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applepiesupreme · 5 months ago

Text

American Apple Pie

Pairing: Low/Mid Honor Arthur Morgan and female OC.

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Savigne Ricci is a temporary guest at the Van der Linde camp. Her path crosses with the enforcer of the gang, Arthur Morgan, and despite their differences, a relationship develops between them. Whole lot of smut and fluff, slow burn-ish.

Chapter 41

AO3 link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54945853/chapters/154567924

Sometime during the night, being this close to camp, she woke up to the sound of hoofbeats and exchanged greetings.

"Just the rest of'em comin' in," Arthur assured her. "Go back to sleep."

Eventually they moved into the cabin and there was just the distant, muffled voices drifting over. She expected him to get up and join them but he didn't.

"What happened over there? In Guarma?" she whispered. The gang coming together again worried her. Without Dutch things had been quiet and calm; the lying low had brought a precarious peace over the camp. She was leaving soon anyway, so it shouldn't concern her, but who knew what they were cooking behind closed doors and how it could potentially tangle her own plans.

"Was a mess," he murmured.

At least Molly will be happy, she thought. Her liver must be shot by now.

She was unable to drift off again and ruminated on the heavy lifting that needed doing in the coming days. Now that he was back, the elephant in the room that they had to talk about. A box stood between them, impossibly heavy, and on it a name: Eliza. Every time she thought how to approach it, she flustered at the weight of it.

She thought back on the conversation in the Bayou…His understandable distaste at being trapped with a child he hadn’t asked for. The unhappiness he had expressed about being saddled with something he had had no say in. His clear reluctance in stepping up, his half-assed way of doing it simply because that was what a man did. A happy incidence reduced to a duty, a responsibility, an obligation.

Sure, he had loved Isaac, but his relationship with her had devolved, hadn’t it? Despite coming around on the child, he had never forgiven her for making that choice for him; in fact he had openly admitted that he had resented her for it. Her reasons were her own - maybe that one night had meant more to her than it had for him and she had felt that he would come around; maybe just like Savigne, she hadn’t known until it was too late. No matter her motivations, in the end Eliza had doomed them both to a relationship neither was happy with because what man enjoyed having children that he had had no say in?

The notion that she had practically repeated this pattern twisted her gut. How could he not be angry with her? How could he not mistrust her now?

Abigail had said that was all different but the more she thought about it, the more it seemed the same. Arthur didn’t look upset, but could be he was trying to step up again. Could be he was trying to do the right thing. Could be he was trying to power through for her sake. Worse: could be he was acting out of guilt. Trying to unmake his past mistakes.

“Thought you was tired?” he muttered into her neck. “I can hear ya thinkin’.”

“You wouldn’t if you had slept on that bedroll.”

“‘M right where I wanna be,” he sighed, his arm coiling firmer around her.

In the morning she woke up with his presence behind her and it was the absolute best feeling in the world. She didn’t move for a whole minute just to enjoy that sensation. Then suddenly, almost jarringly, it occurred to her that they weren’t alone. Not really. Her palm deftly flattened on her belly as she grappled with this notion, turning it over in her head. There was more of her here now and more of him, occupying this very space. She thought of the picture of her parents and how she had wondered if she herself had been there with them whenever it was taken and felt a profound overlap of some sort, like space and time had folded on itself and she was closer to them than she had been in many, many years.

A swish of clothes and his hand was on her arm, gliding up to her shoulder. He must have been awake too and enjoying a similar pleasure. She turned to lie on her left side and they adjusted on their pillows to face each other. First time waking up in the Bayou together, she thought.

In the light of day, his tan was even more prominent and made his features leaner and sharper, the creases around his eyes more obvious. But the color also added to his rugged handsomeness. There were five weeks between them, and the hurt from the Ecco debacle and now a third member that they hadn’t even talked about yet - miles and miles of distance - but he felt closer to her heart than ever, as if all those things had pressed them against each other and pushed everything in between out.

“What’s in yer head?” he whispered a long while later.

“I was thinking of my parents,” she whispered back. “I haven’t thought of them in a long time.”

He found her hand and placed it on his cheek. Her eyebrows rose with the understanding of what he wanted. “Really?” was her amused scoff.

A boyish smile, somehow both shy and smug, and impossible to resist.

She took a deep breath pretending frustration and inched closer to kiss his cheek. “Welcome back...” she whispered as her fingers brushed and tucked his hair behind an ear, “…missed you.”

“Been long,” he smirked.

She chuckled despite herself and he grinned, eyes twinkling.

“Felt long,” she tied off the ritual. And so it had. Very, very long indeed.

In the background, the gang was waking up and stretching their limbs for the new day. Outside, behind the flap, everything was shit. The location was shit, the gang’s fortunes were shit, her work was…well maybe not exactly shit but not great either. Behind the flap there was entropy and everything was slowly falling apart and collapsing on itself. But in here they were untouchable and pregnant with new beginnings. In more ways than one.

