Storytime and Brain Doodles

For a little while, the river cools you.

You stand shin-deep in the San Luis, skirts gathered in one hand, your bare feet sunk into soft silt and smooth stones. The current slips around your ankles, tugging gently, as if the river itself has hands. The sun has tilted lower now, all its brightness melting into gold over the water, over the scrub, over the reddish distant line of Mexico on the far bank.

Mexico.

The word still glows inside you.

You can see it so plainly. The hidden pass. Wagons moving under cover of dawn. Dutch forced, finally, to listen to something sensible. Hosea’s sharp eyes narrowed in thought. Abigail holding Jack close. Arthur alive somewhere the law cannot reach him so easily.

Arthur.

Your heart lifts at the thought of him, then falters.

He had gone up toward the cabin not long ago, his voice low and strange when he told you he would be right back. You had barely had time to answer before he was walking away, his shoulders tight, obviously tense.

Something had been wrong. Bothering him somehow.

You step farther into the river until the water curls around your calves. The cold bites pleasantly now, steadying your thoughts. You close your eyes and breathe in the smell of cottonwood, mud, horse, and dry grass. For a few blessed moments, your body feels like your own again.

Then the pulse comes.

At first, you think it is your heartbeat.

A low throb. Deep. Distant. So soft it might be imagined.

You open your eyes.

The river keeps moving. The horses stand grazing near the bank, tails flicking lazily at flies. The little cabin sits behind you, weathered and quiet beneath the afternoon light. Nothing moves.

There it is again—another pulse.

You turn your head.

It is not coming from the river.

It is behind you, up on the bank where the bags lie near the grass, where your travel things sit in a careless little heap beside Arthur’s satchel. You stare at them, breath held, a strange awareness tightening through your body.

Another one.

This time it answers somewhere low in you.

Your thighs press together under the water. Heat stirs, sudden and unwelcome, so at odds with the chill of the river that it nearly steals your balance. You grip your skirts tighter and look toward the cabin, half-expecting Arthur to step out, to say something gruff and practical.

The pulse comes again.

Your breath catches.

You wade back toward shore slowly at first, then faster, the river sucking at your steps. Water streams from your calves as you climb onto the bank. The grass scratches your wet feet. You should put your boots on. You should dry your legs. You should call for Arthur, perhaps.

Instead, you walk straight to your bag.

The little stone woman is inside.

You know it before your fingers find her.

She is wrapped where you left her, buried among folded cloth and spare things. The moment your hand closes around the bundle, warmth blooms through the fabric. Not the warmth of the sun. Not the warmth of a stone resting in a bag all day.

Living warmth.

You go still.

The pulse travels into your palm. Once. Twice.

Your whole body answers.

The ache that rises in you is swift enough to frighten. It spills through your belly, your chest, your limbs, turning your breath shallow. You unwrap the figurine with trembling fingers. The little goddess rests in your hand, curved and crude and heavy with purpose.

The statue pulses again.

Your knees weaken.

You should drop it. You know that. Some clear, distant part of you understands that this is not right, not ordinary, not desire born cleanly from your own heart. But the thought drifts away before it can become action, carried off like a leaf in fast water.

Another pulse answers from Arthur’s satchel.

Your gaze snaps to it.

The leather bag lies half-open in the grass where he tossed it down before hurrying away. You stare at it for one heartbeat, then another, your own breath growing louder in your ears. Something inside it calls without sound.

The stone woman warms in your hand.

You take one step toward his satchel.

Then another.

By the time you crouch beside it, your fingers are no longer steady. You tell yourself you are only looking. Only checking. Only trying to understand what is happening, because surely Arthur would want to know if something strange has gotten into his things.

You reach inside.

Your fingers close around stone.

The moment you pull it free, the world seems to narrow.

The second figurine is slightly heavier than the first, carved in the same crude hand, unmistakably its counterpart. A man. Broad, blunt, made with the same shameless intention as the woman in your other palm. Its cock juts from its stone-hewn hips, strange and old and almost foolish, but there is nothing foolish in the way the air changes when you hold them together.

The pulse becomes a drum beat.

You sit back hard in the grass, breath breaking.

The statues throb in alternating rhythm, one answering the other. Your hands move before you decide to move them. You turn the pieces. The hollows and shapes align. Of course they do. They mirror life. The coming together of pieces, of body parts.

The moment they lock together, you cry out.

It tears from you before you can stop it, sharp and startled, half pain and half relief. Heat rushes through you in a brutal wave, so sudden and complete that your body folds around it. The river, the cabin, the horses, the wide gold sky, everything bursts bright and then blurs.

The joined statues lie in your hands, caught in a crude, unmistakable pantomime of sex.

And you burn.

Not gently. Not like the simmering want you have carried for Arthur across miles and nights and too-small tents. This is wildfire thrown into dry grass. It catches everywhere at once.

Your hands fumble at your clothes.

“Arthur,” you gasp.

His name feels dragged out of you by the core.

No answer comes.

You pull at buttons, laces, fastenings. Your fingers are clumsy, frantic, half-useless in their haste. Fabric loosens around your shoulders. Your breath comes fast. The air kisses newly bared skin and only makes the ache sharper.

“Arthur!”

This time your cry is louder.

His horse lifts its head nearby, ears pricked.

You should be ashamed. Some part of you is ashamed. It flickers dimly beneath the flood, a candle trying to survive a storm. But the spell, or curse, or whatever hungry thing lives inside the stone, swallows that too.

You drop back into the grass.

The linked statues tumble from your hands and land beside you, still fitted together, still pulsing.

The world pulses with them.

You twist beneath it, half undressed, shaking, one hand clawed in the grass and the other pulling open your shirt, baring your breasts to the open, as if that could give you some relief. 

“Arthur,” you sob, and do not know whether it is a plea or a prayer.

Further upriver, Arthur hears his name.

