Lemon Tea | Letty

"Please. Please, I'll come with you." You are begging, now. Folding your good hand into his worn jacket, you clutch at him. "My arm is fine. I can ride and—"

"Sweetheart," Arthur says, patience lacing every word. His bloodshot eyes are soft with affection "You're hurt." He peels back the fingers fisted in his lapel and flattens them over his heart. Each breath rattles through his lungs. His heartbeat, once steady and reassuring, is erratic against your palm.

Sighing, he gathers you to him, curling his arm around your good side. He threads his other hand through your hair, cradling your head to his chest. Your cheek moulds to his heart. You let him protect you with his body for the last time.

He's so thin. He needs to eat more.

. . .

1902, Cumberland Forest

The throat under the steel toes of your boot swallows with fear. The muzzle of your gun presses hard into the skin of a liver-spotted forehead. Just an old man. You wait for pity to pierce the crocodile-hide of your heart. It doesn't. Grinding the tip of your boot into the paper-thin skin of his neck, you watch as he splutters. Droplets of spittle coat the toe of your boot and soak his tobacco-stained moustache. This putrid show of weakness sends a wave of revulsion over you. You press the gun into his forehead so far back that it smushes the back of his rotten head into the dirt.

"He's no good to us dead," Charles says mildly.

"Ain't no good to anyone alive." You ease the pressure of the gun back.

"Three hundred dollars seems like a pretty good reason to keep him alive."

William Randall. Killed his young wife, killed his children, too. Then lit off to live like a wild man in the woods. A three-hundred-dollar bounty for a man approaching his seventies. Wanted alive so the good people of Valentine can see the Sheriff enact justice. Light work for you and Charles. Apparently not.

You look back at Charles. He stands, quite at ease. The ends of his long, dark hair lift in the wind and pieces come loose from the cord, pulling it off his face. They drip into the collar of his coat. His face is unreadable. You take your boot off the old man's chest, and he coughs. Chest rattling, he curls in on himself, coughing and writhing. You flinch violently at the sound, and your grip falters on the gun. Before you can gather your wits, Randall yanks the knife from your boot and a starburst of pain explodes on your shoulder. It sends you reeling back. The old bastard is spry. Charles is on him in a moment, dragging his body up and slamming him face down into the dirt.

You groan and drag yourself up.. Charles has his knee planted on the old man's thin back. Blood soaks into your old duster coat. Arthur's old coat. Charles turns his head to look at you, his brow knit.

"I'm fine." You call. "Just my shoulder. He slashed it." You lift yourself from the mud, pressing the heel of your palm, trying to stop the slow spread of the blood over your coat. The mud soaks into your breeches, cold and slimy. Charles grabs Randall by the wisps of grey hair covering his skull and holds his hunting knife to his throat, beads of blood collecting at the razor edge.

"Want me to kill him?" He looks at you, solemn as an owl.

"Nah. Like you said, no good to us dead." You manoeuvre yourself to your feet, and with all the strength in you, kick the old man's jaw sideways.

Charles ties the man up, lest he wake up and try to escape. Fat chance of that happening with a broken jaw and the ankle Charles obligingly shattered. You lean against Guinevere heavily, and she noses at you, anxious. A little blood drips onto her silken red coat. Your initial assessment was correct; it is just your shoulder. But the blood loss makes your vision swim. Charles turns into an amalgamation of colours, blending in against the backdrop of the woods. Once Randall is stowed on Taima, who paws restlessly, he catches your elbow. You hadn't even realised your knees were trembling.

"That's a lot of blood." His voice is calm. Carefully, he peels open the collar of the coat and feels along the wound. His hand is warm, and you watch minute movements of his jaw as he checks you for any serious injury. From his saddle bag, he takes a clean rag and, with a soft apology, tourniquets your arm. You gasp and clutch at the frayed sleeve of his coat. Murmuring soothingly, he adjusts your wrist against your side so you do not jostle the wound.

"Think you can ride?"

"'Course I can ride." You scoff, and then wince as speaking jostles you. He does not contest this, but helps you onto Guinevere all the same, boosting you up with his hand braced on your calf.

A six-mile ride feels like six years. Your vision swims, and a steady drip of blood is pooling under your coat. You fist the reins and blink hard. Every rock and ditch makes itself known to your shoulder. Even the sway of Guinevere's flanks makes you gag a little, your head stuffed with cotton.

"Camp here tonight. I can ride into Valentine tomorrow to deliver. You can rest."

"So you can claim all my money?" You giggle very unseriously. Charles's brow knits with concern.

"I wouldn't." He says quietly. "But we can wait to deliver him, I was only worried his heart would give or somethin'."

You feel rather foolish, looking at his serious face. The blood rushes to your head, and when you dismount, he is there to catch you. Gratefully, you slump into the circle of his arms. He's warm, and the fabric of his coat is rough against your cheek. Charles's breath comes quick and panicked against your hair, but when he speaks, his voice is steady as ever.

"Could use a few stitches. Still bleeding."

You find yourself eased onto the ground and steered into a sitting position. When you slump into the broad bulk of his shoulder, his arm goes around you, and you feel his flask against your lips. The whiskey in it burns against your mouth pleasantly. He is talking, low but urgent. You cannot make out words, only the deep rumble in his chest. He smells like smoke and leather. Familiar.

Drifting, a velvety sleep overcomes you. The quiet, even voice in your ears turns gravelly and accented. The hands on your face and hair do not touch you impersonally, like a carer's. Instead, it is a lover's touch. You go, willing.

You wake to the crackle of a fire and a piercing pain in your shoulder. Blearily, you get your bearings. Charles sits across the fire, a piece of wood and a carving knife in his hands. Wood shavings curl into scrolls, falling at his feet. You sit up, feeling at your shoulder. It has been sewn and bandaged neatly.

"Charles?"

Looking up, he rises from his spot at the fire, and he kneels beside your bedroll. The shirt you wear is one of his, you realise. Soft and brown, the collar sags around your clavicle.

"I cut you out of your shirt." He says apologetically. "Don't think it'll scar too badly, though."

"When have I ever cared about that?" You snort with wry laughter. Once, a long time ago, a whole lifetime ago, you were ashamed of them. You had wanted to look as pretty and as lovable as Mary Beth or be as graceful as Tilly. All those women, like beautiful flowers in the desert of your life. Arthur used to kiss the scar where he shot you and tell you that it looked like a comet against your skin.

Charles has seen you, you realise. Your cheeks burn hot.

"Where's Randall?" You say suddenly, thinking of the three hundred dollars.

Charles grins a rare, wide grin and rises. With Charles no longer blocking your vision, you are treated to the sight of William Randall, the family killer, trussed up like a hog and tied to a tree in his shirtsleeves.

You feel better already.

. . .

1902, Valentine

"Is my nose really so big?"

The woman in the bounty poster stares back at you, her face hardened by rough living, her eyes sharp and mouth downturned. The cloud of hair rendered around her head makes her look wild and unkempt. The scar on her face cuts through her brow viciously. You touch your hair. Three thousand dollars for the woman in the poster. Good thing that isn't you, you have long since changed your name. Ripping the poster from the board, you shove it into your coat pocket. Your shoulder aches from the wound. Stitched up at Charles's insistence, it throbs under your ruined coat.

"The saloon's got a room. Could ride out to the reservation in the morning." Charles says from behind you. The sun is beginning to set, and staying in plain view is unwise. Valentine has expanded from the backwards cattle town; it is harsher and darker. Buildings have sprung up from where there was only flat earth and soft grass. Eyes are everywhere. A woman in men's garb and a man as scarred and massive as Charles are sure to attract attention. But the two of you are effective. So you go by different names and drag in criminals of a lower status than yourselves—and you get by.

The saloon room is dark and small, but clean. It is not crowded, but there is no point getting separate rooms. You would not be able to sleep without the even sound of Charles's breathing. You lie side by side, faces turned to the slanting ceiling. A thin shaft of light illuminates the room. The bed is too soft.

Charles speaks first.

"Arthur's grave is out this way."

You shut your eyes.

"Could ride past it. If you want." He says, no pressure behind his voice.

You have not seen Arthur's grave. You only know that it was Charles who buried him, and you are grateful that it was. If it had been you, given the chance, you might have crawled into the grave with him. You would have curled yourself around the bones that had carried him for so long and let yourself be taken by the elements. A hillside, Charles said. Where he would have wanted to be. As long as you do not see it, Arthur is where you want him to be. You might wake and find him snoring next to you. You can imagine that you hear the scratch of his pen, or feel the scrape of his beard against your face.

You wake slowly to the faint light seeping through the saloon window's grimy panes. Sometime in the deep of night, Charles must have shifted in his sleep, his arm now slung heavily across your waist. He's warm, and you can feel his heart beating steadily against your spine. Mumbling, he buries his face in the loose masses of your hair.

You shift in his arms, and he stirs into wakefulness, not before you feel the hard press of him against your lower back. There is a heartbeat’s worth of stillness where neither of you moves, where the creak of the bed and the faraway buzz of the waking town are the only sounds in the room. Then he draws in a sharp breath.

“Sorry,” he mutters, voice thick and low, and his arm jerks away as if burned.

"It—it's fine." But he is already turning away, dressing hastily. You exhale, an odd, brimming guilt in your stomach. Sleeping side by side under the stars is one thing; the whole land is your witness. Despite how quiet he is, it is never awkward between you two; there is always that steady companionship. The peace of knowing he will never push you to speak.

Charles is so warm.

. . .

1903, Temporary Wapiti Settlement

Hidden in a wide crevice of rock near the settlement is a creek. Water has been scarce, and you have had to make do by washing yourself by wiping the sweat and grime off your bodies with rags. Bounty hunting alone is tough on the body, and having Charles with you has made it easier.

Carefully, you work the buttons of your shirt open. Your shoulder aches from the wound, but it has healed considerably better than you thought it would. You unwrap the bandage, flexing a little. It will leave a scar, one of many. You survey yourself without emotion. The scars on your stomach and arms, and slashing over your collarbones. Vanity no longer afflicts you, and you have come not to worry about beauty any more. Undressing, you remove your hair from its plait and comb it out with your fingers. It has grown since you took a pair of shears to it and cut it to your jaw. It just sweeps the tops of your breasts, now. It is not convenient to have long hair in the wild. Charles does, though. It had struck you as odd that he would keep it so long. When you asked him, he said that it was something his mother believed was important.

The water is warm. Slipping in, you let it soothe your aching muscles.

Footsteps crunch softly on the gravel. You turn your head. It is Charles. Fully dressed, still in the clothing you wore while travelling. His shirt, tucked into his trousers, and his vest open. The afternoon sun slants through the crevice, gilding his dark head. His hair has been freed from the piece of twine he had been using on the ride, and the breeze picks it up so it curls in the air like black smoke.

He stills completely when he spots you, dark eyes widening a fraction as they find you among the water-worn stones of the creek. Surprise distorts the strong planes of his face, and his hand goes to the back of his neck as he averts his eyes. Even though it is just your shoulders and the hints of your breasts he can see, you feel oddly exposed. How ridiculous. It is only Charles who has seen you undressed a thousand times before. His voice carries over the bubble of the creek and the call of the birds.

"Didn't know you were here." His voice, low and steady. His skin is so smooth and dark that you never see him flush, but you can hear it in his voice. Fixing his eyes on the ground, he takes a half-step back. "I can go. Give you some peace."

"I—It's alright. Nothing you haven't seen before." In all these weeks travelling to see Rains Fall, how many times have you curled into the same bedroll for warmth? How many times has he woken you from the nightmares that plague you and held you till you fall asleep again? You have lived in such proximity that it should not be strange for him to see you undressed. Still, he hesitates, "There's no point to riding back. Stay."

Quietly, he sheds his clothing on the gravel surrounding the spring. You turn your head to give him some privacy, but in your periphery, the expanse of scarred skin is slowly revealed with every movement. His ribs are a bruised, blotchy purple, just visible in the deep, warm brown of his skin. He winces as he unbuckles his belt and shucks his trousers off. He is so graceful that you forget how large he is sometimes. Arthur had never been graceful, his bulk always apparent in the way he fought, the way he made love.

This thought dissolves as the water ripples with Charles's entry. Sighing, he shuts his eyes as he leans against the rock basin. The ends of his inky black hair swirl at the surface of the water.

"Feeling better?" He says, angling his head towards your shoulder.

"It's my own fault." You say, "I lost focus."

He shuts his eyes again, and you find yourself oddly struck by his nakedness. He is not hairy, as Arthur had been; the skin of his chest is smooth and deep brown, littered with scars. The ball of his bicep flexes as he takes a cupful of water in his hand and splashes it onto the laceration on his ribs. You had not noticed he was hurt. Then again, he does not let you worry about much.

You turn in the water, and Charles reaches for you, that instinctive movement so like the one where he draws for his shotgun.

His hand catches your elbow to keep you from slipping against the slick rock. You look up at him. He is already looking at you.

The body keeps score, you have realised. While your mind roils with guilt, your body wants and wants. Charles's hand has curled to cradle your elbow, and a keen desire to read his mind strikes you. Immovable as he seems, Charles is a man. He must have desires, too. Unconsciously, you have turned your body to his, the way a flower faces the sun. If you could not see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, you would think he was made of stone.

Turning your palm inward, you brace it against the inside of his forearm. The veins in his forearm pulse with his breath. You slide your hand upward, along the swell of his bicep, the slashing scar on his pectoral. The scar is ridged against your fingertips. He is still now, barely breathing. His heartbeat slams against your palm.

Slowly, his hand begins to search you. The pads of his fingers are rough as they travel up your shoulder, thumbing the healing wound.

"It's healing well." He says, you can almost hear a tremor in his voice.

"Yeah. It's thanks to you. I wouldn't have stitched it if I were on my own."

Somehow, you stand close in the sway of the creek, braced on each other for balance. Something brushes your thigh. Charles tenses, all the muscles in his body locking. Oh.

Shifting, he leans his body away from yours. "I didn't mean to—" He mutters, the scar on his cheek turning pink.

