concretevampire - Tumblr blog

[concretevampire]

Building Holes

Part One

mike schmidt x afab!reader ☆ 8.9k ☆ no use of y/n and no reader description ☆ meeting for the first time; people being humans; adult themes; no serious warnings

A/N: I’ve been a FNAF and Josh Hutcherson fan since I was in middle school so this feels necessary. updates for this story will be (mostly) regular. English is not my first language.

You can see the panic in his eyes before he probably even thinks about it.

You don’t know him. Of course you don’t, he’s just a guy who happened to be standing in front of you at the check-out line.

But you feel bad. Really bad.

The cashier: they look disgruntled. Annoyed too. You can hardly blame them though– crying children irritate people– but you can’t help but be irked. Whoever this guy is, he’s obviously trying his best.

And what can you really do when something like this happens?

Some glittery, pink, thingamajig was right in the little girl’s line of sight and kids don’t like the word “no”. It didn’t help that he barely glanced at her when he told her off mundanely; quietly, eyes trained on the scan of item after item.

So, she’s throwing a fit. A torrential, hysterical, fit.

She can’t be older than nine, you think. And him, maybe a college student. An odd pair, but the world is filled with those. They’re so human it almost hurts; a gasp for air, a vase that’s older than you are; autumn leaves on concrete, the curve of a dandelion.

He’s processed his panic now, going pale as he spins to look between the girl and the cashier. Bag the groceries or calm her down?

The cashier looks more exasperated than anything else now. Impatience billows like drying laundry in their chest, wafting dew toward you.

A particularly pitiful sound shrieks from the girl and the thought that you want to go home enters your mind. It’s selfish, especially as you watch this guy bend down onto one knee, his thumbs wiping away the tears that muck the girl’s cheeks; muttering apologies and gentle pleas to quiet.

The fluorescent lighting of the store deepens the shadows underneath his eyes.

You decide then that your groceries aren’t really an emergency but the only thing you’ve got in the fridge is pickles and frozen pizza. You could make do but you don't want to.

“Do you want me to bag your groceries for you?” You ask, side-stepping past your cart and to The Guy, who’s precariously offering hushed solutions to the girl’s self-imposed grief.

He looks up; between you, his girl, the cashier, then the box of cereal on the counter that sits soundly.

Blue and unbothered.

Back to you. His eyes shine so brightly, you find yourself convinced he’s on the verge of tears. That’s just how he looks, you realize. Dark, dark eyes– condors and tarmac– and the twinkle of artificial light in them.

He nods weakly. “If you don’t mind.”

You shrug and walk past him, to the end of the cash register.

There’s Chef Boyardee, Donettes, Yummy Dino Buddies; they all get bagged– one by one– together. The Guy comes to stand next to you, now holding his girl; her ruddy, sobbing face tucked warmly into the crook of his neck. She’s clinging to his OMSI: Pacific Marine Camps t-shirt, snot getting on the printed Spicebush Swallowtail.

His dark eyes follow your hands as you set aside the eggs.

“Thank you,” he says, but you’re barely halfway done. He’s earnest about it though; gaze on your jaw as one of his warm palms rubs firm circles into the girl’s back.

You shake your head half-heartedly. “It’s okay,” you tell him.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“I offered.”

He goes quiet, glancing towards the cashier a couple of times nervously. “Most people wouldn’t.”

“I dunno,” you set the eggs on top of the Donettes and whip open a new bag to place milk and Kraft Mac n’ Cheese in. “Stuff like this happens all the time.”

The little girl’s sobs have receded into hiccups and sniffles, still crying, but quiet.

The cashier picks at their nails.

When you finish bagging The Guy’s groceries, you give him a smile. Something that you hope is reassuring. Warm: the apple cider you had a week ago bubbling up on your cheeks.

Then, you return to your cart and the cashier begins scanning your items.

The Guy lingers.

A minute later he’s offering to pay for your groceries.

“You’re acting like you’re in debt,” you tease with a bewildered smile, borderline grimace.

“I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

When you exit, he follows; pushing his cart with one hand, holding the girl up with the other. She’s not crying anymore.

The pair follow as you step over a mess of expired coupons that have been trodden into a fine paste over the parking lot’s concrete. Baby wipes: two for one.

“You’ve gotta let me repay you,” he implores.

You shrug a shoulder.

He opens and closes his mouth, struggling to find the right words. And there probably aren’t any, but you can’t tell him that. That’s something he’s gotta figure out on his own. You throw the back of your car open and shove groceries in.

He watches quietly.

“Thank you,” he then says, stubbornly. Like you’re a tornado; flightless fog and feathered ozone, a nightmare, something so earnestly destructive.

He has no clue how to approach it. You.

You turn to him fully, the air turning more yellow between the two of you as the evening deepens. The sun, a molten yolk melting and dipping into the bread of the Earth’s foundation.

He’s handsome— strong arms, broad shoulders, sharp jaw— and entirely constructed by hard-headed exhaustion.

Awfully young to be taking care of a girl like that, you think, but shit happens.

Shit always happens.

You close the trunk of your car.

“Good luck,” you tell The Guy, waving softly.

He’s quiet but he begins to step away, and the girl finally looks up– still clutching onto his shirt. Her dark, dark eyes glue stickily to yours: a gooey, feathered, glittery, arts n’ crafts project.

You smile at her, something you hope is reassuring. She sniffles.

“Thanks,” he says, moving further away, “you too.”

•---------•

“Happy Birthday.” You present the manilla folder lazily to David. He raises a brow.

“Those aren’t the divorce papers, are they?”

“Um,” you bring the folder back to your chest– an evil, rectangular teddy bear– and flip it open, “‘Complaint for Divorce’ in parentheses, ‘No Children’,” you look back at him. “I dunno, could be.”

He groans and reorganizes the staplers on his desk that have already been neatly placed at the corner. Twenty-degree angles on top of ninety-degree angles. All aligned in minimalist, careful, simplicity.

Perfect.

“I’m glad someone’s getting some amusement out of my divorce,” David groans, flipping drawers open and closed. Looking for something imaginary, something that will keep him busy. An object that will be an excuse in the future for his own failures.

“Our divorce,” you plea sarcastically, “You’re not gonna be my brother-in-law any more.” As if it ever mattered.

“Why are you here anyway?” He asks, finally straightening. One of his thick brows raises. “And not her assistant?”

“She wanted the personal touch.” You joke, setting the folder down on his desk. It feels incriminating when you hold it yourself as if you’re the one holding the gun up to their marriage, pulling the trigger. David eyes the folder warily. He reaches a skinny hand out, flipping through the papers tentatively.

His tendons swing and swell like frantic waves under his tan skin.

“I guess one nice thing about marrying a lawyer is that paperwork’s never a problem,” he mutters.

“And there are copies.”

“Oh, joy!” He exclaims, but then slumps in his chair, temples balanced in his palms. He’s awfully small like this. Crumpled at his desk. His blue and green argyle tie, a ruined knot at his neck. Gray suit, a poor stitch of used paper towels surrounding his frame.

Something about seeing a man so weak feels sacrilegous. Feels like a taunt. Feels like God is sitting on your shoulder and giggling.

It doesn’t help that his desk is so pristine. Neat where David is fucked. A nameplate sits perfectly in the center: DAVID CASTILLO VICE PRINCIPAL, it screams, confident.

“I should go,” you say when he doesn’t twitch from his hunched position for sixty seconds.

He nods, then shakes his head, then pinches the bridge of his nose as if a spider’s unfurled its legs in the cave of it. “No,” he starts, “No, um,” he glances at the divorce papers and looks away just as quickly. There’s a picture of him and your sister hanging on the wall to his left. He stares at the frame. “How about I take you out to dinner? Or something?”

“Sure,” you shrug.

“Okay.” David inhales deeply.

It’s quiet. A clock on his wall ticks, again and again, impending itself into your skin and his soul. “Do you want me to wait outside?” You ask, pointing a thumb at the door.

“Please,” he mutters.

The school is empty. The ‘Welcome Back to School!’ display is still up in the lobby, even though it’s mid-September and a chill is starting to ghost the air every few days. A janitor scoops up a leaking trash bag, throws it over his shoulder, and rolls the bin into the hallway.

You stroll past a wall absolutely littered with papers; drawings hung up like samara fruit in waxy colors. Lots of suns with smiley faces and brown, pea-bodied dogs. Theres a family of rainbow turtles and a wonky drawing of Ariel from The Little Mermaid. You recognize a dragon and a field of camels too. It’s endearing.

David wanted kids. Your sister didn’t.

That’s not the reason they’re getting a divorce but it’s one of those little microcosms that sums up why.

One little minute passed but it changed the hour. Changed the day too, maybe. Or the week. The month. For all you know, even the year. That’s what happened with them.

Just one minute. That’s all it takes.

You expect the cafeteria to be empty like everything else but it isn’t. There’s a woman sitting near the entrance with barrel hips and kinky, salt-and-pepper hair that's clipped back viciously in a bun. She smells warm, like peaches and laundry detergent; shea butter too.

A spice you only dream about.

The woman looks up at you from her book– something by Toni Morrison– and her brown and pink lips purse at you.

For a second she looks mean, but her hands seem so soft; so, so soft; the color of warm, brown egg shells. Her nails are lacquered in a hazy shade of lavender that reminds you of glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and the taste of milk with honey.

Sweet potato pie.

“Are you here for Abby Schmidt?” She asks, her voice low and smooth like the afterthought of a lullaby. Her eyes then turn to a girl sitting at one of the cafeteria tables. She sits alone, her dark hair hanging in rivulets around her ears and jaw, and she scribbles mindlessly with crayons on paper.

“No,” you tell her, adjusting your messenger bag a little. “I was just dropping something off for Mr. Castillo.”

The woman closes her book. Her eyebrows are thin. Neat stitches arched above wrinkles. “Are you a friend of David’s?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Okay,” she relents and opens her book again. You smile fractionally and nod, even though she doesn’t see.

Your footsteps echo against the linoleum as you walk deeper into the heart of the cafeteria. The girl doesn’t look up from her work, even as you approach, and you find yourself standing behind her. You’re looking over her shoulder at her art, arms clasped behind your back.

“I like your drawing,” you utter. The girl— Abby— turns to look up at you. Her eyes stick to yours.

“Thank you,” she says, trading a green crayon for a pink one. Then she looks back up, assessing you like you’re a division problem she hasn’t quite learned yet. “I like your jacket.” She settles.

“Thanks,” you say genuinely, shifting on your feet, “Can I sit with you?”

Abby nods and scoots over as you join her. She keeps coloring. Your eyes scan her drawing some more.

Two scribbled figures. Both with dark hair, and dark eyes, and smiles. One is taller than the other, and you can tell that the shorter one is herself: she’s wearing the red overalls in her drawing. The taller figure sports a green sweater— deep green.

Evergreens, ferns; huckleberries falling off the branch.

“Is that your dad?” You ask, hand waving towards the taller figure. She shakes her head.

“That’s Mike. He’s my brother.”

You nod. “Is that who you’re waiting for?”

“Mhm. But he’ll be here soon.” She checks the little purple watch on her wrist like she’s the president of the United States. “He’s usually late.” She turns to you. “Are you waiting for someone too?”

You guess you are. “Yeah.”

“Are they late?”

You shrug. “Sorta.”

Abby then narrows her eyes at your face. “I know you,” she says resolutely.

“Do you?” You ask, propping your head up with a palm as you rest your elbow on the cafeteria table.

“Yeah. You’re that lady who helped Mike at the grocery store.”

Your brows twitch upward, an interested leer wide on your lips. Abby looks suddenly familiar. Dark, dark eyes and fluorescents catching on them.

You’re surprised she remembers that at all; not only because it happened back during the tail-end of July, but because she was sobbing through the whole situation. She only saw your face for a solid five seconds and still recognized you as That Lady.

Smart girl.

“Yeah, that was me.”

She assesses you again; but more like a bird on a tree. “I’m Abby.”

“Nice to meet you, Abby.” You introduce yourself too. She beams and turns back to coloring. You watch and then ask, “Can I draw with you?” and Abby is quick to shove a paper and brown crayon in your hand.

She seems very pleased about the development.

Ten minutes later she’s frowning at your purple cow-dog-unicorn-thing and shaking her head. “I don’t think it looks like a cow.”

You look down at your work with her.

“Maybe if you squint? It’s abstract.” You narrow your eyes and bite the flesh of your cheek, doing what you think the high masters did when they made shit too.

She tries a squint and then frowns harder. “No.”

You laugh. “Well, maybe it’s my own animal.”

“Does it have a name?”

“Hmm. Wanna help me think of one?”

“Umm,” Abby tilts her head this way and that, the curls of her hair springing as she does. “I can’t think of anything.”

Before you can reply with something funny, someone runs into the cafeteria, panting. It’s The Guy. Mike. Her brother.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Harris, I-“

The woman ignores him, flipping another page in her book. He sighs and swallows, turning towards Abby. Then he looks flatly at you.

Abby stares– unwavering– as he walks over, hands crossed neatly over one another on the table. Mike takes her scrutiny like it’s orange juice with pulp while glancing strangely between her face and yours.

“Mike,” she starts. “You’re late.”

“Yeah, I know, um,” he looks vaguely towards you. This feels like a routine and it feels like you're breaking it.

Abby introduces you. “This is the nice lady from the grocery store.” She supplies. His eyes widen momentarily, suddenly putting all the pieces of the past and the present together, a jigsaw falling into place. His eyes trace the slant of your nose, the curve of your eyes; linger on the pocket above your lips and the eve of your jaw.

Mike clears his throat and straightens his back. “I didn’t know you worked here?”

“I don’t,” you say, and look at your purple abomination. “A family member does.”

Mike nods and momentarily loses interest, walking around the table and grabbing Abby’s backpack. He slings it across his shoulder. It’s phenomenally tiny on his sback and you realize just how small Abby is. And the little pack is so bright against him too; shining in reds, and yellows, and deep blue cerulean against the gray-green of his jacket.

Abby stands, gathers her drawings (yours too), and grabs Mike’s hand when he offers it. There are bandaids on his thumb and pointer finger, bruises like nightshade crawling from underneath the torn brown.

But Abby doesn’t look away from you when Mike makes it for the exit. She makes an annoyed, high-pitched sound from the back of her throat and glues her eyes to yours desperately.

He stops, head knocking back to stare at the ceiling tiredly, before dropping to look at her. “What’s wrong?” He asks her gently.

“Wanna go to Sparky’s with us?” Abby asks you, with no regard towards Mike. Like he’s an imaginary presence. His eyes go wide though, catching the light like moths as he stares tight-lipped and in utter horror at the back of Abby’s head.

And then he comes to terms with it, frowning between you and her.

“Um,” you start, then scoot closer to Abby in your seat. Your eyes level with hers. “I think that’s something you need to ask Mike about,” you settle gently, hoping its the right thing to say.

She whips her head to look up at him. “Can they go to Sparky’s with us?”

Mike clears his throat; shifts his stance like it’ll suddenly root the words into his mind; adjusts the strap of Abby’s bag on his shoulder.

“Maybe later,” he decides.

“When?”

“Abby. C’mon.”

“When, Mike?”

You rise from your seat. “Are you free Friday?” You ask him, head tilting. He purses his lips at you, jaw working, and then seemingly gives up.

“After four, yeah.”

“Great. Me too.”

“Okay.”

“Friday at five then?” You beam down at Abby. “Sparky’s right?” Back at Mike. “That’s on 65th and Jefferson?”

“Yeah. Sure, sounds good.” He says, but you don’t believe him. He’s got this barely-there wince on his face like there’s a nail in his shoe.

He’s sorry, you realize. Sorry about Abby; sorry that he’s supposedly forced you into this. You shake your head at him with an easy smile.

It’s okay. But he doesn’t believe you either.

You feel like he’s the type of person who’s always on his own page. Not because he wants to be but because he’s worried that other people can’t read between the lines. Can’t look deeper, past the words and into the real meat of it all.

Or maybe Mike’s more comfortable ripping the book apart than letting anybody settle down into it with him.

He leaves.

Abby waves at you, a flutter of little fingers as she walks out the door too, trailing behind Mike.

David shows up five minutes later.

His tie is situated perfectly around his neck; firm and rigid into the confines of his freshly buttoned suit. He smiles at Mrs. Harris and she asks him how he is. David says he’s fine. You wish he didn’t have to lie but he waves you over like his life is a dream and you accept that this is the reality he wants. And that you’re, in some way, a part of it.

Dinner with him is a blur. The week is a blur.

On Friday, you almost forget that you’ve committed to go to Sparky’s but one of your coworkers mentions how her daughter has a ballet recital; and you’re suddenly reminded of Abby.

Reminded of the fact that there’s now apparently a child in your life that is affected by your actions.

You think for a moment to talk about Abby but remember suddenly that you don’t really know a thing about her. You don’t know whether she prefers apple juice or orange juice: what her favorite cartoon is: or if she’s still using kid’s toothpaste.

Abby’s not your kid or your little sister, and that fact doesn’t change even if you think she’s cute and funny.

You wonder what she’s drawn today.

Maybe she’ll show you. You think about how small she is and if her little eyes will stare into yours, hop-scotching across the strange adult sadness you can’t seem to shake off on warm, overcast days like today.

You drown out thoughts with the radio while you drive to Sparky’s.

It’s a hard place to miss.

It’s just outside the center of town, and the flat-topped building sits under a large neon sign that says “SPAKY’S GIL & DINR” because the owner can’t really afford to fix the letters that don’t light up anymore. The smiling, cartoon dog– Sparky— doesn’t light up anymore either.

He’s got bird shit on his left eye.

You’re five minutes early when you open the glass door to the diner. A bell tinkles, signaling your arrival.

Mike and Abby have already situated themselves in one of the gray laminate booths. They sit on one side together. Abby’s got her head down, already scribbling at a paper with a green, broken crayon. Mike’s looking out the window, an arm across the back of the booth behind her. Calm, reserved.