He caught her hand before she could retrieve it and kissed her palm, eyes fixed on her. “It’s late mornin’. That mean you got that evenin’ shift you wan’ed?”

“No,” she sighed. “I’m back at the steakhouse.”

This surprised him and his smile faltered. “Why?”

She shrugged imperceptibly and played with his shirt button. “I was let go.”

There was a pause and he grew more somber. “Why?”

“Couldn’t work for a while,” she said, fingers fidgeting with his lapel. She was quiet while he worked it out in his head. Yesterday she would have gladly thrown it in his face. But today...today she told herself that she didn’t want to feed his propensity for self blame, because it turned him glum and tiresome. But the honest answer was that she didn’t want to hurt him. There had been so much hurt and pain these past five weeks and she yearned to feel something else, something new. “It’s fine,” she added.

“Ain’t fine.”

“It was going to happen anyway. It’s a fancy place, they’re…sticklers about stuff.”

He looked at her for a long time, thumb drawing a slow circle in her palm and she was reminded of the electrifying intensity of his gaze.

“‘M sorry. Know it was important to you.”

“It’s fine,” she repeated, evading his eyes. “I didn’t like it there anyway.” Truth is, it had stung a great deal, tumbling down from that mountaintop, but she clutched at reasons that alleviated the sting: “It was a stressful work environment. Hectic and fast paced. I’m kind of relieved that I won’t work there the next few months. I’m sure the evening shift is even more intense.” He watched her face as as her fingers frayed at the tears and holes in his shirt. “Also, it was repetitive and…soulless, you know? I told you before, I wasn’t happy with it for a while.”

It wasn't all lies but it wasn't the whole truth either, and she could tell he saw through it easily enough.

Outside she heard people walking by the wagon to and from the horses, the mud squelching under their boots. It was awkward and uncomfortable to be this close to others when they had enjoyed their quiet privacy far away from the camp for so long.

“Wanna go to a hotel tonight?” he asked as if he was thinking the same. “We can order room service. Take a bath. Talk?”

“What’s wrong with this slice of paradise?” she waved her arm and chortled. He clicked his tongue and grinned back. They chuckled like two penniless fools laughing at the state of their own destitute.

She avoided an answer to his offer and he didn’t push. This was his way of showing grace and undoubtedly not easy for him, because his default setting was to clear any and all debris immediately. Unresolved conflict? Not on his watch. Difficult topic? No such thing. Discomfort? An immediate badgering to pinpoint the reason. A barrage of ‘What’s in yer head?’s and ‘What’s the matter?’s and ‘You okay?’s. Arthur Morgan enjoyed things between them open, clear and peaceful. While she fidgeted with objects and furniture to achieve harmony, he fidgeted with the state of things between them and tilted it this way or that to reach equilibrium.

But in this matter at least, he was attempting to exercise patience. Still, she wasn’t delusional: patience was his most limited arsenal. And if he was using it here, it was going to be sparse in everything else.

Almost immediately he proved her right when he sat up and said “‘M gonna bring breakfast,” even though he knew perfectly well she rarely ate breakfast.

“I’m not hungry,” she tried, as he stepped into his boots. “Just coffee would be-”

He parted the flap and walked off.

Savigne fell back on the bed and exhaled. Aaaannnd we’re off to the races, she thought. Hold on to your hats, because I’m about to be strong armed into all manner of things.

By the time she cleaned up and changed her outfit and did her hair, then rolled up the flap and tied it back to come around the wagon, he was exiting the hut with a tray of plates and cups.

She tried to drink the coffee which looked and tasted like tar, even had the damn consistency of tar, but the breakfast was too tall of an ask and she merely pushed it around on her plate. She hated Pearson’s eggs, they were always runny. No, they were practically liquid. Like he passed the pan over the fire once and then poured them on a plate kind of liquid. The viscous, coagulated mess turned her stomach.

The arrival of the men had visibly reinvigorated the camp. People loitered around and walked by their wagon bidding them good morning and it felt a little strange to be in the middle of this much action and movement. Things had been tranquil and lethargic; many mornings she had sat on this same chair and had barely seen anyone. Now the gang was stirring and twitching and rising from its dormancy like an animal that rose from its winter slumber. She watched them stroll around and shake off sleep, already looking more purposeful and optimistic and wondered what that meant for the future. A deflated gang was a sad sight, but an optimistic, revived one was bad news. She didn’t celebrate the return to normalcy, because normalcy for these people was crime.

“Tell me ‘bout this cabin,” he disrupted her train of thought.

She shouldn’t be surprised that a trio like John, Abigail and Sadie would immediately run to him and prattle about everything from the baby to the cabin, but it still caught her off guard. She shrugged.

“It’s a cabin. They're fixing it, should be ready in a week or so." His eyes narrowed as if he was debating how hard to push. “Are you angry?” she perked up, hoping it would devolve into a fight.

