An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
And maybe the bounty had sounded a bit rough. A man whoâd murdered his family something awful well, that is, even more awful than the usual âman kills his wife, two sons, and daughter.â Theyâd been found slaughtered so gruesomely that it had been thought the work of a pack of wolves or, perhaps, a bear, though in the end it had been determined to be the father whoâd done it, the man having been acting off for quite some time. His family had been savaged; their innards made outtards, flung across the flooring of the house, draped from the furniture, shards of bone scattered like specks of blood. And the blood - on the photograph it had been hard to tell what was shadow and what was blood, there was so much of it. But Arthur had dealt with far worse, it was just one man, a particularly unhinged one but still just one, heâd fought Colm OâDriscoll hand to hand (well, gun to gun) and lived to tell the tale, fought fifty-to-one and come out of it unharmed.
It was his fault.
 It was his damn fault.
 He never should have sent Arthur after that bounty, ingratiating themselves with the sheriff or not. Arthurâd not been certain about it â âYâsure about this Dutch? Somethinâ about it donât seem rightâŠâ but heâd been so sure his boy could do it, Arthur was infallible, no matter what he threw at him he came out victorious. Maybe a bit scratched up, a bit bloody, needing some attention, some medicine, a few days of rest, but he always came out whole, came out with a fantastic story and something to put in the donation box.
 âEasy Son⊠easyâŠâ
 And maybe the bounty had sounded a bit rough. A man whoâd murdered his family something awful well, that is, even more awful than the usual âman kills his wife, two sons, and daughter.â Theyâd been found slaughtered so gruesomely that it had been thought the work of a pack of wolves or, perhaps, a bear, though in the end it had been determined to be the father whoâd done it, the man having been acting off for quite some time. His family had been savaged; their innards made outtards, flung across the flooring of the house, draped from the furniture, shards of bone scattered like specks of blood. And the blood - on the photograph it had been hard to tell what was shadow and what was blood, there was so much of it. But Arthur had dealt with far worse, it was just one man, a particularly unhinged one but still just one, heâd fought Colm OâDriscoll hand to hand (well, gun to gun) and lived to tell the tale, fought fifty-to-one and come out of it unharmed.
 So it should have been easy. In and out, only a few hours, and heâd be back with heavy pockets - the bounty, heâd thought at the time, was excessive.
 Now he thought it wasnât enough. Not nearly.
 No bounty would have been enough.
 âItâs okay Son⊠Itâs alrightâŠâ
 Instead heâd ridden back to town barely keeping in his saddle, throat torn half open, clothes shredded âtil he was more naked than dressed and so covered in blood it was hard to tell what was blood and what was bruised, rent skin.
 Dutch had thought heâd sent him off to die.
âWeâll⊠weâll sort this out.â
 It had been a damn close thing, too. A miracle â thatâs what the doctor had called it. âIf he makes it through the night⊠well, then maybe. But thatâd be a miracle.â and heâd nearly shot him.
 But the wound had healed, faster even than they usually did for Arthur which, already, was faster than an average man, almost sealed up by the time the sun rose. The doctor had been baffled and said again, murmured, âA miracle,â and let Dutch take him home with antiseptics and all sorts of medical things to stave off infection which were, apparently, more effective than whiskey â heâd made sure to swipe some more on the way out, you could never have too much medicine in their line of work.
 And Arthur had been back on his feet, better than ever, within the day.
 Hosea too, had deemed it âa miracle.â when heâd seen the rapidly fading scar, snipping at the stitches to pull them free.
 âWeâll get you home to Hosea⊠heâll get you fixed right up.â
 But could he?
 Hosea could soothe the hottest fever. Knew just how long to dunk someone in a cold bath or river to lower it without risking hypothermia or chill, how many cold rags to use without putting them to waste, just the interval to change them at so they didnât go lukewarm but also didnât go to waste.
 Hosea could calm even the most panicked man with just a few words and a soft touch, no matter how lost to sense they were.