A little, yellow teddy bear is propped up between them.

Mike only turns your way when you sit down across from him. Abby looks up from her drawing immediately, her head jolting up. Her grin is palpable, like strawberry shortcake, when you say hi.

“You came!” She exclaims, grip tightening on the crayon. It might snap.

You smile. “Of course I did. I said I would, didn’t I?”

Abby nods and returns to drawing; her arm moving twice as fast as it was before you came.

Mike makes eye contact with you. His eyes then drop to linger on the collar of your shirt, reading the hem like an instruction manual, before raising again.

You’re not sure what he learned from the stitching.

Something by The Doors is droning on the speaker; fuzzy, blurry, like fog. Jim Morrison moans out “Let it roll, baby, roll~” and your foot taps along.

“Did you just get back from work?” You ask him, shrugging your jacket off.

“Yep.”

“What do you do?”

“Construction.” Something you could’ve guessed, judging by the Carhartt pants and steel-toed boots.

“Nice,” you say, authentically.

He nods, then says, “How about you?” like the words are gumming to his teeth.

“Boring stuff,” you wave Mike off and watch Abby trade for a blue crayon. She’s humming along to the music. You can feel his eyes on the side of your face and turn your head back to sit eye-to-eye. He raises a quizzical brow. “Seriously,” you implore.

“You don’t have a job,” He says simply. He’s not really bothered by the notion that you’re unemployed.

“I do,” you huff, “I just,” so you tell him about it. He looks tired while you talk, occasionally eyeing the ketchup and continuously rereading the label while actively pretending not to. But he’s an honest, good sport about it; at the very least trying to seem interested. Mike nods in all the right places, giving “yeahs” and “mhms” when he should.

In the middle of your drone, the waitress comes.

She’s fifty-something, with chalky eyeliner bleeding under her eyes; her ginger-dyed hair is pulled back in an impressively messy beehive. You easily imagine royal honey dripping from the split ends. She smells like stevia and tobacco. The name tag on her chest says “Susie”.

Susie blinks at you warmly and tiredly. “What can I get for you?”

Mike orders first, orders for Abby– who barely flinches at the mention of her name– and then you order.

Susie leaves without writing any of it down.

Mike turns back to you, tense. “You don’t mind paying for yourself, right?”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” you joke, but he doesn’t really smile. Abby suddenly looks up from her art and leans in your direction, a little valence electron swarming into a new orbital. Her small shoulder pushes into Mike’s bicep. He stills her with a soft look like he wants to pillow her in peach fuzz and call it a night.

“Do you like your job?” She asks, sitting up on her knees. The hand Mike has resting on the booth moves to fix her sweater to her shoulder. She doesn’t even flinch.

You shrug a little. “It’s okay.”

She seems troubled. “Why do grown-ups never like their jobs?”

You stifle a laugh but shake your head. “I’m not sure about that. There are a lot of grown-ups who like their jobs.”

“I don’t know any.”

You glance at Mike.

He’s wincing at her words– scratching at the skin behind his ear– looking properly embarrassed. They’re a funny pair; like pickle relish and peanut butter. Weird fishes swimming and circling together because they have nowhere else to go. They know this routine; know the angle of each other’s currents.

“There are,” you assure her. Your eyes drift toward the drawing she abandoned. “What do you wanna be when you’re grown-up?”

She shrugs and tells you “I dunno,” like it’s the easiest answer in the world. “This boy, Jesse, in my class, he wants to be an astronaut.”

“Do you want to be an astronaut?”

“Sure. Space is cool. And the moon is pretty.” Abby looks towards the ceiling as if it’ll break apart and reveal Mars.

Your fingers reach tentatively for her art and when she doesn’t protest, you take it fully. You hold her work up with two hands in front of your face like a mask. “You don’t wanna be an artist?” You ask with a sly smile, peeking around the drawing. She shrugs again and Mike rubs her back a little.

You face the paper.

It’s a grassy scene; blue sky, yellow sun wearing sunglasses. Five figures are the subject; Abby in the middle and then two other children on each side of her. On her left; a redhead boy with a hook for a hand and another boy in a top hat. On her right; a blonde girl in a pink dress and finally, a boy in blue with bunny ears.

You put down the paper to look at Abby. Her eyes are wide, expectant. Mike’s are the same.

“Are these your friends?”

“Yes!” Abby exclaims and leans on the table to look at you closer. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” you grin, pleased.

Mike shifts awkwardly. “Imaginary,” he clarifies. “Imaginary friends.”

You give him a private, amused smile. He relaxes a little.

Abby hands you a blank paper. “You should draw your friends.”

You obey, picking up a crayon, starting with yourself. Mike watches you carefully, eyes on your hands, sometimes trailing the curve of your eyebrows and the fall of your lashes.

“You’re good,” he says as Abby hands you a pink crayon– which you take dutifully. You draw a flower while sending him a wry smile, shaking your head. “I’m serious,” he implores, but you can hear the joke behind it.

“Sure.”

Then you finish coloring your jeans in and lean back to think.

Friends. You could draw your sister. But she’s not a friend. She’s your sister, and a lawyer, and a now ex-wife, but she’s not a friend.

David isn’t a friend either.

Dinner with him was quiet and he’d broke down into tears (again) by the end of it. You paid for the bill out of pity. You think that’s probably the last time you’re ever going to see him.

The waitress drops your food off as you start to outline the shape of red overalls.

Abby chews deftly on her chicken nuggets and leans into Mike’s shoulder while he dips his burger into a heaping pool of ketchup: the two of them eye your drawing together. You’re reminded of this photo you saw once in a Nat Geo magazine of two dark-eyed owls burrowed together.

You bite a smile.

When you’re done coloring a green sweater, you straighten and pop a self-satisfied fry into your mouth.

Abby wipes her hands off with a napkin that Mike hands her and takes your drawing. She gasps when she sees. Mike’s brows raise and you reflexively hope he doesn’t hate it.

“It’s us!” Abby says excitedly, vibrating with joy. You take a bite of your food and nod. She turns to Mike, huffing, and very seriously tells, “This is for the fridge.”

And finally, Mike smiles, almost snorting. But all he does is nod and say “Sure is,” between his bite

“You even drew my overalls.”

“I did,” you say. “They’re totally cute.”

“I like the flowers you drew around us.”

“Pretty, right?”

Abby looks so happy you could scream.

By the time both Mike and you are done with your food, her eyes haven’t left the drawing. And you must be doing something right because at some point Mike smiles at you.

Quietly. Mostly unseen.

Mike is comfortably out of your reach but he flutters in and out of your grasp fleetingly; a moth seeking light, heat, maybe something more. When he lands, you don’t close your fingers; only hang your palm open and let him decide if he wants to stay.

Maybe you are on the same page but you’re not sure if he knows it.

When the check comes Mike suddenly offers to pay. You refuse, waving him off and sticking your card in with his.

Susie comes to pick it up and then returns five seconds later, wishing you a nice day. You walk out of the diner as one big group– Mike holding the door open for you and Abby– and you find yourselves stuck under neon signs.

Mike looks at Abby carefully. “Can you wait in the car for a second?” He asks. She looks immediately offended, wanting to say no.

He looks exhausted.

Abby glares at him, then looks sadly at you before walking away and clambering into the back seat of his Honda Accord.

You turn to Mike and he turns to you when the door slams shut.

“Thank you,” he says immediately like he’s been holding it in his lungs the entire time.

“It’s nothing.”

“No,” he urges, “seriously. Abby, she,” he glances at the car, “she has a really hard time with people. Shit, I have a hard time with her too and I’m her brother.” Mike takes a deep breath. “She really likes you.”

You’re quiet for a second, letting the shadow in your eyes escape and mingle with his. “I get it.” You tell him. “Kids are…” you scuff your shoe against the pavement, “hard. Big emotions, little bodies, ya know?”

He nods. “Yeah.” He exhales. “You’re good with her.”

“I was a weird kid too.” You tell Mike with a grin.

Something like a smile is offered as he shakes his head. “You, uh,” he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans and glues his eyes to the ground. “You wouldn’t mind meeting up again?”

You take a deep breath. This is a lot.

You should say, “Yes, I do mind,” but honestly, you really don’t. You’re not bothered by their company. You like both of them. Mike’s got something sad about him though; constantly in the eye of a storm, waiting for the hazard to hit again. And Abby’s Abby: sweet.

“It’s just, she doesn’t really,, click. But she did with you. And I know she’s gonna wanna see you again.” He elaborates.

“Sure,” you breathe, blinking. “Do you want my phone number or something?”

Mike nods. “Yeah, that’d be good.” He gives you his phone and sniffs when you enter your digits and hand it back.

You step away, steeping yourself deeper into the night. “See you around?”

“Yeah,” he nods and turns to his car. Abby rolls the window down, thin arms circling quickly, and peaks her head out.

“Bye!” She calls desperately as the engine starts. She probably thinks she’ll never see you again.

“Later, alligator!” You call back, waving.

She grins toothily and Mike asks her to roll the window up as they pull slowly out of the parking lot.

•---------•

Mike doesn’t contact you for the next two weeks. You expect it.

By the third week, you’ve settled that he’s realized just how odd this situation is and won’t call you ever. Something like disappointment aches awfully in your chest but you brush it off as a human reaction to the departure of warm summer evenings.

October is right around the corner and you’re starting to feel it.

The days are getting crisper; dirt turning to mud, dew on the grass, leaves turning orange. There’s also a bug going around at work and you’re not spared of its spread.

You wake up one morning with a scratch in your throat, an ache in your head, and a clog in your left nostril. You’re not really that sick; after a cup of coffee, you feel better. But your psyche still feels like it’s made from popsicle sticks and cotton balls.

You take it to the pharmacy before work.

There’s Nyquil and a row of untouched Dayquil next to it. Concentrated Tylenol and Cepacol. Zyrtec and Claritin. Dimetapp. You take the Aspirin and Nyquil and shlump towards the counter.

Mike is there, looking casually fatigued in front of the check-out counter, his hands in his pockets.

“Hey,” you say, the inflection of a question in your voice; the hesitance that maybe Mike wants to be ignored. Remain unseen. Unperceived. He jolts a little at your greeting and doesn’t relax when he turns to face you.

“Hey,” he says back. He takes a glance at your hand. “Sick?”

“Just a runny nose.”

He nods, takes a nervous look towards the empty counter, and then scratches at the growing stubble on his jaw.

“How ‘bout you?” You ask.

His eyes won’t meet yours. “Just some medication.”

You nod and look slowly toward the rack of non-prescription reading glasses. There’s a glittery, red pair at the very top– so small they could probably fit in the palm of your hand. “How’s Abby?”

Mike relents a little, shoulders going from concrete to rubble. “She’s doing alright. She asks about you sometimes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, that drawing you did? She loves it.”

“I’m glad.”

There’s a quiet spell– the two of you looking in your own directions– and when the pharmacist finally shows up, paper bag in hand, Mike nabs it and leaves.

Then you step forward to pay, a polite smile on your lips, eyes flicking to your watch to take a mental note that you need to get to work soon.

Mike’s waiting for you outside the pharmacy; awkward and dark against the white overcast. It’s foggy this morning. You don’t know how he isn’t cold, only wearing a pair of jeans and a Foo-Fighters t-shirt that’s a little tight around the arms and chest. That makes you swallow.

You slow to a stop in front of him.

“I was gonna call you,” he sighs. “I got busy.”

“It’s okay.”

“Do you wanna,” he raises a hand, then drops it uselessly, “do something with Abby soon?”

“Sure.”

“She’s got a half-day on Wednesday. We could take her to the park?”

It’s a good plan. You don’t know why he sounds so unsure. “Get her outside before it gets too cold to?”

“Yeah,” he says, breathing a little easier.

“Sure, I’d love to.”

Mike straightens his back a degree. “You know Marylheights Park? It’s close to the school.”

“Yeah, I know it.”

“Is one okay? Or are you working?” He suddenly realizes.

You shake your head. “I can come by on my lunch break.”

“Alright. Great. See you there.”

You smile, nod, step away a little, and then leave– abandoning Mike under the eave of the pharmacy.

True to your word, you show up at one o’clock in the afternoon at Marylheights Park. Mike and Abby are already there– he’s sitting on a bench, wearing a flimsy black hoodie and she’s bundled up in a pink and red jacket, a beanie knitted in a cacophony of colors on her head.

She runs over when she sees you, a heap of colors on the breeze, a smile bright on her face.

“I haven’t seen you in forever!” She exclaims, tripping a little on the bark-chip. You see Mike twitch and then falter when she catches herself.

“You okay?” You ask, reaching a hand out for support if she needs it. She grabs your fingers, tight, as she leads you toward the playground. There’s a couple of other kids with their parents playing too.

“Do you like my hat?” She asks, stopping in front of you to show off.

“I love it.”

“Mike made it for me.”

You glance at him. He’s slouched lazily on the bench, hands stuffed in the pocket of his hoodie.

“Really?”

“Mhm.” She dawdles around you, skipping and humming as she climbs the monkey bars. “I saw a turtle today.”

“That’s cool.”

“Yeah, it was really cute.” She hangs off one of the bars, letting herself swing back and forth. “Lauren brought it for show-and-tell today.”

“What did you bring for show-and-tell?” You ask, leaning against a post with your arms crossed.

“My friend.”

“Your friend?”

“He’s in my backpack right now.”

You nod like it makes perfect sense. “When I did show-and-tell I brought my big sister.” It’s not true but it's funny to think about.

Abby looks at you wide-eyed and a flock of Canadian Geese honk above you; black and white, obnoxious angels. “You can do that?”

“Duh.”

Abby drops from the bar and stares at you. “You’re lying to me.”

You grin. “Maybeeee.”

She rolls her eyes the same way that people do it on TV and suddenly walks away when she sees a round of Lava Monster is starting up. It’s a weird, convoluted game you used to play all the time. You’re suddenly upset that you forgot the rules; as if it didn’t used to be one of your favorite things in the whole world.

You sigh and meander over to Mike, sitting next to him.

Your eyes stay on Abby as she toddles along the play-structure in the middle, unsteadier than you like. Mike hands you a brown, paper bag wordlessly. You raise a brow and take it.

Inside is a white-bread sandwich in a ziploc bag, a juice box, and a folded note.

“What-”

Mike cuts you off. “You came on your lunch break.” You raise your head to look him in the eye. He’s so hard to read sometimes. ”Hope you like turkey and cheese.”

You beam, flushing between joy and embarrassment, and grab the juice box. There’s a cool guy surfing on it. “Thanks,” you say, stabbing the straw into the top. “You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs and turns to watch Abby. She clambers across the slides to avoid being tagged. Some of the other kids yelp and scream wordlessly.

“I owed it to you,” he breathes, his words turning to a puff of vapor in front of his nose.

The two of you split the sandwich in half and you don’t miss the way Mike watches you pick at the crust. When you eat it anyway you hear him puff a sharp exhale of laughter through his nose, shaking his head.

The game filters out and Abby makes her way to the swings, shoes toeing the ground as she sits.

Your fingers lift the note from the bag when you finish eating— unfolding to find a small, crayon drawing, no bigger than your hand.

A purple cow, better than yours, and actually tangible as a cow. Impressive.

“Abby did that,” Mike says, chewing. “She said you need it.”

You close your eyes, amused and overjoyed. Your fingers fold the little piece of paper back up and place it carefully in your bag, in a place you know it won’t be ruined. “God, she’s so sweet,” you huff, hand clenching. You’re not sure what to do with yourself.

You feel like husked corn; chipping paint in a parking lot. Like the curl of peeled apple skin.

“She has her moments,” Mike says gently, almost smiling.

Abby starts spinning herself on the swing, twisting and knotting the chains together and then letting them unravel to leave her in spirals. He frowns at that.

“Abby,” he calls, fixing his slouch on the bench, “quit it! You’ll make yourself sick!”

She sticks her tongue out at him. He grunts. She grins at you and waves. You wave back. She goes back to swinging normally; progressively higher and higher. Another kid ambles over to join her wordlessly.

Mike frowns and shakes his head, first at Abby, then at you. “I’m starting to think she likes you more than me.”

You snort at him. “I’m an adult who isn’t an authority figure in her life.”

“Still.”

“She adores you.” You tell him. You don’t really know either of them well enough to say that but you’re sure of it. You’re sure of it not only because you said it but because Abby’s a sweet, smart kid. She’s got her problems but she’s generally well-behaved. More importantly, she seems happy.

Unbothered, by whatever situation she and Mike are in. Whatever he’s doing, he’s doing pretty good.

And maybe she doesn’t look at Mike like he hung the stars but she certainly treats him like it. The thing about kids is that they’re brutally honest:

If she didn't like Mike, you’d know.

He stares at you for a second longer than you’d expect him to and turns back to watch her.

The two of you stay like that for a while. Side by side. Almost shoulder to shoulder. Abby sometimes comes over to take a break, or ask what you thought of her drawing, or tell Mike what she wants for dinner. It’s peaceful. Quiet.

Okay.

Some parents leave. Some new parents show up. The two of you stay.

At some point, you glance down at your watch and panic floods your synapses.

“Shit,” you mutter, standing up. Mike raises a brow. “I’m really sorry but I’ve gotta get back now. I’m gonna be late and-“

“Don’t worry.” He tells you easily, fixing his posture so he isn’t slouched under your eye. You smile apologetically. Abby runs over from the slides, panting, her wide eyes expectant on yours.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, I have to get to work now.”

“But you’ll come back right?”

You bend down to her level, fix the hat on her head so that it sits evenly. “Yeah, of course.”

“Okay.” She sighs, seemingly relieved, but the trace shadows of upset are still visible in the gleam of her eyes.

“Have fun with Mike?” You tell her, rising. You linger despite yourself.

