#splatdragonff

[splat-dragon]

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.

[splat-dragon]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

The evening passed by uneventfully.

 She was still on edge and, no matter how hard she tried, the sight of that grey whatever-it-was wouldn’t leave her mind. It could have been a twig flung by the storm, or even a particularly dumb bird that had tricked her failing eyes.

 And yet something about it felt wrong. John and Jack’s conversation… it just had to be a coincidence, it just had to be, but at the beginning of the game—well, it had been such a long time, but she had a vague, vague memory of something pressing against a window.

 But Undead Nightmare couldn’t be real, because she had been sent there to protect them, and how could she protect them from zombies of all things?

So, in spite of her churning stomach, she ate the chicken Abigail had made for her, pulled to pieces and stewed for so long that it fell apart disappointingly on her tongue, lapping up the broth in the bowl. Abigail was painfully insistent that she finished the whole thing, grumbling at her to the point that John teased her “Why don’t you feed me like that?”

 “Lose your teeth, and I just might!” she had barked, though with very little bite, and she’d snorted so hard that, if the chicken were any firmer, she’d have choked. But by then she was so sleepy that she’d licked her offered fingers clean before dropping her head to the carpet in front of the fire, despite her misgivings about what might happen in the night.

She must have put something in the broth, that must have been why she was so insistent that she ate and drank it all, as she slept through the door slamming open, the shuffling of dragged feet on the floor, the scent of rot and blood, and rasping, groaned breaths. She slept through raised voices and the sound of shattering glass, the thump of a body hitting the ground and the rapid pattering of bare feet on wood.

 It took Abigail screaming bloody murder to get her on her feet. She was on her paws before she was even awake, fur standing on end and teeth bared, snarling with a ferocity she’d lost years ago. She swayed on her paws, still groggy and bleary from whatever she’d slipped her, blinking, barely taking in what was happening and—

 Oh, god.

Abigail was being chased by Uncle, but he could only barely be called that. His mouth was surrounded by blood, his facial hair stained with it. His skin was grey-green, like so many corpses she’d had the misfortune of coming across, lips peeled back in a snarl no human had a right to make, teeth more yellowed than they’d been before.

 She never did forgive herself, but she froze, her paws stuck to the ground as though with glue, snarl dying in her chest, fur flattening against her body, huddling in on herself until her stomach touched the rug.

 It was only when there was a loud gunshot and poor, dumb Jack ran passed her that she shook herself out of her stupor and began to move. Feeling much, much younger, her aches and pains forgotten, she straightened up and bolted after him, trying to stop him, not sure why, desperately straining her memory but she hadn’t played Undead Nightmare in years even before being brought there so even what she did remember was so, so foggy.

“Good lord! What’s happened? Momma?”

 She stopped on the stoop, perking her ears and staring. The immediate danger or, at least, looking at Abigail, writhing on the ground, the danger that she could help with, lay dead, truly dead, on the ground in a pool of his own blood.

 Jack, though, knelt next to the other. Oh, shit.

  “Jack, don’t!” she barked as she leapt down the stairs. Her legs buckled, pain flaring through her hips, but she forced herself through it, lurching forward as fast she could, but was too late, Abigail grabbing him by his union suit and sinking her teeth into his neck. She set her own into the back of his pajamas, pulling, and he fell back and curled in on himself, hand around his neck, trying to stop the bleeding.

 And oh, he reeked! Not as strong as Uncle had, still did, actually, and not half so much as Abigail, but it was rapidly growing stronger. John was saying something, but she didn’t listen, stumbling back, baring her teeth and flattening her ears. She didn’t want to, they were her family in all-but blood, but they smelled so wrong, so dangerous, like a cougar or a bear but far, far worse, and she wanted nothing more than to turn tail and run. But she couldn’t just leave John to deal with them, so she dug in her paws and stood vigil as Jack, too, turned while John went to get his lasso, and the pair of them began to rise.

  “Uh, John?” she barked, backing up as they began to stagger towards her, groaning, “We kind of have a problem?”

 He was hurrying out of the shed but—okay, yeah, gotta go. Jack lunged for her, smaller and faster than his mother, and her hip wouldn’t let her whirl around, so she bolted forward instead, nearly knocking him over as he wobbled, trying to follow her. She barked as loud and as fast as she could, trying to… well, she didn’t know what. Keep their attention? Get John’s attention? For no reason other than out of panic?

 Either way, she barked and ran in circles around them, not wanting to lead them anywhere but not wanting to get grabbed, either. Finally, though, a lasso came from seemingly out of nowhere, cinching tight around Abigail’s ankles and bringing her to the ground with an audible crunch. Oh, Abigail was going to kill John for breaking her nose!

