Part Thirty-Six: Home Again, Home Again — You and Arthur leave the Heartlands and come back to the swamp.
Pairings: Arthur Morgan x Reader | Genre: fluff, h/c, angst | Word Count: 4k | Warnings: none | Read on AO3 | Fic Masterlist
A/N: These chapters are taking me a lot longer to write recently, but I hope when I'm out for summer at the end of this week I'll have a lot more time to write for Arthur and Lady! Thank you for your patience - I love you!
The sun hovered over the horizon in the cool haze of evening, and Horseshoe Overlook was golden in the sunlight that filtered through the pines and oaks and cottonwoods. You spent a long while in the woods around camp foraging for herbs, thinking to stock up on plants you’d been running low on in Lemoyne: ginseng, yarrow, thyme, violet snowdrop. By the fire, you used one of the enamel mugs as a makeshift mortar and cooking pot: grinding the herbs with a little water and letting them simmer, you made tonics and bitters with your limited tools and bottles. Hosea’s medicine box at Shady Belle had extensive supplies and you’d bring home some herbs to work with there, but you were proud of what you accomplished with only your little fire as the sun lowered behind the mountains.
Supper was a quiet, almost lonely affair - you couldn’t remember the last time you’d eaten all by yourself, and you couldn’t decide if you liked the solitude or not. Arthur had shot and dressed a rabbit for you before he left, and you cooked it up with plenty of herbs and greens. With your plate on one knee and a cup of coffee within reach, you read avidly of the book Mary-Beth had loaned you: The Castle Above the Moor, a tale of romance and betrayal among the English nobility. Though not as enjoyable as it might have been if you weren’t so weighed down with grief, it provided a good escape from everything, and you read by the light of the fire as night fell.
You didn’t know if you should stay up and wait for Arthur, unsure how long this job was supposed to take, but eventually you curled up in your bedroll and watched the low flames of the banked fire glow in the darkness. The chatter of foxes and the trilling song of nightingales and crickets filled the woods around you, peaceful and familiar; the sounds were so different here than at Shady Belle, and you were lulled to sleep by a sense of safety and comfort you weren’t sure you’d ever have so deep in the swamp.
“Lady.”
Starling awake, you shrunk back from the huge, shadowed figure in the tent doorway for a moment before you realized who it was. With a sigh of relief, you gripped his arm to reassure yourself that it wasn’t some no-good outlaw sneaking into your tent, at least not one you needed to be frightened of.
“Oh, Arthur,” you said, jittery from your sudden awakening but still drowsy. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.” His voice was gruff, a touch harried, and when you tried to bring him close to you, he pulled back. “Listen - we gotta light outta here.”
You were more awake at that, propping yourself on your elbow. “Why? What happened?”
He started packing things up, which only made you more agitated. When he’d left, he’d seemed as calm and confident as he’d been leaving for countless other robberies, and the teasing good humor he’d left you with had assured you there wasn’t anything to worry about. To have him come back in so tense and nervous a state had you looking over his shoulder to see if some lawman was going to emerge from the treeline.
“Arthur, what happened?” you asked again, sitting up straight. “Did you get the papers?”
He tossed you your clothes, and you obediently put them on despite not yet knowing why you needed to.
“Yeah, but they caught me,” he said. “Had me dead to rights. I was lucky to get out.”
Your blood ran cold, your fingers frozen on the buttons of your shirt. “What do you mean, they caught you?”
“I mean they caught me,” he said, impatient now. “Ain’t you listenin’?”
You were trying, but between your own anxiety, his hurried explanation, and his constant, nervous movement, your sleep-slowed brain could hardly keep up.
“Arthur.” You grabbed his arm again. “I’m trying to make sense of it, honey. But you have to slow down.”
He took a breath, trying to wrestle himself into some semblance of calm, and you appreciated the effort even as you felt his tension.
“They caught me,” he said, deliberately slow and plain. “I had the papers in my hand, and when I left through the office window, they were waitin’ for me. I don’t know how they got tipped off, but they did. Eagle Flies set fire to one of their oil rigs and bought us enough time to shoot our way out, and we had a hell of a time gettin’ clear of ‘em.”
“Oh, Arthur,” you breathed. You wished he wasn’t cast in shadow so you could see him better. “Were you hurt?”
He shook his head. “No, but I don’t want us hangin’ around here after all that. I don’t think any of ‘em followed me, leastaways not any I didn’t shoot, but they’re sure gonna be out lookin’ for me.”
You drew a steadying breath, taking in all of that information. Near capture, near death, lawmen once again whipped up into a frenzy - everything you'd worried about had happened, but at least Arthur was safe. It was just about the bare minimum in your book to call a job a success, but you’d rather have the bare minimum than nothing at all.
“Okay,” you said after a moment. “We’ll get packed and we’ll go. Thank you for explaining everything to me.”
He grimaced. “I don’t mean to be short with ya, honey. I just - ”
“I understand,” you said, a touch weary. “I’m not upset. I was just confused.”
“I hate to rush you out in the middle of the night like this.”
“I know.” You finished pulling on your clothes. “But we both knew it could go sideways, and if you say it’s safer to leave, I don’t mind going.”
Like a well-oiled machine, you and Arthur hardly needed to speak to know how best to work together to get your camp packed and the horses ready to travel. Arthur kicked dirt over the embers of the fire as you made sure the saddlebags were secure, and with a last backward glance at your little haven away from Shady Belle, you were on the road towards Lemoyne.
You hadn’t gone very far when a surprised study of the sky to the north showed a billowing cloud of black smoke. Though you couldn’t see the fire from this distance, you knew it must be from the oil rig they’d destroyed.
“Arthur, that’s...” A spidering of discomfort ran over your shoulders as your voice trailed off. The smoke was eerie against the natural indigo of the sky, broadcasting for miles the trouble Arthur and Eagle Flies had stirred up at the refinery. All of a sudden, you realized how big of a mess it had ended up being; for a moment, it felt like the entire country knew what the van der Linde gang was up to and exactly where to find you, and you half expected Pinkertons to be riding towards you under the ominous black cloud.
“Did he have to set fire to it?” you asked, apprehension coming out as irritation in your voice.
He didn’t answer right away, watching you in the faint moonlight. You knew he’d read your posture and tone of voice, and he slowed Bucephalus to ride alongside you.
“The kid saved my life,” he said after a long moment. “I can’t really complain about how he chose to do it.”
“I’m not complaining,” you said, strained, trying to keep a mild tone and not really succeeding. “But it seems like there could have been less... conspicuous ways to do it.”
“Maybe,” he said patiently. “But it wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been plannin’ something like that even if I hadn’t needed help gettin’ outta there.”
You swallowed. “So we’re involved in the Indians’ war against Cornwall now.” It wasn’t that you weren’t sympathetic, but you were already fighting on so many fronts that throwing yourselves in the middle of someone else’s conflict seemed foolish beyond measure.
Arthur rested his hands on the pommel of his saddle.
“We’re makin’ money however we can,” he said evenly. “And I don’t mind helpin’ the Indians while we do it.”
“You’ll mind if it gets you killed,” you said sharply. Then, a little surprised and embarrassed by your outburst, you turned your head from him. “At least I’ll mind.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then -
“Lady.”
You didn’t turn towards him. “What?”
“Look at me.”
Reluctantly, you did as he said. There was nothing but understanding in his expression, and it made you feel worse.
“I’m just worried,” you said quietly, trying to explain. “I know I said I trust you, and I do. And maybe I haven’t been with the gang long enough to know what’s a good idea and what’s not, but you keep doing these jobs that seem very risky to me.” You pinked a little. “But I’m not brave like you.”
He shook his head. “You’re plenty brave, darlin’. And you’re right - it didn’t always used to be like this. Dutch has got it in his mind that we oughta do bigger and bigger jobs instead of the ones we used to do, ones we could get away clean from. I’m as worried about it as you are.”
“But you...” You hesitated. This was just another iteration of the same argument you’d been having for a while now, and you didn’t want to bring it up again, but it loomed as clearly as the dark smoke of the oil refinery.
“But I what?” he said gently. “I keep doin’ these jobs anyway?”
You nodded, meek.
He sighed. “Yeah. I know. I just...” He looked out towards the smoke, watching it black out the moon. “I keep thinkin’ things’ll turn around. And I ain’t ready to give up on Dutch just yet, I guess.”
The sorrow and guilt and deep, fervent loyalty in his voice tugged at you. If you found it hard to disagree with Dutch sometimes, Arthur must have felt like he was being torn in two.
“Oh, Arthur,” you said quietly. “I don’t want to give up on him either.” Despite the fracturing of trust between you and Dutch after Arthur’s run-in with Colm and all that had followed after, you didn’t intend to pull yourself or Arthur away from Dutch as long as it was safe and wise to stick by him. Maybe even past that, because you were family, even if there had been some hard travelling recently.
You reached out and took his hand.
“But I want us to be safe,” you said. “All these jobs, all this running - if you think it’ll get us out of here, if you think this is the best way to take care of the people we love and build a life for us, then I’ll do whatever you say we should do. And if you decide it’s not what’s best any more....”
You gave his hand a squeeze, wise enough to know it would be hard for him to leave Dutch if he ever had to, confident enough in him to know he would do it. “I trust you to make that call and do what needs to be done.”
His jaw worked. “I hope it won’t come to that.”
“Me too.” You let your hand fall. “I’m not trying to make you mad, Arthur.”
“I know. I ain't mad.” He tipped his hat back, letting you see more of his face. “I appreciate you bein’ straight with me. It’s good to know you’re not just followin’ me blind, that you’re thinkin’ through this thing too.”
You’d been through too much these past few weeks to follow anyone blindly, even someone you loved and trusted as much as Arthur. But until he made a decision that you thought truly went against what you knew you both wanted, you’d rest in what he chose to do.
“Reckon we’d better get on home,” he said, his tone resigned and tired. He clicked his tongue to get Bucephalus moving down the road again, and you followed, feeling almost as though that smoky black sky was coming with you too.
-
Back in Lemoyne, the first hot rays of sunshine filtered through the deep overgrowth of moss on the towering trees, bearing down on you in its intensity. Some nervous something started to draw your every muscle into a knot the closer you came to camp, and you didn’t know quite what it was until you came down the path to Shady Belle’s front gate. It was the first time you’d seen the house since Kieran when you weren’t drugged out of your mind or very sick, and of a sudden, your breath grew shallow and your heartbeat more rapid. You remembered very clearly the bodies, the gunshots, the screaming; pulling Ennis to a halt just before you came through the gate, you felt him shift beneath you as he read your tension.
Arthur had hitched Bucephalus before he noticed you hadn’t followed him in, and he jogged back to you when he realized.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking up at your drawn expression.
“Nothing,” you lied. You cleared your throat, feeling it tight and thick. “I, uh... just need a minute.”
He looked you over and tried to think of a way to help, even though he didn’t know what needed fixing.
“Do you need me to help you down?” he asked. It was rather sweet, his mix of confusion and earnest kindness, and you softened a little.
“No. I’m okay. You go ahead.”
“Honey...”
“I’m alright, Arthur.” He couldn’t fix it anyway, and there was no use dragging both of you down into the panic and nausea barely held at bay. “Go talk to Dutch. I’ll be in after a while.”
With obvious reluctance, he did as you said, and you stayed atop Ennis in the hot, wet air smelling strongly of stagnant green water and dense, choking growth. If you went back in there, into that tangle of death and grief and hungry ivy, you feared you might never come back out. Your hands shook, and you balled them into little fists and tried to make yourself take long, slow breaths.
Eventually, you found the nerve to get Ennis to the hitching post; from there, you made yourself walk towards the campfire. No one else seemed to want to give a wide berth to the place Kieran’s body had sprawled, but just going near it made a chill race down your spine. You stood there for a moment, transfixed, remembering the horror of it in every inch of your body.
“Lady.”
You tore your gaze from the ground to see Charles at the campfire. He beckoned you over with a nod of his head, and you came hesitantly over to the circle of logs and crates that stood around the fire, not wishing to impose your mood on him if you could help it.
“I didn’t expect you two back until tonight,” he said. He was shaping a piece of flint into an arrowhead, and judging by the dusting of flint on his thigh, he’d made several already. “Did something happen?”
“Arthur got the papers that prove the land belongs to the Indians,” you said. “But they knew he was there, and he and Eagle Flies had to shoot their way out. He wanted to be gone before they came looking for him.”
“Good call.” He pressed the point of his deer-bone tool into the edge of the flint, chipping off small pieces of it to give it a serrated edge. “No doubt Cornwall’s got Pinkertons and his own men searching all over the Heartlands for him.”
“They set fire to one of the oil rigs,” you said, watching his face for his reaction.
A mild surprise colored his features. “Arthur did?”
“Eagle Flies did,” you said. “To create a distraction so Arthur could escape. I saw the smoke when we were coming back.”
He ran his thumb over the surface of the arrowhead. “Good for him.”
You didn’t say anything to that, still not sure the job was a good idea at all, much less that destroying part of the factory was a wise decision. Charles looked up at you.
“You don’t think so?” he asked. His voice was calm and resonant, holding no judgement; you’d always admired how Charles seemed to face everything with a kindness born of honesty, open minded but stalwart in his sense of right and wrong. There was never any question as to whether Charles would be straight with you about something, and he respected those who were straight with him and with themselves.
You sat on the upturned apple crate next to him, feeling a little like a wilting flower.
“It’s not that I feel bad for Cornwall,” you explained. “And of course I'm grateful Eagle Flies helped Arthur escape. I’d be glad to see that entire refinery go up in flames, especially when they’re trying to displace the Indians for their own greed.”
He ran the edge of his knife over an arrow shaft, smoothing it out. “But?”
You sighed, brushing back a strand of hair that was already damp with sweat.
“I don’t know. It seems like a war we can’t win, going up against Cornwall. I’m glad Eagle Flies and his father have something that might help them keep their land, but I’m not sure it was a good idea to get more involved with Cornwall than we are already.”
Thinking for a moment before he spoke, another thing you admired about him, he heated a small block of some dark material in the fire until part of it melted like a candle.
“What are you doing now?” you asked curiously. You wondered if Charles had struck up a conversation to get your mind off of Kieran; it was working, at least a little, and it would certainly be in his character to notice something like that and try to help.
“This is pine resin, beeswax, and charcoal,” he said, showing you the melted part that had pooled in a little well of the block. “It’s the glue that holds the arrowhead to the shaft.”
He coated the top of the shaft and the bottom of the arrowhead in the glue, held them together for a few seconds until it dried, and fished a long, thin string from his pile of supplies. When he put the string in his mouth, you winced.
“What does chewing it do?” You weren’t sure you wanted to know the answer, but you were fascinated with the process despite yourself.
He took it out of his mouth and gave you an amused look.
“I’m not chewing it. I’m just wetting it so it’ll bind better.”
“Couldn’t you use water?”
“Yeah, but I don’t have any with me. It’s only elk sinew.”
You made a face. “Elk sinew?”
“Yep. Works like a charm.”
Wrapping the arrowhead and the top of the shaft in the sinew, he secured everything together and gave it another coat of the glue. He held it out to you.
“Why, Charles, you’re too kind,” you said dryly. Studying the craftsmanship of the arrow, including the fletching of the grey and white feathers at the end, you saw what a delicate and deadly piece of work it was.
“I agree with you about Cornwall,” he said, finally offering his opinion on the matter. “It’s a complicated thing. I’d like to help Eagle Flies myself, and I’m glad Arthur did - but we have a lot to think about right now, and it’ll only get more complicated the longer it goes on.”
You handed the arrow back to him. “You don’t think we’re getting out of this Bronte thing clean, do you?”
“No, I don’t.” He looked over his shoulder towards the house, to the doors on the balcony that led into Dutch’s room. “I hope Arthur can talk some sense into Dutch about it, but it feels like we’re being pulled deeper and deeper into something we can’t get out of.”
You toyed with a line of mending in your shirt. “Arthur thinks we ought to split up for a while. Get back together when things cool off.”
He considered that. “It’s not a bad idea. I don’t think Dutch will go for it, though.”
“No,” you said gloomily. “Me either.”
You sat with him for a while longer, watching him make a few more arrows, trying your hand at chiselling an arrowhead yourself. You’d made a halfway decent serrated edge when the front doors of the house slammed open, and you startled so badly that you cut the pad of your thumb on the arrowhead.
Sucking in a sharp breath, you pressed the offended finger to your mouth and tried to staunch the thin rivulet of blood. Arthur came storming out through the doors, and you watched in mingled apprehension and morbid curiosity as he stalked aimlessly, muttering to himself.
“Arthur,” Charles called. “Come be angry over here with us.”
Frowning, he nonetheless did as Charles said.
“Well what’n the hell are you angry about?” he asked. “Since we’re all bein’ angry together.”
Charles finished peeling a strip of bark from a branch and gestured to you with his knife. “You made her cut herself on an arrowhead.”
“I did what?”
You pulled your hand away from your mouth and hid it with your other hand. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
“Let me see this nothin’,” he said, his affect softer than it had been. Holding your hand out to him, you let him look over the nick that really wasn’t that bad.
“You just startled me coming out of the house,” you said. “That’s all.”
He kissed it better. “Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
Calmer now, he sat next to Charles and looked over the arrows for a moment. Charles glanced up from his work to give you a hint of a smile, and you knew that his trick of calling Arthur’s attention to your little hurt had been to distract him from being so angry.
“You’re pretty good at this kind of thing,” you said pointedly, handing him back the arrowhead you’d been working on.
He chuckled. “Somebody around here’s got to be.” Handing the arrowhead to Arthur, he told him that you’d made it all by yourself.
Arthur held it between his fingers and studied it. “Well I’ll be durned. That’s pretty good work, darlin’.”
“Thank you,” you said, feeling your mood lighten at his praise. Hoping it wouldn’t make him upset, you ventured a question that might make your mood plunge right back down again.
“Can I ask what happened with Dutch?”
