Storytime and Brain Doodles

Hosea asked the two of you to join him when he goes to light the explosives. Abigail is going to enter the warehouse with him while you’re the look-out. Adrenaline tingles at you nerve endings and you’re unable to stand still even for a second. She hisses a reprimand your way when your body refuses to still, so that she can close the buttons on the back of your dress.

It’s the same one you wore back when you robbed the bank in Valentine. Wearing it now feels vastly different, less stifling and more so like a second skin. A belt is strapped tightly around your waist that you’re going to tuck your Cattleman in and hide it under a light coat. Sporting your thick gun belt with its big and heavy holster might draw attention otherwise.

“Will ya stand still already?”, she scolds in the same exasperated tone that she reserves for Jack when he talks about wanting to become a famous gunslinger one day.

“I’m trying.”, you whine and you truly are.

But it’s like you’ve sat down on an ant hill and now hundreds of these tiny creatures are crawling around your body and up your ass. At least you won’t have to struggle with that wretched corset this time. There’s no need to adhere to any beauty standards in the factory district and no reason to shine amongst coal dust.

If anything, then you’re going to stand out with your clean clothes and clear skin, free of any filth and dirt.

“About time that we go out together, huh?”, you say, breaking the silence, because you’re feeling as if you’re going to burst otherwise.

Abigails snickers and pats the fabric on your back when she finally closes up the last button. It’s a great relief for the both of you and you immediately straighten up a little, relaxing over the fact that you can resume your squirming.

“Just don’t go thinkin’ this is going to be a regular thing now.”, she drawls with amusement lacing her words.

“Of course not.”

And you won’t expect her to. It’s evident in the twinkle in her blue eyes and the waves of excitement wafting off her that she’s thrilled to taste some action, but she dislikes the idea of risking her neck too much and too often. For if something would happen to her, nobody would watch over Jack the same way she does.

And it doesn’t matter whether John finally got his act together or not. You’ve seen him interact with the kid after his abductions and how haplessly he stumbles through each attempt to rekindle the lost years. Is it appreciated? Absolutely. Would you still call him a responsible father? No way.

Abigail is a constant pillar of strength, refusing to crack under any pressure that would have most crumble in an instant. Hell, you’re quite certain that you’re one of these people even. There is simply no way that your nerves come anywhere close to hers. Where she is steel, you feel more like jelly and where her patience runs deep as a river, yours resembles more a rain puddle on the side of a road.

God knows that you would have thrown hands with John a long, long time ago.

“Are you nervous?”, she asks as she ties her hair up into a neat bun.

You quite like the way her black strands cascade down her back, but she isn’t fond of leaving them open.

“Always, but not as much as I used to be. I trust Hosea with this.”, you admit.

Picking up your revolver, you flick your wrist for the wheel to flip out and you count the bullets. You haven’t really used the gun at all these past few days, but the intense urge to check if it’s loaded doesn’t fade. It’s like whenever you used to go on a trip and you’d zip open your bag to make sure that your passport is there and hasn’t mysteriously vanished into thin air.

You checked it five seconds ago, people would say, but a lot can happen in five seconds!

“And I guess we don’t really have that much to do.”, she agrees and fixes her collar in the mirror. “Not as much as Dutch and the others anyway.”

That is true. Your job is going to be a walk in the park in comparison. Just a quick slip into the warehouse, a curt light of a match and then you’re out again. Like ghosts.

“Exactly.”, you murmur.

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”, she suddenly says, instantly grabbing your attention.

Anxiety never fails to churn in your stomach whenever someone wants to talk to you about something, especially when their expressions is as serious as Abigail’s is right now. Daunting.

“Yeah, what is it?”, you respond and try to sound casual.

It’s a miracle that your voice doesn’t break while you speak, but it seems like you’re more in control of your own body than you believed yourself to be.

“So, it’s been a while since we last talked about you and Arthur.”

That’s true. Last you remember having spoken to her about him was back in Clemens Point, right after his abduction. The memory is carved into your mind as if it only happened last week or so. You recall the way the wind had caressed your cheeks and the smell of smoke from the nearby fireplace. Back then, you had opened yourself up to her, voicing your growing feelings for the outlaw for the very first time.

Swallowing a lump in your throat, you marvel over the fact that you managed to stay quiet about that topic for so long. Now that she opened up that can of worms, you feel like exploding again. All you want to do is either close the lid as quickly as possible or let it all out at once. Something about the sudden confrontation tells you it’s going to be the latter of the two.

“I just want to let you know that you can talk to me about anything, right? Something clearly happened between you two.”, she continues and you run a hand over your face, careful not to smudge the subtle brushstrokes of make-up that you worked so hard on earlier.

“You have to be a bit more specific, Abigail. A lot has happened between us.”, you point out and huff out a bitter laugh.

Her shoulders slump down and recognition flashes behind her eyes. Is it possible that your situation reminds her of her and John? Oh, you must be in some deep shit then.

“I know that you two fight a lot.”

Theatrically, you clutch the non-existent pearls around your neck. It reminds you of the beautiful necklace that you wore to the ferry and that is now lying at the bottom of the Grand Korrigan. The memory sends an ice-cold shiver down your spine, properly rattling every piece of vertebrae on its way.

“What? And here I thought we were hiding it so well.”, you gasp, sarcasm oozing from your voice.

Her lips are pressed into a thin line as she stares at you, sizing you up. No doubt she’s trying to find a hint that might reveal your true emotions that are bubbling behind the façade that you oh so meticulously built up.

“Do you still have feelings for him?”, she asks, completely ignoring your poor attempt at a joke and directly cutting to the chase.

That’s something you cherish about her. Nothing is minced with Abigail Roberts. Her and Sadie are alike in that aspect.

“I don’t want to talk about my feelings for him.”, you spit and immediately reel back. “Sorry.”

She doesn’t deserve your anger.

“I understand what you’re going through. Trust me with that.”

“Oh, I trust you entirely. Don’t you worry about that.”, you huff out and chuckle. “Sometimes I feel like you, Molly and I should start a therapy group.”

And you’d call it something along the lines of: The wreckage of the Van Der Linde men.

“Is it really that bad between you and Arthur?”, she asks, somehow surprised by your situation.

Well, what on earth did she expect? Arthur may be older than her John, but wisdom doesn’t necessarily come with age.

“What does it look like? He refuses to let me in and I honestly don’t know if I want him to. Just the other night, we ran into one of his…victims. You know, those poor people that Herr Strauss keeps ripping off? Yes, well, Arthur beat her sick husband to death and now she’s selling her body on the streets.”

The words don’t seem to stop. They blurt out of you in an endless stream like an old pipe that has finally cracked under pressure and is now spewing water all over the place.

“Now you tell me, Abigail. Is that a man I should be in love with?”, you end your tirade of fury, growing increasingly more frustrated with yourself over falling for Arthur.

Recalling Mary, you wonder if she felt anything similar when she came to that conclusion as well or if she was somehow able to remain blissfully ignorant of it all. Something tells you that she was bothered by it, given how it ended between the two of them. Then again, you don’t think she ever returned the engagement ring.

And the lingering fondness for the outlaw is as clear as day. You could see it in the looks she threw his way and how her voice would soften whenever she spoke of him. It still haunts her, you can tell. Like a goddamn curse, this man, or more so a pest. You can’t quite decide.

