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zae-heeyyy · 6 months ago

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Pastiche

Summary: You and Arthur escape through writing. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x gn!Reader Word Count: 2,345 Trigger Warning: Tuberculosis, death Tags: angst, sadness, high honor Arthur

a/n: Thanks for you kind words on Chiaroscuro. I've enjoyed writing again so much! I'm in my tragedy era. My hs english teacher's voice haunts me when I'm writing, so I spent a lot of time scrutinizing this. Didn't mean for it to be so long, but I hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading!

pastiche: a work of art or literature that imitates the style or character of another, often as an homage or tribute.

You knew there was something special about Arthur Morgan the day you met him. Despite his best efforts to believe otherwise, he was easy on the eyes, and his dry humor combined with his strong sense of honor sealed your crush on the cowboy. Everybody else could see that he was sweet on you, too, noticing when he pulled you to sit at the fire with him or how he watched you around camp. As more time passed, you'd become mostly inseparable, taking every moment you had to sneak away together. One of your favorite places to escape to was the fields of Little Creek River in Big Valley. You'd be reading a book and glance over to find Arthur staring intently at an animal until it was out of sight. Then he'd open up his journal and sketch it. He wasn't doing that today, though. He was staring across the field, but you could tell he was elsewhere in his mind.

"Got somethin' to say," his eyes met yours earnestly. When he told you he loved you, a laugh erupted deep from your belly. Dumbfounded, he asked, "The hell is so funny?" his own laugh betraying his attempt to be solemn. It was hilarious to you that he didn't think you already knew that and that he didn't know you absolutely felt the same.

Another day, you were lying in Arthur's lap in the grass. Just the day before, he had returned to camp with bruised knuckles and some poor fool's blood on his face—one of Strauss's clients. You longed for a life where bruised knuckles and loan sharking were distant memories.

"Where would you be if you weren't here," you'd asked, holding his hand in yours. He stroked your thumb with his and gazed over the valley like always.

"Hard to imagine." He mumbled, sounding far away.

You nodded in agreement and replied, "You're always writing or drawing in your notebook. Maybe you could've been an artist or a writer." The thought brought a soft smile to your face, and you imagined, just for a second, a life where Arthur's biggest worry was perfecting his latest masterpiece.

He huffed in dry amusement, "Probably wouldn't have known how to read if it weren't for Dutch and Hosea."

You assented again and sighed, the smile on your face growing wider.

"Arthur Morgan: author and illustrator." You held your hands up in dramatic fashion as if envisioning the words in front of you. Then you untangled yourself from him and sat up, "You could, you know? It's not too late. Maybe a biography?"

"A story about my life, huh?" He looked at you with a dumb smile, "I think a book about dirt would be more interestin'." He bobbed his head up and down as if nodding made his thought more true. You shoved him playfully, and he raised his eyebrow at you and held out his hands questionly. "What? There's all different kinds of dirt," he started counting on his fingers." Brown dirt, red dirt, hard dirt—"

You cut him off, "I'm serious, Arthur! This life…it ain't one normal folks live." A shit-eating grin crept up his face as he fought not to make another joke at his own expense. He shoved it down and kept listening. "Sure, it's just your life to you, but other people might find it interesting, exciting, even."

He thought for a second, then put his hands in the air, mimicking you, "The Confessions of Arthur Morgan: The Detailed Life of a Gunslinger by Arthur Morgan. Sounds like a Pinkerton's wet dream."

"I see what you mean," you trail off, fingers playing in the grass. "Could change the name. People publish under a different name all the time. There's a word for that, I think."

"Pseudonym," he responded, his accent thick. "Think it's got one of those silent letters in front." He said it so matter of factly, and it confirmed what you already knew about him: he was far more intelligent than anybody ever gave him credit for. Still, you left the idea alone and thought Arthur had, too.

Then, on another afternoon in the fields near Little Creek River, he spoke out of nowhere. "Arthur Callahan or Tacitus Kilgore?"

"Hmm?" you asked, barely glancing up from your book.

"For the pen name," he confirmed, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

From that day on, your trips to Little Creek River became writing sessions. He bought a notebook that you two would trade off, coming up with ideas for the dramatized life of the gunslinger. You'd taken some creative liberties, and the story wasn't exactly a biography anymore. It had shaped into a Western love story. Arthur Callahan, after living a bad life, met someone who made him want to be better, an angel sent to rescue the devil himself. Arthur Callahan would get the perfect ending; a normal life. It was all Arthur's idea.

"It's not my story; it's ours," he'd told you.

You had been daydreaming about the possibilities for your novel for some time, but the chaos of life with the gang left little room to focus on it. The sudden move from Horseshoe Overlook to Clemens Point made things worse. Somewhere in the move, the manuscript was lost or destroyed—either way, it was gone. You couldn't hold back your tears during your next trip to Big Valley. Arthur's big hands swallowed your face as his thumbs wiped your tears away.

"Shhh, we'll rewrite it, sweetheart," he promised.

Despite Arthur's gentle nudges, you couldn't find it in you to rewrite the story. Another day, he'd invited you to ride with him, heading off to your usual spot. He'd asked once more if you were feeling up to writing again. When you rejected the idea, he shook his head, seemingly surrendering.

"Fine! You're so damn stubborn." There was no malice in his voice, though, and his eyes twinkled a little. "Looks like I gotta take matters into my own hands." Instead of stopping the horse in the fields as usual, Arthur stopped short, cutting into nearby woods. Eventually, he halted outside of the small cabin that was Vetter's Echo and hitched the horse outside.

"Come on," he said, helping you down. "I've got a surprise for you." You walked up the cabin's steps, and he swung the door open to a small living quarters. "It don't got a back door, and I'm pretty sure the feller living here got mauled by a bear, but it's got one of these things." He gestured to the desk in the corner of the small cabin, a typewriter sitting atop it, "I don't have the first clue about using it." So he left it for you to figure out. He'd sit on a stool beside you, reading from a notebook, and you'd type slowly at first, but as time went on, the keys felt as familiar to you as a gun trigger did to him.

Then things started falling apart. You'd moved from Horseshoe Overlook to Clemens Point, then to Shady Bell in a matter of weeks. The men went on a job to rob the bank in St. Denis, and most didn't return. You'd forgotten about the manuscript while trying to survive and spent weeks worried about Arthur and everybody else.

Then he came home to you, waterlogged but alive. You'd never felt more relieved. He was skinny and had a persistent cough, blaming it all on his rough journey. But it didn't stop him from finishing the book as promised. He'd write whenever he had a chance, and you'd go back to the little cabin in the woods, you typing and him reading.

Then he couldn't get through a page without coughing. You listened, concern etched on your face as he told you about his coughing spell and subsequent visit to the doctor in the city. Tuberculosis: practically a death sentence. After that, he'd step back when you tried to be close to him and wouldn't let you kiss him or be intimate with him. You spent a lot of time crying while he dipped his head in profound shame.

Weeks later, he woke you up at night, gently shaking you and whispering to not alert anyone else. "C'mon, get dressed and ride with me." He was serious, his jaw set, his voice low but demanding. You didn't know what was wrong, but dread ran through your veins. You rode far away from camp, mostly in silence, your anxiety not letting you say anything.

"You're gonna live a good life. "he finally said, breaking the silence. Your eyes stung, and you felt a lump in your throat.

"I don't want to hear this right now, Arthur."

He shook his head, frustrated, and spoke through clenched teeth. "Listen to me." His tone made you flinch. He'd never taken on that tone with you, ever. "This whole thing with Dutch, it's over. You gotta run. Gotta get out and make a good life for yourself."

You wanted to protest; you weren't going to leave him, not now. But then you saw the waiting stagecoach up ahead. Your heart dropped and shattered into a million pieces. You reached around him to pull the horse's reins, coming to a skidding stop. You hopped down and started shaking your head, frantic in your movements and words.

"No, Arthur. No."

You wiped away the quickly falling tears as you turned, fast walking, almost running back to that godforsaken camp that was Beaver Hollow. Even in his sickness, it only took Arthur a few big steps to reach you, grabbing you by the waist and turning you to face him. And then you cursed at him, pounded your fists against his chest, and wailed into the night. He just pulled you close to him, squeezing you until you didn't fight anymore. He gave you a stack of cash, made you promise to run, and said he'd come find you after it was all over. But both of you knew, deep down, that you were setting eyes on each other for the last time. He kissed your head. You sobbed into his chest, only letting go when the impatient stagecoach driver beckoned you.

"Never could've imagined I'd know somebody as perfect for me as you." All you could choke out was, "I love you," over and over and over again. He slipped a folded letter into your hand and helped you into the coach filled with your things. He stood silently with his hat in his hands while you rode off into the night. You sobbed for as long as your body let you while the coach took you down to Copperhead Landing.

First, Tilly showed up with Jack, and then Sadie came with Abagail. But then John arrived bearing Arthur's hat and satchel with a look in his eyes so terrible that it brought you to a screaming sob. That night, when everybody had finally settled down to sleep, you slipped away, leaving a note of thanks and well wishes. You were alone then, the way you wanted it to be without Arthur.

Eight years; it had been eight years since everything went to shit. In eight years, you worked your ass off with any odd jobs you could find. Keeping busy was how you cured your broken heart. You'd tried as hard as you could to forget about the life you'd once lived until you read a headline in the newspaper: MICAH BELL KILLED. The memories flooded back to you, and you returned to a place you hadn't visited in a while. You only kept 2 things from that time: a letter from Arthur and the manuscript you'd written with him. Forged in Fire, you called it. After all this time, you couldn't remember who came up with the name, but you remembered why. You two were like tempered metal; the more you walked through hellfire, the stronger you became.

Then there was Arthur's letter. You'd read it only once before today.

"Things I wanted to say but did not have the courage to say aloud." was scrawled across the top of the page, followed by a list.

"Keep visiting Big Valley.

Keep writing.

Publish the book.

Watch every sunset.

Trust your gut.

Please, be happy."

You heard his voice through every word. He'd underlined the third point: publish the book. In that moment, you decided to take a leap. You wrote to a publisher and sent a copy of the manuscript. And that's all it took. Things went into a tailspin after that, and before you knew it, you were holding a hard copy of the manuscript you and Arthur had worked on together all that time ago.

You'd made an effort, then, to find Abigail and John and Jack. They were held up at a ranch, Beecher's Hope, and were married now. You caught up with the Marstons and apologized for hastily disappearing all those years ago. They were happy for you, and you for them.

On your departure, John took your hand, "I don't talk about him much these days, but I don't think he loved anybody like he loved you." He paused for a moment and forced his eyes to meet yours. "He's buried out in Ambarino, near Donner Falls. Top of the mountain. I can take you." You declined John's offer but set out east toward Donner Falls the next day.

You found him around noon and watched wistfully as an eagle flew from its spot on a rock behind the flowery grave. You fell to your knees, no longer able to control the tears flowing down your face. "I did it, my love," you choked through tears. It'd been a long, long time since you let yourself feel this pain—a longing to reach something impossible. You dabbed the tears away from your eyes and sat in the grass, hugging Forged in Fire to your chest. "Thought I'd read it to you," you spoke into the air. You opened the book, cracked the spine, and read "Chapter One: Heaven's Fall, Hell's Rise."

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outlawruben · 6 months ago

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How I think rdr2 characters respond to praise/compliments!

(They are going to sound kinda dumb but I promise I actually put effort into these.)

This may be interpreted as Cannon x Reader or Cannon x your ship!

These are totally fluffy and definitely SFW Jsyk

Abigail Marston - she probably would scoff and wave her hands/playfully slap them, or simply say thank you

Arthur Morgan - turn bright red and hot under the brim of his hat, and responds to them with a half mumbled: “it’s really nothing..” and then walk away awkwardly. (He’s seen with a smile on his face for the rest of the day) (he’s gonna write a new journal entry abt this)

Bill Williamson - scoffs and tells them to “shut up” but loves the compliment. (He always seems to think he’s being picked on)

Charles Smith - goes all quiet for a beat after the compliment and then gives them a sincere “thank you” he smiles at them for the rest of the day.

Dutch Van Der Linde- A simple: “Thank you M’dear.” However, they’ve inflated his ego even more which Dutch appreciates, and goes to seek their company more.

Hosea Matthews - surprised he was sought after to receive a compliment, depending on what it is, he will openly appreciate it, and mean it.

Jack Marston - “Thank you! :D” his momma taught him manners.

Javier Escuella- He responds with a small chuckle and a “thank you” they are chill now/ they’ve leveled up in Javier liking them.

John Marston- Not expecting it at first but then he melts into a dumb grin and starts avoiding eye contact as he says “thank you.”

Josiah Trelawny- “why thank you!” With a smile. He really appreciates compliments.

Karen Jones- “Ain’t you sweet?” She smirks at them. And that’s basically it.

Kieran Duffy- definitely not expecting a compliment of any kind. “O-oh- thank you..” he smiles kindly and fidgets.

Lenny Summers- grins widely and gives a “thank you!” His mind seems to wander back to the interaction for the rest of the day

Leopold Strauss- Kind of confused but shares his small gratitudes anyway

Mary-Beth Gaskill - “Oh, thank you..” she idly plays with her hair as she talks with them.

Micah Bell - At the very least he’ll scoff, and if he does say anything it’s along the lines of: “Christ, why you so soft?” But he’s blushing nonetheless.

Molly O’Shea- She giggles sweetly and blushes, sharing her gratitudes, and when she sees them for the rest of the day she smiles at them kindly. (She’s happy someone is paying attention to her, giving her a compliment even)

Reverend, Orville Swanson- if not in a drunken stupor, he says his thanks with a grateful smile.

Sadie Adler- grins at them ear to ear with a “thanks..” and soft blush forming on her cheeks

Sean MacGuire- “I din’ know ye’ loved me or something.” He teases them, grinning dumbly.

Simon Pearson- genuinely appreciates it, his big smile misshaping his mustache

Susan Grimshaw- “why thank you darlin’ “ she smiles at them. Not really expecting a compliment but she’s always appreciative of all affection.

Tilly Jackson- “Thank you!” She says kindly full of gratitude and love. (It means the world to her)

Uncle - he didn’t hear it

#posted with #charthur #sadigail #jovier #johnigail #vandermatthews #macsummers #o’shones #Kieran x marybeth #intentions #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 fandom #van der linde gang

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orphicrose · 9 months ago

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Can you pls write Hosea (rdr2) x teen reader where the reader was caught stealing from the vamp and Hosea tracks them down and sees that maybe the reader was trying to save a injured horse or any other animal. I was thinking that the reader has been living on the streets/wild for a while and looks the part, so he knows how to survive and doesnt trust anyone really and when Hosea sees that the reader stole to help he was kinda moved and approached the reader and asked them to join the group because their thieving/stealing skills could be useful, and maybe a few reactions when Hosea brings back the teen. I imagine Hosea to be just really kind to children and teens

Stray (Hosea x Child!Reader)

Absolutely! Love this idea, thank you for the request

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The camp was no stranger to crime, being on the dealing end of it the majority of the time. But they weren't to used to being the receiver, and by a child of all things. Over the course of a week, little things had gone missing through the night. Being camped up in horseshoe overlook meant they were subjected to rats, which was plausable. But medicine, Hosea didn't think rats were that advanced. It wasn't just a little, it was a whole crate worth of canned food and horse tonic that had vanished.

"What you planning, Hosea?" Charles appeared in front of the old man, who was sat on a stump cleaning the barrel of his gun.

"I'm going to catch the theft in action tonight" He stood up, throwing the gun over his shoulder. "I'm not convinced we have rats."

"No?"

"No. Rats don't drink horse tonic."

Charles hummed in response, amused by his answer. "Well, have fun old man" he patted his shoulder before he left to his tent. Leaving Hosea to himself in the darkening night.

The night was cool, calm and very uneventful. Everyone was asleep peacefully in their tents, except Hosea. Waiting. Back leant against a tree as he was planted on the floor, gun in hands at the ready. His eyes began shutting on him as he heard small footsteps creeping up on him. Keeping his composure, he sat still, giving the impression of him being asleep. In the corner of his eyes, a small person snuck up behind some bushes towards Strauss carriage. A small bottle was snatched from the side of the structure and then figure disappeared back into the night.

It was but a kid. Hosea had a pain in his gut, at the thought of shooting it. The child's scruffy appearance resembled that of a stray dog, making him feel sorry. But his effortless skills in thieving had potential, showing similar traits of Arthur when they took him in. Perhaps they could help each other.

Usually, Hosea would have waited till morning. To tell someone of his plan. But he felt this was too urgent to wait hours for morning to roll around. His gun was equipped to his back, and he took it upon himself to follow the figure on foot. Finding the little footprints in the dirt to catch up with him.

There they were. The child was almost sprinting across the train track. Hosea had to pick up his pace a little to ensure he didn't lose site of them, coughing a little as he turned to a light jog. Keeping far away enough to prevent the child from spotting him.

They must have travelled at least half a mile through the heartlands, stars illuminating the paths around them. The figure stopped abruptly in the field, hunching over into the tall grassy land. Hosea knelt down as he closed in, keeping his breath steady.

The closer he got, the closer he could make out a small dog. Seemingly passed away as it was sprawled across the grass.

"Horse tonic wont be any good for that, kid"

The child spun to see the old man, a look of fear crossing his face as the gun on his back gleamed in the light. Eyes switching between the metal and the old man.

"I.Im sorry. I just-" they stuttered, falling to the ground.

Hosea put a hand out, other hand dropping the gun from his shoulder to the floor next to him. "I wont hurt ya" He half laughed, now kneeling to the floor to show his good intentions. A hand was placed on the dogs neck, in attempts to find a pulse. It was faint, but it was there. "What happened?"

The child pointed to a bite mark on the dogs paw, two holes indicating a snake. Hosea nodded, scooping up the dog in his arms.

"you know when it happened?"

"A few days ago. I thought the tonic would help" The child fiddled with his hands, avoiding eye contact.

Hosea took a second to admire the wound, nodding his head. "He'll be fine. He would have died a while ago if the venom was strong enough" he took a second to cough into his elbow, clearing his throat. "Must have acted as an aphrodisiac"

The child looked up at him confused

"What's your name, kid?"

"Y/n"

"okay y/n, come with me. Lets get some proper food in you" He motioned his hand in the direction of his camp, flinging the small animal over his shoulder.

Clearly exhausted, y/ns movements slowed down drastically, struggling to remain awake on the journey back to camp. Not even sure if they were walking into their doom.

"What you doing out here alone?" Hosea looked down.

"My ma and pa were sick" a sigh escaped their lips, Hosea nodding sympathetically to the answer.

"What are ya? 11? 12?"

"I'm 12 soon"

"Jesus" Hosea mumbled under his breath, readjusting the animal on his shoulder to a more comfortable one. "Well... we got room" he began. "There's another kid back at camp, who will appreciate the company I'm sure"

Y/ns face seemed to lighten up a little more at the mention of another kid. That most likely meant he was safe from whatever they thought was going to happen to them.

Camp rolled into view, the campfire gleaming through the shadows of the forest.

"Where did you get off to?" Dutch marched towards him, having just woken up. The sun began to unveil itself from over the horizon, offering a warm glow to the dim landscape. "Off hunting this early?" He chuckled, motioning to the stray dog.

"Not quite" Hosea looked down to y/n, Dutch following his line of vision. A small 'oh' leaving his mouth. "I solved our little rat issue"

"He reminds me a little of john" Dutch put a finger to his lips, thinking. "Are you suggesting we take him in?"

Hosea shrugged "He wont be no trouble. He even came with a hunting dog"

Dutch chortled, walking back towards the camp. "Suppose we should introduce everyone, shouldn't we?" He turned to the child. "And your name is?"

"Y/n... sir"

"y/n!" He repeated. "Hosea, take that dog to heir Straus. I'm sure he will take care of it"

Y/n was offered food from Pearson shortly, who didn't question the new member. Having seen many of the camp come and go by this point. The women made quite a fuss of him, cooing about how sweet he is. Especially Abigail.

"Abigail!" Dutch called her over, who soon came rushing over with jack following closely behind her. "Yes Dutch" She looked down towards y/n. Confusion on her face.

"This is y/n, Hoseas most recent adoption" He motioned down to the child "I don't suppose you could make him feel more welcomed here. Perhaps introduce them to Jack?"

Jack hid behind his mothers leg, appearing shy. "Hi" he whispered, letting his hand wave a little.

Abigail nodded softly to the suited man, looking down to y/n. "I'm Abigail, this is my son jack" her hands rested on his shoulders as she forcefully brought him forward.

"Come with me, darlin, I'll show you where you can get some shut eye" She motioned for him to follow, noticing the drowsiness on his face.

A small bedsheet was laid out in hers and Jacks shared tent for y/n. Leaving him to catch up on some well earned sleep.

