#reverend swanson out here looking fine???

[male-fanfics-for-days]

Check-ups Can be Rough

Arthur Morgan X Male Reader

A/n: A little fanfic idea I had while doing laundry, please don't ask why I am just really gay for this cowboy.

Warning: a slight sexual theme towards the end

Some of the men in camp had just gotten back from a decent-sized robbery, Arthur and you included in that group. Now in camp, you were quick off your horse and ushering the men into your medical tent to be checked before they were allowed to go about the rest of the day.

You were the camp's actual doctor, as helpful as Reverend Swanson's medicines could be in the harder situations, you were actually trained in what you did by professionals. Those same professionals taught you how to use a gun, specifically long-ranged weapons, you favoring the sniper. It was actually your attempted killing of Dutch van der Linde that brought you into the gang.

Charles went into the tent with you first, as he was usually the one in first if no one was obviously hurt. He wasn't ashamed to get checked over by the doctor, other men in camp thought going to you was a slight show of weakness.

After Charles was Javier, then John, a stubborn Bill Williamson, then Micah

Arthur would have gone after Charles but Dutch wanted to speak with him just as he had gotten back. Never one to half-ass things, you had Arthur promise to come to visit the medical tent after he was done, even if you gave him a quick once-over to see he was fine.

So, after talking with Dutch, he made his way over to your tent. Most times your tent flaps were closed when checking over someone, but you had assessed that none of them were hurt enough to need the privacy of a closed area. This meant Arthur could see you looking over Micah as he walked up.

He stayed quiet outside the tent, crossing his arms and leaning against one of the poles of the tent fixed to the ground, simply watching you work.

Arthur wasn't too ashamed to admit he was impressed by you. You worked in an efficiency he could only dream of achieving, always on point with everything you do but especially your shots. He's seen you first hand down men 100 meters away, and that was with a bow!

Then came your medical work. You never left anything to chance, not a cut, bruise, cough, or sneeze that happened in camp you didn't hear and check on. It was seen as overbearing and unnecessary to some, but Arthur knew that this carefulness came from a good heart.

You'd confided in him about how you were taught. Sure, you had read some books, but you were mostly learning by action. You saw firsthand how even the smallest cut could kill a man by infection, that an unassuming bruise of the skin could lead to amputation because of an ignored issue.

You knew you could be a bit too much sometimes, but after coming to care about (almost) everyone in camp, their wellbeing was on your mind constantly.

He watched you switch between looking over Micah's physical form to listening to his breathing and his heartbeat, which made the man swat your hands away.

"Alright alright, we're done here." He stands from the chair you had everyone sit in, glaring at your hands. "I ain't need to be fussed over anymore, I'm fine."

"That is for me to determine, Mr. Bell." You grit your teeth at him, putting away your stethoscope, pushing on his shoulders to sit him back down.

"Everyone gets the same checkups, and I just had to dig a 3-day-old bullet out of your shoulder."

"And I'm telling you, Doctor," Micah spits out in mockery. "I'm fine."

Micah goes to push you off him, but you shove him into the chair quickly. You put your knee on his chest, forcing the chair to lean back and hit the table behind it. Micah flailed for a moment but went still when you just as quickly brandished a small nearby scalpel (still clearly covered in Micah's blood from getting the bullet out) and put it close to his throat.

"Now, Mister Bell," You speak lowly, your eyes going dark as you lean in closer to him.

"I am a doctor, the only one here, in fact. You may not like it, but I'm the only one who can keep you alive in this camp, and if I see fit? I could turn a blind eye to your injuries."

Despite being pinned in a chair, leaning back on a table, and unable to sit up, Micah chuckles darkly.

"You ain't got the nerve." His voice dripped with venom. " The only kills you've gotten were from people dumb enough not to look in the trees, you monkey. Even today, you were hiding away and shootin' from afar, too afraid to fight like a real man."

"A real man, you say?" You scoff, leaning back and letting Micah's chair fall back to the ground as you back away.

You turn from him to the table on the other side of the tent, and having thought he won, Micah smirks.

Then, yelps and flinches as a much bigger knife than a scalpel embeds itself into the chair, right in the space between his legs and extremely close to his nethers.

Micah looks at the blade in shock then turns his head up to look back up at you, still standing in the motion of throwing it. A dark look in your eyes as you sigh through your nose.

"I'll tell you right now, Micah Bell, as good as I am with a rifle?" You point to his crotch. "I'm even better with a blade."

Looking back down, Micah sees that the blade was so close to his crotch and so sharp, that it sliced a thin hole right through it. While looking at the knife he doesn't see you walk over and pull it out of the chair's wood, swiping it near his face so close that it took a few strands of hair with it.

You take a cloth off your belt and wipe the blade down as if it being close to Micah was enough to dirty it. You turn your back to him once more and wave the blade out, dismissing him.

"Now get the fuck out of my tent."

Micah sat for a moment in stunned silence, as if he didn't expect you to openly threaten him within earshot of others. But then he huffs, standing quickly and stomping out of the tent, pushing past Arthur even despite having enough space to leave.

Arthur had watched all of that happen with so much focus, he only just noticed after Micah had left that his eyes were dry from leaving them wide open the whole time.

He wasn't sure why, but his heart was racing and his face felt hotter with every passing moment as he replayed what happen in his head. The way you silenced Micah, the way you held the blade, the way you stood, the way you talked. Everything about what happened made Arthur feel... something.

"Arthur," you called out, snapping him out of his thoughts as he looks at you.

You have a growing grin on your face as you clean your hands off in a bucket of water.

"Looking to camp in my workspace?"

Arthur gives you a confused look as you chuckle a bit and point down at his pants, a mischievous look in your eye.

"With your tent pitched I assumed you'd be staying awhile."

Horrified, Arthur looks down to see that, indeed... he had a very visible bulge in his pants. He gave an awkward cough, taking off his hat to cover himself, all the while you laughed.

If he wasn't red and hot in the face before, he sure as hell was now, your laughing at him sure didn't help.

"Alright, big boy, let's get you checked out quickly so you can deal with that in private."

With the realization of some feelings he had towards you, he also came to the conclusion that this was by far the most embarrassing medical checkup he's ever had.

[say-hwaet]

That's the Way it Is

Chapter Six: To Dance With Danger, Part I Previous Chapters: V IV III II I Word Count: ~10,600 words Warnings: Mature themes, violence, sexual innuendo, language Summary: Desperate to retrieve some memories, you have asked Dutch to give you a job...a dangerous one. What do you suppose his answer will be? And regardless, will you even listen?

“No.”

No? After hearing Dutch give a speech about everyone carrying their weight, he is telling you no?

“Why?”

Dutch waves off your question, as though that will be enough to dismiss it. You feel something in your chest rise up, anger perhaps, but it aches with disappointment. “You’ve been saying how your memories ain’t fully back, yet, how am I to expect you to carry on like you used to?” You want to protest, but he holds out his hand. “It’s late, anyway. Why don’t you join the other women and finish up the chores before the day’s over? They could use your help.”

You clench your fists and bite your inner cheek. “Fine.” And you turn to walk away. 

You have to do something. Danger seems to be the thing that helps trigger memories faster. That cure you drank, while easing up your headache, hasn’t done anything else. 

Your stomach is growling. You’re hungry. You actually didn’t eat yesterday and have had little to nothing today. As you make more distance between you and Dutch’s tent, you see John and Reverend Swanson getting their helpings of Pearson’s stew. 

You haven’t really spoken to them much, maybe conversing with new people will be a good distraction for now. 

Bolstered with the energy from your frustration, you walk over to them. 

And as you approach, you hear Kieran, as he pleads with John over something. 

“Shut up, O’Driscoll, I ain’t talkin’ to you!” the scar-faced man barks. 

“I-I just wanna go into the bushes! My teeth are gonna fall out if I don’t relieve myself…!”

Reverend Swanson, his half-lidded eyes looking at you, skirts out a hello. “Hell-o, missssss…”

You wave half-heartedly, unsure if he can even see you clearly. But announcing your presence gets Kieran’s attention and he looks eagerly at you. “Oh! Miss! Can you please help me?”

“She ain’t gonna go watch you take a piss in the woods, you idiot…!” John bristles. 

Kieran’s eyes widen more than they already have and he quickly shakes his head. So fast, it’s giving you a headache just looking at him. “No! No! That’s not what I—!”

John sets the ladle down and steps near Kieran, his fist raised. “I’ve gotta mind to knock you out, O’Driscoll, then you’ll really relieve yourself!”

Kieran, unable to defend himself with his hands, merely leans back into the tree, turning his head and closing his eyes. “No, mister! Please!”

“John!” you yell and John stops mid-swing. He turns to look at you and for a moment, you can see his eyes soften. 

“What?”

“What’s wrong with letting him…?” You gesture flippantly towards the bushes. “You really think any of us want to have urine and bile right here in camp?”

He scrunches his nose. Maybe not for the idea, but for the words you chose to use. “Kit…”

“I’m serious.” You point to Kieran’s trembling figure. “Look at him. He’s a little twig, this slaboch.” You chortle. “Even if you weren’t armed to the teeth, you really think he can take you?”

John’s expression shifts, a mix of annoyance layered with reluctant admission. He lets out a grunt, his fist lowering as he glares at Kieran who still hasn't dared to open his eyes. “Fine,” he mutters under his breath, stepping back and giving Kieran some room.

Kieran exhales deeply, leaning forward and putting his weight on his bound wrists. “Thank you,” he sighs.

“Don’t thank me, yet,” you say and you step closer to him, an idea brewing in your head. “I think you owe me, don’t you?”

He looks up at you, surprised. “Don’t tell me you’re like the rest of ‘em?”

You feign insult, resting a hand on your chest. “I’m deeply affected.”

John snickers. “No, you ain’t.”

You grin and look back at Kieran. “We’re outlaws, Kieran, at least that is what I’ve come to find since I’ve returned.” You lean close to him, showing your teeth as you smile. “And I think, most here figure you are guilty by association with the O’Driscolls. Men who killed Annabelle and Mr. Adler, among many others.”

Kieran shakes his head. “I didn’t kill nobody! Like I told you, I only ran with them for a few months!”

“Then it shouldn’t be too difficult to tell us where they are…” You feel John’s eyes on you, awestruck while also grudgingly impressed by your cunning.

"You don't understand, they'll kill me if I—"

"But you're dead either way if you don't," you interrupt, your voice dropping to a whisper that carries the weight of finality. "Help us, and maybe there's a way out for you."

Kieran looks at you, his eyes shifting as he wrestles with the choice you gave. It doesn’t help that John, his face intimidatingly scarred, glares at him with a wolfish stare. “I…”

“Start talkin’!” John demands.

“Alright! Alright! I know where O’Driscoll’s holed up…!” You and John remain quiet, eyeing him closely. You find yourself starting at his eyes, looking for just the slight twitch or change. “He’s waiting at Six Point Cabin.”

That doesn’t ring any bells. You back away and look at John. “Do you know where that is?”

He nods. “Yeah, sis. I know the general area.”

Sis. Is that how John sees you? You remember Arthur had mentioned it was only you three for a while before anyone else showed up. Is that how Arthur sees you, too? Is that why people think you are close?

It makes sense. People can get those sentiments confused. Arthur could just as easily care for you like a sister as much as a love interest, albeit in a different way.

“I’ll take you there myself!” Kieran offers. “I never liked him, less than I like you folks.” His eyes soften a bit when he looks at you. Perhaps it was only because of your kindness that he was even willing to give up the location so easily.

That settles that, then. You smile softly, glad to have made headway on a mission of your own. You pat Kieran’s shoulder, in the same manner you see the men do with each other. “Good.” You turn to John. “You mind escorting him into the woods? I think any longer and we might have an issue on our hands.”

John chuckles, nodding his head as he reaches for his hunting knife. Cutting Kieran’s wrists free from the tree, he makes quick work at binding them again, before pointing the barrel of his revolver in his back to urge him forward. “Get movin’, my stew is gettin’ cold.”

You watch them both go, and you begin to feel the headache return. Normally unwelcomed, you begin to feel happy, and elated. You grin from ear to ear, and close your eyes to welcome a new memory.

“Give me that back, John Marston!” You are running barefoot in the grass, running after the fifteen-year-old boy who has your journal. You’ve been practicing your writing, and while it is far from perfect, you’ve made great strides in poetry.

And now, to shatter any veil of privacy, the muddy, scrappy-faced boy has pilfered your journal and has started reading its contents aloud.

At least, what he can read, given his own lessons of reading are still in progress.

He looks back over his shoulder, grinning as he holds up the journal in front of him. “I whu—whu—wait for luh—luh-ve love! Oh, what is love…?”

“John, that’s enough!” Your voice cracks slightly with frustration and embarrassment as you close the distance between you and John. The grass beneath your feet feels cool and slightly damp, a testament to the lushness of the area where the gang has set up camp. You're close enough now to grab a corner of the journal, but John, nimble and teasing as he is, leaps away. “Gotta catch me first, sis!" His laughter peppers the air, a sound both infuriating and delightfully carefree.

You give chase, your heart pounding with a mix of anger and exhilaration. The gang's camp disappears behind you as you both thread through trees and hop over logs, the forest around becoming a blur of green and brown. John's laughter rings out ahead of you, a beacon guiding your furious chase.

Suddenly, he stumbles, his foot catching on an exposed root. With a triumphant yelp, you leap forward, seizing the journal from his outstretched hand as he tumbles into the ground. “Oof!”

You laugh victorious, holding your journal close to your chest. “Serves you right!”

You hear a soft, low laugh behind you. Turning slowly, you look up to see Arthur, mounted on Boadicea.

He’s back after riding off for a few days. “Hey, Kit.”

You smile, tucking hair behind your ear. “Hello, yourself.”

He juts his chin over to the fallen thief, as he rises from the ground, rubbing his backside. “Keepin’ him out of trouble?”

You chuckle. “He’s keeping me on my toes.”

Arthur swings down from Boadicea, his movements smooth and controlled. His eyes, that striking shade of blue, scrutinize the scene before him, lingering on your flushed face. "Looks like you could use a hand," he says with a chuckle, approaching you with an easy stride.

"You think?" you reply, your tone teasing, the remnants of your chase still coloring your cheeks.

Arthur's smile broadens, his gaze softening as he takes in your disheveled appearance—hair tousled and eyes sparkling with mischief. "Definitely," he replies, coming to stand close enough that you can smell the leather and earth on him, evidence of his long journey from wherever it was he came from. He’s been like this for about a year, gone for a few days, coming back with such relaxed posture, it is as though he travels to a place of respite.

You long for a place like that.

He turns and looks at John, a gleam in his eye.

"John," Arthur's voice holds a hint of reprimand mingled with amusement as he nods toward the journal in your hands. "You oughta know better than to take what ain't yours, especially from Kit."

John brushes dirt off his shirt and grins sheepishly. "Aw, I was just funnin'!”

Arthur shakes his head. “It seems that you ain’t as sorry as you should be.” His body tenses, and you can’t help but eye the muscles in his legs as he readies himself for a chase.

John’s eyes go wide and he turns to run.

Suddenly, Arthur takes your hand. “Let’s get him, Kit!”

The thrill of the chase pulses through you as Arthur pulls you along, your feet kicking up grass as you sprint after John. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the dry landscape, making your game of tag seem like a dance with the golden hour light.

You feel alive, your heart pounding in your chest not just from the physical exertion but from the closeness of Arthur. Each breath you take is mixed with the sage-like scent of the high desert and the warm, earthy smell of his presence. It's exhilarating, running side by side with him, a wild joy that makes you forget the pains of your past and the uncertainty of your future.

You open your eyes, and find yourself clinging onto a nearby tree. You don’t know how long you’ve been reliving your memory, but the sun has completely gone down. It’s dark and it seems as though you have wandered far into the woods.

You look around, unsure as to where you are. You try to see if you can find your way back to camp. A firelight, perhaps, but you can’t see none.

You remember Mary Beth’s warning. You worry that you are lost.

You aren’t an expert in navigation, and without the light of the moon, you have no way of assessing exactly where you are.

The next time you choose to give into a memory, perhaps you should tie yourself to a tree?

You exhale loudly, frustrated at your predicament.

That’s when you hear a thud, thud, thud, thud. The rustling of grasses and the snapping of twigs has you startled. You hold your breath, hoping to remain still and under detection of whatever is approaching. You lean into the tree to support your posture, and your heart pounds fiercely against your ribcage. You recall the stories that drift through camp, of wild animals and outlaws lurking in the darkness, and for a moment, fear seizes your very bones.

Then, you see a light. A light of a lantern, and it illuminates the head of a horse and the arm that holds it.

The glow falls on you, and you squint to help your eyes.

That’s when a voice breaks through the night. "Kit? Is that you?"

The relief that floods through you is immediate and overwhelming. Though, you do not recognize the voice. It is gentle, sharp, but it speaks with a clear energy, a budding excitement.

You aren’t sure what to say, except to call back. “Yes, it’s me.” Your voice trembles slightly with a mix of fear and relief. Pushing yourself off the tree, you step towards the light.

“My God…” the voice says. “Arthur was right…!”

You blink, both from surprise and from the light. Then as you let the sound of the voice enter your mind, it does become familiar.

Good work, Kit. If you hadn’t done that, there would have been more to deal with in there.

You speak his name, hoping that it will confirm your suspicion. “H-Hosea…?”

You hear the man dismount and calmly approach you. Lowering the light just so, you see his face.

Yes, it is an older image from your memory.

And you can see the shine in his eyes. “It is good to see you, my dear.” Hosea steps closer, the light of his lantern casting warm glows on the rough bark of trees and the underbrush, creating a soft halo around him. His familiar deep-set eyes hold a mixture of joy and disbelief. "You're alive," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion.

You nod, your chest feeling tight with an emotion that you understand to be joy of seeing him again. You wish you had more to remember, but you are still happy for this reunion. “I…got lost.”

“Yes, and Arthur found you.”

You shake your head, smiling. “No, I mean that I wandered too far away from camp.” And you tuck your chin. “I got carried away.”

Hosea chuckles softly, the sound rich with warmth that banishes the cold around you. "That sounds just like you, Kit," he says, stepping forward and gently placing the lantern down on the ground beside him. His hands are slightly trembling as he reaches out, as if unsure whether you're truly real or just an apparition. Sensing the welcoming gesture, you go to him and let yourself be wrapped in his embrace.

It does feel familiar, as though it was once a source of comfort in great pain. “You always liked to wander off the beaten track,” he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “But I’m glad you’re back now.”

You pull slightly away, looking up at him with a mix of confusion and yearning for truth. “Hosea, what happened to me? After the ferry...?” Your voice trails off and you look down. “I…I don’t remember anything.”

He nods. “Yes, I know. Arthur told me your memories are gone.”

You lift your head, and he lets you out of his embrace. “They are coming back! Bits and pieces, like how I remembered you…”

Hosea blinks. “Me?”

“Well, Arthur did tell me first about you, but I had a memory…” You turn around and take a few steps forward, not too far from the light, before you turn around. “The Bank of Lee and Hoyt.”

After a moment, Hosea grins. “Our first bank robbery.”

Your eyes widen. “That’s what it all was?”

Hosea nods. “Yes, Kitka. That was your first heist with us. You were exceptional, even then.” He pauses, his expression turning somber. “After the ferry, things went bad fast. The Pinkertons came down on us hard. We thought we lost you in the chaos.”

Your heart drops at his words, and the gnawing void in your memory seems to grow deeper, and hungrier. "Lost me?" you echo softly, feeling the weight of his words settle like stones in your stomach.

Hosea’s face softens, lines deepening around his eyes with a mix of pain and relief. "Yes, Kitka. When we regrouped, we noticed that you weren’t there. Dutch said you…”

“Drowned.”

“Yes.”

“But I didn’t. I was shot in the back.”

Hosea’s eyes widen. “Shot?” he repeats, his voice catching on the word. “Does Arthur know this?”

You shake your head, feeling the confusion stirring a storm inside your mind. “I did tell him, but I don’t think anyone knew. I…I woke up in a doctor’s office days later, and everything prior was just... gone.”

Hosea runs a hand over his face. “Do you know what kind of bullet?”

“No. The doctor spared me those details.”

Hosea nods and after a moment, bends down to pick up his lantern. “Let's get back to camp. I think I need to rest and think about this.”

You nod. You are getting tired, and want a break from the headaches.

Riding behind Hosea, you both head back to camp. Everyone has gone to rest except for those on guard duty. It doesn’t take long for you to slip into your bed roll.

As the night deepens and the stars paint a canvas of endless possibilities overhead, you can't help but let your thoughts drift to Arthur. You recall his laughter, a sound rough and warm like worn leather; his eyes glinting with mischief or darkening with stormy emotions. The memories are incomplete, fragmented by the trauma of your past, yet they flicker in and out of your consciousness like fireflies on a summer night. Arthur's image haunts the edges of your slumber, the pieces of him stitched into the fabric of dreams that dance just out of reach.

You remember the way his hand felt in yours that night after the bushwhacking—strong, yet gentle, filled with a tenderness that you couldn’t place. You suddenly recall the heat of his breath, a kiss against your forehead, one laden with fear and hope mingled together. 

You open your eyes wide, gasping for air, and you feel weighted with a bittersweet ache.

“Kitka…?” you hear Mary Beth’s soft voice whisper to you in the night. “Are you alright?”

You sigh, feeling terrible for waking her. “Yes, I’m—I’m fine.”

She is quiet for a moment, but finally gives you a “Alright, goodnight,” before turning over and going back to sleep.

You lay back down and try to make yourself more comfortable, and finally, you let sleep overtake you.

***

That headache last night must have been a doozy, you wake up with a sore head that when you sneeze, you feel like someone took a beer bottle and just threaded you upside the head. 

“You’re finally awake,” you hear Abigail say. She is walking by your tent, carrying a pail of water from rain collection. “You must have been up late.”

You rub your eyes. “I was out walking in the woods.”

She chuckles. “What else is new?”

You smile and shrug. “Hosea said the same thing to me last night.”

She nods, her eyes falling on her son as he sits with Tilly at the nearby table. “You’ve always been like that, for as long as I’ve known you.”

You feel something in your stomach, a budding question that you hope to have answered. “How long have you known me?”

She looks back at you, her eyes softening. “Sometimes I forget that you don’t know.”

“I’m sorry.”

Then there is a spark in her eye as her frown turns into a smirk. “You must have also forgotten that you rarely ever apologize.”

You blink. “I don’t?”

“Well, when you’ve done somethin’ wrong, you’re quick to own up to it, but you’ve never been emotionally apologetic if that makes sense.” She eyes your expression and follows with an explanation. “It’s like, there are those people that apologize for apologizin’ too much.” And she chuckles. “You weren’t one of them types.”

You look into your lap, glancing at your dark hair as it rests over your shoulder. “Oh.”

“I’ve known you for about five years.” Then she looks at her boy again, a loving affection evident in her smile. “It weren’t long after I came here that I had Jack.”

You nod, Arthur has already filled you in on the details as to who Jack’s father is. “John is good to him?”

That’s when you see her frown. “He ain’t anythin’ to him.”

You think back on your memory of chasing John through the woods, the joy and excitement still lingering. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

She looks at you, her face laden with bitterness. “Well, it is.”

You want to say sorry, but after what she had just told you, you swallow it down. “Maybe I should give him a good beating.”

She snorts. “Good luck with that.”

“I have a feeling he respects me, in a sister sort of way.”

She nods, her brow relaxing but for only a moment. “He did seem to miss you when you was dead.”

Her comment sends a shiver through you, that word—dead. It's hard to reconcile with the notion that everyone thought that you were gone, yet here you are, breathing and feeling and puzzling through the fog of lost memories. "Was it hard?" Your voice is barely a whisper, afraid of the answer yet desperate for it. “I didn’t mean to cause anyone grief.”

Abigail rolls her shoulder. “We ain’t a stranger to death. Davey and Jenny died the same day.”

You nod. “Yes, I know.”

“But…with you…” She looks at you, her eyes softening. “Jack cried the longest time. I couldn’t comfort him enough. Kept sayin' he missed his 'Aunt Kitka'. Broke my heart to see him like that."

You touch your chest, feeling a warmth spread through you at the mention of Jack considering you to be family. You remember hearing him call you that when you first got here, and now you are beginning to understand why. "You’re like my family.”

Abigail nods, brushing back some loose strands of her hair. “Yeah, we are.”

Her words settle over you like a comforting blanket in the chill of a desert night, and for just a moment, the sharp edges of Blackwater's events, now a harsh reality, soften. "I want to thank you for being patient with me." Your voice is threaded with a genuine, albeit brittle appreciation. “I want to remember the things we shared, things we’ve talked about…”

Abigail gives you a knowing look, one of empathy. “Don’t worry too much over it. If your memories come back, they do. If they don’t, that don’t mean we care about you any less.” She bends over and pats your hand gently, a gesture so motherly that it catches you off guard. "You take your time, Kitka. These things, they can't be rushed." Abigail stands, smoothing her skirt before offering you a small smile. "You should get dressed, ol’ Miss Grimshaw will be on your hide before too long.”

You smile, and she returns to her work, leaving you to change.

***

“Okay, you go on ahead and get yourself a gun,” John tells you as you dismount. Kieran sits on the back of Old Boy, John’s mount, and Bill sits on Brown Jack. “And then this O’Driscoll will take us to the hideout.”

You nod and give Odliv one good pat before turning in the direction of the gun store. You three, and Kieran, managed to slip out of camp without Dutch noticing, as he seemed pretty occupied having a tete-a-tete with Micah. He’s been recovering like a lazy no-nothing in camp since sustaining some decent head injuries, and you can’t help but wish that it rendered the bastard an amnesiac instead of you.

Your steps make that disgusting squish squish as you walk across the mud, and you avoid the odd stares of men and women as you walk past them. Well, gee. You suppose not many women out here are seen wearing patched-up skirts and wide-brimmed hats. Nobody around here knows of your background, so that can’t be the reason they are staring.

You walk up the creaking, wooden steps to the gun store and let yourself inside.

The bell above the door jingles softly as you enter, announcing your presence to the gunsmith who looks up with a raised eyebrow as he stands behind a counter. He's a wiry man, middle-aged and dark-haired, with sun spots that line the bridge of his nose.

"Can I help you, miss?" His voice is soft and deep, with a friendly air but also representative of the store he maintains. Masculine.

“Yes,” you begin, trying to sound confident. “I am looking for a rifle.”

Your request seems to catch the man off guard for a moment, but he recovers swiftly, setting aside the cloth he was using to polish a set of pistols. “A rifle, you say? What kind are you looking for? Something light? Or maybe something with a bit more kick?”

You ponder his question, memories still eluding you on this subject. You seem to be familiar with weaponry, given your instinctual response during the bandit attack. However, you seemed to be drawn to a certain type of weapon…

“You got anything with explosives?” you ask, and seeing the reaction on his face, you feel instant regret.

The gunsmith’s eyes widen just a fraction, and he pauses, the cloth in his hands forgotten. For a heartbeat, it's as though the air between you thickens with suspicion. "Explosives? Well, now, that's not exactly standard fare for hunting or protection," he remarks cautiously, his formerly relaxed demeanor shifting subtly. "Uh, what exactly is your husband planning to hunt with something as dangerous as that?"

You blink and realize that you are still wearing your mother’s ring. You still can’t bring yourself to take it off. “Oh, I’m not married. It’s for me.”

He seems to freeze for a moment and clears his throat. “You want to hunt with explosives?”

You realize your mistake, the remnant of your expertise, and a hint of your past life creeping into the conversation unwittingly. "No, nothing like that," you quickly cover up, an uneasy chuckle escaping your lips. "I was just jesting. What I meant was something more along the lines of a rifle for... protection. Something sturdy."

The tension in the air slightly eases as the shopkeeper resumes his task of polishing the pistols, though his eyes still hold a trace of doubt. "Protection, huh?" he muses, and he turns around to look through select cases. After a minute, he opens one of the glass doors, and grabs a rifle, with a grey-stained maple stock and blue steel. He places it gently on the counter between you, the metal parts gleaming under the shop's dim lighting. "This here is a Springfield. A favorite among settlers and lawmen alike. Reliable, accurate, and reasonably powerful without being too cumbersome to handle," he explains, his fingers grazing the wooden stock reverently. “I can also add a scope on it, good for hunting those quick-footed pronghorn from long distances.”

You nod, your interest piqued despite your lingering discomfort from the earlier gaffe. You lean closer to inspect the rifle, your fingers tracing the smooth curve of its stock, a familiarity in its weight and balance slowly seeping back into your memory. "It feels right," you admit quietly, more to yourself than to the gunsmith. “I’ll take it.” And you rest it on the counter. “Do you have any handguns?”

At this he grins. “I think I have something that you might be interested in…” And bending down behind the counter, you hear some rustling and the closing of a wooden box. He rises back up and rests a large handgun on the table.

You feel a twinge in your head, an image of Charles grinning at you as he hands the very same gun to you.

Sure wish I had mine looking like yours. You ought to show me how to make that incendiary buckshot…

You reach to your temple and rub it softly as you eye the gun. “That’s a nice looking sawed-off.”

The gunsmith nods, his eyes flickered with surprise. “Yes, I’m sorry, I thought you didn’t know your guns.”

You chuckle softly. “I guess there’s a lot I don’t know about myself either,” you reply, the wry smile fading as the words sink in, swirling with the fragmented flashes of your past that occasionally pierce through the fog of your amnesia.

The gunsmith watches you for a moment, his expression softening. "Well, if you’re interested, I can cut you a deal and throw you in some extra ammo.”

You try to add up the amount in your head, the numbers coming easily to you. You figure this is from the practice of working with Strauss, selling those cures for the last few years. “Well…”

“I’ll throw in a gun belt.”

You grin and nod your head. “Deal.”

The gunsmith nods, polishing up the Springfield and the sawed-off shotgun one last time with a practiced ease. As he does so, he continues to chat, asking you about your plans in Valentine, careful not to pry too deeply but clearly curious about the new face in town with an unusual interest in firearms.

You make small talk, keeping your answers vague and noncommittal. As he hands over the shining weapons, the gunsmith offers a friendly piece of advice, “Just be careful out there. Valentine attracts all sorts, and not all have good intentions.”

“Thank you,” you say, swinging the Springfield rifle over your shoulder and holstering the sawed-off comfortably in your holster at your hip. “I’ll keep that in mind.” And you step out of the store.

You see John and Bill across the way, and they haven’t noticed you come out yet. Given a window of more time, you take the chance to head in the direction of the general store. You hope that maybe your orders from the catalogue might have come in, even though it has only been a few days.

You walk up the steps and just as you open the door to the store, you hear something as you come in.

“You don’t understand…!” A shrill cry fills your ears, stopping you in your tracks. You look ahead and see the woman you saw the last time you were here. You think back and then you remember her name.

Mrs. Downes.

She looks distraught as she points to something in Amos’s hand. “I heard what that German said when he was talking to you! That bottle could cure my husband!”

You feel a chill up your spine. She’s talking about Strauss. About your cures. That snake oil you’re trying to sell.

Your breath catches in your throat as memories collide, each piece of your past jostling for space in your mind. You remember Strauss and the cures, how often he used sweet words to mask the bitterness of deception, though benevolent your tinctures are. The sight of Mrs. Downes, her desperation clawing its way out through her voice, tugs at you. And you can’t help but feel something for this desperate woman.

Amos holds a bottle close to himself, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Downes, but it was like I told you a few days ago: you have too much money owed to me from your other purchases, and I can’t extend credit to you anymore until that balance is paid.”

Her hand trembles as she holds it out toward the bottle. “But my husband needs it…!” Her lip trembles. “He is very sick.”

“Take him to the doctor, like I told you! He might be able to prescribe something better for him.”

Then suddenly, she snaps. “Dr. Howard doesn’t have a cure for Tuberculosis…!”

Her voice echoes with despair, reverberating against the walls of the general store, stark and raw in its desperation. You stand there, rooted to the spot, your own heart hammered by memories of sickness and helplessness. Antek, your brother, sick and pale for months, miserably clinging onto you as though you were the only thing that could save him.

You close your eyes tightly, and a single tear trickles down your cheek. You feel the weight of that memory this time, and since you have discovered it once before, it doesn’t cause your head any pain. But that does not mean that there isn’t an ache. You exhale sharply, and while not intended, it alerts both Amos and Mrs. Downes of your presence. 

Mrs. Downes's eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, meet yours across the space. There is a sudden recognition in her eyes, as they widen and her mouth goes agape. “It’s you…!” She hesitates but takes a step forward. “You make the medicine…!”

You are unsure what to do, and you’re tempted to quickly turn around and leave the store before you are pulled into something you might regret. But you see how her despair turned to hope, and you can’t bring yourself to walk away. 

Amos looks at you apologetically, his brow pinched with a mix of embarrassment and frustration. “I’m sorry, Ms. Doe, I’ll be right with you.” And he tries to get Mrs. Downes’ attention. “Now, ma’am—”

But Mrs. Downes cuts him off, her attention still turned on you. “Please,” she cries, her hands now clasped as though in prayer. “Have pity on us.”

Your brow furrows. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

She takes a step toward you, the creaking floorboards beneath her feet accentuating the uncomfortable feeling the tension gives you. “Your cure could save my husband…Just one bottle? I—I’ll make it up to you. I just…”

You want to tell her that it won’t work for that. You want to tell her the truth. It is mild, but good enough to make one think it is working. You know that now. You remember the herbs you use. It isn’t meant for anything chronic. 

But what do you do? Risk ruining the operation Strauss has crafted here? That will only create a trail that others are bound to follow? Leading them to the gang and jeopardizing their safety. 

You can’t do that.

You glance around the sunlit store, feeling the weight of their gaze. Amos shifts uncomfortably, clearly wanting to resolve this situation without further complications. You sigh softly, a sound almost lost amidst the soft rustling of goods and the distant murmur of the bustle just outside. The decision sits heavy on your shoulders, a burden made tangible by the desperate hope in Mrs. Downes’s eyes.

“You have my sympathy, Mrs. Downes,” you begin, your voice unsteady with the weight of your own secrets. “But Tuberculosis is—”

“I know how bad it is…!” she cries. “But your medicine could save him.”

“How far gone is it?” you ask. “If it is too far along, the cure might ease some pain, give him a brief respite, but it won’t save him,” you explain gently.

You see the surprise on Amos’s face. “But it restored your memory?”

You need to provide an explanation. “Amnesia is different than a near-death disease.”

Amos nods, still puzzled but accepting your words as the final judgment on the matter. Mrs. Downes’s shoulders slump, the faint glimmer of hope in her eyes dimming as she absorbs your explanation. “I still want it.”

Amos blinks. “Mrs. Downes, you can’t afford it!”

You can see that you won’t be able to talk her out of it. “Give her a bottle, please, Mr. Sims.”

Amos looks at you. “What?”

“They’re my cures, and I can choose how I want to sell them.”

“But what about your associate Mr. Kilgore, don’t you think you ought to consult him?”

You feel yourself bristle at this. While he means well, you find it irritating that he assumes you can’t make your own decisions.

You stare hard at Amos, your gaze firm and unyielding. "Mr. Sims, I appreciate your concern, but this is my decision. Mr. Kilgore trusts my judgment in these matters," you say with a quiet authority that silences any further protests he might have.

Reluctantly, Amos pulls the bottle back from behind the counter and sets it on the counter. “Here.”

Mrs. Downes reaches for it with trembling hands, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "Thank you," she whispers, her voice choked with gratitude. She clasps the bottle close to her chest as if it's a precious lifeline.

As she turns to leave, you feel a pang of sympathy mixed with doubt. You wonder how long it will prolong the inevitable, and you wonder if she will end up blaming you for it. You hope that you don’t stick around long enough to find out.

Once the door clicks closed, Amos again clears his throat. “Now, how can I help you?”

***

After getting some food for the journey, you step out of the general store. Your order from the catalogue hasn’t come in yet, so you will, unfortunately, have to come back into town another day. You walk along the muddied street of Valentine and make your way back to Bill, John, and Kieran.

John sees you first, narrowing his eyes at you. “What were you doin’ over there?”

You mount Odliv, readjusting the rifle on your back. “Got some food.”

“Wish I had known that,” Bill grumbles. “Would have had you get me some pomade.”

John casts a disturbed gaze at Bill. “Are you for real?”

Bill’s cheeks turn red. “What?! It makes my hair look good.”

John snorts. “Sure…like as if that’s what—”

“Oh-kay…How about we move along?” You interject, not eager to hear this conversation continue.

John nods, grateful, and elbows Kieran as he sits behind him. “You ready to do this, Kieran?”

Kieran nods, his voice shaky. “Y-yes, sir.”

John backs up Old Boy, and you and Bill follow him out as he rides through Valentine. “You better not try anything. You will not make it out alive if you do.”

As the three of you trot along the dusty pathway, the mid-afternoon sun casts long shadows over the land, giving it an almost melancholic feel. The air is filled with the scent of dry earth and the distant sound of cattle. You ride in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts until John breaks the stillness as he asks Kieran a question. “What is Colm doin’ hidin’ out at Six Point Cabin, anyway?”

Kieran shifts uncomfortably, his eyes darting around as if the answer might be lurking in the brush beside them. "Colm mentioned it's because the law's been tightenin' the noose in Strawberry. They have to keep moving. Colm's layin' low, gatherin' strength."

You glance over at John, catching a hint of worry flickering in his eyes before he looks away, focusing on the trail ahead. "Makes sense," he mutters, his voice carrying a note of unease. Surely Colm’s gang isn’t the only one feeling the pinch. 

