For all things fangeekery. Photography. Red Dead Redemption II. A special fondness for Dutch van der Linde/Hosea Matthews/Vandermatthews.
I write fanfiction! https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoamingTigress https://www.fanfiction.net/u/33294/Roaming-Tigress
Child from the 1980s.
This blog is intended for 18 and over;
blog may contain adult content, namely Old Man Yaoi!
“A lion shorn of his strength, an eagle robbed of his freedom, or a dove bereft of his mate, all die, it is said, of a broken heart; and who will aver that this grim bandit could bear the threefold brunt, heart-whole? This only I know, that when the morning dawned, he was lying there still in his position of calm repose, but his spirit was gone-the old king-wolf was dead.”
― Ernest Thompson Seton, Lobo, Rag and Vixen Being The Personal Histories Of Lobo, Redruff, Raggylug & Vixen
Headcanon for Arthur; what would he do on a warm rainy day?
Oh I like this one. Arthur does a whole lot of work for the gang and I think they look to him as a leader or an authority figure within the gang, so I think a rainy day is an opportunity to rest--maybe draw a little bit or read one of those field journals he keeps beside his bed.
Thank you for your ask and your vandermatthews pictures always give me a little giggle. So glad you are here!
A Cup of Coffee
by Roaming Tigress
It's 1911, and Dutch is at last brought in to face justice — and Landon Ricketts.
A story of the touch starved, and the desperate.
(Ao3 link)
(@mikeysfacialscar Here's that story!)
Armadillo, 1911.
The unconscious prisoner was tossed into the empty cell by a burly, slovenly man with all the carelessness of someone tossing a mere sack of flour. The heavy door was kicked shut behind him with the same amount of careful consideration. And then, satisfied, he sauntered out of the dimly lit sheriff's office, dusting his grubby hands off, casually catching the bag of coins tossed to him from the older, hollow-faced gentleman at the desk. He sported an untrimmed silver mustache, bone straight silver hair, and high cheekbones obscured under a brown cowboy hat. His clothing appeared to be from another era: a loose-fitting grey overcoat, and a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, worn but comfortable and functional.
In better lighting, one could make out that he was speaking to Landon Ricketts.
The man, the myth, the legend.
"One hell of a bounty you got there, Mr. Adams. I reckon your family could live a spell on that."
The man let out a heavy laugh as he stopped himself at the stoop. "All that and more. " He leaned in, a gleeful glint in his eyes. "I'll sell the story to all the papers. Imagine all the little housewives, opening the paper to read that the little man from Hennigan's Stead caught van der Linde."
Not much of a braggart was this man.
There came a laugh from the older man, looking at the lump lying on the floor of a cell, and then back at him. "Must have one hell of a fight."
The man - we'll call him Braggart Bob - leaned against the doorframe, offered a cigar to Landon and lit up one of his own. Bob frowned at the refusal of his offering, but only for a brief moment as he went on to regale his tale.
"Meaner than a box of wolverines. The boys got him at McFarlane's."
Landon turned to face the man, a grey eyebrow raised. Bob was a man who told a fisherman's tale, but he learned to read between the lines with him; there was often truth behind his exaggerations. A farm hand one day, a bounty hunter the next, and a yarn to spin on both days.
"That's the furthest south he's gone."
Bob shrugged, waving the cigar smoke out from his bearded face as he leaned his hefty weight against the doorframe. "I reckon he was there for the stallion. They got one of them fancy Thoroughbreds." He considered, looking thoughtful for once. " . . . Maybe heading to Mexico, wanted something quick."
Landon had heard that Javier Escuella and Bill Williamson were floating around somewhere in Mexico, and the possibility of Dutch moving out there intrigued him. He raised a grey eyebrow in consideration.
A gang reunion, perhaps?
"Came with a few of his own men, but well, we took care of 'em." Bob grinned, leaning in, letting Ricketts have a whiff of whiskey.