 John was distracted by hog-tying Abigail, so it was up to her to keep Jack distracted. She kept running in circles, hoping he would hurry up because wow this was starting to hurt, only to realize suddenly that oh god Jack had moved and, looking at John, was getting close to him. John hadn’t noticed him yet, busy trying to bind Abigail’s hands without getting bit so, knowing that she’d regret it later, she ran as fast as she could and leapt, slamming into Jack’s side and taking him to the ground.

Pain exploded through her body.

 Distantly, as though from far away, she heard John shout.

 She blinked, blearily able to see him pinning Jack down, struggling to get him tied up.

 Oh, oh, that had been a mistake. Her everything, her poor everything.

John picked Jack up carefully, holding his head away from him, hair knotted in his hand to keep his face turned away, vanishing inside. She groaned, turning to stare at Abigail, making sure that she wasn’t freeing herself, but she was only thrashing ineffectively.

 By the time he’d come back for Abigail, she’d managed to rise to a sit, head dangling, trembling at the throbbing in her joints. All that running had come back to haunt her as the adrenaline left her blood, her hip stabbing sharply with each breath.

 If Abigail freed herself, she wouldn’t be able to do anything but bark, if that.

  “John,” she whined, “hurry it up.”

 And, thankfully, he did. Grabbed Abigail up carefully, but faster than Jack, having learned from carrying his son, and disappeared into the house. Came back out not long after and dragged Uncle off into the barn, scowling, before walking back to her.

 “Good dog Gin,” he gave her a strained grin, scratching behind her ears. She groaned, but thumped her tail against the ground, “That was incredible girl,” although his voice was serious as, well, a zombie attack when he said, “But never attack Jack again.”

  “Well,” she huffed, “I’ll just let you be bit next time, I’m sure I can put the mask back on my own.”

 He stooped down, wrapping his arms around her as gently as he could, but still pain shot through her and she groaned as he picked her up, carrying her inside to set her down in front of the fire. She could hear Jack and Abigail moaning and groaning and snarling and thumping from his and Abigail’s room and, even as he pressed carefully along her ribs, her hips (she yelped) and her legs, she kept her ears focused on them, wishing she could have stopped it, hating herself for freezing.

 She’d known it would happen, but her denial had kept her from doing anything.

 Then and there, she swore that no one would get hurt under her watch again.

 No matter what happened to her in return.

[splat-dragon]

Nod: Little Child of the West Wind

the best gift that can be given

[splat-dragon]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

She’d learned to trust her instincts.

 And something was very, very, wrong.

 Her bones itched more than they ached, and her blood boiled in a way it hadn’t in a very long time. Not for the first time that day, she heaved herself to her paws with a groan, and took to pacing again.

 Was tonight the night? Were the Pinkterons coming?

But it was storming outside, odd rumblings that rattled her bones and clattered her teeth together, sheets of rain that hit the roof hard enough to be loud even to her ears, and she was sure that they were not that foolish.

 She walked from one end of the room to the other, grumbling in discontent, her hips aching even as she kept her lame leg off the ground. “Gin, girl, c’mere,” Abigail beckoned, stooping down and sloshing around the bowl of stew she’d put down for her that morning to try and make it enticing. It was little more than broth, the meat so cooked through that it was all-but liquid so that she could eat it with dull and missing teeth, but like that morning it failed to draw her interest. Unease curdled her stomach, tore away any appetite she might have had. Something was wrong, and she wouldn’t be settled until she knew what it was.

 “Crazy dog,” she grumbled as she returned to her sewing, but her scent had soured some with concern.

 God, but she hurt, and for a moment she tried to lay down, to take some weight off of her joints, but agitation had her on her paws in moments. Thunder cracked, and she could feel it in her bones, aching and throbbing, and she couldn’t help but to whine, rising to hobble back and forth, back and forth.

 Oh, she wished John and Uncle were home. They’d left earlier in the day, and weren’t back yet. Something was going to happen, she could feel it deep in her bones, and the fact that they weren’t home yet made her fur stand on end.

“What’s wrong with Gin?”

 At least, though, Jack was home.

 The boy frowned at her, shifting his book to hold it in one hand, scratching between her ears with the other before slouching down on the couch. It felt so familiar, and something niggled at the back of her mind - she should know this. She shook her head irritably as though trying to cast away a fly; normally she’d do anything for a bit of affection, but she didn’t want to be distracted.