Bill, riding up beside you, leans towards you and speaks in a low tone. "You think Dutch can handle Colm this time?" His question hangs in the air like the dust kicked up by your horses' hooves.

This time? You think back to what Mary Beth had said about the O’Driscoll’s. You imagine you yourself had encountered them at one point, but of course, that has eluded you for now. But you can sense things aren’t the same as the glory days. Lately, Dutch's fiery speeches, his eyes blazing with determination, also add a touch of desperation. You look at Bill and nod slowly, more out of hope than conviction. "He has to," you say quietly, your words nearly swallowed by the wind.

“Colm ain’t much different than you folks,” Kieran bravely says, and of course, this gathers a negative reception.

“We ain’t nothin’ like Colm…!” John snaps. “You know nothin’ about who we are and what we do.”

Bill, with his usual grim humor, chuckles darkly. "We may be outlaws, but we ain't no cold-hearted murderers like them O'Driscolls."

The conversation drops as the group continues riding through the stretching shadows of the evening. The silence is oppressive, heavy with thoughts unspoken and plans yet to be fully realized. You sense the danger, and this excites you. Danger is what you are after. Danger is what will get you closer to finding out who you are.

You come up on a grassy hill, with a cluster of trees up ahead.

“It’s just up this hill,” Kieran explains.

John nods and takes charge. “We should leave the horses here.” And just before the top of the hill, you three stop your horses and dismount. “Kit, you make sure you got your guns. I’m lookin’ forward to seein’ you use them.”

Bill chortles. “Yeah, I can’t wait to see Colm go up in a blaze of glory…!”

Blaze. He must mean the incendiary buckshot.

But, alas, you have yet to relearn how to make it.

John watches Kieran as he dismounts, quickly grabbing him by the arm and pointing his revolver into his side. “You’re comin’ with us, and you better not try anythin’.”

Kieran raises his hands, shaking his head fearfully. “I won’t, I promise. Just want to help, I swear!”

Despite the assurance, John's grip on Kieran tightens as you all move stealthily toward the cluster of trees. The sun has moved across the sky now, casting a golden hue that makes the edges of the world seem to glow. It's a tranquil kind of beauty, a stark contrast to the tension threading through your group. Yet, there's a thrill that pulses beneath your skin, a remembered echo of your past life with the gang, and it stirs something deep within you. It’s happening. You are that much closer…

As you approach the trees, you instinctively crouch, and the men do the same. And it is just in time, too, for you hear a couple of voices.

John instantly covers Kieran’s mouth, pointing his revolver into the milksop’s temple. Kieran freezes, holding his hands out to show that he will keep still.

You focus your attention on the voices and look down the hill. Sure enough, there are two men, dressed in black coats and green bandanas. These must be them. O’Driscolls. At least two of them, anyway.

The conversation between the O'Driscolls is muffled by the wind, but you catch snippets of their dialogue—something about a meeting point and the times they expect to rendezvous with others. Your heart beats faster, each throb echoing a morse code of danger and anticipation. John's eyes meet yours, a silent communication passing between you like a current through the crisp air. He nods slightly, indicating for you to keep your position while he and Bill edge closer to the unsuspecting O’Driscolls.

You appreciate his effort to keep you safe, but this isn’t what you came here for. Still, you let them go on ahead of you and while keeping watch on Kieran, your eyes follow them as they descend carefully down the hill.

Bill moves with surprising stealth for his size, blending into the shadows like a predator stalking its prey. You remain crouched, watching quietly with your sawed-off pointed at Kieran, though it isn’t really necessary.

John and Bill's approach is a silent dance of precision and patience, skills honed from years of living on the fringe, outside the law. The ground beneath them crunches softly, draping the moment in thin layers of suspense that threaten to snap with any misstep. Stray beams of sunlight pierce through the branches, but they remain concealed.

The two O’Driscolls are completely unaware when Bill and John pull out their knives simultaneously, and stab each in the neck, killing them instantly. You wait just another second, before John waves you down.

“Okay, Kieran,” you whisper. “Let’s go.” You nudge Kieran forward and he complies with little to no resistance. You remain crouched as you hurry to meet them and find a large tree to hide behind.

Taking a peek, John looks over at what you have to deal with. “They got three workin’ girls with them.”

“Great!” Bill grumbles. “I didn’t want to kill no hookers.”

But they’re women. And you’re a woman.

Your heart begins to pound and you look down at the patched-up skirt you are wearing. You suddenly get an idea, a risky idea, but you feel confident as it begins to stew in your mind. Holstering your sawed-off, you remove your gun belt and remove your hat.

John glances over at you and raises a brow. “What are you doin’?”

“Working,” you answer and begin to unbutton the first three buttons of your blouse, exposing the lace of your chemise and little cleavage.

John and Kieran’s eyes widen and you ignore their gaping mouths while you remove your hairpins and fix up your hair.

You are going to do what comes naturally.

Entertain and distract.

“Turn around,” you hiss at them and wait for the men to look the other way while you lift up your skirt and secure your gun belt around the waistband of your bloomers. Letting your skirt fall back down, you see that it is clearly concealed. At least you won’t be going in completely unarmed.

Pushing up your bosom as best you can, you decide that’s the best you got for the time being. You then remove your shotgun and hand it to Kieran. “If you use this on anything other than O’Driscolls…” you lower your voice and make it as convincing as possible. “I will not hesitate to put a bullet between your eyes.”

Kieran nods. “I won’t, I swear!”

You nod and looking at John, you give an order. “Don’t shoot until I say.” And then you come out from the cover of the tree. You veer off to the left to make it so that you appear you are coming in from another direction and walk confidently toward the cackling group of O’Driscolls.

Your large hips make your walk look tantalizing, and you hope that this plan will work. Your heart pounds against your ribcage and as you near the hideout, you try to take slow, steady breaths.

You see the three women, dressed scantily clad, as they lean and press their bodies into the men who have their hands on them.

Slowly, you approach, your lips curled into the sweet smile of a seasoned performer, your gaze lowered in feigned shyness. The men turn, noticing your arrival with leers that make your skin crawl underneath the facade. One of the younger O’Driscolls, a scruffy boy barely out of his teens pulls out his revolver, pointing it at you. “Oy! Who goes there…!”

You pause, pouting your lip and resting a hand on your hip. “Don’t tell me that I weren’t invited?” You adopt a more juvenile way of speech, making yourself appear younger and more stupid than you are. “These girls always have the best pickings, and I want my chance, too…!” you whine, being sure to stomp your foot for good measure. 

The girls, already tipsy, squint their eyes and study you for a moment. “Blanche?”

You blink and decide to roll with it. “Yes, girls! You clearly need to get some eyeglasses…!” You punctuate your last word with a high-pitched giggle and, miraculously, the girls join you.

The young O'Driscoll lowers his revolver slightly, the suspicion in his eyes faltering as he glances at the girls for confirmation. "Well, if Blanche is with you girls..."

You smile wider, stepping closer and lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Got anything to drink?" You gesture to a bottle peeking out from one of the men's bags. The young O’Driscoll, now somewhat convinced and possibly swayed by the appeal of your feigned innocence, nods eagerly, reaching for the bottle. "Sure thing, darlin'. You look like you could use a good swig."

He hands it to you and you are sure to bat your eyelashes and sway your hips before bringing the end of the bottle to your lips. The liquid instantly burns like fire, and you try with all your strength to not recoil and throw the bottle as far away from you as you can. You take several good gulps before making a satisfied sound with your mouth and wiping your lips in an uncouth way. “Thank you, sweetie, I was…” And you look into the man’s eyes, evidently mesmerized. “…thirsty…”

You hear some warm chuckles from some of the men, picking up on your suggestive language.

Your lashes flutter again and you lean a little closer, using the momentary distraction to your advantage. “So, boys, what’s the occasion?” you ask, injecting a playful curiosity into your tone. Your gaze drifts across the motley assembly of O'Driscolls, noting their relaxed postures. As they laugh and joke amongst themselves, you carefully observe their unguarded expressions, searching for any hint of deception or danger.

One of the older men, stubbled with a crooked nose, grins at you, his teeth yellowed from years of tobacco use. "We're celebratin' a successful raid on a stagecoach.” And he lights a cigar before taking a deep inhale. “Colm’s gonna be meetin’ us later to pick it up.”

You pout your lips. “Colm…? He’s not here?” You cast a feigned sigh and arch your back, bending backward. Some of the men’s mouths go agape at your sudden flash of flexibility and reaching your arms back, your hands touch the ground. You flip over and rise back to your feet. You clearly have their attention now. “I was hopin’ I’d see him…”

The men sigh in awe, appreciating your display of agility as much as your feigned disappointment. "Don't worry, darlin'," a man with a crooked nose replies, smoke curling from his lips. "Colm will be here soon enough, and you can charm him just the same."

“Wow, Blanche!” One of the girls gasps, smiling. “I didn’t know you could do that…!”

“Must make it really nice in the bedroom…!” Another giggles, wiggling her hips suggestively. “You ought to teach us all that trick…!”

You remember the comment Micah had made and it takes everything in your power to not react. Instead, you chuckle along with them, your heart pounding with the adrenaline of performance and danger. "Oh, I've got plenty of tricks up my sleeve," you say, giving them a wink that promises mischief but discloses nothing. Your voice drops to a husky whisper as you lean forward, conspiratorially. "But a girl’s gotta keep some secrets, don’t she?”

A few men nod, their eyes following every contour of your movement with poorly disguised admiration. You feel a prick in your head and in a quick flash, an image appears in your mind’s eye. 

You are high up. Standing on a small platform. You eye a thick rope, taut between two beams. You hear gasps and moans, hundreds of eyes on you as you lift a foot and place it gingerly on the rope. 

Your attire, tight around your small frame, doesn’t drag or hinder your movements. You hear a woman calling your name, her maternal voice cheering you on from below.

“Máte na to, Kitka! To je moje dcera!”

You feel your heart pounding and you begin to walk.

The vision fades as you stare at the men eyeing you. The atmosphere is thick with smoke and laughter – a dangerous cocktail that makes it easy to forget the perilous line you tread.

But you are on the line, and you will not dare to fall off of it.

You feel you are coming into your skin, your body becoming more familiar to you than it has in a long while. Your mind is working in two directions, thoughts of how to keep these people entertained and distracted, while also working on how to destroy their hideout, send the women off, and end these O’Driscolls in a blaze of glory.

The first thing, of course, is to be rid of the women.

You look over at the girls, still sitting in the laps of the men. “Girls…” you begin. Your voice carries a new tone, one that’s both coaxing and authoritative. "How about we show these gentlemen what real entertainment looks like? Just us girls, hmm?" The sparkle in your eyes is infectious, and slowly, you watch their curiosity change into excitement.

The women glance at each other, a silent agreement passing between them.

They rise, a collective swirl of skirts and laughter, prying themselves from the grasp of their admirers. You lead them to the center of the gathering, forming a circle. They look to you, expectant, the air buzzing with anticipation.

“Let’s give them a show they won’t forget,” you whisper, your hand taking that of the girl next to you and you lead them toward the trees. “We will be right back, boys!”

You hear the excitement buzzing from the men as the women follow you into some bushes. You know this must look crazy in the eyes of Bill and John, and you also know they must be itching to kill some O’Driscolls. You have to work quickly.

Once out of the sight of the men, you stop and turn around. “Girls, we need costumes.”

One of them blinks and looks at you confused. “Costumes?”

“Yes!” You take her by the shoulders and try to sound as convincing as you can. “Didn’t I tell you about Colm?”

They look at each other, then back to you. “No…”

“Well…Colm is into…role play.” You don’t know how you’re able to come up with this, given that you are a virgin, but it is clear that you aren’t ignorant. Karen has probably made sure of that.

The girls grin at you and nod. “Oh…”

“Yes, so you will need to run back to town and get some hats and gun belts. He likes to be chased by a lady bounty hunter.”

“But what about you?”

You wave off the notion. “I will keep these boys entertained. You saw how I can handle it.”

One of the women nods, clearly inspired by your daring plan. "Alright, Blanche, we'll be quick," she asserts with a newfound sparkle of adventure in her eyes. They turn, skirts rustling as they dash back towards the town, leaving you alone to return to the men.

As you step back out of the bushes and into the clearing, the chatter resumes, louder and more excited as they see you return.

The young O’Driscoll, cheeks turning red with drunkenness, clearly notices that the other girls aren’t with you. “Hey! Where did they go?”

You flash a sly grin, shrugging nonchalantly as you address the gathering crowd. "Oh, those girls? They've gone to fetch something special... a surprise to spice up the night." Your tone is teasing, suggesting all manner of possibilities as their imaginations begin to turn.

Confusion and anticipation mingle in the gathering and they eye you as you walk among them. “In the meantime…” You begin. “I need somethin’ to drink…” And you point to the young O’Driscoll. “And someone to warm up…”

The other O’Driscolls start whooping and hollering, encouraging the young O’Driscoll to go to you. “You’re about to get your first real taste of a wild night,” one of them hollers as the young man, cheeks flushing with a mix of nervousness and excitement, steps forward.

You take his hand, feeling the calluses that are beginning to form, such a young pup joining the soon-to-be harsh life, and you lead him towards the old cabin not too far off. The men’s eyes follow you both, and you walk with a confident sway as you hear the excited breath of the man tailing you.

You reach the cabin and walk in first, pulling him in quickly behind you.

Your heart beats rapidly. You aren’t really going to let this man sleep with you, but it is making you nervous still. You aren’t sure why, but something feels strange about it, like you almost know what to expect, like you know it should be better than what this boy is offering.

And before you can have a chance to think more about it, the young man is removing his gun belt, hands trembling.

You just stand there, faking a smile. “Well, aren’t we eager…?”

“This is my first time…” he says, his voice shaking.

You tilt your head, assessing him with a gaze that's at once both gentle and calculating. "First time?" you echo softly, your voice carrying an undercurrent of something unspoken, maybe even a little melancholic. "Well, let me tell you something, lad," you continue, moving closer as his eyes follow you. “It’s mine, too.” And before he has a moment to react, you take the gun from his belt, hold it by the barrel and hit the side of his head with the grip. With a dull thud, he is rendered unconscious and falls to the floor.

You stand over him for a moment, feeling the rush of adrenaline slow down, replaced by a sinking feeling of necessity. You're no stranger to violence, yet each time it becomes like second nature, awakening the instincts that you so desperately seek every day.

Quickly, you tie his hands and feet with some rope that you found, letting your thoughts wander to how and why it was there in the first place. You drag his body to the window facing away from the view of the other men, and seeing it is broken, you carefully lift the boy and shove him out the window.

You wipe your hands and looking about the cabin, you see the young O’Driscoll’s gun on the floor. You walk over, bend down to pick it up, and going over to a table, you set it down quickly.

You assess the room around you, and your eyes are drawn to the fireplace. Up on the mantle, hangs a dusty double-barreled shotgun.

And your heart skips a beat. You hurry over to it and stand on your tiptoes to reach it. As soon as it rests in your hands, you feel your head buzzing with a burning warmth.

You go to the table and unload the bullets from the shotgun. You search the cabin, and looking underneath the table at the center of the room, your heart flutters with excitement.

Moonshine.

Your head starts to ache, but you grin. Here it comes.

And as the memory floods your mind, you mirror the actions of your vision. Moonshine in hand, you return to the table and eye the bullets. Carefully using your long fingernails, you pop off the bullet caps. You then pour the moonshine inside the bullets and lightly secure them, making sure that no liquid escapes.

You did it. You made incendiary buckshot.

Now it is time to destroy the cabin.

You find several bottles of whiskey and Kentucky bourbon and using the sheet on the old, dingy bed, you tear out several pieces. Opening the bottles, you stuff them with the shredded cloth, leaving some hanging out of the mouth. You see matches on the table and take them in your hands. With the shotgun over your shoulder and the bottles in your arms, you quickly step out.

You take a look to your left and see the men aren’t looking at you, yet. You still have a few seconds before the jig is up. You strike a match, lighting the first bottle, and you throw it into the opening of the cabin.

As the bottle shatters against the cabin wall, flames lick up the aged wood, climbing hungrily towards the roof. You don't wait to watch the fire spread; you're already moving to your next target, adrenaline surging through your veins. Your steps are quick and precise, a dance of necessity and survival you've learned over the last two decades.

“Alright, boys!” you shout, pulling your sawed-off from underneath your skirt. “Who’s ready to be entertained…?!” And you make a single shot in the air. 

That is your signal, and just as you have made the call, shots echo from the other side of the hideout, with John and Bill shouting their battle taunts as they follow.

The men shout, clearly taken by surprise as they see the harlot-turned-hellion, defying the roles they've cast for you in their narrow minds. Gunsmoke fills the air, mingling with the acrid sting of burning whiskey and wood. Your fingers wrap tightly around the seasoned stock of the shotgun, its familiarity a comforting weight as you level it at the nearest outlaw.

You see the sparks and fire as the incendiary bullets rip from the gun’s barrel, creating a tunneled inferno as it hits its target. The O’Driscoll immediately catches on fire and he turns around, screaming as he falls into the dirt.

“You thought you could hide from us?!” Bill taunts. “You're not hidden no more!”

As the chaos unfolds, your mind begins to ache as it races back to the days when the circus tent would erupt into frantic excitement, but this—this is a different kind of performance. Your heart pounds against your ribcage like a drum, syncopated with the gunfire and shouts. You move fluidly, dancing around men who fall near your feet, each one more surprised than the last at the ferocity housed in your slight frame. The earth beneath you vibrates with the staccato of footfalls and gunfire, melding into a symphony of survival and revenge.

Your eyes fall onto John, as he uses the bunt of his gun to crack an O’Driscoll’s nose. “You’re makin’ this too easy…!” he roars, a harsh sound that cuts through the chaos like a knife. He's relishing this, the fight, the challenge—it’s what he lives for. But your thoughts stray, always one step ahead, always on survival.

Suddenly, a memory flashes in your mind—Arthur's face, his eyes brimming with excitement as he looks behind him to shoot at someone pursuing you.

“You’re too slow…!” he taunts and he steals a glance at you.

You laugh, hands holding tightly on the reins as you ride Odliv, your feet bare and a shot gun over your shoulder. “You think we made him mad?”

Arthur chortles, ducking just in time for a bullet to fly over his head. “Wouldn’t be the first time, Kit!”

“Next time we need money, I’ll pick the job.”

“And have you rob me of watchin’ you hypnotize the rich?” His eyes gleam, and you can still see his smile from underneath the bandana that covers his mouth. “Never.”

As your mind lingers on that fleeting memory, a sharp pain ripples through your skull, pulling you back to the grim reality at hand. The harsh reverberations of the ongoing battle snap you out of your reverie. You shake your head slightly, trying to dispel the fog of nostalgia and focus on the enemies who are clearly still trying to fight back.

“Kit…!” you hear John shout and you look up to see him take a shot at an O’Driscoll who had his gun aimed at you. “You better focus!”

You nod sharply, feeling the weight of choices - from circus rings to shootouts – settling upon your shoulders. John's right, this is no time for memories, however desperate you want them. You tighten your grip on your weapon, readying yourself as another wave of O'Driscolls charges forward.

And you take them on like an outlaw.

Thank you for reading!

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[reddeadreference]

Horseshoe Overlook: Who Is Not Without Sin

Full Transcript below ([...] placed where a gap of silence is  for the same person speaking or when there’s a long period of silence  and distance traveled.)  

Arthur: Swanson, you in here? [...] Reverend, where are you? [...] you here, Reverend?

Stranger: Come on…

[Arthur enters the building where Swanson and two men are playing poker]

Swanson: Mr. Morgan. I took your advice, sir, I took your advice.

Arthur: Then your god has finally deserted you. What you talking about?

Swanson: I took your advice, sir. I have removed myself from morpheus’ embrace. No more shall I sink, sir. I am free, I am free!

Arthur: You don’t seem free, friend. You seem drunk.

Stranger: Sit down, Reverend. We ain’t finished.

Arthur: You ain’t finished? Look at him, he’s finished.

Stranger: None of us forced liquor down his throat, friend. I-I just want him to play.

Arthur: Now firstly, we ain’t friends. Don’t make no mistake on that subject. Now secondly, he can’t hardly see, let alone reason. Now reasoning ain’t never been one of my strong points neither but seeing I do just fine. You wanna step outside, or deal with business here?

Stranger: I just want him to finish the game.

Swanson: Why can’t we all just get along? These are good men, Arthur. They’re children of God… they are children of God

[Swanson collapses]

Stranger: Oh… well. How’s about you play in his place, huh? That seems fair.

Arthur: Fair?

Stranger: Sure. You wanna game?

=Play=

Arthur: Sure, I’ll play a few hands.

Stranger: Well, sit yourself down then. [Arthur sits] I’m Luther, this is Marvin.

Marvin: Fortunate for you both we’re being gentlemen about this.

Arthur: Same goes for you.

Luther: So… how you two know each other anyway? Don’t seem like the likeliest of friends, if you don’t mind me saying.

Arthur: We go a long way back. 

Luther: And now you’re his chaperone?

Arthur: I guess it’s something like that… can we play?

Marvin: He can’t be no real clergyman, he committed about five cardinal sins just in that chair you’re sitting in.

Arthur: I think he used to be. He’s… drifted a little in recent years. Life is a challenge… to all of us.

Luther: Call.

Marvin: Can you imagine him at the pulpit? If he could stand up (in a drunken voice) “On the fourth day, he turned water into whiskey and I don’t remember much after that”.

Arthur: Just a little wager… He’s a decent feller going through a bad time. Disrespect him again, and you’ll find yourself in a bad time too.

Marvin:  Alright, alright… just trying to have a little fun here. It is a game after all, mister.

[They continue and Arthur wins the pot.]

Arthur: Gentlemen, this is getting too rich for me.

Luther: Sit down.

Arthur: Oh, I’m done, friend. It’s been a real education. Come on, Rev- (he doesn’t see Swanson) Where is he? Where’d he go?

Luther: Who?

Arthur: The reverend, where is… (he lets out a frustrated sigh as he heads to leave) Excuse me, gentlemen.

=Don’t Play=

Arthur: I can’t partners. I don’t mean to spoil your fun. I got things to do.

Stranger: You sure?

Arthur: Quite sure. I gotta get him outta here. C’mon, Reverend. Let’s get you… (he goes to kick where Swanson had been laying and looks down when his foot hits nothing.) home. (he sees that Swanson isn’t there.) Where’d he go?

Stranger: I don’t know. I was talking to you.

Arthur: (he lets out a frustrated sigh as he heads to leave) Gentlemen…

|

Arthur: Reverend! Reverend Swanson! Where’d you go?

=Question=

Arthur: ‘Scuse me, I’m sorry… y-you see a drunken idiot, a priest, wandering about?

Civilian: Sure, we saw him… smelt him… and avoided him. He went that way I think.

Arthur: Thanks…

Civilian: Guy looked kinda crazy, mister.

Arthur: Oh you have no idea.

=Demand=

Arthur: Hey, you… have you seen a priest?

Civilian: What’s your problem?

Arthur: Have you seen a priest, all… drunk and crazy?

Civilian: Leave me alone.

Arthur: Don’t make me shoot you.

Civilian: Shoot me? Why would you shoot me?

Arthur: Have you seen a priest?

Civilian: Yes, he went that way… angry jackass…

|

Arthur: Reverend! [...] Hey,, Reverend! [...] Reverend!

Swanson: Mr. Morgan! A hand here, please!

Stranger 3: What the hell did you just say to me?

Arthur: Hey! Get your hands off him!

Swanson: I didn’t say a word.

Stranger 3: You’ll keep! (to Arthur) You stay out of it!

Arthur: Get your hands off him now, you son of a bitch.

Stranger 3: I’ll kill you both. [...] Pair of damn fools.

[Arthur knocks the man out]

Witness: Oh, my God. You killed him. I’m gonna get the law on you.

[The man runs away and Arthur gives chase, cue sheep noises as Arthur runs through them]

Arthur: Hey, you! Get back here. You better stop right there.

Witness: Stay away from me!

Arthur: Stop, you son of a bitch! [...] Stop, or I’ll kill you. I swear. [...] I said stop, dammit.

Witness: Okay, okay… please don’t hurt me.

=Beat + Rob=

[Arthur pushes the man to the ground]

Arthur: (unsubtitled) You hear me now?

Witness: Yep! I… I won’t tell a soul, I promise.

Arthur: (unsubtitled) I presume that means yes. [Rob] On second thoughts, you can give me all your money too.

Witness: (unsubtitled) Okay, here, just take it. Just-just please let me go.

[Arthur punches and knocks out the man]

Arthur: (unsubtitled) What is wrong with you? (Seeing Swanson up on the tracks) Reverend! Get off the damn tracks!

=Threaten=

Arthur: I said stop, dammit.

Witness: Okay, okay… please don’t hurt me.

Arthur: You tell anyone what you saw back there, you’re a dead man. You understand me?

Witness: Yep! I… I won’t tell a soul, I promise.

Arthur: Good, get the hell outta here.

Witness: (unsubtitled)  S’last thing I need.

[Arthur heads up the hill and spots Swanson walking along the tracks.]

Arthur: Reverend! Get off the damn tracks! [Call out] What are you doing? [Call out] Reverend! 

[Arthur, having made it up the hill, runs down the tracks to where Swanson has gotten his leg stuck. In the distance he can see the train coming.]

Arthur: Come on, my friend… It’s just a simple mistake… You can… still be… s-saved. [...] What have you done with your foot?

Swanson: It appears to like this place and wants to stay.

Arthur: Get your foot outta here, twist your leg, you drunken bastard! [He pulls Swanson free and pushes him to the side] Got it, come on!

[The train rushes past. Arthur helps Swanson off the tracks.]

Swanson: Thank you, sir.

Arthur: Ah-ah-ah, oh no you don’t!

[Arthur pushes Swanson who falls to the ground.]

Arthur: What the hell is wrong with you?

Swanson: What the hell is wrong with you? Throwing me off a bridge like that.

Arthur: There was a goddamn train you crazy bastard!

Swanson: Have I been bad again, Mr. Morgan? I’m sorry. [...] I wish I was different.

[Swanson cries and Arthur awkwardly pats him on the back]

Arthur: Let’s get you home.

Swanson: Home… Yeah, that’s a wonderful idea. I could have tea with Margaret.

Arthur: Margaret? Who’s Margaret?

Swanson: My…

[He falls backwards. Arthur sighs then puts him on his horse]

Swanson: (slurring) Where am I? [...] Kippers, please..

Arthur: What are you mumbling about now?

Swanson: Tea, please. [...] One for the road? [...] Close the drapes…

[Arthur carries Swanson through camp]

Molly: I was wondering when he’d show up.

[Arthur drops Swanson off in a tent]

Arthur: You better sleep your way to salvation, my friend.

Susan: Oh, what happened?

Arthur: Just… the usual.

Susan: Poor bastard.

Arthur: Exactly

Susan: Well, thank you, Mr. Morgan. I’ll keep an eye on him.

[peacockeryabound]

The Last Honest Men - Part 1 (Reupload)

(From the Story of the same name on my Archive- Reuploaded to include all segments of Chapter 1.)

Synopsis:

"Have a little faith", that's what he always said. He, of all people, shouldn't have to worry about doubting himself. On the cusp of a new chapter in his life, cracking slowly under the pressures of his cause, Dutch Van der Linde begins to question whether his heart is in the right place, and with the right people.

(Pairings: Dutch/Grimshaw, Dutch/Molly, Dutch/Hosea)

-

There was something liberating, about standing at the cliff end of the camp to look out at the unspoiled frontier beyond. Horseshoe Overlook...it was still cold as sin and the camp assembly had staggered due to fatigue and hunger but what was important was they were out of Colter. This was the true spring lands, their little patch of haven in the spry woods. There was fresh wood, abundant game, berries and herbs...they had made it.

Not for long, not without sacrifice, but they made it. In celebration, Dutch perched upon the finest fallen log he could find and took to wafting a cigar while he enjoyed the beauty that the Heartlands offered. He could hear the girls behind him, fussing about with organizing, of Uncle sassing back over some unclean retort about his appearance. Pearson was preparing a stew that actually smelled halfway decent. It brought a smile to his face.

But only for a moment.

Prideful as he was, satisfied as he was, it was not easy to savor the entirety of the morning when Arthur was instigating a rundown behind him with Hosea over the losses they had sustained. They had to bury Davey up there in the mountains, forever alone in a land he had no choice to die in. Jenny had to go even higher, up near a frozen river with just two bits of wood to resemble her cross, miles away from any beaten road. Alone. At least Davey got to rest in Colter when they left.

The reverend gave him hell on that one, and that was a sermon coming from a man who couldn't say a straight sentence on a good day. It was pitiful, Dutch now remembered. Sean was still missing. Mac too, probably dead as well. Hosea nearly froze himself to death beside him on the wagon train. Little Jack, trembling against his mama in some broke down cabin in a godless blizzard...

He leaned forward, as if those few inches were enough to get out of earshot. Hand firmly cupping a knee, he indulged in his smoke again and licked the plumes rolling down his tongue.

Blackwater was a hot mess. It was the whole damn reason they were all here right now, running further into east territory when he had been scolded too many times by Hosea and Grimshaw about his original hard sell on settling west...southwest. Southern California?...all minute details in the big plan, unimportant right now. That he nodded too and exhaled through his nose, right down into the belly to savor the musk of the forest, all the pine and wood smoke that made his knees weak.

Losses had to happen sometimes. He had his time to mourn, but through sacrifice came victory, and they made it. He pushed himself back onto his feet and tightened his back, windmilling his arms to crack his shoulders into a pose that meant business.

"Friends," He started with open arms, "It's a fine morning." He took some steps closer to the two men, who each gave him tired expressions. "The birds are singing. The dew is fresh. It's a beautiful day in Eden, and we are its children." He slung arms around both of them, but only Arthur managed some semblance of a smile. Kid knew his place well; he had that faith in him. That could make any man feel like a powerhouse. Hosea...

There was one hell of a cold squint coming his way.

"You can talk of the Good Book with Swanson in a ditch. We are farther east now than the plan intended." The old man pulled out of the embrace. His nose curled to match Dutch's. "Arthur has the damn right to talk about Blackwater as it was what got us all into this mess."

Dutch stared for a moment until he gave a snort and drew Arthur in closer. He was mindful of the cigar as he gave the young buck a good smack on the back for his presence. 

"And we can talk about Blackwater, later. Let's not spoil the good fortunes we find ourselves in this morning, eh Mr. Matthews? Mr. Morgan?" 

There was something always charming, about the reception of Arthur's clueless stare and that exasperated sneer from Hosea that just made him want to grin. They both side glanced to each other, shared a sigh and both backed off to resume whatever duties had possessed them. He waited with a hand in his pocket and his cigar to his lips, smiling behind the smoke when the old man only took a few more steps before tensing his shoulders and pivoting back around.

Hosea pointed at him. 

"You and me, tonight. We're going to have a talk."

Dutch raised his cigar and gave a proper head bow. 

"Of course, old friend. Until then, go and take a walk under the warm sun. It'll do your legs some good."

Hosea made a dismissive gesture at him and stomped off, leaving him with his thumbs hitched into his belt loops while he surveyed the camp. It was coming together very nicely, not bad for a bunch of heathens on the run. With the majority of the tents set up, everyone was finding their own place amongst the chores. Jack was watching Javier tune his guitar. Strauss fussed over the log books under his tent. Susan barked orders for the girls to wipe down the tables while she smacked Bill upside the head in passing for nodding off against some crates.

A glance to his side took his focus back to his tent, where she stood there waiting for him. Dutch smoothed back his hair as he began to saunter close, performing a more appropriate bow when he was able to smell her perfume. 

"Mornin', Miss O'Shea." He mumbled into the back of her offered hand.

-----

Yes, even a man such as himself could have doubts, but he would have been a poor and sorry fool if he had turned back on his own beliefs for a second. Times had been tough and supplies were almost bone dry for the next few days, but the Van der Linde gang was nothing if not tenacious. A few of his boys were already out scouting towns and stalking targets, and blessed be the angels who stayed behind to ensure the camp was comfortable. 

He looked over his coffee cup, eyes following the shambling Uncle who stumbled by while digging for gold down his pants.

Alright...most of them. 

Dutch took a swig as if it were a shot and perked from a heavy grunting that sounded off behind his tent. He recognized that unrepentant growl anywhere.

"Arthur! What in God's name-"

"Yeh, well..." the outlaw shifted to keep the drunk man over his shoulder. "God don't want him today."

They both shared a chuckle and he watched the good reverend be carried off and daintily dumped onto his bedroll like a bag of sand. Arthur was dusting his hands as he sauntered back, waving off Dutch while he was given an appreciative clap on the bicep.

"Much appreciated, for going out and checking on him, Arthur." Dutch smiled through a nod. 

"Sure. Father Swanson told me all about his declarations of giving up the hard stuff." Arthur mused as he reached into one of his pockets. He deposited a stack of bills into Dutch's hand, returning the pat while taking pride in the stunned expression on the big man's face. "That came from his little confession at the poker table."

Dutch guffawed as he counted every dollar, glancing up as he watched his number one sauntering off with a whistle to his tune and a pep to his step. Arthur didn't seem any worse for wear after carrying an entire drunk over one shoulder, which would explain the energy behind his hat tip during his walk past both Hosea and the large rifle the man was cleaning.

Now, that was an interesting sight...

Dutch took a long drink while blindly dumping the bills into the collection box, observing the old blonde stand and mumble something to Arthur when they reunited. They both inspected the gun and Arthur made a jab about shooting elephants, earning himself a warm smile that wasn't too common these days. They walked off together, guns in hand and satchels slung around their shoulders, fat with supplies for some grand adventure.

He'd have to ask, what the big occasion was. In due time...

Dutch smiled at Mary-Beth when she sauntered past on her way to the cooking pot. She caught his eye and brought her book up to hide her face and the shy grin he swore he caught.

She ended up being on his mind for a good portion of the day, enough to distract from both the suspicious glances from Molly and thoughts of Hosea. It was only when Dutch sat down in his tent to draw up a pencil and his notebook that he truly knit his brows, licked his lips and really reconsidered his priorities. 

As he scratched down unrelated notes, he thought back to their time in Colter. Blackwater was enough of a stress riding on his ass but the bigger priority of sheltering and feeding their family had allowed him to stuff down the guilt of it for a time. He remembered the half frozen lethargy of the women, of Micah cussing up a storm over the living conditions, of Pearson trying to take a cleaver through what frozen game Arthur and Charles hauled back. He remembered the skin of his own cheeks feeling like it was going to chip away from the biting cold as he led a few of his boys up the hillside to eliminate the nearby O'Driscoll competition.

Dutch realized he had been scribbling a growing circle around a freckle in the paper. He sighed, dropped the pencil into the center of the splayed pages and leaned back to stare up at the roof of his tent. He couldn't get Blackwater off his mind.

No, he was not going to spook the gang by admitting to the horror show in the presence of those who had not witnessed it. It was not right, to bring the ghosts of that botched job back into the minds of the survivors who had outrun the bullets with him. He closed his eyes. Try as he could, he couldn't shake the image of Hosea, shaking like a shitting dog in front of a pitiful fire in Colter.

He had overheard Arthur mumbling to Javier one night over a campfire dinner, that he had been concerned over that harsh weather which was going to do the old man in. Everyone had suffered during the storm in Colter, but Hosea's poor health had dipped into a terrifying low that had left him sluggish and slow on the up draw. It had gotten to one point where it was uncertain to distinguish the rattle of his coughs and the shivering from the cold. 

Colter was the result of those Pinkerton dogs back in Blackwater...but it was also because of his own poor shots. That dead girl's face was going to haunt his mind for years to come.

"Dutch?" Molly's voice caused him to jolt. She was peeking through from a lifted flap, her expression suggesting she had been talking for a few seconds without him noticing. "Did you hear me?"

"Molly...Molly." He greeted back with a distant smile. "My sweet garnet from the Isles...c'mere, darlin'."

Her approach was slow, hesitant. This hadn't been the first time they got into it over his headspace lately, though she bit her tongue and sighed through her nostrils. Instead, the ornery thing folded her hands and cocked her head with all the presence of a scolding mother.

"You told me that you were going to take me to Valentine. For the picture show."

Dutch blinked. He might have been staring longer than he thought, as her nose was scrunching her face more and more into a tight glare. In the face of impending chaos, he did the sensible thing and closed his book. It strained a bit between his hands due to the pencil still trapped inside, but if bulging at the seams under pressure wasn't a metaphor that Hosea always lectured...

He grinned.

"The picture show! Yes, of course, Miss O'Shea I did promise you that." He stood up and looped an arm around her waist. The haphazard crash of the book behind him made the corner of his lip twitch. "This was...tonight, wasn't it- OW! Damn you, woman!"

Molly smacked him again, hard across his chest. 

"Well, if it was next Tuesday, I wouldn't be harping on you now, would I?"

She huffed at him and gave his mustache a light tug, her expression fighting to remain bitter. The longer they looked at one another, his hand upon her own cupping his cheek, all that came out of her was a small sniffle.

"Darlin'..." His voice was soft as he moved, chest to chest with his free hand settled on her hip. "You know I would give you the world. Do you doubt me on that?"

Molly looked uncomfortable. "Dutch..."

"Mo-lly..." He was kissing along her knuckles.

"No, I don't doubt you, Dutch..." her voice became hushed at the end. She made a defeated gesture with her hands before she crossed her arms and looked elsewhere. "Even if you make me want to." 