At first, he can barely hear it over the sound he has just made, muffled under the harshness of his own breath and the rush of water around his shins. He stands there in the river with his pants unfastened, cock out, shirt clinging damp to his back, shame still hot in his throat.

He is trying to breathe.

Trying to gather himself.

Then you call again.

“Arthur!”

His head snaps up.

Everything in him goes still.

That was not memory. Not fantasy. Not the wicked echo of his own want throwing your voice into the wind. That was you. Crying out. 

His hands move fast, rough and clumsy as he shoves himself back into some semblance of decency. The water surges around his boots as he turns, nearly slipping on the slick stones beneath him. He grabs for balance, curses, then drives forward through the shallows.

You call again.

This time, the sound is broken.

Arthur runs.

He crashes out of the river, boots heavy with water, pants still loose at his hips, belt hanging open. He doesn’t care. Branches whip at his sleeves as he pushes through brush and reeds, heart hammering.

“Hold on,” he breathes, though you cannot hear him. “Hold on.”

The closer he gets, the worse it becomes.

At first, it is only the same terrible heat rising again, coiling low in his belly. He snarls under his breath, furious at himself, furious at his body, furious at the impossible timing of it. But then the sensation sharpens into something larger than him, something that does not ask permission.

It moves through his blood like a command.

He stumbles.

For a second, the world tilts. The path, the grass, the cabin, the glitter of the river, all of it bends around one fixed point ahead.

You.

He sees you in the grass near the bags.

Your clothes half undone. Your body trembling. 

Arthur’s mind empties. He stops only when he sees the statues.

They lie beside you in the grass, fitted together.

Stone against stone.

Locked in some obscene little union.

Pulsing.

Arthur stares at them, and understanding does not come, not cleanly. It arrives in fragments. Your strange heat after Van Horn. His own sudden madness in the mountain cold. The look in your eyes by the river. The thing he found in the cabin was crude, old, and warm in his hand. Needing to run away and take care of himself.

The two pieces, together.

“Jesus,” he rasps.

You turn your head toward him.

Your face is flushed, eyes dark and wet, mouth parted around his name. The sight of you hits him harder than any fist ever has. Your skirt is hiked up immodestly, and you are naked from the waist up. Shamelessly, your hand rubs at yourself through your drawers as you pant, wild-eyed. His knees nearly buckle.

“Arthur,” you whisper.

That is the end of whatever restraint he had left.

He moves to you with a strangled sound, falling to his knees in the grass. His hands hover for one wild second, as if some last decent part of him is trying to remember how to ask, how to speak, how to make sense of the spell pulling both of you under.

“Are you hurt?” he manages.

You shake your head, “No.” Your hand leaves your cunt and catches his sleeve and pulls, weak but desperate. “No. I need you.”

When he moves closer to you, it isn’t graceful. There is nothing polished in the way you collide. You reach for him at the same time he reaches for you, and then his arms are around you, yours around his neck, and the first contact is a shock so fierce it leaves you both gasping.

His mouth finds yours.

The kiss is nothing like the soft goodnight at MacFarlane’s Ranch. This is answer, hunger, and terror all tangled together. He kisses you as if he has been starving in silence for years. You kiss him back with the same wildness, your fingers digging into his shoulders, his hair, the damp collar of his shirt.

The statues pulse beside you.

Arthur groans against your mouth and breaks away only to drag in air.

“We shouldn’t,” he says, but the words are wrecked.

“I know,” you breathe.

Neither of you moves away.

His forehead drops to yours. His breath shakes. Your hands slide down to his chest, feeling the thunder of his heart beneath damp fabric.

“This ain’t right,” he says.

“I know.”

His eyes open. They are blown dark, the blue almost swallowed whole. “Tell me to stop.”

The command hangs between you.  But the statues pulse, and your body arches toward his. 

“Don’t stop,” you whisper.

Arthur breaks.

Not into violence. Not into force. Into surrender.

He kisses you again, and the world vanishes down to hands, breath, grass, and heat. His hat falls somewhere beside you. Your fingers find the buttons of his shirt and fumble them open, one after another, your knuckles brushing the warm skin beneath. He shudders so hard you feel it through your palms.

His own hands are careful despite the storm in him. That is what makes your chest ache, even now. Even under whatever power has seized you both, Arthur is still Arthur, trembling and trying to be gentle with hands made for murder.

He peels loosened fabric from your waist, pausing whenever you gasp, watching your face like it is the only map he trusts. You push at his shirt in answer, frantic with the need to feel less cloth between you, less world, less anything.

The shirt goes first, thrown blindly into the grass.

Then his pants hang open, damp from the river and the exertion of his run, and your hands press to the hard warmth beneath, just above his hip. He makes a rough, helpless sound and kisses you again, deeper, his hands sliding to your waist as if he needs to anchor himself or he will be swept away entirely.

You are already half out of your clothes, but not enough. Nothing is enough.

The spell pours through you both, relentless as floodwater.

Arthur’s belt slips loose. Your remaining fastenings give beneath desperate fingers. Fabric catches, tangles, resists. You laugh once, breathless and almost broken, because the absurdity of it flickers through the haze for one impossible second.

Arthur huffs against your mouth, the sound jagged but real.

“Damn clothes,” he mutters.

You help him. He helps you. Neither of you knows where one fumbled motion ends and the next begins. It becomes a fevered choreography of undoing, all straining fabric and shaking hands, boots kicked aside, wet skirts dragging over grass, his damp clothes falling in a dark heap with yours.

The air touches more of you, more of him.

Every newly bared inch feels like flint struck against steel. You do not know what to call what is happening. You do not know whether either of you will forgive yourselves when the spell loosens its grip. You only know that beneath the unnatural heat, beneath the stone-born compulsion, there is something that has been waiting in both of you long before the statues ever touched.

The last of the clothing falls away.

The grass is warm beneath your back, the evening sky huge overhead, the San Luis whispering nearby as if it knows magic older than the two of you. Arthur is above you now, around you, with nothing left between your skin and his but trembling breath and the terrible, glowing need rolling through both of you.