 “Dunno,” Abigail said, attention on her sewing, “she’s been like this all day. Maybe it’s the storm?”

 She scoffed at the thought—as if a storm could scare her! She doesn’t like thunder, sure, but she wasn’t afraid of a little storm.

 This, though, didn’t feel like a normal storm. It had been pouring all day, and the thunder was all around odd, didn’t sound right even to her ears, and the lightning looked strange through the window.

 “A little storm’s never bothered her before,” Jack frowned, flipping open his book and beginning to read.

The living room went quiet, broken only by Abigail’s murmuring, the clicking of her needles and the rasping of the pages of Jack’s book as he flipped them, engrossed in… whatever it was he was reading.

 God, did she miss reading. Sometimes he read aloud to her, but not nearly as much as he used to, and she missed it.

 Her ears pricked up and, although her hearing wasn't what it used to be, it was still good enough to pick up the sound of hoofbeats outside, thumping beneath rattling wagon wheels. She hoped it was John and Uncle, and it should be them, but it could have been anyone, even the Pinkertons and, with how the day had felt so far she wasn’t risking it, so she stumbled over to the window, feeling awful sorry for herself as she wobbled up onto the windowsill, struggling to balance on a leg and a half, squinting out into the storm.

Oh, she knew those horses! That Paint, Jack called her Beatrix after an author he liked, and that Appaloosa, John had named her Axle, and they made an odd pair but worked well together. And yes! There was John clambering out of the wagon but—where was Uncle?

 And why was this so familiar?

 Reassured that it was just John, she dropped from the windowsill with a groan, glad to take the weight off her hips. Still though, agitation rolled through her gut and she couldn’t help but to pace and pace, starting to frog hop, drawing her hindlegs together and stepping with them both at the same time - it hurt less.

‘Oh, John’ll kill you for that,’ she snorted as Jack kicked his feet up onto the couch, shoes and all. But Abigail saved him from a hiding, chastising him into putting his feet back down right before John stepped inside. She wagged her tail at him, then wagged it even harder when he agreed “Something funny’s going on out there.”

  “Thank you!” she whuffed, “Finally, someone with some sense!” and then she realized she’d said that John had sense and wondered if she’d lost her mind. He reached down to pet her, “Hey Gin,” stroking his hand down her spine and then between her hips.

 She squealed, a sharp pain shooting through them, and they buckled, sending her crashing to the ground. It was humiliating and, even as he said “Oh shit, (“Father!” “Is she alright?”) sorry Gin,” bringing his hands under her to scoop her back onto her feet, she hid her face in her paws.

She wobbled on her paws, hips feeling weak, praying that they didn’t give out on her again, that she could last through the end of the year, took a step and decided to lie down when they ached, hiding her muzzle between her forelegs. She still wanted to pace and pace and pace, but her hips wouldn’t allow it.

 “Damn Rufus’s gone crazy, wolves howlin’ and birds flyin’,” John grumbled, stooping to scratch that spot behind her ear apologetically before walking up behind Abigail, who dismissed it as ‘just the storm, John’ again.

 “Uncle make it back yet?” he asked, and she groaned, knowing that it’s not just that storm, dammit! and, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, wished that she could speak.

 She shoved him away, and Guinevere panted a laugh at the wounded expression on his face, though her words sobered her. “I thought he was with you, off drinking in the fields,” she’d been dozing when they’d left, so hadn’t known where they’d gone, and something about it struck her wrong, “I mean working, as you call it now.”

 There was a funny noise outside, and she raised her head from her paws to look at the window. Something moved, but the storm was pelting down so hard she couldn’t pick out much more than the movement itself, the rain so heavy it was little more than a curtain of grey. It was there and gone so fast, though, that maybe she imagined it?

 “No, he went into town a few hours ago, after we busted that hammer workin’ in the meadow.” John was kneeling, tossing wood into the fireplace from the sound of it, but her attention was still held by the window. What had that been?

 She startled, yelping when something wrapped around her, only to look up and find John carefully scooping her up. Abigail made a joke about Uncle waiting out the storm in a whorehouse as he set her down by the fireplace, and she stretched out with a groan and a thankful thwap of her tail, laying so she could stare out the window, basking in the heat that soaked into her bones.

There was that sound again!

 She jolted her head up, barely hearing John agree with her in a roundabout way, squinting: what was that? There was something resting on the window, brownish-grey, there and gone in a heartbeat and if she didn’t know there wasn’t a tree there she would have thought it a tree branch.

