Guilt
A story of grief, guilt, Dutch, and the police chief of St. Denis. (Ao3 link)
Chapter Seventeen: The passing of the torch
When a laid-up-in-bed Dutch is being hunted by the Pinkertons, desperate measures must be taken. "Dutch . . . " Charlie spoke hesitantly, slid the breakfast tray and paper onto the nightstand, and slowly sat in the bedside chair. He reached out and placed a hand on Dutch's arm, pain evident across his chiselled face. Eye contact was something he normally did so freely, but he found himself unexpectedly struggling with that damn van der Linde.
The absently lingering touch alone brought a smile upon Dutch's sweat-washed face, but soon faded when he noticed his expression. He looked again lost, confused, and felt vulnerable for it.
Why was 'Hosea' looking less than happy to see him?
"I'm sorry, did I . . . Did I do something wrong . . . ?" He almost pleaded, begging for forgiveness without saying it outright.
'Why do you have to make it so difficult for me, Dutch?'
Charlie had seen the looks of ladies — and a few men — on the streets of St. Denis. Words were spoken; coyly flirtatious words from those who wanted to court an officer but felt too shy to say it outright. A few bolder ones even teased him that they would be willing to do some petty crime so that he would arrest them. While he refrained professionally from carrying out any "arrests" on his admirers so that they could have their fantasy checked off their to-do list, he was flattered. 'Enjoy your looks while you have them,' Benjamin teased him.
And he did.
But now, Charlie wished he hadn't had those looks — high cheekbones, blonde hair, dark eyes, and if he had seen that photo from 1870 something of the curious couple and their unruly son, he would have thought he had a doppelgänger in Hosea.
He thought of how much easier it would have been if he resembled Officer Thomas O'Malley. He had always been a good officer in his own right with impeccable gentlemanliness, but he had a face that only his mother could love. He had a large nose, ears he could fly with, an overbite, and already had a receding hairline at the age of thirty.
"Dutch, it's just me, Charlie. Your new friend."
Charlie.
He reminded himself that was Hosea now.
Dutch smirked mischievously, his crow's feet flying out from the corners of his eyes. He was no stranger to feeling jealous of others giving attention to his ladies and gentlemen, but, he knew as well Hosea sometimes felt it, albeit a little more subtle than himself.
He had a vague memory of Benjamin telling him that he had taken Charlie's hand and placed it on his belly, though, and felt that warmth to his cheeks.
"Benj' told me I was a little naughty, Hosea."
Sheepish isn't a word used often to describe the notorious Dutch van der Linde, but its use was appropriate here, and it came with the innocence of a boy who had done something naughty but trivial.
"I had Charlie rub my tummy."
A pained grimace, an awkward chuckle from Charlie.
"Yes, yes, you did."
"No need to get jealous, Hosea, nothing is going on between Charlie and me."
Dutch had spoken with the natural, easy flow of an everyday conversation between two souls who have spent their whole lives together. It's what gnawed at Charlie, the glimpse of what they had, and the knowing it all had to end because the Pinkerton Detective Agency felt shooting an old man in the heart was the right and just thing to do.
And then, for Charlie, there came the realization that not only did Dutch think that he was Hosea, but he was also another separate individual, simply a good friend whose intentions risked being misunderstood by that crafty old silver fox of a man.
'Damn, that Dutch doesn't even know what's going on in his head.'
'Must have been that trolley crash.'
'Or whatever they put in that tonic.'
Still, Charlie patted Dutch's arm, and with a little help from Benjamin, he helped him sit up to eat in bed. He was heavier than he looked, and for that moment, as he carefully set his heavy cast leg on a pillow, he was glad he was still a young man. Had he been Benjamin's age, well, he was sure he'd need a little of that tonic himself.
He took a spare pillow from Benjamin and placed it behind his back for Dutch to lean back comfortably into after breakfast. He sighed, exasperated, as he adjusted the pillow when Dutch merely slouched back into it, as if expecting to be fed from a fork.
Fed like a king!
Oh, Dutch would love that!
"Just eat, Dutch."
And Dutch obeyed.
The tone, the manner . . . Oh, it had to be Hosea!
And if Hosea thought he had to eat right there and then, he was going to do it.