“No.” Your fingers tighten around his wrist before you can stop yourself. “Don’t—you don’t have to pull away.”

His eyes flick up to your face, searching. The sound of the water, like bells.

"I want to. I do." You splutter. "But I—not all at once."

He exhales. His other hand comes up to rest at your waist, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll break. “Alright,” he murmurs. “Alright.”

Curling your arm about his neck, you press close. His hair is thick and silky against your hand, and you tentatively pull your fingers through it. Then, he sighs and presses his mouth to yours, tentatively at first but then with a swift urgency that leaves you gasping and clutching at him. How long has it been since you have been touched? Mumbling, you brace your back against a rock. He crowds you against it. Both of you deserve something to ease the loneliness.

Reaching under the water to grasp him, you circle your hand around the heft of his cock. He grunts and twitches in your hand. Tentatively, you stroke upward, and he makes a strangled noise. He is hard and thick in your hand. Pressing your thighs together, you twist your wrist experimentally. The thick fringe of his eyelashes brush the tops of his high cheekbones. The scar on his cheek pulls taut. Slowly, you move your hand, studying the play of his muscles. Groaning, he drops his face to the slope of your neck, tasting the droplets of water collected there.

Then, his hands search between your thighs and find the parting in between. He, too, moves experimentally. Easing one thick finger in, he mouths the curve of your neck. You tighten around him, and he gentles the movement, those deft archer's fingers making you gasp. Everything in you is aching and crying out, desperate to be touched. He eases a second finger in, and you whimper, a desperate, animal sound.

"Too much?" Charles whispers, mouth brushing your temple. You kiss his cheek, his jaw.

"Go on, Charles."

. . .

1904, Three Sisters

Taima is dying. Her head rests in Charles's lap, his big hand smoothing along her shuddering neck. She is felled by a bullet, a flyaway one from a stage you and Charles foolishly tried to rob. And now Charles, always proud, always steady, comforts his dying horse. The spots on her flank blur as you blink away tears. You stand in the grove, the wind whistling around you. His hair lifts in the breeze, but otherwise, he is still.

"It's getting dark. Should bury her." You say softly. He says nothing. You cannot see his face.

Tentatively, you reach out and touch his shoulder. He flinches as you do, and you withdraw your hand.

"Go." His voice is choked. "I'll catch up with you."

"Charles—"

"Go." His tone is so final that all protests die on your tongue.

You leave him to mourn her.

. . .

1904, Temporary Wapiti Settlement

Dragging the comb through your hair, you peer into the wooden-framed mirror. The scar curving along your temple and through your brow is softened by the low light. The new Wapiti settlement is small, and the people are tired. Rains Fall has more streaks of grey in his hair by the day. Still, you had wanted his blessing. Any family you have is long dead or long gone; it has just been you and Charles. You are handfasted on the settlement, with as much ceremony as is possible. But it is enough, and the ceremony has never meant much to you anyway. It means something to Charles, though.

The tent flap falls shut behind Charles with a soft rasp of canvas, sealing the night outside. The wind murmurs against the walls, distant firetalk fading to a hush, leaving only the two of you in the low glow of a single lantern. You sit on the edge of the cot, still in the soft, borrowed dress. He stands a moment too long by the entrance, broad silhouette filling the space, his hair loose and catching gold in the light. When he turns, his eyes find you with that rare flicker of uncertainty you've only seen in private. Slowly, he lowers himself beside you, close enough that the heat of him cuts the chill.

"I ain't got much to give you—" He begins.

"Don't be foolish."

He takes your hand and presses something cool and beaded into it. Turquoise and bone, and smooth wood. It slips through your fingers. The necklace you have never seen him without.

"Charles. This is your mothers. I couldn't possibly—"

"It's yours." He says simply. "Like I am."

You want to tell him you have been his for years now. That you will be his for as long as you live. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Charles takes your hand, the necklace still fisted in it, and kisses your knuckles. His mouth is soft against the scarred, bruised skin. Silently, he draws you to your feet and steps behind you, the cot creaking softly as your knees brush it.

Your pulse stumbles as Charles gathers your hair over one shoulder with infinite care, his knuckles brushing the back of your neck. The beads are cool against your skin, and rest just below your collarbone. He hesitates, and you feel the soft press of his lips at your nape, where he fastens it. Charles’s hands slide slowly down your arms until they rest at your elbows. When you lean back against him, you feel the hitch in his breathing.

Turning, you face your husband. You lean up on your tiptoes and press your mouth to his. There is only his sigh into your open mouth and his arms around you. You reach for the top button on his shirt and giggle as it slips from your hands, trembling with anticipation. You loosen another one, and his breath hitches. His fingers find the ties at your collar and undo them with the same reverence he shows everything else. He presses a kiss to the column of your throat, and you twist your fingers into the thick, soft hair at the base of his skull. Pushing the shirt off his shoulders, you touch him, the hard planes of his chest and stomach.

"Charles." You say softly, sweetly. "Charles, you are so beautiful." You press another kiss to his sternum. He tips your head back in his hands and kisses your eyelids, slow. When you kneel, kissing the spot above his navel, he catches your shoulders, stroking the line of your jaw.

When he eases you onto the cot, he settles on his knees. You look down at his face, framed by your thighs and watch the lamp dance in his brown eyes. He takes your ankles in his wide hands and lifts them onto his shoulders. From this angle, you are laid bare and open for him. Charles bends his dark head to the soft inside of your thigh, the rasp of his stubble making you shiver. The want building all day is met with his soft mouth. Crying out, you twist your fingers into his hair and arch into his face. To steady you, he reaches up and flattens his big hand over your quivering belly; you grasp it blindly. Once you are left gasping and sweaty, he relents and rubs his cheek against the soft thatch between your legs.

Breathlessly, you beckon him closer. Crawling over your prone body, he cages himself over you. His long, muscular legs hang over the edge of the cot, tangled with yours. As he picks open your dress, you finally relieve him of his breeches. Then the two of you are joined. Strands of his dark hair are plastered to his face, and his eyes are sealed with pleasure. You take a moment to appreciate the architecture of his body, lined with heavy muscle and golden brown skin. Cradling his face in your hands, you kiss away the sweat beading at his temple, the bridge of his nose. You push at his chest, urging him to roll over.

"Charles." You whisper. "Lie down."

With difficulty, he opens his eyes and loosens his grip on you. You flatten your palms against his chest, and he falls back willingly. There is a shimmer of sweat on his chest, and the heavy length of his cock is angry red at the tip. Pulling the dress over your head, you swing your leg over his thighs to straddle him. He groans as you grasp his cock to guide it into yourself. Bracing your hands on his stomach, you sink on him slowly. Steadying you with one hand to your hip, he reaches up with the other to lay his palm over your sternum; your heart kicks against him. Tightening around him like a vice, you undulate your hips a little faster. Suddenly, he heaves himself up so you can twine your arms around his neck and he can mouth the peaks of your breasts. Cradling his head to your heart, you stroke his soft, dark hair as he comes. You kiss him as you reach your finish, you mouth at the salt on his cheek.

Afterwards, you lie with your cheek against his chest on the little cot. Throwing your leg over his hip, you lift his hand and bring your mouth to the rough pads of his fingers.

"Don't. I'll want you again." He says, a little helplessly.

"Mmph." You draw his index into your mouth. His cock stirs again, and he rolls onto his side, taking you with him. This time, he draws your leg over his thigh, chest to chest. He takes you again, with less ceremony than the first time. When you sleep, it is with him still inside of you, his head to your breast.

Dawn filters through the canvas, and you wake to Charles's broad form dressing next to the cot. You tuck your hand under your head and watch him. How many times have you watched him dress before, but never as his wife. Only as his companion. He buttons his loose shirt over his broad chest and ties his hair up with a piece of twine. When he draws his bow over his shoulder, he notices you watching. Leaning over the bed, he hesitates and then presses a kiss to the peak of your bare shoulder.

"Rains Fall asked me to go hunting with him." He says softly. "I thought I'd let sleep."

"Mm. He must miss Eagle Flies." You yawn. "I can help out around here."

"Could join us."

“I’d only slow you down,” you murmur.

“That’s not true.”

A small smile tugs at your mouth. “It is a little.” He smiles in response. "And, you can get used to Falmouth. He's still skittish." Your wedding present to him had been Falmouth, a spotted stallion that had taken you three bounties to purchase. He will not replace Taima, Charles's companion since he was eighteen, but Charles had needed a horse.

"Rains Fall. He doesn't say much these days." Charles says, thoughtfully.

"I know. Go. It'll be good for him." And for you too, you think.

"You'll be alright here?" He says, fingers still lingering on your arm.

"Sure. They're packing up this camp, I'll keep myself occupied."

Charles leaves, pressing a last kiss to your hair, his eyes lingering on your body under the pelt.

You stretch. The tent feels large without him. You've been pressed so close to him that the beads around your neck have left divots in your skin.

It must be early; the air is chill. Nobody would grudge you another hour of sleep.

. . .

1906, Saint Denis

"It's okay. It's just me. Wake up."

Charles's hands are soft on your hair. When he lifts you into his arms, you go limp. Regaining your senses, you can smell the oil from the lamp and the cool night air from the cracked-open window. The rented room that has been your home for months now is small and cramped. Charles hates it. Sometimes, he wakes in the night and sits on the small terrace, smoking for hours. He says he cannot breathe in Saint Denis, that the city doesn't suit him. It doesn't suit you either; you miss the open plains and long to press your cheek to cool grass. To sleep under the stars and smell fresh country air. Shivering at the draft, you cuddle into his broad chest. The acrid tang of sweat and drink clinging to his skin makes you wrinkle your nose.

"Bad dream?" He says against your hair. Pulling back, he cups your hot cheek in his hands. Nodding, you snuffle closer.

"I didn't hear you come in."

"Got back a few hours ago." He says softly, stroking your loose hair.

"You smell bad." You say, but slip your arms around his neck and bury your face in his shoulder anyway.

"Was too tired to wash." He says, and you lift your head to look at him. Charles's face is distorted with concern, and the light from the window illuminates his eye, swollen half shut. "And, too drunk."

"Did you lose?" You reach up to touch his swollen eye, he winces a little and then kisses the heel of your palm.

'Course not. He got a lucky hit in." The hint of indignance in his voice brings the slightest of smiles to your mouth. He relaxes when he sees it. "What about you? You get him?"

"Some idiot with a whole crew got to him first." You roll your eyes as you recount the day. "Don't know why you'd need a whole crew to get him. He came up to my shoulder. A strong gust of wind would've sent him to the grave."

Bounty hunting in Saint Denis has proved a little easier. Charles throws fights, and you pick up petty criminals off the outskirts of the city. This time, it has been a bespectacled doctor who had been lacing his medicines. It would have taken you an hour had that buffoon Jared Golding not gotten to him first. A whole crew of thoroughbreds. Guinevere, fast and faithful as she is, had been no match.

"S'alright. The payment from this fight should tide us over a while."

"Oh, your poor eye." You say, the guilt is hot and sudden. Tipping your head up, you press a kiss to the purpling mess.

" It ain't too bad." He says, a little embarrassed at the affection. "The other fighter came off a whole lot worse."

"I'm sure he did." You say, nuzzling his cheek. "But it's my fault you're throwing fights. I shouldn't have killed him."

"He started with you. I'd have killed him if you hadn't."

"I know." You say mournfully. "But you hate this." Nosing at your hair, he kisses your forehead in response.

The sun is beginning to spill through the windows, and there is no point trying to sleep. You slip out of bed and make two cups of coffee in tin mugs and hold a cool cloth to Charles's eye as he drinks his. You assuage your own guilt by kissing his battered face and combing out the tangles from his long hair.

"Got no bounties today." You say, buttoning your shirt. He sits at the small, round table, clad only in his breeches and nursing his third cup of coffee. "Could take the day off."

"A day off." He says slowly. "You alright?"

"Fine." You do not meet his eyes.

"What do you want to do on your day off?" He catches your wrist and pulls you to stand between his knees. Bracing your hand on his shoulder, you look down at him. His eyes are steady, but you can see the concern behind the question.

You do not tell him that you dreamt of Arthur, his voice wrecked with illness and pain, lying white-faced and feverish. You do not tell him that Arthur’s face had gone strange and blurred at the edges, then changed not all at once, but in terrible pieces until it was Charles looking at you through the same pain. Charles with Arthur’s voice. Charles begging you, over and over, to save him from the slow erosion of his insides.

“I want to go to the gunsmith,” you say. “Get my gun fixed.”

He nods once. “Alright.”

“Then I want to walk through Chinatown.”

“Mm.”

You swallow, then let yourself smile a little. “And then I want you to take me to bed.”

That gets the ghost of a smile from him. “That so?”

“That so.”

His hand tightens lightly around your wrist. “Alright, then.”

The knot in your chest does not ease until later that night. You lie on your belly with Charles over you, his weight warm and solid along your back. His hand rests over your hip, while the other braces beside your head as he ruts with slow, careful rhythm. His breathing is rough against your shoulder, but his touch stays gentle. You sleep easily.

. . .

1907, Mount Hagen

Charles has been shot.

The frost bites through the worn knees of your breeches as you kneel beside him, his blood bright and terrible against the snow. For one blank second, you cannot make sense of it. Then he makes a low, ragged sound, and your body moves before your mind does, half-dragging him behind the boulder as another bullet cracks past.

“Charles.” Your hands are already on his shoulder, pressing, slipping, pressing again. “Charles, stay with me.”

His face has gone ashen. Blood pours between your fingers, warm enough to make you feel sick. “I’m okay,” he says, but the words are thin.

“No, you’re not.” Your voice comes out too sharp, too fast. “You’re bleeding too much.”

“I said I’m okay.”

“You don’t know that.” You press harder, as if you can force the wound shut by will alone. “Has it hit anything important?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?” Fear knots your throat so tight you can hardly breathe around it. “Charles, look at me.”

He does, and the sight of his eyes half-lidded with pain almost makes you fold in on yourself. Snow has fallen onto his hair, his shoulders. The bright glitter of it makes your eyes burn.

