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[peacockeryabound]

The Stormwatchers - Part 1

(From the story of the same name on my Archive)

Synopsis:

“Crew is crew.” A shrug. Simple as that. --- A violent storm attacks The Revenge, revealing new layers to the "Spewer" story that the men aboard want to rectify.

Pairings: Ed/Izzy, Black Pete/Lucius Spriggs, Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet, Izzy/The Crew of the Revenge

-

Storms at sea were as common as birds on the wind. 

Every sailor worth their salt anticipated them, through the light buzz in the air and the peculiar colors of the clouds. Though never made official in the civilized sailing world, it was a rite of passage among the dreamers and wanderers to brave the most wicked of gales and still stand on one’s own feet.

For the men of The Revenge, it was simply expected that the tough bastards on Blackbeard’s payroll would be most unfazed by a little thunder; this was the rainy season, after all. No, all seem as expected…until Fang spilled the beans and Lucius lapped them all up.

"Izzy the Spewer", who shat himself in all his glory during such a night an untold age ago, was tonight's topic of interest as they sat there on the main deck, idling about and enjoying the cooler temperatures after the sweltering midday heat. They watched him, like sandpipers eyeing a little crab, smirking and checking each other’s looks of pity as the big man himself stood at one of the rails, gripping the edge tight enough to break a finger.

Fang was the only one among them that was sputtering the loudest, babbling apologies and being held back by Ivan. He had pined so badly to make amends with his superior, shame evident in how close he looked to crying and had quickly stopped looking Lucius in the eye after the third shared glance.

Perhaps Ivan was doing it out of respect for what dignity the first mate had left. Perhaps, Lucius thought, he too was enjoying the karma. He was not an easy one to read.

The scribe was biting his lip. As much as he agreed with the others that teasing Izzy was good to help him become less of a bitch, even he knew when things went a little overboard. Izzy hadn't even done anything in the last hour to earn any of what the others were quietly gossiping about. He had, by Lucius' scattered observations, kept to himself and his usual routines until Buttons had started barking a fuss over something on the horizon.

The question now was the same to them all: How could a dread pirate from the Queen Anne be so afraid of such a common part of sea life?

“Babe.” Black Pete rubbed at his back. “You’re spacing again.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Lucius mused. He wiggled closer to his lover and gave him an apologetic peck. “You thinking what I am thinking, yeah?”

“Maybe.” The man’s voice was sly, but it also held no malice. He glanced around to the others, who at this point were slowing their chatter, their faces more serious. Another rumble of thunder came down upon them; Izzy locked his legs and tightened up his shoulders. 

“It is pretty sad.” Pete concluded.

“Yeah. Poor little fecker.” Wee John said from atop his rope seat.

“I can fuckin’ hear you, twats. ” Izzy hissed. The tremble in his voice was blatant.

“Hi Izzy.” Lucius waved, even though the man’s back was still turned.

"Hey, Iz." Black Pete giggled.

“Shut up-”

“Izz-eeeeee.” Frenchie also greeted him, obnoxiously, while strumming a few strings on his lute.

“Izzy-Izzy .” Lucius happily sang out, earning a high five from the bard.

"Shut it, all of you."

“Little wiggly.” The Swede politely noted his legs.

“Patas de bebé, yeah.” Jim smirked. 

“You doing alright, Izzy-Iz?” Lucius called out again.

“Shut the fuck up! ”

“Whoa now, don’t spew yourself.” Black Pete snorted. He cast an affectionate side eye to his boyfriend, knowing what Lucius was intending to do and, as always, was happy to show his support.

Lucius Spriggs figured himself the spokesman among their sorry lot. He met gazes with each of his mates as he adjusted his jacket and loosened his neck kerchief.

As amused as they all were, the men of The Revenge reveled in the irony of being miscast for the name. They had their fun on the unfortunate nicknames, but fear was a very crippling thing and no person deserves to be isolated for it- not even the rude little first mate of the legendary Queen Anne .

If Blackbeard himself could turn from a bogeyman to a bouncy pomp just like Bonnet then surely, truly, there had to be layers to his spitefully angry first mate.

Even Jim was getting up to make their approach, Izzy's dagger in hand as a peace offering. They had been sharpening it during all of the banter, as they didn’t let their opinion on the man affect how they appreciated his own blade skills.

They only stopped halfway when Lucius overtook them with a halting gesture and a kindly smile.

No, he didn’t fear Pissy Izzy. Rather, he was still waiting on an actual response to the sketch request. Until then, he was content to keep his footsteps light and his cough small as he joined him at the siding, his arms crossed over the bar.

“Sorry about all the “Spewer” jokes.” He said.

“Piss off.” Izzy spat, though his tone was elevated. His gaze could not leave the horizon, eyes blown wide and desperate to catch the flashes first. His jaw shifted- possibly grinding his teeth.

Lucius smiled, finding no fear in reaching out. He did hesitate for a moment where his hand hovered over Izzy's shoulder, but he was prepared for the flinch when he gave it a soothing rub.

"Don't touch me."

"It's just a pat, love."

Another peal of lightning cracked through the air. Lucius fanned his fingers and pressed firmly into the bony dips of Izzy’s ribs, chasing where the thin body tried to wiggle off to. One would call it a tickle, but Israel Hands would never agree.

He was quick to notice Jim finally joining them, flanking Izzy’s other side. He watched them nudge elbows, just enough to distract and pass the blade.

"It's an ocean away." Jim smirked. “We got miles for now. Storm isn’t going to fuck with us.” 

Lucius wondered what Izzy's expression was, to be able to get both of Jim's brows to perk up.

They too gave him a pat and laughed right in his face when he pushed back.

"I'm not a blithering toddler...get off!"

But try as he might, his little shakes were unmistakable. He had the full capability to walk away, and yet they both looked down to catch his legs trembling. Between them both, his shoulders tensed up and he stuttered through his next exhale.

Jim and Lucius made a silent and collective agreement to stay until he was ready to stab them. They scratched and rubbed patterns despite the push back, themselves mumbling the most practiced lies they could think of.

"Olu's afraid of storms too." Jim mused. "Yeah, he sometimes goes to our cabin when they come."

"He's dicking around on the chum barrel behind me." Izzy growled. He was starting to lurch a bit from the growing churn of the waves.

"Hey, I said "sometimes", hombrecito." 

"Both of you, fucking fuck off." 

"Easy, Iz. Keep mouthing off and you'll spill more than that." Lucius chirped. 

He frequently found it cute, how much Izzy insisted he was badass when he cursed.

Lucius moved his hand to smooth down the damp curls above Izzy's neck, and took a moment to retrieve his own handkerchief to dab away the sweat.

Behind him, he heard Oluwande quietly talking.

"So, what's the real deal on this." 

Ivan's voice rumbled, just high enough a whisper to still be heard over everything else.

"Hm? Ah, well…captain said that years ago, Iz's first captain used to crack him hard across the back whenever there were storms. Apparently to beat the weak out of him."

"Oh no…" the Swede quietly gasped.

"Yeah. Talking real bad lashes. Pus and tears and all-"

"Enough!" Izzy screeched. He finally struggled out from his hold, his eyes shiny and lips peeled in a snarl. "Get back to securing the fucking supplies. Or I'll cut your tongues out for sponges! "

He was as graceful as a foal on new legs, leaving his fuming departure to be nothing more than an embarrassing stumble that left everyone sitting in awkward silence. 

Ivan deadpanned when he was swatted upside the head in passing. He kept his ear out, only nodding when he heard a distant door slam. Everyone else began to chuckle as they stood up.

"Real ray of sunshine in this." Frenchie was still fiddling with his strings.

Pete smirked, though his expression turned gentle when his lover approached. He nodded before the question was even asked, taking Lucius’ hand and following him downstairs.

Roach looked up from his chopping block when he heard an off-kilter shamble. He removed the blunt from his mouth to peer beyond the smoke.

"Never thought you ate," he smiled upon seeing the culprit, "First time I've seen you in here."

He buried the blade of his cleaver into the wood with one sturdy chop and wiped his hands along the belly of his apron as he stepped around. His stance shifted into a curious tilt when he was within spitting distance of the shorter man.

Izzy was clinging to a hanging net along the back wall, his shoulder blades pushed so tight together that they bulged against the leather backing of his vest. He avoided Roach's gaze.

Roach got his answer faster from another distant crack of the thunder. To bear witness to a shiver was strange, coming from an uptight little prick like Israel Hands…but it was far too pitiful in the moment to rag him about it.

"Need some tea?" He asked. 

Roach hadn't realized he had his hands on his knees until Izzy peered over his shoulder and gave an offended squint. As he adjusted himself, he gave an apologetic little shrug. 

"I can put ginger in it. Good for, you know." He made a wavy motion with his hand.

Izzy surprised him by silently contemplating the offer. The cautious look still persisted, even as he untangled his hands from the rigging and glowered elsewhere. 

"Make it a coffee." He mumbled.

"I'm gonna suggest a tea, mate." Roach smiled. "Easier on the stomach, especially with the acids." More calming too, but he didn't voice that aloud. "Go on, find a seat."

He too had chuckled at the Spewer story when he heard it, but he was also not that big of a twit to be picking fights in a room full of sharp objects. In truth, he was more concerned about Izzy crumpling in his galley, as the little bastard looked as pale as a sheet.

That, and coffee was notorious for speeding up…other end affairs, and he really wasn't prepared to deal with that part of the story repeating itself.

He was quick to return to his station, and had fished out a bulb of ginger from his seasoning crate by the time Izzy had finally shuffled over to one of the many barrels they all used for chairs.

As was expected, Izzy still refused to meet his eye, instead slumping and rubbing at his face while anxiously bumping his heel against the bowed wood.

Yeah, coffee was not going to calm that. Roach didn't need a damn woodpecker in his space.

"Make it strong." Izzy’s voice was small, too soft for either of their likings.

Roach nodded, shaved off a small portion and began to mince it all into a gritty paste.

"Just going to warn you, this is a lot." He mused, showing the mash on his cleaver.

"Don't care."

Roach forced down his chuckle. That was pretty typical tough talk, from a man who drank his coffee like tar.

"It's going to be pretty spicy, just saying." He shook his head as he began preparations for the tea.

They were both set fairly low in the ship, but even he caught the growing sway of the items around him. The storm above was getting closer, though he wasn’t sure if the muffled sounds above their heads were of his own mates or shit falling over. He stared up at the ceiling while popping the lid to his tea tin.

Another bellow of thunder thrummed through the walls, this time heavy enough to rattle some of his bottles. A heavy wobble got him looking over his shoulder to check his smaller crates, though his eyes widened when he glanced back.

"Ah, shit…come on…" he abandoned his post to scurry back over, crouching again and trying to stare up through drawn-in legs and tightly wound arms. 

"Come on, mate…" He shook one of Izzy’s knees.

He heard Izzy mumbling something.

"Come again. Can't hear you-"

"Not a word." A squeak, shaky and uncertain. He tightened in on himself, his thin body almost perfectly set inside the perimeter of the barrel.

Roach stared. He nodded, even if Izzy couldn’t see it.

"Yeah…yeah, of course."

It was a very awkward situation to be in. This same aggressive blight upon their ship was almost whimpering like a toothless pup, made worse from the natural whine to his wheezy voice. Roach himself was not the sort to comfort so easily, but he employed his best attempt at rubbing the soft leather along the tender leg. 

He wasn't a superstitious man, but he understood beasts, and nothing was more uncomfortable than a twitchy one gone still.

"Easy, Iz. Easy…it's not going to come down here."

His hands, such nasty things of great butchery, cupped Izzy’s elbows with a delicateness that left them both surprised. 

Izzy peeked out at him. 

He swallowed. 

They both watched each other as he carefully unwound the thin arms, grip just loose enough to return the man to a somewhat dignified sit. 

“Why are you doing this.” The first mate huffed. He was trying to tense back every muscle he had, all the way up to his eyebrows. It was incredibly jarring to see how sad it made him look.

Izzy bit his lip when he saw Roach shrug, the man’s lips crooking at one end to form an uneven smile. At any other time, he would have felt threatened by it, finding the gesture cocky. Arrogant. He sat there, almost popping his own joints from the strain, heart rattling in his scrawny chest as Roach gave him a gaze that he was far too undeserving of.

“Crew is crew.” 

A shrug. Simple as that. Roach gave the first mate his peace by turning back to resume his duties at hand.

Whether or not Izzy actually believed him was irrelevant; nobody goes hungry in his domain. If anything, Bonnet would go over the moon twice if he ever found out had his special reserve of jasmine tea was to be served for the most fussy man on  The Revenge .

"So babe," Lucius mused, "Sky, or Die?"

Pete thought for a moment. He then tried to bite down his grin. 

They had been walking for a few minutes now, inspecting every room they encountered, so the question instantly brightened the situation.

"Oh…well after that "daddy" thing, I wanted to say Die?" He scratched the back of his neck while squeezing his boyfriend's hand. "And yet up there was pretty cute so…yeah, no, no. Yep, definitely Sky."

They both shared a laugh and a few elbows.

It had become a game between them when they "browsed". “Sky” referred to the elation of a chance to sleep with someone while “Die” was…rather self explanatory. Lucius knew Pete had also been denying his want to shake Izzy's sheets upon first meeting him. The man was a nightmare to work with, but the silver fox look paired incredibly well with the leather getup.

"You should have seen his face when I asked about the sketch thing." Lucius purred. His next step was a light skip. 

"That "bitch" was so wrong out of him." Pete mused. "I think he floundered a chance, babe."

Lucius shot him a scandalized brow wiggle.

"Oh, I'd let him call me daddy."

They both leaned into the next door frame to glance around. Why had they both assumed Izzy would even want to sit in the Ball Room?

“Do you really buy what Ivan said upstairs?” Pete asked as they continued on. “I mean, Blackbeard is pretty badass. You know, he lights his beard on fire for raids.” He stopped to stand before his partner, hands on hips.

Lucius smirked and reached out to scratch at Pete’s own stubble.

“Yeah, and he also wears tights now.” He tapped his lover on the nose. “People got layers, love.”

Pete wiggled his nose and quietly chuckled. 

“I know, I know…it’s just dumb to think a man like…” he mimicked Izzy’s uptight posture, “...would be afraid of storms? Like, that’s half of pirating.”

Lucius licked his lips, brows knitted.

“I think it’s cute, really. Izzy the Spewer is now Izzy the Shaker. He’s still a Sky for me.”

He resumed the pep to his step, shooting back a playful squint while he approached the next door.

“So, I got a question for you, since you think you got a good read on Blackbeard and crew.” His hand pressed against the wood, his expression shifting back to one more thoughtful. “Was Izzy what you thought he’d be?”

Pete stopped, sputtering for a moment and squinting.

If it had been one thing everyone else would thank Izzy for, it was that his presence alone had effectively quashed the incessant tall tales that Black Pete often wove, all intricate and farcical and more outlandish than the next. First he had sailed under Blackbeard, kicking that saga off during every dinner or downtime with increasingly herculean feats of grandeur the presumed devil wrought. Then, when the others grew bored of his blustering, he next moved on to anecdotes of saving Blackbeard’s life or being lauded for plans he supposedly made, never outright stated but under the implied banner of being his first mate…then came Izzy, and the days on the Revenge became much more quiet and cynical.

Lucius knew he had killed the wind in his lover’s sails, plain as day from the gentle pout on that sweet dirty face. It was the lingering shame that brought him closer, into a hug that was kindly returned.

“I know.” He cooed into Pete’s neck. What joy the man had to call his own over the others had sank to the bottom of the sea, the day Israel Hands cut his strings.

“...I want to hear his stories.” Came the mumble against his ear, to which Lucius grinned and squeezed harder.

“I do too, love. I want to write them down.”

[peacockeryabound]

The Last Honest Men - Part 2

(From the story of the same name on my Archive).

Synopsis

A dangerous mix of stress and over confidence finds Dutch making a gamble. He ends up having an uncomfortable heart to heart with a strange conscience.

Chapter focus: Dutch/Molly

-

Sometimes, a man thought best when he was alone. Knowing now that all eyes were on him and Molly and that he had been caught once by Grimshaw on the outskirts, Dutch's sleep had dipped into deeper lows. Every moment of the following days, he felt like he was being watched. It had become good practice to keep his back towards something solid, his own gaze like a hawk as he kept a close eye on his people.

A fool would call it paranoia, but he was not paranoid. No, this was for safety, making sure everyone knew their place. 

He had caught wind of Strauss sending Arthur off to collect some money out west, John had disappeared again without a word to him and Hosea had left after coffee to go sniff out some new lead he claimed was running a fence hustle out on some ranch back east. The O'Driscoll boy was making himself useful now with the girls around the camp chores. A few tiffs aside, nothing drastic was happening among his fellows, which made him exhale the breath he had been holding. Dutch disliked anything drastic.

He knew it in his heart that he had full faith in his camp, but he still kept watch for any signs of attention that would rat him out after lunch, when he made a brisk walk past his tent and slapped an expensive bottle of rum into Bill's hands to buy some ignorance if anyone looked up from the stew pot to raise hell over seeing their boss mounting his horse. The man waved him off while taking his guard spot in the bushes, tearing out the cork with his teeth.

This was that tingling gut sensation that he had missed, the feeling of branches clawing into his hair and the wind at his face. The Count carried him swiftly through the brush and out into the sunlight, kicking up the dust of fresh dug roads behind them as they climbed up lush prairie hills. The screaming of a distant train whistle jumped his heart, as did the jubilant cries of birds, of rodents and whitetails tearing in different directions to get away from him. These were the true heartlands of America, and in this brief escape, he was its child, returning home.

If only he could dig his spurs deep and carry on forever, out into the unspoiled plains to follow the train tracks. As Valentine came into view, he tugged on the reigns and brought his horse to a stop. 

Nothing good was going to come out of there, as he had tempted his luck already with Trelawny. However, the association brought the man back to mind. There was no reason for him to be there still, not after he had reported Sean's state and whereabouts. It was their meeting walk into that mud pit that made Dutch decide then and there to send Javier and Charles out first to survey Blackwater, only holding back on demanding Josiah's hand in the matter when told there might still be wealthy prospects to be snooped out, even in a hick town.

Against his better judgment, Dutch clicked his spurs into The Count and drove the horse forward.

It was a gamble of an idea, but the lack of care towards his own presence the first time around suggested that news had not traveled yet. After plenty of reports from his gang of hustling and bar fights, keeping under the radar by shooting O'Driscolls and bringing in bounties, the odds were in his favor. As he breached the entry path into town, Dutch noticed more folk were gawking at the state of his horse than they were of him. One man passing made a comment to his wife that another snooty tycoon must be coming to check the stock.