"But i wanna play" Jack moaned, as the tent was zipped up. Leaving y/n to some peace.

"You can play later, Jack. The poor kid needs some sleep"

Weeks had passed with the new recruit. Settling in rather quickly. Abigail had taken it upon herself to practically adopt them, her maternal instincts getting the better of her. Scolding them when she deemed fit and offering motherly love that she saw was deserving. Hosea, of course, became an authoritative figure. Spending quite a lot of time with y/n, reminding him of young Arthur and John. Making him feel slightly younger.

Everyone else was accepting, apart from Micah. Who gave y/n grief occasionally, but was dealt with by who ever was closest. Which was usually Arthur or Charles.

And Jack... Jack adored y/n. He always wanted a sibling, or a friend. Plus, he got a dog. Which survived and returned to a playful little thing with just some food, rest and water. Y/n would go on to remain in Abigails and Johns custody later in life, and become a vital aspect of the gangs family.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic #fanfiction #hosea x reader #platonic #arthur x reader #dutch van der linde #hosea matthews #arthur morgan #request #child reader #john marston #charles smith

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outlaw-apologist · 2 years ago

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Save Yourself | GN!Reader x Various (RDR2)

Summary: It’s the beginning of the end and gang members are starting to flee. Things are looking grim, fights are breaking out. Arthur begins to realize you’re in danger. However, he’s not entirely sure whose side you’re on. It’s time for an unfortunate conversation.

Multiple endings if a specific gang member is your lover

Pairings: Friend!Arthur, Arthur, Charles, Hosea, Javier, John, Kieran, Dutch

Warnings: Mentions of death, Murfree Brood activities AO3 LINK

The air was so thick you couldn’t breathe. Was it the humidity of this shit-hole or the unsettling presence of iron and burnt skin wafting forward from the cave so rank you could almost taste it? Perhaps it was the mood everyone was simmering in now that betrayals have been made? You weren’t too sure, but it was hard to exist inside of. Whatever it was, it was only worsened by the heavy loss you held in your chest. Hosea, who had been a father figure in your life, and Lenny. Truth be told, you thought Sean’s death was pretty horrific. Never did you imagine you’d lose so many of your family in such a short period of time.

Molly’s death seemed to haunt everyone, even those who hated her. Was she a rat? Nobody could agree on an answer. To certain gang members it was a just cause and a good riddance; while to others it birthed paranoia in their minds that they, while innocent, may be next. You couldn’t sleep. Not that most of the gang could. Echoes of the Murfree Brood washed over Beaver’s Hollow all day and all night creating a sense of unease. They could return and attack at any moment. Slit your throats and skin you alive. Could you really trust those on guard duty when arguments are breaking out daily?

The line was being drawn in dirt before everyone eyes. Sides were being picked. You knew it was coming. Everyone did. It was hard to believe. Hard to accept. Everyone here… You love them all so much! Some more than others, but the fact still stands that these people have been your life and your family for years. This was all you knew. It scared you. Who were you without the gang? What would you do? Where would you go? That monstrous weight of reality sunk in while you watched Arthur physically remove Strauss from camp. No one said a word.

Because soon it’ll be their turn.

Because soon it’ll be yours.

Waiting for the other shoe to drop was agony. Frightened whispers were exchanged between the women as the men threw words like ‘brothers’, ‘loyalty’, ‘rat’, and ‘betrayal’ around violently. “It’ll be okay.” So many tried to comfort each other, but you know the truth. You know it’ll only get worse from here and it weighed heavy on your mind the past few nights while staying up listening to strange calls from the forest and arguments around the fire.

You didn’t know what to choose or where to go. You love everyone so much, life without them seemed terrifying. A loss within its self you’ll have to grieve hand in hand with the deaths. How could you do that to yourself when you’re already so down? Maybe dying with them would be best… You could tell Arthur’s nearing his end and he seems to know it too. Watching him die, watching everyone lose their heads trying to make sense of everything, knowing more deaths will come and not knowing who will be the next to go… Hell… It was hell.

“Looks like Trelawny is gone for good.” You gazed up as Arthur leaned against the tree across from where you were trying to read in an attempt to escape the reality of things. With a sigh you folded the book shut, studying Arthur’s pale face. It’s hard to believe this is the man who had been so strong for you all these years. Who was as healthy as a bounding deer only months ago. Seeing hin in such a state broke you in ways you couldn’t even describe.

“It’s probably for the best.” Was all you managed to say. It was hard but you tried to keep your feelings swallowed away. Arthur didn’t need that on his plate right now.

You were surprised when he bent down, meeting you at eye-level. “Ride with me.” There was no room for argument, it must be something serious. You both rose in silence, making your way through camp towards the horses. As you walked you couldn’t help but to check on Karen who was passed out drunk, making sure she won’t choke to death on her own spit while you’re gone. Jack waddled past the two of you. “Have you seen Kane? I can’t find him anywhere.” Your eyes scanned the area as you realized you too haven't seen the dog around for some time. “He might be out exploring. I’m sure he’ll come back.” Your words were little comfort for the boy who walked off with a pouted lip to ask someone else.

“It’ll be okay.” Arthur’s voice startled you out of your thoughts. He must’ve noticed a tint of darkness wash over your face. “I mean… It’s not okay, but we’ll make it okay.” Tired eyes searched your features. He was trying hard to understand where your head-space was at in all of this.

Pulling yourself into your saddle, you tugged the reigns of your horse. “I know. We always do the best we can, right?”

“That’s right.” Something in his voice gave way to his heart in this moment. He was just as torn up about all this as you were.

The ride was silent. You both just sat with your peace while riding towards the East Grizzlies. “I thought… Uh… We’d head up to O’Creagh’s Run. Maybe do some fishin’.”

“Sounds good, Arthur.”

“I had a friend up here, Hamish, he’s a funny guy. An old veteran who lost his leg. Found him on the side of the road one day while I was uh,” he shrugged, “wonderin’ around. Said his horse bucked him and took his false leg, asked me to get it back. After that he invited me to go huntin’ a few times. We had a nice talk, recalled our lives and the things we should’ve done different. That’s how I got Buell here.” Arthur pat Buell lovingly as he spoke. “Old Hamish didn’t make it back from one of our hunting trips, asked me to take care of him. How could I say no?” His voice was soft since Arthur switched from talking to you to talking to the horse himself.

A fond laugh found its way past your lips. Arthur loved animals so much, it was endearing. You could tell he cared greatly for Buell. “I did wonder when I saw Buell show up suddenly. Found a good match after Boadicea?”

“I think so.” He flashed you a brilliant smile. “I hate to think our time together might be cut short with all this-” He waved his hand as if motioning to some abstract thought-form created by Dutch’s recent behavior. “Boadicea was my girl. But Buell? Well, I think I can trust him to carry me for the rest of my days. He’s strong, stubborn-”

“Like you.” You interjected cheekily, causing Arthur to playfully roll his eyes.

“If you say so.”

Soon you came upon the lake and slowed your horses. Despite his physical state, Arthur still helped you down, giving you an affectionate pat on the back. “The real reason I wanted to bring you out here… Well… We need to have a talk, away from all this mess.” You could tell it was hard for him to get these words out. Arthur didn’t quite know exactly where you stand and a part of him was worried he’ll make the situation worse than it already is.

Your legs carried you until the front of your boots were licked by lapping water. This place is peaceful, you thought. Not muggy. Not decaying. Immediately you sucked in a deep inhale, allowing your lungs to fill with crisp clean mountain air. Deer bound across the other side of the lake and you can see colorful fish dart beneath the waters surface. In this moment you felt so much gratitude towards Arthur for taking you here. “This is a good place to have it, can probably keep my head straight here for once.”

He grunted in agreement. “I know what you mean. Beaver’s Hollow…”

“More like Beaver’s Shithole.” You sat a moment, screwing the components of your rod together before accepting the bait Arthur stretched out in the palm of his hand. He let out a hearty laugh which then dribbled into a coughing fit. Without a second thought you rubbed his back while passing over your water canteen.

“I’m fine.” He waved it away, wiping his mouth while his chest settled.

Silence spread over the shore. You and Arthur soaking in each other’s company. The only sounds that reached your ears for awhile were of your lines casting and the chattering ducks. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Shoot.” You cocked your head to look up at Arthur. His eyes were trained on the water, as if trying to see something.

“Where’s your head at with all this? I mean Javier is…. And Bill hasn’t had a thought a day in his life, but he’s stayin’ with Dutch. Then there’s that business with Marston being broken out too early, there was talk of hanging him for Christ’s sake!”

“I know…” You paused, reflecting on the tone in Arthur’s voice. His heart is broken for his brothers. For his family. “I saw the way Dutch talked to you yesterday, couldn’t believe my own ears. Looks like Micah’s the golden child now.”

Arthur let out a mirthless laugh. “I said to John just the other day, looks like we don’t gotta worry about who Dutch’s favorite is anymore.”

“You went and blew that bridge up, right?”

“Yeah, we did it.”

“How’d that go?”

He shrugged. “Almost got ran over by a train, but it went as well as expected. Don’t know if this is the noise Dutch wanted. Seems idiotic if you ask me.”

“I’m gonna be honest Arthur, I don’t know what he’s thinking. I don’t understand any of this. New York? We hardly survived Saint Denis and that’s nothing compared to New York… It makes no damn sense. He gets pissed off when people treat us like a bunch of yokels but that’s who we are. That’s who we’ve always been.”

“Don’t I know it. But Dutch… He’s gone. He’s changed. I don’t know when it happened or why. I-” Arthur shook his head, eyes tilting up to watch the clouds float by, “I tried so hard to make sense of it all and I just can’t wrap my mind around it.”

“John mentioned he thinks it was the trolley accident but I remember even at Horseshoe, Hosea was calling him out on his bullshit. He started changing things then. The plan he had was good, was solid. If we had just gone West, back to our home… And bought some land we could’ve lived peaceful lives.” Old feelings of upset swelled in your belly as you reflected on your time camping out at Horseshoe Overlook. It now seemed as though it were a lifetime ago instead of mere months. You paused to let it settle before continuing. “Hosea knew then.”

Arthur’s eyes squinted and you could tell he too was recalling these moments. “I remember that. He said something to Marston, told him to get out while he can. Take Abigail and the boy and run far far away. Suppose he knew something was up before the rest of us did. Hosea knows Dutch best… knew…”

The correction made you both flinch. It still wasn’t real, Hosea being gone.

Thankfully attention was diverted when a fish tugged at your line. Jerking the rod sideways you quickly reeled it in with excitement. “I caught something!”

“Let’s see it.” Arthur leaned down to scoop your fish out of the water, showing off a nice pike. “Not bad.”

Pulling out the hook, you decided to stow the fish away. “Nice dinner, we’ll have to cook it before we head back, I don’t think Pearson would be happy with our fish haul.”

“Probably not.” Arthur mused. “I’ve seen him drinking recently. Karen too, poor Karen.”

“She hasn’t been the same since Sean.”

“None of us have, but she definitely took the worst of it. This whole thing… I guess we’re at the end now.” He side-eyed you in an attempt to measure your reaction. “You know, while we’re about all this…. I know it’s not easy but you should get yourself out. Start makin’ a plan, do something. I don’t want this to end with you gettin’ hurt.”

Anxiety shot through your heart like a streak of lightening across a pitch black sky. “Arthur-”

He said you name quietly in an effort to silence you. “There’s no way forward now and some distance between you and this will do you some good. You’ve been with us for a long time. Hell, we had a good run. But, John and I were talking, and I know you wanna stay loyal to Dutch, but we ain't the ones who changed. I’m afraid… well… I’m afraid Dutch’s gonna get you killed. Losing you ain’t worth all the money in the world.” The tears in Arthur’s eyes showed you just how much those words meant to him.

___

If Arthur is your friend/brother and you have no lover in the gang:

“Obviously I can’t tell you what to do and I don’t wanna force you to pick sides. Javier and Bill are our brothers and I don’t wanna fight them. You’re my family before everything else, before money, always. Get yourself out. Make a life for yourself.”

You stay silent, holding eye-contact with your long time friend. “Is this really how you feel?”

His head dipped down as he kicked at a stone. “It is.”

Nodding, you let out a tensed breath. “What about you?”

“I’ll be fine. Just- put yourself first. You worked yourself to death for this gang, that’s good enough. I don’t need to be burying you too. So get out of here. It doesn’t have to be now, it doesn’t have to be tonight.” You watched as Arthur fished a bill clip out of his bag. “When the time comes, take this and go.”

Taking the wad of cash, you flipped through seventy bucks. “Arthur, I don’t need your money.”

“Oh yes you do! Don’t pretend with me, I ain’t that stupid. How you gonna start a new life with ten cents to your name? Dutch has all our money, every last dime of it hidden somewhere out there. You take this and you make the best of it. I don’t need it anymore.”

You reached over, gently squeezing Arthur’s shoulder in solidarity. There was a moment where you both swapped fond smiles. “Thank you Arthur, truly.”

“Don’t mention it. Go somewhere and start right. No more of this life, got it?”

“Got it.”

“Now,” he picked up his rod again, “let’s catch me a fish so I don’t go hungry.” Arthur’s laugh rang out across the lake, sounding wonderful to your ears. There was something so bittersweet about this moment in time. The other shoe has dropped. This will probably be one of the last peaceful moments you’ll have with Arthur.

___

If Arthur is your lover:

You could feel your own oncoming tears now starting to burn the corners of your eyes yet not ready to spill. No… Not like this. This can’t be how things go. “Run away with me!” You blurted desperately.

Arthur seemed confused as you grabbed his hands, squeezing them tight as if you were afraid he would leave you. “What?”

“Run away with me, Arthur. We can… I don’t know. Get you somewhere warm and dry. I heard Colorado’s a great place for people with tuberculous. We can go West, just like we wanted. We can make a home for ourselves, get another dog.”

Arthur forced himself to turn away in an attempt to hide his tears, shaking his head while repeating your name like a mantra. “What about the rest of the gang?”

“They can come with us! Listen, we can make plans for everyone to slip away and make their escape. Then, if they want, they can join us again. We can get that land together. Build a house or two. That was our idea all along, right?” You gently pulled him towards you, wrapping your arms around his thin waist. God he had lost so much weight in the past month… “Arthur… Please look at me.”

“Christ.” Came Arthur’s trembling words. He finally looked at you. Crying. He wanted so desperately to have a life with you. A future. Reaching out he caressed your cheek. “It won’t work, sweetheart. Not with the price on my head. We’d be runnin’ forever and you need to get out of this life.”

You frantically searched his face, hopelessly trying to hold onto any crumb of information that might aid your racing mind. “Then… We’ll help everyone else get out and we hide in the Rocky Mountains. I heard the Pinkertons don’t bother searching anywhere past Telluride. Let’s go to Colorado city, it’s our kind of place. Real rough and the law is loose there.”

He scoffed, pulling away from you in frustration. “Damn it! Just stop. Why’dya gotta be so damn stubborn all the time?”

“Oh, I’m the stubborn one?”

“Look at me.” He raised his arms out, doing a little spin so you could take in all of him. “I ain’t making it to no Colorado city. I’m dying. It’s too late for me. But you? You have your whole life ahead of you.”

“Arthur-”

He interrupted you, words cutting like a knife. There was no changing his mind. “Get yourself that plot of land in the West. Somewhere nice, peaceful. Get yourself a hound, okay?” You hadn’t noticed in the heat of things; tears of frustration and heartache that were clouding your vision now fell freely over your rosy cheeks while Arthur pushed a huge wad of cash into your shaking hands. “There’s a thousand here.”

“A thousand?” You breathed, simply staring at the money. You made no move to count it or put it away. It was just too… surreal. Too fake. This couldn’t be happening…

“Should be enough. I can try to get you some more, but…” The flat of his palm dragged across his tear stained cheeks. “Don’t waste your life on me. Find a nice man to settle down with, you deserve that much. I can’t go with you… I wish I could I-”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

Arthur flinched at the heartbreak in your voice. This was just as hard on him as it was on you. “I know darlin’. But I rather die happy knowing you got out and you’re long gone before anything can happen to you. You can finally live the life I could never give you.” His large hand gently folded your fingers over the money and he guided you to your satchel, prompting you to tuck the money away safely. “Please… Please, this is all I ask.”

A gut wrenching sob ripped through your trembling form. All of your pent up negative feelings were rearing their ugly head, stampeding through you like wild horses until you completely broke. You found yourself in Arthur’s arms, sobbing miserably into his shoulder. “I love you.”

“I know.” His voice held just as much pain while he said your name and kissed your hair. “Now set me free. I’ll always love you, wherever you go. So leave.”

“Okay.” You whispered. “If this is what you really want, I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.”

___

If Charles is your lover:

“Charles has a good head on his shoulders. He and I’ve spoke about this and-”

Now it all made sense. “He asked you to talk to me.”

“He did.” Arthur confirmed. He gently said your name to draw your attention back towards him. “Look, I get why he’s worried. You’ve known me far longer than he’s known you. We’re family and you’re one loyal piece of work.”

It was hard to fight the small sad smile that made its way to your lips. “He wants out then?”

“Charles? Shit, he’s your partner. You know what he wants. He just doesn’t know if you’ll choose him or me.” Abandoning his rod, Arthur took out a pack of smokes, placing a cigarette between his lips. “Choose him.” He struck the match on the bottom of his boot only to flick it away once the cigarette was lit.

“Arthur-” You scoffed. “Charles knows what you and John mean to me. What this gang means to me. I know he won’t ask me to pick sides, but you and I’ve been together for far too long. It seems wrong if I don’t see this through with you ‘til the end….”

He simply shook his head. “This is the end. Everything beyond this is some fucked up story we ain’t got time for. Dutch’s twisted fairy-tale. I’m already on my way out a different route. Hell, even Marston’s realizing he needs to pack his family up and leave. You’re right about Charles, but to be frank, he shouldn’t have to ask you to pick sides. You choose him. You always choose him, you hear me?”

Arthur’s words dissipated into the air followed by a long silence as you tried to register everything being said. “I hear you.”

“Good.” He picked his rod back up, attempting to keep the fish interested by reeling it in a bit. “I’m happy for you, ya know? Out of all the men you could’ve ended up with I’m happy you’re with him. He’ll take care of you, treat you right.”

You gently elbowed him, wearing a shit eating grin. “Does that mean we have your blessing to marry?” You took delight as Arthur squinted at you.

“As if you need my blessing. But yeah, you have it.”

You both laughed and for awhile it was peaceful as you fished. “It still feels wrong.”

“I know it does. It is wrong, Dutch should’ve never gotten us in this situation to begin with.”

“And now I have to leave my brothers behind.” Even though they were your own words they shocked you as they reached your ears. Realization finally hit you like a fearful deer frozen in front of an oncoming train. “I don’t want this situation to be the last time I see you, Arthur.” You reached up to brush away a stray tear. “I can’t bear the thought of that.”

He hummed in appreciation. “I know. But we’re all leaving one way or another. I rather you leave right.” Shuffling beside you drew your attention over to him as he pulled a bill clip from his satchel. “It ain’t much but Charles is a capable man. I’m sure this’ll last you long enough.”

You counted out fifty dollars. “Arthur-”

“Don’t you say you can’t go accepting my money. You can and you will. Charles sure as hell won’t. That doesn’t change the fact that you need money to survive.” He eyed you almost threateningly. “Put that way before I make you.”

There was no arguing with him, you knew better and so the money disappeared into your bag without fuss. “Thank you. For always taking care of me. I wish you could come with us, I know Charles feels the same.”

Arthur simply shook his head. “I have a lot of unfinished business to take care of. And, if I’m honest, I’ll sleep better at night knowing you got out safe before anything gets worse.” He took a final drag of his cigarette before stomping it out, then he pulled you into a tight embrace. “You live a good life for me, okay?”

A shaky breath rattled your body while you hugged him for dear life. God, did you love this man. He always cared about you before anything else. “Okay. I will.” The promise was true to your heart. Anything for Arthur.

You two stayed hugging for awhile until a tug on Arthur’s line diverted the emotional tension. “Looks like I got dinner!” He giddily grabbed at the pole, reeling it in. “Check out the size of this one! You sir, are a fish.”

You couldn’t help but to laugh and admire the way the setting sun illuminated him. There Arthur was, one of the most genuine human beings you’ve ever met. Your heart swelled with love and adoration for him in that moment, just appreciating it for what it is. This will be one of your last core memories with him, you thought. Might as well make it last.

___

If Hosea was your lover:

“I know you stayed loyal to us because of Hosea, but… I think he’d want you out.”

It was hard considering what Hosea would want for you in this situation. He had wanted you out since Blackwater but you insisted he should stay with his found family… The family that got him killed. Not that you blamed Arthur and John, but you weren’t stupid. You knew Hosea didn’t feel great about the bank robbery and you knew Dutch played his hand. There was a time you were upset with Arthur for not taking Hosea’s side that evening, yet you had seen how much guilt riddled him already and so any harsh feelings fell away almost as quickly as they began.