The shooting has stopped, you realise dimly, and the silence is worse than the gunfire. Sadie appears through the snow, breath ragged. “Hey. You’re okay,” she says, though she sounds like she’s trying to convince herself. “You’re okay.”

Charles lets out a rough breath. “I will be.”

You sag closer, hands still pressed to the blood. “Then we’re getting you out of here.”

“No.” He shifts weakly and winces. “Go on with John.”

You shake your head once. “No.”

"Move fast. Or they'll come down that hill and kill us all."

"I won't."

“Go,” he says again, quieter now. “I can follow. Just not fast.”

You stare at him, at the blood soaking through his shirt, at the strain in his mouth that he’s trying so hard to hide. Your fingers tighten on his coat.

“I don’t care about Micah. I don’t care about any of it. Let John have him.”

Sadie glances between you and Charles, then steps back, leaving the two of you in the cold. Charles’s gaze stays on your face.

“John and Sadie need you.”

“Don’t.” You blink hard, but it does no good. “Don’t ask me to go.”

He studies you for a long second, blood still spilling through your fingers, his own breath shallow. “Why? This is what you wanted.”

The words tear out of you before you can stop them.

"Because I'm not having this child without you."

Even Sadie does not speak. The wind seems to go quiet around the boulder. You stare at Charles, suddenly sick with the fact that it is out now, impossible to take back, impossible to bury in the lining of your skin.

For a long moment, he only looks at you.

Then his face changes — not in disbelief, exactly, but in shock so deep it seems to cut straight through pain. “You’re—”

You give a tiny, helpless nod. “I was going to tell you.”

“When?”

"After this. After I kill Micah."

Madly, you wonder if he is upset with you. With his blood spilling through your fingers and his face grey with pain. You wonder if he thinks what a reckless, selfish woman he has married. One who will risk anything, everything for vengeance.

But then, his hand comes to cover yours. You exhale, a cold puff of air that makes your relief visible. The light weight of Sadie's hand is on your shoulder, but you barely feel it. You watch Charles's eyes, glazed with pain and love.

"I'm sorry." You whisper, stroking his hair away from his face with your free hand. His skin is slick with sweat despite the cold, but his heart, thrumming beneath your hand, is strong. "I should have told you. I thought you wouldn't let me—"

“No.” His voice is low, roughened with pain.“No.”

He swallows, and you see the effort of it. See him try to gather himself for you.

Then his fingers tighten over yours with weak insistence, as if he can tether himself on earth, simply by touch.

“You’re not leaving me,” he says.

. . .

1903, Ambarino

"I'm getting married."

The breeze sifts through your hair. You look down, feeling idiotic. Arthur's grave is a cross. On it, inscribed;

"Blessed Are Those Who Hunger And Thirst For Righteousness"

Blessed. Arthur would have laughed. Are you supposed to weep? That is what women are supposed to do. Weep into hankies and lay flowers on the tombs of their lovers. You do not have flowers. What you do have is the mad urge to laugh.

Arthur Morgan is dead. Dead! His massive, powerful body has been reduced to bones underneath your feet. The man who loved you and fucked you and danced with you by the fire is dead. The man who killed for you and killed with you and seemed tall as the mountains, as bright as the sun.

Charles has buried him, and you think what it must have been like. Charles shooing crows off Arthur's rotting flesh, picking maggots out of his sunken face. Charles has said none of this to you, but you know.

He had been so tired. He had been so brave.

"I don't want to leave you." Arthur's eyes are bloodshot. Exhausted. He has woken at midnight, his skin burning with fever. He sits at the edge of the cot, his aching head cradled in his hands. You sit beside him, kissing the sharp jut of his shoulder blade. You taste sweat.

"I'm hard to get rid of." Your voice trembles. You force a smile.

"I know." He enunciates slowly, forcing the words through the feverish delirium. "But I'm tired. Real tired."

"Rest a while, then."

"You'll wake me?"

"'Course."

"Will you—will you rub my head a little? It hurts."

You sit up on the cot, patting your lap. Crawling over your legs, he puts his head in it. Silently, you run your fingers through his hair, press your thumbs against his sweaty temples. His breathing evens, and he drifts. You lean down and whisper in his ear.

"Rest, my love. Rest."

Your phone buzzes again, another message from your friend insisting that they were joking and that surely there would be no break up over a knitted sweater.

But the damage had been done. You aren’t superstitious per se, but the sweater curse is running rampant in the knitting community, and every app you open it seems there are more and more stories. Then again, the knit garment now laying neatly in the box probably had enough of your hair knit into it that, as that one post said, he will be bound to you forever.

That has got to cancel each other out right?

You shake your head as if to get these thoughts out. It’s silly, Charles isn’t going to end this relationship, a loving, dedicated one you may add, just because you decided to invest a couple months into making him a sweater for his birthday, dark blue with a rainbow trout in the middle front.

And well sure, over the course of your relationship you made him several things, a pair of gloves, a scarf, and maybe, just maybe, there was a little voice of doubt in the back of your head that had made you wait three years to knit a sweater- ugh no, stop it.

Then finally you‘re pulled out of your thoughts when the bathroom door opens and Charles’ tall figure pads across the hall, only a towel slung low on his hips, to the bedroom to get dressed for work.

You push yourself off the floor then, knees stiff and achey from spending too much time on the floor. You definitely didn’t spend half the night weaving in ends and finishing the embroiderey of the fish after you had gotten home late because you guys’ friend insisted on celebrating the birthday boy early. At least that gave the sweater the time to mostly dry from when you blocked it earlier that day.

You get on your tip toes to get that satisfying feeling of popping your ankles as you rub your bleary, tired eyes.

“I hate when you do that,” calls Charles from the other room.

“Literally how did you even hear that?”

The retort is left unanswered as you carry the box over to your tiny kitchen and place it on your even tinier kitchen table. It took up almost the entire surface next to the flowers either you or him brought home almost weekly. This week you got an extra big bouquet of spring flowers given the occasion.

You eye the arrangement for a moment, trying to measure out space for the plate of birthday cupcakes but they would have to stay on the counter.

While you get those out of the fridge you call out to Charles, wondering what’s taking him so long.

“Are you almost ready?” Your hand reaches for the singular candle that you found in your stash of birthday decorations, not glorious but it will have to do, as you listen for an answer.

“Charles?” you call again and then finally you hear the steps in the hallway, turning around plate balanced on your palm while you try to steady the candle in the chocolate butter cream with two fingers.

“Mornin’, happy birth-” the rest of the sentence fades into another, worried, almost alarmed. “oh you okay there?”

He is standing in front of you, fresh shirt on that was just the right bit too small, hair tied back into a bun, all things you would normally enjoy seeing early in the morning if it wasn’t for his sour face, maybe mixed with guilt and his hand clutching his phone.

“We need to talk-”

No, oh no no this isn’t happening.

You don’t let him finish as your brain immediately jumps to conclusions caused by all the talk of the god damn sweater curse.

“Are you breaking up with me?!” Your voice goes up an octave and you have to set the plate down lest you drop its contents.

And now the poor man looks entirely confused, the unvoiced ending of his sentence still hanging in the air. He blinks once, twice.

“… about tonight,” he finally says. “We need to talk about to- why would you think I was gonna-”

Oh thank god. You could feel the relief instantly. Good thing you didn’t overreact.

“Sweater curse,” you say simply, lamely almost, as if that explains everything.

“It’s too early for riddles,” he groans. Charles looks even more confused, a note of playful exasperation in his voice. “I just wanted to say that we have to push back our reservation an hour I need to cover for someone at work… now about this sweater curse…” he tilts his head, clearly waiting for an explanation.

“Oh…”

Wordlessly you grab his gift from the table and hold it out to him. You don’t even know how to explain this to him without sounding entirely crazy.

His eyes drop to the box and he carefully undoes the bow with the fingers you know to be incredibly gentle. He lifts the lid, one eyebrow raised as he looks up at you for a moment before he reaches for the sweater.

He holds it up, examining the even stitches—sure with the occasional twist or other little mistake—the color work, greens and pinks and grays making up the trout. And you can’t see it, view blocked by the garment, but his lips widen into a smile, his eyes crinkling in the corners. And when his hands lower you don’t have the time to react.

His thumb and forefinger grasp your chin and you’re pulled closer until finally his warm lips meet yours. You can still taste the toothpaste on them when he murmurs into the kiss: “You made this?”

Your head bobs in a nod, lips never disconnecting as you finally finish the words you set out to say earlier: “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you, it’s incredible.” He pulls back and looks at you for a moment, his thumb gently sweeping over your skin. “That sweater curse … is it one of them TikTok myths?”

He was definitely teasing you now and you can’t help but groan but you nod.

“Yeah, knitting superstition.”

“You spend entirely too much time online, silly goose.” He grins before he pulls you into another kiss that makes you forget all about the other unlucky people whose (ex-)boyfriends couldn’t appreciate handmade knitwear.

✦•┈┈┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈┈┈•✦

i hope you enjoyed this! <33

The little cabin sounded like the perfect idea, a couple hours ago. You and Charles had been riding for more than 2 hours, noticing the clouds growing bigger and darker in the afternoon sky. The dry path trodden by your horses’ hooves started being tainted by dark polka dots, and Charles made the call to take a path cutting through the woods. He knew a place, he explained, somewhere uninhabited in ages, where he usually stops to rest when he goes into town. You followed, holding onto your hat for dear life as the wind started to blow harder. Charles was quiet, unshakeable, leading Taima to the hitching post at the back of the house, and silently urging you to hop off your horse.

“Stay here” He muttered, picking his gun from his belt, and sliding a couple of bullets inside. He disappeared behind the house and you stood there, alone, nervously biting your lips as you noticed the first lighting striking right above the hills. The afternoon sky was split in half, and you were standing right in the middle. You prayed for this house to be the promising shelter it looked like from the outside, with the moss covering the stones and the rodents looking at you from the ajar door. At least there was no tree lying on the roof, and it seemed watertight. Another lightning struck the sky, making both of the horses neighing. You step closer to them, trying to calm them down. Taima’s agitation stopped as soon as she spotted Charles in the door frame.

“It’s clear. You can get in.” He said, stepping down. Charles had been thorough with his inspection, careful, like he always does. He checked the whole house silently, every window, every door, from the upper floor area to the hidden cellar. Any places someone could be hidden in, he checked. He wasn’t going to risk your safety.

You smiled as you passed next to him, immediately welcomed by the foul smell of humidity when you crossed the threshold. You coughed looking back at Charles who stood right behind you.

“Ain’t exactly pleasing, but I am sure after we light a fire it will be better” He said, watching as you traced the edge of the mantle with your finger. You blew on the grey dust and frowned.

 “There’s nothing sweeter than the scent of rotten wood anyway” You joked, slowly acclimatizing to the room you’ll probably spend the evening in.

Charles chuckled low at the irony. You pulled out a broken chair from a corner, and sat.

“I better go get some wood before it gets worse out there. I won’t be long” He said, waiting for you to look away from the dirty dishes staining what probably used to be a sink many years ago.

“I’ll be okay. Go.” You agreed, a comforting warmth spreading inside of you as you noticed the concerned way he looked at you. Charles nodded and waited for a beat, before the heavy wooden door started closing carefully behind him.

         Charles let out a heavy sigh once outside. He isn’t really fond of extending his trips unexpectedly, but this time it seemed necessary. The cold wind surprised him as he walked to Taima to grab his machete. He gave her a quick pat on the head, very grateful you rode back earlier to stop there. He doesn’t like brutal weather changes, especially for Taima, he knows it gets her very agitated sometimes, especially after a long trip. The rest was good for everyone.

         The rain started falling hard not even 10 minutes after Charles got deeper into the forest. He had the time to get as many logs as he could, making sure they wouldn’t get soaked in the process. He thought about tracking a rabbit or two, but the escalation of the electric activity got him suddenly worried. Charles retraced his steps, hair and vest dripping from the rain.

He hadn’t even reached the house when he saw it. Your horse was gone. Taima was unhitched and slowly running towards him.

His eyes could never deceive him. His tracking and observation skills have always been unmatched. He had never failed. Never. Not since he was a young child, still learning how to survive in a hostile environment. He had never put anyone in danger either. But today he did. A sense of dread took possession of his body when he realized you were probably in danger. Charles took Taima’s reins and hitched her back to her spot. The loud thunder covered her weak neighs. He didn’t have the time to calm her down. This would have to wait.

He dropped the logs near the doorstep, and decided he needed to thread very carefully. He had no idea how many men were inside, if they were carrying heavy weapons with them… He pulled the machete from behind his back, and approached the side of the house. The sound of plates falling to the ground, followed by a man yelling startled him.

Charles stood there for a minute, trying to peek inside without being seen, and realized he couldn’t see you. He couldn’t hear you either. He crouched to move onto the next window, and saw two men were standing there, each carrying a pistol at their gun belt, but you were still nowhere to be seen. His heart started beating faster when he imagined you being unable to defend yourself, overpowered by the two brutes, your face frozen in fear while they beat you up, or worse. Bile started rising in his throat. He couldn’t let emotions get a hold on him. He needed clarity to try to save you.

Charles had a couple of seconds to figure out how to deal with this. Using his gun now would be too dangerous, especially since he couldn’t see you. One of the men could still be hurting you, what if his sudden appearance was what led him to shoot the final blow? If you were still alive, he couldn’t let that happen. So Charles decided on using the machete. With a neat throw, he could easily hit his first target. That should be enough to put the man down while he would be neutralizing the other one. Charles had to use the surprise at his advantage.

He got closer to the door, and kicked it open violently. The first man turned around abruptly, a curse forming in his throat. But Charles threw the machete his way. The weapon flew through the room, and hit him in the guts.  The force of the blow and the shock made him step back, his hands covering the bloody cut smearing his shirt. The grave clinking sound of the metal falling on the floor accompanied Charles footsteps as he walked further in the room. The second man, the one hoovering above you, turned around and clumsily looked for his gun.

Charles was already aiming at him.