He wasn't even aware that he had been holding his breath in at that moment until he whistled and shook his head, grinning like a rat bastard as he tipped his head and trotted on by.

Maybe...it wouldn't hurt to stop by for a drink. Too many names were on his list and his feet were getting restless; nothing that a stiff one couldn't settle.

He hitched The Count near the stables and stole a jacket that was draped over the rail of a house being framed. An old drunk stumbling by didn't notice his hat being nicked and he caught the eyes of a few ladies up the steps to the general store, who had turned to stare down his backside as he made his way to the saloon. 

It was a packed one today, with every table almost filled and twice as many drunks bumping elbows. Not even the poor jockey at the piano could carry his tune loud enough to carry over the raucous chatter of over fifty heads, laughing and cussing and one upping in hoots and hollers. Dutch buttoned up and tipped his hat, shoving through with some grumbling to pass off as toothless as possible, just another member in the flock. Only the bartender gave him a look down, even as he was popping bottles almost left and right.

"What can I do for you?" He asked over the noise. 

Dutch noticed the gaze didn't seem to be fixing hard on him, which incited the bravado he had been suppressing since he slid off his horse.

"What sorta whiskey you got?" He barked back. As he heard the selections, he hand waved to the one that sounded cheapest. No need to sound too cultured in a place like this.

"Here you are," the man said as he nudged the glass over. "You here for the auction too?"

Dutch nodded while he knocked back a shot. 

"Yup, sure am." He grinned and extended his hand. "Samuel Evans, of Evans Range. You know...the legendary Evans Range Shorthorn beef?" He chuckled at the look he was being given as his gesture was received. "No matter- way out west there. Dropped the missus off at the hotel and decided to swing by here for a drink to loosen my purse before I go and take a look."

They both shared the next laugh, with the barman shaking his head while cleaning a glass.

"Well, you're in luck. Plenty of fine stock out there- lots of pigs this season, if you're thinking of expanding. Heard the market for pork is rising."

They shot the breeze for a few minutes, with a few side eyes he cast to the boozed up bum beside him.

"Evans Range, feh..." The gruff man grumbled while swirling his bottle, "E'rone knows 'round here that sheep's the way to go. You done lost a fortune just getting here! Ha..ha...." He swayed from the next swig he took. 

Dutch curled his lip. He had been smelling the filth permeating beside him and would rather take his senses elsewhere. He nodded to the bartender once his next shot came, grabbing the glass and moving away from the bar top. A quick glance around sold him on the idea of heading upstairs, where all the prettier faces were sauntering up to. 

He was almost the shadow to a dolled up young woman who had to hike her skirt just to ascend. She noticed him at the top, staring for a moment before she pushed up her shoulder to hide her smile and batted her eyes while trotting away.

Eye candy aside, there were some pretty comfortable seats up here. The red lanterns on the walls were not lost to him, nor were the extra women fanning themselves from various corners or peeking around men they had cozied up to just to get an eye full of him. It wasn't a king's castle, but Dutch felt that warm satisfaction all the same as he sank down into an old velvet chair and spread his legs a bit, drink in hand. If only he had a cigar...

It was incredible, what a dozen feet higher could do to acoustics. The rowdiness was still present but less of a nuisance up here, where he could now listen to distinct conversations if he truly cared to. He leaned his head back, rotating his wrist with his glass in it, practiced yet loose. 

Had he truly ran from the same energy of the camp, or was it just comfort to be hiding among strangers?

Eyes closed, he brought the shot up to his lips.

No, this wasn't running away like a selfish child. He just needed a change of scenery to think. Disengage, deconstruct. Some different air- maybe an ass to grab. One more shot and he will be gone and nobody will be much wiser.

Something light scuffed beside him. Another person had taken a seat. Mind swimming from perfume and the arousing notes of women giggling, Dutch grew a lazy grin and chuckled.

"I knew I wouldn't be left alone for long." He purred.

"You're right." A man's voice. His eyes shot open. "You make quite an impression." 

It was the same tight fear of being caught with a gun between them. No sudden moves, no visible breathing. His eyes were blown wide at the ceiling, though they slowly rolled until he could make out the shape beside him. Black, fuzzy in peripheral, but something tall and dark reaching from the crown. He squinted, reaching for delusion.

"Josiah?..."

A small, breathy chuckle.

"I wish Trelawny was my name. It has a nice ring to it."

A knot had formed in his throat, pushing hard like a jagged stone when he tried to swallow. Dutch felt his hat staying put against the wall as he turned his head to stare at the newcomer.

It was a well dressed man, eerily uncanny to Josiah. The same top hat, the same curled mustache, the expected shiny eyes. If the sameness hadn't spooked him, it was the look he was receiving. The man was watching him with a sureness as if he had been completely puzzled out.

"Hello, Dutch."

He stared back. 

There was only one other time in his life where the world became as cold as death itself, and it was when he witnessed the life shot out of Annabelle before his eyes. Time then had slowed to a molasses crawl, where shapes quivered and sounds became warped. It had returned in full force, driven by a nauseating throbbing around his ears as the man's face was the only image that remained steady in the swirl of panic that pushed behind his eyes.

Something was mouthed, taking on sounds that became words on repeat. His name. This bastard knew his name.

"You can't be that drunk, Dutch." The strange man mused. He maintained an unshakable calmness when a gun was pulled from a holster and aimed his way. Those eyes, void of color but shiny like wet ash, glanced down at the barrel trained on his stomach and then flicked right back up. Dutch lost his breath when he realized that not once had this man blinked.

"Who are you?..." was all he could rasp.

"Don't waste that bullet on me." His companion mused. His mustache twitched just enough to suggest a smile. "I know you, Dutch."

"Who...are. You." Dutch's voice stuttered, but the hammer on his gun did not as he cocked it back.

His free hand had long spilled the whiskey shot that was now pooling into the rug and the glass might have shattered with it. Between the panic jumping his pulse and the loud affairs around him, he had been effectively swallowed up into the void that was this man's presence, in plain view and yet undeniably out of sight. A few men walked by, not one of them having noticed the revolver ready to paint a crime scene in front of everyone.

This imposter, this skinwalker who wore Josiah like a crisp suit, simply sat back and looked around them. Women were fanning themselves. Men teasing them were puffing up. Down below, a brawl of outrageous proportions was beginning to tear up the floor and yet through it all, the strange man knit his brows through the debauchery as if it were all nothing more than art to be observed.

"Nobody important. Just another thinker like you, seeking out the human condition. I'm an artist of sorts."

Those eyes were back on him again. 

"Put the gun away. I heard you were a poet."

The tone was so simple, placid yet bored, and somehow it trained the most wanted man in the lower states to fumble with holstering his weapon. He twitched his lips again, though this time the smile was indistinguishable from polite and mocking. It was just light enough to suggest deeper, darker things.

"How did you find me." Dutch found his voice again. 

It was mortifying, how powerless his own tone was. He was a proud man of big ambitions. How much of the American story had changed due to his staunch liberties, his crusade against the modern world? Dutch Van der Linde was nobody's dog to shake a finger to. He shook boots- women who wanted to fuck him, men who foamed at the mouth to fuck him over. He was the prophet of the old ideals, he the judge and jury who knew the bastardization of man through society's filth, that belief seeping hard into every line of spite scrunching onto his face as he put one hand on his knee to steady himself, leaning over to squint hard enough to try and crack this imposter's resolve.

The strange man simply looked at him, a pitying look reserved only for a fool with hot air.

"You know, it is the funniest thing." He mused. "I normally find myself more comfortable out in nature. A bed under the stars, free from the dictations of polite society...and here we are."

A woman beside them moaned from being goosed. Two men broke themselves upon a table in the pit brawl. His stare lingered.

"Do you remember Kettering, Dutch?"

A piercing bloom of hot terror pooled into Dutch's gut. Kettering was over a decade and a half ago, when he was some no-named punk fooling around with a conman, playing pretend that a gang of two men was a social movement. They had swindled hundreds of dollars from the pockets of well meaning idiots, sowing stories of offshore investments and exotic luxuries. He had barely grown into his mustache then, let alone establish his name with the weight it carried now. 

How did...?

His jaw danced. His breath jumped out his mouth in weak little shakes. The only words that spoke came from his visitor.

"Twelve honest men and women believed that the propositions they were told would set them for life. They had placed their hearts and all of they had into the hands of a promising man." His tone switched to a pointed deadpan. "A man who would ride out into the night and waste over a fourth of it on drinks and whores in some downtrodden brothel off the side of the road." 

The intruder was watching the tavern again. He was studying a young Lothario getting brave with one of the saloon girls, his expression blank and seemingly unimpressed from the way eager hands were wandering, cupping, curling into seemingly endless layers of skirt, right out in the open for God and everyone else to see. Selfish, poetic hedonism.

"Ever lost your heart?" He asked.

"I-I...don't..."

"You can't deny the call, my friend. You've touched many." The strange man's chest bounced from the huff he took. "What do you find when you reach out to others, Dutch. What do you see in the green eyed monster?" He turned to give him an almost bored side eye. "Is it in the color he wears or the weight of his pocket? I always wondered, what passion can do to a person."

"Who do you think you are?" Dutch croaked. His breath felt hot as fire, stirred up from the rage burning in his belly, making his knuckles glow white from the intense grips he held between his knee and revolver. "I am not a-a scoundrel, who-" his hands made a wild how the fuck sort of gesture, "who-who takes from those who don't need takin'." 

He was met with a blank canvas of a stare, so easy to paint his fears on. No, no, he wasn't afraid, this man was a loon, some dirty mind who stole a rich man's clothes and happened to read the papers. Harmless...only a crazy man could stare like that, and Dutch knew for one that he himself was not crazy.

However...he might have regretted pulling that gun. 

"I...am not a murderer, mister." 

There, as if that would make it all better. He saw the strange man blink at him, the only time, and it was the most infuriating thing that made him want to break that sighing nose.

His nerves were popping off, making his quivering lips, his twitching cheeks, his restless limbs suddenly not his own. It was an unhinged response that broke him into a feedback loop, powered by rage and the sensation of needed to vomit, right there on this Satan of a devil who was dissecting him alive in a room full of innocent ears. He looked around, wanting to accuse them all, damn your ears! Why don't you see?!

Around him, the world continued as normal. The fight downstairs had long dissolved into an awkward mess of cussing from drunks and the invading sheriffs, of the piano's jaunty tune that happily carried over the daily life of these bumpkin folk who settled back into their vices.

Dutch found it harder to breathe around the knot in his throat. He reached up to nearly strangle himself, feeling his Adam's apple jerking around in tight muscle, chilling down his neck and up into his head at the same time.

"Do you remember Heidi McCourt?" The cruel man beside him continued, apathetic as can be. "Do you believe that the bullet from your gun, pulled by your own hand on an unarmed girl was an act of justice in your failed robbery?" He was silent for a moment, watching. "Was that murder, or just another part of your plan, Dutch Van der Linde?"

Dutch watched him tilt his head, perfectly timed on his own slow sink back into his chair. He had to look elsewhere, but elsewhere was starting to blur again.

"I'm happy to have had this talk, you know. You've always been so hard to capture for my work. Very inspiring. You remind me of a friend." 

It was so out of nowhere that it felt the most horrifying statement yet. He choked on his next breath, heaving for air like a man struggling through a tightening noose. He was falling, feet kicking deep into old memories, of angry and ugly faces who had all cursed him out with threats he had brushed off so thoughtlessly over the years. Which one...which one?!?

"Up the road from here, on an old ranch is a man who also thinks himself righteous." The man made an offhand dusting of his sleeve. "I heard he will be getting a visit soon by another, made to play debt collector. Thing is, I have a feeling this young feller might...be swayed to the wrong side of faith. Why don't you go and take a look?" 

He shrugged and stood up.

"Or don't. You never know what poison a man can bring home."

-----

He shambled back to camp a dead man. A fool, carrying his own head. Theoretically, but after first seeing Bill nursing a fresh print across his cheek and a weak smile, Dutch knew it would have been more honorable to get literal. All of their eyes were upon him, hands on hips, arms crossed, quips to be made. Some smiled, others frowned. All of them were staring as if there were a bullet hole in his forehead.

Molly made a start for him but was shoved back by Grimshaw, who had one hand hiking her skirt to close the distance fast without tripping.

"Dutch Van der Linde, you selfish pig! You of all people, running o-"

She was suddenly ass first on the ground, her hair breaking out of its pins from the knock back and his arms around her. Everyone scattered back, that he could tell by the distance of their boot sounds even if he couldn't see them. His face had forced itself into the nape of her neck, blowing out spit and hot air as he sobbed out all the emotions that had slowly been breaking his resolve on the painful ride back. Even the Count gave a remorseful whinny- even through all the commotion of "what the hell"s and "oh my god"s, he could hear the distinct emotion from his beautiful boy.

It was deserved to get his hair yanked and a smack for his troubles, a denial that only made him shake harder when he felt Susan's hands fanning out across his back. She clearly had no clue what the hell was happening and the fight had died in her right there, her sense of duty and love for him shifting into a tight embrace that had her fingers snaking up fast to smooth back his hair.

"Dutch? Y-you need to say something..." 

He was not a cryer, that was damn well enforced. The head of the Van der Linde gang was emotional, he was a romantic, a father to his men, but he drew the line at bawling so hideously like he was now, all torn down and kicked in. The only sorry bastards who had the dishonor of witnessing his ugly moments were her and Hosea, a name so imprinted in his being that just remembering it forced his heart to seize in so tight a pain that it felt ready to tear itself apart at the sinew.

Hosea...

Susan's face was rippling in his vision. He felt her thumbs tugging at the corners of his eyes, trying to force them open. Her palms moved him in a frantic sway, giving his head a shake and slapping at his cheeks to rouse him. It was enough to shake the tears out of his eyes and see her proper, giving him a glare that only deepened the horror on her face.

"What happened?" She asked him again, only to look around and bark at the others to get them all to fuck off.

"But-" Molly's voice rang through his ears.

"GIT."

Through the sheer spite of his foolishness, Susan was able to pull him to his feet and kept him grounded with one hand hooked into his shoulder while the other beat away the dust spots along his pants and vest. Once she was able to get a good read on him, she sighed and shook her head.

"Come on, let's get you inside."

He didn't fight her hand threading through his, firm as a tether which he stumbled after towards his tent.

"Unbelievable, just absolutely incredible..." She was grumbling while fighting the tent flaps. 

He stood there in a distant sway, catching on to hushed voices behind him. Bill...definitely Bill. That fucking bastard. What a waste of rum.

"Hurts to see a grown man cry..." Bill's voice was indeterminate, trembling on the line between sincere and satisfied. 

Sharp gray eyes pierced through his mind, staring right back at him as the tone struck a nerve. The world began to melt around his vision again, drawing a haze in the corners, pulsing in spots from the needling pangs of something stabbing him right in the stomach.

Javier's voice answered, right as Susan knit her brows to come and retrieve him.

"Makes you wonder, you know? What goes on in a head like that..."

All the sound died in that moment from the drumbeat pulsing through his ears, building faster and harder as the copycat face came back, faint as a ghost and yet burning into the surfaces of wherever his vision swam while Susan yanked him inside.

He sat where she left him, his fists in his hair, rocking on the verge of screaming. That face, his words...talks of Blackwater, that dead girl, Kettering...had he been followed? All these years? Nobody in a mud flat like Valentine would know of Kettering-

"-Arthur." The name broke out of him, just like the snap of his neck as he stared at her, wild eyed and digging at the fabric on his knees. "Where's Arthur?!"

"What?" Susan stared at him. She was not in the wrong to be nearly plastered on the other side of the tent, looking ready to stab him with his own pencil.

"Arthur, dammit! Where is he?"

"You sit back down, you damn idiot." She forced him back with one firm shove against his chest, finger pointed while her lip trembled. "What in the hell is the matter with you? You sneak off and not tell anybody and come on stumbling back looking like you just talked to God out in the desert!" 

She tossed the writing instrument and crouched down to wet her thumb. "Oh, you stop it. I've done far worse to you." 

He was scrunching his nose while she wiped away a smudge on his cheek.

Susan was at his face level again, having pulled up a crate to be used as a chair. Riled as she was, there was a hurt look to her features that conveyed well through both of her hands as they reached out for his, time cupping and gliding her thumbs along the backs in the same strokes that tricked his memory, taking him back to the first time they laid eyes on each other in that hole-in-the-wall bar far out west in a bay city, miles away and decades ago. He watched her breathing, mirroring it within three breaths as she made a show of flaring her nostrils during the in, parting her lips to push during the out. In...out...warmth in his heart, warmth in her hands, kneading feeling back into his own until they stopped twitching. 

By his fifth breath, Dutch felt his heart slowing down. The prickling pressure behind his ears and the back of his neck was ebbing. Every bump in his spine felt like it was loosening between his shoulders, which had dropped completely upon the sixth exhale. Susan's face had been his anchor point, where it had gone from hazy to detailed again as the hysteria cleared, her thin lips smiling in relief. Taking in her aging features, there was a peaceful coo he made that surprised him. Even through the march of time, fighting against the pull of wrinkles and loosening skin, she was still just as bewitching now as she was on the night they first kissed. 

He remembered it fondly, his heart giving a different thump as his mouth twitched into a breathless little smile, in awe at this saint who had stayed so long through so much. They had come a long way from dancing, half undone in a greenhouse attachment of a mansion, making up the sounds to the muffled music two rooms over in the main foyer, eyes on each other and hands around curves, finding a moment of respite to calm the nerves and a little more before jumping into their first big job together. How things would have been different...

Dutch blinked out of his stupor, looking down at the soft hand patting his own. 

"What happened, Dutch?" Susan asked him again, squeezing his hands.

He stared at her for a long moment, exhausted. What happened...it was so baffling, but he had a hard time comprehending the question. The next words he found came without a second thought.

"I don't know."

His fingers curled when he heard her scoff.

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"I said I don't know!" The bark that clawed out of him was loud and it startled him, nothing he was proud of and yet he felt no remorse in it either. It felt natural and deserved, unrepentent in defense of himself- finding the fear of God, the Devil or Death itself, a harbinger who knew his name that had stolen his safety. Those eyes were back, threatening to shift the colors in her own as that bored, cutting voice pulled at every fold in his brain again.

"I-I don't know! Alright? You happy? Are you all god damn happy?"

"Dutch!"

"I'm tired! I am...plum tuckered, right-as-righteous...fucking, dead, tired."

One breath, two breaths...He knew he was snorting like a madman, hissing through his teeth as he shot his gaze to the flaps of his tent. He could hear the hushed talk of other peeping close, spying on him, feeling sorry for him...mocking him. It took only two steps to bang his fist against the canvas, watching shadows scatter under the billowing fabric. 