“There are many things we shouldn’t be feeling or doing, but we can’t control what the heart wants. I know that better than anyone.”, she speaks. Calmly. “But things can get better. There’s always a chance.”

“And what did it take for John to get better?”, you ask and instantly regret it the moment the words leave your lips.

It’s a low blow that sends waves of shame searing through your veins. Abigail flinches for a brief moment, but thankfully she isn’t angry at your callousness. On the contrary, your jab seems to sober her up.

“It takes a lot for some folks to see clearly. Especially for men like John or Arthur. I ain’t saying that they’re good men, but they’re not incapable of change either.”, she argues without a hint of indignation towards you.

You expected her to hold your tactless comment against you, like you might have done, yet she shows nothing but empathy. Proof of her admirable patience as you mentioned earlier.

“I’m so sorry for what I said earlier-“, you start, but she cuts you off.

“No, don’t be. You were right in a way and I know I’m a fool for wanting what I want, but it doesn’t make it less real. Your own feelings aren’t less real just because you disagree with them.”

“Shit, Abigail.”, you breathe out.

A whirlwind of strange emotions rampages behind your ribcage, reaching from relief to have this off your chest to reluctance to fully face your feelings. She’s right with every single thing she said, yet a very small, very stubborn part of your soul simply refuses to give in. It desperately clings to your last remaining shred of false dignity.

It feels like a betrayal to embrace your love for the man who leaves nothing but destruction in his path. He didn’t blink when he collected the debt, nor did he blink when he shot up both Valentine and Rhodes to all hell. What exactly it is that draws you so much to him, is still a mystery, considering that you had no ounce of sympathy for him when you first met.

He had been nothing but an unmovable force that prevented you from escape back in Colter and a raging storm in Horseshoe that seemed almost adamant on countering you at every given opportunity. When have you started painting him in a brighter light? When his praises shone down on you like the sun after you helped getting Sean back?

Was it when his fingers were wrapped around your ankle and his care at seeped into your bones? Or perhaps was it after he went out of his way to reign your panic attack during the bank robbery in Valentine? It dawns on you that it wasn’t one singular experience or moment with the outlaw, but a slow and creeping process.

Every gentle touch, softening of his hard eyes and intimate moment had gradually contributed, including each stroke of your ire, every firm grip, every nasty drawl. You love it when he handles you with care just as much as you love it when he bares his teeth. You want him soft as much as you want him rough.

Suddenly, a knock rips you out of your thoughts and you whip around on your heels.

“Are you ladies decent?”, a raspy voice penetrates the closed door.

After Abigail utters a confirmation, John’s head peeks through the slim crack as he opens the door. His eyes flicker briefly over you before they halt on the other woman entirely. The gleam in his eyes tightens your throat and for a short moment, you wonder if you maybe put on the corset after all and forgot about it.

“Hosea sent me. We’re all ready to go.”, he says and you nod.

“We’ll be down in a second.”, Abigail answers and the man vanishes as quickly as he had arrived.

Glancing back at her over your shoulder, you notice that she’s beaming all over her face. It’s a glow similar to John’s and a hole yawns in the pit of your stomach. An unknown force tugs at your strings and it takes a while for you to identify the sinking sensation as envy. You crave to be looked at the same way as John had looked at Abigail.

Hooking her arm into yours, she rips you out of your thoughts and your body jerks awake, instantly washing away the shadows.

“Let’s go then.”, she says with a wide smile and you somehow find it within yourself to return it.

Wagons and horses are standing at the ready in front of the manor and Hosea waves at the two of you from the far front. Abigail lets go of you and subtly nods to your right.

“How about you talk to him before we leave?”, she suggests and before you can think of a smart reply, she struts off already.

Following to where she pointed at before, you spot Arthur only a couple feet away. He’s sporting the same suit he wore on the ferry, triggering a chain of images to flash before your inner eye. You feel his body beneath you as if you’re sprawled out over his lap this very moment. You remember the hardness of his muscles and his heat rolling into you.

Inhaling, you can still smell the cologne he wore that evening. Tilting your head, you wonder how the suit didn’t end up ruined by the river, but then again, he didn’t have to rip the clothes off him like you had to. Or rather, like he had to rip them off you. You catch yourself disappointed at the fact that it didn’t happen under happier circumstances where you didn’t fear for your life and swallowed gallons of filthy city water.

As if he’s sensing your gaze on him, his head turns in your direction and his eyes find yours. That single interaction is enough to scrub your nerves raw and your legs are itching with the urge to flee. Both of you remain rooted in place as if invisible chains are holding you down and keeping either of you from making the first step.

Shit.

Finally, Arthur stirs and makes his way to you in long, deliberate strides. The holster on his side droops low and your eyes follow the tilt, catching the way the fabric of his pants stretches over his thighs. As much as Josiah tried to find him a fitting match, you doubt that there are many clothes out there to fit his size.

Looking up, you note the way he keeps his head dipped and it confuses you for a brief moment until you notice how his hat is lacking. Right now, the rim would have covered a good portion of his face and you figure that this must be a reflex for him by now. He says your name as a greeting and you can’t lie: the way each syllable rolls of his tongue, leaves you wanting to hear more of it.

“Arthur.”, you clip.

A few seconds of awkward silence pass by and you shift your weight from one foot onto another. Fortunately, you decided to make some changes on your footwear as well and leaving the heels like the corset. It will be much easier to run now should it come so far, which you doubt. Hosea has worked day and night on this plan, refining every detail. It’s positively fool proof.

“Heard you’ll be security.”, Arthur murmurs and you blink at him.

Pushing your coat aside, you reveal the revolver tucked into the leather of your belt. The hard metal pokes into your side and its presence relaxes you. His eyes follow your movement and you watch them trace the delicate engravings.

“Yup.”, you say. “You know, Hosea wants to get it right.”

“Of course.”, he muses and huffs out a sincere laugh.

Nodding towards the wagon at the far front, he falls into a slow walk. Realizing that he wants to accompany you, you follow silently next to him. Your short back and forth banter has eased the tension a bit, but it’s still crackling between you like sparks hungry to light a fuse.

“Are you nervous?”, you ask after some heartbeats.

“Me? Nah, this’ll be child’s play.”

You’re not sure whether he’s putting on a tough face or if he’s genuinely calm about this. You, on the other hand, could throw up your heart with how desperately it’s trying to leap out through your throat the more you think about it. It will be a first to go out on a job without Arthur to back you up. All calmness that you felt when getting ready with Abigail has left you.

“Even without me to make sure you’re not getting into trouble?”, you ask and cock a brow.

He catches your glance with a curl of his lips.

“How do you think I survived all these years before you joined us?”

“I’m wondering the same thing.”

The two of you arrive at the wagon way sooner than you would have liked. Hosea and Abigail are already sitting in the front seat and you’re supposed to climb onto the back, hiding behind the beige canvas. There are some more dynamite sticks stored in there, in case some at the warehouse need to be replaced.

They will check the explosives before setting them off and you’re to guard the wagon aside from making sure that nobody is sticking their nose into your business. Arthur extends a hand out to you and instinctively, you accept it. Your palm is clammy from the humid swamp air and you pray that he either doesn’t notice or mind.

