An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Arthur was beginning to stutter in his movements, digging his nails into Charles’ back as he ground as hard as he could, his movements slowing, eyes rolling back as finally the knot in his lower stomach released and he came, bucking his hips frantically, spilling cum into his union suit. That was enough to set Charles enough, the man pulling Arthur in close, kissing him desperately as he jostled Arthur with each buck of his hips, messing his breeches until finally he dropped his head against Arthur’s shoulder, the man resting his head against his chest, turning his head to kiss at his neck.
Arthur’s ears pinked, and turned his head, trying to hide in Charles’ chest.
Arthur was hard as a rock.
Charles didn’t know why he was so worked up - although, perhaps, it was because he’d been away for three weeks on a job Dutch had sent him on, that had probably done it - he’d been eyeing him from the moment he got back, clearly more focused on Charles than on Dutch and his debriefing, and when he’d made his way to where he’d been whittling arrowheads Charles had hurried to set it all aside and follow him.
Arthur hadn’t even bothered to take their clothes off. He’d shoved Charles down onto a stump and clambered into his lap - one of the many times Charles was glad to be taller than him - and began to rut frantically against his own quickly rising erection. Charles growled and grabbed his hips, trying to stop the motions, it was too close but not enough, the angle not quite right, and Arthur seemed to agree though he snarled his own frustration when Charles stopped him, lunging to nip at his lip but he began to participate quite enthusiastically when Charles pulled him into a kiss as he shifted Arthur so he was straddling his thigh, beginning to tug on the man and setting a comfortable pace, swallowing his gasp as he ground his cock against his leg, his own cock sliding against Arthur’s leg, and then they were moving together, Charles digging his heels into the ground so he could press up against Arthur while Arthur grunted and groaned into Charles’ mouth, letting the man take most of his weight as he ground down against him, things would be so much easier without their clothes, they can’t get the friction they want with their layers on, wrapping his arms around his shoulders as Charles wrapped his arms around him, clinging tightly to each other as they rutted and ground and sought completion, muffling their sounds with the kiss for fear of being caught.
Though there would be no punishment for a homosexual relationship (there would, of course, be teasing - Micah’s cruelest of all), no one wanted to be caught in such a weak moment.
Arthur was beginning to stutter in his movements, digging his nails into Charles’ back as he ground as hard as he could, his movements slowing, eyes rolling back as finally the knot in his lower stomach released and he came, bucking his hips frantically, spilling cum into his union suit. That was enough to set Charles enough, the man pulling Arthur in close, kissing him desperately as he jostled Arthur with each buck of his hips, messing his breeches until finally he dropped his head against Arthur’s shoulder, the man resting his head against his chest, turning his head to kiss at his neck.
Arthur’s ears pinked, and turned his head, trying to hide in Charles’ chest.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
And on Arthur’s bad days, Charles works at whittling a ring - and maybe it’s morbid, but he uses the wood he intended to use to carve Arthur’s grave marker. Once he would have used it to mark the end of their story, but now he intends to use it to mark the beginning of a new chapter of it and, when he gets the letter that has him trembling, has him smiling from ear to ear and wondering whether he should have their neighbor watch the cabin or sell it altogether while they’re in Colorado, he sets the ring atop the letter on the pillow next to Arthur’s and sets to cooking breakfast as he waits for him to wake.
Until recently, Charles has never been one for romance.
Well, not really recently. It’s been… hell, it’s been just gone a year, hasn’t it? He and Arthur had sat down in Clemens’ Point and had a talk about what they were - although a talk with Arthur, when it came to feelings, could hardly be a talk—
“Hey Charles?” and he’d looked so nervous Charles had felt the same,
“Yeah?”
“What… are we?”
Charles knew what he wanted them to be, but he had been afraid of scaring the older man off. Because Arthur was many things, among them one of the best man he knew though none of them were good, they were liars and thieves and murderers but of them Arthur was the ‘best’, and was there really a word for it?
He wanted to be the Hosea to Arthur’s Dutch - at least, the one from Arthur’s stories, because he didn’t see them anymore. Well, he did sometimes, like when he’d seen Dutch sit with Hosea and cover his hands with his, ‘No matter what happens Old Girl, we’ve made it,’
“What do you want us to be, Arthur?”
And Arthur had looked like a slapped fish, opening and shutting his mouth, before hesitantly reaching and coming just within touching his hand.
Charles had reached out and taken his hand in his.