"Do you all hear me?!"

He snarled through his breaths, finding each inhale like squeezing down glass. Every push out forced a noise that was so guttural in a fit of rage he ripped the chains off of his vest screamed with each dizzy step along the planks. Another and another, hoarse and clawing the air without purpose until all he could spit out was long sobs for his shame, sinking to the floor with him as hands far too good for him scooped under his shoulders.

"Dutch, for god sakes, let me help you-" Susan grunted as she hauled him up again, trying to get him right once more in a failing battle of hands pushing back. "Let me help!" She shrieked, silencing the world entirely around them. 

The lungs on this woman. Dutch shuddered from a zipper of something traveling down his nerves like a telegraph, delivering a message that his legs obeyed- sit. 

So he did, shoved back down with the threat of being strapped in from every belt in camp. He kept his head low, eyes scrunched so tight that the surrounding skin numbed and his teeth bared. His lips had pushed themselves back so far that he was snarling through his next heaves. Susan's hands ensured his own gripped the edges of the bed and away from himself.

"Please, talk to me." Susan's voice whispered to him.

It was easy to shake his head, so he did. He was struggling to breathe, blindly fumbling for her hands which laced and squeezed back so painfully that he didn't let go.

"I just...I'm so lost." It killed him, to hear his voice in a hoarse wheeze. "I'm so lost and I'm so tired, Susan." 

For the first time in so long, he felt no love for philosophy. Everything ached, everything smoldered. When he opened his eyes, there was a weight in his stare that made him feel decrepit. Her eyes were glassy and she had been biting her lip, though strength was found in their shared stare to remove a hand and cup his cheek. 

Touched, he placed his own on top of hers, shaking breaths through a sincere attempt at a smile. Maybe he did still have it.

"Where's Arthur." He mumbled into her fingers when they tried to shush him. The best he could do was wheeze out a small laugh that she matched.

"He's out near Strawberry, finding some feller up in the hills over a money thing. Maybe a robbery, who knows with that fool." Susan plucked some fuzz out of his mustache. She flicked his nose when he kissed her fingers. 

"Not out in Valentine?"

"No. You heard me? Have you been drinking?"

"Oh, thank God..." 

Light as it was, he did deserve the smack across his jaw when he kissed her hand. 

"Woman, I'm being thankful."

"I heard that before too, you dog." Susan sassed, but bit her tongue on the topic in mind. Instead, she narrowed her gaze at him. "What happened to you in Valentine?" 

[peacockeryabound]

The Last Honest Men - Part 1 (Reupload)

(From the Story of the same name on my Archive- Reuploaded to include all segments of Chapter 1.)

Synopsis:

"Have a little faith", that's what he always said. He, of all people, shouldn't have to worry about doubting himself. On the cusp of a new chapter in his life, cracking slowly under the pressures of his cause, Dutch Van der Linde begins to question whether his heart is in the right place, and with the right people.

(Pairings: Dutch/Grimshaw, Dutch/Molly, Dutch/Hosea)

-

There was something liberating, about standing at the cliff end of the camp to look out at the unspoiled frontier beyond. Horseshoe Overlook...it was still cold as sin and the camp assembly had staggered due to fatigue and hunger but what was important was they were out of Colter. This was the true spring lands, their little patch of haven in the spry woods. There was fresh wood, abundant game, berries and herbs...they had made it.

Not for long, not without sacrifice, but they made it. In celebration, Dutch perched upon the finest fallen log he could find and took to wafting a cigar while he enjoyed the beauty that the Heartlands offered. He could hear the girls behind him, fussing about with organizing, of Uncle sassing back over some unclean retort about his appearance. Pearson was preparing a stew that actually smelled halfway decent. It brought a smile to his face.

But only for a moment.

Prideful as he was, satisfied as he was, it was not easy to savor the entirety of the morning when Arthur was instigating a rundown behind him with Hosea over the losses they had sustained. They had to bury Davey up there in the mountains, forever alone in a land he had no choice to die in. Jenny had to go even higher, up near a frozen river with just two bits of wood to resemble her cross, miles away from any beaten road. Alone. At least Davey got to rest in Colter when they left.

The reverend gave him hell on that one, and that was a sermon coming from a man who couldn't say a straight sentence on a good day. It was pitiful, Dutch now remembered. Sean was still missing. Mac too, probably dead as well. Hosea nearly froze himself to death beside him on the wagon train. Little Jack, trembling against his mama in some broke down cabin in a godless blizzard...

He leaned forward, as if those few inches were enough to get out of earshot. Hand firmly cupping a knee, he indulged in his smoke again and licked the plumes rolling down his tongue.

Blackwater was a hot mess. It was the whole damn reason they were all here right now, running further into east territory when he had been scolded too many times by Hosea and Grimshaw about his original hard sell on settling west...southwest. Southern California?...all minute details in the big plan, unimportant right now. That he nodded too and exhaled through his nose, right down into the belly to savor the musk of the forest, all the pine and wood smoke that made his knees weak.

Losses had to happen sometimes. He had his time to mourn, but through sacrifice came victory, and they made it. He pushed himself back onto his feet and tightened his back, windmilling his arms to crack his shoulders into a pose that meant business.

"Friends," He started with open arms, "It's a fine morning." He took some steps closer to the two men, who each gave him tired expressions. "The birds are singing. The dew is fresh. It's a beautiful day in Eden, and we are its children." He slung arms around both of them, but only Arthur managed some semblance of a smile. Kid knew his place well; he had that faith in him. That could make any man feel like a powerhouse. Hosea...

There was one hell of a cold squint coming his way.

"You can talk of the Good Book with Swanson in a ditch. We are farther east now than the plan intended." The old man pulled out of the embrace. His nose curled to match Dutch's. "Arthur has the damn right to talk about Blackwater as it was what got us all into this mess."

Dutch stared for a moment until he gave a snort and drew Arthur in closer. He was mindful of the cigar as he gave the young buck a good smack on the back for his presence. 

"And we can talk about Blackwater, later. Let's not spoil the good fortunes we find ourselves in this morning, eh Mr. Matthews? Mr. Morgan?" 

There was something always charming, about the reception of Arthur's clueless stare and that exasperated sneer from Hosea that just made him want to grin. They both side glanced to each other, shared a sigh and both backed off to resume whatever duties had possessed them. He waited with a hand in his pocket and his cigar to his lips, smiling behind the smoke when the old man only took a few more steps before tensing his shoulders and pivoting back around.

Hosea pointed at him. 

"You and me, tonight. We're going to have a talk."

Dutch raised his cigar and gave a proper head bow. 

"Of course, old friend. Until then, go and take a walk under the warm sun. It'll do your legs some good."

Hosea made a dismissive gesture at him and stomped off, leaving him with his thumbs hitched into his belt loops while he surveyed the camp. It was coming together very nicely, not bad for a bunch of heathens on the run. With the majority of the tents set up, everyone was finding their own place amongst the chores. Jack was watching Javier tune his guitar. Strauss fussed over the log books under his tent. Susan barked orders for the girls to wipe down the tables while she smacked Bill upside the head in passing for nodding off against some crates.

A glance to his side took his focus back to his tent, where she stood there waiting for him. Dutch smoothed back his hair as he began to saunter close, performing a more appropriate bow when he was able to smell her perfume. 

"Mornin', Miss O'Shea." He mumbled into the back of her offered hand.

-----

Yes, even a man such as himself could have doubts, but he would have been a poor and sorry fool if he had turned back on his own beliefs for a second. Times had been tough and supplies were almost bone dry for the next few days, but the Van der Linde gang was nothing if not tenacious. A few of his boys were already out scouting towns and stalking targets, and blessed be the angels who stayed behind to ensure the camp was comfortable. 

He looked over his coffee cup, eyes following the shambling Uncle who stumbled by while digging for gold down his pants.

Alright...most of them. 

Dutch took a swig as if it were a shot and perked from a heavy grunting that sounded off behind his tent. He recognized that unrepentant growl anywhere.

"Arthur! What in God's name-"

"Yeh, well..." the outlaw shifted to keep the drunk man over his shoulder. "God don't want him today."

They both shared a chuckle and he watched the good reverend be carried off and daintily dumped onto his bedroll like a bag of sand. Arthur was dusting his hands as he sauntered back, waving off Dutch while he was given an appreciative clap on the bicep.

"Much appreciated, for going out and checking on him, Arthur." Dutch smiled through a nod. 

"Sure. Father Swanson told me all about his declarations of giving up the hard stuff." Arthur mused as he reached into one of his pockets. He deposited a stack of bills into Dutch's hand, returning the pat while taking pride in the stunned expression on the big man's face. "That came from his little confession at the poker table."

Dutch guffawed as he counted every dollar, glancing up as he watched his number one sauntering off with a whistle to his tune and a pep to his step. Arthur didn't seem any worse for wear after carrying an entire drunk over one shoulder, which would explain the energy behind his hat tip during his walk past both Hosea and the large rifle the man was cleaning.

Now, that was an interesting sight...

Dutch took a long drink while blindly dumping the bills into the collection box, observing the old blonde stand and mumble something to Arthur when they reunited. They both inspected the gun and Arthur made a jab about shooting elephants, earning himself a warm smile that wasn't too common these days. They walked off together, guns in hand and satchels slung around their shoulders, fat with supplies for some grand adventure.

He'd have to ask, what the big occasion was. In due time...

Dutch smiled at Mary-Beth when she sauntered past on her way to the cooking pot. She caught his eye and brought her book up to hide her face and the shy grin he swore he caught.

She ended up being on his mind for a good portion of the day, enough to distract from both the suspicious glances from Molly and thoughts of Hosea. It was only when Dutch sat down in his tent to draw up a pencil and his notebook that he truly knit his brows, licked his lips and really reconsidered his priorities. 

As he scratched down unrelated notes, he thought back to their time in Colter. Blackwater was enough of a stress riding on his ass but the bigger priority of sheltering and feeding their family had allowed him to stuff down the guilt of it for a time. He remembered the half frozen lethargy of the women, of Micah cussing up a storm over the living conditions, of Pearson trying to take a cleaver through what frozen game Arthur and Charles hauled back. He remembered the skin of his own cheeks feeling like it was going to chip away from the biting cold as he led a few of his boys up the hillside to eliminate the nearby O'Driscoll competition.

Dutch realized he had been scribbling a growing circle around a freckle in the paper. He sighed, dropped the pencil into the center of the splayed pages and leaned back to stare up at the roof of his tent. He couldn't get Blackwater off his mind.

No, he was not going to spook the gang by admitting to the horror show in the presence of those who had not witnessed it. It was not right, to bring the ghosts of that botched job back into the minds of the survivors who had outrun the bullets with him. He closed his eyes. Try as he could, he couldn't shake the image of Hosea, shaking like a shitting dog in front of a pitiful fire in Colter.

He had overheard Arthur mumbling to Javier one night over a campfire dinner, that he had been concerned over that harsh weather which was going to do the old man in. Everyone had suffered during the storm in Colter, but Hosea's poor health had dipped into a terrifying low that had left him sluggish and slow on the up draw. It had gotten to one point where it was uncertain to distinguish the rattle of his coughs and the shivering from the cold. 

Colter was the result of those Pinkerton dogs back in Blackwater...but it was also because of his own poor shots. That dead girl's face was going to haunt his mind for years to come.

"Dutch?" Molly's voice caused him to jolt. She was peeking through from a lifted flap, her expression suggesting she had been talking for a few seconds without him noticing. "Did you hear me?"

"Molly...Molly." He greeted back with a distant smile. "My sweet garnet from the Isles...c'mere, darlin'."

Her approach was slow, hesitant. This hadn't been the first time they got into it over his headspace lately, though she bit her tongue and sighed through her nostrils. Instead, the ornery thing folded her hands and cocked her head with all the presence of a scolding mother.

"You told me that you were going to take me to Valentine. For the picture show."

Dutch blinked. He might have been staring longer than he thought, as her nose was scrunching her face more and more into a tight glare. In the face of impending chaos, he did the sensible thing and closed his book. It strained a bit between his hands due to the pencil still trapped inside, but if bulging at the seams under pressure wasn't a metaphor that Hosea always lectured...

He grinned.

"The picture show! Yes, of course, Miss O'Shea I did promise you that." He stood up and looped an arm around her waist. The haphazard crash of the book behind him made the corner of his lip twitch. "This was...tonight, wasn't it- OW! Damn you, woman!"

Molly smacked him again, hard across his chest. 

"Well, if it was next Tuesday, I wouldn't be harping on you now, would I?"

She huffed at him and gave his mustache a light tug, her expression fighting to remain bitter. The longer they looked at one another, his hand upon her own cupping his cheek, all that came out of her was a small sniffle.

"Darlin'..." His voice was soft as he moved, chest to chest with his free hand settled on her hip. "You know I would give you the world. Do you doubt me on that?"

Molly looked uncomfortable. "Dutch..."

"Mo-lly..." He was kissing along her knuckles.

"No, I don't doubt you, Dutch..." her voice became hushed at the end. She made a defeated gesture with her hands before she crossed her arms and looked elsewhere. "Even if you make me want to." 

He watched her push by to take a seat on their shared cot. It had felt a bit cold these last two nights, despite the body heat shared between them. Something twinged inside of his gut during his approach, himself bracing for the tutting on the last time they had even made love during all of this mess. After he had taken a seat next to her, Dutch offered his palm to her back, noting her refusal to lean back against the sway of his stroking.

"I promised you a picture show." He repeated. She nodded. "I...got a little carried away, it seems."

If that wasn't a bullseye of an answer. Every member of this damned stubborn gang reveled in hammering that point in every day. Dutch Van der Linde, the dreamer, the fool (and all its variations), the huckster, the murderer. 

That last one struck deep, as was the dirty price of freedom. That McCourt girl's face was back in his mind, overlayed on Molly's face. Young, big doe eyes, lips parted in dawning horror from the crazed look of a madman pointing at her...a small coo was made and he blinked. It was so simple a sound and yet it unlocked a memory he had desperately tried to keep smothered down inside of him; Annabelle's voice. She made sounds just like that, right when he would tuck a curl behind her ear or draw pleasure out of her from his mustache kissing her neck...he flinched from her hand suddenly stroking his jaw, wiping something wet that had settled down his cheek.

"Such a softie." The voice gave a small hum and her lips were pressing against his.

--------

"I heard that Arthur ran into his old girl back in town." Abigail mused while stirring her breakfast.

"Did he now." Dutch deadpanned. He had his bowl before his knees, elbows pressed on top as he leaned into the smoke of the morning fire.  Normally, he would give a rat's ass about the daily affairs around camp. Rather, he had given that drawling idiot very precise instructions to go and fetch Micah from whatever disaster he had crawled into, out in some pokey little outpost called Strawberry. Needless to say, hearing about Arthur instead pulling a Romeo out in bum-fuck-nowhere put a bit of a sour taste in his mouth.

"Bad seasoning?" Pearson caught him rolling his tongue over his teeth to spit out some gristle. "I told Javier to get the good stuff in town, but I think he ran out on me to the saloon instead." The camp cook chuckled and continued chopping carrots.

Abigail glanced between the men, feeling a bit caught between the attitudes. Dutch could tell that she wanted to laugh over his puckering look but its persistence hushed her. She instead shoved her next spoonful deep into her mouth and chewed on it to keep quiet. 

The next voice he heard made the hairs behind his collar prickle.

"And what's this about Mary?"

"It's nothing, Hosea. Don't you start fretting over him." Dutch warned him.

He knew he was about to get an earful when he heard that wheezy windup from the blonde. Dutch shoveled down a mouthful of his slop and blinked away the pain from the heat. It didn't distract him as he had hoped.

Hosea Matthews, his Old Girl...and with the shrewdness of one too. Only a true conman would just sit down without a care to another's frets and dig right into them. Dutch glowered at the man suddenly almost elbow-to-elbow with him, making a point to clear his throat as Hosea adjusted his hat and squinted up at the morning sky, watching where the smoke trail was billowing to.

"Yes, well, he sure as hell fretted over me many times. It must be like we're a family here." Hosea side glanced him, smiling. "He isn't a boy anymore, Dutch. We of all people should know what it is like to wander back into old arms."

Abigail was giving them a funny look, and he did neither of them any honors from the vehement snort he took. Damn them all, giving him looks and those shitty little side looks...it took everything he had to not just toss his bowl into the flames right there, but he couldn't stop the light bounce to his foot. A few "Mm." sounds came out of him, which were better to process with his eyes closed. Mm-mm-mmm....A nod here, a few shakes there and he was exhaling with a fixed smile.

"That we do, my friend." He stressed the last two syllables. "And that we do, to mourn the loss of great women that raised us up into honest men."

He maintained his stare with Hosea, who also was resting in the same position as him. The little shit glanced over him to hand wave Abigail, giving an apologetic smile when she took her cue to leave. Once they were alone at the fire, side by side, did Hosea's expression settle back into that so-tight squint it almost looked like his eyes were mere slits.

"What's eating you now?" He asked. "You've been chasing everyone off all morning with that rotten look of yours."

Dutch slapped a knee and leaned back, groaning up at the sky.

"Not you too. I already got a good cussin' from Molly."

"Trouble in paradise, huh."

Dutch glared at him. 

"You would know, you incessant bastard."

Hosea maintained his agitating calmness. His smile was far too pleasant for the tone of the matter. He too sat up and fussed with his scarf, which had collected some wayward bits of ash.

"Yes, well, twenty-odd years of being your work wife certainly does that to one's intuition." He looked over his longtime partner and gave him a shoulder bump to help lighten the mood. "The best I can do, of course." 

Dutch had to smile at that. He knew Hosea could never hold back his tender nature for long. 

He clapped a hand on the man's back and gave it a rub, though it only took him a moment to feel haunted by how similar this gesture was compared to last night with Molly. The affectionate press against his palm made for a nauseating tingle to crawl up his arm and deep beyond his shoulder. Dutch glanced around them, but everyone else was content to their own morning routines.

"You do it well, I know." He conceded, head down. He dumped his stew into the fire and tossed the plate and spoon into the dirt. Pearson barked something at him from a distance, but all that mattered now was listening to the tranquil hum of his better half. "You're right, I...am just having a morning."

"You riled up more over Arthur, or Micah?" Hosea frowned. He was warming his hands, fingers almost getting licked by stray lines of smoke. "If it's the former then I wouldn't worry. He'll turn up sooner or later."

Dutch squeezed at his knees, thinking for a moment.

"And...Micah?"

It was Hosea's turn to twist his face into a sneer. He nudged a stray ember back into the fire with the toe of his boot.