“He would. He did.” You finally spoke, idly playing with a loose strand of your hair. “But I know if he were here he’d want to make sure you boys were safe. I can’t do that to him. I want to fulfill his wishes if I can.”

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head while cursing your name beneath his breath. “Don’t do this to yourself. Look at’cha,” he motioned to you, “you’re exhausted. You’re miserable. You need to go. Before Dutch decides his dear old friend’s lover is a rat or- whatever’s going on now. Don’t stay in this mess on his account. That’s what got him shot. He should’ve left with you when he had the chance.”

“There’s no point in should’ve’s Mr. Morgan.” Arthur’s face softened when he realized you’re on the verge of tears.

“I know.” He said quickly, voice dropping to a harmless tone. It wasn’t Arthur’s intention to drag you down further. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I just want you to understand.”

“The message is loud and clear.” You sat yourself on a nice rock, needing something solid beneath you in an attempt to help ground your raging feelings. “Hosea loves you boys so much. I love you boys… And the girls too, of course. I guess… I feel like I have a responsibility to make sure you’re all okay.”

Arthur stepped forward and bent down to meet you at your level respectfully. “Thank you. I truly do mean that, but you’ll get yourself killed. Now, how are John and I supposed to live knowing Hosea would beat our ass for letting you get hurt? I know it’s scary. Hell, it’s scary for me too. Hosea’s gone. He made it out his own way. It’s only right you go too. Live your life for him, it’ll make him happy.”

You looked down when Arthur placed something in your hands. “You’re giving me this?”

“Sorry it ain’t much, but you’ll need the money. Abigail snatched up Hosea’s savings before they moved camp, gave it to me in case I wanted to put it in the box but it only seems right if you have it. This is your money now.” He gently squeezed your hand, flashing a tired yet genuine smile. “Thank you for making Hosea happy for all these years. We had a good run.”

You searched his fatigued face, taking note of how genuine Arthur looked. His eyes heavy with pain and his smile was somber from old memories. “Yeah,” you breathed out a mirthless laugh, “we did.” It was truly over now. Time to let go. “I know there’s nothing I can do for you, Arthur. That’s why you’ve been so quiet with everyone, isn’t it? Because it’s bad…. Hosea, he-” Your fingers idly played with the dollar bills in your hands. “Well, you know. He was sick for awhile. Not sure if it’s what you have or not but- He lived quite long.”

“He did. Not as long as he should have, but you’re right. Can’t say I have the same fortune as he had, or maybe I do in another sick way. I don’t know. All of this is confusing. Despite everything, one thing has been clear to me for some time now. You belong somewhere you can build a nice peaceful life. I don’t know exactly what I believe in just yet, but I do know… Wherever Hosea is, if he can look down at you and know you’re safe and happy, then that’s enough.”

No longer could your tears be held back. You let out a soft cry, leaning down to rest your forehead on Arthur’s shoulder “Thank you Arthur. I wish I could do more… Just… Please keep him company until I can come home to him.”

“You have my word.”

____

If Javier is your lover:

“I won’t stop you if you choose to stay. I know your loyalties probably lie more with Javier than Dutch himself, but Javier is… Well…. He’s something else. I ain’t gonna lie, it hurts knowing this is what he’s choosing.”

You nodded slowly, seeming to understand what Arthur meant. He and Javier have been brothers long before you joined the gang. It must be hard knowing a bond like that was being broken. Javier himself has been devastated Arthur and John aren’t on his side.

“After everything Javier’s been though… I don’t think he can picture a life without Dutch. Whether he’s giving too much importance to him in his life or not, it’s not my place to say.” You turned kind eyes towards Arthur. “Just know there’s more to this than loyalty. This is bringing up a lot of feelings in him and I don’t think he knows what to do with them. Somewhere along the way Dutch become his safe place.”

Arthur hums slowly, squinting as he listened. “I’m not sure I fully get what you mean, but I think I understand. I’m just worried is all.”

“You and me both.” You sighed, staring up at the orange sky. Your eyes followed the darkening clouds as night approached. “If I’m honest, I don’t know what to do. I can’t lose Javi... He’s my everything.”

“I know. I can’t even begin to imagine how you feel. I know your relationship is none of my business, I just can’t help but to worry about you. Javier ain’t got his head on straight and I’m afraid Dutch’ll have the barrel of his gun right at your temple while Javier’s swearing he won’t shoot you. I don’t know how much he can be trusted right now and I mean no offense by that. He’s my brother, and you’re my family same as him.”

Arthur rubbed the sweat from his brow before continuing. “I’m not gonna tell you to leave him or nothin’ like that. Just… Make yourself scarce for awhile. Get out of the line of fire. Javier’ll find you again. Come what may, he does love you.”

It killed you to consider something like this. Everything was happening so fast it was frightening. There’s even a small part of you that fears someone will claim you’re a rat and you’ll end up with a bullet in your skull. If that happened… would Javier watch you die with disgust on his face? Or would he be heartbroken for you, his lover?

You know Javier would never hurt you. He’s always been sweet on you, so much so the camp used to playfully make sick noises whenever they ran into you two… It’s hard to believe that wasn’t so long ago, when you were all friends and jokes were harmless. You hated how things became. You finally got your Javi back from Guarma and now… This all must be so traumatic for him. It sure was for you.

“Arthur… If I leave it’ll destroy him.” You finally look down, electing to study a rock beside your shoe. “I can’t do that to him.”

Arthur was silent for a long time. You could tell this decision pained him. He’s always been someone who cared deeply for you and your well-being. “Okay.” It was such a simple response, yet it was not uttered lightly. Arthur knew there was nothing he could do. “Just pretend I didn’t say anything.”

You gently pressed your elbow to his arm in an attempt to lighten his mood. “And Arthur?” He grunted in response. “Thank you for always being such a good friend. I’m sorry it’s come to this. I hate seeing you two fight. I know you’re doing the best you can and it hasn’t been easy on you… Just… Thank you.”

A warm arm embraced you in a side hug, causing you to look up at Arthur’s smiling face. He really did just want you to be happy. “Don’t worry about it. Just catch me a fish. I’m hungry!”

“Huh?” You laughed, wiggling out of the hug. “What makes you think I’m catching your dinner?”

“You’re the one who knows Javier’s secret fishing techniques. I’m sure you can manage.”

Maybe this decision isn’t the right one. You didn’t know. But, for now, you enjoy the last moments of happiness with your dear old friend, Arthur Morgan.

_____

If John is your lover:

“Your relationship is none of my business. I know you and John are sweet on each other, but I also know he cares for that boy and his mother. If you can… take them with you. Maybe some good can come out of Jack’s life.”

You took time to consider Arthur’s words carefully. “I hate that everything’s so complicated.” You admit. “I know our relationship ain’t the most proper thing to do, but you can’t choose who you fall in love with.”

“I know-” Arthur laughed a little followed by a few body shaking coughs. “Maybe I fell in love with the wrong people, I don’t know. But I get what you mean. Love is complicated business.”

“Jack, he’s… Such a cute kid. John already told me Abigail might know where Dutch hid the money… I understand she’s not fond of me and I don’t blame her. I’m worried she might only help herself and Jack.”

“Abigail? No, she’s not like that.” Arthur’s hands came to rest on his gun belt while he took you in, giving you a gentle smile. “Even if she did, she has every right to. That boy should come first.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“You and John will be fine. You’re a good shot and he’s… A mangy coyote of sorts.”

Arthur’s comment amused you enough for a chuckle to pass your lips. Your eyes settle on the ducks resting across the shore for awhile, watching them prune themselves. Life as a duck must be so peaceful, you thought. They only had to worry about surviving… Then again maybe you and the ducks were one in the same. In the end everything is just trying to survive, including you. “You don’t think John’ll leave me to save Abigail and Jack, do you?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed, “but what I do know is that he loves you. At least, I think he does. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes. After he left Abigail and Jack like that… I’m glad he realizes he messed up. But… Marston…” Shaking his head, Arthur slowly began reeling in his lure in hopes it would invite a fish to his hook. “My best advice is to get friendly with Abigail and all three of you make a plan together. Don’t try to go it alone, it’ll only make things harder.

You nodded in understanding. “I love Jack, I really do. Every day I hear him ask Abigail why everyone’s being so mean and it breaks my heart. He shouldn’t have to grow up like this. And John… Well, of course I want him out too. He almost died for Dutch’s foolishness. Dutch could’ve saved him in Saint Denis!”

“I agree with you, but maybe it was a blessin’ in disguise.”

You scoffed, brows furrowing with both upset and confusion. “How can you say that, Arthur!?”

He held his hand up in surrender, signaling that he meant nothing nasty by it. “Our boat sank to the bottom of the ocean. The chaos was so great, I’m not sure if I could’ve grabbed Marston before the damn thing went under. You know he can’t swim. I’m glad he was in prison than with us. If he was there… You can break a man outta prison but you can’t break a man outta death.”

Shoulders falling, you searched Arthur’s face. It was easy to get lost in your feelings nowadays but you knew Arthur’s words rang true. So much gratitude was held in your heart for Arthur Morgan. Saving John all those times… You didn’t know what would happen without him. “I know I haven’t said it enough, Arthur, but you’re a good friend.”

“Maybe sometimes, but not always.” He gave you a knowing look, offering a small smile to show he appreciated your words. “Take care of them for me, okay? Make sure Marston stays straight and Jack has a good life.”

“I will.” You promised.

____

If Kieran was your lover

“I’m surprised you stuck with us for this long after….” Arthur trailed off. He was struggling to figure out the right way to bring him up. “Kieran was a good kid. I didn’t know him well but I liked him enough. I know you loved him a lot and he was real sweet on you… After what happened to him... After you watched…” He fell silent again, afraid he’ll say the wrong thing. “Look, all I’m sayin’ is maybe it’s time to find somewhere peaceful.”

You searched Arthur’s face, desperation reflecting on your own. “But… Where will I go?”

“I don’t know.”

“How will I make money?”

“I’ll give you some money, so don’t worry about that. I’ll find something for you. We’ll figure it out. It’s the least I can do after all this mess. Kieran didn’t deserve what happened to him. If you want to watch Colm swing you’re welcome to come with us, but I doubt that’s any business you wanna stick your nose in. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of O’Driscoll boys there.”

You sucked in a shaky breath, eyes clouding up at the very thought of your beloved Kieran. What a gentle soul with his whole life ripped away from him. You two had spoken about maybe one day owning a stable together, or trying to make a life for the both of you… Those dreams shattered your heart these past few months. The image of his death still haunts you. “I’ll thank about it.” You responded to Arthur’s hanging comment. You weren’t sure if you wanted to see any more death. “I’m going to be honest… I don’t know if there’s anything out there for me.”

“Sure there is.” Arthur gently nudged you in a brotherly way. “I know it’s hard to see the future now, but Kieran had big plans for the both of you, didn’t he? You can still do that if you want. Wherever he is, I’m sure that would make him mighty happy. Or- uh… I don’t know… We’ll figure something out.”

Imagining yourself surrounded by beautiful horses made you smile. “It would be peaceful. I could use a little peace in my life after all this.”

“Yeah, me too.” He chuckled. “Whatever you decide now you don’t have to do that forever. Just take each day at a time. But one things for certain, you need to leave.”

“I know.” Your voice shook with emotion. “This has all been scary and I feel so overwhelmed.”

Stepping sideways, Arthur wrapped an arm around you and pulled you into a warm side hug. He rubbed your arm in an attempt to soothe your fears. He wasn’t good at comforting people but he hoped this would do something. “Hell, I feel the same way. But we’ll get you taken care of. Don’t you worry.”

“Thank you, Arthur. I’ll try to be strong. I think… I want to live the life Kieran always wanted but never had. And maybe… If he’s ever here with me… He’ll be able to enjoy it too.”

“That sounds nice. I think you’re right, I’m sure he’d love it.” Arthur’s blessing lifted a weight off your shoulders. He was one of the few members of the gang you trusted with your life. If he agreed it would be good for you then it must be the right choice.

Calmness washed over you for the first time in days. Your gaze met the clouds, wondering if Kieran could see you right now. “Then it’s settled.” You decided. “I’ll pack tonight.”

____

If Dutch is your lover

“I know you love him.” Arthur gently placed a hand on your shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. “Dutch is.. was my family. But all this insanity…”

You immediately pulled away from Arthur. You weren't upset with him, Dutch had been treating you coldly too. But to think your Dutch wasn’t the man you loved anymore was terrifying. What happened to him? Was everything a lie? Did Dutch sell you a dream? It made you ill trying to make sense of everything. Arthur pulled you out of your thoughts by gently calling your name.

“Look, I’m sorry but after Molly they’re already looking for someone else to be the rat. Now, I don’t know if we have a rat or not, but if we do it sure as hell ain’t you. Bill’s been talkin’. His words don’t mean much to anyone with half a brain but Micah’s starting to agree with him and now those words are gettin’ into Dutch’s ears. I don’t want to see anything bad happen to you.”

Your jaw dropped in disbelief. “They’re saying all that… About me?” A dark look washed over Arthur’s face confirming his truthfulness. Fear froze your blood ice cold. Suddenly you were hit with a silent understanding that you probably won’t make it out of this alive even if you didn’t want to betray Dutch. “Shit!”

“I know.” A weary sigh left Arthur’s lips. “The girls in camp are real worried about you. Molly loved Dutch in her own special way, look where that got her.”

Wrapping your arms around yourself in an attempt to find comfort, you stared at the ground in contemplation. “I know... Shit, Arthur! Dutch… The Dutch I know is such a loving man. Someone who always wanted to do right by everyone, who wanted to see orphans taken off the streets. This isn’t him.”

“Look at me.” Arthur murmured your name so you’d raise your head. “That Dutch is gone. I wish it weren’t the case, but it is.”

“Is he still in there?”

“I don’t know. If he is… He’s buried deep inside. I can’t see him no more and I tried… I really tried.”

“I can’t give up now! I-” You trailed off in an attempt to swallow down the cries that wanted to escape your lips. “After Hosea, I’m afraid of leaving him alone.”

Arthur understood. You could tell he felt similarly and that this was destroying him as much as it was destroying you. “It’s hard. I hate going against him like this, he’s all I’ve ever know. I wish there was a way to… Uh…. I don’t know… But we can’t risk it. I can’t make you do anything you don’t wanna do. All I’m saying is that it might be better to cut your losses. Leave now so you can remember Dutch as the savior you knew instead of the man he became.”

“Betrayal is out of the question even if I don’t wanna stay.”

“C’mon now. That’s not true.” You could hear the groan in his voice. “You stayed loyal far longer than you needed to. Sometimes things just end. Knowing when to step away isn’t betrayal.”

“I guess.” Your finger brushed against your cheek to catch a falling tear. “I don’t know what happened to him, Arthur. I miss him so much. All I want is my Dutch back.”

Arthur abandoned his pole to pull you into a tight hug. Such a simple gesture, you hadn’t been hugged in so long. You didn’t even realize how badly you needed a hug until your emotions broke through your walls. He gently rubbed your back as you wept openly into his shoulder. Arthur’s voice was soft and soothing while he spoke. “Me too. But he ain’t comin’ back. I wish he was… Believe me. We’ll have to do the best we can. We’ll get through this. Just consider it, alright? That’s all I ask.”

“Alright.” You whispered, holding onto him for dear life. You couldn’t bear the thought of your family falling away just yet. Trying to dismiss your anxiety you close your eyes and take in a shaky breath. All the crying in the world won’t help you. It was over whether you liked it or not.

You felt gratitude towards Arthur for being so patient with you. He held you until you felt well enough. “Now, let’s get you that fish dinner.” You could feel the rumble of laughter in Arthur’s chest as he responded heartily with ‘Gladly!’. Dutch was gone, but it made you feel better that you at least still had Arthur.

#Arthur Morgan x Reader #Charles Smith x reader #john marston x reader #Dutch van der linde x reader #Hosea Matthews x reader #kieran duffy x reader #javier escuella x reader #Arthur Morgan #Charles Smith #john marston #dutch van der linde #hosea matthews #javier escuella #kieran duffy #rdr2 #rdr2 x reader #reader insert #writing #my writing

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say-hwaet · 2 days ago

Text

That's The Way it Is

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three: Secrets Kept Summary: Arthur takes you to Horseshoe Overlook, where your supposed family for the last fifteen years has been. Who are these people? And what will you learn about yourself along the way? Warnings: Mature themes, mild language, interrupted cursing Word Count: ~8,400 words Author's note: This is an Arthur Morgan x You story, but I do have some character design/creative license. I wanted to experiment with the element of pretending to be someone else, so the MC does have a given name and character descriptions. Just wanted to give you a heads-up in case it doesn't fit your vibe. I hope you'll decide to give it a chance anyway!

You wish you had a paper and pencil. So many names, though slow and steady they come, and your head hurts too much to keep track of them all.

Arthur has gone down the list. John. Hosea. Dutch. Susan. Pearson. Strauss. Javier. Bill. Abigail. Jack. Uncle. Mary Beth. Tilly. Jenny. Mac. Davey. Charles. Karen. Sean. Molly. Micah. He gave his perspective on how you met them, how they've treated you, and their role in the gang.

You try to hang on to each name, each story Arthur spins, a thread you’re desperate to weave into the fabric of your lost memories. But it's overwhelming, like drinking from a firehose, and you feel the familiar ache behind your eyes intensify with every new piece of information.

"Slow down," you plead as you hold onto him. The scenery passes by you at a steady pace, but with the tender knot building on the side of your head, it’s almost dizzying. “I can’t remember them all.”

“Sorry,” Arthur replies. “I got carried away.”

You find yourself clutching tighter to his jacket. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can, Kit,” Arthur’s voice softens as he reassures you. “We’ve got time.” His gloved hand gently pats your hand. His touch is comforting, familiar in a way you can't yet understand but makes you feel safer nonetheless. “We’ll take it slow,” he continues, “If people start crowdin’ ya, I’ll be there to ensure they back off.”

You manage a smile. “Somehow, I don’t doubt that.”

The rest of the ride is quieter, your head resting against his back as the landscape shifts around you. The endless stretch of dusty roads, framed by the occasional group of trees, seems to mirror your fragmented memories — vast and somewhat desolate. You close your eyes and try to focus on the warmth Arthur provides, the color under your eyelids changing as shadows cast down on you over the trees.

And soon, you leave the train tracks and enter through some trees, going down a soft slope.

And suddenly, you hear a voice, quickly recognizing it as the drunken cackle you heard during the fight in Valentine. “Who goes there!��

And Arthur answers back. “It’s me! Arthur!”

You open your eyes, but try to remain hidden behind Arthur’s back. You’re here.

“Welcome back!” the man replies, almost cheerful. And you hear his voice draw closer as Arthur continues to ride.

It is then that the man sees you. “Ho-ly sh—!”

“Shut up, Bill, you want the Pinkertons to hear us?!”

Drunken Cackle, now identified as Bill, fits how Arthur described him. Brutish, boarish, with a thick beard, leather duster, and plaid shirt. He looks like he had just rolled in some mud, and you wouldn’t want to be in his sights if he wants to fight. He quickly runs back into camp, rifle held tightly in his hands. “Hey! It’s Kit! Arthur has Kit…!”

Here it comes.

“I can’t tell if he’s happy or not,” you say under your breath.

Arthur clearly heard you, for his warm laugh rumbles his body beneath your cheek.

"Either way, we'll handle it," he assures, his voice a low murmur as he steers the horse smoothly into the heart of the camp.

As you enter the camp, a wave of curious and astonished faces turn toward you. Some of them you recognize from Arthur's descriptions—like raggedy-faced Uncle with his sluggish posture.

“Oh! It is Kit!”

“Kitka’s alive!”

Arthur pulls Montana up by a hitching post and dismounts first. Tying him off, Arthur approaches you and lifts his arms. You accept his gesture and placing your hands on his firm shoulders, he helps you down.

You remain close to him, as he wraps a protective arm around you and escorts you further into the camp.

You see several tents pitched, and a couple of lean-tos. There is also a large chuck wagon and a cauldron over a fire, cooking some kind of stew.

These aren’t the wagons and tents that were in your memory. Maybe Arthur was right. A different time, when you were younger.

You look at all their faces, most smiles and bright eyes as they begin to gather around.

One woman steps forward, her graying hair styled atop her head. "Well, if it ain't a ghost," she says, her voice surprisingly tender. "Welcome home, Kitka."

You try to place her, but struggle. So many names and descriptions to sort through, and your brow pinches.

The woman, seeing the vacancy in your eyes, looks at you with worry. “What’s wrong, girl?”