He helps you onto the back, but doesn’t let go right away. No, his hand remains in yours and you fight the urge to let your thumb trail over his scarred and calloused knuckles. The contact is loaded with unspoken words, just like the air surrounding you. When you meet his gaze, you almost choke on the intensity of it.

“Remember what I told you yesterday.”, he says. A statement and not a question. “Be careful.”

“You too.” That’s about all you manage to muster up.

Suddenly, he pulls away from your grasp and taking the warmth and comfort with him. You would have loved nothing more than to reach out and grab it again, holding it close to your chest to prevent him from slipping through your fingers a second time. Somehow you refrain yourself from doing just that.

Before he can turn around and march back to his horse, you quickly call out for him. He stops dead in his tracks and glances over his shoulder at you.

“Yes?”, he asks and your throat dries up.

All words die on your tongue and you’re rendered speechless. How have you not thought this far ahead? What did you even want to say?

I love you, please let’s give this a chance.

Instead, you settle with something else. A bit more pathetic. “Happy robbing.”

His face drops and bewilderment creeps into his features.

“Happy robbin’”, he simply repeats, slightly deflated and you watch him walk away.

Your hand inches towards your gun with the urge to put yourself out of this embarrassing misery and shoot yourself in the head. Closing the flaps shut, you hide away from the shame and simmer under the thick canvas. The sun beats down on it, heating up the space to a nigh unbearable temperature and you wonder how the dynamite sticks haven’t blown up yet.

---

Finally, the wagon comes to a complete stop and you quickly scramble to climb out of this sauna. Once you push your way through the flaps, you greedily gasp for air and wipe the many pearls of sweat from your face. You’re positively drenched and can bid farewell to the make-up that you put on earlier this morning.

“Abigail and I are going to head over to the warehouse now. You, stay put until we come back.”, Hosea tells you and you give him a curt nod.

They parked the wagon in an empty back alley, away and shielded from curious passersby. As you watch them disappear around the corner, you lean against the wagon and let your eyes wander over your surroundings. Puddles of something you’d rather not name are pooling in some of the pot holes and grime stretches across the brick walls.

There’s dripping to be heard somewhere in the background and you part your lips to breathe through your mouth. A sour smell has attached itself to the walls of your nostrils, but now you can detect a faint taste on your tongue as well. Wrinkling your nose, you close your mouth shut, admitting defeat.

Pushing one of the flaps aside with your finger, you peek inside at the crates filled with red sticks. You should probably feel a bit uneasy standing so close to that many explosives, but you’ve been sleeping under the same roof as them for too long now to actually care. It’s fascinating (and slightly concerning) how numb you’ve grown to a lot of things.

You recall how your stomach had turned upside down at the sight of some of the men’s unwashed union suits. They still leave you with a sense of nausea, but Miss Grimshaw made you wash off so much unspeakable filth that it doesn’t bother you as much anymore. Unless an intoxicated Reverend Swanson flashes everyone by the campfire again.

The sound of hasty footsteps rips you out of your thoughts and you raise both eyebrows when you spot Hosea and Abigail re-appear. Has it really been that long already? Some days, your hand still twitches towards your pockets as a reflex to grab your phone, but it has been happening less lately.

You’ve become incredibly adept at waiting with no sort of entertainment to make time pass by faster. Who could have thought that you’d be able to rid yourself of the addiction of doomscrolling for hours on end? Not you, but alas! Here you are now, content with staring at dirty specks on a wall and assigning them names and backstories.

“All good?”, you ask them as soon as they’re within earshot.

“Yes, I just got to set up the detonator.”, Hosea answers and a great weight lifts from your shoulders.

With how flawless it’s been going so far, you wouldn’t be too surprised to later hear that the men were able to simply waltz into the bank and get the money handed on a silver platter. Nobody has glanced your way yet and the humidity of the run-down warehouse hasn’t damaged the dynamite either.

“I’ll keep a look-out on the street then.”, you inform them.

“Try to not run into any trouble. I know how much of a professional you and Arthur are at that.”, Hosea calls out over his shoulder and you roll your eyes.

As long as there is no large river that you have to swim in while having several, elaborate skirts dragging you down, you will be doing just fine. Skipping over the many puddles, you make your way to the end of the alley and let your gaze sweep over the street. It’s currently working hours, so it’s not too busy yet.

Most people are in the neighboring factories and the ones that are outside don’t spare you a single glance. Everyone is engrossed in their own day-to-day life right now, either hurrying to their shift or to some other important appointment. Besides, who would want to cut into this alley that reeks of piss and shit?

Standing out here, right next to the main road, your lungs are sighing in relief and so is your nose. Though the stench has imprinted itself into the walls of your nostrils and you can still taste something sour on the back of your tongue. Running it over your dry lips, a sudden flash of red flickers in the corner of your eyes.

When you turn your head in that direction, you see nothing but an empty sidewalk. It’s swept of all life. Nobody is walking along it and so, you shrug it off, but as you shift your attention back to the street in front of you, you notice how quiet it has gotten. More so than before. You hear muffled thumping noises and buzzing of the machines inside the other buildings, but no drumming of feet or hooves.

Gone are the voices that mixed up into one jumbled stream of sound as it does so often when a lot of people at the same place have different conversations with one another. It all bleeds into a ball of incomprehensible noise. A strange sensation swells in your gut, accompanied by a sneaking suspicion that something is extremely wrong.

It reminds you of a forest that quiets down instantaneously and a deeply buried instinct kicking it. Like how animals flee moments before disaster strikes. As you struggle to come to terms with that looming, invisible threat of danger, your hand reaches to your holster. Before your fingers can even graze over the handle, something cold is pressed against your temple.

Not daring to turn your head, already knowing that it’s a gun, you freeze mid-motion. Your heart leaps up into your throat that is closing up almost entirely. If it wasn’t for Sheriff Leigh Gray and his armada of cousins that held you at gunpoint that one time, you maybe would have wondered which idiot is pressing an iron bar against the side of your face. Now you’re all to familiar with the shape.

“Hands in the air. Slowly.”, the man who’s holding the weapon hisses.

He keeps his voice low and you figure it’s to avoid alerting Abigail and Hosea in that alley. Gritting your teeth, you do exactly as he says, because who would want to end up with a bullet in their head on such a fine day? The helplessness from feeling this powerless is sickening. You might as well have waltzed into the police station and let yourself into one of the cells.

Fingers itching to do something, anything, you repeatedly clench your hands into fists. Your nails dig painfully into the calloused skin of your palms, sobering you right up. Mind clouded with fury, you figure that you should keep yourself grounded somehow. Having watched Arthur handle situations like this, you started feeling icarian.

In a way, your head may or may not have convinced itself that you would be able to mimic his strength and skill, solely from seeing it so often. You recall what happened in that O’Driscoll camp back when he got abducted by them and how you handled that whole mess. It had lacked all the competence of a seasoned outlaw and you’re still far from one.

By the time you shove the barrel on your temple away, someone else could gun you down. They’re all making it a point to stay out of your sight to mask their numbers. The sound of footsteps is the only indicator that there’s more than just this one bastard. Their shoes land on the cobblestones with quiet thuds, like war drums in the far distance announcing doom.

More red appears on the edges of your vision, making it look like an entire army is pouring onto the street from all sides. Ice cold sweat breaks out on your forehead, rolling down the sides of your face and hair line. The man hasn’t spoken again after ordering you to raise your hands and by now it feels like an eternity has passed.