"If I can project onto Arthur, I'd say he's dragging his feet in fetching that bullheaded buffoon for you."

Hosea was not a lying man, which was amusing in reflection of his trade. Dutch wanted to snort at the spiciness of that answer but to know there were multiple folk in his gang that were not fans of Mr. Bell prodded something twitchy inside of him. He leaned in to get a good look at that cracked old muzzle.

"Is there a problem with Micah, Mr. Matthews?"

Hosea was quiet for a moment, staring at the fire. His nose gave a sharp exhale as he wiped a palm down his face in a tired, exasperated tell. 

"I have faith in you, Dutch." He hissed. "I would have walked away by now if I hadn't. I just fear he will get us into hotter water with that temper of his." His voice dipped into that emotional little rasp that always hurt them both to hear. It was enough to even crumble Dutch's resolve a bit, as they both wore the same concerned expressions for each other.

Twenty-odd years, Dutch repeated in his mind. Twenty-plus long, happy, agonizing years with this fussy old mare who matched him in every duel he could ever instigate. Wits, bullets, some stray hands in questionable places...their bond was their own, tested and fortified by fights like this, by tough choices they had to swallow down. Memories of Colter returned to him, those frigid old ghosts who coughed and shivered, struggling to not crack under the weight of his own pressures...

"Dutch."

He blinked. Hosea was giving him a funny look.

"Maybe you should worry more about your sleep, Dutch...or lack thereof."

--------

Micah was back, much to everyone's bitching. Rather, it was the news, of which Arthur kept his answers curt as he slapped a few more dollars into the collection box. The tired bastard looked more trouble than it was worth to prod, covered in dust, scrapes and a few questionable splattering along his face and jacket. Reluctant as Dutch was to ask just what in God's name happened in Strawberry, he was left to ponder while huffing and puffing away from the rumor mill around the stew pot. 

He took to one of his favorite rocks over by the camp ledge, American Inferno in hand and a heavy exhale to calm his nerves. Micah would be back soon, bless him. A visionary, a no-bars-held sorta fella, so willing and eager to get down and dirty for the sake of progress. The only scrap of information Dutch could glean about Mr. Bell's whereabouts came from an offhand grumble from Arthur that the convict was out scrounging around for a sort of peace offering. 

Now, that was loyalty.

Feeling a bit more satisfied, Dutch opened his book and thumbed to where he had left off. He read a few pages, half focused, as he was also listening to the reverend sounding sober enough to give his daily sermon:

"Yes, as it was said in the writings of good James, he said this- my brethren! If any among you strays from the truth! And one turns him back, let him know. That he who turns a sinner. A sinner! From the error of his way will save his soul from death! And, and, my good friends...will cover a multitude of sins..."

Dutch paused at his current passage. It warmed him to hear Swanson's voice, so full of life again. Even if it only was for the night, the man was free from his devils, free to speak with the zeal of Moses on the Mount, full of love he pleaded for his fellows. In a way, he figured they both weren't so different. He rolled his tongue in his mouth while he thought. Something about the passage just hit him in a funny way, but it was one he couldn't focus on for long.

His back hurt and his right eye had been twitching a bit these last few days. The tiff with Molly and the reminders from Hosea had kept him distant from them both. Sleep had not been a fair weather friend for years and especially not since Blackwater, or Colter...or resigning that he couldn't even go to a picture show in a little dump like Valentine. It had been a blue eyed miracle that he had been free to walk down main street with Trelawny to fetch his boys without being shot at on sight.

"Hi, Uncle Dutch." The sweet voice of Jack came up behind him.

He blinked and cleared his throat, exhaling to prepare a charming smile as he watched the boy step into view, playing with some stick he had found nearby.

"Hey, Jack." He smiled. "What's goin' on, little man?"

"Nothing." The child pouted as he tore some smaller twigs off. "I don't like the church talks."

Dutch watched him for a moment before he shifted his book to one knee and patted the other.

"Come here, son. Let's talk."

The little boy hopped onto his knee without hesitation, staring up at him with those big doe eyes full of wonder. Good kid.

He never had children of his own, but Dutch held pride in feeling that he helped raise plenty of fine men and women in this family he had built with Hosea. Jack was undoubtedly the first grandchild he could say he had, a product of their success for going so long against all the world's evils. 

"Am I in trouble?"

"No, no, nothing of the sort." Dutch smoothed out the dust collecting in the kid's hair. "Now, you tell old Uncle Dutch why you don't listen to Uncle Swanson's stories."

Jack opened his mouth but paused and closed it, instead looking back down to play with his stick. 

"I don't know what he says. They're all boring."

Dutch blinked and gave a nod. Made sense in the eyes of a four year old. But, this was nothing that a little conman magic couldn't fix. He stroked his mustache while feigning thought, chuckling a moment later.

"You know what, you're right. Even us grownups can find them a little boring." He looked down at the boy, who was now swishing his stick around like a fishing rod. "But, every story has a value, Jack, and one day when you are big and strong, I want to see you with your nose in a book and out of trouble. You understand?"

Jack looked at him funny, said nose scrunched. 

"OK...uh...why?" Clearly, the idea of reading didn't seem too cozy with him. 

Dutch mused and gave that little chin a light knuckle.

"Well, for one, you can learn a lot of things from a book." To prove his point, he picked up his own and situated it just right along his thigh to keep it balanced while he flipped through the pages. "You can...well, you can see new ideas, or you can picture a wild adventure in your head. You might even think up something new that you might want to make your own, one day." He tapped a random paragraph on a page, grinning at the gawking child. "This right here, Mr. Marston, is a whole different world."

Jack looked like he was reeling. His eyes were almost glazed over, that little putty mind working hard to shape everything that was just dumped onto him. This might have been a world of toxic order bearing down on them all, but Dutch would see to it that every child of his had the freedom to think, to challenge, to be.

"Do you understand now, Jack?" He asked, hushed.

"I...think so." Jack whimpered. He lowered his stick and looked up to the biggest man he knew. Dutch could see that obedient sense of wonder in those twinkling little eyes- that sort of look that was taken as gospel. "But...reading is so hard! I don't like it..." He played with his hands. "Mama told me no, but I wanna be a gunslinger!"

Dutch stared. His mustache twitched. Now...that was a proud thing to hear, such a vigorous claim for the cause...but he hesitated to say anything. Memories of Jenny flashed before his eyes. Such a sweet young girl, barely old enough to fill her boots, struck down before she could get the taste of his vision. Jenny...that McCourt girl...he wrenched his eyes shut for a moment to squeeze down the pain. The Adler Miss...too many young bloods, subject to so much loss, so very young...

Now he, he absolutely deserved every bullet for them in this crusade. He demanded their loyalty while knowing their fates. It was enough for him to wheeze and look elsewhere, trying to look past their faces in his mind's eyes. Jenny...

"Hey, Lenny." He croaked.

"Huh?" The young man lowered his axe.

"Stop hitting those logs and come over here."

"Uh, OK Dutch." Lenny was by his side a moment later. He smiled at Jack. "Hey."

"Hi, Uncle Lenny." Jack smiled back, though he looked more nervous than ever.

"What'd you call me over here for, Dutch?" Lenny now had his hands on his hips. As he waited, he took a deep inhale through his nose and looked up at the dandelion puffs floating in the breeze.

It was a very handsome visage. A true man, unshackled and unbothered. At home where he was happiest, but shrewd to philosophy. Agitating as the kid was for digging deep, Dutch appreciated their literary debates. He made a gesture at the young man and found his chuckle wavering a bit from the emotion that surprised him.

"Jack, this man...right here. He is strong, he is proud, he gets his way in this world because he does not listen to those fool men that are out there." His voice shook. "And he does it, right from the heart, with the help of books." He laughed in tandem with Lenny, who had raised his brows as if the old man had gone mad.

"What? I don't know about that, Dutch. The books help a lot but..." He gave pause when he saw the challenge in Dutch's stare. Maybe it was that fancy learning that made him catch on quick and change his tune. Maybe he just knew how to fight his battles, but Lenny wagged a finger while nodding, no doubt playing the same fake revelation game. "Yeah...you know what Dutch...I shouldn't doubt them. After all, they helped you too." 

He bent down, hands on knees as he too smiled at Jack. "I overheard one day that your mama and Mister Hosea Matthews himself were teaching you how to read. It's a big honor to know how, Jack, believe me. Any big man can pick up a gun but a bigger man settles his problems right here." He tapped the side of his head and stood back up. "Dutch and I talk all the time about how great books are, don't we?"

"Right you are, my friend." Dutch mused. 

His smile grew a bit bigger when Lenny stepped away to bring back a stool, took a seat and began to scratch at his chin while recalling some of his favorite childhood stories. Together they swapped old tall tales and nursery rhymes, laughing over the silliness of them while a wide eyed boy with twinkling eyes listened while clutching American Inferno close to his chest.

-----

"And what are you doing?" Grimshaw's voice made him sigh. He peeked around the neck of The Count.

"Just giving my horse some tender care, Susan. Calm your britches."

It wasn't entirely a lie. Being at camp for so long, Dutch knew his old boy was getting restless. The weather was pleasant today, the grass was fresh and dewy...and Arthur ran off to go hunting bison with Charles, which might have made him feel a bit jealous. Him, the poet, preaching of the whole country as every man's backyard...and here he was, stuck at home.

The old buzzard was staring at him with her arms crossed, always unconvinced.

"Then tell me why he has a fresh blanket and a saddle on, Dutch Van der Linde."

"For god's sakes, woman, you aren't my mother!" 

She followed him right into his plane of view, staring down right over the horse's neck.

"Well, for what we used to do, I sure as hell hope not!" She reached for the bridle and began to loosen it. "Damn fool, you're going to ride out and get yourself shot, aren't you?"

Dutch dropped his brush and grabbed the other side of the beast's gear. The Count began to roll his ears back and snort vehemently, prancing in his spot.

"You want a kick in the teeth?" Dutch snatched the reigns out of her hand and grumbled as he began to tuck them back around the hitching post. "Won't be me this time..."

He turned around in time to see her pinching her nose. When Susan looked at him again, she sighed and shook her head.

"What were you going to do, Dutch?"

It was times like this that a stare-down felt more intimidating than just reaching for the holster. Twenty-something years too...Hosea wasn't the only one that could read him like a map. This was a woman who could tear down saloons back in her day with just the spite of charmed men itching to die for her. She had been the head on his shoulder around campfires, the confidante nipping at his ear and one of the few who made him sob for God, disarmed and exposed. As much as he wanted to scowl and sass, he could see the same troubled love in her gaze that came right back to him. He sighed too and rubbed at one of his eyes.

"Just wanted to get out for a bit. Get some fresh air." 

He gestured to the poker table. As they walked together, he felt her arm looping around his. Once they took a seat, opposite of one another, did she shake her head at him, partly amused but mostly flustered.

"You've been a sour one all week, Dutch. Even Karen's been asking about you." She mused from behind threaded fingers. "Said she heard you and Molly going at it, and not in the holy way either."

The best thing to help with biting back his tongue was to grab the box of cards and pop them out. Even just shuffling was a good distraction- a good way to channel that control. Dutch Van der Linde was not falling apart. He just...had a lot on his mind. There was a plan somewhere to get them all out of this, just like...poker, he supposed. As he cut the deck and messed around with a spread on the table, he reckoned that his plans were like poker. He knew the outcomes, knew his cards, figured a little cheat here and there...

"I just got a lot on my mind, Susan." He mumbled, bouncing a Joker card between his fingers. Down it dropped, right into the ratty mess beneath it.

When he glanced up, he was relieved that she was polite enough not to stare at him like an animal. Her eyes too were cast down onto the pool of fading colors, as if there were some spiritual message waiting to be arranged. She nodded, a small breathy chuckle leaving her a moment later.

"That I can agree. Can't say it's been comfortable just waiting here for this long without action but...the people are fed and keeping the place clean." She used her elbow on the table to help pivot back, glancing around the camp behind them. Despite the creeping smoke wafting through the place at the moment, it was relatively peaceful. Jack was struggling through a reading lesson with Hosea and Lenny, Bill and John were arguing about something unimportant at Pearson's table...she watched her girls giggling over an inside joke as they walked by with buckets of water and dirty linens. It wasn't home, but it was a haven.

She turned back to look at him. 

"What is on your mind, dear?"

It wasn't often that she talked like that, not these days. Not with them on the run, not with Molly or the ghost of Annabelle. The affection in her gaze loosened his shoulders and he blinked furiously, convincing himself it was just the smoke stinging at him. Dutch cleared his throat while distracting his eyes with the cards again.

"OK, fine...it is about Molly." He grumbled. "Got up in arms because I forgot to take her to the picture show in town."

Grimshaw snorted.

"Oh, just up in arms? Still the romantic, I see." 

Dutch started, sneering as she shushed right over him.

"Listen, stop for a second." She continued, one elbow on the table now. "Get out of your head, right now. Look at her." She pointed to Miss O'Shea, who was the farthest possible distance between them, sitting at the same rock overlooking the cliff edge that he had been on just yesterday with Jack. "This life ain't proper for a girl like her. We all know she just sticks with us because of you, Mr. Van der Linde."

Grimshaw looked just a moment longer, shaking her head while turning back to knit her brows at him. 

"Taking her halfway across the world, through a blizzard and bullets and the sticky dust here and you have the mind to think her a criminal for wanting one night of decency with you?" She squinted. "I know you better than that, Dutch. It isn't your nature to be so petty, but you sure like to act it when things don't go your way."

Dutch just stared for a moment. His brain struggled to catch up to her mouthing but there was something hot in his chest and wriggly in his gut. His jaw opened, closed, ground his teeth for a moment before a small growl pried them back open in a scrunched, toothy sneer.

"And what do you know about being petty." He said, in almost a whisper.

Grimshaw narrowed her eyes at him, staring long and hard. She shook her head and reached out, grabbing that Joker card and slapping it right on his hand as she stood up and walked away.

"You'll be the death of us all one day, Van der Linde." 

It took a lot in his willpower to not rip the thing in half. He instead tossed it into the grass and brushed it out of his hairs as if he had been soiled. By the time he had returned to the comfort of his tent's front step, fresh cigar plucked and readied, he sighed and turned his head up to the sky. 

He watched the clouds, taking note of the shapes and what they could mean. He was reminded of his younger days, when he used to cloud watch after a big heist to calm down or when he needed to lick his wounds. It had become something of a game between himself, Hosea and Susan back then, to try and one up each other with the most ridiculous finds.

And Arthur...lord, could that kid find a cotton ball through a knitted masterpiece across the heavens. So many times, he had to point out specific shapes to the kid back then, trying to instigate some sort of creativity beyond things at face value. Good times...

He looked down at his cigar and bit through the pain of the deeper puff he took from it. 

"How ya doin?" Hosea's voice caught up to him faster than his boots. Dutch puckered his lips and parted them to waft out the smoke.

"Good, brother." He lied, as did his smile. "How are you feeling?"

After so much hush and questionable rips in his clothes, Hosea had confided in him over a game of dominoes as to what happened between him and Arthur on that big rush out of camp. To think this sensible old badger still had the ornery stupidity to charge out with all the confidence of Nimrod on the hunt for a great bear...it was admirable, but foolish. Colter nearly killed the man, who stood before him now with his sunken face and pained expression, trying to force down the cough that made everyone awkward. Hosea was giving him a small smile while he stepped up onto the planks of the grand tent, waving away the cigar smoke that was coming closer to him.

"Much better...thought those mountains were going to kill me." He admitted while surveying the camp. His chest puffed out as he looked to his friend. "Seems I'll live a while yet."

"Oh, I know." Dutch mused, but he kept his eyes to his boots. He didn't want to think it, but there was a sudden pull to not look his old partner in the face. It had been a sore topic for a while now, the idea of another loss to anticipate.

Hosea clearly recognized the tension, for he swayed in his boots for a few seconds.

"...Found a couple of things in town." He was fumbling for small talk. "Made us some money."

Dutch was staring hard at a tromped-in rock in the dirt. How nice it was, to keep hearing stories of everyone riding out into these escapades, making a mess in saloons and getting handsy with folk with no strings holding them back. Even Hosea, a bastard with one foot early into his grave, was telling him now without remorse of what swindles he had happily foxed his way into. In a way, equally hard to understand, Dutch found himself smiling. Maybe he was getting a bit jealous- stir crazy.

One foot in the grave, indeed, and still flipping the bird to the Judge. Never change, old girl.

"That you do." He mused, finally looking the blonde in the eye. The spark of light in those sweet old sights surely wasn't just the sunlight playing a trick.

"Yes, I like to think I am good at that." Hosea wheezed out a smile. It was kind and patient, just as it always had been; a sort of warm spell that spooked away the demons they both riled.

Dutch felt it again, that heavy writhing deep in the pits of his being, something indecent and rebellious that made his heart stamp like a race horse from the comfort he felt, just as he had stood there like a fool on the very first night he had been an audience to that gentle face and had reveled in that same sense of security ever since.

His eyes were stinging again.

"I..." The sound spilled out faster than he could catch it, but despite the terror of letting it slip, he didn't stop himself.

"I messed up in Blackwater." He admitted, glancing to Hosea and then to somewhere else. Damned him for just happening to chance on Grimshaw as she walked back to her tent that just happened to be in front of him. She gave a fleeting side glance and put up a faster pace to grab what she needed and leave his sights again. The knuckling he felt on his shoulder was enough to keep him focused.

"I made a...god damn fool, out of myself." 

Another nudge to his shoulder. Hosea was chuckling, something that was much nicer to bear than Susan's hissing.

"Yes, well you've done that before."

It wasn't often that Hosea could laugh like this, to be so unburdened by his own well being or that of the others. The man was a natural fusser but now, without any context to go off of besides the same thing they had bickered over consistently since Blackwater...Dutch clicked his teeth and snorted. 

"I know." 

He knew. He was a damned fool, through and through. Maybe later, he'd have a go again at Molly, maybe sweep by and jaw a bit more to Susan. Kind and saintly patient these people all were, his kin- his family. He studied his cigar and tossed it into the dirt, crushing it with the heel of his boot while shrugging off the protest. These things weren't cheap, but...

"Don't want to hurt your lungs, is all." He finally pivoted to face his partner, chest to chest like a true man would. The other looked flattered.

"I ain't fragile, Dutch. You worry too much." 

Dutch flared his nostrils and managed a grin as he returned the knuckle. A cursory look around to ensure that nobody was within earshot, he leaned a bit closer. Hosea's breath hitched.

"I want to believe that I do, old girl."

[peacockeryabound]

A Study in Felt - Part 1

(From the story of the same name on my AO3)

Synopsis: Izzy gets sketched. Lucius encourages him to bare more than just his skin.

