#hosea is the father of the year

[say-hwaet]

That's the Way it Is

Chapter Seven: To Dance With Danger, Part 2 Previous Chapters: VI V IV III II I Next Chapter: VIII Summary: You, John, and Bill continue your onslaught on the O'Driscolls. It is rather successful, and dangerous. Word Count: ~8,000 Warnings: Violence, Mature themes, language

The last gunshot rings through the trees and the surrounding air is cast in a fog, not from rain or bad weather, but from gun smoke. You finally lower the shotgun, its weight now becoming too heavy as the adrenaline wears off. 

You’re surrounded. Surrounded by piling bodies of dead O’Driscolls. 

“Well, Hell…!” Bill cackles, clearly too happy for the fight. “I was itchin’ to get that out of my system…!” And he looks over at you, giving you a respectful nod. “Sure started to wonder when you was gonna be back.”

You furrow your brow. “I am back.”

He shakes his head, you must not be getting it. “Naw, I mean the real you. The real Kitka Petrova!”

John walks over a body after looting it, tucking some found riches in his pocket. “Yeah, that was really somethin’, like old times!”

You feel a jittering in your heart and you place a hand over it. “You mean to say I’ve always been like that?”

John nods. “Sure am. Hosea would be proud.”

You find yourself smiling. If this is the real you, and they approve, then you must be doing something right. Maybe taking the risk in doing this mission was just the thing you needed to get in the right direction. 

But then a cracked voice shouts behind you. “You think you can defeat us…?!” You turn around, and see the young O’Driscoll. Blood from the beating you gave him caked on the side of his head and his gun pointed at you. “I knew you was trouble…!”

You freeze, too shocked to move. 

And just as Bill and John retaliate, drawing their weapons, another shot echoes. 

The boy’s eyes widen and without another word, he falls to the ground with a soft thud. The shot did not come from behind you, but ahead of you. 

You see movement to your left and as you turn your head slowly, you are stunned by what you see. 

It’s Kieran, with your rifle, smoke still coming from the barrel. He just saved your life. 

You are all silent for a moment, perhaps waiting to see if another O’Driscoll will come out of nowhere, but after a minute or two, there are none. 

You find yourself opening your mouth, speaking humorously. “I suppose I didn’t tie the knots tight enough.”

“No kidding,” John breathes. 

You look at Kieran, who finally lowers the rifle. “I guess we’re even, now,” you exhale.

He nods, looking at you suspiciously, not fully believing you. “If you say so.”

“No, no, no,” John says, waving his hand. “While it’s always a pleasure to kill some O’Driscolls, we’re still short one.”

Bill growls, nodding his head, and storms over to Kieran. “You said Colm was gonna be here!!” 

Kieran instantly cowers, dropping your rifle without hesitation. “I weren’t lyin…! He-he-might come back!”

“Not after all that, you idiot!” John snarls, eager to lay a punch on him.

But you step in between them, holding out your hand like you’re trying to tame an angry wolf. 

And that’s when you feel a sharp pain in your side. 

“Ack…!” You bend over, your left hand going to the spot that stings and burns. 

“Kit?!” John goes to you, his brows pinched in deep concern. “What’s wrong, sis?”

You look down and you lift your hand. Your blouse has a dark spot and a long tear in it. You’re surprised you didn’t feel it or see it, but your blouse is a dark brown and you were caught up in the moment of the fight. 

But the pain is coming in waves now. “I’ve been shot…” You try to inspect the wound, still retaining some decency as you turn away and lift your shirt. 

John places a hand on your back, coaxing you to move. “We gotta get you back—“

There aren’t any holes in your flesh. It looks like a terrible scrape, or like someone took a chisel and marked a chunk out of your skin. “I'm fine,” you interrupt, moving away from him. “It’s just a grazing.”

You hear John sigh. “Still, you need to get back soon.” And he returns to look at Kieran, his eyes narrowing. “After we figure out where that bastard Colm is.”

Still looking at your wound, you say what you were going to say before your injured interruption. “I overheard them saying there was a stagecoach robbery. Colm was on his way here from another hideout.” You grimace, bunching your shirt in your hand and putting pressure on your wound.

John looks at Kieran, his gaze steely and intense. “You know where it is?”

Kieran shakes his head. “O-only this-s-s one…!”

You look up and study Kieran’s face, you can tell that he is petrified, but there’s no hint of deception. You lower your head as the pain in your side increases and try to speak calmly. “He’s telling the truth.”

Kieran’s eyes shift between you three. “I can make it up to you!” He points to the cabin as it continues to burn. “There’s gotta be money in the chimney! Colm always keeps a stash hidden every place he goes!”

John’s raspy voice rings out in irritation. “If it ain’t burned up first! Ever think about that?”

But only the front of the cabin is in flames, it still has to reach the back. Maybe there’s still a chance to find out. Feeling emboldened by your survival, you begin to walk toward it. “I’ll go see.”

But a hand grabs your shoulder, pulling you back. “Oh no, you don’t!” And John whips you back around. “Hosea would have Arthur kill me if I brought you back not only as you are, but burnin’ besides.” And with a hint of a smirk, he points his revolver at Kieran. “You go get it. And you better make sure you come back out with some cash.” 

Kieran nods hesitantly, his eyes darting from the smoking cabin to John's grim expression and back again. You watch him approach the cabin, each step tentative as if the ground might give way beneath him. The tension in the air is palatable, like the low rumble of thunder before a storm.

“Hurry up!” John roars, pointing his gun skyward and shooting once. Kieran nearly jumps in the air, and hurries toward what’s left of the door as the flames eat it away.

Your breathing becomes shallow, the sting from your side rising with each pulse of your heart. You lean against a nearby tree, the rough bark pressing into your back, providing a strange comfort amidst the chaos. From this vantage point, you watch as Kieran disappears into the smoky maw of the cabin, his form swallowed by the thick, billowing smoke. Your heart continues to pound in your chest, an erratic drumbeat in the quiet of the dying fire’s hiss and crackle.

“You think he’ll find it?” Bill’s voice breaks through your thoughts, his tone laced with skepticism.

You glance at John who just watches for the opening. “No loss, either way.”

You scowl. “And we aren’t like the O’Driscolls at all,” you say with agitated sarcasm. “I wonder what Hosea would say seeing us now, acting like vultures around a carcass.”

John frowns, the lines on his scarred face deepening. "Hosea ain't here, Kit. We gotta do what we gotta do to survive. Besides, he’s an O’Driscoll, you know that."

Your gaze shifts back to the cabin and just when you are about to give in and go in there after him, Kieran rushes back out, clutching a small, metal box.

“He’s got somethin! He’s got somethin’!” Bill cheers and practically leaps over bodies to get to the young man. Kieran, half-choked by smoke, stumbles toward you all, the box clutched to his chest like a lifeline.

As he nears, his coughing subsides enough for him to wheeze out, "Found it in the chimney—nearly missed it with all the smoke…!”

He offers it to you, not John or Bill, and you take it from him. You try to open it, but it’s locked.

“Hey, what the—?”

And before you can finish, John snatches it from you, and with his hunting knife in hand, he slips it under the lid and pries it open. You all gather close and look inside the box.

And there, perfectly wadded, is a roll of cash. A thick roll.

John manages a smile. “I guess it weren’t all for nothin’.” And discarding the box, he holds the wad of cash and begins to divide it amongst you, leaving a large portion of it for the gang’s collection.

You get a nice take out of it. One. Hundred. Dollars.

There was six hundred dollars just sitting in that tin.

You tuck your share into your bosom, feeling the weight of the bills pressed against your flesh. Aside from the thirty dollars you had woken up with after Blackwater, this is the most amount of money you have ever seen. You don’t feel guilty for having it. After all, it was Colm you stole from, not an innocent family or lonely traveler.

“We should get goin’,” John says calmly and sheaths his knife. He turns to leave and after sharing a glance with Bill, you both follow.

After walking a few paces, John quickly stops, turns around, and looks behind you. “Except you.”

You then realize he is talking about Kieran.

“What?” Kieran asks, his voice trembling. “Y-y-you’re just gonna leave me here?”

“It’s better than killin ya, get lost!” John waves him off with a large sweep of his arm. 

Kieran shakes in his boots, his voice trembling. “I’m just as good as dead if you leave me! Colm ain’t gonna be happy about this.”

“And how is that our problem?” Bill roars.

“So, I’m one of you now…!” He says it with more courage than what he usually gives, and this causes John and Bill to pause for a moment.

You’ve been watching this exchange and you aren’t sure if this is a regular occurrence or not. It doesn’t make sense to leave him, after helping you by revealing this hideout and finding you some cash.

But most importantly…

“He saved my life, John,” you remind him. “You’re just going to let that go?”

You see his eyes shift to you and soften. You know now that he looks up to you, in a way, in a sisterly way, and after what Abigail said, he clearly missed you more than what he was willing to let on.

John’s lips press into a thin line, a visible struggle playing across his features as he weighs your words against his instincts. His gaze flickers back to Kieran, who stands shivering slightly, his eyes wide with a mingled fear and hope.

Finally, John lets out a long sigh and nods curtly. "Alright, but if you get yourself in trouble, don’t go cryin’ to me.” He points to you. “Cry to her, God knows she’s the softest one in the bunch.” You can hear the light teasing in his voice, clearly trying to hide it behind the gruff tone he’s taken. He turns back around and continues to head toward the hill, where your horses wait on the other side.

You feel a mixture of relief and responsibility settle on your shoulders, realizing that you may have just made a decision that will impact the gang forever. After Bill and John are a few paces away, you turn and look back at the new member. “Come on, Kieran,” you say softly, gesturing to him to follow. He nods quickly, almost disbelievingly, and meets the pace of your stride.

"Thank you," he murmurs, his voice barely carrying over the rustling leaves around you.

You nod, feeling the weight of his life now partially in your hands. "Stick close, keep your head down, and please, don’t make me look stupid.”

***

You ride carefully back to camp with the boys. You also make a point not to wince or groan, though you are in a great deal of pain. You keep your hand on your side, hoping that the bleeding has stopped by now, but you don’t want to stop and look. You just need to make it back to camp, and prepare yourself for what may happen.

You already know that Dutch is going to question where you have been. Micah may even be well enough to hiss words into his ear, no doubt making you sound more of an enemy than you would ever intend to be. It seems that is what Micah does best.

The crisp evening air snaps against your cheeks as you guide Odliv along the familiar path, the rhythmic hoofbeats a comforting, yet somber tune. John and Bill are quiet for the ride back, and you aren’t too upset by that. You don’t mind peace and quiet, the time to gather your thoughts.

You wonder if Arthur is back. If he managed to find something about Sean, like he mentioned. You are eager to know, Sean is another person that knows you, someone who has a piece of a puzzle that you are trying to put back together.

After a little bit longer, you see the trail that leads to camp, and you feel your heart beating just a little bit faster. It is darker now, and just as the sun sets, you can spot the glow of the camp’s fire.

“Hey! State your business!” It’s Karen.

“Guess who?” John asks, speaking enough to identify yourselves.

“Well, well, well…!” Karen says, a lilt in her voice. “Was wonderin’ if you’d come back at all!”

“Shut up,” John barks back and you can’t help but wonder if there is a hidden meaning there.

You can feel the eyes of the other gang members on you as you ride into camp, their curious glances like prickles on the back of your neck. You dismount with a quick swing of your leg and once your feet hit the ground, you feel a sudden twinge in your side and wince. “Ack…!”

“Hosea…!” John calls out. “Kit’s hurt!”

That was not what you wanted. The last thing you need is to have everyone flocking over to you, worrying over just a bullet graze.

The girls, aside from Karen who remains guarding the camp, are the first to reach you. Concern is clearly etched into their faces, as their gentle hands take you and escort you to the nearby table.

“What happened?” Mary Beth looks you over.

“Are you hurt?” Tilly wipes some dirt from your brow.

“What did John do?” Abigail asks.

You aren’t able to answer any of their questions, as they all come at you all at once. You shake your head lightly, trying to assure them without using too many words. "It's nothing," you manage, though the throbbing in your side argues otherwise. Mary Beth looks skeptical, her eyes narrowing as she inspects the wound more closely.

"Just a scrape," you repeat, hoping to dissuade further inquiry.

“Let me be the judge of that,” Susan, with a lantern in her hand, pushes her way to the table and pulls up a chair beside you. “Move aside, girls…” And seeing where your hand is placed, she quickly grabs it and pulls it away from your side.

The movement is enough for the pain to sharply course through you and you bend into your side. “Ow…!”

She holds the lantern up close and squints to focus her vision. “You got shot, alright.”

You then hear Hosea’s voice as he approaches. “Shot?”

His tone is a mix of worry and disbelief. Hosea, always the peacekeeper, never likes hearing about injuries, especially when it comes to someone he considers family. You see the concern in his eyes as he kneels beside you, his weathered face etched with years of hardship but always maintaining that gentle kindness.

"Yes,” you answer. “I didn’t realize it until after we took them all out.”

Hosea’s brow furrows. “Took who all out?”

“O’Driscolls!” Bill growls, with an edge of excitement in his voice. “It was like old times, Hosea. You shoulda seen her!”

Hosea turns to look back at you. “Can’t seem to recall the old times including Kit getting shot.”

You frown. “I guess I am not as nimble as I used to be,” you manage a weak smile, trying to lighten the mood despite the throbbing pain that suggests the bullet did more than just graze you.

“What’s this about O’Driscolls?”

Those gathered around you turn to see Dutch and Micah, walking up to you with narrowed glances.

John steps forward, standing right behind you as you sit in your chair. “Kit got Kieran to talk, and we attacked one of their hideouts. Got a good payout, too.”

Dutch looks at you, arching a brow. “Did she, now?”

You swallow and nod your head confidently. “Yes, I did.”

“Well, ain’t she just a go-getter?” Micah says condescendingly. “For someone who can’t remember a lick, she seems pretty eager to get back into the saddle…get us in trouble.”

Hosea furrows his brow. “I hardly see a bunch of dead O’Driscolls and a handful of cash trouble, Micah.”

And Micah doesn’t have an answer for that, only lifting his chin and snickering, like he’s got a winning hand and terrible poker face.

Dutch looks at you. “You got Kieran to talk?”

You nod. “All it takes is a gentle hand.”

He almost laughs at that. “You always did have a way with people, Kit,” Dutch says warmly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Even when they’re as stubborn as mules.” He glances at Hosea before turning to walk away. “You make sure she gets treated for that wound,” he calls over his shoulder. Micah only leers at you before going in the opposite direction. Good. You hate seeing him try to be Dutch’s shadow, even after the sun has gone down.

Hosea nods, giving you a concerned look. “He’s right, you know,” Hosea says softly, his voice low as he takes your hand. “You’ve got a knack for this, but don’t push yourself too hard.”

You smile, feeling a sense of pride. “I just want to be myself again.”

Hosea shakes his head, his expression softening. “We need to get this cleaned up before it gets infected.”

Susan nods, and gestures for Mary Beth to bring some clean cloths and whiskey. "Mary Beth, if you could also prepare some of that poultice we have in the medicine wagon and meet me by the lean-to. It’ll help with the inflammation."

Mary Beth nods firmly, bustling away to fetch the items while others clear a space around you on the table. Hosea pats your shoulder and you look up at him. You can see the relief in his eyes and you can’t help but feel a little guilty for worrying him. You watch as he walks away and gestures for the onlookers to carry on as they were.

“Come this way, Kitka,” Susan beckons, helping you stand up and walk you back to your tent. “Tilly, come with me.” She helps you sit down and without a second thought, helps you unbutton your shirt. “Let’s see how bad it is…”

As Susan carefully peels back the fabric, her hands are steady but her brow is furrowed in concentration. The cool evening air brushes against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine from the sudden rush of cold.

“Cut through your chemise, too,” she says regretfully.

“Yes, ma’am,” you say and she gently moves the fabric around to get a better look at your wound.

Leaning back, she rolls up her sleeves, preparing to treat your wound with the practiced care of someone who's seen too many injuries in her lifetime. “Tilly, get me some water.”

Tilly nods, and turns to leave the tent just as Mary Beth returns with a bottle of whiskey, cloth, and a mortar filled with crushed herbs. Sitting down, she sets everything down beside you, and Susan takes the bottle of whiskey. You can already sense what is about to happen.

Tilly quickly returns, and stands by with a basin of warm water and the clean cloths, ready to assist.

“Ouch!” You grimace as Susan begins to clean the wound. The sharp sting of whiskey follows, making you suck in a breath through clenched teeth.

"All right, Kit," Susan sighs. “You’re going to have to hold still for just a little longer. Mary Beth, please finish mixin’ the poultice while I finish cleanin’ this up.”

Mary Beth nods, her hands deftly working the mortar, grinding the herbs with a pestle. The scent of yarrow and chamomile fills the tent, a gentle earthy aroma that contrasts the gunpowder and woodsmoke on your skin.

You’ve been treated by a doctor only recently, but somehow, nothing seems to compare to the gentle care of these three women, who have been by your side through thick and thin. Each touch and motion is infused with a kinship that no formal medical training could provide. They move around you with a seamless choreography, one born of many nights spent huddled in dimly lit tents, tending to one another's bruises and breaks.

If you had any doubts as to where you were, you don’t anymore.

You are home.

***

“Ah…! It is sooo good to be back with you all again…!” An unfamiliar voice bellows loudly into the night, causing you to rise from your rest. After being bandaged and given one of Mary Beth’s shirts to wear, you are cleaned up and ready to recover. You managed to close your eyes for just a few minutes, before the sound of hoofbeats and the loud Irish accent came storming through camp.

And, of course, you’re too curious for your own good.

Easing yourself out of your bedroll carefully, you step outside the tent, steadying yourself against the wooden pole. The camp is alive with energy, a stark contrast to the quietude that enveloped it just moments ago. Lanterns are lit, casting flickering shadows across the faces of your companions gathered around a figure near the campfire.

You see faces who weren’t there before. Charles. Javier. They are back.

And there, standing on a crate with a lopsided grin, is a red headed young man in a gray shirt. “…Uncle Sean is back! And don’t you worry, Ms. Grimshaw, old crone. I’ll keep dem girls in line, if I have to whip’em, I will…!”

Tilly, standing nearby, yells back at him. “I’d like to see you try…!”

Sean. This is Sean Macguire. But if he’s back, then…

Where’s Arthur?

You look over at Charles and he meets your gaze and smiles politely. You haven’t really talked to him much, but he seems the type to be friendly when it calls for it.

Carefully holding your side, you walk over to him. “Hello, Charles.”

“Hi, Kit.” He notices your hand. “You okay?”

You shrug it off. “It’s just a grazing. I’ll manage. But…” your voice trails off as you glance around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the one face you want to see more than any other. “Arthur—is he…?”

Charles's expression softens, understanding immediately who you're asking about. “Ah,” he says, a hint of sympathy in his voice. “He hung back for a bit. Lookin’ to see if the bounty hunters had left anything valuable.”

Your eyebrows raise. “Bounty hunters?”

Charles nods. “Mmhm. That’s how we got Sean back.” You both look back at the already inebriated Irishman, who can barely keep his balance on the crate as he raves on about how much he loves everyone and to have fun tonight. “Now I’m having second thoughts.”

You chuckle, but that causes your side to hurt more. “Ouch.”

“Hey, you should take it easy.”

“Oh, I intend to, I just wanted to see what the fuss was about before I try to get back to sleep.”

Charles shakes his head. “If you say so.”

You hear music begin to play and look to see Javier with his guitar and those gathered begin to sing. “You sing, Charles?”

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Oh.” You pause, and think to ask him a question. “Do I?”

Charles raises an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You? Sing?" He chuckles softly, leaning back against the wagon. "Can't say I've ever heard you, but I figure if you wanted to, you'd have a voice worth listening to."

You smile tentatively, appreciative of his compliment. “I like you, Charles.”

He smiles back warmly, chuckling. "You’ve always spoken your mind, Kit. I learned that quickly when I met you six months ago.”

You tilt your head, and your smile fades. “Did I? Does that offend you?”

He looks at you funny, then shakes his head. “Of course, not. I appreciate it. You've always got a way about you that's...calming. Even in times like these."

Appreciation shadows your face as you look around at the ragged band of outlaws, finding comfort in the familiar albeit battered faces. The fire casts dancing shadows and for a brief moment, the flickering light seems to illuminate a path directly to Arthur as he strides back into the camp. Relief floods through you so powerfully that your knees nearly buckle.

Arthur's eyes search the crowd until they land on you. His stride quickens, his face a mix of concern and something deeper, softer.

But Dutch catches him, calling his name. “Arthur…!”

Arthur stops in his tracks, changing directions and walks toward the charismatic leader. “You seem to be in a good mood…”

Charles must see the dissatisfied look on your face, for he chuckles softly. “Everyone’s always fighting for his attention. But you needn't worry. He's always made time for you."

You watch as Arthur laughs at something Dutch says, throwing his head back in a display of genuine amusement that you've seldom seen recently. His laughter is a warm sound in the cool night, inviting yet somber when laced with the undercurrents of the looming dangers that shadow your gang. It's a rare sight that softens the edges of your worry for just a moment.

As the music grows louder and the singing more fervent, you feel an unfamiliar ache to join in, to let go of the burden of secrets and fears for just a little while, but you want to talk to Arthur. You have questions you want answered.

Leaving Charles, you make your way over to the rugged outlaw as he continues to converse with Dutch.

Dutch is smiling, with a newly lit cigar in his hand. “…We’re havin’ a party! We’re celebratin’!” Then just as he sees you coming, his smile dissappears. “Do you mind, Kit? Arthur’s just got back, and—”

Arthur holds out a hand, clearly trying to calm Dutch down. “No, Dutch, it’s alright.” And not waiting for a response, he turns to look at you, his eyes soft. “How’ve you been? Gettin’ along fine?”

You nod, trying to get into the conversation, despite Dutch’s intense gaze. “Yes, I have.”

“She’s been gettin’ along, alright,” Dutch quips as he begins to walk away. “Gettin’ herself shot.”

Arthur quickly looks at you, his eyes narrowing with worry. "What?" His voice rises slightly, an edge of panic threading through the gruffness.

You quickly shake your head, trying to dismiss his concern. "Arthur, it’s—it's nothing, really." You place your hand on your side, indicating where the bullet touched you.

But he’s still catching up. “You got shot?!” Arthur’s voice booms, louder than you intended, and a few heads turn in your direction. You wince, not wanting to make a spectacle, but his concern is palpable, radiating from him like the heat from the distant campfire.

“It’s just a graze,” you try to reassure him, your voice softer now.

And thankfully, he mirrors your tone, lowering his voice slightly. “When?”

“Today…”

“What happened?”

You look around, avoiding his gaze. “Erm…Well…Arthur, erm…” You tuck some loose hair behind your ear. “John, Bill, and I, we—we…We raided an O’Driscoll hideout.”

“An O’Driscoll hideout?” He steps closer to you, and you quickly pick up the familiar scent of tobacco and leather. “How did you figure out where they were?”

“Erm…Kieran told us.” You punctuate your answer as though it were a question, your heart racing at the close proximity to Arthur.

Arthur nods his head, almost approvingly. “Dutch got him to talk, huh?”

That’s when you hear John’s voice behind you. “No! She did.”

Arthur turns to look at John, his brow pinched in confusion. “What?”

“Is that all you’re here to say? ‘What?’” John chortles. “Kit’s back, Arthur! You didn’t think she was just gonna sit around and do nothin’, did you?”

Arthur looks confused, letting his head tilt backward as he eyes the two of you. “Back?” Then he looks at you, his eyes widening a little. “Y-you remember everythin’…?”

You shrug your shoulders. “Well…no…I remember a little of where I came from…and I learned what I can do with explosives and, uh, incendiary buckshot…” You look up at him and grin as you proudly list off the things that you’ve learned. “I can do all those things…!”

Arthur looks at you, almost with skepticism. “Really?”

John nods. “Yeah! She set their cabin on fire and we managed to get some money.” He holds up his beer as though to drink a toast to you. “It was a good day.” And he brings the bottle to his lips, takes a long sip, hands it to Arthur, and walks away from you to go relieve himself in the bushes outside of camp.

You look back at Arthur and he’s quiet. His gaze is piercing, as if trying to convey what he wants to say but isn’t choosing to. But you don’t like being kept in suspense. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you crazy, woman…?”

You nearly scoff, not affected by his reaction. “No…” But you still punctuate your reply as though it were a question.

He almost begins to pace, but stops to look back into your eyes as he gestures to the trees beyond the camp. “You—you just got back, still tryin’ to figure things out, and you go runnin’ off shootin’ O’Driscolls?”

You shrug. “Well…It’s better to shoot O’Driscolls than at innocent people, Arthur…!” And you think of another reason. “It helps the gang, doesn’t it?” He doesn’t answer and you can see his muscles tensing. You want to be calm and reason with this overprotective behavior he’s exhibiting. You step closer to him, but not too close. “Look, I figured that…The last time that I was able to…” You flippantly pantomime with your hands, like you are crafting something. “…whip up stuff, when I figured out any kind of skill that I had, I was in danger—”

“So you did this just to put yourself at risk, is that—is that it?”

“Yes! That is what I did…!”

Arthur throws his head back to look at the sky, chortling in a frustrated way and throws up his hands. “You’re so stubborn…!”

You rest a hand on your hip. “And you’re not?” You lean toward him, tilting your head to look at him with your right eye. “You’re not stubborn at all?” You laugh. “Arthur Morgan…! You’re one to talk!” And you laugh too hard, hurting your side. You bend into it, placing your hand on the wound. “Ow…!”

He crosses his arms, looking at you as though you kind of deserved that. “Where’d you get shot?”

And you answer pathetically. “My side.” And you try to recover with making it not so big of a deal. “It’s just a graze, the bullet barely touched my skin, I’m fine.”

Arthur begs to differ.

“You’re fine?” His voice carries a mix of anger and concern, a tone you’ve come to understand all too well. “You call bendin’ over and clutchin’ your side ‘fine’?”

You straighten up, still feeling the sting but ignoring it best you can. “Susan took care of me.” And you gesture to the campfire where Hosea sits with the others. “Hosea even said she did a good job. I’m fine.” Arthur just stares at you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. You feel that you need to be honest with him, maybe he can be convinced that you weren’t so crazy to risk your life. You begin to speak softly, almost pleading for his good nature to listen to you. “Arthur, it felt really good to do that.”