The “No” deflated her.

“So I guess I’m allowed a cabin now,” she teased.

“That a strong word, ‘allow’,” he grimaced and sipped his coffee. “‘Sides, heard John was gonna be there.”

“And if he wasn’t?” she fished.

“Then,” he sighed, amused by her fumbling for a fight. “I woulda been cross.”

“Hah!” she exclaimed, victorious.

“You testin’ me, little bird?” he drawled suggestively.

A flutter of lust ignited in her at his tone. She crossed her arms and leaned back. “Why would I do that?”

He bowed his lips. “Might be yer tryin’ to rile me up.” A slow flick up of his eyes. Arthur had a way of going from nothing to heated in a heartbeat and it often caught her off guard. One moment he would be listening to your babbling or drawing in his journal or cleaning his gun, then suddenly he was looking at you like he wanted to devour you. And more often than not, he did.

The rapidity of the flutter intensified and she looked away. “I should head out.”

He sighed regretfully and sat back in his chair. “What’s wrong with yer eggs?”

“Too runny.”

“Gimme a minute, gonna ready the cart,” he said, getting up.

“I don’t need the cart, I can ride out on Cri-"

He strode off. Again.

God, this is going to suck so hard, she leaned her forehead into a palm. Arthur Morgan was back. And he meant to make her his personal project. At least Sadie and John were polite enough to work with her. He, of course, had no such qualms. Like the gang, he was stretching, testing and feeling out his “new role”, which was basically his old role but with whatever added responsibility he had concocted in his head.

He returned with a “Ready.”

She prayed for patience, walked over and found both Cricket and Frost tied to it. “I’m goin’ with,” he explained when she gave him a questioning look and held out his hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Helpin’ you up?”

“I can climb up a cart,” she said evenly and waved it away. Like water, he would sprawl and fill out whatever space she allowed him, so it was prudent to limit this space because once he filled it, there was no draining him out.

He made an impatient gesture and gripped her elbow. “You could trip and fall.”

“I’m not going to...hey!” Her protestation was cut off as she was pushed up. “Are you going to be insufferable, Arthur? Because I have a feeling you’re going to be insufferable.”

“Only if yer gonna be difficult,” was the cool response as he walked around and climbed to take the reins.

The foliage was the same, but the angle and intensity of the light had changed with the season and the swamp had lost its summertime charm and air of mystery. Neither said anything for a while as the cart ambled through the Bayou towards Saint Denis and her mind turned to her ruminations, to that named box that sat there, waiting to be dismantled between them. She came up with different methods and approaches in her head, diverse arguments and a variety of ways to explain herself. As far as topics went, it was even more daunting than Ecco had been, and she had messed that one up spectacularly, so she was fixed on handling this better. Calmer. More rationally. Determined to lay out her reasons, to clarify her reservations…

“So,” he started, “was thinkin’-”

“I didn’t trick you,” she blurted, surprising them both.

There was a stunned pause.

“I know that,” he said at last.

“And I didn’t lie to you.” she added just for good measure.

“Know that, too.” His gaze on her was like an open oven. Her eyes flicked up to him, then quickly away. Now that she had dived in feet first like a fool, she had to swim on, but the words sat in her throat like beads. They wouldn’t come up and they refused to be swallowed back down. She felt a profound sense of trepidation. Shame for her own naivete and ignorance. Fear that her ignorance had put him in a position he probably was upset about being in. Dread that he would resent her for trapping him.

“Okay. Good. Way I see it…” she sucked in air, “…it’s kind of my problem. Not yours.”

He hesitated at this, clearly unsure what she meant. “Ain’t a ‘problem’,” was his careful response as he tried to read her.

She picked at the non existent lint on her skirt for a while. “Point being, I’m not holding you responsible.”

He looked at her, both incredulous and offended, as the horses clopped on. “For the child I put inside ya?”

Savigne shifted in her seat, her pulse throbbing in her throat. “I was the one who told you I couldn’t and…I just want to be clear about that.”

A silence stretched between them as he patiently waited for her to elaborate.

“I misled you,” she picked it back up, distantly aware that her speech was gaining speed like it always did when she was nervous, “I did and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I mean let’s face it, I was stupid and that’s on me. It’s fine. Maybe not fine, but I mean it has nothing to do with you.” He blinked with disbelief and she quickly went on: “It does, obviously, but also, it doesn’t.” She ignored his rising eyebrows. “I can do this, I’m fine with this by myself. I don’t expect anything from you, it’s perfectly fair and I would be really, really upset if you tried to ‘step up’ or some other nonsense. I will absolutely not accept that, I don’t want that, you don’t have to be involved because it’s my mistake, my problem and-”

“Savigne, breathe.”

She took a shudder of a breath and then another. His hand on her knee made her realize she had been tapping her foot and she stopped.