(Pairings: Lucius/Izzy, Edward/Izzy, ???/Izzy)

"I knew you'd come around to it." Lucius smiled as he opened up to a fresh page. "Don't listen to Pete; I don't draw just anyone."

It was a terrible lie, but he was also a terrible keeper of secrets. Perhaps they somehow canceled each other out in the end.

While he set up his ink pot and primped out the plume on his quill, he settled into a hum that might have sounded a little too pleased. The sketch he was about to produce was going to be a magnum opus, something only joked about over rum and tall tales until confirmed on paper. He had found a perfect blank page in the belly of the sketch book, a decision on his part to not only hide his project from its fellows but to also kill some time while waiting on his model.

A glance up made him cock his head. 

"I am not going to start until you are ready too, you know."

"I'm fine like this." His subject hissed, arms crossed as if a firm glare carried the same threat as a cutlass. "Just get it over with, and we will not speak of tonight again."

Lucius blinked. He pouted, though it wouldn’t hold for long until it split into a cheeky little grin.

"I...I don't understand what's happening here." He chuckled and wagged his finger between them. "Help me out." 

True, this had been an absolutely, astoundingly ridiculous arrangement. It had only been two days after the painfully awkward confrontation on the top deck, though Lucius had suspected Izzy had been giving him more of a wider berth to lick his wounds after the painfully uncomfortable “daddy” tantrum in the galley. He wanted to find the sick bastard on board who had been feeding the miserable little gremlin the idea to circle back on the offer, as Izzy was not the sort to just welcome absurdity after being politely reminded to go spew himself.

What certainly upheld that sentiment was how the older man looked almost plastered by the back wall, standing beside a bed far too laughable in its pastels against his dark leathers. His jumpy gaze was focused on everywhere but the scribe, lips curled in disgust from the room permeating reminders of the man he despised the most.

Lucius thought for a moment before he closed the book and placed it to the side with his quill. He placed one leg over the other, as flamboyant as can be in an attempt to show himself as nothing of a threat to whatever repressed emotions Izzy currently held onto. He attempted a smile and gestured to the bed.

The courtesy was not fondly returned, as Izzy remained infuriatingly bolted in place. He was glowering, waiting. He made an impatient point to the paper.

Lucius just shook his head.

"I'm being serious. Help me out. You can't say yes and then act no. It doesn't work like that, love."

He was fighting back his grin, so gleeful to be sitting here with this bizarre little fantasy come alive. He was still experiencing the mental playback of being confronted in the jam room only an hour prior; Izzy’s offer still hissed in his ears like a threat. The tingling along his left wrist persisted, right where it had been tugged.

But Izzy refused to speak now. His arms tightened further around his chest, head dipped just enough to give his glowering a more predatory weight. Nothing of the sort certainly happened, that he insisted.

Lucius Spriggs never considered himself a dominating man, but he knew he had to take the reins this time. Even if Izzy was too proud to commit, the jumpiness in his eyes showed he was more spooked than anything else and, well...Lucius could never ignore such sad eyes.

"Ok, fine then…I'll just talk for you." Lucius clicked his tongue and retrieved his items. "I made sure to test the bolt on the door, so nobody is going to come in."

In his mind, even the deepest assholes still had some warmth to them. Izzy Hands was not a pleasant man, but he was still human with a heart and something deeper had pulsed out of him in a strange moment of humanity, something pained and repressed that showed different shades of the little brute at the strangest of times. He'd rather die than confess it, but his fear was easily expressed on his features; it was the toughest emotion to mask, aside from its loving counterpart. Even men like him felt such things, and Lucius was determined to sniff out tonight which one was truly guiding this stubborn project.

He hummed as he brought the clean nib of the quill to the paper, pretending through the motions to stir up a response. His initial offer had definitely come off as a taunt in return, but he was always genuine in making it. Negotiating with a personality like his against one like Izzy’s was like trying to bring the sun into the black anger of a storm, but a delicate moment like this had the potential for something beautiful.

Glancing up again, he tested those choppy waters by offering a genuine smile.

"I know, it's a lot for you. And…it took a lot, so yes. I get it, I do. Here to play, not to fight." He motioned to the dining chair that was caught between them, woefully out of place but a convenient prop. "Please trust me on this."

A further display of his intent, he tilted the book to show the bare page, witnessing Izzy's shoulders loosening from his next exhale. 

In a way, he supposed he pitied Israel God-Damn Hands the same way he had pitied Fang, as just two men trapped by the expectations of a wicked way of life when he himself had taken for granted the luxury of care that Stede Bonnet (opposite in his way of ridiculous but just as odd) had provided him.

Izzy was looking at him now in a way that expressed that he too was mulling over similar thoughts. A heavy sigh escaped him that made him drop his arms like dead weights, hanging in a light swing at his sides before they stiffened up again and curled his fingers into fists.

"Blackbeard insisted that I do my part to be a better…member of your crew." He was glaring down at the floor. Clearly, it was a very much rehearsed response. "He was not fond of my suggestions of discipline and order on this sorry excuse of splinters after he returned from that pomp fuckery with Bonnet, and demanded that I "play nice", his words." 

He finally nodded at Lucius. The air of danger was still present in the tightness of his scowl; a guard dog, lured in by something and yet backed into a corner.

Well, even bad dogs still can earn pets, can't they?

"I…promise you that I will not keep it." Lucius said slowly. "And, I also promise to not say a word of this. It's probably tacky as fuck to you, what I do but…" he closed his eyes and swirled his quill in the air, fighting for the best way to express his perspective in a way his model would understand.

Ultimately, he shook his head at his own silly thoughts, sighed and opened his eyes. His next smile was a sad one.

"I know you think of me as some…some boneless little tart but what I do is art. It's…it's my window into what I admire in…" his lips blubbered at the squint he was getting. This was like trying to explain a painting to a blind man. 

"...forget it."

He was about to close the book again, poetically writing off this nonsense in one fell swoop before a low groan brought his gaze back.

Izzy was no longer posturing against Stede's fancy wallpaper, but he looked no less uncomfortable from the tightness in his jaw and how he stood, ramrod straight and desperate to look imposing.

"They'll find out." He rasped. "Can't hide shit from your filthy noses."

Lucius scrunched his own, unable to hide his smirking as he leaned back into his chair. That absolutely was an answer that opened the door just a little bit wider…

"That won't be on me. You have my word, Mister Hands. A sketch as your apology and said sketch as a show that I can play nice too."

"And I keep the picture."

"Absolutely."

"...but…naked."

Lucius scrunched his brows and nodded slowly. This time, he employed every bit of restraint that he could muster in not making a stupid face then and there, lest he spook the man and kill what progress they had already made.

Coercion was what they called it, the quintessential scoundrel's game. A good pirate loved swindling the meaning around- the game of risks and rewards. If Izzy was more comfortable speaking on his own grounds, then Lucius didn't see any harm in recreating the banter they shared before.

"Yes? It's obvious that's my style." He mused, sitting a bit straighter. 

"Are you, the Israel Hands, really that afraid of showing some skin to a silly bloke like myself?" He made a gesture to the tough leather and straps that were so nonsensical in their Caribbean locale. "You're a bloodthirsty brute, haven't you had it worse like, like getting stabbed in the liver or burned up in a raid or something?"

After a few more heavy seconds, Izzy made a noise and shifted in his boots, his expression souring in on itself as if jabbed by a deep pain. Lucius nibbled on the inside of his cheek. 

Was it good manners to ask a pirate what awful shit they've done?

He winced from a stray nip of his own tooth and blinked away the beading tear as he watched the first mate clutch at his lone glove and peel it off with a hiss as though it were a second skin.

"O-oh…" Lucius whimpered.

It was a hideous, mangled thing, all sinew and wrung up as if the skin had torn and blistered and had been hastily shoved back onto the bone. A perpetual pinkness glazed the surface in a phantom heat he could only imagine was responsible for the perpetual agitation on the older man’s features.

"A dip, in boiling fat." Izzy snarled at him. "Yes, I've been part of raids, like a real pirate." He made it a point to curl the thinned fingers, glowering at their ugly states and cracked knuckles. "I was captured after witnessing one of my men beheaded by a war axe, and I was tortured in an attempt to get information that you will never have the grace of knowing because you are no pirate ." 

Finding it futile at this point, he dropped the glove to the floor as if it were rubbish, staring at it in a moment that almost felt mournful. His stern expression tightened only further, deeper into a fit of emotion that clearly struggled against the memory.

"Everything I have done, was out of my respect for Blackbeard." 

Those hurt and angry eyes were back on the scribe again.

"I have taken so many pains and discomforts for the happiness of my captain. Because in the end, it is the honor of serving under Blackbeard that I do it all. No…this does not make me afraid."

He took a step forward, a slowness that made him feel twice as tall.

"This is my honor.” He gave his bad hand a brisk shake. His lip trembled. “I'm ugly. I'm fucking chewed up . Upon Edward's insistence to mingle with you sorry lot I will consent to your filth, not on my terms but yours, I will not enjoy it- you will not get that satisfaction." 

Lucius briskly nodded. Izzy only spoke in threats and orders, a language meant for far less deserving men than a man like Lucius, but something about the softness of that rasp continually betrayed the dangers they both continually danced around. Izzy was a vicious man, distrusting and unkind…and yet there was an eloquence suggesting a bygone era, hopelessly squandered the more Lucius looked upon that tight wrinkled face. So much stress and hardship had been carved into it, that he wondered through a dry gulp- was it truly an honor to endure in the end?

Unfortunate to them both, they were two men of equal footing in the game of stubbornness. 

"Then what is stopping you, right now." Lucius managed to say through a throat squeezing in on itself. He knew his own hand was trembling as he made a come on gesture.

This gamble was suicidal, himself of all people taunting this incarnation of misery that fouled his ship, but it was the pity Lucius felt for such a wretched creature that made him remain tight in his chair, squinting to push back the emotion in his eyes.

To his surprise, Izzy said not a word more to him. Rather, he held his gaze in a silence that neither of them wanted to break but both equally suffered in.

Something finally twigged in the older man, an affirmation only he would ever know, but Izzy eventually snorted and began to side step out of view. Lucius strained his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

He listened to the boot steps- where they moved based on sound. Avoidance of the rugs suggested that Izzy wasn't anywhere near the door. Instead, a curious shuffling of fabric clued Lucius into the wild, inconceivable notion that the first mate of the Queen Anne had instead slipped through the curtain towards Stede's private library. The sudden reminder that the fabric itself was not at all opaque startled a terrified sort of selfish glee to squirm in his belly. 

Right, privacy; something that certainly was unaccounted for during the "inventory" time in the galley. (Sorry, Wee John.) But…if Izzy insisted on it now…?

As he adjusted his neck kerchief and puffed up his cheeks, Lucius listened. There was a tightness prickling up his throat when he heard things being shuffled around- heavy thumps and the rattling of tiny metal bits. The back of his neck tingled and his heartbeat began to pound in his ears, tickling his brain with tantalizing theories of what was going on beneath all that hot leather...

Oh fuck , this really was happening.

His eyes fluttered, and he shook his head. References for the art, nothing more.

He had to wonder though, what exactly did Israel Hands look like on his own?

Leg bouncing, tongue licking repeatedly over drying lips, he bit his lip and stared at the paper as he thought.

Blackbeard was expected to be riddled with tattoos and smelling of brimstone, but Fang was soft and delicate after he spread himself wide on another man's bed with every bit of hair on him raised in jubilation. The human body was a beautiful thing when it relaxed, absolutely detached from the strings pulled by its mental self.

Even with his tattoos and brimstone, Blackbeard surprised them all by exhibiting himself as jovial and pleasant a man as any other, a sobering revelation that extended to his crew. Fang was sweet and kind. Even Lucius' own Black Pete, the exhausting Teach boot-licker that he was, bloomed into a different kind of boisterous once he got over his own need for validation...

Lucius tapped the feather of his quill to his bottom lip as he thought.

That bizarre outburst in the galley...what did Izzy have to hide?

There was an unmistakable sound of naked feet sticking to the waxy wood behind him, for Lucius Spriggs was no stranger to creeping around decks without shoes. The little plip-plip sounds increased into an uneven shuffle, almost overtaken by the shakiness of a breath that sounded so close to his ears. Dutifully, he kept his head forward, feigning interest in pricking his finger with the quill nib as a shape passed into the corner of his eye. 

It was blurry and a delightful cream, so very human despite the insistence of its owner. The fact that he saw more cream than black made his mouth run dry. A caught feeling of being watched overwhelmed him, so his gaze continued to rove further and further to the left in order to continually keep Izzy effectively out of his view.

Part of him wanted to grin like a maniac, so excited he was to know that the Israel Hands was currently naked within his vicinity. The man had become something of a legendary hunt for him and his strange hobby, as while Lucius had cataloged the forms of every man on the Revenge, he had yet to capture his own captain on paper. Same for Blackbeard, then there were talks of other legendary pirates out there to be encountered yet. In a way, it was both an honor and a terror to know he was going to bear witness to something so incredible that the opportunity may never come again. Stripped down to what God gave him, all the titles in the world meant nothing to what man laid bare.

The petty, vicious, unyielding Israel Hands...standing before him now, commanding attention with the tiniest of rasps.

Lucius Spriggs had never found himself to be a man who respected devils like the one before him, but he dutifully chased the sound to properly look at a man who had chosen on his own grounds to filet himself of his precious armor and with it, his reputation.

It all made sense now, why Izzy had been insistent on moving that damn chair around at the start of this meeting. It was now effectively shielding his nethers and was being clutched like the last line of defense. His expression was striking in how similar it was to the one he took during his sexual taunts, a profound mix of sorrow and spite towards the world.

Lucius parted his lips, jaw dancing for a moment before he swallowed air.

"I…um…" he was staring at the older man's knuckles, hearing the popping in their sockets from their panicked hold along the upholstery. "I know you're already, uh, committed but…if you really don't want to do this, we can stop."

Izzy surprised him by nodding. His nostrils were flaring and without the loose fit of his shirt, the skin of his chest shivered against his ribs. He continued to stare at Lucius, though his eyes looked distant and his mouth slacked. His next breath sounded like a dying man's grasp.

He licked his lips, sighed and hung his head.

"This needs to be done."

Lucius blinked. He cocked his head and frowned at the sorry sight before him.

"Does it?"

The expression he saw was curious, almost flattered. 

"It does. I do not back out of my promises."

There was definitely more to say, but Izzy refused it. He instead stared at the seat and tapped his fingers along the rim before he slapped the back. He took a few steps back, but not enough to reveal the entirety of himself.

Lucius hesitated, his actions slow. He turned to another page out of mindless reflex and only broke his gaze to dip his quill into the ink pot.

The stark sincerity was such a mood flip that he felt nauseated for a moment. For all of his confidence before, Lucius was no longer so sure. Dangerous men and rabid dogs both cowed before biting.

"Does blackmail count as a promise?" He asked, a laughable attempt to keep the mood light with humor.

He honestly wasn't sure if he would consider this all "blackmail", compared to the attempt Izzy made about Fang's sketch. Lucius had only teased this idea to stir up a laugh- dislodge the skewer up the other man's ass. He was starting to feel from the overall mood that Izzy was trying to make up another name for a redemption.

Once he was satisfied that the quill was properly soaked and his clean page smoothed out, Lucius looked up with his tongue pressed against the back of his front teeth, ready to tut out another remark. 

Whatever thought he had entertained, it had died in the water the moment he bore witness to an incredible sight.

The positioning was awkward, as it was obvious that the man was not used to peacocking himself, but Izzy was laying in his best recline on Stede's bed. Everything was presented without cover, from the scars in no set pattern along his soft skin to the healthy spread of his body hair along his chest to taper off in a clean line further south. Lucius kept his peep to the man's loins only as a parting glance, though he knew his own smile betrayed his tightened lips by tugging at the sides. He had seen many penises in his time, both out on sea and in all of his sketchings to the extent that they shouldn't really stir much of a response anymore. In truth, that brief giddiness was not of perversion but of admiration, to be an audience to the natural formation of the male body and to be trusted in capturing his most well guarded spot.

It was only a quick glance, but he still treasured the moment anyway with a rosiness to his cheeks that was definitely, unashamedly there. Izzy really was lovely, in all of his angles.

"You really are a queer lot." The man finally spoke. His voice was small and uncertain.

Lucius smiled as he started his first lines.

[peacockeryabound]

With the wonderful attention my previous Red Dead fic has received, both here and on my Archive in regards to my Micah and Arthur, I think when I have the time I will write a follow-up of sorts...but with more of a focus on Hosea and Dutch. I've been meaning to write a dance fic between them for a long while now.

"The Fox Trot" has a good ring to it, no?

[peacockeryabound]

Dance of Deviants - Part 3

(From the story of the same name on my AO3.)

Synopsis: The dance goes on, and only a select few maniacs can pursue it.

(Pairing: Micah Bell/Arthur Morgan)

Something flaky touches his nose and tips with every breath until it tickles his nostril enough for a sneeze to come. His type had always been loud - almost a bark - and the power of his heave was enough to jump his body on the cot like a beached fish. 

In the dead of night, there was hardly any light to blink through. Arthur's eyes were watering from the stimulation and the near blackness gave little to work with, so he had to rely on blind faith of his fingers in rubbing his face. Whatever had been agitating him had fallen off before he could pluck it, either onto his shoulder or his cot, leaving him to grumble and paw at himself in no particular urgency while he laid back down. 

A couple of minutes later, just as sleep was ready to steal him again, he felt another scratchy flake tickling down his face. This time it caught on the corner of his mouth, stuck by skin oil and poking into his lip from an agitated twitch. He cussed at himself from the power behind his own slap to it, leaving himself stinging and more awake than ever. 

Was it the tent flaps? He swore he secured them…

As Arthur scrunched his eyes shut, hissed from a pop in his shoulder and pushed himself onto an elbow, swatting at nothing under the impression of night bugs coming in…he stiffened as he heard it. A fleeting scrape, exactly the sharp sound of metal shaving through wood fiber. Something fell onto the slim patch of chest hair poking out his half-done union suit- another itchy thing that was so small it shouldn't have bothered him but shivered every muscle in the spot.

The scrape sounded off again. A shaky rasp hissed through the air, terrifying him in the moment as he didn't know if it was his own..his eyes shot open and he stared into the darkness, finally recognizing the shape of something looming over his bedside.

"What the hell?!"

It took every last nerve of his restraint to not just shoot Micah.

After a week of absence, he had half a mind to lash out and beat the bastard out of the other man for causing him so much worry, worry that he couldn't even put perspective to. Micah was just that chaotic of a force that stood beyond reason.