You note their whispers and hushed voices from somewhere you can’t see as if they’re some kind of ghosts or phantoms summoned to haunt you. Abigail and Hosea are right there, just a few feet away and most likely oblivious to the creeping danger. Closing your eyes shut, you contemplate your options here.

You never thought that you would find yourself at this crossroad of looking either after yourself or these outlaws. You’ve always tended to measure your life above theirs with your moral superiority and so on and so forth. Exactly as Arthur had always held against you in your countless arguments. Now, suddenly, you catch yourself hesitating to save your own skin.

After all, it’s Abigail and Hosea you’re talking about. A woman, who has singlehandedly dragged you out of death’s clutches and if one would ask you right now if you think she would put herself in danger for your sake, then the answer is simple.

“Run!”, you scream from the top of your lungs, startling the man holding the gun just enough to keep him from pulling the trigger.

Vowing to make use of the split second of distraction, you swing your arm down, knocking the pistol out of his grasp and willing your legs to jump into action. Clumsily skidding over the wet cobblestones, you hold onto the brick wall and look into the alley. Abigail glances over her shoulder, bewilderment written all over her face when she meets your panicked grimace.

“The Pinkertons-“

Unfortunately, you don’t get far.

You warning gets cut off by a blast so violent, that it shakes the earth beneath your feet. Rubble and debris fly through the air and you instinctively duck. Hosea triggered the explosion and it has kicked up a thick cloud of dust that is currently rolling over the district. It approaches you at a high pace, resembling an avalanche.

Several hands grab you by your arms and shoulders, yanking you backwards so abruptly that you for a brief moment fear your shoulders are going to pop out of their sockets. Hot pain slices down your arms and spine, stroking your ire. As anger boils your blood and sears through your veins, you thrash in an attempt to break free.

One arm miraculously does slip out and you ball your hand into a fist. Punching blindly, your knuckles collide with a jaw, leaving your hand aching. People are cursing and yelling, ordering for you to finally be restrained and then something kicks you in the back of your knees. In an instant, your legs fold and you drop down onto the dirty ground.

A mix of brown and grey seeps into the skirt of your dress and you wrinkle your nose in disgust. As both arms are being twisted behind your back, you yelp from the odd angle these men are forcing your limbs into. The dust still refuses to settle, hanging in the air like a thick veil. You watch several people scurrying around, but don’t catch any faces.

Until they drag someone from out of the alley and your heart drops. Hosea is being held at gunpoint and flanked by several agents, while someone else ties a rope around your wrists. The comforting weight on the side of your hips vanishes and with dread, you realize that they’ve taken your Cattleman.

You’re being hauled back onto your feet and you wince as the motion twists your arms further to a point where you don’t even think about the shit and piss on your dress anymore. The throbbing pain in your wrists from the rope cutting into them is only distant as well.

“I’m so sorry. I tried to warn you.”, you plead, eyes stinging with the threat of tears.

The look Hosea gives you is devastatingly tender like a father gazing down at his daughter who accidentally spilled some milk.

“You tried, dear. I know you did.”, he says and your throat turns sore from the sheer effort of not weeping like a baby right now.

“And Abigail?”

“She made it out just in time thanks to you.”

You could have cried out in relief and actually begin to tremble if it wasn’t for a familiar pair of faces staring at you from the top of their noses. Both Milton and Ross are judging you silently, yet so openly that it drowns out all the noises around you.

John offered to come along, but she was steadfast, "This is something I have to do on my own." She would repeat each time he insisted. If someone else were there it would feel all the more suffocating. Besides, how could she do what she needed if someone was mere feet away?

It had been a year. A year since her whole world was ripped from her.

She had slipped into his life, entirely by accident. Chance had taken control and dropped her directly in his path… then fate took it from there. Their friendship was easy, natural even. Mornings spent sharing coffee, afternoons taken over by riding, or hours of target practice because he just could not believe she was really that bad at hitting cans.

It was like they moved in sync. Always unconsciously looking for where the other was. And if one could not immediately see the other? They still knew where each other were based entirely on feelings. Months passed this way. With neither one the wiser to the tempest of emotions threatening to erupt from within.

Once those feelings burst… nothing could stop it. For the first time in either of their lives they felt whole. Years of being alone, accepting their respective losses, and learning to live as ghosts just did not matter anymore. She saw him as more than he ever conceived himself as being. That gave him confidence. It made him more dangerous to those who sought to control him. He saw her as the purest of light—guiding him towards a life they both so desperately needed. The driving force for him to believe that there are better ways.

And then he got sick… And the family he had grown up in, that he had brought her into, fell apart. His father, tearing it all down in one fell swoop of greed, ego, and cowardice.

Right before he disappeared into the night, he held her as close as he willed to. She wept, and wept, and begged him to stay. But he knew what he had to do to protect what was left and ensure that those he loved could create that life he had begun to believe in, even if he would not get to see it.

Off he went… back to Beavers Hollow.

The last image of him that graced her eyes was him riding, bathed in that golden evening light. Doing something that often brought him joy even if this last destination was disastrous.

That is how she wanted her memories to remain.

Until Charles found her and told her of where he rests.

So there she stood among the perfect mountains and trees, at the base of the path that would lead her to the end. The crisp breeze ruffling her hair, brushing her skirts about her legs. The fabric catching as she walked, almost beckoning her to stop. Deep down she wished she would just turn back. Leave the dead where they lie and keep that image of him forever safe in her mind. But she owed it. Not only to herself, but to him. Even if he was not there anymore… not really anyway.

The path continued up. It was rough and steep, and it would have been impossible to find if Charles were not so detailed in his description. It twisted about, a veritable maze of loose rocks, scraggly grass, and a mix of wildflowers. But then it opened into a small flat ledge. A little landing that would have been utterly impossible to see from the road, or from any of the nearby hills and rocks. Concealed and quiet… just what he needed.

Then there it was. A solitary grave, placed on the far side of the ledge, the marker planted firmly in the ground against a rock. Orange flowers covered the base, and the breeze, stronger at this elevation, carried the sweet subtle aroma about. A delicate reprieve from the weight of it all.

And then she saw the name. His name. Encased in an epitaph: "Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness."

Her breath caught… her heart had weaseled its way up into her throat, nearly choking her, yet it still beat in a relentless pounding, like waves hammering at a beach with no end in sight. A numbness spread through her veins as she felt a hollow pit form right in her center.

She carefully approached him. Fighting every single nerve that tugged her to the earth, willing her to fall to her knees. But she stood. Resolute. Strong as he had shown her to be. Her eyes welled and she bit her tongue as her mind raced—struggling to focus on one singular thing.

She half expected the world to go silent. For the earth to freeze, enveloped in the very same spasms of pain she had endured, reflecting the way time had felt for her for the last three hundred and sixty-five days. But it didn't. The birds kept chirping, the wind shuffled the leaves, and whistled in the valleys. The earth still moved. Time kept ticking. She kept breathing. And here he was…

"I miss you…" she whispers.

The fragile tone of her voice carrying off into the air. Permeating the universe, echoing back and forth, and finally settling in that far off plane where he waited for her.

“Are you okay to stop by the Wapiti reserve on our way back to camp?” Arthur asked, breaking the comfortable silence that had befallen them.