He watched her push by to take a seat on their shared cot. It had felt a bit cold these last two nights, despite the body heat shared between them. Something twinged inside of his gut during his approach, himself bracing for the tutting on the last time they had even made love during all of this mess. After he had taken a seat next to her, Dutch offered his palm to her back, noting her refusal to lean back against the sway of his stroking.

"I promised you a picture show." He repeated. She nodded. "I...got a little carried away, it seems."

If that wasn't a bullseye of an answer. Every member of this damned stubborn gang reveled in hammering that point in every day. Dutch Van der Linde, the dreamer, the fool (and all its variations), the huckster, the murderer. 

That last one struck deep, as was the dirty price of freedom. That McCourt girl's face was back in his mind, overlayed on Molly's face. Young, big doe eyes, lips parted in dawning horror from the crazed look of a madman pointing at her...a small coo was made and he blinked. It was so simple a sound and yet it unlocked a memory he had desperately tried to keep smothered down inside of him; Annabelle's voice. She made sounds just like that, right when he would tuck a curl behind her ear or draw pleasure out of her from his mustache kissing her neck...he flinched from her hand suddenly stroking his jaw, wiping something wet that had settled down his cheek.

"Such a softie." The voice gave a small hum and her lips were pressing against his.

--------

"I heard that Arthur ran into his old girl back in town." Abigail mused while stirring her breakfast.

"Did he now." Dutch deadpanned. He had his bowl before his knees, elbows pressed on top as he leaned into the smoke of the morning fire.  Normally, he would give a rat's ass about the daily affairs around camp. Rather, he had given that drawling idiot very precise instructions to go and fetch Micah from whatever disaster he had crawled into, out in some pokey little outpost called Strawberry. Needless to say, hearing about Arthur instead pulling a Romeo out in bum-fuck-nowhere put a bit of a sour taste in his mouth.

"Bad seasoning?" Pearson caught him rolling his tongue over his teeth to spit out some gristle. "I told Javier to get the good stuff in town, but I think he ran out on me to the saloon instead." The camp cook chuckled and continued chopping carrots.

Abigail glanced between the men, feeling a bit caught between the attitudes. Dutch could tell that she wanted to laugh over his puckering look but its persistence hushed her. She instead shoved her next spoonful deep into her mouth and chewed on it to keep quiet. 

The next voice he heard made the hairs behind his collar prickle.

"And what's this about Mary?"

"It's nothing, Hosea. Don't you start fretting over him." Dutch warned him.

He knew he was about to get an earful when he heard that wheezy windup from the blonde. Dutch shoveled down a mouthful of his slop and blinked away the pain from the heat. It didn't distract him as he had hoped.

Hosea Matthews, his Old Girl...and with the shrewdness of one too. Only a true conman would just sit down without a care to another's frets and dig right into them. Dutch glowered at the man suddenly almost elbow-to-elbow with him, making a point to clear his throat as Hosea adjusted his hat and squinted up at the morning sky, watching where the smoke trail was billowing to.

"Yes, well, he sure as hell fretted over me many times. It must be like we're a family here." Hosea side glanced him, smiling. "He isn't a boy anymore, Dutch. We of all people should know what it is like to wander back into old arms."

Abigail was giving them a funny look, and he did neither of them any honors from the vehement snort he took. Damn them all, giving him looks and those shitty little side looks...it took everything he had to not just toss his bowl into the flames right there, but he couldn't stop the light bounce to his foot. A few "Mm." sounds came out of him, which were better to process with his eyes closed. Mm-mm-mmm....A nod here, a few shakes there and he was exhaling with a fixed smile.

"That we do, my friend." He stressed the last two syllables. "And that we do, to mourn the loss of great women that raised us up into honest men."

He maintained his stare with Hosea, who also was resting in the same position as him. The little shit glanced over him to hand wave Abigail, giving an apologetic smile when she took her cue to leave. Once they were alone at the fire, side by side, did Hosea's expression settle back into that so-tight squint it almost looked like his eyes were mere slits.

"What's eating you now?" He asked. "You've been chasing everyone off all morning with that rotten look of yours."

Dutch slapped a knee and leaned back, groaning up at the sky.

"Not you too. I already got a good cussin' from Molly."

"Trouble in paradise, huh."

Dutch glared at him. 

"You would know, you incessant bastard."

Hosea maintained his agitating calmness. His smile was far too pleasant for the tone of the matter. He too sat up and fussed with his scarf, which had collected some wayward bits of ash.

"Yes, well, twenty-odd years of being your work wife certainly does that to one's intuition." He looked over his longtime partner and gave him a shoulder bump to help lighten the mood. "The best I can do, of course." 

Dutch had to smile at that. He knew Hosea could never hold back his tender nature for long. 

He clapped a hand on the man's back and gave it a rub, though it only took him a moment to feel haunted by how similar this gesture was compared to last night with Molly. The affectionate press against his palm made for a nauseating tingle to crawl up his arm and deep beyond his shoulder. Dutch glanced around them, but everyone else was content to their own morning routines.

"You do it well, I know." He conceded, head down. He dumped his stew into the fire and tossed the plate and spoon into the dirt. Pearson barked something at him from a distance, but all that mattered now was listening to the tranquil hum of his better half. "You're right, I...am just having a morning."

"You riled up more over Arthur, or Micah?" Hosea frowned. He was warming his hands, fingers almost getting licked by stray lines of smoke. "If it's the former then I wouldn't worry. He'll turn up sooner or later."

Dutch squeezed at his knees, thinking for a moment.

"And...Micah?"

It was Hosea's turn to twist his face into a sneer. He nudged a stray ember back into the fire with the toe of his boot.

"If I can project onto Arthur, I'd say he's dragging his feet in fetching that bullheaded buffoon for you."

Hosea was not a lying man, which was amusing in reflection of his trade. Dutch wanted to snort at the spiciness of that answer but to know there were multiple folk in his gang that were not fans of Mr. Bell prodded something twitchy inside of him. He leaned in to get a good look at that cracked old muzzle.

"Is there a problem with Micah, Mr. Matthews?"

Hosea was quiet for a moment, staring at the fire. His nose gave a sharp exhale as he wiped a palm down his face in a tired, exasperated tell. 

"I have faith in you, Dutch." He hissed. "I would have walked away by now if I hadn't. I just fear he will get us into hotter water with that temper of his." His voice dipped into that emotional little rasp that always hurt them both to hear. It was enough to even crumble Dutch's resolve a bit, as they both wore the same concerned expressions for each other.

Twenty-odd years, Dutch repeated in his mind. Twenty-plus long, happy, agonizing years with this fussy old mare who matched him in every duel he could ever instigate. Wits, bullets, some stray hands in questionable places...their bond was their own, tested and fortified by fights like this, by tough choices they had to swallow down. Memories of Colter returned to him, those frigid old ghosts who coughed and shivered, struggling to not crack under the weight of his own pressures...

"Dutch."

He blinked. Hosea was giving him a funny look.

"Maybe you should worry more about your sleep, Dutch...or lack thereof."

--------

Micah was back, much to everyone's bitching. Rather, it was the news, of which Arthur kept his answers curt as he slapped a few more dollars into the collection box. The tired bastard looked more trouble than it was worth to prod, covered in dust, scrapes and a few questionable splattering along his face and jacket. Reluctant as Dutch was to ask just what in God's name happened in Strawberry, he was left to ponder while huffing and puffing away from the rumor mill around the stew pot. 

He took to one of his favorite rocks over by the camp ledge, American Inferno in hand and a heavy exhale to calm his nerves. Micah would be back soon, bless him. A visionary, a no-bars-held sorta fella, so willing and eager to get down and dirty for the sake of progress. The only scrap of information Dutch could glean about Mr. Bell's whereabouts came from an offhand grumble from Arthur that the convict was out scrounging around for a sort of peace offering. 

Now, that was loyalty.

Feeling a bit more satisfied, Dutch opened his book and thumbed to where he had left off. He read a few pages, half focused, as he was also listening to the reverend sounding sober enough to give his daily sermon:

"Yes, as it was said in the writings of good James, he said this- my brethren! If any among you strays from the truth! And one turns him back, let him know. That he who turns a sinner. A sinner! From the error of his way will save his soul from death! And, and, my good friends...will cover a multitude of sins..."

Dutch paused at his current passage. It warmed him to hear Swanson's voice, so full of life again. Even if it only was for the night, the man was free from his devils, free to speak with the zeal of Moses on the Mount, full of love he pleaded for his fellows. In a way, he figured they both weren't so different. He rolled his tongue in his mouth while he thought. Something about the passage just hit him in a funny way, but it was one he couldn't focus on for long.

His back hurt and his right eye had been twitching a bit these last few days. The tiff with Molly and the reminders from Hosea had kept him distant from them both. Sleep had not been a fair weather friend for years and especially not since Blackwater, or Colter...or resigning that he couldn't even go to a picture show in a little dump like Valentine. It had been a blue eyed miracle that he had been free to walk down main street with Trelawny to fetch his boys without being shot at on sight.

"Hi, Uncle Dutch." The sweet voice of Jack came up behind him.

He blinked and cleared his throat, exhaling to prepare a charming smile as he watched the boy step into view, playing with some stick he had found nearby.

"Hey, Jack." He smiled. "What's goin' on, little man?"

"Nothing." The child pouted as he tore some smaller twigs off. "I don't like the church talks."

Dutch watched him for a moment before he shifted his book to one knee and patted the other.

"Come here, son. Let's talk."

The little boy hopped onto his knee without hesitation, staring up at him with those big doe eyes full of wonder. Good kid.

He never had children of his own, but Dutch held pride in feeling that he helped raise plenty of fine men and women in this family he had built with Hosea. Jack was undoubtedly the first grandchild he could say he had, a product of their success for going so long against all the world's evils. 

"Am I in trouble?"

"No, no, nothing of the sort." Dutch smoothed out the dust collecting in the kid's hair. "Now, you tell old Uncle Dutch why you don't listen to Uncle Swanson's stories."

Jack opened his mouth but paused and closed it, instead looking back down to play with his stick. 

"I don't know what he says. They're all boring."

Dutch blinked and gave a nod. Made sense in the eyes of a four year old. But, this was nothing that a little conman magic couldn't fix. He stroked his mustache while feigning thought, chuckling a moment later.

"You know what, you're right. Even us grownups can find them a little boring." He looked down at the boy, who was now swishing his stick around like a fishing rod. "But, every story has a value, Jack, and one day when you are big and strong, I want to see you with your nose in a book and out of trouble. You understand?"

Jack looked at him funny, said nose scrunched. 

"OK...uh...why?" Clearly, the idea of reading didn't seem too cozy with him. 

Dutch mused and gave that little chin a light knuckle.

"Well, for one, you can learn a lot of things from a book." To prove his point, he picked up his own and situated it just right along his thigh to keep it balanced while he flipped through the pages. "You can...well, you can see new ideas, or you can picture a wild adventure in your head. You might even think up something new that you might want to make your own, one day." He tapped a random paragraph on a page, grinning at the gawking child. "This right here, Mr. Marston, is a whole different world."

Jack looked like he was reeling. His eyes were almost glazed over, that little putty mind working hard to shape everything that was just dumped onto him. This might have been a world of toxic order bearing down on them all, but Dutch would see to it that every child of his had the freedom to think, to challenge, to be.

"Do you understand now, Jack?" He asked, hushed.

"I...think so." Jack whimpered. He lowered his stick and looked up to the biggest man he knew. Dutch could see that obedient sense of wonder in those twinkling little eyes- that sort of look that was taken as gospel. "But...reading is so hard! I don't like it..." He played with his hands. "Mama told me no, but I wanna be a gunslinger!"

Dutch stared. His mustache twitched. Now...that was a proud thing to hear, such a vigorous claim for the cause...but he hesitated to say anything. Memories of Jenny flashed before his eyes. Such a sweet young girl, barely old enough to fill her boots, struck down before she could get the taste of his vision. Jenny...that McCourt girl...he wrenched his eyes shut for a moment to squeeze down the pain. The Adler Miss...too many young bloods, subject to so much loss, so very young...

Now he, he absolutely deserved every bullet for them in this crusade. He demanded their loyalty while knowing their fates. It was enough for him to wheeze and look elsewhere, trying to look past their faces in his mind's eyes. Jenny...

"Hey, Lenny." He croaked.

"Huh?" The young man lowered his axe.

"Stop hitting those logs and come over here."

"Uh, OK Dutch." Lenny was by his side a moment later. He smiled at Jack. "Hey."

"Hi, Uncle Lenny." Jack smiled back, though he looked more nervous than ever.

"What'd you call me over here for, Dutch?" Lenny now had his hands on his hips. As he waited, he took a deep inhale through his nose and looked up at the dandelion puffs floating in the breeze.

It was a very handsome visage. A true man, unshackled and unbothered. At home where he was happiest, but shrewd to philosophy. Agitating as the kid was for digging deep, Dutch appreciated their literary debates. He made a gesture at the young man and found his chuckle wavering a bit from the emotion that surprised him.

"Jack, this man...right here. He is strong, he is proud, he gets his way in this world because he does not listen to those fool men that are out there." His voice shook. "And he does it, right from the heart, with the help of books." He laughed in tandem with Lenny, who had raised his brows as if the old man had gone mad.

"What? I don't know about that, Dutch. The books help a lot but..." He gave pause when he saw the challenge in Dutch's stare. Maybe it was that fancy learning that made him catch on quick and change his tune. Maybe he just knew how to fight his battles, but Lenny wagged a finger while nodding, no doubt playing the same fake revelation game. "Yeah...you know what Dutch...I shouldn't doubt them. After all, they helped you too." 

He bent down, hands on knees as he too smiled at Jack. "I overheard one day that your mama and Mister Hosea Matthews himself were teaching you how to read. It's a big honor to know how, Jack, believe me. Any big man can pick up a gun but a bigger man settles his problems right here." He tapped the side of his head and stood back up. "Dutch and I talk all the time about how great books are, don't we?"

"Right you are, my friend." Dutch mused. 

His smile grew a bit bigger when Lenny stepped away to bring back a stool, took a seat and began to scratch at his chin while recalling some of his favorite childhood stories. Together they swapped old tall tales and nursery rhymes, laughing over the silliness of them while a wide eyed boy with twinkling eyes listened while clutching American Inferno close to his chest.

-----

"And what are you doing?" Grimshaw's voice made him sigh. He peeked around the neck of The Count.

"Just giving my horse some tender care, Susan. Calm your britches."

It wasn't entirely a lie. Being at camp for so long, Dutch knew his old boy was getting restless. The weather was pleasant today, the grass was fresh and dewy...and Arthur ran off to go hunting bison with Charles, which might have made him feel a bit jealous. Him, the poet, preaching of the whole country as every man's backyard...and here he was, stuck at home.

The old buzzard was staring at him with her arms crossed, always unconvinced.

"Then tell me why he has a fresh blanket and a saddle on, Dutch Van der Linde."

"For god's sakes, woman, you aren't my mother!" 

She followed him right into his plane of view, staring down right over the horse's neck.

"Well, for what we used to do, I sure as hell hope not!" She reached for the bridle and began to loosen it. "Damn fool, you're going to ride out and get yourself shot, aren't you?"

Dutch dropped his brush and grabbed the other side of the beast's gear. The Count began to roll his ears back and snort vehemently, prancing in his spot.

"You want a kick in the teeth?" Dutch snatched the reigns out of her hand and grumbled as he began to tuck them back around the hitching post. "Won't be me this time..."

He turned around in time to see her pinching her nose. When Susan looked at him again, she sighed and shook her head.

"What were you going to do, Dutch?"

It was times like this that a stare-down felt more intimidating than just reaching for the holster. Twenty-something years too...Hosea wasn't the only one that could read him like a map. This was a woman who could tear down saloons back in her day with just the spite of charmed men itching to die for her. She had been the head on his shoulder around campfires, the confidante nipping at his ear and one of the few who made him sob for God, disarmed and exposed. As much as he wanted to scowl and sass, he could see the same troubled love in her gaze that came right back to him. He sighed too and rubbed at one of his eyes.

"Just wanted to get out for a bit. Get some fresh air." 

He gestured to the poker table. As they walked together, he felt her arm looping around his. Once they took a seat, opposite of one another, did she shake her head at him, partly amused but mostly flustered.

"You've been a sour one all week, Dutch. Even Karen's been asking about you." She mused from behind threaded fingers. "Said she heard you and Molly going at it, and not in the holy way either."

The best thing to help with biting back his tongue was to grab the box of cards and pop them out. Even just shuffling was a good distraction- a good way to channel that control. Dutch Van der Linde was not falling apart. He just...had a lot on his mind. There was a plan somewhere to get them all out of this, just like...poker, he supposed. As he cut the deck and messed around with a spread on the table, he reckoned that his plans were like poker. He knew the outcomes, knew his cards, figured a little cheat here and there...

"I just got a lot on my mind, Susan." He mumbled, bouncing a Joker card between his fingers. Down it dropped, right into the ratty mess beneath it.

When he glanced up, he was relieved that she was polite enough not to stare at him like an animal. Her eyes too were cast down onto the pool of fading colors, as if there were some spiritual message waiting to be arranged. She nodded, a small breathy chuckle leaving her a moment later.

"That I can agree. Can't say it's been comfortable just waiting here for this long without action but...the people are fed and keeping the place clean." She used her elbow on the table to help pivot back, glancing around the camp behind them. Despite the creeping smoke wafting through the place at the moment, it was relatively peaceful. Jack was struggling through a reading lesson with Hosea and Lenny, Bill and John were arguing about something unimportant at Pearson's table...she watched her girls giggling over an inside joke as they walked by with buckets of water and dirty linens. It wasn't home, but it was a haven.

She turned back to look at him. 

"What is on your mind, dear?"

It wasn't often that she talked like that, not these days. Not with them on the run, not with Molly or the ghost of Annabelle. The affection in her gaze loosened his shoulders and he blinked furiously, convincing himself it was just the smoke stinging at him. Dutch cleared his throat while distracting his eyes with the cards again.

"OK, fine...it is about Molly." He grumbled. "Got up in arms because I forgot to take her to the picture show in town."

Grimshaw snorted.

"Oh, just up in arms? Still the romantic, I see." 

Dutch started, sneering as she shushed right over him.

"Listen, stop for a second." She continued, one elbow on the table now. "Get out of your head, right now. Look at her." She pointed to Miss O'Shea, who was the farthest possible distance between them, sitting at the same rock overlooking the cliff edge that he had been on just yesterday with Jack. "This life ain't proper for a girl like her. We all know she just sticks with us because of you, Mr. Van der Linde."

Grimshaw looked just a moment longer, shaking her head while turning back to knit her brows at him. 

"Taking her halfway across the world, through a blizzard and bullets and the sticky dust here and you have the mind to think her a criminal for wanting one night of decency with you?" She squinted. "I know you better than that, Dutch. It isn't your nature to be so petty, but you sure like to act it when things don't go your way."

Dutch just stared for a moment. His brain struggled to catch up to her mouthing but there was something hot in his chest and wriggly in his gut. His jaw opened, closed, ground his teeth for a moment before a small growl pried them back open in a scrunched, toothy sneer.

"And what do you know about being petty." He said, in almost a whisper.

Grimshaw narrowed her eyes at him, staring long and hard. She shook her head and reached out, grabbing that Joker card and slapping it right on his hand as she stood up and walked away.

"You'll be the death of us all one day, Van der Linde." 

It took a lot in his willpower to not rip the thing in half. He instead tossed it into the grass and brushed it out of his hairs as if he had been soiled. By the time he had returned to the comfort of his tent's front step, fresh cigar plucked and readied, he sighed and turned his head up to the sky. 

He watched the clouds, taking note of the shapes and what they could mean. He was reminded of his younger days, when he used to cloud watch after a big heist to calm down or when he needed to lick his wounds. It had become something of a game between himself, Hosea and Susan back then, to try and one up each other with the most ridiculous finds.

And Arthur...lord, could that kid find a cotton ball through a knitted masterpiece across the heavens. So many times, he had to point out specific shapes to the kid back then, trying to instigate some sort of creativity beyond things at face value. Good times...

He looked down at his cigar and bit through the pain of the deeper puff he took from it. 

"How ya doin?" Hosea's voice caught up to him faster than his boots. Dutch puckered his lips and parted them to waft out the smoke.

"Good, brother." He lied, as did his smile. "How are you feeling?"

After so much hush and questionable rips in his clothes, Hosea had confided in him over a game of dominoes as to what happened between him and Arthur on that big rush out of camp. To think this sensible old badger still had the ornery stupidity to charge out with all the confidence of Nimrod on the hunt for a great bear...it was admirable, but foolish. Colter nearly killed the man, who stood before him now with his sunken face and pained expression, trying to force down the cough that made everyone awkward. Hosea was giving him a small smile while he stepped up onto the planks of the grand tent, waving away the cigar smoke that was coming closer to him.

"Much better...thought those mountains were going to kill me." He admitted while surveying the camp. His chest puffed out as he looked to his friend. "Seems I'll live a while yet."

"Oh, I know." Dutch mused, but he kept his eyes to his boots. He didn't want to think it, but there was a sudden pull to not look his old partner in the face. It had been a sore topic for a while now, the idea of another loss to anticipate.

Hosea clearly recognized the tension, for he swayed in his boots for a few seconds.

"...Found a couple of things in town." He was fumbling for small talk. "Made us some money."

Dutch was staring hard at a tromped-in rock in the dirt. How nice it was, to keep hearing stories of everyone riding out into these escapades, making a mess in saloons and getting handsy with folk with no strings holding them back. Even Hosea, a bastard with one foot early into his grave, was telling him now without remorse of what swindles he had happily foxed his way into. In a way, equally hard to understand, Dutch found himself smiling. Maybe he was getting a bit jealous- stir crazy.

One foot in the grave, indeed, and still flipping the bird to the Judge. Never change, old girl.

"That you do." He mused, finally looking the blonde in the eye. The spark of light in those sweet old sights surely wasn't just the sunlight playing a trick.

"Yes, I like to think I am good at that." Hosea wheezed out a smile. It was kind and patient, just as it always had been; a sort of warm spell that spooked away the demons they both riled.

Dutch felt it again, that heavy writhing deep in the pits of his being, something indecent and rebellious that made his heart stamp like a race horse from the comfort he felt, just as he had stood there like a fool on the very first night he had been an audience to that gentle face and had reveled in that same sense of security ever since.

His eyes were stinging again.

"I..." The sound spilled out faster than he could catch it, but despite the terror of letting it slip, he didn't stop himself.

"I messed up in Blackwater." He admitted, glancing to Hosea and then to somewhere else. Damned him for just happening to chance on Grimshaw as she walked back to her tent that just happened to be in front of him. She gave a fleeting side glance and put up a faster pace to grab what she needed and leave his sights again. The knuckling he felt on his shoulder was enough to keep him focused.

"I made a...god damn fool, out of myself." 

Another nudge to his shoulder. Hosea was chuckling, something that was much nicer to bear than Susan's hissing.

"Yes, well you've done that before."

It wasn't often that Hosea could laugh like this, to be so unburdened by his own well being or that of the others. The man was a natural fusser but now, without any context to go off of besides the same thing they had bickered over consistently since Blackwater...Dutch clicked his teeth and snorted. 

"I know." 

He knew. He was a damned fool, through and through. Maybe later, he'd have a go again at Molly, maybe sweep by and jaw a bit more to Susan. Kind and saintly patient these people all were, his kin- his family. He studied his cigar and tossed it into the dirt, crushing it with the heel of his boot while shrugging off the protest. These things weren't cheap, but...

"Don't want to hurt your lungs, is all." He finally pivoted to face his partner, chest to chest like a true man would. The other looked flattered.

"I ain't fragile, Dutch. You worry too much." 

Dutch flared his nostrils and managed a grin as he returned the knuckle. A cursory look around to ensure that nobody was within earshot, he leaned a bit closer. Hosea's breath hitched.

"I want to believe that I do, old girl."

[tahitianmangoes]

Absolution

Pairing: Micah x Arthur Summary:   Micah often felt like he and Arthur were two sides of the same coin. Whether or not Artur shared that sentiment, ever since an encounter out west, inexplicably they keep finding themselves pulled back to one and other. Smut | Not canon compliant 

Chapter One -  Two Sides of the Same Coin

Chapter Two

It was hard to believe that less than a day ago, they had been in the sticky New Austin heat and now, Micah Bell was spending the night freezing his balls off in some godforsaken outhouse half way up a mountain with Bill Williamson snoring loudly beside him.

Things turn on a dime, Micah knew that better than most.

Micah doesn’t sleep. He’d been part of the Van der Linde gang for around six months and that was probably one of the few things that people really knew about him. No one cared to ask why he didn’t sleep, not that Micah would tell them anyway. He would usually sit around the campfire, sharpening his hunting knife or cleaning his revolvers. Sometimes sleep would get the better of him and he’d be woken up by the sudden jerk of his head falling forward onto his chest and that’s when he would hear it - that voice that still struck fear into him even twenty years on: Do it!” The voice screamed at him, “prove to me you ain’t the yella bellied coward you say you aint, boy!”

Just one day ago, Micah had been doing just that, sitting at the campfire in their camp outside of Blackwater. His hat was pulled low but he was listening, he usually was; he could hear John Marston and Abigail Roberts squabbling as usual, he could hear Lenny and Jenny twittering like lovebirds and Reverend Swanson’s drunken singing off in the distance somewhere.

It was Dutch and Hosea that Micah was listening to, though. They were arguing in Dutch’s tent. Dutch was playing his gramophone in a bid to muffle them but Micah didn’t have to hear them to know what it was about; Hosea didn’t think they should do the ferry job the next day. Hosea and Arthur had a lead, what it was Micah hadn’t asked but probably something akin to a theatre vaudeville performance if he knew Hosea Matthews at all. Micah wasn’t a fan of all of the conmanship - it felt underhand. Of course doing what he did, going in all guns blazing, was no better but it didn’t feel as sly - you knew where you stood with a gun being pointed at your head.

Micah was told that Dutch and Hosea used to have more of a united front, in more ways than one but it looked to Micah as if this had run its course.

To Micah, Dutch and Hosea seemed so very different; Dutch was charismatic, charming and spoke such pretty words and had big ideas. He was an optimist, believing that he could change the world and Micah believed him, so did everyone else for the most part. Hosea on the other hand was a pessimist. He sat around the camp with a dark cloud over him, picking Dutch’s plans apart and doubting him at every turn. Dutch, of course, was as patient as a saint with his partner - more than lenient with him in Micah’s opinion - but even a saint has their limits.

So Dutch had proceeded without Hosea this time, entrusting Micah with helping him with this job. It didn’t go unchecked by Micah that this was a big deal; he had been part of the gang for less than a year yet Dutch trusted him to help him with this job. He had to do his best to impress Dutch because who knew where this could lead…

Micah had never known the gang so quiet or sombre the night before a big job. Some people retired early but Micah knew they weren't sleeping, they just didn't want to talk about it. Charles disappeared for guard duty, Javier wasn’t playing guitar and Arthur lay with his hat over his face so Micah couldn't see him but he had a feeling that he was listening hard to Dutch and Hosea too.

For a few moments, Micah let his attention settle on Arthur Morgan - Dutch’s right hand man. Arthur didn't like Micah much but Micah got the impression that Arthur didn't like many people. Arthur had intrigued Micah ever since Micah had joined the gang. From what he understood, Arthur had been taken in by Dutch and Hosea when he was just a kid - it sounded like something out of a boyhood dream, to be taken care of and raised by outlaws… Whether Arthur was grateful or not, it wasn't clear; he was sullen and surly, got that moody cowboy thing down to a T. Always complaining about something or other. He was as stubborn as a mule and as dumb as a dog yet Micah was drawn to him inexplicably.

Maybe if things had worked out differently, he would have been more like Arthur. If his daddy had been a fine man like Dutch. Maybe Micah and Arthur were two sides of the same coin… Micah wondered if Arthur saw that they weren't so different, too. Regardless, Arthur avoided Micah wherever possible, especially after what had happened out at Gaptooth Ridge…

Micah let his thoughts settle back there for a while. It wasn't a particularly happy memory but one he played over and over to himself, trying to work out what it meant. Maybe it didn't matter anymore. So why did he keep thinking about it? Letting himself get lost in the gentle morning sunlight again and again when he closed his eyes, imagining Arthur lying beside him, feeling the heat coming from the younger man and remembering the look in those brilliant blue eyes...

He often wondered if Arthur thought about it too. Right now, in the small, delipidated building on the mountain, he thought of Arthur in the next building over and wondered if Arthur couldn't sleep either.

****

Sooner or later, a job's going to go wrong and boy oh boy, did the ferry job go wrong. Maybe they'd been set up because no sooner had the ferry been too far out for them to retreat, there were Pinkertons and lawmen everywhere. Everyone had been whipped into a frenzy, John Marston , Mac Callander, Davey Callander and Jenny Kirk had all gotten shot and the latter hadn't made it out alive. Charles Smith injured himself and Sean Maguire was taken captive by some bounty hunters. And then Dutch shot that girl...

It was a mess. Micah had never seen a job go so wrong so quickly, not since him and his daddy...

They'd managed to flee to camp, to pack up in record time though things were lost and misplaced along the way and Dutch told them that they were heading north. "North?" Hosea repeated looking sceptical. "North." Dutch replied firmly. "We gotta get outta here and we got get outta here fast." "What... What happened on that boat, Dutch?" Hosea asked sheepishly. Dutch turned his dark eyes to his partner and said solemnly, "nothing good."

Dutch had meant north as they headed deep into the mountains of Ambarino. Soon, a terrible storm set in. The snow swirled around them and Miah could hardly see three paces in front of him if it weren’t for his lantern. He followed the caravan blindly, his loyal Missouri Foxtrotter Baylock stepping carefully through the snow that came almost to the horse’s forearm.

He accompanied Arthur and Dutch in the hopeless pursuit for supplies once they found somewhere to settle. All they found was O'Driscolls and another mouth to feed, a woman named Sadie Adler. Exhausted and freezing, Micah curled up on the floor of the building he'd been delegated to with Bill Williamson, Lenny Summers and Charles Smith. He dozed for a short while but he heard that voice again, piercing his slumber and jerked awake to find that light was seeping in through the cracks in the rotting wood of the structure.

That next day was calmer, as if the storm before had never happened. Outside was bright, the cold sun reflecting off of the untouched snow.

Javier Escuella shivered around a small fire. He’d been outside all night on guard duty. Javier was warmer to Micah than Arthur or even Hosea. He wasn’t brooding or stoic, he could take a drink and a joke and Micah liked that about him.

He wasn’t dressed for the cold, a poncho slung over his shoulders and a denim jacket the only thing between him and the sub-zero temperature only made worse by being sent up a mountain earlier that morning with Arthur to rescue John Marston who’d gone and got himself lost in the storm.

“Are you taking me off?” Javier asked, tired eyes looking hopefully at Micah. “Dream on,” Micah replied gruffly. There was no way he was taking up guard duty out in the cold without orders from Dutch. Javier narrowed his eyebrows, looked like he might want to argue but maybe didn’t have the energy.

Micah warmed his hands briefly by the fire, not that he could feel them and if he didn’t hold them out in front of him, he could have sworn that they had fallen off in the night. Javier muttered something inaudible before disappearing towards the stables.

They had managed to find a place up on this godforsaken mountain, a place that could hold all of them - for now. It looked to have been a mining town at one point but long abandoned now, most of the buildings still stood but were derelict, some beyond repair. They wouldn’t be able to stay for long - sure Pinkertons might not be dumb enough to follow them up here but they’d most likely starve, freeze to death or both if they didn’t leave soon.

Micah never thought he’d miss their camp out of Blackwater, god knows he’d been complaining about wanting four walls and a roof over his head but he hadn’t factored in the snow...

As Micah moved away from the fire, he could hear voices coming from the next building. He recognised the familiar low rumbles of Arthur Morgan. Before Micah had time to move, Arthur and Dutch spilled outside, Hosea hovering in the doorway.

“Arthur, we’ll starve up here,” Dutch was saying. His voice had changed over the past couple of days - he sounded tired, desperate in a way but not yet defeated. “Dutch, I ain’t no hunter.” “I know, son. But we got no supplies here - Miss Grimshaw and Mr Pearson did their best but… We got a few cans from the Alder woman’s homestead and we can’t ask Charles to hunt with his hand in the state it is…” “I don’t know what I can do.” Dutch looked up and caught sight of Micah “Take Mr Belll here with you, go scouting. There’s gotta be something else up on this miserable mountain,” he said. Micah knew he was grasping at straws if he was suggesting that the pair of them went out scouting together. Arthur heaved a sigh, not needing to say anything. Dutch continued, “You’re two of the fittest men we got …I wouldn't normally ask like this. Please, son. We gotta try. People are dependin' on us.”

His voice was soft and coaxing, he usually used that voice when he wanted something from Arthur and Arthur usually fell for it. This time was no different. “Fine.” Arthur muttered in a tone that suggested that it was anything but fine.

The pair of them looked at each other; it wasn't the fact they were being asked to go scouting but the fact they were asked to go together.

****

They rode in silence for what seemed like a long, long time, Arthur just up ahead of Micah, obviously not interested in small talk.

These mountains were all but barren - they saw some deer that fled too quickly for either Micah or Arthur to pull their rifle out, heard the echoes of a distant grizzly bear washing over them periodically but nothing else.

"Maybe we should just head back now." Micah suggested after over an hour of them riding away from camp and seeing nothing but more snow. The sun would soon be going down and the last thing they needed was to be stumbling about in the dark. "Jus a little further…" Arthur muttered. Micah knew Arthur didn't want to let Dutch down - he never did.

So they carried on, climbing and following a trail so buried by snow it was barely visible. Once they reached the top of the climb, a basin came into view - a frozen lake surrounded by trees whose leaves had never cared to grow back and at the top of the frozen lake was a small cabin.

The pair urged their horses towards the cabin, a spark of hope for the first time in days. Arthur went to knock on the door only for it to swing open at his touch. The cabin consisted of one room: a small cot was pushed up against one wall, a table was in the centre of the room beside a fireplace. There were various cupboards and chairs but not much else. It looked like someone had been there once upon a time but not now. Everything looked to be covered by a thick layer of dust but there were provisions - mainly canned goods. On the table was rancid bread and cheese that was covered by mould and newspaper clippings that when Micah inspected them, saw they were from three years prior.

"Well, looks like they won't miss this stuff," Micah said more to himself than Arthur as they set about taking whatever they could. It wasn't a huge haul but it would be enough to feed them for a day or two when added to what they found in the Adler house. “This oughta keep us goin’ til we get off this goddamn mountain.”

There was a pause before Arthur shot back, “we wouldn't be stuck on this goddamn mountain if it weren't for you."

Micah turned to look at Arthur now. He was older than Arthur by around five years, they were around the same height, give or take an inch or so, both blond however Arthur’s hair was more a fawn colour and looked soft to the touch. Both had blue eyes, Micah’s icy and Arthur’s rich like the ocean. He was broader and more muscular than Micah who was perhaps thirty pounds heavier than Arthur and couldn’t boast of the same brawny frame as the younger man. Arthur was handsome, even if he couldn’t see it. Maybe Micah resented that, resented the way that his uncomplicated good looks often made things easier - women around the camp didn’t look at Arthur with the same repulsion they did Micah and maybe even Arthur’s looks meant that he was treated more favourably by Hosea and Dutch - not having to go on guard duty, always getting a tent with a cot and having any mistakes he made glossed over so easily...

Different sides of the same coin

Micah drew himself up to his full height before responding. “And how'd you come to that conclusion, cowpoke?” Micah asked, rolling his eyes at Arthur. Arthur always had something to say about him or the way he conducted himself.

“If you hadn’t egged Dutch on with all the ferry crap, we’d be well on our way to gettin’ ourselves some land. Me an’ Hosea had it covered-” “Sure looks that way,” Micah retorted with a sneer, “what was it this time? Hosea pretendin’ to be an college professor or maybe a magician? And you his pretty assistant? Or maybe you was both dressin’ up as ladies and stealin’ from a church fund?” “I have had enough of you!” Arthur snapped, “all you done since you joined us is cause problems, an’ now we lost Jenny, Davey, maybe Sean and Mac too!” “Less mouths to feed don’t sound like a problem to me, cowpoke.”

Arthur made a sound similar to a growl. Micah saw his fists ball, Arthur was the type to settle his scores with fights rather than words, maybe because words so often illuded him. Micah smirked. “Go on then cowboy, show me what you got.”

Micah saw the thought flicker through Arthur’s eyes briefly like lightning in the night’s sky and then he decided against it.

He turned, heading back to the door of the cabin muttering about going back to camp. When he flung the door open, the light had dwindled considerably quicker than either of the could have imagined and snow was coming down in thick, heavy flurries. “Shit!” Arthur hissed. “Well,” Micah sighed, heading to the door too and surveying the magnitude of the situation, “don’t look like we’re goin’ anywhere fast, sweetheart. Jus’ you an’ me now.”

****

There were logs that had been left by the previous tenant that Arthur threw into the fireplace and proceeded to light. The pair of them sat close to the fire, the night had drawn in fast and not only was it the only source of heat in the small cabin, it was also the only source of light.