“Don’t even think about it” He warned, slowly bringing the trigger to the wall, ready to shoot him. The man raised both his hands above his head as he faced him, mumbling something about finding an arrangement.

“You won’t come out of this alive, and you better get away from her” Charles urged, nodding to the side, silently instructing him to move next to the window.

A whine coming from behind forced Charles to look away for a moment. The injured robber was crouched in the corner near the mantle, blood fusing from his stomach.

“You ain’t got the guts you bastard”  He shouted at Charles, furiously.

“Oh yeah?” Charles questioned back, smirking. He waited for a single beat, and blindly shot the other man standing near the window, right in the face, rejoicing in the terror flashing in his last opponent’s eyes. The dull thud of the corpse tumbling forward echoed through the room.

“Sir… please.. I got a family” The injured man started pleading as he watched Charles glancing at the dead man coldly.

“Yeah? And why would I care about that?” Charles stated as he put his gun back in his holster.

The man took the opportunity of Charles being distracted to pat his own pockets in search for his hidden knife, and threw it his way. Charles didn’t even budge when the blade hit his thigh. He moved fast, crouching in front of the robber’s body and kicking his gun out of reach. The man looked pale, the wound still bleeding heavily. Charles peered down at him, his face emotionless. The other man kept begging for mercy, whimpering and struggling to breathe.

But mercy comes from the grace of God and good people, mercy is something estranged to men like Charles, men that had been granted by evilness since they learnt how to walk. He only knew how to hurt and punish, how to take lives and watch people expel their last breaths.

Charles pulled the knife out of his thigh, and threw it on the floor. The other man looked at the ridiculous injury, shaking his head in disbelief as he realized the fate awaiting for him.

Mercy had never been in the cards for Charles. He’ll make sure it won’t be in the cards for men like him either.

The silhouette of your limp body laid in front of the sink, finally caught Charles ‘eyes. He had been too afraid to even take a look at you. And his fear was understandable. Your pale blue dress was stained with blood, the upper part completely torn. Your face looked bruised, and Charles ‘breath caught in his chest. He clenched his fist, and stood up, slowly walking to you, cursing himself as he realized that he came in too late. You weren’t moving, he couldn’t notice the rise and fall of your ribcage through the fabric of your clothes. He should have never left.

The sudden sound of something moving on the wooden floor forced him to whip his head around. He knew the other man couldn’t be standing behind him, he wasn’t a threat anymore. And he was right. The weakened body of the coward who dared to assault you was looking for an escape. He was crawling away, smearing his blood everywhere as he drew himself a path towards the door. 

Charles grabbed his leg carelessly, pulling him back to him. The other guy started to cry as he was forced to face the outlaw again.

“What did you do to her?” Charles uttered with a growl.

“Please… Please… You can take all my money.. Just …” The robber said in between sobs.

Charles punched him square in the jaw, not even wincing as his fist collided with the other man’s face, the flesh deforming instantly with the force of the blow. 

“Nothing… nothing” He answered, blood running out of his nose.

“Lie to me again and I’ll make sure you’ll die slowly” Charles’ hand gripped the man’s collar and he shook him.

“I don’t wanna die” He replied, eyes wide.

“Then talk.” Charles said, unclenching his grip.

“We didn’t have the time to do anything… It’s… it’s him” He pointed out to the corpse a few feet away from him. “He just knocked her out, said it would be easier to get what he wanted from her this way… I swear I didn’t do anything to her”

Charles dropped him violently. His ears were ringing. He glanced at you one last time. Your rigid face. The smile he used to see adorning your lips is probably gone, forever.

The sound of the bullet falling in the chamber was the last thing the wounded man heard before his head exploded. Charles wiped the blood splashes off his face with his sleeve and stood up, panting.

“Charles” You whispered, weak and supplicating. Each breath you took hurt your soul. You quickly gave up on the idea of standing up when you felt the whole room turning upside down just from raising your head from the floor. Charles' eyes found yours and you saw his lips moving, as he whispered your name, before the lights turned dark and his silhouette disappeared right in front of you.

The night fell quietly a couple hours ago, but you can’t bring yourself to go to sleep. You barely closed an eye the last few days. You’re sitting by the fire, playing with the fringes of your shawl, listening to the whispers of the flames. The shadow hides most of your wounds and bruises, but you can still feel the pain. Your heart took a blow too, and the man currently standing at the edge of camp seems even further away now.

You glance down at your hands, and brush the dirt off your bandage.

You remember the feeling of Charles' strong hands washing up the dried blood from your face, your arms, your neck.

The stinging sensation followed as he faintly pressed a cloth soaked in rhum against your busted lip, the multiple cuts on your arms, the gash on your forehead.

He avenged you, and brought you back to life.

The storm was raging outside. You fell in and out of consciousness a couple of times, noticing Charles’ shadow seated right by your side. You winced as you sat up, and searched for his eyes in the darkness of the small house. But he never looked at you. You grabbed the tin mug with fresh water he set next to you earlier without a word and gulped it down.

Charles stood up as soon as you were awake and walked away. He took off his jacket and held it in front of the fire he started while you were unconscious. You frowned, surprised by his reaction. You wondered why he wasn’t looking at you, and why this sudden need to wear dry clothes. Charles wasn’t the type to be bothered by this. You’ve seen him ride through the rivers, pants completely soaked, or stand guard for hours underneath the rain, his shirt almost becoming see through. You laid back against the cupboards and the sudden coldness hitting your skin made you freeze instantly. You looked down at your chest, sobs rising in your throat as you finally noticed the state you were in. Your shirt was completely torn, and the top of your dress offered little more coverage. You wondered how the skirt was still hanging on, but somehow it did. You noticed a tiny pin holding most of the fabric together, but the skin of your breasts was showing. This makeshift shirt wouldn’t survive a ride back to camp.

“We can’t stay here” Charles finally stated. You could see his head turning your way slightly. But his eyes stayed focusing on the floor. You shifted, trying to stand up, and he hesitated to run to help you.

“Are you..” Charles started, incapable of pretending not to be concerned. He started walking away from the fireplace.

“I am okay” You coughed, holding your hand in front of you defensively. Charles stopped. You didn’t want him close. Not now that you saw the state you were in. The pin didn’t even resist you standing up. You took leverage on the wooden cabinets as best as you could. Everything hurt, and your balance wasn’t exactly your strongest suit at the moment. You threw up in the old sink, the pain shooting in your ribs and the foul smell of dead bodies too intense for you to handle.

Charles was behind you in one quick motion, his hand resting clumsily above your naked shoulder. He didn’t know if he should touch you. He decided it was best not to. He poured you another mug of water and handed it to you. You thanked him, hiding yourself as best as you could with your arms crossed on your chest.

“Here… It ain’t as dry as I was hoping but…” Charles held out his jacket to you, and turned his head towards the fire while you tried to put it on your back. You whined as you slid your arms into each sleeve, the pain almost unbearable. You closed the buttons up to your neck, grateful for the great coverage the jacket offered. It was large enough to avoid adding pressure to your bruised flesh, and long enough to cover all the blood staining your dress.

Charles put out the fire and held your arm to support you as you walked outside. The rain must have stopped at some point. Stars were shining above you and the wind was blowing gently, like a peaceful summer breeze. It smelled like wet pine needles and burnt wood. If it wasn’t for the corpses silently starting to rot inside the house, the blood drying through the cracks of floor, and the sharp pain torturing your bruising flesh,  you could have been thinking it was all just a bad dream.

Charles helped you up on Taima, and you felt no shame  when you whined in agony as you settled on the horse. Charles wiped his hand across his face, the guilt starting to consume him slowly.

It’s the only thing he thought about the whole ride, as you wrapped your arms around his middle and held onto him. He tried to ride slower than usual, the hissing and moans of pain you let out each time Taima’s speed was too much for you were unbearable the first couple of times. He didn’t have the heart to endure this for 3 hours. He replayed the whole scene in his head again, and again, and realized the shock you must have been in when you woke up the first time and saw him standing there with the dizzying thrill of vengeance and the thirst for blood written all over his face. The fear in your voice when you called out his name the first time… How can you stand being so close to him right now? Charles wished he could ride faster so you wouldn’t have to be in his presence anymore.

It was dawn when the two of you finally returned to camp. The girls were already awake, worried that something happened to you. They rushed by your side as soon as Charles put you down and took you back to your tent. There were questions on the tip of every tongue that morning. But neither you or Charles talked about what happened. And Charles didn’t even bat an eye when Micah commented on your “disheveled appearance” later that day at dinner, implying that of course Charles had to rough you up a little to get what he wanted from you, there was no way you would give yourself to an ugly beast like him. You would have punched him yourself if you could. The girls chimed in and asked him to shut up. Susan walked to Charles to offer him a plate, but he declined, glancing at you for a moment. Your eyes met his, but he quickly looked away. You watched him stand up and grab a rifle. His silhouette stayed planted firmly at the edge of camp for most of the night.  

         Just like tonight. It’s been a couple of weeks now. Charles has barely been around. As soon as he comes back from a score or a hunting trip, he walks as far away from you as possible. And not a single word had been exchanged between you two.

You had been looking for the right words day and night, in vain. You were ashamed, eaten away by the guilt of having been incapable of fending for yourself, of forcing Charles to get into such a display of rage and violence. And you knew Charles was probably afraid of approaching you for this exact reason. This distance growing between you broke your heart. Even though Charles wasn’t the kind of man to chat around a cup of tea, he warmed up to you the past few months. Supply run after supply run, you were looking forward to riding with him to town each week… but now, now you fear that Charles won’t ever ride next to you again. He’s been going with Arthur instead. You know you aren’t exactly in the right shape to help anyone right now but still… It hurts. 

You need to talk to him. 

Standing up on trembling legs, you walk by your tent and stop for a moment. It takes more than a couple of steps for you to get rid of the numb feeling in your muscles. You open the wooden box next to your cot, and take the little handkerchief hidden in there.

         The leaves crumble underneath your boots as you take the path to the edge of camp. There is no point in rehearsing what you want to tell him. You’ll just go with the flow, but the nervousness is gnawing at you. You fidget with the fabric, eyes intensely focusing on Charles' back. He is leaning against a tree, and as you approach, his shoulders start to tense in awareness of your presence. He turns around before you can call his name.

“Good evening” You say, offering him a soft smile.

“Hey” Charles’ face scrunched up in pain unintendedly as his eyes finally set on you, the moon illuminating the fading bruises and scars across your skin.

“Quiet night?” You say, trying to keep your tone light despite the awkwardness.

“Nothing to complain about so far” He replies, letting the butt of his rifle hit the ground in front of him.

The silence sits heavy between the two of you for a long minute, before you find the courage to talk again.

“Can we… Can we talk?” Your expression is tense, and the way you are gripping the side of your dress with your free hand makes Charles nervous, but he nods, letting you cross the tree line and head for the little makeshift camp he seeks refuge in lately. You sit on the chair, and wait for Charles to take place in front of you. You know he won’t ask questions to make your job easier, so you just have to dive in.

“I made this for you” You say, unfolding the handkerchief on your knees, and smoothing the folds neatly, before handing it to him.

Charles’ hand reaches out and he holds the fabric for a moment, caressing it with the pad of his fingers.

“It’s silk” He notices, unfolding it to discover the flowery pattern you embroidered there. There is a dove flying right above the petals too. Charles nods as he traces the outline with his fingers.

“I am not very good at this… But I thought I could try to make it prettier, so it’s not just some random handkerchief. Don’t look at the bird too closely though” You say laughing softly. Charles looks at your face, reddened by the orange hue of the flames. His heart clenches when he notices the way you can’t let your lips stretch along with the lines of your smile. 

“It’s beautiful. Thank you” Charles says sternly, folding the fabric again and hiding it in his pocket.

You feel the moment evaporating quicker than you expected… This gesture is… a pretext, a way to talk to him… But it’s not easy at all to break down the walls that have been building between you.

“I should go back.” Charles says as he stands up.

“Please. Don’t. Let me just… I am trying to find my words Charles but it’s not… I am just trying to understand. Is everything okay? Did I do something wrong?” You finally let out, voice strained with sadness. Tears are already forming in your eyes as you wait for his answer.

Charles is towering over you, staring at the blurry field of canvas standing far behind you. He sits back down, sighing heavily. 

“That’s not…Everything is fine, you did nothing wrong” He replies, but he is avoiding your stare and you know he is just saying this to put an end to this conversation. 

“Charles… Stop lying to me. You haven’t talked to me in two weeks, you don’t even look at me when we cross paths, if we cross paths, cause you haven’t spent more than 2 consecutives nights in camp… I am just trying to understand, if it’s something I said, or did, let me at least apologize…”

Charles says your name. He tries to keep his voice soft, but it comes out as a warning. 

“I don’t like this…” You lose your self control as soon as you hear him. You start crying, but your tears aren’t doing anything to help your case. “Charles, please…We can try to fix this, right? Can you at least look at me?” You insist, the only thing preventing you from dropping to your knees and begging him is the weakness of your body. You might not be bowing down to him, physically, but the vulnerability you are showing right now hits just the same. Charles turns his head towards you and frowns as he notices the sadness on your face. He looks in pain, just from watching the scene you are making right now. 

“Look… I mean it. This has nothing to do with you. And there is nothing to fix. It’s better this way”. 

The shame is now unbearable for you. You wipe your eyes with the sleeves of your dress and stand up quickly. You almost tumble over. Charles’ arm flexes by his side and for a second you think he is gonna prevent you from falling. You thought wrong. 

“Right. Everything is fine. I am sorry for bothering you… I guess… I just wanted to say thank you for rescuing me. For making sure I came back home alive. And I am sorry. About what you had to do to defend me. Now I’ll leave you alone”. You reply, voice hoarse with cries.