 Hosea could fix a wound, even one that seemed so grievous as to put the strongest man in the ground, if he had Susan and the Reverend at his side.
 But as he looked at the brown wolf before him, wild eyed and trembling, he wasnât so sure Hosea could fix this.
I'm just picturing the Gang somehow overseeing one of Arthur's days and it's one of those crazy ones where he gets mauled by a cougar then a bear then a pack of like ten wolves and then takes a Bounty and gets ambushed by O'Driscolls and Bounty hunters and then comes home only to be yelled at for being lazy
And that makes them change things and everything ends up happy and our boy is appreciated and Dutch is a dad again and the end
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Dutch had had it all planned out. A long speech to distract the lawmen as they edged towards the edge of the cliff. Heâd gesture and nudge Arthur, and together theyâd jump, land safely in the water, and be gone by the time the lawmen processed what happened.
But he hadnât taken into account the waterfall.
Dutch had had it all planned out. A long speech to distract the lawmen as they edged towards the edge of the cliff. Heâd gesture and nudge Arthur, and together theyâd jump, land safely in the water, and be gone by the time the lawmen processed what happened.
 But he hadnât taken into account the waterfall.
âYou canât fightâŠâ he nudged Arthur back, his own heels dangling over the ledge, âGravity.â and with that Arthur, quick on the draw as ever, twisted and jumped.
 They hit the water so hard it knocked the breath from their lungs. Dutch only just managed to keep from inhaling water, and he was just close enough to clap his hand over Arthurâs mouth to keep him from doing so.
 They broke the surface with twin coughs, Arthur spluttering while Dutch coughed.âSee son?â he laughed, flailing more than swimming as he dodged one of Arthurâs kicking feet, âI told you to trust me.â
 âSure Dutch,â his boy choked as a wave caught him in the face, âReal pretty.â
 He laughed as Arthur was thrown ass over head, righting himself with a splutter, near-hysteric with the rush of survival.
 âDutch?â the man struggled to reorient himself, âDutch!â Arthurâs eyes went wide, and Dutchâs bulged to match when he saw the source of the noise.
 Rapids. Jagged rocks erupting from the river. Frothing white waves crashed across them, dashing the unlucky fish that were caught in the tide.
 âShit!â
 Shit indeed.
 âSwim son, swim!â
 If Arthur werenât too busy struggling to fight the tide, heâd have said âno shit, Dutch!â but the river was pulling them closer and closer, exhausting them as they fought.
 As foam filled his mouth, Arthur had just enough time to think âthis is going to suckâ before he was slammed into the rocks.
 He choked, cried out - and got a mouthful of water.Â
Arthur was there one moment, and gone the next. Dutch shouted his name, surging through the water but regretting it when he barely dodged a protruding stone, the thrown up water burning his eyes. âArthur!â he squinted against the pain, kicking off an oncoming rock, barely managing to keep his own head above water.
 But he couldnât see him - not even a flash of his shirt, or his blond hair, and his head never broke water. He tried to call his name again, though what that would do he wasnât sure, but he felt he needed to do something and he couldnât dive under to save him, heâd never come up again and maybe, just maybe, if he called for him heâd hear him?
 Arthur never disobeyed him.
 Well, not until recently. But that was neither here nor there, because when it came down to the line, when it truly mattered, Arthur always obeyed him, always came when called. But Arthur was disobeying and just for a moment there was a flash of anger - that unsettling anger that had become to common to him as of late - and then it was drowned out by the chill of horror, because Arthur had been under too long and if he wasnât responding⊠no, surely heâd been washed further downstream, surely he just couldnât hear him over the crashing of the waves and the roaring of the rapids.
 Because the alternative⊠well, Dutch didnât want to think about it. And then he couldnât think about it, because he was slammed into a sharp boulder and agony lit along his ribs and he cried out, swallowing water and spinning through the water like a piece of cloth in a modern day washing machine, barely managing to thrust his head above water long enough to catch a breath before he was being tumbled again. And he understood Johnâs deep rooted fear of the water, and his refusal to learn to swim, and his âhiddenâ panic when he saw Jack on the shore back at Clemensâ Point and Shady Belle. Granted, the second had been warranted on account of the gators but - well, that didnât matter at the moment, considering he couldnât breathe.
