looking for a place in this old world

“Hey!” Ethel moved her hand, and thus the apple, out of the horse’s reach. Dang that girl was insatiable when it came to treats. “That’s mine, you could’ve asked nicely,” she chided the horse, gently stroking over her muzzle. “But fine,” she relented and took a last bite out of the fruit, it was too sour for her taste anyway. “Guess you did help me steal it didn’t’ya.” She held out her flat palm and Wilma didn’t hesitate to go for it, just near missing the woman’s hand out of sheer greed. On their way out of Valentine in the later morning they had come across an orchard. Sure there was a fence around it, but no one to watch, so Ethel decided to get her breakfast as fresh as it got. Now she was back at camp and with Wilma taken care of, she made her way towards her little sleeping nook that had remained empty for the night, ignoring the looks and snide remarks of the likes of Bill and Uncle while also trying to avoid Ms. Grimshaw’s disapproving glare … right, it was her turn to help with cooking, specifically plucking the turkeys she brought into camp yesterday. It wasn’t her favourite thing to do by a mile, but having grown up on a farm she was used to it and would gladly do it to spare the other girls this tedious work. At least they took over laundry duty for her. The stains on some of the clothes she’d seen in the past still sent a shiver of disgust through her at the mere thought.

Within a few strides she was at her mattress to place down her satchel, again ignoring the curious glances from the other girls. They knew what it meant most nights both her and Arthur were missing from camp, no matter if it was an hour or two or ‘til morning. She shook her head at Tilly, a silent don’t to the curiosity in the other woman’s eyes. Just once they had gotten an answer out of Ethel, but they knew not to pry since neither she nor Arthur liked to talk about it really … lest it became too real. Tilly shrugged off her non-reply with a playful little grin and a roll of her eyes but dropped it for the time being. There was no time for gossip anyway as Ethel could hear Ms Grimshaw’s sharp words from behind her, urging her to get her ass over to Pearson’s wagon to make herself useful. Ethel winced, both at the tone used towards her and the, not painful but nevertheless present, throb in her lower body as she rose up from her crouched down position on the ground. She couldn’t even blame Tilly for not being able to keep her comments to herself after that. “Oh honey, you got it good, huh?” She cackled as Ethel merely flipped her off as she passed her making a beeline towards the turkeys waiting for her.

She got it good, alright? Not that she would wanna air out her dirty laundry in camp … they talk and tease enough as is. She could still feel a light buzz from last night and the ride back to camp hasn’t soothed the slight soreness either.

Once within reach, she grabbed one of the dead birds and sat down on a wooden stool, putting the turkey in her lap to get started with plucking the feathers. Bit by bit she removed the soft and fluffy stalks. It was mindless, automatic work for her, one that always had her mind wander. And these days her thoughts usually strayed towards Arthur. And how could they not when just hours ago he was still notched between her thighs, one hand on her hip, the other cradling the back of her head and the side of her face, his lips pressed against her throat… oh there she was wandering off again in her memories. It hadn’t always been like that. Not when it started sometime before Blackwater. The first time was quick and less than luxurious in the alley between a Saloon and the grocerer … or was it the gunsmith? She couldn’t remember, and it also didn’t really matter, did it? But they have come a long way from … whatever that had been – with practice and increasing familiarity she felt like it had nearly come to be a loving act they did. Until morning dawned and one of them broke the spell as quickly as possible. Today it had been him. The movement of his getting up had roused her from her slumber. She’d listened to his hectic departure, could hear the slight labour of his breathing. If he was in such a hurry … why should she turn around and make him stay. It would have been no use and too much of a departure from their usual routine. But time after time they sought each other out something had shifted that made her wish deep down somewhere in the romantic part of her heart that listened to Mary Beth’s stories that either of them would stay just once, would linger. Nevertheless her mind was less of a dreamer, her more rational part that knew they were toeing the line as is and their life was complicated enough without her heart getting its way. The all to familiar soft frown had settled over her face again as she plucked at the bird still.

“Hey, that bird insult your mother or somethin’?” The deep timbre of Pearson’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Been going at it like you have a personal vendetta against it, slow down girl.” Ethel looked up, a little startled, handful of feathers held tightly in her fist. “Huh? No … no, just … been thinking.” She shook her head and continued slower, gentler, focusing her mind on the task at hand now instead of the increasing pressure in her chest that her contemplations had elicited.

“Have you seen Arthur today?” she asked after a while, looking up at Person who was busy taking apart a stag that she was sure Charles had brought into camp. It wasn’t unusual by any means that Arthur was absent from camp, but still she wondered sometimes, he was a busy man, meddling in gang affairs took up most of his time. The man shrugged. “Haven’t you? He came back early this mornin’ with Charles, Dutch sent him out to fetch ‘im.” He eyed her for a moment, almost as if saying “Y’know, cause you been keeping him occupied.”

“Far as I heard he’s off to get Micah outta jail in Strawberry.” Just before he finished, his butcher’s knife came down on the thigh of the dead animal, cutting through meat, sinew and bone. The image made Ethel’s stomach churn just like the thought of Micah did … and of course Arthur would be sent to get him out of his mess.

