owlnoire-writes

[owlnoire-writes]

What It All Means

AO3

Prior to meeting Connor, if anyone had told Hank he would one day care about an android, he would've decked them. But now, with Connor quickly fading in his arms, the only thought in his mind was this: he couldn't lose another son.

Shameless angst about Hank Anderson and his android son.

After the Revolution, Connor quickly realized he had nowhere to go. For the first time, there was no one telling him what to do, when to function, or, well, what to be. He wandered for a little while, never staying in one place longer than necessary, unsure whether other deviants—those he'd once hunted—would accept him. Markus had tried to take him in, let him know he always had a place in New Jericho. Connor appreciated it; he truly did. But for the moment, while his processors tried to keep up with the rapidly changing present, he knew there was only one place he could go. One place where he truly felt... comfortable? No, it was more than that. Safe. The one place he truly felt safe.

If Connor analyzed things correctly, Hank was happy enough to see him show up on his doorstep. Of course, he attempted to hide it, covering up a smile with a "get your ass inside before you freeze to death, you idiot." Connor had held back a retort 

("Androids do not feel the cold, Lieutenant.")

and stepped into the house. Sumo had greeted him with an elated bark, and Connor had smiled despite himself. All things considered, he was happy to be around Hank and his dog again. He wasn't... accustomed to feeling anything as a Deviant, not yet, but he supposed it would get better with time. Until then, he was content to accompany Hank back to the station, rejoin the Detroit Police, and get back to work. Only this time, he wouldn't hunt those whose only crime (and it wasn't really a crime at all) was wanting to be free.

All of that had happened nearly a month ago. Now, as Connor sat on the couch in Hank's living room, pale hands folded together in a tight, but not uncomfortable position, he couldn't help but smile to himself. Things were, arguably, starting to go back to normal, though the constant tension between humans and the now free androids was practically palpable. Connor knew it would stay that way for a while, but he had to admit, it troubled him. He had every ounce of confidence in Markus that he could muster, but sometimes, it felt like it wasn't enough. Connor wanted to do more to help. But, times like these, he wasn't sure where to even begin.

WARNING: STRESS LEVELS AT 23% AND RISING

The red "error" message that shot across his vision made him blink--and rapidly at that. Gently pressing two fingers to the side of his head, Connor ran a self-diagnostic and frowned when it came back with nothing. All of his systems seemed to be functioning normally. But if that was the case, then why were his stress levels rising? He'd had a pretty standard week. Nothing too exciting had happened at the precinct, save for a case involving a dangerously rogue deviant. But he and Hank had easily dealt with that, even managed to save the deviant from itself--and the humans that wanted it dead. Connor, in all honesty, had nothing to stress about. So then why—

WARNING: STRESS LEVELS AT 30% AND RISING

"You okay there, Connor?" 

At the sound of Hank's voice, Connor immediately snapped out of his trance and plastered a small smile on his face. Hank stood in the doorway to the kitchen, Sumo at his side. He looked tired, but nothing like the days from before Connor had gotten to know him. It was a good kind of tired, the type most people felt after a rewarding day. Nevertheless, Connor didn't feel like burdening him with anything out of the ordinary. "Just fine, Lieutenant," he said. "Only running a diagnostic."

"Uh huh." Judging from Hank's tone, he didn't believe a word of that. He watched the android with an unreadable look in his eyes, though with his analytical systems, Connor could just barely detect a trace of concern. "Then why's your LED flashing red?"

WARNING: STRESS LEVELS AT 39% AND RISING

Blinking, Connor softly shook his head and tried to dismiss the subject. "I don't know. It might have something to do with the intensity of our most recent cases." It wasn't completely a lie, but he felt compelled to add: "It's nothing serious."

Hank gave him a look, one that clearly said he knew there was more to this than the android was letting on, but he thankfully let it slide. With a heavy sigh, he shrugged and started walking toward his bedroom. Before he disappeared down the hallway, he called over his shoulder: "Don't overwork yourself, Connor. Try an' get some sleep. We have the day off tomorrow."