It became uncomfortably apparent from how many shavings he now felt scattered along himself that Micah had been standing there for quite some time, whittling away at a small block of wood he was holding in outstretched arms. Arthur expected him to be grinning like the asshole that he always was, delighted to dig under another man's skin…but he wasn't. 

Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark space, Arthur could only catch the heavy frown set above a mustache now trimmed, shorter and noticeably twitchy. Micah's eyes were obscured by the brim of his hat, even at the angle Arthur was straining from.

"...you gonna talk, dumbass?" He growled. He brushed off the mess while he waited. 

"Yeah." Micah's soft voice felt all the more unnerving in the dark. "Was just returning the favor."

Arthur blinked.

"...what?"

Micah blew wood dust at him and he winced from the sting burning at his eyes. He pushed himself up and ground the heel of his palm into his sockets while a fresh chip flicked him right on the chin and tumbled down his pec. He was getting ready to sass back when Micah was suddenly hissing over him, the most riled Arthur's ever heard him.

"Oh, piss off with your slow draw act, Morgan. It's gotten old. Just shut up, I am trying to be a good little boy and capture my Juliet in the moment."

He rewarded the ruined mood by carelessly dropping the statuette onto Arthur and punctuated his disappointment by ramming the tip of his blade right next to the journal on the bedside table.

"You really inspired me, cowpoke." Micah leaned a bit, tipping his hat to finally look at Arthur, though his stare was anything but composed. "I gave you something real special back there. Ain't it kind to share all that artsy crap?"

He had started to absently stroke along the book once he had grown tired of fingering the handle of his blade.

Arthur blinked at him before his eyes shot to the book. His breath was hitching and he balked into a glare as he stared back at the other man.

"Did you go through my journal ?"

A hot bolt of terror pierced him right in the gut, throwing the rest of him into a nauseating spin. There were some very personal entries in that book, not just about Micah but of the tender secrets and opinions of other folks that Micah of all fucking people had no god damn business knowing about. It was one of those scathing moments of insight that made him regret ever helping a man who culled half a town over a hissy fit about his guns.

Whatever was in his tone must have shook the bastard, for Micah lost his bite and dumbly stared at him for a moment. Even in the dark, those baby blue eyes looked sad as they always did, even through the pout he took to look at the book, lost in thought.

Micah then grinned.

"What if I did?" He cooed, pulling up the leather cover before dropping it. His middle finger stroked the string binding in a lazy circle. "Don't I have the right to see how you drew me, pervert?"

He winced from the backhand brought to his hip, himself retaliating with a smack to the same hand as it readied another punch.

"Gettin' touchy, ain't we?" He snickered. He made a show of shaking his hands as he raised him. "Ain't my fault you were the one staring at my ass like an invert-"

He took Arthur's pillow to the face. 

"Shut the hell up! You want the whole camp to hear?"

By the time Micah yanked it off, he could see the bigger man already pulling himself up. It didn't stop him from giggling, higher in pitch than he wanted but finding himself not caring in the moment.

"Oh-ho, so you do like me! That's…that's cute, Morgan." He hushed down, breathy and oddly giddy, as he tested the moment to brush a stray shaving off the other man's chest. "...h-had to step away from you for a bit, Juliet . Get my head straight."

He made sure Arthur understood the slow sweep he made across his shoulder, down to the elbow and back up in a slow rub. The bravado was flimsy, himself snorting on his own breath in an attempt to remain composed. He waited for a response, face twisting into a sneer out of nowhere before he puffed himself up and gave a theatrical sigh that impressed neither of them.

"Sappy little Arthur Morgan, defending my honor. I remembered. I remembered catching you, rubbing me all tender like…Big, strong, noble idiot…" he finger walked along the button line of the union suit, licking dry lips, "I never thought you the boy-kissin' type- ey-ey-ey!"

They both froze, eyes only on each other the moment Micah clapped his hands on Arthur's chest in a panic. His breath stuttered and his fingers tapped on their own accord. Arthur's pectorals tightened inside the scratchy cotton, flesh thumping under a dampening palm.

"What's…really happenin' here, Micah?" Arthur's voice was far softer than it had any right to be. He kept his hands readied by Micah's shoulders, posed like hawk talons with the intent to strangle him. He watched Micah swallow before giving a shrug that was far too small for his ego. His nostrils were blown wide to give away the shallow breaths he was struggling to hide.

Arthur took a step despite there being almost no distance between them, beginning to smirk through the shift of power.

Big bad Micah Bell…already buckling now that he lost his edge. Standing there, paralyzed by the heat and muscle beneath his hands, fingers fanned out across another man's chest with the reverence of a working girl studying her first dip into male flesh…he could laugh at the absurdity of it all. 

He didn't. 

Arthur instead felt his heart stuttering from the sight of Micah appearing to be swallowing excess spit, knowing the other blonde was going to feel it too, that traitorous drum beat.

Their tense stare almost melted the world around it. Everything felt muddy and sweltering.

As awkwardly as the push came, it relented without much grace. Hands back up, fingers curling into shaky little paws, Micah kept swallowing and failing to hold back the need to pant. Even in the dark, Arthur can see the wide eyed stare that had little reason to look so shiny.

Micah sucked in a deep breath and nodded to nothing in particular. It was jagged and brisk, followed by a glance that darted and the tiniest "uh" that whimpered out of him. The exhale was sharp.

"I always believed…in an eye for an eye, cowpoke." Micah's voice turned stiff. He nodded again, putting on his sloppiest attempt yet at a confident smile. "A-as I said…I'm just returning the favor."

Just as Arthur was about to open his mouth, Micah grabbed the journal and bolted out of the tent. 

“- HEY!”

Arthur nearly ate the dirt in his frantic stumble out, buttoning his trousers with one hand while clutching his boots with the other. He caught Micah hopping up onto Baylock who had been waiting far too close to be coincidence, just as he saw the shitty little grin that caught the scout fire's light before the nuisance kicked his spurs to drive the stallion out of camp. Arthur cussed under every rock and trash fragment poking into his bare feet during his awkward attempt at stealth towards the horses, mouth so dry that his whistle came out more as a spitty breath. Even his mare had to take three attempts before raising her ears up at the hitching post.

He never realized how awkward it was to try and tug on shoes while balancing on a horse. His mare protested but kept eyes on the target, dutifully kicking her legs to their limits in an obedient attempt to close the distance as she chased through thickets and up inclines, faster and further away from the frogs and crickets of the damp Lemoyne fields and back up into the dry New Hanover prairies. 

“You goddamn animal!” Arthur barked, already drawing out his revolver. It was a bluffing move, but the sentiment was far too real. 

He growled at his own barking style of laughter, tossed right back at him.

“Well, that ain’t nice , Arthur!” 

Micah drove his horse into a herd of passing bison. Arthur’s mare staggered when one on the tail end drew too close, neighing in protest while taking a sharp right to follow the right flank. Arthur grimaced as he winced under the crack of a revolver shot, watching a big bull crashing into the ground after getting close to ramming at the other outlaw. The rest of the herd scattered into a violent panic, forcing him to tug on his reins hard enough to get his Arabian to strafe and make a wide turn around the building perimeter.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?! The hell’s the matter with you?”

Oh, Charles was going to be one more name to the list against Micah now…

He growled at the casual look back. Micah gave an exaggerated shrug to be read clear in the distance building between them, twisting himself in his saddle to show off the act of opening the journal in a mocking air to peruse it. 

“-Oh! What a cute little wolf. That’s just darling-”

He nearly dropped it from the warning shot that kicked his hat right off his head, cussing back to Arthur as he pistol whipped Baylock against the ass to get him to kick faster. 

The chase was intense, driving them both to leap over small overhangs jutting the hillsides, through patches of uneven dirt and veering to avoid small animals nesting amid the prairie grasses. Micah tore a hard left towards upcoming railroad tracks, right into the light of an upcoming train.

“You want this back so bad, Juliet? You want me, sweetheart? Come and show me some teeth!” 

He whooped and charged right across the tracks, just barely clearing the space before the engine cleaved between them. Arthur nearly skid right into the blur of carriages, arms thrown around the neck of his mare to stop himself as she screamed and nearly slipped in her panicked halt. They both watched the endless crawl of the wailing locomotive, of the fleeting shapes of people peering out and the rattling of cargo bouncing above shaky wheels. 

As he palmed at his chest to calm himself, he felt a despair overcome him after looking to both sides, finding himself effectively trapped without an opening to bolt through. He slumped against his gentle beast, face buried in crossed arms as a shaky exhale wheezed out of him. This was it, he supposed. 

Micah was going to spill all his secrets now like the fucking rat that he was and parade it around camp with his usual shamelessness. He’ll be fattened up with blackmail opportunities, eager to poke at every hole in Arthur’s resolve, taking advantage of him just like he did with every other scrap of generosity tossed his way. Should have eaten that bullet that took his hat…

The sudden rush of wind running off the caboose was enough for him to raise his head, just barely. He pinched at the bridge of his nose and stiffened back up, head hung and humoring himself with pickling his sentiments over Pearson’s secret moonshine stash at the fire…until he glanced up and looked across the track.

Baylock was still there, as was his rider. The death’s head stallion flicked an ear while staring at Arthur with pale eyes, chewing on some dry grass while standing in place as Micah studied a page in the journal with a lost expression. Arthur’s breathing hitched again, something hot and tingling crawling down his spine and right down into his tail bone.

Something was not right, and it wasn’t the standoff between them. Micah’s earlier bluff in the tent didn’t make sense in his current body language, his jaw parted and cupping at his cheek, pushing his lips back into a pout to recreate what he was seeing. He brought his hand back to the page, tracing over the expanse and mumbling the words he was reading. When his eyes flicked back up to Arthur, he frowned and cocked his head, remaining where he was as the other man approached.

He didn’t say anything as he handed the journal back, holding Arthur’s stare with glassy pale eyes. 

Two outlaws they were, caught up in each other. It was a standoff for the ages, broken only by Micah nudging his horse to turn away, gaze still lingering on Arthur as he was carried in a slow trot up the dusty path towards the rocky hillside. 

He stiffened up, the faintest ghost of a smile escaping him once he saw Arthur beginning to follow him.

The urgency now fleeting, they rode side by side in a silence that didn’t need to be broken now. Baylock seemed to know the way, dutifully following the dug road without any tugs from his rider. The only time he glanced back for direction was to make eyes with the stunning mare beside him. Both horses exchanged a heated lipping once she got close, which earned a surprised snort from Arthur. 

When a faint footpath split through the grass on their left, Micah gave a whistle to get Arthur’s attention, just enough to allow him to skip forward and cut him off by crossing over. His stallion slowed to an almost somber walk despite plenty of space and no obstructions, a concerning show in how the chase just died then and there. 

Arthur remained at the bottom, watching. He felt like a school boy, book to his chest in a crushing press, palm damp against the back leather and fingers curled so tight he could hear a joint pop. It hurt to hold his breath and yet he struggled to let it go, enraptured by the sight before him. 

Thinking was hard- his tired brain was soft like cheese in the moment. All he could understand was the war beat pummeling his chest.

A smart man would know that this all looked like a setup. A smarter man would not be so easily convinced by whatever randy thoughts were spurred by a lick of the lips and a free dip back into bedside memories. A fool followed…so he did.

His delay made him easily lose sight of Micah, who had already crested the hill and wandered out of sight. Arthur swore he had come up this spot earlier in his travels, when a hunt for strange bones had taken him far off the common roads and deep into wild country. He had seen many funny sights, just as he had stumbled across cabins just like the one that rose up to greet him at the summit of his climb, lights on and absolutely alone. He had to pause, looking around for any signs of company.

Arthur may have been exhausted in the moment, rudely reminded of being awoken far too early after already too many long days, but he was not an idiot. Micah would never just lead him past a prime plunder spot and not capitalize on it. The glow of the windows invited him to slip off his mare and withdraw his gun during his approach. This was an absolute waste of his time, being dragged halfway across a county in pursuit of some childish dumbass who had nothing better to do…

A dumbass he had drawn pictures of, defended for honor and had been thinking about far too often. He sighed against the front door and rested both his head and elbow upon it for a moment. Once they were back in camp, he was throwing the dick to Dutch. 

Despite still being in just his union suit and trousers, Arthur was thankful that he had wadded up his bandana earlier and shoved it into his pocket after coming off a job with John. The arrangement was sloppy but it decently covered up his shame as he threw his weight against the wood and barged inside, Cattleman ready. 

“Alright, come on!” He barked, though he faltered as he realized he was pointing his gun right at Micah’s back. And, by extension, he was looking at his ass again, fuck -

Arthur instead dropped his weapon and pulled down the cloth. He felt more comfortable in looking for where the body was.

It really bothered him to see the cabin looking immaculate, spread out with the usual fixings on the shelves and tables. A few lanterns peppered the space in an intimate glow, capturing a look that was far too tender on a man like Micah once he turned around to stare back. Arthur gawked at the sight of the phonograph that had been the focus of Micah’s fiddling.

A phonograph, on a table that was far too small for it, where no sensible owner would even keep-

…there they were again, those nasty little implications that squirmed in his gut. The only dignified thing he could do was keep his mouth shut and stare, taking in the puppy-eyed look coming from the man he had always known as an unrepentant killer. He realized now why his attention lingered earlier on the odd trim of Mr. Bell’s mustache, as it really had been groomed for the occasion, as was the rest of him. 

Perfectly exposed under the lights, Arthur saw Micah wearing clean and properly tucked clothes for once. He had not only combed his hair back but it looked remarkably soft and fluffed, lacking the shine that the usual grease caught in the sunlight. Micah looked uncomfortable in his own fresh-polished boots, fists clenched and head low.

Arthur felt all the more ridiculous now, standing there half dressed and dusty from the chase.

“...What’s all this?” He asked as he holstered his weapon. “Micah. I said wh…”

He hushed himself as music started to play.  The tone of the atmosphere shifted, adding only further nuance to the dim lights, the clean space…the goose pimples raising up the back of his neck.

Micah took three steps forward, eyes still on him despite how jumpy they looked. His breath was catching noticeably, defecting back to that little nose wiggle he took to when caught back at the tent. A sharp inhale stiffened them both while he closed his eyes, an exhale parting in a slow breath while he prepared himself for something.

“...You alright, Micah?”

Arthur blinked at the hand offered to him.

"On…this beautiful night," Micah started, biting his lip and blinking his wet eyes, struggling through his breathing. He was so god damn nervous, way out of his element, "will…you dance with me, Arthur? A-Arthur Morgan?"

There was music, a fanciful tune of violins and cellos, yet the world was silent to Arthur in that moment. He was locked into a stunned state, holding his breath until his lungs burned and his eardrums throbbed, the world turning into funny colors as it felt slowed like molasses. It was familiar to a trick he often pulled when lining up his shots, just as he was now watching that outstretched hand as if it were the fleeting moment before a quick draw. Micah couldn't even blink, jaw slowly moving like a puppet and brows pushed together so troubled-like because lord, he was such a sensitive little rabbit…

Arthur accepted Micah’s hand and the world resumed at full speed. His nerves went crashing down as if he were falling, choking his next breath into a knot within his throat. His smile was dumbfounded, trying to settle on shaking his head at the absurdity and nodding because it pained him to see another man look so helpless, especially Micah Bell.

"Sure." He laughed through a wheeze.

His mind was brought back to the tent, fingers laced with Micah’s to comfort him during his nightmare, just like he did now as the poor fool looked ready to retch on himself from no doubt a similar sensation. After this was all said and done, weeks down the road, Arthur will have his fun in teasing. For now, he remembered the secrets entrusted to him as he settled closer to the other outlaw, chest to chest. This night clearly took a lot of effort to pull off, an unheard of act of passion from a man leading his own crusade against everything and everyone.

"I…I ain't gonna laugh." His voice was soft, reassuring while Micah squirmed from the sudden closeness. They both fumbled on where to put their hands, himself rumbling while Micah cussed under his breath as if he were spilling bullets. "Here, put your hand-"

"I know how this works," Micah snapped and clapped his hand on Arthur's ass, "Fuck off".

Arthur had to stare up at the ceiling while he pulled the hand up to the small of his back. Playing the role of the female, he cupped Micah's chest and tried not to laugh in his face once he saw it burn red. He promised.

Micah was never not a lying bastard but Arthur feigned ignorance of the inexperience, closing his eyes and being guided by the sway that he was being pulled into. 

Was this better than sleep? Truthfully, he still felt like this all was some absurd dream, but the peace of knowing things were alright and very much real against his flesh had energized him. There may never be another night like this.

He cracked an eye to glance down, catching Micah staring at their feet.

"Never thought you was a slow dancer." He mused.

"I’m just warming up.” Micah grumbled and pulled him forward. They settled into a stumble before taking to a rhythm, sloppy and nearly stepping on toes but it was progress. Arthur began to exaggerate his footsteps so that his pattern was easier to catch and follow.

The temptation was so strong, but he killed a thought before it became words. With how their banter normally went, it was too tempting to ask if this was the dance Micah had been strutting around Mary-Beth to get, which they both knew was not the intended offer. Micah had flirted with and got beat down by every woman in camp by this point and had always walked each attempt off with a chuckle. Now…this was an entirely different animal. He was clinging to Arthur as if afraid to lose him, squeezing their fingers in a white knuckled hold as he overworked himself to just remain composed. His face was soured into a glare, so deep in focus he didn’t even notice the soft eyes fixed on him.

He tripped onto Arthur’s foot when the hand on his chest slipped up to cup the side of his neck.

"T-the hell you doing?!"

"Just admirin' my Romeo. " Arthur grinned at him.

Christ, Micah was so cute in this moment. Arthur wished this was his normal baseline instead of whatever the hell it was when he made a mess in camp. He was jumpy and panicked, so ready to kick in the embrace but something about those expressive pale eyes just did something to Arthur's firm hold on him.

Look at you. Christ…look at you.

Arthur kept him tethered with eye contact while he petted along the soft skin, cresting the jaw to stroke his thumb along it. This pitiful fool was so horrendously touch starved, made obvious from his fingers clawing into Arthur's clothes, his eyelids fluttering. Every small whimper rolled up shivers that almost encouraged him to snuggle against Arthur’s chest. 

The very notion that another dirty outlaw felt compelled to bathe, just for him, was honestly one of the most touching discoveries, to say the least of where they stood now. It deserved some reward.

He hooked his free arm around the small of Micah’s back, using it to help catch him once he spooked during the lean in to press their cheeks together in a tender nuzzle.

"You ever dance with another man?" He had to ask, lest he poke the hornet nest too blindly. His breath was no doubt tickling Micah’s ear, if the shivering felt against him was any hint.