He sighed. “Nothin’ good. He wants me to go out with him later and meet some fisherman - says this fella can bring us in on the river around back of Bronte’s house.”
“He won’t give up on this Bronte thing, will he?” Charles asked soberly.
“You can bet on that,” Arthur said, running a hand over his face. “Suppose we’ll have to kill Bronte. I don’t rightly mind, what with him takin’ Jack and tryin’ to get us killed with that trolley job, but it’ll bring the law on us real quick if we ain’t careful.”
“We’ve already got the law on us,” Charles observed.
“Yeah, but this...” Arthur shook his head. “Dutch swears it ain’t about revenge, but I ain’t so sure. And killin’ the kingpin of Saint Denis for revenge seems pretty damn stupid to me.”
“Doesn’t Dutch always say revenge is a fool’s game?” you asked quietly.
Arthur scuffed a hand over his jaw, his expression resigned and weary. “Yep. He does.”
-
He came home late from his errand to speak to the fisherman with Dutch, coming into your room and looking as if he’d fallen headfirst off the boat. Even in the light of the lantern, you could see that his clothes were damp all the way to his chest, and his boots sloshed with even the smallest movement. Unsure how to take the expression on his face, you found him an amusing, slightly pitiful sight; smothering a laugh, you were glad when he gave you a grudging smile in return.
“Alright, little miss, get them giggles out,” he scolded lightly. He tossed his hat on the table. “You wouldn’t be laughin’ if you were in my shoes.”
“I certainly wouldn’t,” you agreed sympathetically. Standing from the bed and setting aside your book, you helped him undress from his wet clothes and tossed everything in a pile of laundry you were planning to get to first thing the next morning. His boots were full of water, and you took them onto the balcony to empty them over the railing.
“I thought you were going to find a boat,” you said. “Decided to go for a swim instead?”
“Decided nothin’,” he said firmly. “We had to find that fella’s fishin’ partner and his boat, and while we did, he made me the crawdad traps and wade around in the water up to here.”
He put a hand to his chest, indicating the high level of the water. You saw the line of it still damp on his shirt as he unbuttoned it.
“Aren’t there alligators in the water?” you asked hesitantly.
“Sure. Saw plenty of ‘em. Ain’t none of ‘em gave me the creeps like this one I’m gonna tell you about, though.”
You winced. “I don’t want a scary story, Arthur.”
He pulled off his shirt, carrying on the conversation as though he wasn’t putting on a bit of a show for you.
“Well, maybe I oughtn’t tell ya, then.”
You looked him over, partly to check for wounds and partly to enjoy the pleasure of it. “But you weren’t hurt?”
“No. Scared me half to death, but I wasn’t hurt.”
“If you weren’t hurt, well... I guess you can tell me.”
“You sure?”
“I suppose.” You handed him a soft cotton nightshirt. “Tell it to me like you’d tell Jack to keep him from getting scared.”
A faint smile flickered across his face. “Well, we couldn’t find that fella anywhere, and we split up lookin’ for him. I found him treed, boat missin’, hollerin’ all kinda crazy stuff about some monster gator he saw. I got the boat and we all were goin’ back to the house when we saw the damn thing, and I tell ya - I ain’t never seen a bigger, meaner gator in all my life. That thing was a damn dinosaur.”
You shivered at the thought of any beast larger and more dangerous than the ones you’d come across.
“And then what happened?” you asked.
He shrugged. “Nothin’. He just swam on by.”
You knew that wasn’t the whole truth, but you’d asked him to spare you the more frightening details, and you didn’t press.
“You should have shot it,” you said mildly. “You could have had a new pair of alligator boots.”
He chuckled, and you moved closer to the warm, comforting sound of it.
“Maybe I will, one day,” he said. “Though I reckon I won’t wanna be swimmin’ around his territory any time soon.”
Pressing close to him, you framed his face with your hands.
“I’m glad you weren’t supper for a monster alligator,” you said. “I would have been very upset.”
He laughed. “Reckon I woulda been upset too.” Rubbing the collar of your nightgown between his fingers, he seemed to linger in the comfort of your closeness, and you were pleased when he leaned down to kiss you.
“Come to bed,” you said softly, knowing he was tired. “I’ll read to you.”
You felt his smile. “What silly romance are we readin’ tonight, girl?”
“It is a little silly,” you admitted with a soft laugh. “Lady Eleanor is in love with Duke Hepworth, but the duke’s cousin, Sir Mullberry, is playing a dastardly trick to have him sent away so he can take the duke’s lands and marry Lady Eleanor himself.”
“I’ll be,” he drawled. “Mulberry did all that? I gotta hear what happens now.”
In bed together, the lantern light flickering comfortingly over the walls, you and Arthur enjoyed each other’s closeness as you read of Sir Mulberry’s fiendish exploits and Lady Eleanor’s undying love for the duke. When you heard Arthur’s gentle snoring over the sound of your voice, you smiled to yourself and set the book aside, dousing the lantern and snuggling close.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he mumbled, waking a little as you pulled the quilt over both of you.
“That’s okay,” you said softly. “I know you’re tired, sweetheart.”
He pulled you close with his arm around your middle.
“That Lady Eleanor’s a brave gal,” he said, his voice low and drowsy. “You reckon you’d pine for me if I got sent away on some pirate ship?”
“Don’t get any ideas,” you said wryly. “Dutch probably thinks something like that would be a great business opportunity.”
He chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. “I won’t mention it to him if you won’t.”
You brushed a hand through his soft hair. “Goodnight, Arthur. I love you.”
He tucked you close to him. “Love you, sweet pea.”
Part Thirty-Three: Better, Not Worse — You and Arthur deal with the fallout of your fight. In this clumsy dance of hurt and sorrow, you try to make things better, not worse.
Pairings: Arthur Morgan x Reader | Genre: fluff, h/c, angst | Word Count: 6k | Warnings: canon-typical violence | Read on AO3 | Fic Masterlist
A/N: In all honesty I got stuck on this chapter, since I've been sick and I'm in crunch time at work wrapping up the school year, and I wanted this to be good so it had to simmer for a while. I hope it actually does end up being good!! Enjoy!!
You were lost in the swamp, and you were alone.
Frogs and cicadas sent up their trilling, throaty racket, dozens of them hidden in every bunch of bullrush and cordgrass at your feet. Rattlesnakes and coppermouths slithered over the wet ground, hissing and chittering when you stepped too close; alligators moved unseen under the rippling, murky water, their eyes luminous and red in the light of the guttering lantern you held. There was no moon, and the stars you’d learned as a child were covered with dark clouds cracking with lightning; heavy with the coming storm, the air itself was expectant, restless, alive with humming and whispering and a strange, keening cry that could only be heard between the resonant peals of thunder.
Carefully making your way through the sedge and reedgrass, water sloshing over your boots as you measured each step and hoped for firm footing, you held your lantern higher and looked for.... someone. His name was trapped in some lockbox of your mind, or else you would have called for him; you knew that he loved you, but you felt some nagging fear that he might not be looking for you. What it was that had caused you to be out here alone was a mystery too, and you thought it must be something awful. Lightning illuminated the ghoulish trees looming far overhead, their images pale and bright in the wash of silver and purple, a bruise on the face of the stygian sky. You started to hurry, knowing you couldn’t be alone in this place for long.
You couldn’t find him anywhere. It was strange to you that he wasn’t with you; you’d knew you’d never been any place so dark and hazy, so dangerous and frightening, without having him near. But some part of you also knew that you’d driven him away, that it was through your own doing that you were all alone. Words came tauntingly under the roll of thunder: I hate you. You’re not trying hard enough. Be man for once in your life. Your own voice curled around the mossy, grasping branches, slinking through the water against scales and claws and teeth. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
You started to run, hearing the snapping of reptilian teeth wherever you stepped, feeling snakes skitter away under your skirts. The storm grew louder, filling the swamp with noise and wet, crackling heat; that phantasmic, warped caricature of your voice overshadowed you like a living thing, snarling and wailing. I hate you! He wasn’t anywhere in this shadowed, haunted maze of towering trees and marshy thickets. You tried to call his name, but the syllables of it evaporated before you like mist. If you knew it, if you called it, he would come. Even if you’d hurt him. You knew he would.
Suddenly, your boot caught on something; prizing it from the sucking, groping mud, you saw the snare was a bleach-bone hand, its skeletal fingers wrapped around your heel. Giving a cry of terror, you stumbled back; you fell against someone, turning to see if it was him, finally coming to get you, please, God - and you froze in horror when you saw it was a man with no eyes and a leering, sharp-toothed grin.
Faces emerged from the mire, dark hoods pulled over choking, groaning mouths; with ragged, rotting hands they reached out for you, calling you by the name given to you by that someone who loved you - lady, lady, lady. You screamed and begged them to let you go, but your voice was lost in their moaning, in the sound of the storm, in the blackness that swallowed the stars. The man with no eyes grabbed hold of you, pulling you, dragging you into the mud with them; they grasped and groped at your hair, your throat, your eyes. Your mouth was filled with silt, your screams rattling and gurgling as they pulled you under; fighting and writhing to be free, you knew if you could just call his name, if you could just get to him -
“Lady, lady!”
You wrenched awake with a sudden, lurching gasp, eyes wide, heart racing. Everything was dark and you were still there, still looking for -
“Oh, Arthur.”
You threw your arms around his neck, sobbing, grabbing at his shirt and pulling yourself as close to him as you could. You still felt their hands raking across your dress, your hair, your skin; delirious, drenched in sweat, you wanted to be inside him, under his ribs, in some part of him that they would never get to.
“I couldn’t find you!” you sobbed, your throat raw, your whole body shaking. “I couldn’t find you anywhere!”
“Okay,” he soothed, raising his voice enough to be heard over your frantic babbling, running a hand over your back. “You found me. I’m right here.”
“But they - they had me, and I - I couldn’t get out, and - ”
“Ain’t nobody got you but me, girl. It’s alright. You’re safe with me.”
With a miserable, keening cry, your horror unwound into relief so acute that you could do nothing but cling to him and cry, face pressed against his neck, cradled in his strong, gentle hands that would never, ever hurt you. He held you in his lap and ran his broad palm over your back, pressing a kiss to your clammy brow.
“My god, girl,” he rasped, resting his whiskery cheek against your sweat-damp hair. “You scared me to death, screamin’ like that.”
“I’m sorry,” you said pitifully. “I’m sorry for screaming, Arthur.”
“No, sugar,” he said quickly. “You ain’t gotta apologize. I just...” His sigh was shaky. “I thought I’d never be able to wake you up. I shook you and yelled at you, and that damn nightmare had such a hold on you I thought I’d never get to you.”
Your breath was sharp, shuddering. “I d-didn’t think you were l-looking for me.”
His arms tightened around you. “I was. Wherever you were, I was lookin’ for you.”
The memory of that voice, your voice, hateful and cruel, still rang in your ears.
“But the things I said - ”
“Ain’t nothin’ could keep me from comin’ to you when you called me like that,” he said firmly. “You hear me?”
You nodded, mute. You hadn’t known you’d been calling him, and the thought of how frightened he’d been trying to wake you, hearing only his name over and over... for a moment, you shivered for his fear more than your own.
“You cold?” he asked, gentler now.
You didn’t answer. He had been looking for you. Even in that dark, cadaverous underworld, even after all you’d done to hurt him, he’d been searching for you, trying to bring you home.
“Lady,” he said, pulling your attention back. “Talk to me, girl.”
You tried to focus, tried to be good for him. “Yes. I’m cold.” You were freezing despite the damp heat of the rainstorm, teeth chattering as you lay against the warmth of him. He took the quilt and wrapped it around you, holding you snug, putting a hand over yours as you grasped at his shirt.
“Easy,” he soothed. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
Lightning flashed, washing the room in eerie purple light before plunging it back into darkness. Thunder rolled in a great wave, shaking the old house from the ground up, and you pressed closer to him.
“You’re sick, honey,” he said, the rumble of his voice a sure promise that he was real, that you were safe. “Me an’ Hosea have been tryin’ to keep your fever down, but you gotta tell me what you’re feelin’ so I know how to help.”
You didn’t know what you felt - nothing and everything all at once, numb and somehow still agitated, like something was humming and trilling under your skin. Everywhere he touched, you settled; whatever it was, it couldn’t get to the places his warm hands splayed across your back, the parts of you that pressed against him in the dark.
“What happened?” you asked weakly. You remembered him laying into Micah, the two of you yelling and cussing at each other over God knows what, then - nothing.
“You said you couldn’t breathe,” he said. From the tone of his voice alone, you knew how badly that had frightened him. “You passed out. You ain’t been awake since then, and that’s been hours now.”
The tightness in your chest and the pain in your head made more sense, then. The drinking, the heat, the overwhelm of Kieran and the firefight afterwards, the screaming match between you and Arthur - no doubt these things had set off some physical response of illness from your weary body. It felt like you hadn’t been able to catch your breath for weeks, not since Arthur’s disastrous meeting with Colm; that had been like the first movement of a gigantic rockslide, and the best you could hope for now was simply for the debris to settle and no more boulders to come tumbling down.
“I’m glad you’re awake an’ talkin’ to me,” Arthur said, the slightest unsteadiness in his voice. “I’ve been real worried about ya.”
You tucked your hand under the open collar of his shirt, pressing your fingers to the scars and ridges you knew the shape of without having to see them. His heartbeat was fast, galloping under your touch like the hooves of a wild mustang.
“Arthur, I - ” Your voice broke. “I don’t hate you.”
That shifted something in him, like you’d touched a fresh wound.
“Lady,” he said guardedly, “we ain’t gotta - ”
“I know you’re angry with me,” you said, quick and desperate. No amount of whiskey or unconsciousness would ever rid you of the awful guilt of saying the things you had, and it rolled and churned inside you like a lethal dose of poison.
“You should be angry,” you said, the words spilling out of you. “But I didn’t mean it, Arthur. I didn’t mean any of it. I know it’s not worth much to say that now, but I swear it didn’t mean it.”
He swallowed. “Maybe you were right.”
“No, Arthur,” you moaned. Nothing could be worse than him thinking such hateful, terrible lies were true. You pressed your face to his neck with shivering little breaths, begging him to believe you. “I wasn’t right. I don’t want to go back to him. I want to be with you.”
“Shh, alright,” he said, putting aside his own hurt for you, like he always did. “I know. You ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
“Please say you believe me,” you said, crying now. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please believe me.”
You could say it a hundred times and still not feel like you’d said it enough. How could you have told him you’d rather be back with your abusive, drunken father? How could you be your abusive, drunken father? He’d done this too, crying and pleading when the guilt finally caught up with him, and you were disgusted beyond telling at the marrow-deep evidence that you were your daddy made over and would never be any different.
“Arthur, please,” you begged. “Say you believe me.”
“Okay, I believe you.” He brushed your sweat-plastered hair back from your face, making you meet his eyes. “I believe you. Settle down before you work your fever up again.”
Some part of you - every part of you - knew he was saying it to placate you. That whatever he really felt about it was being put to the side for your sake. And, selfishly, you let him do it; you let him lie to you because it made you feel better, because it eased the panic clawing through your ribcage, because you were so weak and he was so good and it was so easy to let him take care of you when you’d done nothing to take care of him.
“I’ll be good, Arthur,” you promised brokenly. It was the least you could do.
“It ain’t about bein’ good,” he said. His voice was tight with something you couldn’t quite read. “You just rest now. We’ll talk about it later.”
Helpless to do anything but obey, you let him hold you and comfort you and keep you from falling to pieces. He gave of himself, like he always did, holding you close as the storm rolled over the house and rain drummed on the roof.
-
You stayed in bed the next morning, too sick and exhausted to do any more, and the rain continued unabated. Dutch was recovering from bash on the head gotten during the trolley job, freeing Arthur from any further reckless plans, at least for a little while; on whatever snatches of sleep he’d managed to get between your bouts of hysteria, he went out into the driving rain to take care of the gang. Splitting wood, repairing and reinforcing all the tents and shelters outside, hauling feed for the horses, boarding up the shattered windows against the storm - he worked when most everyone else stayed inside, and you watched him from the rain-streaked window with an acute sense of your own uselessness and weakness. The hand you’d been dealt wasn’t a good one, at least not right now; but he’d lost the same people you had, had witnessed the same horrors, had grown up just as bruised and battered as you. And still he worked tirelessly, held you when you needed comfort, withstood everything you and Dutch and life itself threw at him and took it like a man.
Turning from the window, you wrapped your arms around your middle and heard that voice you’d heard crawling through the swamp of your nightmares speak louder and louder. What could you do to make it up to him, really? Your hands were empty, never giving, always taking.
When he came up to your room, you hardly knew how to act. The frantic intimacy of the night before had turned to something awkward, strange, and tense; you’d never felt that way with Arthur, but there was some unspoken cog in the machinery that had gotten knocked loose, and the whole thing had ground to a halt, vibrating with expectancy.
I believe you. I don’t hate you. He sat at his worktable, cleaning his guns and fletching arrows and making countless split-point bullets; as you lay with fever finally broken but body and mind still worn, he filled every corner of the narrow, ramshackle room with his presence. You didn’t know what it made you feel - protected? Closed in? He was everywhere, big and alive and radiating some kind of vigor that felt like a fire: too far from him, and you were cold and lonely; too close, and you feared you would be burned. He didn’t say anything as he worked. Was he angry? Sad? Regretting ever finding you in that miserable nowhere town all those months ago?
He’d said that you might have been right to say you’d be better off with your father than with him. Was he going to send you away? All you did was take and take and take, and maybe he’d finally had enough. Mind racing, agitated and nervous, you were desperate to convince him that you were sorry, that he shouldn’t give you exactly what you’d asked for and send you away from him for good.
“Arthur,” you said, your voice fragile and tightly-wound in the quiet.