By noon she had plucked and gutted the turkeys and handed them over for further preparation to Pearson. At least there would be good food tonight.

She abandoned her little work station, after having gathered the feathers in a bucket, someone will surely have use for them, before dumping the turkey innards and guts that would not be eaten in the nearby lake for the fish to eat. Enough duty done, that should satisfy Grimshaw for now … hopefully. She had other things in mind that needed to get done as well. And since Arthur did not want to leave her mind today it seemed, she should get something she needed to do for him out of the way. She’d noticed last night how his shoulders had tensed at her touch, despite it having been ever so light, she just wanted to trace the constellations his freckles and scars made along his shoulder and chest. The first time they had found themselves in a hotel room in Blackwater for their rendezvous she was instantly drawn to the sight as he had rid himself of his shirt. The times before that it had always been dark, out in the woods, still near camp, and they had stayed clothed for the most part. It took a few more nights for her to tentatively touch and trace. She touched him without inhibitions elsewhere, but this had seemed too intimate for her at first. A bit of a contradiction perhaps, since she’d had no issue wrapping her hand around his cock. And yet scars and freckles on his weathered skin were too much. She’d brushed her fingers along her favourite constellation until he’d winced, taking her hand off his shoulder to pin it above her head … and after that she completely forgot about his softly spotted skin and the tense and pained muscles underneath until after they both had come down from the heights they helped each other reach out to.

She asked and he joked about his pain. “Ah, you’ll get it once y’re my age. Just agin’ pains.”

He shrugged off the fact that he was not that much older than her. She knew Arthur did not want to tell her about why exactly he was hurting. Sure, it could have been a pulled muscle, and there were a hundred non-dangerous ways he could have done that. But knowing him, and seeing the way he tried to avoid answering her question, he was just trying to keep it from her. He tended to do that, trying to keep her from dangerous business, though it wasn’t always successful because she was after all a useful asset to the gang and he and the others knew that they couldn’t always keep her out of their “men’s business.” And so she’d used gentle force and sweet coaxing as she swung her legs over his thighs to straddle them to get a good grip on his shoulder for a massage with promises of bringing him a concoction the next day to put onto it to help with the pains. She just hoped she hadn’t been negligent and used up the last bit of the feverfew tincture she made a couple months ago … she really needed to make some more. So now she was kneeling on her sleeping mat again, as she dug through her belongings, setting aside the little bag with dried plants she kept and finally found the right bottle, a little triumphant “aha!” sounding from her lips. She’d be dammed if she didn’t help Arthur with his soreness.

It wasn’t until just after dinner time that Arthur made it back to camp. Ethel was occupied with Wilma. She faced away from the direction Arthur rode into camp from. Her back was bent and her horse’s hind leg was tucked between her legs as she provisionally nailed the horse shoe back in place. She’d realised it had become lose by the way the metal sounded against stones on their way back from Valentine this morning, nothing she couldn’t fix tho. It was her last chore on her mental list today. The hammer in her hand came down a last time on the head of the nail. She was satisfied now, that it would hold a little longer.

“Good girl,” she patted Wilma as she stood up straight again, her eyes finally catching the familiar dappled gelding and his even more familiar rider.

“Arthur,” she nodded and she couldn’t stop the little smile that spread over her lips.

He briefly bent his head in acknowledgement before swinging out of the saddle.

His hand reached up to lift his hat before the other brushed back his hair. His fingers then made quick work of the saddle that he lifted off of Alywn’s back with a little grunt, his eyebrows pinched.

“You okay?” Ethel asked. He seemed weary, exhausted? Sure, but there was something else. There was an eery calm about him, one that anger simmering just below it. She didn’t know what happened, but wherever Micah was, Arthur’s anger wasn’t far. So if Pearson was right, that must’ve been it.

His back was turned to her as he put the saddle over the post used for hitching the horses. The drop of his shoulders indicated some relief from the pain and when when he finally turned back Arthur’s eyes found Ethel’s over Alwyn’s broad form, and there it was, this tiredness with a glint behind it.

“Just … don’t, not right now, alright?” It sounded gruffer than he meant it making him cringe inwardly as he turned towards the camp, leaving her with the horses.

She watched him retreat from her, he held himself stiffly, the brief reprieve in this shoulders gone again. He dragged his feet – long ride for sure, she could only guess what else he did to get Micah out of jail.

Ethel sighed and followed his path, giving Alwyn a pat in passing as well.

She settled in her usual spot by the fire, her back against the rough bark of the tree placed there for seating. She preferred the ground and the warmth it retained from the now weakening sun shining relentlessly all day. The get together in the evenings were her favourite part of the day. She loved the stories, telling them – the folk tales she remembered from her childhood spent in the south-west of England or tales of her life before – and listening to what the others had to offer. She loved the songs, the lewd ones, the wistful ones, the mix of languages, Spanish, Irish, English, whoever had something to offer she greedily took it all and treasured it to her heart because in this they all came together and just for a little while each day she could pretend everything was fine, normal perhaps – how was this different from how her family would get together in the evening? Okay, fine, vastly, but in the end there were enough similarities to make oneself at home in a familiar experience.

