his eyes and nudges him. “Are you gonna let her get away from you? Go on…!”

Arthur, heeding Hosea’s words, makes the struggling steps over to you. As he walks, his boots kick small clouds of dust into the cool evening air. With each step, the heaviness in his chest grows, not from fear but a strange, unfamiliar feeling clawing at his insides.

You're settling down your baby on your lap when Arthur approaches. The flickering light from the hanging lantern casts dancing shadows over you. Isaac sits next to you on the cot, with a plate of stew in his lap. He takes one bite and sticks out his tongue, clearly dissatisfied with the culinary creation.

Arthur doesn’t know what to say, but he can’t think of anything other than, “That dress is new.”

You look up at him, holding the baby in your lap, as she gums on her hand and makes little contented coos. “Yeah, erm, Susan is letting me borrow it.”

Arthur furrows his brow. “Borrow? For what?”

You swallow. “For…the plan.”

Arthur feels a chill go down his spine. He had almost forgotten. Dutch. The plan. He had sent him out when that started to go down. “Did he tell you to keep me out of the loop?” He asks, failing to conceal the bitterness in his voice.

You only sigh, you can understand why he’s upset. “I know you’re just looking out for me—”

“—Only just?”

You continue, “—But I need to do this.”

Arthur doesn’t like those words coming out of your mouth. From any of the others, he could understand it, but you? What happened to no robbin'? You said you didn’t want to do that. “Why?”

Your eyes look at him sharply and you inhale. “Not in front of the boy.”

Arthur nods, understanding the need for discretion. He glances at Isaac, who is occupied with scooping up the stew with his spoon and turning it over back onto the plate. With a heavy heart, Arthur gestures towards the edge of the camp where they can talk away from little ears.

You gently lay the baby down in her crib. “Isaac, we will be right back.”

Isaac doesn’t look up from his plate. “Okay, Mommy.”

Arthur and you step out into the crisp night air, the dim light from the campfire casting long shadows on the ground as you walk away from the tents and wagons. The coolness of the evening wraps around you like a thick blanket, muffling your footsteps and the distant sounds of the camp.

Once you're far enough away from any prying ears, Arthur stops and turns to face you, his eyes searching yours for an explanation. The flicker of the campfire in the distance barely illuminates his rugged features. "Now, tell me," he says, his voice low and insistent.

You take a deep breath, your heart pounding as you try to think of how to say it. You know it isn’t going to be good, but you know that he is going to find out sooner or later. “Reverend Swanson and I are going to the Blue Lagoon Hotel and Saloon, and we are going to convince its owner, Mr. Steele, to “give” us some money under false pretenses.”

Arthur can’t believe his ears. What?

"The Reverend? He can’t even walk straight, let alone speak in tongues. Why are you involvin' the Reverend in this mess?" Arthur's voice is stern, a mix of surprise and displeasure tightening his features. "And why Steele? That man's as crooked as a dog's hind leg. You saw what his men did to Dutch.”

You shuffle your feet, feeling the weight of his gaze. "Steele has the money, Arthur…” And you let your eyes soften, yourself feeling vulnerable as you speak. “It could be what we need…to be free.”

Arthur's jaw clenches, and he looks away into the darkness, his thoughts racing. "Free," he echoes, his voice barely a whisper against the night air. He turns back to face you, determination set upon his features. "Or it could be what gets us all killed."

You can’t help but feel relieved. This is the reasoning you had tried to get him to come to grips with years ago, and before he had left you for months. But now, it is the worst possible time. You reach out, placing a hand on his arm. "Arthur, I know it's risky. But we're out of options. Everyone's counting on us. The children, Susan, Annabelle, Hosea... they're barely getting by. If Steele can provide, then..."

His hand covers yours, his grip firm yet not unkind. "I know what's at stake," he says grimly, his eyes looking deeply into yours. “I never wanted you wrapped up in all this. I—” He cuts himself off, feeling the inadequacy to say what he feels out loud. “I’d never forgive myself if somethin' bad happened to you.”

There it is again. The words, the gentle touch. You want to believe that he cares more deeply for you than you think. You want to believe what Annabelle has said. What Hosea has said.

But you need him to come outright and say it.