—and there had, of course, been some rise and falls. Things had gone so wrong after that; Sean’s death, almost all of Shady Belle. Through it all they’d been there for each other. When Arthur shook at night, cried out with nightmares that he refused to talk about, begged Dutch not to leave him in his sleep, Charles was always there, curled around him. And if he lied… told him Dutch would never abandon him, “He won’t,” at night, though he was desperate to talk to Arthur, wanted to say ‘we should leave’ but he knew Arthur never would, god he loved the man with all his everything, loved him so much it scared him, he knew Arthur loved him dearly but he was even more loyal to Dutch, and it was going to kill him.
“Hey Arthur, want to go hunting?”
“Can’t, Dutch wants me to go check out a homestead.”
“I love you Charles,”
“I love you too.”
“Hey Arthur, want to go for a ride?”
“Can’t, Dutch needs me to go to the Bayou with him.”
And every time he came back half dead, and Charles burned, but every time he could see the light of that faith dying in Arthur’s eyes and he hoped,
but it wasn’t just faith that was dying in Arthur’s eyes, he realized that when the man got back from Guarma. He’d been so sure he’d lost him, just as they’d lost Lenny and Hosea, and only that he’d already been mobbed kept him from calling out when he came in the door at Lakay. He’d already buried him in his mind, had mourned him (was mourning him) and it was like seeing him come back from the dead. That night, and every night after, they’d curled up close and Arthur hadn’t been loud about it but he’d shaken and sobbed, and in his sleep had cried out for Hosea, for 'pa', and begged ‘please, I’m sorry, don’t leave me,’ and he wouldn’t wake up no matter how hard Charles shook him and cried out for him to wake.
And as he coughed, and gasped, and struggled in his sleep; as he shivered and trembled despite the heat of the bayou, Charles curled tighter around him, stroked his back and shh’d him and reminded him to “Breathe Arthur, breathe,” though he never remembered come morning.
Charles knew he was dying in Beaver Hollow. He could feel him wasting away beneath him, could feel his bones against his chest, could hear him struggle for each breath and knew that as little sleep as he himself was getting Arthur was getting even less. The man shivered violently against him every night, fought for his breath and Charles pressed his face against him, listened to the rapid racing of his heart, the rattling of his lungs, and as unobtrusively as he could kept his fingers against his pulse point for fear it would stop in the middle of the night and he wouldn’t notice.
He was sure he’d never see him again when he left with the Wapiti. Charles held Arthur tight, tried to memorize every bend, every curve, of his bones, the feel of him beneath his fingers, the scratch of his beard against his face, tried to remember and memorize how he felt when he was healthy, the dig of his muscles beneath his fingers, the lessened strain of his bones.
And then he’d been sure he’d see him for the final time as a corpse. As rotting flesh and bared bones - he’d always thought, irrationally, if he touched him too hard his skin would pull away from his bones, that his muscles and organs would be bared to the air. But then he’d feared that that would be the last he’d see of him, his skin discolored, his hair that he’d loved to have stroked torn out in clumps, body ravaged by animals.
But then Arthur had moaned, the sound of a dying man, and opened his eyes, more slate then blue-green, and Charles had hoped.
It had been a few months since he’d found Arthur on that mountain top.
Even now, he has a hard time believing that all that has happened - as much as he tries to put it in the past - over less than a year.
Arthur spends most of his days in bed - though he’s grown stronger since he carried him back to Taima, the doctor had given him not even a year, and they’d thought for a few weeks that maybe the doctor had been wrong. But while he’d rallied, the strength and energy has been fading, and anything more than puttering around the cabin leaves him coughing and gasping for air.
But Charles doesn’t mind - he’d been sure he’d find a corpse on that mountain, and at night he sleeps with Arthur curled up against him, even though he wheezes and pants and coughs. He’s reached out to the National Jewish Health Sanatorium - though it’s opened only recently, he’s heard they’ve managed to treat already three consumption patients and, though he doesn’t dare to hope, that little seed has set to blooming in his chest.
He doesn’t dare tell Arthur - Arthur still swears he should have left him to die on that mountain, that he shouldn’t have risked himself. But Arthur still smiles, and says “I love you,” and though they don’t dare kiss anymore, he still hugs him, and curls up to him with their masks tight around their faces, and on his good days they cook together in the kitchen.
And on Arthur’s bad days, Charles works at whittling a ring - and maybe it’s morbid, but he uses the wood he intended to use to carve Arthur’s grave-marker. Once he would have used it to mark the end of their story, but now he intends to use it to mark the beginning of a new chapter of it and, when he gets the letter that has him trembling, has him smiling from ear to ear and wondering whether he should have their neighbor watch the cabin or sell it altogether while they’re in Colorado, he sets the ring atop the letter on the pillow next to Arthur’s and sets to cooking breakfast as he waits for him to wake.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
and he sits with Arthur as he passes, wishing nothing more that Arthur could know he was there, that he wasn’t alone, trying to run his fingers through his hair only for them to fall through, his tears dissolving before they land on Arthur or darken the ground. And when Arthur joins him, he holds him tight.