Micah could see that Arthur was shivering, his arms folded flush across his chest and jaw tight. He glared into the fire. “I’m freezin’ my ass off,” He grumbled. “Well we wouldn’t want that now, would we?” Micah replied with a hint of snideness about his voice. Arthur shot him a look colder than out in the storm but Micah continued, maybe because he liked to see Arthur squirm. “You ain't cuddlin' up to me to keep warm if that’s what you want.” “I’d rather die o’ hypothermia than let you anywhere near me.” But they both knew that wasn't true.

Both knew the other was thinking about Gaptooth Ridge again now. It was all Micah had thought about since the day it had happened. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back in their tent, panting and moaning softly with Arthur’s lips on his like nothing else in the world mattered, and perhaps didn’t even exist anymore. He could hear trains rumbling in the distance and condors circling above, the warm air enveloped him just as Arthur’s smoky scent did and everything in the world was still aside from his racing heart.

“When we gonna talk about it, Morgan?” Micah asked without even thinking. He’d wanted to ask Arthur for weeks but Arthur had been avoiding him even more than usual. He felt so weak caving and asking first. He didn’t know what he wanted the answer to be; did he want this to be a thing? No. That wasn’t Micah’s style… Yet… He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Thinking about Arthur. About the way they had been together that day.

“Ain’t nothin’ to talk about.” Came Arthur’s gruff reply. Micah let out a snort of disbelieving laughter, “ain’t there?” “No. There ain’t.”

Arthur got to his feet now and walked to the back of the cabin, Micah's eyes followed him. Micah watched as Arthur leant against the wall and nonchalantly lit up a cigarette and smoked it, not looking at Micah but watching the tip of the cigarette burning down in his fingers between drags.

“Bullshit.” Micah said hotly, squaring up to Arthur. “You’re talking bullshit as usual.” “I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout it, Micah. As far as I’m concerned, it didn’t even happen. It was nothing.” A twisted smirk crept across Micah’s face. He wanted to play it the hard way, huh? “That ain’t what you was sayin’ when you had my dick in your mouth.” Arthur’s eyes flashed and his face turned stony. “You watch what you say to me.” He growled. Micah wasn’t about to back down, his body pumped with adrenaline. “What would ol’ Dutch say if he knew what you got up to? Or does he know you like to get on your knees-”

Before Micah could finish his sentence, Arthur had grabbed him by the collars and pushed Micah up against the wall with such force that his hat toppled from his head. Micah would have laughed if the wind hadn’t been knocked from him. Arthur threw his cigarette to the floor and that hand found its way to Micah’s throat. Micah’s eyes flickered, Arthur was panting, they stared at each other wordlessly. Micah still wore his lopsided smirk, as if willing Arthur to do it.

Arthur’s brows were knitted together, eyes mean and jaw clenched. He looked like he would kill Micah. Micah didn’t doubt that he could.

Before Micah knew it, Arthur had pushed his lips to Micah’s in a kiss. Micah made a sound - a groan. Oh, how he’d longed for this again, thought maybe it would never happen and that their time out at Gaptooth Ridge had been a one off, one of those crazy things that never happen again no matter how hard the yearning. Arthur kissed hungrily, one hand still pressed against Micah’s throat and Micah kissed back eagerly, tongue sliding into Arthur’s mouth and Arthur permitted it with a sigh, as if he had been longing for this too.

Micah brought his hands up, cupping Arthur’s face, the skin cold, the stubble scratching against his fingertips and Arthur shivered at his touch. Arthur removed his hand from where it rested now so Micah could breathe again and tugged Micah’s head back by his hair, exposing his neck so he could kiss it bruisingly, making Micah gasp.

He placed his hands on Arthur’s broad shoulders, fingers curling around the thick material of Arthur’s winter coat, submitting to the younger outlaw, almost paralysed in pleasure at the feeling of Arthur’s hot mouth - tongue licking and teeth grazing - sucking at the sensitive skin of his neck.

He felt Arthur wedge his thigh between his legs and his hips moved instinctively before he could stop himself. The friction was delicious, Micah was uncomfortably hard in his pants already and he let out a soft moan at the relief Arthur’s leg provided. He heard Arthur growl into the crook of his neck. They remained like that, Micah shuddering as he rutted against Arthur and Arthur biting at Micah, hard enough to leave bruises, hands groping at him through his clothes, making Micah sigh and moan.

Suddenly, Arthur ripped away from him. Micah panted, whimpering quietly- unsatisfied. His breath visible in front of him in the cold, cold cabin but the heat between them was like a furnace. Micah stared at Arthur, for once lost for words. Arthur’s expression was unreadable. Had Arthur come to his senses?

Perhaps not. Arthur’s gaze was fixed on the bulge in Micah’s pants. He was hesitant as he reached to press his hand against it but Micah didn’t stop him, of course not. He had wanted this, hadn’t he?

It didn’t go unnoticed by Micah that Arthur’s fingers seemed to tremble as he unbuttoned Micah’s pants and freed his erection. Micah turned away at this, slightly embarrassed at how hard he was. He could hear Arthur’s breaths heavy and hard before he felt the other man’s hand wrap around his cock.

Arthur held him firmly. Micah let out a sound, higher pitched than normal. He felt his cheeks burn but he didn’t have time to feel embarrassed, the feel of Arthur’s hand on him so starkly made him quake. And then Arthur’s hand moved, grip strong as he pumped Micah’s cock. “M-Morgan..!” Micah choked. Arthur's shimmering eyes met Micah's, as if asking for permission to continue. Micah didn't say anything, he leant his forehead against Arthur's shoulder and let his hips rock into Arthur's hand.

Arthur stroked him fast, making Micah's breath catch in his throat. He found himself clinging to Arthur, clawing at the other man's wide back as he tried to stop himself calling out. He felt Arthur's lips on his neck again, kissing along the exposed collarbone to his shoulder. Arthur's name tumbled from Micah's lips like the snow from the sky outside.

It took an embarrassingly short amount of time for Micah's orgasm to coil in his stomach. He found himself moving faster, rutting helplessly against Arthur as he began to shiver, knowing he couldn't hold on any longer. He tried to stifle himself as he came, burying his face in Arthur's neck, taking in Arthur's strong musky scent of gunpowder, cigarettes and whiskey.

He stayed like that for a few moments, blood pounding in his ears, eyes closed trying to compose himself. Arthur didn’t move either, they leant against each other. It was Arthur that moved away first. Part of Micah wished Arthur would stay like that just a little longer.

Micah’d gone soft now, his release was on his pants, on the floor and on Arthur’s pants, too. When he looked back up at Arthur, he could tell that the younger man wasn’t finished with him just yet. He had a dark look in his eyes that Micah wasn’t sure he had seen before. Arthur didn’t say a word, his eyes still fixed on Micah’s. It was his turn to unbutton his pants now and then, he laid his hand on Micah’s shoulder, gently but firmly pushing Micah down to his knees. Micah didn’t resist.

Arthur’s length was strainingly hard and tip slick with precum as he freed his cock from his undergarments. Micah'd seen it before, of course; part of him had known that Arthur’s cock would be generous in size and he had been right about that in both length and girth. Micah had never felt an urge quite like it, an instinct almost, to take it into his mouth and suck. Tentatively, he touched the reddened skin of Arthur’s throbbing erection, it was burning hot under his fingertips. He wet his lip before he opened his mouth and as he did, Arthur grabbed a fistful of his hair and stuffed his length down Micah’s throat without giving him a chance to adjust. Micah made a choked sound and tears instantly filled his eyes at the stretch from the sheer size of Arthur. Arthur didn’t relent. Micah knew this was punishment but part of him didn’t even care, there was something about having Arthur above him like this , powerful, doing his best to repress his moans that turned him on.

Arthur didn't talk, just fisting Micah’s hair and snapping his hips forward rhythmically so he can fuck the older outlaw’s throat. They didn't talk last time either, just their touches had been enough. Micah's gags and heavy breathing filled the room along with Arthur's low growls and soft curses. As the length hit the back of Micah’s throat, Arthur hissed and fuck, that sounds made Micah’s own cock twitch awake again. Micah felt his face redden, he could feel the drool and precome spilling from the sides of his mouth and his jaw ached. He tried to steady Arthur, putting his hands on Arthur’s strong thighs, using them as an anchor so he can bob his head back and forth on the length, sucking as best he knew how, using his tongue to pressure the underside of the shaft like the whores he’d used before had done to him… like Arthur had done to him before.

He closed his eyes now, getting used to breathing through his nose. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard, drawing back to pay attention to the tip and then taking as much of the length in its entirety at a time. He used his tongue to flick the tip, let his throat and jaw go slack so Arthur could press in further until he felt the younger man shiver.

Arthur groaned softly, when Micah looed up, Arthur's eyes were closed and his face was sheer portrait of perfection - lost in a rhapsody of bliss. Micah took hold of his throbbing cock now, needing some relief and as he did, Arthur gasped, hips stuttering, eyes open now, a flash of blue as he cursed loudly, "shit, Micah!" and spilled himself into Micah’s mouth.

Micah retched at the taste but was taken by surprise, swallowing the majority of it and coughing as Arthur pulled out. Arthur’s breathing was hard as he moved away from Micah and tucked himself back into his pants. Micah remained on his knees and wiped his mouth. He stared after Arthur who returned to the fireside, composing himself.

Arthur didn't look back at him as he spoke. “Now we’re even.” Arthur said almost emotionlessly. Micah didn’t want to admit it to himself but it hurt.

[porkchop-ao3]

A Thrill I’ve Never Known (Chapter 62)

Plans

Sorry for the delay but better late than never! This is a pretty long chapter so hopefully that makes up for it. Warning for use and mention of alcohol abuse. 

Tagging @emily-strange and @actuallyhansolo ❤

(All chapters tagged with #ATINK and also posted on Ao3, username PorkChop)

-

The night it all fell to shit was a weird one. It was like we were hanging in some kind of dysfunctional family limbo. Dutch left the tent where Micah was still fighting to stay alive against all the odds, and he glared at our little group of black sheep from across the camp. We'd grown in numbers, though, even if we weren't all sitting together in a posse, people were with us in spirit. Kieran and Mary-Beth had come over to see how Arthur was doing, and to make it very clear that they were firmly with us; they didn't trust Micah, never had and never would. They couldn't comprehend how Dutch was acting the way he was. 

Lenny showed his support not through words, but by silently stopping by and patting Arthur on the shoulder, nodding at him once. Karen was blind drunk but she yelled at Dutch's closed tent, chanting the words 'snake' and 'die' before Bill dragged her away and deposited her on her bed roll. In fact, Bill and Javier looked like they were the only ones who had outright sided with Dutch, and I wasn't sure if they actually believed that Arthur and the rest of us were traitors, or if they were just siding with him out of blind loyalty. Javier kept looking over at us, something like regret and confusion in his eyes but whatever he was feeling obviously wasn't strong enough to have him leave Dutch's side. Bill, though… Bill was just full of contempt and whatever he believed, it certainly wasn't any conclusion he'd drawn himself. 

Everyone else was just tiptoeing around, not seeming to firmly align themselves with anyone. These were the people who openly sympathised with Arthur and made it clear they didn't believe that any of us were the rat, but also joined Dutch at the table outside his tent where he was smoking a cigar – looking dark and pensive, miles away and stewing within a thick black cloud – to offer him similar words of comfort. The likes of Reverend Swanson, Pearson and Tilly. Even Miss Grimshaw, who seemed a little conflicted about the time she poured into nursing Micah, she didn't condemn either side. She just marched around with a perpetual sad frown, reeling at the way the family she'd tried so hard to keep moving crumbled around her. 

I felt terrible. But it could all have been avoided if Dutch hadn't been so twisted by Micah. If he'd just listened to the people that mattered the most, his 'sons'. But it seemed he'd picked his side. Though I did wonder what would happen if… or when Micah succumbed to his injury. 

"I think we should go," Arthur murmured to me quietly, as he pushed his stew around his plate. It was odd eating dinner at such a time, but there was still plenty of stew left in Pearson's pot and nobody wanted to let his hard work go to waste. Limbo. A weird feeling of normality caked in tension. Like when a marriage is breaking down but both parties are still trying to plod along, going through the motions. 

I looked up at him immediately from where I sat on the bed next to him. "Now?"

Arthur met my eyes. "Well, there's nothing left here," he said. I pondered his words. It was funny. For weeks and weeks I'd longed to hear him say that, to get a concrete agreement that we were to leave and get away together. But now that it was served to me on a platter, I felt so odd.

"You don't want to see if Micah pulls through?" I questioned. 

"I… I'm with Charles. I don't think he'll pull through," he breathed, looking back down at the plate.

"No, but," I began, not knowing where I was going. 

"You don't want to leave?" His question wasn't judgemental or annoyed. 

"Yes, I do. This just feels so surreal. So sudden. It almost feels like it'd be wrong to just pack up and leave after this has happened, like we should stay and try and sort it out somehow. Though I don't know how…"

"I know what you mean. But I'm worried about you, Micah pulled a gun on you. And I don't know what's in any of these fools' heads, there's no telling if someone's gonna try and do the same thing. And I don't know if I want to stick around and save anything that almost took you away from me, or condoned it."

I paused for a while, then finally nodded.

"Just eat up," he whispered, nodding back at me with a brooding look in his eye. "We'll start packing–"

His head jerked as something caught his eye. I followed his gaze and spotted Dutch getting up. My heart thumped painfully when for a moment I thought he was going to come over, but instead made a beeline for the horses, not looking anywhere but ahead. Without saying a word to anyone, he climbed up onto his Arabian and left. Just left. Everyone stared off in surprise, not really knowing what to say about it.

"Where's he going?" I breathed.

"I have no idea," he mused. 

"Should… should we go after him, try and talk?" I asked, meeting Arthur's eyes. He looked into mine for a while and I could see him thinking, coming to some sort of silent conclusion that made his expression sour before shaking his head sharply. 

"I don't think I wanna talk," he told me bluntly and I couldn't help but be shocked. 

"You don't even want to try? Not that I think you have an obligation to," I said softly and Arthur shrugged his shoulders with an attitude I'd never seen in him before then.

"I'm done. And I mean it. I had plenty of doubts about him before this, and now I just can't see a way of fixing things. He took Micah's word over mine. He treated you like the root cause of all our problems and he couldn't care less that Micah almost shot you," he ranted, getting progressively more pissed off. 

I looked away and thought very hard about what to say next. I was sorely tempted to say fuck it, and agree to run away with him right then and there. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. Not leaving the likes of Mary-Beth, Lenny, Abigail and Jack all here to suffer the consequences of whatever Dutch planned. Some people had made their mind up, but others… It was clear to me that they saw security in Dutch that they didn't have elsewhere. They were stuck.

"What if we ask around, and leave as a group with whoever wants to come?" I suggested. It wasn't the first time I'd said something like it, but this time felt different, like it was actually reasonable. That it actually might work. 

"And then what?" He asked me. 

"We'd take our things and go, find somewhere else to camp for a while, and then figure things out when we're not sitting in a camp full of people who might just want us dead," I said bluntly. His lips parted, his eyes bored into mine. The stare he gave was intense, and made me feel as though this was a turning point, a moment with huge gravitas and consequence. 

"I think… I think that'd be our best option," he quietly agreed. "But what will we do about money, Dutch has–" he stopped, remembering something, eyes casting across the camp, settling on the Marstons’ tent. "Hold on a second." 

Arthur got up, depositing his plate on the table by his bed before crossing over towards the tent. He called out for Abigail and John, and was ushered inside. I sat and waited, frowning to myself just slightly, pondering his sudden actions. 

Javier strolled past my eyeline, between Arthur's tent and the Marstons’. Without giving it much thought, I called to him. He paused, casting his gaze to me almost in surprise. He stood there for a few seconds, cigarette hanging from between his fingers, a dusting of ash floating down as the stub burnt away with his inaction. He looked at me expectantly, though he moved no closer. 

"Javier," I sighed sadly, shaking my head, "surely you don't trust a word Micah says. How could you? You know exactly what he's like–-"

"I don't," he told me bluntly. "I think he's full of crap," he shrugged his shoulders.

"So why are you acting like Arthur and John and the rest of us are the villains?"

"I… I don't… think that," he stammered, losing some of his conviction, speaking very hesitantly. "This situation, muñequita… this is messed up. But all I know is that you guys aren't being loyal to Dutch. And that matters to me."

"Why Dutch? Why should we be blind-loyal to Dutch when he doesn't care about us?" I frowned deeply, aggravated by his expectancy. 

"He cares. Dutch always cares."

"He's pouring all our resources into saving a man who was about to shoot me in the face. He doesn't give a rat's ass about me, or Arthur. Because if I was killed in this camp, you know it would destroy him, the guilt he would feel–" I shook my head abruptly. "Dutch has never liked me. And that's fine, I don't care, but Arthur and I– we love each other. We're in this for the long haul. But Dutch doesn't want to see Arthur happy."

"He doesn't wanna lose Arthur to you. And that's exactly what's happened; Arthur wants to leave this gang to be with you, and you think Dutch should be perfectly happy about that?"

"If he saw Arthur as a son rather than a well trained gun, an asset to his criminal gang, then yes. He should be perfectly happy about him wanting to get out of this dangerous world and settle down," I answered bluntly, shrugging my shoulders and looking at him like I couldn't for a moment understand why he didn't see it.

"Criminal gang? That's the way you see us all?" He cocked his brow, finally taking a number of steps towards me. 

"Not at the start. At the start you were all so hopeful and free. Now you're a bunch of penned in animals, lashing out and doing anything and everything to survive with no thought to anyone but yourselves. And this ain't an insult, though you'll surely take it as such. This is what Dutch's decision-making has done," I answered, keeping my eyes on his and not backing down. Javier was good. I knew he was. He was just being led into the fire by a smooth-talking egoist. 

Javier was quiet for some time, twitching a little, his jaw clenched tight. He did not want to listen. 

"Dutch saved me. He gave me hope when I had nothing, put food in my belly, shelter over my head, safety. Without him, I would not be the man I am today. I may not even be alive," he shrugged cluelessly, "and you want me to abandon him?"

"I don't want you to do anything," I sighed, finally breaking eye contact. "This is your decision to make."

"Listen, I–" he began, voice softening. "I always liked you. When Micah told us today about you and the Pinkertons, sure, I had my doubts about you. Now, I… I don't believe you're working against us. You have no motive, especially since you and Arthur…" he trailed off, sighing. 

I looked up at him again, waiting for him to make his point, though he took his time.

"But I cannot betray Dutch. I can't leave him, not now, not when he is the reason we're all still alive."

I almost told him that he was also the reason why we had to run so fast, always pushing his luck, killing Cornwall, Bronte, robbing banks in huge cities, inserting himself into a fight that wasn't ours with Eagle Flies and making things worse for them. Pissing people off left and right and acting as the ringmaster for the world's deadliest circus. 

“Where did Dutch go, anyway?” I asked, instead.

“Said he needed to clear his head. He’s really hurt, you know,” he told me and I was so close to rolling my eyes.

"He had his chance to listen to us but–” I began, then trailed off, “what's the use? I can't change your mind, Javier. I just hope things turn out right for you," I sighed. 

His lips parted, but he didn't know what to say. Eventually, he dropped his wasted cigarette and then carried on walking.

Arthur came out of the Marstons’ tent just a moment later, an edgy, agitated but somehow hopeful look about him. He came to me, immediately beginning to gather his things from around the tent, putting them away in his chest. I watched him with a confused frown, lips hanging open, about to ask him what was happening when he told me anyway. 

"We're going. Us, with those three," he told me very quietly, but in a rushed, urgent tone of voice. 

"Now?" I got up abruptly. 

"Yes. We gotta move while… while Dutch's gone. It'll be easier," he told me, "maybe some folk'll come with us. Would you do me a favour, princess?"

"Of course, anything," I blinked at him, stunned. 

"While I'm packing up, you go out there and you… you talk to anyone who's on our side, okay? You see if they want out. And you tell 'em to pack up."

"Wait, how is this gonna work?" 

"Abigail–" he began, realising he was at full volume before dialling it down, "Abigail knows where all our money is. She's got a key, she stole it while everyone was distracted, when Micah was telling his pack of lies about you. She felt like things was gonna blow up, and she was right. We got a key to all the money, every penny we been putting away for safekeeping," he rose up and closed the space between us. He cupped my face, his eyes were bright and alive, truly, for the first time I'd seen in a while. 

"So, what, are we gonna take it?" I balked in a hiss of a whisper. 

"No, not… not all of it. But we'll take our share," he told me, then pressed his lips to mine briefly, but firmly, "we deserve some of that money, it's ours. It's ours, John's, Charles'..." He trailed off, he sounded like he was trying to reassure himself more than me.

"Damn right we deserve it," I encouraged, nodding my head, "hell, I bet you put most of it in there."

"We're just gonna take enough for us, just what's fair. We ain't gonna screw the rest of 'em over. We… we…" he stammered, his eyes dropping to my mouth. I could see the light dim from his eyes and I could feel the guilt he was experiencing like it was seeping from his pores.

"Arthur, it's okay. What we're doing is okay," I whispered to him, wrapping my arms around him and hugging him tight, "Dutch ain't left us many options. It's clear his mind's made up and he don't deserve a moment more of your time. Taking a little money from the communal pot… that's the least you deserve. All them years; he's lucky this is all you're doing."

"What if he comes after us?"

"Then I'll kill the bastard myself," I said through clenched teeth. "He ain't ruining another moment. This is a good thing, baby, this is… this is the moment. The right time, what we've been waiting for."

"You're right," he breathed, turning his head towards my hair and inhaling my scent. 

"Come on. Keep packing, I'll go speak to the others," I said. 

"Abigail's gonna sneak in and get the money. She knows where it is, it's in that cave," he told me so quietly that even I struggled to hear. I pulled away from his embrace and nodded. I kissed him once more, then exited the tent. 

I scanned the whole camp, my eyes landing on Charles where he was on guard duty. It seemed so strange, again, that the menial jobs people did day to day were still being carried out. I guessed that people were just trying to cling on to normality. I sped over to him first, catching his attention when I was a few places away, he turned to look at me and grew tense at the urgency in my gait. 

"Charles," I breathed, reaching him and touching his arm, glancing around once before continuing, "Arthur and I; we're getting out of here. The Marston's too. I ain't asking you to pick a side, I will never judge you for your decision, but–"

"Of course I'll come. You needn't ask," he told me in his no nonsense tone, tilting his head up slightly in a small display of pride and loyalty. A smile broke across my face. 

"Well then," I breathed with a laugh, "I suggest you gather your things. We ain't lingering."

"Of course," he nodded.

"And will you tell Sadie? Give her the same option to get out of here? Anyone who you think might wanna come," I requested and he nodded again.

"So this is really happening? We're splitting the gang?" 

"What gang?" I grunted, turning and looking at the tattered ashes of what was left. Charles said nothing, but I knew that he saw it too. He patted my shoulder twice, and then headed off. 

Of the gang members left, there were few I wanted to ask. Some were far too loyal to Dutch; obviously the likes of Javier and Bill, others I just weren't close to. I never spoke to Strauss or Reverend Swanson; even Uncle, I didn't know any of them well enough to entertain the idea of asking. I figured Arthur would ask those sorts of people if he felt it was the right thing to do. It interested me to see that some people were already packing, though I knew they hadn't been asked yet. I assumed it was a case of fleeing the sinking ship. Pearson was one of those people, Trelawny – a man who seemed to come and go like the rain – was another. Mary-Beth was too, though she was doing it kind of slowly and subtly as if she didn't want people to notice that was what she was doing. Kieran helped her. 

I made my way over to the girls' wagon, where Karen slept, Tilly woefully held her head in her hands, and Mary-Beth quietly folded away clothes and trinkets into a case around the side.

"Ladies, may I… could I speak with you?" I asked, watching as Karen groggily lifted her head, and Tilly looked up. Mary-Beth hummed her acknowledgement but didn't stop what she was doing. 

"Arthur and I think it's best we move along, given the circumstances," I began softly, timidly. Tilly gave a humourless laugh. 

"You think?" She queried. It wasn't mean-spirited. It was just tired and sad and disappointed. She was taking it hard. 

"And we figured we'd ask folk if they wanna come too. The Marstons think it's a good idea too. I don't want this to seem like I'm asking y'all to pick a side, but I want to give you an option for if… if you don't wanna stay here no more. You ain't stuck," I continued, meeting Mary-Beth's eyes. Her lips parted and she was stunned, hesitant.

Karen grunted and slumped back down on her bedroll, ignoring the suggestion for the most part. I looked at Tilly. She stared off distantly, her mouth slightly pursed. I waited for her to say something, half expecting some anger or upset similar to that of Javier's, I thought she was just as loyal to Dutch as he was.

"I'm not going with you. But I ain't sticking around here neither," she told me, striking me full of surprise. "Things just went too far today, people pointing guns at each other, accusing everyone of everything, this ain't no place for nobody. Listen, I'm glad you have a way out of here. And I'm glad that that little boy does too," she pushed herself to her feet and pointed in the direction of the Marstons' tent. "But I… I don't think I want any part of this no more."

I nodded slowly. "I understand. Tilly, all I want is for people to do the right thing for themselves. And I want them to be safe. If you think leaving all of this behind is the right thing for you, then I'm fully behind you. You've been kind to me, just like everybody else. I appreciate the time I've known you," I told her carefully. She fidgeted a little on her feet, but nodded. 

"Thank you, I– I wish nothin' but the best for you and Arthur," she told me, then with a final nod she disappeared around the wagon. I presumed she was gathering her things. 

"I knew it," Karen slurred, her cheek pressed into the ground. "I knew she was outta here. Jus' like you, and jus' like Mary-Beth," she added. I couldn't help but frown a little, and Mary-Beth met my eyes, but Karen chuckled drunkenly. "I don't blame a single one of you. Get out before this thing kills you." 

"What'll you do, Karen?" I asked, sitting down beside her. She lifted herself up, propped up on her elbows. 

"Me? Don't worry 'bout me. I got places I can go," she told me, a dizzy smile on her face. She didn't seem to be bogged down by the gravity of the situation. The booze was to thank for that, of course. 

"Like where?"

"I don' know. Places. I'll be fine." 

"I'm worried about you," I admitted, remembering how my mother got when she drank too much. The scene before me looked too familiar for comfort.

"Y'all keep saying that. Stop it. Let me live my life," she muttered. I knew from experience there was no reasoning with a person in this state. No way to make them realise their self destruction. 

"You're welcome to come with us, Karen, if you wanna get out of here," I assured her, patting her shoulder.

"I'm with Tilly," she muttered, "this whole thing's a mess and you can run off as a group but you'll fall apart too. Ain't nothing you can do. Nothin' ever lasts," she cried out bitterly, her face screwed up in a wince that was full of anger and pain and I thought of Sean. I thought of the fact that she was clearly close to him and I thought of how things began to fall apart along with his death. I was choked up. I cleared my throat and brushed a loose ringlet from Karen's face and she peered up at me like she didn't know how to respond. 

"I'm so sorry, Karen," I whispered. 

"For what, what'chu done?" She asked. I simply shook my head. 

"I'm sorry that things have fallen apart," I added.

"Can't be helped," she sighed, reaching up and squeezing my hand. I was never particularly close to Karen, so the act warmed my heart. 

"Um, may I speak with you?" Mary-Beth squeaked like a mouse above us, gingerly edging towards me and looking at me with concerned, arched brows. 

"Of course," I nodded, then rose to my feet after giving Karen's hand a squeeze back. I followed Mary-Beth away from listening ears until she turned around and stood before me, fiddling with her fingers. 

"I'm so sorry, but I can't come with you," she blurted out, and I already began to shake my head, holding my hands out reassuringly, but she continued anyway, "you know Kieran and I? We– I promised him–"

"Mary-Beth, it's okay. I ain't asking anyone in a bid to make 'em feel like they gotta. You have your own plans. I'm glad," I smiled at her. 

"You sure? It's not that I don't trust you and Arthur and the others to keep everyone safe, it's just…" she trailed off and sighed, looking across the camp to where Kieran was. I put my hand on her shoulder.

"I know. You go and be with him. I know how you're feeling; take your chance to get away and build your life together while you still can," I told her, then opened my arms and let her decide if she wanted to hug me. She did. She closed the gap between us and squeezed me tight, rubbing my shoulders. 

I felt like I wanted to cry. Why did this feel like a goodbye? More than just a goodbye for now, but a permanent one? I swallowed back the sudden wave of emotion I felt and patted her back a couple times before we parted. She offered me a small smile and took my hands in hers. 

"I hope you build the prettiest of lives. We all deserve a little happiness, don't you think?" She told me quietly, and I nodded in agreement. 

"Yeah, I think we do," I whispered. She squeezed my hands, then headed back towards the wagon to continue her packing. 

I exhaled and turned around to look at the state the camp was left in. It was full of people packing up; a scene that wasn't by any means new or different, it'd happened time and time again already. But the fact that people were packing for themselves this time… there was no sense of community, or togetherness. It felt like an ending. A dissolving of a family that once was so strong; it was heartbreaking, but somehow inevitable. Once there was differing ideas and loyalties pulled in different directions, things would change. And they changed in the most destructive of ways; with Micah laying shivering and sweating and close to death, with Dutch running off alone and abandoning the camp for the first time ever, with the majority of people deciding that it was too late to salvage anything. Deterioration until there was nothing but a scattered collection of parts left to make the best of things. 

All because of Micah Bell.

[flashbang-througthe-door]

He knows, and He knows He knows

Ship: Carter/Swanson

Tw: Blood, swearing, fighting

Description: Carter has been hanging around Reverend Swanson, Uncle isn't too pleased with this

________________________________

Carter let the Reverend rest his head in his lap, they were talking about the past couple of days and what Cater was doing for his and the Reverend's keep. "Yeah, I've earned our keep for a bit...but uh...I gotta figure out more" Carter itches his jaw thinking about how to earn more money "Right, right...I'm sorry I haven't been much of help" Swanson sighs softly "Just worry about hitting the bedroll when you fall asleep"

Carter closes his eyes it was peaceful till he felt a kick to his side "Ow...damn" his eyes shot open seeing Uncle stare at him "What do you want?" He mutters feeling Uncle kick him again "Orville get off me for a second" Carter was pissed off now Uncle had been bothering him every time he and the Reverend hung out. "Gonna fight me like the man you ain't" Uncle sneers bringing his fists up as did Carter "Fine, let's go" Carter cracks his neck, and then the fight began "Fight fair you old fuck!" Carter growls as a punch connected with his face, Carter's only chance to survive this fight was getting Uncle on the ground, and with an extreme amount of effort he did and started beating on Uncle. "All you do is pick fights, when me and him are speaking what is the damn problem" He punches in between every word "Carter, get off him" Hosea came hurrying over "I want answers!" "I know" was all Uncle had to say and Carter allowed himself to be pulled off Uncle "Carter, go by the table I'll handle you in a second" Hosea waves him away. Carter wipes his nose on his shirt going to the table as Swanson followed him. "Are you okay?" The Reverend inquires checking Carter's face "This one didn't last as long as last time" Carter huffs his face throbbing "Speak of last time, how is that rib?" Hosea asks walking over "I'm fine Hosea, no need to worry...either of you" Carter sighs removing Swanson's hands from his face "All he told me is he knows, what does he know? Carter" Hosea was worried that it was something harmful towards either of the two individuals in front of him. Carter groans leaning against the table letting a sigh out, being able to keep things a secret was easy for him but now he and Swanson had to come clean at least it was to Hosea and not anyone else. "We're kinda....mhm" Carter rubs his neck thinking about how to go about this, he knew that Hosea wasn't going to exactly shoot him where he stood but it was still nerve-racking. "I'm not going to shoot you" Hosea tries to be comforting and it did kinda make the other two feel better. "He and I are kinda in a down-low relationship...type thing" Carter tried his best to explain it normally but then again "I love him, Hosea but we don't want anyone to know" the Reverend explained it pretty well too.

Hosea shakes his head starting to laugh "You think we care that you're dating each other, haha no no, we don't care about that" Hosea started coughing "You okay Hosea? Your cough is getting bad again" Carter rubs Hosea's back "Yes, I'm...I'm anyway if you need something, come to me, okay...I've been in this type of thing before...I'm here for you both" Hosea smiles and headed on his way "That uh..." "Went better than you thought?" "Yeah, I guess...I'll see you tomorrow, I got a job with Javier" Carter stood up straight and pulled Swanson into a hug "Hey if you find a cross on a chain...can I have it?" Swanson begs as Carter ends the hug "Yeah, I'll keep an eye out" "Legs, come on we have a house to...catch?" Javier was confused by his statement but Carter understood it pretty well "You be safe okay, promise me" "Orville..." "Promise me" "I promise, on my honor" Carter smiles raising his hand in the air "Legs! Hurry up, house to catch" Javier warns as Carter nods "Right! Coming Javier, I'll see you tomorrow...I promise" "Go catch that house?" The Reverend looked confused as hell, Carter chuckles taking off to his horse "Wish you didn't take so long to say goodbye, you always return" "One day, you'll learn why it takes so long my friend"

[xihaveaplanxx]

The Storm (Pt 2 of 2)

“Dutch, do you want to go to Mcdonalds with us?” Hosea asked his friend. He and Arthur were going to stop by and get a few burgers and fries and a McFlurry since it’s what Reverend Swanson wanted. He was going to come in later as he was busy at the church. Overly so. It was almost time for the annual Christmas play and he and Sebastian Vael were losing their minds trying to get the kids prepared and what not. Rehearsals were almost getting violent apparently. “Dutch?” Hosea poked at him and Dutch just looked at him before shaking his head no and taking his papers into his room, slamming the door. “It’s been a few months. It’s getting scary now. What? Is he just not going to talk anymore ever again?”

“He talks at work, I’m sure.”

“No he doesn’t. He writes everything down and hands it out to everyone. She really messed him up. Jenny’s friend really messed him up, badly.”

“I haven’t even seen Dreama in some time.”

“I think Jenny mentioned she was taken before the mage council.”

“She was taken before the council?”

“Yes. Apparently she did something to that Burger King manager and she is in trouble. It was only a matter of time. I always told Erandur since she was young, to instill values in her. Not give in to all she wanted. To actually tell her no and look at how she is. I mean I adore the girl, I do but she’s not all there. Clearly. I don’t wanna be the one to say it but Anders made it worse. She’s only acting out because she can’t have him, because she can’t have something she wants. A tantrum that could end in deaths if she’s not stopped.”

“You really think it’s so bad, Hosea?”

“Look at Dutch, Arthur. It really is that bad.”

At Erandur’s house/Teldryn’s pov

“Dreama, you can’t stay locked away forever.”

“Sure I can. I have no interest in leaving this room, not ever. You and Dad told Solas about what I did to Cullen as if he fucking matters. Now I have to report to fucking Solas at least once a week and he is measuring my magical reserves to make sure I’m not over using it.  I am so fucking angry. If you just let me fucking be with Anders this wouldn’t happen but no, you guys hate him and in favor of fucking Dutch. I heard you both saying you kind of like him. He’s a nobody! He’s worthless. I hate everything!”

“You know for 30, you are mighty dramatic. Quite the child.” I sighed. “I always told Erandur to be careful with how he raised you and I see his willingness to not accept sometimes you can get off the rails is affecting you even now.  You know Dutch really likes you or likes you. He doesn’t even talk anymore because you hurt him so bad but I know you don’t care. You are too immature to care and far too deep inside of your mind over Anders to care for who you hurt.”

“Fuck off.”

“Child.” I shook my head. “Being this way won’t get Anders out of jail. He’s being watched by strong mages now. They won’t let him out. It must hurt you to know he is going to be locked away forever but if you want to waste your life hanging up on him, you go right ahead and keep hurting people who wanna be there for you. Won’t be long before you push away John or Dorian or even Jenny. You at least should apologize to Dutch for hurting him.”

“He can fuck off.”

“Fine.” I gave up. Trying to reason with her. She was still a child. I didn’t want to blame Erandur but....this was all him. Even when he got Anders rearrested, he still was thinking how to coddle Dreama and tell her it was okay and it wasn’t her fault. Though she was the one who got him broken out of jail, she was the one who bribed Geralt to let him out. She was the one who lied with this man in the first place but no, Erandur coddled her even now. I feel we need to get him in check before coping with her but it just seems everything was too late.  I left from her room door and headed downstairs. Valdimar had finished cleaning up and was watching Maury...again. I never understood why he loved it so much but he was very interested in baby momma drama and trying to figure out why people would much rather broadcast the fact they don't know the father of their baby rather than addressing it privately.  “Valdimar, I see you finished the housework. Thank you. You know even if you are the house steward, we can help you with the cleaning. You are more like a friend living here if anything.”

“It is my job to keep the house protected and clean. I know I don’t have to do much , but I like to. I like to keep things in order so I can feel like I’m doing something other than getting fat and watching MAury.”

“You aren’t remotely fat. Watching Maury though.....”

“This lady tested 20 men and none were the father. How do you let it get that bad?”

“That..wow...”

“Oh looks like number 21 isn’t the father either” He said as we watched a guy break into a dance as this girl ran to the back practically screaming. “Maker. How do you allow that to happen? 21 men...that’s.....”

“You’d think you’d stop coming to the show after five men but allowing yourself to keep coming back...I’d figure it’s just attention.”

“I don’t know if this is the type of attention I’d want.”

“Not many would.” I patted his arm. “Dreama is being a brat.”

“Don’t let Erandur hear that.” Valdimar lowered the volume on the tv “But she is. She’s been nothing but mean even to me. I made her her favorite meal and she tossed the plate at me.”

“She’s an adult. There is no reason for us to stand by this behavior. I have an idea. Erandur won’t like it but it’s for her own good.”