Charles watches as you leave, hoping for a moment that maybe you will look back, maybe you’ll run his way and yell at him, and that he’ll find a way to explain this time. But you don’t. Your silhouette fades away behind the tents. He doesn’t go back to his spot immediately, and sits by the fire instead, pondering if he did the right thing or not. He doesn’t even know how to make sense of his own feelings. He remembers the look on your face that day, your eyes slowly opening as he stood there towering over the man he just brutally murdered, the sad expression on your face, the guilt too, for forcing him to do this, to protect you. But that’s his true nature. And Charles is glad you witnessed it. You live in the same violent reality as he does but somehow got spared to be at the first row of such brutality. Because you are a woman. But that’s what he is. That’s what men like him do. He can’t ignore his true nature. And he can’t stomach to see you being afraid of him ever again. Keeping his distance is the only way to protect you both from heartbreak and disappointment. 

The purple hues of dawn are starting to color the sky when Charles hears Javier walking behind him. Without a word, they swap places, and Charles walks silently back to camp. Everyone is still asleep. He needs coffee and a couple hours of sleep, then he will be on his way to the Heartlands. He hasn’t been around the area for a while, it will be nice to clear his mind. As he stops by the coffee pot, he notices you resting on your cot under the willow tree. You’re sleeping, peacefully. Charles can finally enjoy the sight of your face without seeing the fear and sorrow in your eyes. He knows that it probably will hurt for a while, but eventually he’ll breathe better knowing that he spared you the pain of living a life with someone like him by your side.

a/n: thank you so much for reading. Comments and reblogs are always appreciated 🥰

You'll never forget how it felt to look into his big, brown eyes for the first time. In the middle of a shootout, in fear of your life, you sighed in relief.

You had no confirmation that he wasn't the enemy, mind you. It was just... something about him. You felt so comfortable, so safe. He practically wrapped you in his arms and hauled you away, strong muscles protecting you from harm.

Your body felt fuzzy and you snuggled into him on instinct. Pathetic, really.

Unfortunately, others agreed.

For weeks after he took you back to camp, you followed him around like a lost puppy. To be fair, it wasn't that far from the truth.

"Need somethin'?" His deep baritone voice muttered. He didn't ask you that all the time. He understood you. He knew you just needed somebody to hide behind. To feel safe with.

You breathe in, "Oh! uh- erm- Do you?"

He sputters out a breathy chuckle, "Just sit down."

You blush but obey, grateful he's not making fun of you or anything. Thats one reason you lov- cared so much for his friendship. Although... you weren't sure he saw it that way.

You were probably just some annoying little sister that wouldn't leave him alone. He was just too kind, or perhaps too busy, to tell you to leave him be finally.

It's true, the camps gossip was getting to you.

"Got your little chick, mama hen?" Uncle laughed, causing a few snickers from those within earshot.

"Sober up, Uncle. Make yourself useful, like Y/N." Charles' tone was sharp as he said it, like he might've actually cared.

He pushed a knife and rag into your hand, nudging you. He was giving you some easy work. So no one could say anything about you. Your heart warmed at his gesture.

But the day after was worse. Sean, no doubt wasted, wandered over acting like a chicken. Arms akimbo like wings and bawking like a chicken about to lay.

You hid your eyes in embarrassment but looked up in time to see the deathly glare that Charles sent Sean's way. He didn't have to say anything to make the boy back away.

"Grumpy fella' can' even take a joke!" He threw his hands in the air as though you were the strange ones.

You meant to thank Charles, but he was back to his work of cleaning saddles, this time with a frown.

That's it, you really were making things harder for him. In his kindness, he never would've pulled away first. You'd have to bite the bullet, take one for the team.

You didn't sit next to him at the fire to drink your coffee, as you usually did. You didn't follow him from task to task. You went to Grimshaw to ask for chores instead of him. You ate by the girls, sitting on the very hem of the blanket, too afraid to get any closer.

It wasn't the most miserable day of your life, at least. You kept your wandering eyes mainly to yourself, too! You should be proud of yourself.

By day three, your eyes moved of their own accord, watching him chop wood in an unbuttoned shirt, long johns nowhere to be seen. Just him, trousers, and an axe.

Surely, that loose hair is a hazard? You fantasized running your fingers through it, braiding it as he laid in your lap.

"I think it's clean, girly." Abigail said, pointing to the over-scrubbed shirt you were raking over the washboard.

"Oh!" You blinked, "There was a, ahem, stubborn stain..."

"...Right." She smirked.

You sighed obliviously, wringing the shirt out with longing eyes.

Charles' eyes darted over to you as you washed clothes. Bent forward and scrubbing with fervor. He was a respectful man, on the whole, but the angle revealed more of your chest than he'd ever seen. He was grateful for his dark skin, it hid his flush well.

He's man enough to admit that he'd... missed you a bit. He wasn't sure why you weren't with him like usual. Sure, he wants you to get closer to the women. But not at the expense of your time with him. You weren't... avoiding him, right?

He stood, leaning on the handle of the axe, catching his breath.

"Bird left the nest?" Arthur chuckled, pausing next to him with a sack of grain over his shoulder, "Happens to the best of em'. Bet she's glad not to hear them jokes anymore."

He laughed as he walked away, but Charles' eyes widened. Were you embarrassed by what the others had said? He thought that he made it plenty clear he didn't care what they said.

He only shut it down for you.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the loose fabric of his unbuttoned shirt. Your eyes lingered on him until you saw him staring back. You looked back into the wash bin so quickly he was surprised you didn't have whiplash.

So that's how it is.

The next morning he waited around for you to grab your coffee and then followed you to the edge of camp, where you had been awkwardly standing as of late.

"Oh, good morning, Charles." You looked down and tapped the flimsy tin cup with your nail.

"Morning." His voice was raspy with disuse from the night. It sent a shiver down your spine.

"Eh... sleep?" You cleared your throat, "Did you sleep good?"

He smiled, "Yeah. You?"

His smile was contagious. You always mindlessly mimicked it when you saw it, "Mhm. I like this place. The crickets make me sleepy."

Charles reached forward and tucked a stray hair away, behind your ear. He didn't say anything. You felt your heart beat unevenly. Then thud so deeply in your chest you thought you might fall over.

"That's good. I like the crickets too." He smiled softly, sweetly.

You nodded your head, heart eyes staring at him like its the only thing you knew how to do. It kind of felt like that.

"I-I should go ask Grimshaw what she needs." You looked down sheepishly and walked over to her tent.

"I could use your help, if you're up for it."

You didn't expect it, but you turn around anyway, "Oh, really? You're... sure?"

He nodded once, patiently. He was going to get it through your thick skull sooner or later that he liked having you around as much as you did.

"So what do you need?" You sat next to him by the water.

"Need you to braid these real tight." He hands you stripped and dried grass, ready to be turned into bowstrings.

You got to work, happy to be of use to him. He smiled and snuck a look at you now and again. Your focused face charmed him, and he felt himself lean farther into you.

By the end of the day, you felt like he was the one following you. It was simultaneously strange and flattering. What was even stranger is that he kept it up for a few more days.

"Wanna go for a ride?" He said on a particularly warm afternoon.

You shrugged, "You know I haven't got a horse."

He smirked, "Didn't ask if you had a horse. Asked if you wanted to ride."

You blushed and nodded, "Sounds nice."

You were hoisted onto the horse first, Charles climbing behind you. He seemed to know where he was going, hinting at some secluded field he liked. The cool wind whipped around you, making you forget about the heat of summer.

When you arrived, the sun was threatening to set, setting the valley aglow. It was more of a ridge, high on a steep hill, overlooking a vast plain.

"Oh, Charles!" You gasped.

He laughed, "I know. It looks beautiful at this hour." He grabbed you by your waist and pulled you down.

You steadied yourself with your hands on his arm. He made no move to go, but to be fair neither did you. His hands burned into your skin through your dress, forever etching themselves onto your flesh.

He felt the same though, your fingers so much smaller than his, pressing tiny fingerprints into his forearm.

You couldn't handle it any longer, and slid your arms away. He got the hint and let go of you, walking away. He cleared his throat and walked to the edge of the ridge, sitting down.

He held out his hand and you took it, lowering yourself into the grass. A comfortable silence fell for some minutes as you both watched the sun slip away past the horizon.

Then you watched as the moon rose, taking its placing in its milky glory.

"I've gotta say..." You shifted nervously, "I'm a little surprised you asked me to come."

His brows furrowed, "Why?"

"Oh, well... you know..." You laughed and waved your hand dismissively.

"I don't." His expression didn't change.

You curled inward, "I'm just sort of... clingy. Annoying. I know it, it's fine. People joke about it-"

"I thought I told them to stop. Are they still bothering you?"

Your breath hitched, this was not going according to plan, "Well, yeah. It helps that I..."

"Avoided me for days?" He sounded almost... pouty?

You sat straight, "That's not- I wasn't!"

"But you did. You could've told me and I would've shut them up."

You shook your head and looked at your lap, "But they're right, Charles."

His hulking frame shrunk a bit with his slouch, "About what?"

"About me. I... I get in the way and I follow you around. You're just the first person I met so I thought we were friends but I took it too-"

"We are friends. Friends are around each other. I don't see what the issue is." His hand inched toward yours, fingertips brushing, "If you really bothered me, you would've known. Trust me."

His clever smirk made you twist with one of your own, before you bashfully look away.

"I guess..."

His hand fully covered yours, "Stop listening to other people when I'm right here. Listen to... me, instead."

"So you don't mind? When I hang around you?" You picked at your sleeve and hesitantly looked into his eyes. The same brown eyes that captivated you from day one.

"I don't mind." I like it. He wished he could say it but the words died on his tongue. Perhaps he could tell you soon, or maybe you'd understand him anyway. That was one reason he lov- cared so much for your friendship.

"W-Well okay, then. And thank you, for saving me. I know I've said it before, but..."

"Anytime." He leaned over and tucked your hair behind your ear with his free hand, "So I can see your eyes."

Eyes fluttering open, the fog of sleep slowly lifted as thin red numbers glowed through the darkness of your bedroom. Rubbing at your eyes, you squinted toward the alarm clock across the room.

5:48 a.m.

Curled beneath your comforter, a smile tugged at your lips.

After one long stretch, you peeked over your shoulder to find your boyfriend still fast asleep. John’s broad chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm beneath the sheets. He looked so peaceful like this, especially after the night you’d had.

The two of you had gone out drinking with friends and stumbled back to your flat thoroughly intoxicated. Somewhere between getting home and passing out, an argument had broken out over the last peanut butter cookie you’d baked that morning.

Unfortunately for you, John had won.

The disagreement had escalated into a drunken wrestling match in the kitchen, ending with John shoving the entire cookie into his mouth while you tried to pry it from his hands.

You’d been so offended by his lack of generosity that you’d gone to bed with your back to him. John, naturally, found the whole thing hilarious. He’d spent the next ten minutes calling you petty, dramatic, and the prettiest brat he’d ever met.

In response, you’d informed him you would never bake for him again. He dramatically declared that you clearly didn’t love him.

Even now, the memory made you smile. John could be an ass when he was drunk, but you loved him anyway. Quietly slipping from bed, you headed for the shower.

When you emerged a short while later, freshly dressed in light blue jeans and a faded green flannel rolled to your elbows, you peeked back into the bedroom. A grin immediately spread across your face.

For once, you were awake before your military boyfriend. John usually rose with the sun whether he wanted to or not. Seeing him still asleep felt almost unnatural.

Which gave you an idea. A terrible idea.

But at the time, it felt brilliant.

The bedroom remained dim, pale morning light filtering through the open window and casting a soft grey glow across the floorboards. Careful to avoid the ones that creaked, you crept toward the bed.

This would be your revenge for the cookie.

John was sprawled on his back, head tilted slightly to one side and snoring without shame. His beard had grown thicker during leave, giving him the appearance of a lumberjack who’d somehow wandered into military service. His dark hair had grown long enough that he could finally push it back after a shower.

You loved the overgrown look. It somehow made him even more rugged.

Standing beside the bed, you made a decision you would almost immediately regret.

With a squeal, you launched yourself onto him.

The plan was simple: Straddle his waist, grab his scruffy cheeks, kiss him awake.

That was not what happened.

A startled shriek tore from your throat.

Something hard slammed into the side of your face and your world flipped.

One second you were laughing. The next, your face was crushed into the mattress, your arms pinned painfully behind your back. You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t think. Everything had happened too quickly that fear flooded your chest.

“Let go! Let go! Let go!” You kicked and thrashed, your voice cracking. A crushing weight pinning you helplessly into the mattress.

The pressure disappeared instantly.

Heavy footsteps stumbled backward across the room. When you finally lifted your face from the olive green covers, you gasped for air and dramatically looked around. You found John crouched several feet away, looking absolutely horrified.

“Fuck.” The color had drained from his face.

“I didn’t mean to hit you.” His hands hovered helplessly near your face as though he wanted to check for injuries but wasn’t sure if touching you would make things worse.

“Ow.” It was the only word you could manage. Slowly pushing yourself upright, you leaned back on your heels.

Judging by the look on John’s face, whatever had happened wasn’t good. It certainly didn’t feel good. A deep throbbing radiated from just above your left eyebrow, spreading into your temple and down toward your jaw. When your fingertips brushed the area, you winced immediately. The spot was already tender.

“Y-you hit me.” The disbelief in your voice cracked into a sniffle. Almost instantly, tears welled in your eyes.

“I’m so sorry, darling.” John climbed onto the mattress, only to stop himself halfway through reaching for you. His hand hovered uncertainly in the air. The last thing he wanted was for you to feel unsafe around him.

Guilt twisted sharply in his chest. He wanted to explain that you’d startled him. Wanted to tell you it had been pure instinct. But that felt too much like shifting the blame. And John knew from experience that anything resembling blame would either make you defensive or send you retreating into yourself.

“We have to see my dad today!” The panic hit you so suddenly that John physically flinched.

The tears vanished. You scrambled off the bed, nearly tripping over your own feet before stumbling toward the dresser mirror.

“Wait. Are you okay?” John stared after you, suffering a bit of emotional whiplash as you went from nearly crying to frantically inspecting your reflection.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You grabbed your face and groaned. “But you’re not going to be.”

Getting off the bed John stepped closer. The area around your eye was already turning red. A bruise was beginning to form beneath your cheekbone, stretching toward your temple.