Based off this art by @kenconffetti
Hosea had known he wouldn’t live to see the end of it all.
He’d tried to get them all out - he had. Had sat with Abigail, sat with John. Tried to convince them to leave, to get out, before Jack was old enough to start following in their footsteps, before he could become a thief, an outlaw, a murderer like they all were becoming. Had tried to talk Arthur into leaving but he was too damn loyal and that was his fault, wasn’t it? He’d impressed loyalty into the boy from the moment they’d picked him up out of the dirt, he couldn’t blame Dutch for it all, the man held a lot of fault but Hosea did, too.
Javier, Bill. They weren’t monsters, they weren’t innocents but even he could see some good in them - Javier, who’d only wanted to do good from the beginning, a revolutionary in Mexico who wanted to keep his family safe now, but Dutch had saved him, had picked him up out of the dirt too, had put food in his stomach and a gun in his hand and he’d looked so unsettled that Hosea had known he was a lost cause, Bill had called him a crazy old man and the women were thinking of it but they were scared, what kind of jobs could they take if they left?
He’d known he wouldn’t live to see the end of the gang. He was getting old and you don’t live to be old in their line of work, some did but only if they retired and hid away, and even then you still end up dead, shot by a bounty hunter or some upstart, Arthur had come to him all fussed up, talking about Flaco Hernández and Emmet Granger and Billy Midnight and Black Belle, all great gunslingers in their day, all but one he’d shot dead - and it hadn’t surprised Hosea that Black Belle had been the one survivor, he and Susan had known her in her heyday and she was a survivor.
And he wasn’t anywhere near retirement. He could see that things were crumbling - Dutch was buckling, collapsing under the weight on his shoulders, the cloud behind his eyes growing dark and stormy. Their world was closing in on them, the Pinkertons always one step ahead of them, every con going wrong and there was a rat, he could tell you that and he could tell you who but Dutch wasn’t listening to him anymore, so all he could do was try to get them all out as the rat gnawed at their very foundation.
But then he’d been shot down in the street, looking Dutch in the eye as he died, and then all he could do was watch.
Watch as Javier was tortured in Guarma, as he became even more enamored by Dutch though Arthur had saved him just as much, as Micah led the Pinkertons (and he’d been right, damn it all) back to Lakay, as Arthur was diagnosed, could only try to run his fingers through his boy’s hair as he fought for breath only for them to go through, could only watch as Dutch s l i p p e d, could only praise his boy as he got them out, helped the women and Pearson and Trelawney escape, as he tried to do good though he’d always been the best of them all.
Could only pray that Dutch would keep his word as they found the bonds and the storms cleared from his eyes; could only watch as Dutch became unredeemable, screaming and begging ‘Help our boy Dutch!’ as he walked away and the boy died to save theirs, could only scream and beg ‘Help our boy Dutch!’ again as he left John to die though John never did join Hosea, the man kneeling at his side and praising him every time he made an attempt to his feet, coaxing him and promising ‘You can do it son, you can do it,’ until finally he was on his feet and Hosea was slowly, slowly following him back to camp.
Susan joined him, apologizing: she’d failed, she’d failed, she hadn’t saved their boys but it wasn't her fault it was Micah’s and Dutch’s, she faded away and it was just him again. Dutch had a gun pointed at Arthur and Micah - and he was horrified, they’d never hit their boys, never laid a hand on them and here Dutch was aiming a gun at him but he hoped, hoped Dutch would see through Micah finally, but “WHO AMONGST YOU IS WITH ME AND WHO, IS BETRAYING ME?”
and ‘Please Dutch, those are our boys!’ as his guns turned on Arthur and John, and John wasn’t even armed, they always gave someone a fighting chance and John was wounded and unarmed and then poor Javier was so confused, even aimed his gun at the sky, his family was falling apart and though he’d been so cruel he can’t hate him as he never did turn his gun on his boys.
Never had he been glad to see the Pinkertons, but as they interrupted the stand down he could kiss the very dirt they stood on.
Arthur’s dying.
Their baby boy is dying.
He’d always thought Arthur would be one of the ones who made it - who started a new life, even took a wife and had kids, have the ranch they always dreamed of, work with horses like he always loved to do.
But his boy is dying, and Dutch is just staring.
They never hurt their boys, but Dutch had stepped on his fingers.
Hosea had heard them break.