“What is your idea?”

“Well she doesn’t pay for anything ever. She barely works. If she wants to do what she wants, she can do it not here.”

“You can’t toss her out. She is you guy's daughter....”

“I’m doing it because I care. Erandur doesn’t have the fucking balls to stand up to the monster he created so I will. He might hate me for it and he’ll talk shit about me for it but I’m doing it for her own good. He won’t see it at first, hell he might not ever see it but it’s just how it has to be.”

Two hours later

“Are you seriously throwing me out? I’m telling Dad.”

“You don’t do anything but be immature and it’s time you are on your own. You have your job. You’ll be fine. You have fanboys right, ask them to let you live with them.”

“I....you know, you were always my least favorite dad.”

“I wish that hurt me but after being married to Erandur, nothing you say can hurt me. I’m sure you’ll be fine. You want to do what you want, if you aren’t here you can do what you want. Hell go be with Anders if you want to. I don’t care. You won’t be doing it here so go do what you want.”

“Dad will be upset about this.”

“And I’ll deal with him when he comes in but you need to go. There are tons of apartments and I know you can afford one. Even better, I’ve been saving up money from the military, I’ll get you a place. I’ll pay the first month's rent. How’s that?”

“Really?”

“Yes. Maybe it’s harsh to just toss you out on your ass though you deserve it.”

“You know what, no. Keep your money. I’ll be fine on my own. I’ll pack up my shit and get the rest when I find a place. For what it’s worth, if you and dad fight again, I hope he leaves you for good. He deserved better.”

“You’d say that, you are mad.” I shook my head. “You can never hurt me, little girl.” I looked over at her. “Besides, I know you wet the bed til you were about 12. With that kind of information among other  things....nothing a child like you can say will truly ever hurt me.”

Outside Hosea’s house/Dutch’s pov

I didn’t expect to see her. It had been some time since we spoke, since I spoke in general and yet here she was. She had a suitcase and she looked angry. I was a betting man yes and I can bet she got tossed out by Teldryn. Erandur wouldn’t do such a thing but Teldryn he would and frankly I didn’t blame him. I could also bet that she wanted to stay here. Probably hoping the others weren’t here  in hopes I’d just say yes to her.  That’s unfortunate to assume.  She came up the stairs and knocked on the door. I guess I’d break that vow of silence but I knew nothing I said would be what she wanted to hear. I opened the door and she glared at me, already annoyed. I guess I took too long to answer the door. Oh poor thing. Poorly demanding possibly evil things. Hosea got on me for hanging around Micah , should have warned me of her as well. She’s worse than him in ways I can’t even word.

“Hi.”

“Dutch! I’m so glad to see you”

“Oh, are you?”

“Yes! Teldryn tossed me out and I need somewhere to stay and I want to stay here with you and Arthur and Hosea and Reverend Swanson.”

“Well John did move out to live with his boyfriend but....I’m sorry, you can’t stay here.”

“Why?”

“Why?  Did you really ask me why after what you did to me?”

“Oh come on, you can not think I’d actually like you. Please Dutch, I have morals.”

“Oh yes, morals that made you go after Anders. The same morals that say you flirt with Micah because you wanted his knife. He’s a weak, terrible man, course he gave you it but I saw you that day. I did. I never told anyone because I mean who would want to admit they were like that with him but you were. You are just....too old to be like this . I never wanted to say that to someone but you are. You are legit a child in an adult body. Throw fits when you can’t get what you want, manipulate people and for what?”

“You are an asshole, Dutch.”

“Oh you’d know all about being an asshole.” 

“You are legit mad that I don’t like you. For no reason.”

“No, I'm mad that you used me and got what you wanted and discarded me. You knew I loved you but you didn’t care. You never care. You just want to climb on people and dump them off. It’s the fate of anyone but Anders but he’s locked up forever now isn’t he? How unfortunate for you.”

“I hate you, Dutch.”

“I think I might hate you more.” He looked at her. “How about you just don’t bother me anymore. I won’t bother you, you don’t need to bother me. How’s that? We’ll just go on like we've never met.”

“But where will I go? I need somewhere to stay”

“Why is that my issue? You don’t give a fuck about me....I am not required to care about you....not anymore.”

[the-awkward-outlaw]

Could you do 5: “ Why do you hate me? ” with Arthur and his crush because I live to suffer

Oh my God, how many weeks ago were these requests sent in? Well, here it is! For once, it turned out shorter than I imagined! 

Request sheet here

Read all my works here on AO3

You finish cleaning the last of the laundry for the day. It’s nearly sunset and the tips of your fingers have been rubbed raw from the washboard, but you ignore the slight burn. Your hands have been getting tougher the last few weeks, calluses developing on your once soft skin. Your entire body is growing firmer living here with this wild bunch. 

You’ve been with the gang just a little over a month now and your life couldn’t be more different. You spent most of your life with your parents until they both died years ago in a drowning accident near the banks of Blackwater. Since you weren’t quite an adult yet, you were sent to live with your uncle. He was a pastor for the local church, but he was as far from Godly as he could be. 

For the next few years, your life with your uncle was horrible. Your uncle, despite his preaching to be good, clean people, he constantly got drunk and beat you. There were a few times he even touched you inappropriately, and when you tried fighting back he’d beat you even harder. He dragged you to church every Sunday and you’d have to sit through his sermons and hear the hypocrisy spill from his mouth. How you hated hearing him tell everyone else to be kind and patient, to give charitably, to avoid excessive drinking and to be as much like Christ as they could be. How dare he say those things when he was doing such terrible things to you behind closed doors? 

When you got to be older, you tried many times to leave, to run away, but he seemed to have a sense of when you’d try and break out. It got to the point he started chaining you to your bed at night, and sometimes left you there for days, bringing you just enough food to stay alive. When people mentioned your absence, he’d wave them off by saying you were visiting a cousin and would return shortly. He also brushed away any visible marks he left on you by stating you were a wild child, falling from horses and running through the brush, but that he wouldn’t try to curb your active nature. 

Finally it all got to be too much, the beatings, the rape, the lies. The hungry nights chained to a bed. One night at the table, he started getting drunk and you could see the telling signs he was preparing to attack you. You armed yourself with a large knife and when he rushed you, you shoved it into his throat and killed him. It was only a day or two before people discovered him, but you’d already fled town. Everyone knew it was you and you heard rumors they wanted to hang you for killing the preacher. 

A week after killing your uncle, you were in desperate need of help as you knew nothing of living outdoors and on your own. You had no food or any kind of shelter. All you had was your horse and a few sparse supplies. You didn’t even have a gun. 

You went to Blackwater, where no one was looking for you. You became a street beggar, but with little success, so you started pick-pocketing people when you could risk it. One day, you picked the pocket of a tall man with black hair and a thick mustache. He caught on quick and dragged you down an alleyway where he was met by another man, thin and grey-haired. 

You thought these two men would shoot you, and for a moment they seemed to think they might. Then they surprised you by suggesting you come with them, join their gang of outlaws. You took their offering. 

Not long after you joined, the Blackwater heist fell apart, forcing you and everyone else to flee and leaving a couple of the others scattered or dead. A young girl close to your age named Jenny was killed and another man named Mac was shot. He died on the way to a frozen town named Colter. 

Now, here in Horseshoe Overlook, you and the others are settling in. You’ve become quite close with most of the others. You work with the other three girls, Karen, Mary-Beth and Tilly. They welcomed you with curiosity and friendship. They helped teach you how to survive in this gang, how to pull your weight to keep an old crone named Grimshaw from getting after you. 

When you first arrived, you were horribly afraid of a man named Swanson as he was a drunken reverend. It didn’t take long though to realize that he was completely harmless and he never showed interest in attacking anyone. In fact, he was more prone to hurt himself instead of any of the others. He was a man of God who’d just fallen on hard times. 

You get along with pretty much everyone, and most of them seem to like you. Or at least they’ve accepted you. There is one exception though: a man named Arthur Morgan doesn’t seem to like you at all. He’s pretty much ignored you this whole time and he only spoke with you once when you first arrived. He did nothing but ask your name and your story and when you finished telling him, he wandered off and said nothing more. 

A few times, Dutch and Hosea, the patriarchs of the gang, have suggested to the other girls that you go with them and learn how to do some proper robbing. Whenever Arthur heard though, he’d come over and tell them you were the worst choice to go out and do any work like that, you simply couldn’t handle it. 

There’s been other instances where Arthur seemed to think you were too weak to handle yourself. Sure, you grew up in a luxurious life, but you were willing to learn. Arthur just didn’t want to let you for some reason. In fact, he seemed to think you didn’t belong here. You wondered many times why he disliked you so much. It unsettled you a bit how you often found him staring at you, and when you looked at him, he’d look away. The other girls said that Arthur had an extremely tough exterior but he possessed a good, soft heart. They could always depend on him to protect them when they needed it. You just couldn’t see how that could be. 

Grimshaw comes over and tells you to stop working, that the day’s chores are done and to get yourself some dinner. You go over to Pearson’s wagon and scoop yourself some of his stew onto a plate. Most days, this is what Pearson makes, but on occasion, he’ll mix it up with some cornbread or fresh vegetables. Of course, he always has cans of food and other provisions available at his wagon. You take a can of peaches before heading to the round table to eat. 

Just as you’ve sat down and begun eating, Arthur walks over and sits down across from you. You don’t know why he does since he clearly doesn’t like you. He’s done this a number of times, sitting near you at the fire or coming to listen when you’re chatting with the others. He never says anything and you can’t read what he’s thinking from his face. You swallow heavily and debate on whether or not to leave. After all, he’s a high-ranking member of the gang, directly underneath Dutch and Hosea. You’re just some dumb newbie compared to him. But you decide to stay, not wanting to seem rude and give him a reason to like you even less. 

The two of you sit at the table and eat, not speaking. He glances up at you every so often, making you feel incredibly small and pathetic. As you finish your meal, Pearson walks over. 

“Arthur, can you go to Valentine tomorrow? I need some supplies picked up from the store.” 

“Sure,” Arthur says and Pearson hands him a list. 

“Oh, and can you stop at the post office too?” 

Arthur nods and looks at the list. “Guess I’ll need to take someone along. Quite a list, Mr. Pearson.” 

Pearson looks at you and points in your direction. “Take Y/N here. Sure she can handle it just fine.” 

“No,” Arthur says, returning to his plate of stew. “No, she needs to stay here. Stay where the others can keep an eye on her.” 

Your heart sinks. You’d been hoping you could go to town, you’ve been cooped up here for weeks. You’re tired of seeing the same trees, the same people. Pearson sighs. “Just take her, Mr. Morgan. What’s the worst that can happen on a shopping trip?” 

Arthur throws him a look as if to say Pearson didn’t know how dangerous a shopping trip could be, but then he shrugs his shoulders. “Fine. Y/N, I’ll be leaving early. Be ready.” 

“Yes sir,” you say quietly. 

He throws you a curious glance but then he gets up and takes his empty plate over to the wash barrel. He doesn’t say anything or even look at you the rest of the night. You know he’s only taking you because Pearson twisted his arm. 

In the morning, you get ready as soon as the sun is up, but Arthur doesn’t even stir from his cot until the sun’s well up. Even then, he doesn’t leave immediately. He gets himself some coffee, chops some wood and then has a quick discussion with Dutch. You stay ready to go at any moment though, not wanting to give him a reason to get angry with you. 

Finally, Arthur calls you. “Let’s go,” he says. You rush over and climb into the wagon. He sits down next to you and you stiffen up. He lights a cigarette and then grabs the reins. 

“Know anythin’ ‘bout drivin’ wagons?” he asks. 

“A little,” you say. “My dad taught me the basics when I was young.” 

He hands you the reins and you drive the wagon to Valentine. Nothing happens on the way there, but you’re happy to see the little, muddy town. Other people mill about, most looking like ranchers and farmers. You drive the wagon down the main street and stop near the stables, not too far from the store. 

Arthur hops down without a word and throws the butt of his cigarette into the mud. He hands you Pearson’s list. “I’m gonna go check the post office,” he says and walks off. 

You go into the store and hand the clerk the list. He snaps at a shopboy who begins piling items into a box. You help him carry the boxes out to the wagon and start sliding them into the back. Arthur comes back after a short period, his hands empty. Post office must not have had anything. 

When the shopboy’s done loading up the wagon, you both climb up into it. You’re about to grab the reins but Arthur takes them and whips the horses into a steady trot. You wait for him to say something during the trip, but he doesn’t. He seems tense, anxious. You are, too. Why does he dislike you so much? Sure, you’re extremely inexperienced, but he won’t give you the chance to go out and learn. It’s not that you’re unwilling, you’ve even begged Dutch and Hosea a few times, but Arthur wins them out, pointing out that something is surely to go wrong. 

When you get back to camp, you start unloading the wagon when Bill and Lenny come up to you. 

“Y/N, you ever rob a stage before?” Bill says. 

“I’ve barely robbed anything before,” you say. 

“She’s perfect for the job!” Lenny says with a smile. He explains that the stage he and Bill want to rob will have drivers that are heavily suspicious of being robbed. They want you to go and stop the stage and pretend to be lost. Since you have no experience robbing, you’re the most innocent person in camp. 

“It’ll be easy,” Lenny finishes. 

“Just make sure you get into cover as quick as you can if they start shootin��,” Bill adds. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Arthur says, attracted by Lenny’s excitement. Lenny tells him the plan and Arthur lowers his brow. “Absolutely not. You ain’t takin’ her nowhere. She’s gonna stay in camp, work with the girls.” 

“But she’s perfect, Arthur!” Lenny pleads. “You’ve robbed this company before, you know how quick they are to draw fire.” 

“Exactly my point! She don’t know nothin’ about robbin’, ya ain’t takin’ her!” Arthur says. 

“Mr. Morgan!” you say sharply. “I want to help! People keep asking me to help with jobs and you won’t let me! Dutch and Grimshaw are always saying that everyone needs to earn my keep, now let me do my part!” 

“You ain’t goin’ and that’s final!” he snarls. You hold your ground. Arthur turns to Bill and Lenny and orders them to get someone else. When they turn away, muttering, you glare at Arthur. 

“Can I talk to you? Alone?” you ask. 

He sighs. “Fine.” 

You lead him into the trees and then round on him as soon as you’re out of shot from camp. 

“What is your problem with me?” you demand. 

“I ain’t got a problem-” 

“Yes you do, Mr. Morgan! Ever since I showed up, you haven’t liked me for even a second. The others want to teach me how to do work and I want to learn, but you always get in my way! I can learn, I’m a fast learner. I know I don’t know much now but that’ll change.” 

“You ain’t goin’ robbin’, Y/N. You ain’t right for the job!” he says. 

You stand there for a second, your anger rising. This man has done nothing except make your life even more difficult than it is, given the situation. You can see now he’s arrogant and prideful, and he doesn’t want you taking a share of the profits. 

“Why do you hate me?” you demand of him. 

“What?” he says, clearly taken off guard. 

“I said why do you hate me?” 

“I don’t hate-”

“Bullshit, don’t lie to me, Mr. Morgan! You haven’t liked me from the start. I don’t know what I said or did to piss you off, but you’re being an ass! All the other girls keep telling me I’ll see that you’re a nice guy, but you’ve done nothing to prove them right!” 

He sighs, his mouth in a tight frown. He looks down, his eyes hidden beneath the brim of his hat. “I don’t hate ya, Y/N. Farthest thing from it, actually.” His voice is soft and rough. 

“Then why are you doing this?” You put your hands on your hips. 

“Because I… I’m afraid for ya. You’ve been hurt a lot by that awful uncle, I just want ya safe.” 

This is the last thing you expected. Safe? Why would he care for your safety? Then you begin recalling all the arguments you’ve heard him have with the others when it came to you going out and working. He’s always mentioned that something could go wrong and you might get hurt, but not that you’d be the one causing it to go wrong. 

“I’m sorry if I’ve come off coarse,” he continues. “It’s just I… when I first met ya I…. I just wanted to… just wanted to protect ya.” 

He rubs the back of his neck. You take a step back from him, confused still. 

“Protect me? But you seem to be unhappy that I’m here.” 

“I’m not. Y/N, I don’t dislike ya. Maybe that’s the problem. I…. I really like ya. Been wantin’ to talk to ya for weeks, just didn’t know what to say.” 

“You say hello. You ask me my favorite color, for God’s sake, Arthur!” you say a little more harshly than you meant to. Is he being serious? Has he been so stern about you doing work because he wants you safe because he has a crush on you? That can’t be right. You’re a nobody and he’s, well, he’s Arthur Morgan! When you first saw him, you noted how tall and broad he was, and how lovely his eyes were. 

“I know. I been doin’ this all wrong,” Arthur says. “I just didn’t think you’d want to talk to me, big ugly bastard that I am.” 

You frown at him a bit. Those are the last words you’d use to describe him. “You always assume things when you meet someone new?” you ask quietly. “Don’t you?” he says. “I’m real sorry I came off that way, Y/N. Do you mind if maybe we start over? Try to get off on the right foot?” 

You sigh. “Sure, Arthur.” 

He smiles and it brightens up his face. “Thank ya. By the way, what is your favorite color?”

[titaniyaahdrabble]

To be Treasured

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x reader

Summary: You had purchased a treasure map from a stranger in town and Arthur agrees to help find it.

Word count:  1941

Notes: This is just fluff and will be part 1. I have a second part coming. I hope you enjoy.

The morning had proved itself to be rather quiet around the camp. Unsurprisingly, Reverend Swanson and Uncle were both still asleep and their snoring had effortlessly merged in with the distant sounds of birds chirping within the surrounding trees. You had gotten quite used to their sounds whilst you settled into the gang life.

You sat at one of the small camp tables that overlooked the small area where the horses grazed quietly. You found you quite liked that spot. It was away from the main hub of the camp and allowed you some space to think as space alone was scarce with how physically close everyone always was. But today, instead of allowing your mind to wander to distant fantasies fuelled by the many novels you read, you were preoccupied by an old map that was decorated with chaotic markings. Your eyebrows knitted, your face tensing into a soft frown as you tried to make sense of it. You were sure it was a treasure map - the strange man told you it was a treasure map after all - but you were unfamiliar with the surrounding lands. Hell, you were unfamiliar with the act of reading maps itself. You found yourself letting out a loud dejected sigh. You took a large spoonful of your porridge and propped it into your mouth, your eyes not leaving the tattered map and the scribbles; you were determined to make sense of it. As your eyes trailed along, following the questionably drawn arrows, you froze, your lips wrapped around the metal spoon. You had seen that waterfall before. You were sure of it.

“Good morning, Miss (Y/L/N),” the familiar voice pulled your attention from the map and to Arthur standing just before you. He held his cup against his lips to take a small mouthful of coffee as his curious gaze never left your face. You swallowed sharply, spluttering out an incoherent greeting as the porridge stuck to your throat and wrestled with your words. You ripped the spoon from your mouth, clenching it angrily as you fought the urge to cough. Your face flared red with your internal struggle, your eyes watering as you struggled to maintain a calm facade. His curious gaze had turned into that of concern. 

“Mornin’, Mr Morgan,” you managed to say before he could question you and forced a smile to ensure him that everything was indeed fine and that you definitely weren’t just choking on porridge. You placed a hand at your chest, clearing your throat, “This porridge really has a kick.” you lied as you returned your gaze to the map. You silently wished he would leave you to it, but you found he did the opposite; instead, he took a stride towards you.

“What you got there?” he placed a hand on the table and leaned forward, intrigued. 

“Just a silly old map,” you sighed and turned the map for him to get a better look. As you did, he shuffled and stood himself beside you. You looked up at him and was taken back by how close he was to you. If he simply leaned to his side, his abdomen would press against your shoulder. Your gaze lingered on his broad torso, where his blue button up shirt was unbuttoned enough to reveal his upper chest. You saw the small hairs that decorated his chest and it led you to wonder what he would look like shirtless. That fantasy-filled mind of yours would surely be the death of you as you realised it had set you on a dangerous path. One of which you secretly hoped would lead you into the strong arms of Arthur Morgan. As though he had heard your silent prayer, he cleared his throat. You looked at his face then, your own becoming hot. His sea-green eyes narrowed as he silently analysed the map, seemingly unphased by the close proximity to you.

“I recognise some of this,” he hummed as he trailed the arrows with a finger. Feeling greedy, you took the moment to admire his face and the gentle wrinkles that formed to frame his beautiful eyes as he frowned in contemplation. He glanced at you then and you immediately stiffened. You looked away from him and back to the map. Yes, the map was what you were so interested in.

“I was tryin’ to make sense of it but I don’t know the area well.” you said after a beat of silence.

“I’ve seen this waterfall,” he started quietly, “if it’s the one I’m thinkin’ of, that is. We passed it on the way here.”

“Really?” you replied too quickly, trying to conceal the excitement in your voice. He looked to you again, a playful smile playing at his lips as he straightened.

“You just wanna go explorin’ don’t you?” he laughed gently as he turned to throw the rest of his coffee to the ground before stuffing the metal cup into his satchel. You blushed gently at his comment. You soon smiled once again, however, your eyes meeting his. His own held a warmth within them that wasn’t so common. In fact, his expression was so warm that you couldn’t quite place what it was. 

“It’s better than being moaned at by Miss Grimshaw,” you admitted quietly. “There could be treasure waitin’ out there!” You beamed up at him. “Don’t say you don’t wanna go take a look, Mr. Morgan,” you then added. He stood before you, his right hand resting on his gunbelt as he pondered for a moment, weighing his options. You had an inkling that his curiosity would get the better of him.

“C’mon then,” he finally said, taking a step back towards his horse as he raised his arms gently as if to feign defeat. “Guess it wouldn’t hurt to take a look.” You immediately rose from your chair, grinning as excitement consumed you. 

“Really?” You couldn’t believe it. A strong part of you thought it was just a silly map that led to a silly treasure you wouldn’t get the chance to chase after. The smaller part of you also couldn’t believe that Arthur Morgan, of all the people in the gang, would be the one to chase after it with you. 

“Yes, really.” he chuckled as he attached saddlebags to his saddle, “We could be gone a couple days, so make sure you get everything.” his tone was a little more serious and you nodded. “I’ll wait by the horses for you.” Within a heartbeat you had hurried off to your tent, practically running across the camp. 

After watching you for a moment, he glanced downwards and pulled his hat down slightly to hide the smile that he could not shake from his face. In truth, he didn’t care about the map or the treasure. Seeing how you reacted from simply agreeing to escort you had made him feel a certain way that he had not felt in a long time which was reward enough. And, although the feeling was exhilarating, it also scared him. He had felt himself drawn to you and, to his frustration, that feeling had become more persistent with each passing day.

***

You held onto your hat as you threw your head backwards, letting out a loud bout of laughter that you could not contain. As the pair of you rode on through the forest, spurring your agitated horses on and away from what you had assumed was an adolescent blackbear, your laughter echoed into the cold air and startled the birds in the surrounding trees. Arthur was less enthused with the encounter and he tried to focus on guiding his horse through the thickening forest. Your laughter eventually shattered his solemn demeanour however and he cracked a smile, biting back a chuckle. He had found that your laughter was indeed infectious. You had held onto the horn of your saddle and simply giggled, trusting your horse to follow Arthur’s which it did instinctively. 

Once in a clearing and far enough away from the bear, Arthur reined in his horse and the pair of you came to a halt. Your horses panted gently, lowering their necks in a stretch, grateful that you had stopped to allow them to catch their  own breaths. Arthur, donning a stern look, turned atop his stallion to look at you. His lips parted as he prepared himself to scold you on how dangerous it can be to encounter a bear. How dangerous it is to gallop so recklessly through woodland. His words had fled him upon taking in the sight of you. 

You were grinning ear to ear, your chest rising and falling with each pant as you looked around as though you sought out he bear once again - or something equally as dangerous. Your hair was disheveled, the wind had combed through it with ease and left it a mess. You didn’t care and continued to grin, a soft giggle escaping from you as you suddenly looked back at him, the joy in your eyes sparking a response from deep within him. His heart fluttered in his chest at the sight of you. How beautiful you were. How happy you were. That distant feeling that he had felt earlier had started to ebb at him once again.

“Gettin’ chased by bears sure does make you giggle, don’t it?” he smiled and shook his head gently. His comment had earned a small chuckle from you. He rested a forearm on the horn of his saddle and loosely held onto his reins, his attention on you. 

“Now I understand why you spend so much time away from camp, Mr Morgan,” your grin had simmered down to a small smile but the sparkle in your eyes lingered.

“You think I spend it being chased by bears?” he laughed. 

“It’s nice to just be away from it all,” you corrected him, glancing away for a moment to contemplate, and almost regret, your words. You didn’t want him to mistake your meaning. You appreciated being welcomed into the gang. And you appreciated everything they had done for you. It’s nice to just be alone with you. His small hum of acknowledgement pulled your attention away from your thoughts and to him once again. 

“So,” he started, his tone still playful and the glint in his eyes almost matching your own. “I’ve learned today that you’re terrible with reading maps and bears don’t scare you.” a teasing smile was plastered to his lips as he regarded you, causing your cheeks to warm. “I just wonder what does scare you.” 

“Not a thing when I’m with you, Mr Morgan,” you replied almost too quickly but there were no playful undertones to your words;  you had meant what you said. You felt safe when you were beside him whether it be in camp or anywhere else. Arthur’s presence had always been a form of comfort to you since you had joined the gang. He was intimidating and would certainly throw his weight around when he wanted to, but when he shed himself of his angry facade, he was also kind and playful. Perhaps that was part of why you had developed a silly crush on him. He immediately glanced away from you, your words having a greater effect than you had initially realised. He dipped his head to allow his hat to shield himself from your gaze. His cheeks flared a shade of red as he comprehended your words. 

You smiled to yourself before collecting your reins and nudging your horse forward to stand beside his. “So, cowboy, where to next?” 

[journal-of-an-outlaw]

Price to be Paid - Chapter 33

Read on AO3 here

Dear Journal, 

I always hate starting these things. Never know what to do to signify another passage starting when the ending of the other was just on the other side of the page. Be it days or months, the one thing that never changes is how close my last entry was. I guess this is to document my thoughts so that when I’m an old man I can look back and reflect on how life used to be. Most of the time I just draw something awful and leave a caption so when my eyes can’t see right anymore I’ll know what I was attempting to preserve. If I make it that far I’ll have plenty of stories to tell. 

Anyways. 

I know the last time things seemed to be doing well. I got married to a woman who changed me. Dutch had a plan to get us out. John and Abigail were getting along just fine, even little Jack was learning to hunt rabbits and small critters. But it all changed so quickly, where do I even begin…

The bank. I know that damned job was where everything went wrong. Micah and Dutch never stopped talking about it the whole time we were in Guarma so I couldn’t forget any detail even if I tried. And I did try. The first week stuck in that humid hell I was too angry to speak and drank myself into a stupor that would rival Reverend Swanson; alcohol helped me ignore the pain in my chest where my heart used to be. Maybe that’s why he drank. To forget. Everyone tried to talk to me but I wasn’t in a place to listen. They tried to tell me everything would work out, that she was alright and we just had to focus on one thing at a time. But that was bullshit. I just kept seeing Hosea get shot and my wife being carted away, and I was stuck helpless to do anything against it. I’ve never before realized that was my worst fear; watching from the outside as people I love get hurt. 

The Pinkertons showed up too fast to not have known about it before but there was no way any of us would have ratted out the gang when we were so close to our goal, so close to leaving and putting behind us any thought of betrayal or being on the run any longer. I spent more than one night stuck on that island replaying it over and over but I couldn't make sense of it. 

I should have been faster. I shouldn't have let Dutch separate us. As soon as that snake Milton yelled I knew we were done for. 

I shouldn't call him that. I know I can come up with something worse. Technically he is my father in law, but he is the reason Hosea is dead and the woman I love is...gone. Who knows where he’s hidden her away. No wonder she never told me about that mess, I would have never believed someone so good and true was family with that vile man. 

She probably thought I’d hate her for keeping the secret, but the truth is I couldn’t care any less. Sometimes you don’t get lucky enough to pick your family. I know that better than anyone. 

Micah claims they planned it together, for her to distract her father long enough for us to escape, but I’m not too sure yet if I believe that. I saw the look in her eyes. Panic. Fear. Then that stubborn heroism that should have told me to drag her out with me no matter the cost. It was in the set of her mouth, and how her eyes narrowed enough to give away her thoughts. Just a few of the things I love so much about her. But in an instant she was gone. Locked eyes in the middle of the chaos was the only goodbye I got. 

Losing Hosea was hard, to say the least. He was more of a father to me than Dutch was in all the ways that mattered. He taught me to swim and fish and how to read the leaves and stars at night. He taught me that waiting is sometimes the best strategy, and to never go anywhere without a good strong lie as to why you’re there. He was kindness and compassion, but also cleverness and hard edges when he needed to be. I looked up to him more than I knew and his absence will leave a painful hole that cannot be filled. 

But my grief is nothing in comparison to Dutch’s. His...it’s like a pain he’s unwilling to admit is there. Like he’s afraid that acknowledging it will break the damn he’s built and everything will come crashing down. I worry what it means for him, for me, for all of us. Hosea was truly the angel sitting on Dutch’s shoulder. 

I somehow made it out of Guarma and that whole mess alive. A boat took me back and I had the unfortunate luck to land in Van Horn. I must be getting old, my bones seem to have absorbed some of the exhaustion I’ve been feeling for nearly a month now. But I got myself a horse and should be back at Shady Belle tomorrow afternoon to whatever wreckage is left from my former life.

The thought of seeing my wife seemed to be the only thing getting me through the days since that cursed robbery. Her smile, the sound of her laugh, her soft hand in mine. I miss it, sometimes so much I am nearly brought to tears and in those moments I understand why Dutch doesn’t talk much about Hosea. Like watching the sunrise with burning eyes, sometimes the pain that comes with it makes you aware that it happened at all. 

Part of me knows that what’s waiting for me at Shady Belle isn’t good news, but I can’t think about that just yet. Hope is the comforting shadow beside me. 

I should have known better than to expect a good night’s sleep. My eyes were so blurry I mistook a tree for a man on the side of the road. Even my body knew that nothing is how it should have been. 

Shady Belle was empty. Well, worse than that. It had echoes of the gang being there, our last hurrah as we rode out to the gates of victory so blind to what was about to happen. Cans littered around where we ate together, scuff marks all across the dirt from our boots, even a small pair that must have been Jack’s. The worst though was a carving I found on one of the poles of the front porch of my initials in a heart that she must have drawn without me knowing. I tried to etch it into my notebook but found I couldn't stand there for more than a few moments without the familiar pain of missing her taking over my senses. Maybe one day I won’t feel like I’m being ripped apart by all of these emotions.

Inside was empty. Nothing remained of the time we spent in those walls. I couldn't bring myself to check the room I had shared with YN for the fear of being entirely overwhelmed again. Instead I found a letter from Sadie Adler, a woman of many surprises, waiting for me in the living room. She must have known I would come back. 

The quiet didn’t last too long before a couple of Pinkerton fools in the employment of Mr. Milton came around. From what I overheard they returned to Shady Belle every single day to see if we had returned but had no such luck. That meant two things; that the gang got away safely and the other’s from Guarma hadn’t come to the house. For a few moments at least my heart settled but that didn’t last long. These days it never did. 

I rode straight to Lakay even though I despise the damp, disgusting heat of the swamps. My eagerness to see people I knew won over my hatred for the area. Eventually I found my way to a small village, if you’d even call it that, of buildings set up along the river bank. Time and humidity had worn away at any pride these homes must have held, the moss clinging to anything that needed to be filled back in. It was silent save for one man in the farthest hut chopping away at some type of meat. 

Pearson for the first time in my life was a sight for sore eyes. Luckily Abigail was behind him and Sadie behind her so I was quickly welcomed with warm arms and a bowl of stew that was the finest I had ever tasted. There were questions, so many questions, but they held their tongues for the time being and let me settle into a bed for a few hours of sleep. Finally the exhaustion caught up with my body and I was overcome with aches and a cough, but that I ignored too. 

Tilly, Uncle, Lenny, Karen, Sean, Mary Beth, Strauss, Molly, Charles, and everyone else was safe and hidden away. We were safe for the time being. 

Micah and Javier arrived the next day with the same story. We all needed rest, but there were things to do. John had been captured and taken to Sisika. Abigail pulled me aside and asked about YN and I did my best to hide my pain, but she told me what happened after we got caught in the gunfire. She was taken somewhere north, or at least that’s where the wagon headed, and some man named Staten was her watcher. My blood nearly boiled, but Abigail calmed me down until the agony of losing her ripped me apart and I had to go sit on the dock before anyone else saw me. How am I to deal with this alone? I would give anything to have her back by my side again, father be hanged. 

Not two days later a rain storm kept us inside, and set up the dramatic entrance for Dutch’s grand return. Things all broke loose. Abigail was yelling about John again, Micah on about something else. The man didn’t even have a chance to sit down before he was bombarded again. We raised a glass to Mrs. Adler for saving the gang in Dutch’s absence, her and Charles were the only reasons things continued on. 

She found me staring at the water the next morning. I was sitting there, thinking of my wife, and Sadie must have known. She tried to talk about knowing loss and feeling my pain, but there’s no one in the world who knows what I’m going through. What we’re going through. My wife is somewhere I don’t know and I can do nothing about it. Every second of every day I feel like a failure for letting her down. I want to be there for Dutch as he needs the support, but I can’t help think that as time ticks on she’ll forget me and move on. Not sure what I’ll do if that happens. 

Bill Williamson is a right fool. That night he came busting into the sleep house going on about how hard we were to find, saying he asked everyone he could find, and I knew trouble couldn't be too far behind. Only someone truly hoping to meet death walks into a nest of vipers. I had just finished my glass of whiskey when I heard her voice. 

At first I thought I imagined it. There were plenty of times that the desperation in my mind had boiled long enough that her sweet tones called to me from somewhere just beyond my reach. At first I longed for them, for any gentle reminder that she was as real to me once as the glass currently in my hand. Then after a while they hurt to hear and the words got all jumbled together. Like she was farther away than ever. Like I needed reminding. 

But sitting inside that house I heard her clear as a bell. Not the words she spoke, it was far too loud inside for that, but I could tell it was her. My heart knew too and started pounding in time with the rain hitting the roof. Dutch saw me and asked why I had frozen in place but Abigail had heard it too. She stood and stared at me, wondering what was taking me so damn long to move but it was like my legs had grown twice their weight. I finally got myself up and pushed through the sudden silence around me to stand at the door. 

There she was again. She had to be real. But she sounded...off. Like something was wrong. 

Calling for me, for us, or anyone. I was so full of terror I couldn’t breathe. But someone touched my shoulder and I came back to life, opening the door and finding my dream standing before me. Wide eyed and desperate, much like myself, but there was a warning in her eyes I couldn’t decipher from so far away. Her hands were up in the air shaking like a leaf. Her head shook slightly. I was overcome by a need to preserve this moment of reunion and committed her to memory for once she was back in my arms and I could draw her in this here journal. Honestly I can’t describe how I felt knowing she was at least alive. My heart wanted me to run to her and throw caution to the wind, but my gut told me something worse was lingering in the shadows with an alligator grin. 

Just from looking at her I could tell Milton had damn near starved her for the dress she wore was much too large, hanging off her arms and shoulders. The blood was what cued me in. Rust red stains splattered the front and ice filled my veins at the realization of who’s ghosts she wore wrapped around her. That bastard Milton paraded her around in a costume like he was putting on a show, but I was done being a puppet.

Arthur Morgan was nobody’s fool. 

Arthur. 

His eyes were murderous but whether that was aimed at you or not remained unknown. The rapid thumping in your chest flooded into your ears as well but the words passing between you didn’t need to be spoken. You didn’t need to hear them to know what he would say. 

Seeing Arthur after all that time was a breath of fresh air in a world that had been a dusty haze for the past month. It was awful and wonderful at the same time to be standing so close yet unable to move any closer. Your soul ached to return to its rightful place. The stress of standing there with the weight of all that had happened could be seen as your hands shook and your shoulders tensed and your heart broke all over again.

More light passed onto the muddy ground as the door behind Arthur opened and a few cautious faces moved out. Dutch. Abigail. Bill. Lenny. Charles. Sadie. Anger and confusion colored their expressions. You hoped they all could understand. 

A strange feeling passed through you as you noticed Micah was nowhere to be found.

Arthur took in deep, heavy breaths as you held eye contact. Under any other circumstance standing beneath the stars in the dark of night would be almost romantic, especially with the twinkling fireflies blinking their messages all around you. But the rain and the tension crackling across the night like lightning changed that. In fact it changed everything. 

The rain covered the sound of wagons rolling in and the footsteps of Pinkerton agents as they crept around the perimeter to trap the Van der Linde gang from escaping. The lightning bugs hid the glints of metal from the guns being raised and taking aim. And you, the queen of the chessboard, were meant to hold the outlaw’s attention as the plan slid into place around you. Your father had been almost gleeful explaining it to you and it made you sick. 

“YN...what’s going on?”

Dutch held his hand out in front of his adopted brother but kept his eyes trained on you. 

“Don’t say anything, Arthur. We don’t know what this is.”

A voice hissed behind you. The horrible reminder that you were not there of your own accord. You were not there to be rushed to safety, to explain and convince those you loved that you have never walked out those bank doors if you thought any harm would have befallen them. 

“I…” The words faltered as they mingled with the falling rain. “I am here to...offer a deal on behalf of Cornwall Kerosene and Tar, the United States Government, and the Commonwealth of West Elizabeth.”