There was movement in the corner of her eye and she jumped, flinching, turning only to see Abigail getting to her feet. She snorted, sniffing the air, but the building was, admittedly, well-built and well-insulated and so the only smell was John, filthy and reeking of horse-sweat, and the offness of whatever Abigail had spent the day cooking.

 She walked away to work on cooking it and John slumped down into her chair, while Jack remained absorbed in his book. She paid half an ear’s worth of attention as she stared at the window, trying to figure out what she’d seen before, her fur standing on end. Something was very, very wrong, and how only John could feel it was baffling.

“What you readin’?” John asked, and she fought down a groan. Bless his heart, but he couldn’t bond with Jack to save his life. Bless him, really, but he was trying.

 “Just some book about monsters,” Jack grunted, and she frowned, feeling as though she’d heard this conversation before.

 There was an awkward silence, long enough that she turned her ears back to the window, slowly and carefully stretching out onto her side, keeping as much of her weight off of her hip as she could, until John finally said “Tell me about it,” and she grinned, “Good job John! That’s how you dad!” He was actually showing interest in something Jack was doing!

 “It’s kind of dumb,” Jack grunted, and she groaned, “Come on Jack, he’s giving you an olive branch! Stop being such a teenager!”

 And holy shit, John actually made a joke back at him, “Well that should suit me just fine,” and she couldn’t help but to laugh, huffing loudly.

 “Well, it’s all about in ancient times how Aztec warriors worshiped the sun but, during full moons, some of them worshiped the moon instead.”

 Her brain stuttered to a stop. Hold on, freeze frame, pause the movie. Did he say Aztec warriors?

 Oh, oh no. Now she knew where she’d heard this conversion before (“and upset the equilibrium of things.”)  There was no way, absolutely no way at all. She’d accept being turned into a dog. She’d accept time travel. She’d even accept falling into a different goddamn dimension.

 But zombies, no, zombies were too far! There was no such things as zombies, and there was no way she was in Undead Nightmare!

 No way, no how, never ever. She refused to accept it. She was weak, she was old, she couldn’t even protect herself from an angry bunny.

 What would she do if there were zombies of all things shambling around in a world where there was no respawning, only horrifically final Game Overs?

[splat-dragon]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Whumptober 2020, #27: Ok, Who Had Natural Disasters On Their 2020 Bingo Card?: "Earthquake"

It's a very long walk back to the nearest stable, her saddle heavy in his arms.

@whumptober2020

the land relinquished her ghost ~Pale White Horse, Oh Hellos

Dipper’s a good horse.

 Arthur had had to put a lot of work into her. She’d been a rescue - he’d taken her out from under a Raider, found her half dead, mane matted and legs shaking, eyes dull and lacking anything resembling a will to live.

 He’d loved her from the moment he’d laid eyes on her.

She’d nearly killed him when he worked at getting her tail unmatted, kicking him so hard in the chest she threw him off his feet. But he’d dusted himself off, plied her with peppermints (he’d discovered they were her favorites) and managed to survive getting the knots and tangles out of her mane and tail if by the skin of his teeth, and she’d clearly felt so much better without it pulling at her skin, amenable to him tending to her scrapes and scratches and tending to her hooves.

 It had taken months, but finally he’d been able to saddle her again, and they’d started going for rides. If he didn’t take her out at least a few times a week she’d ignore Miss Grimshaw’s screaming to shove her way into camp and yank at his jacket, dragging him out of camp and up to the hitching post, demanding he tack her up and go for even the shortest ride.

 He’d loved Boadicea, and no horse would ever stand up to her. But Dipper was the first horse he’d met that he thought could, and eventually, did, follow in her hoofsteps.

Arthur had decided to take her out for a long trail ride.

 She’d gotten fussy, as she always did when they spent too long in camp, too long riding the same paths. He’d wanted to see what he could find - not go hunting, not run bounties. Just ride around, him and his horse.

 Dipper had always been ridiculously well behaved, aside from barging into camp and hauling him around. So long as he was in her saddle, she was happy to let him take the reins - quite literally. Though if there was danger, she wasn’t afraid to tell him. Would start grunting, throwing her head.

 So when she began to scream, throwing her head and shrilling at the top of her lungs, he was alarmed. Had never seen her act as such, even when she’d been new to him, messy and hurt and scared.

 He’d jumped from her saddle, grabbing her reins when she began to rear, trying to talk her down, kissing his teeth and love-talking her, but she continued to strain against her reins, slamming her hooves so hard into the dirt she left indents. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and he dropped one hand to his gun, looking around for… well he wasn’t sure what—

 —and then the earth was moving.