But you are also afraid that he never will.

The silence that follows is thick, almost palpable as the cool western coastal air. Arthur finally breaks it, his voice a soft growl, “I told Dutch to leave you alone, but he wouldn’t listen.”

You nod, your heart pounding as you think back on what was said in that tent. His hidden threats, his dark gaze. Even with broken ribs, he made himself an imposing figure in his chair, and you felt like a coward in his presence.

Arthur's face hardens, reflecting the flickering firelight that dances across his rugged features. "We need a different plan, and we need it now." His voice carries an urgency that snaps you out of the reverie of fear that Dutch's memory brings.

“What?” you ask.

“Hosea and I can think of somethin’. Somethin’ that will get us the money, but keep you safe.”

“Arthur, my mind is made up. I can do this—”

“I won’t let you…!” His voice raises, taking you by surprise. Seeing the shock on your face, his eyes soften and he speaks gently. “Eliza, please, you don’t understand…”

You furrow your brow. “Explain it to me, then. You’ve managed it before when it really mattered.”

He can sense the anger in your voice, and the direction this could be headed. “Eliza, please...”

You cross your arms. “No, Arthur. We can’t keep dancing around each other. We need to get things out in the open if we are ever going to raise our children or live peaceably with one another.”

Arthur's gaze drops to the ground, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. The light from the camp throws shadows that seem to play with your emotions. "It's bigger than us, Eliza. It’s not just about how we feel about each other, whatever that is.”

You scoff. “Is it really?”

“Yes! It is. It’s about survivin’. Takin’ care of everyone that needs me. You ain’t the only people I gotta worry about.”

Arthur's admission hangs heavy in the cool night air, more chilling than the breeze that rustles through the sparse grass around the campsite. You look into his eyes, trying to decipher the layers of turmoil you see there, and your heart clenches tight enough to pain you.

"I know that, Arthur," you say softly, “But I can’t wait for you to love me.”

Arthur’s posture stiffens, and he looks away into the darkness that envelops your makeshift camp. The silence is heavy, broken only by the distant howl of a coyote. The eerie sound seems to underscore the tension between you.

“I’m not askin’ you to wait,” he finally says, his voice low and steady. “‘Cause I…” He stops, looking away from you.

No. You aren’t going to endure this anymore. “If you can’t say it, Arthur…” You feel the sting in your eyes and your lip trembling. “Don’t.” And you don’t wait for him to reply, instead brushing past him and returning to your tent.

He wants to call after you, stop you, start it all over, but he doesn’t. Instead, he walks off toward his own tent, where darkness waits for him.

Everyone has gone to sleep. The night is cold and unforgiving as you lie alone in the tent, listening to the symphony of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves. The fabric walls seem too thin, a flimsy barrier against the vast, dangerous world outside. Your heart races with a mixture of anger and sorrow, each breath as tangled as the thoughts racing through your mind. You toss and turn, the rough blanket scratching against your skin, every fiber reminding you of the distance between you and Arthur outside these thin canvas walls.

The moon climbs higher, casting silvery light that sneaks through the gaps in the tent. It paints ghostly patterns on everything it touches, creating a spectral tableau across your belongings. But the beauty of the moonlight does nothing to soothe your turbulent thoughts. Instead, its ethereal glow seems almost mocking, highlighting how alone you truly feel despite being surrounded by others.

You hug yourself tightly. You can’t let yourself get lost in your emotions anymore. You have a job to do. A duty to your children. You will do this. You will follow through. You will get the money.

And then you will go home.

To freedom. 

Thank you for reading!

Tag Requests:

@photo1030 @eternalsams

[morganbritton132]

The funniest thing Stranger Things could do is reveal that Steve’s parents are like, really liberal. They donate to AIDs research. They were arrested protesting the Vietnam War. They campaigned for Mondale. Steve tells them that Nancy broke up with him and they’re like, “Thank god, that family believes in Reaganomics.”

[the-raindeer-king]

The thing with living with a man like Simon, who's been through so much, is that you pick up habits to help the both of you. There is no tiptoeing through the house, no jumping around corners. Not like you could anyway. He's got a habit of keeping you in sight most of the time.