He swallows. “It did?”

“Of course, it did! I feel more at home now than I have in a while. I mean…Kieran is now one of us!”

He raises a brow. “Is he?”

“Well, he still has some earning to do, but I think people will start trusting him now.”

“You want him to stay?”

“He’s a gentle soul, Arthur.” Arthur goes quiet for a while, and you begin to question if there’s something more going on. You can't shake the feeling that something is troubling him deeply, something he isn't voicing. "Are you alright?

He looks away, then back at you, his eyes searching yours as if debating how much to reveal. Then he nods. “Yeah…We got Sean back.”

You look over to where the Irishman sits, with Karen on his lap. “Yeah, I see that,” you chuckle. “Some people seem to be happy.”

He laughs at your joke. “But not all?”

“Maybe not.”

“You remember him?”

You shake your head. “No, but I have a feeling I will regret it when I do.”

Arthur laughs and tucks his chin, saying something under his breath. “…funny…”

“What’s that?”

“I said you’ve always been funny.”

You can’t help but raise an eyebrow and tilt your head, teasingly asking, “Funny looking?”

His cheeks almost burn pink and he ducks his head again, shaking it. “No.” And as though wanting to change the subject, he quickly asks you a question. “So, how’d you handle it?”

“Handle what?”

“The O’Driscolls?”

You shrug nonchalantly. “I don’t know, it just…came natural to me.” He looks at you and you figure he’s asking for more of an explanation as he begins to take a drink of the beer in his hand. “I just saw they had three women with them…and figured if you can’t beat them, join them.”

At your words, Arthur instantly spits out his beer away from you, coughing as he tries to regain his composure. "You what?" he splutters, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

You can't help but laugh at his reaction. "Arthur, I said if you can’t beat them—"

“I heard what you said! What do you mean by that?”

The corners of your mouth twitch in amusement as you try to explain it to the concerned outlaw. “I mean, that I pretended to…be one of them!” He looks at you with great skepticism. “I’m serious! I walked up there…” And you begin to reenact the way you walked, your hips exaggeratedly swaying. “Just…like this…” And you twinge your side. “Ow…! And…and they believed it.”

He still looks at you, like you just grew another arm. “They believed it?”

“Yes! Well enough to get one to…walk into the cabin with me.” The way he looks at you is utter shock, his eyes as wide as the plains, his skin almost pale. “Why, Arthur! You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

He swallows thickly, his voice a low rumble when he finally speaks. “Just…never thought you’d do somethin’ like that…”

Oh…he thinks you did it. You shake your head. “John…John said that is something that I’ve done before. Entertain and distract.”

“Well that part’s right, but, not about bringin’ men in cabins wit’chu…”

You look at him nonplussed. “Arthur, I didn’t do anything. It’s fairly simple, I knocked him out, tied him up, and threw him out the window.”

He almost looks relieved, a light chuckle breaking through his disbelief. "You threw him out the window?" he asks, sounding more amused now than anything.

"Yes, and not gently either," you admit with a shrug, feeling a flutter of pride at your own resourcefulness under pressure. Arthur shakes his head, the corners of his mouth turning upwards. You remember that boy you tied up, and what happened afterward. “I want you to know…Kieran saved my life.”

Arthur's eyebrows lift, surprise momentarily displacing the earlier tension. "Kieran?" he echoes, his voice tinged with a mix of disbelief and curiosity. His stance shifts as he grips the neck of the beer bottle, the dim light from the campfire casting shadows across his face. "How'd that happen?"

You nod as you explain. “The man I tied up? Well, I guess I didn’t tie him well enough…He could have shot me, but Kieran got to him with my own rifle.”

Arthur looks at you, surprised. “Your own gun?”

You almost roll your eyes. “Yes, my own.” You pause, remembering the weight of the rifle in your hands, how it felt like an extension of your own body. “I bought two guns, figured I should if I am going to be helping—”

He shakes his head. “No. No, you’re not gonna be doin’ that.”

“What? I just—”

“I know what you just did, but if anyone had a brain they wouldn’t have let you step near an O’Driscoll hideout.” He shakes his head. “Marston and his half-eaten…”

“I’m trying to get my memories back!”

“Risking your life? That really worth it?”

You fold your arms, not willing to relinquish your decision. “I feel like my headaches are mild in comparison to that…Arthur, it felt good to not feel like a delicate little flower. I…I don’t want to be delicate.”

Then he says something under his breath, but you catch it this time. “That’s a fact…”

“What?”

His eyes widen and he pauses, clearly trying to come up with something else. “I said…there’s a rat…!” And he points by your tent, looking at you to see if you’ve bought it.

You cross your arms. “That isn’t what you said.”

Not denying it, he lifts his brow. “Will you take it then?”

Indignant, you lift your chin. “I don’t know if I want to. You seem to do that when you don’t want to answer questions you don’t want to answer. Like a couple days ago.”

He sighs, clearly understanding what you’re talking about. “I had to go.”

“Oh, you did? You couldn’t just stay for a few minutes to talk to me?” He avoids your gaze for a minute. He’s doing it again. “Arthur Morgan, if we grew up together, that might as well make us friends, right?” You pause, but he doesn’t answer. “Right?”

He sighs, relenting, and he closes his eyes as he tucks his chin. “Right.”

You grin, satisfied that he agrees with you instead of making up an excuse. “Okay, then. So if I ask a question, you just say that you don’t want to talk about it instead of slopping off on me like that. Fair?”

“Fair.” And after a moment, his eyes soften and a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re talkin’ different.”

“What?” Your brow pinches and after thinking about it, you begin to wonder if it’s true. “Have I always talked…different?”

“No, you’re just…soundin’ more like yourself.”

You smile and you can’t help but feel something. Relief? Flattered? You aren’t sure, but you’ll take it. “I guess that’s a compliment?”

He blinks softly, his blue-green eyes never leaving you. “Yeah. It is.”

A silence falls between you, letting the sounds of the singing and partying waft over to you. As the sound of raucous laughter and the strum of a guitar drift closer, you feel a strange mix of comfort and unease; it's like stepping back into a life that both is and isn't yours. Arthur watches you, his gaze fixed as if trying to read your thoughts from across the small space between you.

“Arthur…?”

He nods at you, speaking more calmly than before. “Yeah?”

You swallow, nervous about asking the question that is begging to force its way out. You’ve asked a similar question to the girls but you feel more anxious this time, for whatever reason. “Were we close?”

His intense gaze flickers back and forth between you and the dense forest behind you. The dancing flames of the fire can break bye to cast shadows across his face, adding depth to the already visible lines of worry etched into his skin. You can feel the weight of his unspoken thoughts hanging in the air between you. "What do you mean?" he finally asks.

"I mean...were we close? Did we have deep conversations? Share secrets?" Your impatience seeps through your words as you lean against the table, watching him closely. He falls silent, causing your impatience to grow even more. "Arthur?" you prompt him.

Finally, he answers with a flippant tone. "We grew up together."

But that response isn't enough for you. "That's what you always say. I want to know if there are things that I told you that I didn't tell anyone else." Your voice betrays a hint of desperation as you search his face for any signs of recognition or understanding.

“Maybe.” There is a heaviness in his answer, a sort of resignation, but it still maintains a vagueness that bothers you.

You’re eager to know and so you reply quickly. “Like what?”

Then he stammers, his words coming out in a jumbled mess. “I-I-I don’t know! I don’t know what you may have told anyone else.”

Your eagerness deflates and your brow furrows in frustration. “That’s not helpful at all.”

He responds with agitation, as if nothing ever pleases you. “Well, I’m sorry.” But then his expression softens and he lets out a remorseful sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“Arthur, I just want to be normal.”

He lets out a rough chuckle. “We ain’t normal, Kit.”

“You—Well, I hoped you knew what I meant…!” You roll your eyes and let out a self-deprecating laugh, fully aware of the fact that you are both wanted outlaws. “I want to be myself again. I feel like I’ve been getting closer and closer…” The weight of your words hangs in the air, the unspoken truth of the necessity of your memories constantly weighing down on you.

He clears his throat, encouraging you to talk with a gesture of his hand. “Well, what parts do you remember? What parts of you spurred on besides relearnin’ your skill set?”

“Well, for one thing, I grew up in a circus.”

He nods, his brows lifted in a soft surprise. “That’s true.”

You’re almost astonished, glad that your mind wasn’t actually playing tricks on you. “Really? That’s true?”

He smiles softly. “Yeah.”

And then, suddenly, you begin to hear a gramophone playing, a light waltz music sweeping through the night air. Dutch steps out of his tent, finding Molly and asks her to dance.

You look back at the tired cowboy sitting next to you. “Do you dance, Arthur?”

He leans back, caught off guard by your question. “Me?” He looks away bashfully. “Hardly much of a dancer.”

You look on and watch the two dancers, smiling as a memory brings itself to the forefront of your thoughts. “I remember dancing.”

“Do you?” After thinking about it, he nods. “Oh, that’s right, you told me.”

“Yes, I think it was my family. The circus? I think we were all dancing in a circle. I was little then.” You laugh at the thought. “I practically danced around today, doing backflips for the O’Driscolls.”

He gazes off into the distance, his expression wistful as he reminisces. “Yeah, you were pretty good at those.”

You turn to him with a quizzical look. “Was I?”

He nods, a small smile playing on his lips. “Mhm. You tended to use it a lot when you were tryin’ to get people to look the other way.” He sits down at the nearby table, finally relaxing after a long day of dealing with bounty hunters and Sean Macguire. “We could always count on you to do that.”

You sit next to him and you let out a sigh. “People don’t seem to want to count on me now.” You can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment and uncertainty in your abilities, even with what you were able to accomplish today.

Arthur looks at you softly, with empathy. “That ain’t true.”

His words offer a semblance of comfort, but the skepticism lingers in your heart, like a stubborn stain. “Is it though?” You go quiet for a moment and glance over at the dancing couple again, Dutch and Molly’s movements fluid and synchronous under the ethereal moonlight. “I just want people to trust me.”

He sets the beer bottle on the table, his attention seeming to have drifted elsewhere. His eyes scan the camp, taking in everything with a sense of unease. “Seems like people should be wantin’ that from you.”

You look at him, raising an eyebrow and speak with a hint of skepticism in your voice. “Really? You mean who should I trust?”

His gaze meets yours, a flicker of earnestness softening the rugged lines of his face, his sincerity surprising you. “Exactly.”

A small laugh escapes your lips as you look away. “Even within the gang?” you ask, half-jokingly.

But his response is serious and unwavering. “Shoah. You never know what things’ll do to people.” The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air, reminding you of the constant danger and unpredictability that comes with this type of life.

“I see…” Your voice falls to a hush as you process his words. You can feel his gaze on you, waiting for a response. After a moment, you decide to lighten the mood, going back to something you were talking about. “Anyway, so, you don’t dance.”

He lifts a hand in response, as though it will sway you from the topic. “I never said I don’t dance.”

You lift your chin and look at him through half-lidded eyes. “So you do dance?”

He chortles. “I’m just not a good dancer.” The twinkle in his eyes tells you there may be more to it than he’s letting on.

“Can I be the judge of that?” Easing yourself off the chair without too much protest from your sore body, you turn around and offer a hand to him, his marine eyes staring into yours. “Will you dance with me?”

He hesitates, offering an excuse as his gaze flickers down to your side. “With your injury?”

You pout, a soft plea in your voice as you drop your arm. “Arthur, please.”

He scoffs, clearly torn between concern for your well-being and his own inner feelings. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

But you’re determined, knowing that this moment may never come again. “I don’t want to be delicate.” He is quiet for a moment, his eyes flickering with something that you can’t quite place, but you feel something in your stomach, something warm and cold, heavy and light at the same time. “I’m not going to snap in two, I can bend backwards whenever I want.”

He chortles, tucking his head almost bashfully. “Yeah. Shoah.”

You offer your hand again. “Arthur…Will you dance with me?”

His reluctance begins to melt away at the desperation in your voice and he finally gives in, taking your outstretched hand and leading you away from the table and to a better spot. The music swells and envelops you as you guide his hand to your waist, the uninjured side, of course, and you take his other hand in yours.

The music, a soft, haunting melody that seems to drift on the evening breeze, wraps around you both like a whisper. Arthur's hand is steady on your waist, surprisingly gentle for a man of his stature and reputation. His other hand grips yours, fingers interlaced with a firmness that speaks of protectiveness rather than possessiveness.

You look up into his eyes, intending on being light and humorous, but you can’t find it in you. And you see it in his eyes, too.

Something about the way the moonlight catches his gaze, lends a vulnerability to his rugged features that tugs at your heart. He’s a mystery, and unlike your memories, it isn’t something you can throw danger at to get it to confess.

So, at least for now, you will let it go and let him hold you.

Thank you for reading!

Tag Requests:

@photo1030 @eternalsams

[arthursfuckinghat]

Thinking about the tragedy of the corrupted father and the abandoned sons.

Arthur watched the man he thought of as a father crumble like the dying embers of a campfire, each spark a piece of trust just lost to the wind.

And it gnawed at him, the man who once gave him purpose had led him into shadows, leaving him to face the embrace of death alone.

Dutch turned his back on Arthur, and then turned his back again to John.

The weight of love, trust, and loss all rolled into one painful spiral. The cycle carried on.

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

˖✧ Through my eyes

✦ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader ✦ Summary: Karen explains Mary and Arthur's story to you. Saddened, you're convinced you could never compete with her until the man in question proves you wrong. ✦ Warnings/Tags: Self-depreciation from both sides, kissing, comfort, fluff. Reader has been with the gang for a year. Use of Y/N. ✦ Words: 3k ✦ a/n: This is the answer to this ask by the lovely @crystalofmoon19. I really hope you'll like it, dear! And thank you for your support, you've been really sweet to me and my work! As always, I got carried away and wrote way too much. And as always, please reach out to me if you spot any misspellings. Also idk why I made this in Colter, guess I just feel way too hot rn and want some fresh snow + Arthur's coat is perfect for comfort. Credits. Arthur's pic is from my playthrough. Other pics are not mine found them on Pinterest. AO3

“And in the end, she rejected his proposal, then a few months later, sent him a letter telling she was marrying some wealthier gentleman!”

Your mouth hangs open in the air. Karen’s words enter through your ears and create a nice little nest for themselves in your brain. You had no idea. No idea Arthur had been this close to being married. That their relationship had been so strong, that, according to hearsays, he had reached his lowest after their break up, drunk most part of the day, fighting the rest of the time, obnoxious to everyone, even Dutch and Hosea.

“Y/N? You’re okay, there?” Karen asked you, disappointed her big reveal had left you reactionless.

You focused your gaze back on her. Her blonde hair is softly litten up by the setting sun, her breath exhaling a puff of steam as she breathes. Colter is a cold place, and it probably felt even colder because of the morose mood of the gang. You suddenly remember you’re supposed to be shocked. You are, of course, but in a very bad way. Not in an “Oh my God, I can’t believe this Karen, so much gossip!” kind of way.

How could you ever compete with that?

“Yeah, I’m alright. God, I had no idea so much happened between them.”

“Oh, trust me, it was definitely his biggest love story. Never saw him get into someone else after her. Not even Mary-Beth! Could you believe that?”

No, you couldn’t. You weren’t sure why but every word from Karen felt like an enormous stone falling into your belly and dragging you deeper and deeper into the sea. Your silly little crush on Arthur, when you first joined the gang a year ago, had turned into a way stronger attraction. Denying it at first, you had little by little let your emotions win, cherishing every moment with him, thanking Dutch for assigning both of you to the same missions, loving the quiet evenings where he would just sit next to you around the campfire to scribble in his journal while you would do your little hobby on your own. Silent most, but enjoying each other’s company, and so, so peaceful.

More than your emotions, you even had let your imagination take the lead, dreaming about a selfish future with him, seeing it every time he would give you a smile, or laugh at one of your jokes. A happy Arthur, relieved from his obligations, enjoys life's simplest joys. A house, a garden. Maybe a dog, considering he had loved having Copper. A marriage even. And why not a child? If he would feel ready. Something in you was telling you he would be a good father.

But now, you felt like this dream was rotten, condemned.  Like a broken match. The fire, the very thing it’s designed for,  not being able to be lit. Would never be lit. A wasted potential.

You tried to continue your gossiping chat with Karen, voice light but gaze elusive as you peeled the potatoes you were supposed to prepare while discussing, tedious tasks often ended up less difficult this way when you were working with the other girls. But behind your seemingly normal smile and hollow words, a haunting thought was hanging on to you as strongly as a rock trapped in a thousand-year-old iceberg. 

Arthur never fell in love again after Mary Linton.

Night had definitely fallen on the frozen mountains. After your endless vegetables centered-chores, you had helped Mr. Pearson turning them into a decent meal, his incessant blattering about the Navy giving you some sort of distraction. During dinner and after though, once you didn’t have any goal or job left to do for the day, your conversation with Karen came back into your wandering mind, her speech playing again and again like a used gramophone record.

Never fell in love again...

Sitting at one of the corners of the big cabin you had been sleeping in for the past few days along with the girls and some other gang members which mainly served as a common space, you were looking outside by a dilapidated window. A frozen World spread out before your eyes, every inch of surface covered in snow and ice, the landscape ending up looking like it was coated with a thick strange substance —dark blue colors Queen of this gloomy, misty horizon.

Arthur had returned from a very busy hunting day with Charles. Thanks to them, meat had been added to the vegetable paradise of a meal, resulting in a better-than-usual supper. He should have felt cheerful, but his mood wouldn't lighten. 

He had spotted you from across the room, noticing the hurtful absence of your smile on these sweet lips of yours. Smile he secretly loved. Lips he secretly fancied. 

Hesitating for a long moment, debating with himself, a self-depreciative rambling turning in his head like a well-oiled motor, he had ultimately decided to join you and investigate. Something pretty important must been bothering you, because loosing your usual little grin and eating your plate all by yourself really wasn't in your habits.

Approaching you, his boots and spurs clicking and stomping before you could see him, he plants them in front of you, standing there while his eyes lock on your face.

“Miss Y/L/N? Is everythin’ okay?”

“Oh, Mr Morgan. Yeah, don’t worry. Everything is great.”

He doesn’t believe you and honestly, you wouldn’t have convinced yourself either. And Arthur is a stubborn man. A stubborn, and caring one. He leans against the cabin's old creaky walls, on the other side of the window.

“Come on, don’t lie t’me girl. Everyone noticed you’re not in your right mind.” He honestly doesn’t know about everyone, but he surely did. His words are accompanied by a small, polite smile.

“I don’t think… I don’t think you’re the right person to talk about it.”

Arthur’s entire body froze. The hands he had on his belt as always when he was comfortable, flew to his chest as he crossed his arms, his thick winter coat folding with difficulty. His encouraging smile flattened, his brows pleating in a harsh frown.

“Erm… Alright, I get it. I won’t bother you, I guess.” 

Without loosening his arms, he pushed himself from the wall, taking a step to leave you some space. You couldn’t have missed it. This change of behavior, the hurtful expression he had displayed, as if he was truly pained by your words. Disappointed, maybe even shameful to have thought he could help you at all. He was just a sad, ugly bastard, after all.

You felt like you could hear all of it from where you were, and see it in the shadow that had taken his face and the gigantic mass that seemed to have fallen on his shoulders.

No, you didn’t want this. Didn’t want him to feel like that because of you and your stupid feelings, or your own dark thoughts.

“Wait, Arthur!”

He turned around the second you talked again.

“I’m sorry it’s just…” You sigh and look at him with an uncertain expression, knowing your next words were going to be risky. “It’s about you and Mary Linton…”

His eyes turn into two literal plates, his mouth slightly opening in outer astonishment. This was really not what he had in mind. You could have been sad because of a hundred logical reasons, the death of Davey and the loss of Sean and Mac, the complete fiasco of Blackwater, the hundred of dollars lost, the terrible and tough conditions of the Grizzlies plunging everyone into an unbearable cold and a threatening famine.  Not mentioning Hosea’s alarming coughing, Dutch’s mysterious decisions, and Micah as a whole.

But you, out of all these things, were worried about Mary.

Once his eyes had grown as round as they could, they got back into an interrogative expression, the wave of surprise over.

“Wha’…?! How d’ya even know ‘bout her?”

“Karen speaks a lot when she’s bored…” You briefly explained, trying to sound detached.

Arthur rolls his eyes to the Heavens. Of course, folks talked, and you had to know about it all at some point. But this wasn’t ideal at all. He would have preferred to tell it to you himself, at a time he would have felt comfortable doing so, with his own words. He didn’t want this to change anything between the two of you.

“And erm… What exactly bothers ya?”

You open your mouth to speak, but your words are jammed. Explaining that you feel jealous of what the both of them had shared would just come down to confessing your feelings for him plain and simple. 

You felt completely stuck. 

He’s right there before your eyes, the very source of all your worries and your every joy. Looking at you with those confused blue eyes, wondering what is happening in this pretty head of yours. But the words still won’t come out.  You feel more and more powerless, and instead of a sound, your eyes take over to get something out of your body, slow and sad tears filling them like a lonely glacier fills a mountain lake on its own.

Arthur’s usual frown furrows, his wrinkles more visible, contrasted by the shadows from the warm lights of the fire. Suddenly, his internal melancholic speech shuts down, as if the view of a single tear streaming down your cheek were absolutely intolerable to him. No worries nor anxious self-restraints crosses his mind —it’s now only instinct. He sees you crying. He has to help you. This is as easy as that.

His right hand reaches to you by itself.

It feels warm but coarse. This big, big hand on the side of your face.

“Oh, Y/N. Don’t waste those pretty tears for a sour-faced idiot like me.” His thumb gently wipes the drops of sadness that had overflowed from your two delicate lakes. “Come on, les’ jus’ talk about this somewhere quiet.”

Arthur gently uses the hand he had on your cheek to wrap it around your shoulders, solid arm gently pushing you up. He then leads you through the door, other members throwing curious gazes at the both of you.

But he doesn’t care. His priority, right now, is your well-being, and some privacy to allow him to finally whisper things in your ears he should have a long time ago. Not in front of everyone. Not with the other men looking at your sparkling eyes, and listening to the change in his voice he knew would crack, his usual intimidating persona crushed into a million pieces with only the sound of your own. Or with the other girls hearing the oh-so-important words he had to say. No. You would be the only one to witness this. 

He had brought you to the barn where the horses were kept. The snow was falling lazily, a few flakes passing through the holes in the dilapidated roof. The place is enveloped in a heavy silence, as if it was muffling every sound coming from the outside.

Once Arthur had closed the big wooden doors behind you and before he could do anything else, you finally burst.

“I shouldn't cry, I’m so sorry Arthur, I just… She looked like an incredible woman, so beautiful a-and distinguished, and me well… I'm just… me.” Your eyes fell to your feet. You like everything was coming out of you all at once and you couldn't contain it anymore.

“Stop it.” 

“How could I ever mean something to you? You've been with her for so long and even proposed to her and… and never fell in love again after her and…”

“Stop it, Y/N!”

Arthur cut your blabbering panic by pulling you against him. He held you so tightly you were almost crushed by his powerful arms, but it felt so good. Like he was holding together all the little pieces of you that had cracked, melting them with his warmth and molding yourself again with it.

“Now you l’sten to me, sweetheart. I don’t want ya to say things like this ever again.”

The sudden use of the pet name soothed your heart immediately. You buried your face into the furred collar of his big winter coat, the hairs tickling your nose. There, you can feel a little bit of his bare skin, your cheek finding shelter against it.

You stopped talking.

You just wanted him to continue to. His deep voice seemed to come directly from the inside of his chest, and you could feel it vibrating before actually hearing it.

“Ya know I’m no… Am no poet or, or good with words like Dutch…” He started, visibly unsure of what he was going to say. He’s relieved he had initiated the hug, this way, with your face in there, you couldn’t see his. The worried expression it was carrying, like a burden. “But lemme tell ya just how much I care about ya. Oh, my sweet girl.” 

This is it. He tries not to but his low tone begins to tremble. It’s so strange. It feels like forever since that happened for the last time.

“Yeah, Mary has been a real’ important part of my life, I won’t lie to ya. But it was so long ago, gorgeous. So long ago.” 

He knows he won’t shed a tear. He never cries. But his hands shake. His vocal cords vibrate in a vulnerable, softer, and higher-pitched quaver. His body tenses, heart as fast as if racing with a million wild horses galloping in the Great Plains. Even if his words couldn’t explain just how much you meant to him, you could have guessed by how you were affecting his entire flesh.

“Ya know what? It’s true. Our story ended badly. I never fell in love again after her.”

You sigh, more tears wetting your face and his blue coat, this truth so hard to swallow.

“Until that morning, when I saw you brushing Boadicea’s mane; your hair all covered in hay, the brightest smile I ever had the chance to witness on that sweet face o’ yours. That day, I knew my stupid foolish heart had done it all over again.”

You let out a single chuckle mixed with tears and emotions, so relieved. Even when you felt like you were at your lowest, he succeeded at making you smile.

“Grimshaw had forced me to groom all the gang’s horses to “get used to camp’s work”. Must have looked terrible.” You remembered with a smile, details of your first encounter with Arthur flooding your mind.

“You looked like a goddamn Angel, honey. T’was like the sun was shining jus’ for ya. Jesus, I knew it was too late for me.”

You pulled back from him just a little, enough for you to look at him in the eyes, but not for him to let go of you. Now that they had found you, his hands, still slightly quivering, refused to let go, their place on your back and behind your head feeling so natural and right. Your eyes behave the same way as them but with his face. He looks so moved that you have to pinch yourself internally to make sure you’re not dreaming this whole thing; never in your life you had seen him like this.

“I love you too, Arthur.” You confessed back to him, fingers cupping his cheeks in a delicate touch.

You had to stand on your tiptoes to reach his face, but his arm helped you, your lips gently discovering themselves, brushing against each other in a soft and shy caress. Even if both your mouths were chapped by the biting cold, it was the most gentle kiss you had shared in your life, a satiny embrace that left you completely dreamy and light-headed.

The snowflakes silently swirl around the both of you, Nature the only witness of your souls melting into each other.

Opening your eyes again after this moment out of time, you're met with the happiest smile Arthur ever had on his face. He looked like and idiot in love, and you were sure you looked exactly the same.

“Please darlin’, don’t ever compare yourself to her ever again. What’s in the past stays there. And I wanna have a future with you.”

