#were it possible to say what I wanted to in words I wouldn't've needed to draw it

[babykittenteach]

🌊

[purposefully-lost]

Alex couldn't breathe. He hadn't been able to in a week now; he'd just been holding it in, forgetting that it was a necessity in every moment that he spent driving around town or using skills learned in a high school yearbook club to pull together missing posters. He'd stapled them on every surface he could find since Rabbit's family couldn't be damned to do it themselves. He'd been to the station more than once, he'd begged and begged for anyone to listen, and he'd spent a lot of time choking on the fear that something terrible had happened to the boy he loved.

And it had. The worst had happened. He'd gotten a call from fucking Bobby Baker to learn that Rabbit's body had been found. Two days of agony later and he was sitting on the curb outside of the funeral home, hyperventilating into his palms while his fingers dug into his hair. He felt dizzy, like he'd pass out if he didn't manage to stop up the way he fought for air, but he couldn't. There was nothing he could do and there was no reason for it, anyway. Rabbit could calm him down, if he were here. He'd smile and make it right, he'd tell him it was all some stupid, awful joke that Des had orchestrated but that it didn't matter now. They'd be getting the hell out of town soon, anyway. They'd been planning to for months.

Alex could hear himself cry out. It sounded like someone else, like he was too far away to even possibly be the source, but there wasn't anyone else out here. The problem was, Rabbit was in the building behind him, all dressed up and painted over so he didn't look quite so dead, and he wasn't going to get up again. Alex hadn't even gotten a good look at him-- he'd started screaming before that could happen. Fuck, he hadn't even said goodbye. He tried to dig and think of the last thing he'd said to Rabbit, but it'd been so mundane. He was sure it was an I love you, there was very little else it could've been, but the fact that he didn't say it this one last time was weighing down over him. He'd never get another chance. Not once in the years and years ahead of him would he get to say it to Rabbit again. It wasn't fair.

He barely paid any mind to the door opening behind him. Whether it was Des come to finish their argument or Bobby to offer some stilted apology, he didn't care. He didn't want to see their faces ever again. He just wanted--

"Christine?"

That wasn't a voice he knew. Alex winced away from it, but after a moment managed to lift his head, peering through a blurry gaze at a wide-eyed Andrew Campbell. He didn't want to see him, either. He was just as bad the rest. "Fuck off!" He bit out, but Andy didn't move. Whatever. Alex buried his face in his palms again, trembling as he tried to wait for the man to just go on.

Instead, a long beat passed, and someone settled down on the ground next to him. A very tentative hand reached out to rest on his back and Alex jerked away, all but snarling at the man. "No, Andy!"

"Chris, I'm just trying to--"

"You don't get to!" He snapped. He'd learned years ago what Andy had done to Rabbit and he'd never cared for the man after that. From the look on Andy's face, he'd figured the same. He pulled his hand back, but stayed where he was, sighing.

"I wanted to apologize to him," he said softly, after another long moment. Alex was tired enough that he wasn't trying to kill him, at least. Instead, he was back to staring at the ground, holding himself while he still cried. Andy frowned. "Doesn't really count now though, does it?"

"He wouldn't've given a shit," Alex said, still not looking at him. He didn't actually know what Rabbit would've thought, but he knew the words would hurt.

"I know," was all Andy replied with.

Silence. And more silence, shared between them while Alex trembled and Andy scrubbed at his eyes. Cars passed them by, and a few lonesome birds on powerlines, but no one acknowledged them. Finally, Andy spoke again. "Hey, do you need a ride home, or.. anything?"

He did. Sniffling, Alex kept his eyes on the ground, his jaw clenched hard. He'd asked his mom to drive him here because he knew if he'd tried to do it himself, he'd never manage to leave the driveway. He'd thought that maybe after it was over, he'd walk further into town, grab a drink somewhere in Rabbit's honor or some stupid bullshit like that. He couldn't even stomach the thought now. He gave him a small nod.