"One clear shot from Dale went right into the next fella." He scoffed.
"What kind of luck is that?'
Bob couldn't see the eye roll from Ricketts, but it showed in his tone.
"Dale, who couldn't shoot the broad side of a barn?"
Bob guffawed. "When he's sober."
Landon almost got eyestrain.
"Damn near got van Der Linde, too, with the same shot. Damn good thing, too, or I wouldn't have money to put up the barn."
Landon was sometimes convinced Bob wasn't raised in a barn.
"Though I wouldn't have gotten too het up. Damn dirty son of a bitch bit me when we were gagging him. In two reinforced lassos! Only let go when Dan got him upside the head with the butt of the rifle."
Bob paused.
"Reckon I should get it looked at?"
Landon got an up close and personal view of the gnawed thumb, just what he always wanted. He pulled back in visible disgust; Bob was ever so self-aware and grinned, clapping him on the shoulder.
"You know, I was about to — "
Landon's eyes popped wide open when he realized what territory Bob was going into, and he gave a wave of dismissal.
"Say no more."
Landon suddenly lost his appetite for the bacon sandwich on his desk.
Bob eventually remembered he had a home to go to; promised he would meet Ricketts at the saloon the following day, and finally, left Ricketts to his own thoughts.
Or, rather, left Ricketts with his own thoughts - and van der Linde.
Dutch remained in a pathetic pile on the cell floor, wearing an orange shirt stained in what Ricketts discerned as sweat and blood - hoped it wasn't some innocent's - and brown pants with furred leg covers. He smelled of rot and filth, body odour and stale whisky, a hint of gun powder. His hair was grey and cut short, matted down with sweat. Even the cleft of his chin was askew; gone was any trace of the high life Dutch once lived.
Dutch looked smaller than Landon thought he would; frailer, for certain, not nearly as menacing as the papers illustrated him as appearing. This was the man of ill repute, who was reputed to have killed people for disagreeing with him. Landon found himself almost disappointed; he shook his head with a heavy sigh, considering the lurid headlines.
'Pitiful.'
Most wanted man in America.
'
We were a proper country once.'
Still, Landon had a sandwich he had no appetite for, and a cup of coffee; someone had to drink it, and Landon never cared to have a cup of Joe late at night but put a pot on in case the Sandman decided to show up.
And who would dare deny van der Linde a cup of coffee?
Oh, it was tempting.
But Landon's willpower wasn't nearly as strong as he had sometimes hoped, and he found himself sliding the tin of coffee and sandwich on the chipped plate under the cell bars, nearly up to the nose of the notorious last vestige of the Old West.
Then, it happened as he pulled his hand out from underneath the bars.
Dutch seized hold of Landon's hand.
The speed — the vicious hunger of the grip — reminded Landon of the time he'd once seen a bull alligator snatch a boar at the water's edge. In his younger years — yes, Landon was once a young man — he had once lain low in Lemoyne, on account of a hefty bounty on his own head following a 'disagreement' as it were in Valentine. He could still remember the squeal of the hapless beast as it was dragged into the water, the sound of its neck snapping.
Landon had chosen instead to take the chance of being cut down during a shootout — a nobler death, he thought, than being the next one dragged into the waters — and sought pastures anew elsewhere.
He headed west.
But, it all came back — his heart raced as he visualized his own wrist being crunched in the old outlaw's grip — just like that boar's neck.
Then, as fast as it happened, the grip loosened. It even gentled — a word one would hardly think to associate with van der Linde.
But Landon remained frozen in place; his revolver was holstered on his hip, and yet, he found himself unable to reach for it with his free hand. Had he pushed forward, he would have released van der Linde's hold on him with one squeeze of the trigger.
But he couldn't.