He hummed, acknowledging that you’d spoken but offering nothing further. You wanted him to say something, to tell you what was going on inside his head, but he’d said nothing all morning; for the first time since you’d known him, his affect was impossible to read, and it only made you more anxious. He’d said, when you were fighting with Micah sprawled in a bloody heap at your feet, that you should probably go your separate ways. You couldn’t quite remember why he’d said that, but what did it matter? You had to do something, anything, to keep him from leaving you.
Rain splattered all over the floor as it came through the broken windows, leaving a silvery sheen on the warped floorboards. Feeling it come less naturally or enjoyably than it ever had, almost to the point of disgust, you loosened your posture and moved towards him, skating your hands over the broad planes of his shoulders and back. He stiffened, wary and curious like a proud, beautiful buck, unsure if he was being admired or hunted.
“I really am sorry,” you said, pitching your voice just so, trying to hide the wavering note of desperate fear behind a sheen of sensuality. “Let me make it up to you, Arthur.”
He pulled back a little, and you could feel the reaction of surprise and stifled aversion under your hands.
“Make it up to me?” he repeated, cagey and displeased. He turned to study your face. “What are you talkin’ about?”
You carded a hand through his damp hair. “You know what I’m talking about.” It felt strange and wrong to talk to him like this, to let your hands wander when your heart wasn’t in it; the only times he’d made love to you were when you wanted it too, so the sensation of forcing yourself to warm up to him was foreign and unpleasant. Still, what man would turn down such a plain advance? It wouldn’t fix everything, but a satisfied man would surely be more inclined to forgive than one who’d gone without.
“I told you’d I’d be good,” you said, your voice silky sweet. You pressed a kiss to his neck. “Let me show you how sorry I am, Arthur.”
He pushed you away then, not forcefully but enough for the rejection to be swift and unmistakable.
“What the hell are you doin’?” he said, incredulous, maybe even angry. It was the first real reaction you’d gotten out of him all day, but it wasn’t the one you’d hoped for. You said nothing for a moment, and embarrassment and regret made your face heat with more than fever.
“I wanted to apologize,” you said stiltedly.
“So apologize!” He gave an incredulous shake of his head. “What makes you think you gotta feel me up to say you’re sorry?”
You couldn’t meet his eyes, shrinking in on yourself under the weight of his censure.
“I thought it would help.”
“Help what?” he demanded. “You’re sick, neither of us has slept worth a damn, and we’ve been fightin’ like hell. You think a roll in the sack’s gonna help with that?”
Without waiting for an answer, he stood, restless and angry, pacing the narrow room like a caged coyote. Then, after a moment, he stopped and looked right at you.
“Do you even want to?” he asked bluntly.
Your cheeks flamed with color. “I will if you want to.”
He scowled. “That ain’t what I asked. I asked if you wanted to sleep with me.”
Right now, you couldn’t really think of anything you’d like to do less. Tired, dirty, coming off a fever, and suddenly realizing you were ravenously hungry, of all things - you could think of a hundred things you’d rather do than sleep with him. But none of those things would make him want to keep you around now that you’d proven yourself so miserable and hateful.
“I wasn’t trying to make you angry, Arthur,” you said, sincere in your growing unease and desperation. “I was trying to - ”
“Oh, I reckon I can guess what you were tryin’ to do,” he said, bristling. “You figured you’d give it to me good enough that I forgot everything that’s goin’ on with us, huh? Is that it?”
You swallowed. More or less, that’s exactly what you’d figured on doing.
“Like you think I’m some kinda animal,” he said bitterly. “Like I ain’t lookin’ for anything more outta you than somewhere to get off. Like I’m Micah.”
You flinched. “I don’t think you’re like Micah.”
“No?” he flashed. “You’re treatin’ me like you do. If you think doin’ me when you don’t even want to is gonna make me happy, you must think I’m just like him.”
“That’s not true,” you insisted. Tears pricked your eyes, but you weren’t sure what emotion had conjured them. “I was only trying to fix things. I didn’t think it would make you mad.”
He swept off his hat and whacked it against his thigh. “Well what’n the hell did you think it was gonna do, then?”
“I guess I thought you’d like it!” you said sharply. Hurt and embarrassment, anxiety and shame — all of them clamored for first place in your voice. “Don’t men like for their women to sleep with them?”
“My preference,” he said firmly, “if you’re gonna sleep with me, is for you to want to. As a matter of fact, it’s insulting that you think I’d still want to if you didn’t.”
He pointed accusingly at you with his hat he held in a too-tight grip. “And for another thing, it’s insulting that you think whatever’s wrong with me can be fixed just by sleepin’ with me. You didn’t even try talkin’ to me - you haven’t said a word all morning. You just figured you could get your big, dumb man to do whatever you wanted as long as you showed him a good time.”
He all but crumpled the crown of his hat in his tightening fist. “I ain't just some randy idiot who ain't got a heart or a brain, you know.”
The heat of embarrassment began to give way to the ashen pale of regret. You said nothing.
“I’ve never touched you and made it cheap like that,” he said, and his voice was hard and hurting. “When I put my hands on you, I mean it. I don’t do it because I’m tryin’ to get somethin’ from you, tryin’ to get you to act a certain way. I touch you because I love you.” His jaw worked. “And the way you touched me just now didn't feel very much like love.”
You didn't know what to say. A wave of guilt and shame came on so strong you thought you might choke on it. All you ever did was make things worse, and now you’d hurt him in a way you didn’t even think a man could be hurt. But Arthur wasn’t like other men, and you’d done just as he said — you'd treated him like he was someone base and stupid and selfish, someone who had to be coaxed into goodness by physical pleasure, someone other than the man he’d always proven himself to be.
He jammed his hat back on his head. “I want you packed and ready to leave in an hour.”
You paled. “Why?”
“You an’ me, we’re gettin’ outta here for a while.”
He said nothing else, offered no other explanation, before he turned and left. The closing door behind him might as well have been the lid of a casket for all the comfort it gave you, and despite his order that he clearly expected to be obeyed, you couldn’t make yourself move for a long time. The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle, collecting in little pools by the balcony door; you watched the ripples of each drop of rainwater, trying to interpret his directions without giving into panic completely. He was going with you, so he couldn’t be sending you away from him. Could he?
When you heard his footsteps on the stairs again, you jolted into action; he found you stuffing whatever you could find - dresses, the quilt, a handful of bullets - into your pack with little consideration as to what you’d actually need.
“I’m goin’ to get the hosses ready,” he said, his tone neither angry nor eager. “I’ll come up and throw some of my things together, and then we’re goin’.”
You only nodded. He hesitated with his hand on the doorknob, looking you over.
“You ain’t gotta look like I’m takin’ you to be hanged, neither,” he said, his voice flat. “We’re just goin’ away for a day or two. Slow down and pack like you got some sense.”
Your face reddened, and your response was sharper than you intended. “Can I ask where we’re going?” Do I need to pack to be gone forever?
“You can ask all you like,” he said. “But I reckon you’ll just have to trust me and see for yourself when we get there.”
That did nothing to settle your nerves, but he obviously wasn’t in the mood to settle them or anything else, so you didn’t press. As he left again, you forced yourself to do as he’d said and pack like you had some sense. The bullets were put back on the table holding his ammunition stock, and the quilt went into a different pack with some small things you thought you might need to make camp; the dresses were folded neatly, along with a nightgown, a hairbrush, and other personal articles into your pack. You dressed in a worn cotton shirt and jeans and braided your hair, pulling on your cowpuncher boots when you were done; when he came back into the room, he found you perched on the edge of the neatly made bed with your two small bags, waiting his direction, as calm as it was possible for a person to be.
He raised a brow. “You ready?”
“Yes, Arthur.” Maybe if you were as perfect and placid as a china doll, you’d stop bringing catastrophic damage with you wherever you went, and he wouldn't be so upset with you. It was worth a try, anyway.
He didn’t seem to know how to respond to this change in affect, and his only reaction was a vague frown hovering over his features.
“I saddled Ennis for you,” he said. “Reckon he could use some exercise, and I’d like you to have your own hoss just in case.”
You wanted to ask why you might need your own horse, but you didn’t. “Okay, Arthur.”
“Go on and get somethin’ to eat before we go,” he said. “I’ll pack and be down in a few minutes. Leave your stuff here, and I’ll bring it down for you.”
Skirting by him in the doorway, you were about to hurry down the steps when he stopped you.
“Here,” he said, taking off his jacket. “Hopefully the rain’ll let up by the time we’re leavin’, but I don’t want you soaked through before we even get outta here.”
You thought of many other times he’d given you his jacket, each one selfless and sweet. This time wasn’t sweet, necessarily, but it was still selfless, and you took it without protest even though you felt it was one more thing you couldn’t ever repay.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
“Sure.” He took his hat off and plunked it on your head. “Try an’ stay dry.”
Well-enveloped in his gifts to you, you went outside to the cookfire and ate hungrily of the stew Pearson had managed over the feeble flame. You thought it might be alligator, but you didn’t really care; you hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday morning, and it was hot and filling even if it wasn’t the most delicious thing you’d ever tasted. Grabbing three peaches, one for you and the rest for the horses, you made your way down the muddy slough of the path to the hitching post where Bucephalus and Ennis were saddled and ready, their coats shining in the watery, gloomy light. The three of you had your peaches, waiting for Arthur in the rain that was finally starting to taper off; when you finally saw him coming through the double doors, bearing your packs and wearing a less waterproof coat, you felt a thrill of nerves that only wound more tightly the closer he came.
“You need help gettin’ up?” he asked when he’d secured the packs to Bucephalus’ saddle.
You shook your head. Ennis wasn’t overly tall, and you didn’t want to ask for Arthur’s help anyway; still, as you mounted, it didn’t escape your notice how Arthur hovered.
“The stirrups alright?” he asked. “Do I need to make ‘em any shorter?”
“They’re fine.”
He seemed to want to say more, but he only nodded. “Okay.”
“Do you want your hat back?” you asked, watching as he swung up into his own saddle.
He shook his head. “No. You wear it.”
Unwilling to argue, you clicked your tongue to get Ennis moving down the path between the posts of the stone entryway. He was a good horse, amenable to any rider who took the time to make friends with him; Sean had let you ride him sometimes, when Arthur was away and you didn’t have a horse of your own, and as you patted Ennis’ neck you hoped Sean would be happy you were riding him now.
Arthur still didn't say where you were going, and you didn’t ask. The rain finally stopped by the time you’d made it to Rhodes, and you thought of asking if you could go around the town instead of through it; you didn’t need to, as Arthur kept on the far side of the train tracks and brought you up a more roundabout way to Scarlett Meadows. You passed the faded path to Clemens Point, the road that wended east to the wooded cove he’d taken you to after that fight with the Lemoyne Raiders, then up to Dewberry Creek where you’d reunited the German family with their father. How different those places seemed to you than what you had now - you’d had no idea what fear and grief awaited you, and even then, you’d barely held up under the strain.
You looked over at Arthur, tall and steady in the saddle on his big black horse, his tawny hair curling at the ends with the last of the rain, broad and strong and as unmovable as a mountain. If anyone had asked, you would have said it wasn’t possible for him to be hurt, not really. Turns out the only person able to really hurt him was you, and in your frantic, stumbling efforts, it seemed like all you did was continue to deepen the wound.
The hours passed in near silence, but the further you got from Shady Belle, the less you felt the crushing weight of everything that had happened there. The warm, cheerful sun finally broke through the clouds; the dense, flat humidity of Lemoyne gave way to the cool, dusty prairies of New Hanover. The air was redolent of sage and manzanita and yarrow, the countryside opening up to you in its plain, beautiful way that seemed to hide no secrets or sorrows. Tilting your head back to feel the sun on your face, you breathed deeply of the fragrant air and felt the rush of the breeze trailing through your hair.
“You wanna race?”
Looking over at Arthur, you saw him watching you with a light in his ocean-colored eyes that you hadn’t seen in a long time.
"Race?" you repeated, hesitant, not sure if you could trust what you saw in his expression. He didn't look angry any more, but you didn't want to say the wrong thing like you always did and make him upset again. "Why?"
He shrugged. "Thought it might be fun."
You didn't know what to say to that. The thought that he wanted to do something with you just for the pleasure of doing it made hope buoy in your chest, but still, you were careful.
"I didn't think we were going anywhere for fun," you admitted. "I thought you were..." You didn't know what. Really, you'd spent the whole ride so far wondering if he was taking you to the train station to send you miles and miles away from him after the things you'd done.
"Thought I was what?" he asked, almost teasing. "Takin' you somewhere to feed you to a pack of wolves?"
"You never know," you said warily.
He shook his head. "I didn't bring you out here to fight with ya or punish ya or anything like that. I just thought both of us would feel better gettin' outta the swamp for a while, and maybe we'd be able to figure some of this out between us. We've been so turned around we don't hardly know how to act with each other."
That was the understatement of the century, but you didn't mind him soft-pedaling it a little bit; just the thought of how "turned around" you'd gotten made you ill with regret. But even as he put it into words, you realized how different it was out here - there was something about getting out of Lemoyne, for both of you, that had scrubbed off the film of discomfort and tension that had lingered for so long it had started to feel permanent. Under the high, bright sun with the land wide open as far as the eye could see, there was some clarity and understanding and confidence that neither of you had felt in weeks. Even in Saint Denis, both of you had been hiding under the smog of the city, brass buttons and red ribbons, electric lights and cigar smoke and champagne. Out here, there was just the two of you and the sunshine - and you gripped the reins tighter and offered him a hesitant smile.
“Where are we racing to?” you asked.
“Horseshoe Overlook.” Bucephalus pawed the earth, feeling Arthur’s energy. “You know how to get there from here?”
“I think so,” you said. “Mostly just follow the train tracks, right?”
“Mostly,” he agreed. He gave you a crooked grin. “Just follow me if you ain’t sure.”
You couldn't help but laugh. “You’ll be following me, Mr. Morgan, I assure you.”
With that, you spurred Ennis into a run, and Arthur gave a ringing laugh of protest as he urged Bucephalus to match your speed. You leaned over Ennis’ neck, feeling his lithe strength and fluidity; he was a standardbred racehorse, built for just the kind of running you were doing now, and his long, smooth gait quickly built to a breakneck pace. Bucephalus was big and brave like his rider, but he wasn’t built for racing; still, under Arthur’s skilled hand, he was right on Ennis’ heels as you whipped up clouds of dust and trampled over the prairie grass growing along the train track.
As you came closer to Twin Stack Pass, you hesitated a little in an effort to make sure you were going the right direction; Arthur took his chance, pushing ahead, and you called out to him as you urged Ennis to keep up with him.
“Cheater!” you yelled.
Arthur looked over his shoulder and grinned. “You cheated first!”
Near the turnoff to Horseshoe Overlook, Arthur kept going down the river, and you followed in the exultation of the whipping breeze, the radiant sun, the flush of vitality and strength and joy that spilled from both of you in effortless waves. In the last straight shot down the hill, Ennis gave a powerful burst of speed that won you the race, and you splashed into the river with a triumphant shout and peals of laughter. The cool water rained down in diamond fragments, ducks and geese taking wing, the sun shimmering on the backs of hundreds of colorful fish; you caught your breath and gave Ennis a congratulatory pat, his sweat-slick coat gold-burnished in the sunlight.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Arthur said, panting a little as he walked Bucephalus over to you. He stopped when you were side by side, your horses facing opposite and the two of you face to face. “Guess I didn’t know how good a racer you were, lady.”
“You did, which is why you cheated,” you said primly. “And I still won, so take that.”
He smiled. “I’ll do my best. I’m just glad you didn’t lose my hat.”
“You’re the one who gave it to me,” you reminded him.
“I know. You look pretty cute in it. Maybe you should wear it more often.”
“Why, so I can pull it down low and intimidate people like you do?” You tugged the brim down to shade your face and put a hand to your empty holster, putting on a gruff voice. “Best you hand over the money, pal, a’fore I shoot ya full’a led.”
He laughed. “Been practicin’ that one, have ya?”
You took his hat off and handed it back to him. “I probably need a bit more practice before I try any robberies, huh?”
“Maybe so,” he agreed, but he still smiled at you as he brushed his hair back and put his hat on. “You feelin’ a little better, sweet pea?”
A dull blush reddened your cheeks, but you couldn’t deny that if that had been his plan all along, it had worked.
“Yes,” you admitted. It had been a long time since you did something just for the fun of it, and doing it with your dearest friend was a better medicine than anything in the world. Feeling more sure of yourself, more sure of his love for you, you were brave enough to say what you'd been so foolishly trying to work around at Shady Belle.
“Listen, Arthur...” You made yourself meet his eyes. “I’m sorry about earlier. I wasn’t thinking. Well, I was thinking, but it was...” You fiddled with the reins. “Stupid.”
“It was somethin’,” he agreed wryly. Then, sobering a little - “I was surprised more’n I was angry.”
“But you were angry,” you said. “Weren’t you?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was... well, yeah, I was a little angry. But mostly I don’t understand why you did it. It ain’t like you, sugar. I know you, and I know that ain’t the kind of lovin’ you want.”
“It’s not,” you said quietly.
“So why’d you try to do it that way?” he asked. “Help me understand. Did you think I expected anythin’ like that from you?”
You squeezed your eyes shut. “No.” Arthur wasn't like that. “I guess... I thought you’d feel more like forgiving me if...”
Neither of you spoke for a moment. Ennis and Bucephalus bowed their heads to drink from the cool water that danced and sparkled and eddied around them.
“I’ve already forgiven you,” Arthur said. “You don’t hafta do anything extra to get that from me, girl. You know that.”
“But you didn’t say so.” Your voice was barely audible over the rushing water. “You said you believed me when I said I was sorry. That’s not the same thing.”
“Reckon not.” The saddle creaked as he adjusted his weight. “But I can say it now, so, I do forgive you. An’ I ain’t mad about all the rest of it any more, darlin’. I was too damn scared to be mad after you got sick like that.”
“But isn’t that...” You trailed off, wishing you knew how to say it. He waited patiently for you to speak again.