“Yeah, sure, everything good?” Isabella asked, taking the right at the crossroads to lead them there. “I wanna talk to Rain Falls, Dutch has got into Eagle Flies' ear, and I’m honestly worried.” He had no reason to lie after all, it was true, especially with Dutch’s disturbing focus on the idea of making some noise, so they could slip away.

He was hoping upon hope that Dutch wasn’t going to use the Indians' already treacherous situation. They were already in enough of a battle with the disgraceful government they didn’t need the addition of an egomaniac attempting to use them for his own gain.

Once upon a time, he would never have believed Dutch would do that, but now.  Honestly, he wouldn’t put it past him to do this. Every day, it felt like their mentor was falling further into madness and bloodlust.

Isabella let out a long sigh “I knew he was breaking his moral code nowadays, but I never could have believed he would go this far. Guess I’ve been proven wrong, the Indians are already fighting for their lives against the government and the army. They don’t need whatever the hell Dutch’s plans are now getting mixed up in that. This is bad, Arthur.”

Arthur pressed his lips together, “I know, I’ve seen how they are living, we thought we were fighting, but it ain’t got nothing on them. They’ve been fighting for years to keep their land, pushed out by the greed of the government, so many promises made and then broken. Jesus, the things the government have done to them, it will break your heart.”

Arthur had always heard stories about what had happened to the native American's, but hearing the stories about what the white man had done to them. From the actual people who had been through it, it angered him to a degree he hadn’t understood until now, made him hate the government more than he already did.

Riding into the Wapiti reservation, Isabella glanced around at the tents, the young and the old walking around. Most of them were half-starved and looked like they were so very ill, and yet they were still here working to just live another day. Climbing off their horse’s, she walked in step with Arthur.

“Is Rain Falls around?” He asked in a soft and kind voice as he spoke to the woman who was preparing a meal. “He’s in his tent.” Arthur gave her a nod of thanks, and Isabella gave her a small smile.

Eyes focused on the tent in the middle of the camp, greeting the chief and stepping into it, “Hello, Charles said you would be here soon to speak with me.” Rain Falls commented, slowly raising his head to catch the two of their eyes.

“The raid you went on with my impetuous son the other night, it has already caused retaliation from the government, they have already attacked two of our women.” The elderly man added, the sorrow obvious in his voice, disappointment in his son and horror at the situation heavily laced in his words. Arthur dropped his eyes as guilt began to pump through his veins, in response, Isabella reached beside herself to run a finger over the back of his hand.

“I know that sorry will never make up for the pain that has been caused to your people because of our actions. But if there is anything we can do to help, we will, I promise we will,” Isabella assured him, hoping to at least ease a little of the guilt that she knew Arthur was feeling. They both were more than aware it had been a bad idea to follow Dutch’s plans when it came to retrieving the Indians' horses.

 But Isabella also knew Arthur had gone to try and help stop it escalating as far as it had, but he hadn’t been able to, and that seemed to make him feel even more to blame. He had failed to do what had been asked of him by Charles, to help those who were innocent, and instead, they’d made things worse, pushed them further into the hell on earth they were already facing.

 “Sometimes the correct path, the bravest path, is the least obvious and often the gentlest.” Rain falls spoke with the wisdom of a man who had been fighting for a long time, who, like many, could easily turn to violence. But it was evident that his care and love for his family were too powerful to allow that risk, he aimed for peace and freedom, not by committing horrors, but by living as peacefully and as diplomatically as he could.

 “I also understand my choices are a disappointment to my son.” He straightened himself and focused on the new arrivals in his presence. “Your son seems to want a war,” Arthur noted, easing himself down to sit before him, Isabella mirrored his actions.

 “He sees glory in death, I do not. I have seen too many good men fall to that. That does not equate to victory in my eyes.” Rain falls explained.

“We’ve killed a lot in our lives, don’t reckon there is much glory in any of it, nor victory. Not anymore.” Isabella admitted shamefully, worrying her lower lip. Arthur nodded at her in agreement and understanding, because it was true, for a long time, he’d believed their lifestyle was right, but it wasn’t, it never would be. They were murderers and thieves, not decent people, and they never had been, it was time for them to stop lying to themselves.

“Dutch ain’t in a good place, and he ain’t leading your son towards a good place, we’re worried about how it will end.” She added with an exhale. They couldn’t dwell on the words for long when they heard the chief's name called from outside.

Isabella and Arthur jumped up, climbing out of the tent with the ease of people who were used to protecting anyone who needed it and getting out of situations quickly. Atop a horse was a soldier, which caused the two outlaws' hands to immediately go to their guns.

“Please do not worry, this is Captain Monroe, he is not out to harm us.” Rain Falls explained, climbing out of his tent behind them. “I’m so glad to have caught you all, Rain Falls. I was in Saint Denis, the revenge that Colonel Favours has sought against you has continued and is going to get regrettably worse.” The captain’s breathing had not yet settled, it was obvious that he was panicked, that he'd not stopped since he'd left the city. Rain Falls nodded as he spoke, it seemed as though it was hitting him again how terrible their situation was, and it was turning even more violent.

“They are now withholding the vaccines that were planned to be sent to you.” He explained, to which the older man gave a sigh.

“Mr Morgan, Miss Hunter, I do not like to do so, but I need to ask, can you please help Captain Monroe?” The chief’s eyes turned to the pair of them. “Yes, of course we will, anything you need.” Isabella stepped forward, she had promised that, and she had meant it. If they could do anything to offset the mess that Dutch was creating, they would.

“Lead the way, captain.” Arthur agreed, mounting his horse. Isabella turned to Arthur as they both did so, “How did he know my name?” She queried, because despite meeting Eagle Flies in passing, she had never met Rain Falls in person.

“Seems like Charles must have spoken highly of you.” Arthur shrugged. “Least somebody does.” The woman let out a laugh and winked towards the man, who they were both aware worshipped the very ground she walked on.

﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

They had returned with the vaccines to the reservation, thankfully without a drop of blood spilt. Now back at camp, there was a quiet that had settled between them. That tense air still hanging around, the one that made Isabella feel panic that consumed her entire self, it felt like everyone was acting like they were on their last days. And in a way, they were.

 Arthur and Isabella settled down beside the oak tree that they both seemed to frequent recently. “Feels strange.” Arthur mused, lighting up a cigarette as they sat. “What does?” Isabella asked, reaching over to take the cigarette from him, a playful frown on his face at her taking it before he could even have a drag, but she gave him that smile, and he didn’t argue against it for a moment. She had him wrapped around her finger and always had done.

“Actually getting something without bloodshed feels like what we used to do. When not everything ended with a pile of dead bodies, didn’t end in regret, back when we used to sneak in and out of places, guess that ain’t exactly the norm anymore.” He observed, Isabella moved closer to him, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“Feels like the killing never stops nowadays, and it ain’t as if we often don’t leave with more kills racked up and heavier souls each day now.” He added moving his head slightly to place a kiss into her ebony locks. Hearing voices, including ones they didn’t recognise, distracted them.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Isabella did know one of them, but she couldn’t figure out why. Standing, they rounded the tent and observed the new people, who were sitting with Dutch and Micah. Two strangers in the camp, who caused everyone to hold their guns a little tighter, and the tension to grow even more.