Micah looked ready to curl in on himself, head down and face tight into a pained look. He didn’t say anything for the longest time, instead settling back into a leading sway that felt more like a dying man’s shamble, hugging so tight it felt almost like a desperation to get into another skin that wasn’t his own.

Arthur remembered that same stripped down feeling when he had kissed his first man years back, when he had been nursing liquor to burn the pains of his family, the same way Hosea had taken to self medicating after losing his wife. Arthur had tossed around tantrums of disgust too, feeling it degenerate and desperate to nestle against another beard but…after the loathsome tingling had died when the kisses continued, he had realized then and there, halfway into some stranger’s lap in a back room of the bar out in Van Horn that it wasn't too much different than necking a girl. More hairy, less supple but…it really hadn't been a big song and dance in the grand scheme of things. Body heat and tender touches were universal in how they nourished the spirit. 

He could say in his current place that he better understood the plights of folk like Bill and now Micah, trapped under the demands of polite society. 

"...that pomp show you did with Mary-Beth…it wasn't because you fancied her, huh." He mumbled. By this point they had stopped moving altogether, instead clinging in an awkward hug as the music carried on without remorse. He took to petting his fingers through the softened pale hair, lulled by the distinct scent of sweet soap tickling his nose. "I saw you lookin' at me right before."

Fingers were digging into his back. Micah had all but shoved his forehead onto his shoulder, hissing while the rest of him squeezed through every snarl as if he were being branded. 

But Arthur didn't laugh at him for what shame he felt. 

His broad hands found the same spots between the shoulder blades, casting wide rubs to warm some resolve back a man who so often convinced himself to be implacable. 

Big bad Micah Bell, misery incarnate that walked the earth, now shedding down into his most fragile of states…right into the arms of the only man he clearly trusted. He whimpered from the soft kiss pressing against a parted spot in his hair.

"I got you," Arthur grunted. He was being squeezed so tight that there wasn't much space to breathe. He closed his eyes to kiss the crown spot again. "You're a good dancer-"

"Stop." 

The wet croak should have surprised him. He stood still, loosened up and quiet as Micah pulled back, face flushed and shiny from sweat and tears. There was a distant glaze over his eyes and his hands were back up, exactly on the same spots along Arthur’s chest as they had been back in the tent.

“Ok.” 

“No, it ain’t …” The other blonde heaved, arms trembling until they thrust his palms into a shove. He screamed in frustration when those damned strong hands gripped his shoulders so hard the both of them felt the joints pop. “Get the f-fuck off me!”

“What the hell?” In the scuffle, Arthur barked over him. "You hauled my ass all the way out here for a dance and now you back out? No, stay-" 

He brought Micah back to him, an idea he regretted due to a knee suddenly crushing his groin in a rough kick. He was brought down to a cussing hiss, tears stinging in his eyes while trying to squint through the pain. Micah stood there like an idiot, face flashing through emotions of amusement and anger and back to terror as he stumbled backwards into a corner.

The fool cowered from the slow trudge that came his way, and he let a sob strangle him when the hands around his shoulders didn't.

"Micah…" Arthur's voice was an uncomfortable high wheeze, "I'm going…to kick your ass for that..."

He stroked his thumbs along the crisp fabric of the dress shirt to ease down the tensing beneath it.

"...F-for all this?"

"No…for kicking me in the balls, asshole."

He leaned in with a pained smile, pressing his forehead to Micah's. He could feel the other man's hands twitching between the space of their hip bones, hovering over those guns he seemed to love more than anything else in the world.

Untrue, as those glassy blue eyes were regarding him in a soft manner Arthur had never seen before.

"Y…y-you tell anyone about this, I-I will kill you."

Arthur was quiet for a moment, studying the tear streaks. The rapid breaths against his lips sent a pang of sentiment down into his gut. He nodded, faking a shaky sigh of his own to remain docile.

"Alright."

He leaned in, putting this standoff to rest with a kiss to Micah’s lips.

No, there was nothing wrong with kissing a fool, be they man or woman, the highest of politicians or the lowest of beggars. Knowing well how crippling that loneliness was and what demons it manifested, Arthur held Micah close, his hands cupping softened cheeks. He kept his mouth simple- nothing more than a press, to test and settle into. Micah was nearly tearing the collar of his union suit in the death grip held onto him.

Arthur could feel his own mustache dampening on one side from how much Micah's nose was sniffling. He could feel the opposing heartbeat in the crush between their chests. When he pulled back, he caught the other man with his eyes closed.

"Feel good?" He mumbled, hushing Micah again as another cheek stroke drew out a whimper. "This what you wanted?"

It was obvious. No lunatic went through all this trouble just to have a dance. He wanted Micah to acknowledge that. He already came to peace with himself for why he followed along.

He watched a half-assed head shake and leaned in to kiss him again, this time making the sound heard to seal his own commitment. Arthur Morgan was no coward.

"Take it easy. You're doing well. It's really alright-"

"No it isn't, Arthur." Micah choked at him. His bottom lip was trembling and his hands balled into fists. "I-it ain't alright! No man of the Bell name is some disgusting invert! My daddy would crawl out his grave a-a-and take my balls if he could!"

"Micah," Arthur sighed, though he was distracted for a moment by how warm his chest felt. They were now on a first name basis, and he felt a tingle of pride in his belly. "I don't know if you noticed but…" he pulled them both back to the center of the cabin and placed their hands back into their dancing hold, "Our gang ain't normal anyway."

He took full advantage of Micah's sensitivity in the moment to resume the slow dance they had been attempting, stroking along his cheek to keep him placid. 

"We got folks of all colors. We got women. Got Uncle…" he chuckled, hoping to hear it returned. All he got was a small mumble and god, the way he was being stared at now was something else. For being such a rat bastard, Micah could pull off a perfect wounded expression. Knowing now it was actually real and not another one of his ruses made Arthur feel more absolute than ever to protect it.

He had been part of tea parties with Algernon and carried Albert like a bride through the gator mud of the bayou. He had been part of campfire confessionals between Dutch and Hosea, who committed to new loves and old honors but still held hands as they mumbled over philosophies. He had tracked down strange beasts for a man in a dress and had obliged a hug for a one armed beggar who mentally couldn't leave the war. The world was full of queer folk but in the end, it was those strange encounters that reminded him that the world still had hope to be free. If those tender moments made him an invert then hell, he'd wave a flag. They had all been much better company than the stuffy pomps of adjusted society.

He had an idea, once he glanced around the space. Guiding Micah with him, he broke the embrace to instead turn the other man around, standing behind him and peering over his shoulder as they looked at their reflections in the standing mirror.

"Look at you. All dressed up for a good thing. Wondered if you ever caught it, Micah…but we got inverts too."

He knew better than to spill out Bill's secrets, but the look he was being given told him that Micah clearly didn't take it that way. He noticed his own cheeks burning at the implication but ran with it, standing up proud and nodding. 

"Yep."

That was him, big man Arthur Morgan. Enforcer of the legendary Van der Linde gang, accomplished gunman, team muscle…kisser of men. Surely that was one of his smaller sins, but he still nodded as though it were some gutting secret.

If anything, it hit a nerve that he had hoped. Micah's jaw finally stopped quivering and he dropped his shoulders on his next exhale, eyes twinkling as he stared at Arthur through his reflection. It was an opportunity to keep going, so Arthur did.

He wrapped his arms around his fellow sinner, chin on his shoulder and hands rubbing at the sides. He could feel the definition of Micah's soft belly there, smiling without shame as he seemed to find some tickle spots.

"Why do you care so much, what the world thinks when you know it hates you right back?"

He brushed the fluffy hair out of his way so he could place a few slow kisses along Micah's neck. He groaned into his final one when he felt a firm rump arching back against him.

"Hell with your pa. Him dead sounds like the best thing for you." He slipped a hand over the belly swell contained behind the snug shirt, holding Micah tighter with his other arm once he squirmed. "You ain't ugly. You ain't a freak…you may be bent, but you ain't broken."

He kissed a bit harder, almost in a vampiric tug to fight back against the crumple he prevented in his strong embrace. He chased every sob with a kiss along the expanse, trailing meticulously along every dry patch of neck he could find while holding Micah close, stroking his stomach and blindly swatting around until their hands joined again.

"If you would just…stop shitting on yourself with this idea you're nothing but shit, then the gang will like you more." Another apologetic kiss, this time right on the hickey spot he accidentally made. Arthur smiled at it; it had been years since he last made one. "I like you."

He pulled away and was careful in turning Micah back around to face him. He rubbed his hands on his pants to ensure his thumbs were clean so that he could use them to wipe at Micah's eyes while giving him a warm smile.

"You're a one-man riot who makes my life hell…but I keep coming back." 

Micah sniffled at him, huffing through his nod. He cast a glance elsewhere, remembering that music had been playing the whole time. It was enough to reshape his focus, to exhale and rub at his face with the heel of his sleeve.

"You piss me off, a lot." He grumbled, refusing to look back. "You're a big bastard in combat and yet you're so…god damn nice."

He balled his fists and snorted. 

"You're so nice a-and it's disgusting. People walk all over you and you just smile like the moron you are and yet they all love you after you break your…y-your back carrying them."

He snapped his gaze back, wounded and yet resolute. He pointed, just like he did at Mary-Beth.

"Fuck you, fuck you a-and your art and your cute talk and your honor and…and…"

He was panting again, but he closed his mouth and lurched through his breaths, sad eyes watering up again. He didn't fight back this time when Arthur pulled him back into a hug.

"That's the nicest thing you ever said to me." He smiled, rubbing at his back. "I know. You ain't gotta try to fluff it up for me." He bumped their foreheads again and let him go. He took a few theatrical steps back, as if he were pained from the loss but he knew how Micah got when he felt constricted. This constant back and forth was reminding him that it was still late into the night and his bones were tired, but Arthur was nothing if not a committed man.

"You're not off the hook though. You got all prettied up and made this big plan to dance, so…we're going to dance, alright?"

He didn't immediately go back for the next grab, instead holding his arms out to see if the mood was still there. Micah clearly had a lot of devils to tango with first, but it was a good start. His smile grew as the other blonde took a deep breath, straightened up and closed the distance. 

Micah's eyes were still watery but his attitude had shifted in that moment. He was letting his gaze roam, increasingly bolstered as he understood now that he was safe in expressing himself. He was the one cupping Arthur's shoulders, testing their firmness with rubs that quickly slipped back down to the muscles in his chest, an obvious happy spot. 

Arthur held still for him, watching with a hooded gaze. He must have looked so graceful, a peak male specimen in this exploration. He amused himself with mental images of a proud buck in the morning sun, courtesy of Charles.

At least his little jackrabbit was no longer threatened.

He let himself settle back into position once Micah grabbed his hands to return them to himself, one cupped over his shoulder and the other stroking on his cheek. They both exchanged messy smiles.

"Hey, pretty boy." Arthur mumbled.

"S-shut up." Micah wheezed, though his expression was almost breathless, absolutely elated.

He remembered to follow Arthur's footsteps during their return to the music, swaying and bumping hips and other things. 

Astounding as it was for Micah of all people to be feeling him up like this, the heavy tremble that Arthur felt in his own heart was undeniable, keeping him warm and fuzzy and light on his feet. Micah's gaze was doing things to him- fitting for a new picture.

"Starting to feel a bit exposed here," he laughed. He watched Micah tracing a finger over his exposed chest hair to get used to get used to the sensation.

"Huh?" 

"Just saying," he petted down a stray lock of white-blonde hair, "You're all dressed up for a show and I'm half in my long-johns."

The mischievous smirk he received was something else.

"Maybe that was part of the plan," Micah Bell, baddest man in the county, giggled while petting along Arthur's beard. He made a bratty face when Arthur arched a brow.

"Uh, yeah. Easier to take off."

Their laughter started out in small huffs until Arthur snorted when he couldn't stay serious anymore, barking out loud until it broke Micah's control and he too joined in, the both of them howling in a feedback loop every time they looked at each other. They both failed miserably at holding their breaths to try and hush down, only to start all over again.

They were almost to their knees in their hug by the time they both finally controlled their lungs. 

Micah was the one who pulled him back this time. He had a look of gratitude in his soft baby blues, lips set in an honest to god smile of content and it stole them away into a tender mood, swaying and bumping into each other like giddy boys. 

Arthur let him lead. This was his plan, after all. When the record finally settled into a scratchy finish, they must have lazily spun a hundred times. Micah ceased his footwork to look over at the phonograph, almost lamenting that it was over.

Of course, it wasn't.

He returned his gaze to Arthur and his eyes began to lock up, his blinks becoming more and more delayed. Arthur knew that tell all too well.

So, he pretended to be moved by the fingers digging into both of his biceps by lowering his face just enough and closed his eyes.

He waited, mouth closed and almost parted, breathing halted to telegraph the idea of spellbound forgetfulness. He pushed his chest right up into his rising shoulders when courage rallied the other outlaw's lips to greet his own.

Micah clearly wasn't a soft kisser, but this was good practice. Arthur held no disdain for working girls but he silently thanked them for their dedication to whatever they had to endure. This was his rodeo now.

Part of him wondered how long it was going to take until those hands began to cup elsewhere, or else this was going to end up feeling like something at gunpoint. Micah hardly moved his lips beyond a few timid pecks, but after letting one linger too long something changed. The next kiss delivered more pressure, the full pucker and parting sound. Then came the next, staying longer while tense fingers caught on the union suit during their ascent. They tangled in the back of dark blonde hair and scraped along a stubble, squeezing tighter from the jubilation of strong arms wrapping back around him. The beginnings of competition made him groan into their first bout of mutual nipping.

"You gonna fix that?" Arthur mumbled into a peck on a mouth corner, nodding his head in the direction of the skipping record. Micah shrugged and kissed him again. They both smiled.

They enjoyed it, until a distant cussing and the cries of their horses spooked them. Arthur stood up straight, blinked at the door and then made a glowering side eye to the other blonde.

"You didn't spot check? "

"How was I supposed to know he'd get home early?" Micah hissed while fishing for his gun. 

"Since when did you of all people give a damn about keeping it clean? I was looking around for where you stuffed him!!"

"I wanted to impress you, asshole!"

They both aimed at the door, chest to chest, cheek to cheek, sassing at each other like smiling devils while cocking the hammers of their revolvers.

[peacockeryabound]

Dance of Deviants - Part 2

(From the story of the same name on my AO3.)

Synopsis: Maybe he should have not tempted fate by saying he was going to rub off on Micah, for Arthur was starting to feel like it was becoming the exact opposite.

(Pairing: Micah Bell/Arthur Morgan)

Arthur stayed, just long enough to finish the sketch.

Even under the protection of canvas, he could tell from the creeping heat that the morning had long passed. Dutch was going to start sniffing him out soon, but Arthur enjoyed the next few seconds in closing his journal to cup it in one hand, pencil in the other, resting his arms against his thighs during a leaning sit. There were far more important matters.

He could not confidently recall the last time he had ever witnessed Micah sleeping. The other blonde was still resting on his belly, arms snaked around his pillow with his face half buried, eyebrow long loosened up from whatever dream had stolen him. His lips parted on occasion to puff out air, maybe a stray whimper.

Micah, for reasons only known to him, had made himself vulnerable to Arthur and only Arthur in that moment, finding comfort in his presence to actually sleep for once in a camp he felt no comfort in. It had become an unspoken agreement between them then and there, allowing himself to share that vulnerability and knowing full well what Arthur was doing with it...

Arthur watched for a moment longer until a small smile grew on him. No other person in the world was going to hold audience to a moment like this, nor was his sketch ever going to do justice in providing the satisfaction of looking back later down the road. He pushed himself back onto his feet, beginning to tuck the small book back into an inner pocket of his vest.

You're the only one here who really gets me.

He paused. Micah never spoke like that.

It was a mental replay that made Arthur bite his lip, eyes set hard into a too-eager stare that surprised him more than the automated way he opened his journal again, found the page by finger memory and set the tip of his pencil to the paper. There was an uncomfortable sense of sorrow lingering in his reluctance to look away, just long enough to pen down those exact words right above the graphite capture.

Indeed, Dutch's voice was distant but it was a growing bark. It was only going to be a few more seconds until it would be booming and assertive, demanding muscle for yet another foolish job. It was selfish of Arthur to do so, but he grumbled, bristled up and glared upon his subject one more time. What he witnessed had twinged something deep that overrode his sense of decency.

The distance was closed in less than a heartbeat, his hand cupping a trembling shoulder. Micah had stiffened up instantly, having curled in on himself moments prior like a toothless pup, whimpering and scrunching his eyes tight from a wicked spell that had suddenly possessed him. A nightmare?..

"I know you're in camp, you sorry bum. Don't you hide from me."

A flinch startled the both of them. Arthur almost gave him a brisk shake to knock it off but held back, instead hovering his hand above the spot. It was almost like a conditioned reaction from the trembling outlaw, suggesting pieces of a history that soured deep into Arthur's gut. He caught Micah's hand before it could grip a chunk of his own hair, cussing at himself when their fingers just happened to lace in that moment, a tether so tight it made his knuckles go numb.

"Arthur!"

Shut the fuck up, Dutch.

That hoarse tone and the stress of losing time had kicked his actions into an impulse beyond sensibility. His own agitation at playing the errand boy was tightening to a snapping point the closer those boot sounds were, so close that the jingling of the spurs could be heard shaking in their facets. Only a thin wall of fabric separated them now, and Arthur held his breath. He'd take this secret to his grave, but he squeezed Micah's hand back and brought it up to his lips for a firm kiss. 

Whatever memory was caged away in that violent head had kicked in from association, for Micah's death grip on him had started to loosen, a labored breath squeezing out of him as his expression shifted to something sad but calmed in his throes. Arthur's thumb stroked over his whenever he tried to seize.

"Arthur! The hell is that boy..." Dutch at least had the good sense to not tear open the flap. Despite the uncertain noises, he instead found another poor soul to bother. "...You seen Arthur?"

Arthur's heart stuttered in that moment when a familiar coo sounded out. Mary-Beth.

"Hm? Oh, no I have not...I think he rode out with Javier this morning."

That was untrue. She had been sitting right next to Grimshaw as he and Micah ran their peanut act. She saw the both of them entering this space...it didn't make sense, but he couldn't deny the squirming in his gut at the implications. Fresh heat burned into his cheeks and up his forehead as he looked upon Micah again, brushing away a line of moisture as it beaded from his wrenched eye and trickled down towards the bridge of his nose.

Dutch's lingering silence was becoming one of the few occasions that Arthur felt truly distressed by it, as he was its current source of ire. He brought Micah's hand up to kiss it again, silently pleading for the sorry bastard to continue his silent streak now despite twitching through his nightmare.