He straightened a little and ran a palm over his beard. “I ain’t sure what yer sayin’,” was his cautious statement. “But I hear a lot of ‘problem’s and ‘mistake’s and ‘m thinkin’ we ain’t on the same page here.”

“I’m owning up to it.” she tried to clarify. He narrowed his eyes and kept looking at her. “I don’t know how much clearer I can be, I’m saying you’re not obligated to be involved.”

This seemed to only confuse him further. “With my own child!?”

She clicked her tongue and looked away.

“Savigne, I can see yer…wrestlin’ with somethin’. Reckon you gonna tell me what it is when yer ready. But ‘m gettin’ the sense you tryin’ to show me the way out and all due respect, yer wastin’ yer time. I ain’t walkin’ away. Not from you and not from my child.”

She crossed her arms, defensive. “I wouldn’t call it ‘walking away’…”

“Walkin’ away, flyin’ away, crawlin’ away, whatever.”

“…let me finish! I wouldn’t call it that if I’m the one giving you an out.”

“Thanks,” was his sarcastic retort. “But ‘m good.”

“I’m simply saying-”

“Think I got the gist,” he huffed, downright insulted now.

“Listen you pufferfish…”

“No.” he cut her off and rolled his shoulders. “Yer mad if you think I want that.” Then he paused, contemplative. “Come to think on it, explains some things these past months, so there’s that.”

“What explains what?”

“The grub. Explains why yer thinkin’ all wrong.”

“Excuse me?!” Now she was the offended party.

“Y’aint thinkin’ straight,” he explained patiently. “That’s fine, but the answer is still no.”

“I haven’t gone soft in the head! ” she balked. He gave her a highly doubtful look. “I’m trying to say that what matters to me is the why. Like why you want to be involved.”

“The hell ya mean why? We made a pact, you and I. You asked and I accepted.”

“That was ages ago,” Savigne huffed.

“Was just months ago,” was his dry response.

“So? Things change.”

“What changed?”

“Are you serious right now, Arthur?”

“Dead serious,” he turned to her, eyes hard. “Said we was gonna be family. What changed?”

She sighed and looked away. Arthur had a direct, simple way of looking at things and but that's not how her own mind worked at all. Obviously a great number of things had happened since that talk, dozens of things had changed. In his mind, the journey was still the same; they had taken a detour, but were ultimately heading to the same destination. For her, the experiences they had on that detour had fundamentally changed the travelers, and as a consequence, had also changed the entire journey, so why shouldn’t the destination have changed, too?

“It’s okay to reassess.” she tried again. “Just because we said something ages ago…”

“Months.”

“...months ago, doesn’t mean we have to…”

“Y’askin’ me if I changed my mind?” he grew impatient.

“Yeah?”

“No.”

“Just know that if you did, that would be okay.”

“Thanks. Still no.”

“Can you at least take some time to think about it?”

“Also no,” he rolled his shoulders, clearly irritated but trying to keep a lid on it. “Anythin’ else?”

She ground her teeth, annoyed by his obtuseness. Oh, nothing, she thought. I just don't want you to resent me and become your next obligation, that's about it.

“You know what?" she flustered, "Yes! Actually I do have another question that I have been turning in my head for a while now.”

They entered Saint Denis and he turned the cart down the avenue that lead to the steakhouse. “Can’t wait,” he sighed.

“If you knew before, would you still have gone to rob that bank?”

“No.”

She pursed her lips and did a slow nod, digesting this. “Interesting.”

He gave her a suspicious side eye as he navigated the cart through the crowded streets. “How so?”

She shrugged. “You’re basically saying leaving me was fine. But leaving me with your child - that you regret.”

There was an uneasy pause. “Listen here, that ain’t what ‘m sayin’.”

“What then?” she tented her fingers on her lap.

He cleared his throat and ran a palm over his beard. “Wouldn’ have left ya to deal with it alone,” he said carefully, stealing glances at her face.

She hummed in understanding and bowed her lips, eyes streaking the sky. “But it was okay to leave me alone with loss and grief. That was perfectly fine.”

“Woman…” he growled from under his eyebrows, “…wasn’ fine. None of it was fine.”

She watched him, eyes growing harder by the minute. He muttered under his breath and shifted in his seat and seemed downright relieved when the steakhouse appeared around the corner. He pulled the cart to a stop and jumped to come around. To his frustration, she climbed down without waiting for him. She fished for the ring in her satchel and put it on her finger.

“The hell is that?”

“It’s nothing,” she said dismissively.

He snatched her hand and took a closer look. His eyes flicked up to her, hard. “Whose ring is this?”

“Sadie gave it to me,” she jerked her hand back. “I need it for work.”

He looked chastised at that and shifted on his feet for an awkward moment as they stood facing each other like two porcupines.

“What time ya done?” he asked softer, fingers brushing her hand.