“Later alligator?” She asks like a wet mutt as you start the walk to your car.

“In a while crocodile.”

You wave and she waves back. Mike keeps his eyes trained on you, raising a hand too. Your smile widens.

•---------•

Your older sister is the prettier, smarter, more put-together version of you. The version of you that you pretend to be.

She doesn’t laugh and she doesn’t smile, and you can’t tell if it’s because she genuinely can’t feel joy or is afraid of getting wrinkles. You’re sure it’s a mix of both. She lives in this big, minimalist penthouse suite that you’ve only been in twice; her heels have red bottoms. She has avocado toast for most her meals and the hoops on her ears are real gold.

In short summary; your sister has got it good. You’re pretty sure she’s miserable.

She tells her assistant, Christa, to get her a coffee and Chrsita offers to get you one too with a sweet smile. You want to say “Yes,” but she looks awfully close to having a mental breakdown. You tell Christa, “No, thanks,” smiling gently back.

When she leaves, you turn and stare at your sister’s pursed lips.

You drove into the city for once and your sister could only make time for you to come and sit in one of the stiff chairs she has placed in front of her cocobolo desk; the chairs for clients. You look around her office.

It’s neater than David’s and ten times bigger.

Vast and white. A tundra of dreams scotch-taped together.

“You were almost late.” She says, annoyed, eyes stuck to the papers in front of her.

“Sorry, I had to get cough drops at the pharmacy.”

“You’re sick?”

“Just a sore throat.”

You lean forward to poke her cheek. She squawks and slaps your hand away, scandalized and disgusted.

“That’s disgusting!”

You laugh and she steels you with a hard glare, a scoff caught in the back of her throat. “I do wash my hands,” you tell her.

She shakes her head and drums her perfectly manicured French tips against the heavy table. You tuck your own hands under your thighs. You like her nails; you want yours to look like hers but they’re inconvenient for people like you. Real people, with real lives and realistic, boring jobs.

But it's nice to look at them, especially on your sister.

“Heard from David?” She asks as if she isn’t divorcing him. Like he’s a houseplant that you’re taking care of while she takes a quick business trip.

New York. London. Shanghai. Amsterdam. Seoul. You’ve seen the photos.

“Nope.” You bite your lip and Christa comes with the coffee. A cappuccino that she places in front of your sister. Black. Tiny, little cup. Christa gives you a dazzling smile that has you grinning back at her fully, like an indulged schoolgirl. And then she’s gone; clicking off to document review in her little black heels.

Your sister glares at that.

You look her over.

Look at the way she’s curled her lashes and glossed her lips. Her shirt is buttoned straight– stiff and crisp around her neck. There’s a little permanent divot between her eyebrows and the white light of the office washes her out.

“You look tired,” you say flatly, a fairly normal thing to say to a woman who’s a criminal lawyer for an inner-city law firm.

She barely looks at you. “Thanks.”

And then it’s her turn to look you over. You’re sure she doesn’t like what she sees. She rarely does. “Have you been eating?”

“Of course I have.”

She stares for a moment longer before saying, “Just checking.”

Someone knocks on the door and peaks their head in– a young man with dark hair. Bright hazel eyes. She glares at him wordlessly and he makes eye contact with you before shutting the door quickly. You watch her scoff and then carefully pick up a pen before signing the papers gently; like hemlock and hummingbirds.

Your sister. Elegant.

You tilt your head.

She starts. “So, any luck-“

“Oh, can we please go five minutes-“

“I was going to ask-“

“-without talking about-“

“-about your job!”

“-things I know you don’t care about!” You stare at her. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine. We won’t talk about it.

You smile. “I like your shirt.”

“Fuck off.” She flips open a stack of papers with a fit of impressive anger, scribbling something hotly in the margins.

You know she doesn’t hate you but sometimes you have to wonder.

She’s mean and a bitch; but she constantly worries— and she worries more about you than anyone else. More than she ever worried about David. Which says quite a bit about what the two of you have done and put up with for one another.

Your sister: less of a counterpart, more of a weird black shadow of a half-twin. Not the moon and the sun; but a tree and the ferns that grow underneath.

Your sister stares at her cooling cup of coffee and looks into your eyes like they’re blurry. “Do you need money?”

Her solution to everything. A pretty good one, you won’t lie. “No.” You say quickly, waving her off.

“So everything’s good then?”

“Yeah. Good. It’s all good.”

She raises a brow but looks away to read something.

“How about you?” You ask.

She sighs heavily and stares at the wall. “Well,” and for a moment she doesn’t look like your sister. More like any other woman– any other person experiencing life for the first time. She’s thinking about her job and her home; the wonders and horrors of burnt toast and manilla folders. Of sending people to jail or keeping them out of it. Of going to bed in her 1200 thread count, Egyptian-cotton bed set.

Then she blinks, as if remembering who she is, and suddenly your sister’s sitting in front of you again.

“It’s alright. Fine. Boring.”

“Makes sense.” You tell her with a nod.

“How’s Mac?” She asks off-handedly, eyes on her work. Mac. Full name Tarmac. The stray cat that’s been haunting your house for the past couple of years. A dumb, skinny little cat who loved you with all of his heart.

“Dead.”

“What?” Your sister exclaims, wrist dropping to the edge of the table, pen still in hand. “How are you not,, a wreck?”

“It happened a few months ago.”

“God.” She finally takes a sip of her cappuccino and clears her throat. “Well, just don’t get upset one night and, I dunno, drink yourself into a sobbing mess.”

You grimace. “Says you.”

She sends you a hard glare. “Don’t.”

“I’m not the one who had to be bailed out of-“

“When are you going to stop bringing that up?” She groans. You laugh a bit now, dropping your head towards your lap and your sister looks properly embarrassed. “I passed the bar, have a Porsche, and have a personal trainer, ya know!”

You laugh harder. You can tell she finds it almost funny too but is raging too hotly to care.

“And then I had to-“

“Stop!” She exclaims.

You leave her alone but still giggle through it, fingers pressing against your lips in a complete failure to contain your amusement.

There’s another beat of silence.

She takes another sip. You watch her. Christa comes by again with a new, impressively thick stack of papers for your sister and walks out.

“Where’s your shirt from?” You ask your sister, eyeing it. “It’s nice.”

“Balenciaga.”

Pricey. The white, simple, button-up shirt she’s wearing probably cost her more than a hundred dollars.

“Is it cotton?” You ask her, leaning forward for a better look.

“Yes.” She side-eyes you warily. You lean back. “You better not steal it.”

“I’m not going to!”

“You’ve done it before.”

You roll your eyes.

Your sister finishes her coffee off in silence. It’s awfully quiet for a law firm. You wonder if her office walls are sound-proofed.

At some point, she tells you she has a meeting and that you need to leave. She’s in a good enough mood to at least walk you out herself.

In the firm’s garage building the two of you wait for the valet to bring your car.

She looks strange, sad, lonely. You love her. But you don’t know what to do about it because she gives you no place to put it. That’s just who she is. Her person. Being in a constant state of distress is part of her identity and really, there’s no escaping it. Self-imposed, mortal limbo.

“You’ll be okay?” She asks gently, like for once she means it.

“Yeah.” You tell her, tender. Human. “You?”

“Of course. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry about your divorce.” You finally tell her. You didn’t say it at first when it was too new and too fresh. When she was more concerned with paperwork than emotional damage.

She shakes her head like the mention of it is merely a fly in her face. “Don’t apologize. I wanted to thank you for bringing those papers to David.”

“Anytime.”

“It’s just, you live nearby and it would have been easier for you to do it than Christa, and-“

“Seriously.” You cut her off. “It’s fine.”

She sighs and looks you over. It’s a long, extended look of softness. Mike looked at Abby the same way. But it’s a rarity from her; one that has you giving her a confused smile, hands going into the pockets of your jacket— the nicest, crispest one you own— as she stares.

“What?” You ask.

She steps forward, raising an arm, and you step back. She huffs, annoyed. “I wanted to give you a hug but you ruined the moment.”

You scoff incredulously. “You’re so weird.”

She glares. “Fuck you.”

The valet comes with your car.

Shitty, and old. Reliable and well-loved. Needs an oil change.

You step around to the driver’s side and the valet places your keys warmly in your palm. Your sister stays in the spot you left her in.

“Bye.” She says stiffly.

“See you soon.”

She glances at the valet. “Right.”

“Give me a smile?” You joke. You see her right hand twitch to flip you off but with the audience she contains herself. All she gives you is a deep-seated, disappointed frown and a shake of her head.

You grin and step into your car before driving off.

Even as you pull out of the garage you can see her standing still in that over-priced button-up shirt; arms wrapped around her torso, watching you go.

You tell yourself she’ll be okay but when a song from your childhood plays on the radio you doubt it.

Nostalgia will kill you before she ever does.

[concretevampire]

what if I wrote Joel Miller x reader… who’s stopping me?

[concretevampire]

coming back from the dead to post this hi everyone

[concretevampire]

sorry for being super dead I’m quite literally in Jerusalem

[concretevampire]

An Indulgence

arthur morgan x f!reader ꔫ 1k ꔫ drabble/blurb about affection (or lack thereof) and whatnot

A/N: hi everyone, I'm back from the dead! sort of. it's an understatement to say that I've been busy. between exams, finals, and portfolio preparation, I can't seem to catch a break. I would have loved to have something more substantial to post but alas. hope y’all are well!

Hugs are not something that crosses his mind often. Nor remembers.

But it is no understatement to say that Arthur is touch starved beyond incomprehensible belief. For a long time, the closest thing he’d gotten to a hug in years (decades, he jokes sometimes) were the quick pats left on his back by the various men in the gang; festering marks of unbridled, masculine brotherhood, and nothing more. There’s an odd, silent code between all of them that touch– that love– cannot cross a certain line. 

And if it did, the world would simply collapse because hugs cannot formulate within the constraints of existence. It would break fundamental laws. If gravity no longer clawed at everyones boots and limbs, maybe then Arthur supposes he could share a hug with John. Or Dutch. Or Hosea. Maybe Charles. Sean too. 

When it comes to this, he often envies the affection that women give each other so freely, so often. 

He stares at the way Tilly braids Mary-Beth’s hair, how Abigail lets her fingers linger at the curve of your elbow, or the way you help Karen lay down and rest after a bit too much to drink— even if she’s slapping at your hands. 

He wants this. He yearns for this unbridled affection. Yet then he thinks about the other men in camp and realizes perhaps it’s best that they all keep their emotional distance. 

But Arthur likes hugs. He really does, and he’s not particularly frugal with them. 

The various women he’s saved along the road, each equally shaken and ruined, have wrapped their arms tightly around his chest, sobbing ‘thank you’s and ‘thank God’s into his shirt– and Arthur can never quite find it in himself to spare them of an arm around their shoulders, his hands rubbing soothingly along the space between their shoulder blades. He understands. 

He’s got a corruptive, self-hating need to be a hero. 

Not to forget his troublesome stint with Mary (which never seems to end), and the blink he shared with Eliza. Eliza and Isaac. It seems that beyond hugs, affection comes naturally in Arthur’s life, as rare as it is. This rarity has corroded and cauterized him, because whatever cottonball tidbits plug up his arteries, well, they might as well be non-existent. 

Time has tapped on his forehead diligently, and he’s become whatever sand-ridden, tumbleweed-pushing, gunslinging-outlaw history will immortalize him to be. To an extent, Arthur’s accepted that he’ll be nothing more. That this is his legacy. 

But then there are these moments where he’ll be in camp, standing in front of his small mirror, tilting his chin left and right. Do I need to shave? Maybe trim? And then he’ll feel it. 

Your arms, wrapping comfortably and gently around his middle. Loose enough for him to punch you away and put a bullet in your head if he really wanted to. When he doesn’t do this, you’ll press your cheek harshly to Arthur’s vertebrae, filling that metaphorical chip on his shoulder with the expanse of your lungs. One deep inhale in: mud, tobacco, sweat, sweetgrass, and pine. With your exhale he hears you silently say all sorts of things: I missed you. Did you miss me? How are you? Are you okay? You better be or I’ll kill you. 

It always makes him smile, gently and nearly silent under the thrum of crickets and frogs (you always make sure to embrace him when everyone else is half-asleep) and his hand drops lazily to splay over your own fingers, playing tug-o-war with his shirt. 

And with your deep warmth seeping into the sinew of his back, Arthur will then tangibly remember that he likes hugs; that affection is in fact a part of his day-to-day life. 

Even then, it’s not often that he can truly afford to wrap you up in his arms and press his cheek to your temple, murmuring abstract words quietly as he holds you to his chest. He doesn’t have the time and energy. Actually, it’s more capacity than anything else. He would kiss you if his lips were’t bruised and swollen from a brawl. Hold your hand if his fingers weren’t broken. Hug you if there weren’t a gunshot wound in his shoulder. Fuck you if he had gotten more than four hours of sleep in the past week. 

Arthur’s wealth in physical affection is generally meager. It is both his fault and the world’s. What can he say? He was dealt a poor hand, and like most men, he seldom knows how to play these cards right. 

But you’ve cheated the game. You peaked— perhaps to his discomfort— at his stack of ones and threes and inadvertently handed him your royal flush. Earlier on you probably would have played against him; but he’s blessed to find that you now share a weak real estate worth a pack of cigarettes. He knows this fact more than you. Of course, you’re not impervious to the result of your shared affection but you certainly aren’t aware of the extent to which it envelops him. 

How he adores you, wants to demolish you with gnashing teeth and teary eyes. And simultaneously, Arthur simply wants to wash the clothes you wear and clean the plates you eat from. 

It’s an uncomfortable dichotomy, one that encapsulates the push and pull of Arthur’s psyche that he can’t entirely wrap his own head around. You know about this struggle; he’s hoarsely whispered it to you after returning on week-long excursions on Dutch’s behalf. 

I killed someone, he’ll whisper. They didn’t deserve it. It’s likely they did, because he’s usually a good judge of character, but you have no real way to tell. He’s never quite shaken up per se, but he’s disappointed in himself, oddly enough. He’ll hold your hands tightly with both of his, thumb rubbing numbingingly to your strangely naked ring finger. Fervently, as if his confession will mutate him into the monster of the West’s legends. 

The only real thing you can do to soothe him is by forcing food down his throat and letting him sleep by your side. Let your nails scrape softly against his scalp and cultivate the fields of his dreams. 

So perhaps when things are harsh, harsher than usual, he finds it in himself to seek you out, rather than the other way around. And he’ll clasp one gently ruined palm around your forearm, and press your hearts together. 

[concretevampire]

your story “early morning breeze” made me cry like a baby at the end! youre such a talented writer, i hope its a story you continue, or that you continue writing for the rdr2 fandom as a whole!!!

ngl I cried a little too. idk what happened.. it became so sad for no reason, I'm sorry for that :,)

and for the foreseeable future, I'll really only be writing for RDR2, so EMB will likely be continued (also because it's not a story I want to leave on a sad note).

[concretevampire]

Early Morning Breeze cont.

arthur morgan x f!reader ꔫ 8.1k ꔫ domestic sadness + angst, some violence too, idk what happened but this got kinda sad // based off of the Dolly Parton song // religious themes

A/N: this is a pt. 2 because people to seem to be asking for it! can be read by itself/ as a stand-alone but if you want to read pt 1 it's here: Early Morning Breeze

“So, tell him with the occurents, more or less, which have solicited. The rest is silence.” Your head lolls to the side, tongue sticking out. Jack giggles. You crack an eye open. “You don’t make for a very convincing Horatio, Jack.” 

He giggles again, leaning back into the grass. “I don’t know how it goes.” 

Propping yourself up onto your elbows, you hum. “That could be an issue.” 

“What happens next?” 

You think, trying desperately to remember a play you haven’t read since you were a teenager. A gunshot sounds in the distance. Ravens fly into the air in a wild blunder, black embers ripping across the sky. 

Just a hunter. You pray it’s just a hunter. 

“Now cracks a noble heart. Good night sweet prince,” you grab Jack, fussing his hair with a tight smile, “And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!” You turn back to the forest, eyes narrowing. Another gunshot sounds. “Why does the drum come hither?” 

He pulls away, hands on your shoulder. “What does that mean?” 

“Well it means,” and you try to come up with an intelligent answer. You couldn’t be bothered. “It means Horatio is very sad.” 

“That’s sad.” 

You nod. “It is, isn’t it?” 

Jack stands up, eyes searching the grass for a stick. Something to wack and stab with. “Are there any happy plays?” 

You snort, laying back in the grass. “Maybe.” 

“Do you know them?” He bends down, poking around in the mud. 

“It seems the happy ones haven’t stood the test of time, Jack.” 

He turns back to you, twig in hand— small and frail— too skinny and too young to be a sword. 

“Uncle Hosea said the same thing.” 

Your eyes look to the sky, gray and heavy. The sun never seems to shine in Beaver Hollow. Another gunshot sounds. 

“He did.” 

Jack circles around you, swinging his twig uselessly. “Did Uncle Hosea like Hamlet?” 

You sit up, knees coming to your chest childishly, as if Hosea were still blonde and still alive. 

“Uncle Hosea liked it.” He didn’t. He liked A Midsummer Night’s Dream more. Lovers gone mad and neurotic. Deluded by their own frivolous needs. Or deluded by pixies. 

Pixies would be preferable. 

You clear your throat, shrugging. “But he liked reading all sorts of things, not just plays.” 

Jack drops his twig, already gone in search for something stronger. “Reading’s boring.” 

“Well, you will be the most bored lawyer in the world then.”

He groans, head dropping. “I don’t want to be a lawyer!” 

You snort, standing and brushing at your skirts of any grass or mud that could have stuck. “Tell that to your Ma.” 

Jack huffs as if the gray skies have fallen to his little shoulders: the weight of the world settled onto a four-year-old. 

“She doesn’t care,” he bemoans.