Beside you, half-hidden in the grass, the joined statues throb like a second heart.

Arthur lowers his forehead to yours.

The fallout in the camp from a few hours ago was still high on everyone’s mind, the tension could be cut with a damn knife. People stood in groups whispering, glancing around with worry about what was coming next.

 It looked like everyone was expecting to be killed at any moment, and in all honesty, that was becoming more likely every day.

Dutch, Micah and his cronies had set themselves up in the middle of the camp like they owned the damn place, which got Arthur’s back up.

Every single day, he watched the man he’d always seen as a mentor and father change more and more and not in a good way. It felt like he was on a one-way ride to hell and dragging all of them along with him.

He’d noticed the camp had been thinning out over the last few days, people slowly slinking away without so much as a goodbye. Never had he felt such a lack of morale around the place, they had always been a family, would kill for each other, would die for each other.

Now it felt every single day there was a greater and greater distance between them, the earth was parting, and they were all on different land masses. Arthur and Isabella had set up near John and Abigail’s tent, mostly because it gave the man the best view of the group in the middle of the camp without seeming obvious.

His hand had barely left Isabella’s knee whilst they sat there as if it was the best way to protect her from the dangers that lurked within the camp. He wouldn’t leave her for a second, not with the wrapped new higher archy forming within the gang.

Anytime one of the men so much as glanced over, he stared them down. The minute those men saw the poisonous icy glare, they gulped and looked away, knowing the threat he held, even without words.

He’d noticed Isabella had not shown it outwardly, but the vulnerability she felt was something he’d picked up on, she was disappearing into herself, and it terrified him.

The sound of galloping horses caught everyone’s attention, “Mr Van de Linde, Mr Morgan, Charles!” Eagle Flies shouted out over the sound of the horses, barely stopping until he was right on the edge of camp. The horses reared with protest at the sudden halt of movement, huffing out harshly, coats sheen with sweat from the nonstop running.

“They are killing our people over oil. Come with us, against the tyranny, take them down and show them they cannot do that to us, not anymore!” He cried out, war paint on his skin, a group of the young Indians behind him, all motivated by his anger.

 “I love your courage son, it is a thing of rarity in this world,” Dutch announced as he walked over with that commanding presence that was really starting to grate on Isabella.

Another voice came from the side, “Stop, please, my son, my last son. Stop!” Rain Falls voice called out, his panicked voice echoing through the quiet camp. “I have seen where this violence ends, your brother lies dead, your mother lies dead, our family lies dead because of this anger. This world is unjust, they will continue to push against us, but we cannot fall to that level again. We cannot die for pride, please.” The older man was begging his son, eyes wide and looking more weathered than he had been the other day, with the worry that was so very deeply set on his face.

 “We cannot allow this any longer, Father. Your sense of peace is a weakness, and these sorts of people will only listen to violence.” With that, the younger Indian is turning to the gang.

“Ride with me, we end this tonight.” He declared, turning the horses before his father could say another word. “Mr Morgan, Miss Hunter, you helped me before. Please do so now, this is a trap. My son will die, those men will die.” The man’s words were pleading, the words of a father whose heart was breaking as he watched his son slip away.

Dutch frowned, shooting the pair a look of something akin to distrust, “You helped them, without saying anything?” As if the very idea of any of them doing anything without his permission was foreign to him, once more reminding Isabella that he had come to think of Arthur as someone to own, to control, not as a son.

“Yeah, we did, and what of it?” Isabella stepped forward, her arms folded across her chest. “Wonder what else you’ve been doing behind Dutch’s back.” Micah queried, appearing as the devil on the mans shoulder once more,  stepping forward to stand beside Dutch.  “The hell are you talking about, Micah?” Arthur shot back.

“Please, we have already lost so much, don’t let me lose my son as well.” Rain falls cut across the simmering fallout. “We’ll help, Charles? Anybody else wanna?” Arthur didn’t even bother waiting for an answer, instead he stormed forward.

“I will, means I can see what else you two have been doing behind my back.” Dutch’s paranoid words caused Arthur to stiffen, but before he could say anything, Isabella reached out, taking the outlaw's hand and giving him a shake of her head. Now was not the time. Then again, would there ever actually be a time?

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As they travelled on galloping horses, Isabella could hear Dutch and Micah talking at the front of the group, and she set her jaw, fighting everything within her to not scream at them, to make them see sense, but what was the point? Any semblance of sense was long gone. “Those men will die,” Charles muttered ahead of them.

“Damned them all,” Isabella grumbled, her emeralds beginning to set alit with that hellfire of her wrath. “What are you talking about back there?” Dutch’s distrust was showing now. “That those men are going to die, that we’re following to watch them goddamn die,” Isabella snapped, unable to hold her tongue any longer.

“They won’t,” Micah responded to her exasperated words. “I have a plan,” Dutch added beside his what seemed to be his right-hand man nowadays. “Like you had a plan about John?” Arthur called out from beside Isabella as they rode.

 "Yano, there’s barely any loyalty anymore. Stick with me or cut loose, cause I’m trying to save us all, you're just too blind to see it.” Dutch's hissed words echoed throughout the group, settling like a heavy snow in a blizzard.

 “We ain’t the blind ones,” Arthur mumbled under his breath, but didn’t comment further instead, he looked forward. “Who’s that?” He asked as he spotted a lone figure riding towards them. It was one of the young men who had ridden in with Eagle Flies, blood pooling from his shoulder.

“Please, Eagle Flies needs your help.” He pleaded, breathing harshly as he held his hand against his own limb. Charles went to pull away from the gang to help the man who was leaning against his horse, but he shook his head in response. “I’ll be okay, please go to him.” The group of riders nodded and pushed their horses into a gallop.