He knows that breathing - that rattling, gasping, gurgling that always precludes death.
And his baby boy is making it.
“N...no…”
He’s never found himself without words before, but he can’t breathe and his boy can’t breathe either - he doesn’t even need to breathe but his chest feels tight and he needs to say something, to get Dutch’s attention because what is he doing, their baby boy is dying, they’d raised him and promised to never let him get hurt again and Arthur is dying.
“I…”
I can’t watch this.
I can’t do this.
I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.
I’m so sorry I didn’t stop this.
I’m so sorry I can’t do anything.
Arthur’s begging Dutch, trying to out Micah who’s right there with his final words and he can’t breathe he should be saving his breath because maybe, maybe someone will come back for him and if he saves his strength he can hold on ‘til then, and Dutch is just staring,
and Hosea’s reaching for Arthur though he knows there’s nothing he can do, can’t pick him up and hold him close, can’t doctor his wounds or comfort him, can’t even let him know he’s here, “Arthur, I…”
I’m here.
I know.
I believe you.
I’ve always believed you.
Dutch takes a step back, a quiet, “I…” and Hosea snaps to him, meets his gaze and how could Dutch leave their boy on the ground? Leave him to Micah’s mercies? Micah is still standing there, huffing and panting for breath but still stronger than Arthur, still on his feet,
“Dutch!” the sound startles even him, tearing from his throat in a way that would hurt if he could feel pain, shrill and panicked, “Help him!” but Dutch doesn’t respond, takes another step back, and Dutch has always been queasy, has always been the one to take watch-duty while the boys were sick because seeing people sick made him sick, but this is something wholly different, the clouds are gone from his eyes, Hosea can see that he’s seeing for the first time in a while but he’s not acting and
“You…” he hadn’t known he could cry, in all this time he’s never cried but tears that dissolve before they hit the ground are trickling down his face, “You better help our boy!”
but Dutch, of course, can’t hear him, and as Dutch staggers away he wonders if, even if he could hear him, he would help Arthur.
“Dutch!” his feet move without him willing them, planting him between Arthur and Micah though the latter is screaming his rage and Arthur is laughing, a horrible rattling sound, but Dutch staggers over the hill and away and maybe it’s Hosea’s desperate, wishful thinking, or his own tears clouding his eyes though even when he blinks he sees, but he thinks there are tears in Dutch’s eyes but damn him he doesn’t get to cry when he’s abandoning their boy to die alone.
And he’s never seen a sight so awful as Arthur, gasping and fighting for breath, dragging himself to the cliff’s edge so he can watch the sunrise and he remembers, clear as day, Arthur laughing what feels like a lifetime ago but is only a few months, if that, when they’d been talking about how they’d wanted to be buried - and hadn’t they been buried as they wanted? He’d been buried with Lenny, he’d heard Sadie say,
“When I go, I hope they cover my grave with roses.”
“When I die, I just want to be buried with friends,”
“Me too. With friends, or with family. I don’t think it matters more than that.”
“What about you, Arthur?”
“Me? Aaah, I don’t care about that nonsense.”
“Come on!”
“Face me to the west, so I can watch the settin’ sun, remember all the fine times we had that way.”
“See Tilly! I told ya Arthur had a soul!”
and he sits with Arthur as he passes, wishing nothing more that Arthur could know he was there, that he wasn’t alone, trying to run his fingers through his hair only for them to fall through, his tears dissolving before they land on Arthur or darken the ground.
[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 + That’s Where The Blood’s Supposed To Be + All Work and No Play]
(Barbed Wire | Bound + Garotte | Gagged + “Who did this to you?” + “You’re still not dead?” | Too weak to move + Aftermath + Blood-matted hair)
Stay alive ‘til this horror show is past
[Trust Fall + Just Keep Swimming + It’ll Be Fun, They Said + That’s Gonna Leave a Mark + The Doctor is In + You Will Go Down With This Ship]
(“Do you trust me?” + Drowning + “This is gonna suck” + CPR + Waterfall)
and i’m falling
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Dutch curled up on the floor, refusing to let go of your hand long enough to get in the chair Hosea brought to him, other hand trailing along your clammy face and through your hair, murmuring softly to you. Promising you anything - a ranch, to settle down, to rid the gang of Micah, if only you'd open your eyes. Telling stories of when the gang had been younger, of when he'd been younger. Speaking of his dreams for you and him and your daughter.
---------
Meeting the Adler widow had rattled Dutch more than he was willing to admit.