Then she saw him. Why did she recognise that face? But not a moment later, it clicked, and she felt her heart drop to her stomach, bile rose into her throat. She turned to Arthur, eyes wide with shock, the small amount of colour that was usually on her face had totally disappeared, making her closely resemble a ghost. Arthur frowned, looking at her, unsure what this reaction could have been caused by.

 “What’s wrong?” He asked, reaching for her, but Isabella stepped back. “Please remember that I love you and I’m so sorry for what is about to happen.” Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed with confusion, especially at her refusal of affection, that wasn’t them anymore.

They’d just been relaxed together a moment ago, and now she had shut down again. It made his heart speed up slightly with panic. Isabella held her head up high as she stepped around the tent, ready to walk into the hell that was her past.

A low whistle happened the minute she entered the surprisingly chilled air. “Well damn, ain’t it strange to not see you lying on your back?” The man said with a sneer. Isabella wanted the earth to fall apart and swallow her up, but she didn’t let herself appear weak.

No, she was no longer that woman, nobody would ever use her again. She had built herself back up to be the pillar of strength that she had been before she lost herself. That was her past, and never would she be that woman again. Crossing her arms, she held her chin up, staring daggers at the man.

“What do you mean by that?” She heard Dutch ask, feeling a wave of shame run through her at what her mentor was about to find out. She may not trust him or frankly like him right now, but there was still a small part of her fearing disappointing him. He was the man who had helped raise her after all.

 “Didn’t you guys know?” The man was glancing around to catch the attention of anyone within earshot. “This woman is one of the best whores this side of New York, the joy a man can find between her legs is pretty damn close to heaven .” Isabella felt her anger rise, that red surge beginning to flow through her veins.

“Shut the fuck up, I ain’t that girl anymore.” She hissed between gritted teeth. Arthur stepped behind her, placing a hand on her lower back as a sign of support. “Ain’t that a surprise, didn’t know a cowboy could afford you. Careful friend, that woman has been with more men than a number you could count to.” At his words, Micah let out an evil laugh, dirty and judgmental, making Isabella frown more, lines on her face deepening by the second.

“So I was right, you are the camp whore. Hey, Arthur, you wanna share? Pretty sure I could have a lot of fun.” He sneered, his eyes studying her in a way that made her stomach twist around itself, his words however, resulted in Arthur storming over to the greasy blonde. His fists clenched, the look on his face was the one that people whispered about in moments of fear around the states where he was wanted dead or alive. Hell, it made even Micah have a flash of worry in his eyes, but he collected himself again, that perverse sneer taking over his face once more.

“Call her that again, I dare you, because you’ll have a bullet between your eyes before you can even get another damn word out.” He snarled, before he turned to the stranger who sat in the camp.

“And you, you better shut your damn mouth, cause you ain’t got any idea what you’re talking about. That ain’t her anymore, and if you even glance at my girl again, you’ll be six feet under.” The stranger actually gulped at that when Arthur had that look on his face, that icy stare in his eyes. It was something that could make a grown man fall to his knees with dread, the one that made them know they were soon to meet the damn devil.

 “Don’t worry, I ain’t forgot how good she is, I get why you wanna keep her close.” And with that, the stranger turned to Dutch, a sneer still on his face. Instead of continuing the conversation, Arthur turned to Isabella, who was still staring down the man, but he could see that glisten of tears in her eyes.

Reaching for her hand and leading her towards the edge of the camp, far enough that there were no longer prying ears around. Isabella was still staring straight ahead, that look of fear and line of moisture still in her eyes, as she tried desperately to fight the tears that were pushing against the water gates.

“Belle.” His voice was so soft it made her heart still deep inside of her, waiting for that look of judgment in his eyes. “Belle, look at me.” She was not moving, still staring forward, as though she was trying to convience herself he wasn't there, that she could disapper, so Arthur caught her chin, moving her gently so she was looking at him.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, her voice cracking as she spoke, her face crestfallen with shame, “You don’t gotta be sorry.” His voice was assertive, trying to get his point across, hoping beyond hope she’d believe him.

“Yes, I do, the things I did, Arthur, the people I let in, the man after man I lay with. I lost count, Arthur. I needed money, and my body was the only way I knew how to do so.” Her well-crafted mask was starting to slip, and the tears were starting to escape from her emeralds, drawing patterns down her cheeks.

“I didn’t tell you, I couldn’t tell you, because I dunno, I feel dirty, I feel tainted. I look at you, and you still treat me like the girl who had only ever been with you. But I ain’t her anymore, so many hands have touched me. Used me and abused me, I just...I wanted you to see me as her. I was so scared you would judge me if you knew.” She was rambling now, her body swaying, tears falling despite how much she wanted to stop them.

“Belle.” Arthur reached forward to brush one of her tears away. “That doesn’t matter to me, I get you have done things you regret, who hasn’t? You did what you needed to survive. Do I like the idea of other men touching you? Hell, fucking no. But that doesn’t mean you have changed in my eyes, I know you ain’t the woman you once were. But I ain’t the man I was either, we never will be again. You got a lotta scars that will forever be with you, wounds that may never heal. But please, I beg you, let me help you heal at least a little bit.”

Isabella finally looked up, her lower lip still trembling. “I would understand if you never wanna touch me again, knowing how many other men have.” Arms crossing around herself, embracing the habit she had when she felt vulnerable, trying to make herself smaller, trying to disappear.

“Darlin, let’s be honest, it don’t matter how many men have touched you, cause they ain’t ever gonna make you feel like I do.” Arthur gave her a lopsided smile, the one that made Isabella feel a wave of adoration run over her.

“When you love someone, you love all of them, the good and the bad. You ain’t that woman anymore, you are safe, nobody will ever touch you in that way again. Your body is your own now,” Taking her hand in his and placing it on his heart.

“This is what matters, Belle, how you make me feel, how much I love you, and how much you love me. And anyone who wants to judge you for your past. Well, fuck them. They ain’t got nothing on us, we found the person perfect for each other”

It was the truth that they had, they found their one person, the one who completed the other, two broken people. Who had gone through so much untold trauma, who had done so many things they regretted. But together they were there to restore each other, to help them be themselves again.

“Belle, go sit with Abigail, darlin', I’m gonna go find out what these pieces of shit are doing here.” Leaning over to place a soft kiss on her temple. Isabella didn’t want to, she wanted to go with Arthur, but she knew if she went with him, shit would hit the damn fan. And murder in the middle of the already tense camp would likely end up with a war breaking out, and they didn’t need that right now.

She made her way over to sit with the other woman, as Arthur exhaled deeply and returned to the campfire.

“Who the hell even are you guys?” His words were growled like a wolf’s, his voice carrying to the centre of the camp before he was even there. “They are old friends of Micah’s,” Dutch advised. His body language put Arthur on edge, he seemed so unfazed that one of these men had just disrespected Isabella, someone whom, until recently, he’d thought Dutch cared about.

“Old friends of Isabella’s as well, apparently.” Micah let out a leery chuckle, but Arthur paid no attention to him instead, he focused on Dutch, his jaw working. “We need to get prepared for what’s coming, who’s coming. These two can fight, and don’t act all pissy in reaction to a few extra bodies, it works out for all of us.” Micah added, lazily dropping down beside his friends.

“What the hell is happening to us? What the hell is happening to you, Dutch? Since when did you not care about killing people?” His eyes narrowed with anger as he focused on the man he'd seen as his father for twenty years, a man he no longer knew. “This is war, Arthur,” Dutch answered simply with a small shrug.