The sight was an unbelievable disaster. Smoke pooled high into the sky, and fire raged across the whole factory, it was true. This had been a trap, a goddamn slaughter that those young men had been lured right into, “Can anybody see eagle flies?” Arthur called out to the group, voice gruff and tense as he surveyed the horrific scene.

 “He’s on the bridge,” Charles responded, his keen eyes scanning over the sight before him, though his binoculars. “We gotta help him, you guys go distract them, I’ll get eagle flies”, Arthur said, trying to assess how he was going to go about it.

“That an order, Arthur?” Dutch shot back, the look of disbelief on his face was evident, but he’s turning the Count anyway, “Fine, let’s go, we’ll meet you down there.” And without another word, the man was riding away, with Micah, Javier, Bill and Micah’s friends on his heels.

 “Whatever the hell they are planning to do down there, it ain’t gonna be anything good.” Isabella breathed, more than aware that the people who stayed were the ones who were resisting that path of madness.

Arthur nodded his head in agreement, before they set off galloping. It didn’t matter what the others were planning, all Isabella cared about was saving as many of Eagle Flies' men as they could. Dismounting when they were close enough to hit the shooters with their guns and letting all hell be unleashed.

Finally, after untold amounts of bodies had fallen and blood had been shed, they reached Eagle Flies, Arthur landing a headshot on the soldier who had been attacking him. “Thank you, thank you all,” He yelled breathless, pushing the corpse that had fallen on him off and retrieving his bow.

 “Don’t thank us yet, we ain’t got out of here,” Arthur shouted back, looking around to see the rest of them. “We need to help my men. I think I got separated from them near the factory.” Eagle Flies announced as he ran towards the aforementioned building.

 “Jesus, this kid is stubborn as hell,” Arthur grunted between his gritted teeth, following closely behind him, Isabella and Charles were hot on his heels. Reaching the factory, Arthur noticed that Dutch and the others were already there.

“You decided to join us then, Morgan,” Bill shouted towards the new arrivals. “He saved my life.” Eagle Flies snapped in response to the attitude, an explanation of what had delayed the group.

“Such a good guy nowadays, ain’t you, Arthur?” Dutch spat back, “Guess somebody's gotta have others’ lives in mind.” Arthur responded. Isabella could see from here just how angry Arthur was, his brows were knitted, his lips pressed together, a frown fixed on his rugged face, and he was staring at Dutch as if he had just broken his heart.

 “I don’t get you anymore, Arthur, and I don’t get you either, Isabella, all this doubting,” Dutch muttered, but he then realised the gunfire had ended, and without another word, he grabbed Arthur’s arm and dragged him towards the factory.

Isabella hadn’t even noticed the two men leave for a moment, far too distracted by the gun fight, then she turned, however, and her heart dropped into her stomach at the fact that she couldn’t see Arthur anymore.

“Charles?” Her voice cracking, the panic reflecting in her emeralds, the fear taking over every one of her senses, running through her veins like ice. All she could see in her mind's eye was Arthur's end, and she felt like she could barely get any oxygen into her lungs.

“I think they went into the factory. Go, I’ll cover you if needed.” His large body moved behind hers, making sure she could rush around to find the easiest way in. Not that anything was exactly easy when there was the constant threat of death behind every door. She heard Eagle Flies close behind her, and then a sound that made her heart stop rang out, Arthur screaming in agony.

Shoving at the barricaded door with her shoulder, thankfully, with Eagle Flies there to help, they broke through. Just in time to see a sight that made her feel her soul leave her body, Arthur lay on his back, a man above him, who was pushing a knife towards his chest, as Arthur pushed against it.

 Isabella didn’t hesitate, taking the man out with a clean bullet to the head, watching his body drop in slow motion. Before her and eagle flies were rushing forward.

“Arthur! Arthur, oh god, are you okay?” She hadn’t realised she’d been crying until she saw the tears drop onto his dirty skin. What she'd just seen was a sight that would never leave her, it would haunt her in her darkest nightmares forever. “He left me.” Arthur seemed to whisper out, as if it was all he could manage.

 “Arthur, we gotta go.” She reached down to take his hand and pull him to his feet. His body seemed like dead weight, weighed down by the shock of what had just happened. When he was finally on his feet, the three of them turned to leave, yet they couldn't move before a gunshot rang out.

 Resulting in a grunt from beside them, the sound of Eagle Flies falling to his knees. Arthur didn’t pause, retrieving his own gun and shooting the man in a smart uniform. He leaned down to help Eagle Flies to his feet. Isabella moved to the other side of the man and helped him walk out of the building.

As they appeared from the doorway, he noticed the others were already gathered, but none of the gang who had ridden in with Dutch were there, only the ones who had ridden with Arthur. Charles moved to replace Arthur under Eagle Flies' arm and help him to his horse. It was easy to see that Arthur wasn’t even functioning anymore.

“Get the boy back to his father,” Isabella advised Charles with a soft smile, “I think I’m gonna stay with them.” He agreed, the goodbye given simply before he nodded at the others.

Who all seemed to have noticed the look on Arthur’s face, knowing there was nothing any of them could say. Charles stopped for a moment before moving to squeeze Isabella’s arm, “Look after him, Isabella.”

The woman reached to give the man’s hand a mirroring squeeze and offered him a nod before she stepped back. Watching as he and the others rode away, and then it was just Arthur and Isabella standing alone in the mess of bodies that they’d left in their wake.

“Arther?” Isabella reached up, placing her hand on his chest, to which he finally turned from the skyline he’d been focusing on and looked at her. And the look in his eyes made her breath catch in her throat. There was nothing behind them, no emotions, a blank painting without the art of his soul.

“He left me.” Was all he managed before he walked away to make his way towards their horses. Isabella couldn’t make sense of his words for a moment, but then they clicked, and she was pretty sure she was going to vomit. Not delaying for a moment in leaving the place they were currently in and following the man towards Florence and Valour.