Your dreams sprang back straight from your heart to your mind. The visions you had about the both of you were more alive than ever, reinforced by his own needs shared with yours.

“You’re sweet, you’re funny, you’re so smart and stunningly gorgeous. And, you wan’ a proof?” He playfully asks you, taking his hat off his head, a thin layer of snow falling from it.

Turning it over, he carefully pull a piece of paper out, hidden between two leathered segments in the inner part of his hat. His cut and reddened fingers unfold it and he gives it to you, his big smile turning into an embarrassed and sheepish one.

It’s a sketch of you.

You’re mesmerized by the details of it, the blades of hay messily tangled in your hair, the sparkling in your eyes, the exact clothes you were wearing that day. This smile, you’re more than certain he drew it way more beautiful than it really is. Arthur even had added some lines traced from your head to the end of the paper, as if you were the Sun itself and were emitting your own light.

This was impossible this was the same person as you, her beauty was too radiant and fascinating.

But no matter what you thought about yourself, seeing his work curled your lips in the exact same way as yourself on the drawing. With snowflakes replacing the twigs, you had turned into the living recreation of it. Arthur laughed when he noticed, and realized just how much he had loved you and continued to since that morning from a year ago. He bent towards you to put a small kiss on your forehead.

“Arthur it’s… It’s beautiful.” You find it difficult to find another word, speechless once again. 

You also had no idea of how talented at drawing nor attracted to you he was. This day definitely was full of surprises. You chuckled fondly before taking a last look at your portrait and giving it back to your lover. But Arthur’s large palm wrapped around your hand.

“No, please, keep it. This way, you’ll always remember how you look through my eyes.”

More tears threaten to escape your own, even though those were a direct extract from the immeasurable happiness you were experiencing.

“And... Now that I don’t have to hide myself while sketching ya, I’m going to draw lots of new ones.”

tagging: @a-court-of-valkyries Thank you for reading all of this! Also, I didn't know this was a thing but if ever you want to be tagged in my works too, let me know! It would be my pleasure.

[nthspecialll]

I think we sometimes as a fandom tend to hyper-focus on certian characters' backgrounds simply because we like the character when in reality other characters who might not be as interesting has way better backstories, because no, Javier, Arthur and John are not the only ones with sad backstories

Like why does no one talk about what happened to Leopold's sister? Why does no one talk about young Lenny tracking down and killing folk? Why does no one talk about Javier actually in a way working for the government for a while and the reason why he killed that powerful military man? Why does no one talk about why Dutch is called Dutch and not by his actual first name? Why does no one talk about Bill's worst childhood fear coming true? Why does no one talk about both Swanson and Micah saving Dutch's life or that Tilly is also a murderer?

Anyways here is a full explanation of all the Van Der Linde gang members backstories.

Sean MacQuire

Sean Macquire and his father lived in Ireland possibly with more family but had to flee because the English (who were at the time in charge of ireland) were chasing them. They fled for their lives and they were in Boston for a month before his dad was shot in his sleep, showing the remaining Sean that there was truly no honor or shame in the world.

He was then sent to a reform school, which we all know was abusive and a living hell, so he ran, living as a low-life thief, he was a teenager, when he in a bar somewhere in North Elizabeth saw Dutch and Hosea and liked Dutch's watch. He followed the two into an alleyway and threatened them at gunpoint, however they laughed at him and told him to shoot, so he did, except the two others had noticed him first and taken the bullets from his gun. Sean started crying, thinking they were going to kill him but instead of doing that they gave him a home, a place to belong.

Lenny Summers

Lenny's grandparents as well as parents were slaves and his mother was born on a cotton field and taken away from his grandmother, who hadn't even known she was pregnant, immediately. His grandmother was then told to simply get back to work.

After the civil war, the old overseer kept making advandages towards Lenny's grandmother, to a point that in the end she needed to kill him and just barely escaped being lynched. Lenny's mother never saw the grandmother again.

Lenny's mother later met Mr Summers who was an educated man and taught Lenny to both read and write, however when Lenny was 15, his dad was beaten to death by several drunk men. Lenny stole a gun, tracked and hunted down the men, shooting them and showing no remorse even years later.

Kieran Duffy

Kieran Duffy's father was an Irishman who came to America with a dream of farming. It was there that he met Kieran's mother and not long after having Kieran, they both passed due to Cholera and not shortly after that the stables that he worked at to support himself threw him out. He decided to join the army to support himself but it didn't last long before he quit due to it "not working out well."

After returning from the army, he fell into work with a bunch of unnamed outlaws, though they all passed away, leaving him alone once again.

At some point he ran into the O'Driscolls who gave him a choice, to ride with them or to get killed, esencially forcing him to join them and work as a stable hand for them, though he was at the bottom of the latter simply working with the horses before being kidnapped by Arthur Morgan and joining the Van Der Linde gang.

Leopold Strauss

Leopold Strauss was born into severe poverty in Austria and his family struggled heavily with food. By the time that Strauss was only twelve, his older brother was beating up nightwatch men for whatever cash and food scraps they had on them. By that time Strauss's father had already sold his younger sister Anna, by the age of nine, into bonded labour to be able to provide for the rest of the family.

When Stauss was seventeen he was sent with his uncle to the US due to health problems, however the hellish sight of Brooklyn gave Strauss's uncle a heart attack on the spot, leaving Strauss alone in a forgein country. To survive he began doing illegal money scams and after doing so for years Dutch picked him up.

Tilly Jackson

Tilly Jackson was the daughter of a slave and became an outlaw by the mere age of twelve, running with a gang called the Foreman brothers who kidnapped her but after murdering the leaders cousin after he made advandages on her, she had to flee. She returned to her mothers workplace but found that she had already passed.

Later Tilly ran into Dutch Van Der Linde and as he was already taking care of John Marston and Arthur Morgan, he took her in, becoming just as much as a father figure to her as to the boys.

Micah Bell

Micah Bell was born directly into a life of crime as his father Micah Bell jr was a petty but ruthless and violent outlaw. Already when Micah was 17 him and his father were on run from the law as they had slid Jean and Roscoe Briggs throats and later hung them as well. His father was also his primary partner in crime, however he also seemed to have teamed up with his brother Amos a few times as well, however Amos regretted his past life and started a proper one with wife and children and threatened to kill Micah if he came close.

Micah had several partners in crime later in life, including Joe and Cleet who appears later in the game, as well as a fellow named Norman.

Micah runs into Dutch Van Der Linde in 1898 in a bar as Dutch is trying to sell some stolen goods, however the deal doesn’t work out and Micah steps in to help Dutch and save his life, earning a place in the gang.

Bill Williamson

Bill Williamson, also known as Marion Williamson, was born into an abusive family with a father who lost his mind to alchohol, even going to the point of mixing moonshine with whiskey. Watching this Bill always feared falling in love with liquor and suffering the same fate.

Bill always showed signs of being more of a troubled kid and being sent to a reform school did not stop him from building s solid criminal record as a kid.

Bill would later apply to the military and serve in the 15th infantry, fighting against the native americans before being dishonorably discharged for deviancy and attempted murder in 1892. For a year after he lived rough, truly falling in love with liqour and stealing from people om the side of the roads, one time being robbed himself by a "woman" (likely a cross dresser or genderqueer person).

In 1893 Bill tried to rob Dutch and got angry as the man simply laughed at him, however he calmed down as he was allowed a spot in the Van Der Linde gang.

Daniel(?) "Dutch" Van Der Linde

Dutch's mother was an english woman named Greta and his father a dutch man who lived somewhere near Philadelphia who fought in the civil war and died, which is why Dutch hated southeners.

Dutch's nickname rumors to come from his father's desperate attempt at keeping touch with his ancerstory.

When he was 15, he left home due to troubles with his mother whom he never got along with and simply saw him as a disobedient and troubled kid. He wished for freedom above all so to gain this he started a life of crime and in mid 1870 met Hosea Matthews.

(Second edit: I am not 100% sure Daniel is his true name, thus the ?, however I found it on his wiki page and added it)

Hosea Matthews

Hosea was born in around 1844 and lived the majority of his earlier life in the mountians, growing to love fishing and hunting. His father was mostly absent, living a life of "sin and debauchery that would make an emperor blush." Hosea saw his dad only about three times in his life but loved him none the less.

He tried to make his way with comedy as a stage actor, however he turned to petty thieft, stealing from his audience and later others in town. He was caught by the sheif stealing a chicken and sentenced to be hanged. Luckiy for Hosea the town folk saw it as a punishment too cruel and a riot broke out which ended with someone shooting the noose around Hosea's neck, allowing him to flee.

Mid 1870 Hosea found Dutch sitting by a campfire and decided to rob him, however found that Dutch had already robbed him. Hosea feared for a moment for his life but it ended with the two of them laughing it off and teaming up.

Molly O'Shea

Molly O'Shea was born into a wealthy Irish family, set up to live a proper and educated life, however she quickly got bored and showed little interest in the life set up for her, so she ran off to America in search of adventure and excitment. At some point she ran into Dutch Van Der Linde and found an interest in him and his life style, only to later genuiently fall in love with him.

Arthur Morgan

Arthur Morgan was born to Beatrice and Lyle Morgan in northen US. His mother died in his early life and he never really got along with his father whom there are rumors was abusive. Lyle lived a life of petty crime and was arrested and executed. Arthur saw his father die and although not having the best relationship, Arthur kept his father's hat and picture.

In 1877 Arthur was 14 and a wild delinquent. He ran into Dutch and Hosea, being picked up and taken under their wing, taught not only the ways of crime but also skills like reading, writing, hunting and so on.

Uncle

Uncle was born in Ohio (insert Penelope Braithwaithe shutter) with the only family present being his parents who died when he was nine and an "uncle" named Jeb whom Uncle hints at being a pedofile.

After his parents death he was on his own and was forced to a new city where he had to care for himself, and from that time to the game start in 1899, we know he has been married at least twice.

Uncle tells many stories of his past such as going to Africa and being worthshipped like a god by the locals, however the truth of these stories are highly doubted due to his tendency to lie. He does tell stories of being a "one shot kid" in his younger days, the truth of these also being doubted, however it may have been his tricket into the Van Der Linde gang.

Susan Grimsaw

Along with Hosea, Dutch and Arthur Susan was one of the founding memebers of the Van Der Linde gang, having run into Dutch during a poker game where both he and she found interest in one another, causing the curious couple and their unruly son to stay in the area a bit longer, paying poker long into the night while Susan sat on Dutch's lap.

Having gotten into a romantic relationship with Dutch, Susan was allowed to join the small group and even stayed when Dutch moved on to Annabelle, now serving as a form of housemother, making sure that people did their work, took properly care of themselves and made camp feel like home.

You can also hear Susan talking to Mary-Beth one time in camp, admitting that she had a fiance once however he went to heaven.

John Marston

John Marston was born in 1873 to an illiterate scottish father born on the boat to New York and a prositute mother who died during his birth. At first John lived with his father who constantly spoke of Scotland and his love for the country, however he was blinded in a bar fight south of Chicargo and later died when John was eight. The true cause of his father's death is unknown however John was told it was a barfight.

John spent a few years in an orphanage before running off and living on his own, at the mere age of eleven commiting his first murder by shooting a man, though he claims it was not his fault.

At the age of twelve John had been caught stealing from homesteaders who planned to have him hanged, however Dutch stepped in and took him under his wing.

Orville Swanson

Swanson used to wrok as a Clergyman but after indulging in the "earthly pleasures", being seduced by alchohol and sex, he lost his family, job and in the end faith, though he desperately tried to regain it.

At some point or another he fell in love with a woman named Margaret, though she was already married, so he simply added bigamy to the list of sins he had already commited. When the two of them were in San Fransisco, the law finally caught up wth them and while she fled onto a ship headed for Shanghai he was stuck and never saw her again.

Under unknown circomstances Swanson came to save Dutch's life and due to Dutch's debt to Swanson he was allowed to join the gang.

Mary-Beth Gaskill

Being a woman of good nature, Mary-Beth did not struggle getting close to her victims after having found herself needing to find a living in the streets. Due to her looks and personality she could with ease fool the richer men into thinking they were saving a poor maiden in need while her fingers slipped into their pockets.

It was through this that Mary-Beth got in trouble with not just the law but her victims as well. One night she had gotten a few foul men on her tail that she ran into the Van Der Linde gang who saved her and asked her to join them.

Charles Smith

Charles Smith was born to a Native Mother and a free African American father, all three of them living fairly happily with his mothets tripe together with a few other free men before the US army chased them away.

They continued to live together but a few years later Charles' mother was captured by the army, leading Charles' father to fall into alcoholism and a deep depression.

At the mere age of 13 Charles left his father and began to live on his own, becoming a supreme survivalist from an early age.

Some point during the late 1898 ran into the Van Der Linde gang in the Grizzlies and joined them.

Simon Pearson

Simon Pearson's family were whale hunters and although Pearson wished to follow in their footsteps it did not go that way due to the whale industry having lessened by the time that he got out of school. Having been forced to look for new employment options, Pearson joins the Navy where he even managed to get stranded for fifty days on a ship filled with plauge, watching his friends and coworkers slowly drop one by one.

After having returned from the Navy Pearson begins to struggle financially and takes a loan, however unable to pay it off loansharks comes after him and it is during one of these attempts at getting to Pearson that the Van Der Linde gang saves him and brings him to camp as a cook.

Abigail Marston

Abigail Marston, originally born Abigail Roberts, was orphaned at a young age and started roaming around bars, scraping whatever few coins she could take from folk before starting a work of prostitution, making an earning by selling her body and at some point running into Uncle at a bar who introduced her to the gang.

Now living with the gang, Abigail still worked as a prositute up until falling pregnant with Jack Marston by John Marston.

Josiah Trelawny

Josiah Trelawny was born in England though he has no memories of his life there, he later imigated to America where he starts working as a conman and trickster. It was during this line of work that he met yhe Van Der Linde gang and joined them bur with a special advandage as he, unlike the others, was allowed to appear and disappear as he pleased, always knowing when Dutch planned to cut him off and return with a big hit.

Josiah has a family living in Saint Denis concisting of a wife and two sons named Tarquin and Cornelius. Just as with the gang, he would disappear on them for months.

Karen Jones

Karen Jones lived as a scam artist in her early years and absolutely loved the outlaw lifestyle and hoped for a bit more which partly drove her to accept the Van Der Linde gang's invitation, hoping to achieve more.

Javier Escuella

Javier Escuella was born in Mexico to a drunkard father who worked for Allende' (a main antagonist in rdr1, a military man) uncle. When he was young he saw his own uncle as well as four other separate men get casterated and fed to pigs for simply suggesting fair wages for their work.

Javier moved on to become a violent and known bounty hunter and revolutionary, fighting against what he saw as a corupt system.

Javier ended up killing a powerful former military man for a woman that he loved, fearing for his loved ones life he fled to America where he knew no english and had no work or food, leaving him starving.

It was in America that he ran into Dutch as they both were trying to steal the same chickens. Dutch took Javier in, fed him, gave him a family and a life, leading Javuer to idiolize Dutch also for his revolutionary ideals.

At some unknown point someone attempted to kill Javier, leading to him having a prominent scar on his throat.

Sadie Alder

Sadie Alder grew up in a harsh envioment and from a very early age learned how to hunt and ride to care for herself, things that Jack Adler fell in love with. The two of them married september 1896, moving to a ranch in Ambarino where they had three happy years of marriage before the O'Driscolls arrived at their cabin.

[hihomeghere]

Right Person, Wrong Time / John Marston x reader

Summary : You and John have constantly been at each other's throats until you left the gang after he chose Abigail over you. When you return you find him gone, leaving Abigail and Jack. You create a relationship with Abigail and Jack, but what will happen when John returns? Warnings/tags : Hate fucking, unprotected piv (wrap it before you tap it), swearing, slapping, choking, hair pulling, biting breasts, unrequited loveish, John being an awful parent, slight Abigail x John, reader x John, reader becomes a parent figure it Jack, angst, no happy ending Word count : 2.5k

You supposed fate had it out for you. To dangle John in front of you like it did. Two scrappy street kids raised alongside each other. Like two starving dogs fighting for scraps, you were always at each other's throats. Arthur could hardly stand one of you at a time, but the two of you together had him damn near tearing his hair out. 

The old guard had hoped that once the two of you got older, things wouldn’t be so volatile around camp. But the churning hormones inside the two of you only poured gasoline on the fire that was you and John. 

Dutch and Hosea quickly learned that the two of you couldn’t be trusted to work a job together. That job ended in your first wanted poster going up in Armadillo. John tore one down and kept putting it up around camp, much to everyone’s disapproval. 

Hosea said it was because the two of you were too alike. Forced out on your own, fighting to survive in a dog eat dog world. Stuck in this rivalry that you had created. Dutch had seen it before anyone else had, the smoldering fire inside you that yearned for John’s spark. 

But then Abigail came along. You hated her. Hated her pretty eyes, soft lips, more than anything you hated how John couldn’t keep his eyes off of her. She was just a working girl, you had seen hundreds of working girls come and go but she… she stayed. She stayed and for some reason John couldn’t stay away from her. 

Always sitting next to her around the campfire, looking at her with that stupid lovesick look. It made you sick. So instead of facing the fact that stupid John Marston was in love with someone who wasn’t you, you ran. 

You packed in the dead of night, like a coward, and ran off. It was harder on your own and as much as you hated to admit it, you missed the gang. More than anything you missed John. But you were stubborn, you wanted to prove to yourself that you didn’t need them, didn’t need him. 

It was fate when Arthur found you running a con on some rich folk. Asked you to come back, just for ‘one night’. You went back with him, knowing that this ‘one night’ would turn into many nights. Dutch and Hosea welcomed you back with open arms, something you hadn’t been expecting after being gone so long. Although your loyalty had never been with the gang, it was always with John. 

Although John was gone, like two ships passing in the night. Had run off about a week earlier from what Arthur had said. Leaving Abigail and his son. His son. 

A tiny boy with brown hair and dark eyes, barely a year old. Poor Abigail, the girl was a wreck. Dealing with her son and his piece of shit father. 

You don’t know why you attached yourself to them, stepping in and acting as a second parent to Jack. Perhaps you felt like you owed it to them, that you had harbored so much hate in you over a foolish man. A foolish man that had everything he could want and threw it away. Deep down you knew that it was for a more selfish reason. You felt close to John in some awful way when you were around Abigail and Jack. You saw so much of John in him, in his gummy smile. When he would laugh, deep in his belly. 

The little boy had captured your heart, just like his father. 

You knew that Abigail knew, knew the feelings you harbored for the father of her son. You supposed that everyone knew why you ran off. Ironic that you returned when the prodigal son had left. 

“I don’t hold it against you.” She said one day, breaking the silence between the two of you as you did your chores.

“Pardon?” You asked, looking up at her.

“John.” She said simply, her blunt words made your mouth run dry. “I don’t hold it against you. If that’s why you’re- you’re bein’ so kind. I don’t need charity.” She pursed her lips, hanging up a shirt on the line. 

“It ain’t charity I-“ You worked your jaw as you looked down, “I care for your son. I care for Jack. Hell I- I consider you a friend. Unless I’m oversteppin’?” You raised your eyes to meet her icy gaze.

“I’d like to be your friend.” She said, although her gaze didn’t soften.

And then one day the bastard returned. You didn’t know who was more mad, you or Arthur. He reached him before you did, slamming him up against a nearby tree. 

“You yellow bellied-“

“The hell you doin’!”

“Boys!” Dutch’s voice cut through their growls, striding over to all three of you. Your jaw was clenched so hard your teeth ached as you stared John down. As much as you hated to admit it, part of you was glad to see him. His hair was longer than the last time you had seen him. His dark raven locks down to his shoulders. Your stomach twisted as his eyes landed on you. You turned, stalking away from the men as Dutch began a speech to ‘calm’ the men down. 

Abigail was seething, bouncing Jack in her arms as she paced. 

“Want me to take him so you can kick his ass?” You asked, glaring at him over your shoulder. 

“Please.” She huffed, handing him off as she stormed over to him. A small bit of satisfaction filling you as her open palm connected to his cheek. You turned your gaze back to Jack, reminding your traitorous heart what really mattered. 

You knew it was only a matter of time before John cornered you. The sun had set and you were getting ready for bed when he stopped by your tent.

“You’re back.” His gravely voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

“So are you.” You huffed, keeping your back to him as you set your guns down.

“Why’d you come back?” His words sent liquid fire through your veins.

“Why’d you leave?” You hissed, spinning around to face him. He rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “How could you?”

“Don’t give me that.” He scoffed, looking away from him.

“Excuse me? You have a family John.”

“And you didn’t?” He growled, his teeth bared like a wild dog. “You just packed up your shit and walked out on us, on all of us.”

“You don’t get to be mad over this.” You seethed, pointing your finger in his face. “We are not the same.”

“Oh sweetheart we’re the same kind of screwed up.” He sneered, holding his arms out. 

“No we ain’t.” You shoved him backwards, “I was here when it mattered. When your son said his first word, when he walked for the first time. I was there.”

“Oh congratulations, parent of the damn year.” 

“You ran cause you got scared, you damn coward.” You hissed, your emotions bubbling to the surface.

“And what’s your excuse hm? We all know why you ran.” His words made your blood run cold.

“You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“I know everything about you.” He said closing the distance between the two of you. “I know you ran cause you couldn’t stand not havin’ me.” You clenched your jaw, swallowing past the lump in your throat.

“You’re a real fucking piece of work John.” He caught your wrist as you turned. 

“Tell me I’m wrong.” He pulled you closer, an iron grip of your wrist. His dark eyes boring into yours. 

“You’re wrong.” You hissed, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Really?” He asked, his voice raising in volume. He surged forward, crashing his lips against yours. It took you a minute to respond, your heart and head at war. Your palms pushed against his chest as he stumbled backwards. His lips parted as he stared down at you. You surged forward, pulling him towards you by his collar. It was a clash of teeth and tongue, a fight for dominance. 

You parted, your lips swollen as you tore at his clothes. He got the memo quickly, undoing his gun belt, letting it fall to the floor with a clang. Halfway undressed he pounced on you like a man possessed. His hands were everywhere and yet your body craved more, more, more. 

Your hands threaded through his hair. Grabbing a chunk near the nape of his neck as you pulled his head back. His eyes caught yours in the low light of the lantern, his teeth glinting as his lips pulled back in a wolfish grin. 

“Your bark is a helluva lot worse than your bite.” He huffed, holding your hips in a near bruising grip. You clenched your jaw, liquid fire rushing through your veins. “Tell me you don’t want this, don’t want me.” He taunted, panting as you tighten your grip on his hair. 

“You’re a piece of shit.” You spat.

“And what does that make you, sweetheart?” He asked, narrowing his eyes. You tugged at the base of his skull, a low groan leaving his lips as he laughed. He walked you backwards, your calves hitting your cot. 

“Fuck you.” You hissed, feeling his hot breath waft across your face.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” His mouth was back on yours, his fingers moved with precision as he unbuttoned your shirt. He roughly grabbed your breast, swallowing the low whine he pulled from you. He pushed you down onto your cot, slotting himself between your legs. He made quick work of undressing you, muttering to himself. “All hot and bothered- you think you’re so damn special don’t you?” He hissed through gritted teeth.

“Like you ain’t much better golden boy.” You growled, tugging at his union suit, hoping he’d get the message. He did, pulling his arms out and kicking the fabric off as you finished undressing. 

You had pictured this exchange happening differently in your head more times than you wanted to admit. In your mind, your first time with John was slow. Each of you would take time to worship each other's bodies. Mapping out each scar and blemish, committing them to memory. Soft kisses trailed along your skin, words of affection passing between your lips. 

As he kicked off his union suit, his cock sprang up against his stomach. The tip red and weeping between his legs. His hand closed around your ankle, yanking you down the cot, closer to him. His hand cupped your mound, his finger trailing down your slit. You hated to give him the satisfaction as he found you slick with desire. He ducked his head, biting at your breast. You gasped as he ran his tongue over the teeth marks before wrapping his lips around your nipple.

“Act like such a damn brat,” He said, pulling off with a loud pop, “Now look at ya, just drippin for me.” Your face burned as he ran his finger through your folds. Your open palm connected with his cheek. His head snapping away from you, your own hand stinging as you pulled back. He let out a low chuckle, hanging his head. His hands wrapped around your thighs, pushing them up against your chest. Folding you in half as he lined himself up with your entrance. He drove into you, knocking the air out of your lungs with a squeak.

“Goddamn you’re tight.” He hissed in pain and pleasure as you raked your nails down his back. He ruts into you like some animal, his lips parted and swollen as he huffed. You bite down on your lip, trying to stifle any traitorous moans. The dark patch of hair at the base of his cock rubbed against your clit. Your whole body felt ablaze as he pounded relentlessly into you. The sound of skin on skin echoing through the small tent. His heavy balls hitting your ass with each thrust. Your cunt ached as he carved out a space for himself inside you, reaching places you didn’t think possible. 

Blood roared in your ears as you’re dragged closer and closer to the edge of pleasure. Your eyes rolling back into your head as your body is propelled up the cot with each thrust. His hand closed around your throat, squeezing slightly and you’re gone.

Wave after wave wash over you as you writhe under him. Mewling as your legs shook on either side of his shoulders, your head felt fuzzy as his hips stuttered. 

“Shit don’t-“ He bit his lip, “I can’t-“ He pulled out of you, flipping you over onto your hands and knees. He slammed back into you, his chest sticking to your back with sweat as he laid over you. His arms on either side of your head as he held himself up. 

“Fuck John!” You cried out, biting down on your lip. Your body was ablaze as his hand pressed your face into the cot. 

“God damn-“ He groaned through gritted teeth, his eyes squeezing shut as his hips stuttered. Pouring himself into you as he collapsed on top of you. 

Both of your breaths filled the air, your chest heaving as he rolled off of you. He left you empty and leaking onto your cot, although that was the least of your worries.

You just fucked John, well technically he fucked you. But Abigail… Abigail and Jack. God if she found out you’d never be able to earn her trust back. John let out a long sigh, running his hand over his face. A smirk tugging on his lips as he looked over at you. 

You felt sick to your stomach as you felt his cum drip out of you. You got up, grabbing his clothes and throwing them at him. He caught them and held them against his chest, his brows furrowing as he looked up at you. 

“The hell are you doing darlin’?” He asked.