“Today, quarter to five,” she mumbled, still a little worked up. She was surprised when he leaned in, slow as a glacier and and placed a long kiss on her cheek, then another before he withdrew. The flutter from earlier reignited in her gut. Going by the way he was staring at her, she was certain that they would have had a very different reunification if not for the constant crowd around them, both back at camp and here in the city. If she gave him half a chance, he was going to pounce on her and despite the vestiges of her anger, she was severely tempted to do just that.

She squirmed a little under his gaze before she nodded and walked around him. A few steps later she turned and came back, fisting her skirts. “I’m getting off at quarter to five but you have to come later. Because I have a doctor’s appointment.”

He straightened at that and the smile on his lips fell away. He tried for a casual tone but the tension in his voice was obvious when he asked “There a problem?”

“No,” she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her skirt. “Just a weekly appointment. It’s apparently a little…underdeveloped.”

His jaw muscles worked a bit. That propensity for self flagellation she had tried to avoid this morning crossed his face before he nodded. “Okay. ‘M comin’ with.”

“That's not necessary."

“Gonna be here quarter to,” was his firm response as he rubbed Cricket’s neck, watching her. The stubborn look in his eyes said ‘I can do this all day’.

She nodded and turned around, took a few steps, then came back again:

“I’m only saying-”

“You sayin’ lotta interestin’ shit today. Except why you sayin’ this shit.” He sighed as he pushed down his irritation and walked up to her. “Savigne, ‘m thinkin’ we should make a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“Past is done. But here on forward, no more secrets. No lies. I know you got somethin’ turnin’ in yer head…” she opened her mouth but his palms went up. “…it’s fine if ya need time. But when ya say it, say it as it is.”

She contemplated this. “How much time?”

He clicked his tongue and looked away.

“Like, are you going to say that and then pester me every day or…?”

“Ya know what?” he surged, “I will! There: Honest. No lies.”

She burst into laughter and he grinned a moment later, softened by her amusement.

“Gonna be here quarter to,” he assured her.

"Okay," she resigned. There was no getting rid of him, he was going to be a tick. “Just don’t be insufferable.”

“Don’ be difficult then,” he countered with a smile.

John was on watch duty, sitting in the mud and battling mosquitoes when he heard the cart draw closer. He popped out carefully and saw Arthur come around the bend and straightened. The cart stopped and a head was motioned for him to climb up so he did as told. Yesterday Arthur had been over the moon. Today he was back to scowling. That's just the way that went. The horses were urged to move on but slower and he settled in, giving the other man furtive glances to see where his head was. They had done their usual greeting grunts this morning, but this was the first time they were alone.

"You drop Savigne?" he asked just to make conversation.

A grunt of affirmation. Then: "Speakin' of...you did good." The blue eyes fixed him. "Thank you."

This caught him off guard and he shifted around a bit, patting himself for his cigarettes to buy time. Wasn't every day Arthur thanked him and meant it and lately these been piling up, so it took some adjusting. "Said I would," he managed as he offered the other man a cigarette and lighted it for him.

"Did better than me, that a fact," was the follow up.

"Don' know 'bout that," he shrugged. The claw marks grew prominent when his face reddened. "Did a little. Not much." An awkward silence settled between them as neither knew what to do with themselves or each other when they weren't trading barbs.

"John," Arthur said as he blew out smoke, "I mean to have a talk with the rest of’em. Where ya standin' in all this?"

"Me?" was the surprised question as if there was another John sitting with them on the cart. "Standin' with what?"

"Gang, you fool! You thinkin' on leavin' yet?” So it was happening. Despite knowing it for a long while, despite preparing the damn cabin with his own hands, he was still surprised but to be fair: he shouldn’t be. The thing with Arthur was, he tackled things the same way he ate: a bit too fast and zealous. He was back just a day and things not sitting where he liked them, he was gonna push them about to make them orderly again the way Abigail upended the tent when she did deep cleaning.

"Don' like how things stand," was his careful answer as he smoked on.

Arthur took a frustrated breath. "Marston," was the growl. "What you wanna damn do? Ya got a clue on that at least?"

He sniffed and brushed his sleeve across his nose. "Don' wanna go back to prison, tell ya that," he shrugged. "Follows that maybe don' wanna go do shit that gonna cause that."

The blue eyes narrowed and Arthur looked at him like he was an idiot. "And?"

"And so...Abigail wanna leave. Tried it my way for long time. 'M thinkin' maybe we try her way now."

"This like diggin’ to find a damn bullet," was the low muttering. Then louder: "So you wanna leave, that it?"

"Well I say that, you gonna beat m'head in, so I ain't sayin' it."

Arthur clicked his tongue with frustration. "Ain’t so sure you got a head to beat in! Why’d I be cross if ‘m leavin', too?”

"Still ain't sayin' it," was John's sullen mumble. That was his petty way of rubbing the past into Arthur’s face and he was sticking to it.

He tensed when Arthur looked at him like he meant to slap some sense into him, but then the bigger man rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath and tried again, calmer: “What was you gonna do if I was gone?”