She now watched as Javier plucked at the strings of his guitar, skilful in a way that she could not follow … he had tried to teach her a simple song once, but her fingers were to clumsy to follow his directions, though her curiosity remained. But from the corner of her eye she could feel the insistent sensation of troubled stormy blues watching her. Every time she lifted her gaze, turning her head to look at him he looked down, pretending to be occupied with his dinner, Ethel had made sure to save some of the turkey for him, or suddenly becoming very interested in the dirt by his boots, or the flickering flames. Arthur was off today, and not in a cold, dismissive way … just off. She shook it off then, bringing her attention back to Karen and Javier who were trying to figure out the tune of yet another song.

And Arthur? Oh Arthur was looking, observing the lively scene before him. The lightness and care-freeness of a camp evening. It made his stomach twist as the atmosphere was polluted with his actions from the afternoon. The campfire dyed everything in oranges and reds, the colour that has been plaguing Arthur all day. And so he stared as Ethel was bathed in the light, her form blanketed in the increasing darkness of late evening but illuminated by the source of heat as the dropping bodies and the sounds of guns plagued his mind – the mindlessness and senselessness he had been pulled into, he had participated in, has been participating in, and will likely participate in like the good and loyal dog he was. But that didn’t mean that he wanted the same for the people – person?– he’s come to care for. He wanted them – her? – safe, as safe as possible in the environment and circumstance they found themselves in.

He swallowed down the last bite of his food, forced it really, feeling like it would come back up with bitter bile. He couldn’t take it today, the contrast of bloodied mania and the calmness, the domesticity of camp evenings, that now illuminated Ethel, highlighting her in it’s soft colours that if he looked for too long turned crimson. His jaw ticked as he put his bowl down on the ground, abandoning it as he made his way to his little haven of privacy (though it didn’t afford much) in stiff, controlled strides that ached with every step.

His departure made Ethel’s turn to watch, the little frown that oft-adorned her soft, round face returned. His figure retreated into the twilight of the transition between day and night. Ethel’s teeth dug into the insides of her cheeks as she sat there distracted, only pulled out of her thoughts by the cords of her favourite song. Still, she was distracted as she sang along, lacking her usual enthusiasm. She wondered if she should follow him … though he would likely want to be left alone? Still, she had promised him help with his sore shoulder … and he had been staring at her – well, whatever that had been about. So halfway through the next song, wait, when did the other one end? Dammit she really was distracted, she bid the others good night quietly. Her feet carried her off to find Arthur, her fingers grasping the bottle she already tucked away in the pocket of her skirt with the intention of handing it to him.

If the soft thuds of her leather soles against the ground alerted Arthur to her approach, he gave no indication of it. There was the soft scratch of pen against paper, his figure hunched over, huddled close to the lamp as he frantically scribbled in his journal.

“Arthur,” Ethel called softly, leaning against the pole that held up the cover over Arthur’s little camp space.

The writing stopped as he lifted his head, weary eyes meeting hers in the semi-dark.

“Yeah?” he finally asked.

“I got somethin’ for your shoulder.”

She held out the brown glass bottle with the feverfew tincture. He straightened out his back, stretching out as if the ache had travelled down further, his journal still balanced on his lap. He glanced at the object in her hand before his gaze wandered up to her face.

“Thanks.” It was a hesitant answer as he nodded towards his table for her to put it down, for later she was sure. Ethel let out a huff. “I’m trynna’ help you here.” She pushed, both with her words and her intrusion into his space as she stepped closer, nudging his knees apart to make space for her.

“Ethel what are you…” it was a weak protest.

“Helping.” She stated again, reaching for the top button of his union suit, stalling to ask whether she could. Arthur let out a sigh but signalled his okay with a nod. “Promised you I’d help you with that shoulder of yours. And you look like you’d been to hell and back today, probably shook the devil’s had while you were at it yeah?”

At least this elicited a little huff from him, humourless, sure, but it was a reaction nonetheless.

“You got no idea.”

“I’m sure.”

Her fingers made quick work of the buttons of his undershirt just down to below his chest, enough to push it off his shoulders. It took Arthur a little fumbling to get his arms out of the sleeves so the fabric pooled around his waist.

Ethel let out a pleased hum that he was following her lead, her orders.

“This is gonna heat up, alright?” The bottle tilted in her hand and a sharp smelling liquid trickled out. She put the bottle down on the desk behind her and rubbed her hands together, spreading the contents evenly before reaching for his shoulder. In broad strokes and with gentle pressure Ethel massaged it into his skin. It was clear that she put just the right force onto just the right spots by the way his forehead dropped against her sternum, a little groan escaping his lips that he tried to mask with a grumble. After another repetition of the procedure she let up on her doctoring.

“Might have to do it again tomorrow.”

He nodded, his forehead still pressed against her. The movement alarmed him to this as he suddenly pulled back, bringing some distance between them … as much as he could with her standing between his legs in the crammed space.