The minute they were mounted, Isabella spoke, “I don’t think we should go back to camp tonight. I know somewhere we can stay and talk. Please follow me.” Moving before he could reply, after all, she didn’t expect a response from him in such a vulnerable state.

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She led him to Vanhorn. It may not be the nicest place, but at least they’d yet to commit a mass murder in the town. So, thankfully, they didn’t have to wear a bandana to even spend a second there.

She dropped from Florence onto silent feet, each step light as she approached the man. Watching Arthur do the same soundlessly, she reached out to offer him her hand. It wasn’t as if it was something she often did, usually avoiding any sort of public displays of affection.

But right now, she knew that affection was needed, he needed to know she was there, that no matter what, she would always be there. Without a sound, Arthur took her hand, the human contact gave him something he wasn't sure he could admit, just how much he appreciated.

She led him into the hotel, booking them into a room, and walking up the stairs towards it. Never letting go of his hand, unlocking the door, she pulled him into the bare suite, which looked run down, the fabrics moth-eaten, and the walls rickety, and yet the least put-together thing in the room was Arthur. Taking her hat off and placing it on the side, she sat on the bed, helping him sit down next to her.

 Reaching to wrap her arms around his massive body, clutching him to her chest, so very tightly as though she was terrified that he’d disappear if she didn’t keep physical contact. That he’d fall into the bowels of hell, where she’d never be able to bring him back from.

 “Arthur, please talk to me.” She pleaded, her heart heavy as she watched him close his eyes, still presenting nothing but detachment. “He left me, Belle.” His usually booming voice was completely monotone, “What do you mean?” Isabella's emeralds remained on his emotionless face.

 “When I was hit by the steam, and the men grabbed me, he stayed still for a moment. I thought he would run to me, kill the men, as he always has. But instead, he just turned and walked away. He left me to die, Belle.” Isabella felt red-hot rage build inside her, fire burning every fibre in her body, that wrath of hers blinding her, threatening to take over. But she knew she couldn't lose control, no, she needed to be here for him right now.

“What?” Was all she could manage, feeling a hatred for Dutch that she’d never believed would be there. She had always respected the man, hell, loved him, and yet now she was disgusted by him.

 “That look in his eyes, Belle, he looked at me like I meant nothing, like all those years of me being there for him. All of the years of me giving him my whole self and doing every single thing he asked, by being loyal, no matter the fight with my morals. And he just walked away, I can’t, I don’t.” He stammered as he lent into Isabella’s chest, voice cracking as he fought back tears.

 Isabella just held him for a moment before she reached to capture his chin, tilting his head up so he was looking at her. Revealing those aquamarine orbs that were swimming with tears, teeth capturing his lower lip as he attempted to steady his emotions, tried to deny them escaping, but he no longer could. Isabella's own eyes welled with tears in reaction to how broken the man she loved was.

But she steeled herself so she could speak honestly. “We need to get everyone out of there, they ain’t safe anymore. We need to get our family away from this, and then it’s me and you. We need to run as well, this is gonna end in the death of the people we love. And I’d rather die myself than let that happen. The Dutch we knew and loved is gone, he has become someone else. Someone motivated by greed and anger, he is dangerous, he, Micah and his piece of shit friends. They are gonna drag us all down. And if that means we gotta kill them all to keep the people we love safe, we gotta do it. This is done, the life we have lived for so long is done. Our time with him is done” Her words were firm but compassionate, she didn’t want to hurt him any more than he already was.

But it was the truth, this life was over for all of them. After what felt like a lifetime, it seemed like that last wall in Arthur broke, and he began sobbing, no longer able to push down those emotions that haunted him. Cuddling up against Isabella’s chest, his shoulders shaking as he wept into her chest. Isabella remained still, just holding him as he cried against her, until he fell silent, exhaustion of the emotions he was wrestling within himself drawing patterns of tears down his cheeks. 

When he finally fell asleep, Isabella helped him undress and get into bed. As he lay there, she moved to rest her head on his chest, whispering words of comfort. Whilst she was also slowly lulled into sleep by his gentle heartbeat.

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As the early morning sun caught his eyes, Arthur exhaled through his haze of sleep, turning his body slightly, he reached for Isabella. But he was only greeted by a cold side of the bed, his eyes fully shot open in response, searching the room for her. Before he noticed the piece of paper on her pillow. Her cursive writing on the aged page that he could tell was ripped from her journal.

“My dear Arthur

I have gone to get some breakfast. I will be back soon. You looked peaceful in sleep. And I didn’t want to wake you. Sleep well, and I will be with you in no time.

I love you

Belle”

Arthur felt his heartbeat steady slightly, he’d been terrified that she had left like Dutch had, that once more he’d been abandoned by someone he loved. However, she’d left only to take care of him, giving a soft sigh, he climbed out of the bed they had shared. Getting dressed and leaving within very little time, making his way from the room. He gave the clerk a nod as he left.

Stepping outside, he held his hand above his eyes at the brightness of the sun. He could see Florence still tethered next to Valour at the hitching post. Crossing the road to the general store, he entered, noticing the silence that fell the moment he stepped inside.

He was more than aware of the threat he exuded in every room he entered. At one point, he embraced it, knowing it was always worked out in their favour when it came to committing their litany of crimes. Yet now it just made his shoulders drop, it felt overwhelming. He hated that he couldn't just disappear into the crowd. He just wanted to find Isabella and leave this town before trouble happened.

But looking around, he didn’t see her anywhere. Approaching the clerk, he nodded at him. The clerk looked like he was ready to go into the usual spiel, so Arthur stopped him before he could utter a word. “Has a dark-haired woman with a gun belt and a hat like mine been here today?” He asked.

The shopkeeper tilted his head as he thought. “A lot of people come through here. I can’t remember everyone, but I’m sure I could with a little incentive.” The shopkeeper was dropping an easy hint that he wanted a bribe to tell him the truth.