 He tumbled and spun, clawed frantically as he abandoned all the lessons Hosea had given him in swimming (and would he be seeing Hosea soon? he couldnât help but to wonder as his chest squeezed and his lungs burned) to instead flail desperately, the energy draining from his body, beginning to slow and weaken as he grew painfully heavyâ
 âand then his head broke water and half his breath was water but, though it burned and he choked and coughed, he couldnât have cared less because it was blessed air, air that loosened the iron grip on his chest and returned life to his limbs, and he twisted and had enough breath to scream as he tumbled over the edge of the waterfall, seeing his death before him because heâd seen men hit water and break every bone in their body, had personally put down a young boy whoâd leaped to avoid a train and shattered everything, something had gone wrong inside him and he hadnât been able to breathe and it had been kinder to shoot him.
 He still hurt for it, Jasper had been a good young man, but heâd been dying anyway and a death of choking on your own blood was a long, painful death and so he couldnât regret it.
 But somehow, impossibly, he hit the water and sunk, only the briefest of pain from the impact and a shooting pain in his side where heâd struck it, and then his head was breaking water again and he could breathe, could get the breath that gave him the strength to strike out for the shore that was so, so close, and when he struck it it hurt, pebbles and sticks digging into his skin but it might as well have been a caress for how relieved he was, clawing up the bank and there was some pain there, yes, as his palms tore open and his nails were pried off by the stones but when he collapsed on the shore, even his feet free of the water, it was a welcome pain because heâd made it. Heâd escaped the water, managed to surviveâ
 where was Arthur?
 âhe jackknifed up, scrabbling at the stones and having to take a moment to bend trouble, coughing and choking as he cleared his lungs of the water, burning eyes snapping this way and that, darting first to the water which grew shallow not long after the water pooled beneath the waterfall, and he feared seeing Arthur splayed across those rocks, feared heâd not had Dutchâs luck and had hit the sharp stones, feared seeing his blood darkening the water and his limbs at horrible angles.
 But he didnât - pink water was trickling, a ribbon that spread slowly across the pool, but there was no body broken on the rocks and his eyes followed the ribbon to a blue lump that bobbed in the water, something he couldnât make out with his blurry eyes but he knew, Arthur had landed in the pool too but he wasnât moving, wasnât trying to get to the shore, was floating motionless in the water and he didnât even remember getting to his feet, lurching through the water to paw at the lump until he managed to find an arm and flip him over, his head finally breaking the water and thank god Arthur could breathe as he slung the arm over his shoulder, grabbing the other and awkwardly swimming back for shore.
 He laughed a hysterical thing, breaking into coughs as he managed âI told you â I told you son â we made it!â
 But Arthur didnât laugh, or respond in any way, and Dutch didnât want to look but he had to.
 A pale face, blue lips and far-away eyes looked back at him and his heart skipped one-two-three-four beats, because Arthur was never still, even in sleep he moved, twitched and shifted and curled in on himself, but Arthur wasnât moving â his chest wasnât moving â he wasnât coughing or clearing his throat and vomiting up water, he was laying there like⊠like a corpse and Dutch refused that, heâd already lost Jenny, Mac and Davey, Sean and the OâDriscoll boy (Kieran, his name was Kieran, he deserved as much as to be called by his name), Lenny and poor Hosea and he couldnât lose Arthur too.
 He drew Arthur up, fumbling him when he was far lighter than he expected because Arthur had always been a big man, not since heâd been young and terrified of them had he been this light, even when he and Hosea had half-carried him across camp when heâd returned after the parley theyâd struggled under his weight.