 Rocking beneath him, roaring so loudly his ears began to ring, and Dipper tore her reins from his hand so rapidly she ripped his skin and he began to bleed, whirling and racing away.

 He tried to chase her, staggered and went to his knees as the ground rippled, slapped his hands down to brace himself, closed his eyes and gagged as his stomach churned, quickly growing dizzy until—

 —finally, as abruptly as it began, it stopped.

He dropped his head, grinding his forehead into the dirt, heaving as he tried not to be sick. Arthur’d been in one earthquake in his life, and had never wanted to be in another one again, thankyouverymuch, but since when had he ever gotten what he wanted?

  ‘Dipper!’

 Arthur lurched to his feet, keeled over, was violently sick, staggered to his feet again, and whistled sharply.

 There was no response.

 He whistled again.

 There was no response.

 Arthur’s heart leaped into his throat, and he began to head in the direction that Dipper had darted off in, calling her name. The ground had changed considerably - trees had dropped their branches and fallen onto the path, rocks had tumbled on and off the trail, and fissures had left the dirt jagged and uneven. He wasted valuable time picking his way around tiny ledges and gaping holes, tossing branches out of the way and vaulting over fallen trees and rocks, whistling in between calls of “Dipper!” and “Here girl!”

He heard the screaming before he saw her.

 His heart broke, and he skidded along the dirt as he ran as quickly as he could to her, dropping to his knees at her side. “Oh, Dipper,”

 she whickered at him, tried to stand, and collapsed back to the ground when he pressed against her shoulder, “Easy girl, easy, stay down.” she flattened her ears but did, shaking like a leaf, her neck sweaty beneath his hand, making a final attempt to stand when he removed his hand to wipe his eyes, burning suspiciously.

 But her leg was well-stuck, trapped in a fissure in the ground, and he could see bone sticking out of the black of her leg. He took a shaky breath, pressed her down, “No girl, easy, it’s okay,” and she butted her head against his chest as she folded her forelegs beneath her as though she were laying down in the grass next to camp, snuffling at his pockets as he hugged her head.

 Arthur couldn’t help the way his laugh was watery as he removed a hand to dig out a peppermint, then two, then three, then all of them, letting her eat the entire handful, pressing his forehead against her dark head, burying it in her forelock. “S’okay girl, s’okay. I’ve got you baby girl.”

 She crunched contentedly, ears perking when he dug through his satchel and offered her the rest he carried with him, unaware of the way his eyes burned with tears, though she did take a moment to butt her head into his chest when she heard his breathing hitch. He grinned, “S’okay girl,” again, carefully adjusting his grip on his gun, pressing a kiss to her forelock, aligning his gun and taking a deep breath, listening to her crunch on the peppermints,

 “I love you so much girl,” crunch crunch, “Thank you.”

Arthur took a while to collect himself, wishing more than anything that he could bury her, but even if he could get her leg unstuck she was far too heavy for him to drag and he had nothing to dig a grave with. So, once he could see without the world wavering, he collected a fistful of her mane and cut it as close to her neck as he could, braiding it and carefully tucking it into his satchel before going to work untacking her.

It's a very long walk back to the nearest stable, her saddle heavy in his arms.

[splat-dragon]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

heavy is the head that gets no sleep ~Cold is the Night, Oh Hellos

Whumptober 2020, #23: What's A Whumpee Gotta Do to Get Some Sleep Around Here?: "Sleep Deprivation" "Exhaustion"

Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he slept.

He’d tried, but no one would let him. Every time he so much as looked at his tent, Miss Grimshaw or Dutch was there, nipping at him for not contributing enough, or Pearson was there, heckling him to go out hunting.

@whumptober2020

Arthur was so, so tired.

 He couldn’t remember the last time he slept.

 He’d tried, but no one would let him. Every time he so much as looked at his tent, Miss Grimshaw or Dutch was there, nipping at him for not contributing enough, or Pearson was there, heckling him to go out hunting.

 Every time, he wanted to scream. ‘Look at the ledger! Look at my goddamn name!’ he was contributing more than anyone else, but they acted like he was just sitting on his ass. Like it was him getting drunk, sitting around the campfire, night after night, instead of skipping sleep to bring in supplies and money and provisions. Last time he’d lost his temper - once Dutch walked off, of course, he was no fool - and nearly thrown the ledger when he’d found he was right, his name had been on the page thirty nine out of the fifty times on the front-back spread, all jewelry or decent amounts of money or carcasses, not goddamn bat wings (really Marston?!) or nickles and dimes.

And it was another one of those nights.