And with that, he went into this bedroom and shut the door. Connor was left alone with his thoughts once again. Ordinarily, that would've been fine. But on a night like this, when his stress levels were rising for no apparent reason, he had to admit, being alone... frightened him. Briefly, he considered changing his mind and telling Hank everything, but thought against it. The lieutenant was obviously tired, and he didn't need anything else bothering him. 

Shifting until he was lying down on the couch, Connor decided to take Hank's advice and enter rest mode. Surely, this whole ordeal would be better in the morning. But as he allowed his eyes to slip shut, as his processors started working at a slower pace, he could feel his stress levels creeping up again. Nevertheless, he ignored it in favor of going to sleep.

Hank woke abruptly, roused from sleep by some sort of loud noise. Groaning, he glanced over at his alarm clock. One in the morning. God-fucking-dammit. As much as he wanted to go back to bed, deal with whatever happened in the morning, he could already feel a knot forming in his gut. It wasn't worry—he didn't get worried—but it was enough to make him throw the covers off of himself and stand. No doubt, Sumo had blundered into something in the dark. Or something along those lines (though, he had to admit, that dog never bumped into anything). 

Opening his bedroom door, Hank stepped out into the hallway. Almost immediately, the knot in his gut nearly doubled in size until it was almost painful. The entire hallway was red. It took him a moment, one terrifying moment, to realize that no, it wasn't blood. It was the light from Connor's LED. But that did nothing to ease Hank's worry. He quickly walked toward the couch, unnerved by the unnatural crimson glow. 

Hank flipped on the lights—and felt his heart freeze. At first, he didn't know what he was seeing, and he could only stand there, rooted to the floor. Then, his mind kick-started again, and he rushed to the figure on the floor. Connor lay there, shaking uncontrollably, blue Thirium leaking from the corners of his mouth. As Hank knelt next to him and placed a gentle hand on his arm, he jerked away and started thrashing.

"Connor!" Hank all but shouted, gripping the android's shoulders and trying to hold him in place. "Connor snap out of it!" 

The android didn't seem to hear him. He continued shaking, desperately trying to free himself from Hank's arms. Unsure of what to do, the lieutenant used most of his weight to pin him. He knew it wasn't the best solution, but he didn't have any other ideas. 

"Hey, hey, take it easy, son." Hank tried to keep his voice from trembling. "It's okay. You're okay."

Connor's LED briefly flashed yellow, signaling that he'd heard him, then went back to red. Hank felt himself calm down a little. If Connor could hear him, then that meant he could still wake up. Refusing to look at the Thirium flooding from the android's mouth, Hank gently cupped his face in his hands and spoke in a tone he hadn't used since... since—

—since Cole died.

"It's going to be okay, Connor." Hank gently brushed the hair from the android's forehead. "But you gotta open your eyes, for me. I can't help if I don't know what's going on."

The LED went to yellow again, but this time, it stayed there. Slowly, painfully slowly, Connor's eyes cracked open--just barely enough for Hank to see his brown irises, but they were a welcome sight. He breathed out a sigh of relief. 

"H-Hank?" Connor sounded confused, tired, and above all: scared. "Hank, what's happening to me?"

Hank felt his heart fracture in his chest, but he powered through it, knowing Connor needed him to be strong. Not yet, he thought as he brushed the android's hair aside again. Don't freak out yet. 

"I don't know," he admitted, deciding that the truth would be the best. Even as weak as he was, Connor would likely see through a lie. "But we're gonna find out. Think you can walk?"

Connor frowned, LED flickering red, then--thankfully--back to yellow. He looked up at Hank with wide, frightened eyes. "I don't know." A heavy pause. And then: "I could try."

Hank smiled reassuringly and got to his feet, offering his hand to help the android do the same. Miraculously, Connor managed to keep his balance, though he leaned on Hank heavily for support. Together, they made their way to the front door in an awkward shuffle. Hank commanded Sumo to stay as he fumbled with the lock. The dog whined, but did as he was told. 