 But picking up Arthur was easier than lifting his saddle and his heart jumped into his throat, heâd have worried more but Arthurâs head lolled in a way that could only be accidental, water trickling from his mouth but he didnât cough or so much as clear his throat and Dutch hurried to prop him up, leaning him over his knee and beginning to thump him between the shoulder blades as hard as he could. His ribs screamed as he struck Arthur harder and harder, the manâs body jolting but only producing small bits of water from his mouth and he began to count in his head because how long had it been since Arthur had breathed?
 Too long, even Arthur who seemed superhuman couldnât hold his breath so long.
 He set Arthur down more heavily than heâd meant to, cringing at the clattering of his body against the rocks. He threw his coat down, taking just a moment to tug Arthur onto it, before shifting to kneel awkwardly over his prone son, lacing his fingers together and beginning to push on his stomach in rhythm, trying to work the water out of his lungs. With each push water trickled from the corner of his mouth and he leaned forward, tilting his head to the side so he wouldnât choke.
 âCâmon son, come on!â
 (âDo you trust me son?â
 â...Always, Dutch.â
 âThen just follow my lead.â)
 Something cracked beneath his hands and he groaned, leaning forward and pressing his mouth to Arthurâs, blowing a breath into his mouth and pulling away with the taste of brackish water and metal on his lips, pinching his nose and trying again when his chest didnât rise and this time it did with a horrible gurgling and he pulled back, beginning to push down on his chest over and over and over, bones crackling with the force of it, counting off fifteen (or was it supposed to be twenty? thirty?) compressions before leaning forward, alarmed at the taste of blood as he gave him two breaths, praying to a god he didnât believe in as he returned to his compressions.
 Heâd lost so many people, he couldnât lose Arthur too.
 Annabelle... Hosea⊠so many heâd considered family.
 Heâd raised Arthur up from a boy, just a young thing, scared and cowering as Dutch helped him off the ground. From a kid that cowered when they raised their voices and flinched when they moved their hands, to a father, to a man who stood tall and proud, the backbone of his family, always at his sideâ
 âWith you watching over us, Iâd walk into Hell itself.â
 âalways there, no matter what. No matter how angry heâd gotten, how frustrated he wasâ
 âWe each got... fifteen dollars. Oh, and a quarter. Don't forget the quarter.â
 âShut up, Arthur.â
 âheâd always been there. Even when Hosea had left them for a time, wanting to start a proper family with Bessie, heâd cried, and hidden, but never left him behind. And heâd paid for it, hadnât he?âÂ
 âSo, I met up with Leon. That situation with the workers is dealt with. Captured, tied-up, beatenâŠâ
 âPoor bastards.â
 âNo, that was me.â
âI told you it was a set-up DutchâŠâ
 âMy boy⊠my dear boy, what?â
 âThey got me⊠but I got away.â
 âYeah⊠that you did.â
 âmore, probably, than heâd been rewarded. Always crawling home to lick his wounds, digging out bullets and stitching wounds, having to be wrestled into bed to keep him from going right back out and doing it all over again. How many times had one of the girls come to him because they found blood on his clothes and theyâd found Arthur hiding a wound so he could ride out again or join them on a job?
 But he wouldnât let Arthur suffer this time, heâd make sure he was rewarded. But to do that, heâd have to breathe breath back into his lungs, uncaring of the blood he tasted on every rescue breath, of the crunching of broken bones shattering beneath his hands. He could fix broken bones, could let Arthur rest for as long as he needed to recuperate, if only he would breathe.
His arms buckled, each breath shooting pain through his ribs, his hands sinking into Arthurâs chest so much had he broken his bones, his muscles burning from the force of the compressions and his chest tight with how hard he blew breath into his boyâs lungs. Each time the manâs chest rose hope soared in his own, but he crashed back to earth as he never did continue breathing.
 Dutch crumpled atop of Arthur, arms giving way and gasping for breath, shaking his head even as he did so. âNo, Arthur, pleaseâŠâ but Arthur, of course, couldnât respond.
bro i'm a sucker for soft Vandermorgan....dutch reading while arthur sketches.....leaning on eachother.....dutch reaching over to rub arthur's back every few pages........running his hand through arthur's hair...soft k*sses and giggling...