"Okay. Let's go." Andy stood and offered out his hand. There was no offense shown on his face when it went untaken, though he still opened the car door for Alex and shut it behind him again. Only a sparing glance was tossed back towards the funeral home. Alex frowned at it, his heart shaking in his chest. He tried to tell himself that it was just a body. It wouldn't have heard him anyway.

[moody-cowdaddy]

That's The Way It Is

Arthur Morgan x Reader | Oneshot/Drabble #2

Summary: Everything comes to an end sooner, or later.

Category/Trigger Warning: Emotional Turmoil, Angst, Drama, Character Death.

A/N: This is really just a blurb/drabble. It's not part of an actual story or the imagines. I just wanted to write an emotional turmoil/devastating piece of what I think Arthur's last words to the reader would be.

××××

"And for you,

For you, I would brave the wolves,

And for you,

For you, I would sacrifice my heart.

Starting with the most obvious part,

That sad enough place has gotten me through the dark,

Dying just to reach you,

As the horizon fades,

The sun begins to rise."

××××

Things had gonna from bad to worse. On top of the Saint Denis bank heist going to shit - Hosea and Lenny were killed, and that was one of the biggest losses the group had ever taken, loosing one half of the gang's voices of reason, especially. It shifted the whole feeling of the group. To top that off, you had been sick out of your mind with worry when Arthur and some of the others, including Dutch, had been stranded on some island for weeks called Guarma. It took all you could do to hold your sanity together, out of your mind with worry wondering where he was.

But, when they all finally returned, safely, it gave the group just the smallest amount of hope for the moment, that maybe this whole situation could be beaten.. That was until the Pinkertons showed up again, so, the last few weeks had been nothing but running and running and running. You were low on places to go now, and there was an ominous feeling that hung over everyone's head.

That ominous feeling manifested itself for you when Arthur became extremely sick weeks prior. You all had noticed for a while that he had a terrible cough that seemed to only persist day by day, but with the way you were all stuck living, it just seemed maybe he was under the weather due to circumstances. Once he finally went to a doctor, nothing about it was good news. He had contracted the white plague itself - Tuberculosis.

You didn't want to believe him when he told you what his diagnosis was.

"There's nothin' that can be done?!" You pleaded with him.

He shook his head, coughing, "N-no, darlin'. Doctor gave me a shot to keep me goin'. Said I needed rest," he laughed as he said it, amused by the statement.

You pressed your hands to his face, tears forming in the corners of your eyes as you sat on his cot beside him. "This can't happen. Not now, not like this."

He placed a hand on your knee. "Things is about to change, (Y/N)."

"Yeah, an' not for the goddamn better, Arthur," you rasped, "Ya can't leave me." You laid your head over onto his shouler, a sense of dread filling you so completely that you thought you might pass out.

"I don't want to, y'know that, but y'gotta prepare yerself for the worst now. I still gotta take care'a you an' the rest'a these folks. So, I need ya to listen to me now, sweetheart." He turned to you, gently grabbing your face with his hands. "Dutch ain't the same no more, an' if you, or anybody else stays with him, y'ain't gonna survive another year. We had a real chance of gettin' outta here.. An' like'a fool, I was too blinded to see that he never wanted to. All this talk'a dreams an' goin' off to live on some goddamn island was a bunch'a bullshit. Dutch don't want outta this way of life. He never did."

"Runaway. Drop everythin' an' runaway with me now, Arthur. Please," you begged him with everything you had in you.

He looked at you longingly, like he wanted to say yes. His eyes that were once so bright and lively, were now bloodshot and weak. He was pale, and losing weight almost daily as the sickness grew inside of him as that tell-tale rattling in his chest became louder and louder.

He shook his head. "I can't. Not now, (Y/N). I gotta help these people. I gotta try an' help as best I can while I still got time. I'ma bad man, but I ain't gonna just run off an' forget my responsibilities. I gotta do what I gotta do to keep y'all safe."