“Was gonna stay with Savigne. Till spring.”

A slow nod, eyes ahead. “So why not do that?”

John blinked. “You leavin’ Savigne or somethin’?”

A snort of disbelief and a deft shake of the head. A long moment later, when he spoke, Arthur’s voice was as patient as if he was talking to Jack: “Course not. ‘M askin’ if you wanna come with.”

Instead of lifting, his confusion deepened. “Come to stay with you?” he asked, incredulous, and watched Arthur's profile nod. By the time he managed to process it, they had arrived in camp. Arthur stopped the horses and turned to him.

“Close that mouth and answer, you fool.”

“Why?” was all he managed to eek out.

The eyes locked to his. “Ain’t you my brother?”

John felt the cigarette burn his fingers and flung it away and sat there for a minute, inspecting his dirty nails. He looked up to meet that blue gaze, then away, then back again. His heart did something funny and he ran his tongue over his lips. “Sure,” he whispered a while later.

Arthur looked at him a long time. Then a meaty hand gripped his shoulder. “You with me?” was the soft question.

“Yeah okay,” he sniffed and nodded, straightening a little. “'M with you.”

Arthur fixed him with his gaze a moment longer, then grunted in approval. The hand on his shoulder lifted to give him a gentle smack. "Okay, Marston. Let's go have us a talk."

When he followed Arthur into the cabin, Dutch was wrapping up yet another retelling of the story of Guarma to the huddled group and he was glad he had missed it. He had heard it a few times by now and the way Dutch told it, sounded like it was the greatest adventure and John had “opted out” by “idling” in prison. He understood why Dutch was frosty with Arthur, but what he struggled with was why Dutch was frosty with him, too. He had done as told, didn't he? He always did as told. And yet you would think he had walked up to them Pinkertons, stuck his wrists out and asked to be taken away. Because everyone knew prison was where it was at! He sniffed and looked away.

The gang looked miserable, a far cry from their glory days, or even their days from months prior. But there was no denying that Dutch had managed to breathe some fire into them since he had arrived. That what made him special - talking people into shit they couldn't talk themselves into. And he had only gotten better with time. Sadie was leaning against a wall and he noticed the sly look that passed between her and Arthur. A mug of coffee was pushed into his hand and another into Arthur’s. Dutch finished the tale that grew longer with each telling by how thankful the freed slaves were and how their new friends had hugged them in tears and swore undying allegiance to their cause before they waved them off. Judging by Arthur’s face, that’s not how things happened at all, but Dutch knew how to tell a story and Arthur didn’t, so his version was what counted.

"So what now, Dutch?" Grimshaw crossed her arms. "I think I speak for all of us when I say, we're sick of the Bayou."

Dutch chuckled and leaned back in his chair, spreading his legs. Behind him, Molly stepped up to knead his shoulders.

"I know things don't look good right now..." he started and John took a deep breath, knowing the sermon that would follow. Was always the same. 'Gotta be strong…’ yada yada, 'stick together…' yada yada, 'we're almost there…'

But today it didn't get to start at all because Arthur spoke up beside him:

"Charles tellin' me Pinkertons think we dead."

“The captain snitched you out," Charles confirmed quietly in the interim gap of silence. "They knew you were on that ship. When it sank, you were all assumed dead. By the law and us, both.”

“Excellent,” Dutch mused. “Our luck is finally turning. It’ll give us time to recuperate.”

There was a moment of silence, then Arthur placed his coffee mug on a crate. “I say this is our chance.”

“For what?” asked Bill.

“To disappear.” A few heads turned to him but it was only Dutch he cared about as he slung his hands over his gun belt and squared his feet.

There was an unusually long silence. “I heard congratulations are in order, son," the leader offered finally. "I'm very happy for you." He leaned his elbows on his knees and gave Arthur a thoughtful look. "I hope you’re convincing her to stay with us.”

“I ain’t,” was the flat answer.

Dutch’s eyebrows rose. “It’s a brutal world out there. You of all people can attest to this.”

John balked at the insinuation, but Arthur must have expected the past to be dug up and thrown in his face because he merely blinked:

“Sure, Dutch. I can attest. But y’aint gotta worry on that front.”

Even though John would have bet his left arm that he had most certainly meant Eliza and Isaac, Dutch's hands flew up in innocence: "I’m sorry. I can see how that could be taken out of context. I'm merely saying we're safer together. An inarguable fact.”

“She don’ need to move to Tahiti to be safe. She safe where I am.” Whether this was a mere fact or Arthur was implying that he didn’t consider Dutch’s leadership necessarily safe was open to interpretation.

“Tahiti is off the list,” the other man soothed. “I have come to a better idea: we can - all of us! - discuss our next move together. There’s states we’ve never been to, where they don’t know us. Big cities we can disappear in. There’s Canada…”

“Well whaddyaknow! Democracy!” Karen chortled.

