❀~𝚁𝚘𝚜𝚢~❀
A story of growing old and the vulnerabilities that come with it.
"My days of looking good are long over, Dutch."
Done as a @rdrevents Winter Exchange gift for Louie @ @mamasparky!
(Ao3 link)
Rosy
by Roaming Tigress
"Hey, you don't look too rosy, old friend. I thought this warmer weather would — "
A punch to the gut.
"My days of looking good are long over, Dutch."
Dutch means well, I remind myself; he's been worrying over me like a mother hen ever since we arrived in Horseshoe Overlook. I only took on a bit of a cough, that's all; maybe my lungs were still defrosting from Colter. To give him peace of mind, I even considered visiting the local doctor's office in Valentine, thinking they might have had a tonic to remedy it. But . . . A series of events happened there, and well, I instead decided to try to treat it myself with some of the local herbs in the area — yarrow, mint, ginseng, and the like.
The concoction worked to varying degrees, but never truly went away, and maybe I'd just rather not know what is going on with me.
But onto cheerier subjects.
We enjoyed our little fishing trip with Arthur on Flat Iron Lake, and even caught some beauties! We caught some nice bass, lake trout — even a few sturgeon. Arthur certainly *can* fish a bit if he puts his mind to it (and has some distance between himself and a market). And besides a meal for ourselves, it was nice to have a moment with just the Old Guard. There was no disagreement about it from Arthur, and Dutch? Dutch revelled in it.
"Before any of them back there . . . There was us."
We only turned back with our catch when we felt it was just a matter of time until a search party would be sent for us. It was on our way back to camp, though, that a nagging, painful, raw thought crept into my mind that lulled me into a sense of vulnerability.
Was I now . . .
Less attractive to him?
Growing old is hard: the aches, the pains, the insecurities that make you feel exposed and vulnerable. It's a slow, insidious creep. Oh, you think you can outrun it, but it gets you when you're asleep, when you're at the campfire with friends. You hear those names brought up, and you realize it as a lifetime ago when you were still speaking to them.
'Was Dutch going to leave me for someone younger?' was a dreaded question that burrowed into the inner recesses of my brain.
On the slow, steady hack to Clements Point, I considered how to phrase the question. I hadn't wanted to sound accusatory; I wouldn't get anywhere there, he'd just think he was right. And yet, I had to know; I had to be to the point, I had to know where I stood. He might think he could push around the others at camp, but he knows — even stubbornly — that he can't get me to back down.
I would ask Dutch when we were in a quieter place in camp; our personal matters aren't everybody's issues, after all. Every evening, every early morning, he's been taking a liking to standing dramatically — that flamboyant pose of his where he stands with his hands on his hips and looks lordly to all the shorebirds — on the fishing pier or shore as he collected his thoughts; it might be a stretch to say so, but he has a few.
Yes, I would ask him then.
Dutch likes it when I join him there; he doesn't always act like it; sometimes, he'd act as if I interrupted some great train of thought, and maybe I'm right, but a man needs to take a break; every train needs to stop at the station. But his mood doesn't last; cigars are a nice placation, and he never rejects a fresh brew of coffee.
And a telltale twinkle in his eyes tells me I've worked my magic; I've conned him into tolerating my presence!
And then, we're talking about old times, maybe where to move next, or if it was evening, the events of the day.
And maybe, whisper sweet nothings.
And maybe, a kiss.
But let's get back to camp first.
We may have bragged about the big sturgeon that got away. The two we caught were sizable, sure, but we spoke of a legendary beast still lurking along the Lannahachee. A fish so old that it was pure white, and had to be two, no, three hundred years old.
Jack liked the story, and Sean might have been a believer, but that might have been the drink talking. Lenny, Tilly, Charles and John were a little more skeptical. Karen, Molly, and Abigail humoured us. We might have had a little support from Reverend Swanson, though. Susan scolded us, thinking we were a terrible influence on the young boy for telling such tall tales. But Dutch was confident that Jack would be the one who would reel him in.
Good on you, Dutch, for staying your ground, taking a stance against such overreaching dream-crushing.
The stew was considerably better than the turtle-coyote-milkweed-spoonbill concoction the night before, and my stomach was thankful for it.
*****
And then came evening.
And there Dutch was, standing on the dock, cigar held between his index finger and thumb, his free hand on his hip. He's staring off to the islands, with probably not a thought in his head, but giving the impression there was a thousand rattling around in his head.