"Then come with me after. I want a life with you, Arthur. I wanna do things right, an' I wanna stop runnin' for my life every goddamn day. I just want you. I wanna have your children, an' I wanna grow old with you in a place we can call our own." The tears streamed down your cheeks now as you looked up at him, still begging.

He squeezed your face in his hands. "I want that. I do. I want that more than anythin', sugar.. But when the time comes, y'gotta run an' don't look back. That means whether I'm with you, or not."

"But, Arthur," you growled.

"Promise me," he breathed, blinking at you with tears seeping from the corner of his own eyes.

"Arthur," you sobbed again, squeezing his shoulders.

"Just promise me, darlin'," his voice cracked as he spoke, "Or else all of this'll be for nothin'."

You glared at him, knowing that there was no real way to convince him otherwise. Once Arthur made up his mind about something, that was that. All you could do was sit here and nod your head, and try to accept that he wanted to do the right thing. It made your heart ache even more to know that he truly was a good man. You bellowed, throwing yourself onto him, burying your head deep into his chest. You closed your eyes tightly, the tears staining his shirt as you prayed to God to wake you up from this nightmare.

All you could do now was hold onto him and salvage the time that you had left.

~A few weeks later~

'When the time comes, you gotta run an' don't look back,' Arthur's voice rang through your memory.

In the last 2 weeks, the gang had completely fallen into ruin. Half of the members that had grown to become like family to you were dead now, and the other half had up and left. Dutch had gone completely mad, putting all of his trust and reliance into Micah, who turned out to be just what everyone else could see that he was - a rat. He had been the one sifting information to the pinkertons about the gang and their whereabouts, all along.

You, Arthur and John were on the run for your lives now. The Pinkertons were hot on your trail as you raced through the mountains east of the Grizzlies, trying your best to outrun them, but that had become harder and harder to do. They had surrounded the area, and as much as you wanted to escape, to go on and to live happy lives.. It really didn't look like that was a possibility anymore. Dutch had led everyone on for so long, and this was now the price of that.

Arthur looked back as you scaled up the side of one of the small mountains, overlooking the ground below to make sure that the Pinkertons weren't right on your tail for the moment. You closed your eyes tightly, fearing for the worst as you were coming to terms with the fact that this wasn't a fairytale, and every action had a consequence one that all of you would pay dearly for. There wasn't bound to be a happy ending for this story.

Arthur bowed over, gasping and breathing hard as he tried his best to gain some energy to keep going. He coughed wildly, spitting out blood onto the gravel beneath his feet. He pulled himself back up, looking to the ground below before he turned his gaze to you, taking a step closer.

"Push it, Arthur!" John encouraged him.

Arthur shook his head, "No. I think I pushed all I can."

"We ain't got time for this now," John urged to him.

Arthur put his hand up, silencing John as he looked at you. "(Y/n), darlin'. We can't choose our fate."

He looked over his shoulder, checking once more. You could hear the rattling deep down in his chest as he struggled to breathe, and you could hear the sounds of men far off in the distance as they tore the woods apart, searching for you. Arthur turned back to you again, the devestated expression becoming more and more pronounced on his tired, sickly face.

"Mine was laid out for me a long time ago," he continued, "I lived this life, an' I gotta answer for it now. I never gave it up. Not for Mary, not for my own good, an' not even for my boy. But since I met ya, it's left me wantin' to go back in time, an' made me wanna be a better man than I was. Maybe I wouldn't've went down this path like this. I wish i'da got the chance to do things different, an' I wish I coulda done it with you.." he coughed roughly, his breathe ripping through his swollen lungs like knives.

He laid a hand across his mouth. His breathing becoming more labored as he struggled to speak.

Tears began to fall down your cheeks as you squeezed his hands tightly. "Don't you talk like that, you still can. We can get outta here. Me and you."

He smiled weakly, shaking his head at you. "We ain't both gonna make it, (Y/N)."