“Sounds nice,” Arthur said, fixing Dutch with his gaze, then shifting his eyes around the rest. “You all know I ain’t the chatty sort, so ‘m gonna be short: ‘m out.”

Whispers slithered around the cabin and feet were shifted. Arthur was a staple in the gang, and now that Hosea was gone, the oldest member here except for Dutch. Every person in this room had joined after; his presence was a given and his loyalty unquestionable. And even though John knew it was all bullshit, absolutely knew Dutch would never share power, the argument was compelling and had won over some folks. In light of that, Arthur’s rejection looked immature.

“Even if we all have a say? Including you?” Ms. Grimshaw asked Arthur, a little miffed. If you asked John, that was her weak spot for Dutch showing.

“Even so,” was the flat response.

“Is there nothing that can change your mind, Mister Morgan?” Strauss chimed in.

“No.”

Tilly decided they were all doing it wrong: “Dutch has a point, there’s safety in numbers, Arthur. You can convince her if you tried. I can tell she’s not comfortable now in the middle of camp, but if it was like before…”

“And next time camp is shot up? Or should she wait until her kid is kidnapped?” Abigail snapped at her, pressing Jack’s head against her hip.

“That will never happen again!” Dutch protested.

“Why not?” Karen laughed.

“Think you’re drunk, sweetheart,” Javier grinned at her playfully.

“She speaks sense to me,” Abigail huffed.

Several people started to talk over each other and Dutch rose to his feet as if to placate children.

“Think yer all confused,” Arthur’s voice rose and the bickering died down. “I ain’t askin’. I’m saying. ‘M out.”

A “why” was lobed from somewhere.

“Cause this ain’t the life I see fit for my woman and child.”

A spark lighted up in Dutch’s eyes. “This life? What life is that?” He straightened and looked around the room and swung out his arms, turning back at Arthur. “Please! Indulge us! Tell us what’s wrong with us.”

Arthur was unabashed: “Tell ya what’s wrong: we thieves, killers and ghosts, that’s what. Startin’ with me.” John watched the hurt and displeasure travel around the occupants. Funny how they was all proud of it when they was sitting around a campfire, bragging about the folks they swindled or robbed that day, but grew bristly when someone called them as they was. “This country changin’,” he continued, “It don’ want us no more. Our time has passed. Used to be, you wanted out, you just walk over next town, change yer name and story, nobody knew different. That gettin’ harder every year. We gonna get out, we better get the last train leavin’ and ‘m telling ya, this here that train.”

“Thieves and ghosts, is that what we are to you?” Dutch smarted. “Sounds like you forgot the muck I plucked you out of.”

Arthur took a deep breath and locked eyes with him. “Ain’t forgotten,” he said quietly. “You and Hosea gave me better than I had, like a true father should. So now…” he squared his shoulders, “…now I gotta do the same.”

John could tell this disarmed Dutch for a moment and turned him into something quite rare for him: speechless. But then, when the tone in the room shifted to sympathy for Arthur, he sensed it and grew defensive again:

“Out?” he snorted. “There is no out! They’ll come after us one by one if we break up. You’ll doom us all!”

“They think we dead, we keep our head down, no reason to come after us. We got a chance. Could be our last one.”

“Arthur has a point,” Charles said quietly and seemed unfazed when Dutch’s eyes shifted to him. “I appreciate all you did for me, Dutch. But I've been talking to the Wapiti, they asked for my help. I’d like to do that if we can tie things up here.”

“How quaint,” Dutch smirked and fumbled for a cigar. "You too, Charles? It’s starting to look like an ambush.”

"Thought you wan’ed to hear opinions, ain’t you just said that?” Sadie piped up.

"Mrs. Adler," was the leader's drawl over his shoulder. "I didn’t even get a chance to thank you for what you did, and here you are agreeing with this foolishness!”

She bounced off the wall and strolled around him to stand next to Arthur. John watched eyes flick up to her as she passed. These past five weeks Sadie had gained a lot of trust and respect with the gang and it showed. "Makes sense to me, Dutch. They been chasin' us long time. Got us a little breather. Anyone gonna get out, now's the time."

"Does that include you?"

She shrugged casually. "Did my dues. Moved us here. Broke out John. I like you all, but wouldn' mind ridin' round solo for a bit." Her eyes flitted to Charles and back. "Or duo."

Dutch looked from Charles to Sadie to Arthur and back. The rest of the gang grew quiet and sullen, surprised by the number of dissenters. "Wish you would reconsider. We get us one last big job and we're all, all of us, set."

Sadie looked back, unfazed. “We do that, them Pinkertons gonna start chasin' again and this time they ain't gonna stop. We go quiet now, we don' gotta look over our shoulder for a good while."

“John?” Dutch barked, eyes still on Arthur.

“John’s out, too,” Arthur said and took a small step in front of him as if he meant to shield him. It spurred memories in his head. Often Arthur used to do this when, a lifetime ago, they was in town and sparring was about to go from words to fists. A funny little thing he had completely forgotten, but remembered now.