Arthur grunted, standing to his full height, that threat now radiating in him, a coiled spring of frustration growing in his stomach. “Fine,” Placing a couple of bills on the desk, he wanted to argue, but knew causing trouble would be a mistake. “Yes, she was here a few hours ago to buy some food,” The shopkeeper explained, taking the bills from the counter.

“Thanks.” Was all Arthur said, because he was honestly starting to panic, anxiety causing bile to rise into his throat. If she’d been here hours ago, where was she now? Her note had said she’d return to him soon. So where was she? Florence was still here, and that meant she was on foot. Had something happened? Had she been picked up or something? Had she returned to camp to go after Dutch in her anger? Shit, he had to find her.

"What's wrong?" His voice is soft over the phone.

"No. Nothing's wrong." You hesitate and then speak again. "The shower at mine is broken."

He's silent.

"The guy said he could come tomorrow."

"Jesus. That's why you called me?" His voice is harsh. "Wait till tomorrow."

"I have a job interview." You say helplessly. "At a new firm. I—please."

Arthur mutters ferociously in the background, but you can hear the telltale shuffle of his steps and the clink of his toolbox. He's at yours so fast that when you open the door, you are still in your slippers. Seeing him makes your heart jolt and stomach roil. He looks well. Despite the circles under his eyes and the overgrown stubble. He fills out his old brown jacket just the same as he did before—although his stomach looks a little softer and his eyes are bloodshot. Has he been drinking?

"Thank you." You say softly and widen the door to let him in.

Arthur toes off his boots at the front door, second nature from all the times you've shouted at him for tracking mud all over the carpets. He shrugs off his jacket and looks at you, scanning you the way you must be scanning him. His eyes flicker over the curves of your breasts under your pyjama shirt. You cross your arms over them, and he blinks, shaking his head as if to clear it.

It has been months since you have seen him, and perhaps that has dulled the harsh, sharp feeling in your sternum, the pull of your body towards him. His hair sweeps the collar of his flannel shirt. It's new, blue.

"D'you want a coffee?" An olive branch.

Arthur nods, briefly, setting the box of tools down next to his socked feet.

"Nice place you got here." His voice is without judgement.

You'd let him keep the house you'd bought together two years ago. Why foist him upon John and Abigail when you are more than capable of getting your own place? Besides, you never liked the place. It's too dated, the floral wallpaper too gaudy, the red door like a stain of blood over the whitewashed plaster of the walls. The windchimes he'd made you hung over it. This suits you, sleek, modern. A marble kitchen island and a king bed all to yourself.

Arthur clears his throat, breaking you out of the memories of the house. Out of memories of the four-poster bed and the colourful rugs you'd picked out together.

"What's the issue? With the shower?"

"The water just leaks through the head." You turn on your heel and lead him through.

The place looks too small around him, the way he shrugs his shoulders and ducks his head to move through the doorways. You lead him to the washroom and slide open the glass shower.

"It leakin' anywhere else?"

"Sometimes through the tile. It just stopped working this morning."

"Alright." He kneels on the shower bathroom floor, removing the tools from his box. You stand there awkwardly and then remember—coffee. You can make coffee. Even though 6 pm is too late for coffee.

The kitchen is bright white, and the cabinets are sleek, fitted neatly into the walls, their handles tucked discreetly beneath them. You find mugs. Arthur likes it plain, black. What a waste of the fancy coffee machine you bought. Instead of using it, you reach into the cupboard for the bottle of instant coffee you'd bought last week, unthinkingly. Even though you only really use the machine. The mugs are hot, and you pour milk and sugar into yours, a half cup, and fill his to the brim with acrid black coffee. You approach the bathroom and set the mug down beside his knee. Sitting on the closed toilet lid, you cross your legs and take a sip of your coffee.

"Congratulations on the interview." He says, without looking at you.

"It's just a formality. They approached me."

"Thought you liked your firm."

" I'd be stupid not to take it. They're offering double what I make now."

"Well," Arthur says shortly. "You always had better ideas."

You bite back a "hell is that supposed to mean, prick?"

"You're looking well." You say pointedly.

"Been workin', " he mutters. "Got a dog. She keeps me busy."

You'd begged him for a puppy. A German Shepherd. You scowl into your mug.

"Don't look like that. Found her in the gutter." Arthur's voice is wry as he steps back to switch on the showerhead, testing the water. It trickles miserably. "Think it's a burst pipe."

"How long will it take to fix?"

"A couple of hours. Maybe."

Jesus. A couple of hours with him still in your space, and you'll peel your skin off.

"Don't gotta babysit me. Ain't gonna steal your fancy soaps."

You flinch at the jibe. The arch in his brow tells you exactly what he's referring to. That night at your parents' where your mother had stashed every valuable into the house safe upon hearing that your ex-prisoner husband was visiting. She'd made up the couch for him to sleep on, and you'd woken at midnight to coax him into your childhood twin bed. The two of you had curled up together, surrounded by the plush guardians of your childhood, giggling like teenagers.

"How have you been?" He says, looking a little guilty at the no-doubt crestfallen look on your face. "Apart from the job."

"Fine." Lonely. "Good."

"Your hair looks nice." He murmurs, "Different."

"Highlights." Your skin feels hot.

Then you see it, as he moves his hand to test the tap. The gleam on his left hand, the wide gold band unmistakable in the dim lights of the bathroom. His wedding ring. You look down at your own hand, the strip of tan already faded from your finger.

"You're still wearing it." You are unable to keep your surprise out of your voice. Arthur freezes.

"I figured we ain't divorced yet." And he begins to work again, avoiding your gaze.

"Did you get what my lawyer sent you?"

"I did." His voice is rough. "What's mine is mine, what's yours is yours."

"Yeah. Is that okay?"

"'Course. Ain't like I had much to give you in the first place."

"Should look at selling the house too." You say quietly."It's in both of our names."

"Okay."

"Will you be okay?"