His stomach dropped. If he was being honest, he’d hit you pretty hard. You were lucky the sharp edge of his elbow hadn’t split the skin.

“Darling, can I please look at it? I didn’t mean to—”

“I know!” You cut him off immediately.

“Now that I think about it, jumping on my military boyfriend while he’s fresh home from deployment might have been the dumbest idea I’ve ever had. I genuinely don’t know what I was thinking.” The words weren’t really directed at John. They sounded more like a furious lecture aimed at yourself.

John watched you pace back and forth in front of the dresser, muttering under your breath. With a frustrated sigh, he’d finally had enough of your spiraling. Reaching out, he caught your wrist and gently tugged you toward him. The movement startled you enough that your pacing stopped immediately.

Before you could protest, John’s hands settled on your hips. Letting out an involuntary squeak, you found yourself lifted clean off the floor and placed on top of your shared dresser.

Now sitting several inches higher, you were finally closer to eye level. Your face immediately grew warm. John ignored your flustered expression and tilted your chin upward between his thumb and forefinger. His other hand brushed a few loose strands of hair behind your ear as he inspected the damage.

The bruise wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d suspected. The area was swollen and already darkening, but the sharp point of his elbow had missed. He’d caught you with the flatter part of the bone.

All in all it was painful. Embarrassing. But not serious.

Relief settled into his chest. Unfortunately, it was competing with another feeling. Annoyance. You’d seen his nightmares. Seen him wake up swinging before. So why in God’s name had you thought launching yourself onto a sleeping soldier was a good idea?

The woman sitting in front of him was brilliant. The smartest woman John had ever met. Which made this even more baffling.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked.

“Yes.” You groaned and glanced toward the mirror again.

“I still don’t know why I did that.” You huffed.

“Bloody stupid idea if you ask me.” John hadn’t meant to say it out loud but he did. And your head snapped around looking at him in disbelief.

“I’m not stupid.” You insisted, clearly offended. The immediate defensiveness caught him off guard making his brows raise.

“I didn’t call you stupid.” John said matter of factly.

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You literally just did.”

“I said the idea was stupid.”

“Same thing.”

John stared at you.

“No. It isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.”

The argument was escalating so quickly he almost got whiplash. Moments ago you’d been worried he had fractured your face. Now you seemed more upset about a single word.

“It wasn’t your brightest moment.” John corrected.

If he’d sounded even remotely apologetic, you might have let it go. Instead, he sounded irritated.

Your eyes narrowed making John roll his own and go to make the bed in hopes to create some distance.

“You should be nicer to me.” Your tone was snappy as you stared at your boyfriend who was visibly annoyed with you.

“Why?” John asked unamused while tucking the sheets in neatly.

“You hit me.” Sliding off the dresser, you folded your arms and stared at him expectantly.

John returned a deadpan look.

“Right.” Then he went back to making the bed.

In his mind, he was being perfectly reasonable. You, on the other hand, had launched yourself at a sleeping man with military training and unresolved trauma. The bruise felt more like an occupational hazard than an assault.

“Well now my dad’s going to kill you.”

John glanced over his shoulder. Billy was the least of his concerns. Right now it seemed like you’d finish him off first.

“Billy’s a reasonable man.” John sighed.

You laughed, making John frown, blue eyes finally coming up to look at you.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Darling.”

You pointed at the rapidly darkening bruise.

“My dad’s going to see this and immediately assume you beat me.” Your face matched your tone, a subtle nudge for John to stop being an idiot.

“…Right.” For the first time all morning, John looked concerned.

“Just tell him the truth.” John suggested.

“You’re a terrible liar anyway. If he thinks you’re hiding something, it’ll look much worse.” Tossing his hands slightly in the air they fell back down clapping against John’s thighs.

“Maybe we should cancel.” Looking at your self again you grimaced at the bruise.

“No.” John crossed the room and cupped your face again. His expression softened immediately.

“It was an accident.” His thumb brushed gently beneath the bruise.

“You swear you’re okay?” The guilt was back. Heavy, persistent, no longer able to out run that he really did strike you whether it was intentional or not.

You could see it written all over his face. Leaning down, he pressed a feather light kiss against your bruised temple.

“I feel awful.” He whispered.

A small smile tugged at your lips.

“I’m fine. I promise. It hurts a little, but it looks way worse than it feels.” You confessed.

John studied you for another moment before finally nodding. Then his jaw tightened. Determination replaced guilt. Which was a surprise to you.

“I’ll make it up to you.” He stated matter of factly.

You immediately snorted.

“I think you’ll be making it up to my dad.”

——————

“Do I look okay?” you asked.

“Sure.” John didn’t even look at you.

“John.” You poked his shoulder. That finally got his attention.

“I told you at the flat that half a pound of makeup would make it more obvious.” The look he gave you was almost pitying.

You sighed in defeat. Yet again he was right.

“Yeah. I’m starting to think you were right.” You groaned.

“I usually am.”

You rolled your eyes. He could be so smug even in these tense moments. It could be infuriating.

“It’s going to be fine.” Wrapping an arm around your shoulders, John pulled you against his side and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. You nodded still feeling unsure and a strange tightness gripping your chest.

Then John knocked on your father’s front door. A few seconds later it swung open. Revealing a man about John’s height, built like a wall only not as muscular as he was when you were a kid.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up.” Billy stepped aside with a grin, waving the two of you inside.

John entered first, squeezing your hand before letting go. You followed behind making sure to kick your shoes off in the pile by the door that was mostly your father’s. John placed his neatly to the side which made the mess look a little odd.

By the time your shoes were off, your father had already disappeared into the kitchen. He returned carrying two beers, Budweiser to be exact. Your favorite wine sat decanting on the kitchen counter.

Your father’s flat was small. The first room you entered was one long rectangle, the living room. He had a simple leather sofa, coffee table, and a entertainment system with a tv on the opposite wall. 1/3 into the room it turned from hardwood to the kitchen tile. And right before the kitchen to the right was a small hallway that lead to the bathroom and bedroom.

“Glad to be home?” Billy asked, handing a can to John.

“Been nice.” John accepted it with a nod.

“Y/N’s been spoiling me with cooking.” John’s words went from sincere to having a twisted look on his face from how unpleasant he found American beer. Billy snorted out a laugh at John’s expression.

“Smart man.” Taking his beer your dad motioned it towards you.

John glanced at you trying to silently remind you. Tell him now before he had a chance to jump to conclusions. You nodded feeling your heart pound in your chest.

The two of you had already agreed it would be better to explain immediately. Before assumptions could be made. Before your dad noticed.

Taking a breath, you opened your mouth.

“I bet. What’s she been ma—”

Billy stopped mid sentence. His eyes narrowed, fixed on your face. The room suddenly felt very quiet. You knew immediately he’d seen the bruise. Even underneath the makeup, the blueish purple discoloration was impossible to completely hide.

“Dad—”

Two loud thuds echoed through the room. The coffee table scrapping violently across the floor.

“Dad!” You screeched.

Your father had crossed the room so fast you barely registered it. One second he was standing beside the couch. The next, he had John by the front of his shirt. Billy shoved him backward hard enough that he stumbled into the coffee table before colliding with the wall.

The beers hit the floor. Foam exploded across the hardwood some seeping into the old second hand rug your dad thrifted. Your father looked ready to commit a felony. It wouldn’t be his first so you were anxious John was about to be murdered.

John, meanwhile, simply raised both hands. He didn’t fight back. Didn’t even look surprised but like a man ready to descalate the situation.

“Get the fuck out of my house.” Billy’s voice shook, teeth gritted, eyebrows knit together. This wasn’t fear for his daughter’s safety but pure white hot rage.

“Dad, stop!” You grabbed at his arm.

“Can I at least explain?” You begged.

“Explain what?” Billy barked. “Explain why he hit you?”

“It was an accident,” John said calmly which made Billy laugh. The sound was entirely humorless.

“Oh, I bet it was.” He said incredulously. “And I’ll make what I do to you look like an accident.” He growled in John’s face.

“I jumped on him while he was sleeping!” You shouted. That finally got his attention. The room fell silent once again.

“I thought it’d be funny. I scared him and he accidentally caught me with his elbow.” Billy looked between you and John. Trying to decide if he believed it. John’s expression wasn’t helping your case.

He looked profoundly disappointed. Finally, Billy released his grip. Though not before shoving John back into the wall one last time. Then he turned toward you.

“What were you thinking?” He snapped, his focus now on you.

You froze.

“A sleeping soldier fresh home from deployment?” Billy continued. “One you’ve watched wake up from nightmares before?” The disappointment in his voice somehow hurt more than the shouting. And John stood there wondering how much you shared about him with your father.

“What did you think was going to happen?” He demanded.

“I wasn’t thinking.” The answer came out small and somewhat frantic. Billy let out a sharp breath through his nose.

“Exactly.” He scoffed.

You immediately looked away. Because you already knew what was coming. The same question he’d asked a hundred times growing up.

“And what do we call people who don’t think?” Billy asked.

Eyes fixed on the floor you watched the beer leak from the red and white can. You couldn’t ignore the heat that crept up your neck.

“Stupid.” The word barely left your lips.

And for the first time all day, John understood.

The argument from earlier. Your defensiveness. The way you’d reacted when he called the idea of you jumping on him stupid.

He’d thought you were being stubborn like he knew you could be. Instead, he’d accidentally stepped on a bruise far older than the one on your face.

“Oi.” John stepped forward.

“It was an accident.” His hand settled against your back. A small protective gesture. Billy’s attention immediately shifted toward him.

“Yeah. And you still hit her.” John rubbed the back of his neck.

Fair point.

“How exactly do you plan on making that up?” The question rung through the air, a beat of silence following it.

“What?” John asked dumbfound.

“Better spoil her dumb ass rotten.” Billy pointed a finger at him.

“I’m talking flowers. Dinner. Jewelry. Empty your damn wallet.” Your dad barked at John.

Despite everything, John could only blink completely caught off guard.

“You serious?” He asked almost tripping over his words.

“Dead serious.” Billy threw his hands into the air and turned away. Clearly too angry to decide whether he wanted to yell more or lock himself in another room. Walking away and down the hall you and John both stood there stunned.

“And clean up the beer!” A door slammed somewhere deeper in the flat.

Silence followed. A longer silence than normal, as you watched the foam of the beer on the floor fizzle. John looked down at you, who was clearly disassociating.

“You’re not stupid.” John spoke quietly but sternly as if to make sure Billy didn’t hear him.

You bent to pick up an empty can. Ready to rinse them out and clean up the mess like your father had just ordered you both to do.

“Yeah, I know.” The lie wasn’t particularly convincing. John caught your elbow before you could pick up the cans.

“You.” John’s voice softened. Avoiding his gaze your name fell from John’s lips as an attempt to get you to look him in the eyes. Reluctantly, you looked up.

“You’re not stupid.” Something in his expression made your chest tighten. His crystal blue eyes speaking to you in a way you didn’t know you needed.

“It was an accident. A bad idea, sure. But you’re not stupid.” John continued.

You stared at him. For a moment, you felt like a little girl again. Like he wasn’t talking to the woman standing in front of him. As if he was trying to convince a little girl who’d spent years hearing otherwise.

Eventually, you nodded. Trying to ignore the swelling pain behind your eyes from suppressed tears.

“Yeah.” This time you almost believed it.

“I’m sorry he grabbed you.” John chuckled darkly at your apology, an attempt to get him to stop comforting a clearly sensitive scabbed over wound.

“Honestly? Thought he was about to swing.”

“Me too.” You laughed with no humor.

“I don’t blame him.” John shrugged, his hand rubbing your shoulder lovingly. You couldn’t hide the frown that took over your pretty lips. John’s head tilted slightly and he placed a kiss to the top of your head before hugging you close to his chest.

“If some bloke put a bruise on our daughter, I’d probably react worse.” The words left his mouth before he seemed to realize what he’d said.

Both of you froze. Yet another beat of silence filling the small flat.

“Our daughter?” you repeated breathlessly.

John immediately looked horrified.

“You know.” He cleared his throat “Hypothetically.” John rubbed the back of his neck and shifted a step backwards.

A grin spread across your face. A dangerous one. The type John saw right before you geared up to tease him.

“Oh no.” He groaned.

“Oh yes.” You giggled.

“What?”

“You like me.” You spoke proudly.

John rolled his eyes. Unable to hide the laugh, one of those bashful ones that rumbled from his chest.

“Yeah. Some might even say I love you.” The humor was still there but you could see in his eyes he meant it.

“Some might.” You agreed.

“I love you.” And there he was. Your charming, larger than life, man. Your grin softened instantly. No teasing was needed you just wanted to let this warmth take over and chase away the shame that was trying to cling to your heart.

“I love you too.”

John leaned down and kissed your forehead again, bringing you back into his rugged chest.

“Now let’s clean up these beers before your father comes back and finishes the job.” John shooed you toward the kitchen.

“Fair.” You grabbed a towel from the kitchen while John picked up the now empty cans.

“Then we can order food and watch a movie while he broods.” You suggested.

“I’ll handle the spilt beer.” John took the towel from you. His fingers lingering a second longer against the back of your hand, eyes glancing at your left ring finger that laid bare.