“Don’t call me that.” You huffed, stepping into your bloomers. “This- this was a mistake. You know it, I know it, shit you have a family, John. Abigail, Jack-“

“Is that what this is about?” He scoffed, narrowing his eyes as he sat on the edge of the cot. “They’re in the past.”

“No!” You snapped, “They’re right here in this fucking camp! Waiting for you.”

“Who knows if the boy is even mine-“ He started, throwing up his hand.

“Oh don’t pull that horseshit, we all know he’s your son.” You scoffed, buttoning up your shirt. “God I’m a fool.” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. Guilt settling over you like a blanket. “Get out.”

“What?” He asked, his eyes finding yours.

“This was a mistake.” You said shaking your head, “You may not have any loyalty but I do. I- This never happened.” His jaw clenched, anger burning in his eyes as he roughly dressed himself. He stopped next to you, staring you down.

“So this is it?” He scoffed, shaking his head as you didn’t respond. Your arms crossed as you hung your head in shame. “Unbelievable.” He muttered as he stormed past you, knocking his shoulder against yours as he left your tent.

You sat down on the edge of your cot, putting your head in your hands. Hating yourself for being so damn weak, hating yourself for enjoying it, hating yourself for your undeniable feelings for him.

What had you done?

Part Two

[rockscanfly]

Random Charles Smith Headcanon's

Has probably contemplated suicide at more than one point (see “I’m here just to hurt and suffer myself. In this land I feel stuck.”)

Maybe a little vain. He cares for his clothing well, embellishes himself. 

Has auditory sensitivity. He gets very irritable with loud people.

Has never felt like he belonged, always feels cut off

Is comfortable with violence only against folk he sees as on his own level/like himself. Has little empathy for himself so has little empathy for them (hence smoking while Arthur beats a man for information, the efficient and quick kills of the bounty hunter, the poachers)

Has a STRONG sense of justice--that includes responsibility and culpability. People make choices and Charles holds them accountable for them. Sadie is a killer, so he treats her like any other ally. That German family didn’t make that choice, neither did the Wapiti. But he doesn’t have any pity for the gang.

Animals don't choose violence, hence the protectiveness over them and their dignity. 

Comes off as cold because he isn’t loud/not good at chat. He’s really just been alone most of his life. 

Okay with drinking, does NOT like drunkenness. Back to culpability. This can make him unforgiving and harsh at times.

Both he and Arthur are so used to people passing in and out of their lives that they’re afraid to hold on too tight. Then Arthur gets captured by Colm. Hosea talks to him, about Bessie and about Arthur’s dead family. 

“I’m not her,” Charles says. “Not either of them. I’m not asking you to leave your world behind, and I’m not going to wait for you in some house. We’re partners first. I’d lose the rest of it before I let you put me to the side.” 

He likes that Arthur is big enough to push him around, to hold him down and anchor him when he can feel himself getting lost. To toss him over a broad shoulder when they’re swimming around on a hunting trip and settle him down on soft pelts, to pin him and bite the lonely from his skin. 

Charles can kick Arthur’s ass and will do so on request

He’s kind and thoughtful. He’d be the one to make Arthur little presents and leave them around for him. Practical things, made special with the careful workmanship of beading/embroidery/etching. 

Can be impatient—autonomy is his norm so waiting on others both physically, mentally, and emotionally doesn’t come natural to him

Will cut slingload on people he feels don’t value him back—would not pine for Arthur or stick around if Arthur tries to protect himself by lashing out at Charles, even if he still has feelings. His father taught him that he has to protect himself because no one else will do it. Arthur. Well. Arthur’s the only person he’s trusted to have his back. Because Arthur proved it, several times over. There’s no one Charles would have used “do it for me” on other than Arthur Morgan. 

He fell into fighting again because he had begun opening his heart for the first time since he was a child, and then fate took Arthur too. Like Charles said—he was put on the earth to cause pain and to suffer himself. 

He tries to help folks, but he’s not good at talking and he can’t use his privilege to help like Arthur did. He’s everything the US government hates, even more than the Waipiti. They reach a point where his violence is no longer useful. And for a drowning, grieving, heart sick stretch of years violence is all Charles has left to him (hence going to Saint Denis, a city he hates, and fighting people for white folks' entertainment in a transparent suicide-by-cop bid for someone to end his suffering) And then Sadie gives him the option of closure and working beside John reminds him that he is a man, not a weapon, and Beecher’s Hope makes him believe he too can change. 

Charles has never tried to be anything but who he is. He and Arthur are similar in that way. What he realizes, what Arthur realized too late, is that he can change if he wants it. And that maybe he’s allowed his past pain and scars to run his life along a course he doesn’t actually have to follow. 

Brought to you by my on-going replay of RDR2 and my undying love and devotion to princess of my heart Charles Smith.

[outlawruben]

Something I find interesting in the RDR2 community is that EVERYONE (mostly manly men/12 year old boys, who play rdr2 on low honor) open their ears to listen to the actors when they hint at character theories like the “What’s wrong with Dutch” theories, or the “Is John really Jack’s father” theories, but AS SOON as Ben Davis & Curzon Dobell are like: “Dutch and Hosea are soulmates” or Noshir Dalal fully supporting Charthur, y’all don’t wanna hear it. That’s my ¢20

[laylasredemption]

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

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

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Until the last breath

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

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

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

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

"I gave you everything I could!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But there was no time to dwell on that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Let's go!" John repeated.

"Give us a moment!" Arthur shouted back.

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

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

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

Arthur asked, "What about the money?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Keep, pushing, Arthur!" John said.

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

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

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

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

"We ain't all gonna make it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You mean look down." He corrected her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Arthur..." She said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Since I killed Thomas Downes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[marstonsboy]

had another evil thought that spiralled out of control. indulge me for a moment:

over the years, people start arriving on a near empty plot of land west of blackwater. it’s uncertain who got there first: bessie matthews, beatrice and lyle morgan, eliza, isaac morgan, etc.— but more and more people show up until it’s something of a community. jenny kirk, mac and davey callander. then soon after, jake adler, sean macguire, kieran duffy, hosea matthews, lenny summers, molly o’shea, eagle flies, susan grimshaw. more and more in such a short amount of time. arthur morgan is the last, and suddenly the deaths stop.

after a sudden stretch of years with little newcomers, a house starts taking shape. soon enough the house is a home, and peculiar things can be found all over: a dog barking where no one can find it. echoes of campfire songs going late into the night. photos of john and abigail’s wedding, attended by what remained of their family. a taxidermy squirrel that appears back on the mantle no matter how many times you throw it out, wearing a very familiar hat. in just a few years a heartbreakingly young girl comes home, bearing a strong resemblance to one abigail marston.

then, gunshots. john marston and uncle are the next to arrive.

in the next few years, the house is eerily quiet. the residents see it falling into disrepair, but they can’t do anything about it. the dog stops barking, the campfire has gone cold and won’t relight. abigail marston is next, and though they’re happy to see her, the arrival brings up a question. what happens to jack now?

the livestock are gone, and the house is dusty, all but stripped of the knickknacks and personality that built up over the years, like someone found it all too painful to look at. john’s hat and guns, once tucked away inside a box beneath the bed, vanish the night after abigail arrives. newspapers come to the door, announcing the death of former government agent edgar ross.

soon after, a wanted poster, bearing the name “john marston jr.” and a sketch resembling the boy’s namesake so much that it has john himself stumbling back. jack was only a boy when he left, and now he’s wanted dead or alive, with a price over his head that could rival some of his uncles and aunts back in the day.

every year that passes without any sign of jack is a relief. the house doesn’t change much, still abandoned, but letters come in. mary-beth gaskill, tilly jackson, simon pearson, sadie adler, charles smith— old friends and family, checking in on him. none of them reach the recipient, as he is not home, but they’re filled to the brim with love, letting him know that he isn’t alone. that he always has a home with them, if he wants it.

one day, john spots a book he doesn’t recognize on the shelf by the piano, and he stops. “Red Dead” by a J. Marston. it doesn’t take much to figure out who that could be. he opens it, flips through, and reads it to abigail. the kinder parts get read to their daughter, ecstatic to learn about how her older brother is doing. their son did become a writer after all, even if everything he’s written speaks volumes of his grief, his anger. the loneliness he’s endured since losing his family, and killing edgar ross.

arthur morgan opens his old journal to find several entries and sketches from john, but also many new ones from jack. his handwriting is just as clumsy as his father’s, but his drawings are more refined. little portraits of the gang members that lived and scribbly sketches of what the world is becoming in their absence decorate the pages. war, cars outnumbering horses, and a very detailed drawing of a revolver none of them have ever seen before.

he’s all grown up, and good lord is he angry. he’s mourning, and hurt, and he’s lost so much, but he’s still undoubtedly jack marston. he draws dogs and writes about missing rufus, slipping strays some food from his bag whenever he sees them. sometimes he’ll write a dry, sarcastic joke that speaks of his father’s influence, or mention missing his momma’s cooking, “even though it was hardly edible,” which makes abigail roll her eyes. he hates fishing and prefers to lose hours of the day with his nose in a book. the best maintained part of beecher’s hope is the graves on that hill, which gain new flowers every week. sometimes, if they listen close, they can hear him talking, telling his ma and pa what he’s been up to, though he saves the grisly details for his book.

and when jack marston finally does walk through that door, much older than when anyone he knew last saw him but far too young to die, he is welcomed home with open arms. because no matter what he’s done, and no matter how much he may hate himself, he will always have a home here with people who love him, and who can’t wait to get to know him all over again.

[twola]

Passerine : Chapter 3

PAIRING: High Honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

One step forward, two steps back.

Warnings: This fic has graphic descriptions of non-consensual sex, violence against women, the trauma thereafter, and somewhat unhealthy coping mechanisms. If any of that content makes you feel uncomfortable or triggers you, this may not be the fic for you.

Hi - I know it’s been over a year since I’ve updated this. Passerine is a love letter to trauma and the thereafter. It’s heavy. It’s hard to write. But thank you all for holding on to this. I promise it won’t be another year before I post chapters 4, 5, and 6 to finish it out.

Note: I play fast and loose with the passage of time as compared to the canon game.

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Abigail pulls the canvas around the tent’s opening closed behind her. She sighs as she arranges the fabric to preserve the privacy that you so desperately need.

Wiping the back of her palm across her forehead, she squeezes her eyes shut as she tries to stave off a headache.

“Mama!”

She jolts, steadying herself as her five-year-old son barrels into her legs, whipping his arms around her skirts.

“Jack…-Jack,” Abigail reels slightly as she places her hand on his head as he snuggles into her thigh. She pushes gently and he unwinds his small arms from around her. He steps half a step back and she stoops down on one knee to look him in the eye.

She tucks some of his hair behind his ears, her hands cupping his small cheeks, losing the last bit of baby fat from them as the boy grows in fits.

“Can you be a good boy fer me and go find Uncle Hosea? I think he has a new book fer you.” 

His eyes flash in excitement as he nods, and Abigail gives him a wry grin as he tries to wriggle away, not letting go of him until she places a kiss on his forehead. When she takes her hand from his shoulders, he darts away across the camp, calling after Hosea.

Bless him, he’s like a grandfather to Jack. Between him and Arthur, sometimes, sometimes, she can almost forget how terrible of a father John is.

Speaking of which, she finds him staring at her from across the camp, elbows at his knees as he sits in front of the fireplace. She glares back at him before turning away, huffing in a moment of agitation.

She pulls back the tent's canvas slightly, confirming to herself that yes, you are asleep.

Frowning, she lets the canvas go and walks over toward the lakeshore behind where Arthur had set his tent wagon up, crossing her arms over her chest as the red-painted sunset reflected off of the still waters of Flat Iron.

When she had asked you when was the last time you bled, she expected sputtering, anxious eyes and having to come up with a way to tell Arthur that he’d gotten a child upon you.

Instead, your flushed face turned almost white as you shot to your feet and immediately stumbled away from the wash bin and toward the treeline.

Abigail dropped laundry she had been working on back into the tub and hitched her skirt to run after you, catching up only as you doubled over, leaning against a tree as you choked up bile onto the ground.

You had burst into tears in between wet, gasping breaths, your stomach heaving dry when there was nothing left to expel. Abigail rubbed your upper back soothingly as she pulled your hair back from over your shoulder.

“C’mon now, it’s gonna be okay. Arthur’s- he’s the best of the men, he’ll take care of you.” She cooed softly, her hand working in slow circles between your shoulder blades.

You sob aloud, which unseats her. “It’s…it’s….”

You could barely get the words out.

Abigail’s circles slow, “Is… it not his?”

You collapsed to your knees as sobs racked your body, wet coughs echoing through the woods.

Abigail spent the rest of the afternoon trying to console you, able to pry details between your fits of dry heaving and sobs. She narrows her eyes against the red sun in the distance, her shoulders finally letting down from how tightly they’ve been wound all afternoon.

The truth was much worse than she had been expecting.

She had managed to coax you away from the trees and usher you quietly into Arthur’s tent, where she immediately pulled the canvas shut before turning back to you and pushing you down gently into the cot, taking your boots off one at a time and placing them on the ground next to the cot.

In hushed whimpers, you told her about what had happened those months ago when the gang was still at Horseshoe.  Her brow furrowed in shock as she brushed your hair off of your forehead, taking a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt and dabbing it across your damp brow.

The truth, as terrible as it was, was not unfamiliar to Abigail. A whore by fifteen, she had seen her share of women forced against their will. A customer gone too far, a rat of a man waiting to catch one of the girls alone, not wanting to pay for services.

She herself had experiences with it. 

But you, as you regaled the terrible details in hiccuping breaths, you had never been part of that world, and when the O’Driscoll forced you down on that bed, the act of sex had never been weaponized against you until that moment.

She had finally calmed you down enough that you drifted off to sleep, not more than an hour ago.

Rubbing the back of her neck, Abigail glances back toward where the horses are hitched, Arthur’s mare still missing amongst them.

She lets out a long, mournful breath. As many times as she had tried to assure you that if you were with child it was likely Arthur’s… all you could dwell on was that man who bound and gagged you and had you on the old bed in that dingy cabin.

You had cried yourself to sleep, and Abigail now has to figure out what to do going forward. Obviously, she thinks as she brushes the loose hair at the nape of her neck that escaped her bun, she needs to figure this out with Arthur. No matter what the decision was. She needed to talk to him before she made a trip to Saint Denis to collect the needed items.

A pang of memory flashes in her mind - the horrified look on John’s face when she told him she was with child. How it was months before he had her in his bed again. Only once, when she was swollen with child, did he lay with her - now years ago. 

The sound of hoofbeats draws her from the fugue of her thoughts. She turns partway around to see Arthur ride into the camp atop his mare, weighed down with a whitetail deer strapped across the horse’s rump. Wiping her hands on her skirt, Abigail sighs and moves towards where Arthur dismounts, following him silently as he shoulders the deer carcass and slings it over Pearson’s table.

He scoots over toward the tub of soapy water to wash the blood from his skin.

“Arthur.” 

Arthur looks up, shaking his hands from the wash bin, “Miss Roberts,” he drawls with a smile on his face.

Abigail does not return his smile.

-

“She was raped?”

Arthur stares at Abigail from under the rim of his hat, clenching his jaw, “How-”

“She told me.” Abigail sighs, leaning against the tree a bit away from the camp that she had led him to.

“She alrigh’? What happened for her to tell you?” Arthur mumbles, glancing back at the camp looking for you, but you are nowhere to be found.

“Arthur. I think she’s with child.” Abigail states in a hushed tone, and Arthur’s eyes dart wildly back to her.

“Child?”

“Yes, Arthur,” Abigail retorts, her patience frayed and finally worn out.

Arthur’s jaw clenches before he opens his mouth again, “It’s mine.” He mumbles, almost too soft to hear, eyes shooting down to the ground.

Much like how you refused to listen to Abigail’s pleading and reassurance as she tried to convince you of the same, Abigail brushes aside Arthur’s comment.

“Did he… did he spend in her?” Abigail rubs her eyes with the back of her palm, exhausted as dusk was closing in on the camp.

“I have,” Arthur says quietly, continuing to look at the ground.

“I know you have, idiot. But th’ first thing she thought is that this baby belongs to some dead O’Driscoll that raped her.”

Arthur’s jaw sets, unable to hide the snarl from his tone. “Ain’t no way it's his. We’ve been sleepin’ together for a couple a’ months. And I don’t always-”

“Yes, Arthur, I get that.” Abigail interjects with exasperation, “The question is - does she?”

The outlaw’s gaze flicks upward, landing on Abigail for a moment, before he turns his head to the side, looking over the western horizon at Flat Iron Lake.

“Look - I don’t know what y’all want to do. I don’t know what she wants to do. But…” She trails off, her gaze also looking out to the lake, “I can give her things to make it end.”

Arthur doesn’t respond.

Abigail dusts off her skirt as she begins to step away, “But Arthur…”

He finally can make eye contact as she looks back at him.

“She’s gotta make up her mind - quick.”

-

The dinginess - the sour smell of off-food and dirty men permeated the air. The kind of stink that simple cleaning would never get rid of.

Your head is killing you as you blink away the pain, but you find yourself biting down on a foul piece of fabric tied around your mouth. You try to pull it down, but find that your wrists are bound behind your back.

The door opens and the feeling of dread in your chest explodes into a blazing fire of fear.

“There’s my little girl.”

His greasy, dark hair is slicked back away from his disheveled beard, and he smiles that toothy, nauseating grin at you.

The O’Driscoll pulls up your chemise from your thighs up and over your belly, baring your bottom half to him. You try to clench your thighs together, but as he leans over you, you do not find that he forces your legs apart.

But you cannot fight him as his rough and dirty hand spreads out over your belly.

“Pretty miss - gonna be all big and swollen with my child.”

Your eyes shoot open, your fingers closing tightly around the blanket that you’ve pulled around yourself. You have to bite your lip to stop from screaming aloud. 

Dusk’s shadows permeate through the canvas of Arthur’s tent, and you realize you’ve spent most of the afternoon sleeping. You push yourself up in the cot, breathing out heavily.

You pass your hand over your stomach. As soon as Abigail asked you the last time you bled, the cavern inside you opened up. You hadn’t bled since before the house in Cumberland. The nausea, the vomiting. God, you’ve been so tired too. 

Shit, was it true? Could there be a child there, under the softness of your belly? Would you grow round and hard there beneath your fingertips? 

Not only was there a pit in your stomach, but you felt like your chest had been cracked open - you’re drowning in yourself - why can’t you escape that O’Driscoll and what he did?

You curl up smaller in Arthur’s cot, pulling the blanket over you, trying to hide from the world.

-

Usually, it’s before a job that he reaches for a cigarette. Something to calm his nerves and hone his senses before roaring into a situation with guns blazing.

That’s not the situation he finds himself in now.

Arthur finds himself pacing in the wooded area outside of camp, smoking hurriedly as his palm clenches in agitation. He throws the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and smashes it under the heel of his boot, turning his face upward and exhaling a plume of smoke with a sound that could be described as a sigh.

The lantern lights of the camp start to glow in the distance. He hasn’t worked up the courage to rejoin the group since stalking out to the woods and smoking half a pack of damn cigarettes.

Flat Iron Lake is still in the distance, a few ships passing between Saint Denis and Blackwater illuminate the dark waters.

Arthur grabs his hat off his head with one head and wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of the other. He closes his eyes, letting another long breath out.

Arthur swears he can hear a child’s laughter. It ain’t Jack though. Another young boy - with tawny hair and freckles dusting his cheeks. 

“Papa!”

A young boy who darts toward him as he slides off of his saddle.

The smile of a dark-haired girl leaning in the doorframe.

Fishing rods and toy horses and bedtime stories when he came around. A cup of coffee and pleasant conversation with a girl he shared a night with so long ago…

And two wooden crosses. Silence. Not even the birds sang that day he came upon the little house off the road. 

Arthur continues to pace, cursing under his breath. He goes to reach for yet another cigarette when he stops, swallowing, and grits his teeth.

How goddamn selfish of him to wallow in his own miserable past when you need him. The pit in his stomach reopens as he remembers the sight of you in that cabin. Bound, gagged, and violated.

And now his dumb ass has gone and gotten you pregnant. Foisted this upon you when you were still so vulnerable and hurting and god damnit - he told you he wasn’t a good person. This absolutely proves it.

There’s no lantern light on in his tent, he can see through the woods, and he’s stayed out long enough. Lord only knows Abigail is going to come find him and smack him the way she’s hit John - but he wouldn’t be any less deserving.

With yet another long, burdened breath, he heads back toward his tent.

Arthur Morgan moves as quietly as he can through the canvas, pulling it shut behind him. Darkness has fallen upon the camp, and he’s thankful that he can reach the oil lantern on the table with just enough moonlight for him to light it low. A yellow-orange glow emits from it, illuminating the tent.

You’re sitting in his cot, in the darkness, and in the light, he can see the sheen of tears down your cheeks. Your hair is falling out of the bun it’s half tied into. Fuck, he’s the goddamn scum of the earth.

“Darlin’,” his voice cracks with uncertainty.

You shiver, the threadbare blanket pulled over your shoulders as you sit in the cot. Arthur holds the rim of his hat in his hands, fidgeting with it restlessly as he cannot meet your eyes.

“Abigail seems to think…”

“Abigail’s right.” You mumble, monotone while staring into space.

Arthur chews his lip, “This is my fault.”

“Ain’t your fault an O’Driscoll-”

“I got you pregnant,” Arthur interjects, moving to sit on the small stool across from the cot.

“You don’t know it’s yours.” You snap back with a vicious snarl in your voice and he nearly recoils as if shot. This he did not expect.

Neither it seems, did you. Your eyes widen when you finally meet his, and hold his gaze for but a moment before your brow crinkles and you shove your face into your knees as you draw them up to your chest.

You hiccup a sob, “What if this baby looks l-like ‘im? What if the baby has them cold dark eyes starin’ at me like when when he-”

“Shh,” Arthur hushes you, preventing you from speaking aloud your terrible truth. He wraps his arms around you, drawing you into his embrace, “That ain’t gonna happen.”

You wriggle uncomfortably in his arms, trying to pull away. Arthur lets go of you, but his hands move to cup your cheeks and force you to look at him.

“No matter what, I’m gonna be here for you, sweetheart.”

Your eyes are only able to hold his stare for but so long before you look downward. Arthur lets go of your face and you take the opportunity to scoot further away from him in the cot, unable to look him in the eyes.

You’ve pulled your knees to your chest and hidden your face in them, ashamed of the tears that spill down your cheeks again.

“I had a son.”

Arthur’s voice is not loud, not strong, not solid. You slowly raise your head, sniffling, to find him sitting with his elbows on his thighs and head hung low, staring at the dirt below his feet.

“…had?”

He nods, still not looking at you, “He ‘nd his mother were killed, long time ago. Robbery.”

You remain quiet, your gaze down to the ground also. 

“I wasn’t there.”

You wrap your arms tighter around your legs.

“Wasn’t there for any of it. Wasn’t there when he was born, barely there as he grew up, wasn’t there when he ‘nd his mother needed my protection.”

Arthur rubs tiredly over his eyes, his thigh bouncing slightly with something you recognize as agitation, anxiety. 

Fear.

It is several moments before he looks up at you again, swallowing before the low timbres of his voice fill the tent again.

“If you want this baby - I’ll be here. For all of it.”

-

You curl up on Arthur’s cot and try to sleep. At your obvious discomfort, he maintains a distance between you, pulling a chair in from outside and posting himself in it, pulling his hat over his head to try to get some sleep. 

Just before dawn, the pit in your stomach threatens to open up, and you toss the blanket from your body and pad outside, hurrying toward the treeline for what has become your normal. You’re able to make it a few trees back before you have to stop and hunch over to empty your stomach.

You wetly cough between heaving breaths, and it is not but a few minutes later that you feel his fingers grab into your hair, pulling it up as you vomit into the leaves below. 

You lean into the tree harder as you spit up the last of the bile in your belly. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you stumble slightly when you try to stand up, and Arthur’s hands find your waist quickly to maintain your upright position.

“C’mon there, sweetheart, let’s lay you down again.”

You don’t answer him, instead allowing him to guide you back to his tent as the first vestiges of the dawn overtake the sky. You let him help you lay down, you let him pull the blanket over your body. Exhausted, you finally fall asleep.

You awaken several hours later, when a hand presses to your forehead, checking for a temperature. Your eyes flutter open to see Abigail leaning over you, and you scramble to get up as she moves to the end of the cot to sit opposite of you.

Abigail takes your hand in your lap after a few terse moments. “Y’ wanna get rid of it? I can make that happen, but we gotta do it sooner than later.”

You look up at her, unable to stop the sheen of tears from glazing over your eyes. Tears escape and trail down your cheeks as your gaze moves from Abigail, sitting on the cot with you, across the small tent to Arthur, sitting on an old chair with his elbows on his knees.

Behind those blue eyes of his is a maelstrom, one you know he’s trying to hide from you. Arthur’s whispered voice echoes in your mind as he tells you the sorry tale of his own fatherhood. His loss, the indescribable hole in his heart full of regret and sorrow. Arthur’s gaze moves from you down to the ground.

You close your eyes as another wave of tears slides down your face, sighing loudly as you try to gather what little composure you have left. 

Finally, you look back to the woman gently rubbing your hand.

-

“Seen you hanging all over Arthur,” Grimshaw eyed your waist critically, “It’s his, ain’t it?”

There comes a time that you can’t hide it anymore - the swell of your belly just under your skirts. You’re sure the girls know - you’ve seen their eyes flit on your figure.

You continue to stare at the setting sun over the lake. Part of you wishes you had the wherewithal to respond, but you don’t have the strength to anymore.

Susan had clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Idiots. The both of you.”

You avoid people. Get your chores done quickly. Don’t complain about not getting jobs. Arthur moved everything of yours into his tent, more permanently letting down the canvas sides.

From that very first day that you cowered in his cot away from his touch, Arthur had given you a wide berth since you pushed him away - hesitant, sleeping on either a chair or laying his bedroll on the ground.

You awaken many days before dawn, silently padding out to the wooded area south of the camp, far enough away that the rest of the folks couldn’t hear your retching. Several times in the beginning, Arthur follows you, and you angrily shoo him away before he stops tagging along behind you.

Over the weeks, your belly hardens, your breasts swell. You have to let out the waist of your skirt, and there is no hiding anything when the height of the summer finds Clemens - it’s so miserably hot that layers to hide your growing body must be shed or you’d sweat to death.