 He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d slept.

 Three nights?

 Four?

 Five?

 His stomach was growling but he was too tired to eat.

 He finished signing his name on the ledge - Arthur     Silver Pocket Watch     $8.00 - for the ninth time in a row, making sure his satchel was empty before turning on his heel, sending up a small prayer before beginning to make his way to his tent.

“Arthur!”

 Oh no.

 “I have a lead I need you to follow up on.” Dutch. Why was it always Dutch.

 He looked longingly at the cot he could see beckoning at him from his tent,

 “Please son, I need you to do this for me. It’s very important.”

 He sighed, knew Dutch wouldn’t let it drop. “Alright, Dutch.”

 The man’s face lit up, and he clasped Arthur on the shoulder. Arthur wobbled, had to catch himself, but Dutch didn’t notice, already digging through his pocket, shoving a piece of paper in his hand. “Here, there’s a man named Jackson Ricketts at this address, he’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

 “...okay Dutch.” but he was already walking away, picking up his most recent book off the table he kept near the flaps of his tent.

For a moment, all he could do was stand there. Stare at Dutch, plopping down in his chair and leaning over to start reading with Molly. Turn to stare at his cot, then at the ledger. Had he put in what he’d brought back that evening? He was pretty sure he had, but he really couldn’t remember.

 Arthur took a moment to fumble through his satchel.

 Either he’d put in the jewelry and money he’d brought back, or he’d been robbed.

 He was so tired he couldn’t find it in him to care.

 But then Javier’s guitar started to play over at the campfire, and he did care. Anger, indignation, started up bright hot in his stomach, how was that fair? He could see Bill sitting near the campfire, and he hadn’t even seen Bill’s name on the ledger!

 But just as quickly the anger flickered out, what was the point? He’d just get told he needed to pull his weight, do his part, and then he’d get shoved towards the horses even if he demanded they check the ledger, get told to stop acting like a child, ‘you’re too old to be acting like this, Arthur!’ and then the others would laugh at him, and Micah was over by the fire too, and nothing infuriated him more than seeing that smug bastard laughing at him.

 So he threw a last, longing look at his cot, could have sworn he heard it say “Sleep?” though that could have been his subconscious telling him something, and trudged over to the horses.

 Stared blankly at his mare - the O’Driscoll had untacked her.

 He had to tack her up.

  Fuck, he had to tack her up.

 The O’Driscoll had left her saddle on the post right next to her.

 Small blessings.

He picked up the saddle, grunting beneath his weight, took a step and proceeded to drop it.

 Heard someone laugh - looked up, but no one was looking at him. Scowled, very funny Micah, stooped down and picked it up again, struggling, couldn’t remember the saddle ever being this heavy before. John was laughing, but when he looked up the man had turned away, was staring at the campfire as though he’d never moved, and irritation boiled low in Arthur’s stomach.

 Finally managed to fling the saddle onto the horse, throwing it more than setting it down, apologized under his breath and stepped forward, tried to tighten the cinch and

  “Even after all these years, can’t even tack up a horse.” Dutch scowled in his ear and he whirled about, bared his teeth the man was going too damn far! but what the hell? He was still sitting over with Molly, showing her something in his book, and he blinked - he must have been more tired than he thought, goddamn was it even safe for him to ride out?

 Probably not, but it wasn’t like anyone would listen if he tried to say anything, so he shook his head, ‘Just imagining things,’ and fastened the cinch.

 Or, at least, tried to.

 He couldn’t get the damn cinch fastened.

 His hands were shaking too badly, and the world was doing a funny swirling thing. He took a deep breath, found it oddly shaky and then he wasn’t even trying, was just clutching the cinch in his hands and taking deep breaths, then not even those.

 “Arthur?” Hosea’s voice was loud in his ear, too loud, and he flinched, “Arthur son, what’s wrong?” and oh, he’d thought he was imagining things again but then there was a very real hand on his arm, one grasping his chin and forcing him to look up, he hadn’t even realized he’d leaned over, grinding his forehead into her saddle, and wow Hosea was whirling wasn’t he?

 “Arthur, you’re crying,” and huh, he hadn’t even realized that, reached up to wipe his face and was startled to find his hand wet, “Son, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

 “...I can’t do this.” his breath hitched, and he looked at Hosea pleadingly, “Hosea, I’m so tired, I… I can’t… I just want to sleep.”

Hosea couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Arthur so distressed. He was looking at him with nothing shy of sheer desperation. Looking at him as though he needed permission to sleep, tears streaming down his face, breathing becoming more and more labored, hitching as though he couldn’t catch it, “Okay Arthur, okay, you can sleep, just calm down.”