Your hands go to your hips, head tilting as you look his little body over. “She doesn’t care?” 

And he nods furiously, pouting indignantly.

“Well then, if she doesn’t care you would be stuck at Mr. Bronte’s,” you poke at his ribs, “eating pasta for the rest of your life!” 

He smacks your hand, frowning. “I like pasta!” 

You wave him off. “You’d get tired of it after a year.” 

“Not true!” 

“True.” 

“Not!” 

Laughing, you bend down to fix the collar of his jacket, tightening it against the chill that permanently hangs over north New Hanover. Just another beast to fight against with the impending militia of Pinkertons, Cornwalls, and O’Driscolls. 

Another gunshot sounds, closer this time. Jack grabs for your skirts, eyes peering into the forest– more curious than scared. Thank God. 

“It’s just a hunter,” you sooth, patting his back. But he stares for a moment longer. Another torrent of ravens flies over the both of you, cawing loudly. North American banshees. They seem to break his stupor– he grabs for your hand and pulls you from the trees. 

“Let’s go home,” he declares. And you follow, knowing it’s best to get back anyway, lest suspicion grows. 

Whether it be crazed or not, suspicion is suspicion. 

Molly was not spared, and though you have been with the gang longer than most, there’s a growing despair in your heart, an amalgamation of wailing demons that’s telling you mercy would not be shown. Your efforts, everything you’ve given– whether it was your all or not– will not save you. 

This is out of your control. 

Now, admittedly, it has never, ever been in your control, and you would be a fool to think it ever was. 

But beyond control, you barely have a choice anymore. What can you possibly do? As Dutch’s mind rots away– festering and bubbling synapses– you can only act as an audience member, chained to your seat. 

It’s maddening. 

But you blame the cold. The frigid air for the sleepless nights and trembling fingers. The biting breezes for your nauseating headaches. 

Arthur’s getting worried about you. 

You’re getting nervy in your old age, Sean used to joke. But it’s not his supposed old age; it’s not him at all. It’s Dutch and it’s you and it’s the loss of Hosea. His devastation is apparent but he refuses to speak about it, like a stubborn child holding their breath. 

Refuses to admit it because, just like you, he thinks that if he does, something bad is actually happening. And there’s only so much you can do for a person who can’t stand help in the same way he can’t stand celery in his stew or the way you tuck your cold hands under his stomach as he sleeps. 

Once again, this is out of your control. 

But you let yourself ignore it as Jack tugs harder, pulling you into camp and towards the dying fire. 

It was quiet at Shady Belle, but here in Beaver Hollow it is silent– and this aching, foreign silence ripples excruciatingly through your bones as Jack warms his hands. But you prefer it. Prefer it over the arguing and killing. 

Better it be silent. 

But it seems your luck has dwindled— not a new development— and Dutch is now hollering. For you. 

Shit.

There’s an attempt to ignore him; you would cut your ears off and burn them in an act of morbid defiance if that’s what it took to get him to stop. But Micah is watching. His Cerberus. 

So you bid Jack farewell and step towards Dutch; back straight, fingers clasped tightly as if you were entering a confessional. 

You have no sins to reveal though. Nothing to worry about. So why are you? 

“There you are, my dear,” and he closes the flap of the tent behind you. 

“Dutch,” you greet softly. 

“I have a gift for you.” 

You turn to him, brow raised. “A gift?” 

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he walks over to his nightstand, “it’s insulting.” 

You laugh breathlessly and shake your head. “Sorry.” 

And he gives you a book. It’s not big, not very extravagant, but that’s why it intrigues you. Because with Dutch, things are always big and always extravagant. 

He doesn’t really know how else to live. As a fish to water, a man to money. 

Carefully, you open the cover, eyeing the title. “An Essay Concerning Human Understanding,” your mouth hangs open, almost in confusion, “this is,” frankly, “old.” 

“I know. He’s no Miller or Emerson, but Locke certainly had some things to say.” 

All men do if they think hard enough. 

You nod a bit. “I think I read it before. When I was in school.” 

Dutch leans back on his desk. “Have you really?” 

You flip further, hands delicate on the yellowed pages, drying leaves at your fingertips. Another frailed, withering mind contained in words. “Something about parrots.” 

He chuckles, crossing his arms, and you look into the air. Thinking beyond your body. 

“Therefore some, not only children, but men, speak several words no otherwise than parrots do, only because they have learned them, and have been accustomed to those sounds.” You turn back to the pages. “Parrots.” 

Dutch eyes you wildly. As if maybe he could cut your brain out and replace his with yours. 

You pretend not to notice, deciding to shut the book and turn to him.

“Thank you.” 

“You’re very welcome.” 

You can’t help but wonder. “Why these essays? Why Locke?” 

He shrugs lazily. “Thought of you when I saw it. You did always like the analytical ones.” 

Not really. It was always such a drag, having to read fifteen pages on one point. They were actually Dutch’s favorite, but you never had the heart to go against his taste. And now, a question lies laced in your exponentially drying saliva— though you should leave while the silence still hangs. 

While you still have a chance.

“Is this it?” You ask, pressing the book to your side. 

“No,, no.” 

Of course. But you bite your tongue and accept your fate. It is in part your fault.

“What is it, Dutch?” 

He comes off of his desk, approaching you slowly. “I need a favor from you.” 

Funnily enough, you smile coyly; like everything that’s happened in the last few months subsequently hasn’t. Like you’re still in Blackwater. Like you’re still one big, messy family. “When do you not?” 

He smiles at you too, gently and softly, the excrements of a memory. 

“What’s the favor?” 

“I need you to go to Blackwater.” 

You freeze. And your despair deepens, cauterizing every cell and nerve until you become numb. “What?” 

“Now, I know it sounds crazy, but I have a plan.” 

“You always have a plan,” and it comes out harsher than you intended. Harsher than you really expected. And it makes him freeze, face dropping, eyes darkening infinitely. Ravens. 

“Listen to me,”

“Dutch, no.” 

“Listen,” 

“I can’t,” 

“Listen!” He grabs your shoulders harshly. You can almost remember how the act used to be comforting. Why does it feel so long ago? His breathing is harsh against your cheeks and nose— panicked— as you wait for him to put a bullet in your head. Why doesn’t he just do it already? “I just, I have a plan but I need your help.” 

“Blackwater? Blackwater!?” 

“Just hear me out!” And there’s an urgent shake to your shoulders, silencing you. “You go in anonymously, or disguised,” 

“You go in disguise!” 

“I can’t,” 

“You,” 

“I can’t! They know me, they know my face, they’ll know it’s me! They know Arthur and everyone else, they know us. You have to do this for me,” his plea is frenzied, strange and uncoordinated on his deep voice. 

“And they don’t know me?!” You counter. “Dutch, they know me too!” 

His grip tightens on your shoulders. “There’s money there. More than you can imagine. I need you, I’m begging you to do this,” his hands raise to cup your face.

“I’ll die.” 

“No, no you won’t,” he takes a deep inhale, “I have a plan.”

“I don’t care.” 

“Listen. You go in, wail about how the Van Der Linde gang kidnapped and raped you,” 

“For eight years?” You add incredulously. He pulls away, hands gripping into fists, begging. 

“They’ll let you live. You’re lucky to be a woman.”

Lucky. 

“You have plausible deniability,” he continues, “and then you can grab the money and go. And then it’ll be okay! We’ll be okay.” He revises. “We can go to Tahiti or the Philippines, whatever you want, just as long,” and he takes a breath, “as you get that money.” 

You shake your head desperately. 

“You have to.” 

Silence falls, one pair of terrified eyes looking into the other. You trust this man; a strange blemish of a father figure; and you can only pray that he sees your humanity and eases. 

But perhaps that part of him has finally been discarded: the understanding caretaker. You have entered Exodus.

You rack your mind for options or scapegoats; something that will keep you far away from that city and maybe alive. “Does Arthur know about this plan?” You ask hesitantly. It’s a stupid question, makes you feel like a real whore, but you know it’ll make Dutch pause. 

And he turns away, huffing. “Why does that matter?” 

“It matters to me,” you say, diminishing your earlier aggression. Anger will get nowhere with him. It’ll only send him into another paranoid fit: guns blazing, mind wilting.

Spreading plague and famine. 

Dutch looks back at you, eyes gleaming with a kind of savagery that humans were never even meant to know. “And if he did know? And he agreed? What would you do?” 

You swallow. “I’d put a gun to his head.” 

He raises a brow, grossly curious. “Really?” 

You take a deep breath. “I will not risk my life for this plan.” 

Something snaps. You’re not sure what it is, but it does. “You won’t risk your life for this gang,” he says pointedly. Accusatory. And any sort of love or affection he ever had for you has left. Gone is the man who pulled you from the arms of abusive professors and ravenous nuns. Gone is the man who dressed and fed you like his own. Gone is the man you first believed in.

Now you’re being confronted with Dutch Van Der Linde. 

“I have always risked my life for this gang.” You assert, your fingers shaking, almost dropping the book. 

“Have you?” 

“Yes. I have.” You step away, eyes unable to stay with his. “I always have.” 

“So why don’t you now?” 

“Because I’m,” ‘Tired. Worn. Sick of fighting for an imaginary future,’ “Because I don’t want to die, Dutch.” 

“You won’t die.” And unlike the former compassionate assertion that statement used to be, it’s grown cold: a matter of fact. 

“You have such a way of promising things,” you muster, lips pursing with grief. Grief for a man who is standing and breathing. 

His hands rise, fingers pressing into his temples as if he could will the rot from his mind with one simple act. “Go.” 

And you do. You won’t waste a second if it means life or death. 

You’re relieved to feel just how cold the air is outside his tent. It’s chilling, almost painful, but it’s better— angel’s breath across your furrowed brow. But the relief is eradicated when you make eye contact with Micah who, of course, is sitting just outside Dutch’s tent. 

His fingers fiddle grotesquely, preparing to dissect and devour. 

“Since when did you go yellow? You were always the feisty one. Morgan must be rubbin’ off on ya.”

Your jaw clenches.

“It’s a shame really,” he grins, revealing rows of crooked teeth. “I always liked that about you.” 

You walk away. He follows. 

“Oh, but you have been so uppity lately. I wonder what it is. Morgan hurt ya?” He taunts.

You continue your path, neither speeding up nor slowing down.  

“Nah, he ain’t the type. Too soft and too dumb to be hittin’ his woman.” 

There must be something someone needs you to do.

“Ohhhh, I know what it is,” Micah feigns realization. “Bet he hasn’t fucked you in a while. Broodmare missing it, ain’t ya?” 

The camp seems so empty.

“I can help with that,” Micah steps closer, voice louder. “Why don’t you meet me tonight?” 

Your hands twitch uselessly at your side.

“One o’clock. Outside. Just you and me. I’ll give it to ya good.” 

You pause. 

“Out by the Kamasa. No one will know. Morgan won’t know.” And he finally comes into your peripheral, a mass of sin and maggots. “What do you say? Yes or no.” 

Turning slowly, you eye him with a violent look. Something vicious that Dutch taught you. But you walk away again— and this time he doesn’t follow. 

Entering your tent, you slam the book down onto your cot before collapsing next to it, face mashing into the pillow; a rotten peach to an oversized, cotton pacifier. 

You scream a bit. Then sigh. Scream a bit more. Roll onto your side. Stare at the photos Arthur has hung up. 

He looks like his father. The first time you saw the mugshot you told him that too, and he didn’t seem pleased with the notion. But they’re twins. 

Same easy eyes. Same strong jaw. Same pout. 

You’ve always wondered what his parents would think of you. Would his father think you were a waste of time? Or just a whore? How about his mother? Was she kind? Would she have been protective? It doesn’t matter though, and you should probably stop groveling. 

Especially because the tent has opened, Arthur stepping in with searching eyes. His nose crinkles into a funny smile when he sees you. 

“There she is.”

“Hi.” 

He walks over, sitting at the edge of the cot by your hip. “Gonna tell me why yer in a mood.” 

“No,” you rise, scooting to sit next to him, “mainly because I’m not in a mood.” 

“Yer always in a mood.” 

“Says you,” and you stand, flicking his hat as you do. For a moment you think to stop, ask Arthur if he’s heard anything about Blackwater from Dutch. But you decide against it when you see the darkening eye bags, the deepening cheekbones. 

He’s been running himself dry. 

It’s painful to watch— he really has been reduced to a workhorse. Something to plow the fields so that Dutch can sow the seeds of another fruitless plan. 

And the worst part? He’s afraid: just as much as you and everyone else.

But he will never admit it. 

He couldn’t. Because if anything, no matter how much he hates it all— this weight he’s pulling— he cares too much to let it go. He would rather collapse under the strain than leave you without something to pick at; fruit or not. 

It’s a pattern of self-inflicted abuse he revels in. 

Because when love is shot in bullet dosages, you learn to lick your wounds and ignore the blood. I’m used to it, Arthur will tell you. It doesn’t help. There was a time when you had hoped to show him something different, and you have, but you’re starting to believe it will always be an uncomfortable novelty. 

Your silver spoon, a frivolous nuisance. 

Sighing, you bend down and kiss his cheek. “You should rest.” 

“I ain’t all that tired.” 

“You certainly look like it.” 

“Callin’ me ugly?” 

You scoff, shoving his shoulder gently. “You do that enough for the both of us.” 

“Guess so,” and Arthur plays with your hands a bit, thumb rubbing at your ring finger— what used to be a pale band of skin there has tanned and calloused. Time has gotten the best of you. “Got a pretty good catch today, so maybe the stew won’t be so bad,” he speculates out loud. 

“That’s like hoping a dog hasn’t licked itself.” 

Arthur snorts, rising to wrap an arm around your shoulders and kiss your jaw. “Bah, I ain’t that hungry anyway.” 

“So much on your metaphorical plate keeping you full, hm?” 

“Sure,” and he rubs your back a bit before pulling away. “I’ll see ya tonight though?” 

You bite your cheek. “Maybe.” 

“Just maybe?” 

“I don’t know, Arthur.” 

“What don’t you know?” 

You smile hollowly to yourself, shaking your head. “It’s nothing. Just thinking.” 

“You do that too much.” 

“Yeah, and so do you, so,” and you push him towards the tent’s exit, “go manhandle a log or something.” 

“Sometimes I think ya hate me,” he complains, but he’s smiling. And naturally, you smile back. 

“Maybe I do. Woe is you.” 

His face drops. “I hate when you talk like that.” 

“Like what?”  

“A damn pompous fool.” 

“Awe,” you smile, patting his cheek. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” 

He raises a brow. “I’d rather you not.” 

“No, it’s a quo- oh nevermind.” 

“Thou art more lovely and more temperate,” he finishes for you. Seems Hosea taught him something. You beam.

“I am, thank you,” and you fix your apron around your waist, “see ya later.” 

“Tonight.” 

“Okay.” 

He sags in the corner of your eye. Beaver Hollow has created a strange, shared disappointment. It’s new, and you’ve both grown too weary to try and fix it. 

Once we get out of here, Arthur keeps telling you. Over and over again, his mantra. It used to be comforting but now it just makes you sick, cigarette smoke blown in your face: insulting and demeaning. 

You won’t have it anymore. 

So you walk away— off to find another meaningless chore that will distract you for the time being. You have nothing else to do with yourself. 

Moving hay bales around, you ouch and ooh at the way the straws poke and scratch, but pay no real mind. The horses have served as some source of comfort during this time; you often find yourself drifting towards them thoughtlessly. 

Precarious creatures they are, but there’s an inherent kindness to their mannerisms. 

You brush and pat them; feed them sugar cubes and peppermints because you might as well spoil something. Sadie joins you eventually, braiding Hera’s mane lovingly. A sister in arms.

You don’t know Sadie very well. Well, you know she’s good with a gun and has a temper, but you like that. She reminds you of yourself when you first joined the gang. 

Ruthless.

Though you can’t say you blame her. In fact, you’d rather she be ruthless and mean and brutal. To an extent, you admire that sort of malicious strength— praying you still contain it. 

You offer Sadie a peppermint for Hera, and she smiles politely, uttering a thank you. And then you’re off again, searching to make yourself useful. 

Dinner is as peaceful as it possibly can be. Jack’s already dozed off, but you, John, Abigail, and Arthur sit at a table, scraping away at stew. Knights of the Roundtable and their extravagant feast.

Few words are shared, mainly John and Arthur passing half-hearted jokes at one another. Sometimes Abigail chips in. 

It’s been like that lately. 

Arthur’s knee bumps against yours under the table, though you don’t flinch nor do you move away. You don’t even acknowledge the contact. Instead just continuing to miserably eat as if his legs were simply the breeze; there because, well, where else would they be? 

And Arthur prefers it this way. Prefers the normalcy of it all. 

It’s a sliver of hope. 

The thought that you can still stand his touch calms him more than he cares to acknowledge. That at least if he can’t voice his worries, he can show you he still cares. Show you that he misses your voice and your thoughts, and the way you used to dawdle idly during dinner. 

But there’s a heartbroken passion to the way you smile at him and fix his hat. As if you were begging for him to save you; from what, he’ll pretend not to know. 

The hand he has resting on his knee tightens into a fist. He’s failed you. But with the eyes watching all he can do for now is brush your hand away and continue eating. 

The usual. 

Only when Arthur has you under him does he ask. You’re nipping at his neck, trembling fingers clawing at the cotton of his shirt, chemise messily pulled down your shoulder— and yet he can’t. 

This culminating dread is keeping him at bay, keeping him from going further. He’s had enough. 

And so he pulls away, looking you over carefully. He looks sad, like you’re a stray mutt. Hungry and cold, shaking with the need for affection. But your eyes shine piously for him. 

He’s seen the look before. 

In a chapel back in Blackwater. After you had vowed impossible things to him and to God where after he could only gasp ‘I do’. 