"Thought I would meet you here," I gently tease.
Dutch let out a snort, tapping the ash from his cigar. It's a particularly richly scented one; I myself am more of a cigarette man, but I can appreciate the scent of a good cigar. Dutch smells of them; I'm disappointed when he washes it out of his hair, his clothing, his body. Eau de Cigar adds a little more to his character, not that he needed help in that area, but it adds a little masculine finesse.
And then he laughed, right from his belly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that charming way they do. Crow's feet? More like ostrich's feet!
"You're like clockwork, Hosea."
I laughed with him.
He's in a good mood, and a bit of guilt tugged at me for the question that swirled around in my head like a swarm of bees looking for an exit out of their hive. I even felt that tingling of anxiety arise in my gut; it isn't the man and his little tendency towards difficult pigheadedness I fear in the least, but those dreaded what-if's. I needed to know, but my heart told me to forget the matter; it's better not knowing.
I studied him for a moment, watching the slow puff of tobacco smoke form a half circle as he tipped his head back ever so dramatically. Dutch likes to put on a bit of a show when he has an audience, even if it was one man in the seats — or on the dock.
I lowered my head, my eyes cast down on the dock boards. I let out a slow breath, almost absently shuffling a foot.
"Dutch . . . "
Uncertainty and vulnerability crept into my voice too fast for me to catch and release back into the water.
Even if I had, Dutch would have caught it on his line.
When I tipped my head back to look him in the eyes, I could see the softer expression in Dutch's eyes. I was supposed to be his rock, and here I was, before him, acting like some nervous school boy. He tipped his head in that endearing way he does when he's puzzled or concerned or maybe both, and I might have even smiled a little at that.
"Hosea?"
Oh, he had to ask. He just had to ask.
Well, might as well get it over with.
I swallowed, suddenly looking back down at my feet, feeling the sudden welling of tears. I couldn't let him see them. I had to stay strong, to be that rock he needs, even when things have been looking up.
But when I felt a finger on my chin, I knew I was caught.
I offered no resistance as he tipped my chin up so that he could look me in the eye with that same soft expression. It was a rare moment where I let him take the lead, and I swallowed again as he softly — heartachingly softly — wiped a tear from my cheek. He doesn't catch me crying often, but when he does, oh, there's no escaping his tenderness, no matter how fast I try to run.
"What's the matter, Old Girl?"
I gulp hard, suddenly unable to find the words.
"Did you . . . Dream about her again?" He almost whispered; speaking softly is foreign territory for Dutch, but he's capable of it when he puts his mind to it (which is rare).
Bessie. He means Bessie.
As I've been feeling well, not so well, I've been dreaming of her more often. Sometimes we'd be dancing in a field of wildflowers. At other times, it would be her, Annabelle, Dutch, on a picnic by a river. There were dreams of meeting Bess for the first time, in a variety of situations and places; at the theatre, at a train station where I lost my luggage but she took pity and helped set me right, and once, at a beach resort. They were always those kinds of dreams where, when they ended, and you had to wake up and face the realities of the day, you grieved over their closure.
Why must real life not be as beautiful as those dreams?
Dutch never liked these dreams, though; it wasn't so much that he was jealous he was dreaming of someone else — I shared my heart with both of them — but he felt I was having some sort of premonition, that my end was nearing, and she was ready to meet me at the door.
But, no. I was determined that he didn't need to have that worry over his pretty head.
"Dutch . . . "
He tilted his head again, damnit!
'Breathe in, breathe out, Old Girl.'
And I did, and found my voice again.
"Dutch, do you still find me . . . Attractive?" I slipped my hand over his as he cupped my jaw, absently, nervously rubbing a finger over his rings as I've caught myself doing while talking him down from whatever ridiculous plan he was cooking up in that head of his.
He tilted his head a little more, the expression going from merely soft to . . .
Devastated.
"Of course."
Shock enveloped Dutch; his cigar dropped out of his fingers and onto the dock. It was an uncharacteristic gesture; he loved to dramatically toss — no, throw — his cigars in any given direction, not caring if it would even end up in the stew pot.
Later, Arthur would pick that damn thing back up when he went fishing in the morning; our unruly son, bless his soul and ten toes, is a bit odd.
But, let's move away from the subject of Arthur's weird habits — I could write a whole story on that, but I think I'll spare him the embarrassment — you came to read a story about a misunderstanding between two old men, and a story about a misunderstanding between two old men is what you will get.