You’ve seen Dutch eye you. You’ve seen him argue with Arthur. You’ve seen Grimshaw join the fray. Hosea has been dropping ginger tea off to you in the morning with a gentle, knowing smile - it tasted terrible, but after the first few bracing sips, it did settle your stomach.

“Mind if I join y’ for a smoke?”

From the grassy spot you sit upon, you look up to find the widow Adler looking down at you. She’s shed her skirts and blouses in favor of work pants. Arthur had dragged her away from Pearson hollering some kind of awful and they returned with her much less agitated. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a braid, the scar above her eyebrow much more noticeable when she wasn’t wearing a hat.

You nod, looking back to the water, and the spurs of Sadie’s boots jingling as she pulls a matchbook from her trouser’s pocket.

“You know me, I ain’t gonna pussy foot about you. I know you ain’t gettin’ fat because of Pearson’s cookin’.” Sadie lights the cigarette between her teeth, continuing to talk through the process.

You remain silent, sitting there on the shoreline, arms looped around your knees, your skirts hiding your frame - your belly, swelling with child.

The match sizzles when she chucks it into the lake and takes a drag.

“Y’got a look about you that you ain't happy bout it.”

You frown, placing your forehead against your knees. “No,” you mumble into the fabric of your skirt.

She lets out a plume of smoke. Silence settles between you before you work up the courage to speak again.

“When they came to your ranch… did they… did-” you swallow, stuttering as your voice cracks.

Sadie drops the cigarette, mashing it into the ground under her boot.

“Yeah.”

You squeeze your eyes tightly shut, sighing before your voice cracks again,  “I… when we just got to Horseshoe - there was a house I was scopin’ a-and then… then an O’D-driscoll-” you start to sniffle as your vision clouds with tears.

Sadie does not meet your gaze, simply closing her eyes and breathing out her nose.

“And you're thinkin’ it's his.”

You nod, the tears slipping down your face. What a miserable excuse for an outlaw you are, weeping like a frail woman in front of someone who endured the same trauma.

She lets out a long, thoughtful breath, heavy with the weight of familiarity, “I know, better than most, that you ain't gonna listen to anyone, but y’know it's probably Arthur’s.”

You swallow, about to retort something back at her when she turns on her heel, her spurs jingling.

“You and he weren’t exactly subtle with what you were up to.” Her hand brushes your shoulder before she walks back toward the camp. You remain still, looking out over the lake with your arms wrapped around yourself.

“Best if you start lookin’ forward instead of lookin’ back. You’re only gonna find pain there.”

You look back toward her.

“Are you lookin’ forward?”

Sadie Adler turns halfway to look at you, her jaw set and eyes hard.

“No.”

-

You dream of blood. Of the overpowering richness and stifling warmth in the stale air of the tent. Of movement, people, murmuring voices, and hushed tones.

You dream of pain. You dream of being torn apart from the inside. You dream of screams, nearly inhumane, echoing in the tent.

You dream of Susan Grimshaw dabbing a damp rag over your head, a soft, pitying look on her face.

You dream of the women of camp surrounding you - of Abigail and Sadie, Tilly and Mary Beth. Karen, even Molly. Sadness, forlornness in their eyes.

Abigail holds a whimpering newborn in her arms, swaddled in a blanket.

The bundle is placed in your arms, and as you draw back the linen, the child’s features are revealed. Instead of Arthur’s dark honeyed hair and blue eyes, the babe has dark, dark hair and near-black eyes that blink up at you. Dark, cruel eyes that are nothing like your own.

Nothing like Arthur’s.

You rocket up in the cot, gasping, holding a hand to your breast to calm your racing heart. Your movement has awakened the other person in the tent, and Arthur shoots up from his bedroll on the ground, his head darting this way and that, looking for potential danger before realizing that you had been plagued by a nightmare.

“Sweetheart-” Arthur reaches toward your face to wipe the tears from your cheeks but you flinch and draw back further so that he cannot touch you.

“I just… I…” your voice stutters in the night, “P-Please don’t touch me.” 

His hand retracts from between you, “Course, darlin’.”

You gather the thin blanket around you closer, refusing to make eye contact with the man who has crawled closer to the cot from where his bedroll lay spread out on the ground. “Why are you doin’ this?”

“Doin’ what?” Arthur says quietly as he pushes himself up, from his knees to sit at the very end of the cot, opposite where you have curled yourself.

“This.” You gesticulate to the distance between you, then to his bedroll on the floor, “You shouldn’t be sleepin’ on the ground. You’re far too high up in this gang to be doin’ that.”

“You’re pregnant. I c’n sleep anywhere, don’t need a bed.” Arthur says, running his thumb over his bruised knuckles, also not making eye contact with you.

“I ain’t pregnant with-” You begin, clenching your fists in the blanket, your voice faltering.

“You are. Don’t start with this - you remember how many times we was stupid.” Arthur looks up, clenching his jaw and narrowing his eyes in a look of irritation before sighing, running his palm down his face against the exhaustion creeping in on him, “Look, sweetheart. I don’t know why you keep thinkin’ the baby’s his. We’ve been sleepin’ together for months.”

You turn your head away from him, setting your jaw. He doesn’t understand, how would he ever understand?

Arthur lets out a breath and moves from the floor up to sit at the opposite end of his old cot.

“But what if he is? What if this baby’s daddy is that O-”

“My daddy wasn't nothin’ but the man that made me.” He interjects, “Hosea and Dutch raised me more than my actual father did.” 

You glance at the mugshot placed on the wagon in the corner of the tent. Lyle Morgan stares at you, with unrepentant eyes, as if he were mocking you from the grave.

“If…if-” You stutter, your eyes watering over again as you draw your knees awkwardly to your chest, your belly getting in the way, The strap of your chemise slips down your shoulder, “If this baby is born and y’ see it’s h-his-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Arthur’s voice raises a bit, and as he realizes it, he slides closer to you on the cot, and grasps one of your hands in his own, his large, calloused hand engulfing yours, “I’m gonna be this child’s pa. Me. I’m gonna be that for the babe, and I’m gonna be that for you.”

You don’t fight his touch. Your eyes water over as you tightly close them, “I don’t know why you’d want another man’s-”

His thumb tenderly swipes your cheek, dashing the tears cascading from your eyes, “Cause I want you, sweetheart. ‘Nd anythin’ you create, it’s gonna be from you, and I want that too.”

You can’t hold back the sob from your throat as you crumble forward in the cot, Arthur winds his arms around you. You breathe in the musk of him - of leather and tobacco and safety.

And in the dim silence of the night, you allow it, burying yourself into his embrace, crying into his collarbone, your swollen belly pressed against his ribcage. 

[roseghoul26]

Part 2

Arthur Morgan x f!Reader

"'Do you love me?' You asked, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Arthur nodded, gazing at you like you hung the moon and the stars.

'Then say it. I promise you, nothing bad is gonna come from it.'"

Synopsis: A retelling of the mission "Blessed are the Peacemakers", where instead of Arthur getting kiddnapped, it's you.

Tags: fluff, friends to lovers, eventual smut, smut, torture, mentions of sexual assault, no actual SA, dutch is father figure, so is hosea, arthur morgan deserves everything, fem reader, afab!reader, she/her pronouns used for reader, not beta read

Author's Note: this was meant to be a short one shot lmao i got so carried away with this

part 1 ❉ part 2 ❉ part 3 ❉ part 4

For what felt like the millionth time over the past few days, Arthur glanced beside him, expecting to see you riding beside him, the sunlight illuminating your face in a way that took his breath away. And, for the millionth time, it was still only Charles, who had joined him on his search for you over the past days.

After you failed to show at the designated meeting spot after the negotiations, he had to practically be dragged to camp by the other men. “She’ll be fine,” Dutch had said. “You know how she gets sometimes. She’s probably out helping some stranger on the side of the road. She’ll be back before you know it.”

Deep down, he knew something was wrong, but he still allowed himself to be led back, keeping an eye out for you or your horse. After waiting in camp for an hour or two, he decided enough was enough, speeding out before anyone could stop him. He knew you could handle yourself, but something about the whole situation felt wrong. You were never gone for this long without letting him or someone else in camp know. 

It only took a few minutes of fast riding before he returned to the meeting spot, climbing the hill to where you had perched. With a keen eye, he scanned over the area, nothing standing out to him except a small splatter of mysterious liquid a few feet away, barely visible in the dirt.

Stepping closer, his suspicion was correct, causing bile to creep up his throat. 

It was blood. More specifically, your blood, something he never wanted to see.

Crouching down, he took in the surrounding area. A path cut through the dusty ground, like something was dragged through it, before stopping at a set of hoofprints, receding down the hill with another set in tow, like the other horse was being led.

All Arthur could hear was his heartbeat anxiously pounding as he remounted, taking off down the hill, following the barely visible tracks as best he could. He managed to follow about a mile, nearly reaching Valentine, before other hoofprints intertwined with the track he was following, making it impossible to continue following.

“Shit,” Arthur cursed, scrubbing his face with his hand as he figured out what to do. If you had been kidnapped, which was apparent, then someone had to have seen something in town. You’d have been slung over the rump of the horse, which he figured someone might remember if they saw.

It was about two hours later when he left town, having gotten a lead from some of the residents about someone carrying someone through town, heading southwest toward Strawberry. The sun had long since set, and as he rode back to Clemens Point, he was lost in his thoughts.

He had to finally admit to himself that the things he felt for you went beyond a normal friendship. Friends don’t wonder what it would be like to hold you in the night. Friends don’t wonder how your lips would feel, how your hands would feel, how your body would feel. Friends sure as hell don’t lie awake at night fantasizing about you, then be too embarrassed to meet your eye in the morning.

Your compassion towards him throughout the years was something he cherished, the way your face lit up when you saw him, or the way you held him when he confided in you about his troubles. Every moment with you filled something in his chest that he didn’t realize was empty. 

He hasn’t felt something like this toward anyone since Mary, but this felt different. This felt genuine, natural, like it was always meant to happen, born from years of trust. He had felt it for some time, but fear of ruining something great stopped him from saying anything. If his relationship with you crashed and burned the same way it did with Mary, his heart wouldn’t be able to take it.

He vowed to himself that he would tell you everything once you were safely back home.

“Who goes there?” He heard Charles shout out, barely registering he was back at camp.

“Just me,” Arthur sighed, slowing down to a trot as Charles came up beside him.

“Find her?”

“She's been taken… O’Driscolls took her through Valentine, heading southwest.”

Having only heard Charles swear only a few times, it took him by surprise when he heard the man mutter a curse under his breath, escorting Arthur as he entered camp, still staying on his horse. A light pat on his leg caught him off guard. “Rest up. We’ll head out at sunrise.”

“I’m just grabbin’ a few thing. She ain’t… I ain’t got time to sleep…” he trailed off, fighting back a conveniently timed yawn. “I can handle this myself.”

“She’s my friend too, you know. Maybe not as close as you two, but I care about her. And don’t think you’d survive ambushing a camp of O’Driscolls by yourself,” Charles shook his head, turning and walking back to his guard post, keeping his eyes on Arthur. “I only got a half hour left on my shift. We’ll rest until sunrise and head out. Neither of us will be able to help her if we’re dead on our feet.”

After failing to move, he watched the hunter turn back around, his face calm despite his words. “Don’t make me pull you off that horse, Arthur.”

He couldn’t help rolling his eyes, dismounting before walking toward his tent, sitting down on his cot with his head in his hands, hat left on the nightstand next to him. “Hang on, princess,” he muttered, as if it was going to help anything, before trying his hardest to get any semblance of rest.

True to his word, Charles woke him at the crack of the rising sun, and he left a note for the others letting them know where he was going, just in case. That was roughly four days ago, nowhere close to finding you than before. 

He just prayed he would get to you in time.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

“Miss Grimshaw, I need help!” Dutch’s panicked voice jolted you to consciousness, your eyes squinting against the harsh sunlight, bringing your arm up to block against the intrusion, before realization settled in.

Dutch was talking. 

You were home.

Instantly you were awake, bolting upright into a sitting position, scaring the hell out of said man, who you saw take a step back, before rushing to your side. 

You could barely understand the words coming out of your mouth, your eyes finally clearing as you took in the leader of your group kneeled before you, relief etched across his face. “It’s Colm- Dutch, I-, he–” you were almost hyperventilating as your eyes darted around manically, your body and mind suddenly overwhelmed. 

Two hands grabbed your face, focusing your attention on the man in front of you. “Breathe, my dear. Just. Breathe.”

Following his instructions, you took a deep breath in, and out, repeating the action until your heart rate slowed down a tick. Miss Grimshaw, at this time, was by your side now, asking you questions that you were too out of it to hear. “Dutch, it was Colm. I- It was a setup. He took me. But I got away.” You only noticed you were crying when Dutch wiped away the tears with a handkerchief, something almost fatherly in the action. “I got away.” You repeated, more to yourself than anything. 

A rare, true smile graced Dutch as his hands moved from your face to your shoulders, being mindful of the obvious injury there. “Yeah, that you did. But you’re safe now.”

“He was gonna set the law on us, Dutch.”

“Of course he was.” Sighing, you felt Dutch’s grip on you let up as he stood. “But that’s not a problem for you to worry about right now. All you need to focus on is getting better, okay?”

Nodding, you went to try and stand, almost collapsing until you felt Miss Grimshaw on your right side sling your arm over her shoulders, allowing you to rest your weight on her. She led you to your cot, Dutch following behind with his arms out like you were a child learning to walk for the first time. Exhaustion made its presence known again, and you felt your head grow fuzzy, black spots dancing across your vision.

You were almost fully tucked into your cot before a new thought caused you to sit right back up, earning you a disapproving sigh from Miss Grimshaw. “Where’s Arthur?”

Dutch, who stood at the entrance of your tent, left, and you heard him shout to Javier. “Go track down Arthur. Tell him his girl’s home.”

Glancing over to Miss Grimshaw, you asked again. “Where’s Arthur?”

Cupping your hand in hers, she responded. “Him and Charles are out looking for you. Have been since you’ve been gone.”

“How long was I gone for?”

“About four days, dear. You gave us quite a fright.”

“And he’s… they’ve been out looking for me?”

She rolled her eyes, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course. People really care about you, you know. Arthur especially. But,” she pressed down on your good shoulder, making you lay down flat on the bed, “you need sleep. Javier’ll find him in no time. He’ll be here when you wake.” 

Your hand in hers was the last thing you remember before sleep overcame you.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

“Nothing here,” Charles shouted from a closeby building as Arthur investigated the small hut, long since abandoned, the rotting floorboards barely holding him as he searched.

Opening the final room and meeting only dust bunnies and brown rats, he holstered his gun, his increasing anxiety causing his heart to beat wildly. “Same here,” he shouted back, exiting the building with a huff, sitting down on the dilapidated staircase as Charles approached him. 

He was getting desperate at this point. They had searched what felt like every abandoned campsite and building, no sign of you or O’Driscolls anywhere. Not allowing himself to go down a rabbit hole, he pulled out his map, spreading it across his lap so Charles could look as well. With his pencil, he crossed off their current location, another X added to the page.

Weariness was also starting to take a toll on him, not as alert as he was days prior, the same going for Charles, but neither of them would be able to stop until they’d found you. Muttering under his breath, he scanned the map for their next location, reaching for his revolver when he heard the sound of fast hoof beats approaching the two of them.

Glancing up, a familiar black and white horse whizzed past, skidding to a halt as the rider practically jumped off, running up to the startled duo.

Javier stood before them, hair in disarray, panting as heavily as his horse, who gladly took a break from a straight dash from camp. Arthur couldn’t read the man’s expression, and he stood up warily, the map falling somewhere in the dirt. There was only reason why Javier was here, a fact that Arthur and Charles seemed to understand at the same time, anxiously waiting for the man to speak.

“She’s home.”

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

A new hand held yours when you woke.

It was significantly larger than Miss Grimshaw’s, strong callouses adorning the fingers, yet despite that roughness it held your hand like it was the most precious thing in the world.

When it felt you begin to stir, it held on a little tighter, a sigh of relief coming from the owner. Groggily, you opened your eyes slightly, almost immediately wanting to close them as the sunlight streaming from the entrance of the tent nearly blinded you, and you tried rolling over, crying out in pain as you rolled on to your left shoulder, having completely forgotten about the wound there.

“Easy there, princess,” Arthur murmured, the low gravel of his voice music to your ears. 

Moving slowly, you glanced over to your side, smiling gently at the rugged cowboy who held your hand. “Hello-” a coughing fit wracked your body, throat dry from dehydration. Within seconds Arthur was right at your side, using his free hand to prop you up, rubbing your back as you coughed. 

After a few seconds the fit subsided. Groaning, you rubbed at your eyes, your hair falling around your face. Arthur’s hand moved from your back, and you nearly let out a noise of complaint until he presented you with a waterskin, which you gladly took and began to greedily gulp down.

The water, despite being a tad bit warm, felt amazing, some of it spilling from your mouth and onto your lap. As you drank, you heard him call out for Miss Grimshaw, loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to startle you. Within seconds the tent flaps swished open, Miss Grimshaw standing with her hands on her hips as she looked you up and down, a small smile on her face. “Well, it’s about time you woke up.”

She pressed her hand against your face, feeling for any sort of fever. “How’re you feeling?”

Bringing down the water skin, which Arthur took away to stop you from making yourself sick from drinking too much. “I feel like I was hit by a train. Everything hurts.”

Removing her hand from your face, she quickly left the tent, returning moments later with a tonic in her hands, opening and offering it to you. “For the pain,” she simply said, gesturing for you to drink it.

It burned as it went down, the bitter concoction instigating another coughing fit, luckily shorter than the other. Arthur took the empty bottle from your hands, tossing it behind him somewhere in the tent as Miss Grimshaw sat in front of you on the cot, beginning to remove the bandage that now covered your left shoulder.

Glancing down, you noticed that someone had cleaned you, the grime from the O’Driscolls basement nowhere to be seen, replaced by a fresh nightgown and clear skin. Well, clear in the sense that there wasn’t a speck of dirt on you. Various cuts, bruises, and burns adorned your body, most of them having already scabbed and on the way to be completely healed. Only a few were bandaged up, the worst being the gunshot wound on your shoulder.

While you had taken in the state of your body, Miss Grimshaw had been able to fully remove the bandage from your shoulder, and you let out a wince as the air hit the wound. The wound, you saw, wasn’t infected, but it was irritated, glaring red as Miss Grimshaw applied a slave to it, tears pricking your eyes at the pain. 

You felt Arthur begin to rub your hand soothingly, murmuring small praises as she redressed the injury. “You’re healing well. Won’t be too long until you're back on your feet,” Miss Grimshaw spoke, brushing her hands on her skirt as she stood. “Just make sure you’re getting lots of rest, drinking lots of water, and eating good food. That one right there will make sure you do,” she winked at Arthur, who looked away embarrassed. “I’ll let the others know you’re awake. Visitors, or no?” When you shook your head no, she nodded in understanding. Turning to leave, she paused right at the entrance, before glancing back over at you. “It’s good to see you awake, dear.”

Before you could get a chance to respond, she left, leaving you and Arthur alone, still holding each other's hands. You felt your hair, which still hung around your face, begin to move as Arthur tucked it behind your ear, smiling lightly as he finally was able to make eye contact with you. There was obvious relief in his eyes, but something vulnerable there as well. You noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes, and noticing the chair pulled up to the side of your bed, as well as some of his personal belongings sitting beside him, you were able to quickly piece together that Arthur had been at your side the entire time you slept. 

An unfamiliar yet not unwelcome pang hit your heart as you took in the man beside you, the man who was unyieldingly devoted to you, and the man you were so helplessly in love with. In any other circumstance, you would have pushed those thoughts away, but now you let them wash over you, sweeping away all the ache in your bones. You felt yourself smiling brightly at the cowboy, the cuts on your face making their presence known as the skin moved, but you couldn’t care less. All that mattered right now was Arthur. 

Glancing down at your entwined hands, you let out a content sigh, before bringing his knuckles up to your lips, giving them a quick kiss before letting it fall back to your lap. Your heart hammered fast in your chest as you opened your mouth, ready to spill your most closely guarded secret to the man beside you. “I’m-”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said at the same time, his louder voice covering yours, the confession stuck between your lips as you sealed them back up, and you furrowed your brows, momentarily forgetting what you were about to do. 

“I’m sorry.” Arthur went to stand up, his stoic mask back up, trying to disentangle your hand from his, but you held on as tight as you could, stopping him from pulling away completely. “I’ll… I’ll leave you be now. Said you didn’t want visitors.”

“You know damn well that doesn’t mean you, Arthur Morgan,” you nearly growled, your voice scratchy as you tried to pull him back down to his seat. When he didn’t budge, you sighed, tugging lightly at him. “Please stay,” you whispered, and you could see the war being fought in his head as he stood there, unmoving. 

A minute passed before he relented, letting you drag him back down to his seat with what strength you had. He was looking at you, but he wasn’t making eye contact, instead taking in every injury on your body that you had obtained at the hands of the O’Driscolls, squeezing your hand tighter as his gaze settled on your shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” you heard him apologize for the third time, and you just shook your head at him.

“And I still don’t know what you’re apologizing for, mister. You weren’t the one to do this to me, right?”

“God, no,” he replied, visibly disgusted at the notion. 

“Then you have nothing to be sorry for.”

Shaking his head, you saw him bring himself closer to you, the chair gliding through the pelt that lined the floor of your tent. “I knew it was a trap. If I hadn’t made you-”

You cut him off by pressing your finger to his lips, silencing him as his eyes widened in shock and disbelief. “We all knew it was a trap, Arthur. But the thought of having any sort of peace with the O’Driscolls made us turn a blind eye. And you didn’t make me do anything. I went of my own free will. And besides,” you removed your finger, failing to notice how his eyes had darkened slightly during the whole action. “If it wasn’t me who got taken, then it would’ve been you or the others. It was inevitable.” 

“It shouldn’t’ve happened.”

You shrugged. “Maybe not. But it did. It’s done now. We gotta move on now.”

“Next time I’ll be doing overwatch.”

“Like hell you are,” you scoffed, some of the tension leaving the conversation. “I’m the better shot, anyway.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows, leaning back slightly in his chair away from you. You tried to not look disappointed. “Is that so?”

“Yup,” you nodded vehemently, smirking slightly. “Best shot in the camp, hands down.”

“Uh-huh. Wanna go prove that to me then?”

“I ain’t got nothing to prove to you, Arthur, and you know it,” you laughed.

“Nah, you’re right,” he conceded. “You’re incredible.”

The total honesty in his voice caught you off guard, and you felt a slight flush creep up your face, no doubt turning your cheeks dark. Glancing away, the two of you fell into an easy silence that only came with him, and he mindlessly stroked your hand. 

A few moments had passed before you looked back up at him, a crease in his brow, deep in thought, barely even registering your movement as he hung his head low. Shaking his hand slightly, you were able to get him to look up at you, giving him an easy smile. “What’s on your mind, cowboy?”

Looking like a fish out of water with the way his mouth gaped, he rubbed the back of his neck, no longer looking you in the eye as he fumbled with the words he was trying to say. It was almost silly, seeing the deadly man before you, someone who could send a person running with only a glance, at a loss of words. “Why’re you nervous? It’s just me,” you reassured him. 

Or at least you tried to reassure him, your words stressing him more than relaxing him. “How’d you…” be began, trailing off shortly thereafter. 

“I’m a mind reader.”

“You ain’t a mind reader. If you was, then I wouldn’t have to sit here, stumbling over my words like an idiot trying to figure out how to tell you…” he trailed off again, sighing anxiously, his face almost beet red. 

“You’re not an idiot,” you chided, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, your knees knocking against Arthur’s. You ignored the butterflies erupting in your stomach at the proximity, bringing your hand up to cup the side of his face to bring his gaze back to yours. You tried to move your hand away but he caught it, keeping it pressed against his cheek. “And, even if I could read your mind, I’d wanna hear it from your lips anyway.”

He pressed his forehead against yours, collecting his thoughts for a moment. “I’ve been… I’ve been real scared to tell you this, you know. Everytime I try, the words just don’t come out right, and I ain’t too keen on making a fool of myself in front of you. I just… I hope this don’t change things between us… I don’t think I’d be able to live without you by my side. And if you don’t feel the same… which I pray that you do… then we never have to talk about this again. We’ll just move on, like you said.”

He pressed a quick kiss to the inside of your wrist, his beard pleasantly tickling the sensitive skin. A little gasp left your lips, the cowboy chuckling in response. But he didn’t continue speaking, his own anxieties halting his words. You knew what he was going to say; it was on the tip of his tongue. He just needed a push. 

“Do you love me?” You asked, voice barely louder than a whisper. 

Arthur nodded, gazing at you like you hung the moon and the stars. 

“Then say it. I promise you, nothing bad is gonna come from it.”

“How is that you make me feel so calm yet terrified?” Arthur sighed gently. “When you were taken… it made me realize how big a fool I really am for you. And I almost didn’t get to tell you… I was ready to tear down every O’Driscoll until you were back home. But you went and saved yourself, cause of course you did. I wasn’t kiddin’ when I said you was incredible. You’re back home now, so now I get to tell you I love you. I really, really do.”

He let out a shaky exhale, a visible weight being let off his shoulders. “I have for a while now… but I just kept pushing it away and denying it. After what happened the last time I bared my heart out for someone, I was scared of it happenin’ again. I knew you wouldn’t hurt me… but a part of me refused to let me feel this way. I’m… I’m not a good man. I’ve done bad things, I’ve hurt people. Maybe I don’t deserve you, but I’m selfish enough to want you anyway. If you want me too, then I will spend the rest of our time together proving that I am worthy enough to be by your side.”

“Oh, Arthur,” you felt tears beginning to well up after finally hearing the words you’ve been waiting for for some time. “You silly man. I love you, too.” Despite the tears, you were smiling brightly, a similar expression mirrored on Arthur. You felt giddy, laughter bubbling from your lips. “I love you so much, and there is nothing you could do that would change that. And you don’t have to prove anything to me. The man right here is all I need.”

Blue eyes looked down at your lips, the distance between the two of you was so close yet so far, lips merely inches from your own with your foreheads connected. You watched as Arthur wet his lips, looking back up into your eyes with a look of longing. 

