#gaskills

The end of the year winds down, and he hadn't intended to meet her here.

Mary-Beth, several years older since he last saw her at Beaver Hollow, now an up-and-coming author, Leslie Dupont. She must have been invited here. Her newfound name may have gotten her foot through the door. Or perhaps she snuck her way in. Either way, in the heart of the city and inside a glinting, bustling venue, everyone dressed to the nines, they've reunited. 

She finds her way back to him with flutes of champagne, pale gold and sparkling. Trelawny thanks her, taking it by the stem. "This will hit the spot," he says, a punch to it. For a moment, he takes her in. "Let - me - look at you."

He hadn't had the time to before. Not really. There'd been too much in the way of it. The music and the how are yous. The surprise of seeing each other again. Light eyes and a red dress, the same but different.

"Aren't you the belle of the ball." He said it with gusto. Because she is. Because he flatters. He saunters on. "Making a name for yourself. From modest abodes," he recounts, lifting his hand, "...to silver spoons." He gestures back down to her. Then, he brightens. "You wear it well."

Beneath strung-up rosy ribbons and shimmering chandeliers, the lights throw themselves into Mary-Beth's eyes. They dance in them like little lighthouses. Like merry-go-rounds. And when she smiles, the clusters of her freckles bunch together, and Trelawny is aware of the fondness he has for this moment. One reserved for unexpected reunions. From the long years apart.

Partygoers buzz, jam-packed together, ready for the countdown.

        ❝ y'know I can't dance, c'mon Mary-Beth — ❞ Arthur grunts to protest, but it's too late. he has danced with her before, sure, but he's probably not quite drunk enough yet. anyhow, whenever she's got an idea inside of her pretty little head she's an unstoppable force, one that you simply cannot stand against. there's no point in even trying.

breath comes in ragged gasps and blackness dances around the edges of the outlaw’s vision. it takes considerable effort to keep himself from tumbling off of the crate upon which he sits — but arthur somehow manages. it always happens suddenly ; he’ll be fine one minute, and the next he’s wracked by those goddamn coughing fits. it’s going to be the death of him.

he remains leaned over, mouth still buried against the crook of his elbow. arthur knows what he will see on his sleeve when he pulls away. it never gets any easier to deal with, never any easier to see, and sometimes he wonders what the point of it all is these days.

it is the feeling of a hand suddenly stroking his back that gets his attention. arthur lifts up just a bit and turns slightly, glancing over at the woman now standing next to him : mary beth.

she doesn’t need to be here. she doesn’t need to stand this close to him. not like this.

“ it ain’t safe for you standin’ over here. don’t you know that? ” the words aren’t uttered with as much conviction as they could be though, and that is only solidified when mary beth utters those five words : i’m not scared of you.

his chest tightens, and this time, it isn’t from the sickness. no, in its own way, this hurts even worse.

the little piece of jewelry weighs heavily in his pocket. arthur is acutely aware of its presence, the shape of the box like rocks pulling him down. the entire ride back home, there is a nagging little voice in the back of his head telling him to turn around and take the piece of gold back to the jeweler. logically, arthur knows that mary beth will not say no — but the part of him that has had his heart broken before is wary. there is too much at stake. arthur does not wear his heart on his sleeve ; it is kept carefully behind bars, only opened up for certain people. so many times has that turned out to be a mistake — but despite the anxieties, he knows it will not be like that this time. it has been proven time and time again, their devotion to one another. if anyone deserves to be let beyond the walls he puts up, it's her.

as he hitches his horse outside the house, he sees the curtain draw back just a crack and a familiar face peer out the window. arthur's lips twitch with knowing amusement, attention turning back towards his saddlebags. still, a hand subtly slips down to the pocket of his coat, feeling of it to make sure the item in question is still there. the familiar shape has not vanished. it is still there, still tugging at his sanity.

he knows mary beth will not refuse — but what if she does?

It's a once-in-a-blue-moon thing. A rare astronomical event. Trelawny, always so put together, never a wrinkle in sight, had ambled into camp in total disarray, his hair run through a hurricane… his sleeve torn… bloodied head to toe. Rarer than a total eclipse. The Big Bang.

She volunteered to put him back together. She would, of course. Mary-Beth with her relentless kindness— She doesn't mind getting her hands dirty, her fingers slicked warm in his blood, and as he sits slightly out of sorts, his head bleeding, he does not think of things he shouldn't or of how he's married. Mary-Beth smells of vanilla. 

“They found me- with the gentlemen,” he strains, righting himself up, “down in Valentine.” His head's started to lull. He feels a tugging at his scalp and flinches. “It appears they’ve rattled- quite a few cages in Blackwater.”

The hunters spotted him in Valentine with Dutch and Arthur, Charles, Bill, Javier. They knew he was connected to the gang, then, and wanted the bounty. Trelawny takes a full breath. Every inch of his ribs protest. Sore and aching, in his beat-up stupor and hazy-headed exhaustion, he sees smears of colors in his periphery. Mary-Beth looks like stained glass. That's not normal.

        —       @gaskills | ( x )

        honestly, yes, the job he's about to do is neither complicated nor dangerous : trying to find out where Bronte's residence is. but the reason she's asking might not be worry about his safety, rather an entirely different one — getting out of camp, away from Miss Grimshaw for just a while. as he tightens the cinch strap of his saddle he looks around until he sees the other girls doing laundry while being observed by the camp's ❛ maternal figure ❜. so who is he to deny Mary-Beth's request?

        quick steps carry him away from the whole scene until he reaches his tent and sits down on his cot. from here he can see Mary-Beth standing at the shore of the Flat Iron Lake, her frame seemingly smaller than usually. Arthur takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose — unlike other men in the gang he is very much able to reflect his wrongdoings and looking at her now, he knows he did her wrong.

        after another moment he used to collect his thoughts, he gets up again and decided to join her. ❝ Mary-Beth ❞, Arthur murmurs quietly, as if to announce his presence as he steps up behind her. a tree trunk that washed up on the shore lies a few feet beside her so that's where he sits down, positioning himself below her quite intentionally. but he doesn't look at her, instead lets his eyes wander over the lake. studies, how fish close to them ripple the surface. how in the distance, a small boat rows by or birds fly overhead of them in the orange-toned evening sky.

        —       @gaskills | ( x )

        ❛ you see that Mary Gillis? ❜