“He can’t talk for himself?”

John cleared his throat and stepped up, playing with his mug. “You know this is my home, Dutch…”

“But?”

“But I got a woman and a son to think of, too. What happened with Jack...”

“We got Jack back!” Dutch hissed. “Us. We. Me! I was right there with you!”

“True, ain’t sayin’ you wasn’. And I’m grateful. But…way I see it…wouldn’ need to get him back if he wasn’ taken.”

He couldn’t hold the heat in Dutch’s gaze, but when he shifted his eyes they locked with Abigail’s and she nodded to him. John straightened a little, encouraged. “I broke outta prison. Think I should lie low for a bit.”

“With what money?” Bill snorted.

“We got money,” Arthur said, looking at Dutch again. “I say we share what we got and go our ways.”

The subject of money invigorated the gang like a dinner bell. Murmurs of “true” and “that’s right” and “I’d forgotten about that” slalomed around the room. They had been living humble for so long now, the notion of having money in their pockets again excited everyone.

“Well if Tahiti isn’t happening…” Pearson mumbled.

“How much money we talking about?” asked Karen.

“Dutch?” Arthur asked and all eyes turned to the leader.

Dutch’s jaws clenched as he rolled the cigar between his fingers.

Even Bill was tempted. “Must be…” he cleared his throat, “…a tidy sum by now. Lost some folks, too, so…bigger shares.”

“The money is nothing!” Dutch barked. “It won’t be enough to do anything for any of you!”

“How much?” Arthur said coolly. When Dutch didn’t answer, he pushed: “Gotta be at least thirty, forty grand.”

“That’s…a lot,” Mary Beth said, surprised.

“We divide that equally…” bounced around, and “that much?!”, and “I would take a longass bath first”, and “It’s ours, why not divide it anyway?”, and “Finally! Payout!”.

“You’re not seeing the bigger picture!” Dutch’s voice rose.

“…and then there’s Blackwater money,” Arthur continued. This stilled everyone. “That a lot more.”

“We can’t get that money,” Dutch waived dismissively as he sucked on his cigar.

“They don’ know Ms. Adler around there.” He looked at Sadie. “I trust her.” His eyes traveled around the room. “Think we all do.”

Murmurs of affirmation rolled like waves. John watched Dutch’s face tighten and wondered something that had never occurred to him before: did Dutch ever really mean to share that money? The older man’s eyes deftly flitted about like an animal backed into a corner.

“Is this why you killed Micah?” Dutch growled and a startled silence ensued. All eyes turned to Arthur. Even John couldn’t help his own head turning. The story was that Micah had died in the gunfight, this was new. “Be honest, son,” was the ask, half amicable, half accusatory.

John had observed Arthur’s journey of change a while now. But never had it been as obvious as it was in that moment. He wasn’t thrown off guard or hurt or offended or angry. There was a confidence to him of a different sort as he stood here in front of Dutch not like a right hand man, but his own man. He ran his tongue over his teeth and narrowed his eyes at the older man as if was taking the measure of his paranoia. “I can see where yer head goes, Dutch,” he sighed. “But truth is, Micah killed Micah.”

“Seems to me you benefited a great deal,” Dutch pressed. It was obvious that he had been stewing on this matter for a while now and also obvious that he missed Micah’s voice in face of this rebellion.

“Sure,” was the drawl of an answer. Unapologetically smug. Proud. “Whole damn world benefited.”

A few snickers and chuckles flitted around the room like bats. Dutch chased them with his eyes, growing tenser. Unfortunately for him, nobody had liked Micah and sympathy for him was in short order. Bill and Javier glanced at each other and then away. John got the sense that they agreed with Dutch, but read the room better than him and decided not to chip in.

“He was one of us!” Dutch whirled around, his voice accusatory. Everyone shrunk away from that anger, but if he sought to find support for his argument, he found none.

“Was never one of us,” Arthur drawled, hanging his hands over his gun belt again, his confidence rising with the gang’s lack of qualms. He seemed happy to see Dutch die on this stupid hill. Alone. “Leavin’ his share to the rest of us here best thing that man ever did.”

The chuckles were louder this time and even Bill and Javier grinned despite themselves. Dutch glared hard at a smiling Molly and John felt bad for how her face fell. The mood that had started off sullen and tense had become light and celebratory with all the talk about money, and there was no changing it back. Arthur took full advantage of that when he spoke up:

“‘M out.” He glanced at Charles, Sadie and John, then looked around the room, ignoring Dutch. “Think you should each sit and think on what ya want. You wanna stay, yer call. Wanna pool yer money and go to Tahiti? Yer call.”

“Not much of a call,” was Strauss’ objection, “If our best men and women are dropping out. Is it, Mister Morgan?”

Arthur shrugged at him. “Everythin’s eventual, Herr Strauss. Ain’t that so?”

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