“May I kiss-'' your lips pressed against his before he could finish the question, silencing him the way you wish you could have earlier. The cowboy let out a surprised grunt, the momentum of your body pressing against his nearly sending him backwards, his hat sitting precariously on his head. It only took him a second to recover from the shock before his lips moved, plush but chapped yet perfect in every sense. 

Using the hand still cupped to his face, you moved it behind, scratching your nails lightly up the back of his neck before tangling your fingers in the short hair, tugging slightly. A delicious whine left Arthur, mouth parting slightly against yours as the kiss deepened. You felt his hold on your hand leave, instead grabbing your hips and pulling you towards him so you were practically on his lap.

All you could think about was Arthur. He flooded every sense, every fiber of your being fully enraptured by the man. So enraptured, in fact, that you temporarily forgot the trauma that your body had just been subjected to, so when you tried to use your left arm to situate yourself better, a shock of pain overtook you, forcing you to break away from his lips with a pained groan. 

Immediately, whatever love fueled haze had flooded the two of you dissipated, leaving a concerned Arthur holding you as pain tore through your body, before dissolving into an incessant ache. “Shit… sorry,” you were panting, out of breath for two incredibly different reasons. 

“Nothing to apologize for. You alright?”

“Got a little eager,” you smiled a tad bit sheepishly. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

“So we’ve both been fools this entire time?” When you nodded, he laughed, partially in disbelief. “And only a little eager?” he jested, rubbing his scalp tenderly. 

“Yeah… sorry.”

“And I said there was nothing to apologize for. Besides,” he brought his lips close to your ear, voice rumbling as he spoke. “I like it when it hurts a bit.” He sat up, pressing a kiss to your temple before doing so. 

The implications were not lost on you, yet you still found yourself staring wide-eyed at him. Noticing your hesitation, he backpedaled slightly. “If that’s alright. I don’t wanna force ya… or make you uncomfortable…”

“I’d like that, very much. Just not now, though. I’m exhausted.”

“It’s alright. We don’t gotta to do anything until you’re ready.” With a gentle smile, he gave you a quick kiss, pulling away too quickly for your liking. When you pouted slightly, he chuckled and shook his head. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later. You, princess, need rest.” You sighed, and with Arthur’s help you situated yourself back on the cot, still sitting up as he fixed the pillows behind you.

“Will you lay with me?” You thought he was going to say no, but he instead started toeing off his boots, setting them beside the bed before sitting behind you. A firm arm wrapped around your front, pulling you down to lay atop of him, your head resting comfortably on his chest. He kissed the crown of your head, and you snuggled into the man. The smell of him, a mix of gunpowder, leather, and something woodsy, filled your nose, lulling you into a relaxed state.

“I love you,” you mumbled out, face partially buried into his shirt. Gentle fingers combed through your hair, a pleased sigh leaving you as your eyes fluttered close. 

“I love you, too. Now, rest. You’ve got a long few weeks ahead of ya.”

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

The first day of your recovery was the worst. Not because of the aches in your body, but the fact that everyone in camp had decided to come see you sometime in the day. You were grateful, yes, but it was exhausting. As nice as it was, a  part of you just wished all the attention on you would go away. One more sympathetic look and you were going to throttle someone. 

Dutch came in first that morning (with your permission), two cups of coffee in his hands as he sauntered in. He looked a bit caught off guard when he saw Arthur sitting behind you, still partially asleep in your cot as you sat up in the bed. After the initial shock wore off, a large shit-eating grin took over his face.  

Setting one of the cups on the nightstand, he roughly patted the cowboy on his shoulder, who practically yelped at the sudden aggressive contact. “Atta boy, Arthur!” his boisterous laugh shook the tent, and you couldn’t help but laugh at the expense of Arthur. “Took you long enough. Thought you’d never grow the balls to tell her.” 

In a sudden change, his face took on a serious expression as he leaned down close to Arthur, talking quietly enough for only the other man to hear. Whatever he said must’ve scared Arthur, his face turning a few shades paler. But within moments laughter returned to the black haired man who now had his full attention on you, handing you a cup of coffee which you gratefully took. “It is good to see you up, dear. Nothing can keep you down can it?”

“Not so sure about nothing, but O’Driscolls sure as hell can’t.”

“No ma’am,” he chuckled, pulling up and sitting in the chair that Arthur was in last night. “And trust me when I say they’ll regret ever touching a single hair on you.”

You nodded, lightly sipping the hot beverage in your hands. “Just don’t do it without me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Standing up, he gestured to the drink on the nightstand. “Help yourself to that Arthur. It was mine, but I wasn’t expecting you to have… company this morning. Now, get better quickly. Can’t have my best shot out of commision for too long.” With that, Dutch left your tent, Arthur giving a sigh of relief when he did. 

Glancing over at Arthur with an I told you so look, you found him still paler than normal, shifting uncomfortably behind you. Snuggling up into his arms seemed to snap him out of partially, but you still saw his eyes flicking across the room, like he was expecting danger to pop out from anywhere. “What’d Dutch say?” you asked, Arthur’s arms wrapping around you as your face buried into his shoulder. 

“I… nothing important, trust me,” he muttered, trying to brush over the question. Not taking that as an answer, you tilted your head to the side so you could look up at him, an unimpressed look on your face. Sighing, you felt his lips press a kiss to your forehead before he responded. “Let’s just say you got some… uh… guardians around camp.”

“Aw. That’s sweet.”

“Not so sweet when you’re the one getting threatened with gelding tongs,” you heard him mutter, and Arthur’s panicked look made a whole lot more sense now. You couldn’t help the giggles that erupted from you. 

“Did- did Dutch threaten you, Arthur?” you barely managed to get out. His answering sigh was all you needed for confirmation, and you felt another fit of laughter overtake you. Arthur wasn’t long to stay upset, feeling his chest rumble with a light laugh. 

“He’s always kept me in line. As best he could, anyway. But that’s enough about me. How’re you feeling, princess?” He sat beside you on the edge of the bed, wrapping an arm around you gingerly. Pulling you down, you felt him pull you towards him, giving you a kiss atop your head. 

“I’m feeling like I’m gonna be sick of that question soon.”

You swore you could hear him roll his eyes. “Just answer the question.”

With an exaggerated huff, you turned so you were facing, his arm and hand now in your lap. You intertwined your fingers with his. “I’m okay. Just really sore.”

“And…” Arthur tapped lightly on your forehead. “How ‘bout there?”

“Surprisingly alright. I… I don’t really remember too much, to be honest.”

“Well, that’s good. But, if something changes, or you need… ‘dunno… someone to talk to, let me know. I ain’t the best with words… but I can listen pretty well.”

“Thank you, Arthur.” With a smile, you pressed your lips against his cheek, the slight prickle from his beard tickling you. He didn’t let you move back too far, however. A light hand cupped the back of your head, keeping you steady, but not strong enough to keep you from moving if you wished. 

“And you said you was the best shot in camp. You missed.” Arthur had an almost cheeky smile on his face. 

Scoffing in fake indignation, you kissed him, a satisfied hum leaving the cowboy as your lips made contact. His one hand still made contact with your head, the other wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to him. Running your own through his soft hair, another satisfied noise left him, and you pulled back with a pleased smile. “There. Happy?”

“Very. Now c’mere…” he said with a playful growl, before peppering kisses across your face, neck, and shoulders, being mindful of your injuries. You found yourself giggling as he continued his attack, turning into a yelp when you felt him nip lightly at your jaw. Lightly swatting at his shoulder, he moved back, still holding you gently. “You make me so happy, don’t you ever think otherwise.” With a final brush of his lips against yours, you watched his eyes flick behind you where the entrance to your tent was. Turning around, you saw Hosea standing there, tonic in one hand, a book in the other. 

Sitting back down at the edge of the bed, you gestured for the older man to come in, a soft look on his face as he sat in the chair in front of you. “So that’s why you weren’t at your tent, Arthur,” he commented, and the younger cowboy sheepishly looked away. “You’re looking better. At least, better than you did twelve hours ago. How’re you feeling?”

Fighting the urge to bash your head into the nearest hard surface, you gave him the same response you gave Arthur. With a nod, he handed you the tonic, the greenish bottle filled to the top with liquid. “For the pain. And,” he handed you the book, “For the boredom.”

It was a copy of A Cristmas Carol, a brand new one at that. You knew that Hosea was quite the reader, so it came as no surprise that he knew where the name of your horse came from. “I know it’s nowhere near Christmas time, but I hope it will bring you some comfort.”

“It will. I… Thank you, Hosea.”

“You’re very welcome, dear. Is there anything else you need?”

“I think… I think I’d like some food. Let me just…” with your feet planted on the ground, you tried to stand up, the idea of a fresh meal urging you to leave your bed. As soon as you were fully upright, however, the world began to spin. Two arms caught you before you made contact with the floor, Arthur having stood up when you did, and he eased you back down to the bed. 

At this point, Hosea was on his feet too, his hands planted on his hips like a parent would when scolding their child. “You’re in no state to be moving. Me ‘n’ Arthur will get your food for you. Just stay here.” Patting your right shoulder affectionately, he beckoned Arthur with a nod, the two of them leaving your tent together after Arthur put his boots back on. 

You calling out Arthur’s names stopped the cowboy in his tracks, a concerned look on his face as he turned to face you. “Please take some time for yourself. Change your clothes, take a bath, something like that.”

“You sayin’ I smell?”

“I’m sayin’ you smell like you haven’t been at camp for a few days. Now go.”

“Alright, princess,” Arthur laughed, a grin on his face as he left the tent.

For the first time since you’d been back, you were alone. The tent was eerily silent, the only noise your breathing and the rustling of sheets as you got back into bed, sitting up against the pillows. Grimacing, you downed the entire tonic bottle, the liquid bitter as ever. You set the empty glass on your nightstand, your throat already going numb from the ingredients. 

Waiting for Hosea to return with food, you thought over the events of the last couple of days. Most of it was hazy, in your brain. The only things you remembered were flashes of pain and the voices of the O’Driscolls. Everything else was gone, just blank spaces in your memory. Rubbing your face with your hand, you winced slightly as you pressed down a little too hard at what you assumed was a bruise on your cheekbone. You realized you had yet to see your face, unaware of the damage done to it. 

Sighing, you barely noticed that Hosea was back in the tent with you, a bowl of hot stew in his hands, the smell causing saliva to begin pooling in your mouth. Handing you the bowl, along with a fresh skin of water, the man returned to the chair next to you. 

“Don’t get too lost in those thoughts of yours. It’ll be hard to get you back out.”

“It’s not like there’s many thoughts in there anyway. I hardly remember anything that happened. I can’t tell if that should be concerning or relieving.” You said through spoonfuls of food, the temperature of it burning your mouth. 

“Did they do anything… untoward to you?” Hosea asked, hesitating slightly. 

You shrugged. “If they did, I don’t remember. But I don’t think so, saying nothing hurts down there.”

The older gunslinger let out a small sigh, his body relaxing some in relief. “Well, we can take some assurance that they aren’t animals.” He fell silent, giving you a few moments to eat. “Don’t be too worried about your memories. It’s common for our minds to shut out events that happened to us. Whether you want them to come back, however, is up to debate. Some events aren’t worth remembering.”

He fell silent again, lost in thought as you took another bite of your food. You were getting full now, your stomach not used to having so much food in it. You sat the bowl, which still had about half its contents left, on your nightstand. At the clattering of the bowl, Hosea seemed to snap out of whatever headspace he was in, giving you a small smile as he took the bowl. “Thank you,” he said while standing up, and you gave him a confused look.

“Thank you for coming back to us. To the gang. Lord knows what would happen to us if we lost you. Don’t know what would happen to Arthur, either.” He laughed humorlessly while shaking his head. “We’re all proud of you. I’m proud of you. You’re tougher than most, that’s for sure.” With a final kind smile, he left, leaving you, and your tears, to your lonesome again. Sipping lightly from the waterskin he left you, a gentle warmth growing in your chest from Hosea’s words. 

It seemed like the universe still didn’t want you to be alone, however, because before you could even collect yourself, a small body came barreling into your tent, a larger one following with an apologetic look on her face. “I’m so sorry,” Abigail began, trying to usher an eager Jack out of your space. “When he heard you was awake, he wanted to come see you, and I tried-”

“It’s all good, Abigail. I don’t mind the company.” You tried to brush away the remnants of your tears. Abigail didn’t see, or if she did, she didn’t make a comment about it. Either way, you were grateful.

An eager Jack stood beside your bed, a wide grin on his face. Stretching out his arms, he held in his fists a small bouquet of wildflowers, with various flower types that ranged from all sorts of different colors. Pressing a hand over your heart, you gratefully took the bouquet from Jack. “For me? Thank you, Jack. They’re beautiful. You wanna help me put them somewhere safe?”

When the boy nodded, you handed him the waterskin, and he held it like it was the most important thing in his life. Grabbing the empty tonic bottle from your nightstand, you held it in your lap. “Pour a small amount of water in, so I can get the old stuff out first.”

After doing what you asked, you swished the water around the bottle, clearing out any extra tonic residue that might be left over. Pouring it out somewhere behind your bed (avoiding the pelt that acted as your carpet), you gestured for him to refill the bottle again. This time, instead of dumping it back out, you placed the small bouquet in it, the opening of the bottle barely big enough to hold all the flowers. Carefully you put the bottle back on the nightstand, and when it didn’t tip over, you let out a celebratory clap. 

“Look how pretty those are, Jack! You picked out the best flowers.”

“I hope they make you feel better, Auntie Morgan. Ma says you got hurt real bad.”

“I bet they will,” you replied, not even registering what he said until a few seconds later. “Auntie Morgan? Where’d that come from?” 

Jack shrugged, and you saw Abigail give you yet another apologetic look. “Well, I saw Uncle Arthur leave your tent, and he never did that before. And Ma told me that when someone has a tent with someone, it means they are dating! And when you are dating, you have the same last name! So that means you are now Auntie Morgan!” 

“Oh… I mean… well…” You’re sure your face was significantly darker than it was moments ago as you stumbled over your words. 

“Jack!” Abigail reprimanded, a horrified look on her face at Jack’s comment. “I’m… I’m so sorry, I just… that’s the only way I knew how to explain it to Jack when he asked.”

“Well, you’re not entirely wrong. We are… I think.”

“You… you are? When you nodded, Abigail gasped excitedly. “Oh, well that’s wonderful! I’m happy for you!” She hugged you gently before taking a step back by her son. “It’s about time…” she teased, and you rolled your eyes. 

“I told you she was Auntie Morgan, Ma!”

“Not quite yet, Jack. We’re not married. Only married people have each other’s last names,” you tried to explain. 

“So are you gonna marry Uncle Arthur then?”

Thank goodness you hadn’t decided to take a drink of your water, or else it would've been spat out at his question. Your face felt flame hot at this point, and you nervously picked at your nails. “We’ve only just started dating, Jack. I… He hasn’t asked me that question yet.”

“Do you want to marry Uncle Arthur?”

“That’s enough!” Abigail practically jumped to cover Jack’s mouth. You laughed at Jack’s lack of filter despite your growing flustered state. With her hands on his shoulders, she led Jack outside, returning by her lonesome a short while later. Sighing, she sat on the side of your bed. “Sorry ‘bout that, again.”

With a wave, you dismissed her concerns. “It made me laugh.” You could tell she was itching to say something, but couldn’t tell if it was rude or not. “Me and Arthur spoke last night. We… confessed some things to each other, and, well, you heard what I said. There’s… something between us.”

“I really am happy for you,” she smiled at you, taking your hand in hers. “You two are good for each other. Being close with someone, in this life, it ain’t easy. But that don’t mean it ain’t worth it. Treasure the moments you have together, and take time for you both. Be there for each other, but don’t be fully dependent on the other. Communicate, even if it’s hard. Lord knows I know that all too well.” An almost regretful look crossed her features, a tiny frown pulling at her lips, as if reminiscing over past mistakes between her and John. 

“And, if he breaks your heart, which I pray he never does, just know that there is a camp full of nasty outlaws that would do anything for you. Myself included,” she added, a playful look replacing the old one.

“Thank you, Abigail.” 

With a final squeeze of your hand, Abigail stood up, brushing out the creases in her skirt. “I’ll try my best to stop Jack from saying too much ‘bout the two of you. But, be ready for anything.” As she exited the tent, you could hear Jack loudly talking to someone about the conversation he just had with you. Groaning, you flopped your head back, praying that someone wasn’t Arthur. 

The rest of that first day was filled with rest broken up by people coming to visit you. Charles had come in about twenty minutes after Abigail, and the two of you had chatted for a good while, catching up on his and Arthur’s adventure to find you. He had also gifted you a small whittled version of your horse, the wood stained to match his black and white coat. You had accepted the gift with gratitude, setting it by your flowers after staring at it in your hands for a long while. 

Arthur had come back during Charle’s visit, freshly bathed and with new clothes on. His hair was still slightly damp as he stood awkwardly at the entrance, not wanting to barge in on your conversation. Gesturing him further inside, you then patted the bed behind you where he was before, moving further up so there was more space for him.

As he came over, he patted Charles on his shoulder, joining into the conversation with a few additions to the story as he slid into the bed behind you. You didn’t fully lay against him, not wanting to get too affectionate in front of your friend and making him uncomfortable. Charles only stayed a few minutes after that, giving you a light hug before leaving the two of you. 

Reclining fully against Arthur’s chest, you let out a pleased sigh as you felt him embrace you. “Y’know, I heard some crazy things from Jack not too long ago.” You felt him laugh as your head rolled back defeatedly, eyes closed. 

“He’s definitely Marston’s kid, that’s for sure. Nosy little…” you grumbled, and you felt him laugh again. 

“He’s not the only one. Mary-Beth and the girls nearly jumped me after they saw me leave. Barely made it down to the river in one piece.”

“How’d you survive?”

“John got ‘em off my back. Then, once the other’s were out of earshot, began hounding me with his own questions. I swear, the whole camp is a bunch of high society folks who got nothing to do but gossip all day.”

“Can’t fault them. It’s not everyday that the gang has a new couple in it.” You hadn’t meant for the term couple to slip out. You knew there was something between the two of you, but you feared putting a label on it. Slowly opening your eyes, you tried to gauge Arthur’s facial expression, but to no avail. You remembered Abigail’s words about communication, so you took the leap of faith. “We… Are we a couple? Are we… dating?” It felt juvenile to use the word dating, but you knew no other way to ask.

“Yes?” Arthur replied almost immediately, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

Oh. You felt a little silly, and you closed your eyes again, avoiding Arthur’s confused glance. 

“Unless…” you could hear the panic and disappointment in his voice, and you immediately reopened your eyes, lifting out of his embrace to turn and face him fully.

“No, we are! It’s just, you… we never said that we were, like, official, and I didn’t want to put a label on it and make you uncomfortable and I really want to be yours but I don’t want to push you into somethin’ if you’re not ready for it and… what?” Your rambling was cut short by the fond yet amused look on Arthur’s face.

“I’m more than ready for this. Trust me. I want this. I want you.” 

“Okay,” you nodded, kissing him quickly, before laying back down on Arthur, this time facing his chest, your face burrowed in the crook of his neck. You felt his hand rub up and down your back, pressing kisses on the top of your head as you settled in. You were starting to feel sleepy, a mix of the food, tonic, and Arthur lulling you back to unconsciousness. 

“You smell good,” you mumbled, voiced half muffled by his neck.

“Do I meet your standards, princess?” 

“Y’always do, pretty boy.”

“Pretty boy?” Arthur scoffed lightly. 

“Very pretty. Prettiest boy I’ve ever met.”

You felt him shake his head, clearly not believing you, but you could feel his heart rate began to pick up. You didn’t have to look up to know he was blushing. 

“Go ahead and rest. You want me to send away visitors?”

“Only for an hour. Just gonna close my eyes for a bit. Promise me you’ll only let me sleep for a bit. 

“I promise,” was the last thing Arthur said to you before you fell asleep.

By the end of the day, your nightstand and the floor around it was filled with various trinkets and goods from the other gang members; Lenny had brought you your favorite candy; Javier had gotten you a new necklace that he totally hadn’t stolen; Mary-Beth bought you a new shirt, your previous destroyed beyond repair. It was at that point you remembered that your old boots and hat were still at the O’Driscoll’s camp.

To your surprise, even Micah had stopped in, albeit briefly, giving you a quick apology before leaving. You and Arthur had shared a good laugh at that after he was long gone.  As sick as you were at hearing the question “how are you doing”, it was nice to be cared for like this. 

Throughout the day, Arthur stayed by your side, leaving for only a few moments to relieve himself, grab something for you, or to confer with the others in camp. He would call on one of the girls in camp to help you when needed to relieve yourself. Dutch, bless him, didn’t call on Arthur once that day, giving both of you much needed rest. When you weren’t getting visitors or resting, you and Arthur chatted or cuddled in silence. 

Darkness had long since flooded your tent, the lantern hanging unlit in the center of your tent. Laying on your right side, Arthur lay behind you, arm strung across your waist, keeping you pulled close to him. As you closed your eyes, the warmth of the man behind you better than any blanket on the market, you realized there was no way you were ever going to be able to sleep alone again. 

You found yourself fine with that fact.

[say-hwaet]

That's the Way it Is

Chapter Five: Confessions of a Wanted Man Previous Chapters: IV III II I Summary: Arthur meets up with Hosea on a job, but guns and a quick tongue aren't the only things that accompany him. Warnings/Key Items: Mature Themes, Foreplay, Language Word Count: ~7,000 words

“Now that we’re done with this nonsense,” Arthur grunts as he rolls his shoulders. “I have somethin’ I need to tell you.”

Hosea waves off Seamus as the blacksmith disappears into his barn. They had just finished delivering a stolen stagecoach to him, in hopes of gaining an alliance…and a way to make money. 

Arthur and Hosea have always worked well together, Hosea with his quick mouth and cunning, and Arthur with his strength and resilience. Brains and Brawn, working side by side to get the job done. 

It would have worked another time, had they had the chance in Blackwater. Before everything went to hell. 

He would have had the opportunity, the greatest opportunity he could have ever had…

“What’s that, Arthur?” Hosea walks up to Silver Dollar, his Turkoman, and gives him a good pat on the neck.

“Kit is alive.”

Hosea freezes, his palm resting on Silver Dollar’s neck. He turns to look back at Arthur over his shoulder. “Arthur, I know you want to believe that–”

“She’s at camp. I found her.”

Hosea's expression shifts from disbelief to a profound amazement, shadowed by caution. "At camp? How? When?" His voice lowers as he glances around Emerald Tanch, ensuring no other ears are nearby.

Arthur takes a step closer, his eyes intense but worn. "I saw her with some feller in Valentine—”

“Yes, Bill and Javier came back calling you crazy…” His voice trails off and he shakes his head. “I was beginning to doubt you myself.”

Arthur continues. “Well, I followed them when they left, trailed them a mile or two behind. I heard gunshots, and came riding up to find that they had been attacked by bandits.”

Hosea leaves his mount and steps toward him. “Was she hurt?”

Arthur shakes his head, almost smiling. “She fought her way through, like always.”

Hosea can’t believe it, as disbelief is etched across his face. “Arthur…” His voice softens as he lays a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "This is remarkable news, but we need to tread carefully. With everything that happened before the ferry robbery…”

Arthur's expression tightens, the fleeting smile disappearing as quickly as it came. "I know, but I also need to tell you…” He steps closer to Hosea, speaking in a hushed voice. “She doesn’t remember.”

Hosea blinks. “At all?”

“At all. She didn’t know who I was…” Arthur looks out into the Heartlands, his heart aching in places he thought were closed off. “She don’t know that…”

“She doesn’t know,” Hosea repeats, understanding what he means. “I’m sorry, Arthur.”

“It’s better this way,” Arthur clears his throat after it trembles at the beginning of his sentence. “Dutch seems to be watchin’, he’s on edge with everythin’ and everyone. It’s best that we lie low, like you said, and hope for the best.”

Hosea lowers his head, exhaling slowly. “We’ve been through worse, don’t get me wrong, but, I think that it is only a matter of time before…” He lets his voice trail off.

“I know,” Arthur says with finality.

Hosea meets his gaze. “Are you sure she doesn’t remember anything?”

Arthur nods. “Yes. If she did remember, she wouldn’t be behavin’ as she is.”

Hosea tilts his head, his brow pinched in confusion. “What do you mean, son?”

“She’s…she’s…” He doesn’t know how to explain it, not without telling Hosea everything. Everything he has been keeping from everyone.

Hosea must see it in his face. “What is it, son?”

And like a crashing wave, it overwhelms him.

***

“I’m scared…” you say as he holds your face in his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks. “I’m scared that this will destroy us all.”

Arthur looks into your eyes, those hazel eyes with pools of green, and how the tears flow out of them. He hates it, he hates to see you cry, for you rarely ever do, only for deepest reasons that you are too proud to acknowledge. That’s just your way. It’s who you are.

And he loves you for all of it.

“I know, Kitten,” he says softly, feeling free to speak your pet name. You both have snuck away once more outside of camp, to a secret spot beyond the river. Blackwater is a dry land full of cheek grass, rocks, and valleys. It’s the Great Plains, touching on the borders of New Austin.

It’s open, more open than the woods that you and the gang have been sequestered in. And in doing so, other things have come out in the open.

It has been developing over the last couple of years. The glances, small gestures of kindness, the flirtatious banter, and witnessing how you’ve been with Jack. All these things have drawn Arthur to you, and he has begun to think that maybe, just maybe, that he could have the chance at a new life that has eluded him twice before. With Mary, and with Eliza and Isaac.

You were there after the fallout with Mary, though you never met Eliza. Actually, you didn’t know why he had come back after a few days drunk and bitter and depressed, not until years later, under a canopy of stars, when he told you that he had loved a woman, fathered a child, and found their two crosses. You were sensitive to him, then, not expecting anything, and only giving comfort in return. For the longest time, Arthur had closed his heart off to love, hopeless and sour-faced as a result. 

But now…you’ve grown to love each other and it has given Arthur hope.

And now Micah, with his forked tongue, has been spinning ideas in Dutch’s ear. This ferry, promising money beyond their wildest dreams, is the way to paradise. And Dutch is buying it.

And what’s worse, is that they are recruiting you to help them.