“Thanks,” he cleared his throat. “I ‘preciate it, really.”

And as if his own hand betrayed him, it reached out to tuck a strand of her loose hair behind her ear, a knuckle grazing her cheek, usually coloured with a lively tint, or a deeper colour from the harsh natural conditions, nevertheless lively colours on the spectrum of red hues. Her nose gently nudged against his hand before her own came up press his palm against her cheek. Her body radiated heat, it was calming, reassuring, and it withered away his resolve of his earlier decision, made on already unsteady grounds.

Ethel felt the soft pressure of his thumb run along her lips leaving a pleasant tingle in its wake that surprised her. She hadn't sought him out in hopes for affection. She wanted to help him, ease whatever pain she could. And here they were, his thumb gently tracing her lips as his other arm moved to wrap around her waist.

His digit retreated tracing from her cupid’s bow to her cheek but his hold on her was steady, it seemed to draw her in, pull her closer until she felt the brush of his lips, or did he feel that of hers? She couldn’t tell who made the first move.

And it was dark, right? They were enveloped in the blanket of night, so they were well within their unspoken rules. She only needed the affirmation of his hand cupping the back of her head to keep her lips steady against his, while his other arm snaked around her waist to pull her down into his lap.

She steadied herself with her hands on his chest and uninjured shoulder and balanced herself with her knees digging into the worn blankets underneath them.

Just as she settled, she could feel Arthur’s lips move from hers. Oh but she was greedy once she got a taste. Her hand moved to cup his cheek to keep him in place, followed by a soft nip on his already chapped lips.

Her ministrations elicited a deep rumble from the man’s chest which made a grin spread over her face. She pecked his lips again, softer and full of self-satisfaction but she finally let up and he pulled away, though barely. She could feel the soft warm puffs of his breath against her lips, smell the spice of tobacco on his breath which mixed with the herby flavour of feverfew.

“What’re we doin’…” His voice wasn’t above a soft murmur.Well if he didn’t know … he had pulled her closer, touched her face so gently.

Ethel didn’t care to answer, if it was dark and Arthur was so close she liked to allow her brain to shut off. She leaned forward and let her lips slant against his, soft at first but with no hesitation on Arthur’s part to reciprocate she became more insistent. She knew how to take if she wanted something. Her hand wandered up his shoulder, gentle caresses leading up the side to the nape of his neck where she carded her fingers through his hair. It had grown out since they left Blackwater. She loved having something to grab onto. His hands almost mirrored the movement of hers, from grasping her hips down her thighs to bunch up the skirt and petticoat in order to pull her closer yet. One hand found its way back up her hip to steady her, the other travelled underneath fabric to caress the skin of her thigh, tracing a way up from her knees over tiny nicks and scars and soft fuzz.

Ethel sighed against his lips at the feeling, keeping her lips locked with his without movement for a moment of shared breaths. His soft caress, always moving up, up had her hips twitch forward in anticipation.

She could feel his hand stop, the hesitation that came with it but a protesting whine sounded from her. Her own hand shot down, gently grasping his hand to guide him along as her lips pull him into another, more insistent kiss.

“Please don’t,” she murmurs, in case she wasn’t being clear to get through his thick head.

“I- we shouldn’t- we don’t…” he trailed off when she enclosed his bigger hand with his, cupping her soft and warm core, a twitch of her hips for emphasis. His protest of along the lines of “we don’t do this, this is now how we do things” had died off as soon as he felt the now familiar warmth. And well, in this moment Arthur was nothing more, nothing less, than a man – one who has seen and done things today that should make him entirely undeserving of such affections, oh but he craved her, her heat, the softness and the living heart beat of it all. Dammed be his resolve and decision made that afternoon … just for now he had to give into his vice if it came so willingly to him.

“Ah dammit girl…” She has gotten too good at pushing his buttons. He closed his eyes for a moment just to feel, his nose gently nudging against her jaw before he pressed his lips to her neck.

“Better make this quick,” he murmured ever the stubborn one, his stubble teasing at her skin with the movement of his lips. “and quiet, don’t need t’alert the whole damn camp.” They wouldn’t be easily alerted if the laughter and sound of song drowned out in the background was anything to go by.

In that moment just the sensation of his lips had Ethel shivering a little. She was quick to agree with him, nodding eagerly. She gave his hand an encouraging little squeeze against her core before moving it away to give him free reign.

“Lookit you actin’ like last night wasn’t enough huh?” His voice was smooth and warm and clearly he said his words in good fun as one finger slowly teased between the open crotch of her cotton drawers.

“Shut up,” she laughed, though the sound died down into a strangled little sound at his touch on her sensitive flesh.