Hands drifting silently, they come to play with his hair. And you have always liked it a bit longer— just for the fact you get to brush it away. Arthur’s not sure what to do next. 

Option one: ravage you entirely.

Option two: let you rest. 

He chooses something in between, coming to kiss your lips again— gentler, less hungry— like you’ll never have sex. 

And then he steels himself, pulls away, and clears his throat. “Are ya ever gonna tell me what’s wrong or do I have to guess?” 

You’re breathless, brows scrunching as soon as he asks. 

“What?” 

Arthur pulls away further, swallowing. “Today,” ‘and the day before. And the entire week. And the weeks prior. And the entire month. And all the way back to Colter,’ “what was botherin’ you?” 

You huff heavily, pressing your head further into the pillow. “You wanna talk about this right now?” 

Arthur works his jaw, the telltale sign that he’s pressing his tongue against that chipped tooth of his; a frustrated habit. 

“Yeah. I do.” 

Your head lolls to the side, eyes distant before nodding. “Alright.” 

And he pulls you up so that you’re sitting next to him. The way you hug your knees to your chest has his heart dripping with nostalgia— leaking into his stomach uncomfortably as he remembers a simpler time. When Hosea was still blonde and you both still wore your rings. 

Arthur realizes you’re waiting for him to start and takes a moment to string the right words together. 

“I just want you to tell me what’s botherin’ ya. I ain’t blind, I can tell it’s somethin’.” 

You glance through the crack of the tent, into the darkness. Arthur looks there too. “It was nothing,” you start, “just,, just some argument me and Dutch got in.” 

“‘Bout what?” 

Your eyes narrow. “Something about Blackwater.” 

Arthur’s head snaps to you. “What?” 

You then turn to him, confusion and frustration marring your features. “So you didn’t know anything about it?” 

“About Blackwater?” 

“Yes.” 

“No, I don’t know anythin’ about it.” 

Confusion turns to anger. “I knew it.” And you stand, pacing the tent floor. Back and forth, and back and forth against the grass and mud— a deer caged by white canvas. 

“What did he say?” Arthur supplies, still sitting on the cot. He watches you go left.

“It was just another one of his idiotic plans,” you say. He watches you go right. It starts to make him nauseous– your back and forth– so he reaches for you, gently, cautiously, like maybe you’ll stomp his hand into the ground and run away. 

“I’ll talk to him about it,” he settles, fingers at your wrist. 

It’s supposed to be comforting, and for a very long time it has been, but his words and touch have made it worse. Much worse.

Your anger is biblical. 

And Arthur can’t identify it or console it, nor could he understand it coherently. It simmers under your skin in a blasphemous way. In a way that will lay him on a cross and rip holes into his palms and feet; and all he can do is starve and pray.

He’s already consolidated that you will be the one to bury him, and subsequently be the one to unearth his body. 

Stupidly, your rage reminds him of when you had first entered camp— dragged in by Dutch in the middle of the night, covered in mud and bruises like dark lace— skirts ripped, lip bleeding. And he did not ask where you came from, and neither did you. Paired with your anger, that odd, mutual understanding laid a foundation. 

“You’ll talk to him about it?” You ask incredulously. “And you think he’ll listen? Or care?” Your hand waves towards that dark crack in the tent. And though nothing is visible, Arthur can feel the hell that awaits outside of your lantern lit alcove. “You think he won’t turn you into another Molly?” 

He fumes a bit at that, standing with his hands placed on his hips. Looming over you. He never did like using his size against you— not like this at least. “I ain’t some woman he keeps around to fuck.” Arthur bites.

“I know you’re not,” you eye him, “you’re his son. Which is arguably worse.” 

Shaking his head, he purses his lips. 

“And it’s worse for me,” you continue, “God, you should’ve seen the way he looked at me today! Like I had just ripped his prick off and thrown it in his face. I was so sure he was going to kill me.” 

It’s a funny image. You’re both too upset to laugh. His frown deepens. “Did’ya say anything to him?” 

Your eyes widen, looking into Arthur’s, disbelieving. “Are you serious?” 

“I just wanna know.” 

“Of course I didn’t.” You step away from him. “It’s Dutch, Arthur. He’s the instigator.” 

“I know he is, but-“

“No. No, I will not let you put this on me.” 

“That’s not what I’m doin’,” he says, reaching for you. You take another step back. 

“Yes it is.” Silence falls. Tense and waiting. “I don’t know why you still believe in him.” You do know. He isn’t a religious man– and those kinds of men look for faith, for vision, in something else. Desperately. Hopelessly. To ease whatever craving for enlightenment humanity was cursed with. 

“Once we get out of here he’ll come to his senses,” Arthur utters stiffly. Your hands grip into thoughtless fists; that familiar emetic feeling consumes you, ripping through your pores. 

“We will never get out of here,” you seeth. And it’s the first time you’ve ever defied the promise that he’ll save you. It hits him bluntly– a hoof to the chest– the anguish in his eyes and slacking shoulders apparent. Dead weight. “And we will die if we stay here.” 

“Don’t say that,” he commands perilously. 

“What am I supposed to say?” 

“We jus’ need more time.” 

Your eyes close, willing hot, angry tears to stay in their damn place. “It has been months,” you quaver. “Months of running and hiding and killing.” And the anger dissipates, a sorrow beyond hope replacing it. “How much more time, Arthur?” 

He’s quiet. 

“Because if you give me a time, I will wait. So how much?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“A week? A month?” Your voice is shaking, “Two months? A year?” 

“I don’t know!” He begs. “I just need you to trust me.” 

“I do trust you, but you scare the shit out of me! Every single day you run off, doing God knows what for Dutch, and I never ever know if you’ll come back,” 

Arthur backs away, opening his mouth to refute. 

“And don’t you say a word about how it’s always been like that because it hasn’t. Because you’re not just going up against some dumb outlaws who pick bones for fun, these are people who seriously want you dead, Arthur, and,” you choke back a sob, “and for good reason.” 

He’s gone still. Like a winter tree, his limbs hang frozen and useless, gone dead from the cold and other miseries. What does that make you though? A storm? 

And you’ve stripped him of all his male inclinations; fostered and trained like an obedient dog. He’s no longer a man, but a person, sad and mournful as they come.

“What am I supposed to do?” He finally mumbles. 

You shrug uselessly, sniffling. “Give up?” 

Arthur smiles hollowly, shaking his head. “Twenty two years and you want me to give up?” 

“I don’t want you to, but I’m asking you to. For your sake.” 

“I can’t do that.” 

You smile too, just as hollow and watery. Easily washed away. “I know.” That’s the worst part. 

Arthur looks away, the line of his shoulders straightening. Back to being an angry moron. A dumb brute. A workhorse. 

A man. 

You nod as he turns back to the cot, sighing heavily. Collapsing, he runs his hands down his face, his back facing you. Exhausted. The argument was pointless but it was waiting to happen for weeks, prowling around you both; thoughts like coyotes. 

You sit down at the edge of the cot, hands laying limply in your lap. 

Arthur rolls over at some point, quietly watching your frame. “You gonna come to bed?” 

“Soon.” 

“Okay.” 

And you wait. Wait for the crickets to crescendo and his breathing to decrescendo— to filter out into consistent whole notes— quiet snores a staccato on every other breath. You turn towards Arthur, seeing that he’s rested his hand by your hip, gentle and open. 

You think of reaching out; wrapping your fingers around his in an adoring apology. Kissing each knuckle and soothing each callous. But you don’t. 

Instead you stand, tremulously collecting yourself. Without bothering to dim the lamp, you approach the flap of the tent, staring into the eternal darkness. 

A question. An opportunity.  

To step into the depths of hell so that you can escape its pit. How many circles were there again? Nine? Feels like the tenth. And you stand there for a long time, still and silent, long enough for your nose, fingers, and toes to have gone numb from the air.

A statue amongst screeching souls. Crickets. 

You look over your shoulder, seeing that Arthur’s still asleep. His hand is where you left it, reaching out. The Creation of Adam. It’s a chance. A beckoning option to return to his side and repent. 

You step outside. 

You don’t actually know why or where you’re walking but you know you have to– because if you stop moving, the darkness will flood your lungs: suffocating and choking until you drown on adrenaline and fear. 

You’re terrified. 

It’s uncontrollable, animalistic, and most of all irrational. He’ll kill me, you keep thinking. And you don’t know who ‘He’ really is; Dutch, Arthur, God; but you know you can’t turn back. 

Not now. Not anymore. 

So you sob. Quiet, hyperventilated gasps for air that leave you reeling for your consciousness even as you keep pressing forward. You must look pathetic– your face hot with heavy tears, paving a path towards irresistible exile. It’s almost impossible to remember the last time you cried like this; you were small, still hurt about why the world offered so little when it promised so much. 

It’s disparaging how you will always be that girl. 

Always scared and sad– wanting too much to be soft and kind– not knowing that it’s useless. You’ve tried so long to tuck her away, but you suppose, in the end, you never grew up all that much. 

Just a tall child, running off with a broken heart once again. 

Wiping clumsily at your tears, you stomp into the Kamasa, ignorant of its blistering cold. You let the water splash at you horribly, turning every bone in your body to ice. It’s tumultuous and piercing; so you let yourself sniffle loudly, hiccuping against the sobs. 

“What the hell are you doing?” 

You pause, a wail catching in the back of your throat. Right on the edge. 

It’s Micah. 

And you turn to him, standing still as the current blunders against your thighs. A deer in lantern light. His eyes are narrowed, gnarled fingers branching out over his holster. 

“So did’ya come out her to take a bath or fuck me?” And his silver eyes sweep over your figure. Your chemise has gone sheer from the water, clinging to your figure: hiding nothing, your body exposed to the world, and worst of all to him. But you continue to stand eerily in the river, not caring as it shoves at you. A siren. He grins evilly. “Not like I’ll give you much of a choice” 

Something ruthless awakens. Bloodthirsty. Those demons in your heart. 

You hide it though, approaching Micah clumsily from your spot. His smile splits his face, folding and creasing in all sorts of unnatural ways. And the strain of growing arousal in his trousers is obvious; but you ignore it, coming closer. 

“Heard you and Morgan arguin’,” he teases, “that’s all it took for you to run to me, huh?”

Your eyes raise to meet Micah’s. 

“Oh, I just cannot wait.” 

Your hands reach for his hips. 

“Eager, aren’t ya?” 

Quickly, faster than you can really even process, you grab for the hunting knife hooked to his belt and stab it into his shoulder. Through muscles and tendons it goes, slicing across red hills. And you press infinitely hard— up to the hilt— just for good measure.

This euphoria in violence is savage.

Micah releases an agonizing scream, ravens shooting into the air violently. But you continue, twisting the knife to add to his torture. Rivulets of his blood run down your fingers, crimson drops of his soul bleeding out into the world. 

Just the two of you as witness. Him and the devil. 

And you had never enjoyed torturing things: it was always a quick kill: a snap to the neck, a shot to the head. But with Micah, you’ll draw it out. Push the knife deeper, twist it harder, until he’s reduced to nothing but a pile of evil and limbs. 

Let him suffer. He deserves it more than anyone you know. 

Revenge is a fool’s game, Hosea used to say. Arthur’s started saying it too. But you couldn’t care. Not when Micah is screaming and bleeding under your touch. 

You could do this forever. Keep him here for infinity. 

“You bitch!” 

Your knee jerks up, slamming into his crotch. Micah collapses, gasping for air as you rip the blade from his flesh. And you watch him for a moment, reveling in the desimation, before stepping away, spitting in his face, and walking off. 

You hear him howling curses as you enter the forest. 

John finds you shortly: he’s on watch tonight. Must’ve heard Micah scream. And you’re sure you look beyond crazed, not even human. A piece of clay on ecstasy. 

“What the hell happened?” He asks, gripping his shotgun tighter. You glance at your bloody, knife-occupied hand. 

Shrugging, you stumble past him, not bothering anymore. 

Oddly enough, the sight of Dutch standing at the edge of camp washes some manic form of peace over you. That maybe he’ll kill you— put an end to this all. A new form of mercy. But Abigail and Arthur stand guard at his side, the both of them looking equally mortified as you step nearer and nearer. 

It’s been some time since anyone has looked at you like that. 

You drop the knife when Arthur grabs you, dragging you away into your tent. You can tell he’s trying to be gentle but he’s failing miserably; grip like a vice on your bicep. And he practically throws you inside, breathing harshly. 

“Have you lost your goddamn mind?” He hisses, nearly shaking with ire. “What the hell were you thinkin’ runnin off into the night like that knowing damn well someone coulda killed ya?” He glances at your red hand. “What the hell happened?”

You sniff. “I stabbed Micah.” Simply stated. 

Arthur stares. His lips curve up but he certainly isn't happy. He’s polarized between chewing you out and giving congratulations. “You stabbed Micah.” He repeats. 

“Yes.” 

Sighing, his head knocks back to stare at the canvas ceiling. “So you have lost your goddamn mind.”

“I think so.” 

He looks you over; checking for bruises and scratches, having no other natural way of telling you he was worried. His hands come to cup your cheeks, turning your face this way and that; and they stay there even when he finds nothing.

“Is this about the fight we had?” 

You lean into his palms, eyes closing. “I don’t know what it’s about anymore.” And it’s the truth. There’s no other way for you to put it. Somehow, this madness is because of everything and nothing all at once. Real limbo, heaven and hell mixed. 

Pursing his lips, he swallows. “You can’t stay here anymore.” 

Your face scrunches up into an ugly sob, but you have no tears left to cry. Nothing to offer in your sadness. Nothing to argue in your despair. And he’s right. You can’t stay. Not only because you denied Dutch and stabbed Micah all in one day but because this last month you have been crumbling. 

Falling apart right in front of his eyes. A prolonged, devastating erosion.

And Arthur can label himself The Provider all he likes, but you were always the strong one in the relationship: emotionally stable, mature, good with your words. You were the one who took his bullshit and shoved it back in his mouth so he knew it was more than just him suffering consequences. 

But you were too kind to let him suffer through it. Always have been. 

It’s you who sits with him on bad nights, and it’s you who feeds him when he couldn’t be bothered, and it’s you who undresses him at the end of the day. 

But here you are, entirely deprived of all your sanity, begging for his help. And he can’t even think coherently. So he has to let you go. What else can he do? He at least won’t allow you to be tormented– not by Micah or Dutch, or even him. 

You have to leave. 

“Yeah,” you whimper. 

His bottom lip tucks under his top one; and you know Arthur– know that he doesn’t cry– but you know that means he wants to. Bending down, he brings his face next to yours. 

“Did you do this on purpose? To force my hand? To make me throw ya outta here cause you’ve gone mad?” 

You shake your head, hands raising to hold his wrists gently. “No. No, if it was on purpose you would be coming with me.” You explain. And none of this was on purpose. None of this was premeditated or thought out, and it was all driven by a need to feel human again. 

Arthur presses his forehead to yours, breathing deeply. Quiet. Thinking. Something he says he doesn’t do. “Is Dutch gonna kill me?” You whisper after a moment. 

Arthur pulls away, shaking his head. “Nah. Dutch ain’t gonna kill you. Someone was gonna stab Micah eventually.” 

And you remember what Dutch had said to you earlier today. 

“They’ll let you live. You’re lucky to be a woman. You have plausible deniability.”

Lucky. 

Funny, maybe you are. 

Arthur moves around the tent, grabbing your things and hurriedly shoving them into a knapsack. “Get dressed,” he mumbles at you, distracted. 

“I’m sorry.” You say suddenly. It makes him pause. And he turns slowly, eyebrows furrowed. “I’m sorry, Arthur.” You stare at your hand. 

He’s silent, not knowing what to do. You don’t really ever apologize, mainly because it’s usually him who’s in the wrong. It’s unprecedented and there’s no plan to move forward. No routine you’ve developed. It scares him.

“That’s alright,” he says.

You grimace, amused. “That’s alright? Really?” 

He sends a pursed smile. “Jus’ get dressed.” 

And you do, slowly but surely. As you rinse yourself clean and pull on petticoats, there’s a heavy weight hanging– a profane fog. The both of you are too scared to acknowledge that your time together has suddenly become very limited. 

Cut short by your lack of control and Arthur’s suicidal loyalty. 

And Arthur wants to be angry at you. 

Wants to scream at you for your thoughtlessness, for your act of revenge— but he can’t. Firstly, because something like this was bound to happen (he just didn’t think it’d be you) and second, because even if he was dying, losing all his strength— the one thing he has— he would carry you out. 

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Dutch tries talking to you when you exit the tent. You keep your eyes trained on the ground, not seeing if he wants you dead or wants to know what happened. 

Arthur puts a hand on his chest, shaking his head. Telling him to “ignore the fool”. 

And you can feel the eyes on you as you leave. It’s best that way. To escape alive and crazier than you came rather than dead and entirely sane. 

You can hear Jack’s quiet, tiny voice fussing. 

Arthur takes you to Annesburg, having you sit at a bench as he buys a ticket. One ticket. 

And then he joins you, takes his spot next to you as you watch the sun rise over the water; peeping a childish hello. Patching up whatever transgressions occurred during the night. Kind and new, eastward, a distance you’ve both been running from throughout your entire lives. 

“Here’s the plan,” he hands you your ticket, “this’ll take you to Wallace Station. Once ya get there, there’s a track going up to Oregon. When ya get to Oregon,” he shuffles around in his satchel a bit before pulling out an incredible stack of bills, “you get settled there.” 

You stare at the money. 

“And when I take care of things here, I’ll come lookin’ for ya.” 

You shake your head and he grabs your hand, placing the money in your palm heavily. 

“It’ll be okay.” 

You give up, dropping the money in your lap worthlessly. 

“Where did we go wrong?” You mutter, eyes trained on the horizon. Arthur does the same. 

“Maybe when ya married me,” and he coughs a little, patting his chest, “just a thought.” 

“That would mean it’s entirely your fault.” 