“I said something really awful to you, and then we were fighting about it, and it never got resolved because I got all hysterical and fainted.”
“Well, I don’t think you just fainted,” he said. “You had a real high fever. You were sick.”
“I know, but - ” You gave a huff, frustrated with yourself, a little frustrated with him. “I don’t think you should forgive me and forget about the whole thing just because I was sick.”
He raised a brow. “You want me to keep bein’ mad about it?”
“I want you to stop being so good to me.”
He reached his hand out to brush his knuckles over your cheek. “No can do, sweetheart.”
You looked at him with longing and heartache. “Arthur, all I do is mess things up between us. Saying I wanted to go back and change how we met, saying all those awful things about you and the work you do to take care of us, then trying to seduce you into forgiving me - I just can’t get it right. Everything I do is wrong.”
“I said the same exact thing to you when we were fightin’,” he reminded you. “I’ve been doin’ things just as stupid and clumsy and mean as anything you’ve done.”
“You didn’t say you’d rather we never met,” you said miserably.
He cleared his throat, and his voice was rough around the edges when he spoke.
“No, but I didn’t say anything that would make you think I was happy we did.” He brushed his big hand over your hair. “I’m sorry, lady. I’m sorry about all of it. Can you forgive me?”
“Yes,” you said, without hesitation.
“Then I forgive you too,” he said evenly. “It ain’t a competition, sugar. We’ve both been way outta sorts with each other, both of us sayin’ things we didn’t mean.”
“Did you mean it when you said I was right?” you asked. “You said that last night. You said I might be right about being better off with my father.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I was feelin’ pretty bad about treatin’ you like I did, for leavin’ when you needed me.”
He met your eyes. “But I like to think we ain’t usually as bad to each other as we have been. That us bein’ together makes things better, not worse.”
Your chest felt tight.
“It does make it better.” You took his hand. “Arthur, I’m sorry. For everything. I love you, and I think you’re a good man, and I don’t want to be with anyone else but you.”
He lifted your hand and kissed the back of it. “I love you too, sweet pea. An’ I reckon I don’t want to be with anybody else neither, not for anything in the world.”
Part Thirty-Three: Made for Mine — Before Shady Belle, before Colter, before any of it - you and Arthur were in Blackwater, and being with him was like finally being home.
Pairings: Arthur Morgan x Reader | Genre: fluff, h/c, angst | Word Count: 4.5k | Warnings: mentions of past abuse | Read on AO3 | Fic Masterlist
A/N: who doesn't love a special holiday flashback episode? i humbly offer this chapter with apologies for the delay since i've been sick, and i hope you guys enjoy a break from the trauma before it gets really bad lol!! <3
Blackwater, October 1898
Night was falling, and the moon hung like the globe of a golden hurricane lamp with delicate pattens etched across its luminous face in the pale, dusky sky. Switchgrass and wild rye bent gracefully in the chilly breeze, the longspur’s call of kityoo-trick-kityoo weaving with the trilling song of the crickets hidden in the tall grass; further off, near the dusty streets of town, the sounds of laughter and music could be heard as people gathered from miles around to join the festive air of Halloween night. You crossed your arms over your chest, wishing you’d thought to borrow one of the girls’ sweaters; you didn’t have any warm clothes of your own, having left them all behind at your father’s house nearly two months ago.
“You cold?”
Turning your gaze from the faint path that led away from camp, you looked over to see Arthur watching you with a kind, solicitous expression. You pinked, uncurling your posture and brushing your hair nervously behind your ear.
“No,” you lied. “I’m alright.”
He raised a brow, a gently amused smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “I think this is one of them things you say, ain’t it? Like when you wanna have more supper but you say you ain’t hungry, or when you burned your fingers on the coffee pot but wouldn’t ask anybody for medicine.”
Your blush deepened. Arthur was nothing if not plainspoken and stubbornly kind, especially when it came to you, and you still hadn’t figured out how to act around a man who could read you so clearly and yet didn’t want to hurt the vulnerabilities he found.
“I tell you what,” he said, saving you from having to answer. He shrugged off his buckskin jacket, leaving him in a handsome brown flannel shirt you’d mended recently. “I won’t make you wear this, but you ain’t allowed to shiver even once the whole time we’re out. Soon as you do, you’re puttin’ this thing on.”
As if on cue, the breeze picked up a little, sending a little shiver through you that you were helpless to hide. He grinned.
“See, now you’ve already gone and done what I told you not to do,” he teased. “Guess you gotta wear my jacket now.”
“Arthur,” you said bashfully. “I can’t take your jacket.”
“You ain’t,” he said. “I’m givin’ it to ya.”
He held it out so you could put it on, and though you were swimming in it, it was warm and smelled like him: tobacco, woodsmoke, castile soap, and fresh hay. He made sure you were snug, and you looked up at him with that same gratitude and gentleness he always brought up in you.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
“Don’t mention it. You need anything else, don’t be shy to let me know.”
The two of you had fallen behind the group a little as he coaxed you into his jacket, and you hurried to catch up to John, Abigail, and Sean. All of you were headed into Blackwater for the town’s Halloween festivities, given a free night by Dutch to explore the place you’d mostly been into for reconnaissance and odd jobs. Of course, if the opportunity presented itself, some pickpocketing or low-stakes thieving wasn’t out of the question for your group; still, the five of you were more than happy to put outlawry aside for the night and enjoy the simple pleasures of small-town life.
The main street of Blackwater was decorated in colorful autumn regalia, wreaths and garlands of hay and golden buffalo grass adorning shop doors and windows, carved jack-o-lanterns flickering their cheerful grins from porch steps, cloth pennant banners in shades of orange, yellow, red, and brown strung overhead. A bonfire had been built at the intersection of the two main thoroughfares, serving as the hub of the gathering; ringed around it were street vendors, carnival games, and a jug band playing a rowdy, twanging reel.
Your gaze snagged on a small, colorful cart outside the general store, and you watched it for a moment trying to figure out what was inside the glass: a kettle-like contraption rattled and whistled, overflowing with white and yellow kernels of popcorn.
You tugged on Arthur’s arm. “I think that’s a popcorn machine,” you said excitedly. “I read about them a few years ago in the newspaper - they had them at the Chicago World’s Fair.”
“That right?” he mused. “Well, I reckon we oughta try it out.”
For a nickel graciously supplied from Arthur’s pocket, the vendor gave you a red and white striped bag of popcorn, and you and Arthur shared it as you walked around taking in the sights and sounds of the celebration. Though you’d been into Blackwater a handful of times since you joined the van der Linde gang, it was far busier now than you’d ever seen it, and you stuck close to Arthur’s side as townsfolk milled around and children ran pell-mell through the safe, enjoyably chaotic festivities.
At the end of Van Horn Street, facing the lake, an open section had been roped off for a shooting tournament. The boys dragged you and Abigail over to see the competition, earning more than a little good-natured groaning from the two of you, but you all were quickly drawn into the excitement: targets of all kinds, from clay disks to live pigeons, were shot out of the sky as competitors took their turns showing off their skill.
“Bet I could do just as well,” Sean said confidently after a round had ended, his fingers resting on the handle of his pistol. “What d’you say, Morgan, should we give these Englishmen a run for their money?”
Arthur grinned. “I’d like to see you try. Last time you tried target shootin’, we almost had to bury Uncle.”
“Wasn’t my bloody fault the old codger thought the bottles were full!” Sean retorted. “The hell kind of fool did he think I was, shootin’ at full bottles of whiskey ‘stead of drinking ‘em?”
Arthur laughed, and you looked up at his bright, handsome expression and felt your heart tilt.
“Come on, Morgan,” Sean cajoled. “Shoot a round with me.”
“Reckon you’d need me to spot you the entrance fee, huh?” Arthur asked dryly.
Sean gave him a puckish grin. “I’d ask Martson before I’d ask you, you old skinflint.”
“Don’t look at me,” John said, amused. “Abby would have my head if I tried to pay for my own ticket in, let alone yours.”
“You can shoot if you want,” Abigail said, without even a little of her usual crankiness with him.
John’s brow shot up. “Really?”
She shrugged. “Sure.” She gave him a devilish smile, then. “Just so long as I can have as many candy apples as I want without you fussin’.”
“Deal,” he agreed eagerly. He kissed her cheek, and she pinked and gave a bubbling little laugh. You didn’t know what had put her in such a good mood with him, but John was evidently enjoying it, and you liked to see them enjoying each other’s company when things were so often fractious between them.
“You comin’, Arthur?” John asked.
“Reckon so.” He turned to you. “You alright if I go outshoot these fools? Shouldn’t be gone long.”
You smiled. “Yes. Good luck.”
As the three of them went to enter the competition, Abigail took your hand and led you to the rope barrier. You wouldn’t have been bold enough to try and muscle your way through the crowd yourself, but she did it happily, and you were glad you had her with you.
Your boys were in the next round, and you and Abigail cheered and whistled as they took their turns. Sean shot as well as he always did, missing more targets than he hit, but he seemed to enjoy himself and took his friends’ ribbing with grace. John did very well, though he probably enjoyed Abigail’s cheering as much as the satisfaction of his sharpshooting.
“You two seem to be having a good evening,” you teased lightly.
She gave you a lopsided grin. “Well, he’s still a lunkhead, but it’s a wonder what a night on the town and a roll in the hay beforehand will do for a woman’s mood.”
You blushed vividly, surprised and slightly fascinated at the plain admission. She laughed.
“Aw, I didn’t mean to embarrass ya,” she said. “But you know I ain’t shy about John one way or the other. He makes me madder’n a rained-on rooster sometimes, that’s for sure, but he damn sure shows me a good time when I ask him to.”
She wolf-whistled and called to him with a wave of her hand. “Say, who’s that big hunk of man shootin’ so well?”
Flustered and undeniably pleased, John was so distracted by her amorous call that he missed his last target. She laughed, a great big laugh that almost surprised you in its abundant merriment, and John grinned at her like she’d hung the moon. The first few weeks you’d been with the gang, you’d thought that Arthur must be overselling things when he said Abigail and John were a couple; but seeing them now, you wondered if they’d just been going through a rough patch. Nobody watching them now could deny how much they liked each other, and you were glad for whatever had eased the tension between them, even if you still blushed to think about it.
When Arthur stepped up for his turn, you watched in pride and wonder as he outshot every single one of his fellow competitors. You almost had the impulse to call to him like Abigail had to John - he certainly was a sight to behold, strong and broad, stunningly quick and blisteringly accurate as he hit every target dead-on. The crowd went wild, and you cheered along with them when he was awarded the ten dollar prize for winning the round.
“I didn’t know you could shoot like that,” you said, beaming up at him when he came to your side again. “That was wonderful!”
He smiled. “My one talent.”
“Oh, Arthur, that’s not true,” you said, meaning it. “I mean, you are talented at shooting, of course - but you’re good at lots of other things too. Hunting, riding, singing - ”
He laughed. “I’m gonna stop you there, honey. I can’t sing worth a lick.”
You liked that he’d called you a pet name; he’d been letting slip little terms of endearment for a few days now, and you couldn’t help but wonder if it meant he felt something more than friendship for you. You’d certainly felt yourself verging into more romantic territory when you thought of him or spent time with him, but you’d never dream of saying so - it was the first time you’d felt anything remotely romantic for a man in your life, and it brought a strange mix of excitement and nervousness that you weren’t quite sure what to do with. Besides, how could someone as brave and strong and handsome as Arthur Morgan feel anything more than friendship for someone like you? It was surprising and wonderful enough that he was even friends with you, and you’d not risk what you had by doing something as foolish as admitting what you were starting to feel for him.
Still, you let yourself enjoy the pet name, smiling up at him.
“Of course you can sing,” you said. “You were singing the other day while you were giving Boadicea a brush-down, and it was lovely.”
You couldn’t tell for sure in the twilight, but you thought he might have blushed.
“You heard that?” he asked. “And you thought it was lovely?”
“Yes,” you said with a laugh. “It was.”
His smile was bashful. “Well, thanks. Reckon I ain’t never been told my singin’ was lovely before.”
“It was almost as good as your shooting,” you said.
He grinned. “Now I know you’re joshin’ me. If I could sing half as well as I shoot, I’d be a famous opera star.”
The five of you went off to explore other corners of the festivities as you made your way back to the town’s center, Sean going to have a drink or several at the tables set up outside the saloon, you and Arthur walking down the row of game booths boasting fabulous prizes for ring tosses and ninepins and dart-throwing. John took Abigail out to the wooden dance floor and whirled her around, making her laugh as she hung on him, and you smiled as you watched them dance in the cool evening air.
Arthur nudged his shoulder against yours. “You wanna dance?”
You smiled. “I’m afraid I’m not a very good dancer.”
“Well, I ain’t either,” he said with a laugh. “But between the two of us, we might make out alright.”
He took your hand, leading you to the dance floor, and you felt a sudden thrill of schoolgirl giddiness to be pulled close to him as the band tuned their instruments for the next song. He was so handsome in the warm lantern light, strong and rugged and every inch a man; like a bird’s wings behind your ribs, your heart started to flutter in that way you’d started to feel every time you were near him. Nothing could be sillier - you were a fragile, painfully shy little thing, and he was a tough-as-nails outlaw who’d been kinder to you than you deserved in the weeks you’d been with the gang - but for a moment, with his hand on your waist and a smile showing at the corners of his twinkling eyes, you felt for the first time in your life you might know what it was to be in love with someone.
“I’ll go ahead and apologize for steppin’ on your toes,” he said. “I ain’t exactly the graceful sort, and I fear I’ll do more clodhoppin’ than dancin’ once we get started.”
You laughed, sure you’d step on his feet more than he’d step on yours, and the two of you began an enthusiastic whirl around the dancefloor as the band started to play “Little Maggie”. Arthur wasn’t half as graceless as he’d made himself out to be, leading you with a confident and playful ease as he sang along.
“Pretty flowers were made for blooming,
Pretty stars were made to shine,
Pretty women were made for lovin’,
Little lady was made for mine.”
You heard how he’d replaced Maggie’s name in the lyrics with “lady”, the name he’d taken to calling you, and the flush in your cheeks was from more than dancing. You were still thinking about it when the song ended, and you stood with one hand in his and the other on his shoulder, both of you catching your breath and looking at the other with a sense of shy, careful wonder.
“You ain’t a bad dancer at all,” he said sweetly.
You smiled. “Neither are you.”
Though another song was starting, neither of you moved from the careful hold you had on each other. The breeze tugged a wayward lock of hair over your face, and he gently tucked it behind your ear; your lips parted in soft expectation as you looked up at him with a softness and trust you hadn’t felt in years.
“Arthur...”
Before he could say anything, someone bumped into you from behind; jostled right into Arthur, you grabbed his shoulder as he steadied you with a protective arm around you.
“Easy,” he said. “You alright?”
“Yes, sorry,” you said quickly.
He breathed a surprised laugh. “Wasn’t your fault. But we should probably get off the dancefloor, unless you want another go-round.”
You didn’t know if you could handle another dance with any self-control; you’d been shamefully close to doing something outrageous with the last dance, like kissing him silly or asking him to marry you, and you didn’t think you ought to risk another.
“I’d like to try the cider,” you said, thinking that was a reasonable excuse. “If that’s alright.”
He frowned. “Now, I’ve already spent five whole cents on you, little miss,” he said sternly. “You’re sure askin’ a lot.”
You paled at the sudden shift in tone, feeling an overwhelming urge to run and hide before you’d even really registered what he said. Mortified, you realized you had already gotten a treat you didn’t need, and now you were asking for another like some ungrateful, demanding child.
“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, hoping to placate him before he got any more upset with you. You were always asking too much, taking up too much space, wanting more than you deserved. “You’re right. I forgot. I didn’t mean to - ”
“Woah, hey,” he said, his tone much gentler and concerned. He put his hand on your arm and met your eyes. “I was just teasin’, lady. You ain’t got anything to be sorry for.”
He’d been teasing you? As the rush of embarrassment and panic was met with that realization, you only felt worse for misreading him. Of course he’d only been teasing. How could you have thought he’d be upset with you over something like that, when he’d proven himself over and over to be so kind and generous?
“Oh,” you managed. You couldn’t think of anything else to say than what you always said, the constant refrain of the last few years that hadn’t made your father any kinder to you no matter how much you said it. “I’m sorry.”
He steered you off of the dancefloor, keeping a chaste hand at the small of your back until he found a spot out of the crowd to stand by the general store. The window display was lit with tin-can lanterns and flickering jack-o-lanterns, illuminating baskets of rosy apples and bolts of cloth and candy jars, and you looked at it like it was the most interesting thing on earth to keep from looking at Arthur.
“Lady?”
You turned away from him in a shamed, uncomfortable posture. “Yes?”
“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad, honey,” he said gently. “I shouldn’ta teased you. I was only foolin’, but I didn’t think how it would sound to ya.”
“It was silly of me to think you were angry,” you said quietly. “I’m sorry, Arthur.”
“You ain’t gotta be sorry.”
You toyed with the long sleeves of his jacket, its warmth around you another reminder of his kindness. Worse than the thought that he’d been angry with you was the knowledge that you’d thought of him so poorly, even if it was a learned response from your father who always had been angry with you.
“We just got a little mixed up, is all,” he said kindly. “And I reckon you’re more used to folks actually bein’ angry with ya than just playin’ like they were, so I understand why.”
“Oh, Arthur...” You looked up at him then, his patience and understanding striking some unfamiliar, poignant chord in your heart.
“I’m feel like I’m always getting mixed up,” you admitted. “I don’t know how to act around people who treat me decently. I always turn things into such a mess, especially things that are supposed to be nice. It’s just like that time you tried to tried to get those stupid leaves out of my hair.”