Howdy, anon! đ
My apologies that it took me a week to get back to this one. I gave time to consider it, and I hope the fic I wrote in response makes up for that!! Itâs a very cute ask, and I love tenderness between them, too. But despite my affection for lighthearted stuff, I usually struggle with writing it (Iâm a very dark and morbid person - oops đ ). Anyway, Iâve been getting quite a few soft VDM asks lately, so I figured I would accept another challenge!
I was hesitant about actually posting this, but I figured, what is there to lose? It does have some angst sprinkled in (I couldnât help myself), but I hope I did your idea justice!!!
Oh, and to anybody else who sent VDM asks recently, I am still giving them some thought! So, stay tuned đ
In the meantime, please enjoyâŠâ€ïžđ€
âWhy are you avoiding me, Arthur?â
Hand freezing and pencil ceasing its scratching within the journal on his lap, Arthur furrowed his brow as he peaked over the fire at Dutch. Yet, his eyes remained wide and questioning as he pushed back, âIâm not avoiding you. I just didnât think you wanted to be bothered while you read.â
âOh, come on. You know I never minded it in the past, especially not on a cold night like this. We could use all the heat we can spare between us,â Dutch flipped his book shut, patting the ground beside him.
Likewise, Arthur slid the bookmark of his journal in place as he closed it. âWell, I guess⊠itâs justâŠâ
Dutch chuckled as he noticed Arthur bite his lip to suppress a timid smile. He gestured to Arthur, beckoning him over once again. âI know itâs been a long time since itâs been just the two of us, but you donât have to be shy.â
âAlright,â Arthur agreed as he pushed himself to his feet, journal still clutched in one hand. He walked over and knelt next to Dutch, but before he could properly get seated, Dutch reached forward and grasped him by his shirt collars. Pressing Arthurâs back to his bedroll, Dutch pinned him there as he straddled his hips.
The journal got cast aside as Arthur grabbed at Dutchâs back. Their lips met, hungrily and impassioned. Dutch pressed his chest firmer against Arthurâs and moaned at the warmth that radiated between them. He pulled back and grinned down at Arthur through heavily-lidded eyes, âSee, isnât it better on this side?â
âI was afraid this might happen,â Arthur laughed as he reached a hand forward and brushed some loose curls away from Dutchâs face.
Emitting a soft hum, Dutch felt himself glow with a warm, fuzzy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Leaning in close once more, he whispered, âAnd are you complaining?â
âNever.â Arthur pulled Dutch in for another kiss, before Dutch backed away and sat up.
âI didnât think so.â Dutch smirked as he reached for his wool blanket and unfolded it. Motioning for Arthur to sit up as well, he handed him a corner. They each wrapped part of it around themselves as they huddled close to the fire.
Arthur scooped his journal up and leaned against Dutch, his back pressed into the older manâs arm and shoulder for support. He reopened the journal on his lap, but his position hid his face and the journalâs contents from Dutch as he returned to sketching.
Attempting to peer over Arthurâs shoulder to no avail, Dutch asked, âWhat are you working on?â
âWhat are you reading?â Arthur shot back.
Dutch felt his heart briefly flutter. He couldnât keep the smile out of his voice as he responded, âSince when do you care about what I read?â
When Arthur gave no response, Dutch slipped one hand around Arthurâs chest, hugging him and pulling him tighter. Gradually, he let his hand glide lower, until it reached the top of Arthurâs pants. Tugging at the shirt tucked in there, Dutch moved it out of the way and slipped his cold fingers inside. Arthur jumped at the sudden intrusion and gave a shriek, âAHH! Dutch! Your hand is freezing!â
Nuzzling his nose against the back of Arthurâs neck, Dutch pressed a soft kiss there. His lips grazed the sensitive flesh as he muttered, âWhy are you being so difficult tonight, my boy?â
âToo bad you just ruined any chance of seeing my sketch.â Arthurâs voice had a teasing edge, but it was lighthearted. âRead to me, first. I always liked listening to your voice.â
At that statement, Dutch pulled his hand away from Arthurâs warm skin but still kept it wrapped around him as he moved his head back in surprise. His mouth hung slightly agape at the boldness in Arthurâs tone, though he felt the corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement. âSo, thatâs how you want to play this game⊠fine.â
Picking his book up in his free hand, Dutch opened it in his lap and scanned the pages. Arthur continued to sketch as Dutchâs other hand rubbed small circles over his chest.