“A deal!” Dutch snorted. “And what would that be?”

Tears rolled down your cheeks at the thought of what had to come next. Only when your shoulders shook from the tension of holding them back did you look away from Arthur, praying to anyone who would listen for a way out of this. 

“You have nowhere left to run.” The words were plain but landed like a slap in the face. Milton had prepared a lengthy monologue and you fought to remember all of it. “My father has chased you relentlessly and ultimately you will submit. There is a price big enough on your heads that  bringing you in dead would still earn him a fortune. But there is dignity and pride in turning yourself over alive instead of ending up d-dead like that...fool Hosea Matthews.”

The hiss behind you continued as the people in front of you balked at your words. It hurt to know Milton was twisting the knife in but you held the weapon.  

“If you come without a fight, you will all be allowed to live. If not, I can’t -”

“Allowed!” Dutch responded. “What is this, there’s no honor in this choice. I will not be commanded like some dog after what your father did to Hosea!”

This time the words hurt you and you answered with a flinch. 

“Dutch, please,” you licked your lips, your eyes darting to Arthur. “You don’t have to fight! Everything will be alright, just listen to me -”

“Everything will be alright?” The leader repeated back. “I believe nothing of the sort. Mrs. Morgan, do you know what happens to folks like us who the law doesn’t see favorably? Who aren’t the shiny, golden children of society? They are hung like common street criminals and forgotten in the ashes of our history books. I refuse to fade away as an ink spot upon a page, I refuse to let others make my choices for me, and I refuse to listen to a bully who hides like a coward behind others! We demand to be more than that legacy fated for us by others. We demand our god given right that others only dream of, freedom!”

His speech was beautiful but it didn’t change the fact that mere feet behind you sat a Maxim gun, manned and ready to fire, if they didn’t listen to your pleas. Dutch’s pretty words did nothing to stir the rebellious spirit in your chest and instead caused more tears to run down your cheeks. The flare of his independence was bright, but that meant it couldn’t burn for much longer. 

You weren’t the only one affected by Dutch. Behind you the men lying in wait rustled out of the bushes and crept up with their guns drawn, each footstep stringing tension across your shoulders. 

“I was wrong about your father, YN.” Dutch drew in quick breaths at the sight of the ambush. “He’s not only a coward, but a fool too. You see, he’s underestimated us once again and that will lead to his demise. Now, boys! For Hosea!”

The world erupted in gunfire and smoke around you. At Dutch’s signal everyone hiding inside fired away at the agents planted around the swamp, yelling and filled with rage at the thought of revenging their beloved Hosea. Loss was a strong motivator, and as you clamped your hands over your ears you wondered how long the haze of distraction would last. The maxim gun fired continuous deafening rounds and all you could hear above the ringing in your ears were the screams of people you loved. Your knees sank into the mud as panic rippled across your skin. 

Milton shouted behind you, commanding his men like he was trying to storm the gates of hell. 

Dutch retreated into the cabin leading his rebel crew in a secret assault against the forces of perceived evil who had come to change his ways. 

Where did you fit into all of this? What was your place and how did you go about getting there? Was your only hope to run and hope it would find you? It only took a moment to come to you. There was only one anchor in this hurricane and it was the same one you returned to time and time again. 

Arthur Morgan. 

As Dutch retreated Arthur hesitated to leave you behind. His eyes darted through the dark to try and find you while he ducked for safety. Terror clenched your heart and you screamed for him to get out of the line of fire, you would find him. 

Forcing tension into your shaky limbs you knew you would regret it if you never even tried to get to him. The air above you was filled with shouts and raindrops and gunshots but nothing could distract you; this was your only shot and you would not throw it away. A door to your right swung open and light flooded the ground and you took off pumping your legs as hard as you could to cross the muddy ground getting closer and closer to your goal. 

Breathe. You had to get to him, you were so close. 

Behind you bodies hit the ground and you had no doubt that Arthur had taken most of them out. He had incredible aim in the worst of times, and this was definitely one of those. Even Dutch couldn’t rival him and after a few competitions no one else had bothered. 

“YN! Over here!” 

“Javier!” 

You had never been so happy to see the dark haired man in your life. He grabbed your arm and pulled you inside, yanking you down to the floor immediately to avoid another spray of bullets from the gatling gun. 

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to help!” You pleaded with him. “Someone needs to take out that gun, what can I do?”

“Stay down, Dutch has a plan!” 

You both ducked to the floor as a window shattered above you. 

“It better be quick, we can’t hold out for long!”

From outside one of the agents yelled above the chaos. “There’s too many of them, we have to retreat!”

“No!” Your father bellowed back. His voice was too close for comfort. “We do not back down, we have the power of the law on our side.”

“The power of the law ain’t fighting two of the best shots this side of the Mississippi, boss! We are!”

Javier let out a breath that sounded like a laugh and shook his head. “Mrs. Adler’s out there too now, won’t be long. Between her and Arthur I don’t think the Pinkerton’s stand a chance.” There was a pause as Javier eyed you warily. “Your father, that is.”

“Javier -”

But you couldn't finish your sentence as the back door flew open and someone called out to him. He nodded at you and crawled his way to the door to see why he was needed, leaving you alone to hide from the debris falling all around. As the door shut behind him, you caught a glimpse of red coat tails that looked awfully similar to what Micah usually wore. 

More men were dying outside, you could hear the yells of defeat as the maxim gun came to a stop but you were running out of time. Something inside of you said the clock was ticking and you needed to move. 

Breathe. In, out. Breathe.

“Where did she go?” Milton bellowed from outside. The bullets had stopped and the air felt deathly still. “Where did that bitch go?”

“Don’t you talk about my wife like that!” Your heart swelled at Arthur’s words. 

It sounded like he was in the barn next door. If you could sneak without being caught this was your chance for a getaway. Perhaps the only one. 

“Get out here now before I blow this whole place to hell! Turn yourselves in and die with nobility.”

Your eyes squeezed shut. Block him out, he’s bluffing. A ball of nerves formed in your stomach like a hard thing weighing you down and you fell to the wall for support as you gathered the courage to move again. 

“Agent Milton, I believe this is where we part ways. You are alone and outnumbered, give it up.” Dutch answered. 

“Never, Van der Linde. I am tasked with bringing you and the others in…” his voice tapered off as soft clicks rang out and you imagined from your hiding spot behind the wall everyone aiming in his direction,

“How about this,” the dark haired man suggested. “You and I can make a little trade. Me and my friends here will walk out of here safely and you will not pursue us if we give you something you want.”

A bark of laughter responded. Milton was not pleased with the child's play that interrupted his duty. “And what would I get out of this deal?”

“Your life?” Dutch shot back. “A chance to live another day? No?” There was a pause as Dutch walked forwards and you dared a peek out of a nearby bullet hole to observe the scene. “Maybe something a little more valuable. Your daughter for instance?”

Two rough hands suddenly grabbed your shoulders and yanked you upwards and you let out a cry of disbelief. They hadn’t made any noise walking up, or perhaps you were too trained on listening to the conversation outside to notice. 

“Get your hands off of me!” You cried out at the same time Arthur yelled something from outside. 

“Shut up, Princess Pinkerton. And walk.” 

You should have known. Did the man who walked you down the aisle really have no regard for your life? Micah gave you a shove to move forward and you hesitated for only a moment. All you wanted was to help your family escape safely and to keep your father from enacting his twisted sense of justice. You wanted to feel safe and free, but there were too many obstacles holding you back. Was this really all your life would be?

With dirty hands you wiped your cheeks, squaring your shoulders and preparing to face him again. It wasn’t going to be easy. But there didn’t seem to be another choice. 

“Dutch what in the hell are you playing at?” 

Falling rain once again met your face as you walked out and took in the tense scene before you. Dutch, Arthur, Bill, and Charles all had their pistols focused on your father who in turn stared down his barrel at Dutch. The two men were everything the other despised, and you were caught in the middle. 

“My daughter?” Milton still seemed shocked to see you. As if he hadn’t been the one to bring his own child to a gunfight and had simply found you there. 

Arthur was held back by the iron grip of Charles as he habitually tried to come to you. The look of pure sorrow on his face broke your heart but there wasn’t enough time to think about yourself and how you felt. Soon he would be out of sight. 

“That’s right. Take her, and the two of you leave and never come back to chase us around the country. Me and my friends will never cause another day of trouble for you and we all leave with our lives. Isn’t that what we want, after all? To live and go our own ways?”

It felt like he had slapped you across the face with his words. The fact that you were the bargaining chip was not lost as you stared down the man with newfound hatred. 

“Don’t I get a say in any of this?” You snapped back. “Or am I unimportant enough to both of you that my value lies only in my silence?”

“Oh Mrs. Morgan,” Dutch chuckled darkly. “I have missed your temper. But today, my dear, is not the day to fight like it's your last. Be a good girl and run along with your father.”

Something in his tone made you hesitate, the hatred pausing for just a moment. Was there something else going on? Had he not abandoned you just quite yet? It was a glimmer of hope but that was all you could find so you held it close. He gave a slight nod in return.

“Fine. But I won’t forget this.” 

Dutch’s gun slowly moved to take aim at your head and you caught your breath at the sight. He was filled to the brim with frustration and rage. But somewhere in his eye was a calm collection as he formed a plan. 

“Now get out of here. Both of you. And don’t come back.”

Milton’s free arm shot out and gripped yours too tightly, his eyes still focused on the outlaws escaping of their own design before him. His men were all dead. There were two horses left to ride out and no wagon. He had truly and utterly lost but he refused to admit it. 

Arthur’s eyes were dark as you tried to meet his but he wouldn't look at you. The flush in his cheeks gave away how worked up he was and you wondered if it was all too much and he had found his breaking point. You wouldn't blame him if he didn’t want you anymore, things were just so damn complicated. It hurt but his happiness came first. 

Your father took a step backwards and dragged you with him and panic hit your stomach.

“Dutch…Dutch! Don’t let him do this,” the tears started no matter how much you tried to keep them in. “You don’t know what it’s like, please.”

The small group watched you with hard eyes of confusion and hesitation and you didn’t blame them. Sadie had a mean look to her, but that was probably from the heat of battle. Charles looked sad and your heart ached for your friend. Even Bill looked hesitant to send you off with Milton, but no one moved against Dutch. Something whispered to you this might be the last time you saw them. 

You fought every step of the way but eventually Milton got you on a horse and tied the reins to his with a length of rope. Any last drops of hope were drained out of you at the sight of the others breaking away hurriedly. It was just Dutch, Arthur, Sadie, and Micah left that you could make out through your tears as your world fell apart. 

“Stop crying, I can’t think,” Milton muttered harshly. 

“Everything I love has been taken away from me, by you! And now I’m stuck with you again I think I have the right to be upset.”

“You have no right to anything,” he replied. “You are nothing in the eyes of anyone and that’s all you will be.”

The horses started moving and you looked behind you one last time. Without the rain the evening appeared softer; the firebugs had come out to blink to one another and the moss swung lazily around the canopy. Dutch had finally lowered his weapon but you noticed Arthur was gone from the group, no doubt off to chuck your wedding ring into the bayou and let the memory of you fade with the small metal object as it sank into the murky riverbed.

If only you could touch him, feel him, let him know that nothing was his fault and every mistake had been tallied in your name. Arthur had scrubbed his slate clean in your eyes, it was time he saw that too. You missed him more with each step your horse took away. 

It was torture to to ride on with your father as emotions swirled all around you. He pushed the horses at a fast trot to leave the swamps as quickly as possible, paranoia creeping up on him like the sounds of crickets at his back. You could no longer hold back the sobs that shook your body. Sorrow at losing everyone again. Nerves about going back to being a prisoner. Utter and complete heartbreak at the thought of Arthur hating your every fiber. It was all too much. How could one person cope with this much feeling?

“I ever tell you why I joined the Pinkertons in the first place?”

Milton’s voice caught you off guard and interrupted your sorrow. 

“N-no, and I don’t care -”

“I joined,” he continued on. “Because I wanted to put order where there was only chaos. The Pinkertons were a respectable organization I could put myself behind, gain respect myself and do something worthwhile for society. We left Boston after your brother...died and I couldn’t stand the pain. My work eventually came second to drinking and I knew then that was my lowest point.”

“But you kept drinking, you still do,” the thought of stale whiskey making you shiver. 

“Since you ran off I haven't touched a drop. You see, in the past I myself was the chaos and I needed order to save me. Our family was broken but I couldn't look past my own pain to see that you both needed me instead of the shell of a man I was parading around as. Your mother is a good woman and pulled me up when I needed it. She packed us up and moved us out all on her own. I was simply a shell.” You had never heard your father talk like this and wondered what brought about the nostalgia. It was strange to hear about a time you dreamed so often of but in reality knew nothing about. He looked softer as he spoke. “I never wanted to be like that again. Yes, I still drank to forget but I was finally in control where I belonged. We had a good house, in a good town. I had a good wife and a good daughter. Only when that bastard Van der Linde moved in did you start to get reckless, going to town with that dark haired woman and forgetting where you came from. It didn’t take me long to realize you were the only thing left I had to steer away from chaos. My little girl.”

His honey-covered words were hiding something but you couldn’t figure out what it was. The way he spoke of chaos and control sounded religious; he truly meant to save others the same way he found for himself. You sat in silence for a moment before thinking of something to say. 

“I’m not your little girl anymore,” your voice remained steady. “To be honest I’m not sure I ever was. Growing up with a daddy who drinks and hits you takes away any kindness he offers and twists it into something evil.”

“You see what I mean?” Milton’s temper flared for a moment and he carefully brought it back in. “All of them, they turned you away from what’s right. They worship savagery.”

“These aren’t things that changed because I met them, they were always wrong! Do you really not see that?”

Milton hesitated before answering. “The life you lived there wasn’t...These people are just playing pretend. They have no sense of contributing to something larger than themselves and it’s so small minded, you were raised to know better than that.”

“Maybe I don’t want to contribute to something,” you muttered. “Maybe I just want to know what it is to not live bound to any rules other than what I need. I’ve seen your justice, father, and I don’t want any part of it.” 

Weariness slipped into your bones at the conversation. It was the longest you two had spoken in months, almost a year, and his blind passion did nothing to sway your feelings towards the Pinkertons. 

“I’m sure you’ll change your tune. Your mother is too.”

Your head shot up at that. “Mother knows what you’ve done? And she agrees?”

Before he had a chance to answer, a horse came thundering up the road behind you. Squinting through the evening fog you couldn’t make out the rider but had a feeling in your heart that it was someone you knew. They drew closer and with each passing second you grew more anxious. Your father pulled out his pistol and kicked the horses faster. 

“Milton!” A feeling of relief washed over you at the sound of the voice. “You ain’t going anywhere with her. Give it up!”

“Arthur!”

The hose below you let out a nervous whinny. It struggled against you pusining to turn with your legs and the yanking from the rope as your father pressed it to go faster than before. You were desperate to get to your husband but it was nearly impossible with no control and you wanted to cry out in frustration. 

“Get back, Mr. Morgan. We had a deal but I’m not surprised you snakes went back on it,” your father spit, looking back. “You’ll get nowhere with this stunt.”

“Stop, please stop!” You begged. Arthur was gaining closer with every second.

Milton spun around to check on the pursuer’s progress and the look on his face was murderous. Rage flushed his face and the pressure to flee made the veins in his forehead stand out at a horrifying attention. He paid you no attention as he kicked his horse again. 

With less than ten feet between you Arthur kept one hand tightly on the reins and held the other out to you, reaching as far as he could to try and bring you to him. As if on its own, your arm stretched to try and meet his fingertips. You held on to the saddle horn and tried to ignore the sounds of protest coming from your father that drove the horses on somehow. 

“Just a bit more, darlin’. I got you. Don’t be afraid!”

“I’m not, I’m not!” 

The sound was bordering hysterical. The distance between you was all you had to overcome and then you would be safe and home in Arthur’s arms again. Your heartbeat matched the echoing of hooves around you at the thought of making it to Arthur and simultaneously what would happen if you didn’t. 

His blue eyes held yours with no malice and your own fears melted away momentarily. For a month you had been kept apart, by Dutch, by your father. It was time to end all of that. 

Just as your hands brushed one another in their first reunion Milton screamed and whipped around to face the two of you. 

“Enough! I’ve had enough of this!” The pistol in his free hand raised to take aim at the moving target. “Leave us now or die!”

“No!” You screamed, moving in front of Arthur as best you could to shield him. “Father stop!”

“Milton put the gun down!” Arthur’s voice was low and hard, anxiety weaving its way through at the thought of either of you getting hurt. By now he had a firm grasp on your wrist and the pressure of his hand on you gave you strength. Your mind ran wild trying to think of a way to get out of this alive. 

But there simply wasn’t enough time. 

The missing heat from Arthur’s fingers registered at the same time as your scream ripped through the muggy air. You clawed at the empty space next to you and watched in horror as a red stain blossomed across Arthur’s shoulder beneath his hand. He looked up almost bewildered. 

“Arthur! Arthur no!” 

You twisted out of the saddle and fell to the ground with a hard thump. The impact hurt but you pushed it aside. You had to get to Arthur. 

Milton stayed silent but circled back around. You ignored him and ran, if you could get far enough you could both still get away. But hope slipped out of your grasp as he came closer. 

The shot hit him right in the shoulder and he was bleeding. A lot. Harsh, ragged breaths pulled in and out of Arthur’s chest as he applied shaky pressure to the wound and cursed in agony. You knew there was no way he could ride both of you in that state. 

“How could you!” You screamed at your approaching father. “That is my husband you just tried to kill!”

“Milton -”

“Enough of this foolishness!” Milton shouted, spit flying in his desperation and rage. “I will not have you acting like a child any longer. This ain’t over Morgan. You tell Van der Linde -”

“YN -”

“We’re not leaving him! He could die!” Milton gave you a pointed look. Anger bubbled up inside of you. “No, I refuse to go with you.”

“You don’t have a choice. If he dies no one will come after us and you will stay with me. If not,” your father shrugged. “I’ll kill him later.”

Just as you went to join Arthur, Milton grabbed your arm. You struggled and pulled to no avail. He was stronger and dragged you further and further from your husband who held himself up precociously, blood covering his chest. 

“I said enough!” Your father yanked you one last time and looked down at you with rage and a hint of pity in his eyes. “You clearly need to be reigned in more than I thought.”

A blinding pain exploded on your right temple and radiated down your neck. Arthur cried out but the sound was lost as your father brought the flat end of his pistol down, hammering it into your temple to knock you out. Unfortunately it worked; you couldn't fight him anymore and Arthur was all but dead if no one knew where he was to help him. 

Your last fleeting thought before losing consciousness was that this had to end. The chasing, the fighting, the pain of losing good people who didn’t deserve their fate. It was time to take back the control others had over you and set everything right that had toppled into chaos around you. In a twisted sense your father’s words about disorder and structure were true. Just not in the way he wanted. 

You were no one’s pawn and never would be again.

[vanderlindemangofarm]

Last Shot

Summary: after a frustrating day of hunting in the Grizzlies, tensions between you and Charles are running high. It’s only a matter of time before the air needs to be cleared. 

Warnings: light angst, smut, dominant Charles. 

Pairing: Charles Smith x Fem!Reader 

Word count: 1,532

This popped into my head last night when I started playing through the game for the second time. I had completely forgotten how to use dead eye and kept missing those bloody deer by an inch. Charles was getting annoyed with me and well, hey, here we are. I really hope you enjoy it! 

“Shit!”

You didn’t have many arrows left, and your patience was growing just as sparse. Once again, the young doe you had your eye on had fled into the darkening forest and out of sight. You closed your eyes and took a deep, slow breath. You heard Charles sigh irritably behind you, and you turned to glare up at him.

“This was your idea, Charles. You said I should practise. Don’t look at me like that just because I haven’t mastered this fucking impossible thing in less than an afternoon.”

You held up the bow he had lent you, shaking it around. Charles looked solemn. He rubbed his injured hand, his gaze drifting off to where the deer had fled.

“It’ll be dark soon, Y/N. We can’t go back to the others with nothing.”

“If you knew the supplies were so low, why didn’t you bring Arthur along instead? Said yourself he’d gotten pretty good at shooting arrows.”

“I didn’t realise you were this b…” Charles let his voice trail off. You stood up, folding your arms across your chest, heat rising in your cheeks despite the bitterly cold air.

“This what?”

“…inexperienced.” he said eventually. You nodded slowly, your lips pursed.

“Fantastic.”

Snow had begun to fall again, gradually becoming less and less visible against the dusky sky. Charles straightened his hat.

“Look, I’m sorry. I think I can see some more deer tracks leading off that way. Let’s try again.”

His hand hovered as if he was considering placing it on your shoulder, but he thought better of it. You were ashamed to realise that your stomach fluttered at the thought of him touching you, even in such a simple way.

You hadn’t been with the gang for long but from the very beginning, Charles had caught your eye. He was handsome, thoughtful, observant. It had taken a while for him to say more than a few words to you at a time but eventually you started having long conversations on the tedious wagon journeys, and when he offered to help you practise hunting, your heart had leapt at the idea of being alone with him. You got the feeling he enjoyed the chance of getting away from the others. The fact he was seemingly happy for you to be with him out of everyone else made you smile. But here you were, hours later, the content, slightly smug feeling of having Charles all to yourself long forgotten. Time and time again he had watched your arms wobble as your attempted to steady the bow, your gaze growing foggy with panic when you realised you couldn’t hold it for long. Each time you had cursed – jokingly at first, sharing a sheepish grin and shrugging your shoulders, saying that second time was the charm, or the third, or the fourth. But eventually the feeling of frustration had set in. You could sense his resentment, even if he tried to bury it. You knew he felt let down, guilty even for putting pressure on you. All you wanted to do now was ride back to Colter, get a hug from one of the girls, maybe listen to Reverend Swanson read whilst you sat by the fire. And when your blood felt thawed, you would join Charles in bed. Your mouth went dry at the thought.

“Y/N? This way.”

Charles’ voice was monotone now, and you lowered your eyes, trying to focus on the tracks he had pointed out to you. Sure enough, after a short while you spotted the deer. It was older, frailer. Less meat for sure, but still enough to bulk up a stew. You narrowed your eyes, crouching down low just as Charles had taught you. You felt him squat down behind you, oh-so slowly placing his hands under your elbows to steady you. Your heart started beating faster when you felt his hot breath against your ear.

“Go slow. You can do this, Y/N. Just focus.”

You drew back the bow string, took aim for the deer’s neck, and released the arrow.

“…shit.”

It was Charles who cursed this time, getting up so suddenly you toppled over backwards. The sound of the arrow hitting a tree just behind the deer, along with Charles’ angered words, echoed through the forest. The animal looked up and fled.

“…I’m sorry.” you stuttered. Charles laughed, but coldly.

“So am I.”

You stood up, throwing the bow at his feet.

“You’re not the only one who’s fed up, Charles. I hate this just as much as you do. And let me reiterate – this was your idea.”

Your voice was growing louder, startling several birds overhead. Charles’ narrowed his eyebrows, walking closer to you. There was a sparkling electricity between you know that wasn’t there before, and you felt delirious.

“Keep your voice down,” he said calmly. “You’ll scare away every living thing between here and Blackwater.”

You swallowed, moving your face closer to his. It was a test, an invitation, and he didn’t move away.

“Shut me up, then.”

You spoke before you could stop yourself, your surprise only heightening when Charles pressed his lips to yours. When you paused for breath you gasped, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Fine.”

With a rush of energy that seemed to have been built from all the irritations of the day, Charles lifted you up and pressed you against the nearest tree, your legs wrapping around his torso as your lips smashed together again. You kissed breathlessly, ferociously, only pausing to help Charles unbutton your trousers and guide his hand between your thighs.

His fingers were thick, and despite the adrenaline you both felt he touched you with care. His index finger ran up and down your core as his thumb found your clit, rubbing small circles around it and kissing your neck as you started to moan from the sensation. You placed your feet back on the ground as your hands fumbled for his belt, unbuckling it hungrily and feeling for his cock, already rock hard and straining against his jeans. He was big, deliciously so, your hand wrapping around the base as you began to pump him.

“Fuck, YN…” he hissed, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back, but only for a moment. He kissed you again, his finger sliding inside you with ease. One finger was enough to stretch you out, and you bit down on your scarf to stop yourself mewling too loud. Charles chuckled, warmly this time, pulling out and holding onto your hips to lift you up again. You placed one hand on his shoulder to steady yourself and used the other to guide his throbbing cock inside you.

He went slow, but it was enough for your vision to go hazy. With a slight pang of pain that soon gave way to dizzying pleasure, Charles was in you, guiding you up and down his length with ease. Your mouth hung open as you rested your forehead on his shoulder, the cold evening air mixing with the intoxicating fullness and the warmth of Charles’ body against you.

“Look at me, Y/N.”

You slowly met his gaze and he bit down on your lip, making you squeal.

“Good girl. Keep your eyes on me, now.”

His playful tone was unexpected, and the heat that rose in your stomach made it all the more tantalising. Charles looked you up and down as he fucked you, an expression in his eyes that was more akin to pride than anything else. With a deeper thrust he hit your g-spot and before you could cry out, he covered your mouth with his hand.

“Shhhh…”

Your eyes watered as Charles sent waves of pleasure through your entire body. When you came you bit down on his hand rather than your scarf and he cursed, breaking his own rules. He pulled out and pushed you to your knees, and you instinctively let your mouth fall open. He slid his cock between your lips, his hand resting gently on your head. You didn’t have to suck for long before you felt him approaching the end. The forest was completely silent for a few seconds before his deafening roar broke through the air, his seed hitting the back of your throat.

He sunk to his knees and cupped your face in his hands. Your cheeks were hot and damp, but you smiled as he brushed a few strands of hair away from your eyes.

“Are you alright?” he asked in less than a whisper. You nuzzled into his palm, nodding.

“I…I didn’t hurt you did I?”

There was genuine concern in his voice and you stroked his face, chuckling softly.

“I’m fine, Charles. More than fine.”

You stood in the snow together for a while, his arms around you, your head resting against his chest. It was only when you heard an owl hooting somewhere overhead that you remembered why you were out there in the first place.

“Oh, shit. Charles…what about the hunt?”

You heard Charles curse under his breath, clearing remembering too. He sighed.

“Guess it’s salted offal for one more night.”

You laughed, thinking of the faces the others would pull when you returned.

[reddeadreference]

Colter: Who the Hell is Leviticus Cornwall?

Full Transcript below ([...] placed where a gap of silence is for the same person speaking or when there’s a long period of silence and distance traveled.)  

[After “Old Friends” and “The Aftermath of Genesis” no matter the order, the screen fades to black and words appear.]

A few days later…

[Arthur narrates a new entry in his journal.]

“It’s been a bad few weeks, but… Dutch being Dutch, he is busy making plans and… Dutch being Dutch, those plans involve robbery and dreams.”

[After, Arthur goes to see John and sees Swanson next to him, giving John morphine for the pain.]

Arthur: I thought you was reading him his last rites… now I see you’re introducing him to your other passion

Swanson: I’ll mind you to show me some respect, Mr. Morgan.

Arthur: Mind away, Reverend.

[Swanson leaves.]

Arthur: (to John) You’re still here, then?

John: I owe you.

Arthur: And you’ll pay me… but for the moment, just rest.

[Dutch enters.]

Dutch: Arthur… I think it’s time for the train.

John: You want me to come?

Dutch: Of course I do, but… look at you.

John: I was always ugly, Dutch… it’s just a scratch.

[Jack and Abigail enter and approach.]

Dutch: (to John) Lie still, son. (to Abigail) Hello, Abigail.

Abigail: The boy wanted to see you, John.

John: He’s seen me now… or what’s left of me. What about you?

Abigail: Guess I was hoping to see a corpse.

John: Bide your time, you’ll see plenty of them.

Abigail: You’re a rotten man, John Marston.

Dutch: He is an idiot, Abigail, we all know it.

[Dutch and Arthur leaves the cabin. Hosea and Bill join them outside.]

Dutch: Now, railway men. Bill, now you ride ahead and set the charge at the water tower, just before the tunnel.

Bill: Ain’t a problem.

Hosea: Why are we doing this? Weather’s breaking, we could leave. I-I thought we was lying low.

Bill: Hyah… come on.

Dutch: What do you want from me, Hosea?

Hosea: I just don’t want any more folks to die, Dutch.

Dutch: We’re living, Hosea, we’re living… look at me, we’re living… even you. But we need money, everything we have’s in Blackwater. You fancy heading back there?

Hosea: Listen, Dutch, I ain’t trying to undermine you, just… I just want to stick to the plan… which was to lie low, then head back out west. Now suddenly, we’re about to rob a train.

Dutch: What choice have we got?

Hosea: Leviticus Cornwall’s no joke, Dutch, he’s…

Arthur: Who is Leviticus Cornwall?

Hosea: He’s a big railway magnate, sugar dealer, oil man.

Dutch: Well how good for him. Sounds like he has more than enough to share. (loudly) Gentlemen, it is time to make something of ourselves. Get your horses ready, we have a train to rob. Everyone ready? Alright, let’s head out.

[Dutch leads the group out of camp.]

Dutch: Okay gentlemen. Listen up, all of you. According to the information so kindly provided to us by the O’Driscolls, the train will be coming north, from Big Valley. We’re going to pick it off after it crosses the border into the Grizzlies. There’s a raised spot there that should give us good vantage. Charles, you’ll keep lookout for any outriders. How’s that hand, by the way?

Charles: I’ll be fine.

Dutch: Good. I’ll take the driver and engineer, then run point. Lenny and Javier, you two take the front cars, deal with any guards. Arthur and Micah, you head straight for the back. That’s what we’re after… Mr. Cornwall’s private car.

Micah: You and me, Morgan. Have you got a problem with that?

Arthur: Not if you keep your head for once.

Micah: You worry about yourself.

Dutch: Enough! After Bill blows the tracks, we’re gonna need to move fast. Is everyone clear on what they’re doing?

Arthur: Yep.

Micah: Crystal.

Lenny: Yes, boss.

Dutch : Good. Now, come on. Let’s ride.

[...]

Arthur: Out of the snow, finally.

Dutch: Feels good, doesn’t it? But we need to get this done fast now it’s thawing… before anyone gets up here after us. Look at you boys. See? This is what I call a crew. Micah Bell, Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan, Javier Escuella, and what about young Lenny here? Always the first man on his horse.

Lenny: Just happy we’re back at ‘em, Dutch.

Javier: You sure you’re ready for this, kid?

Lenny: Course I’m ready.

Dutch: Just stay calm, keep your eye sharp. That goes for all of you. No mistakes, not again. No mistakes, not again.

Micah: So we do this, then we go back to Blackwater to collect?

Arthur: How many times are you going to ask the same question, Micah?

Micah: That’s a lot of damn money to leave sitting for too long.

Charles: It would be crazy to go back there now. The place will be swarming with Pinkertons.

Dutch: We go back when I say we go back, and that’s the end of it. There’s the water tower. Hold up here on the ridge. Is Bill there?

Arthur: Yeah.

Dutch: You wanna head down? See how he’s getting on?

Arthur: Okay.

[He rides down to Bill, who is planting explosives under the railroad tracks.]

Arthur: How you getting on?

Bill: Yeah… I’m okay.

Arthur:You sure?

Bill: Of course.

Arthur: Can I help a little?

Bill: Alright. Go ahead… and set up the detonator by those rocks over there.

Arthur: Okay, sure.

Bil: Now, just unspool the wire and then attach it to said detonator.

[Arthur picks up the large wooden spool, walks to the detonator and connects the wire]

Arthur: Okay, this is good.

Bill: Alright, that should do it. You head back up to the others, I’ve got it from here.

[Arthur mounts his horse and returns to the others]

Lenny: Here comes Arthur.

Micah: About time. I have to say, I am rather looking forward to this.

Dutch: Just be ready to move quick, and remember the plan… all of you. No mistakes. (loudly) What’s going on?

Arthur: He says all fine.

Javier: We’ll soon find out.

Dutch: Everything okay?

Arthur: I think so.

Dutch: Okay, cover your faces. Train should be here any minute now. [...] Gentlemen, it’s time. Good luck, all of you. You all know what to do.

[The train approaches and quickly approaches the location of the dynamite.]

Bill: Here we go.

[Bill presses the detonator plunger down, but the explosion doesn’t go off. He tries again and again but the train passes by unscathed.]

Bill: Shit, no! What? God.

Dutch: Oh, you have got to be kidding me.

Arthur: Where did you find that moron?

Dutch: You said it was fine.

Arthur: So it’s my fault?

[Lenny and Javier have quickly dismounted their horses.]

Javier: Well, come on!

[Arthur dismounts to follow them.]

Arthur: (to Dutch) You’re pathetic. You know that?

[Arthur, Lenny, and Javier run and jump onto the roof of the train as it comes out the other side of the tunnel.]

Lenny: Here we go! 

Javier: Here we go!

[Javier lands but rolls off to the right while Lenny rolls to the left. Arthur looks back to see Javier getting up on the tracks, unharmed. Lenny, who rolled in the other direction, managed to hold onto the edge of the train car’s roof.]

Lenny: Pull me up! I’m slipping! Oh shit!

=Don’t pull up Lenny= -> =Didn’t help Lenny before=

Lenny: Help! [...] Hey. down here!

[You lose honor and Lenny pulls himself back up onto the roof.]

Lenny: Thanks for helping, Arthur… really appreciate that. Let’s keep moving!

=Didn’t help Lenny before=

(A little later on Arthur asks Lenny the following:)

Arthur: You alright?

Lenny: Why didn’t you ask me that when I was hanging off the side of the train?

Arthur: I knew you’d be fine.

=Help Lenny up=

Arthur: I’ve got you. Now stop yelling.

Lenny: Shit! Shit! Shit!

Arthur: You’re okay… now let’s go slow this thing down.

Lenny: Where’s Javier?

Arthur: He fell, the others’ll get him. 

Lenny: You and me, big man.

|

[The two drop down to enter the next car. Lenny will automatically take out the first and only guard inside.]

Arthur: Come on, we need to stop this train.

Lenny: There’s another guard up ahead, you want me to take him?

=Take the lead=

Arthur: No, I’ll go… you cover me.

Lenny: Okay…

Guard: (unsubtitled) Oh shit! We got company!

=Send Lenny=

Arthur: Yes, you go.

Lenny: Okay…

[Lenny runs out and gets behind the guard.]

Lenny: Hey! [He pushes the guard off the train]

|

[The two shoot their way forward through the cars.]

Arthur: You alright?

Lenny: Yeah, I’m good. Let’s keep moving! [...] What the hell was Bill doing? He had long enough to set that charge.

Arthur: Well, I hooked up the wire, but we won’t mention that.

Lenny: Should we move up?

Guard: (unsubtitled) I got these sons of bitches!

Arthur: How you doing there?

Lenny: I’m okay. 

[Ver 1]

Lenny: If we don’t stop this train soon, the other boys’ll never catch us.

Arthur: I know, just stay calm.

[Ver 2]

Lenny: We gotta hurtty! W-we have to stop this train!

Arthur: That’s what we’re doing, kid.

|

=Lenny Stops the Train=

Lenny: I’m going up! Look, we have to stop this train! 

[Lenny runs ahead. As he runs along the coal car the train engineer smacks him in the face with a shovel. The two men grapple.]

Lenny: Shoot him, damn it!

[Lenny climbs into the first car and pulls the brake lever. The train stops.]

=Arthur Stops the Train=

[Arthur gets hit with the shovel, as he went first this time, and grapples with the engineer.]

Lenny: You got him? I ain’t got a clear shot!

[Arthur breaks free of the grapple and throws the train engineer over. He rushes to the first car and pulls the brakes to stop the train.]

|

[Once the train is stopped Lenny and Arthur have a shootout with the remaining men that come out of the train.

Arthur: Look out, we got more coming off the train!

Lenny: There better be some money at the end of this.

Arthur: All these bastards must be guarding something.

Lenny: We need the car at the back, right?

Arthur: Yep, keep pushing on ‘em.

Lenny: Watch out! There’s some shooters up top!

[...]

Arthur: You still okay?

Lenny: I think so! 

Arthur: Good.

[...]

Lenny: Damn, he’s got an army! Who is this guy?

Arthur: You’re doing good, kid. [...] Where the hell are the others?

Lenny: I don’t know!

Lenny: Oh shit… look, they’re coming outta that last car!

Arthur: We’re gonna get out of this.

Lenny: Oh, I know we are. [...] Hey! There’s the other boys.

[The rest of the group have finally caught up and help finish the fight]

Dutch: Come on, clean this up boys!

Lenny: There’s still more coming off the train!

[Finally all the enemies are taken care of.]

Arthur: Good shooting, kid.

Lenny: I can see now why the O’Driscolls brought so many boys up here for this.

(Not in the video but if Arthur doesn’t reach Dutch quick enough Dutch calls out: “Arthur, get over here!”)

Dutch: Are you two alright?

Arthur: Yes, let’s get the money and go.

Dutch: We got some fellers holed in up this last car.

Arthur: Ah, shit.

Dutch: (towards the last train car) What are you boys planning on doing in there? Listen to me, we don’t want to kill any of ya… (to the others) any more of ya. (to the guards) I give you my word, but trust me… we will.

Guard 2: I work for Leviticus Cornwall.

Dutch: Come on, boys.

Guard 2: We got our orders.

Dutch: Okay. You asked for it. Five…

Guard 2: We ain’t opening this door.