His finger moved through the wetness, sweeping it up to the little nub he’s learned to find without issues by now. He teased just for a moment, gently shushing Ethel as this elicited yet another whine from her. His free hand cupped the back of her head to cradle her face against his neck in an attempt to both make her feel safe and to muffle her sounds. His fingers moved with practised ease and Ethel was almost embarrassed at how fast she could feel the heat building in her belly, at how fast it spread down to her core where Arthur’s fingers pumped in practised motions in tandem with the movement of her hips chasing friction and guiding his pace to how she needed it. Her fingers dug into Arthur’s skin, always needing something to tether herself to before losing herself in the fast approaching high. Her mouth was firmly pressed to his neck, her sounds not escaping the intimate environment they’d created, secretive and leaving the option for plausible deniability.

Arthur presses the occasional kiss against her temple, accompanied by encouraging or teasing words, emphasised by the movement of his fingers that became more miniscule and aimed the closer he could feel her get until she locked around his digits. The heat spread from her core, contracting in pleasurable waves, out to her limbs in a pleasant buzz. Her breathing came in soft laboured puffs as she let the feeling keep her lulled in for a little while longer, fully riding out the high against Arthur’s solid form. He kept her steady, his fingers carded through lose strands of her braid that had become dishevelled throughout the day.

“Good?” he asked once he was sure it was over and with her affirmative hum he pulled out his fingers, resurfacing them from the depth of her skirts, which he promptly used to dry them of her slick.

“That’ll do,” he muttered, though it was unclear if he meant her or himself. He felt her moving, straightening herself upright again. The weak light of the almost burnt out lantern just so illuminated her in warm light. At first he thought she was gonna get up, all satisfied. Oh but he should know Ethel by now. Her hand began to wander down slowly, from his shoulder to the plane of his chest, where she would have surely continued her way downwards to where she could feel his hardness press against her thigh. But Arthur caught her hand. His resolve has cracked already, but he is not letting it break entirely. He brought it up to his lips, pressed a kiss to it and let it drop. He gave a little pat against the soft padding of her hip.

“G’night.” His voice was still soft, though it contained a roughness that left no room for discussion that their little rendezvous ended here.

Ethel titled her head for a moment, evidently a little surprised, although she should have seen it coming. She pushed herself up but she could not yet leave. Lest Arthur have the last word on her? Godness no.

She gently grasped his chin, her thumb brushing over the little scar there and leaned down again. She waited a moment and when Arthur craned his neck to meet her in the middle she committed and pressed a last kiss for the night on his lips. One that left Arthur thinking alone in his cot long after she left for her own little nook.

I hope you enjoyed. Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated - they nurture the tumblr ecosystem <3

If you’ve made it to here, here’s a couple pictures of my cat Tilly (not the one who walked over my keyboard), in honor of her namesake making a brief appearance in this chapter.

A body-

A body he was currently still holding up, his hand fisted in the soft cotton of the shirt worn by the man deemed offending enough to be worthy of his knife twisted deeply in his chest.

Arthur’s eyes slowly travelled from the bloody knife to the man’s boots and up further to regard the contorted grimace indicating his struggle with death.

The gasps for air, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth, slowly at first and then in irregular sputters, red bubbling from his lips.

The sounds...

They came rushing to him now. His brain finally left this numb state where his ears only picked up ringing. There was the squelch of the desperate search for air to will inside the lungs, their wet protest-

Arthur could hear his own blood rushing in his ears and as if his hold on the soft cotton had finally scorched his hand, burnt his skin and nerves-

he let go.

The body crumbled to the ground, still trying to grasp onto the last glimmer of life.

Away from the struggle he had caused Arthur’s eyes sought out his hands.

They were bloodied, drenched in the thick, cooling liquid they had extracted from the veins of the dying man.

Red-

dripping red-

Arthur’s lungs restricted. Now it were his own trying to force air inside his system.

The body on the ground blurred and Arthur’s vision clouded, small specks danced in the periphery of his sight until it blackened-

However he was not granted the mercy of oblivion, rather his body jolted awake – heart beating wildly. He was sweat covered, cold drops running over his face, the sheets stuck to him, wide eyes searching for something familiar, comforting.

There wasn’t, though.

His brows furrowed, confusion washing over his panicked but sleep ridden mind.

The room he was in, the bouncy mattress he was sat on, the soft sheets draped over his lower half was nothing like his thrown together tent that he had to make shift into his own space ever so often.

He took another look around while the memories of last night flooded his mind. Bodies, tangled limbs, clashing lips… all the things his brain could grasp on to forget the hot wet feeling of blood on his hands, the force it took to bury a knife in flesh even in his dream. His eyes lingered on the scarce furnishing, the dresser with the stained and dulled mirror, the meagre writing desk underneath the window dressed with moth-eaten curtains that allowed the light of the early morning sun to stream in the room despite being drawn shut. And behind him on the worn mattress, he knew a sleeping figure lay.

With a deep breath, another attempt to calm his racing heart he turned around, his eyes finding the sleeping form underneath the sheets. Ethel seemed calm, fast asleep curled up on her side facing away from him. His hands reached out almost instinctively, seeking her warmth, the softness he got to see when she was asleep. But in a flash

- red

There it was again the colour seeping off his hand. He drew back with a sharp inhale.

He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. The red was gone, but his heart was pounding again… he had to get out of here.