Once they were outside, Hank guided Connor toward the car, careful to keep his footing on the icy ground. Connor shivered from the cold. Alarmed, Hank began to say something, then thought better of it when he realized what was happening. Connor was deviant. Of course he could feel cold now. Still, the lieutenant internally cursed at himself for not thinking to grab Connor a suitable jacket. The one he had—the one from Cyberlife—wasn't warm enough.

He helped Connor sit down in the passenger seat, then shut the door and hurried to the driver's side. The second he got the car running, he cranked up the heat as high as it could go. A quick glance over at Connor told Hank the action was appreciated. But for a moment, Hank saw something else, something that made him feel colder than the snow outside.

Connor's LED had turned off for a second. 

It was quick, almost quick enough for him to miss, but goddammit, Hank rarely missed anything these days. He sped off in the direction of New Jericho, determined to get Connor to the only people who would know what to do. 

"Hey Kid, do me a favor," he said, keeping his eyes on the road. "Don't fall asleep, okay? Just stay awake."

When Connor didn't respond, Hank risked another glance at him. Thankfully, the android's eyes were open, but they were unfocused. Hank pushed harder on the gas. He knew he was breaking every traffic law known to man, but at the moment, he couldn't bring himself to care. All of his attention was devoted to Connor, to keeping him alive. If Hank knew one thing and one thing only, it was this: he wasn't about to let his kid die. He'd already lost one son. He wouldn't—couldn't—lose another.

"Connor!" He allowed his voice to rise. "Stay awake. That's an order!"

The android blinked blearily and shifted his glassy eyes over to Hank. The lieutenant almost froze when he saw the fear in them. God, it looks just like--

He shut down the thought before it could go any farther. Redoubling his efforts, he pushed the car nearly past its limits toward New Jericho. Connor remained silent next to him, staring at his feet. Thirium continued to drizzle from the corners of his mouth at an alarming rate. It almost looked like he was hemorrhaging. 

They reached New Jericho in record time. By then, Connor's eyes had slipped shut again, and his LED was flashing a terrifyingly faint red. Hank coaxed the car to a stop, then all but kicked his door open as he rushed to the passenger side to get Connor. The android wasn't moving, didn't even react when Hank unbuckled his seat belt and hefted him out of the car. He was dead weight in the lieutenant's arms. Hank tried not to think about what that could mean.

Androids scrambled to get out of his way as he hurried into the building. By some miracle, Markus stood close to the entrance, followed by someone else--North, if Hank remembered correctly. 

"Lieutenant Anderson?" Markus sounded confused as he stepped toward him. "What--"

He cut off when he caught sight of Connor's limp form, cradled securely against Hank's chest. For a moment, Markus just stared at them, clearly trying to process what was happening. Hank knew they didn't have time for that. Connor was already slipping away.

"Don't just stand there!" The lieutenant snapped. "Help!"

Immediately coming to his senses, Markus turned to North. "Get technicians in here with a gurney--now!"

North almost seemed to pale, but nodded and immediately left to do as she was told. Satisfied, Markus turned back to Hank and extended his arms. "I'll take him."

Hank shook his head. "I got him." He couldn't quite keep the hard edge out of his voice, nor the slight tremor. 

"Lieutenant." Markus' tone was gentle as he took a step toward him, arms still outstretched. "It's okay. I won't hurt him."

Dimly, Hank was aware of two technicians rushing in with a gurney, and he ignored Markus in favor of gently laying Connor on to it. The lieutenant felt his back twinge, but he shoved the feeling aside. One of the technicians, a female android who looked no older than twenty or twenty-one, immediately began taking Connor's vitals. 

"Stress levels critical," she stated in a tone which suggested that was anything but good. "Wheel him to room three. We need to get him stabilized."

As they rushed Connor away, Hank made to follow them, but a firm hand on his arm kept him in place. He spun around to face Markus, fists clenched like he was ready to throw a punch. To give the android credit, he didn't even flinch. Instead, he made eye contact and said: "He'll be okay."

Hank felt the stress of the night beginning to take its toll. Taking a step back, he wrenched himself free of Markus' grasp and tiredly ran a hand through his hair. The android watched him with a sympathetic expression. It nearly drove Hank crazy. He didn't need anyone's pity right now, and definitely not from Android Jesus. 