Fear does strange things. When you're faced with danger, fight or flight normally comes into play — ingredients in the recipe that have preserved the human species. But there are times when everything but the racing of your heart . . . Just stops. An oncoming train, a runaway horse, the approach of a dangerous animal — all could cause your legs to lock in place while every voice in your head is yelling at you to run. And if you're lucky, if you listen, you may just get away in time.
This was how he was going to go, said the little voice in his head, a voice that had long been absent. Fear was something of a stranger to Landon; he didn't even fear death, and preferred to have gone out in a hail of bullets in place of a slow, lingering death from the infirmities of old age.
And yet, Landon was scared; nobody had ever claimed that human emotion is an uncomplicated matter without nuance, without its layers.
Landon was going to have his wrist snapped, he thought, and then the rest of his mangled arm would be yanked into the cell. His gun would be snatched from him, and that would be the end of it — a quick, brutal end to a storied life. The papers would have a thing or two to say about that.
But Dutch had other ideas.
With an ever-slight, stiffened squeeze, he brought Landon's hand up to his chapped lips — and kissed a calloused knuckle. Soft and tender it was — and it was that very gentleness that unnerved the normally steely Ricketts.
'This isn't right.'
Now, a kiss was something he had gone without for some time; he felt it was somewhere in the last century when he last got one. Perhaps it was even that weekend fling with the wife of the bartender at Armadillo's saloon — the sassy, brilliant Camilla.
Landon never claimed to be an angel, but fun was had.
Still, he tensed as Dutch peppered more kisses onto the top of his hand, then moved his lips to his fingers, his knuckles, before clutching it to his chest, forcing Landon to push his arm further into the cell. His aged body was cool to the touch, the slow, steady beat of his heart as he stirred awake — intrinsically human, something that might even be sweet in normal situations, but Landon found his own heart pounding at the recognition.
It was easier for Landon when Dutch was something of a legend; the papers would print with the most sensationalistic of wording. He would scoff with almost admiration for the audacity of the old outlaw and also at the foolishness of the lawmen and Pinkertons hot on their trail. A part of him almost felt sorry for the desperation of those men, but he decided to spend his emotions elsewhere.
Only a man, he thought.
But this . . . This softness.
'This isn't right.'
'You're nothing more than a killer, van der Linde. A killer with a long and violent run. A damn fool, a damn dangerous fool, a damn, dangerous fool who couldn't follow through with his talk to take down the man and left a score of bodies in his wake.'
Landon paused, considering . . .
"Was it worth it?"
The only answer he got from Dutch was a murmur against the palm of his hand.
Surely, Dutch was playing head games; he was notorious for it, even and especially with his own gangs that he had run with. With the right words, he had them playing into his madness, with some more rotten-to-the-core individuals feeding into it and enabling him. In all, though, he had them eating out of his hand with the belief he knew what was best for every one of them.
But Dutch had decided to throw in another wrench.
"Hosea . . . " His voice cracked as if he hadn't spoken for a decade — if only!
But the tone that was carried out with that one single name was one of fearful relief; relief from 'reuniting' with Hosea, but fear of retribution. Dutch had truly thought he had died and gone to heaven . . . Or wherever notorious outlaws went to when their time was up.
"Hosea . . . "
Landon, of course, had alternate thoughts; that Dutch had truly got even madder than he had originally thought, or maybe Bob knocking him out sent him back to 1899.
If only he had knocked Dutch back into 1899.
Landon, of course, had read the stories printed about Mr. Matthews and his association with van der Linde, but before he could further recollect his follies . . .
. . . There came the feeling of Dutch's teeth — nasty, dirtied things that haven't had a brush to them in years, some on the verge of rotting out of his head — nibbling onto the knuckle he so softly kissed a mere moment ago.
Landon's breath hitched. The sensation of teeth on skin brought something back to him — out went that twinge of fear, giving way to the old thrill of existing in the liminal space between life and death — and his hunger for it woke up a bit more as a darker thought crept in.
He had heard the rumours that Dutch was a cannibal — maybe he was treating himself to a sample.