"Of-of course I do . . . " Dutch's voice was shattered; it had been a long while since I've heard him speak in such a tone, and a longer time since I've heard him stammer.
I think Dutch would feel less pain if he had a knife put deep into him and had it twisted, and it gnawed at my very core.
Now I felt guilty, and tried to look away, only for him to scoop both his massive hands underneath my jaw — with frustrating gentleness — so that I would have to look up at his handsome face again.
"What would make you think that?"
I let out a slow, defeated sigh, but I look deep into those eyes, and see a whole world spinning in them; and I wish for him for it to stop.
"'You don't look so rosy, Old Girl.'"
Dutch took in a sharp breath and then roughly let it out; its sound was rattled. A shaking finger trailed up to lightly stroke a cheekbone; oh, how he loved those things, how he loved touching them, kissing them.
"No . . . No . . . " He recoiled, struck by his own words he had spoken at the start of the day.
It was as if he had mortally wounded me.
In truth, my pride *was* hurt, but, it wouldn't be the first time. It wasn't a fatal injury; a mere close call. With a little nurturing, a little time, and maybe something better in my belly than another awful stew, it would heal in time.
But in the meantime, I settled for him holding me close, his soft lips kissing my forehead, and then bringing a hand up to kiss that, too. He was trying to make me smile, and well, maybe I did.
But he couldn't see for the kisses he kept giving me; out of affection, out of love, yes, but also out of appeasement. As if it at any moment I would turn heel and walk out of camp — a fear *I* had earlier.
"I was just . . . Hoping that the warmth would take away your sickness."
Dutch was scared. Scared that our settling down in Clements Point was in vain.
"But . . . "
Scared of losing me.
"You are as handsome as the day I met you."
Dutch was on the verge of tears, but I was well past the verge; he was just doing a little catching up.
"Oh, Dutch . . . "
And then, *I* was holding him, our tears intermingled with each other's as we stood cheek-to-cheek. I rubbed gentle circles across his back, softly kissing that beautiful nose.
I had felt Dutch was at his most beautiful when he was feeling vulnerable, and maybe I still felt a little guilt for bringing it out, but he could afford a little humbling.
"I wish I could feel it."
"I mean it . . . " He half-whimpered, half-whispered, and not convinced he meant what he said, nestled his face into the crook of my neck. He did this often when he felt vulnerable, needing comfort, reassurance, and a need to be believed. He didn't care that Father Time was causing it to sag, the skin thinning.
And then, maybe absently, maybe just wanting to hear me laugh, Dutch pressed a kiss between my neck and ear — my tickle spot — caused me to break the mood with a ridiculous, snorting laugh. I even tried to stifle it, but to no avail.
And of course, he did it again — and I was glad for it; it felt good to laugh again; oh, how it felt so good to laugh.
"Dutch . . . !" I genuinely *squeaked* through my tears, and teasingly I grabbed his nose — just nearly missed a playful nip from him. I leaned in, though, grabbed it again, and whispered, maybe a little conspiringly.
"You're going to cause a scene!" I snuck a playful wink in, maybe finding amusement in the idea of a small audience.
And then he laughed, and pulled back just enough that he could get a good look at my face, which he thinks is as pretty as a painting. He blinked away the remaining tears, bringing his hand back up to my cheek to stroke with his thumb. He wiped away a tear, thinking my face was too handsome to bear them, but something else gave him pause.
"Looking rosy again, Hosea."
He softly squeezed my hand — if you guessed that my hands were his favourite part of me, you would be correct — and softly held it to my cheek. Indeed, it did feel a little warm; surely it was from the Lemoyne air. Had to be!
"See?"
Dutch wore the biggest, stupidest grin across his face; maybe a little crooked, the type of smile he likes to reserve for me. But I wasn't going to give him credit for making me feel a little rosy, would I?
Oh, no, perish the thought!
"It's a warm day, Dutch," I nodded with feigned ruefulness.
But Dutch was one step ahead!
"The sun's going down, Hosea."
Dutch just had to speak to me in that tone; a soft, almost vulnerable and certainly *needy* tone where I know it would be only a matter of time until he would butter me up with kiss; slow, long, lingering kind. And yet, his words were at once literal and figurative; we're growing old, and we know it.
How many kisses did we have left?
Dutch wouldn't let me dwell, though; he gently framed my reportedly handsome face in his hands, and softly, tenderly kissed the night away.