"I can't lose him," Hank heard himself say, too exhausted and terrified to feel embarrassed about it. It was true: he coudn't lose Connor. Not now. Not after everything that had happened. "I... I just can't."

Markus nodded and reached out to take Hank's arm again. "I know, Lieutenant. But you have to trust that Connor will pull through. He's strong. You of all people should know that."

Allowing himself to be led to some sort of waiting room, Hank resigned to pace for the next three hours, stopping only to gratefully except a cup of coffee from North. It seemed to take forever, but eventually, the female technician from before walked into the room. Hank immediately went to her, but froze when he caught sight of the Thirium staining her uniform. 

No...

"Lieutenant Anderson?" Her voice sounded like it was coming from some long distance. Nevertheless, Hank managed to hear what she had to say. "Connor pulled through." She smiled reassuringly at him when he sagged in relief. "He's awake now, if you would like to see him."

All Hank could do was nod. He felt like he was floating as he followed the technician to the exam room. "What happened to him?" He asked, unable to stop himself. Part of him didn't really want to know, while the other part wouldn't live with himself unless he did.

The technician pursed her lips, clearly debating how much to tell him. "The short answer is that there was a glitch in his system," she eventually said. "It caused his stress levels to rise, with him not being able to lower them. Androids weren't built to handle that kind of..." She seemed to be struggling for the right word. "Tension. So we had to go in and manually fix the regulators." 

Hank nodded as if that made sense to him and didn't sound like a foreign language. "So... he's going to be okay?"

"He'll be fine." The technician smiled at him. "Connor's strong, a lot stronger than we thought. He wasn't going to go down without a fight." 

They reached the exam room and stopped just outside the door. The technician smiled at him again, gave him a soft good-bye, and took her leave. For a few seconds, Hank simply stood there, collecting himself. There was no sense in letting Connor know just how worried he'd been. He didn't need the kid's stress levels to start rising again. 

Sighing, Hank pushed open the door. Connor was lying in what looked like a hospital bed with a bunch of wires hooked up to his arm. He smiled tiredly when he caught sight of Hank and tried to haul himself into a sitting position. Hank was at his side in an instant, pushing him back down as gently as he could.

"Easy, son," he said. "Just relax for now, okay? You've been through a lot."

Connor gave him a sideways look, but nodded nonetheless. "That certainly feels... accurate."

Hank pulled up a chair and sat down, looking Connor over, making sure for himself that the kid really was alright. When he finally got an answer that satisfied him, he relaxed. 

"Why didn't you tell me something was wrong?" He demanded, then internally winced when Connor's brow furrowed. So much for keeping his stress levels low.

"Because I didn't want to worry you," the android said, sounding confused. "But now I'm starting to think I did anyways."

Struggling not to roll his eyes, Hank leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Just... tell me things from now on, okay? I don't wanna—"

The words "lose another kid" played on his lips, but he stopped himself before he could say them. 

"I don't wanna make this a habit."

The corners of Connor's lips twitched, as if he knew what Hank was really going to say, and he tipped his chin in what resembled a nod. "Got it."

[owlnoire-writes]

The Trials of Saint Denis: an Arthur Morgan x Reader Fanfic (3/3)

You drift into consciousness slowly, like your trying to swim your way through thick, murky bayou water. At first, you’re not aware of much–distant humming and a warm heaviness, but that’s all. You’re content to stay in this state for a while, but you can’t help the nagging feeling that there’s something you should know, something you should remember. Dimly, brief sensations shoot through your body: cold, dark, pain, more cold… they bother you. And, with all the effort you can muster, you realize they’re not sensations, but memories. Memories that you don’t want to have. 

Everything suddenly feels wrong. The humming becomes too loud, too clear, and the warmth morphs into constricting, sweltering heat. You can’t move. Even a twitch feels like the most complicated thing you’ve ever done. 