“You order the food, darling.”

~~~~~tag list~~~~~

Joyce stepped into the hallway, smiling warmly, but then paused when Dmitri stepped in behind Hopper, quiet and cautious. Just behind Joyce, she appeared. She had been helping Joyce unpack the groceries for the dinner, sleeves rolled up, hair messy in a way that was definitely not intentional but very distracting.  She froze for a beat, her eyes locking on Dmitri, who froze as well. Something in her brain glitched. 

Oh.

Oh.

She had never had a type, not until now. No man had ever interested her enough to progress further than small-talk or platonic relationship, but this stranger who had just stepped inside the house made her brain and body function in a completely new way. He hadn’t even said a word to her yet, but she could tell this man was nothing like the men she had previously met.

Dmitri offered a stiff nod. “Hello,” he said gently, in that deep accented voice that hit her like a punch to the lungs. 

Hopper opened his mouth to speak, but no one heard him because—

“Oh,” she breathed out louder than intended, but slow like she had just discovered the concept of attraction for the first time. “Hello, there.” She smiled, but not her usual, polite and mild smile. A slow and warm, flirty-as-hell smile she had literally never used on another human being. She looked at him from head to toe and stepped a little closer than necessary. “So, you must be Enzo.”

Dmitri swallowed, feeling the urge to take a step back just by the look in her eyes but stayed still on his spot. “My name is Dmitri, actually.”

“Mm,” she hummed, smiling. “I like both.”

Hopper could only stare and so did Joyce, both of their jaws dropped. Dmitri, for his part, stood with a posture that suggested he was ready to be interrogated, arrested or tackled, but not flirted with. His confusion deepened when her chin tilted, confidence radiating off her in a way none of them had ever seen before.

She extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Dmitri.”

He hesitated, then reached for her hand. She didn’t shake it, but held it. Warm, firm, lingering just long enough for him to temporarily forget English.

“I, ah, yes. Is… nice,” he managed to stutter.

Hopper kept watching her as if she had been replaced by an alien. She, who had turned down every date, ignored every flirty remark, rolled her eyes at every man who had tried to charm her, were now looking at Dmitri with unmistakable interest. She stepped again a little closer, while Dmitri stepped back instinctively, bumping into a coat rack.

“Do you always retreat,” she asked lightly, “or am I special?”

Dmitri blinked rapidly. “I, I do not know how to answer that.”

Joyce clapped a hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh at the situation and Dmitri’s awkwardness. Hopper dragged a hand down his face.

She finally released Dmitri’s hand, only to angle herself just slightly into his space again. Hopper and Joyce were trying to process what they had just witnessed. The girl who had never so much as smiled at a man in a suggestive way, was now leaning casually toward Dmitri Antonov, who was standing as rigid as a soldier on parade.

Hopper pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ve seen a lot in my life,” he muttered to Joyce, “but I swear, this… this is a miracle.”

Joyce nodded solemnly. “I think we just witnessed the impossible.”

Meanwhile, Dmitri’s carefully maintained Russian composure had completely collapsed. He opened his mouth to respond and froze again, caught in the thrill of being openly flirted with for the first time in a very, very long time.

She tilted her head and smiled at him, utterly confident and completely fearless. “You know,” she said, letting her voice drop to a teasing whisper, “I wasn’t expecting you to be so… handsome.”

Dmitri’s cheeks turned red. “I… I am flattered,” he stuttered.

Hopper groaned. “This is worse than any hostage situation.”

Joyce leaned on Hopper’s shoulder, whispering, “He’s so obviously nervous.”

“So,” she continued with an air of casual seduction, “how long are you staying?”

“I, I do not know yet,” he replied, still flustered, still not breathing normally.

“Well,” she said with a dazzling smile, “I hope it’s long enough for us to get to know each other.”

“Hoooly shit,” Hopper muttered. 

Joyce elbowed him sharply but didn’t deny it. Dmitri stared at her like she was something dangerous, but intriguing. Very intriguing.

“I… suppose that could be… nice?” he replied cautiously, like any word of his could trigger a bomb.

She stepped back at last, giving Dmitri a playful wink before disappearing into the kitchen again, leaving him looking like he had just survived a natural disaster. Only when she was out of sight did Dmitri exhale, rubbing the back of his neck.

“She…” A pink tint had spread on his cheeks, as he looked helplessly at Hopper. “Is she always like that?”

Hopper snorted. “No. Never, not once. What the hell did you do?”

“I did nothing!” Dmitri protested. 

Joyce beamed. “Well, Dmitri… welcome to America.”

—

A little while later, Dmitri approached Hopper in private.

“Jim,” Dmitri whispered.

Hopper sighed. “What’s up?”

Dmitri glanced toward the kitchen where she was talking to Joyce, laughing at something. Every time she laughed, Dmitri’s eyes flicked toward her like he couldn’t help it. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, flustered red already.

“Jim,” he repeated, lower. “I need… explanation.”

“About what?”

Dmitri pointed vaguely in her direction, whispering like he was discussing nuclear codes. “She talks to me,” he started. “In… way.”

Hopper narrowed his eyes. “A way?”

“Yes.” Dmitri nodded urgently. “Way.” He gestured wildly with his hands, then gave up. “I do not understand this way.”

“What way?”

Dmitri leaned forward, he was dead serious. “The way where my face gets hot.” Hopper let out a laugh before he could stop himself, but Dmitri just scowled. “I am serious, Jim.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, sorry,” Hopper muttered, rubbing his mouth to hide a grin. “So you’re saying, she flusters you.”

“Yes!” Dmitri hissed. “She says things, looks at me like…” He searched for the word in English, and his jaw tightened in frustration.

Hopper helped. “Like she was interested?”

“Yes,” he said stiffly.

“And that bothers you?” Hopper asked carefully.

Dmitri opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “I do not know,” he admitted. “She is very… Pretty.”

Hopper tried very hard not to laugh because Dmitri looked like saying that word physically pained him.

“Okay,” Hopper said slowly. “So you don’t dislike it.”

“I did not say that!” Dmitri blurted.

“Then what are you saying?” 

Dmitri dragged a hand down his face. “Jim… I have not flirted. Since before prison. Before—“ He stopped, swallowing hard. “Long time.” Hopper softened. Dmitri’s voice lowered even more, almost embarrassed. “And she looks at me like… like she knows what she is doing. Like she wants me to look back, and I do not know if I should.” He avoided Hopper’s eyes. “I do not want to insult her.”

Hopper raised his eyebrows. “So, you want to know if she’s actually flirting.”

“Yes.”

“And what you’re supposed to do.”

Dmitri groaned. “Da.”

Hopper chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, keep in mind: she has never flirted with ANY guy in Hawkins, ever. Not one.”

Dmitri’s head snapped up. “No one?”

“Nope.”

Dmitri’s entire expression changed. Surprise first, then something else. Something warmer, something he tried to hide.

Hopper lowered his voice. “So if she’s flirting with you, she means it.”

Dmitri went stock-still, breath caught and eyes wide. “Jim,” he said very quietly. “I do not think anyone has meant something like that to me in long time.”

Hopper softened again. “Hey.” He nudged him. “You don’t have to rush anything. Just, be yourself. You’re a good guy.”

Dmitri let out a long breath, like he had been holding the air in his lungs since he left Russia. Then he looked toward the kitchen where she was smiling at Joyce, but Dmitri wasn’t close enough to hear what they were talking about.

Dmitri’s voice was almost a whisper when he muttered again, “She is very… pretty.”

Hopper laughed quietly and shook his head.

Dmitri furrowed his eyebrows. “What’s funny?”

“It just,” Hopper chuckled. “Dmitri, you survived a Russian prison. The KGB. You fought the monster that ate everyone else in the prison.”

Dmitri straightened. “Yes. That is correct.”

Hopper raised one finger. “And she, SHE makes you nervous. By just existing. By talking. Just by being pretty. She hasn’t even touched you yet. And you, someone who’s faced death and the KGB, are practically melting like a popsicle.”

Dmitri exhaled shakily, hands clenching.

“Antonov, you need to relax. Be yourself. She likes you, alright? You don’t have to fight monster or survive interrogations to impress her. You just… exist around her and somehow that’s terrifying to you.”

Dmitri looked back into her and Joyce’s way. 

“The prison, it did not have women there,” Dmitri tried to defend himself. “I am not used to something like this.”

“You’ll learn,” Hopper smirked.

Meanwhile, she found herself in the kitchen with Joyce, helping clean up, but Joyce had clearly been itching to talk.

“So,” Joyce began, drying a plate and giving her a sidelong glance, “you’re… flirting with him.”

She raised an eyebrow, loading the dishwasher casually. “Am I?”

Joyce put the plate down and leaned against the counter, folding her arms. “Let me remind you of some of the guy who’ve been… very much into you over the years.”

Her, curious despite herself, leaned in slightly. “Alright, list them.”

Joyce’s eyes sparkled as she recounted: “There was that firefighter, very handsome, anyone would have died to get his attention. He asked you out and you were like, ‘no thanks but we can be friends’. He was shredded, by the way.” She let out a laugh at the memory, but Joyce continued seriously, “And the one who used to volunteer at the animal shelter, always flexing his… well, you know.” Joyce lowered her voice for dramatic effect. “And don’t even get me started on the cute neighbor with the dog, he practically tried to move in just to see you more.”

Her lips twitched into a small smile. “Okay, yeah, I remember them. And?”

“And now,” Joyce continued, shaking her head slightly in disbelief, “you’re flirting with him. The man Hopper dragged out of a Russian prison. And you just, you just swoop in right at the doorstep?”

She leaned against the counter, folding her arms, and gave Joyce a shrug. “Alright, I guess that sounds a little strange when you put it at way.”

“Is it the accent? Or the brooding ex-prisoner thing?”

She laughed quietly.

“I’ve known you for a long time. I’ve never seen you act like this. Not with anyone," Joyce said, but the expression on her face softened.

She thought about it for a moment, really tried to think, until turned back to Joyce. “Well. Maybe I just like staying unpredictable.”

—

A while later, the room had settled into a tense sort of silence, Dmitri still recovering from the last onslaught of her unexpected charm. Hopper and Joyce were pretending to look busy, badly, while absolutely eavesdropping. She tapped her fingers against the table, studying Dmitri like she was weighing a choice. Then, with her usual lack of hesitation, she stepped right into his personal space.

“Dmitri,” she called calmly.

“Yes?” He straightened instantly, as if she had barked a military order.

She held his gaze, steady and unflinching. “Do you have a woman in your life?”

Hopper choked on absolutely nothing. Joyce slapped a hand over her mouth. 

Dmitri, for his part, went absolutely rigid. “I… what?”

She arched a brow. “It’s a simple question.”

“I… I do not… No. No woman.” He cleared his throat violently. “I mean, I am not with… no.” Every sentence ended in defeat.

She smiled, satisfied, almost triumphant. “Good.”

Dmitri blinked rapidly, almost offended. “Good?” he echoed, voice unintentionally soft.

She nodded, leaning her hip against the table like she had all the time in the world. “Yes. Good.” Then, without mercy, “I’d hate to think I was wasting my time.”

Dmitri’s mouth opened and closed twice like he was trying to reboot. “Wasting… your time?” His accent thickened noticeably.

"Mhm," she hummed, looking very pleased at herself.

Joyce whispered to Hopper, “Is she interrogating him or flirting with him?”

“I don’t know. Both?” Hopper whispered back. “God help the man.”

Dmitri had spent at least half an hour practicing words in his head. How did people flirt with each other these days? She was younger than him, quite a lot if he had to estimate, so were there differences to flirting compared to young and old? Was American flirting different than Russian? He couldn’t steal her lines she had used on him.

You look nice. Your hair is pretty. Simple. Not dramatic. Not too forward. American flirting, easy.

Except it wasn’t. Because when she looked at him now, really looked directly into his eyes, Dmitri’s brain simply stopped working. She had teased him, brilliantly and effortlessly. Dmitri decided now was the moment to flirt back. Just tell her what you have practiced, he thought. Compliment her hair, simple. Say the line. He opened his mouth, and the line instantly evaporated.

“You…” he started, then paused, searching for anything in the English language. “You are… having hair today.”

She lifted her brows, a little taken aback. “What?”

Dmitri froze. Hopper, from the other side of the room, choked on his coffee. Joyce whispered, “Oh no.”

But Dmitri forced himself to continue, refusing to abort the mission. “It is…” He gestured awkwardly around her hair. “You hair is being very… there.”

She stared. Confused, amused and concerned all at once.

He tried again, starting to panic. “It is nice. I am saying it is nice hair.”

Joyce covered her mouth. Hopper muttered, “Jesus Christ, man.”

She, however, began to grin, delighted and eyes sparkling. “My hair is… being very there, huh?”

Dmitri swallowed. “Da.”

She stepped closer. “You trying to flirt with me, Dmitri Antonov?”

He went still, very still. His voice dropped half an octave. “Maybe.”

She took a slow sip of her coffee, eyes locked on him, savoring every fraction of his fluster. “Well,” she murmured, “you can keep practicing on me.” She leaned in just a little. “And next time, maybe try telling me what you really noticed.”

Dmitri swallowed hard. “What I… really noticed?”

She smiled like she already knew his answer. “Yes.”

He stared at her, heart thundering, Hopper mouthing say something, Joyce mouthing not the hair again. And then, somehow, Dmitri found the courage Hopper swore he had:

“You look…” he said, sincerity overtaking panic, “beautiful.”

She was the one to freeze this time. Her lips parted, her breath caught and her cheeks flushed.

Dmitri instantly panicked again. “I mean, good. Not beautiful. Well, yes, beautiful, but not—“

She laughed, warm and touched, and stepped even closer. 

“Dmitri,” she murmured, “stop while you’re adorably ahead.”

His cheeks went pink.

Hopper muttered, “Dear God, it actually worked.”

Joyce elbowed him. “Shh, let him have this.”

“Maybe later… you tell me how to flirt more in American,” Dmitri suggested.

She grinned slowly. “Gladly.”

Dmitri Antonov, for the first time being in America, realized that flirting might actually be survivable.

—

Dmitri was minding his own business, sitting at the kitchen table, quietly drinking tea, doing absolutely nothing wrong, when he felt a heavy hand slap on his shoulder. He almost jumped out of his skin. Hopper stood behind him, looking like a man who had rehearsed a speech in the mirror and hated every second of it.

“Walk with me.”

Dmitri froze. “Why?”

Hopper narrowed his eyes. “Because I said so.”

Dmitri stood immediately. Nobody would dare to disobey Jim Hopper when he used that tone. Hopper lead him out to the driveway. Hands in pockets, jaw tight, silence heavy as a brick. Dmitri swallowed, feeling like he was suddenly in trouble.

“You are… angry?” he asked carefully.

“No,” Hopper denied, but the tone of his voice very much meant: Yes. Very. Dmitri straightened, ready for interrogation. Hopper sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered: “Jesus, I hate this part.”

“What part?”

“The part where I have to give you the ‘talk’.”

Dmitri tensed so hard he could snap.