“It ain’t war, Dutch, time for people like us is done. There ain’t a place for us in this world anymore. The sooner you get that through your head, the better it is for the rest of us.” With that, he turned to leave, feeling fury at everything going on like he never had before. He was done, completely and utterly done, and all he felt was a soul-consuming rage.

❥ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x F!Showgirl Reader

❥ Ouroboros: (WIP)

Arthur Morgan and the Van der Linde gang arrive in Saint Denis in search of Jack and their next big score.

Arthur begins a fraught, transactional arrangement with you, a greedy showgirl who works the vaudeville circuit at the Théâtre Râleur.

As he floats further adrift from the natural world and with the law breathing down his neck, he finds some solace in your bed. When the realities of his life begin to bleed through the curtain, you both must learn to make your peace with monstrous need.

-OR-

Arthur Morgan finds (temporary) respite.

❥ Pairing: Modern! Arthur Morgan x F!Reader

❥ touch tank: You don't feel quite like yourself. Arthur devises a solution.

❥ Modern! Arthur Morgan Headcanons

❥ Pairing: Bounty Hunter! Sadie Adler x F!Reader

❥ The Encounter: Sadie pays you a visit.

❥ Pairing: Epilogue! Charles Smith x F!Reader

➺ The Sunlight Chronicles: After the Van Der Linde gang's disintegration, you and Charles build a new life.

❥ Pairing: Modern! Charles Smith x F!Reader

➺ Mondays

❥ Mondays; 1: Leaving everything behind, you begin a new job at the Old Light, only to realise you met your co-worker, Charles, the night before.

Arthur leaves you in the river, sunlight catching around your ankles.

He does not mean to look back more than once, but of course, he does.

He tells himself this as he walks up from the bank toward the cabin, boots pressing into sandy soil and dry grass, hat brim low against the afternoon glare. The San Luis moves behind him, water sliding over stone, reeds moving at the edges. He can still hear you laughing softly to yourself, splashing like the world has given you something precious.

It is a sound he wants to remember, keep tucked away in his heart.

That’s the trouble.

He has started collecting pieces of you without meaning to. Your laugh. Your stubborn chin. The way your eyes shone when you pointed across the river and said "Mexico," as if it were not a place but salvation itself. The way hope had lit you from within until Arthur could scarcely stand to look at you.

He pushes the cabin door open with one hand.

The old, rusted hinges complain loudly.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters to the wood itself, “I hear you.”

The old place has not weathered kindly. Dust lies over everything. The air inside is dry and stale, warmed through by years of heat trapped in wood. A narrow cot rests against the far wall, its blanket stiff and useless. A table tilts on one stubborn leg. A broken chair keeps company with a cracked wash basin. The corners are cobwebbed thick as old lace.

Still, it is shelter.

Arthur steps in, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. He has slept in worse. He has healed in worse. He has bled into dirt that showed less hospitality than this.

“Could do for a night,” he says, mostly to himself.

He sets about it because work is easier than thinking.

First, he shoves the door wide to let air move through. Then he drags the broken chair outside and tosses it near the woodpile with a sharp clatter. He takes the blanket from the cot by two careful fingers, grimaces at the smell, and shakes it outside until dust explodes into the sunlight. He coughs, swears, and throws it over a low rail to air out, though he doubts anything short of setting it on fire will improve it.

When he goes back in, he uses his boot to push aside old leaves and rat droppings. There is a broom in the corner, bristles worn down to almost nothing, but it serves well enough. He sweeps the center boards clear, each stroke raising more dust than it removes. The work steadies his hands. The plainness of it steadies his mind.

Sweep. Check the window. Test table.

Do not think about you in the river.

Sweep. Clear cobweb. Kick mouse bones beneath the wall.

Do not think about your bare feet in the water.

Sweep. Look anywhere but the open doorway where sunlight flashes off the San Luis and your pale skirts catch against your calves.

He fails, of course.

He looks.

Through the doorway, beyond the weeds and scrub and down the bank, he can see you standing mid-shin in the river. Your shoes sit abandoned in the dirt. Your skirts are gathered up enough to keep them from the water, one hand holding fabric at your thigh, the other stretched out as you test the current with delighted caution. 

Arthur’s chest tightens.

Love, he thinks again, and the word is still too new to feel comfortable.

He turns away sharply.

“Clean the damn cabin,” he grumbles, as if he needed to remind himself.

The table is more trouble than it’s worth. One leg has warped, so he wedges a flat stone beneath it and presses down until it sits mostly level. The cot creaks under his hand, but it holds. Good enough. He checks the small fireplace next. Old ash sits cold. No nest. No snakes. He scrapes it clear with a bit of broken plank and nods to himself.

A night, maybe two, if they need it.

Not that they really need it.

They should ride back. Tell Dutch. Tell Hosea. Explain the pass, the river, the way around Blackwater. Make a plan. A proper one.

But all he can think is that you looked happy in the water, and he cannot remember the last time he saw you without a care in the world like that.

He moves toward the chimney, checking off in his mind that folks usually will hide valuables there. He reaches up, blindly, and feels something solid. Grunting to himself, he pulls it out, a small cloth-covered object.

Inside, wrapped in brittle cloth, is a little stone figure.

Arthur stares at it.

Then he snorts, “Well, now.”

He lifts it carefully, holding it up in the dusty bar of light coming through the window. It is crude, old, and surprisingly heavy. A male figure carved in dark stone, broad through the chest, hips thrust forward with no modesty whatsoever. The cock between its legs has been shaped with blunt intent, thick and obvious, proud as a rooster in a churchyard.

Arthur chuckles despite himself, low in his throat.

“Ain’t you somethin’.”

The little figure says nothing, of course. It only sits there in his hand, smug in indecency.

He turns it over, studying the base. There are marks carved along one side, worn nearly smooth by age. Not letters he recognizes. Not anything useful.

“Could get a few dollars for you,” he says.

He should leave it. That is the sensible thing. It is a strange, dirty trinket in an abandoned cabin at the edge of the country, and Arthur has lived long enough to know strange things tend to gather consequences.

But he is not thinking of the consequences.

He is thinking of fences. Of money. Of one more small thing to bring back to camp and toss in the box. He is thinking, too, that you might laugh if he showed it to you, and the thought of making you laugh feels dangerously close to something he wants more than he should.

So he wraps the little figure back in its cloth and slips it into his satchel.

The leather flap falls shut.

For half a second, there is warmth against his hip.

Arthur stills.

He looks down at the satchel.

Nothing moves. Nothing changes. The cabin remains dusty and quiet. A fly drones at the window. He waits a heartbeat longer, frowning.

“Too much sun,” he mutters.

He finishes tidying the cabin with a little more speed after that.

The cot gets dragged closer to the wall. The old basin gets carried outside and rinsed with water from his canteen. He wipes the table down with a rag until more wood than dust shows through. He checks the roof by eye, looking for holes large enough to matter. Not perfect, but dry enough if the weather holds. He finds a couple of empty bottles beneath the cot and tosses them outside too, where they clink together in the weeds.

By the time he is done, the place is still poor, still lonely, still filled with the staleness left by whoever abandoned it.

But it is usable.

Arthur steps into the doorway and brushes his palms together.