Just like that, it all comes rushing back to you. Saint Denis, Bronte, that frigid cellar without any light–everything. You try to shift, but whatever’s keeping you still is strong, and it’s not letting up any time soon. Your eyes are too dry and crusty to open easily, but you try anyways, desperate to take in your surroundings, to become aware, to find a way out. The humming rises in volume again, and you realize it’s not humming, but crackling. The sound of a fire. 

That doesn’t make sense. The last thing you remember, you were in Bronte’s basement, cold and unable to see anything but darkness. You wonder if this is some kind of trick, if that snake-like man is trying to throw you off your guard. It wouldn’t be the first time.

You try to move again, this time with more success. Something shifts, and blessed, cool air rushes to meet your sweating neck and chest. You breathe out a sigh of relief. The heat was becoming overwhelming; you’re glad for a change.

“Easy, darlin’,” a voice drawls somewhere close to your ear. “Easy. You’re alright now.”

It takes you a moment, but eventually, you recognize it: Arthur. How you could’ve mistaken that distinctive voice for anybody else, you don’t know. Nevertheless, you relax, but only marginally. If Arthur’s there with you, then that means… Bronte…

“Arthur,” you croak. That’s all you can manage, really: his name. Your throat feels like you’ve swallowed glass, and your mouth tastes like ash. It’s a wonder you’re able to speak at all.

“Just try an’ rest, Y/N,” he says. You feel light pressure on your forehead, the soft sensation of his fingers through your hair. “You’ll be alrigh’.” 

Somehow, you force your eyes open. The world’s distorted at first, blurry and shadow-like, but as you blink, it slides into focus. You realize you’re not in Bronte’s cellar anymore, but back at camp in Shady Belle, lying down in front of a roaring fire. Arthur sits by your side. There are hard lines on his face, lines you don’t remember being there before everything happened. A pang of guilt squeezes your chest at being the cause of them.

“How long?” You ask around your dry throat. It’s not a question for the ages, but it’s at the front of your mind more than anything else.

Arthur frowns and reaches behind him. Soon, you feel the press of a canteen against your lips and crisp water flows into your mouth. You drink gratefully, borderline greedily. 

“’Bout two days,” he says as he sets the canteen aside, almost before you’ve had enough. “You’ve been in an’ out since Tuesday.”

You watch the way the firelight dances in his tired eyes, the way it shimmers and catches the blue in them. He looks exhausted and relieved all at the same time. You hate to think about all the pain you’ve caused him. 

“You came and got me.” 

The words leave your lips before you know it. Arthur huffs out a hint of a laugh at them, fingers continuing to run through your hair. 

“Of course.” He looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping his feet on the ground. “’S what I do best.”

You’re too tired to laugh, so you settle for a small smile. “I knew you would,” you murmur, suddenly more fatigued than you’ve ever been. “You’re a good man, Arthur Morgan.”

He returns your smile, then leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Just rest, darlin’.” His lips feel like feathers against your skin. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Finally got around to finishing this. Hope you liked it! Reblogs, likes, and comments are much appreciated!

Part I

Part II 

[owlnoire-writes]

The Trials of Saint Denis: an Arthur Morgan x Reader Fanfic (2/3)

They reach Saint Denis in record time, reach Mr. Bronte’s house even faster. Arthur’s off his horse and halfway to the front gate before a solid hand on his shoulder drags him back. He turns with a glare sharper than knives, expecting to see Dutch–and ready to give him hell. But it’s Hosea standing there. It’s Hosea keeping him from charging head-first into that house, a house built like a fortress. Arthur opens his mouth to say something–anything, really–in protest, but one level look from Hosea has him clenching it shut.

“We need to be smart about this, Arthur,” Hosea says. “Knocking down Bronte’s front door won’t buy us or Y/N any favors.”

Arthur knows he’s right. Goddammit, Hosea’s always right, always water when Arthur wants fire. Once upon a time, that would’ve been more than enough. But that was before they lost Sean, before Bronte took Jack, before–

–before he took you.  