“Ain’t it?” 

Pulling the silver chain from under the collar of your blouse, you undo the clasp perilously, slipping the ring off. For a moment Arthur thinks you’re going to hand it to him— a final rejection. 

You’d become a final glowing pearl in his line of women. 

But instead you slip the band on your finger, fiddling with it a little in a familiar way. Just how you used to all those months ago. “I don’t regret it.” 

“Maybe that’s where we went wrong,” he snorts.

You shrug. “You loved me. I loved you. It was enough.” 

Arthur scowls. “We still love each other.” He defends. God help him if you don’t. 

You shake your head, eyes still on that sunrise. Golden and warm. Fleeting canary. “We do. But it stopped being enough for both of us.” 

Arthur wants to argue. That it’s still enough, that this is enough, but you’re leaving. And that’s that. 

“Guess so.” He mumbles. 

You glance at the money, sniffing. “Do you think it’ll be enough?” 

“It better be,” Arthur grumbles. “Worked my ass off for it.” 

You smile a bit. “Maybe I’ll get the chickens we talked about. And that dog.” 

“Dog would be nice.” 

“Missing Copper?” 

Arthur smiles. “Always. He was a good boy.” 

You smile too. But then you seem to remember yourself, and the smile drops. “Do you think I’ll be able to find a job?” 

“You will. Yer smart. Don’t worry too hard about that.” 

“I’ve never had a real job before.” 

“Yer tellin’ me robbin’ and killin’ ain’t a real job?” 

Usually you would laugh. But you don’t, reserving yourself to the sun. “We wouldn’t be here if it were.” 

He sighs. “Yeah.” 

There’s a pause. “Is it nice in Oregon?” You fill. 

Arthur mulls it over, head nodding back and forth. “Sure, from what I remember. But I dunno if it’s the same as that.” 

“That flower your Ma gave you is from Oregon, right?” 

He nods. “Cliff Maid. Grows on the mountains.” 

You smile a little. “Maybe I’ll find some.”

Arthur opens his mouth to reply, but he can hear the train in the distance. He knows you can too. An impending doom that you both willingly signed up for. Funny, how resigning yourself to hell doesn’t make it any better. 

“I hope I won’t have to wait too long for you,” you mumble. 

“Not if I can help it,” and he pats your hand.

You almost roll your eyes. “Sure.” 

The train shrieks. “Gettin’ close,” he says idly. 

“Yeah,” and you stare towards the tracks before shoveling the bills into your knapsack. 

Something overcomes him then, a primal devotion that has him leaning forward and brushing a hand against your shoulder so he can kiss you. And Arthur has always hated public displays of affection— turning him awkward and uncomfortable— but in this situation it’s easy. 

And you lean into him, hand clasping around his gently. Maybe if he keeps his eyes closed for long enough he can imagine you’re still in Blackwater. Imagine that he’s just recently started going sweet on you— not even together yet. 

It’s pleading and desperate; one last act of adoration before you go. 

And for once, Arthur prays. A real religious man. 

He prays for your safety and your happiness, but most of all, he prays that he’ll come back to you and that you’ll be waiting for him. Maybe he will or maybe he won’t because Arthur doesn’t believe in God. Doesn’t really believe in anything anymore. 

He’s lost his faith and the will to care. 

And when he pulls away, you smile. Real, genuine, the happiest he’s seen you in quite some time. So he can hope things will be okay. It’s highly likely they won’t.

And if anything, he’ll die and leave you waiting permanently in Oregon. We shall see. But at least he can say he prayed, if it matters. 

The train arrives, ravens ripping into the air as it does. 

[concretevampire]

Abigail Marston Is THAT Bitch

“abigail is such a bitch” yeah she’s THAT bitch! everybody in the rdr universe wanted her! she got not just one, but BOTH main characters to want to marry her. every other character? OBSESSED. abigail was rejecting and humiliating micah bell every day and he STILL wanted her. that loser bandit harassing geddes in the epilogue? all he ever talked about was how pretty abigail was. the entire gang was still talking about abigail ten years later saying shit like “we all had her”. we get it!! you’re bragging that the sexiest woman ever paid attention to you!! that’s what good pussy does to a mf fr

[concretevampire]

Early Morning Breeze

arthur morgan x f!reader ꔫ 9.7k ꔫ emotionally fueled smut, icky gooey lovey-dovey stuff for thou // based off of the Dolly Parton song // religious themes

A/N: this is my first rdr2 fic & my first post on tumblr & english is not my first language so critique is highly encouraged

You sniffle, forearm coming up to wipe away stinging tears clinging to lashes. 

A rough exhale escapes your lips, and you can feel the sweeping glance Abigail sends you. Sniffling again, you press the heel of your palm to an eye, the other shut just as tight. 

“Guess a couple’a vegetables is all it takes to get you cryin’,” she jokes, cleaver slicing off the head of a trout; her apron stanches the briny blood, scales scattered across her forearms like small slivers of moonlight. 

“Onions,” is all you can muster as you finally allow yourself to turn away from the cutting board. You turn your face upward, cracking reddened eyes open to peer at the sky. 

Big clouds– white, ozonated mountains beyond imaginable reach– float by lazily. 

Another sniffle escapes you, but the dam of your eyes has been rebuilt, and the tears secede. Your sinuses still burn though, sending a horrible ache to the back of your throat. 

Swallowing, you return to chopping onions. 

Other than Abigail’s humming and the incessant clucking of hens in the distance (Grimshaw and chickens alike), the camp is quiet. 

Shady Belle is certainly an improvement to dirt-ridden tent floors and crickets in your pillow, but it’s rather gloomy at times. You’re sure that it’s simply the haze of Bayou Nwa and the spectral creeping of ivy along chipping, gray paint. But it would be foolish, and most of all, naive, to ignore the simmering discomfort lingering under everyone’s skin. 

Kieran’s death. Jack’s kidnapping. Dutch’s… nerves, if you were to give it a name. 

Arthur feels it, and so do Abigail and Hosea, but all four of you are unwilling to mention his waning psyche for fear that it’ll only darken the already half-lit moon of his mind. It isn’t worth it. 

And frankly, Arthur’s loyalty to Dutch is suicidal. 

He will hem and haw, but in the end, orders are followed with abandon. Loyal to a fault, you tell him. It’s all I know, he says back, gently smiling as if an inside joke has been said. This ol’ dog can’t learn new tricks, and he’ll chuckle wryly at the quip, head shaking like the sins of the world have been settled and folded into the intestines of his mind. 

You can only let him wallow for so long when he gets like that. 

Though you’ve learned (after too many years as friends and a few more years as something quaintly more) how to put an end to it: a routine. Artfully mastered, a precariously balanced act that includes a succinct scold paired with a slap to his shoulder before pressing a soothing kiss to his cheek as he grovels over his journal like an overgrown child. 

But another layer to the quiet and unease around camp is unarguably Micah's presence. Filthy, bastard leech of a man. Suckling away at Dutch’s good faith. 

The fifth horseman of the apocalypse: treachery.

The way he saunters about is simply nauseating— skinny fingers pricking and prying into people’s souls. And he’s always been particularly taken with you. Disappointingly. 

Micah finds sheer amusement in laying out your arteries on cork board, needles stabbing; displaying your heart like a prize butterfly, blood glittering like topaz stained glass. 

It was simply infatuation at first, back all those months ago. 

A game he had played with many women before and one you brushed aside easily. And then he discovered that you and Arthur were something— and Micah became a true savage, fueled by both contempt and his peculiar fascination with having taken women. 

Even now as he makes his rounds with the gang, purposefully adding to the gloom, his eyes linger on your figure. 

Micah veers closer, and you take a step towards Abigail. Her shoulders straighten, so do yours– a useless attempt to create some sort of fortress. He’s approaching in your peripheral and Abigail slams her cleaver down onto another trout, a singular clawed scale landing on your blouse. 

You’ve moved from onions onto potatoes, your knife cutting away skin in precise shallow strokes.

When he’s close, Micah says your name– a horrible rasp of letters strung together by cigar smoke and glowing ash– the depths of hell holed up in his esophagus. You ignore him. And in turn he grins wildly, as if presented with riches beyond King Midas’ imagination. Your jaw clenches, eyes set on the knife and the naked, golden flesh in your palm. 

“How’s Morgan’s broodmare?” 

Abigail side eyes him. Your next slice is thicker than the last, heavy handed, taking off more flesh than you’d like. A waste. 

“Or has he moved on after all these years? Got tired of the same fuck.” 

You set the nude potato aside, picking up a new one. You imagine it’s Micah’s prick: dirt ridden and calloused. You begin to skin it too, taking extra care to needle out any dark spots. 

“Been awhile since he’s been back in camp too. Makes you wonder.” 

“Oh piss off, Micah,” Abigail hisses, her cleaver resting threateningly against the dark wood of the table. A sharp, glaring warning. 

His smile widens. 

He shifts his stance, shoulders slackening as his thumbs hook on the flap of his pockets. “Hit too close to home? Remind you too much of Johnny and how he ran off?” 

“Micah,” you finally interrupt, picking up a new potato. “Shut up.” 

“So that’s how I get you to talk.” 

You stay silent, returning your attention to vegetables and other honeyed daydreams of skinning the Devil alive. 

“Ignoring me again.” His eyes linger, thinking of horrifically creative ways to dissect and tear you apart as you stand. “Wouldn’t you be worried though? He’s been gone for a week.” The statement is mocking and cruel. 

He wouldn’t know what concern was if it ate his face off, ravaged his eyeballs and devoured his tongue. 

Abigail glowers, this time pointing the cleaver at Micah. “Yer just jealous.” 

Micah sneers, the cylinder in his revolver shaking off a warning like a rattlesnake curling up to bite. “Jealous of what Miss Roberts?” 

“Jealous she ain’t with you.” 

Micah opens his mouth to retort something evil and violent, obvious in the way his pupils have contracted, gray eyes gone silver with wrath. You stab the knife into the cutting board, punctuating the air. 

Both of them have stilled, turning towards you. 

“Quit it.” You snarl. Abigail gives an apologetic look, but not before sending Micah another scowl. She’s back to chopping off fish heads. 

And Micah, damn him, always needing the last word spits out a, “Bet he got himself killed,” before he rushes away, seething and gnashing his teeth. 

It’s quiet again. 

You get through six more potatoes before speaking. “You didn’t have to do that.” It’s a gentle chide towards Abigail, one that makes her huff.

“I just hate how he talks to us. ‘Specially you. And I hate how you don’t do anything.” Her hands wring together harshly, not having any more trouts to dismember. 

“It’s best to ignore him. He gets off on it, the sick freak.” You keep your gaze fixed on your work. 

Abigail relents, fingers stilling momentarily. 

Her gaze rises, eyes trained on Jack’s small silhouette at the far edge of camp, playing in the weeds and brambles. He seems completely ignorant to such plights. What bliss. 

Abigail’s raised him well. 

“Ain’t ya worried though?” She says suddenly, spinning to look at you. You pause your ministrations, glancing into her perturbed blue eyes. “I mean,, well, Micah had a point, I guess.” She’s annoyed at the admittance, even if it is her own. “Arthur’s been gone for a while. It ain’t like him.” 

You sigh. “It is like him,” your teeth chew at the flesh of your cheek, “but you’re right. He wouldn’t leave for a week without saying something.” 

Abigail nods but her fingers have knotted and tangled once again. “Hunting trip?” 

“Yeah, but with how long he’s been gone you’d think he’s trying to take down an entire herd of angry caribou in heat.” 

She snorts. “He would try. Strong enough for it.” 

“Bullheaded, that’s what he is.” And you scowl, starting to dice the potatoes far too quickly; bound to cut yourself. Abigail sends you a sympathetic, knowing smile. 

“So you are worried.” 

“Whatd’ya mean?” 

“I mean you ain’t as calm and cool as yer pretendin’ to be.” 

You continue chopping away, somehow not having cut yourself. Years of practice you suppose. 

“Course I’m not. I’m always worried when it comes to him.” 

Abigail snorts. “Well, ya never act like it.” 

“Because if I act like it,” and you finish dicing off the last potato, ‘then that means something bad would actually be happening’, “then who would you have to talk to when you’re worrying?” And you give a knowing smirk.

She laughs, shaking her head, hands coming to a rest. You feel your own face brighten to a smile. 

That’s the way it is with her; with all the girls. Quilted conversations complaining about men and life and backaches all riddled with coy smiles. 

The breeze picks up then, and Jack comes tumbling along it, hands rusted with the red Lemoyne dirt and beaming at his mother like a little sun; too bright; seen without looking. 

His eyes barely peek over the table, but he’s determined, placing a bundle of messy daisies next to dismembered fish, yet to be fileted. 

“For you Mama,” he adds with his gift, hands clutching the edge of the table to watch her. And Abigail smiles tenderly, picking the flowers up. They drip, raw with dew and fish blood. She tries, ever so delicately, to wipe away the crimson stain on their petals. 

“Thank you kindly, Jack,” she says. And he gives a toothy grin and runs off— on the breeze once again. Abigail ponders the daisies for a moment before offering you one with a teasing smile. “M,lady,” she jests, giving a sloppy curtsy. A true country princess. You snort, but fawn delighted shock, pricking the flower from her nimble fingers. 

“Oh how romantic,” you add, putting a hand to your chest. Pocketing the daisy, Abigail does the same with hers, now fully smiling. 

And with a few giggled words you separate; the chores around camp  looming as Grimshaw’s eyes sharpen into blades, her tongue preparing to tear you both apart. 

You help Tilly with the laundry. 

Karen and you care for spare guns. 

Under the shade, you patch up holes in socks and shirts and handkerchiefs all while Mary-Beth tells you about her new book— a romance, of course— about an outlaw and upper class woman finding love. 

It makes you snort.

Amusement brewing in agitated, annoyed swirls in your chest as you’re reminded of Mary.  

You’re too smart to be reading those kinds of things, you tell her, needle pricking your finger as you push it into the cotton of Dutch’s union suit. She shrugs; tells you she likes it. 

You don’t blame her. You used to too. 

And the sun has begun to set, casting long shadows on long faces after a long day. And people begin returning. 

Javier and Bill from a home robbery. 

Lenny with a wagon of purchases from Saint Denis. 

John and Sadie each with a few rabbits in hand. 

But no Arthur. 

It’s a bit disheartening.  Like a sunshower with no rainbow. What’s the point of the rain then? 

You’ve grown anxious, your hands fussing the linen of your apron though there’s nothing to wipe away. And you don’t have the stomach to eat or the heart to make conversation— so as the gang begins settling in for the night you grab a basket, your revolver, and leave. 

Charle’s, keeping watch, eyes you like a ladybug in winter, but keeps quiet. 

You thank him with a glance. 

And you’re not stupid. You know it’s dangerous in Bayou Nwa— whether it be under God’s sun or the Devil’s moon— crawling with bipedal predators and freaks of nature beyond comprehensible understanding. Arthur has warned you. Don’t you go out, firm words with even firmer hands on your shoulders. Not without me.

But you go.

You need to, if only to catch your breath; to steel yourself away from prying eyes if he doesn’t show up for yet another week. 

And in the tall, marsh grass and bundles of cattails you’ve found something quiet and private; a place where you can crouch and pick away at plants with a frown you don’t have to hide. 

And your fingers are shaky and uncalculated as you rip apart the oleander and sage, like a newborn colt, teetering across grass. You shove the foliage into your basket as if it took Arthur away personally. As if they’ve laced their way into his veins, choking and drying him out. 

You’re upset, but you won’t cry, obviously. There’s no reason to, it’s hysterical and ridiculous, but you’re frustrated.

Because even if Arthur is painfully terrible at communicating, he at least has always told you how long he’d be gone for. 

It’s a luxury you’ve gotten used to. And out of all the silks, jewels, and luxurious baths the world offers, it is your favorite.

The promise of his return. 

“Yer mutterin’.” 

The voice would’ve made you jump if it weren’t for the far too familiar rumble of it. Too often has it soothed you and brought you to climax for it to scare anymore. 

You look at Arthur over your shoulder, glaring. “I do not mutter.” 

“Sure ya do,” he says, stepping over a log to reach you. 

His horse stands in the distance behind him, grazing and chuffing indignantly at the occasional alligator. Flighty things, horses are. Arthur’s is braver than most. 

You turn back around before said man reaches you, hands resuming to the ripping and the pulling and the tearing. 

“I told ya not to come out here without me,” he’s standing right behind you now. 

“I know,” you grunt. And it’s quiet— heavy under the screeching of crickets and cicadas— until Arthur sidles his shins up to your skirts and places his hands on your shoulders, leaning. 

“Yer mad.” 

“I am not mad.” 

“Sure ya are.” 

“I am not,” and you look up, seeing him gaze out into the bayou with a gentle smile. “I’m annoyed,” you correct. 

“Did Reverend chat ya up again?” And he chuckles, stepping aside to finally crouch beside you. 

His knee brushes against yours, a touch starved way of saying hello.  Under the golden sky, his blue eyes have filtered into grays and greens, seafoam and jade alike. 

He looks tired but that pleasant smile is still there; too happy with your presence to be bothered by such ridiculous notions as the human need for sleep. And as much as you’d love to sooth the eyebags away, you continue frowning. 

“You may be surprised to learn that Reverend was astonishingly quiet. For a week.” You add the last part roughly, hoping Arthur gets the message. 

For a second, you think he doesn’t. 

But then his hand raises, the pad of his thumb passing over the furrow of your brow. Achingly attempting to pacify you. To tell you he’s sorry. 

“What’d I do this time?” And his voice rumbles over the question, soft and sweet, a tone he takes only with you. You sigh, turning back to the plants. 

His hand retracts as you pick away at the leaves, but his eyes are heavy on your face, as if he trying to kiss you with just his gaze. 

You’re sure he wishes. 