You feel Arthur pull you closer to him, and while this would normally concern you, you prefer it in the midst of this confusing sea of faces. "Nothing's wrong, Miss Grimshaw," Arthur answers for you, his voice steady but filled with an undercurrent of concern only perceptible to you. “She just…don’t remember us. She got shot really bad and, erm…forgot everything up until Blackwater.”

Susan. This is Susan.

The woman’s eyes widen and she looks at Arthur with concern. “What? How the hell does she forget us?”

A woman, full-figured and blonde, scoffs at the old woman. “Can’t you just be happy she’s alive? For all we knew, she was dead!”

Susan scowls at her. “You watch your tone there, missy…! I missed her just as much as you did, if not more so! I’ve known her since she was a girl!”

Another woman, honey-blonde and slender, comes between them. “Let’s not fight, please!” She turns to you, offering a soft smile that twinkles with empathy as she steps forward. “Kit, I’m Mary Beth, it’s really good to see you standin’ here.”

Mary Beth, a kind soul, as Arthur described her. It was clear by the way he spoke that you and her had a deep friendship. And by the way she takes your hands, there is a true fondness that she has for you. No ill will or misgivings. Maybe someone you can trust.

“You were my friend,” you say, trying to will a memory into your conscious mind.

Her eyes brighten at your words and she squeezes your hands. “Yes, we often shared stories we’ve written. You were teaching me some Czech phrases.”

You remember some words that were spoken to you in your memories with that tongue. You hope that you will learn to speak it again.

Arthur's hand tightens around your shoulder, grounding you as your mind whirls with the fragments of the life you once lived. The words Mary Beth mentions stir something faint within you—a distant echo of laughter and whispered secrets under starlit skies. "Maybe," you venture, hope threading through your tone, "we could try that again.”

Mary Beth nods, and gently backs away.

Another woman, young with dark hair in a tight bun, holds the hand of a little boy.

You smile, deducing who they are. “Abigail and Jack…”

The little boy, with a twinkle in his eyes, beams at the mention of his name. “Aunt Kit!” And breaking free of his mother’s grip, he rushes to you and hugs you at the legs. “I missed you…!”

“Oh!” you gasp, more so at the name rather than his gesture. You look at Arthur. “Am I…?”

He shakes his head. “It’s…kinda hard to explain.” Arthur’s eyes are filled with that old, familiar pain—the unspoken torment of truths too tangled to unweave in a moment. Abigail steps forward, her expression soft and understanding, as she gently retrieves Jack, allowing him back into the safety of her arms.

“Sorry,” she says. “He’s just excited.”

You look at her apologetically, imagining the restraint she must feel to know you and not react similarly to how the boy had. “Don’t be,” you say.

And suddenly, come in a flock of questions, by voices you can’t yet identify.

“Where have you been all this time?”

“Did the Pinkertons get you?”

“Have you seen Mac? or Sean?”

“We thought Arthur was crazy!”

“Hey, hey!” Arthur barks. “Didn’t you hear a damned thing I said? She don’t remember!”

“And that includes you, don’t it, Cowpoke?”

There is a hush over the flock of voices as they turn to look at the one who just posed the silencing question. Your eyes fall on a man. Blonde, with a long mustache, white hat, and pot belly. He’s leaning against the table in front of the chuckwagon, eyeing the sharpness of his knife.

The feeling he gives you is evidence enough. Micah Bell.

Arthur remains still, his eyes narrowing. “Just say it, Micah.”

Micah laughs, a slick, demeaning laugh, as though he has all the cards in his hand. “Must be real hard, watching your plans fall apart, Morgan. The woman you love wandering back from the grave with no memory of any of us, especially you.”

The tension could be cut with a knife. Arthur’s jaw tightens, his fists clench at his sides. You feel an inexplicable urge to defuse the situation, yet you are more curious than anything. Love? What does he mean by that?

“I don’t know what’cher talkin’ about, Micah.”

Micah lifts his chin, like he isn’t worried about having his neck slit. “Oh, I think you do. You really thought you could keep that under wraps? All that sneakin’ off and…whisperin’…you were plannin’ to leave us, weren’t you, Morgan?” And he points the blade of his knife at you. “With that…circus whore.” And he cackles. “Must be real good…all flexible under them sheets.”

And the next thing that happens is a blur. Arthur leaves your side, a blur of brown, black, and green, as he body slams into Micah.

Fists fly, a dance of anger and old grudges, playing out under the heavy gaze of the setting sun. Dust swirls around them as your heartbeat echoes the rhythmic thumping of boots against the dry ground. You stand frozen, watching as each punch from Arthur seems to carry a year's worth of suppressed fury as he lands punch after punch at Micah’s face.

There are several cries from the women and you watch as Charles and John try to break them up.

Arthur roars with a rage that sends goosebumps up your spine. “I’LL KILL YOU, YOU SONOFA—!!!”

“ENOUGH…!!!”

The command rings loud enough for Arthur to pause for a second, just long enough for Charles to pull him off of Micah. Arthur doesn’t resist, but the fire in his eyes does not leave.

You feel gentle hands on you, and you whip your head to see Mary Beth on your left, and another girl, Tilly, on your right. They try to escort you away, but you remain planted, your only concern being for Arthur.

And that is when someone steps out of the largest tent. Tall, imposing, with dark hair and a dark vest with a gold chain. Rings on many fingers.

Dutch. It is Dutch Van Der Linde.

He doesn’t look in your direction, immediately walking over to the restrained Arthur and downed Micah. “What the hell are you doing, Arthur?!” he roars. “Is this what we do now? Start fights? Nearly beat our own men to death?!”

“Micah started it, Dutch!” A young man says. “He was saying things about Kit!”

Your name seems to do something to Dutch, as his eyes widen and his body tenses. “….Who, Lenny…?”

Lenny nods and points at you. “Kit! She’s back! She’s alive!”

“Didn’t you hear the commotion, Dutch?” Susan asks, almost perplexed that he didn’t hear it.

Dutch turns, his gaze finally landing on you. For a moment, the world seems to hold its breath. His eyes remain intense, a mix of disbelief and confusion washing over him. "Kit?" he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the murmur of the crowd.

You nod, feeling a tightness in your chest. This is the man you wanted to see. He was on that boat. He may know what happened to you. He was there. “Yes, Dutch. It is me.”

And suddenly, there is a shift in his demeanor. His body relaxes, and he opens his arms. “My child, you’ve come home…!”

Arthur looks on, confused, and Charles lets him go. He remains still and watches Dutch carefully as the leader approaches you.

Unsure what to do, you make your way over to him and accept his embrace as he holds you tightly. “We thought you were dead!”

“It is a miracle I am alive, Dutch.” You come away from his embrace and look him in the eyes. “I’ve been in Blackwater all this time.”

“Really?” Dutch asks inquisitively, his eyes reflecting a sudden interest. “And how did you find your way here?”

You look over at the still-seething gunslinger. “Arthur found me.”

Dutch's grin widens as he turns to face Arthur. “So, he did.” He turns back to you and places a firm hand on your shoulder. “Too bad Hosea had gone off to Emerald Ranch for a score, he’d love to be here while we celebrate!”

“But what about Micah?” Bill interjects, breaking the jovial atmosphere. “You still have that fight to deal with.”

Dutch's smile fades as he narrows his eyes. “I’ll deal with that, Bill,” he says in a low voice filled with determination. He looks back at everyone else gathered around him. “But for now, we’re going to have ourselves a party!”

There is a collective cheer and people begin gathering around you, their faces a mix of curiosity and joy. The sense of community, something you've been missing for so long, wraps around you like a warm blanket.

“We’ve missed gossipin’ with you, Kit!” Karen says, a laugh bubbling out of her lips. “We got so much more good stuff over the last month or so.”

Tilly, still holding your arm, escorts you to a place to sit down. It is a large log, lying in front of a small fire. Mary Beth and Karen sit close by, giggling like school girls.

Music starts somewhere in the distance and looking over, you see Javier playing a guitar, and he comes over to you. “Mind if I join you, ladies?”

Tilly giggles and that seems to be permission enough.

Javier settles down on the ground near the fire, his fingers already caressing the strings of the guitar, pulling a melodic tune into the air that gently swirls around the growing firelight. The song is a soft, happy thing that somehow carries a thread of love through its core.

But the soft moment is quickly ended when Uncle comes lopping over. “Play a good one! One I can actually sing to…!”

Javier rolls his eyes moaning, “Ay, way to ruin a moment, amigo!”

Uncle doesn’t seem to care, waving his bottle of beer in the air. “This is a party, not a soiree!”

“Dios Mio, fine! What do you want to sing?”

“Ring Dang Doo!” he cackles and by the reaction of the girls, it is clear that it is very undesirable.

Amidst the groans and laughter, Javier strums a few hesitant chords, his expression a blend of amusement and resignation. “Alright, Uncle, just for you,” he mutters, and the first notes of “Ring Dang Doo” echo into the night, bringing with it a raucous cheer from some of the other men who are in the vicinity.

The words are rather distasteful and you are relieved that you don’t know the song at all. As the laughter rises and falls around the flickering flames, your mind drifts, tugged by the playful mockery in Uncle's voice and the indulgent frustration in Javier's strumming. It’s moments like these that sharpen the edges of what you've lost—memories that feel just beyond your grasp, lingering like shadows at the fringes of the firelight. You feel a pang in your chest, a dull ache, as if your heart knows what your mind cannot remember.

The stars above twinkle with an indifference that feels almost cruel in its beauty, the vastness reminding you of everything that is missing. As the song ends and the laughter dies down, you find yourself wishing for a melody that could carry you back through the years to the moments that are now just ghosts in your mind.

Then, as if summoned by your longing, Javier switches tunes again, this time to something slower, more melancholic. The notes are deep, resonating with the unspoken sorrows.

And Karen, bobbing her head softly, begins to sing the tune.

I ain't got no father

I ain’t got no father

I ain't got no father

To buy the clothes I wear

And Pearson, the gang’s cook, joins her.

I'm a poor, lonesome, cowboy

Poor, lonesome, cowboy

I’m a poor, lonesome, cowboy

A long way from home

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat growing as the words seem to amplify your own sense of displacement. How aptly they resonate with the tide of confusion that has been your companion since waking up in this unfamiliar life. The song, meant for others' longing, mirrors your fragmented memories, flickering like the campfire before you.

And you look at these faces, faces you should know, and you realize that one of the most important is missing.

Arthur. Where is he?

You sit up straight, looking around, but you don’t see him at the table, or by the chuck wagon. You slowly rise to your feet and begin to leave the group.

“Hey!” you hear Uncle call. “Where you goin’?”

You don’t care to answer, as the music and light fade away from you as you leave. You walk back toward Montana, he’s still here. Arthur must be—

“...And I need you with me on this, son. You and Micah need to get along.”

You freeze. You have just started walking by Dutch’s tent, and no doubt he doesn’t expect you to be listening.

And you hear Arthur, speaking with great agitation. “You know how I feel about him, Dutch—”

“You went and got him out of that jail, and I am thankful, but now is not the time for grudges. Kit is back now, but I can’t have any distractions.”

“She ain’t a distraction, Dutch, but—”

“But what?”

“You—you said she drowned, Dutch.” And there is a sudden silence. “Why did you tell me she fell off the boat and drowned?”

Drowned? He thought you drowned? Can you swim? You don’t know, you can’t remember, but you’d think by living in California, playing in tide pools, you would have such a skill.

Dutch stammers and you can hear the growing frustration in his voice. “Well—well—a lot happened that day, son! Some did fall off that boat, and I didn’t see her after that! Was I to go into that water lookin’?”

“Well, no, but—”

“But nothing! She’s here now…” And then Dutch’s voice lowers, bordering threatening. “…and if what Micah said is true about you—”

“It—It ain’t true! I weren’t gonna leave, and she and I—” He stops mid-sentence and sighs deeply. “I said I have your back, Dutch. Always will.”

There is another pause and Dutch speaks with a deep satisfaction. “Good. Now go and join the party. I’ll make sure Micah lives to fight another day.”

You hear heavy footfalls draw near you, and you take a few steps back until they stop again.

“Just for the record, Dutch, I don’t regret punchin’ him.”

And Dutch replies with a great agitation, exhaling deeply. “Just go.”

You motion to hide, and you do just in time to see Arthur head off not toward the party, but into the trees. You are tempted to follow, but you can’t risk Dutch seeing you. So, you decide to return to the party. It’s best you find Susan to find out where you will be sleeping.

As you weave your way back toward the lively sounds and flickering lights of the party, your mind replays the troubling conversation. Why did Dutch say you drowned? And why would Micah say that he was planning to leave? With you? The uncertainty muddles your thoughts, mixing with things you know and what you are trying to remember.

Micah said Arthur loves you and that he tried to keep it a secret. Is it true? Or, more importantly, do you want it to be true?

You don't have a solid answer, and the gnawing uncertainty fuels a dull ache in your chest. As you approach the periphery of the gathering, laughter bubbles over from the crowd, mixing with the clink of beer bottles and the strumming of a guitar. It seems alien, almost surreal, given the storm brewing within your own mind. The warm, yellow light from the lanterns dances across the faces of the revelers, casting long shadows that sway with the music. You feel detached, an observer of their joy rather than a partaker.

Susan finally comes into view, and as she turns her head to the rhythm of the song, her eyes catch you.

You smile and approach her. “I am getting tired. Where can I sleep?”

She clicks her tongue and rises to her feet. “Say no more, girl.” And she begins to lead you away from the gathering. “Come with me.”

As you follow Susan through the throng of dancers and revelers, the smell of tobacco and whiskey mingles with the evening air, heavy with the scent of pine and earth. The sounds of the party fade as you walk further away, replaced by the soft crunching of leaves underfoot.

Susan leads you to a lean-to with other bed rolls lying there. “This is where you’ll be until we can get you a separate tent. Mary Beth and Tilly also sleep here.”

You look at her, with saddened eyes. “I left none of my things here?”

Her eyes soften and she shakes her head as she explains. “When everything had gone to hell, we didn’t have much time to pack. We took what we could, and when we thought you had died…” She shrugs her shoulders. “It didn’t make much sense to grab those things.” She rests a hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry, hon.”

You nod. It makes sense. You can’t begrudge them for fleeing for their lives. As far as they knew, you were dead. Why would they bring a dead person’s things when they needed the bare essentials first?

Susan bids you goodnight, and calmly walks away. Alone for the first time this evening, you go to your knees and take hold of one of the blankets. Wrapping yourself in it, you bury your nose in the wool, taking in a deep breath through your nose.

It doesn’t smell like tobacco, leather, and pine, and you can’t help but feel greatly disappointed.

You curl up under the blanket, your mind swimming with fragmented memories and fleeting emotions. The night air is chillier than expected, seeping through the gaps in the lean-to. Stars peek through the slits above, a stark reminder of how small your problems seem under the vast, indifferent sky.

Despite the comforting warmth of the blanket, you shiver, the cold seeping into your bones as if chasing the warmth of the memories you strain to recall. Somewhere deep within, a flicker of familiarity stirs each time you close your eyes—visions of firelight dancing on a rugged face, laughter mingling with the crackle of burning logs, and the solitude of just two bodies being intertwined together.

Who? Is this you? What memory is this? Your head starts to hurt, but you try to push through it, follow it, will it to make itself clear to you.

Yet, as vivid as these flitting images are, they dissolve into the crisp night air before you can grasp their meaning. A frustration builds within you—a yearning to remember, to understand who you were before the world turned its back on you. The shadows of the past loom larger in the darkness, your heart beating in sync with the slow, methodical drip of a leak somewhere outside your temporary refuge. Each drop sounds like a clock, each tick marking a moment lost to the fog of your forgotten life.

***

It’s morning and you find yourself the first to rise. Sitting up you see the sleeping form of Mary Beth next to you, eyes closed and peaceful. You wonder when everyone has turned in for the night, and can only imagine that it will be a while before they join you.

You carefully rise, pulling the blanket away from you as silently as you can. Finding your footing, you rise to your feet, and coming out of the lean-to, you stretch out your arms and arch your back.

You feel muscles relaxing, tempting you to bend backward farther than would seem natural.

…all flexible under them sheets…

Micah’s voice rings in your ear, and you quickly straighten, feeling uneasy and disturbed by his suggestive language.

You move quickly as your mind goes to what happened. The look on Arthur’s face, like a protective wild animal, as he showed no restraint in beating Micah’s face in. You haven’t seen Micah since, and you didn’t hear where he was taken to recover from the ordeal, or how bad the damage was. You’re curious, the temptation to explore and find out for yourself pricks at you, but you decide against it.

You walk deeper into the camp, sneaking by sleeping figures and passing the chuck wagon and the table, which has poker cards scattered all over its surface.

As you continue, a soft, glowing light gathers your attention, and following it, it leads you to the edge of the overlook. You see the rising sun, the glowing orb rising into the sky as it paints pastel colors behind it.

And you see Arthur sitting on the edge.

A soft “oh” escapes your lips, loud enough for him to notice and look over his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t know anyone else was awake.”

His eyes meet yours and you feel a small wave of relief wash over you. His gaze is warm, and it's almost as if he understands your unspoken struggle. "I've always been an early riser," he says with a gentle smile.

"Even after the party last night?" you tease, trying to break the tension.

He looks away for a moment before meeting your gaze again. "I didn't..." He trails off, looking pensive. "It's not that I didn't want to celebrate," he explains. "I just...”

“I understand,” you say softly, sensing the tension emanating from him. “It was a long day for both of us. It must not have been easy to see me and find that I didn’t remember you.” You see him tense up even more at this and you recoil slightly, giving him space. “About Micah…”

“Don’t worry about that,” he interrupts.

You blink in surprise. “Why? He may be slicker than an oil slick, but his words clearly affected you.” You take a cautious step closer. “What he said was either a pointed deception…” your voice trails off as you nervously swallow. “Or it could be the truth.” As you study the back of his form, the sound of birdsong fills the air and the leaves rustle gently in the breeze. “Which one is it, Arthur?” You wait anxiously for his response, searching for any clue in his stoic posture.

A heavy silence hangs in the air, broken only by the sound of your own breathing. You stand there, rooted to the spot, as each second ticks by with agonizing slowness. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, almost audible in its frantic rhythm. A million thoughts race through your mind, but you push them away, focusing on the one burning question: What is the truth?

You try to keep your voice steady as you ask again, "What would you rather have it be?" Your words hang in the air, filled with uncertainty and hope. If it’s a lie, then everything stays the same. You have friends who know you and a plan to stay with them until things calm down after the events in Blackwater.

But if it is the truth...

Then the man in front of you is keeping something from you. Something between you two, something that happened.

Arthur scooting away from the ledge, rises to his feet. After a moment he turns around to face you and you eagerly search his eyes for an answer. He takes calm steps toward you and offers his hand. “Come with me.”

What? No, you don’t want him to change the subject. “Arthur…”

“C’mon, I forgot to introduce you to someone.”

You feel miffed but he’s piqued your curiosity once again. And the temptation to hold his hand is greater than you thought it would be.

And just like that, you slip your hand into his calloused palm and he begins to lead you back into camp.

You’ve made the inference that Arthur doesn’t share anything he doesn’t want to. If he’s as secretive as Micah implied, then he isn’t going to give you an answer until he’s ready.

But are you willing to let it go?

For now, you will. Just long enough to see what he’s on about.

Though his stride is broad, his footfalls are quiet and steady. You try to keep up, but your feet shuffle too loudly in the grass.

He looks back at you and places his forefinger over his lips. “Shhh….”

Your brow furrows, how dare he tell you to be quiet, when you have a reason to be upset? You are about to slap his arm, but a golden color up ahead catches your eye.

He’s led you outside of camp, near a patch of grass where some horses graze. In the center of them, is a golden palomino American Saddlebred mare. Her coat shines in the sun, her legs strong and graceful, her mane is braided in unique plaits and her tail is long like a bridal train.

You know it. In your gut, you know it. She’s yours. She’s your Odliv.

“Say somethin’ to her,” Arthur whispers softly. “You used to have a tune you’d whistle to her.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know it,” you whisper back, an emptiness filling in your stomach.

That’s when Arthur leans close to you and his lips close to your ear, hums the tune only soft enough for you to hear.

Your ear begins to ache, triggering a memory.

Your dark hair wildly dancing in the wind, riding bareback across a field, hands held out like wings of a bird.

“I’m flying!” you cry. “Arthur, I’m flying!”

You hear a second set of hoofbeats catch up with you and you look to your right to see Arthur, younger and more carefree as he rides beside you on a beautiful blood-red mare.

The memory fades and out from your lips, comes the soft whistle.

And in an instant, Odliv’s head perks up and she knickers curiously. When her eyes fall on you, she pounds the ground excitedly and whinnies loudly.