He was no longer scared of Dutch, but his old friend, adrenaline, was awakened by the possibilities of what he was capable of.
If only Dutch planned on cooperating.
For then came the second bite, not unlike that of a playful kitten's — that was followed by a sharp gasp from Dutch's latest victim. The bite itself was far from painful, but now his aging shoulder was nearly pulled out of alignment when Dutch began to toss and turn, taking Landon's hand with him, almost in the manner of a child clutching a teddy. But his comfort wasn't Dutch's priority; the old rogue was bound and determined to hold him in place, for fear 'Hosea' would disappear from his life again.
Then he rubbed a bristly, clammy cheek against the top of Landon's hand. And as if he wasn't being pushy enough, he nuzzled his big nose up under Landon's finger, in encouragement for it to be touched, too, oblivious to Landon's discomfort. He loved it when Hosea could kiss it, grab it; he used to be self-conscious about it, but simple affection can change one's perspective, and now he loved the damn thing.
Was Dutch a cat in another life?
Landon had expected violence — he was prepared to deal with it — but, though he hadn't come to accept it, he had become thoroughly disarmed by . . . .
. . . This.
"I'm sorry . . . "
As if an apology could make it all better. It could not bring back the people that were lost, the dreams that were destroyed and died with them.
But Dutch wanted something — something he knew he didn't deserve. Yet he was Dutch, and had still longed for what was out of reach — to be allowed to love Hosea again, to feel his touch again, to hold him and to be held by him.
Hosea, oh, Hosea.
Despite himself — though Landon may disagree — Dutch was trying to be cute; that if he continued, innocently, in his deep unconscious-awakening delirium, that maybe, just maybe "Hosea" wouldn't be so upset with how everything they had had built together had gone so terribly wrong.
A lifetime ago, Dutch had managed to get back on Hosea's good side with a mere kiss to his hand. His charm had to work in the afterlife, too.
"Please, I'm sorry . . . " He begged, he pleaded, as if casting doubt that he could charm his way back into his heart this time. He even turned over onto his back and nestled Landon's hand into the sagging hollow of his neck, letting 'Hosea' feel the coldness of his skin, the softness of his throat.
'Feel how old and wretched I have become.'
Poor Landon nearly fell face-first into the bars from Dutch's attempt at winning 'Hosea' back.
Perhaps it would have been easier if Dutch had reacted violently, had crushed his wrist. But at least he got an idea of how sturdy the cells that Sheriff Leigh Johnson — whose work he was covering for the weekend — had maintained. He had little else to do, after all. Why not spend a little time admiring the intricacies of a jail's infrastructure during a quiet time in town?
Then, Dutch must have gotten jealous that attention was being brought away from him.
"Please, Hosea . . . "
The man who had killed without thought begged, for now it was Dutch's turn to be scared.
He was frightened, oh so frightened, at the very idea that Hosea would hate him in the afterlife. He would bear his anger, even his blows, and had already forgiven Hosea for being unable to forgive him — he had long come to terms with the fact that forgiveness was impossible — but an eternity of his hate shook him to the core.
No, he couldn't have that.
Another ghost of a nibble — this time to a weathered fingertip — and then apologetically, Dutch kissed the spot where the edges of his teeth had scraped. Then, as if realizing he had gripped his hand a little too tightly, he loosened his hold and then sheepishly gave it a light pat.
"Sorry . . ."
Landon, taking advantage of his hand being suddenly treated as if it were something fragile, was able to finally free his slobbered hand from the vice grip of van der Linde.
There were no broken bones, not even an indentation from being gnawed on.
But the realization had hit him — that Dutch had loved someone. And he was confident in believing that he had been deeply affectionate to them — suffocatingly so, he presumed, and sometimes as much for his benefit as theirs. Kisses to their hands to end an argument, to 'win' it in his head if and when they were softened by such a gesture.