Landing on a passage that caught his eye, Dutch began to read, ââBut whether the resistance against tyrants is non-violent or physically violent, the overarching efforts to overthrow oppression justifies the means.â What do you think of that, Arthur?â
âItâs very nice, Dutch.â
ââNice?â Thatâs the word youâd use to describe it?â Dutch protested, though he affectionately wrapped his arm tighter around Arthur as he did so. He flipped through the pages for a few more moments of silence before his eyes landed on another. âWell, how about this one? âThe whole point of America is freedom. Freedom of thought, freedom of deed, freedom of action.ââ
Letting out a sigh, Arthur tilted his head back so he could look at Dutch. Their faces were close - mere inches apart - as Arthur spoke, just barely above a whisper, âDoes it always have to be about politics, Dutch? Some greater good? I thought we came out here to escape all that.â
Dutch wanted to argue and explain how important Evelyn Millerâs writings were to their mission as a gang and their survival. But he knew Arthur was right. This was their moment to share, and it wasnât any use wasting it on philosophical debates. Those could wait.
Tipping his head forward, Dutch pressed a chaste kiss to Arthurâs lips and nodded as he pulled away. âOkay.â
Arthur smiled at him as he turned his head back towards his journal and continued to work. Looking back at his book, Dutch searched for a different passage to read. Though most of the ones he noted were about ideological teachings, he did finally settle on one that made his eyes narrow and lips tighten in consideration.
Taking a breath, Dutch traced the words with his finger as he read aloud, ââSay what you have to say, not what you ought. Any truth is better than make-believe.ââ
Arthur did not say anything in response, though Dutch felt his hand stop drawing, as if Arthur was thinking about it. Dutch could feel the steady beat of Arthurâs heart as he gently massaged his chest.
Eventually, Dutch buried his face in Arthurâs blond hair as he asked, âHmm, was that better?â
Arthur flipped his journal shut in his lap and rocked lightly into Dutch as he muttered, âYou know I was never much good with words.â
âOh, son⊠and you know that I wish you wouldnât downplay yourself like this.â Dutch squeezed Arthurâs breast as he cradled him closer. âYou speak from the heart, thatâs what matters most... same goes for when you draw in that journal of yours.â
At that, Arthur bent his head down towards the journal in his lap. He tied the leather flap and slid the pencil in place underneath it. Lifting the journal, he set it in front of where the two of them were seated and pushed it forward. It was like a silent invitation, placed just out of reach.
Adjusting his position, Arthur turned around so he could lean his chest against Dutch as he wound both of his arms around the older manâs waist. He buried his head in the crook of Dutchâs neck, and Dutch couldnât suppress a shiver as Arthurâs warm breath vibrated across the bare flesh at his collar when he spoke, âThank you for reading to me. âM getting tiredâŠâ
âRest up, itâs been a long day.â Dutch set his own book aside so he could readjust himself and wrap his arms around Arthurâs back. He rubbed soothing circles as he rested his chin atop Arthurâs head and watched the flickering glow of the fire.
This was real.
This wasnât make-believe, or some long-lost memory. Arthurâs steady breathing and the warmth of his flesh confirmed that fact. Dutch let his eyes flicker shut in thought as he was once again reminded of how right Arthur was.
At the end of the day, all those fancy words in his books and his own philosophizing would be meaningless without Arthur by his side.