You feel Arthur nudge you toward her. “Go to her before she wakes everyone up!”

You hurry your steps, maneuvering between the other horses who have also lifted their heads. You reach her and as soon as your hand rests on her forelock, she calms down, her whinnies turning into soft snorts.

She’s soft to the touch, and you’ll let your fingers spread out and fold in, scratching her softly. She brings her head closer to you, communicating her desire to be loved.

"She missed you," Arthur says, breaking the peaceful silence that had enveloped you. You turn to face him, but your eyes are still drawn back to the majestic creature in front of you.

"She was red, wasn't she?" Your voice is soft and filled with awe.

Arthur blinks, slightly taken aback. "Who?"

"Boadicea," you reply, barely able to tear your gaze away from the beautiful mare standing before you.

With a quiet chortle, Arthur corrects you, "Liver Chestnut."

You shrug nonchalantly. "No matter, at least I remembered."

After a brief pause, Arthur clicks his tongue and begins to walk away. "Well, I guess I'll leave you to it then." The sound of his footsteps recede as he leaves you alone with the horse, the only sounds now being the gentle rustling of leaves and the steady breaths of Odliv.

You flip around, nearly spooking Odliv, and he is walking in the direction of Montana. “What? Where are you going?” You leave your mare and hurry to catch up with him. You still have your question that needs answering.

He doesn’t answer immediately, reaching Montana and slipping him a sugar cube. “How’ya doin’, boy?” And he gives the stud a good pat.

“Arthur…?”

He mounts Montana and looks down at you. “I gotta meet up with Hosea. Was supposed to already…but got a little sidetracked.”

Meaning you. You are the distraction, just like Dutch said last night. Is that what he means?

You don’t want to see him go. But you don’t want to get him in trouble. “Can’t I…can’t I go with you?” You’ve come to find that you can hold your own, albeit quite suddenly, with those makeshift explosives you threw at those bandits.

His eyes soften at that, but he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Kitte—erm—Kitka, it’s probably best that you take it easy for a while. Spread your wings, as they say. Maybe once you get back on your feet.”

Your brow pinches. “But I’m already on two legs.”

He shakes his head, chuckling to himself. “You did take things too literal sometimes.” He takes the reins and spins Montana around, the horse’s broad muscles moving in powerful ripples. “I’ll be gone a few days. Hopefully, you’ll be meetin’ Sean before too long.” And before you can say anything more, he makes a clicking sound with his mouth, and Montana canters on out of camp.

You watch the wake of his departure, feeling an unsettling mix of frustration and abandoned hope gnaw at your insides. Left standing alone amidst the camp's morning bustle, you wonder if your past will ever truly circle back to embrace you, or if it is destined to keep galloping ahead—just out of reach like the dust kicked up by Montana's hooves. You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding and turn away from Arthur's fading silhouette.

The camp seems full yet oddly hollow as you meander back into camp, still silent while everyone sleeps. You feel rather peckish, and you remember that there were some canned goods in Pearson’s chuckwagon. You suppose it won’t hurt to have a bite, after all, you haven’t eaten in over 24 hours.

You go towards the back of the wagon, an area of camp you haven’t explored yet, and as you look around.

You stop in your tracks.

A young man, bent over and head down, is tied to a tree.

You gasp loudly, which stirs him to awaken. He lifts his head and when his eyes meet yours his eyes widen.

“Please…” he begs. “I need some water.”

You know that you are amongst a gang of outlaws, but you couldn’t imagine why a young man would be tied to a tree with a rope.

He has long, brown hair to his shoulders. It looks like it hasn’t been washed in days. His eyes are bloodshot, either from crying or fatigue, perhaps both.

You think through all the names and descriptions that Arthur gave you, and none seem to match this stranger. You take a quiet step forward. “Who are you?”

He replies with a lilt in his voice, true panic as he whispers. “Nobody! I ain’t done nothin’!” Then his head hangs low. “I am so thirsty…”

You aren’t above helping someone, regardless of why they may be tied to a tree. You see a water bucket with a ladle and walk over to it. You fill the ladle with cool, clear water and bring it to his parched lips. He drinks greedily, water dribbling down his chin and wetting the dust at his knees. After a moment, he seems somewhat revived and lifts his head again, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of fear and gratitude.

"Thank you,” he gasps. “I thought I was going to die…”

“Who tied you here?” you ask. “Why?”

“Dutch had me tied. I…was with Colm, but I ain’t never liked that feller…!”

Colm. You don’t recognize that name. But you can only figure he’s an enemy to Dutch. But why?

“Hey…!” A bark comes from around a lean-to, and you whip around. It’s Bill, grumpy and hungover, and he’s caught you helping his prisoner. “What do you think yer doin’?!” Bill stomps over, his heavy boots stirring up small clouds of dust with each step. His eyes are narrowed in suspicion and anger as he peers at you, then at the ladle in your hand. You feel a shiver of apprehension, but your grip on the ladle tightens slightly, a defiant gesture you can't quite explain yourself.

"He needed water, Bill," you say calmly, meeting his glare with a steady gaze of your own. The air thickens with tension, the only sounds the distant calls of crows and the soft rustle of the dry grass underfoot.

Bill snorts, his mustache twitching in agitation. “Dutch says no food or water ‘til he talks!”

And you suddenly bristle, memories of unkindness shown to you your entire life flooding in quick flashes. What would you have given for just a bit of water or food when your brother was sick and dying? Despite your headache, your fist clenches around the ladle and you swing it to hit Bill hard.

The ladle connects with a satisfying thud against Bill's temple, and he staggers back, more from surprise than pain. His hand instinctively goes to his head, and he scowls fiercely at you. "Kit, what the hell—?"

"Blázen! You know as well as I do that a man's got a right to basics!" you spit out, your voice thick with emotion. "Water is not a privilege. It’s a necessity…!"

Bill stares at you, his anger simmering down into something resembling grudging respect or perhaps confusion. He rubs the spot where the ladle struck, eyes never leaving yours. "Yer memory ain’t all there, so I am gonna spell it for ya…” And he leans close, snarling a threat veiled thinly behind a whisper. "Dutch's orders are law here, Kit. Don’t forget your place, or you’ll find yourself out there with nothin’ and no one."

You swallow hard, the sting of his words biting deeper than the chill in the air. How many times had you been cast out before, left to fend for yourself in the harsh world of indifference and cruelty? You don’t know, but the thought sends a cold wave through your spine. And yet, at the same time, there's a flickering flame of rebellion within you that refuses to be smothered.

"Maybe my memory isn’t fully restored, Bill," you reply, your voice low and steady, "but my sense of what’s right hasn’t faded one bit." You hold his gaze, unflinching, the intensity of your conviction casting a palpable sensation in the air between you.

Bill's eyes narrow as he assesses you, the standoff drawing a curious crowd from the nearby tents. Whispers weave through the other members as they’ve woken to your row, the poor prisoner in the middle, shaking in his boots.

Finally, with a snort, Bill turns away, dismissing the gathering with a wave of his hand. "See to it that he don’t drown," he mutters under his breath, loud enough for only you to hear. There's something akin to admiration in his tone, albeit reluctantly given.

As the crowd disperses, you sigh deeply.

You feel a sudden hand on your arm, and you turn to see Mary Beth, her eyes a mix of gratitude and worry. “I’m glad someone else feels the same way.” And she begins to lead you away from the prisoner. You walk beside her as he links her arm with yours and she leads you around the tents. “I’ve been sneakin’ Kieran some water and scraps since he’s been here.”

Kieran? That’s his name. And since Mary Beth has been helping him, she must know more about it. “Who is he?”

“An O’Driscoll,” she explains. “They are a rival gang. Dutch and Colm go way back, been fightin’ for a while.”

“Oh. Who is Colm, exactly? Why are they fighting?”

“You were there, when it all started. You are one of the original ones.” Mary Beth stops by the horses and you eye Odliv while she grazes. “I wasn’t there, but from what I’ve been told, Dutch killed Colm’s brother and he killed Dutch’s lover, Annabelle.”

Annabelle. You think hard about the name, but it doesn’t register. You shake your head.

Mary Beth continues, “Colm is evil. He’s killed innocent women and children, and shows no mercy, like we do.”

Your brow furrows. “How is tying Kieran to a tree mercy?”

Mary Beth hesitates, her gaze shifting to the ground before she meets your eyes again. "It's not, I suppose. But sometimes..." She trails off, searching for the right words. "Sometimes we have to make choices that don't sit well with us. You know that better than anyone, Kit."

You nod slowly, unsure of what she means.

She sees the confused expression on your face and offers to enlighten you. “When there was plannin’ for the ferry robbery in Blackwater, there were conflicting ideas. Hosea and Arthur were working on a con of their own, some sort of trick on some real estate brokers. And then there was Micah and Dutch, talkin’ about the ferry. You wanted to help Arthur and Hosea, you have always been good with costumes and performances. You can distract the strongest-willed of men…!” She giggles, most likely thinking of a specific instance. “We have always been a great team.”

But you want her to continue about Blackwater. “But what happened? Did I go with him?”

She shakes her head. “Dutch said he needed you with him. To act as a hostage when he robbed the ferry.”

Your eyes widen. “That sounds…dangerous.”

“That’s what you had said. I remember you telling me how worried you were about the whole thing. You said that something didn’t seem right…” Her eyes fall. “You…seemed different. I wish there was something that I could have done, maybe took your place.”

You shake your head, patting her arm. “No. It is as it was. You can’t change the past, Mary Beth.”

There’s a long pause as the air between you thickens with unspoken thoughts, a tangle of regrets and old wounds that no amount of talking can undo. But the soft smile returns to Mary Beth’s face and she pats your hand that rests over her arm. “Let’s do the wash. Us girls always do the wash in the morning, to let the clothes dry. Miss Grimshaw gets on our tails if we aren’t busy come sunup.”

You nod. “Okay, it will be good to keep busy.”

Together, you and Mary Beth gather the worn fabrics and soiled garments scattered around the camp and find the other girls by the washboards and buckets. The fresh morning air is crisp, pinching at your cheeks as you find a place to sit among them.

The chatter among the women is light, yet it carries a weight of shared history that you can't fully grasp. You try to focus on the task at hand, scrubbing at stubborn stains that mar the fabric. As your hands move in rhythmic motions over the washboard, snippets of conversation float around you.

"Molly’s lookin’ at her face in the mirror again…” Karen says while gnawing on a long blade of straw.

The girls look over near Dutch’s tent. Molly, with red hair more blazing than fire, eyes her own reflection as though it were an unfamiliar face, one she's trying to understand or maybe memorize. You can't help but notice the way her brows furrow together, crafting a silent narrative of self-doubt and contemplation that seems all too familiar.

"Molly always did take to heart what Dutch says about appearances being as important as a loaded gun…” Tilly snarks. “But I always thought looks weren’t everythin’.”

“It’s different when you got a man to please,” Karen argues. “I should know. The better you look, the better the pay.”

Mary Beth gasps at her brazenness. “Karen!”

“What? It’s true! Any woman who has had a man knows that.”

You remain silent, the conversation drifting over you like fog settling on a meadow. The practicalities and pitfalls of love seem a distant concern to your current predicament. Yet there's an ache inside that resounds with their words, a ghostly echo of a love you can scarcely remember but feel profoundly.

As you scrub on the shirt in your hand, you notice its color. Blue. The same blue shirt that Arthur had worn when you saw him in Valentine. Your heart skips, caught in the clutches of your most vivid memory, flitting at the edge of your consciousness like a shy bird. The fabric under your fingers suddenly feels heavier, soaked not just with water but with the weight of unspoken words and a past life that might as well have been someone else's dream.

You swallow thickly, thinking about how to word your question. “Did we…Did we talk about a lot of things…like secrets?”

Karen’s eyes sparkle at your question. “Oh yes! Not much gets past us girls!”

And Mary Beth, sweet and sympathetic as ever, can sense what you are getting at. “Is there something you want to know, Kit? Something you told us and want to remember?”

You feel your hands trembling, the words building in your body making it nerve-wracking. “Am I…Am I a virgin?”

There is a sudden stillness when the girls pause their washing.

Tilly is the first to speak, her voice raised higher than her normal range. “What?”

And Karen gets to the meat of the matter. “Why do you wanna know? You pregnant or something?”

You shake your head, you feel instant regret for even asking, but you can’t back out now. “No! I just…been having these dreams…”

“Oh…? What dreams?” Karen asks with a gleam in her eye and a mischievous grin.

“I don’t know…I think they’re memories, as that is how they usually come to me, but I can’t seem to put it all together.”

Mary Beth still looks softly at you, as she wrings a flannel shirt. “You always told us you wanted to wait until marriage.” And before you can doubt her answer she adds, “You were very adamant about it. You said being a performer taught you that.”

Performer? You remember being called circus trash, and also what Micah called you yesterday.

It lines up. If you had your heart set on waiting…

You let the shirt go for just a moment to look at the ring on your finger. “And I’m not married.”

Tilly shakes her head. “No, Kit. You ain’t.”

“It’s strange,” you laugh. “Being 29 and still…” You work on scrubbing the shirt again, tucking your chin to hide your face behind your hair. “Oh, I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“There ain’t no shame in waitin’, Kit.” Karen says, her voice more gentle than her usual teasing. “It’s better with the right person than the wrong one.” She laughs. “I should know.”

Mary Beth sighs, lifting her head and looking all dreamy. “I’m still waitin’ for mine, too.”

At that, Tilly chortles. “Mary Beth, the right one ain’t never gonna happen for you unless they come flyin’ right outta them books you write!”

The laughter that bubbles from Mary Beth is light and unburdened, a stark contrast to the heaviness of your own heart. "Maybe I do expect too much from a man. But a girl can dream, can't she?"

Your thoughts spiral back to your own dreams, fragmented and shadowy as they are, filled with fleeting touches and whispered names that dissolve as you awaken. There's a haunting familiarity in those hallucinatory moments, a sense of belonging that you can't yet place. Perhaps, buried deep within the cobwebs of your memory, there lies an answer. They feel so real, yet so far away, making you wonder if even you kept secrets from these girls who you call friends.

You girls finish the laundry, hanging the linens on nearby branches and a line strung up between two trees. You’re surprised to see the day half gone, and while you are grateful for the passage of time, you wonder what else you could possibly do.

And as you walk past Susan, she sees you and eyes your skirt. “Just a minute, girl!”

You freeze, and brace yourself. From what the girls have told you, you prepare to be given another chore to do.

She rises from the table where she has been working on sewing a patch and gestures to your skirt. “Just what do you think you’re doin’, wearin’ clothes like that?”

You look down. You had forgotten that you cut it all up for the explosives. While it is the right explanation, it isn’t the easiest one. “I…erm…must have torn it.”

“I should say so! We need to get you something else to wear.”

You shake your head. “I don’t have any money. Or other clothes.”

Susan motions for you to follow her and she leads you to the back of Dutch’s tent. On a barrel, sits a box.

“This is the money box. Everyone pitches in money from jobs and such to take care of camp needs.”

“But this is for everyone.”

“You’ve come back from the dead and are in need of new clothes.” She opens the box without a qualm, takes out five dollars, and hands it to you. “I’d say that is a good reason.”

You hold the money in your hand. It isn’t the thirty dollars you left behind in Blackwater, but you figure you haven’t really been familiar with large sums. “Thank you, Miss Grimshaw.”

“I’ll have Strauss go to town with you. Since you’ve been back, he wants to talk about nothing but resuming business with you.”

You look up, your brows pinched. “Business?”

She nods. “Just get yourself ready and meet Strauss by the wagon. He will take you to Valentine.”

Your heart hitches. Valentine. Where it all started.

Tag Requests: @photo1030

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#red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #fanfiction #arthur morgan #ao3 writer #rdr2 #Arthur Morgan x reader #Arthur morgan x female reader #Arthur Morgan x you #Chapter by Chapter #romance #Western #This is gonna be good #Micah being Micah #Dutch being a little sus ngl

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navstuffs · 1 year ago

Text

The Deal

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x GN!Reader

Summary: “I will do anything to save Arthur Morgan’s life. Even your soul? Even my soul. Anything.” / A Weird West story where you would do anything to save Arthur Morgan’s life, no matter the consequences.

Warning Tags: Weird West trope (wild west + horror/fantasy/science fiction), +14, angst

Author's Notes: hi and welcome to my first fic for my halloween event! i have had this prepared since august and am so excited to be sharing it finally! really nervous excited to be using the weird west trope. there is also this artwork i saw after i finished writing and it screamed THE DEAL. enjoy your reading!!!

my halloween's masterlist

"Be careful what you wish for, you may receive it." (The Monkey's Paw - W.W. Jacobs)

When Mr. Strauss asked you to help Arthur, you promptly said yes. Arthur always had so much on his plate, taking care of everyone and everything, so you would take any weight from his shoulder if you could. Arthur didn't like that at first, you alone going to collect debts, but you had proved yourself over and over again. You understood him, though; this life as outlaws wasn't easy, and any of you could lose your life every time you went out. It was nice to have someone caring for you after all those years, to have Arthur be protective over you since you two started going out.

So, of course, when Mr. Strauss asked for help collecting a few debts in a morning while Arthur was away, you promptly accepted. He explained it should be easy, nothing someone with your type of experience couldn't handle. A window called Jane Huxley, a frail banker named Joseph Willis, and lastly, an old man called Bernard Miller. None of them would present much of a fight if the situation arose, despite Mr. Strauss's warnings for you to be careful. Their debts were small but still needed for the camp. You had a vague suspicion Mr. Strauss didn’t want to endanger you, primarily due to Arthur’s anger.

It is late when you arrive at Bernard Miller's house, late enough for the moon to be up in the sky. You should have been there way earlier, but Mrs. Huxley had an outraged brother you had to defend yourself from, and who would have thought a frail banker could run that fast? You dismount your horse, your eyes scanning the situation ahead: a single cabin in the deep woods. Nothing is out of the ordinary, so you hope your last one will be easy.

It is a warm and humid night, and you can feel sweat on your neck. There were no houses along the way to Bernard Miller's cabin. You don't remember when you heard a single noise. It has been a while since you were deep in the woods like this. Your horse seems agitated, and you pet him, promising tons of sugar cubes after this.

The cabin in front of you is old and probably only has one room. As you walk closer, you notice candles lit from the windows so the old man could still be awake. You wonder how he lives in such an eerie place and all alone. There is no presence of a stable or any livestock. Maybe he has friends that visit him? As per Mr. Strauss's statement, Mr. Miller could barely stand. It is none of your business at the end of the day; your job is to get the money back and get the hell out of there.

You enter the house without announcing yourself, not surprised by how rustic it looks inside. It looks uninhabitable, with a couple of holes in the ceiling. There is a bed, a table, a nightstand, an old cupboard, and a chair. Sitting in the chair, probably the oldest human being you have ever seen. Older than Hosea and Uncle together, with wrinkles all over his body. When you enter, Mr. Miller eats soup under the candles and barely lifts his eyes to look at you. A big, white, messy beard, long white hair, and dark eyes are the only things you notice.

“Mr. Miller, I have come to collect the money you borrowed from Mr. Strauss.”

Mr. Miller stops mid-air with his spoon and looks straight at you. Immediately, every single strand of your hair raises from your arms. As a gunslinger, your survival instincts had to be high if you wanted to live to tell a story the next day. You learned very early to read dangerous situations and escape them as quickly as possible. Or fight, which was always your last option. That’s how people survived. But never freeze. The situation you are in right now gave you none of those options. You couldn’t run. You couldn’t fight. You are stuck in Bernard Miller’s enigmatic stare, unable to move. You bite your lips enough to almost draw blood, a resource you learned at a young age to wake up, but you still can’t move. As if the world is frozen all around you.

Bernard Miller gives you a small smile, and the world starts spinning again. Your heart beats to remind your lungs need air. You give one deep breath, and Mr. Miller returns his attention to his soup.

“I won’t ask again. Where is the money you got from Mr. Strauss?” You are surprised your voice isn’t shaking, but your legs are. Your hand is over your revolver to give you a certain sense of safety.

Mr. Miller continues eating, and you start roaming around his house. Your first instinct is to look into the old cupboard that the old man uses as a kitchen: nothing except for a few cans of old food. You don’t even think of taking those, walking towards the nightstand. When you pass Mr. Miller, you catch the soup he eats is grey with pieces that look like fish. He doesn’t flinch or complain when you roam through his bed, finally stopping by his nightstand. You find the exact amount of dollars you need in very clean notes when you open the drawer. Your hand stops mid-air as you approach to get the money. Why are those notes so clean compared to the rest of the house? You aren’t one to believe in curses; you believe a single bullet could end a man’s life, and that was it. No ghosts or devils existed in a world where humans could be so bad. The spoon hits the plate, waking you from your entrance. With one final decision, you get the money, relieved you are finally done with this place.