“If I do this, it can go two ways…” you continue, your voice wavering as you gaze up at the endless stretch of sky above, "Either we get enough to leave here for good... or things go wrong, Arthur. Badly wrong." There's a tightness in your chest as you speak, the weight of the impending danger pressing down like an iron shroud. “I normally don’t worry about things like this, but something is telling me otherwise…” 

Arthur's eyes, usually so full of determination and quiet strength, now reflect your fears. He wraps his arms around you tighter, as if to shield you from the uncertain future looming ahead. "We'll make it through this, Kit," he murmurs into your hair, the rough timbre of his voice both comforting and resolute. “Hosea and I have been workin’ on somethin’. Maybe we can get to it before all of this.”

He feels you shake your head, stirring the fragrance of patchouli and bergamot oils that scent your hair. “I love you, Arthur, můj král.”

My King. After King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. It was one of the first books you had read in its entirety. He thought it was a little silly, at first, to be referred to as a king, but now, the title holds a different meaning for him. It is a vow, a silent promise between the two of you, wrapped in the words of your native tongue.

Arthur’s grip tightens, his lips pressing a gentle, firm kiss atop your head. “And I love you, Kitten. No matter what happens.” He whispers it, his breath warm against the cool evening air. The tension in his frame doesn't ease, though; if anything, it tightens.

You pull back slightly, looking up into Arthur's eyes, needing to see the truth in them. “Promise me, promise that no matter what happens, we won’t leave without each other. Tell me that we’ll find a way to be together, even when the world seems hell-bent on keeping us apart.” Your voice cracks slightly with the intensity of your emotions, each word a plea tethered to the core of your being.

Arthur’s eyes soften, crinkling at the corners as he gives you a small, sad smile. "I promise, Kit. Ain't nothin' in this world or the next that could tear me away from you." His words, spoken with such certainty, make your heart swell even amid the fear and uncertainty.

You nod, feeling a momentary peace settle over you. “I want it to be eternal, Arthur.” His eyes lower to meet yours and he can see the sincerity in them.

He feels it. He’s thought about it, considered it, but was always too afraid, especially after everything that has happened prior to all of this.

He takes your hands in his, rubbing your knuckles as he considers his next words. “Then will you…?” He struggles, swallowing thickly as the moon casts its glow. “Will you…marry me, Kitka?”

Your expression says it all. Surprise, but relief. Joy that he would feel the same sentiment. “Yes, I will…” And you pull him into a kiss, your softness and hunger teasing at hidden desires that you have kept inside all of these years. You run your fingers through his hair, and he hears a soft moan in the back of your throat as he continues to kiss you hungrily.

He leaves your mouth, tracing your jawline and neck with soft kisses, inhaling the smell of your skin. You arch your neck back, opening yourself to him.

“Arth…Arthur…”

He’s become intoxicated by your smell, his hands beginning to softly wander. His heart thrums steadily, anticipation running through his veins. “Mmm…?”

You place a hand firmly on his chest, pushing him away. “We’ve waited this long…” you say, your voice trembling as you fight your own desires. “We need to find someone to marry us.”

Of course. He knows how much it means to you, and he senses the urgency of it, for many reasons.

He nods, understanding the significance of making it official, binding it beyond just words whispered in the shadow of night. “Alright, Kit. We’ll do it right.” Arthur’s voice is steady, reassuring as he pulls you back into an embrace.

***

The next morning dawns with a crispness that hints at the coming change. You and Arthur told Hosea that you were getting some last-minute supplies, and would be gone for a day or two. Arthur can trust Hosea to placate Dutch long enough for them to return, even though no one knows the reason why you both only took your horses, not a wagon cart to wheel in supplies back to camp.

Arthur watches you as you ride side by side. The dark wisps of your hair flying wildly in the wind. Odliv saddled in the embroidered leather that you painstakingly made, looks like a horse fit for carrying royalty. You look like a vision from a dream, your hazel eyes alight with determination and excitement. Arthur can't help but smile, his heart swelling with pride and love for the strong, incredible woman you've become.

As the church comes into view, a mix of nervousness and excitement bubbles up within him. He knows this is it. This is when you and him will be man and wife, and he can finally put to rest the fear of losing you forever. With every beat of his heart, he feels closer to a future he once thought impossible.

A minister, Arthur deduces by his attire, attends to a small garden on the side of the church, a small, weathered building that has seen better days, much like the two of you. It’s humble but fitting, mirroring the simplicity and authenticity of your love. As he dismounts, Arthur’s knees feel unsteady, not from the ride, but from the magnitude of the moment about to unfold.

He strides over to help you down from Odliv, his hands strong yet gentle. You take a deep breath, exhaling softly as your eyes meet his. You chuckle, the giddiness clearly evident. “Let’s go talk to him,” you say.

Taking your hand in his, he smiles down at you. “Okay…” You both walk together, calmly approaching the minister as his back is turned. Arthur clears his throat. “Ahem. Excuse me?”

The man shoots straight up, turning around and upon seeing you two, looks afraid while also trying to maintain an air of calm. “Can I help you?”

You, in your blunt way, speak plainly. “We are wanting to get married. Can you marry us?”

The man looks at you both with suspicion. “You aren’t…running away from something are you?”

You both look at each other. That is one of the nicer questions that he could be asking. And you smile as you shake your head. “No, just…running towards something better, together.” Your voice holds a hint of defiance, a sparkle of your past challenges woven through the calm of your present.

Arthur’s grip tightens around your hand, reassuring and solid. His eyes, a deep marine blue, don’t stray from yours, affirming every word silently as he nods to the man of the cloth. “Yes. We just wanted to do it right.”

The minister seems to appreciate this, as his eyes soften toward you both. “You’ll need two witnesses.”

You frown. “Oh.”

Then he grins. “Don’t worry, I’m sure the groundskeeper and his wife won’t mind. They are inside now.” He brushes the dirt off his hands. “Please, give me a moment to ask them.” And he turns around to head inside the church.

When he leaves, Arthur feels you pull on his arm. He looks down at you and sees the goofiest smile on your face. “What?” he chuckles.

“It’s happening, Arthur,” you whisper as you nearly hop up and down. You are such a little thing, a precious thing, and he finds you adorable. “We’re getting married.”

He’s glad that you are so happy. Even with the loom of what will soon happen in Blackwater, he’s glad to be sharing this small time with you, without the prying eyes of everyone at camp.

He smiles at you and brings your hand up to kiss it, leaving his lips planted there longer than necessary.

The door to the church opens and the minister waves them over. “Please! Come in, you shall have your wedding.”

You giggle cheerfully, nearly pulling Arthur along. He nearly fumbles, but quickly falls in step with you once you reach the steps.

As you both enter the church, Arthur lets his eyes wander. It is clean, and even though it is old, it looks well-maintained. The stained glass windows cast a colored light into the small space, and turning his head, he sees the light casting a rainbow of colors on your skin.

You’re a beautiful sight.

The minister begins to introduce you both to the gardener and his wife. “Mr. and Mrs. Greene, this is…” and he turns to you two.

Arthur speaks for you both. “Arthur Morgan and Kitka Petrova.”

Mrs. Greene’s face lights up, looking at you. “Oh, you’re Russian?”

You shake your head, your brow pinching. “No, Czechoslovakian.”

The woman blinks. “Oh.” And after a moment, her eyes light up. “I will be right back.” And she steps quickly out the doors of the church.

You tap Arthur and he looks down at you. “I have something I want to change into…” And you turn to the minister. “Is there a place where I can freshen up really quick?”

He nods, pointing to a small door at the front of the church. “Right in there.”

You nod your thanks and let your hand graze Arthur’s arm before letting him go, taking your satchel with you. He can’t imagine what you want to wear, but it is your wedding day. Anything to make it more special, he is going to let you.

He wishes that he had something to wear.

The minister clears his throat. “So, Mr. Morgan, how did you meet your fiancée?”

Arthur knows the poor man is just trying to make conversation while they wait, but Arthur isn’t sure how to answer that. He thinks of the easiest answer. “We, erm…we grew up together. We met in California.”

“Oh? California is quite the distance from here.”

Arthur chortles. “Shoah is. Just didn’t think to ask her to marry me up until now.”

He hears the door open, and you step out slowly. Your skirt and blouse is the same, aside from the headdress and lace apron you wear. Arthur has seen you wear kroj before, the intricate floral embroidery all done by your hand, but as the years have gone by, you’ve worn the traditional garb of your home country less and less. To see you in the fěrtúšek and the Čepení , makes him feel something.

You pause by the door, pressing down the wrinkles of the fěrtúšek . “I don’t have a way to fix it.”

Arthur shakes his head. “You’re perfect, darlin’.”

Mrs. Greene smiles as she comes back in, with a bouquet of flowers in her hand. “Yes, dear. Just lovely.” 

You try to hide the blush on your cheek behind some of the fabric in your headdress, but it is a futile effort. You approach him, your eyes not leaving him and he takes your hands gently.

The minister beams. “I guess we are all ready now?”

With one more glance at you, Arthur looks at him. “We’re ready now, sir.”

The minister nods, a gentle warmth in his eyes as he motions for you and Arthur to step forward. You both walk in between the few wood pews worn smooth from years of use. Dust motes dance in the beams of sunlight filtering through the stained glass windows, casting vibrant hues across the wooden floor. The air is filled with a reverence and a whimsy that Arthur hasn’t really felt before, or at least he can’t seem to recognize it.

The minister gestures for Mr. and Mrs. Greene to come up, given that they are witnesses and all. They step forward and Mrs. Greene hands you the bouquet. You smile at her and take a moment to bury your nose in the flowers to drink in their aroma.

Now, you’re ready.

The minister goes through the words, and, of course, Arthur easily drowns them out. He’s never been a religious man, given his chosen profession, but in this moment, under the soft glow of the church’s stained glass, he feels something sacred. Arthur’s eyes never leave yours as the minister speaks of love, commitment, and the bonds that hold two people together. Your hands are clasped tightly together, his rough and calloused against your softer, delicate ones.

Then the minister’s next words require a response as he asks Arthur the question, “Arthur Morgan, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To love and to cherish, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

Arthur’s throat tightens, and his voice is a gravelly whisper when he finally speaks. “I do,” he says, squeezing your hands as if to reinforce the promise. His blue eyes, usually so guarded and stern, now shimmer with unshed tears, a rare glimpse of the vulnerability he so seldom lets show.

The minister turns his benevolent gaze on you, your breath hitches, the weight of the moment settling around you like a summer breeze. “Kitka Petrova, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To love and to cherish, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

And you do not hesitate, confidence emanating through the two most powerful words, “I do.”

Mrs. Greene emits a soft sigh, clearly enraptured by these two strangers. It almost bolsters Arthur’s resolve, a reassurance that they are doing the right thing.

Then, as though you had rehearsed it, you take out a ring, your father’s ring, and taking Arthur’s hand in yours, you slip it over his finger. You gasp softly. It fits.

And fulfilling his part, he takes the ring from his pocket, your mother’s ring, and it fits your finger perfectly.

And then the final words are spoken. “By the power vested in me, I pronounce you man and wife…” And the minister looks at Arthur. “You may kiss the bride.”

Arthur leans in, his eyes locking onto yours, the world around both of you fading into a distant murmur. His hands cup your face gently, a stark contrast to the usual roughness his life demands. “I love you,” he whispers, and catches your reply in his mouth. The kiss is tender, a seal on the vows you’ve just exchanged, filled with promises of a future that both of you have so long dreamed for.

***

“Are you sure you don’t want a hotel room?” Arthur asks you while starting the fire. You both have wandered further into New Austin, finding a body of water in a secluded spot. The canyon stands as a guardian, shielding anyone from coming by and seeing them. “It just don’t seem right to not get you a comfy bed and feather pillows on your weddin’ night.”

You are in your bare feet standing ankle-deep in the water as it laps waves into your legs. “I prefer this. It’s beautiful out here, and I find myself more at home in places like this.” You turn to look over your shoulder at him. “And no one is around.”

Arthur’s cheeks burn pink and he looks down. Here you are getting him more bashful when it’s you who ought to be.

The night air is cool, carrying the scent of juniper and the distant howl of a coyote. Arthur finishes setting up the small camp, his movements efficient yet gentle, always mindful of the world around him. The fire catches with a soft crackle, its glow dancing across his features, casting long shadows behind him. He rises to his feet and still finds you standing in the water. He smiles to himself and walks up to you, stopping at the water so he doesn’t get his boots wet.

“Are you ever gonna get out of that water, woman?”

You don’t turn around, but he can hear the smile in your voice. “That’s Mrs. Morgan, to you.”

Oh, does it ever feel good to hear those words. Never did he think those would ever be spoken near him. Bolstered by the thrill of it, he comes to you quickly, scooping you up in his arms. Water drips from your legs and you screech excitedly. “Mrs. Morgan, get out of that water,” he orders huskily. 

Your giggling simmers down quickly, and your eyes meet his as he carries you. “Okay.”

He leans in and kisses you hard on the mouth, and you sigh deeply. He feels his heart pound in his chest and your arms wrap around his neck.

Tonight, the desert's vastness seems to embrace you both, the stars twinkling like countless eyes watching over your newfound happiness. With Arthur carrying you back to the camp, the sand feels warm under his boots, a stark contrast to the cool water you just left.

He sets you down on a laid-out bedroll beside the newly kindled fire, close for the light to be cast on you but far enough where its heat won’t be a hindrance.

He remains hovered over you and even if he were to move, your arms hold him there as they are still around you. He looks at you, how the light of the fire casts its glow, burning a desire in him so deep that he feels as if it might consume him entirely. "I reckon I've been waitin' a lifetime for somethin' like this," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. The firelight flickers in your eyes, reflecting the earnestness of his words.

You reach up, tracing the line of his jaw. Your touch is so tender, so soft, as though you are mapping out a path on a sacred map, each contour under your fingertips a treasure trove of shared secrets and quiet dreams. “And I,” you whisper back, feeling the heat of the fire mingled with the warmth of his body, “never thought it would happen.”

He snorts at that. “No, you?” His grip tightens around your waist. “I find that hard to believe.”

You nod. “It’s true. I saw how other men looked at me. Mesmerized one moment, and disgusted the next.” Your eyes cast downward, avoiding his gaze. “I thought that because of my background, no decent man would want me.” Then your eyes lift into his again, and your palm goes over his chest. “But…I don’t think that anymore.”

He knows you feel his heart pounding, beating against his ribcage.

Arthur softens, his face close to yours, his breath mingling with the chilly night air. "Kit," he says gently, the word a caress in itself, "you're more than decent. You're extraordinary." His words hover between you like the fine desert sand carried by a breeze. "And those fools who looked at you that way—”

You place a finger on his lips, stopping him. “Arthur…I want you to touch me.”

His eyes, wide with a mixture of surprise and longing, search your face for any sign of hesitation. But there is none. There's only the clear, deep need reflected back at him—a need that mirrors his own. Your breath catches as his hands, those large, calloused hands, move slowly, almost reverently, down the curve of your back. Each touch whispers promises and secret confessions, lingering in places that make both of your hearts skip and your bodies tremble.

You convey your impatience by taking his arms, guiding them to leave you for a brief moment before placing his hands on the buttons of your blouse, leaning up and kissing him at the same time. The kiss deepens, drawing out a sigh from both of your lips as if the very air you shared was laced with destiny. His fingers fumble briefly at the buttons, a testament to his eagerness matched only by his reverence for the moment. The fabric parts, and the cool night air kisses your skin, raising goosebumps across its milky whiteness.

Arthur parts for just a moment, looking at you as you help remove your blouse and begin to work on your chemise as you untuck it from your skirt. He leans away to remove his shirt, undoing each button one by one. He hears your fragmented breaths as you hurry, and he looks up to see that your chemise and skirt are now gone, your bloomers only remaining.

He freezes what he is doing, letting out a broken chuff. He knew you were beautiful, but this…this is nearly heart-stopping.

You move to cover yourself, but hesitate. “Do I…? Does this disappoint you?”

His gaze lingers on you, raw admiration etched into the lines of his face, transforming him from the rugged outlaw to a man utterly captivated by the woman before him. "Kitka," he murmurs again, and this time your name sounds like a prayer from his lips. “Never.” The moonlight dances across your skin, and it’s all he can do from not rushing forward. Instead, he takes a deep, steadying breath, and tries to calm the storm raging inside him. Every instinct in his body screams to close the distance, to claim every inch of your exposed skin with his mouth, his hands. But he holds back, allows himself this moment to truly see you, all barriers gone as you slip your thumbs underneath the waistband of your bloomers, leaning back and pushing them off.

Your movements are graceful, clearly putting your skills as a mesmerizing performer to work. Only, this type of disappearing act will ever be for his eyes only.

You seem to have more confidence, as you rise on your knees and move closer to him. You maneuver your legs to where he kneels in between them, and you take his hands as they remain on the half-unbuttoned shirt.

Your hands guide his to pull the shirt off completely, letting it fall away to join the pile of discarded clothing. The somber moon casts its silvery glow, highlighting the contours of his well-built frame and creating a tableau—a mix of shadow and light playing across his sinewed chest.

The cooler air causes him to shiver and you press your body into his as he remains kneeled in the dirt and you wrap your arms around him. He buries his head in between your breasts and you card your fingers through his hair, your long fingernails sending chills down his spine. You are so soft, so warm and welcoming.

“Make love to me, můj král,” you moan softly. “Make love to your wife.”

And suddenly awakening that deep desire, his arms wrap around your waist and he guides you down on your back. Coming up to kiss you, he presses his lips deeper into yours, as he works his boots and pants free. It is a noble task, and once his boots and pants are nothing but a pile on the dirt, you break from his kiss. You look at his naked body, his muscles glistening in the moonlight, carved as if by the harsh landscapes through which he'd roamed. His eyes, those deep pools of marine blue, are fixed on you with an intensity that sends a visible shiver throughout your body. It's not just lust that shines in his gaze but a fierce protectiveness and the tender vulnerability of a man who has lost much yet finds himself on the precipice of reclaiming a part of his soul. His hands, rough from years of labor and gunplay, trace the curves of your body with a reverence that speaks to his deep-seated need to cherish what he once thought irretrievably lost.

Your eyes on him, though full of love and kindness, make him feel nervous. It has been years since he has been with a woman, and the fact that you have never seen a man in this form before doesn’t change the way he feels.

“I’m sorry,” he utters.

You look up at him, after looking his entire body over. “For what?”

He chortles and shakes his head. “Nothin’.” Arthur’s eyes soften as he looks down at you, his gaze again tracing the lines of your face illuminated by the moon. "Just... never thought I'd deserve this," he murmurs, his voice rough like the gravel paths you both once tread in a life that feels both distant and painfully close. “Deserve you.”

You reach up, your hand gently caressing his cheek, your fingers tracing the stubble along his jawline. "Everyone deserves a chance at happiness, Arthur," you whisper, your voice as soft as the breeze rustling through the nearby trees. "Even you."

He hesitates, the weight of his past and the shadows in his eyes flickering like the dimming embers of a campfire, but then he nods slowly, accepting your words. Arthur lowers himself, his body aligning with yours as the coarse fabric of the blanket beneath melds with the softness of the earth. His breath is warm against your cheek, mingling with the cool night air, creating a symphony of contrasting sensations that reflects the complexity of the emotions swirling between you.

He takes his hand and gently grazes your inner thigh. “You want me to…?” He wants to ask if you want him to guide you through what he’s about to do, but he isn’t sure how to say it without making it come out awkward.

But you take his hand, gently, but firm, instincts taking over inexperience. “Just…” you hiss softly. “Take me.”

And he takes you like a thief.

***

The silence that envelops the night is punctuated by the distant hoot of an owl and the rustle of leaves, a natural symphony that seems to acknowledge the sanctity of this moment between outcasts. He can feel your heartbeat, strong and pure as his fingertips trace the contours of your spine, descending to the small of your back, pulling you closer until there's no space left between you.

Your body is misted in sweat and he tries to conceal his breathing as he tries to catch it. You intertwine your legs with his and leaning in close, you plant light kisses on his collarbone.

“Are you alright?” you ask innocently, reaching a hand to wipe his brow. “You’re trembling.”

He nods. “I’m fine, kitten,” he purrs, focusing on the feel of your flesh beneath his fingers as you lay beside him. 

“Did I do good?” you ask him, then chuckling at your words. “Never mind. I should not have said that.”

He kisses your forehead. To think that you are still concerned about pleasing him, when he should be the one ensuring your comfort, makes his heart swell with an affection so potent it nearly suffocates him. “Oh, kitten…” he murmurs into your hair, his lips tracing a line down to your ear where he whispers reassurances of his love. “You were perfect.”

The stars above seem to twinkle their approval of this union, and they match the bubbliness in your giggle as you hide your face in his chest. “Really?”

“Really.”

You go quiet for a moment, and he feels the soft heat of your breath on his skin as it slows. “I don’t want this to end, Arthur.” And your voice starts to tremble. “I can’t go back to camp pretending this didn’t happen.”

He couldn’t agree more. There has to be something that can be done. A way to make it last long after tonight, long when years have gone. Then something comes into his mind. An idea. He leans back to look at your glistening body, letting his forefinger trail down your neck, sternum, and to your belly. “It doesn’t have to.”

Your eyes look into his, as though searching for an explanation. “What do you mean?”

He decides to spare you any enigmatic airs, like Dutch or Hosea. It’s always paid to be straightforward with you. “We leave.”

The word "leave" hangs between you like a promise, tinted with both the thrill of the unknown and the weight of all it would mean to abandon the life you've known. His fingertips still hovering at your belly, his gaze holds yours, unblinking, as raw and open as you've ever seen him.

“Leave?”

“Yes.”

You rest a hand on his chest. “You’d do that?”

“It ain’t like I have never thought about it.” In fact, he tried it once, years ago, but it was too late then. You were there for that, but you never knew, he never told anyone. He pulls you tighter. “I don’t see how it could be a better time.” He begins to picture it. A house in the woods, a garden and maybe some horses. Maybe…even little feet running across the wooden floors, and you chasing after them.

But you, always pragmatic, ask the real question. “How?”

It would have to be when everyone is distracted. Busy. When they would least expect you to. “The ferry robbery.” The idea hangs heavily in the air, infused with fears and possibilities alike. "During the peak of the robbery," Arthur continues, his voice a low rumble against the backdrop of the night's serene silence. "We grab what we need beforehand, have it ready, and disappear before anyone notices. It’s going to be chaos — no one will see us go."

"But Dutch?" you interject, your voice a whisper tangled in concern. Dutch had been like a father to both of you, his towering presence weaving through the threads of your lives, binding you to the gang. The thought of betraying him prickles your conscience like thorns. “He needs me to act as a hostage, that’s right in the middle of it…”

Arthur's eyes soften, the lines around them deepening with understanding. “You can slip off the boat when no one’s lookin’. You’ll look like a passenger. You’ll be a woman goin’ to meet her husband. You’ve pulled off easier stories than that.”

You look at the ring on your finger and feel butterflies in your stomach. Then you realize something. “We will need money.”

Arthur nods. You’re right. If Dutch taught him anything, it is that everything comes with a price, and so will leaving the gang for good. He lets his fingers caress your body, its silky softness arousing passions deep within him again. “I have some saved. About thirty dollars.” His eyes, piercing and resolute, meet yours as he adds, "Plus whatever you can take from the ferry. It ain't a fortune but it’s a start. Enough to get us away from here, buy us some time to figure out more." He feels a swirl of excitement with the twinge of danger. And he sees how you look at him, study him.

“I need something until then.”

Need? Would that you would never want or need of anything again, as long as he’s alive and breathing.  “Anythin’, Kitten.”

Your voice is low and soft as you make your request. “I need you to call me your wife.”

He snorts. “I can’t in front of the gang, Kitten, they’ll know.”

“Manželka, ” you say. And it catches him off guard. He’s tried to remember all the things you say, and this one isn’t familiar to him.

“What?”

You repeat it again, only slowly this time. “Manželka. It means wife.”

He understands now, like a secret code, words that can be spoken out loud but no one will know otherwise. “How do you say, ‘I love my beautiful wife?’”

Your lips curve into a smile, finding amusement and warmth in teaching him. “Miluji svou krásnou ženu,” you whisper back, your voice a veil of softness in the firelight that is growing dim.

Arthur tries it out, the unfamiliar words rolling awkwardly off his tongue. “Miluji svou krásnou ženu.” He grins, his chest swelling like a child who has just begun to learn to read. “How was that?”

He sees your dilated pupils, and your hands begin to travel down his body. “I can get you to say other things if you want…”

His eyes widen at your brazenness, and he feels his cheeks burn. “Kit—” he coughs, clearly caught off guard as you touch him in the most intimate of places. 

“Why, Mr. Morgan,” you giggle, kissing his chin. “Did I make you blush?”

The flames of the fire dance in your eyes as you pull him close, his breath mingling with yours. He nods, the rough stubble of his beard brushing against your cheek. "You did, indeed," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that is suddenly caught in the pleasantness of your mouth, and soon he is a thief once again.

***

“My God,” Hosea breathes, as the weight of Arthur’s words sink in. “I suspected you two were sweet on one another, but...” He blinks. “You…”

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Arthur says, raising his palms. “I only told you ‘cause I…” His voice falls for a moment. “I just had to tell someone.” He did it. He shared the truth. That you and him are married. Sparing the intimate details, of course, but he feels a weight being lifted, relieved that he can find someone to trust and share in his plight.

Hosea nods. “I understand, son.” Hosea looks back at Silver Dollar, his eyes weary with sorrow. “I wish that you both made it out.”

Hosea's voice carries a hint of regret, one that twitches the corners of his aged eyes, making Arthur wonder if the older man ever regrets the path they've chosen, the life on the run. "But since you're still here," Hosea continues, patting Arthur gently on the shoulder, "you've got to try to find a new life for yourself. And for her, too." His voice is gentle, a stark contrast to the usual sharpness that life demanded of them.

Arthur nods silently, his eyes heavy with unshed tears, reflecting the glaring light from the sun. He feels a strange mix of relief and desolation. Your absence was like he was missing a vital organ, and now that you’re back, he needs to approach things differently now. And it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done. 

“I can’t tell her, Hosea,” Arthur says. “She gets to be in a lot of pain when she tries to remember things. It hurts me to see her like that.” He tucks his chin, weighing out his next words. “It could kill her if she knew.”

“Maybe that’s what happened.”

Arthur’s eyes lift to look at Hosea to see a steely gaze. “What?”