“Oh god,” Hopper muttered, kicking a pebble. “Okay. Look.” He turned to Dmitri, serious and solid as a wall. “I have known her for almost ten years.” Dmitri nodded respectfully. “She’s family. Basically a little sister.” Another nod. “And if you,“ Hopper pointed a thick finger at him, “hurt her, I swear to God, I will put your ass on the first plane straight back to Russia.”

Dmitri stiffened and his eyes widened. He was very sure Hopper could make good on that threat. 

“I understand,” he said quietly. “I would never hurt her.”

Hopper grunted. “Yeah? Well, you seem like a good guy. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” 

Hopper shrugged. “You were in a Russian prison when I met you. Hard to ignore.” Dmitri winced. Fair. Hopper stepped closer, voice low and honest. “She’s been through a lot. More than most people her age ever should, and she hasn’t… really dated. Not seriously. So if she’s looking at you like that and you’re looking back? Then this isn’t something casual. Understand?”

Dmitri nodded once, firmly. “Yes.”

Hopper stared at him for a moment, as if weighing him, measuring his soul. Dmitri kept steady, until finally Hopper sighed.

“Good. Because she’s important to me, and if you treat her right, I won’t… you know…”

“Kick me back to Russia?” Dmitri offered.

Hopper smirked. “Exactly.” There was a long pause. “Alright, I’m done threatening you. Let’s go back inside.”

Dmitri exhaled, relieved. Then Hopper clapped his enormous hand on Dmitri’s back so hard he stumbled.

“And Antonov?” Hopper added. 

“Yes?”

“I’ll be watching.”

Dmitri nodded quickly. “Yes. I know.”

—

For a moment, the room was quiet. Just Dmitri standing there trying to remember how lungs functioned, her watching him with that warm, wicked smile, and Hopper and Joyce pretending to reorganize papers while obviously eavesdropping. She turned back to her notes, humming softly, clearly pleased with the direction things had gone. Dmitri swallowed hard. His heart was pounding, but beneath the nerves he felt something else, something steady, something brave.

She liked it. She liked me.

He felt the courage crackle again, the same reckless surge that had pushed him to flirt back. Before he could think better of it, before caution could reclaim him, he stepped closer and called for her name, voice low and careful.

She looked up, eyebrows lifting. “Yes?”

Dmitri hesitated. Every instinct from a lifetime of discipline and restraint screamed at him to stay silent, to be safe, to avoid vulnerability. But then she smiled at him, soft and hopeful, and suddenly he found his words.

“I wish to ask you something,” he began, posture straight, shoulders squared like he was delivering a military report.

Her eyes sparkled with interest. “Go on.”

Dmitri inhaled through his nose, slow and steady. “Would you…” He paused, recalibrating. “…like to have dinner with me?”

She froze. Joyce dropped a pen. Hopper looked like he’d been slapped by God. 

“What?” she asked, shocked but in the best way. “Dinner? With you?”

“Yes,” Dmitri confirmed, forcing himself not to flinch. “Even though you have caused me more stress tonight than KGB or anything I experienced in Russia, I would like to take you to a restaurant or somewhere nice. I thought… it might be something you would enjoy.”

A beat. Then another. She approached him slowly, cautiously, like she was afraid he might disappear if she moved too fast.

“Dmitri,” she said softly, “are you really asking me out?”

He met her gaze with surprising steadiness. “Yes.”

Her expression melted into something warm, touched and genuinely flattered. 

“You,” she whispered, laying a hand gently on his chest, “are full of surprises.”

This time, Dmitri didn’t freeze. He placed his hand carefully over hers, fingers brushing lightly, his voice steady as he said: “I am trying to surprise you in good ways.”

Her smile grew brighter. “You are.”

“So…?” Dmitri asked, a hint of fear slipping into his tone. “Do you accept?”

She didn’t answer with words. She rose onto her toes, leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek, just beside the corner of his mouth, making Dmitri stop breathing entirely.

When she pulled back, she whispered, “Yes. I’d love to go to dinner with you.”

Dmitri stood frozen, hand on his cheek like he couldn’t believe what had happened. “You said yes,” he murmured. 

“I did,” she teased. “And Dmitri?”

“Yes?”

“You can surprise me like that anytime.”

“And your chest, er- your heartbeat, skin to skin— your baby wants to feel that closeness of a mother.”

There’s a sigh that erruppts from John’s lips, he’s trying here, obviously, but he can’t be— he won’t be able to be a mother- “That’s it again, you’re over thinking it. Just let the baby feel you’re there, stop being scared and hold ‘em close.” You whisper.

You begin to lift the baby off your chest, but John is quickly beside you, pressing the baby back into you as you sat on the chair, “They’ve just gone to sleep!”

You scuff, “And this is your child you have to learn to raise! Put your big girl pants on and man up!” You carefully lift the sleeping baby off of your chest, cause the baby to whimper out, already opening its mouth to wail again, but John quickly takes the little thing, pressing him right to his heart as you said.

No tears

The little thing, let’s put an adorable yawn, snuggling in close to the steady heartbeat of their father.

“And there you have it,” you grunt as you push off your knees, walking to the entry way to slip on your crocs, “I’m like the fuckin baby whisperer or some shit. Baby boss type shit.” Your mumble deliriously.

“Um-“ John clears his throat, rubbing the babies back in a circular motion as you once did, “Thank you, really it means a lot t’ me, well— us.”

You shrug, “‘S what neighbors are for, right?” You give him a small smile, before waving goodbye, softly shutting the door behind you.

and New Dad!John finally was able to sleep for a couple hours in a long time, dream filled with the baby and your soft coos.

You turned in his embrace, knees drawn up, hands framing his face so he could not look away. “Tell me,” you whispered. “All of them. I carried your silence for years, Erwin. Let me carry this now.”

His eyes (those storm-blue eyes that had once commanded armies) filled with unshed tears. He caught one of your wrists and pressed a kiss to the pulse there, as though anchoring himself to the living proof that you were real.

“First,” he began, voice cracking like old parchment, “I regret every dawn I left our bed before the sun touched your skin. I would rise while you still slept, kiss your forehead like a coward, and walk into the cold with nothing but my dream. I told myself it was duty. But it was fear... fear that if I stayed, if I let myself love you the way you deserved, the dream would crack. That I would choose you over humanity. And I did choose… every single time. I chose the Walls. I chose the basement. I chose a world that would never know your name the way I did.”

You felt the tremor in his shoulders. “Erwin…”

“No, let me finish, love. I watched you from the dark after I fell on that hill. I watched you fold my coat beneath your pillow and speak to it like it could answer. I watched you stand where I once stood and shout ‘dedicate your hearts’ with my voice in your throat and my absence in your eyes. And the worst regret, the one that still burns, is that I never told you how proud I was. How you were never my shadow. You were the light I had no right to keep.” His thumb traced the line of your jaw, trembling. “I regret not giving you children. Not building a house where we could grow old without counting every sunrise like it might be the last. I stole those years from you. From us.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks, but you did not wipe them away. Instead you leaned in, forehead against his, breathing the same air he had been denied for so long.

“You gave me something better than children or houses,” you answered, voice soft yet fierce. “You gave me a purpose. You gave me a love so vast it outlived both our bodies. But tell me the rest, I can feel them still inside you.”

Erwin closed his eyes, a broken sound escaping him.

“I regret Levi. I regret every order that sent him into hell wearing my name like armor. I regret Hange’s laughter turning hollow because I was not there to share the weight. I regret every soldier whose blood painted the grass because I believed the truth was worth more than their lives. In the end… the basement was just stone and paper. But you were flesh and heartbeat and the only heaven I ever truly wanted. And I left you to face the Rumbling alone.”

He pulled you closer, burying his face in your neck, voice muffled against your skin. “I saw it all, my love. I saw you lose your arm and keep swinging. I saw you charge when there was nothing left to charge for. And I screamed into the void with no voice: begging you to live, begging you to come home, cursing myself for every time I taught you that sacrifice was noble. I regret teaching you to die for a dream when I should have taught you to live for us.”

Your fingers slid into his hair, holding him as he had once held entire legions together with nothing but belief.

“I regret nothing of what I learned from you. Not one drop of blood. Not one night alone. Because every scar I earned led me here. To your arms, to this hill where no Titan can reach us. You think you stole years from me? You gave me eternity instead.”

He lifted his head, eyes raw and shining. “You would forgive me even that?”

“I already have,” you said, smiling through tears. “A thousand times over. In every memory I kept of you. In every order I gave in your name. In every prayer I whispered to the empty side of the bed.”

Erwin’s hands framed your face again, reverent, desperate. “Then let this be my last regret,” he whispered, voice breaking open like dawn after endless night. “That I waited until death to tell you how completely I belong to you. Not to the dream. Not to the Corps. Only to you; my wife, my anchor, my everything.”

He kissed you then. Slow, aching, endless. A kiss that tasted of every unsaid word, every stolen dawn, every tear shed in separate afterlives. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath mingling like two souls finally learning how to share the same sky.

“No more regrets,” he vowed, voice steady for the first time since the light had found you both. “Only this: you and me, beneath this tree, for as long as forever lasts. I will spend every second proving the man who left you was a fool… and the man who holds you now will never let go again.”

You curled into his chest, imagining heartbeat that had crossed death itself to find you.

“Forever,” you echoed, the word soft as a promise sealed in starlight.

And beneath the silver oak, with the meadow stretching into eternity and the Rumbling nothing more than a fading scar on the horizon, Erwin finally laid down the last of his burdens.

Not in surrender.

In love.

A shadow loomed, another wall of heat and meat and you launched anyway. One last swing. One last cut at the nape that would do nothing, change nothing. The Titan barely noticed. Its hand swept sideways like swatting a fly.

You felt the impact more than heard it. Bone gave way. The world flipped. Sky, steam, earth, sky again. Then nothing but the ringing silence inside your skull as you hit the ground hard enough to bounce.

Lying there, staring up at the red sky choked with smoke and falling embers, you thought as calm as ever that this was almost peaceful.

Levi would curse you later, wherever he was. Hange would laugh through tears and call it heroic stupidity.

You wanted to tell them it wasn't pointless.

You wanted to say that every swing, every order, every night you stared at the empty side of the bed and still got up at dawn… it had meant something. Even if the world drowned anyway.

But mostly you wanted to see Erwin one more time.

Not the Commander. Not the strategist carrying every death like stones in his coat. Just your Erwin. The man who once traced the line of your jaw with careful fingers and whispered your name like a secret he was afraid someone would steal. The man who smiled, really smiled, to you only when no one else was looking.

The light came slowly, not blinding like the stories said, but soft, golden and warm, like morning sun spilling through the Survey Corps mess hall windows on a rare quiet day.

You felt whole again before you even opened your eyes. No pain. No missing arm. No blood in your mouth. Just the steady beat of a heart that hadn’t known peace in years.

And then you saw him.

Erwin stood at the edge of a wide, endless field of pale grass that swayed without wind. The sky above was the impossible blue of a summer noon, cloudless, endless. He wore no cloak, no uniform, no weight of command. Just a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, both of his arms there, blond hair catching the light the way it used to when he bent over maps late at night and forgot the world existed outside the two of you.

He turned at the sound of your footsteps and the smile that broke across his face was so unguarded, so utterly his, that your knees nearly gave out.

You didn’t think. You ran.

Boots that weren’t boots anymore carried you faster than ODM gear ever could. The distance between you vanished in heartbeats. He opened his arms without hesitation, steady as ever, and you crashed into him like a wave finally finding shore.

His arms closed around you, strong and warm, impossibly real. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair; the other pressed between your shoulder blades, holding you so close you could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest.

“You’re here,” he murmured against your temple, voice rough with something that sounded dangerously close to tears. “You’re finally here.”

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in: clean linen, old books, the faint cedar-and-steel scent that had always clung to him no matter how many expeditions passed. Your arms wound tight around his waist as if letting go might make this disappear.

“I looked for you,” you whispered, the words trembling. “I kept looking even when I knew you weren’t coming back.”

“I know.” His thumb brushed slow, soothing circles at the nape of your neck. “I watched. Every time you stood up when the rest of us were already broken.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, blue eyes softer than you’d ever seen them, finally at rest. “You carried it all so beautifully, my love. You carried us.”

A sob caught in your throat. “I didn’t want to. I just… I didn’t know how to stop.”

“You didn’t have to stop.” He cupped your face in both hands, thumbs tracing the lines of your cheekbones like he was memorizing you all over again. “You fought until there was nothing left to fight. And then you came home to me.”

Home.

The word landed like sunlight after years of storm.

You reached up, fingers trembling, and touched his jaw, his cheek, the familiar shape of his mouth.

“I missed you,” you said, voice cracking open. “I missed you so much it felt like dying every morning.”

“I missed you too.” He leaned down, forehead resting against yours, breath warm on your lips. “Forgive me, love. For every time I chose the dream of humanity over the reality of you.”

You laughed, disbelieving. “There's nothing to forgive now. I loved you for that dream too. I loved you even when it killed you. Even when it killed me”

His smile tilted, tender and a little mischievous, the way it used to when he caught you staring at him across a briefing room.

“Then hear this.” He kissed your forehead, slow and deliberate. Another on the bridge of your nose. The corner of your eye. “I love you. I have loved you every second since the day you looked at me like I was more than my plans. I loved you through every wall we broke, every life we lost, every night I came back to our room and found you still awake, waiting. And I will love you for every second that comes after this one.”

You closed your eyes, letting the words settle into the hollow places you’d carried for so long.

“I love you too,” you answered, simple and sure.

He kissed you then, like he had all of eternity and intended to spend every moment of it proving he was yours.

When you finally parted, both of you breathless and smiling like fools, he took your hand and laced your fingers together.

“Come,” he said softly. “There’s a hill just past the trees. The view is better than anything we ever saw from the Walls.”