When you walk towards the door, a shallow voice mutters.

“He's goin' to die, you know?”

You stop in your tracks.

“What did you say?” You answer back, your voice is so low you would be surprised the old man heard it.

“The one you love. He's goin' to die.”

The hand grabs your pistol again as you turn in your heels to stare at Bernard Miller. He is standing, his eyes straight towards you.

“We're all goin' to die. We're humans.” You don’t even know why you are still there: you got precisely what you needed. But something, an invisible magnetic force, kept you there. One that you can’t fight or run.

Because Bernard better not be speaking about Arthur. The old man's yellow smile just gets bigger, as if listening to your thoughts.

“He's goin' to get very sick, and you won't be able to do anything about it, except watch powerless as life slowly drains from him. There is nothin' you'll be able to do unless one thing: you'll come to find me.”

“Old man, I don’t know what in the hell you speak of, but if you don't shut—”

“You'll come to find me.” Bernard finishes, decisive.

“Go to hell.” You whisper before leaving through the door.

It is good to feel the night air in your lungs. It makes you focus properly: you want to look back to the rustic cabin as you dash to your horse, but you don’t. Something says you wouldn’t like what you see. You ride away from Bernard Miller’s home, swearing yourself to never come back.

Your horse seems to share your fears, and you arrive at the camp in record time. The words of Miller stuck in your head as a chant.

“You'll come to find me.”

“The one you love is goin' to die.”

It had to be a way for him to scare you not to take his money. It had to. Javier is on watch and waves when he sees you passing.

When you arrive at camp and give your horse those promised pets and tons of sugar cubes, you calm yourself a little. You are back in your safe place, surrounded by the voices of the people around you. Maybe you need a drink. Or two. Slowly, the sense of normality floods your body. Sean, with Karen on his lap and Uncle singing together drunk around the campfire, makes you smile. You stop by the camp’s box, placing the money there, and a hand on your shoulder makes you jump. It is Mr. Strauss, with a satisfied expression.

“How was everything?"

"All good. Got everyone. Mr. Miller tried to scare me a little at the end, but I also got his money."

"Who?"

"The old guy? Bernard Miller? Creepy and ancient?"

Mr. Strauss looks at his record book, a slightly confused expression. You move your weight from one leg to another as Mr. Strauss flips through his book. When he is done, Mr. Strauss raises his eyes, simply stating.

“Well, at least it is done.”

He leaves without saying another word as you stand, uncomfortable. Why, for a second, it seemed Mr. Strauss didn't even remember Bernard Miller? You turn your face toward Sean’s group and notice Arthur sitting there, observing you. You smile, forgetting about Bernard Miller for a moment. His beard and hair are a little longer than the last time you saw him, almost two weeks ago. You want nothing else to run toward his embrace, but you and Arthur try to keep your relationship more private. Arthur looks tired, and you nod slightly toward your shared tent. Should you tell Arthur? He certainly is like you: he doesn’t believe much in those supernatural things.

It doesn’t take long for him to join you in the tent. As Arthur walks in, and you are shielded from the exterior eyes, his arms are on you. You two hold each other in the darkness, not speaking. After your eyes adjust, Arthur holds your face to give one good look at you.

“Missed ya.”

You don’t answer, holding him tightly with your arms. You are never letting go of him. He is going to die, you know? A shiver passes your body, and you hide your face into Arthur’s body. That doesn’t go unnoticed by him. Arthur separates gently, rubbing your arms.

“Heard you went to get some money back for Strauss. Did anythin' happen?”

“No.” You don’t want to tell Arthur precisely what happened. He might find you silly. As a gunslinger, you had to believe in real people, real danger, not some made-up ghost or whatever lived in that cabin. And he would be right.

“You sure?” Damn you, Arthur Morgan, who knows you so well that can even sense when you are lying. You nod, giving him a half smile.

“Yes.”

Arthur doesn’t seem entirely satisfied, but he doesn’t push it to which you are thankful. He tells you he doesn’t like when Strauss sends you on debt-collecting missions alone because some people could turn violent. You don’t discuss, simply letting that warm feeling spread in your heart. You liked it when Arthur got protective over you. You warn him you can take care of yourself, and Arthur nods, apprehensive.

“I know. I know you can.” Arthur mutters. He doesn’t have to complete the sentence. I can’t lose you is hanging in the air.

You are both dirty and exhausted, and his beard scratches against your skin when you deeply kiss him. Arthur kisses you a little longer than a typical good night kiss, but when you break away, he offers no resistance.

“I love you. You aren’t losing me, okay? And I am not losing you.” You tell him as a promise to anyone who might be listening.

He's going to die, you know?

You don’t know where you are going. Your horse is riding without a destination, just racing across the fields of green. Arthur just told he is dying. And instead of staying as his supportive partner, you flew. You had enough. Arthur didn’t attempt to make you stay; he watched miserably as you mounted your horse, leaving the camp. A place you should have left a long time ago with Arthur. Away from Dutch’s insanity, from death. Run away and never look back. Run away from all death and despair.

But Arthur is loyal, and you are loyal to him.

The tears flood into your eyes, and you are sobbing, loud. Your horse runs faster, fuelled by your pain. You need to get away from everyone right now. You are furious but mostly more irate with yourself. You still remember Arthur’s expression as he watched you leave: upset but resigned. He doesn’t even expect you to come back. It would be better for you anyway.

Your surroundings change as your horse rides away. As if the wind across your face can take all your pain and anger.

When you finally stop your horse, you repeatedly apologize to him, laying your head against his head. Your horse shakes his head, and you dismount, still apologizing with your fingers shaking.

It gives you a few moments to recognize where you are: right in front of Bernard Miller’s house. It is still old, still standing. As if you just left from collecting that debt long ago. When Arthur wasn’t sick. When everyone was alive and well. When things were still okay.

You'll come to find me.

You should jump in your horse and get away from there. But you don’t.

When he is sick, you'll come and find me.

The voice that has been tormenting you speaks in your head. You forget about your horse and anything around you and slowly walk toward the house.

What would you do for him?

How much are you willing to give for Arthur Morgan’s life?

“Anythin'.” You answer to nothing.

The door opens, and a young man walks out of the cabin. You stop mid-track, your eyes locked with the dark eyes in front of you. It is Bernard Miller. Except he isn’t old anymore. He is still wearing the same old dirty clothes he wore when you first came to collect the money, but he is young. Handsome. Black hair, the same slight smile on his face that bewitched you. Bernard doesn’t seem surprised to see you. No. He smiles as if he had been expecting you this whole time, and how dare you to be so late? He doesn’t speak as you start sobbing quietly.

“He's sick. As you said.” You mumble, pathetic. It couldn’t be Bernard, the only last sane part of your mind tells you: it could be anybody else, his grandson, a stranger, anyone else?? You had to hold onto that last sane thought.

“And what do you require from me?” The way Bernard spoke now. His voice was as if an icy knife cutting against your skin. You inevitably chill, wincing away. You hold yourself together for Arthur.

“You can cure him, can’t you? You shouldn't, it shouldn't be possible, but you can. I know you can.” You murmur, not knowing where that knowledge has come from. Bernard looks satisfied and utterly different from when you saw him, but you simply accept it. He shouldn't look like that, there was no possible explanation for this man to be Bernard Miller. But you accept it anyway; you will take whatever is coming to save Arthur’s life. And something told you this man, whatever he was, could help.

Because you had to be going insane, right?

“I can. There is a price to pay.” Bernard states, and you instantly nod.

He starts closing the distance between you, and your knees give in. In a sign of respect or adoration, you don't know, it doesn't seem to matter anymore. Bernard doesn’t seem surprised as your knees drop onto the floor with your head down. You don’t care; you say it out loud, and he knows it. Bernard opens a big, twisted smile, and you find comfort where you once found fear.

I will do anything to save Arthur Morgan’s life.

Even your soul?

Even my soul. Anything.

As Bernard touches your cheek, you close your eyes. The sensation of comfort just gets more significant in your chest as you disconnect from your body. The last part of you that screams you shouldn’t have done this is shut off. You know now, as inevitable as the sun will rise tomorrow, that Arthur Morgan isn’t dying of that damn disease.

You smile back.

You wake up hours later, extremely confused. You look around, and the cabin of Bernard is still there, but it looks much older than before. As if no one has lived there for years and years. You get up, hungry and thirsty. It must have been some sort of crazy nightmare, you think.

You ride back to the camp, trying to remember the events from last night. Arthur told you he was sick, and you left angry and furious instead of facing or even comforting him. By the time you arrive at the camp, he has left again. No one is looking at you differently, which you find weirdly comforting.

A few days pass until you see Arthur again, and he looks…better? His face isn’t as pale anymore, and he has some blush on his cheek. As if life is coming back to him.

“How are you feeling?” You wonder as he stops by your side.

“Fine? I almost haven't coughed the way here.”

You nod, happy. Maybe Arthur was getting better. What did those doctors know anyway? There is no one strong as your Arthur Morgan, and he would live many and many years.

The gang is over. After killing Micah, Arthur finds you where you two had agreed to meet. A start of a new life, as he said. Away from crime, away from that horrible life. Just you and him, a few horses, some livestock. A simple lifestyle. Arthur didn’t need much, you didn't need much. You had each other. You had forgotten entirely about Bernard Miller, happy to share a life you always wanted with the man you deeply loved.

But a deal is a deal. And when time is up, time is up: you have to pay the price.

You watch as Arthur leaves to get eggs from the chicken. He gives you a kiss and leaves whistling. He looks so relaxed and happy. It warms your heart to be the one to share that with him. After years of hard work, he deserves it. You both do.

When he doesn’t return after awhile, you look for him. It is a hot day, and Arthur might need a cup of water and a few kisses. You find him fallen behind the stable, his horse close to him. Unconscious. You run towards him, the cup of water forgotten on the floor, and roll him over. He doesn’t seem to be breathing. You remember a new technique to compress the chest that you read in a book that Arthur brought you from the library a couple of weeks ago, and you start compressing his chest and blowing air on his mouth.

“Come on, Arthur, come on.”

Hours pass, and Arthur doesn’t move an inch. You drop to his side, exhausted, looking everywhere for someone. Anything to save him. You close your eyes, praying for anything to save him.

When you open your eyes, you are in front of young Bernard Miller again. Your clothes are different, and you are younger again. You are on your knees in front of Bernard Miller, just as in the day you discovered Arthur was going to die and, and...

No, it isn't possible.

You blink, confused, as Bernard Miller smiles as if he has seen this scene multiple times and still loves it every time he witnesses it.

“Even your soul?” Bernard asks, his eyes glowing in the darkness. Whatever is left of you is gone by now, but you can’t wait to live with Arthur again. And again. No matter the price, no matter the outcome, no matter the ending.

Anything for Arthur Morgan’s life. To live by his side all over again.

“Even my soul. Anything."

taglist: @agqrtz, @daydreamrot, @roseglazedlens, @scar-crossedlvrs. if you would like to be tagged into my halloween event, let me know!!

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan fanfics #arthur morgan horror

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sednonamoris · 1 year ago

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good, honest thieves

Pairing: John Marston x gn!reader

Summary: A fight with Micah leads to a lecture from Dutch. Loyalty is exactly what you've been raised on, but to what? To whom? The answer seems to be John every time.

Warnings: Knife violence, canon-typical violence, fish guts, strong language, Micah Bell's whole existence, sexist language/insults, Dutch being our fav little manipulator, blink-and-you'll-miss-it mild angst

Word count: 1,465

A/N: I've been waiting to write this altercation since I first started ghost story, so I hope you all enjoy it for this nice, short chapter 💕

Series masterlist • AO3

—

You miss out on a hell of a firefight. A lot of law dead. A lot of townsfolk dead. A run-in with Mr. Leviticus Cornwall himself.

You’re surprised that he deigned to show his face in the mud and the muck of Valentine, but if there’s one thing rich folk are good for it’s greed. From the sound of it, he’s none too pleased to have been robbed.

From the sound of it, it’s a lucky thing John and Arthur and Dutch and Strauss ain’t dead after all that.

The gang was quick to make a hasty retreat.

Now you’re camped outside a little town called Rhodes, farther south than you’ve settled in years. Arthur teases that you and Javier must be happy to be in warmer climes, but personally? You hate it. New Austin is dry heat and desert for miles. The air there bites, sharp and clean. Here it’s thick as molasses and wet with humidity. Sweat and condensation cling to everything. The very ground beneath you is mucky and muddy and lush with overgrowth, like the vegetation can’t stand it here, either. It claws and climbs its way out and onto everything. You’ve never seen undergrowth like this, swallowing trees and homesteads whole without discrimination.

Out of everyone, you figured Dutch would hate it most - you can’t count how many times he’s told stories about the Southern scum that put his daddy in the ground. But he seems in his element out here. The town is divided into factions he and Hosea have wasted no time playing against one another, and rumors of confederate gold have lit his eyes with that same gleam you saw before Blackwater. You know you won’t leave until he has it - he’s even got Bill and Arthur playing deputy while working leads.

Today they’re off with the sheriff chasing ‘shine in the hills, so camp is mostly quiet. Or it would be, if Micah wasn’t hanging around.

“Ghost,” he calls out, uncomfortably familiar. He approaches Pearson’s chuckwagon with open arms that are greeted only with a flat stare when you look up from the fish you’re gutting. You promised Pearson you’d take care of them while he does the shopping.

“Micah.” His name grits past the teeth you’re doing your utmost not to bare in warning; already he’s closer than you’d like.

“Haven’t seen much of you since I got back from Strawberry,” he says.

“I keep busy.”

“Not too busy for Marston.” He rocks back on his heels and raises his brows like he’s caught you out. Something about the way he says John’s name makes your hackles raise.

“Me an’ him are friends,” you chop off a trout head aggressively while making even more aggressive eye contact. “You and me, on the other hand, ain’t.”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” he wheedles. “I’m a real friendly fella. We oughta go drinking sometime and I’ll show you.”

It takes everything in you not to cringe at the thought. It’s one thing to work a job with him, when you have to, but spending quality time with Micah? It sounds like just about the worst thing you can think of. He has this slimy quality about him, and the way he talks about some of the others is enough to solidify your poor opinion.

Dutch can make nice with him all he likes. You won’t.

“We all heard what happened when you went drinking in Strawberry,” is what you say aloud. “Rhodes might not survive.”

He laughs through the fact that the joke was meant to be at his expense and leans closer. “You’re funny, Ghost. Real funny. I can see why John likes you so much. It’s too bad he’s so… Well, you know.”

“He’s so what?” If looks could kill, Micah would be stone dead.

“Useless,” he shrugs. “I mean, first he gets hisself half eaten, then he’s fleeced rustlin’ sheep— almost got his brains blown out in Valentine. Not to mention he let Morgan steal a two dollar whore right out from between his—”

All of the sudden you can’t hear past the ringing in your ears or see past the blood red of your vision. He’s snickering, leaning closer still, leering, and faster even than you can register you’ve grabbed him by the hair and smashed his face against the fish guts and the wooden table before you.

He cries out, somewhere between alarmed and disgusted and enraged.

Your filleting knife rests against his pulse point.

“Say it again,” you snarl.

Stark, killing hate reflects back on your knife blade with the whites of his eyes. “Goddamn you!”

“Not so funny now, huh?” He struggles in your grip. “Say it again.”

He opens his mouth and bares his teeth, likely to spit more profanities, when approaching footsteps stop you both in your tracks. You glare up at the intrusion to find Ms. Grimshaw. Her face is even more severe than usual.

“What exactly is going on in my camp?” she demands, hands on her hips.

“Micah was just apologizing,” you say. Your smile is a feral show of teeth.

He squirms in your grip, claws at your hands. “Get this goddamn lunatic off me!”

She purses her lips, unimpressed. “Ghost, unhand Mr. Bell.”

You let him go reluctantly, pressing the knife to his skin just a little harder before shoving him back. He staggers away and you wipe your hands down your pants and grimace.

Micah’s hands fly to his throat, like he’s checking it’s all still intact. His cheek shines slimy red with fish blood.

“You’re crazy!” he accuses.

“Ghost is plenty of things,” Ms. Grimshaw says before you can cut in, “but crazy ain’t one of ‘em. I suggest you learn from this particular mistake, Mr. Bell. Now go on, the both of you. Get! Before you make another mess for me to clean up.”

You murmur a chastised yes, ma’am under your breath.

Micah stalks away, glaring over his shoulder without another word.

All that’s left is the thunk, thunk, thunk, of your knife against the wooden table. You let yourself imagine each unfortunate fish is Micah, instead.

—

Dutch finds you later. You’re sat on a log overlooking the lake, glaring out across the water like it’s somehow responsible for everything that’s happened up until now. He sits beside you and lights a cigar.

“Ms. Grimshaw tells me someone tried to kill Micah today.”

His tone is neutral, but a quick glance out of the corner of your eye reveals a tightness in his posture that’s never a good sign. He lets out a puff of smoke and watches it fade into the horizon with squinted eyes.

“She tell you he had it coming?”

“Now, Ghost—” he starts to chastise, but you cut him off.

“I never pretended to see what you do in him.” His eyes widen and flash with wounded pride, but your face is set in defiance. “Maybe we’re all nasty killers and degenerates, but he’s worse. I ain’t gonna stand by while he runs his mouth about any one of us.”

His face is all severity and rough-cut gemstone. “Any one of us, or just John?”

Outrage flares your nostrils and twists your mouth into something ugly. “That ain’t fair! And it certainly ain’t the point.”

“Isn’t it?” His hand on your shoulder, so often a comfort through the years, rests heavy and threatening. Your pulse jumps. Your mouth feels dry. “We don’t have the luxury of doubt - not between any of us. Haven’t I taught you loyalty? Don’t I deserve your trust?”

That’s all it takes for you to deflate. “You have it. You’ve always done right by us, but—”

“There is no but,” he says. “Faith, Ghost! Faith.”

“Faith, then. Fine. Faith.”

The words taste bitter on your tongue, but his eyes soften all at once into that familiar, sparkling brown. “I knew I could depend on you.”

“Sure. Always.”

He leaves with one last squeeze of your shoulder and orders to look into the Braithwaite family - something to do with prize horses. After all, who better than the infamous Ghost Rider? The Van der Linde Ghost?

—

You stay on that log for a long time. Thinking. Smoking. Stewing in the not-quite-anger left in Dutch’s wake.

—

That night around the fire you and John gravitate to one another like always. He brings you a plate of fish and sits beside you; a little too close for friends, a little too friendly to be anything but.

Somehow it aches more than usual.

He chatters on about his day, but all you can hear is the sneer of Micah’s voice, and all you can feel is the burn of Dutch’s knowing stare. The sweat on your brow has little to do with Lemoyne’s oppressive heat anymore.

#john marston x reader #rdr x reader #rdr2 x reader #ghost story #fran writes #ch. 21

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waiting-for-motivation · 2 years ago

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lost for words

summary: The origin story of Javiers neck scar.

pairings: Javier Escuella x fem!Reader, Arthur Morgan, Tilly Jackson, the Van der Linde Gang

warnings: non canon, guns, violence, blood, angst, injuries, fluffy ending, kissing, (micah!?)

words: 1333

a/n: okay so hear me out, I really love this game and the whole gang feels like family now, so them falling apart breaks my heart and I will ignore that for the rest of my life :)

MASTERLIST REQUEST RULES

The whole camp is a mess. Corpses lay scattered around. Blood seeps into the ground. A tent caught fire. Screams and gunshots fill the cold morning air. Arthur grabbed most of the girls and protects them now from Pearsons wagon. With the help of Sadie and (Y/n), he manages to kill every intruder approaching them.

“Where did these stupid bastards come from?“, (Y/n) asks frustrated, always on the lockout for any other gang member, especially for Javier. Charles and Hosea are hiding behind a bunch of crates, opening fire now and then. Dutch and Molly are still in their tent, fighting for their lives. So far, none has joined the dead thieves on the ground.

“I don‘t care where they are from, I will kill every single one of them“, Arthur grumbles whilst shooting an intruder straight between the eyes. The gunfight stops all of a sudden. As Arthur is about to stand up and check the camp for any survivors, the last two thieves leave their hideout, but they are not alone. One uses Javier as a human shield, pressing a knife to his throat.

(Y/n) gasps in shock and is about to run to her beloved, but Tilly holds her back. Concerned for Javier and the whole gang, she nervously starts biting her lips. Arthur nods at her, his way to show her his empathy. Tilly keeps their hands locked.

“Let us go, and we will let your greaser go unharmed“, the other thief screams, fidgeting with his revolver. Javier struggles against the tight grip, his eyes never leaving (Y/n)s form next to Arthur. He wants to stay calm, but the thought of never seeing her again, makes him desperate. (Y/n) can feel rage darken her eye. She takes a deep breath, tightening her grip around Tillys delicate fingers.