Dutch furrowed his brow as he blinked his eyes open. Biting his lip, he took a sharp breath and paused. He hesitated to say the words on the tip of his tongue, but he released a long exhale as he tightened his grip on his boy.
He felt safe here.
âYou know, Arthur⊠youâre right. This life of crime, even I sometimes wonder where it all ends, or if it even ends at all. I try to do whatâs best, I really do. I know I talk a lot about loyalty and how important it is to keep faith, but these moments when Iâm alone with youâŠ.â Dutch let his voice trail off. Even amidst his own speaking, he couldnât fail to notice the light snore coming from Arthurâs lips.
But rather than feeling anger or frustration, Dutch merely smiled. In a way, it was a relief. Arthur couldnât hear him, and if he could, he would never remember Dutchâs words come morning. Somehow, it was easier this way. Whatever he said aloud, he knew he wouldnât have to prove or justify it to anybody. He could speak from the heart.
The truth.
âI donât know how I could ever go on without you. Please, donât ever let goâŠâ
At that, Dutch squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. He focused on the way Arthur maintained a tight grip around his waist, despite his steady snores. The words werenât meant to be literal, but for the moment, Dutch could allow himself to believe it was possible both physically and figuratively.
Dutch blinked the dampness away from his eyelashes as he looked back towards the fire. The journal was still sitting there, illuminated by the orange glow. Shifting on the ground, Dutch lifted his head away from Arthur and peered down at him. He seemed unbothered by the movements, so Dutch decided to push it further. Unwrapping one arm from around Arthurâs back, Dutch leaned slowly forward, until his fingertips were just able to land on the journalâs leather cover.
Pulling the book towards him, Dutch was able to pick it up in one hand and place it in his lap. He briefly feared the action disturbed Arthur, for he whined and pressed his face harder against Dutchâs shoulder. However, his heavy breathing continued, and Dutch proceeded to slide the journalâs strap out of its place. Holding the pencil in his hand, Dutch turned to the bookmark at the back.
There, he found a sketch of two animals - a buck and a wolf. Despite serving contrasting roles in the wild, they looked perfectly at ease within the sketch. They curled around each other as they laid down to rest, their noses nearly touching. The way they huddled together made it seem believable that they really could find harmony, regardless of their true natures.
On the opposite page, a message was written, ââCouldnât resist, could you?ââ
Dutch chuckled, Was he really that predictable?
Using the pencil, he scrawled his own note underneath, ââItâs no use trying to fight who we really are.ââ
Taking one last look at the sketch, Dutch ran a finger over it. Just as he could speak in metaphorical language, Arthur could draw in it. But the meanings underneath it all remained the same.
Just because it wasnât literal, that didnât mean it wasnât the truth.
Closing the journal and placing it back where he found it, Dutch kept a firm hold on Arthur as he pulled the both of them down to lay on his bedroll. Adjusting the blanket, Dutch made sure it was draped snugly over them as Arthur soundlessly snuggled his face against Dutchâs chest and hugged him tighter. Once Dutch was comfortable, he likewise wrapped his arms around Arthur, one holding him by the small of his back and the other rumpling his hair.
Feeling tired as well, Dutch shut his eyes. With his final words for the night, Dutch thought of what he just wrote in the journal as they held each other close. Continuing along the same line of thought, he whispered, âWe just gotta embrace it.â
[All Trussed Up and Still Nowhere To Go + Talking is Overrated + Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones But... + On A Need To Know Basis + Thatâs Where The Bloodâs Supposed To Be + All Work and No Play]
(Barbed Wire | Bound + Garotte | Gagged + âWho did this to you?â + âYouâre still not dead?â | Too weak to move + Aftermath + Blood-matted hair)
Stay alive âtil this horror show is past
[Trust Fall + Just Keep Swimming + Itâll Be Fun, They Said + Thatâs Gonna Leave a Mark + The Doctor is In + You Will Go Down With This Ship]
(âDo you trust me?â + Drowning + âThis is gonna suckâ + CPR + Waterfall)
and iâm falling