“Dutch said she drowned.” Hosea pauses, his voice softening as he watches Arthur closely. "But we both know Dutch can spin a tale when it suits him." Hosea's eyes hold a spark of something unreadable—a mixture of suspicion and hope. "You found her alive, didn't you? That means there's more to this story, more than we've been told."

Arthur's breath catches in his throat, a mix of fear and determination setting into his features. He shakes his head. “I don’t want to believe that,” he admits, the words heavy as stones.

“Think about it, son,” Hosea argues. “I am the last person to want to think of Dutch in that way, but…” He pauses. “But if what I’ve heard about that ferry robbery is true…If Dutch really did kill that girl in cold blood…” He studies Arthur for a moment. “Did you ask Dutch about it?”

"Yes." His voice is barely a whisper, afraid that speaking it louder might make it real. "I confronted him. All he told me that he didn’t see her, like he's weighin’ whether I should be told the truth or spared from it." Arthur's hands clench tightly into fists, a deep-seated anger simmering beneath the calm exterior. “Like he’s protectin’ someone.” Or, he fears, himself.

Hosea sighs, his breath calm and steady. “Just be careful, Arthur.”

“You know I will.” Arthur’s reply is gruff, edged with the resolve that has carried him through more than a few tight spots. “Could you talk to him? See if maybe he will tell you what happened?”

Hosea nods. “I will.”

Arthur nods. “Thank you, Hosea.” And he turns to head toward Montana. “Kit is back at camp. She’d be happy to see you, I told her about you.” He mounts Montana and takes the reins. “I need to meet up with Charles and Javier. Trelawny is supposed to have information on Sean.”

“Oh? Where’s that?”

“Blackwater.”

Hosea tenses. “Be careful, son. Remember, you’re wanted dead or alive.”

Arthur offers a grim smile, the corners of his mouth twitching with a mix of determination and rueful acknowledgment. "Ain't my first dance with danger," he replies, tightening his grip on Montana's reins. The horse shifts beneath him, sensing the rising tension. "I'll keep my head low."

With a nod, the gunslinger turns Montana and rides southward, leaving Hosea to watch his retreat, a blend of concern and pride etched deep into his weathered face. The sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the dusty road as Arthur disappears from view.

Thank you for reading! :D

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"Come back to me"

~ Hosea Matthews/Dutch Van Der Linde/Male!Reader (Arthur, John, Tilly, Lenny, Abigail, Jack mention) ~ Fluff, lost/found family (Day 1) ~ Romantic ~ 4.5k words NOT CANON TO THE RDR2 STORYLINE. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Looking back, it had to have been at least fifteen years since you last saw your family. You wondered if they thought you ran off. If you cracked under the pressure of being against the law; of the reality that your life wouldn’t be even remotely close to normal. The majority of you hoped they could forgive you, even if it wasn’t directly your fault. Fifteen years seems like such a long time ago now, but every day felt agonizing for you. Every morning you woke up longing for them again, hoping that somehow, in the big wide world, you’d somehow stumble upon them all again. In the first few years, you hadn’t seen their names in the newspapers, so you stopped looking as hope dwindled.

That one fateful day felt just like any other. The foggy morning of August twenty-third, eighteen-eighty-four. Your beautiful baby girl, Tilly, had crawled up into your tent that night after a particularly nasty nightmare about… you didn’t remember really. Your exhausted brain barely registered the six-year-old girl curled up against your side, snoring worse than Arthur had when he was a boy. Tilly was the most recent “adoptee” of the gang. Supposedly found sobbing her little heart out on the steps of a place of..dubious morals. One of your husbands– not legally, but it was the thought that counted– Dutch, had said she was crying for her mama, but that thought just made your heart clench and you asked him not to divulge further. All you knew was that, just like the boys before her, she needed a home. You had so much love to give and became as much of a father to her as you could, alongside Dutch and Hosea, of course.

Preceding her, was a scruffy boy named John. Oh, how that boy would get into trouble at every twist and turn. It all got a bit fuzzy, remembering exactly how old your kids were when they were taken in, but you knew he was twelve now. Lord knows he wouldn’t stop bragging about how he’ll be a teenager soon.

And, of course, you couldn’t forget Arthur, your eldest. Definitely less of a hassle than John, but put those two together and it’d take all Dutch, Hosea, and you had just to pull them away from each other…again. You were more of a father to Arthur than the other two kids, as he’d known you longer. He was, as much as you hate to admit it, the practice child. He was well into his teens when the ever blossoming gang had found him, right after his father was killed. You could hardly remember all of the times you fought. You and Dutch were just starting to enter your thirties, whilst Hosea was already in his forties. If it weren’t for them, you would’ve left him to starve. You were so…bitter. But now? Now, you get emotional at just the idea of one of your babies getting hurt. You nearly had a heart attack after Arthur’s breakup with…Molly? Missy? You couldn’t remember now.

Managing to worm yourself around the small girl in your bed, you rise to your feet with a lazy yawn. The sun was barely beginning to rise, making the fog seem more dense than it realistically was. Pulling your quilt up over Tilly’s shoulders, you tuck her back in, not wanting to wake her so soon, as you lean down and press a gentle kiss to her forehead. Due to the lack of proper resources, everyone had to share a tent. You with your husbands, Dutch and Hosea, and all three kids together in another tent. At first, that thought worried you, terrified they were going to torment one another, but you were soon reassured by the discovery that, when tired enough, they all leave each other alone. Glancing over towards the other two cots, pushed together to make it easier to fit two grown men, a smile crosses your lips as you watch Hosea and Dutch sleep so peacefully. You could hardly resist yourself, sneaking over just to kiss their foreheads as well. Your hand gently pushes Dutch’s hair out of his face, earning a slight scrunch of his nose in his sleep. You usually hated being up so early, but your internal clock refused to let you fall back asleep. Sneaking out of the tent, you internally wince at the feeling of the dewy grass between your toes, immediately locking onto your boots that you’d left by the tent entrance last night. Picking one up, you tip it upside down, repeatedly patting the sole to dump out any hidden scorpions. Satisfied with its emptiness, you slip it on, your union suit pant leg bunching up at the bottom, only to do the same with your second boot. It was like a ritual at this point. Wake up, cautiously get up; careful of anyone in your bed, check up on everyone before debating with your husbands to see who’s making breakfast. Though, Dutch is usually left out..especially after he somehow melted the only pot you had.

Making your way into the kid’s tent, you push the flap open quietly and poke your head in. John was halfway off his bed, somehow turned all the way around with his head dangling off the foot of it, making his face all pink. Arthur had fallen asleep with a book draped over his face, no doubt some Evelyn Miller book Dutch had been yapping about. Slowly, you creep inside, right up to John’s cot. Cramming three beds into one tent was difficult, but you all made it work. It was awkward at first, but putting Tilly between both boys seemed to quell the arguments for the most part. Gently, you pick the boy up from the edge of his bed, readjusting him entirely to lay normally for once, his head resting on his pillow. Reaching down to grab his, disgustingly dirty, wool blanket off the floor and, extremely reluctantly, covering him back up as John curls up happily beneath it. He never let you wash the damn thing, even if you desperately needed to. You could only imagine the horrors that lay inside the fibers. Turning around, you round Tilly’s cot over to Arthur on the opposite side of the tent. Grabbing the book by both the top and bottom, curling your fingers underneath the open pages to prevent them from closing right on Arthur’s face, you lift it up off of him and close it, setting it just beside him instead. Little did you know, as soon as you woke up that morning, you were already being watched by bounty hunters. You, Dutch, Hosea, and young Arthur managed to scrounge up a couple hundred dollar bounties just from petty thievery..except for that one bank robbery somewhere in the newly formed state of Kansas. Greedy bastard, you recall, but that was as far as your memory went, it all blurred so easily since it went by so fast.

You remember leaving the boys and shuffling a bit away from camp to take a leak, but you didn’t even get your buttons undone before you’re ambushed. Someone with a gun to your back, holding you up against him with a hand over your mouth. Someone else making the demands.

Something about wanting you to turn in your family to collect the money from the law? You could hardly focus, the first thing that left your mouth was “me, not them”. Inexperienced, they accepted that…and your myriad of violent threats and expletives as they all but kidnapped you without much of a trace due to the lack of struggle.

It was hard to comprehend how long fifteen years was in retrospect. Everything was changing now. Eighteen-ninety-nine. One year before a whole new century. The years beyond your capture were nothing whatsoever. Endless roaming, searching, running from the law. Ironic. You were originally doubtful to become an outlaw, but after fleeing from your cell, you’d been wanted ever since.

You were doubtful you’d ever make it back home. Afraid that Dutch and Hosea were just distant memories now. You wondered if your kids ever made it past that day. Hopelessness plagued you everywhere you went. At least, that’s how you felt, until you stupidly tripped over someone’s extended leg as they sat on the Valentine train station steps.

“Sorry.” You mumble gruffly, pulled out of your thoughts as you finally pull your gaze from the mud beneath your boots and over to the person you’d so rudely stepped on. It was some rugged looking man, but he seemed familiar somehow. Sandy blonde hair, barely hidden by a hat you can’t seem to properly place. Face covered by a scruffy stubble, sharp features. The man looked surprised to see you, if not oddly elated.

“Y/N?” The man questions, completely disregarding the incident of you tripping on him as he rises to his feet, standing in front of you. He had a few inches on you, that’s for sure. “Do I know you?” You inquire. He seemed a bit dejected at that, but he doesn’t let it deter him. The corner of his mouth turns upwards in a lopsided grin of hardly contained excitement.

Reaching up quickly, he pulls off his hat, holding it to his chest. There’s practically stars in his eyes, fully expecting you to remember who he is. “You kinda look like my son, Arthur...” You mumble, idly scratching at your jaw with a sideways glance towards the train tracks just a few feet away.

Turning back up towards the man, his expression is unreadable. A mixture of sorrow, utter joy, and shock paints his face, whatever that feeling would be called, you weren’t sure. “You still think I’m your son..?” Arthur questions, almost honored that you still thought of him that way.

He never thought he’d see you again after you just vanished. He wanted to be angry with you, to demand answers as to what the hell happened to make you just get up and leave, but he was just relieved you were alive. So much had happened, he didn’t know where to start!

“Arthur?” You echo as your eyes widen. Surely not. This guy is just making a fool out of you, but the longer you stare at him, the more that fuzzy image of that twenty-one year old Arthur returns to your memory. The chip in his tooth, the scar on his chin, the little divot in the tip of his nose…you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

Your first reaction is to hug your son as tightly as you possibly can, subsequently squishing his hat between both of your chests. He was alive! Your son was alive! He looked so much older now, it was hard to believe. The burden of the knowledge that you’d missed out on a good chunk of his life was almost unbearable. You didn’t even want to imagine if everyone else was still alive.

To feel Arthur’s arm around you, albeit slightly hesitant and much more tense, it was like a weight was just ripped right off your chest. You could feel Arthur’s heartbeat against your throat as you rested your chin atop his left shoulder, pounding almost as fast as your own.

But he’s the first to pull away, as a young-looking black man approaches him, waving a letter at him with a quirked eyebrow, clearly stunned to see Arthur hugging some strange old man. “Lenny.” Arthur clears his throat, patting you on the shoulder with one hand, setting his hat back atop his head with the other as he turns to face this Lenny fella.

“You ‘member Dutch and Hosea talkin’ ‘bout that old lover they had a ways back?” Lenny nods, shock and amusement crossing his features. Arthur gestures vaguely towards you that Lenny’s eyes follow.

“You’re Y/N?” He questions, to which you nod, extending your right hand to be shaken. Lenny quickly switches the letters from his right hand to his left to shake your hand properly. It’s firm and polite, clearly holding immense respect for you, despite being near strangers.

But, you can hardly grapple with the idea of meeting someone new as your mind circles back to what Arthur had said. “Dutch and Hosea?” You prompt curiously, almost worried, earning an amused chuckle from both men.

“Yeah? Who else?” Lenny asks, releasing your hand and handing the letters off to Arthur. You don’t bother to ask. “I meant- they’re still.. y’know.. alive, I guess…” You clarify awkwardly, glancing towards your son, watching Arthur rifle through the letters in hand.

“I don’t think even they could kill one another, much less something else entirely.” Arthur remarks, sidestepping to allow Lenny to walk past, headed for a large wagon just behind the train station.

This was the most excited you’d felt..ever, really. You can’t help the grin that overtakes your face. Your lips parting to ask another question, but Arthur beats you to it as he makes eye contact with you again.

“Yes, John ‘n lil’ Tilly are alive too. Yes, We’ll take you to ‘em.”

You nod eagerly, like a schoolboy being given the sweetest candy he could ever ask for. Only, this was his family finally being returned to him. You felt like you couldn’t get back to your horse quick enough. Nearly running into people as you quickly walked back to it, your eyes zeroing in on it hitched at the rundown saloon.

Ignoring the insults hurled your way for pushing people out of your path, you force yourself to calm down long enough to mount your horse, not wanting to startle it. Pulling the reins up off the hitch rail, pushing your boot into the stirrup and slinging your bodyweight up to the other side of your saddle.

Pressing your heels into its flanks as you pull the reins to the right, forcing your horse to turn around, riding right back up to Arthur and that new boy, Lenny. He seems young, must’ve been tagging along with Arthur, you guess.

Riding alongside the wagon on the right side, you have to force yourself to maintain focus on the obstacles ahead and not stare at your son as he drives the wagon. It’s hard to believe. He’d grown up so much, you thought you’d end up finding his grave some day without being given a chance to say goodbye. The idea sends a shiver down your spine and bile rising in your throat.

The ride back to where your family had gathered felt like an eternity. Fifteen additional years just to make it back. The sun was already beginning to set, the shadows elongated on the ground. You were antsy on your saddle, you barely noticed when you finally came to a stop, with Arthur telling Lenny to run on ahead and warn the gang and to leave him to situate the wagon.

Watching Arthur guide you into a small clearing between the trees, the wheels on the wagon creaking in the mud. You can hear several voices just ahead, some louder than others, you can pick up two very distinct voices, more frantic than the rest. You barely make it four feet into the camp before you dismount your horse, trusting Arthur to take care of it. Your eyes locking onto the distinct features of your husbands, right next to Lenny.

They seem much older now. Dutch took your advice and finally grew out his mustache, Hosea’s blonde hair had gone gray. Much older than you remembered, but you hardly cared. You were sure you looked older and more worn as well. Your feet carry you through the grass before you knew what was going on.

In an instant, you’re standing in front of Dutch and Hosea. Hosea’s shaking hands reach out to cup your cheeks. The touch is so familiar, yet so foreign. It makes your eyes water as you lean into his touch. “Darlin’?” Dutch chokes out, taking your hands into his own. His thumbs feeling over your bony knuckles, the skin getting tougher there over the years. You were never very violent before, but you were forced to after being on the run for so long. All Dutch wanted to do was protect you, but he’d never, ever admit that.

“Is that really you? What- Where have you been..?” He prompts, his brow furrowing. Letting go of your hand, he gently pulls one of Hosea’s hands off of your cheek, replacing it with his own.

“It’s..a long story…” You chuckle sheepishly as your tears begin to fall against your will. How long had it been since you’d felt like this? So full, so complete, so happy?

Straightening up, you press a kiss to Hosea’s lips, earning a slight gasp, before he leans into you. His bony thumb swiping against your cheekbone, against the wet track left in its place. “I missed you, sweetheart…” You whisper as you break the kiss. Hosea presses his forehead against your own, not wanting to pull away from you whatsoever.

But, not wanting to leave out your other husband, you press a kiss to Dutch’s lips next. He’s much more rough. Moving his hands down and grasping at your shirt tightly. He hates feeling so vulnerable, he always has, but he can’t hold back after seeing you again.

Hardly even registering Hosea as he shifts to stand behind you, hugging you close. Your mind flickered to a stray thought about people getting confused seeing their gang leaders embracing some strange man, but none of them have the courage to speak up at the moment, letting the trio have their moment.

Parting with an inhale, Dutch rests his head against your shoulder. Your hands moving down to rest on his hips, holding him close as you lean back against Hosea. “Where were you..?” Hosea repeats Dutch’s question, much, much quieter this time. His face nestled in your neck, feeling like he couldn’t get enough of you. They felt damn near tears themselves, selfishly clinging to you entirely. Sandwiching you between both of their bodies, absorbing their oh-so-familiar body heat.

“Bounty hunters.” You confess in a mumble. It sounded so silly out loud. Fifteen years of loneliness all because of money? But, Dutch and Hosea seemed to understand completely. Dutch’s hold tightens on your torso and Hosea pulls you further back against his chest, as if closer were any more possible without any gaps between them. “I- I thought y’all died or got arrested or somethin’..”

“No, darlin’. We ain’t dead.” Dutch chuckles, pressing a kiss to your pulsepoint, as if worshiping your very lifeforce. “We’re thriving.” He boasts as he lifts his head, a grin crossing his face. Though his remark ears him a scolding tug on the ear from Hosea behind you. “But–” He adds, glaring at Dutch as if warning him not to say anything further about the gang. “We still missed you, sweetpea. It’s been hard without you.”

“R-Right.. Of course.” Dutch agrees with a nod. Sniffling as he leans down and presses another peck to your lips. “Of course we missed you.”

You felt simultaneously overwhelmed, yet so happy. You felt like you could ramble on and on and on about how much you missed your husbands, how lucky you were to be back with them, how you hated what happened, but you’re pulled out of your thoughts by Arthur walking right up to you, another man in tow.

“Ah, John, my boy!” Dutch grins, removing his hands from you as he walks right up to John, setting a hand on his shoulder, he guides him right up to you as Hosea lazily drapes an arm over your shoulders, holding you close.

John looks so much more different than his twelve year old self. Scars adore the right side of his face, breaking up his coarse beard hair. His hair is longer now, but still as greasy as ever. Mentally, you roll your eyes, wishing you’d forced him to wash more as a boy.

“Pa..?” John asks quietly, chuckling as he shrugs off Dutch’s hand and steps past Arthur, pulling you into a tight hug. Usually, he’s never this affectionate, but he couldn’t lie to himself and say he didn’t miss you. You barely have enough time to compose yourself from your first breakdown before even more tears come spilling down your cheeks.

Wrapping your arms around John tightly, your fingers clasping around the back of his shirt. “Johnny…” You breathe, clinging to your son as if he were going to slip away again. He was a man now, and that thought filled you with guilt. You weren’t there. Your kids grew up without you. You missed their first robberies. You missed teaching them to shoot. You missed teaching them to read and write. You missed Tilly’s–

“Where’s Tilly..?” The words leave your mouth before you could stop them. John gently lets go of you, following the many eyes darting across camp in search of the young woman. “She’s prolly doin’ laundry.” Arthur mutters under his breath, craning his neck to look at the opposite side of camp.

“Tilly Jackson!” Dutch bellows. You nearly jump out of your skin, not at all expecting your husband to just shout for someone. But, Hosea’s arm curled around your waist grounds you again.

You watch as Tilly scurries from, what you can assume is her tent, upon hearing the gang leader call for her. Her hands politely smoothing out her dress, her eyes flicking around in confusion until they finally meet your own watery ones.

“B-Baby girl…” You choke out, opening your arms for a hug as you offer a wobbly smile. She looks like a proper woman now. She’s practically giddy to hug you back, holding you tightly. You missed her entire life. She was only a girl when you left. You felt sick to your stomach as that mindset continues to spiral with each hug from your family.

“You- You remember me… don’t you?” You mumble, pulling back reluctantly to peer into her eyes, almost begging her to have remembered you. To your surprise, she nods, a smile on her face.

“I remember you, Y/N! Dutch and Hosea talk ‘bout you all the time. Even if I didn’t, it’d be hard not to know you!” She laughs, her hands moving up to rest on your biceps, to which you copy her movement, reluctant to part. A tightlipped, solemn grin spreads across your lips, right before it falters.

“I’m so sorry, Tilly..” You sob. Removing your hands from your daughter’s arms, they move up to wipe away the tears relentlessly streaming down your face. You felt guilt. You should’ve fought harder to stay with your family, rather than abandoning them without a trace. Though, you could feel a warmth in your chest from the smile on everyone’s faces.

Hosea pulls you close again, wrapping you in a gentle hug as you rest your head on his chest. He presses a loving kiss to your forehead, just as Dutch gets the hint and shuffles back over, pulling both you and Hosea into another tight hug.

No words need to be shared, just pure love. Heart-to-heart. Ignoring most of everyone else in the gang for now. You only remembered your close family, and the new boy you met.. Lemmy, you think? Something like that.

“You two raised them so well.” You whisper your praise into Hosea’s chest. His breathing was much more wheezy than you would’ve liked, but there wasn’t much you could do other than love on your husbands as much as you possibly could.

“They remembered you.” Hosea whispers into your hair, and you feel Dutch’s chest vibrate against your back as he hums with agreement. “You taught them first.” Dutch adds, soothingly rubbing his hands up and down your sides. Down to your hips, up to your ribs, and back down again.

“John Marston!” A woman barks, causing you to falter for a moment. Sniffling as you pull away from Hosea just enough to wipe your eyes again. Watching as John huffs and turns to stare at the woman, un-amusement plastered on his features.

The woman pauses in her step for a moment, a small boy in tow, as she spots you in the middle of a cuddle pile between the gang leaders. “Y/N.” Dutch clarifies briefly, causing a spark of recognition to flash in her gaze. Forgetting about her lecture to John, she approaches you instead.

“I’ve heard a lot about you from these two.” She confesses, her cheeks flushing slightly with embarrassment. “My name’s Abigail. I’m John’s wife.” Abigail introduces. Dutch and Hosea relieve you from their hug long enough for you to offer her your hand to shake, to which she accepts. Though, you’re more curious about the boy behind her, clinging to his mother’s dress.

“Oh! That’s our son, Jack.” She explains calmly, letting go of your hand and gently coaxing her son out from behind her to meet you. A friendly smile flashes across your features as you squat down to meet Jack’s eyes. Though, as Abigail’s words register in your head, your eyes widen as you look up towards John, then to Dutch and Hosea once again.

“We have a grandson..?” You gasp, earning a chuckle and a nod. Technically, Jack wasn’t your grandson by blood, but to you, John was your boy, and that meant Jack was your family too. Looking back towards the boy, you can practically pick out John’s features in him. Their noses are the same, rounder cheeks like John had as a kid, sharper chin.

“Hey, kiddo. My name is Y/N” You greet politely. “Hi.” Jack mumbles. You didn’t expect the boy to know who you were, but you felt so happy, yet so god damn old, seeing Jack standing shyly in front of you.

Shifting slightly on your knees, you dig into the pocket of your pants, pulling out two quarters. “Here.” You offer, holding them out for Jack, to which he excitedly holds both of his little hands out for your gift.

“Go wild, kid.” You chuckle with a quiet sniffle, not exactly wanting to show that you’d been weeping like a baby. “Thanks!” Jack beams, almost immediately running off from Abigail, yammering about how much candy he’s gonna buy.

Standing back up, your knees pop with the effort, definitely getting too damn old for the outlaw shit. You weren’t sure when Tilly, John, and Arthur left, you guessed they had things to do other than watch their father figures be all sweet on one another. Almost instantly, you feel Dutch and Hosea’s arms wrap back around you. Hosea in front of you, with Dutch’s chest against your back. You melt into the hug completely, just wanting to relax a bit after an eventful day.

“Why don’t you let us catch you up?” Hosea suggests, tilting his head slightly to look into your eyes. “Just like old times, over some fine whiskey.. Maybe get some food in you.” Dutch’s contribution seemed less like a suggestion, more like a demand to make sure you weren’t going hungry on his watch.

“I’d like that.” You accept, relaxing into your husbands’ warmth between their bodies as the sun finally sets. Holding one another beneath the stars, keeping each other safe, knowing nothing could happen to any of you ever again. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Return to masterlist

[brothermoth]

Y'all I think Micah is into Dutch but in like...a Freud way. In a "wow you remind me of my dad whose praise is my lifeblood I love when authoritative older men praise me I don't get hard from it I swear I swear" way.

Yes he's manipulative but I also think Micah is, at his core, a follower. He likes being second in command, likes having someone to suck up to. It's definitely a lifelong thing considering the way he talks about his father, and probably went from a coping mechanism (fawning) to something more substantial. I love studying this man like a bug because he is NOT a flat character. A lot of his behavior is clearly an act, but there's snippets of genuine actions. He was upset when Mary Beth made fun of him, he's jealous of Lenny and Arthur. He does seem to respect Hosea and seek some approval there. In his attempts to befriend Arthur I think he was reminded very much of his brother. We know he tried to reach out after seemingly years of no contact.

I think deep down Micah is a lonely person who only knows how to lash out at others. Nothing he does feels genuine because he doesn't know how to be. At some point he was a child wanting his father's affection. He has that YouTuber "any attention is good attention" mentality. He's fucked in the head and it's great for me to analyze.

[nthspecialll]

Something I love about Red Dead is the depths of the characters.

Yes, Arthur Morgan is a murderer, a man who beat another to death for ten bucks, who stole from banks and who helped kill about half the law in one town, he is known for brutality and doing any dirty work he is ordered to do, but he is also a father, a man who went out of his way to spend time with a son he didn't even plan to have and whom it would be easier to leave. He is a man who ran with letters between star-crossed lovers and helped them escape. He is a man who helped an archeologist gather dino bones and a monk free slaves.

Yes, Hosea Matthews is a scam artist, he is the leader of a wild and brutal gang, he planned countless schemes, he murdered a man and laughed about it but he is also a teacher. He taught orphan kids how to ride, how to shoot, how to read and write and how to care for themselves in a world that had betrayed them. He is an adviser people around him trust to be honest and to help them along the way.

Yes John Marston is a killer, he killed as early as twelve years old, he was ruined from the start, he beats people for information, he murders with no thought, rustles horses, robs trains and gets those uncooperative smacked, but he is also a man who gave medicine to a girl in the desert who wanted to be closer to god. He gathered flowers for an old man and his wife. He ran into a burning stable to save animals, risking his own life.

Yes, they were all men wanted by the law, shunned by the world, but in their own society they were cared for, they were appreciated and relied on, they were worth something. They were more than the crimes written on paper, were they good people? No, but they could definitely have been worse.

[heavenlymorals]

Arthur Morgan's Depression

(Warning: Spoilers for RDR2 and mental health issues)

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

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

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

“Why ain't you never married?”

“'Cause no one will have me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's just sad, man.