Before Hosea can negotiate with the two intruders, Dutch emerges from his tent and kills one of them. The other one lets his knife run along Javiers throat. Right away, blood runs from the deep cut and Javier falls face first on the ground. The thief runs but soon gets shoot by Arthur.

Everyone stops for a second. (Y/n) feels her heart beating against her ribcage. She has trouble breathing, still frees herself from Tillys and Arthurs arms. As fast as she can manage in her condition, she runs towards her beloved outlaw. Her shaking hands turn Javiers motionless body around. Wide eyes meet her glassy ones.

“No. Please. No. Stay with me. Javier. Come one. Please. Javi, my love, don‘t leave me like this“, (Y/n) whimpers as she presses both her hands to the deep cut at his throat. In a second, her hands are soaked in Javiers blood. “Someone help! Miss Grimshaw? Strauss? Dutch? Arthur? Please!“ For dear life, (Y/n) screams at every single gang member. All of them seem too shocked to even move. Arthur reacts first, approaching Strauss and pulling him a bit too harsh towards the injured Mexican.

Javier opens his mouth, but not a single word leaves his lips, only incomprehensible sounds emerging from his sore throat. His eyes never move from (Y/n). He thinks that this might not be the worst way to go, with the prettiest girl right in front of him. But he can only imagine what pain she is going through right now, probably as terrible as his own. Her soft hands get replaced by Strauss‘.

Arthur kneels next to (Y/n), trying to get her away from the sight of her dying lover. No matter what he says or does, she won’t move away from the injured man. “Come on. Give Strauss some space to do his work. Javier will be just fine.“

“Shut up, Arthur“, (Y/n) snaps at her friend, glaring at him through tears. She shakes Arthurs hands off her shoulder and returns her attention to Javier. Carefully, she removes a strand of his perfect black hair out of his gorgeous face. Her bloody fingers leave a red mark on his cheek.

The mexican outlaw can feel his strength fading. His eyes get heavy, black and white spots taking his sight and thus also (Y/n). One of his hands reaches out of instinct towards his girl, never touching her because he passes out. The last thing Javier hears are (Y/n)s terribly sad screams.

She is overwhelmed by the pain of her heart breaking. His chest is moving barely visible, the risk of death is still close. (Y/n) cradles Javiers hand to her chest while Arthur manages to wrap both his arms around her and press her to his chest. They have to trust Strauss on saving Javier, unfortunately.

Everything in camp returns to everyday life a few hours later. The corpses are long gone, thanks to Micah and Bill who buried them far away. Everyone follows their daily routine, however there is a dark cloud fogging their minds, worried about poor young Javiers life. Strauss stabilized his condition with a bandage tightly wrapped around his neck. (Y/n) never left his side, not when Lenny and Sean moved his body, not when they laid him on Arthurs cot. Stubbornly, she sits next to said bed and holds his hand even though her shoulder starts to tense up.

And she will sit there till the day Javier wakes up. There is no other possibility, at least non her sad mind can bear. Taking care of her injured lover, (Y/n) forgets about herself, neither drinking nor eating or sleeping. Javier is now her first priority, well he always was. Thankfully, Arthur and Tilly remember of taking care of her, giving her water as well as food, even joining her to sooth her worries.

The first thing Javier notices when he wakes up is that the sun is too bright. He needs a few minutes to even see anything, then he realizes he is in Arthurs place. The surface underneath him is too soft and the smell of the campfire is faint. At once, pain clouds every of his senses. Javier tries to reach for the source, his throat, of said pain, but there is a warm weight on his hand. He can‘t move, but is pretty sure that this soft hand belongs to (Y/n). A pained groan catches her attention.

“Javi, you are awake“, (Y/n) squeals excitedly, leaning over her lover. Finally, a smile returns to her lips, one that always made and will always make his day better. So many thought run through his mind, though he can express non because of his injury. “Shh, no. Don‘t talk. It‘s okay, darling.“

“I missed you so much, Javi. You had me real worried, all of us, even Micah“, (Y/n) tells her lover with bright eyes. Sitting down on the edge of the cot, she starts to fondle Javiers fingers absently, telling all about the last few days. “You will be just fine soon. Don‘t worry. And then you can sing and play guitar all night long and try to teach me spanish, although I probably won’t listen and just stare absently at your gorgeous face.“

Just watching his girl ramble on all the camp gossip and future plans make Javier very happy. There is a lovesick smile on his lips. The moment (Y/n) notices, she mirrors him. Carefully not to hurt Javier, she leans forward and presses a sweet, delicate and sadly short kiss to his chapped lips. “Rest now, my love“, (Y/n) whispers as she places a kiss to Javier forehead.

“You two are so sweet, that‘s disgusting“, a deep voice interrupts the two lovers and both turn their attention on Arthur. He was about to get his notebook, then realized Javier was awake. “Good to see you awake, Javier. She wouldn‘t leave your side for a second. I‘m gonna give you two some time till I tell the others and everyone freaks out.“

“Thank you, Arthur.“

#javier escuella #javier escuella x reader #javier escuella x y/n #javier escuella x you #javier escuella fic #rdr2 x reader #rdr2

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allzelemonz · 2 years ago

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Clingy Rat: Micah Bell X Male Reader

Pronouns: None Mentioned, Reader is referred to as ‘boy’ and ‘man’ Physical Sex: None Mentioned Rating: M/References to Sex Warnings: Micah Bell is his own warning, established relationship, casual bonding, friendly banter, Micah is touchy, everyone is drunk, no mention of reader drinking for those of you who don’t partake, background relationships: Hosea/Dutch, Dutch/Molly, Charles/Arthur, John/Abigail Summary: A party with the gang prompts conversation and Sean mentions that you and Micah seem to indulge in a fair amount of PDA.

The gang is never going to pass up an opportunity to celebrate. A big take from just a few hours ago funds the endless bottles of whiskey and beer that Uncle and Bill seem to be going through faster than humanly possible. Dutch is alternating dances between Molly and Hosea who will both happily twirl him around until the sun comes up. Arthur and Charles have nearly fallen over about twenty times while playing some game you’ve never seen before, Abigail and John are beating them badly at whatever it is. Strauss retired to sleep a few hours ago, Reverend Swanson did as well, but he was drunk when he passed out. The others are clustered in conversation, occasionally finding a place by the fire. Sean and Karen, both drunk out of their minds, are more singing than screaming along with Javier’s messy and drunk guitar. The laughter surrounds you as you lean back against Micah’s chest, his arm draped lazily around your chest.

Around the fire, as the singing dies down, Bill, Sean, Sadie, and Lenny argue over what happened during the job. Some more of the gang have gone to sleep, others have wandered off to find privacy in the woods.

“You expect me to believe,” Bill wobbles in his seat as he speaks. “That is was you that got the Sheriff?”

“I expect ya ta use your eyes, big man!” Sean laughs. “There I was, guns all around me, but I had a clean shot on him, I did.”

“Micah shot the Sheriff.” You chime in from your spot on the ground.

Micah presses a kiss to your neck in appreciation, his arm tightening around your chest.

“Oh, sure he did.” Sadie laughs. “You ain’t exactly a reputable source!”

“I was standing next to him.” You argue.

“Ain’t you always.” Sean grins. “You two don’t seem to separate much anymore, bunch a’ love birds you are.”

Micah’s other arm snakes around your waist and he rests his head on your shoulder. “Jealous there, red?” He chuckles.

“Get a room!” Sean groans. “I ain’t never seen ya two not touchin’ all lovey and the like.”

“So, “ You lean forward, making Micah loosen his grip a bit. “You admit that I would have been right there, easily able to see that it was Micah who shot the Sheriff?”

Sean sighs, waving his hand dismissively before he takes a swig from his bottle.

From the trees, there’s a thud and you all turn to watch as Arthur attempts to sneak back to his tent. No one sees Charles, but you all know he’s sneaking alongside the clumsiest of the old guard.

“Ya ain’t as bad as them, I guess.” Sadie takes a long swig from her bottle. “I love the fools, but they could be more subtle.”

A shared laugh fills the group and Micah pulls you back against his chest, his arms firmly secured around your middle. You’re leaning back far enough that your head rests on his chest and he can set his chin on top of your head.

“Alright, alright.” Bill leans forward as he speaks and has to stop himself from falling onto the ground. “Micah may have got the Sheriff, but I am the one who shot most a’ the town.”

You chuckle. “I’m gonna have to disagree on that too, Bill.”

“Oh, there is no way in Hell Micah does everything!” Bill shouts.

“I never said that.” You say, raising your hands in surrender. “It was Sadie that killed most of the people shooting at us.”

“Now that ain’t fair!” Bill grumbles.

Saide laughs. “You’re lucky ta hit the broad side of a barn, Mister Williamson.”

Bill groans, taking a swig from his bottle.

“How’s about we turn in for the night?” Micah whispers in your ear. “I would like to show my appreciation in ya defendin’ my honor, cowboy.”

You press further back against Micah and he happily tightens his grip around you and presses a few kisses behind your ear, chuckling lightly.

“Oh, look at ‘em.” Sean slurs. “You gonna get a room yet, boys?”

“A tent, more likely, Mister MacGuire.” You say, pulling Micah with you as you stand.

Micah’s arm goes around your shoulders as you walk away, his stance swaying from the drinks of the night. The arguments continue by the fire as you enter your tent and take Micah’s hat from his head so he can kiss you properly. His hands are busy slipping under your shirt and roaming over your bare skin.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #micah bell #red dead redemption x reader #red dead redemption x male reader #micah bell x reader #micah bell x male reader #x reader #x male reader

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reddeadclown · 2 years ago

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Headcanon Dump 1

TW: None but if you don’t like the idea of himbo John Marston then scroll on I guess

•Hosea can’t tolerate anything spicier than butter

•John’s such a himbo that whenever he heats up a hot pocket in the microwave and it isn’t warm enough, he’ll throw away the hot pocket, warm another one up, and repeat the process before Abigail has to come over and help him

•Ever so often, Karen sends a snap to Sean with the message “send me ur grippers” and he does every time

•I’m about half convinced that Rev. Swanson eats pizza rolls straight from the freezer

•Since Strauss sleeps in a nightgown and goes “Hoooonk mimimimimi” he also probably only falls from midair once he looks down, and gets hit by falling anvils pretty often

•Abigail reminds me a lot of my mother, so I firmly believe, that just as my own mummy does, she’ll call Jack some stupid nickname that will stick with him for the rest of his life

•Considering the Red Dead series takes place in the very late 19th-early 20th century, I wonder how much asbestos Jack has been exposed to (THEY PUT THAT SHIT IN EVERYTHING)

•The hot bitch himself (Javier) probably uses Pantene (Mans has some LUCIOUS LOCKS)

•I think Mary-Beth would own a tumblr blog (and we love her for that)

•Sean is the holder of the world record title of “Silliest little goblin on the planet” with a record of 69420 instances of immature, childlike behavior, 7261 cases of gooberish misdoings and 2925 x 10^17 impishly devious actions

•Bill’s entire Instagram is just pictures of Cain

•Cain has a PHD at Good Boi University

•Every single Van Der Linde girl is a national treasure and must be protected at all costs

•IN A PERFECT AU; Charles and Arthur got married in the end, bought a house, and have three cats named Larry,Jerry and Sherry but nO THAT JUST COULDNT HAPPEN COME ON ROCKSTAR-

#red dead redemption #arthur morgan #charles smith #javier escuella #hosea mathews #karen jones #mary beth gaskill #bill williamson #sean macguire #abigail marston #leopold strauss #dutch van der linde #jack marston #orville swanson #red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #red dead redemption imagine #red dead head canons

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twola · 1 year ago

Text

Devil’s Backbone - Owanjila III

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV

Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Owanjila III: Be Not A Fool For Love

The gang continues to get back on its feet after the ferry robbery. Meanwhile, in Blackwater, the law is picking up the pieces after the massacre. Abigail, try as she might, cannot let her concern for John go.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

“No, no, Fraulein, you’re forgetting the interest on the loan. The amount should be much higher.”

The older man leers over the book you’re writing in, his glasses low on his nose. You frown, looking up at him, “I did add interest, Mister Strauss.”

“At what percent?”

“Ten…?” You state, but by the end of the syllable, your tone sounds much more unsure.

“What do you think we are, a church? No, no - we keep these people out of debtor’s prisons - and we need to be paid for the good work we are doing.” Strauss eyes you critically, then points at a figure you wrote next to a name, “Make it thirty percent.”

“ Thirty ?!”

“Yes. They know what they are getting into when I provide them the loan. And what it expected to be collected.” The man waves his hand dismissively as you go to recalculate your figures. The sums were not huge, but asking a desperate man for another thirty percent…? That seemed… predatory.

You breathe out your nose, adding and multiplying numbers in your head to redo the loan ledger. Five lines, currently , with the names and amounts owed written in neat cursive. “Here, Mister Strauss.”

He leans over the table, having seated himself in the chair opposite you, and slides the ledger over to his side. His eyes dart around the page, and his frown lessens before he looks back at you, the sunlight glinting off the lenses of his glasses. “Yes, these figures look correct. Now we must collect.”

“Collect?”

“Yes, but not us. People are much more likely to take a loan from someone like me, or you,” He waves his hand at you, “But are more likely to repay someone a little more menacing.”

“Ah.” You say, the logic being sound in your head.

“Speaking of which,” Strauss sits up, and points off in the direction behind you, “Herr Morgan, come here. When you have a chance, Miss Shaw has a list of collectors for you to visit.”

You turn in your seat, to see Arthur striding toward you, a persistent scowl on his face. Indeed, Strauss was right - Arthur was menacing - tall and broad, his arms bursting with corded muscle…

You blink, catching yourself, and look back at the ledger, watching Strauss tear out the page you wrote on and fold it, holding it out for Arthur as the man approached. “Got another sucker pulled into your loansharking there, Herr Strauss?”

“Hosea said Miss Shaw here had bookkeeping experience. A rare find among this group.”

“And somehow it's always me that you find to do your collecting - despite the abundance of bull-headed muscle in this group.” Arthur takes the paper from Strauss’s hand, scowling as he tucks it into his satchel on his hip. “Y’done with her now? Or you have more money to count?”

Strauss gives a dismissive wave as he closes his ledger and walks toward his wagon. You stand from your seat, eyes following the older man for a moment before turning back to Arthur as you straighten your skirts.

“Dutch seems to think loansharkin’ is beneath us for some reason - he prefers robbin’. But money is money.” Arthur drawls, grabbing a cigarette from his satchel and leaning over to strike the match on his boot, cupping his hand around the cigarette to light it before tossing the match to the ground.

“I suppose. I guess usury is less bloody though?” You ask, rubbing at your arms somewhat nervously.

“Depends. If I’m collectin’, it tends not to be.”

You wait for him to say he’s being sarcastic. But no, he’s dead serious.

Arthur doesn’t notice the tumult in your eyes. He takes a drag of the cigarette, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, before leaning back and exhaling a cloud of smoke to the side.

“You ready to go shoot? Or you got somethin’ better you’re working on?” He turns back to you, and fortunately, you’ve mostly regained your composure.

“N-no. I can shoot.” You say, eyes shooting to the gleaming revolver on his hip.

“C’mon then. We’ll head a bit north of here, round the lake.” Arthur motions for you to follow him, and you both pace slowly toward his tent, where the gang’s weapons and ammunition are stored.

“Y’ever shot a gun? I mean, besides when you almost blew my ears out a few weeks ago?” He asks as he reaches the wagon, letting down the back hitch and looking over the numerous firearms within a long crate in the bed of the wagon.

“I’ve shot a game rifle before if that’s what you’re asking.” You say, trying not to be annoyed by his jab.

Arthur drops his cigarette on the ground, crushing it under his boot, before grabbing a small rifle from the crate and holding it out to you. “Like this?”

You take it, looking it up and down, and nod your head, holding it back out to him.

He slings it over his shoulder and grabs another gun from the crate, holding it out for you to take, and you do, taking his lead and pulling the strap of the gun over your head, letting it fall across your chest, the firearm hanging across your back. Arthur grabs a box of cartridges and tucks it into his satchel.

“Alrigh’, Missus Shaw. I’ve got the varmint rifle and a repeater. Reckon we’ll start you on those.”

You eye one of the revolvers within the crate for a moment before the slamming of the lid shut loudly jolts you.

"C'mon, over to the horses. We'll get a little bit outta camp. Bit north of here there's plenty of things to shoot at."

You follow him to where the horses are tied up, to that old roan Walker that Arthur was still riding. He grabs your waist without giving you much of a chance, heaving you up on the Walker’s rump. You scowl down at him, “You do know I can get on a horse myself.”

“Oh, well then be my guest next time, Missus Shaw.” Arthur snipes back as he pulls himself up into the saddle.

You murmur a curse under your breath as he digs his spurs into the horse’s side, leading him down the side of the hill toward Owanjila, then hooking northward after crossing the small mountain stream that fed the lake.

The rest of the ride is relatively silent until you reach an area to the north that almost looks burned-out, where the tree trunks are white and sparse in an eerie silence. Of course, this is where Arthur decides to stop the horse, swinging himself down and holding up a hand to you. You grasp it and slide yourself down from the horse, only realizing later that he offered you help instead of simply grasping your waist and pulling you down himself

Little steps, one at a time.

“So… what are we shooting?”

Arthur grunts and pulls a half-drunk bottle of Kentucky bourbon from his satchel, uncorking it and unabashedly polishing off the liquor as you stare in disgust. He's drinking it like water - completely unfazed by the burn of the alcohol going down. You'd think he was completely unaffected by it were it not for him swallowing and gritting his teeth slightly before walking several steps away and placing the bottle upon the flat surface of a stump from a fallen tree.

"There y'go. Go on and stand o'er there," He points several steps away, which you stride over to dutifully, holding the rifle in your hands. You feel your palms start to sweat in nervous anticipation. Truth be told, you can't remember the last time you shot a rifle like this. Several years ago, at this point. Back when you were another woman.

Arthur stands to the side, holds his hand out in invitation, and you sigh and orient yourself toward the bottle several feet away.

You hold up the small rifle ahead of you, the butt of the gun against your shoulder as you point it toward the bottle. Closing one eye, your finger hovers for a moment over the trigger, and then you take a breath and squeeze.

A snap rings out after a moment, dust on the stump swirling upward. You lower the barrel, opening your other eye and frowning to see the bottle intact.

"Y'hit the stump, at least. Give it a few more tries." Arthur stands to the side, thumbs wound around his belt buckle, swaying back and forth slowly as he glances between you and the bottle.

You do. Four more times you pull the trigger to the small rifle, to varying degrees of success, on the last round you swear you can hear the pellet clink against the glass. You frown and look at Arthur, dripping in weaponry, sure that he could hit this target not ten steps away with his eyes closed.

“Ain’t half bad with that.” Arthur nods, taking his hand off his belt and pointing at you, “Now take that repeater from your back and try that. Won’t kill anything bigger than a jackrabbit with the varmint rifle.”

“What do I need to shoot bigger than a rabbit?” You ask as he holds out his hand for the rifle. You pass it to him and start to swing the repeater over your back.

Arthur takes the varmint rifle, placing it on the ground next to him. He lowers his head, the shadow of an ironic smirk peaking out from under the rim of his black gambler hat.

“Men like me, Missus Shaw. You gotta be ready to shoot men like me.”

You frown in return, before glancing back to the bottle, hefting the repeater ahead of you, heavier than the game rifle you had just shot with.

You hold the repeater up, settling it into your shoulder as you aim at the bottle balanced on the tree stump paces away. You close one eye, the gun swaying slightly before pulling the trigger.

The sound hits you before the recoil, slamming your shoulder back as you stumble half a step. You have no idea where the bullet went, but the bottle was completely unfazed. A groan escapes your lips as you lower the repeater.

“Not bad, but look ‘ere,” Arthur steps up behind you, reaching around you to grab the rifle and bring it to position again. You hold in a gasp as his large hands move over yours and you feel his barrel chest flush against your back.

His arms hover over yours, and your thoughts from before come racing back - his corded muscles straining the blue cotton of his work shirt…

Stop it, damnit.

God, hopefully, he doesn’t notice the flush blooming on your cheeks and down your neck. You grit your teeth within your mouth for a moment before the searing pain in your chest returns, as if he pointed that big old revolver straight into your heart and pulled the trigger.

You’re a widow. Not even three months gone. You were still in mourning, Frederick’s gold ring tucked away safe among your sparse belongings. Wasn’t it him behind you, telling you to aim at a stupid-looking clump of Spanish moss outside of Saint Denis all those years ago?

You could almost hear him, rasping in your ear, holding that old game rifle up and following where he pointed to. You only got one shot off before the man had fully wrapped his arms around you, nibbling at your earlobe, laughing in the summer sun…

You frown, trying to bring yourself back from the edge of melancholy.