A few weeks ago, after you and Mary-Beth had been reading under a cottonwood at the edge of camp, Arthur had found you with a few of the tree's bright yellow leaves in your hair. He’d reached to take them out for you and you’d flinched violently, sure he was raising his hand to hit you just like your father would have for spending the afternoon in such laziness. Arthur had been miserable when you finally told him why you’d reacted so strongly to a simple act of affection, and you’d been ashamed and sorrowful that your first impulse was one of fear when he’d only ever been kind and gentle with you.
He scuffed a hand over his beard, thinking of that day and all the other little moments where you’d misunderstood jokes and acts of kindness from him and everyone else in camp who’d welcomed you in the weeks you’d been with them.
“Well, honey, you’ve been treated real rough for a long time,” he said patiently. “It takes some gettin’ used to, figurin’ out that folks here don’t wanna hurt you or make fun of you, but there ain’t one of us who don’t know what that’s like. Those of us as love ya... well, we’ll just do our best to keep showin’ it. I will, anyway.”
Your breath caught. “Show me that... that you love me?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and gave you a bashful smile. “Yeah.”
You didn’t know what to say to that. Here was this gentle giant of a man before you, shyly telling you he’d keep showing you he loved you as long as you needed him to, and it healed some crooked part of your heart that you’d always thought would never work right again.
“Arthur...” You said it the same way you had after your dance, when he’d sang the words of a love song to you and held you close.
He met your eyes, and your heart did a somersault at the way he looked at you.
“Can I do somethin’ that might be kinda stupid?” he asked.
You couldn’t help a little laugh, endeared to his nervousness and just as nervous yourself.
“I guess,” you said softly. “What is it?”
He moved closer to you, and you looked up at him with your heart doing that same fluttering something it always did with him so near.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked.
Oh.
You couldn’t find your voice, but you nodded, and he was slow and so very gentle when he ducked his head and pressed his mouth to yours. Like a flower opening up to the sun, you melted against him and felt some deep heartache mend at the feel of his arms around you, holding you close to him as he kissed you with every tenderness.
When you parted, you could do nothing but gaze up at him with your heart in your eyes, and he smiled at you like you were the most wonderful, precious thing in the whole world.
“Was that your first kiss?” he asked.
You pinked. “Why, was it bad?”
“No,” he said with a smile. “Wasn’t bad at all. I’m just mighty proud I got to be the one you gave it to.”
Feeling bold for doing so, you draped your arms around his neck, bashful, pleased, happier than you’d ever been.
“Thank you,” you said, then felt your face heat. “I’m not sure if that’s the right thing to say. Maybe I'm getting mixed up again.”
He chuckled. “I don't think so, sweet pea. Everything seems just right to me.” His thumbs traced little circles against your hips. “And you’re welcome. I’d be pleased to do it again just as many times as you want me to.”
“Could you...” You looked up at him, shy and eager. “Do you think you could do it again right now?”
You felt his smile when he kissed you again, a little more heat behind it this time, and it stirred something in you that was strange and deep and wonderful. Never had you imagined kissing to be like this, and the fact that it was him, your dearest friend, the man you knew from countless kindnesses to love you more than you’d ever thought you could be loved - it was a world of delights and tender pleasures so unknown and welcoming that you hardly knew what to do with yourself.
He cupped your face in his big hands when you finally came up for air, and didn’t have to wonder if he loved you when he looked at you with such tenderness and desire.
“You sure are pretty,” he said softly. He ran the pad of his thumb over your flushed cheek. “I love you, you know.”
You gave a shaky little sigh. “Say it again, please.”
He kissed your nose, your cheeks, your brow. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
“Oh, Arthur.” You pressed your cheek against his, kissing the corner of his mouth, letting him hold you close. “I love you too.”
You stayed that way for a long while, lingering in the dreamy, patient intimacy of learning each other little by little, and you were glad he didn’t rush, that his hands didn’t wander, that he let you set the pace of this gentle exploration in the cold, beautiful night of music and laughter and golden moonlight. It didn't need defining, not yet - it was enough that you were together, that years of wandering had finally led you home to each other.
You could have kissed him forever, and you might have if you hadn’t heard the familiar, comforting sounds of your friends’ boisterous conversation coming your way. With bashful smiles and lingering glances, you and Arthur parted, both of you wanting to keep this newfound wonder to yourselves a little longer.
“Sean’s drunk,” Abigail said, swaying a bit as she hung on John’s arm. “I’m a little drunk. John’s a terrible dancer.”
He laughed. “I am not.”
“I am,” Sean said stoutly. He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Not a terrible dancer. But the other thing.”
“You don’t say?” Arthur said, amused. He put his arm over your shoulders, tucking you close to his side. “Well, I promised lady some cider, so if you three wanna stumble on over with us, we’d like to have you.”
“I ain’t stumblin’ anywhere,” John protested.
Abigail giggled. “Nowhere but the dancefloor.”
He put his arm around her waist and pulled her snug against him, much to her delight.
“You’re awful, Miss Roberts,” he chided.
“That’s Mrs. Marston to you,” she said primly.
He grinned. “That so? Well, that’s nice to hear. Reckon you must like me or somethin’.”
Sean groaned. “Lord, would you two houl yer whisht fer one feckin’ minute! All I’ve heard since you dragged me out the pub is how off yer haid you are for lobbin’ the gob on her, Marston. I’m pure scarlet just hearin’ ya.”
All of you burst into peals of laughter at that, getting the gist of his complaint even if half of his slurred Irish slang was gibberish to you. He grinned, proud to be the source of such amusement, and barreled his way towards the cider stand after Arthur had steered him in the right direction.
Over cups of cider wreathed in fragrant steam, the five of you stood by the cheerful warmth of the bonfire and listened to the band play a lonely mountain love song. Watching the sparks dance upwards towards the dark sky, tucked close to your friends, feeling the rumble of Arthur’s voice as he hummed along with the fiddle and banjo - you were struck with a deep gratitude simply to be alive, to have made it out of your father’s house, to be with people who loved you. That things as precious as these - laughter and apple cider and gentle kisses and chilly autumn nights - could be yours after so many years of grief and heartache... it was a miracle beyond telling, and you held the wonder of it close and thanked God for the gift of it.
Arthur pulled you snug to him, the crow’s feet by his eyes showing the ease of the smile on his beloved face.
“Happy, my girl?” he asked tenderly.
“Yes,” you said softly. You touched his cheek, and he turned his head to kiss your fingers.
“And, Arthur...” You didn’t know how to say all that you meant, but you hoped he’d understand. “I’m glad I’m finally home.”
“Aw, lady.” He hugged you close. “I’m glad you’re finally home too.”
Part Thirty-Two: Nobody But a Fool — Arthur's scared to death that you're right about everything you said.
Pairings: Arthur Morgan x Reader | Genre: fluff, h/c, angst | Word Count: 3k | Warnings: canon-typical violence | Read on AO3 | Fic Masterlist
A/N: Another Arthur POV! I hope it captures what's going on inside that wonderful, messed up head of his and isn't ooc. Enjoy!
Running a hand over his face, Arthur stood for a long moment in the dusty road and listened to the wagon rumble off towards Shady Belle. The quiet was eerie, grating on his nerves that sparked like a live wire under his skin; only through a strong effort of self-control did he keep from looking over his shoulder, waiting for something to jump out that would break the tentative lull.
Nothing came, at least for now, and he slowly drew a steady breath, lit a cigarette, and took stock of himself. His entire body hurt. It always hurt, really, since he was always doing something dangerous and stupid, but this had been a rough one. He still didn’t think he’d recovered all the way from that thing with Colm, his ribs still giving him trouble, his left ear ringing or muffled at odd times, headaches more frequent; add onto it the bruising he’d taken crashing a huge metal box through the streets of Saint Denis with himself in the middle of it, and a dozen bullet-grazes from trying to outshoot every cop in the city, and he was as tired and sore as he’d ever been.
What a mess they’d gotten themselves into. Risking their necks for less than fifty dollars, pulling some hillbilly stunt in a city that had cops by the dozens, walking right into a trap laid by that slippery Angelo Bronte intended to put Dutch firmly in his place. Arthur was indignant, some of that ego he’d learned at Dutch’s hand rising to the surface after so blatant an attempt to get them killed or caught; but more than that, he was just irritated to be roped into another mule-headed scheme that made things worse instead of making them better.
He spat into the dust, trying to rid himself of the metallic taste of another close shave with death. For a long time, it hadn’t bothered him - he’d known since he was fifteen years old that his type met a quick, ignominious end on the wrong side of a gun barrel more often than not, and he’d settled himself to it long before this. It was only luck he hadn’t died yet, and for most of his life, he’d been content to play his hand for as long as his chips held out.
Now, though - it was different. Now he had something to live for, something to make dying a punishment rather than just another turn of fate. As soon as he’d laid eyes on you that night in Blackwater, he’d known he could never go back to thinking of death so casually. The more he knew you, the more deeply he loved you, the more he realized that he’d have to get out of this life before it killed him, if only to spend one more minute with you.
The waning light cast strange shadows from the skeletal trees lining the road, and he tossed his cigarette to the ground and put it out with the heel of his boot. He whistled to Bucephalus, hearing the distinctive heavy gait coming down the road; sheathing his rifle in the saddle, he allowed himself a groan as he pulled himself up onto the shire’s back.
He dithered for a while, occupying himself with giving Bucephalus a handful of grain, running a bandanna over his pistol, smoking another cigarette. He knew he ought to go straight home, but the thought facing you after what you’d said had him fighting the urge to ride in the other direction and get himself good and lost for a long while.
You’re not trying hard enough! I’m only in this mess because of you!
Your voice rang in his ears as loud as any gunshot, and the pain of it was twice as bad as any bullet he’d ever taken. The one thing he’d ever been proud of - loving you, helping you get away from your tyrant of a father, spending his time trying to make you happy and safe - all of it was worthless. At least, that’s what you’d said; if you’d meant any different, if it hadn’t finally been the truth coming out after all this time, he couldn’t tell. He was angry with you for saying such an awful thing, and he’d nursed the wound of it as he left and went to find Dutch; but more than that, more than any anger or hurt, he was scared to death that you were right.
You’d been very clear, despite the flush-drunk pink of your face, despite the glassiness of your gaze and the unsteadiness of your voice - you wanted to go somewhere safe, you wanted him to stop being at Dutch’s beck and call, and you didn’t want anyone else to die. What had he done when he left you other than do the exact opposite of the things you’d asked of him? The job was to get money for passage on a boat to some vague piece of land in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, not to go out west. It had been a bad idea from the beginning, and he’d still gone along with it despite that gut feeling, because Dutch had wanted him to. And he and Lenny and Dutch had nearly died. Like he was checking off a to-do list, he’d taken your three very plain requests and done his damndest to go against every single one of them.
Guilt and resignation gnawed at him as he urged Bucephalus down the road, not entirely sure he could face you after such a resounding failure. He almost hoped you’d knocked yourself out with enough drinking, giving him time to figure out how he could explain how badly he’d failed you, again - giving him time to think of how he was going to respond to the still acute pain of the worst insult he’d ever been given by the person he loved most in the world. If you hadn’t, well - he wasn’t known to back down from a fight, and a fight it would surely be if you were still as wound up and whiskey-soaked as you had been when he left.
Coming into camp, he wasted more time doing fussy little things: brushing down Bucephalus, asking after Dutch, putting some old belt buckles and watches he’d gotten forever ago into the lockbox. The more he thought of how stupid and dangerous that trolley job had been, the more he worried over whether you’d really meant it when you said you’d rather be back with your daddy then be with him, the more agitated he got. He’d worked himself into a fine fervor by the time he spotted you, and what he saw when he did made his entire world narrow to one singular target for the fear and anger and self-hatred that was eating him alive.
Micah hadn’t stood a chance, even as worn down and sore as Arthur was. Blow after blow, he’d punished Micah for daring to touch you, for turning Dutch towards greed and recklessness, for existing as a manifestation of everything Arthur had failed to fix. The mud, the sweat, the blood in his mouth - none of it mattered, and he would have killed Micah with his bare hands if you hadn’t stopped him.
He didn’t know what you fought about, not really. His head was foggy with one too many bashes, his ears thundering with the sound of his own heartbeat, pain radiating from every inch of him. He railed and cussed at you without thinking, without caring if he was hurting you - and he knew he did, because even if he’d been cold in the ground he could have read the expression on your face and the tone of your voice that told him you were hurt beyond endurance. Sean, Kieran, Micah, Dutch, Arthur - the horsemen of your very own apocalypse, each a staggering wound in their own way that might actually kill you if left too long without something to ease the pain of it.
“Arthur, I - I can’t - breathe - ”
He’d felt his fair share of fear. A lifetime of fighting, robbing, killing, running - these things tended to rattle even the sturdiest of men, and he’d be the first to say he feared the consequences of giving and receiving violence, being caught, being killed. Nobody but a fool would deny it, and he was no fool.
But nothing, not in thirty-six years of slinging lead and dodging the law and facing down the most wicked and bloodthirsty of men, had ever scared him as bad as watching you go slack in front of him, your little hand on his arm, ashen, clammy, clawing for breath like a drowning thing.
He caught you purely on instinct, holding you limp to his chest as he looked down at you with wide-blown eyes and a panic too strong for words.
“Lady?” he rasped. He shook you. “Lady!”
You didn’t answer, didn’t even move, and he thought his heart might be trying to come out his throat. You weighed practically nothing, wasted by grief and pain; when he felt frantically under your jaw for a pulse, it was faint, thready, jackrabbiting under his fingers. Unable to hear you breathing, he hauled your face close to his until he could feel your shallow breathing against his bruised cheek, and he felt you burning with fever.
“God almighty.” How long had you been sick? How much worse had he made it, leaving when you needed him close, yelling and cussing and fighting when you needed him to be good, dragging you to this cesspool of heat and brutality and death in the first place?
He scooped you up and ran, knowing exactly who he was looking for, exactly who to ask for help when his world was rolling underfoot like a ship tossed on the angry sea. Dutch may have been like a father to him, but he was Hosea’s boy, and it was to Hosea he went when everything seemed to close in around him.
His vision tunneled to that thin, greying frame he knew so well, and he brought you to Hosea with all the trust and innocence of a little child with a broken toy, knowing Hosea could fix it.
“I need your help,” he panted, his voice hoarse with pain and panic. “There’s somethin’ wrong, she - she just passed out and - ”
Hosea stood from his spot at the table, his bottles of medicine and plans for the bank forgotten, focused on Arthur with singular attention. A worried frown creased his brow, but he looked over you as you lay in Arthur’s arms with a clinical gaze.
“She’s burnin’ with fever,” Arthur said, feeling his heart try to beat its way out of his chest. He was woozy and plenty hurt himself, but nothing clamoured as loudly as the fear he felt over you. “We were fightin’, and all of a sudden, she just went out like a light. Said she couldn’t breathe.”
“Alright, Arthur,” Hosea said, calm and reassuring in a way that Arthur clung to like the last shred of sanity in this miserable world. “Let’s get her in bed. We’ll get her fever down and see what we can do after that.”
Arthur brought you upstairs, laying you in your shared bed like you were as fragile as glass and as precious as gold. The one good thing in his life, and he’d treated it like it was nothing - you were hurt something terrible, and he’d pushed and pushed until you were this pale, broken thing he’d never be good enough or gentle enough to love the way you ought to be loved. You were right. All along, no matter how hard he’d tried to make it any different, you were right.
Hosea came to your bedside and Arthur left him room to work, feeling as clumsy and stupid as an ox trying not to be in the way, hovering, nervous, listening to make sure you were breathing. He fetched water and washcloths, undressed you so you wouldn’t get too hot, did everything Hosea asked of him. He didn’t know the first thing about medicine besides a shot of whiskey and a few slapdash stitches, and as he watched Hosea rummage in his medicine box and give you what he thought best, he felt for the first time that he ought to learn what he could from Hosea before he couldn’t any more.
“What d’you think?” he asked when Hosea finally sat back on his heels. He waited like a man on a precipice, hoping the answer wouldn’t be the thing that pushed him over the edge.
Hosea ran a hand over his face. “She’s done in, Arthur. That’s really all there is to it, and something like that’s hard to treat.”
“But if she gets some rest, and we keep her fever down...?”
“She’ll be alright, physically.”
A wave of relief swept through him, so strong he was dizzy with it, and he finally drew a breath that wasn’t stilted with panic.
“Thank you, Hosea.” If he said it, Arthur believed it was true.
“Of course.” Hosea pressed a few fingers to your wrist and seemed satisfied with what he felt. “But listen, Arthur - she doesn’t need to keep drinking like she’s been doing all day.”
Arthur grimaced. “She was still drinkin’ after I left?”
Hosea put his weathered hand to your brow, brushing your sweat-damp hair from your face.
“She’s hurting, Arthur. All this... it hasn’t been easy on her.”
That was the God’s honest truth, and he knew he hadn’t done anything to make it more bearable. What had he been thinking, leaving you after Kieran, knowing how sick and frightened it had made you? And for what, another failed job that only brought down more trouble on everyone’s head?
Arthur offered him a hand up, watching a flash of pain cross Hosea’s face.
“An’ how are you, old man?” he said, putting a little affectionate teasing into it to keep Hosea from getting his hackles up. “Things been easy on you?”
“Oh, I’m dandy,” he said wryly. “Just dandy.”
He rubbed hand over his chest, a telltale sign that his cough was worse, his pain more acute than usual.
“I expect that job of Bronte’s went as well as could be expected,” he said mildly.
Arthur shook his head. “It was worse. Dutch took a bad hit to the head, and we woulda got killed if it wasn’t for Lenny. Bronte set us up, put all the cops in the city on us before we’d hardly got in there.”
Hosea sighed. “I knew it wasn’t a good idea. But you can’t talk Dutch out of anything.”
Arthur ran a hand over his shoulder, feeling the pull of landing in a heap when the trolley crashed, hoping it hadn’t done some worse damage he couldn’t yet see. “Yeah, no kiddin’.”