He means to call down to you. He means to say the cabin will suffice for the night. He means to ask if you want coffee, or food, or if your feet have gone numb standing in that river like some little fool.

He sees you.

All thought leaves him.

You are bent slightly, one hand skimming the surface of the San Luis. Sunlight runs silver over the water and breaks around your legs. Your skirts are damp at the hem now, clinging darker where the river has kissed them. A strand of hair has slipped loose and lies against your cheek. You look warm. Open. Alive. Joyful. 

Arthur’s body reacts before his mind has any say in it.

Need tears through him.

Not desire as he knows it. Not the slow, shameful want he has been carrying for weeks, not the ache he has learned to bury beneath discipline and distance. This hits like a thrown match into gunpowder. One moment he is standing in the doorway thinking of coffee and shelter, and the next his cock is hardening so fast it hurts, thick and immediate in his pants.

He grabs the doorframe, suddenly lightheaded from all of his blood rushing southward.

Arthur’s breath catches. You straighten in the river, turning as if you feel his gaze, and smile up at him.

It ruins him.

The smile is not coy or knowing or sensual. That makes it worse. You are simply glad to see him, glad to be here, glad to have found a road south that may save the gang from iits precarious situation.

Arthur’s cock throbs so hard he nearly grunts aloud.

“Hell,” he whispers.

You call something to him, but the river’s bubbling takes half the words. He only catches his name.

Arthur.

Said in your voice.

His hand tightens on the doorframe until the wood groans.

He cannot stand here. He cannot let you see him like this. He cannot walk down to you with his pants straining obscenely, with heat simmering under his skin, with thoughts in his head that would make him unable to meet your eyes for the rest of his life.

The satchel feels too heavy now, pressed against his hip.

Arthur tears it off his shoulder and tosses it hard into the dirt just outside the cabin. It lands with a loud thud next to where you tossed your own bag, not terribly far from the horses.

You blink at the sound, still smiling but puzzled now.

“Arthur?”

“I’ll be right back,” he calls, too fast, too rough, “Got- gotta piss.”

Your expression shifts, concern beginning to crease between your brows.

He does not wait for the question.

Arthur turns and moves.

Not quite running at first, because some stubborn scrap of pride still clings to him, but close enough. He strides behind the cabin, through dry brush and down a narrow game trail cut between rock and mesquite. The burning heat in his blood does not lessen with each step away from you. It grows. It bursts into something blinding, dampening his skin with sweat beneath his shirt even though the breeze off the river is cool.

His cock strains against his pants, heavy and furious, every step dragging fabric over the swollen length of him. The friction is torture. His balls ache. His belly tightens. His jaw clenches so hard it hurts.

“Get a hold of yourself,” he growls, as if his cock would listen to him.

His body answers with another savage throb.

The river bends farther upstream, hidden from the cabin by scrub and a low shelf of stone. Arthur half-stumbles down the bank, boots sliding in loose dirt. He catches himself on a cottonwood trunk, breathing hard through his nose, then looks back once.

No sign of you.

Good. Good.

He yanks his hat off and drops it on the bank. His gunbelt follows, each movement rough and urgent. He does not undress fully. He can’t even think that clearly. He only wades straight into the San Luis, boots and all, until the water reaches his shins and curls cold around his boots.

The shock should help.

It doesn’t.

If anything, the cold makes the heat more obscene. It sharpens everything. The water rushes against his feet while his body burns like a fever above it. Sun glints off the river. The current breaks around him. Somewhere downstream, you are standing in this same water.

That thought nearly makes him drop to his knees.

He fumbles with his suspenders.

“God damn it,” he breathes.

The hook fights him. His fingers are too clumsy, too desperate, but finally the metal gives. He gets his pants open with a harsh tug and shoves the fabric of his union suit aside, freeing himself into the sun-warmed air.

His cock springs hard into his hand, swollen and flushed, the tip already wet. The sight of it makes shame cut through him, but the shame is nothing compared to the need. 

Arthur wraps his hand around himself and groans.

The first stroke nearly has him come.

His head bows. His shoulders hunch. Pleasure runs up his spine in a white-hot flash, too sharp, too immediate. He squeezes at the base, trying to force himself to slow down, to take control.

But control feels far away at this moment.

He strokes again, firmer this time, dragging his palm up the hard length of him. His breath comes out in a ragged pant. The water curls around his boots, his free hand grips the front of his shirt, twisting the fabric in his fist.

He thinks of you in the river.

Your bare feet on wet stone. Your skirts gathered in one hand. The bright look in your eyes when you pointed south. Your voice saying there, that is the gang’s salvation.

He imagines stepping into the river behind you.

No.

He shuts his eyes hard.

That only makes it worse.

In darkness, the fantasy burns bright in his mind’s eye.

His hands on your waist. Your back against his chest. Your breath catching when he bends his head near your ear. The wet drag of river water against both of you, the world narrowed to sunlight and skin and your voice saying his name without concern, without shame, wanting him there.

Arthur’s hips jerk forward roughly into his fist.

“Goddamn,” he groans.

He strokes faster.

The sound of skin on skin is nearly lost compared to the rushing of the river, but he hears enough to feel filthy for it. His palm moves rough and sure, slick now, sliding from

He tries to think of anything else.

Horses. Guns. The route back. The pass. Dutch’s face when Arthur tells him there may be a way south. Hosea’s careful eyes.

You, smiling.

Always you.

The thought of you will not leave.

It changes. You are not just standing in the river anymore. In his mind, you turn into him. Your hands come to his shirt. You look at him with the same fire that had filled your eyes during the dance at MacFarlane’s, the same softness from that goodnight kiss that had nearly given him a heart attack.

He imagines you rising on your toes.

He imagines your mouth at his.

A hoarse sound tears from him.

He plants his feet wider in the river, bracing himself against the current and against the force of his own body. His fist moves faster now, rhythm broken by urgency. The ache in his balls draws tight. His belly knots. Heat gathers low and brutal, dragging him toward the edge with frightening speed.

He should stop.

He should stop before he barks out something, before the river carries some sound downstream, before you wonder where he has gone and come looking.

The idea of you finding him like this sends a fresh surge through him, shame and need tangled together.

You would see him. See what you do to him. See the thick length of him in his fist, see his pants open, see how badly he wants you. He imagines shock on your face. Then want. Then your eyes dropping, your lips parting, your hand reaching.

Arthur snarls under his breath and strokes harder.

He is close. So close.

His breath stutters. Every inhale burns. Every exhale comes with a low grunt he cannot swallow. His hips thrust into his fist now, short and helpless, water splashing around his boots as his body chases release with a desperation that humiliates him.

Arthur Morgan bows forward, fist tightening around himself, and comes hard into the river.

Pleasure slams through him, fierce and bright, dragging a broken groan from deep in his chest. His cock pulses in his grip, spend spilling hot into the cold rush of water, white pulled away almost instantly by the current. He shudders with it, hips jerking, shoulders trembling, his hand working through every harsh wave until there is nothing left but aftershock and shame and the pounding of his own heart.

For a few seconds, Arthur cannot move.

The river keeps going around him as if nothing has happened.

He stands there with his head bowed, breath ragged, water tugging at his boots, his hand still wrapped loosely around his still-hard cock. Sunlight is warm across the back of his neck. The trees whisper. Somewhere downriver, you are waiting.

Arthur swallows.

Then, helpless and wrecked, he exhales your name.