Dutch: Four... Three, Two, One. (to the others) Seems our friends have gone deaf. Wake ‘em up a little!

[The whole gang starts shooting at the car, some with their pistols others with their rifles.]

Guard 3: We ain’t coming out!

Guard 4: You got no way in here!

Dutch: That’s enough! Mr. Williamson, give Mr. Morgan and Mr. Smith some dynamite… you two boys, go blow that door open.

[Bill hands sticks of dynamite to Arthur who then tosses one to Charles as they approach the car.]

Dutch: (to the guards) Now don’t matter too much to us, but you boys in there, might wanna take a step back…

[Arthur and Charles attach the sticks to the door of the car]

Charles: Seems good enough. 

Arthur: Here we go…

Charles: Now light the fuse.

[The two light each stick before hurrying back to the others a safe distance away]

Bill: Unless you got a death wish, I’d step back, fellers.

[The explosion blows the door open]

Dutch: Alright, come on… just walk on out here. We don’t want to kill you… We just wanna rob your boss. (to Micah, Lenny, and Arthur) Get on up there, search that train.

=If you just stand there=

Dutch: Go loot the train… quick!

|

[Micah, Lenny, and Arthur enter the car.]

Lenny: Look at this place. It’s like a palace.

Arthur: Now I’ve seen everything. You two got the safe? I’ll search the rest.

Micah: Oh yes, should be easy as cake. 

[Outside Dutch can be heard speaking to the guards but the subtitles don’t pop up often enough to get all the dialogue and it’s difficult to hear over Lenny and Micah.]

Micah: You’re just gonna stand there, Kid, pour me some brandy will ya? I’m parched.

Lenny: Shut up. Me and Arthur did all the work.

Arthur: Yeah… kid did good. Didn’t see you rushing to jump on that train.

Micah: He’s keen, I’ll give you that.

=Micah opens the safe full dialogue=

Micah:Okay, let’s see if we can get this open. Come on, come on. Getting there… [He opens the safe] There, See? That’s how it’s done. Shit, just a pile of papers.

Arthur: Bonds?

Micah: I don’t think so. (to Lenny) Here, make yourself useful. Least we all know you can read. [He hands Lenny some of the papers]

Lenny: Gimme those.

Micah: Railroad contracts… invoices… blah blah blah. (to Lenny) You got anything?

Lenny: Not really. Sugar imports from the Spanish West Indies… a lot of sugar. Some fancy new boat he’s ordered from Europe.

Micah: *slight chuckle* I am not robbing another boat as long as I live… [...] (to Arthur) Have you checked all the drawers and cabinets?

Dutch: (from outside) Come on. Let’s hurry this along, boys.

Lenny: Any luck, Arthur?

Arthur: Nothing much yet.

Lenny: Well let’s keep looking.

Micah: Those goddamn O'Driscolls…

Arthur: (upon finding the lockbox) Now this looks like something…

Lenny: These just seem to be contracts… Arthur, have you looked down the end there? [...] Well keep looking, there must be something.

Dutch: (from outside) How’s it looking in there?

[Arthur opens the lockbox and finds the bonds.]

Arthur: Think I got ‘em.

[Lenny and Micah throw the papers they were looking at to the floor.

Micah: Nice.

Lenny: Well thank God. Come on.

=Find bonds before safe is opened=

(The only difference is obviously Micah doesn’t open the safe and there are no papers for them to throw to the floor.)

|

[The two leave the car first, Arthur leaves last and brings the bonds over to Dutch.]

Dutch: What did you find?

Arthur: These… bonds. They worth anything?

Dutch: Oh, sure… bearer bonds. I think we can probably sell these pretty easily. Well done. Now would you get rid of all of this?

Arthur: The train?

Dutch: Yeah, get it out of here.

Arthur: What about them? [He motions to the three guards]

Dutch: What do you think?

Arthur: I don’t know.

Dutch: *chuckles* It’s up to you. Kill ‘em… leave ‘em here… take ‘em with you on the train… Just make sure they don’t send no folk after us.

Arthur: Okay.

Dutch: See you back at camp. When you get back… we’ll be moving on. The rest of you… let’s ride!

[Dutch and the rest of the group leaves.]

Arthur: Okay, get on the train, quick, all of you. Any bright ideas, I’ll kill all three of you…so behave. Come on, move.

[Two of the three guards climb up into the private car]

Guard: We won’t tell a soul, I swear!

Arthur: If I hear so much as a footstep from this car, you’ll end up like all your friends out here. Get a move on!

[The last guard climbs in. Arthur runs to the front of the train, sets it in motion and gets off as it pulls away. He whistles for his horse and mounts up and heads back to Colter as the screen fades to black.]

[peacockeryabound]

The Last Honest Men, Part 1

(From the story of the same name on my Archive. Part 1 of Chapter 1.)

Synopsis: "Have a little faith", that's what he always said. He, of all people, shouldn't have to worry about doubting himself.

On the cusp of a new chapter in his life, cracking slowly under the pressures of his cause, Dutch Van der Linde begins to question if his heart is in the right place, and with the right people.

(Pairings: Dutch Van der Linde/Molly O'Shea, Dutch Van der Linde/Susan Grimshaw, Dutch Van der Linde/Hosea Matthews

-------------

There was something liberating, about standing at the cliff end of the camp to look out at the unspoiled frontier beyond. Horseshoe Overlook...it was still cold as sin and the camp assembly had staggered due to fatigue and hunger but what was important was they were out of Colter. This was the true spring lands, their little patch of haven in the spry woods. There was fresh wood, abundant game, berries and herbs...they had made it.

Not for long, not without sacrifice, but they made it. In celebration, Dutch perched upon the finest fallen log he could find and took to wafting a cigar while he enjoyed the beauty that the Heartlands offered. He could hear the girls behind him, fussing about with organizing, of Uncle sassing back over some unclean retort about his appearance. Pearson was preparing a stew that actually smelled halfway decent. It brought a smile to his face.

But only for a moment.

Prideful as he was, satisfied as he was, it was not easy to savor the entirety of the morning when Arthur was instigating a rundown behind him with Hosea over the losses they had sustained. They had to bury Davey up there in the mountains, forever alone in a land he had no choice to die in. Jenny had to go even higher, up near a frozen river with just two bits of wood to resemble her cross, miles away from any beaten road. Alone. At least Davey got to rest in Colter when they left.

The reverend gave him hell on that one, and that was a sermon coming from a man who couldn't say a straight sentence on a good day. It was pitiful, Dutch now remembered. Sean was still missing. Mac too, probably dead as well. Hosea nearly froze himself to death beside him on the wagon train. Little Jack, trembling against his mama in some broke down cabin in a godless blizzard...

He leaned forward, as if those few inches were enough to get out of earshot. Hand firmly cupping a knee, he indulged in his smoke again and licked the plumes rolling down his tongue.

Blackwater was a hot mess. It was the whole damn reason they were all here right now, running further into east territory when he had been scolded too many times by Hosea and Grimshaw about his original hard sell on settling west...southwest. Southern California?...all minute details in the big plan, unimportant right now. That he nodded too and exhaled through his nose, right down into the belly to savor the musk of the forest, all the pine and wood smoke that made his knees weak.

Losses had to happen sometimes. He had his time to mourn, but through sacrifice came victory, and they made it. He pushed himself back onto his feet and tightened his back, windmilling his arms to crack his shoulders into a pose that meant business.

"Friends," He started with open arms, "It's a fine morning." He took some steps closer to the two men, who each gave him tired expressions. "The birds are singing. The dew is fresh. It's a beautiful day in Eden, and we are its children." He slung arms around both of them, but only Arthur managed some semblance of a smile. Kid knew his place well; he had that faith in him. That could make any man feel like a powerhouse. Hosea...

There was one hell of a cold squint coming his way.

"You can talk of the Good Book with Swanson in a ditch. We are farther east now than the plan intended." The old man pulled out of the embrace. His nose curled to match Dutch's. "Arthur has the damn right to talk about Blackwater as it was what got us all into this mess."

Dutch stared for a moment until he gave a snort and drew Arthur in closer. He was mindful of the cigar as he gave the young buck a good smack on the back for his presence. 

"And we can talk about Blackwater, later. Let's not spoil the good fortunes we find ourselves in this morning, eh Mr. Matthews? Mr. Morgan?" 

There was something always charming, about the reception of Arthur's clueless stare and that exasperated sneer from Hosea that just made him want to grin. They both side glanced to each other, shared a sigh and both backed off to resume whatever duties had possessed them. He waited with a hand in his pocket and his cigar to his lips, smiling behind the smoke when the old man only took a few more steps before tensing his shoulders and pivoting back around.

Hosea pointed at him. 

"You and me, tonight. We're going to have a talk."

Dutch raised his cigar and gave a proper head bow. 

"Of course, old friend. Until then, go and take a walk under the warm sun. It'll do your legs some good."

Hosea made a dismissive gesture at him and stomped off, leaving him with his thumbs hitched into his belt loops while he surveyed the camp. It was coming together very nicely, not bad for a bunch of heathens on the run. With the majority of the tents set up, everyone was finding their own place amongst the chores. Jack was watching Javier tune his guitar. Strauss fussed over the log books under his tent. Susan barked orders for the girls to wipe down the tables while she smacked Bill upside the head in passing for nodding off against some crates.

A glance to his side took his focus back to his tent, where she stood there waiting for him. Dutch smoothed back his hair as he began to saunter close, performing a more appropriate bow when he was able to smell her perfume. 

"Mornin', Miss O'Shea." He mumbled into the back of her offered hand.

-----

Yes, even a man such as himself could have doubts, but he would have been a poor and sorry fool if he had turned back on his own beliefs for a second. Times had been tough and supplies were almost bone dry for the next few days, but the Van der Linde gang was nothing if not tenacious. A few of his boys were already out scouting towns and stalking targets, and blessed be the angels who stayed behind to ensure the camp was comfortable. 

He looked over his coffee cup, eyes following the shambling Uncle who stumbled by while digging for gold down his pants.

Alright...most of them. 

Dutch took a swig as if it were a shot and perked from a heavy grunting that sounded off behind his tent. He recognized that unrepentant growl anywhere.

"Arthur! What in God's name-"

"Yeh, well..." the outlaw shifted to keep the drunk man over his shoulder. "God don't want him today."

They both shared a chuckle and he watched the good reverend be carried off and daintily dumped onto his bedroll like a bag of sand. Arthur was dusting his hands as he sauntered back, waving off Dutch while he was given an appreciative clap on the bicep.

"Much appreciated, for going out and checking on him, Arthur." Dutch smiled through a nod. 

"Sure. Father Swanson told me all about his declarations of giving up the hard stuff." Arthur mused as he reached into one of his pockets. He deposited a stack of bills into Dutch's hand, returning the pat while taking pride in the stunned expression on the big man's face. "That came from his little confession at the poker table."

Dutch guffawed as he counted every dollar, glancing up as he watched his number one sauntering off with a whistle to his tune and a pep to his step. Arthur didn't seem any worse for wear after carrying an entire drunk over one shoulder, which would explain the energy behind his hat tip during his walk past both Hosea and the large rifle the man was cleaning.

Now, that was an interesting sight...

Dutch took a long drink while blindly dumping the bills into the collection box, observing the old blonde stand and mumble something to Arthur when they reunited. They both inspected the gun and Arthur made a jab about shooting elephants, earning himself a warm smile that wasn't too common these days. They walked off together, guns in hand and satchels slung around their shoulders, fat with supplies for some grand adventure.

He'd have to ask, what the big occasion was. In due time...

Dutch smiled at Mary-Beth when she sauntered past on her way to the cooking pot. She caught his eye and brought her book up to hide her face and the shy grin he swore he caught.

She ended up being on his mind for a good portion of the day, enough to distract from both the suspicious glances from Molly and thoughts of Hosea. It was only when Dutch sat down in his tent to draw up a pencil and his notebook that he truly knit his brows, licked his lips and really reconsidered his priorities. 

As he scratched down unrelated notes, he thought back to their time in Colter. Blackwater was enough of a stress riding on his ass but the bigger priority of sheltering and feeding their family had allowed him to stuff down the guilt of it for a time. He remembered the half frozen lethargy of the women, of Micah cussing up a storm over the living conditions, of Pearson trying to take a cleaver through what frozen game Arthur and Charles hauled back. He remembered the skin of his own cheeks feeling like it was going to chip away from the biting cold as he led a few of his boys up the hillside to eliminate the nearby O'Driscoll competition.

Dutch realized he had been scribbling a growing circle around a freckle in the paper. He sighed, dropped the pencil into the center of the splayed pages and leaned back to stare up at the roof of his tent. He couldn't get Blackwater off his mind.

No, he was not going to spook the gang by admitting to the horror show in the presence of those who had not witnessed it. It was not right, to bring the ghosts of that botched job back into the minds of the survivors who had outrun the bullets with him. He closed his eyes. Try as he could, he couldn't shake the image of Hosea, shaking like a shitting dog in front of a pitiful fire in Colter.

He had overheard Arthur mumbling to Javier one night over a campfire dinner, that he had been concerned over that harsh weather which was going to do the old man in. Everyone had suffered during the storm in Colter, but Hosea's poor health had dipped into a terrifying low that had left him sluggish and slow on the up draw. It had gotten to one point where it was uncertain to distinguish the rattle of his coughs and the shivering from the cold. 

Colter was the result of those Pinkerton dogs back in Blackwater...but it was also because of his own poor shots. That dead girl's face was going to haunt his mind for years to come.

"Dutch?" Molly's voice caused him to jolt. She was peeking through from a lifted flap, her expression suggesting she had been talking for a few seconds without him noticing. "Did you hear me?"

"Molly...Molly." He greeted back with a distant smile. "My sweet garnet from the Isles...c'mere, darlin'."

Her approach was slow, hesitant. This hadn't been the first time they got into it over his headspace lately, though she bit her tongue and sighed through her nostrils. Instead, the ornery thing folded her hands and cocked her head with all the presence of a scolding mother.

"You told me that you were going to take me to Valentine. For the picture show."

Dutch blinked. He might have been staring longer than he thought, as her nose was scrunching her face more and more into a tight glare. In the face of impending chaos, he did the sensible thing and closed his book. It strained a bit between his hands due to the pencil still trapped inside, but if bulging at the seams under pressure wasn't a metaphor that Hosea always lectured...

He grinned.

"The picture show! Yes, of course, Miss O'Shea I did promise you that." He stood up and looped an arm around her waist. The haphazard crash of the book behind him made the corner of his lip twitch. "This was...tonight, wasn't it- OW! Damn you, woman!"

Molly smacked him again, hard across his chest. 

"Well, if it was next Tuesday, I wouldn't be harping on you now, would I?"

She huffed at him and gave his mustache a light tug, her expression fighting to remain bitter. The longer they looked at one another, his hand upon her own cupping his cheek, all that came out of her was a small sniffle.

"Darlin'..." His voice was soft as he moved, chest to chest with his free hand settled on her hip. "You know I would give you the world. Do you doubt me on that?"

Molly looked uncomfortable. "Dutch..."

"Mo-lly..." He was kissing along her knuckles.

"No, I don't doubt you, Dutch..." her voice became hushed at the end. She made a defeated gesture with her hands before she crossed her arms and looked elsewhere. "Even if you make me want to." 

He watched her push by to take a seat on their shared cot. It had felt a bit cold these last two nights, despite the body heat shared between them. Something twinged inside of his gut during his approach, himself bracing for the tutting on the last time they had even made love during all of this mess. After he had taken a seat next to her, Dutch offered his palm to her back, noting her refusal to lean back against the sway of his stroking.

"I promised you a picture show." He repeated. She nodded. "I...got a little carried away, it seems."

If that wasn't a bullseye of an answer. Every member of this damned stubborn gang reveled in hammering that point in every day. Dutch Van der Linde, the dreamer, the fool (and all its variations), the huckster, the murderer. 

That last one struck deep, as was the dirty price of freedom. That McCourt girl's face was back in his mind, overlayed on Molly's face. Young, big doe eyes, lips parted in dawning horror from the crazed look of a madman pointing at her...a small coo was made and he blinked. It was so simple a sound and yet it unlocked a memory he had desperately tried to keep smothered down inside of him; Annabelle's voice. She made sounds just like that, right when he would tuck a curl behind her ear or draw pleasure out of her from his mustache kissing her neck...he flinched from her hand suddenly stroking his jaw, wiping something wet that had settled down his cheek.

"Such a softie." The voice gave a small hum and her lips were pressing against his.

[sweets-fanfics]

Homecoming 17

Title: Loss

Wordcount: 3319

Warning: Agnst, violence

Tags: @rollyjogerjones

AN: Time jump after this chapter cause it fits my story idea better.

_________________

Arthur knew something was wrong but the first person you needed to find was Micah. You pushed past Arthur while pulling out your pistol. Everyone kept their eyes on you as Arthur followed you calling your name. 

Finally, you spotted the rat as he was saying something to Jack. As you walked up Jack looked up at him. “Your mean Uncle Micah,” Jack mumbled as his eyes teared up.

“You gotta learn to take a joke. You’re too soft.” Micah rolled his eyes.

“You son of a bitch.” You point your gun at Micah who quickly pulls out his pistols and aims them at both of you. “I ran into your friends while hunting.” You say in a lower voice.

At first, he looks confused but then you notice him get worried for a second, “You squeak, and I kill the kid, right here and now.” He says to only you. Jack hears him and runs to hide behind you. 

“You’re a rat. Why should I let you live?” You ask.

Micah smirks, “They asked you too didn’t they?” You tried not to look guilty, “That’s why you shouldn’t.”

“I’m not going to help them.”

“Then keep your fucking mouth shut and I won’t have to get dirty.”

Arthur finally caught up and got between you two. “What the hell is up with you two?” Bear was between your legs growling at Micah. “Bear, down,” Arthur commands, making Bear let out a small whine before sitting.

“He was picking on Jack.” You grit through your teeth.

“Not worth shooting him in the middle of the camp.” Hosea says as he hurries over with Dutch.

“He also kicked Bear, again!” You said. As if he understood Bear lifts one of his paws and lets out a sigh.”

“Y/N,” Dutch says over you. “Go cool down.” 

You let out a groan and stomp off with Jack towards Abigail. “What did he say to you this time, Jack?” She asks as her son runs into her arms.

“He kept asking who my real dad was, and he said Pa wasn’t my dad,” Jack said through hiccups and sobs.

“What a horrible man he is. You know who your Pa is, that’s all that matters. Don’t you pay no mind to that awful man.” Abigail hugs Jack before looking at you. “Are you okay?”

You shake your head, “I need to go for a walk.”

Abigail opens her mouth to speak, “I’ll go with her, Abigail,” Arthur says as he puts a hand on her shoulder. You don’t even wait for him you walk until you’re at the edge of the water. 

“Y/N, what’s goin’ on?” Your backs to him with your arms crossed. He sighs and walks up wrapping his arms around you, “I know it wasn’t about Bear or Jack.”

“If I say what it is, people are going to get hurt.” You whisper.

“You can tell me anythin’.” He says into your hair.

“I know. But I also know you’ll tell Dutch. And then everyone will be in trouble.” Arthur turns you around and gives you a stern look.

“If it’s really that bad, I won’t tell anyone.”

You took a deep breath and looked into his eyes, “The Pinkertons found me when I got separated from Charles while hunting.” Arthur didn’t react, just waited for you to continue, “They tried to get me to act as a spy for them. They threatened you… and also guaranteed your freedom if I turn my father’s information over. He left before I could tell him to fuck off. But I'm pretty sure he knew my answer already.”

Arthur rubbed the scar on his chin as he took in all the information. “I’m glad you’re okay. But I still don’t know why you went after Micah.” He said, slightly confused.

“Micah is a rat.” You whisper. Arthur’s face got red as he began to turn around. You pull his arm back and take his face in your hands. “We can not let him know I told you.”

“Let’s just shoot him and get it over with,” Arthur growled.

“No. Cause if he knows I told someone he’ll kill Jack. But if we kill him the Pinkertons will know and show up.” You kiss his lips and he calms down a bit, “I want to call him out. But I need time to think of how to safely do it.”

Arthur could see the pleading in your eyes. He let out a long breath, “Fine… I’ll try.”

“Thank you.”  He kissed your forehead and let his lips linger there a bit longer.

“I have to go do the Trolly job with Dutch and Lenny.” Arthur sighed.

“Luca said not to trust his father.”

“I know. And I don’t, but Dutch does. And what Dutch says…”

“Goes. I got it.” You mumble. “Promise you’ll be safe okay?”

“Of course.”

______________________

The men were only gone for a few hours when Lenny and Dutch rode into camp quickly. You noticed your father was holding his head and that your husband wasn’t there.

“What happened?” You asked as you helped Lenny get your father to the porch. 

“It was a setup, there was no money and the police showed up.” Lenny groaned.

“Father, I told you not to trust him. Now, where is my husband?” You ask as you check over his head.

“Arthur is fine,” Dutch says as you smack his hand away when he tries to touch his head. “I just hit my head rather hard is all.”

“You may have a concussion.” You mumble as you hear another horse ride into camp. You turn around expecting to see Arthur but instead, you see something strange. “What is that?” You ask, making Dutch and Lenny look too.

“Oh god…” Dutch mumbles as Mary-Beth lets out a scream.

“It’s Kierran!” She screams looking at the decapitated body carrying its own eyeless head. 

“Look in the tree line!” Lenny shouts as you all look up and see O'Driscolls riding towards you. 

“Women and children inside!” Dutch yells trying to stand. He gets dizzy and almost falls down. 

“Father, get inside.” You say pushing him towards the door. “I can handle these assholes.”

You grab a repeater that’s leaned up against the house and run to take cover behind one of the barricades with John. Jack sees John and begins running for him with his arms open. John quickly scoops him up and you all hide behind the barricade until Jack and Abigail are able to run in the house.

You peak over and are able to shoot two in the head before ducking back down. “We are starting to get overrun, get in the house!” You hear John yell next to you.

“We have to get them all!” You yell back. 

“We will, but in the damn house!” John grabs your collar and practically throws you towards the house.

Once you and all the men get inside Charles knocks over a bookshelf to block the door. Dutch starts yelling where everyone should hold up to get as many of the bastards as possible. You get put in the back of the house where you're able to take out a good amount when you hear a scream outside. 

“Sadie’s outside still!” You yell and hop out the broken window before your father and Hosea can yell at you to stay put. You butt a man in the head with the gun before you finally reach her.

“Sadie- Sadie?” As you round the side of the shed you see her finishing off two men with a knife as she screamed angrily covered in their blood. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine!” She picks up one of the O’Driscolls guns, “Let’s kill all these Bastards!” 

Feeling slightly inspired by Sadie you follow her around the house taking out O’Driscolls. One jumps out about to get the drop on us when Charles throws an ax, getting the man in the head. 

“Are you two okay?” He asks. 

“We are just dandy Mr. Smith,” Sadie smirks as she hits another man and notices they are retreating. “Look at those bastards run with their tails between their legs!”

“Sadie,” You sigh and run your fingers through your hair, “Please don’t make them come back.” She chuckles and pats your shoulder as you collapse on the fountain and take a deep breath. 

“Is everyone okay?” Dutch asks running out to check you over. “Young lady what you did was very stupid!” He lectured.

Still catching your breath you just waved your hand and nodded. Dutch growled a bit but could tell you weren’t in the mood. Henry ran up and hugged you tightly before letting go to turn away and cough.

“What do we do about Kierran?” John asks as he walks up.

“Poor kid, he was a good one.” Dutch sighs, “Reverend would you give this young man a proper burial.” Swanson hurried up and he and Charles began to lift the body while Hosea picked up the head by his hair.

“We need to move soon, Dutch,” Hosea demanded.

“We will, Hosea, we will,” Dutch said running his hands through his hair. “Pearson, Grimshaw, let’s get rid of all these bodies!”

A horse rode up the road making everyone begin to reach for their guns. “What the hell happened?” Arthur asks as he hops off Athena before she even stops and runs up to you. 

“The O’Driscolls,” You were cut off as he hugs you tightly before he checks your face. “They killed Keirran, and then they attacked everyone.”

“Where the hell were you, Mr. Morgan!” Dutch yells making you jump a bit.

“I had to do an errand for someone. I didn’t think we’d get attacked!” He says as he grasps your hand. 

Sadie walks up to Arthur, wiping blood off her face. “Your girl was quite the fighter. Great aim.”  She smiles at you.

“I’m glad to hear that Mrs. Adler. My wife is a tough one, I’m just sad I wasn’t here to help protect you all.” 

“Well, at least we know your wife is more useful than you.” Sadie teases. You notice her emphasis on the word wife. “I knew you two would get married.”

“Sadie, congratulate them later so Arthur can help me with the bodies.” John groans as he tries to lift a body alone.

Arthur shakes his head and kisses your head before going to help John. As he walks away Sadie bumps you with her hip a little. When you look up she’s grinning from ear to ear. “I can’t believe you two got hitched. I bet Dutch was pissed.” She looks at you and you see her smile start to fade. “You okay, princess?”

“Yeah, why?” You ask confused.

“Your cheeks look really red.” She puts a hand on your forehead. “Y/N, your burnin’ up.” 

As if on cue you the world seems to spin a bit making you stumble. Sadie grabs your arm to support you. “Whoa…” You mumble.

“Let’s sit you down.” She sits you back at the fountain and starts to do a bit of check over of you. “Imma get your brother or Arthur… or.. I don’t know Grimshaw? Just stay there okay?” 

You hum at her softly as you try to steady yourself. You don’t even notice Sadie walk away. As you sit there the world continues to turn upside down slightly. You go over your day in your head wondering if you had eaten and if so what did you eat. But everything in your mind seemed normal. And you were never one to get dizzy randomly.

Just as you think you're going to fall over a pair of hands grab your shoulder. You glance up and it’s Henry looking at you worried, “Y/N? You okay, sister?”

“It’s really dizzy…” You mumble.

“You’re burning up sweetie,” He says softly. “I’ll take you to your bed okay?” You begin to nod but Henry is already lifting you up. 

“She okay?” You hear Arthur ask from somewhere.

“She has a fever. Can you grab her…” Henry’s voice starts to fade out as he begins asking for things. 

 ____________________

“../N, Y/N,” Henry asks, making you open your eyes. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

Henry smiles at you as you realize you're in your bed. His eyes look sunken in and his skin looks paler. “Did I faint? Are you sick?”

Henry chuckles, “You had a fever two nights ago. You’ve been sleeping for most of the two days. Your fever kept comin’ back.” 

You sit up slowly, no longer dizzy. “I’m not sure why I felt so weird suddenly.” You mumble. As you open your mouth you begin to feel your stomach come up. You quickly run out to the balcony and empty your stomach over the edge. Henry follows you out and pulls your hair back.

“You alright?”

You finish and wipe your mouth with your sleeve. “I must have eaten somethin’ bad.” you sighed. 

“Hey, she’s up,” Arthur says from behind Henry. He’s holding a bunch of wildflowers as he smiles at you. “You alright, love? Ya sure scared everyone.” 

The three of you walk back into the room and you sit on your bed. “She thinks she ate something bad,” Henry says to him. “You two probably have some talkin’ to do so I’ll leave you two be.” He quickly walks out of the room and shuts the door.

“What’s his deal?” You ask as you glance around to see if you have a mint or anything to get rid of the foul taste in your mouth.

“Well, somethin’ happened while you were out.” Arthur sighed. He handed you the flowers and sat next to you, taking one of your hands. “Your father took me, John, Bill, Lenny and Henry to pay a visit to Bronte.”

“Oh no… Arthur, what happened to revenge bein’ a fool's luxury.” 

“Hosea wasn’t for it either. But you know imma follow your father. He saved my life, Y/N.” 

You put the flowers next to you and wrap your arms around Arthur. “I know honey.”

“But your father…” You glance up at him. “He killed Bronte… He… He just keeps killin’ people. He drowned Bronte and then fed him to a damn gator.” You’re visibly taken aback by your father’s actions.

“I wonder what’s goin’ on…”

“We used to steal money from rich people and give it to the poor. Now, we just keep it for ourselves. It’s not like it used to be.” Arthur seems hurt but shakes it off and smiles at you. “I’m sorry for ranting, my love. How are you feelin’?”

“It’s okay to ‘rant’ to me, I’m your wife. And I feel fine. I’m not sure how I was so sick.” He rubs your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“Wouldn’t be a normal day if you didn’t give me a heart attack, huh princess.” You give him an unimpressed look at the nickname, making him chuckle and kiss your forehead. “The men and I are gonna hit the bank in Saint Denise, then we’ll be out of here.” 

“That doesn’t sound safe. But where would we go?” 

“Your father says Tahiti. But I’m willin’ to go anywhere you go, baby.” You giggle at his cheesiness which he finds adorable. 

“Maybe we can finally have our cabin in the woods.” You smile.

“But in California, maybe.”

“Anywhere but this forsaken place.” 

Arthur puts his hat on your head and hands his satchel to you. “I can't bring this stuff with me when we go. So will you hold on to it?”

“Sure, baby.” Arthur gets up and starts undoing his shirt making you blush and look away. “Uh… what are you doin’?”

Arthur chuckles, “I gotta dress up for the occasion, of course.”

You get off the bed and wrap your arms around his waist from behind. “You’ll be safe right?” Arthur puts his hands over yours and you can feel him sigh. He feels so warm in your arms. Like a personal body heater. 

“Of course. I gotta come home to you.” He turns you around and pulls you in for a long kiss. “You’ll hold down the fort?”

“Of course.” You reluctantly let him go and slip your shoes on. “I’m going to see what Hosea is up to.”

“Alright, don’t distract him too much, he's goin’ with us,” Arthur calls to you as you head downstairs.

When you get outside Hosea is sitting with Jack on the fountain. You walk up as the two of them finish. “We’ll start reading lessons again tomorrow.”

“Okay, Uncle Hosea.” Jack sighs and hops off the fountain.

“And what can I do for ya, Princess.” He smirks.

“I just wanted to come to say hi. But you seem to be in a teasing mood.” You joke.

He pats the spot next to him and you take a seat, “No no, I’m just excited.”

“About the bank?”

“Yeah, Dutch says this should be the last one.”

“Do you agree?”

“I think so… What about you?”

“I… I just want to live quietly with Arthur, somewhere nice.”

Hosea smiles, “That sounds lovely. I wish Bessy and I could have done that.”

“You miss her?”

“Every day…”  

You opened your mouth to speak when Dutch proudly walked out the front doors. “Time to saddle up boys!” He cheered.

Hosea gave your shoulder one final warm pat before climbing up the wagon. “You boys be careful, you hear?” You say to him.

“Don’t worry, Y/N, I’ll keep them in line.” Hosea grinned.

Arthur put his hand on the small of your back and kissed your temple. “I’ll see ya when I get home.” He said into your hair.

“You better,” Arthur smirked and kissed your forehead before going to his horse. 

Henry moped up next to you and you both watched everyone saddle up. “You aren’t goin’?” You ask your twin.

“Father said I’m not ready for a city bank.” He rolled his eyes.

“I don’t think you’re ready to rob a candy store.” You teased making him bump your shoulder.

“No bickering you two.” Dutch said, “You two can hold down the fort till we get back.”

“We’ll do our best, sir,” Henry said bravely.

Dutch smirked, “Alright then boys. Let's go rob us a bank!”

All the men and Abigail let out a loud yell before they all rode off.

_________________

You and Sadie knew something was wrong when the sunset and no one had returned. Jack kept asking you where his parents were. 

“Maybe they are just hiding somewhere before comin’ home baby.” You smiled and messed his hair up. “How about I put you to bed. Okay?” As you and Jack started heading up to the house you heard yelling. 

“We have to go!” You turned around to Charles and Abigail running into camp. 

“Momma!” Jack cheered and ran to his mother.

“What happened?” Sadie asked, hurrying up to them.

“The Pinkertons. They were there…” Charles said in disbelief. “They… Killed Hosea.” The camp went silent. “And killed Lenny… and John was arrested.”

“What?” You say in disbelief. 

“We need to leave now!” Abigail said through tears. “The Pinkertons are going to head here next probably.”

You were still frozen in shock as Sadie began shouting orders. As Charles walked by you to help clean you yanked his sleeve. “What happened to Arthur? Or my father?”

“I caused a distraction so they could hop on a boat. They said they’d come back when things died down…”

“But did they get caught?” You pleaded.

“I don’t know.” 

Henry walked up and took your hand that was still gripping onto Charles' shirt. “They’ll come back. But we have to go…”

You couldn’t hear him… you were already too eaten up with the thought of how you had just lost so much family at once.

[flamehairedwritings]

The Fire In Your Eyes: Chapter Seven

Characters: Arthur Morgan x Original Female Character

Rating: The whole series will be E, 18+ ONLY for violence, gore, character deaths, animal deaths, parent deaths, swearing, grief, sexual themes and sex.

Summary: Saved by Arthur Morgan when her town is attacked, a young woman’s past comes back to haunt her when she has no choice but to join the Van der Linde Gang.

The Fire In Your Eyes Masterlist

Please don’t copy, steal or re-post my work; credit does not count.

Falling Leaves

She returned to him the next morning, the blouse she’d worn the day they had been taken in one hand, thread and needle in the other.

He couldn’t think for the life of him why she came back, surely she knew he was going to ask her again, but the moment she sat down, without so much as a good morning, she began to speak.

“What do you write in your book?”

“Huh?”

She glanced up from where she was pulling the thread through the eye of the needle, repeating a little more slowly, “What do you write in your book?”

“Just... What we do. Things I find.”

“Why?”

“‘cause I do.”

“Yes, but why?”

“‘cause I just do. Why do you care? It ain’t even noon and you’re already irritatin’ me.”

He thought he saw the ghost of a smile on her lips before she tilted her head, watching the needle as she started to repair the blouse. “I used to keep a journal.”

He didn’t say anything as he looked at her, scratching his growing beard.

Christ, if she thinks we’re about to talk about feelin’s...

“We had a pond on our farm when I was a child and I used to document all the toads that came and went. I named all of them but I couldn’t really tell them apart so I might have just been giving some multiple names.”

He stared at her, his hand dropping into his lap.

“You were a strange kid.”

She smiled at that, her sewing rhythmic. 

“Yes, I was. My mother wanted me to be learning what all young ladies were learning like needle-work and how to pour tea correctly and how to sit straight, but I used to run to the pond instead and converse with the toads.”

“So you were raised to be a proper young lady?”

Why was she suddenly starting to divulge information now?

“Not properly, I’d say. My mother was from a good family and had been raised that way so she wanted to pass that along to me but I was too much like my father, I guess.”

She fell silent for a few moments, probably waiting for him to ask a question about her family, but he saw his advantage.

“Annie, I’m gonna ask you again about—”

Her sewing paused and she looked up at him. “I’ll tell you when I’m ready, Arthur. I promise you I will.”

He got the sense she wasn’t a person who gave her word lightly, but it still frustrated him. What could be so big and frightening that she couldn’t just tell him outright? And how the hell did it involve Colm? Or was it just something she was simply embarrassed about? That maybe she’d been reminded what a group of killers she was with? Nah, that didn’t make any sense to him. Usually he didn’t give a shit about other people’s business, but if this involved Colm then it would most certainly become gang business.

She looked back down at her blouse and the sewing resumed.

“Now, do you want to hear more stories about how strange I was?”

“... Fine.”

He actually found that he did, and she told stories of what a really damn strange kid she’d been (collecting rocks and leaves? Rolling around in puddles ‘cause she’d seen the pigs do it? Really?) until Miss Grimshaw found her and requested her assistance in helping Mr Pearson prepare the deer for supper that Charles had just brought back.

“Deer for dinner, it must be fate,” Annie had said as she left him, a smile on her lips.

It left him feeling... strange, her warm smile and his unease at the secret she was carrying.

He spent the rest of the day thinking about it.

She went back the next morning because she wanted to ask about the article pinned near the photographs, which he told her was about the first robbery he ever took part in. After some prompting, he grumbled and told her the full story, with all the details. She sat fascinated, interrupting here and there to ask a question.

She went back the morning after that because she wanted to know how he got Ophelia and named her that. She was a Thoroughbred and he’d bought her, thank you very much, and Hosea had suggested the name. 

“Is a Thoroughbred really suited for this life?”

“Yeah, she’s got a good spirit and can go fast.”

“So you can run away?”

“So I can survive.”

She’d then asked about other horses he’d had and how he was so good with them.

She went back the morning after that because she wanted to ask about whether some of Sean’s stories were true. Most of them weren’t.

She went back the morning after that because John had told her a story about how Arthur had fallen out of a window after trying to rob a house and she had to hear it from him.

She went back the morning after that because she wanted to.

It started to become part of their routine. She would come in the morning and ask questions and he would answer them, or she would read to him a passage from a book she was reading that Hosea had given to her and ask what he thought, which usually wasn’t much until she gave her opinion on it and somehow it suddenly had more meanings that he could understand, or she would tell him about what everyone else in camp was doing, and they talked until either Miss Grimshaw came for her or she left to get on with her own tasks.

A few times he even got to ask some questions of his own.

“How’d you get that?” he asked one day, sat with his legs stretched out on the bed, a knife and a token he was whittling in his hands. “That scar on your neck.”

She briefly glanced up from where she’d been scrubbing dried red dirt out of a skirt. “I got it when my family was attacked.”

He paused, lifting his head. “When the O’Driscolls attacked you in Strawberry?”

“No, no, years before then.”

She wet her lips, something he was noticing she did when she was considering something.