“I’ll go see to him,” Hosea said. He met Arthur’s eyes. “Listen, son - I’m not trying to push in where I’m not wanted, but... you two were yelling to wake the dead. I know we’re not having the best run of it right now, but being at odds with her isn’t going to help. In fact, it’s going to make it worse.”
Arthur winced, loathe to explain his behavior to this man he loved and respected.
“I know,” he said. “Believe me. I... I licked Micah good, some for puttin’ his hands on her and mostly ‘cause I was mad at Dutch and the whole job, mad at myself. She’s what kept me from killin’ him, honest to God. And then we were fightin’, hollerin’ at each other about who the hell even knows what, and... I said some real ugly shit to her. I ain’t proud of it.”
“I didn’t think you were. And she wasn’t in any state to give you any comfort, I suspect.”
Arthur scuffed his boot against the scarred floor. “She said she wished she could go back to that night we found her, make it so that she didn’t come home with us.”
A grimace of sympathy crossed Hosea’s face. “That’s the grief and the whiskey talking, Arthur. She didn’t mean that.”
“Maybe she’d have been better off not comin’ home with us,” he said hoarsely. What had it gotten you but pain and sadness and more trouble than any of it was worth? “Maybe she’d be better off not bein’ with me.”
“Now, that’s not true.” Hosea’s voice was firm. “We saved her life, and you love her like you’re dying of it.”
He gave a choked laugh, watery and tight. “Feels like that, sometimes.” He looked over at you, guilt threatening to swallow him whole. “I don’t treat her like I ought to. I can’t give her what she needs. I’m too rough and stupid and mean to love her like she ought to be loved.”
A flicker of a smile lit Hosea’s expression. “We men often are rather clumsy in the ways of love, Arthur. Best just do what you can to be less clumsy next time, and if you know what she needs, do the work of finding out how to give it to her.”
It seemed too simple, maybe good advice for a spat over hurt feelings or something little, but he wasn’t just being clumsy with you. He was hurting you, and he knew it, and he almost wished Hosea would be a little more critical and harsh.
Hosea reached for his medicine box, and Arthur grabbed it for him, saving him the work.
“You’re a good man, Arthur,” he said, direct and plain in his sincerity. “A few mistakes, even bad ones, doesn’t change that.”
“If you say so.”
Hosea patted his cheek in an almost motherly way. “I know so, boy. And I know you’ll fix it, no matter what mistakes you made.”
When Hosea had gone, Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle you. He wrung out a damp washcloth and smoothed it over your face, seeing clearly how shadowed and starved you looked, how very young you seemed as you wrestled with more fear and grief than any person should have to endure.
“Don’t feel like a good man,” he said quietly. Hosea’s words were a comfort, but they felt hollow in the face of everything he’d done, everything he’d said, everything he was. I hate you! you’d said, and even in the haze of fury, he’d felt it more sharply than any wound a bullet or a knife or a fist could give him.
“All that you said about me was right,” he said, the words sticking in his throat with remorse and lingering hurt and absolute confidence that they were true. “I ain’t nothin’ but a workhorse for Dutch an’ his crazy schemes, no matter how senseless they are. An’ I brought you down here to some place where it ain’t nothin’ but death and heartache, and I ain’t doin’ much other than makin’ it worse for ya.”
He cleared his throat against the tightness of tears. “I’m sorry, lady. I reckon it ain’t much better bein’ with me than bein’ with your daddy after all.”
Part Thirty: The Poison of the Paint — After Kieran, you hit back at Arthur twice as hard.
Pairings: Arthur Morgan x Reader | Genre: fluff, h/c, angst | Word Count: 5k | Warnings: canon-typical violence, referenced past abuse/alcoholism | Read on AO3 | Fic Masterlist
A/N: Sun Bleached Flies is so incredibly lady coded I just couldn't resist. Warnings for the Horsemen, Apocalypses mission and all the horrible trauma that includes. Enjoy!
Back at camp, things were as they always were: Uncle asleep in some odd corner with a bottle in his hand, Susan barking orders to anyone she could find, folks gathered around the campfire or playing a round of cards or going about their chores in the heat of morning. You were glad to be back home, be it ever so humble, and went upstairs to your room to put your dress from the mayor’s party safely in Arthur’s clothes chest; closing the lid on your weekend away from regular life, you dressed in plain, sturdy cotton and went to find some work.
Dutch was pleased with the money you’d gotten from the riverboat, and he was in a good mood as he wandered around camp and smoked and mulled over his plans for the coming days with Arthur. He wanted to hit the trolley station Bronte had told him about, you knew, convinced there was money to be taken; he kept mentioning some virgin, island paradise that awaited all of you at the end of your time at Shady Belle, and you tried not to think too much about it as you fed the chickens with Tilly and scrubbed pots and pans with Abigail. You wanted to go out west, like the plan had always been, and you wanted to talk to Arthur about it later to see if Dutch was just dreaming up some fanciful idea or if he really had changed his mind about where you’d all end up.
Mary-Beth was really no help at all while you did chores, but you couldn’t blame her. She was worried about Kieran, and though you tried to reassure her, you were worried yourself - there was no reason for him to be gone for so long unless he’d left for good or gotten into some kind of trouble, and you didn’t like either option. You thought of how you’d felt that long, horrible night when Arthur was with Colm O’Driscoll, how frantic and dead to the world you’d been, and knew there wasn’t much that anyone could say to ease Mary-Beth’s fears.
“Alright, darlin’?”
You looked around a quilt you were hanging on the line to see Arthur, an armful of firewood in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
“Hi, honey,” you said with a smile, just his presence brightening your mood. “Come to give your lady a kiss?”
He chuckled. “I can do, if ya like.” He leaned down to give you a quick peck. “Your washline’s a little high, though.”
“I know,” you agreed, rubbing a hand over your shoulder. “After all that swimming last night, I can hardly reach up to put anything on it.”
“Well, let me put this firewood up and I’ll come fix it for ya.”
You took the quilt down and draped it over your arm so the line wouldn’t be heavy when he fixed it. He found a hammer from John’s toolbox and handed you his coffee.
“Can I have some?” you asked.
“Sure. Put some milk and sugar in it if you want.”
“But it’s yours,” you said with a soft laugh.
He shrugged, prizing the nail from the tree with the back of the hammer. “I can make another. I don’t mind.”
You kept it black and only had a few sips so he could have it back the way he liked it, but you were thankful for his offer all the same. He had the washline lowered in short order, driving the nail back into the tree with one solid whack.
“My hero,” you said dreamily.
He laughed. “Don’t take much to please you, now does it?”
He finished off his coffee and helped you hang the rest of the wash, kindly giving your sore arms a break as you worked and talked in the sunshine. You admired how handsome he looked in his soft brown shirt and jeans, enjoying the chance to ogle your kind, patient, hardworking man in all his domestic glory; you would be content to do chores with him your whole life long, and one day, you hoped you’d get the chance to.
“Sadie was askin’ for you earlier,” he said, pinning the last shirt to the line. “Wanted to know all about your new dresses.”
You laughed. “Surely not. She probably wants to hear about the robberies we did.”
“Maybe so,” he said with a grin. “Go on and tell her about ‘em, then. She was out by the front door last I saw her.”
You stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for your help with the wash, sweetheart.”
“Any time, sugar.”
Around the front of the house, Sadie was where Arthur had said she’d be, cleaning her rifle and surveying the camp in her watchful, quiet way. She brightened when she saw you, her usually neutral expression lifting with a smile.
“Well hey, peach,” she said, her voice a little rough around the edges like it always was. “How was your trip to civilization?”
“Simply smashing, my dear girl,” you said in a passable copy of Trelawney’s grandiose intonation.
She laughed. “My lord above. Two nights away from camp and you’re as fancy as anybody.”
“I certainly dressed the part,” you agreed, sitting next to her with your mending. “Arthur said you wanted to hear about all the new clothes I got.”
“Well, I didn’t say exactly that,” she said, amused, “but I reckon I’d like to hear about ‘em if you’d like to tell me.”
You gushed for a few minutes about lace ruffles and pink taffeta and bright red bows, and she listened with enjoyment and kindness as she ran an oiled cloth over the barrel of her rifle.
“Those sound mighty pretty, peach,” she said when you’d finished. “I heard you put on quite a show in ‘em too.”
“And saved every one of those fools from getting shot or tossed in prison,” you added.
She grinned. “Atta girl.”
“Now who’re you callin’ a fool?”
You looked up to see Arthur, and you gave him a cheeky smile as he leaned against the balcony post and lit a cigarette.
“You, as a matter of fact,” you said tartly. “I wasn’t the one shooting people on the riverboat, if you care to remember.”
“I remember just fine,” he drawled pleasantly. “Almost had to make my apologies for lettin’ you fall down the stairs dead in front of me, but I reckon them quick-draw skills I got came in handy catchin’ you.”
“That’d be quite a way to spend our time in polite society,” you teased.
“I think my days in police society are over,” Sadie said, drawing her hunting knife over a whetstone. “Sure wouldn’t look half as nice as peach here in her fine dresses.”
“Oh, Sadie, you’d look lovely in them,” you said sincerely. With her strong, slender figure and long blonde hair, she’d be beautiful in any one of the dresses you’d seen at the tailor’s.
She smiled. “That’s nice of ya, peach.”
“And we saw Bill Williamson in a suit at a party with the mayor of Saint Denis,” Arthur added with a grin. “If he can do it, anybody can.”
“You get any leads at that party?” Sadie asked.
“I think so.” Arthur nodded to you. “All thanks to your girl here.”
You pinked. “It was nothing, really. All I did was kiss him silly.”
“Now, I gotta hear that story,” she laughed. “What does kissin’ have to do with gettin’ leads on a robbery?”
You and Arthur regaled her with your tale of thieving and spying and passionate kissing, and she watched the two of you with amusement.
“Well, that’s one way to do it,” she said. She gave Arthur a knowing glance under the brim of her hat. “Nice to go robbin’ with your sweetheart, ain’t it, Arthur?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t trade it,” he agreed warmly. “Now if I could just get you to go out with us, Mrs. Adler, I reckon I’d be set.”
“One woman to kiss ya and one to shoot a bunch of crazy bastards for ya,” Sadie mused. “That’s livin’, Mr. Morgan.”
He laughed. “Suits me just fine. Any time you girls wanna go out, you just let me know.”
Dutch sauntered up then, beckoning Arthur upstairs to talk, and Arthur tipped his hat to you and Sadie.
“Ladies,” he drawled.
Catching sight of Mary-Beth, you left your mending in your chair and went to talk to her. She was wan and thin, the pink of her dress standing out sharply against her too-pale skin.
“Why don’t you go lay down, honey?” you coaxed. “You look like you haven’t slept at all.”
“I can’t sleep,” she said wearily. She took hold of your arm, and you looked up into her drawn expression. “Somethin’ terrible’s happened to him, I just know it.”
You wished there was something you could say to calm her fears, but you knew better than anyone that nothing would help besides seeing Kieran come home safe and sound.
“I’ll ask Arthur to ride out and ask around about him,” you said. That had been the only glimmer of hope when Arthur was gone, knowing that Charles and John were looking for him.
She gave you a weak smile. “Thanks, lady. That’d be - ” Her gaze snagged on something beyond you, her face going a deathly shade of grey. “What... what is that?”
No sooner had you turned to look than she gave a chilling, anguished shriek.
“Oh, god, it’s Kieran!”
Time stood still as you saw the horrific, repulsive display of what you’d thought at first was a rider coming towards the house. Your stomach rolled before you’d even really taken it in, and you froze in abject terror at the sight of Kieran, headless, lashed to the saddle with his head in his lap.
“Oh my god,” you managed, your voice coming out strangled. “He’s - ”
Several things happened at once. A gunshot rang out, frightening the horse - it reared and screamed, tossing Kieran’s body into a heap in the dust. Mary-Beth swooned, and you jerked forward to catch her before her head hit the ground, staggering under her dead weight. Kieran’s boot caught in the stirrup, and he was dragged for a few feet as his head rolled towards you, the bloody sockets looking unseeingly up at the glaring sun, and you fought the violent urge to leave Mary-Beth and run from it. Someone gave a choking, agonized groan, and you thought it might have been you.
“Somebody help me!” you cried, your voice drowned out by a bevy of gunshots that rolled over one another like cracks of lightning. You tired to pull Mary-Beth out of the line of fire; men in dark hoods were coming from the trees, the river, the gateway. Jack ran, terrified, as Abigail screamed after him; you lurched in a feverish panic trying to decide whether to snatch him up and get him to safety, but you and Mary-Beth would be shot and killed if you didn’t get out of there. John acted before you could decide, grabbing Jack and taking him back to his mother behind a wall of sandbags, shooting at the hooded men that came in unendingly, a sea of faceless death. Your panicked gaze locked on Sadie, who stood behind a post on the porch and fired off a few shots in their direction.
“Sadie!” you yelled, frantic. “Sadie, I need your help!”
She whipped her head to look at you, her eyes widening when she saw you and Mary-Beth. Ducking past bullets that whined and slammed into the side of the house and plumed up dirt at her feet, she helped you haul Mary-Beth towards the side door.
“Go!” Sadie shouted, all but pushing you inside as she slung her rifle back over her shoulders and into your hands. Pearson, in an act of chivalry and strength previously unknown to you, took Mary-Beth in his arms and lugged her upstairs. The window to your right burst and shattered, shards of glass flying everywhere, and you ducked and cowered as bullets winged past and splintered the wall behind you.
“What are you doin’, girl?”
Arthur’s voice was too loud, louder even than the gunshots that rang out and the exploding glass of the house’s other windows, his grip on your arm so hard that it hurt.
“Arthur, I - ”
“Get upstairs,” he ordered, too busy to give you any tenderness. “Stay with the girls. Don’t come out until I get you, you hear?”
You said nothing, your body numb and your mind blank, and he handed you off to someone - you thought it might have been Susan. She all but hauled you up the stairs and into Abigail’s room, and as you tried to make your legs work, you were jostled on every side, frightened, urgent voices overlapping all around you; someone was crying, wailing, a sickening thing that sounded like an animal in its death throes, and you covered your ears to block out such an awful sound.
Time seemed to stretch for an infinity, the thunder of gunshots ringing unceasingly, everyone yelling and cussing and that horrible, keening cry that wouldn’t ever stop - it was Mary-Beth, roused into the chaos and terror, held back from running wildly back to Kieran by Tilly and Karen. The ghastly vision of Kieran’s mutilated figure, his blinded, hollow eyes, the blood and bone of his neck hacked through - it tormented you until you thought you’d go mad with it. You couldn’t breathe. You were in hell, and the devil himself had come to take what he was owed.
Finally, it was quiet; your ears rang in the silence, and you didn’t know for a long moment whether the battle was still raging or if you were simply imagining it. You saw Tilly getting a dose of poppy syrup into Mary-Beth, laying with her on the bed with her arms tightly around her as Mary-Beth cried like her heart had been torn out by the roots; Karen sat on the edge of the bed, shaking and pulling deeply from the bottle of whiskey in her hand.
“Lady.”
You startled violently, gripping to whoever it was that had spoken to you, though whether it was to fight them off or tether yourself to the earth, you didn’t know.
“Easy, now.” It was Arthur’s voice, the same one he used to calm a skittish horse. “It’s over, girl. You’re alright.”
You dug your nails into his arm. “He... Arthur, his head...” You saw it roll towards you in the dust and jerked away from the ghoulish vision.
“I know.” His voice was tight, pained. “I saw. I sure wish you hadn’t.”
Some miserable little groan escaped you. “I need to...” What? Be sick? Throw yourself in the river with the alligators? You had to get out of here, had to flee this swamp of gore and sickness and death, and your chest tightened with panic as you looked frantically, unseeingly, for some means of escape. Your head spun, and before you could think about how foolish it was, you fled.
“Lady!”
You ran, heedless of Arthur’s call, shoving past people on the stairs, bursting through the back door and into the mud and heat of the swamp. Dark trees loomed, hooded bodies lay everywhere, the stench of blood and gunpowder and death mixing with the wet, earthy smell of the river. Alligators growled and snapped from the riverbank, moving darkly under the muddy water. Gasping, feverish, everything swimming in a vicious slog that seemed to clutch at your boots and drag you downwards to your own grave, you wound up in some frightful, rotting shack, stumbling over decaying floorboards, cobwebs clinging to your hair. You sank into a corner, breathing shallowly of the heavy, fetid air of rust and rot, feeling the darkness like a living thing.
You didn’t know how long you stayed there, listening to people calling for you, feeling the sting of some unknown wounds on your face and arms, watching a spider spin a web between the legs of a molded worktable. Kieran’s face wouldn’t leave your vision, imposing itself on every shadowed thing, every jagged, festering object around you. You trembled from head to foot, teeth chattering despite the clammy sweat on your face, nails scraping against the marks you’d left on yourself after Sean had died.
First Sean, now Kieran. Karen and Mary-Beth lay drugged in an overgrown, haunted, bullet-riddled shell of grandeur to withstand the pain of losing them, and you felt one wrong step away from losing your mind. None of you would make it out of this swamp alive. All of you would find some grave in the dark mud, heads shot through, eyes gouged out, mangled and bloody and gnawed by whatever force had finally torn the life from you. It seemed a near thing to you now, not needing any violence - like a candle burned down to nothing, you could be snuffed out with a touch.
Spurred footsteps came slowly up the stairs outside the shack, and you watched your spider skitter off to some dark crevice in the wood. If you could fit yourself in somewhere, you might do the same; you’d done the best you could, folding yourself into the shadows to try and hide from Kieran’s body, the masked killers littered across your camp, the cold hand of death that scraped and clawed like skeletal branches on a broken windowpane.
The sunlight was glaring, silhouetting a broad figure in the doorway as he came inside. You didn’t need to look to know it was Arthur; he’d find you no matter where you were, would move heaven and earth to get to you. As it was, he only had to move the sawhorse and rickety chair you’d hidden behind, and he hunkered down in front of you.
“Look at me, girl.”