Still, Arthur’s smart enough to know when to fold. He looks into Hosea’s eyes and gives the smallest tip of his chin, an action so minute that anyone else would’ve missed it. Just for a moment, though, Arthur sees a hint of something in Hosea’s gaze, something raw, calculating, dangerous. But it’s gone before he can figure out what it is.

An unspoken agreement passes between the entirety of the gang, and soon enough, Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea are marching to Bronte’s front door. Arthur clenches his fists to keep his hands from shaking, nails digging into his palms. The men guarding the entrance part easily, and it’s all too clear Mr. Bronte has been expecting Dutch; probably been expecting the others, too. Arthur tries not to think about what that means for them… or for you.

The interior of the house is as extravagant as he remembers, maybe even more so now that he’s paying attention to every little detail. Bronte receives them in the living room, and he tries to be all smiles, but Arthur notices that those smiles are all teeth. This man, he decides, can bite. And he can bite hard. Treading lightly would be best, but at this point, Arthur’s sick of thin ice and he’s more than sick of playing games. So when Bronte tries to dance around the situation, a situation he’s oh-so-carefully orchestrated, it takes all Arthur has not to lose control. 

“What can I do for you, my friends?” Bronte asks, clapping his hands together, smiling that big, arrogant smile again. “Why have you come to my city in such a–”

“Enough.” Surprisingly, it’s Hosea, not Dutch, who speaks first. What Arthur glimpsed in his eyes before is back… and it’s twice as strong. It’s enough that he recognizes it for what it truly is: barely-leashed fury. “Where. is. Y/N?”

The question is spoken with all the wrath of a thousand fathers. And that makes sense to Arthur, maybe the only thing that does anymore. Hosea always acts particularly fond of you, like how he acts particularly fond of Arthur and John. Now, the bear’s cub has been stolen–and the culprit is smiling at him. 

Arthur’s suddenly glad he’s not on Hosea’s bad side, and makes a mental note to never go there.

Bronte stares at them all for a moment. Arthur can practically see the internal battle he’s fighting, and hopes that the winning side is the side of reason. Somewhere in the room, a grandfather clock ticks.

Then, Bronte smiles again, that hideous, I-hold-all-the-cards smile, and snaps his fingers at a man to his left. The man bows, disappears down a hallway, and returns less than five minutes later, dragging your unconscious form behind him.

Something in Arthur threatens to snap. He takes a single step forward, murder in his eyes, but Dutch and Hosea each give him that look, and he stops. 

“Consider this a warning,” Bronte says as one of his men all but throws you into Arthur’s arms. “Next time, your friend won’t be so lucky.”

Hosea Matthews, while normally the voice of reason, would 100% lose his goddamn shit if anything happened to one of his cubs–and that’s that on that. 

I hope I got the characterization down. These outlaws are just *clenches fist* so much fun to write. 

Splitting it up (again) for the sake of space. Thanks for reading! Reblogs, likes, and comments give me life and mean the world to me <3

[owlnoire-writes]

The Trials of Saint Denis: an Arthur Morgan x Reader Fanfic (1/2)

Saint Denis is, by all rights, the epitome of the end to everything the Van Der Linde gang has ever known. You’re well aware of this, probably more so than anyone else. Still, you follow Dutch when he decides to make the move. Well, you follow Arthur, who’s following–blindly, might you add–Dutch. Just like always. You know better than to think you can change their minds, so you don’t even try. Honestly, you’re not sure what’s got you so worked up. Maybe (and deep down, you’re certain you’ve hit the target dead-center), it’s the pain of losing Sean. That awful experience is still fresh in everyone’s minds, not just yours, but hell, Sean was… he just was. And now he’s gone.

But, despite everything, Saint Denis might have more to offer than you want to admit. And besides: you’ve already lost so much. Life couldn’t possibly hurt you anymore.

You of all people should’ve known that it always finds a way. 

Things start going wrong when Dutch involves himself in Mr. Bronte’s business. The Italian is no stranger to playing people, and he plays Dutch as easily as his favorite instrument. You saw this coming. Same as John. Same as Arthur. And, same as the two of them, you know Dutch’ll retaliate. Because Dutch van der Linde doesn’t like being played, isn’t used to it. Normally, he’s the one doing the playing, the manipulating, the planning. He’s like a puppet master, voicing his desires through others’ mouths, controlling their movements until, one day, he cuts the strings. 