“Our home was invaded when I was younger. It’s how my father died. One of the men held a knife to my throat to keep me quiet but he pressed a little too hard and it cut me.”

“Jesus Christ...” he murmured, his eyes remaining on her. “How old were you?”

“Five.”

His frown deepened as he shook his head. “Shit, Annie. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” She smiled lightly. “It’s fine, though. I was so young that, you know... I didn’t really know him. You can’t really miss what you didn’t have.”

Arthur watched her, falling silent as she kept her eyes on her sewing. 

Sometimes they would just sit in silence, each getting on with a task.

During one of those silences, while cleaning his guns, he suddenly said, “Sean makes you laugh a lot.” It was a nice sound, her laugh, not grating like some he’d heard. “How come you don’t find him irritatin’?”

She snorted. “What makes you think I don’t?”

“Well, you spend a lot of time talkin’ to him.” His jaw moved minutely. “Are you sweet on him?”

She laughed, the loudest he’d made her laugh yet. 

“Oh, Christ, no.” She shook her head as she chuckled. “I enjoy his company, is all.” She smiled fondly now. “He reminds me a little of my brother. He died a few years after my father did, but... Before then he was always making me laugh, always playing with me. He never found me annoying, never wanted me to leave him alone. He was a good boy.”

“Well...” Arthur cleared his throat, returning his attention to his guns. “It’s good that he makes you laugh.”

Her smile widened as she turned the page of her book, her eyes dropping to it.

“You make me laugh, too, Arthur.”

He did make her laugh quite a bit himself, though often unintentionally. That made a faint smile tug at his lips.

Weeks passed, filled with conversations and silence, each recovering in their own way, until, finally, Arthur was deemed back to full health.

Feeling like himself again, he’d risen early and gone down to the shore, taking a seat on a chair left out on the jetty. He’d taken his journal with him, wanting to fill in a few spaces with birds and fish Annie had described to him that she’d seen. He didn’t know if he quite achieved their likeness, and he didn’t want to show them to her for her opinion because they weren’t anything special, but... One drawing he knew was like the subject it was based on was the drawing he’d started of her.

He’d suddenly begun drawing it about a week ago, fascinated with how her curls, unruly and having fallen out of a braid Mary-Beth had helped her with, fell down against her face and moved in the light breeze. He’d told himself it was just to see if he could capture that movement, a challenge to partake in until he got better, but as his pencil sketched out her lips and eyes with great detail...

You’re a fool of a man, Morgan.

He’d found himself writing about her, too, writing down what they talked about and what she told him about herself that included great detail and no detail at all. She gave greatly but carefully, to the point where he knew what kind of animals she’d played with as a child but couldn’t recall the names of her brother, mother and father. Had she even told him? She never talked about her sister or uncle who’d died back at Strawberry, either. Maybe it was too painful.

She is the most interesting and frustrating woman I have ever met, he wrote. I think I know her one minute and then she says something that completely changes my mind the next.

She still hadn’t told him her secret, and all he could do was hold on to the promise she’d made that one day she would.

“I thought I’d be buryin’ you, Mr Morgan.”

Arthur lifted his head at the sound of Swanson’s voice, closing his journal and sitting straighter with a wry smile.

“Well, not quite yet, Reverend.”

“Good. How you feelin’?”

“Oh...” Arthur inhaled a breath, glancing up at the other man. “About the same as you.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the Reverend answered dryly.

Arthur chuckled, rolling his formerly wounded shoulder.

“I thought Miss Sawyer might have lifted your spirits. She’s done a mighty fine job keeping you company.”

Arthur ran his hand down his beard, nodding a little. “Yeah, she has. It’s been very kind of her.”

“Well...” Swanson patted his back gently. “Take care of yourself.”

"You, too.”

Arthur rolled his shoulder again as he heard Swanson step off of the jetty, humming to himself an old hymn. The younger man gazed out across the lake as he slid his journal into his satchel before getting to his feet, clearing his throat. It was a crisp, slightly grey morning, with dark clouds threatening on the horizon, but he felt good and the strongest he had in a long time.

“You need to cut that beard, I’m beginning to forget what you look like.”

Annie joined him at his side, a cup of coffee in each hand.

He arched an eyebrow as he accepted one from her, returning his gaze to the clouds.

“I thought you might like that.”

“Oh, you’re right, but I think Mary-Beth is beginning to be a little disappointed, though.”

He snorted as he raised the cup to his lips, taking a long sip.

Ada smirked as she glanced at him. He never had anything smart to say back to her when she brought up the other woman’s not very subtle attraction to him. An attraction that Ada was, reluctantly, starting to understand.

Understand, not feel.

That would just be completely ridiculous.

Absolutely ridiculous.

Blowing on her hot coffee, Ada then looked up at him, raising her eyebrows slightly. “How about after you shave we go out for a ride and maybe some hunting? See if you’re really as better as you say you are.”

“I think I might be up to that.”

Her eyes flicked over him, a smile pulling at her lips. “We’ll see.” Raising her eyebrows, she turned away. “I’ll see you in fifteen minutes, Morgan.”

He watched her as she headed back into the camp, a smile lingering on her lips. Rubbing a hand over his mouth, he exhaled a breath.

You really are a fool of a man.

“Aren’t you a good boy? No, don’t eat that...”

Tugging her sleeve out of Faithful’s mouth, Ada smiled as she stroked his neck, his head turning towards her, almost nuzzling.

“You ready?”

Lifting her head, her response caught in her throat as her gaze fell on him.

One corner of his mouth was slightly higher than the other as he approached, a fresh white shirt on, a plain black waistcoat, and a black jacket that fell to just above his knees. His hat lay atop his trimmed hair, the ends of which now curled against the collar of his shirt rather than falling to his shoulders. He had cut his beard down to stubble, too, and though it was slightly patchy in some parts he looked... good. More like himself.

“Yeah,” she answered quickly, realising she’d left slightly too long a pause.

“All righ’, let’s go. I got somethin’ to prove and I’m not waitin’ on you.”

Her eyes kept drifting back to him as they mounted up, trying to ignore the heat that had risen to her cheeks.

Pull yourself together, you can admit he’s an attractive man. A poor-tempered, boorish, attractive man.

Ophelia drew alongside Faithful as they rode out of camp, and once on the main path Arthur let her take the lead, content to be taken where-the-hell-ever, just happy he was out and on his horse once more.

Glancing over at her, she looked more relaxed, too, a faint smile on her lips. She’d pinned back some of her hair but that hadn’t stopped some stray curls from falling about her face, the steady breeze not helping matters. She was wearing the green blouse Sean had given her, he’d found out, and a thick black skirt, a wide brown belt wrapped around her waist. His gaze quickly lifted as she looked over to him.

Her smile widened. 

“How about a little race?”

“A race?” He snorted. “I ain’t a child.”

“You aren’t?” She grinned as she kicked Faithful into a gallop, darting past him.

“God damn it...” he muttered, urging Ophelia to do the same, racing after her.

“Where the hell are we racin’ to?”

“None of your business!”

“How about you have a little sit down while I find us a deer?”

“One of these days that smart mouth is gonna get you in trouble, Miss Sawyer.”

His low words had a smile pulling at her lips and a strange sensation running down her spine. 

She’d won their race, though perhaps it was a slightly unfair advantage to her that she knew where the finish line would be. As he’d grumbled at that fact and they’d dismounted, she’d just smiled widely.

As they emerged from a collection of trees, he realised she’d taken them to Bolger Glade, an old battlefield that lay to the east of Braithewaite Manor. Crumbling trenches, stone buildings and a church occupied it, along with rusting cannons and broken wagons. The earth was slowly claiming them, grass and plants growing over each object.

He was about to ask what the hell could be hunted around here when a dampness landed on his cheek. The black clouds that had been threatening had grown closer and rain drops started to fall, at first haphazardly then all together, pouring down.

“Ah, shit, come on,” he called to her, “We’ll stay in the church until this blows over!”

“What about the horses?” she answered, pulling a face as rain got in her eyes.

“They’ll be fine!”

They broke out into runs, dodging broken wood and rocks as she shielded her face with her hands, he grateful for his hat.

“So much for huntin’, huh? What a grand idea.”

“I don’t control the weather, Arthur!”

They entered the decaying church moments later, slowing to a halt. Pushing her wet hair out of her face, Ada then wiped at her cheeks, blowing out a breath.

“Shit...” Arthur muttered as he came in behind her, shaking his arms out.

She held her forearms against her chest and rubbed her hands together as she walked a little further into the church, staying under the cover of what had been another level above. He followed her, removing his hat and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand before placing his hat back on.

“It looks like someone’s been here. Recently,” he heard her say and lifted his head.

A blanket and pillow covered a corner of an alcove, and close by was a burned out fire pit which he’d nearly stepped on. Stepping over it, her rolled his shoulder.

“We should be fine.”

He followed her into the corner of the church that gave the most protection from the rain. Leaning back against the wall, Ada blew out another breath, rather irritated that their excursion out was now ruined.

Arthur shook his arms out again, water leaping off of his jacket with the action, as he glanced through a hole in the wall. “It should pass soon, I can already see a clear sky beyond it.”

She hummed, thinking it better bloody should, the irritation still prickling at her. This was supposed to be a break for him, a bit of normality to ease him back into a routine, a bit of freedom. And rain was ruining it. If it wasn’t uncomfortable heat here, then it was rain. They stood in silence, he watching the sky, she looking at the floor.

Her gaze drifted to him after a few minutes.

God, he was a good man. Yes, she could very readily admit that, even to him. He wouldn’t want to hear it and would even vehemently deny it, but he was, she knew it. He wasn’t just considerate to her, but to everyone in the camp, always putting others before himself. There was nothing false about him, either, no masks he put on or shows; out of the two men who had practically raised him, he was more like Hosea than Dutch, and she was glad for it. He hadn’t pushed her, either, to tell her secret, and...

If you don’t do it now you never will... His patience could run out... Then what would the consequences be? 

Straightening a little, she clasped her hands in front of herself, playing with them a little.

“Arthur, I...”

His head turned to her and she paused for only a moment.

“... I want to thank you, for how patient you’ve been. I very much have appreciated it. A lesser man would have asked me again and again or made me tell him outright and I’m incredibly grateful to you for not pressing the matter.”

He didn’t say anything or move as she spoke.

“I feel like, over the past couple of weeks, we’ve...” She seemed to steel herself then, her lips pressing together. “... What I’m going to tell you, I hope you do not tell anyone else.”

He nodded, straightening and placing his hands on his gun belt. “All right, I won’t.”

Her eyebrows rose slightly. “Your word?”

“Would it really mean that much?”

“To me, yes.”

He gazed at her before nodding again. “You have my word, I won’t tell anyone.”

She wet her lips and pressed them together, her hands clasped tightly.

“Dutch’s words about killing Colm’s brother affected me because Michael O’Driscoll was my father.”

She’d spoken the words slowly so he knew there was no chance he could have misheard, but... 

Jesus fucking Christ...

He stared at her, something in him twisting sharply.

She didn’t take her eyes off of him, watching for every single reaction he gave as, knowing there was no way of going back, she continued.

“When my father met my mother he was already halfway to leaving the gang. He was disillusioned and wanted a different life, a better one, and after meeting and falling in love with my mother, he then thought it might be possible. He told Colm that after he married my mother he wanted to leave and raise the family they would have together the right way. Colm agreed and he actually came to visit us several times over the years, with a few trusted members of the gang. He visited us nearly every Christmas, brought us presents for them and at our birthdays, ones that he promised he’d bought but we knew he hadn’t.”

A dam seemed to have broken inside her, now, because she didn’t, couldn’t, stop, the words coming out faster. 

“Then when I was five there was a bad winter and all our animals died as well as our crops. We had very little money because my father had spent it all on the farm and getting the best things he could find for us, so he wrote to Colm for help. Colm came to our farm and said he couldn’t loan him any money but my father could earn it by helping him with a job. My father refused and said he wasn’t part of that life anymore, and Colm called him a coward and said would he really rather see his family starve than be a man and they had an awful argument and in the end my father said he didn’t want to know Colm, he didn’t consider him family anymore and he didn’t want to see him ever again. Colm left and we thought that was the end of it. Then two weeks later four men broke into our house, all wearing masks, I heard them kick the door down, and my father ran out of his and my mother’s bedroom with his shotgun but they were too quick and one man pinned him to the ground.”

She wasn’t looking at him now, her eyes fixed on the ground as if she could see it happening all over again. 

“I opened my door and saw him there and I called out and started to run to him when one of the men grabbed me and told me to be quiet and pressed his knife against my throat and told me he’d kill me if I screamed and then, and then a man stepped forward, a man with dark hair, and he shot my Da in the heart and he didn’t say a word and Mama screamed and Thomas cried and I couldn’t do anything and then, then they just left, without saying a word, they didn’t take anything, they didn’t rob us, they just left and Mama ran to Da and she wouldn’t stop screaming and Thomas wouldn’t stop crying and I just stood there, I just...”

She didn’t realise tears were streaming down her cheeks until she broke off with a shuddering breath. Her eyes finally lifted after a moment, meeting his gaze.

He hadn’t moved, his features expressionless.

“You’re Colm O’Driscoll’s niece?” His voice was low and quiet.

“Yes,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “My name is Adaline O’Driscoll.”

“Why didn’t you tell us your real name?”

“Because I didn’t know what any of you were like, I didn’t know what Dutch van der Linde would do with Colm O’Driscoll’s niece, even though I’m not a part of his life, I didn’t know what would happen.”

He was still giving nothing away, his eyes fixed on her.

Her heart was pounding against her ribcage and she had to remind herself to breathe.

This was a mistake—

“What happened when they took us?”

“Colm realised it was me because of my ring.” She held her bare, right hand up, dropping it after a moment. “It was my father’s, it’s a family heirloom, his father gave it to him. It’s one of a kind. And then...”

He kept silent as she paused, wiping her cheeks. 

“When he was talking to me he talked about my brother and said he’s alive, but he can’t be because when he was sixteen, I was twelve, he left in the middle of the night, we found a note from him saying he’d gone to find Colm to kill him, and my mother wept for days and we waited, we waited a year and he never returned so we knew he was dead because he wouldn’t have stayed with Colm, he wouldn’t have, but Colm said he’d told him that it was Dutch who’d done it and that Thomas believed him but Thomas wouldn’t do that, he wouldn’t have left us...”

She was crying again, albeit silently.

It was as if all the pain, all the burdens she had to bear, all the secrets, all she’d had to suppress to keep her mother going, finally came out in simply being able to tell somebody about it.

“An— Adaline, what do you want to do now?”

She frowned as she lifted her head. 

“What?”

“What do you want to happen now?”

Her mouth opened and closed slightly. 

“I don’t know. I want to know what you’re thinking.”

He finally looked away from her, his hand running down his mouth as he placed his other hand on his hip.

Oh, God, he’s going to cast me out, he’s going to tell me go, and I won’t blame him—

“Colm knows you’re with us.”

“Yes.”

“For whatever reason, he’s going to want you back.”

“Yes, he said something to that effect when he took us.”

“So, I reckon... the safest thing is you stay with us.”

She ceased breathing as he turned to her. “What?”

“We can protect you. The others don’t need to know. Colm won’t come this far south, anyway, not with the law and bounty hunters around. Probably not with the Lemoyne Raiders around, too.”

He was moving towards her.

She started shaking her head, utterly confused. “Why, why would you do this for me?”

He stopped before her, and, using a finger, he brushed away her tears.

“Save people as need savin’.”

She laughed, all tension suddenly, thankfully, leaving her body, and his finger brushed down her cheek.

“I need saving, do I?”

“Like no one else I’ve met before.”

“I think I’m fine.”

One corner of his mouth rose higher than the other as he looked at her, his finger settling under her chin.

It made her already rapidly beating heart stutter slightly.

Then he dropped his hand.

“You ain’t gonna kill Dutch, are you?”

That certainly caught her off guard. She opened her mouth, then closed it.

 “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

He didn’t respond for a few moments, then placed his hand on his belt, inclining his head.

“Well, I won’t tell anyone.”

She smiled as she exhaled a breath. “Thank you.”

He shifted his weight to his other foot, arching an eyebrow.

“So, I’m to call you Adaline now?”

“Yes, when we’re alone. Or Ada, actually. Only my mother called me Adaline.”

“It’s a pretty name.”

She ignored the heat that rose on her cheeks again.

“Thank you.”

“Who’s Annie Sawyer? You came up with it pretty fast,” he continued at her look.

“Our maid.”

“You had a maid?”

Oh, shit.

“... Yeah, we hired her when we arrived in Strawberry to help my mother... And a farm hand.”

“How could you afford that?”

Her stomach twisted, and she allowed herself the decency to look somewhat sheepish. “Uh... Well, you see, let me provide some context, uhm, when I said, when I first came to the camp, that my sister, mother and uncle had died, well, it was actually, my mother, our maid, Annie, and our farm hand, Adam, and... Well, we moved to Strawberry to be near my mother’s brother, my real... other, actual uncle.”

He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Now, hold on... you said you had no more family.”

She wet her lips, her teeth slowly grazing over her lower one. “... Seeing as I’m being honest, there’s something else. My uncle is Nicholas Timmins, mayor of Strawberry.”

“Excuse me?”

She spoke quickly again, however this time just because of how exasperated he looked rather than because she was frightened. “We moved in with him after we finally admitted Thomas wasn’t coming back, that he had died. My mother wasn’t coping and he offered to look after us. He was the only one of my mother’s family still talking to her after she married my father. He was shunned by the family, too, years before she met my Da, I don’t know why. He... well, I never really got along with him. He acted like he was more than he was and we were part of his show. He had a new house built for us, gave us Annie, and Adam. I don’t know where he got his money from but he was on a real mission to turn Strawberry into something grand. I don’t think he’ll be particularly saddened at my disappearance.”

He stared at her, then exhaled a bewildered laugh. “Shit, you got any more surprises?”

She smiled, her sheepish expression lingering. “That’s the last one, I promise.”

“You sure? Nothin’ else you want to share?”

She laughed as she shook her head. “Nothing else, I swear it.”

He shook his head with a weary sigh, a smile pulling at his lips. “Well, it’s nice to finally meet you, Ada.”

She liked how her name sounded on his tongue.

“It’s nice to meet you—”

She broke off suddenly as voices came from nearby, carried by the wind.

Arthur lifted his head and moved to the wall beside them. Peering out of the hole in the rock that had once been a window, he pressed his lips together.

“Shit,” he murmured, “Seven of them. They look like Lemoyne Raiders. Probably use this as a hideout.”

The men were moving quickly, eager as they had been to get out of the rain.

“We ain’t gonna be able to get out without them seein’ us, so...” He glanced at her, looking her up and down which had her raising her eyebrows.

“Are you going to throw me to them and run away?”

A corner of his mouth lifted as he moved away from the wall and shrugged his jacket off.

“Nah, but that can be the back up plan.”

Stepping closer to her, he then draped his jacket around her shoulders and adjusted it, his hands sweeping over her shoulders and collar bones.

She felt herself becoming slightly flustered at his act of chivalry, and the fact she could feel a slight warmth from it from his body, a gentle expression of gratitude ready to break free, when he murmured, “Follow my lead, we don’t want to spook ‘em.”

Of course.

Nodding, Ada folded her arms and opened her mouth to ask what exactly his plan was, his history of them not spectacular, when he leaned his shoulder against the wall beside her and his arm slid over her stomach and around her waist. Then, his chin settled gently on top of her wet hair.

Her mouth dropped open slightly.

Before she could, again, question him, the voices of the men grew louder as they entered the ruined church.

"... Ah, shit, it’s gotten all in m’ britches, I hate the God damn rain.”

“Well, Jackie, if you had worn your...”

The man speaking trailed off as they rounded the corner, their eyes darting between Ada and Arthur.

“Hey, what’re you doin’ in here?”

Arthur lifted his head as his arm dropped from her, a warm smile on his lips.

“Woah, woah, fellers, easy. My wife and I are just takin’ shelter from the rain. We didn’t know this belonged to anybody.”

Wife? Oh my Lord...

“Are you now?”

A man with blonde, lank hair stepped forward, quickly establishing himself as the apparent leader of this group as the other men looked to him.

“Well, this here property belongs to the Lemoyne Raiders. You’re trespassin’, friends.”

“Oh, really? Goodness, there aren’t any signs.”

That mouth really is gonna get her in trouble.

Arthur’s humour quickly faded as the blonde man looked at her, arching an eyebrow, and stepped closer.

Then, he looked at Arthur. ”You need to keep your woman in check, friend.”

Arthur held the man’s gaze, knowing drawing his revolver at that moment was not a clever thing to do.

“She made a fair point, friend, but we’re not from around here so we don’t know no better.”

“Yeah, you don’t.” Arthur didn’t like the look in the man’s eyes as he smiled suddenly. “Forgive me, strangers, for not welcomin’ you properly. You see, somethin’ else you don’t know is that you gotta pay a toll to the Lemoyne Raiders to enter these parts. Did you pay a toll, friend?”

God, these people are annoyin’.

“No, I can’t say that we did.”

“Well, no trouble, friends, you can pay us right now. Ten dollars.”

“Ten dollars? That’s a high price for a shit hole of a state.”

Arthur’s eyes closed briefly.

She’s gonna get us both killed and if she don’t then I’m gonna kill her.

All seven men looked like they’d just been slapped across the face.

The blonde man stepped closer to her, prompting Arthur to shift his stance, his shoulder shielding her slightly.

“If you can’t pay that, bitch, then I’m sure we can come to some sort of other arrangement—”

His leering expression was suddenly splattered with blood as a gunshot went off, and Arthur’s gun belt felt lighter.

Oh, for Christ’s sake...

Gritting his teeth as the man fell, a gaping hole in his chest, Arthur drew his other revolver with lightening speed and shot over him, two of the other men falling, too, as bullets struck their chests and neck. In the same moment, as shouting broke out from the remaining four men and they dove for cover, Arthur reached out and wrapped his arm around Ada’s waist, hauling her to the side as he pressed his back against the wall, holding her against him.

“Are you out of your God damn mind?” he hissed, staring down at her and the flecks of blood that covered her face.

“Well, what were we going to do, pay them?” she retorted, her hand braced against his chest.

As she raised her other hand, the revolver she’d swiftly pulled from his gun belt gripped in it, and leaned away from him, peering around the wall, Arthur muttered a curse.

“Well... A warnin’ would have been nice.”

She just snorted and he suddenly held her tighter as he heard a gun shot before he realised she was the one who’d fired.

Then, she was out of his arms.

He killed an order on his tongue for her to get right back here as she darted across to crouch in the ruins, an intact section of wall covering her. Bullets fired and missed her by a wide margin.

The idiots probably ain’t even lookin’.

Nearing the edge of the wall, he joined her in firing at the four men who remained. Two went down quickly, and not because of him. He couldn’t stop himself from repeatedly glancing over at her, watching her as she made each bullet count.

So, she could shoot at what was shooting back.

He shot one man in the back as he tried to run, and she got the last man as he raised his head to call out to him.

Silence descended.

Sighing, he picked his jacket up from the floor, it having fallen from her as she’d made for new cover. She wiped an arm over her face, clearing the little spots of blood from her skin, inhaling a long breath.

"So, I guess you’re all right with killin’ now?” he asked, arching an eyebrow

She shrugged. “Well, it had to be done. They weren’t good men.”

“Neither am I.” 

She glanced at him as she handed his revolver back. “Some allowances can be made.”

He holstered the gun. “Dutch ain’t a good man either.”

She pressed her lips together, wiping her hands on her skirt. “Well...” Licking her lips, she moved past him. “Come on, let’s get back.”

Puling his jacket on, he sighed as he followed her out into the gentle rain.

He watched her that night. She danced with Sean as Javier played a song on his guitar and everyone sang along, gathered around the main camp fire. She laughed loudly at most of the things Sean said, a wide smile on her lips.

He’d admit, not proudly, that how he’d carried out his plan earlier had been with somewhat more commitment than he would have usually given. He’d done the husband and wife routine before with Karen, but he hadn’t wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

And he had held Ada. He couldn’t shake from his mind the feel of her pressed against him, that fire in her eyes he was beginning to crave whenever he looked at her burning bright. He wanted to hold her again. He wanted to do more, so much more.

The only reason he allowed himself these fantasies was because he knew they would never come to pass.

Exhaling a breath, he lowered his gaze to the fire as he placed a cigarette between his lips.

Sean twirled her with more flourish than was necessary before he pulled her back in and continued the haphazard waltz they were doing. The twirl had taken them away from the group and he glanced up, his gaze settling on them before it returned to her.

She was still smiling and it filled him with a decent sense of pride that he could bring joy to her.

“So...” he began, keeping his voice low so only she could hear. “... What’s with you and King Arthur?”

She blinked in surprise, her forehead dipping.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, spendin’ all these mornin’s together. Goin’ out of camp earlier. Is he payin’ ye?”

She snorted and glanced over at Arthur as they swayed. He was talking to John, elbows on his knees and a cigarette between his lips. Just looking at him, though... A strange sensation made her stomach flutter, and she swiftly returned her attention to Sean.

“Nothing’s going on. I just enjoy his company, that’s all.”

“Well, there’s enjoyin’ company and then there’s enjoyin’ company.”

“It is most decidedly the former, Sean MacGuire.”

“Because he’s too much of a dumb bastard to realise ye want the latter?”

She opened her mouth then closed it firmly, trying desperately hard to suppress the smile that threatened.

“I do not want—”

“Ye don’t have to worry about me, Annie, I won’t be goin’ tellin’ anyone. Especially not the big, old, dumb boy himself.”

She exhaled an exasperated sigh as he twirled her once more, though, again, she was smiling. As he sang along to the bawdy song Javier had started to play, she thought, not for the first time, about telling him the truth, about telling him who she really was but... That would just complicate things, and if she told him then she’d feel like she had to tell Sadie, and someone would slip up. It wasn’t a matter of trust but safety.

No, she’d keep it, for now. She would tell him someday.

—

Ada had an early dinner the next day with Sadie, Arthur and Sean having vanished earlier in the day and the girls either during chores or sleeping through the heat, taking the chance while Susan did the same. Not that Sadie was a last resort, far from it, Ada loved talking and sitting with her, and was allowing herself to become incredibly fond of her. They sat on the log on the bank, looking out across the river and sharing a bread roll with their stew.

“We should go out huntin’ later, this is just vegetables and water,” Sadie scoffed, pushing the lumps around in her bowl.

“I think I tasted something like meat but I’m not sure.” Ada wrinkled her nose as she inspected her own portion, opting to just mainly mop up the liquid with the bread.

Pearson was usually a good cook but nobody had brought in anything bigger than a squirrel in the last couple of days, either too busy with ‘business’ or just not bothering.

She’d hoped that she and Arthur would have been able to bring something substantial in but due to the shoot-out at the church they’d left quickly, and the rain hadn’t exactly provided ideal conditions. 

She couldn’t help but think about what had happened. Arthur’s touch, his closeness, his trust...

Oh, Lord...

She so wished she could confide in Sadie, just hear somebody else’s thoughts that weren’t her own that rattled around day and night in her brain. But, no... Maybe someday.

“I’m thinkin’ of going after O’Driscolls.”

Sadie’s sudden statement in their silence, cutting through her thoughts, made her still, her gaze darting up to her. Sadie just looked out across the water, chewing on her vegetables.

“Okay... I know the obvious reason but... why?”

“‘cause I can’t rest.” She inhaled a breath. “It’s all I think about. I can’t stand the thought of them out there, doin’ awful things to other people, ruinin’ more lives. I can do somethin’ about it so why shouldn’t I?”

Ada licked her lips. She was considering her next set of words carefully, not wanting to insult Sadie’s capabilities or state the obvious, when Sadie shrugged.

“I’m just thinkin’ about it, anyways. Nothin’ certain.”

“Right.”

That seemed to end the conversation, decidedly so when Sadie pulled a face and made another comment on the food. Ada took the deviation and ran with it, humming her agreement.

A gnawing, unsettling feeling began in her stomach, however, and she used the excuse of the food to stop eating.

“You’re lookin’ real nice today, Bill.”

“Shut up.”

Arthur arched an eyebrow as he approached the three men loitering by the side of the bank, his thumbs tucked into his gun belt. Micah chuckled and glanced up before raising his hands at the sight of Arthur and standing from where he’d been sat on the stairs.

“Been waitin’ for you, Arthur, it’s nearly God damn evenin’.”

“Well, I’m sorry to have kept you,” Arthur drawled.

“Come on, let’s get going.”

Micah, for once, didn’t seem in the mood to bite back. Instead, he brushed past Arthur, Sean and Bill following, and rounded the stairs to start walking down the main street of Rhodes.

“What’s the plan?” Arthur asked, following at a slightly slower pace behind the men.

“We’re meetin’ a couple of Grays over at the saloon,” Micah answered, turning to look at him with a faint smile. “They spoke to Bill about a job... needing security.”

“After the farce of stealing horses for them, why we doin’ this?”

“‘cause we need to stay in with them, and they’re payin’.”

“So, what kind’a security they want?”

“We’re about to find out, now come on,” Micah said with an air of exasperation, as if they hadn’t asked Miss Grimshaw to tell Arthur to meet them in town with no other information only an hour earlier.

“This seem legit to you, Bill?”

“Sure.”

“Dutch said we was to keep on dealing with them until we find this gold,” Micah cut in.

“Can we trust them?” Sean asked.

“Can we trust anyone?” Arthur muttered.

“Let’s just see what they say,” Micah nearly hissed.

“They said there was some big misunderstandin’ about them horses,” Bill murmured.

“And what about burnin’ their fields?” Sean added.

“They don’t know we had anything to do with that,” Micah now actually hissed. 

“Oh, that so?” Arthur said dryly.

“Yeah, they think it was the Braithwaites,” Bill said earnestly. “Listen, I know these Gray boys a bit now. This is on the level.”

“We’re stuck in the middle of some ancient feud but instead of playin’ both sides we’re bein’ used by both of ‘em,” Arthur muttered, trying to keep his voice low as they neared the Sheriff’s Office.

“They were sayin’ that Catherine Braithwaite—”

“Hey, hold up...” Arthur cut Bill off, coming to a halt and prompting the other men to do the same. “This don’t feel right...”

The street was quiet, far, far too quiet for the morning. They’d passed a few men on their walk but now... It was completely empty.

Sean snorted as he turned to them, arching an eyebrow. “Now it don’t feel right? I could’a told you that—”

A bullet tore through his head, silencing him. Sean died before he hit the ground.

“Shit—” Micah hissed.

“What the hell?!” Bill shouted.

Men suddenly appeared everywhere, on roofs, in buildings, from alleyways, firing at them and they instantly started to fire back.

“Get down!” Arthur yelled as they ran for cover, drawing his revolvers.

“Damn it...”

“Sons of bitches...”

Arthur and Micah ran the same way, Bill the other. Crouching behind a barrel, Arthur couldn’t stop to think, just firing back at whoever was shooting at him. 

“What the— God damn it!” Micah was furious. “I can’t believe you shot me, you bastards!”

“You okay?” Arthur called out, knowing Micah was behind him somewhere but not wanting to take his eyes off the attackers to look.

“I’m fine!”

There were many of them, but he and Micah were better shots. They fell one after the other, but they also kept coming, and Arthur felt and heard bullets whizzing over his head and past him.

“Is Sean dead?”

“Look at him, of course he’s dead!” Arthur yelled, though he couldn’t look at the body. “How could you not think this was a trap?!”

He turned, finally able to look at Micah as he started to shoot at the men on the other side of the town. Blood was running down his arm but Micah was firing back with all he had, rage twisting his features.

“You sure you wanna talk about this now, Morgan?” Then, he lowered his guns, his teeth gritted. “The cowards are in the gunstore! I’ll get the front, you take the back!”

Before Arthur could even think about protesting, Micah was already storming up onto the porch. Cursing, Arthur darted behind a wagon and paused for a moment before moving up the back steps to the door. As soon as he passed through the door, a man appeared, his eyes wide.

These fools are in over their heads.

Arthur knocked him down to the ground and struck him across the face with the butt of his revolver. 

“None of these bastards gonna walk out of here!” He heard Micah yell from the porch as he fired a bullet into the man’s head.

Straightening, Arthur watched Micah as he entered, killing the two men who were cowering on the other side of the shop.

“You’re gettin’ sloppy, Morgan,” Micah drawled as he reloaded his guns.

Arthur clenched his jaw as he strode across the shop, pressing his back against the space of wall beside the door. 

“Do you see that window in Sean’s skull? Don’t talk to me about sloppy,” he snarled.

Leaning forward, he fired out of the broken window, killing a man outside of the general store.

“They’re in the gunsmith’s!” he heard someone yell.

The man was soon silenced by Micah.

Moving out onto the porch, Arthur fired at three men starting to ride down the street on their horses, knocking them off. The horses rode over them, breaking out into gallops as the sounds spooked them.

“I want them dead!” he heard Micah yell over the gunfire as he joined him on the porch.

“You sure about that?”

Suddenly, the shooting ceased. Breathing hard, Arthur quickly scanned the street, his eyes darting from building to building for any sign of movement. Was this another trap?

“See that? Those cowards are runnin’ away!” Micah called out gleefully, exhaling a harsh laugh as they watched a few men jump up onto horses and gallop away without looking back.

“Looks like most of ‘em,” Arthur answered, rolling his shoulder as he stood, sliding his revolvers back into their holsters after a moment.

“Not all of them,” Micah murmured darkly, his guns still drawn as he headed down the steps.

“Sheriff Gray...”

His jaw moving, Arthur followed after him. Looking over his shoulder, then frowned, slowing a little.

“And where’s Bill? Where the hell’s he?”

“We’ll find him later, come on.” Micah was already striding ahead, his mind focused on one thing only. “Sherrif Gray! You need to get a hold on this town, it’s going to hell!”

“Who do you think you are?!” a near-hysterical voice called back from within the Sherrif’s Office. “A bunch of two-bit thugs from God knows where?!”

Micah and Arthur came to a stop outside the building, Arthur’s hand hovering over his guns.

“You’re so dumb to think we don’t know what you been doing!” Sheriff Gray continued.

“Come out, Sheriff!” Micah demanded, a definite taunt to his tone. “It’s over!”

“We put down far worse than you! A hundred times over! This is the Gray’s town. Always has been, always will be!”

Micah laughed harshly as he gestured around. “Only Grays I see left around here is you!”

“You want us to come out? We’ll come out!”

The door suddenly burst open and Bill Williamson muttered out a curse as he was pushed out, a gun held to his head.

“Ah, Bill...” Arthur hissed, gritting his teeth.

“Guns on the ground now!” Sheriff Gray called out as three of his men came out behind him, their guns trained on Micah and Arthur. “Both of you!”

“Don’t do it!” Bill ground out.

“You know we can’t do that,” Arthur replied, “You put the gun down, Sheriff!”

“I’ll blow his brains out!” the Sheriff retorted, an arrogant confidence overtaking him now.

From the corner of his eye, before the Sheriff had even finished his sentence, Arthur could see Micah raising his guns. Grabbing his own, he raised one to the Sheriff and one to the man to his right. He shot them both in the head as Micah also shot at the Sheriff and the two men to his left.

They all fell with choked sounds and Bill grunted as he automatically crouched, staring down at the Sheriff.

“Shit...” he marvelled.

Arthur pressed his lips together and holstered his guns.

What a God damn fucking mess... And it’s only goin’ to get worse.

Turning away, Arthur looked to the ground.

A few feet away lay the body of Sean MacGuire, blood drenching his face and chest. Kneeling beside him, Arthur shook his head slightly, his chest tightening.

“He was a good kid,” he murmured.

“Well, how the hell was I to know?” Bill grumbled, staggering down the steps and towards Arthur.

“Let me see...” Arthur began as he straightened, his jaw tight as his grief turned to rage. “They set us up once before, they didn’t like us, we destroyed their farm, should I go on?!”

His voice had risen to a yell as he’d advanced on Bill, the other man stepping back as he clutched his shotgun.

“Go easy on him, Morgan,” Micah’s voice came from behind him, cool as mountain water. “He was out tryin’ to find a lead, same as you, same as Hosea. All you do is complain when things don’t work out. Except when it’s your God damn fault—”

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Arthur seethed, turning on him now. “You don’t give a damn about nobody but yourself!”

“Oh, you act so high and mighty but you’re no better than the rest of us!”

Arthur had already turned away, leaning down and picking Sean’s body up as carefully as he could, placing him over his shoulder.

“I’ve ridden with you boys close on, what,” Micah continued, “six months now? And all you ever done was complain! And you can fight but you can’t think.”

“You can’t do either,” Arthur muttered as he strode past him, holding Sean’s body with a hand on his back.

Micah laughed as he and Bill followed, Bill watching for any more Grays. “Okay, cowpoke.”

They need to leave before I kill him.

Striding towards their horses, Arthur headed for Bill’s.

“Bill, take the boy’s body. Bury him proper, someplace quiet.” He carefully lifted the body onto Brown Jack before he stepped back. “Micah, best you and I don’t speak for a moment.”

Micah laughed again as he mounted his horse, and Arthur’s fingers twitched to reach for his gun.

“I’m just so frightened by you.”

“Get outta my sight...” Arthur hissed as he mounted Ophelia, hearing Bill and Micah canter away behind him. “... pair of God damn fools.”

His tongue ran over his teeth as he surveyed the town, an uneasy sense of dread settling in his stomach.

What a God damn mess we’re makin’ of things.

—

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