"Arthur. Don't you dare." You glared at him.

The tears welled up so heavily in your eyes that he was just a blurry figure in your line of sight now. He pulled his hat off his head and placed it on top yours, along with pulling his satchel off of his shoulders to put it around your shoulders. This gesture from him made you gasp for breath, doing your best to hold back your desperate sobs.

"what I can make right is making sure you get the hell outta here and live your life. You're good, (Y/N). Too damn good for me, an' I was a lucky man to have ya for even a second," he said sincerely, pulling you into him to give you a hug.

You grabbed onto him tightly, digging your nails into his back as you buried your face into his chest. He had become more and more frail over these last weeks, and you could feel just how much he really had now. The Tuberculosis diagnosis had took a heavy toll on him, and he was terribly underweight. You cried into his chest, trying your hardest to savor this moment with him, hoping against hope that he'd change his mind and come with you. You loved this man more than anything in the world. You could hear the faint beating of his heart in his chest, it was almost drowned out by the sound of the sickness in his lungs.

The sounds of the men in the distance were starting to close in on you now.

"Go," he whispered, his voice cracking as he pulled your head back to look down at you. He gestured his head to you and John. "I'll hold 'em off "

"Arthur," John snapped, trying to persuade him to come with the two of you.

"John, I'm countin' on you to get her an' yerself outta here." He said, giving John the stern directions.

"Arthur Morgan," You growled so roughly through gritted teeth that you could feel it send a sharp pain through your vocal cords.

"Go," Arthur commanded louder to the both of you. He pointed at john. "Get the hell outta here an' be a goddamn man."

You frantically grabbed for Arthur's jacket, but he pulled you back by yours arms, forcing you to let him go. He looked down at you with tears in his own eyes now. "You told me once that were all gonna die someday, an' darlin', I'm sad to say that day is here for me. Even if I came with ya, I'd have a few weeks, maybe. Please, go an' live y'life for me. There'll be time for sorrow later, y'gonna be alright, girl."

"I can't lose you. You were it for me," you cried.

"An' you was for me, (Y/N). But they'd never stop chasin' us now, even if I wasn't already on my deathbed with this goddamn sickness. They want me an' Dutch dead. I love you, darlin'. More than anythin'."

"Let me stay," you pleaded, "John can escape. Let me stay here with you. Better I go out in a hail of bullets than to be without you."

He quickly shook his head at you. "You an' I both know I ain't gone let y'do that."

You gasped for your own breathe, the devastation was caving in on you quickly now. You had exhausted all of your options, none of them which he would let you go along with.

"I love you, girl. Just remember that," he said.

"I- I l-love you t-too," you stammered, crying so hard now that you could barely speak.

"You're my brother," John called out from behind you.

"I know." Arthur nodded, pulling away from you.

You still tried your best to hang onto him, in a last ditch effort to convince him, but John finally grabbed your arm, pulling you away, because you had no time left now. You tried to push him off, fighting and clawing at him as you screamed for Arthur, but he held you so tightly that all you could do was watch on in horror and complete despair as your whole world crumbled down in front of you as you saw the man you loved dying, trying to give you a better chance at life by sacrificing his own, but it was one that you couldn't imagine without him.

You dropped you your knees as you watched him go, with John's arms still wrapped around you to keep you in place. He pulled you up with all of his strength, throwing you onto his shoulder as he turned the opposite way to escape.

Arthur looked back at the both of you once more, exchanging a nod of goodbye before he turned and made his way back down the mountain towards the Pinkertons, his revolver in hand.

[caperingcryptid]

Hank's fingers tightened around the teacup, and for a moment, he was afraid he might break it. It was a fragile, pretty little thing ("bone china", the woman had helpfully informed him), patterned with a flower that, even if a gun was held to his head, he'd be damned if he could tell you what it was. Though she'd given him the largest cup she had, his hands still swallowed it up. It made him feel like a fool just to hold it.

