#derlinde

“   i-i  didn’t  mean  t’  cause  you  all  that  trouble.   ”            he’s  afraid  to  talk,            afraid  that  throat  will  somehow  burst.            he  gives  up  trying  to  turn  over  on  his  side         (   because  he’d  felt  like  gagging   )        as  fist  clenches  around  the  other’s  sleeve.            “   i  can’t  thank  you  enough.   ”

every fibre of frankenstein’s body was screaming at him that he was out of place in this camp. the dusty plains of the american west were nothing like the rolling mountains and glistening lakes of switzerland, and as far as the people went, these men were enough unlike the company he was accustomed to that they could practically be called a different species altogether. he understood little of the culture and less of the jargon and manners. 

even so, he had known better than to refuse when some of the men had insisted on him joining them at the campfire. arthur himself hadn’t particularly looked pleased at this invitation, but he’d said nothing to rebuke it, and frankenstein had been left with little choice but to situate himself uncomfortably on one of the makeshift benches beside a large man with an impressive — and imposing — black moustache. if arthur’s description had been apt, this had to be dutch. frankenstein was sorely tempted to get up and position himself somewhere that wasn’t right beside the leader of the gang, but doing so now, he wagered, would only get him into hot water. better to grin and bear it for an hour or two, then make his exit.

henry’s breathing was panting and ragged. killing the man threatening dutch could have been a simple, easy thing — henry had come up behind him, and if he’d wanted to end the matter quickly, he could simply have thrust his knife into the man’s kidney. he was familiar enough with human anatomy to execute the move with scarcely a second thought. 

but instead, he had wound his arm around and slit the bastard’s midriff, leaving the intestines spilling obscenely out through the gash. the movement itself had been simple: it would have taken a second to shove the knife in from behind, but it had taken two seconds, at most, to swing his arm around for the attack he’d chosen. the difference had been minimal, but by god, something about this choice had proved exhilarating. when he’d dug the knife into the man’s torso, he had felt the organs spill out against the curled outer muscles of his hand, and he’d relished as much in that as he’d relished the poor sod’s groans of agony. 

SMUG  GRIN  STILL  TUGS  AT  HIS  LIPS     as  he  replaces  bill  williamson  in  the  cloakroom          (     because  who ,    in  their  right  mind ,    would  go  for  a  plaid  suit    &    consider  themselves  FASHIONABLE     ?     )          but  the  smile  is  short  -  lived ,    shrinking  at  the  loathsome  sight  of  his  reflection  in  the  mirror  as  he  works  at  stripping  from  his  every  -  day ,     normal  clothes     &    change  into  the  dark  suit    &    white  shirt  he’s  picked  for  himself .     there  are  CREASES  to  his  slowly  -  aging  features ,    now ,    skin  bronzed  by  the  insistent  western  sun    &    visage  a  sullen  vision  he’ll  only     cast  fleeting  glances  at .     buttons  adjusted ,    hands  shift  to  his  neck  as  he  wraps  the  white  BOW ,    fumbles  to  tie  it  properly  when  the  door  opens    &    dutch ,    dressed  in  his  own  GARDEN  PARTY  attire ,    joins  him   &    reaches  for  morgan’s  neck .

dutch ,    on  the  other  hand ,    was  born  to  DRESS  SMART ,    sharp ,    elegant .     knows  the  words    &    speech  to  fit  the  costume    &    has  the  ease  to  wear  it  with  pride .          ❝      i   look   like   a   damn   fool ,    you   realize   that     ?     ❞          almost  accusatory ,    words  fall  from  his  lips ,    head  faintly  tilted  backwards  to  grant  better  ACCESS  to  the  bow  he’d  only  managed  to  poorly  tie  on  his  own ,    dutch’s gloved  hands  working  deftly  at  arranging  the  look .     but  the     grin ,    though  not  visible ,    threatens  to  slip ,    inspired  both  by  the  comicality  of  the  situation  as  much  as  dutch’s  familiarity          (     it  feels  like  forever  since  they’d  taken  a  MOMENT  to  breathe ,    simply  enjoy  each  other’s  company     ) .

❝     now ,    i   don’t   care   whatchu   say ,    dutch .     i   ain’t   shavin’     !     ❞

Hosea had been swindling people for some time. A roaring fire crackled in front of him, a bit dusty, but overall he was very well dressed. It was one of his cons he pulled. Being a high end aristocrat, needing help to get back to Paris. Hosea had a million cons up his sleeves, he thought he was hot shit. 

But he see’s a horse and rider come up, handsome dark haired young man rode up. Hosea takes a look at him, and instantly judges him to be a sucker. So he plays a a french fool. Years of stage work prepared him for this, he was confident in his performance.

“Bonsoir Monsieur !” 

Hosea stumbles to his feet, looking a little more frazzled than a second ago. But happy to see another face. 

“It’s been some time since I had anyone to parley with. You are most welcome to rest here awhile.”

Hosea takes a long drag of his cigarette and then offers it to Dutch. 

“Thats as close as you can get to my lips, the camp is wide awake Dutch.”