You didn’t. You studied the buttons on his shirt like they were objects of great fascination, the neat little circles you’d had to replace so many times you’d lost count. One of them was missing now, and you wondered if your hands would ever stop shaking long enough for you to mend it.
“You scared me, lady.” His voice was plain, worn, firm. “Runnin’ off like that - you coulda got hurt.”
“Well, my head’s still attached,” you said blankly. “I guess I’m doing better than some.”
He sighed, running a hand over his face. There was nothing he could say to that, and you both knew it.
“You’re bleedin’,” he said after a long moment. “I’d like you to come back to the house with me so I can see how bad it is.”
Confused, you looked over yourself and saw that you were indeed bleeding, little rips and tears in your dress revealing small rivulets of blood. You touched a hand to your face and felt that it was wet, and when you drew your fingers back, they were red.
“Glass,” you said absently. “From the window.”
“I guess.” He pulled a strand of cobwebs from your hair. “Though it coulda been some rusty shit in here you got caught on, and that needs tendin’ sooner rather than later.”
Your stomach lurched at the thought of going back to that graveyard.
“I can’t go back there,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. You imagined rats and vultures crawling over the bodies that littered your camp, yellow teeth and bloody beaks gnawing on a ruinous feast fit for a king. “He’s... is he still...?”
“Swanson and Charles are buryin’ him. John and I were supposed to clear out the O’Driscolls, but I came upstairs to check on you.”
You held your knees tighter to your chest. “Sorry for keeping you from your work.”
“That ain’t what I meant.”
“I suppose I’m work enough.”
“That ain’t what I meant either.” He shifted his weight, his knees creaking in protest. “Let’s just... get you outta this spot, for right now. One thing at a time.”
Limp as you were, he did most of the work in getting you to your feet, and you rewarded that act of chivalry by throwing up all over his boots. He winced.
“Sorry,” you managed, your voice flat, dragging your bloody sleeve over your mouth.
“That’s okay.” He carefully maneuvered both of you away from the worst of it. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He scooped you up, taking you back through the mire of bodies strewn in the silt, and you rested your head on his shoulder, staring at nothing. Up in your bedroom, he laid you gently on the bed, and you curled around yourself while he rummaged around for something. The sun was too bright, the swamp too loud, the very air too dense and viscous to breathe.
“Here,” he said, hunkering down at your side and setting a bottle of whiskey, a tin of salve, and a bowl of water on the nightstand. He handed you his canteen. “Sit up and have a drink.”
You did as you were bidden, the taste in your mouth acrid and unpleasant; when he’d taken off your shirt, he had you stay sitting up, wetting a clean bandanna to tend the cuts on your face and arms.
“Most of ‘em don’t look too bad,” he said. He ran the bandanna over your temple, right above your left eyebrow. “Might have to stitch this one, though.”
When he threaded a needle to do just that, a flash of panic went through you, startling you out of your numbness.
“Don’t,” you said, gripping his arm. “Please.”
“I have to, honey. It’s not gonna heal unless I stitch it.”
The thought of something sharp so close to your eyes had you shaking uncontrollably, remembering Kieran’s cavernous, bloodied sockets, the way they’d turned towards you as if to taunt you.
“Arthur, his - ” Your mouth was dry. “His eyes, they - ”
“Okay,” he soothed, setting the needle and thread aside. “Okay. I understand. Settle down.”
You couldn’t, not when you were shaking so badly you thought you’d break apart with it. He put his hands on your thighs and looked up at you with a firm kind of patience and compassion.
“Deep breath, sweet pea,” he said calmly. “Come on now.”
You tried to do as he said, your inhale catching and choking.
“Good girl. Again.”
It was easier that time, a little, and he kept up a low murmur of encouragement until you finally drew a long, steady breath.
“There you go,” he praised gently. “There’s a good girl.”
You swallowed and bent your head low, trying not to be sick again.
“Why - ” Your voice was wrecked. “Why did they do that to him, Arthur? How could they do something so awful?”
His expression mirrored your pain. “I don’t know, sweetheart. Colm’s hateful, an’ I reckon he thought he was gettin’ back at a traitor.”
“Traitor,” you said hoarsely. You pressed a hand to your chest, trying in vain to soothe the deep, hollow ache there. “They cut off his head, Arthur.”
“I know.” He scuffed a hand over his beard. “It ain’t nothin’ but wickedness.”
That was the truth, and there was no way to put it any plainer than that. When you’d settled a little, enough to let him stitch up the gash on your brow, you withstood the pain of it and leaned into his touch when he put salve over the stitches.
“I’m sorry you saw it,” he said gently. “I’m sorry it happened.”
You said nothing to that. All of a sudden, you were very tired, and Arthur read it in your face.
“Why don’t you try an’ rest a little?” he said. “You look tuckered out, girl.”
You huffed a mirthless laugh. “All that running off I did sure took it out me, I guess.” You looked down at his boots, seeing that they were in need of a good scrubbing. “I’m sorry about running off. And about your boots.”
“Ain’t gotta apologize,” he said. “I understand why you ran off, and I reckon these boots have had worse on ‘em than that.”
Letting him tuck you in like you were a child, you pressed your cheek to the pillow and started blankly at the balcony door. He drew the quilt up over your shoulders and brushed your hair back from your face.
“Try and sleep, darlin’,” he said quietly. “I’ll be up to check on you later.”
You didn’t want him to leave, but you knew he had work to do, and you’d already kept him longer than you should have. You watched the sunlight on the chipped paint of the walls turn from yellow to orange to red; the amber bottle of whiskey on the nightstand glinted invitingly in the sun, reminding you of the bottles you'd used for target practice, the bottles that covered every surface of your childhood home, their glass crunching under your feet, your palms, sobbing, crawling to get away from your father. Whiskey had made him angry, but at least it hadn't made him cry. The cacophony of frogs and crickets and marsh birds didn’t drown out the sounds of bodies being moved, spiney-ridged beasts tearing at them in their murky grave; a few ringing shots told you that not all of the O’Driscolls had been killed outright, and someone had had to finish the job.
You pulled yourself up just enough to grab the bottle, swigging down a good half of it, not really noticing the burn of it even as it brought tears to your eyes. Maybe that was the answer - Karen and her whiskey, Swanson and his opium, your father and his razor strop against your blue and purple skin, something to numb the pain of living. You didn’t know if it helped, but as you sat on the edge of the bed in the darkening room and watched the shadows lengthen, everything went dark and hazy around the edges, your head swimming - and you were angry. Just like your daddy.
Arthur did come back to check on you, his shirt dark with sweat, weary and sore as he sat on the edge of the bed. You’d put the bottle back on the nightstand and tried not to look as drunk as you felt, but it didn’t matter - you were a wreck sober, and you were a wreck with half a bottle of whiskey in your belly. He wrote in his journal, and though you usually liked the sound of his pencil against the pages, it grated on you now. What was there to write about, anyway? It was only death and decay, violence and fear and misery. You didn’t see how recording it for the rest of time would help.
“Will you stop that?” you asked. Your voice slurred a little, and you gripped the edge of the bed to keep from swaying.
He looked over at you. “Stop what? I ain’t doin’ anything.”
“You’re writing in that stupid journal,” you snapped. “I can’t stand the sound of it.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, and when he put it away, the sound of the cover closing was a little more forceful than you thought was warranted.
“Oh, don’t start,” you said, annoyed. The slurring was more pronounced then, but you didn’t care. “You’re always so angry.”
He frowned. “I ain’t angry,” he said. “And I ain’t startin’ anything. I did what you asked.”
You hadn’t asked, you’d just demanded, but what good was asking for anything in this world?
You stood, needing to get away from him, from everything; you listed to the side, almost careening into the table.
“What are you doin’?” he asked, surprised and concerned. You batted his hands away when he tried to steady you.
“Get your hands offa me.” Your words ran together, and your head pounded. “Arthur Morgan to the rescue, like he always is.”
Realization crossed his face, and you hated the worry he felt for you.
“Are you drunk?”
“Maybe." You smirked. "It’s how my daddy raised me, I guess. Just get drunk when everything’s goin’ to shit.”
“Well, mine too, I reckon,” he said hesitantly. “But, lady...”
Your smug affect fell at his do-gooder voice, all soft and gentle and worried for you, like it would make a damn bit of difference. Being worried over you was a waste of time. You'd never be any better, any happier, any kinder, any different than this.
“Don't look at me like that," you mumbled, turning your face from him.
"Like what?"
"Like you..." Like you love me. "Like you think you're better'n me."
He shook his head. "I don't think I'm better than you, girl. You know how many times I've ended up at the bottom of a bottle?"
"Let me guess," you said sullenly. "Enough to know it doesn't help?"
He sighed. "Yes. But also enough to know that you gotta figure that out for yourself."
“It's better than what you come up with,” you said, the venom of your voice undercut significantly by the slurring of it. “Guess I should just kill people and do whatever Dutch says and then everybody’ll be just fine.”
A hysterical little laugh bubbled out of you. “Except for Kieran. And Sean. And you.”
“I am fine.”
"That's rich." How could any of you be fine after seeing Kieran like that? How could any of you be stupid enough to think you'd meet a better end?
You stumbled out to the balcony, and he followed you like a nervous sheepdog.
“You almost got killed by the O’Driscolls," you said, thinking on those long, horrible days when you'd really thought he was going to die right in front you. “They coulda cut your head off too and sent it home to me.”
The thought was so ghastly, so horrific that you did think you were going to be sick again. Nothing happened except for a few nauseated groans as you gripped the railing, and you panted as the wave finally subsided.
“But they didn’t,” he said when both of you were marginally sure you wouldn’t make a mess of his boots again. “I got back to you, didn’t I?”
“Your heart stopped,” you said flatly. “You died right under my hands, Arthur. And I brought you back so we could keep doing the same bullshit we always do.”
You looked up at him then and saw how pale he was.
“I guess I brought you back so everybody could die and then we could move to fuckin’ Tahiti or some shit. Nothin’ like an island paradise when everybody we care about is dead, huh?”
“Nobody else is gonna die.”
You shoved against his chest, suddenly so angry at him, at his goodness, at his patience, that you did like your daddy always did and hurt him for it.
“You don’t know that!" you yelled, pummeling him with your fists. "You didn’t know about Sean, and you didn’t know about Kieran, and you're not gonna know about whoever's next! You never listen to me when I say I don’t wanna do this shit any more!”
He grabbed your wrists and held them just tightly enough to get you to stop.
“I’m listenin’ now,” he said, firm and plain. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want people to stop dying!” you said, angry tears blurring his face as you glared up up at him. “I want to get out of this godforsaken swamp, and I want you to die an old man after we’ve actually had a chance to live, Arthur!”
“I want that too,” he said earnestly. “Listen to me, girl. I don’t know what you think I want, but it ain’t all this shit.”
“Then - then let’s go,” you begged. “Screw the trolley job and the bank job and everything else. No more jobs, Arthur. Let’s go.”
“We can’t just leave,” he said, a little desperate. “You know we can’t.”
“Why, because Dutch would be mad at you?” you said waspishly.
“Because we’ve got people here we gotta take care of!” he said. “Because this is our family, girl, and we can’t just up and leave ‘em.”
“Nobody’s taking care of us,” you said, dizzy again. You swayed and he steadied you, and you wrenched free of his too-caring hands. “Nobody’s taking care of me.”
He swallowed. “I’m tryin’ to, lady. I’m tryin’ my best.”
“Then you’re not trying hard enough!” you spat. "I'm only in this mess because of you, and if it meant I didn't have to do any of this shit any more, I'd go back to that night you found me and tell you to fuck off!"
That hurt him, and the gut-wrenching guilt you felt as you saw the pain of it flash across his face was enough to make you hate yourself for the rest of your life.
“If... if that’s how you feel,” he said, his voice tight. He didn’t try to argue with you, didn’t try to defend himself; he just pulled away from you, and you felt your heart trying to claw its way out of your chest.
“Wait, wait, don’t go,” you said, incoherent and desperate. He took a step towards the door, and you grabbed at him. “Arthur, don’t go. Please don’t leave me. I didn’t mean it.”
“Sure as hell sounded like you meant it.” He prized your hands off him. “Sober up, girl. Or drink yourself to death like Karen. I guess I don’t care.”
“No, Arthur, please - ”
The door slammed behind him, and then there was nothing, no strength or compassion or even anger to keep you grounded. Someone was sobbing, and you guessed it was you, but you didn’t know anything for sure when Arthur was gone. Sinking to heap on the floor, wretched, miserable, you grabbed the bottle of whiskey and took another drink.
Part Twenty-Eight: A Handy Little Thief — At the mayor's party, you scout potential leads and help Arthur escape with a letter to Leviticus Cornwall.
Pairings: Arthur Morgan x Reader | Genre: fluff, h/c, angst | Word Count: 4k | Warnings: mentions of abuse/harassment | Read on AO3 | Fic Masterlist
Outside the Bastille, you waited for a few minutes in the twilight for Dutch and the others, listening to the sounds of the city in the hooves ringing on the cobblestones, the street busker’s brassy trumpet, a clanging trolley car, the tapestry of language and culture that unfolded itself on every corner. The power lines crisscrossing the streets, the wrought-iron lampposts, the light spilling from every window gave the impression of a field of stars wrangled down from the heavens and formed into square city blocks. It intrigued you as much as it made you grateful never to have lived any place so busy, and you knew for all the wonder of the city, you’d be glad to go back out to the wide open country.
Next to you, Arthur leaned against the post of the Bastille’s overhead balcony, even a tuxedo not enough to hide the posture of a big, muscled cowboy. He cut a fine figure in his suit, looking very dapper and refined, but you liked that his long hair kept a bit of that mountain man you liked so much.
“Arthur?”
“Hm?”
You leaned on his arm to give his cheek a kiss. “You look very handsome.”
He smiled, a touch bashful. “Thank ya, sweet pea.” He thumbed the lace on your sleeve. “I like his color on you. Makes me think of plum trees in the springtime.”
You blossomed under his attention and affection, cherishing the music of his low voice as you talked about nothing in particular, just simple, lighthearted things that soothed the ache of all that lay so heavy on both your shoulders. When Lenny pulled the coach up to the hotel, Arthur gave you a hand up, and you tucked your skirts in to sit between him and Dutch.
“Why, my dear,” Dutch said sincerely. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you, Dutch,” you said, just as sincere. Despite the tension between you, his complement touched that part of you that craved fatherly affection. “That’s kind of you to say.”
“And you managed to get Arthur looking halfway decent,” Hosea added. “We had quite a time wrangling Bill here into something clean for a change.”
Bill tugged at his collar. “This suit’s a bunch of horseshit, and you both know it.”
Arthur laughed, a great big laugh that made you smile just to be close to it, and everyone else laughed too. It seemed to ease some unseen stiffness in these men who’d maybe felt a little of what you had earlier; all of you were playing a part tonight, and perhaps they hadn’t been as comfortable and confident as you’d thought.
“We are ridiculous,” Dutch agreed. “Utterly.”
“I ain’t never been to a ball in my life,” Arthur said.
“Nor have I, if I’m being honest,” Dutch confessed. He popped open a bottle of champagne and poured a round of drinks.
“I used to,” Hosea said, holding his glass out for Dutch to fill it. “Quite often. There could be fine pickings.”
“No pickpocketing,” Dutch chided, amused. “We’re here to make real contacts.”
Arthur raised a brow. “What kind of contacts?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Dutch mused. “We’ll find what we can. All I know is that we’re going to a party at the mayor’s house, and the guest of honor is the worst crook in town. I’m sure we’ll find something.”
Arthur laughed again. “Okay, then.”
Swilling down their drinks as Lenny pulled the coach up to the mayor’s house, the boys straightened their ties and made sure they were ready to mingle with the Saint Denis elite. Arthur helped you down from the coach, giving your hand a comforting squeeze, and you tried not to be nervous as you came up to the opulent, stately manor. Arthur let go of your hand to give his revolver over to the butler at the gate, then offered you his arm like a proper gentleman.
“You ready?” he asked.
“If you’ll stay with me,” you said.
He smiled. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, sugar.”
Ushered inside, you fairly ogled the magnificent interior with its double staircases, crystal chandeliers, marble posts, and paintings lit by candles in shining candelabras. A tiled indoor greenhouse of sorts led out to the garden, the sounds of conversation and classical music drifting through the open doors.
“Hosea, Bill,” Dutch instructed. “You join the party. We’ll meet you out back after we’ve paid or respects to Signor Bronte.”
Though you’d determined to try and not be nervous, the thought of meeting Angelo Bronte had you holding tighter to Arthur’s arm as you followed the butler upstairs.
“You’re alright, girl,” Arthur said calmly. “Just stick close to me and let Dutch to the talkin’.”
Out on an upstairs balcony - one of many, you assumed, since the mansion seemed to go on forever - the sounds of raucous laughter met you as the butler led you to Mr. Bronte. He was surrounded by a cohort of men, all of them smoking cigars and drinking red wine and amusing themselves with deriding the partgoers below.
“Ah, the angry cowboys,” Bronte called by way of greeting. “You’ve arrived, and you’ve washed!” He said something else in Italian, probably something as nice as his last comment, and you tucked yourself closer to Arthur.
“This is quite a party you’ve invited us to,” Dutch said, shaking his hand.
“Yes, quite something,” Bronte said dryly. “Though I’m not sure what.”
He caught sight of you, even as much as you were trying to hide behind Arthur’s broad shoulders, and his dark eyes lit with something you didn’t quite like.
“Now this,” he said, coming closer, “this is something, Mr. Van der Linde. This is the lady your little ragazzo spoke of, no?”
Bronte offered his hand, and you shyly took it, a little surprised when he kissed the back of your fingers.
“Benvenuta, bella,” he said, his gaze travelling over you in a way that made you wish your collar wasn’t so revealing. “Welcome. I am so glad you could join us.”
“Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Bronte,” you said, more timidly than you would have liked.