“I just don’t like when you leave like that without telling me, or anybody really,” you say. And with Arthur, you always keep things succinct and out in the open because lord knows he won’t read between the lines. 

He’s not like you, where you can tell he’s in a bad mood just by the way he drinks his coffee in the morning. 

And Arthur takes a deep inhale, and then an exhale. “Yeah, I know.” 

You look up, raising a brow. 

“Sorry,” he coughs and you know it’s the most you’ll get out of him. It’s always that way with Arthur. Hands-on approach. Not much in the way with words. 

The only way he failed Hosea. 

“Abigail was worried too,” you add absentmindedly, finally letting yourself dawdle a bit now that he’s by your side again. 

Arthur scoffs. “She’s always worryin’ about somethin’. Jack, John, you, me.” 

You can’t argue with that, but you can’t blame Abigail either because you worry too. You just hide it better. 

And you look up, less angry this time. 

He left with a stubble and has returned with a beard. And though you’re sure his hair hasn’t grown much in a week, you notice the way the sandy blond locks brush against his shoulders— like golden willow on blue hills. 

Finally, you acquiesce. 

Your own hand raises, reaching out. And before you can even touch him, his fingers brush against the skin of your forearm. Ferns to sunshine.

You meet his cheek, wiping away at a smudge of dirt before tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear and hat. 

“Your hair’s gotten long.” 

Arthur looks amused, leaning into your palm not unlike the way a puppy does. 

“Want me to cut it?” 

You shrug. “That’s up to you. But at least take care of this.” And now both hands are on his cheeks, rubbing childishly over his beard. You beam at the way his nose crinkles. 

“Wha’ I thought you liked my beard?” 

“Not when it’s this long. You’d give me a rash every time you kiss me.” 

Arthur smiles, dropping his head to laugh quietly. 

And you stand, hand reaching to pick up your basket, but Arthur already has it in his grip, rising too. 

“Oleander. Sage.” He notes expertly. You hum. “Tryin’ to poison someone?” He asks. 

“You,” is your easy reply as you step away from him and to his horse. He follows in a pavlovian fashion, well trained. 

“That mad about me leavin’ huh?” Long strides quickly bring him to you, arm brushing against shoulder. 

“I wasn’t mad. I was annoyed,” you correct once again.

Arthur makes an entertained sound as he grabs for his horse’s reins. You finally notice all the carcasses strapped to the poor creature. A doe, a fine pelt, geese and rabbits hooked here and there. “Ya missed me?” He teases.

And before you can snort and tell him off, he leans down to kiss you. His hand cups the back of your neck gingerly; giving you all the ability to pull away if you’d like. 

But you don’t. You never would. 

Instead, your eyes slip closed as Arthur presses further. His lips are uncomfortably chapped, dried from the days on the road but so incessant in their need to feel you that you wouldn’t dare tell him to stop. 

Instead your hand rises to hold his wrist loosely, a move that’s always made him melt for one reason another. 

Then just as quickly, he pulls away, brushing his nose against yours. 

“I missed ya.” And he breathes in as you breathe out. 

“Me too,” You admit, though it’s not a secret. He knows. His favorite little luxury it is; the promise you’ll be there, awaiting his return. 

Hasn’t gone a day without it since meeting you. 

Admittedly, 1891 was a bad year to meet Arthur. Grieving, and angry; Eliza and Isaac freshly dead. 

But you were there, picked up by Dutch, almost like a feral animal. Rabid enough to shut down Arthur’s (correction: everyone’s) bullshit immediately, yet organically compassionate to soothe him through bad nights. Even when you barely knew each other. 

That was you. 

Strained it all was at first. Funny, what time can do to two people. 

Unraveling knots and kinks to smoothly twist two lives together. 

And you watch as Arthur starts walking, not bothering to clamber onto his mount— even if the exhaustion in his step is obvious, like meatpie in a patisserie. 

“You’re not gonna ride?” 

He pauses and shakes his head, turning to look back at you. 

“Personally? ‘M tryna get as much time alone before we have to be surrounded by fools and degenerates.” 

You snort, strolling over to his side. “So what kept you away for a week?” 

The back of his hand brushes against yours as you both begin walking. 

“Heard about a wolf in Cotorra Springs. Wanted to check it out and well,” he eyes the pelt. “ Didn’t think it’d take me that long to hunt her down, but she was sneaky.” 

He shrugs. “The rest of this I got on the way home, knowing how Pearson’ll be if I don’t come back with somethin’.” 

You nod knowing how the man can get. Feisty about food, placid about most everything else. Sometimes he reminds you of a bear going into hibernation, and you doodle it on scraps of paper— messy, untrained caricatures of the gang. 

They make Arthur laugh. 

“Me and Abigail joked about you hunting caribou in heat. Not to give you ideas.” 

Arthur flicks a brow. “I wouldn’t do that.” 

“You would if there was money in it.” 

“Is there?” 

“I’ll say no for my own sake.” 

Arthur laughs at that, and you grin, his joy infectious. A bad disease you’re willing to catch. 

“So what have you been up to then, if not grumblin’ and mumblin’?” Arthur asks, eyes sweeping your frame. 

“Cooking. Cleaning. Sewing.” You shrug. Arthur frowns a smidge. 

“You gotta get out more.” 

“I wanted to go out to Saint Denis but I got caught up with Grimshaw, I guess.” 

All he can do is press against you a bit closer. “I’ll go with you soon then.” 

An incredulous look is sent. “No you’re not.” 

And Arthur looks so genuinely offended you have to laugh. 

“What do you mean I’m not?” 

“You hate Saint Denis.” 

“I know but-“ 

You lean your cheek into his bicep. “Thank you, but you don’t have to torture yourself for me.” 

He pouts. “It ain’t torture.” 

“Mhm, sure.” 

Voices in the distance become louder, the echo of Molly’s gramophone and Uncle’s drunken singing coming to a crescendo— smashing and breaking the isolation in a gradual blunder. 

And you pull away, taking the basket from Arthur’s hand as you do. 

Charles greets as you approach, and you hand him the spoils of your anger-fueled gather with another silent thank you. He nods politely, in his own grateful way. 

And as Arthur hitches his horse— cooing with all the affection in the world— you leave him, going up into your shared room. 

You know he has to take care of a few things before you can really have him for yourself: 

Talk to Dutch. 

Contribute money and check the ledger.

Load the hunt’s catches into the kitchen. 

Help with any last minute chores. 

Say ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’ to Hosea, Jack and John; Abigail and Tilly; Sean if he’s in a good mood too. 

So you sit. Passively reading and waiting as you lean against the bed’s headboard. 

And half an hour later, Arthur pulls open the door and then shuts it tight. Like maybe if he held it closed for long enough, the walls would thicken then burst fantastically into a hot air balloon; sending you beyond reach of civilization. 

Under the yellowed light of the lantern, he seems entirely exhausted; the slope of his shoulders dooming, his usually straight back hunched. 

Ain’t no rest for the wicked, Arthur jokes at times. 

He sits down on the bed. For awhile he’s like that; just sitting and staring at the white canvas of the wall. And his eyes are flicking back and forth, like he’s sketching whatever he’s seen in the past week on the molding wallpaper. 

It’s strange when he gets like this. 

It’s not that he’s sad or upset, just caught up in his head. 

“You should get undressed,” you command gently, sliding off the bed as you undo the buttons of your blouse. 

Arthur watches. You pause. And then you deadpan. 

“Are you serious?”  But he says nothing, and neither do you, not as you come to stand between his knees. 

You take his hat off, shoving the worn leather jacket down his arms, and he rests his head against your collar bone, pressing impossibly close into the revealed skin there. 

Like maybe, just maybe, this time your atoms will combine and he won’t have to leave your side ever again. 

When you begin unbuttoning his shirt, his hands finesse to undo the clasps of your skirt and you have to momentarily brush him aside, slapping his hands like a toddler gone for the cookie jar. 

“Hey,” he protests, blue eyes pleading. But the way they blink slowly and idly tells you everything. 

“No. Sleep. We can do that tomorrow.” 

Arthur groans but listens; hands dropping, head knocking against your chest. “A week,” he grumbles. 

“And whose fault is that?” 

He’s quiet as you work, up until he catches a look at the thin silver chain around your neck. His finger notches on the ring that’s hooked to it. 

“I wish you would wear it,” he mumbles languidly. 

“I can say the same thing,” and you glance at the gold band he keeps tucked away on the rope of his hat. “Maybe if things get better.” 

“When,” he amends. “When they get better.” 

“Sure.” 

He glares, the lines of his face darkening. “Don’t be like that.“ 

“Arthur.” And you cup his face, kissing him quickly and quietly. “It’s late.” 

He stares up at you, an odd mix between enamored and frustrated. 

A huff then escapes his lips, and he unbuckles his belt as you finish with the last button of his shirt. Your hands toys with the hem momentarily as if gripping to the tendrils of his soul. 

But you let go, and turn away. 

Getting rid of your own clothes is quick work, but Arthur makes even quicker work of kicking his pants and boots away, collapsing onto the furs and blankets of the bed. And as insistent as he was, he’s out quicker than nightshade, his arousal forgotten. 

You’re sure he’ll remember it in his dreams. It’s happened before. 

And you dim the lantern, laying yourself next to him in your chemise. Even though his back is facing you, a half-hesitant hand runs through his hair. 

He’ll need a wash tomorrow. 

You’ll force him into it, chase him around with a bucket if you have to. But for now, you let him rest; let sleep capture him like a firefly cupped between two soft palms. Pleased, your cheek presses against his bare shoulder blade. 

Obviously, you wake before him. 

Already dressed before he can even become lucid enough to call for you, hand reaching out to grab your missing form. You bend down, press a hand to his forehead, and whisper for him to forget you in favor of his dreams. 

His soft snores ensue. You drift away. 

And today, like yesterday, is quiet. But it’s less gloomy, more of a peace that’s settled because, praise be, Micah is out for the morning. It is both surprising and delightful, and nobody takes it for granted. 

And you drift around the manor and camp, helping with the odd chore, saying hello, sipping at coffee. 

At some point you walk off, where the ground is more solid and less swamp to have a quick word with God in the early morning breeze. 

He doesn’t reply though you knew he wouldn’t. Still, you hope he heard. 

At your return, Grimshaw unloads a torrent of harsh words, quickly placing you on dishes duty. You accept it. 

Mean spirited, but kind hearted, that one. Always has been. You don’t have the will to complain though— not since Arthur’s come back. 

He pacifies you, Hosea has teased, a coy smile hidden by the brim of his hat. At first it was embarrassing, but soon you came to realize denying it is like looking for oranges in an apple orchard. Psychotic and pointless.

Abigail has said the same thing, John nodding along enthusiastically. 

It’s annoying and the truth, and you have no energy to argue. 

Arthur is still asleep by the time you’ve scrubbed both the cast iron and your skin raw. Unsurprisingly. You’ve seen him passed out for nineteen hours once. 

You wish you had that ability, especially with how hot and sticky the Lemoyne air is; boiled molasses in your lungs. You would sleep the entire afternoon just to avoid it all. 

But in the slowness of the day, and your boredom, you approach Dutch, reading as always. 

“Anything interesting?” You ask, readjusting the basket of laundry at your hip. It’s a conversation you have often— ever since you’ve joined the gang your time to read has dwindled— being much more preoccupied with needles and guns and terrible men instead.

He hums, flipping a page. “A collection of essays done by Ralph Waldo Emerson. I presume you know him?” 

You nod, stepping closer. “He wrote before the war. A Transcendentalist, wasn’t he?” 

“Yes,” and Dutch smiles. He’s always told you that you’re too smart for your own good. Smarter than he deserves— than the gang deserves. But you never indulge in his compliments (at least not too much).

And you’ve never really been sure if they’re true.

He’s kind, though that may not be the word. Merciful. Insightful. And perhaps that has fueled the compassionate part in him. 

But as of late it’s all been brought into question you suppose. His sanity. Whether or not he’s still the same old, reliable Dutch that he always has been. 

But you brush it aside for now, letting yourself pretend it’s all normal and everything is okay. A happy family. 

“Which essay are you reading?” And you lean against the doorframe, fixing your apron. 

“Man the Reformer. Do you know it?” 

“Only parts. I think. Care to read me some?” You tilt your head, tucking one ankle behind the other. 

Refined with him, always, even with his penchant for savagery. 

“For you, my dear? Anytime,” and his eyes scan the pages, flipping through to find a piece he likes. “Ah,” he says after a moment, knuckle tapping the paragraph. He clears his throat, then starts. 

“Hence it happens that the whole interest of history lies in the fortunes of the poor. Knowledge, Virtue, Power are the victories of man over his necessities, his march to the dominion of the world. Every man ought to have this opportunity to conquer the world for himself. Only such persons interest us, Spartans, Romans, Saracens, English, Americans, who have stood in the jaws of need, and have by their own wit and might extricated themselves, and made man victorious.” 

He turns away from the page, his face lilting towards yours. “Isn’t that lovely?” he asks you. “Just gorgeous, isn’t it?” 

And Dutch, like most men, has a strange idea of what gorgeous is. Finding it in bloodied knuckles and revenge. In essays about man and power. 

In hatred. In violence. 

You’re unsure why you suddenly remember this— but when you were young, still attending school, you had read that Moses was not allowed to enter the Promised Land. 

It had confused you. Hurt you even. 

And when you had asked one of the nuns: Why? What was the reason? Why couldn’t he? What was the point if his fate was to die? 

And you remember that nun, with reverent eyes and sad smile, told you: 

“For freedom to be reached, the memory of subjugation has to die.” 

And that is why Aaron, and Miriam had died as well. Zipporah too. 

You stare at Dutch. 

“Do you see yourself as Moses?” You ask. It’s a blurted question, not entirely thought through, and you’re embarrassed the moment the words leave your mouth. 

Dutch stares back, his own dark eyes swirling with momentary surprise before he laughs, hitting his knee. Shoulders slacking, your own breathy chuckles escape as you watch. 

“You’ve heard The Good Word?” he questions, almost shocked. 

“Read it.” 

“My, aren’t you full of surprises?” 

“Are you calling me a sinner, Dutch Van Der Linde?” 

He tilts his head, raising a brow. “Aren’t you?” It’s said as if it were common sense. 

“Maybe I’m not a saint, but I don’t think I’m a sinner.” 

Dutch hums, bouncing his knee. “You pray?” 

“When I’m dying,” you tell him, half joking. 

“And how often is that?” 

“More than I’d like.” 

Dutch doesn’t laugh, but a warm, hearty chuckle rumbles in his chest and he picks his book back up. 

“Isn’t that the truth.” 

Looking away, your eyes flick about the greenery outside his window. The chickens cluck incessantly, bouncing about like cotton ball clouds on grassy mountains. 

You can make out the outline of Jack, bounding around a tree with a stick in hand, occasionally swiping the trunk. Abigail keeps a watchful eye. 

And it’s all very domestic. 

A little green rectangle of quiet love, framed by rotting wood and sin. It seems so far away, you can’t tell if it’s real. But you know for a fact it is, and it makes the deep, longing pain in your chest all the worse. It’s a dream really, one you think of often and one you and Arthur have only discussed either after sex or in the early morning— when everyone is still asleep and when things are a little imaginary. 

When dreams rule the plain of existence. 

Suddenly Hosea passes by the room. His gaze stabs through you, a knowing familiar look he’s sent over the past few months. 

Like you’ve discovered a dirty secret. 

And it seems you’ve both come to a conclusion you’re both equally unsure of. Same with Abigail. Same with Arthur, even if he denies it. 

“I should get back to work,” you mumble, pushing yourself off the doorframe.

“Atta girl,” Dutch simpers, but you’ve already walked off, head full of fears and doubts and thoughts you know you’re not supposed to have. 

Hanging laundry is one of the easier chores, one that eases the nerves. Gentle afternoon breeze, as humid as it is, drifts by, wafting the smell of soap and swamp water. Earthy and clean, rolled into a lavender clay. 

Jack hovers around your skirts as you work, and you easily indulge him in poems, songs, and stories, all with a gentle smile. 

He glances at the manor. “Uncle Arthur sure does sleep a lot.” 

“He does, doesn’t he?” 

“Where did Uncle Arthur go?” 

Clipping a bedsheet to the line, your eyes gleam, turning to Jack. “He went beyond civilization” and you crouch down, making claws with your hands, a playful grin at your lips, “hunting wolves.” 

Jack beams, grabbing at your hands, easing the claws. “I wanna hunt wolves!” 

You laugh a little, pulling away and reaching for a pair of drawers in the basket. 

“You’re still too small— they’d eat you up.” 

Jack frowns. “No they wouldn’t.” 

And you hide an amused grin with the back of your hand, thinking of John. After a moment, you nod. “You’re right. They wouldn’t eat you, you’re too skinny.” 

“Hey!” And Jack pouts, tugging at your skirts. You finally laugh, dropping a hand to pat his head, fingers sifting through soft brown locks. 

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t let them eat you. None of us would.” 

Jack seems appeased. “Do you think Uncle Arthur will take me next time?” 

And not wanting to break his little heart, you say, “I think that’s something you have to ask him.” 

And Jack seems to be somewhat miffed by the answer, reserving himself to sit by the laundry basket as he watches beetles and ants march along the dirt. 

Little brown capped soldiers. 

“Have you ever hunted wolves, Auntie?” 

You hang up the drawers, humming. “No. But one time Uncle Hosea took me hunting for a bear.” 

“A bear!?” And Jack crawls a bit closer. “I don’t remember that?” 

“It was before you were born.” You add gently. 

“Ohhh. Was it scary?” 

“Well only at first. It tried to eat me, but Uncle Hosea wouldn’t let that happen.” Embarrassment bubbles at the memory. The way Arthur had laughed when you sulked, telling him and Hosea you would never hunt again.

Jack smiles. “Do you think Uncle Hosea will take me bear hunting?” 