His feet hit the wooden floor before his mind could catch up. His movements were careless, loud, reflecting his desperation for escape, for distance. He scrambled for his clothes, throwing them on haphazardly. He couldn’t be bothered to fasten his gun belt. With the leather straps in one hand and his hat in the other he dared to take another look back, to listen for any movement, any acknowledgement that she was awake and aware of his leaving. She hadn’t moved, though he was aware he wasn’t exactly quiet. He didn’t know whether she was awake or not.

Nor does it matter, he reminded himself, perching his old gambler hat on top of his sleep mussed hair before reaching out for the smooth and worn door handle.

They´d done this procedure so many times now, it didn´t surprise him that she didn’t stir, didn’t bat an eye at his behaviour, she never did… she wasn´t better than him in any way, sometimes it was her who left first. They both refused to wake up in the same bed. They both refused to live the illusion that this was something more than what it was, than the potential it might have to turn out to be. They both refused to acknowledge what they did, outside of rooms cut off from the world and without the security of night blanketing them. They weren´t this. They were outlaws, thieves and worse. He was quick to draw a gun, she wouldn’t hesitate to do what she must for survival either. Outside the little bubble they created they were all brief glances, court words and fast touches if necessary.

That´s how they operated. Criminals, partners sometimes, in the offences they committed, and on occasions becoming more and more frequent they were conspirators in their veiled fervent moments, not lovers no, neither could stand for that. They went about their lives, their survival in the world with their gang and whenever need arose and it was possible they found each other… easy right?

No, it wasn´t easy, despite avoiding any acknowledgement of what they did and as much as he tried to convince himself that it was, it was not easy. Not even when he left what they did behind at the given places, when he pretended the taste of her didn’t linger, that he couldn’t feel the scars and bumps of her skin he´s long mapped out with his fingertips during their encounters just by imagining them, that her gasps didn’t sound in his ears whenever he got lonely during the night.

All of that didn´t matter and yet it mattered so much, which is why he found himself stalling. The urge rose in him to turn around and crawl back into the warmth of the sheets and pull her soft body against his. To feel the expanse of her skin, which like the smooth surface of a lake broken by lazy rippled waves, was riddled with faint marks and scars accumulated throughout her life. His fingers tightened on the handle, the cool metal warming from the heat radiating off his hand. He stood there rooted in place. He turned, tired eyes finding the sight of Ethel's bare shoulders, the heavy wool blanket having slipped when he got out of bed. He allowed his eyes to linger for a moment. He couldn´t see her face but he knew what it looked like when she slept. The often weary lines set in her features softened. The crease between her eyes disappeared, her jaw seemed less tense. It attributed her a softness, a vulnerability Arthur so rarely got to see.

And that almost undid him. That was until the rustling of the sheets, her body threatening to turn towards him, broke the spell. He blinked once, and before he registered it, the handle of the door moved, his body seemingly working on its own. It took one, two steps and the slow drag of his arm.

A soft click sounding in the room and he was gone.

His mind finally caught up with him when he was half way down the stairs, headed towards the exit of the Valentine Saint’s Hotel.

Stupid, he told himself, muttering under his breath. He wasn’t even sure what exactly he meant - his dream, his reaction to it, the fact that he stalled?

His boots sounded way too loud on the wood, only muffled by the, admittedly, ugly carpet. He barely registered the clerk’s overly friendly Good morning, Sir, and he entirely missed the offer to bring breakfast up to the room if he wished. His hand had already reached to push open the door and he staggered out into the fresh air – well as fresh as the air of a livestock town could be.

Nevertheless, Arthur took an inhale of the crisp morning air in hopes to get his mind under control as he headed towards the stable where his horse, a sturdy gray dapple warmblood, was waiting for him. It was a short walk and there were few people out. He took the opportunity to fasten his gun belt around his waist. And even before he opened the heavy door to the stables he could smell the distinct odour – a mix of manure, hay, and well, horse.

His gelding, Alwyn, was munching away at his breakfast, head hanging low over the hay rack, a hind leg cocked, as Arthur entered. He didn’t pay him much attention as the man hurried past his stall. Arthur picked up his saddle with a little grunt, his body always a little stiff first thing in the morning, and god his shoulder tweaked, he’d joked about ageing to Ethel just a few hours ago on account of the pain there. He grabbed the pad with the other and opened the stall. Unceremoniously, he began saddling up his gelding, not roughly, no, but he did not have the patience to slow down.

He wanted, needed, to get on, to bring distance between himself and last night, both the real and the dream. Although, he was aware that the faster he got back to camp, the more likely it was for something like his dream to take place in real life again.

His head tilted, brows furrowed as his fingers made quick work of the back cinch. He grabbed the horn and cantel, giving the saddle a light shake to make sure it’s secure before grabbing the bridle.

“C’mon,” he turned back to his horse, “C’mere boy.” His words were soft, but he could not hide a certain gruff note. He slid the reins over the almost comically short neck of the warmblood and gave him a pat before sliding his hand along his muzzle to keep his head steady. Once headpiece and bit were in place he gave the stall gate a little shove and horse and man were outside in no time.