The woman, meanwhile, held hers with the appropriate daintiness. Hell, she held herself with the appropriate daintiness. If Hank didn't know any better, he'd be worried for her. She was nearly as pale as the porcelain, and less than half his size. Her face was wan and moony, and she had a tendency to trail off, eyes wandering to some far-off point that was lost to him.

But he knew better. If he didn't, he wouldn't've come here, as much as his senses told him not to. Though the woman, and even the garden that they were sat in, could charm the birds from the trees, something about them made Hank's gut clench up. Staring into those distant, dreamy eyes, he felt as if he was a rabbit facing down a hound.

"Are you alright?" Her voice made him jump, splattering tea onto the floral tablecloth. He swore, then quickly bit his tongue.

"'m fine," Hank murmured. "Just...wanna get this over with. That's all." He reached for the napkins and made a valiant effort to blot his mess clean, but it only seemed to press in the stain. He glanced up at the woman, who smiled serenely.

"Patience is a virtue," she said. "You shouldn't worry yourself about the tablecloth, though. I can have it cleaned later. For now, let's talk about you. Shall we?"

"Not much to say." He found himself continuing to wipe at the cloth in spite of her words, wiping and dabbing and patting away. It gave him something to do. Gave him something to look at, besides her. "Like I said. I don't got much to give, but...if there's anything you want, then I'll give it." He licked his lips. "I just need your help."

The woman hummed. "You're asking a very big favor of me, you know. A sickness like hers isn't treated easily. Though I suppose if it was, you wouldn't be here, would you? You would be at a hospital. But you're with me, instead." She tipped her head. "I'm sure you tried, though. You always do."

Hank didn't look up. He could feel her eyes boring a hole into his skull. "Just tell me the price," he said. "I'll...." He drew in a low, shuddering breath. "I'll give it. Long as she'll be fine."

"You shouldn't make such bold offers, you know. You say that now, but when the time comes, you may be less willing to pay than you think."

He stared down at the tea stain. All his wiping had done nothing but spread it around. "Anything for her," he said. "Anything for my Abby."

"Alright. Alright, then." Hank looked up, and immediately regretted it. That smile...dear god, that smile. It was ageless, and knowing, and worst of all, somehow terribly, inexplicably sympathetic. Dread worked its claws into his heart.

"I'd like to meet her," she said. "Your daughter."

"No."

"I'd like to meet her." She sipped at her tea. "I've been looking for an apprentice, you know. I've had no interest in raising a child of my own, but it would be nice to pass my knowledge on to someone new."

Hank's grip tightened. "You bitch," he hissed. "She ain't yours. Should've known that was gonna be your game-"

"Language," she cut in. "I think it's a very fair offer, really. You could still come and visit any time. I'll ensure she gets the best education possible."

"You gonna make her like you, too?" More tea splashed out of the cup, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "Turn her strange?"

She shook her head. "No. She'll stay human, if that's what has you so concerned. She'll get to grow old, and die, and-"

Hank looked down, mutely. The cup had snapped in two. Blood and tea dripped from his fingers.

"Oh dear," said the woman. "That's rather extreme, isn't it? I suppose it can't be helped." She reached over the table, offering him a handkerchief. He didn't take it. "You don't have to answer right away. You can take your time. You can ask your daughter what she thinks, too."

"Deal's off." He hated the sound of his own voice, hollow and hesitant. "Not gonna do it. We'll work somethin' else out."

"If you say so." The woman pulled back, tucking her handkerchief into her pocket. "I'll be here if you change your mind, though. I always am."

Hank didn't answer. He pushed out from the table and marched off, eager to leave those too-strange eyes behind. He didn't want to think about the woman and her ways. He didn't want to think of how they both knew he'd be at her door again one day, his pride laid at her feet like a dead bird. He just wanted to get home and have a drink. Something that wasn't tea.

Writing prompt #867

A tea garden.