"I won't be on the streets. Don't you worry."

"Arthur." You say softly.

"Don't "Arthur" me." He sounds irritable. "I know. It's fine. We can do whatever you like."

His tone makes you shudder. Suddenly, you want to cry. You want to sink to the bathroom floor and press your face into his shirt and cry.

"Okay." You whisper, and his shoulders slump. Silently, you lift yourself and walk out of the bathroom, ignoring his muttered curse.

Arthur comes out, a half hour later. You are curled on the modern leather couch, and you must brace your feet to keep from slipping off.

"S'done. Should be dry in time for tomorrow morning."

"How much do I owe you?"

"Nothin'. On the house."

"I've wasted your evening."

"Weren't a waste." Arthur hesitates, then lowers "Was good to see you."

Pulling his jacket off the rack, he shrugs it over his shoulders. The ring catches the light as he scrubs a hand over his beard.

"If I'm not paying you—there's beer in the fridge."

"Don't need you to pay me with a six-pack either." His tone is flat, but his eyes glint with humour.

"No. No, I meant, if you wanted a drink. For old time's sake."

"I wouldn't call two years old times."

"Jesus. Do you want the beer or not?"

Hesitating a second, he shrugs his jacket back off and nods.

"Glass or bottle?" You ask, digging around in your fridge.

"Bottle." He scoffs.

You open two bottles and pass one to him as he sits down on your stupid leather couch. You sit beside him, an arm's length between you. You are close enough to relearn the creases next to his eyes and the smattering of freckles on his nose. The hard set of his jaw and his pollen-gold eyelashes.

"How are John and Abigail?"

"Good. She's gonna have another baby. Girl."

"She wanted one, didn't she?"

"Yeah. John's real pleased too—even if he won't say it."

"And Jack?"

"He ain't so pleased, but he'll come 'round."

Jack, the sensitive, sometimes acidic boy you had grown so very fond of. With his books and plans to be a lawyer, and all those questions he asks you, answers you'd try to make interesting.

"He misses you," Arthur says, gulping his beer. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows it.

"I miss him." You say softly. "Hold on."

You set your beer on the table and dive into the cupboard under the bookshelf.

"I bought him this for his birthday. Before—"Before you'd served Arthur the papers. Can't live like this, won't live like this. Your cigarette butts are everywhere, and your life is a mess. I hate Dutch and the hold he's got on you. I don't love you.

The book is still wrapped with "To: Jack, From: Auntie" written in your scrawl on the front.

"It's about famous criminal trials."

"He'll like that."

"They'll be okay with it being from me?"

"'Course they will. All Abigail does is scold me for losin' you."

"I think we should talk about splitting assets too. The paintings and dishware and—"

"Take it." He says simply. "I got no use for it."

"But half of it is legally yours," You insist. "You can sell it or—"

"I don't want it." Arthur says, his voice firm.

"There's no reason to make this difficult."

"As opposed to you? You've made it real easy." The harshness makes you narrow your eyes, straighten your posture.

"Oh, God. My mother was right."

"Aw, was she?" He swallows another sip of beer. "Always liked her. Even when she said I was gonna leave you pregnant and broke."

"I'm neither of those things." You snap. "Good thing we didn't have kids, what a fucking mess that would have been."

"Yeah. 'Cause who'd want me as the father to their kids?" He spits.

"Aren't you glad it didn't come to that?"

His jaw tics, and he says nothing.

"Arthur." You turn your voice placating, and you wish. You wish it were nine months ago and you could smooth your hand over his brow and plaster the punched-in walls with a kiss. Reaching out, you lay a hand on his forearm. "Let's just do this my way. Yeah? The easy way."

Arthur looks at you for the first time since he stepped foot in your new life. His eyes are just as you remember them. Only, they are resigned. None of the hot light of battle that used to enter them—the thrill of a skirmish.

"Alright, sweetheart." He breathes. "The easy way."

He touches your hand where it rests on his arm, and you almost withdraw it.

Arthur's eyes follow the line of your bare shoulder, where the shirt slips down, and the curve of your thigh as you hike one foot onto the couch. His eyes flicker to your hand, your thumb caressing his weathered skin.

Arthur lifts his arm, and as natural as breathing, as unthinking as walking, you scoot down the couch and curl into his side. His arms go around you immediately, his breath stirring your hair. Placing his hand on your bare calf, he pulls it forward so you are half in his lap, your head tucked against his collarbone. Reaching for his hand, you bring it up to look at the ring.

"Should take it off." You murmur into his shoulder.

"We ain't divorced yet." Arthur's voice is firm. You prop yourself up a little, staring at long memorised scars on his chin,

"No." Your mouth brushes one, his stubble grazing you. "No, we aren't."

Arthur's hand smooths up your thigh, the tips of his fingers brushing where it meets your ass, under your sleep shorts. The calloused pads of his fingers brushing your soft skin there.

Then, your neck is bent back over his arm, and he is kissing you with all the feverish intensity of the long separation. Your fingers come to brush the soft hair falling over his cheek and ears, to thumb the feathery silk of his thick eyebrows and to fit your nose against the notch in his. You bring his trembling hand up, beneath your shirt to curve at your breast. The cool metal of the ring makes you shudder as he nudges your jaw to kiss your neck.

"Arthur." You gasp as his teeth graze your fluttering pulse. His hand squeezes at your breast, so hard that you are sure it will burst like overripe fruit in the crushing force of his palm. Your breathy whine slips out, and he gentles. Murmuring, he kisses gently at your cheek, your eyes.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to." His thumb strokes against the side of it, circling the hardened nipple. "Want you so bad. I missed you fuckin' much."

"Touch me." You gasp, guiding his hand down into your shorts and making him feel the leaking mess of your cunt. He shuts his eyes and groans into your neck. The two of you find yourselves horizontal on the couch, your foot braced against the arm to keep from sliding off.