Arthur took it slow out of the town, but it allowed his mind to wander. Pictures popped up again of her body writhing beneath his, the memories of her lips pressed to his hot skin, her voice, her laugh, but then in flashes images of bloodied knifes, the sensation of steel hitting flesh, the thud it made sent tingles of another kind down his back. He finally nudged his gelding into a trot along the dusty road almost as if trying to outrun the memories, leaving them behind in Valentine.

This was exactly the reminder of why Arthur insisted on doing things the way they did. He couldn’t afford more than that with the life he, both of them, lived. He’d made that mistake before, more than once. Then again, what even was this? He wasn’t even sure any more how it had started.

As the vast grassland of the heartlands passed by, allowing the horse to speed up, he couldn’t help but reminisce. She didn’t really stand out to him when she first turned up at camp. Sure he found her to be nice, but quiet initially. It was as if she wanted to make sure she could disappear amongst the crowd at camp. But he came to learn that much like a peaceful lake during a storm, she could be a force to be reckoned with. If rocked up like water by wind she will come crashing down in waves, relentless and unforgiving until the other one is drowning, likewise in passion as in anger. This sometimes came in handy on gang business, which is how their little arrangement started in the first place.

He couldn’t name it, perhaps didn’t want to, and he did not want to go as far as to call it love, he never would again if it was up to him. Hell he didn’t even know what that term, seemingly so important and all-encompassingly determining in life, was supposed to mean really.

Now, he had love to give in generous amounts, though it manifested in loyalty, in acts, in duty, obedience even, a different kind of love. The life he led was one of violence, of danger. It wasn´t much suited for the notion of romantic love. There was no place for the idea portrayed in the novels and stories he knew Mary-Beth devoured, or that he saw performed on stages from time to time. There was no place for fluttering hearts, blushing cheeks, the happy endings, the rose coloured tint of it all. It was an ideal that wasn´t obtainable for him. How would it fit when the next punch, the next bullet, the next knife coming down on him could lurk behind every corner. When the next crime he was to commit was already being plotted in the idealistic mind of Dutch Van der Linde. When the bodies and skeletons he left in his wake seemed to lurk in the shadows.

Who would be dragged into this life? How could he allow for that to happen again? There had been a time where he thought it was possible. though he´d tried and he´d failed at that. He couldn´t hold onto it, couldn´t hold onto Mary as he felt bound to his life, his ways, unwilling to give them up. And she was bound to hers in different ways, shackled by her father´s expectations mirroring what was dictated to be appropriate by a certain class of people.

And so, no fondness, no tenderness, no heat, no desire was great enough to break through those chains that pulled them along different paths, the cleft between outlaw and woman of society proper became too large, ripping them apart. The memories had his heart speed up with the sound of Alwyn’ hooves thundering over the dry grassland as they crushed the blades near thirsting for rain. He was so caught up in his thoughts it was only until he heard his name called behind him that he finally became aware of his surroundings again.

He gave a soft tug on the reins and put his weight in the saddle and Alwyn slowed down, turning at the command. Arthur could now place a face to the voice that’s been calling his name, it had sounded familiar, of course, but somewhat distorted by the passing wind.

“Charles?” he called back as the other man slowed down his own horse.

“They sent me out to get ya,” Charles said unceremoniously. “Dutch’s getting impatient to get Micah out of jail.”

His soft timbered voice betrayed a little something that Arthur was all too familiar with. He felt it himself whenever the topic had come up during the past few days. A weary sigh left Arthur’s lips as he looked at his friend for a moment as his hand ran down his face.

“Now?” he grunted. “He can rot in there for all I care… why the rush.”

Charles gave a shrug as he nudged his mare into a walk again, passing Arthur as he spoke.

“Dutch didn’t say, just told me to come fetch ya.” He nodded towards the direction of camp, signalling for Arthur to follow.

The faster he got back to camp, the more likely it was for something like his dream to take place in real life again.

The thought popped back up in his mind as the hiss of a bullet sounds just past his ear.

Damn coward, he cursed himself. Should’a turned around and crawled back in bed. He briefly thought about how inviting the bed had looked with Ethel’s body under the wool blanket but he was quick to push it away. This was not the time and place to long for the comforts of her presence, if anything it was a reminder as to why he shouldn’t get used to it. The gang life was one that was quick to tear something like that away from both of them.

His back was pressed the wooden planks of the front porch he was crouched behind, his fingers made quick work of reloading his gun. He cocked the trigger and with another curse towards Micah who was making his way towards a house just up the steep little hill where most of the houses that made up Strawberry were built along, he got up from his position and started shooting again. Bullet after bullet hit their marks.

“I should’ve left ya to hang,” he growled. Arthur’s blood was rushing in his ears again, drowning out the groans and shouts, pained and angry, and Micah’s answer to his harsh words.

It pained and angered him just as much. But still in a sense of duty he did what he had to do. And yet, getting Micah out of prison should’ve been it, keep the senseless killing to a minimum. But the blundering bastard just had to keep going.