She'd reminded him of finding you. Feral-eyed and scared, nearly taking out his throat. And maybe he'd spurred The Count a bit faster than he should have in his hurry to return to you; could you blame him? He wanted to curl up around you, to get warm, to see you as you were now, loving smile on your face, to clasp his hand on your swollen stomach and feel reassured that you were safe.
Hosea almost yanked him off his horse though, and one look at his face set a stone in his stomach. His voice was whipped away by the wind but he caught your name, and broke into a run towards his cabin.
Susan opened the door, face pale. Her arms were soaked in blood, the front of her dress to match.
His heart sank, began to race and, screaming your name, he nearly barreled her over as he bolted for your two's room.
You were horribly indecent, but that wasn't his concern. Your pants had been discarded, shirt exchanged for one of his. Your chest heaved for each breath, and blood soaked the blankets beneath your spread legs.
'Oh God.'
No, this couldn't be happening. You weren't due for months, this couldn't be happening.
He dropped to his knees beside you, taking your hand in his. Dutch gasped your name and your eyes were horribly glassy when they opened, struggling to focus on him. "...Dutch?"
He reached up and ran his fingers through your soaked hair, pressing a kiss to your sweaty forehead, "I'm here sweetheart, I'm here."
You opened your mouth as though to speak before your face twisted and you curled in on yourself, a scream so agonized as to be inhuman tearing from your throat as Susan rushed in, hurrying to hold your legs open with Abigail's help (the other woman had been waiting in the corner) and urging you to breathe.
Dutch could only stare in horror as blood gushed, red as the sunset, onto the blankets.
When you slumped back onto the bed, gasping for air, what little color you had left on your face had drained away. "Dutch…" your eyes darted this way and that, struggling to lock onto his until he leaned forward to kiss your clammy cheek.
"I've got you, I won't let anything happen to you." They'd already lost Jenny and Sean, Mac and Davey, and he refused to lose you too.
The next contraction, and you hadn't the energy to curl in on yourself. Dutch found himself sitting behind you, propping you up against his chest and murmuring love words and encouragement in your ears, holding your legs apart with his and fighting the urge to be sick when your blood trickled out onto them.
"It's okay," he muttered to you when you sagged, whimpering, "I've got you my darling, I've got you."
You trembled and shook, gasping desperately as Abigail checked between your legs, arms coming away crimson and baring her teeth in something that could barely be called a grin. "I can feel their head, just a few more pushes!"
Dutch wrapped his arm around you in a hug as he took your hand in his, Abigail grabbing the other, Susan taking up position between your legs. You strained once, the world going grey, and the second time slumped, eyelids fluttering and Dutch's voice was suddenly in your ear, "No, no you must stay awake, stay awake for me," and he didn't often sound so scared so you forced yourself to rouse, to strain and then a scream split the air, shrill and high-pitched.
"You did it," Dutch praised, his voice watery, rubbing your side and running his thumb along your knuckles, and Abigail's voice was there too but it was wobbling and far away and you frowned, tried to look back at Dutch but only barely managed
"Something's wrong,"
and then you were gone.
Susan was holding your baby - a tiny little girl - and suddenly it was all, for just a moment, okay. She was tiny, and wrinkly, and ugly, but she was the most beautiful baby he'd ever seen.
And then you said something, so quiet he couldn't make it out, and you went slack against his chest and he couldn't breathe.
Susan passed your infant to Abigail, the experienced mother cutting the cord as Grimshaw tore you from Dutch's arms, the numb man stiff as a board as she yelled "Dutch, let her go! Let me help her!" and he could only stare at the blood that soaked him as she moved you to the floor and straddled you, beginning to breathe into your mouth between compressions to your chest.
Against all odds, Susan managed to bring you back.
Dutch had been useless, able only to stare in horror. Hosea had had to coax him out of bed, to hold you as Tilly and Mary-Beth stripped the bed and put on clean linens, Abigail wiping down your unnamed daughter as he settled you in bed. Abigail offered him his daughter but he could only see the blood that already was starting to darken the towels between your legs despite the medicine Hosea had tipped down your throat, and so she took her to Arthur's room to tend her through the night.
Dutch curled up on the floor, refusing to let go of your hand long enough to get in the chair Hosea brought to him, other hand trailing along your clammy face and through your hair, murmuring softly to you. Promising you anything - a ranch, to settle down, to rid the gang of Micah, if only you'd open your eyes. Telling stories of when the gang had been younger, of when he'd been younger. Speaking of his dreams for you and him and your daughter.
It was just gone midnight when you drew breath for the last time.
Within a week winter's fever settled deep in your daughter's underdeveloped lungs, and days later she joined you, your arms holding her to your still breast, to be buried when they got off the mountain where flowers swayed in the winds and birds would sing you to sleep.