Heaven forbid somebody try to cut his.

Dutch dispatches you to Mr. Bronte as a liaison later that week. You bristle–internally, that is–at being forced to do the dirty work, but inevitably comply. Arthur won’t be happy when he finds out Dutch basically sent you into the lion’s den, but with him and Hosea checking on a few leads back in Valentine, there’s not too much he can do about it. 

As usual, you try to stick to the plan: talk business only, in at sunrise, out by sunset. 

And, as usual, the plan goes horribly, inexorably wrong.

Turns out, Bronte’s not a lion, but a snake. A venomous one. You don’t lower your guard when you walk into that house–never do around anyone but Arthur–and Bronte still gains the upper hand. Not that he didn’t always have it. Once again, he proves Dutch the fool, and once again, you’re caught in the middle of it. 

When you can next focus between powerful kicks and sloppy, but strong punches, you’re someplace dark, wet, and cold. Moving–breathing–hurts pretty bad, but not as much as your pride. You should’ve known this would happen. Hell, you did know, and you went along with Dutch’s plan anyway. Despite the pain, you shrug to yourself. It’s the price you pay for blind loyalty.

Even with your situation as awful as it is, even as your swollen eyes struggle to focus in the darkness, you hope–pray, maybe–that Arthur won’t throw himself in harm’s way to rescue you. But you know it’s futile, just like you know that if the situation was reversed, if it was Arthur lying in some sleazy bastard’s basement, beaten to within an inch of his life, you would extinguish the flames of Hell to get him back. 

You can only hope he finds you in time.

Arthur and Hosea ride back into camp after spending nearly three days in Valentine. For a reason he can’t quite place, Arthur’s had a knot in his stomach since yesterday morning. He’s not the type of man to believe in superstition, nor is he the type to needlessly worry, but a knot’s a knot no matter how anybody paints it. Still, he does his best to ignore it, brush it off as nothing. If Hosea notices anything different, he (wisely) keeps it to himself. Good thing, too: Arthur’s not in the mood for being coddled. Never has been.

The knot triples in size when he spies Dutch waiting by the edge of camp, wearing an expression Arthur’s been seeing too much as of late. He dismounts slowly, carefully, barely aware of Hosea doing the same. 

“What’s goin’ on, Dutch?” Arthur asks as he risks a glance around camp. Nobody looks at him, and damn, if that doesn’t make his heart plummet. “Where’s–” He pauses for a second, gathering his strength, his self-control. “Where’s Y/N?”

Dutch watches him for a moment–a long one–before he sighs. “Arthur–”

“Where. are. they?” Arthur’s voice is low, low enough to be dangerous, and he takes a single step forward.

To give him credit, Dutch doesn’t move or even blink, just stares at Arthur with that same expression and admits: “Bronte has them.”

Arthur sets his back to everyone and runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands so hard, his scalp screams. 

“Arthur, I swear to you,” Dutch is saying, “I have a plan to get them back and make that bastard p–”

“You always got a plan, Dutch,” Arthur interrupts, turning around to face him again. “You always got goddamn plans an’ they don’ work.”

For once, Dutch is silent, and for once, Arthur’s the cause of it. He can’t bring himself to care as he hurries back to his horse, hefting himself into the saddle almost automatically. He hears Dutch call after him, sees Hosea silence him with one hard look, and then Arthur’s galloping toward Saint Denis. He has no idea what he’s going to do, no real plan other than “go, go, go,” but his fury pushes him ever forward. 

Dimly, he grows aware of pounding hooves behind him, and glances over his shoulder to see the entirety of the Van Der Linde gang following his lead, looking like a small army. Hosea, Dutch, and John are at the forefront. Arthur gives them a quick nod, the only recognition they’ll get. Somehow, he knows they understand. 

Had to split this up. Part II will be up soon-ish :D

Thanks for reading!