He gave you a smooth grin. “Do not be so frightened, piccolo angelo. Unlike your cowboys here, we know how to treat a beautiful woman.”
When you withdrew your hand, you tucked it into the crook of Arthur’s arm. Bronte said something to his men, again in Italian, and their laughs sounded too much like Micah’s to give you any confidence about what they were saying. It seemed like you’d been asked to the party merely as an object for his company’s viewing pleasure, but as long as it was only their gazes wandering over you, you’d endure it as best you could.
“So,” Dutch ventured, going to stand at the railing, “this is Saint Denis high society.”
“Apparently so,” Bronte mused, unimpressed. One of his men handed out cigars, and though you knew he didn’t usually smoke them, Arthur took one to keep up appearances and maybe enjoy a taste of fancy living.
“And all these people,” Dutch continued, looking out on the milling crowd, “these are friends of yours, Signor Bronte?”
“No, not quite,” he said, his gravelly voice indicating the contempt in which he held them. “But they certainly are afraid of me.”
He pointed out the mayor, the owner of a sugar plantation, and a Confederate major, tacking on some insult or tidbit of scandalous information to his description of each one. Arthur smoked his cigar and looked out over all of them, taking them in with his quiet, observant nature, watchful of them and Bronte as a hunter was watchful of his quarry.
“Oh, the redskins,” Bronte said with disparaging glee, gesturing to two men shaking hands with the mayor. “I have no sympathy for them, because whoever is stupid enough to get tricked by the Americans - they get what they deserve, eh?”
A flash of indignation made you want to call him out for such nastiness, and you might have been brave enough to say something if Arthur hadn’t given you a shake of his head.
“Easy,” he warned in a low voice.
The Indians gave a letter to the mayor, prompting another round of mocking from Bronte and his men. No doubt they were trying to lobby the mayor for help on behalf of their people, and Bronte scorned them for it.
“Oh, yes, hand the mayor a letter,” he jeered. “That will save you.”
You bristled. “Arthur - ”
“I know, honey.” He put a hand over yours on the railing. “Go easy.”
Understanding the wisdom of holding your tongue and knowing it wouldn’t do anything but draw the ridicule in your direction anyway, you still decided that you didn’t want anything to do with Angelo Bronte even if it came with bucketloads of money. Someone offered you a glass of wine, and you didn’t feel as though you could turn it down without offending the delicate balance you all hung in; taking a cautious sip, you found it as dry and bitter as Bronte’s conversation and handed it to Arthur.
Bronte pointed out another influential figure in the crowd.
“Maybe you will kill him for me one day,” he said casually.
Arthur stiffened, looking to Dutch to see how he’d react. Dutch, in polite, cautious surprise, gave a short laugh.
“Well, we’re not paid killers as such,” he said, mildly enough. “Not in cold blood, anyway.”
Bronte raised a brow. “I did not know that you were so particular that you would not help a friend,” he said coolly.
Dutch said nothing for a moment, considering this verbal trap laid by a man who clearly thought himself superior to everyone around him. You felt a strange mix of compassion and wariness for Dutch, then - you didn’t like to see anyone bully him, but you also recognized very clearly that he sometimes bullied people just like Bronte was doing to him now.
“I’m willing to help in any way I can,” Dutch finally said. “Within reason.”
Bronte gave him a patronizing look. “I’m going to pretend to understand what that means.”
“I meant no offense,” Dutch said evenly. This was a high-stakes game, and Dutch had always been a good poker player.
After a moment’s tense silence, Bronte laughed, and the sound was grating and cold.
“None taken,” he said, steering the conversation back to what was evidently his favorite topic. He looked out over the garden. “All these vulgar people - they hate me.”
He said something in Italian that made his cohort laugh with cruel glee, and Dutch had finally had enough. Whatever he’d been hoping for, this derisive, exclusionary show of superiority wasn’t it.
“Well, it has been wonderful conversing with you,” he said, clearly drawing this interview to a close. “But I can tell that you are very busy, and I won’t waste any more of your time.”
“Yes, yes, go enjoy yourselves,” Bronte said magnanimously, “and mingle with these vulgar scum. It’ll make you long for the days when you could shoot each other and screw cows out on the open range.”
You weren’t surprised at the crude language and obvious insult in itself, but you’d perhaps expected more decorum in the presence of a lady, and you felt yourself blush. It seemed no one escaped Bronte’s flippant disdain, and though you knew Dutch took umbrage at it, he was cool in his response.
“Those sure were the days,” he said with a tepid smile. “Good day, gentlemen.”
He made to leave, and you and Arthur followed, but Bronte wasn’t quite ready to let you go.
“What exactly are your plans here?” he asked, feigning indifference but plainly requiring Dutch to answer.
“We’ve not made any,” Dutch said. “But, well... we are going to need some money.”
You though that was a risky card to play, one that should have been kept close to the vest, but you could do nothing but watch it unfold.
“Yes, of course,” Bronte said thoughtfully. “There’s money at the trolley station. They keep a lot of cash there in the day. I could not involve myself in such matters, but you, as a guest - as my guest - do it.”
How generous, you thought dryly. It was a challenge to Dutch, you were sure, a bone tossed to a hungry dog, and you could only imagine what trouble would come of it.
Saying your goodbyes, not without a last lascivious glance cast in your direction by Bronte’s men, you, Arthur, and Dutch finally extricated yourself from the less-than-pleasant gathering as the butler escorted you back downstairs. An uncomfortable feeling, like stepping into an alligator’s path, spidered over your shoulders and made you reluctant to do anything but go home to the honest thieves you knew and trusted.
Dutch wanted you to join the party, however, and gave instructions to you and Arthur find the mayor and get all the information you could about the city’s sordid secrets. Though you had more experience getting tips from cattlemen and farmer’s wives, it couldn’t be that different; still, at the top of the stairs that led down into the garden, you wondered if you’d stick out like a weed among wildflowers trying to talk to these rich, elegant people.
“Don’t be nervous,” Arthur said, pulling your hand away from where you’d been anxiously toying with the lace at your neckline. “This is easy stuff, darlin’, and you know how to do it.”
You looked up at him. “Are you sure I look alright?”
“You look as pretty as a sunrise,” he said, and you couldn’t help a bashful smile. He offered you his arm. “Let’s go enjoy ourselves, shall we?”
Glad for his steadiness beside you, you came down the steps and joined the wash of of violin music, clinking glasses, and tittering conversation. It really was a lovely evening for a garden party, the evening warm and mild, the lights strung overhead twinkling like fireflies. You and Arthur made the rounds, speaking to dignitaries and businessmen and bankers; separating at various points, Arthur spoke to the men to feel out any potential leads while you chatted with their wives and mistresses about the theater or the dressmaker’s or the best milliner in town.
“Well,” Arthur drawled, finding you near the gazebo with two glasses of champagne in his hands, “I was gonna offer you a drink, but I guess some other fella beat me to it.”
You gave him a coy smile as you sipped your drink.
“Some fine gentleman offered it to me, along with two tickets to a racy cabaret show.” You tucked them in his breast pocket. “He thought I might enjoy it.”
He chuckled. “Well, you might. You never know.” He knocked back one of the drinks and set the glass on the railing, and you laughed.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to shoot it like whiskey, Arthur.”
“It’s those mountain-man manners you’re so fond of,” he teased. “Just can’t help it.”
He didn’t seem in any rush to find the mayor, and as you sipped your champagne and traded the information you’d gathered, you enjoyed his company and the illusion of having nothing more to worry about than social niceties. Arthur pulled you close for a slow waltz as the music changed, and you giggled when he leaned you back in a perilously low dip.
“Arthur!” you protested, feeling as bubbly as the champagne.
He pulled you back close to him, kissing under your jaw.
“You feelin’ better, lady?”
You hummed in agreement, draping your arms over his shoulders and letting him sway you to the music. “I’ve had more to drink than I thought. These Saint Denis fellows are very generous with their libations.”
“Or you’re very pretty, and they wanted you to like them,” he said with a smile. “Either way, I’m glad it’s me you’re dancin’ with.”
In the darkness of the gazebo, lit only by the paper lanterns reflecting on the nearby river, you let Arthur kiss you and hold you and dance you around. It was nice to be dancing at a ritzy party with the man you loved, and you let yourself enjoy it while it lasted.
“We’d better go talk to the mayor,” he said after a while, though he didn’t seem overly eager to do anything but continue kissing down your neck.
“The sooner we’re done here,” you reasoned, ”the sooner you can have your way with me.”
“That so?” He gave you a dreamy, lopsided grin. “Reckon we should go find him, then.”
The mayor was by the fountain talking with a few men, one of which seemed terribly drunk. Arthur successfully ingratiated himself into the conversation by taking charge of the man, muscling him towards the back of the party, and you accepted another drink from one of the mayor’s more polite companions.
“Your husband, madame?” the mayor asked, gesturing to Arthur.
“Yes sir,” you said cordially. “I hope he’s not out of line with your friend.”
“He is not one I would call a friend,” he said evenly, his French accent as thick as they came. “I am obliged to your husband for taking care of him, Mrs...?”
“Morgan,” you said, accepting his hand and the demure kiss to the back of yours. “And you’re the mayor, isn’t that right?”
“Indeed. Heni Lemieux, at your service.” He introduced you to his companions, one of which was Evelyn Miller, Dutch’s favorite author.
“My goodness,” you said, truly surprised and delighted to meet him. “I’ve read some of your work, Mr. Miller. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“The pleasure’s mine, Mrs. Morgan,” he said genially. “I admit I don’t meet many women who’ve read my paltry musings.”
“My husband and I have spoken many times about your work,” you said truthfully. You smiled. “Though not always agreed on our conclusions.”
Arthur returned from wrangling the ornery partygoer and accepted the mayor’s thanks with a firm handshake.
“Arthur,” you said, hanging on his arm, “this gentleman is Evelyn Miller.”
“My lord,” he said, as starstruck as you’d been. “The writer?”
He shook his hand, and Miller gave a pleasant laugh.
“Your wife was telling me that you’ve discussed my writing,” he said. “I apologize for any arguments you may have had on my behalf.”
Arthur smiled. “Well, she’s usually right about it, whatever we’re discussin’. Reckon I should quit arguin’ and start listenin’.”
Everyone’s attention was pulled to a round of fireworks overhead, and you oohed and ahhed along with everyone else as their color burst across the dark sky. You’d never seen such a display, and the rainbow wash over the party reminded you of sunlight coming through stained-glass windows.
“Aren’t they pretty?” you asked Arthur, pressing against his shoulder to muffle some of the clamor of them as you watched.
“Hm?” He glanced over at you, distracted. “Oh, sure. I’m glad you like ‘em.”
You looked over to see what had his attention and saw another butler speaking in hushed, hurried tones to the mayor. You thought you caught a mention of Leviticus Cornwall, the oil baron who’d been Dutch’s particular fascination as a target for some high-stakes robbery, and understood why Arthur hadn’t given you his full attention.
Dutch all but materialized at your side, perhaps conjured by the name of his most prized target, and startled you a little.
“Oh, Dutch,” you said, relieved. “Do you like the fireworks?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, impatient, not attempting like Arthur had to even briefly engage you. “Did he just say something about Cornwall?”
“Yes,” Arthur said, still watching the exchange.
“Find out what,” Dutch instructed, then rejoined the party with his usual gallant, affable manner.
Arthur looked down at you. “You wanna come with me or watch the fireworks?”
“If you need me to come, I can,” you said.
“Might help me look a little more inconspicuous,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t mind,” you assured him. You saw the butler walking towards the house. “Let’s go.”
Arthur was focused on his quarry as you tailed the butler through the party, and you thought it did help to have you playing the tipsy, chattering debutante at his side. Instead of some skulking ne’er-do-well, Arthur came off as a slightly apathetic husband carting his giggling, pink-flush wife off to some hidden corner for a scolding, and no one paid you any mind.
In the house, you quieted and stuck close to him, following his lead as he hid behind exotic ferns and marble posts to spy on the butler. It was kind of fun, like a game of espionage, and you enjoyed it until you saw the butler raise an angry, chastising hand to one of the maids and strike her across the face. You flinched yourself, the memory of your father’s heavy hand smarting as sharply as the first time you’d felt it.
“Alright, girl,” Arthur murmured, again cautioning you against some hasty, righteously angry action. “I know.”
You pressed a hand to your cheek, remembering the sting of many such punishments for spilling water, not setting the table correctly, merely existing in arm’s reach when your father was angry.
“Any man who hits a woman isn’t a man at all,” you said bitterly.
“I’ll agree with you there, sugar. But we gotta play it cool.”
With some reluctance, you watched the butler dismiss the maid with a harsh word and continue up the stairs. Keeping safely behind the corner, you waited until Arthur beckoned you into the study.
“He put somethin’ in here,” he said, trying carefully to jimmy the lock on the desk drawer. “Dang me if i can get it open without shootin’ the damn thing, though.”
“Here,” you said, pulling a hairpin from your coiffure. “Use this.”
“Handy little thief, ain’t ya?” he teased. He used the hairpin to unlock the drawer and found a ledger with a letter inside.
“Mister Leviticus Cornwall,” he read. “Top secret. Extremely confidential.”
You thought you heard the butler coming back, his footsteps muffled by the carpet, and tugged Arthur towards the door.
“Let’s go,” you whispered. “Read it later.”
He didn’t put it away, too engrossed in reading it, but he followed where you led him. He was distracted by the letter all the way down the stairs, which you found mildly irritating considering you might very well get caught stealing it, and you would have gotten caught by a footman in the greenhouse room if you hadn’t acted quickly.
“Oh, shit.” Pulling Arthur back around the corner to the foot of the stairs, you snatched the letter from his hand and shoved it into your bodice.
“What’n hell are you - oof.”
Pressing him up against the wall, you kissed him for all you were worth, and his protest died a quick death as he wrapped his arms around you and responded with a slightly confused but nonetheless pleased fervor.
“Pardon me,” the footman said politely. “But the party is in the garden. I’m afraid the residence is only for family.”
You straightened and touched a hand to your mussed hair, letting slip a convincingly drunk-sounding giggle as you propped your hand on Arthur’s chest.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you tittered. “This one couldn’t keep his hands off me.”
“I’m pretty sure it was the other way around,” Arthur said in dry amusement. “You ready for another twirl ‘round the dancefloor, honey?”
“Lead away, cowboy,” you said airily. Tottering a little in your heels to sell the part, you let him all but drag you outside as the footman closed the doors behind you.
“Well I’ll be danged,” Arthur said with a smirk. “Look at you, keepin’ us outta prison with that little show.”
You shoved his shoulder, and he didn’t move at all.
“Oh, Arthur!” you scolded. “You’re lucky I thought of something!”
He chuckled and wound his arm around your waist, pulling you snugly against him until your skirt belled out against his legs.
“Damn right I was lucky,” he said, his voice low with desire and affection. “Reckon we can get caught by somebody else so you’ll kiss me like that again?”
“Oh, you’re a rascal,” you said, but it was half-hearted. You pulled the letter from your dress and gave it to him. “Put that away.”
“Now, I woulda reached in there and got it for you,” he chided, only half-teasing.
“You’ll get your chance to put your hand in my dress when we’re not stealing sensitive information,” you said wryly. “Be patient.”
He looked as though he very much did not want to be patient, but Dutch found you on the terrace before he could do any convincing to speed up the process.
“Find anything?” he asked.
Arthur patted his pocket. “I think so.”
Bill and Hosea joined you, variously fed up with polite society and hopeful that there was something worth robbing from it, and you made your exit before any more near-misses could come your way. In the coach, Arthur asked that Lenny stop by the hotel and drop you off.
“We’ll come home tomorrow and bring the hosses,” he said, handing Dutch the letter from Cornwall.
“Talk with Trelawney before you do,” Duch said, perusing the letter. “He’ll be outside the tailor’s, and I’m hopeful the riverboat job he’s got going will bing in some good money.”
He tucked the letter in his pocket. “Oh, and see if you can’t track down Evelyn Miller. He’s lobbying officials in Saint Denis on behalf of that Indian chief we saw, and it may be that we could lend a hand.”
“Sure,” Arthur agreed.
At the Bastille, you bid the boys goodbye as the coach rumbled on down the street. Arthur kept a comforting hand on your waist as he led you inside, and after a quick dinner, you went upstairs to your room.
“Did I do alright?” you asked. “At the party, I mean?”
He offered you his arm to lean on as you got out of your heels.
“You did real fine, sweet pea. Sure saved out skins with that trick on the stairs.”
You gave him a wry smile. “Not my best work, maybe, but it worked in a pinch.”
“Oh, I don't agree,” he said, undoing his tie and tossing it in the vague direction of the couch. “I thought it was downright ingenious.”
You watched with growing desire and fascination as he took off his jacket and vest, discarding then with the same carelessness as he had his tie. He unbuttoned his cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves, showing off his tan, muscled forearms in a display that made your face heat.
“Need any help gettin’ that dress off, sweetheart?” he asked innocently. “You might be more comfortable, and I’d be glad to help.”
You touched a fluttering hand to your breast. “I, um... well, I...” It always surprised you how easily Arthur could turn you into a flustered mess, but he enjoyed leaving you flushed and breathless with only a look and a few words in that low, gravelly voice of his.
He smiled then, the curve of it just this side of a smirk.
“Ain’t gotta be nervous, sugar,” he said smoothly. “Just me. Tell me what you need.”
“W-would you undo my buttons?” you managed to ask, feeling your cheeks flame with color.
His gaze darkened. “It’d be my pleasure.” He had them unbuttoned in short order, and when he grazed his knuckles over the lace on the back of your dress, you couldn’t help the little sigh that escaped you.
“You sure are pretty in this dress, darlin’,” he said and the rumble of desire in his voice set off a flood of butterflies inside you. He pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Reckon I’d like it better on the floor, though. What do you think?”
You turned to kiss him, slow and amorous and deep. “One way to find out, cowboy.”
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