When he's deployed, you leave a note on the fridge saying where you've gone, in case he comes home without telling you. Sometimes you leave more information, like what time you should be home, which of your friends you left with. Sometimes its just the location and a reminder to take care of himself.

You started doing this after the first (and only) time it happened. You had been out with friends, when he'd returned home from deployment. Home to an empty house. Your car sat in the driveway (you'd carpooled with your friends), and Simon assumed the worst.

He'd torn through the house, desperately trying to find some sort of evidence that you were still there. That you hadn't been kidnapped, or left him. His search ended empty handed, and he'd had a panic attack in the bathroom, reliving the events of losing his family.

You came home thirty minutes later, almost giddy when you'd seen his truck in the driveway. That feeling quickly evaporated, when you stepped inside the house. It looked like a tornado had swept through, living room torn apart, all the kitchen cabinets thrown open.

"Simon?" you call, setting your bags down by the front door.

You've never been scared of Simon, never had a reason to be. But when he came out of the bathroom, staring you down, eye black smeared across his face, looking more like Ghost than Simon, you suddenly understood why people gave your boyfriend wide berth.

"Simon?"

He doesn't respond, backing you up against the door. When he reaches out to gently caress your face, you notice his hands are shaking.

"Thought something happened to ya," he whispers, voice hoarse. And then he's dragging you into a hug, crushing you against his chest, arms like a vice around you. It takes you a second to realize he's shaking all over, that there's tears in his eyes.

"No, baby. I was just out with friends," you reply softly, gently running your fingers through hair, nails scratching against his scalp. Guilt eats at you, feeling horrible for causing him this kind of distress. You hadn't expected him today, didn't think to leave a note or something.

"I'll leave a note next time," you promise. And that's stuck since then.

[charcoaldustonmyfingers]

How old even are you? Part 1/2

Part 2/2

That moment when your mentor figure is all of a sudden a gangly and insufferable teenager who follows none of his future advice. Like, what do you even do with that? They all talk and act the exact same but they’re all completely different people. It’s probably hilarious in non life threatening situations tho

The dramatic irony of seeing the adult that scolded you in the future doing the same dumb shit. I once watched old home videos of my parents as kids and it was some of the weirdest and funniest things I’ve ever seen lmao

[flower-blossoms654]

The bunny ears. The shark teeth. The pink face paint. The x and swirl eyes.

But also:

A green hourglass on the underside of a fan blade

and a pink x on his chest.

[mudtrash]

Took a few days but BEHOLD MORE NARI ANGST/WHUMP

Was thinking about trod Narinder being secretly in love with Lamb the whole time and the fact that Narinder most definitely has trust issue and fears of being mortal now

So with those two trains of thought combined, I wanted to explore… other hidden feelings he might have towards the lamb… 👀💧

Eat well, my flock, Cult of Nari Babygirls tm 🤲

[spookedbees]

Sorry Rick, these two are my ocs now. I grabbed em. They're mine.

[kikipancakes]

Gentle persuasion

A veeeeeery loose sequel to this (x)

[antennabot]

feeling normal about the finale

[ash-and-fog]

I love making myself cry :D

[i-will-write]

Me, trying to write some sweet, fluff story with a happy ending to heal my soul: and then they hugged and-

My brain:

[jewelielie-art]

Happy ISATmas to my victim @worstplayr ! Surprise! I was your Santa! ✧⁠◝⁠(⁠⁰⁠▿⁠⁰⁠)⁠◜⁠✧ You asked for Loop tears, I really hope this suffices!!

Go check out @isat-secretsanta-2024 to see all the amazing art and fics this wonderful community are gifting each other! I was so happy to be a part of this and got to make so many friends in the process!

Still images of the GIF under the cut (also higher quality. I had to compress that GIF pretty hard for Tumblr to accept it.)

[blighted-lights]

something something, au where ravage is the last cassette alive and soundwave has to choose between his loyalty to her and his loyalty to megatron

[blabberoo]

so theres this one fic....

[tetras-stuff]

varric saying "you people have done enough to her" still makes me wanna cry. whether you think it's romantic or platonic, they are soulmates through and through

[nidbaesenpai]

Dare you say this love could just save you