A downturned smile marrs your features. “I hope not.” 

Jack complains at that, and you gently assert that bears are much worse than wolves, and they wouldn’t care how skinny he is. 

And the moment is sweet and funny and utterly ruined when a horrible, rasping voice says, 

“There she is.” 

Micah’s back. 

Setting your shoulders, you gently tell Jack to find his Ma. Tell her those stories I told you, murmured by his ear. And he scurries away, an excited smile on his face. Your full attention is then granted to the laundry basket and the sodden clothes inside. 

Micah stands on the other side of the clothesline, watching you between the flaps of bedsheets and button ups. A fabric jail cell keeps you separated. 

“Heard our workhorse is back, hm? Where is he?” 

A sock is hung up, next a union suit. 

“Oh, so you won’t even talk about your darlin’ Mr. Morgan with me?” 

You’re running short on clothespins. 

“You gettin’ tired of him?” 

There’s still enough for now. 

“Mr. Morgan, running off for days on end, only comes back to fuck his little mare good and then runs off again. Ain’t that just sad?” 

You could use a new skirt maybe. You’ll head into Saint Denis tomorrow. For now though, another sock is hung. 

“I could take care of ya, while he’s gone. He’ll never have to know.” 

Two blouses are clipped on the clothesline and you’re officially out of pins. 

“So, what d’ya think? Offer stands.” 

You step away from the hanging laundry, your eyes meeting Micah’s. It startles him but turns him on just as quickly. 

And then you walk away, to the manor in search of more pins. Micah doesn’t follow, though you feel his eyes burning holes into you, gaping pits of Tartarus on your skin.

You’re surprised to see Arthur leaning against the windowsill, cup of coffee in one hand, the other scratching away at his journal in long precise strokes; a wolf. And he’s trimmed his beard and hair, his skin clean. 

Washed away of filth and stress. 

An easy smile comes to him when he turns to see you— he downs the rest of his coffee, closes his journal, and steps over. 

“Good afternoon,” you say. 

“Afternoon,” and Arthur glances around for peeping eyes before kissing you chastely. “Thought we could go to Saint Denis today like ya wanted,” he offers. 

You shake your head. “I can’t today; maybe tomorrow?” 

He pulls away, looking bemused. “Always ‘tomorrow’ with you, woman.” 

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s too late to go to Saint Denis anyway.” 

“We could rent a room.” 

“I am not spending money on a bed I have here,” you chide. 

He raises his head to look at the ceiling, hat tipping back slightly back as he does. A stiffness overcomes him, like a thousand rocks have settled into his stomach. “You always gotta make things difficult.” 

“Shut up,” and you pat his chest, stepping around him to continue your search, “I’ll see you tonight.” 

That seems to help him digest the rocks but he still grabs at your wrist, stopping you. And there’s a deep longing in Arthur’s eyes; lust and sorrow mixing to create something entirely desperate. 

“I love ya,” he mumbles quietly. 

And it’s not something you say often, never really finding the need to. You know. He knows. You’re on the same page. 

But sometimes, you’ll indulge each other with those three little words. 

And Arthur lightens when you smile and nod and tell him you love him too. It’s like he’s seen the ocean for the first time, eyes sparkling in wonderful adoration. So he lets you go, assured he has you no matter what. 

Expectantly, you barely see eachother for the rest of the day, each preoccupied with your own tasks. Small glances are thrown, like pebbles against windows, but nothing more. 

Not until night falls. 

You’re sitting around the fire with Abigail, snorting over a not so appropriate story Karen is telling when you see him in the distance, past the embers, crawling back into the manor. Admittedly, it is late but not late enough for Arthur to call it a night. 

Usually, he’d stay with the group– drink a bottle of beer and sing a tone deaf melody with Tilly and Javier. But not tonight. Tonight he’s waiting you out. 

And so when Karen finishes her story, you give one last laugh and leave. 

Arthur is sitting on the bed when you come in, writing something slowly; the clear mark of verbal constipation.

And the lantern is lit low, warm and golden like a dying star. He only looks up from the page when you close the door, his hand pausing. There’s a droll moment where you stare at him and he stares at you– the little lift of amusement curling your lips can’t be helped. 

In a brisk moment, you’re standing between his knees; but this time it’s him who undresses you. And you let him take his time with the clasps and buttons, resting your palms on his shoulders.

“Jack asked me if I’d take him wolf huntin’,” Arthur mumbles, standing to kiss at the junction of your neck and jaw. In nothing but your chemise, it’s easy to feel the hard line of him press against your hip. “Did’ya put him up to that?” 

You laugh, hands rising to undo his own shirt. “Maybe.” 

A rough palm presses between your shoulder blades, the other cupping your cheek as he nudges you to tilt your head with his nose. 

“Yer evil,” Arthur mutters into your skin, “making me be the one to say no to him.” 

“Was he angry?” 

“Nah,” Arthur sighs, knocking his hips with yours, “just said I’m no fun.” 

And you slip his shirt off, revealing broad shoulders and firm muscle, laced and sewed with scratches and scars. 

You run your hand down a particularly marred one at his ribs. Knife fight. 

“Did he hurt your feelings?” You tease. The hand at your cheek drops, bundling the hem of your chemise up your thighs. And before you can poke his ego again, the hand dips, grazing against your bundle of nerves. 

You sigh, leaning into him as he lazily dips a finger in and out, in and out. 

“John looked like he was ‘bout to have a panic attack,” Arthur rasps right in your ear. “If I had said anythin’ other than no I think he woulda killed me.” 

“Can’t have that,” you hum, and Arthur snorts. 

“Ya need me around to fuck ya, is that it?” 

Scoffing, you pull away. “You’re ridiculous.” Your chemise falls back over your thighs, covering the slick Arthur built up. And he gives a soothing smile, hands lifting yours to twine fingers together. 

“Did I hurt yer feelin’s?” And though you’re frowning, you let Arthur guide you to the bed— let him push you down onto the mattress. At your silence he runs his lips across your face; kissing at your brow, your nose, cheeks and chin. “I didn’t mean any harm by it.” 

Lifting himself on his forearms, he watches you. You’ve softened exponentially, pliant and willing under him. 

Only him. 

And the look on your face is so fond— too loving and so soft, that he feels as if you must be a figment of his imagination. A sick twisted trick his mind is playing to feel something. 

But you’re here, breathing against him, and looking like a drop of sunshine under the lantern’s light. 

He’s struck gold. 

Bending down, Arthur kisses you and in turn you breathe him in, arms coming up to wrap around his neck. You roll your hips, and a groan verberates in his chest— the sound makes your bones rumble— the first sign of an avalanche. 

He lifts the chemise once more and a knee comes up to sit between your exposed thighs. Arthur dips his hand again, this time spreading you open on two fingers. 

The both of you have gotten very good at being quiet after so many years of barely any privacy; a tarp or tent at most; but in Shady Belle, bless the heavens above, you allow yourself little, quiet whimpers. 

The gift of walls. 

And Arthur feels himself pulse as he edges you on, fingers increasing in speed. His thumb brushes against that bundle of nerves again and you choke back a moan, hands gripping onto the sheets. 

“Arthur,” you pant, eyes shining with adoration. And he pauses. You stir something in him, some sort of odd childlike devotion he hasn’t felt since he was in his early twenties. 

Not since Mary. 

And he remembers when you had first gotten together, back in ‘94, you had told him you wouldn’t ask him to stop loving Mary. I could never, ever do that to you. It’d be cruel and unfair of me, you had whispered. 

And you knew he never would stop because that’s how first loves are. Permanent. 

But maybe now, maybe in this moment— just like every other moment with you— he has stopped loving Mary. Perhaps not entirely, but he wouldn’t chase after her like he used to. 

Not when he has you. Not when you beg his name. 

And Arthur rises, lifting you up with him as he sits up against the headboard, huddling you into his lap. His skin is warm, as it usually is, and you can’t discern whether that’s just him or if the Lemoyne heat has to do with it too. 

It’s overwhelming and you’ve barely gotten started. 

Making a pathetic little noise in the back of your throat, you see the way it lights his eyes on fire, as if you hold the keys to enter the Gates of Hell. And it’s almost too easy for him to pull off your chemise, leaning forward to press his lips against yours. 

He’s scarily and surprisingly gentle. Always has been. But tonight there’s an underlying torture in the way he bites at your bottom lip, then soothes it, admonishing his own efforts. 

And Arthur, this sweet, sad man who has killed, murdered, and torn apart men from sanity has resorted to fluttering his fingers against your hips; as if you were a prized butterfly, ready to fly off at any second. 

For one reason or another, it makes your heart ache. 

Your own hands cup his stubbled jaw as you lean down, opening your mouth and letting his teeth gently collide with yours clumsily. 

There’s another rumble in his chest when you kiss the corner his mouth, an apology for your gauche actions. And you can’t tell if it’s a breath or a moan, but you assume that it’s something good. 

A quiet plea for you to continue. Don’t stop. 

Because if you do Arthur’s sure he’ll sob in a pitiful, defeated way that would leave him rutting into the mattress. 

To his relief, your thighs press against his hips all the more, and your chest meets his. One of his own hands slides up your side, and he moans into your mouth at the feeling of your skin against his palm.

Silk against stone. Soft where he is rough– ruined by bullets, knives and meaningless labor. And he decides then, he’ll preserve this. Preserve your warm humanity, if it’s the last thing he does. 

And he is a fool, but he isn’t insolent. He knows you’ve seen and experienced things that would have him reeling with nausea. 

You’re a woman, of course you have. 

But if he can help it, he will keep you like this. Coy and kind. Too good for him and too good for what the world has to offer. 

Arthur realizes he’d gotten engrossed in his worship when you pull away to look down at him, giving a shaky exhale. Running your fingers through his scalp, you let your hand settle at the back of his neck, peering at his face as if he were a saint. 

Arthur can only stare back. Fervently and biblically.

He follows every unspoken order you give him with a ferocity bordering desperation that only stems from his complete adoration. And you’ll never know how or where it started and you won’t ask, in fear of an answer that that any other man could give you. But this outlaw, brute, grunt; this man of all men has become an angel under your gaze and touch. 

It’s intoxicating.  

For awhile this continues. The kissing– the petting and exploration. Whispered ‘I missed you’s’ brushed across your lips, neck, breasts. At some point, Arthur wraps his mouth around one of your nipples, and you stifle a whimper against his temple. 

A hand pushes into the curve of your back, imploring and needy, making you keen. The other, brushes against your core unexpectedly and you almost yelp from the sudden contact. But he dips his fingers into you gingerly, restarting the ministrations from earlier. 

You all but melt. 

You’re panting into his neck, gripping onto him as he plays with you. It’s shameful how a week apart has ruined you so terribly. 

You’re oversensitive and overstimulated. 

When your breathing becomes more desperate (which happens quicker than you’d like) Arthur pulls away again. And he likes this game; the build up before breaking you. An annoyed sigh puffs out from your lips, and you find yourself grinding into his lap for some form of relief.

His trousers have become a hindrance. 

Arthur’s leaning into your chest, eyes half-open and cheek pressed against the space between your breasts. His mouth is hot and open, panting as you grind further into him.

And though you can feel him twitching against you, it isn’t enough. He’ll need more than the dull pressure of your core. But for now, he lets your hips roll, watching brightly as your slick coats the seam of his pants. 

“No more,” he suddenly rasps, the first words said in a long time. “Please, no more teasing.” 

You ponder him for a moment, then nod.

The trousers are off in an instant. 

And his skin against yours is a relieving sin. Hands on your hips, he rubs you against him— and all you can do is sit it out and watch with bated breath. Arthur, at the feeling, lets out a stilted, raspy whimper. 

Before he can do more, you lower a hand, pumping him up and down, up and down; a choked sound catches in the back of his throat when you do. 

He’s bigger than average, but not impressively so. The real volume of his size comes from his width, noting that your thumb and middle finger don’t and have never connected when you jerk him off. 

And you do this for some time, listening to his gasps and mumbled moans, only stopping when he begins pulsing in your palm. 

Arthur whines when you pull away, eyes gleaming almost angrily, and you have to smile at the hypocrisy of his behavior. He bites back a curse at the way you look at him, too entranced to be upset. 

Then, pushing him flat onto the mattress and straddling his waist, you kiss him. His hands land on your back once more, begging to press you closer, further. 

Wanting nothing more than to simply have you against him. 

And finally, you slide onto his length. 

It’s jarring at first, uncomfortable in the way it splits you open. And you feel his every millimeter and every movement. It takes a minute for your body to adjust, to realize it’s him. Arthur lets you wait it out, lets you take your time as you finally sink down completely. 

He thrusts, once, shallow and uncertain, brows furrowed in concentration. And your eyes close shut with a gasp, squeezing your legs even tighter around his waist. 

Then, you lift your hips off him and sit back down. And then you do it again. And again. And again. 

The pace you’ve set is slow, but it allows you to further assimilate to the stretch. Furthermore, the friction is accumulative. You quickly find that Arthur’s hands have lifted to clasp around your own shaking ones in an act to sooth you. 

To quell whatever ache has settled in your abdomen (for the time being). 

And his eyes are shining with an indiscernible emotion as he watches you; something that makes you want to cry out of sheer wonder. 

You’re so sure it’s love. It has to be. You refuse for anything else. 

You refuse to be a broodmare or quick fuck. 

And something must flip inside of Arthur because suddenly, he flips you two over, and moreover, he turns you over onto your stomach. 

“Arthur,” you mutter, as you lift yourself up on your forearms. And he bends down pressing a kiss to the vertebrae in your neck as if they were jewels on a crown. 

His hands return to your hips and bring you towards him. 

“I know,” he replies. It only takes a second for him to slip into you again, letting a deep, pleasant groan out. 

In this position he’s quicker, rougher. Less careful. 

Arthur utters the occasional incoherent word and you can only pant in reply. After a while of this— of his hips slamming against yours— your shaking arms collapse under you, and your cheek presses into the mattress. 

Arthur doesn’t stop though, nor does he slow, and the whole thing overloads your nerves. 

Yet somehow, his touch is still loving— even as he takes you so harshly. It’s an odd dichotomy. You’re not quite sure he knows his own strength in this moment. Maybe he never does. 

And you can’t help but be utterly grateful that this is the only way Arthur uses his strength on you. To fuck you into a mattress. 

And the only noises you can make are broken little gasps for air, an entire lifetime’s worth of vocabulary forgotten. He’s moving in and out of you at a far quicker pace than you had initially anticipated; and you feel yourself begin to shake, quivering for help beneath him. 

“Please,” you beg. 

“Please, what?” 

Your face flushes, hot and embarrassed even if you’ve done this hundreds of times before. “Arthur,” you whine, and he gets the message, quickening his pace as more broken, unintelligible syllables bumble out of your lips.

He brings one hand away from your hip to cup under your chin, lifting your face slightly so he can press his cheek against yours. 

A loving act that tells you this is more than lust and cum. 

Your hands claw into the mattress and his other hand leaves your hip to land on top of your own— fingers moving to curl into the spaces between yours. You’re crying now, sobbing quietly for some form of release at the absolutely brutal pace he’s set. 

And you feel yourself coming close to climax, warmth pooling and subsequently dripping from your abdomen. 

Arthur’s close too. You can tell by the way he twitches inside of you and by the way his groans have become hoarse and breathy. 

He then removes the hand from your jaw and you sink back into the mattress, his fingers reaching for that bundle of nerves and rubbing it. You leave an open-mouthed whimper into the bedsheet, your breath and spit creating a hot and sticky spot. 

Delicately, he pushes your body over the edge.

The orgasm rushes over you like a snap— quicker than lighting but drawn out like thunder. It singes and quakes as you quiver around him, moaning dumbly and begging for some form of sanity. Your back, arching, pushes him further into you, ignorant of your own overstimulation. 

Arthur’s grip is tight on your hips as he watches, having to stop himself from spilling into you right then and there. He would. 

He would if things were better. He would if he were stupid and ignorant. 

But he holds himself back, teeth gnawing at his lip. Eventually you calm, the bedsheet loosening in your grip, leaving linen hills in your wake. And as soon as you take a quiet, deep breath, he continues to thrust just as quickly. 

It’s now his turn to gasp and whimper, and you’ve never heard him so desperate— properly crying as he presses his face into your neck. 

Your own tears bead at your eyelashes as you let him use you, abandoning any and all self respect for yourself. 

But it doesn’t last long, as he’s quick to follow you over the edge. His hips begin to stutter and you know it’s over. 

Arthur pulls out, and you feel him throbbing against you as he cums into his hand. He’s practically collapsed on top of you as well, his body gone boneless and weak from the aftershock. 

He’s still for some time, catching his breath and his mental faculties. 

And you’re not sure how much time has passed until his lips press against your neck and shoulders gently; but you sigh quietly at the feeling, pleased and sated. 

He reaches under your body, cupping your waist so he can roll the two of you over to lay on your sides. And Arthur curls himself around you protectively, like he could obstruct everything evil with the slope of his shoulders. 

It’s quiet and peaceful, as the aftermath of sex usually is. 

And each time he kisses your skin indolently, you press back into him— a silent message that you want to kiss back. He seems to understand.

After a while, he mumbles your name. 

You don’t expect it, his usual preference for silence being the norm. But either way, you hum in reply, entirely lost in comfort and bliss. 

“I’ll kill Micah.” It’s said so simply, like an everyday part of his itinerary. Cleaning, hunting, murder. Well, maybe it is then.

You don’t open your eyes though. This is not a new conversation, nor is it one you like. 

“You heard him today I’m guessing.”

“When you were doin’ the laundry.” 

You want to frown. “It’s fine.” Is all you can say. 

“No it ain’t.” 

You pull away from him a little. “I don’t wanna talk about him. Ever. He doesn’t matter.” 

Arthur’s quiet again. But then he nods and closes the space you created. 

“Okay.”