Round after round was wasted until Strawberry fell eerily still and quiet, just for a moment until Micah’s grating voice breeched the silence.

“Skinny!” he bellowed. “Get out here!”

Arthur took a look around, regarding the bodies strewn about the ground. Red, here and there, puddles of red. And he was reminded of the feeling of steel hitting flesh again. The gun afforded him that at least, he couldn’t feel his participation save for the click of the trigger.

He stared at the lifeless body in front of him for a moment. This was the world he lived in, this was what his hands were reared to do. To deal out the cards played by someone else so only the metaphorical blood was stuck to theirs while his were drenched in the real thing.

Behind him in the house boomed more gunshots, echoing too loud in the dead silence along with Micah’s lewd words, tantalizing people before their death. A last shot could be heard from inside before the door swung open, revealing the man with two guns now held in his hands.

The sight made something rise in Arthur. He felt disgusted. He wanted to get away, to flee, most of all to leave Micah behind. If the man did not make it out of here, even better. The longer Arthur had to be around him the stronger feelings like this grew within him.

But then the bullets started again. Like meteors they hit into wood, and stone and flesh and the dirt of the road, creating craters, some deep and deadly.

More bodies fell, though this time on Micah’s count. It was like watching a blood hound in a craze. Even on their way out, the other man urging Arthur to leave quickly, he continued shooting. Once they swung up on their horses they set a fast pace to get out of the town. Their escape was a hunt and it was unclear who exactly was the hunter and who the prey. Sure, the two outlaws were the ones running from someone, but with the sheer number of people hit by bullets… Arthur had to ask himself whether it was pure self defence. The joy in Micah’s words telling him “Look! They’re sending the whole brigade!” made him wonder.

Arthur nudged Alwyn onwards, dodging bullets and taking the occasional aim but his focus was on the escape with as little continuous damage as possible… a goal he was forced to throw out of the window as soon as he agreed to break Micah out, if he was being honest with himself.

Finally, they had made their way out of shooting range, their pursuers falling back.

“Phew, that was some good shootin’ Morgan!” Micah called back to him, just barely turning his head to look at Arthur. But Arthur knew he had a grin on his face… that god damn grin he’d wanted to smack right off countless times during the past months.

“What the hell was that you pulled back there?” Arthur did not care about some half-assed, likely sarcastic compliment about his skills. He was angry. The anger mixed with the sick feeling of guilt sending heat right into his chest, with the shame and disgust it entailed.

With a snicker the other man relented that he may have gone a little wild. “Ah, but ain’t much I care about more n’those guns.”

Guns. He did all that for guns… the realization settled heavily. Like an avalanche that started out slow before the sheer mass and force of snow buried you, blanketed you completely.

“Well good that I helped ya shoot up half a town then, ain’t it,” he sneered, gritting his teeth. This was messed up, severely messed up. All the lives gone, by his handand for what? Some clown and his god damn guns! A scowl settled on his face while the other man’s grin widened, bordering on deranged.

“We’re family now.” Micah slowed down his horse, yanking the reins to make it turn. “And I-ah,” he leered at Arthur. “I certainly appreciate your help.”

God that rat knew to get under his skin. He just laughed off the lack of Arthur’s response and took off, spurring on his horse with a hyia. With the quickly receding rhythm of hooves hitting ground Arthur and Alwyn were left with the chaos of Strawberry looming behind them like a wave growing with increasing wind, building up to a peak that will make it come crashing down.

He took the ride back to camp slower than Micah, though cautious of still being followed. A deep weary sigh escapes him as he left Alwyn the reins to trot along the trail. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes closing for a moment. Rays of sun warm his face but also illuminate the inside of his eyelids in a subtle red.

Red.

He opens his eyes again and the weariness seemed to spread even more. A tiredness that dragged his whole body towards the ground like a drowning man about to give up his struggle.

The red… red like the blood in his dream, red like the blood that now soaked Strawberry’s dirt roads, leaking into the stream, the red of the blood that seemed to follow him everywhere he went; but also red like the blood that coloured Ethel’s cheeks in their lively tint.

And there she was again, Ethel, springing up in his mind. The whole ordeal had left him drained and selfishly he needed her, needed to drown in her to feel alive again. It was selfish and he knew that, the whole spiel they did was, but it was something he grasped onto, even if it meant keeping her around, keeping her in reach of danger. The gang life wasn’t for women if you asked Arthur, it shouldn’t be. He’d sooner see all of the girls in camp safely tucked away in a city or a stead, leading a life that gave them prospects better than being hunted due to their association with the gang. And he felt no different towards Ethel with the exception that she was there when he needed her, needed the distraction and the satisfaction. But with men like Micah joining the gang the risks Dutch was willing to take have become greater and with it the danger has, too… Strawberry just now was only the most recent example, the disaster in Blackwater not to mention. So yes, he was a selfish man… but perhaps in this moment he made a decision, lest the red giving Ethel’s cheeks a lively, rosy touch become the red of her blood soaking the ground.