 But Arthur’s nostrils flared, face flushing red as he tried - failed - to raise his voice “No I can’t! No one… no one will let me! I-I just… I want to sleep. I haven’t slept in days. Everyone else is… is drinkin’ and partyin’, and I haven’t slept.”

 Fury settled, cold as fresh ice, in Hosea’s stomach.

 He wanted to storm over to the men that he could see drinking around the campfire. Beginning to slur along to Javier’s singing, celebrating nothing at all, costing them money in beer while bringing in nothing. Wanted to wrench Susan and Pearson and Dutch by the ears - Arthur hadn’t named names or pointed fingers, but it didn’t take a fool to guess who’d caused him to work himself to the edge.

 Shit, but he wasn’t blameless. He’d spent the last few days with Arthur when he was in camp (which, he realized with a sinking stomach, wasn't many) and hadn’t seen him sleep, didn’t think he could remember him eating either, and how he had missed how awful he looked he didn’t know. His eyes were bloodshot, his face sunken in. His eyes were so dark he’d thought, when he’d first walked over, that he had had a pair of black eyes, the bags beneath them so heavy even his bags had bags. Even as tears dripped down his face his eyelids sagged as though he were about to fall asleep right there, “Hosea, please, I’m so tired.” but he was fumbling with the cinch again, failing to secure the strap by a mile.

 Hosea’s throat clicked on a swallow - what had they done to their son? what had they done to make him think he had to work himself to this point? - and he nodded, “Of course Arthur, come on, let’s get you to bed.” but Arthur didn’t move, instead wavered on his feet, and Hosea’s heart leaped into his throat, lunging to grab his arm and steady him, called out “Mr. Smith! Help me please!” and Charles jogged over from where he’d been on watch, leaning his rifle against a hay bale as he shrugged Arthur’s arm over his shoulder, the man’s head lolling against him.

Arthur was vaguely aware of his arms being thrown over people’s shoulders, of being carried-dragged-a small distance. Of being laid down on something that seemed impossibly soft, wanting to surge up because I need to work! no one else will! but he felt so heavy so surely he could lay down for just a second?

 “‘Night Arthur,”

 A hand ran through his hair, “Sleep, son,” and his blanket was tucked up to his chin, but he was already long asleep.

Hosea nodded to Charles as they stepped out of Arthur’s tent, rolling his shoulder, protesting at having supported Arthur’s heavy weight, the young man frowning in concern even as he went back to take up his watch.

 The older man sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, remembering what Arthur had been mumbling as they carried him back to his tent - most of it had been too nonsensical to make out, but he’d definitely made out one word.

 But he didn’t dare risk waking Arthur, so he waited until he was flinging open the man’s tent to boom,

 “VAN DER LINDE!”

[splat-dragon]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Whumptober 2020, #22: Do These Tacos Taste Funny To You?: "Poisoned"

"I am the one who’s willing to do what it takes to seize my moment. Whatever it takes." - Ernesto De la Cruz

When Arthur and Hosea start making Dutch wise to Micah's machinations, Micah's willing to do whatever it takes to stay at the top.

@whumptober2020

Micah had thought about using oleander sage.

 It would be easy to get his hands on, after all - more than one member of the camp used it, covered their weapons in it, and it wouldn’t be hard to find if he rode down to Lemoyne - a decent ride, but he didn’t want to risk buying any in a store.

 And if Morgan’s death was linked to oleander well, it would be easy to pass it off as an accident. ‘He wasn’t careful enough handling it,’ they’d think, ‘he must have nicked himself with his knife.’

  But he’d decided against it.

 What made oleander so appealing made it risky, too. Half the damn camp kept an antidote made solely for oleander on their persons even if they didn’t work with it - with how much it was used in camp, there was just too much of a risk not to. The damned old man kept seven vials of the antidote among his things, ‘worried’ as he was.

 And even if they didn’t have any in camp, even if there wasn’t a good twenty antidotes floating around, oleander didn’t work fast enough for them to not be able to bolt for the nearest town and get some.

  He’d contemplated hemlock - it killed quick, and was easy to get ahold of, and had no antidote. But he wasn’t sure how to get it into Morgan, and even if he managed it wouldn’t be so easily handwaved.

  It had been one of the old man’s books that gave him the idea, and that gave him some sort of perverse pleasure. He fully intended on removing the man once Morgan was out of the way - Matthews was turning Dutch’s ear away from him, but it was safer to remove Morgan first, he just had to be very careful and plan his timing to the second - and knowing that the man’s book would rid them of the man’s ‘son’ (he sneered) had him biting down a laugh.

