#gravityfought

“...  you  look  grumpy.”

ever since she had found herself running with the gang, mary beth had learned her place. grimshaw had made sure of it — in the subtle and not so subtle ways that she would put the girls down, she never once forgot to tell them that they shouldn’t have ideas above their station. the problem with mary beth? she was always having ideas above her station. she had to allow herself to dream, to think. . . how else was she supposed to say sane otherwise? she’d fallen upon some crucial information a few days ago in saint denis, and it had been almost agonising to keep it to herself. she’d thought about telling arthur or charles, but the two outlaws seemed to have far too much on their minds to run along with her silly little side job. though the more she thought about it, the more apparent how lucrative the outcome could be for the gang.

it's  a  tone  of  his  that  -  for  all  intents  &  purposes  -  she  is  rarely  on  the  receiving  end  of.  it's  a  side  of  dutch  that  she  has  all  but  turned  a  blind  eye  to  for  too  damn  long,  only  presently  faced  head-on  with  the  consequences  of  time  sealed  into  the  pressure-proven  chamber  that  is  their  lot  in  life.

"dutch  -"  she  makes  no  excuses,  claims  no  ill-will  or  anything  except  the  truth  of  her  actions;  eliza's  hands  raise,  palms  open  toward  him  as  she  pleads  for  understanding,  speaking  slowly  &  softly  in  a  means  to  implore  him  to  see  what  her  intentions  were,  "-  please."

she,  who  has  followed  him  till  the  very  pit  of  her  soul  said  otherwise.  she,  who  put  respect  on  the  name  of  the  man  who'd  brought  them  all  together.  she,  who  stands  in  front  of  him,  honest  incredulity  on  her  features  thanks  to  a  situation  that  she  cannot  explain  in  a  manner  that  makes  any  more  sense  than  sheer  survival  ...  yet  is  painted  as  the  villain  in  his  eyes.

"he  could've  died  in  there.  you  -  ...  we  abandoned  him,  an'  you  wanted  us  to  jus'  leave  him  there?"  her  own  temper  begins  to  rise,  standing  &  pushing  back,  relentless  in  heartstrings  held  behind  her  tongue,  "you  would've  robbed  jack  of  a  father,  abigail  of  a  husband?  why?"  they're  questions  that  have  no  answers  -  questions  poised  at  a  mind  poisoned  by  doubt,  by  delusion.

eliza's  volume  quiets  once  more,  emotion  hidden  heavily  behind  her  eyes;  "we  love  you,  dutch,  i  love  you,  i  care  about  you  -  but  you're  scarin'  me  to  all  hell  an'  back.  i  didn't  do  anythin'  wrong  by  goin'  to  get  someone  in  my  family."

"you and your folk should not hunt here." in this moonlight she looks like a spectre. the moon is full and the skies so clear the stars look twice as bright as usual, so it is almost as if there is some strange silvery sunlight falling about them. the other maidens have flittered off ; they cannot bear the sound of gunfire like odette, the acrid smell of it and the possibility of blood spilled upon the ground. the doe had gotten away, too - - - odette had watched as the creature sprung and bound and managed to evade the bullet. "you will miss more shots than you make."

she's  tired  -  tired  of  running,  tired  of  being  alone,  tired  of  fighting  when  it  feels  like  there's  nothing  left  to  fight  for  -  tired  of  the  moving  ground  beneath  her  feet  that  no  longer  feels  like  home  ...  eliza  is  exhausted.

the  time  spent  running  has  left  her  nerves  fried  -  shorthanded  in  a  run-in  with  ill-minded  bandits,  a  mere  reminder  of  what  she's  endured  in  the  too-recent  past;  despite  all  her  stubbornness,  there's  a  wilted,  jilted  thankfulness  in  eliza's  stance  as  she  holds  to  the  stranger  who's  helped  her  out  of  the  conundrum,  regaining  her  footing  post-battle.

it's  alright.  they  won't  be  hurting  you  again  ...  "nobody  will."  the  words  are  definitive;  a  promise  to  herself  &  him.  eliza  wipes  the  back  of  her  hand  along  her  bloody  nose  as  she  sniffs  once,  still  wary  of  her  newest  benefactor  -  and  still,  an  obvious  fact  rings  true  ...  he's  the  best  chance  she's  got  at  survival.  "why're  you  helpin'  me?"

SOFT AND SWEET.

✗ —  " Oh ?  And here I thought you were getting tired of all my complaining and nagging, "   amusement laced his tone despite his words. Lighthearted, if subduded by the rare tranquility of night surrounding them. Coaxing him into beliving again in a little something called privacy could be afford for them, like it'd been so many years ago. Into beliving that things will be fine, when doubt continued to haunt him.

     It was always easy to believe something one wanted to believe, a lesson Hosea had learned as a child. Easy as so, to sit down next to Dutch closer than he might have on a different night — close enough for their knees to bump together with barely a thought. An olive branch, perhaps, holding faith.

" But you don't have to tell me about it, I'm well aware, "   he continued teasingly, yet the smile on his face was sincere and warm, betraying sentimentiality,   " I mean, someone's gotta keep you in check !  Lest you herd us all onto some caravan and turn us into a... a circus or something in pursuit of one of your grand plans, and I wouldn't trust any one of these fools to do it. "

     A chuckle fell past his lips as a quiet ache in his chest made itself known, one different from the coughs that'd been plaguing him for some time then. He loved the gang, loved most of them as a father and would die for them just as well; but there was no denying that the stress only grew as the greater number of mouths to feed and people to care for did as well.

     With so much to do, it was hardly of any surprise that private moments with Dutch — ones where they left grand schemes, heists, and arguments at the door — had grown rarer than the gems and riches they coveted so. Even if, some days, he felt the absence keenly, as though a chasm was forming between them more quickly than they could build bridges.

     Hosea understood. Of course he did. Better than anyone else, even, if he was willing to stoke his own ego. Didn't mean he couldn't feel nostalgic for the days where they could be selfish with their thoughts and desires, or quietly cherish the moments where they could pretend things were as they were years ago.

" Listen, Dutch, I... "   the words falling out hesitant, sincerity gingerly taking place of his infamous silvertongue,   " I worry. I know I do, and I know I always have, but— "

     It was second nature for him to clasp his hand over Dutch's, gesture of comfort they'd shared countless times.