Arthur buries his face in the junction of your shoulder, pressing the heel of his palm into your sopping cunt, soaking the gusset of your shorts.

"Will you let me?"

"Let you?" You shove at his flannel, undoing the buttons with clumsy fingers, only to be met with the barrier of his T-shirt underneath it.

"Eat your cunt." He groans. "Please. I missed it so much."

You are already shoving the shorts down, and he is pulling his t-shirt over his blonde-streaked head to slide onto his knees next to the couch.

"Arthur." You whisper as he drags you forward so his breath hits your fluttering cunt.

"Shh. Darlin'. M'gonna eat you out now." Arthur looks up at you, pupils blown wide and his hair falling into his eyes. He pushes it away impatiently. "Gonna make you cry."

"Okay." You whimper. "Okay, Arthur."

Bending his head, he breathes hot air into the soft parting of your cunt. Carefully, he reached between your legs and parted your cunt down the centre. You whine, arching off the couch and into his mouth. He buries his face between your legs, groaning loudly, his beard scrapes against your thighs and down the sensitive centre. Pushing at his head, you mumble for him to be gentle, but he does not take heed of this.

"She missed me, didn't she?" Showing you mercy for one second, he pulls his face away, panting. Arthur runs the tip of his finger down the fluttering red centre of your cunt, fluid streaming from it. "Look at how wet you are."

"I missed you." You mumble, head lolling back on the couch.

"I'll make it all better", He mutters, feverish with want. Arthur takes your ankles and draws them over his shoulders, the muscles in his freckled back rippling with the movement. "I'll fix it."

Bending his head to you again, he drags his tongue down your centre,e and you clutch his hair, twisting it around your fingers, nails scratching his scalp. He grunts, and the harsh noise of his zipper cuts through the fog in your mind.

"Fuck me." You whine as he closes one hand around the meat of your thigh and grazes his teeth against your clit.

"No", Arthur presses a kiss to the bone of your hip" No, you don't want that."

"I want it." You mumble. "I want it so bad."

"You don't." His voice is firm; he presses a big hand to your belly, pushing you back down. "Just lonely. You don't want me. Not really."

Arthur releases your calf and reaches down, palming the heavy bulge in his jeans.

"Arthur, please." Whining, you press your palm to your hot face. "You're so hard. Please."

He shakes his head, strands of hair falling into his eyes and buries his face between your legs again, licking and sucking till you cry out his name, again and again. When you lift your head, he leans back on his ankles at your feet. Slowly, he leans forward and presses the softest of kisses to the round of your kneecap.

"Please." You whisper, and clutching at his shoulder, drag him up from the rug. Arthur draws close to you, his muscles straining. Like a magnet, always pulled north. You lie back on the couch, and he straddles your legs. Fingers trembling, you catch the hem of your shirt and pull it up to your belly. His eyes go dark, and he leans down to press a kiss to every inch of skin revealed. When you finally reach your breasts, you tuck the hem under your chin. Arthur takes one nipple into his mouth and sucks hard.

"Missed these too." He slurs. "Thought about 'em all the time. Thought about doin' this," He bites one gently, making you squirm. "Thought about fucking them too."

Hooking one leg around his hip, he sinks into you. Grinding the bulge of his cock against your thigh. The denim chafes against your overwrought pussy, and he grunts as you reach between your bodies to palm it.

"I got off to it." His mumbles. "You left your underwear in the laundry, and I jerked off to you. I missed you so much."

"Please fuck me." You look up at his flushed back, cupping him in your hand.

"No." He repeats, voice cracking. "You'll regret it."

"I won't. I promise I won't."

"You'll hate me." He groans.

Arthur has an iron will, stronger than your own. You learned this long ago.

"Let me touch it." You whisper. "And then—you can touch me."

Arthur stills, stomach pressed to yours. It quivers with his breaths.

"Just to make it stop." You take your hand and stroke his face, his hair. "Then we can—it'll be a clean break."

"A clean break," Arthur murmurs, and with one hand, he cradles your jaw. Nodding, you suck his thumb into your mouth.

The carousel of your mind is spinning at a dangerous speed. Arthur furrows his brow. He gives in, fumbling with the button of his jeans over the give of his belly. He's so hard, painfully so. You can tell by the way he squeezes a hand around himself, fluid leaking from the tip in a pearly drip. You replace his hand with yours, and Arthur flattens his palm over your belly before returning the favour. The hard flick of his thumb against your clit makes you wince. You stroke upwards, and his eyes scrunch.

Arthur dips his index finger into your cunt and the passage is slick, eased by his mouth. `You hold him in your hand, stroking rhythmically and relearning the veins and ridges of him. Your mouth waters. How good he felt inside of you, all the way up to your ribs. A home, fucked for himself over and over in those tumultuous two years. This was always good, though. A shared language. Any hurt could be soothed with just a touch. Until it could not, until your life together had haemorrhaged and you could not resurrect it.

"Wait." He mutters distantly as you shove your ruined panties aside, guiding the tip of him to rub against you. "Wait—I. We said—"

"I know. I know." Your voice comes out high. "Just rubbing. Don't go inside."

Arthur is kissing you now, his maw opened over yours and the tip of his cock prodding the slick entrance of your cunt. You buck your hips so he sinks in, parting a little, and his teeth gnash.

"I'm gonna come." He grunts. "I'm sorry. I can't stop."

Arthur comes, hot spurts against the soft wet of your cunt. He groans miserably, and his head drops to your shoulder. Blindly, you reach up to tangle your fingers in his damp hair. To stroke his shoulders, relaxed in pleasure. It only lasts a moment. You are left on the couch, dazed. Arthur stands on your carpet, comes on his belly, and his beard is damp with your spit and slick. Turning his head away from you, he tucks himself back into his jeans. You press your cheek to the throw pillow and watch him. The fuzz of hair on his stomach and chest and the way his muscles ripple when he pulls the undershirt over his head. Buttoning his flannel, he looks at you.