 But regulations had shut down the trade of arsenic, once everywhere, and he’d had to have Joe and Cleet go sniffing for him. It was Joe that finally showed up, a vial of it in his hand and demanding more money than he was wanting to spend (and, knowing the man, more than it had cost) but if it would get rid of Morgan then it was worth it, so he took the vial, shoved the money in the man’s hand and sent him on his way.

  The morning after they celebrated Sean’s homecoming, Hosea found Arthur sitting on his cot, cradling his head in his hands. Considering that, no matter how hungover he was he was always up on his horse and gone or, at least, helping with chores come morning, he approached him, calling out “Alright son?” and offering him a cup of coffee - that always helped to perk him up.

 Arthur looked up at him, shook his head at the coffee before seeming to regret it, going pale and digging the heels of his palms into his temples, “Fine, just got a headache.”

[splat-dragon]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

The beast that can't be killed ~Bitter Water, Oh Hellos

Whumptober 2020, #26: I Don't Feel So Well: "Chronic Pain"

In life, Arthur and John had a lot of differences. They were the same in many ways, too. Towards the end, they shared one thing.

After Lone Mule Stead, Arthur’s shoulder never did stop bothering him.

After Dutch left him to die on the train tracks, John’s arm never did stop hurting.

@whumptober2020

After Lone Mule Stead, Arthur’s shoulder never did stop bothering him.

 For a while it had burned as infection raged, though Hosea and Grimshaw and Swanson had tried their best and then it had chilled, numb and uncomfortable, and he’d clung to the hope that it would eventually stop hurting, that he’d be able to raise his arm above shoulder-height without shooting pains rocketing down it, without his fingers starting to tingle, without it beginning to jerk out of his control.

 It never did, though.

 Only ever got worse. 

 He had to take breaks more and more as time went on. Had to dangle his arm as he rode else it began to throb from the effort of holding it in place with the horse’s motion beneath him, constantly had to stretch and shake it out lest pins and needles started up in his fingers, moved up his hand. Had to be careful when he handled his guns, mindful of the kickback - he’d gotten distracted, once, and nearly been shot when agony had exploded through his shoulder, kickback shoving the gun back just-so to slam it into the scar.

 He’d put a bullet between the Pinkerton’s eyes, then been violently sick from the pain.

 It grew worse as he neared his end.

 Had to ride harder and harder, had to ignore his sickness, his body’s pain. He had to switch to one handed guns, unable to handle rifles or similar without fumbling them, arm shaking and giving out, constantly screaming, begging for a reprieve that he didn't have time to give, didn’t know how much time he had left and he had so much left to do.

It was only when he was fading on the mountain, watching the sun rise, as his body slowly went numb, that his shoulder finally stopped hurting.

After Dutch left him to die on the train tracks, John’s arm never did stop hurting.

 Maybe it was because he landed on it after it got shot. Or maybe he overdid it, dragging himself back to Beaver Hollow using it after the same. Using it to fight his way up the mountain without getting a moment of rest.

 As it was, it never did stop hurting.

 It hurt less over time, sure. Didn’t scream, didn’t throb with each beat of his heart.

 But when it got cold, or he used it too much, it ached. His arm trembled, the muscle grew weak. Gave out, and he dropped whatever he held.

 He’d always thought Arthur’s way of riding towards the end had been odd, had been funny. Arm dangling, loosely holding the reins in one hand. But he’d found himself doing the same without meaning to, finding it hurt less though he didn’t ride as much as he used to, the horse’s jostling killing his arm.

 And working at Gedde’s Ranch… well, it damned well hurt. Handling the animals, pulling on lassos and getting jerked around didn’t do his arm any favors. But it was honest work, and Abigail was happy. Bringing his arm above his shoulder was pain, made him want to scream, but so long as he was careful, didn’t mind the strange looks he got, he could avoid it.

 And then Abigail wasn’t happy, and he was buying a ranch.

 He thought his arm might come off, and some nights found himself kept up by pain so severe he had thoughts of cutting off the limb. Replacing the fencing, moving the stones, putting up walls… some days he vomited from the pain.

 When he saw Abigail’s face though, it was all worth it.

 Though sometimes, when he had to handle an angry stallion, or wrangle a cow, and his arm exploded with pains, he resented her for it.

It was only as he was bleeding out on the ground, staring his death in the eyes, as his body went numb, that his arm finally stopped hurting.