“Both eyes open.” Arthur rumbles, jerking you back to the present, and you open your other eye, not even realizing you had closed it.

Arthur’s arms pull away from yours, and the warmth emitted from his frame retreats as well.

You breathe in. You breathe out.

“Go ahead, Missus Shaw.”

You pull the trigger.

The bell on the door rings, the warm air blowing into the small lobby of the office from the street. Springtime has fully settled in, with blustering winds rolling through the town from the south.

“Be right with you!”

From the hallway comes a stout, middle-aged woman, with dark, braided hair and a work apron over her dress. She stops in the small lobby, sizing up the stranger who walked in as she wipes her hands on her apron.

Tall, dark-haired, and mustached, the man in a fine suit holds his hat in one hand as he waits for the woman to settle herself.

“Do you need to see the doctor?” She asks, noting that this man does not look sick or injured.

“I am looking for Doctor Smith, yes. I need to talk to him. And his wife. Do you happen to be Rosalia Smith?”

Rosalia purses her lips slightly, her eyebrows furrowing. “Let me get my husband.”

A silver badge gleams brightly on his chest.

She turns and walks down the short hallway to the examination room, where her bespectacled husband cleans a scalpel in the sink.

“Amor, a man is asking for you up front.”

The doctor turns around, smiling tiredly. “Thank you, Rosa. Did he tell you what’s wrong?”

Rosalia shakes her head, but it is obvious by her expression that she isn’t telling him everything.

The doctor purses his lips, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“Un hombre de la ley,” She whispers, “Says he wants to talk to both of us.”

He frowns, wiping his wet hands on his apron while walking past his wife and down the hallway. He reaches the lobby, finding the tall, imposing man waiting patiently.

“Silas Smith,” He reaches his hand out to the man, who grasps it and shakes heartily, “My wife said you were looking to speak to me?”

“Yes, yes.” The man replies. He places his hat on the windowsill and pulls a field notebook from his jacket’s inner pocket, opening it to a pre-marked page.

“My name is Angus Carmody, agent with the Pinkerton Detective Agency. I have the understanding that you two were one of the last people to see a Missus Ruth Shaw about a month ago.”

Rosalia gasps at her husband’s side, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. “Missus Ruth! Is she alright?”

Silas places a hand on Rosalia’s back to calm her.

“No one has seen her. We are trying to track her down to…” The lawman swallows, pulling a pen from his pocket, “Straighten out some business details from her late husband’s estate. For her benefit, of course. There are funds that Frederick Shaw had set aside that can be used for the care of his widow.”

Angus Carmody clicks his pen open, licking his thumb to turn the page of his field notebook to a blank one. He hopes that these people bought his story and that Shaw hadn’t told them about Limpany, Cornwall, or their incident out in Tall Trees.

Silas frowns, shaking his head, “I’m sorry - she was boarding the ferry for Saint Denis the same day we went to Mexico. We’ve only just returned yesterday. We haven’t heard from her - I would have to think she’s in Saint Denis.”

“Unfortunately,” Angus looks at Silas, then at a horrified Rosalia, “She did not board the ferry that day. We have reason to think she may be in danger.”

“¿Peligro?” Rosalia gasps again.

“Yes. Please let me or another Pinkerton Agent know if you hear from Missus Shaw.” Carmody produces a printed card, handing it to Silas, “We’ve set up office in the old tailor’s shop next to the police station. Someone should always be there.”

Silas takes the card and nods. “We will be sure to reach out should we hear anything. We certainly want Ruth to be found safe.” He places his hand on his wife’s back, her face pale.

Carmody nods, placing his field notebook back into his vest pocket. “Thank you for your help. I’ll be sure to inform you should we find Missus Shaw.”

“Doctor, Ma’am.” The Pinkerton nods again in thanks as he reaches for the door.

“Agent,” Silas replies in farewell as the door closes and latches behind Carmody.

“E-esa pobre mujer… tiene mala suerte…” Rosalia breathes out slowly, placing her hands over her forehead as if to stave away oncoming pain.

Silas has no response, simply continuing to rub his hand over his wife’s upper back, watching the Pinkerton continue down the dusty Blackwater street.

“Unfortunately the Doctor and his wife had no leads on Shaw.” Carmody rubs his brow as he stares at the worn wooden floor. He knew that answer would not satisfy his supervisor. Nothing but that woman on a silver platter would satisfy Milton, and even then, he would still find a way to be cross about it.

“You should be happy that Cornwall’s attention is now on this robbery.” Andrew Milton sneers up from his desk, which was full of newspapers, handwritten notes, and a map of West Elizabeth.

Carmody remains silent, his eyes flitting to the papers on the desk.

“It was Dutch Van der Linde and his gang.” Milton leans back in his chair, cracking his knuckles together. “The man that the city police picked up? That was Mac Callendar.”

“Was?”

“He was going to die anyway. Full of bullet holes. I did the merciful thing and put him out of his misery… after he made it clear he wasn’t going to give us anything.” Milton says, very nonchalantly for speaking about killing a man.

Carmody’s mouth pulls into a tight line.

“Anyway - Edgar Ross and I are going to run this Van der Linde thing. Evidently, the money that was on board that ferry included Cornwall’s payroll for workers trying to expand his rail line toward New Austin.” The senior agent stands, rolling his shoulders before rounding his desk to stand in front of Carmody.

“You,” Milton points his finger at Carmody’s face, “Are to find this damn woman. She’s not in Blackwater. I’ve locked down this damn town and have had agents and the police interview every damn person around, and nothing. ”

“I’ll expand my search,” Carmody states, his eyebrows setting as he seems to gain some sort of annoyed confidence, “Strawberry, Valentine. The agents in Saint Denis are keeping me apprised if she should end up there.”

“Take two or three men with you. Between the contingent here and the Blackwater police, we should have enough.” Milton replies as he turns around, pacing toward the coat rack where his black suit jacket hung.

He slides his arms into the jacket and pulls it on, adjusting the sleeves to his liking. Looking up again, he narrows his eyes at his subordinate as Carmody places his hat atop his head.

“You do know that continued failure will result in your being sent back to Chicago.”

Carmody nods. “Yes, sir.”

Milton turns his back on Carmody as he hears the door open and close. Letting out a breath, he smooths his pomaded hair down on top of his head before stepping toward his desk again. Leaning on his fists, he overviews all of the scattered paper on the desk, mind hard at work connecting events and leads and where the hell an entire outlaw gang fled to…

The door opens again. Instead of one of his agents, an older man, in the dark woolen overcoat of the Blackwater Police, gold badge gleaming against the light of the lamp hanging from the ceiling of the dusty old room.

“Ah, Chief Dunbar. Come in. Do you or your officers have any updates?” Milton waved the elder lawman in, noting the dark bags under his eyes, the tired look on his face, and the tension held in his shoulders.

Oswald Dunbar, who looked like he had been doing this job for far too long, in Milton’s opinion, stepped forward and took a heavy seat in the chair in front of the desk.

“Unfortunately not, Agent Milton. Been dealin’ with the McCourts. That poor girl. Half her face blown off.” The aged policeman ran his hand down his face, smoothing down his large mustache.

“I’ve developed the information that it was Van der Linde himself that pulled the trigger.”

“Just find them. Whole town is on edge. Hell, whole state is on edge. Blackwater isn’t supposed to be some wild west town where shootouts happen. It’s supposed to be civilized.”

Milton grinds his teeth behind his lips. “Civilized.”

Dunbar nods his head. “I know we ain’t Saint Denis. But this town - it’s gonna be the gateway to the West. New Austin. Even to California. But things like this happen, and we’re no different from any cowtown full of outlaws.”

“Rest assured, the Pinkerton Detective Agency has made this a priority,” Milton states, attempting to assuage the police chief’s unsettled mind.

“We will make this area civilized. The days of lawlessness are over.”

It’s been days. Several days. And as much as she didn’t mind not having to scream at him for ignoring his son, Abigail’s patience had begun to fray. Fear crept into her chest, clutching around her heart like a set of claws of some ragged beast.

It was a lie, deep down she knew, to say that she didn’t care for the outlaw - of course she did. Despite his scraggly hair that she constantly wanted to cut, his gruff demeanor toward his son, the lack of ardor between them… John Marston had placed his claws into her heart long ago, ones that she was not able to release. Maybe he was the ragged beast.

“You alright? That’s the fourth time you’ve sighed this morning.”

Abigail blinks, staring over the table where you stand opposite, chopping carrots for the evening’s meal. The potatoes she was supposed to be quartering remain whole, her hand on the knife.

She stares back down at the table, placing the knife down and placing her hand on her forehead. She sighs, again, and you raise your eyebrows, placing your knife down as well. She looks up at you, a guilty, concerned look in her eyes.

“It’s John… he’s been gone for days now ‘nd…” She trails off, looking over her shoulder to see Jack laying in the grass, playing with the wooden horse toy that seemed to take up the boy’s attention recently.

Abigail exhales a ragged breath. “Ain’t no love lost between us, I know - but he’s my boy’s father…”

You round the table and place your hands on her shoulders. “C’mon - maybe we can go talk to Dutch and he’ll send one of the men to go look for him.”

Abigail lets out a heavy breath, steeling herself, and nods. You let your arms from her shoulder and take one of hers in your own, walking toward the middle of camp, to the leader’s tent.

Your voice gets low as you lean in next to her, “Do you want me-…”

“No, I got it,” Abigail says, unlacing her arms from yours and stepping ahead of you without a trace of the reservations from earlier.

“Dutch.”

The outlaw looks up from his chair within the large tent and places the book he was reading face down on the cot opposite of him. Molly O’Shea sits upon that cot, her cold eyes regarding Abigail with disdain as she enters.

“Abigail, my dear,” Dutch stands up, placing an arm on Abigail’s back, leading her a step away from the tent, “What can I do for you?”

He walks them to the campfire, where you have taken to standing next to where Hosea sits, feeding kindling to the fire. Arthur polishes his pistol across the circle.

“It’s John, Dutch. He ain’t been back. I… I’m worried.”

Dutch frowns for a second, then a smile returns under his mustache.

“John can fend for himself, Miss Roberts,” Dutch waves, almost dismissively, “He was just going up to scout.”

“It’s been days , Dutch. And in Strawberry there was talk of a blizzard that rolled through.” Abigail pleads, near uncharacteristic for the rough and tumble woman. You make eye contact with Hosea, whose mouth is drawn in a tight line.

Frowning, your brow quivers as you stare at him, and you know your face betrays worry on behalf of the poor woman.

“Dutch…” Hosea calls out to the retreating man, “It has been a while. If the weather’s as bad as they are sayin’ in Strawberry, the boy may need some help.”

Arthur, whose arms are now crossed and a scowl set in on his face, takes the opportunity to enter the conversation. “Sure, let’s all go save little Johnny Marston, damsel in distress.”

You’ve stepped closer to Abigail, placing your hands on her shoulders, trying to provide a bit of comfort, “ Arthur,” You snap, feeling Abigail tense under your fingers.

Dutch surveils the scene, the distraught Abigail pleading for the father of her son, you trying to console her, Hosea obviously taking Abigail’s side. And Arthur, perpetually annoyed at anything to do with John.

“I know the area.” You rub at Abigail’s back, trying one last attempt to convince the outlaw to help, “I traveled south through the Grizzlies about a year ago with my husband. There’s an abandoned mining town where someone could take refuge.”

Dutch purses his lips in thought.

“Dutch, please,” Abigail begs, one final time, wringing her hands.

“Alright, alright. Miss Roberts, we’ll go find John. Ruth, you’re coming with us,” He points to you and you nod, “Arthur, go grab Micah and Javier.”

Arthur scowls, his eyes falling on you and Abigail. You glare in return, turning Abigail away and starting to walk her toward her own tent, where Jack lies atop a blanket, playing with his wooden horse.

“We’re gonna find John. ‘Nd you and he can get back to squabbling just like normal.” You say lightly, hands upon her shoulders. Abigail laughs mirthlessly.

By the time the two of you reach her tent, Abigail turns to face you, eyes downcast on the ground.

“I guess it looks kinda silly for me to be beggin’ to bring him back when all we do is yell at each other.”

You shake your head, “He’s the father of your son. And somethin’ tells me Jack didn’t come from only one night.”

Abigail snorts, another mirthless laugh under her breath.

“Well, if you’re goin’ up north with them, at least let me give you my coat, ‘nd you need a scarf. And gloves.” She says, changing the subject before she opened herself up to further vulnerability.

You nod, and follow her over to the small chest of her clothing, preparing you for a ride north into the Grizzlies.

#rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #red dead fanfic #arthur morgan x female oc #arthur morgan smut #rdr2 #arthur morgan x female reader #twolafic #devil’s backbone

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monaskydancer · 10 months ago

Text

Into The West - Chapter 2

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2

Pairing: Arthur x fOC

Genre: romance, adventure, drama

@photo1030

@cassietrn

___________________________________________________________

The morning was truly postcard perfect, with snowcapped mountains looming in the distance under a blanket of white clouds. The blue sky shimmered down on the lake that cut its way through the green landscape.

"Arthur?"

He looked up from his leather-bound journal, placing it back into his satchel as he saw Hosea approaching with a cup of coffee.

"Hosea?" He said, wondering what the elder man would need from him this early in the morning. Hosea offered him the cup of steaming hot coffee. Arthur took it with a grateful smile, feeling the warmth spread in his hands.

"Quite a day, isn't it?" Hosea walked past him, spreading his arms a little as his gaze lifted towards the sky. Arthur sipped from his drink, watching silently. "There's a bunch of the boys already in Valentine…"

Ah, he knew the old guy was up to something the moment he had seen him coming with that unusually nice gesture of bringing him coffee.

"Bill, Charles, Javier," he continued, turning towards Arthur again, who just scratched his stubbled cheek, nodding and listening silently. "And Swanson found something down at the train station by the lake, apparently." He kept pacing up and down. "And Strauss came back with that creepy little smile on his face. I'm sure there's a whole list of unfortunates he's forced money upon."

A husky laugh escaped Arthur before he emptied his coffee mug. "Thank you." He turned to place the mug aside. "And you?"

"I'm gonna read a book," Hosea replied.

"What about the Cohen farm? Any news?"

The elder shook his head, thoughtfully rubbing his chin before his eyes rested on Arthur's again. "I didn't have much time to investigate that matter. It's been three days. The girl wasn't properly awake yet. Her statement is the most important thing we need to get into this matter, if we should get into it at all. This was probably just a robbery gone wrong."

"If you say so," he mumbled and watched him leave. His gaze drifted to the medical tent for a moment, wondering if the young lady would wake up soon. They didn't know her, true, but Dutch had promised Arthur to get into it, no matter what Hosea said. Dutch was the only one in the gang who personally knew Russel Cohen, even though it's been a long time since they've seen each other. He remembered the surprise on Dutch's face when he brought Nancy into the camp a couple of days ago. Dutch had said the last time he had seen the girl, she was just a little child. She must be in her early 20s by now.

_____________________________________________________________

The pain from her wound flared up with an intensity she hadn't expected. Sweat poured from her forehead, her hands clammy and trembling, and she gritted her teeth.

"She's waking up. Quick, Abigail, get me the tonic."

It took a moment for Nancy to gather her thoughts, or at least gather enough of them to think a little clearer. She felt thirsty and tired. She felt the cool sensation of a bottle being offered to her lips. She automatically opened her mouth, eagerly drinking the liquid that tasted mainly bitter yet had a hint of sweetness in the aftertaste. She slowly opened her eyes as she felt the pain subside. Her vision cleared, and she looked at the gentle face of a young woman.

"Who are you?" She whispered.

"Hush… it's alright," the woman said and placed a cool cloth on her forehead. "I'm Abigail. This is Susan." She gestured at the older woman beside her. Nancy looked from one to the other, wondering where she was and how she got there.

"We could remove the bullet from your leg," Susan said. "You need more rest, and it might still hurt for a while, but we have enough remedy to ease the pain."

Nancy tried to sit up, but a sharp pain struck her chest. Abigail reached out and gently stroked her head. "Don't wear yourself out. You have quite a bruise on your chest too."

With a heavy sigh, she fell back into the pillow again. "Where am I?"

"This is Horseshoe Overlook," Susan said and went to fetch a cup of water, helping Nancy to drink. "It's a camp at the outskirts of the Heartland."

"I see…" She muttered. "Doesn't explain how I got here, though."

"I found you." Suddenly came the voice of a man by the entrance of the medical tent. Nancy looked over surprised. "How're you holding up, Miss?"

Abigail got up, squeezing Nancy's hand gently, and Ms Grimshaw followed her outside. He stepped closer towards her. Her memory was still missing bits of what happened, but she remembered his face. Those gentle blue eyes. That deep, soothing voice.

"You… yes, I remember you. I'm sorry, I forgot your name, though." She admitted with a half-hearted smile.

He pulled the chair closer and took a seat. "Arthur. Arthur Morgan. And you're Nancy Cohen."

She smiled amused. "I know my name. Thank you for bringing me here, Mr. Morgan. I'm not sure how much longer I might've made it out there."

"Can't just ride past a lady in need, can I?" He replied with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

"Right," She chuckled softly.

"Do you remember what happened? Before I found you."

She closed her eyes for a moment, clearly thinking back to the events days ago. Arthur took his time to properly take in her appearance. The long black hair framing her fresh, charming face. He shifted as she opened her emerald eyes.

"There were those men coming to our farm. They even had an appointment with my father. They had sent a letter three days prior, offering some new kind of business opportunity for us, mainly regarding our wine business. Of course, my father agreed. He had been thinking about expanding, maybe even across the borders." Her voice became a bit raspier, and Arthur quickly reached for the flask of water and offered it to her. She took it and drank eagerly.

"Thanks." She said once she had emptied the flask in one go. She handed it back to him. "Anyway, the morning of the appointment came, and father made me prepare some lunch for our guests. There were four. One of them did most of the talking."

"And nothing appeared… fishy?"

"No. They were really friendly at first. I went to the kitchen then, cleaning it. I can't tell for how long until I heard the gunshot from the dining room. I hurried over and saw… well…" Her eyes filled with tears for a second. Just as Arthur was about to fish a cloth out of his pocket, she groaned angrily and brushed over her face, fighting back the tears. He stopped in motion and dropped his hand out of his pocket again. "My father was lying on the ground. He was dead. The man who did most of the talking was holding the gun still in his hand and… he looked at me. Slowly. Like a predator about to jump at its prey. I couldn't do much. I just stared at him for a moment when finally I just screamed. He told the other men to search the house while he put his gun on the table and pulled me into the kitchen again."

"You don't need to tell me what happened there…"

"He didn't get to finish what he tried to do to me, trust me." She snapped. "I killed him before he could do it."

He nodded slowly. "What about the others?"

She shrugged. "They were upstairs when it happened. I had some time to escape. Got to the stable. When I mounted, they were blocking the exit. One of them had a shotgun. I nearly ran him over, and he shot. A bullet stuck in my leg. But at least I made it out of there alive. Well, Dancer… my horse…" Her eyes grew wide suddenly. "Is he…?"

"He's fine. He's with the other horses outside." He reassured her.

She released a relieved sigh. "He carried me for many hours. I passed out from time to time. Until he was too exhausted to go on, and we stopped. From then on until now, I only remember bits and pieces. Really, I owe you my life, Sir."

"Arthur. Just Arthur," he said. "And it's been my duty to help."

"No, it's not. Just take my gratitude," she said, amused.

"Sure," he replied and leaned back with a small smile on his lips. Then his face fell a bit more serious again. "One more thing. Do you remember their names? Anything?"

"The one who shot my father introduced himself as Sean Garrison. The other men didn't speak much and never said a name. The letter was signed by Mr. LC, but I'm not sure if the person who had asked for the appointment actually was one of those at our farm."

Silence lapsed over them for a while. Nancy played with the sleeve of the cream-colored long-sleeved shirt. She cast a glance at him again. He looked deep in thought, his eyes fixed on an invisible spot on the tent wall.

"What's on your mind?" she asked.

He sighed and leaned forward, taking his hat off and running a hand through his dark blonde hair. "It just doesn't make much sense to me, that's all. If this would've been a simple robbery, why would someone go through all the effort to write a letter to you days before the appointment, asking for such, just to come into your house and shoot your father?"

"So… what are you saying?" She slowly sat up, careful not to move too fast as not to trigger the pain in her chest again.

"Nothing, I'm saying nothing really. Just that… things don't add up."

"Will you help me solve it, Arthur?"

He looked at her and nodded with a reassuring smile. "We're already on it."

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Thank you all so much for reading, liking, commenting and reblogging the story already! If any of you wanna be tagged let me know :) A masterlist will come soon as well.

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