To Charlie's chagrin, Dutch sat up with ease and attacked that breakfast as if he had been starved for weeks. He blushed, realizing, and slowed his eating. Suddenly, he felt self-conscious. He even grew picky about what he went for next on the plate. Those who knew Dutch had long known him to be fastidious about his table manners, never eating fast if he had his say. He was able to afford to do so, given his position; the only other, of course, was Hosea, and the two taught their boys a thing or two about dining etiquette. They may have been on the run, but Dutch and Hosea maintained that some semblance of civility needed to be maintained.
And now he was Dutch the Hypocrite.
"I'm sorry, Hosea, where were my manners?"
Benjamin let out a sigh, an inner pain hitting his heart. He was confident a heart attack would be less painful, but he brushed a kiss to Dutch's sweaty temple before he reluctantly rolled out of bed, and gently brushed back his damp hair off his face as he straightened up. He paused for a moment as he ruefully wished he could look as good as Dutch when laid up in bed with a broken leg. He presumed he would look like a rat who had been run over by an omnibus.
"Just eat, Dutch. You need your nourishment."
Benjamin gently ran his hand through Dutch's hair, smiling as he endearingly tipped his head back into his hand. His smile faded, though, as he glanced over at Charlie with a look that suggested that he needed a private talk with him out on the balcony.
Charlie was used to that look; solemn, more befitting that of a soldier on the grave of a dearly departed comrade than private matters with a friend, a former second in command. It often was followed by a dire update on a case, the news that a murder victim's body had been found, or that a lead had gone cold. He gave a quick nod to Benjamin and led the way out to the small patio.
"Dutch . . . " Benjamin still spoke his name quietly as he closed the glass door behind them.
"Not in any shape to move out. Too much of a target to remain here."
The apartment could only stay safe for so long.
With a heavy, body-shuddering sigh, Benjamin gripped hold of the rail. His scarred knuckles turned white, his breathing rattled, and his normally pomaded hair fell forward as he looked down at the street below.
"But I'll die before I let the Pinkertons get him."
The words hit Charlie like a runaway train.
And the train had to be derailed.
"No."
Slowly, Benjamin turned to Charlie, incredulous. In all the years he had known him, he had heard Charlie say "no" to him as many times as he had fingers on one hand. And in every case — he would admit, stubbornly — that Charlie was right. He was no tyrant with the younger man, but given the position he held, it was natural that he preferred to have his final say.
But then came Benjamin's recognition that Charlie had stepped into his agency. His heavy-lidded eyes softened — something like sadness had settled in; perhaps a ghost of bittersweetness for handing control over to his protege.
And yet, he was proud.
Just like his officers did when they understood an assignment he had given to them, Benjamin gave a nod for him to continue.
And with that, the torch was passed.
Charlie slowly paced the short length of the patio before leaning back to face Benjamin, his hands resting on the balcony rail.
"We'll get him onto a ship, disguised as cargo in a crate. You know as well as I do they're not prone to checking what's coming aboard." Despite the confidence in his voice, he rubbed the back of his neck in the manner he did when he was worried his former superior would turn down propositions.
Some habits die hard.
But the worry was needed no more, and he made a halfhearted attempt to disguise the gesture as a mere scratch to the back of his neck.
Benjamin went quiet for a spell as he carefully fed the plan through each corner of his mind, weighing it from every angle. It wasn't without its possible merits, but he was, by and large, a practical man and one who leaned towards the negative, to the chagrin of those around him.
"The jostling around in the cargo hold, Charlie . . ." He had awful visuals of it happening so terribly that it would break Dutch's poor leg again.
Then came Charlie's dark sense of humour slipping out, as it did when things looked dire. He clapped a hand to Benjamin's broad shoulder and leaned in, speaking in a low, dry tone.
"There's no jostling around in a coffin, Ben."
Benjamin opened his mouth to speak, but then, silence.
'Charlie has a point, Benjamin.'
Benjamin had recognized that Charlie had taken control of this situation and knew there was little point in resisting. He even encouraged Charlie to do so when he had a feeling about a matter. Indeed, his intuition had helped solve cases, while others . . . Well, we're not here to talk about those cases.
'Above all, trust your gut, Charlie.'
He had created a monster who not merely followed orders blindly, but questioned them, and with it, questioned authority — and he was glad of it.
It was still a struggle for the old Louisianian to recognize the changing of the guard. His weathered face bore doubt, maybe hesitancy within those aging eyes.
"Let's check the papers, Charlie."