"His horse is still here." Dutch's tone was practically burning through the canvas. Arthur could feel its direction set upon him.

Shit.

"O-oh...I meant "rowed", Dutch. They're going fishing, out on that lake there."

"And since when did Javier ever express a care to fish? He can't even swim, Miss Gaskill."

Those spurs clicked again with each step. Against his better judgment, Arthur found his free hand twitching above his holster.

"Arthur is teaching him! A-and Micah is asleep for once in there Dutch, honest. Please don't..."

He must have been quite the sight, aiming his revolver right at the tent flaps while holding the hand of his enemy. If this was how he was going to lose favor then so be it. 

His heartbeat choked out his own breath inside his throat. The seconds that passed tormented his free thumb, which tapped like morse-code against the hammer of his Cattleman. When the notable hand print against the tent flap disappeared after a painful moment extra of lingering, Arthur felt through his exhale that his soul was leaving his body. He stood there, almost boneless, jaw dancing in a furious tremble as hot adrenaline burned through his resolve.

The voices were softening, his best guess being Mary-Beth using her charms to lure Dutch away. Whatever they said was lost upon his ears in that moment, his own panting drowning out the world as his back unzipped and he sank back down onto the crate, gun clumsily shoved back into its holster so that he could wipe at his face. God damn.

He cast a tired glance back over to Micah, eyes widening again through a fresh bolt of emotion at realizing he was being stared at. The dull blue eye peeping out at him was glazed over, intoxicated by whatever body drugs were made for deep sleep. It was like staring into the eye of a dying fish, unblinking and clueless.

"Heeeeyyy....." Micah slurred, nose scrunching up in a more tickled way once he realized what their hands were doing. A sleepy giggle escaped him as he gave a squeeze, wiggling his fingers along Arthur's.

"Easy...easy..." Arthur croaked back. Fuck, his throat was so dry. He reached out to rub along the other man's shoulder, hoping to tease him back into some semblance of peaceful sleep. "I gotcha..."

Micah was smiling at him in so a sweet way that Arthur wasn't too sure if he was the one caught in some weird dream. Thankfully, the teasing set in and Micah's eye closed again. Arthur continued his petting, alternating between sweeping hair back and squeezing their joined hands until he could hear Micah's breathing had slowed down. He pulled his free hand away, but hesitated on his other. 

"...What's got you?..."

He wasn't too sure who in particular that question was aimed for.

-----

By the time he felt confident in creeping out undetected, Arthur felt a dull throb between his ears. 

Hunger was gnawing at him and the sun burned at his eyes, but he turned tail on both to make a direct line towards his horse. He was fast in adjusting her saddle and all of its fixings before he vaulted himself up onto her and spurred her out of camp. It was best to get away, lest he draw any further attention.

As his pale mare carried him up old dirt paths into the southern roads towards New Hanover, Arthur loosened the reins and scratched at his neck. Perhaps this flight of cowardice was more so to protect Micah's honor than his own. He could stand his ground and shrug off any fool talk against his reputation but Micah would rather starve himself in his tent than show his face again if the rumor mill persisted. Distance was healthy, that was a convincing excuse.

Even his horse turned her head to glance back at him. 

"What? Get on." He grumbled to her. "He's a tough bastard, he don't need me to mother him..."

What a crock of horse shit.

The regret burned down below his ribs at that. He left Micah there, fragile and exposed to an entire camp who would rather hogtie him than hug him. Shit shit shit. You are god damn pathetic, you.

The mare bucked under him from the sudden sharp tug on her bridle. She stamped in a circle, pulling back despite the senseless lack of direction being prompted by her rider. 

"Arthur." A voice called out. Unlike the leery undertone of Dutch's call, this one was warm and drew a pitying smile from him.

"Hey, Charles." Arthur mumbled, rubbing on his mare's neck to console her while he watched him and the great Appaloosa trot out from a thicket, fresh rabbits and a turkey hen hanging fresh from her saddle. "Got lucky there, I see." It was a weak attempt, but the tease made them both chuckle.

"I figured that Pearson needed someone else to bother for food. I think best anyway at dawn." Charles brought Taima up to join the stunning Arabian, just close enough so that he could playfully nudge his booth against Arthur's. "I know you're going to ask me."

"Yeah. Get on with it, I know you saw it too. He was a damn idiot with tryin' that on her."

Charles shrugged. Their horses both began a slow canter together up the path, leaving him to cross his arms without much of a care to the destination. 

"Didn't bother me any. You comforted a jackrabbit. Not many care to."

Arthur snorted, though that pang he felt deep had crystalized cold from hearing what he himself thought in a moment of mocking fancy. Charles had been the one who had instilled in him the habit of drawing comparisons to animals when judging people, explained once during a tracking of a perfect elk bull far up in Ambarino. Animals were the first teachers, Charles had said, his hand at the time ghosting above a fresh track that was slowly freezing over in the morning's chill. Charles had said something else that was strange that night, long after the trail had gone cold and they had humored themselves with tall tales over a campfire, that he saw Arthur as a buck. Never said why, but Arthur was left to mull over the possible connections from then on out. 

He hadn't realized he had been staring ahead, almost slack-jawed, until he was nudged again. 

"Ah...come on," He hand waved him to save face, "...more like a rattlesnake. Bastard shoots first and blinks second." 

There were plenty of animals to compare Micah to, depending on who asked...but Charles only held onto his sure expression, watching him. Arthur could feel it, prickling down the side of his face as he stubbornly looked elsewhere.

"No, I do mean it. He's a jackrabbit." There was an apologetic glance down to the little beasts hanging behind his thigh. "What does a civilized man do to them?"

Arthur made a face. This was not how he was expecting this encounter to go, but he appreciated not feeling antagonized for acting like an equal fool back in camp. He glanced down between them, watching the dead animals bounce with wide, fogged over eyes. Something about the connection made his neck tighten.

"I dunno. Shoot 'em. Run 'em over."

"No respect for a rabbit, right?" Charles mused. He looked ahead to catch a fork in the road but still kept his grip slack. Wherever the horses chose was of no concern to him. "Buck hares are twitchy. They kick hard and have a mean bite. All they want to do is fight each other with no sense. Get them backed up and they run. Everything in this world is an enemy to a hare." He shrugged again, though his smile was larger and far more perceptive as he glanced back over to see the uncomfortable expression on his friend's face. "It's no business of mine, so don't worry. I'm not going to speak up about what happened. It's not my place to."

"Yeah...thanks." Arthur lost his enthusiasm in bantering, instead watching where their mounts were taking them and perhaps whatever scenery was beyond. There were too many thoughts complicating his focus in the moment. "A jackrabbit, huh?"

"You're not denying it?"

If anything, it was hard to deny the soft features of Micah Bell that were pressing hard against the backs of his eyes, straining his vision and drying his mouth. All Arthur could think about was the warm and fuzzy feelings messing with his stomach and all the way down to his toes, visions of soft pouting lips and softer gazes tickling an unruly spot in his chest.

He swallowed.

"Guess...not."

-----

He might have stayed out of camp longer than he intended. It was easy to get lost out in the unknown, be it by trail or train tracks, chasing the next wild thing to keep the mind focused and out of trouble. He picked some herbs, tracked some game, took a few stranded folk here and there back into town. He played poker in the Rhodes saloon, hoping the loudmouthed bigots in the war garb by the barman wouldn't notice him.

By the time he finally dragged his sorry ass back into Clemens Point some odd days later, he was confident that he could at least say he made a good amount of a haul to offer.

Dutch was giving him one hell of a look, peering through the smoke of his cigar with one thumb hooked into his gun belt as Arthur trudged by, on his way to the collection box.

"That's a lot of watches you got there." The big man started.

"Yeah." Arthur mumbled as he tossed them in and snapped the lid.

"Well...good talk then." 

"Yep."

He wasn't so sure why he felt cornered, as he was not normally a bothered man. Dutch was like a father to him, after all. They teased and talked about many things. 

The discomfort, however, had already been building as he was hitching up his horse. Even though nothing notable seemed to be different, that folk were still going on with their duties and banter all the same, there was a biting sense of paranoia that possessed him during his walk. Even Dutch's normally comforting presence felt interrogative and cold, sensations that only added to what Arthur wondered were the same things Micah felt as the pariah in the gang.

Jumpy as a jackrabbit...

Arthur paused as he stared at the box still captured in his hands. His eyes shifted faster than his head could follow, projecting an air that looked more spooked than he really was. Dutch had the stare of a fox, pointed and sharp in essence of...something, to his smile that just didn't sit right.

Knitting his brows, Arthur took his gaze elsewhere. He sucked in a breath and flared his nostrils upon exhaling, playing off the tired game by snapping his head in a brisk shake to clear his mind. He took count of all the faces nearby, the lack of one in particular making his cheek twitch as a creeping dread began to rise up.

"You alright, Arthur?" Dutch's voice stabbed into his lower back. It forced a tremble right up into his neck. "Don't you lie to me, son."

"I'm fine, Dutch. I'm just...I got a lot on my mind." 

He had never been a man of faith nor fate, but he closed his eyes and took a thankful breath when timing worked in his favor for once, delivered in the agitated voice of Molly. He could kiss her in that moment, listening to a choke coming from Dutch as she no doubt biffed him in the gut while delivering her own sermon unto him.

"- and here I was, all dolled up for ya, waitin' by the horses for you to take me to the show like you promised!"

"Jesus Molly, I meant tonight! Seven hours from now!"

"Ooooh, so you can tell time?"

"What in the god damn...what is that supposed to mean?!"

"Well, you certainly seem to come up early when givin' me your charms, now don't you?"

Arthur needed to get out of there. He had his hand clapped tight over his mouth to force down a traitorous snort, which only came out in scattered heaves that made him sound like a choking victim. He was quick to stumble into the path of the campfire smoke, passing off his flubbing as simply taking in too big of a whiff. The cover was what allowed him to escape the fleeting glances that were quickly darting towards the fight.

He faked additional sputters until the final twinges left his lungs, allowing a thoughtful frown and a more controlled sigh to escape him. He settled on a little stool by the fire, hands cupping knees, looking towards the direction of the horses and grumbling into the wisps once he noticed that Baylock was missing. 

Perhaps he was just making mountains out of mole hills. Micah was a walking disaster but he could take care of himself, bounce off every mouthy bullet fired his way. Arthur wasn't an idiot, however, to not have seen on occasion the hurt in the other man's eyes when he acted tough tough under scrutiny...and that reminder only pinned the guilt a little deeper.

Did he actually, truthfully like Micah?

It was getting harder to twist excuses when Micah Bell, the foulest asshole that could knock a skunk dead, vehemently refused to leave his mind. He was an impulsive, pig headed, trigger happy bastard who killed for sport. He took every slight as some petty war to die for. He had no filter, hardly bathed, had a gut like a bear in winter, drank like a fish, upheld the social charm of vulture with his head up an ass...and yet every desperate jab Arthur was making only made his leg bounce just a bit faster. He knew his eyes were blown wide, stinging from the bite of the wood smoke, himself no doubt staring like a man forced at gunpoint to make a confession.

Because, despite all of those nose curling descriptions, himself the fool strung along to play patience with the ass...Arthur could not shake the image of Micah smiling at him from a cheeky hide in his pillow. Arthur kissed the man's god damn hand, for Christ's sake. He was now the secret keeper to perhaps the only kind moment Micah had genuinely showed anyone...and it was towards him. He couldn't stop himself this time from smiling as well.

Micah Bell, the ornery renegade, with his baby blue eyes and pouting lips, always struggling to look tough through the perpetual sadness he couldn't seem to shake. Looking at him like that in the tent with a fondness reserved only for a person waking up to the joy of finding their doting partner...

It was gutsy to do it here in the open, but Arthur withdrew his journal again and opened it back up to the drawing that was making him mad. Funny feelings aside, he was rather proud of how it turned out, capturing a fragment of time where the pressures of outlaw life had been loosened and he had witnessed a bloom of something he could admit was beautiful, in a very ridiculous sort of way. 

Heeeeyyy...

"H...hey yourself, partner." He chuckled at the drawing.

[peacockeryabound]

Dance of Deviants - Part 1

(From the story of the same name on my AO3.)

Synopsis: Arthur danced with danger every day. He should have known what he was getting into when it came to Micah Bell.

(Pairing: Micah Bell/Arthur Morgan)

----------------

"O-on this beautiful night, will you dance with me, Miss...Mary-Beth."

It was such a stilted offer that Arthur had to look up from his game of dominoes with Lenny. 

He was not a peeping man, not even when he would round corners in camp and walk right into a moment of intimacy. Fights, stories, laughter, confessions; everyone had their secrets and their gossip, their own unique tells. He had learned to keep his ear out of things that tickled it. The look Lenny was giving him, however, suggested something different. The kid's brows raised and he was sucking in his bottom lip to compose himself, confirming in complete subtlety that the reaction was mutual.

Because, out of all the sorry fools in camp who got gutsy at flirting with their own, it was Micah Bell who was bungling it hard, right in front of the one woman they all knew would be his softest target.

"No, I will not."

Her answer made Arthur and Lenny shoot glances at one another. They were now both leaning on elbows and turned to face the fiery wreck of this humiliating display, Arthur tilting back just enough for his presence to be seen by her and Lenny was trying to bullet walk a domino.

Both sad fools, they both were, to not have jumped up so fast to go and slap some sense into the blustering idiot but...Arthur felt a hand clapping over his wrist, holding him down once the vehement snort from Micah made him almost jump up.

Mary-Beth noticed it too, or perhaps she was balking under the wild eyed stare that Mr. Bell was known for.

"I..." She couldn't escape the dignified pout she wore most days, which only drew him closer, hand extending in an offer that felt more dire than kindly.

"Arthur," Lenny hissed. His voice was quick, laden with amusement but also of urgency, "Give her a chance. She-"

Arthur hushed him as he overheard Mary-Beth speak up again.

"I got two left feet."

They both glanced at each other again and snorted towards the table.

Fortunately, Micah hadn't heard their snickering. His posturing was absolute, perhaps the only honorable thing to come from his reputation as a dirty sneak. Arthur saw Micah's outstretched hand curling in on itself, an inviting display tightening into a tense point. It trembled with his agitated breaths.

"I am not a monster , miss."

Rigid and low, that voice now became. It had summoned a fury that compelled Arthur to rip himself out of Lenny's grip, leaving the poor kid almost halfway flung across the table in a desperate reach to hold him back. It was the sheer disrespect of those words, of this bastard lying through his teeth in a floundering attempt to get frisky that had put this harmless fooling into fighting territory. He knew what Micah was capable of when he got twitchy like that.

He only held himself back, stopping right there within pummeling distance behind that mop of dirty blonde hair because he heard Mary-Beth's pointed rebuttal.

"No, of course you're not." She was staring more at that jumpy hand, ready like a rattlesnake. Milquetoast in demeanor and pretty in the face, she was still an established thief and in her next move reminded them all of that cutting wit. "You're just...not that interesting."

An apologetic frown, a batting of her lashes and there forth came a practiced sigh of disappointment, misdirecting herself as the fool to not see a suitor in him like the heroes in her books.

And it worked.

Micah was frozen in his spot for a moment before his finger wagged and his snorting resumed. A growl of "Very. Funny." clawed out of him as he followed suit in his shame, spinning with purpose on his heels to leave little pits in the soft dirt. His eyes caught Arthur's and a curled lip was the only fight he could muster in passing.

It was simply one of those dumbfounding moments where one - no, everyone - had to pause. Arthur loosened his hands after he realized they had balled into numbed fists, loosening a tight breath he hadn't been aware he was holding in. He stared at the trail of awkwardness left behind, in which the other gang members paused in their duties to gawk.

He knew what he was getting into, following the dirt clods towards the outskirts. A small hand wave to Lenny was good enough of an apology, as his voice was already calling out to the tree line.

"Hey, dumbass."

If it weren't for the fact he had gotten into Micah's good graces lately as the only one to play his games on a job, he would have been shot on sight. They both knew that, an agreement made excruciatingly clear from how the other man stopped with his back to him, tightening up his shoulders and arms as if he were ready to draw…but did not commit. 

The timid breaths droned through the awkward silence, one too many forcing a shiver through Micah's shoulders.

Arthur glanced down to the new abundance of forest litter beneath his boots, taking care in each step to really let his toes crunch down on the twigs he could find. It was a message that was plain only between them- don't you dare run .

"You really dropped her bloomers there." He chuckled, testing the limits. It was funny, but funny to him was absolutely not the same to his fellow outlaw. "What was that?"

"I don't know what you mean, Morgan." The other blonde growled. He still refused to turn around. "Can't a feller shoot his shot without being peeped on?"

Arthur raised his brows, arms crossed in an attempt to control himself. The urge to grin again was intense; Micah always had been a pathetic liar.

"Yeah, you was quiet, alright. Half the camp heard you tripping your words, moron."

"Shut up!"

Micah had spun on his heels, straining his lungs to breathe in the soupy Lemoyne air.

"Just…piss off, alright? We all ain't like you, pretty boy."

Pretty boy?

That was new, and it made Arthur close his mouth as he pondered it. It certainly wasn't the face he saw looking back at him in mirrors, tired and far too done with himself.

The stare they shared was becoming uncomfortable, his calm stance infuriating that cornered fidgeting from the other outlaw…yet he didn't care. Not a lick. He considered it good medicine for the asshole.

Instead, Arthur feigned a gulp and raised his hands, all projected as submissive when they both knew he wasn't.

"Alright, fine. Just…damn, Romeo."

"Fuck you, Morgan!"

He had to chuckle as he listened to those spurs spinning as their owner stomped off into the woods. He couldn't stop himself, grinning through every word,

"If you ever need a dance lesson-"

He wondered if Micah even could.

-----

Camp life, in the end, consumed everything. There were chores to be done, plans to be talked, supplies to be brought back. After swapping some stories over the dinner fire, Arthur had busied himself with splitting the last few logs before the sun fully dipped behind the distant hills. Pearson had managed to keep him after he had hauled over some grain bags, where together they had some beers while he listened to some tall story about a legendary coyote, taking mental note to investigate the next time he was in the area.

Indeed, life carried on. It was only on the next morning, as he was brushing out his horse that he caught a glimpse of Baylock wandering through the patch and got reminded of his rider. Again. Pearson might have nudged him once or twice after a few bottles.

Did he like Micah?

Not particularly, just as someone didn't have to like rats to understand their place in nature but he wouldn't be musing about the fool if there was any true deep hate there. For all of his shit temper tendencies, the man was a genuinely faithful companion in a gun fight and had some semblance of humor in camp talks. Perhaps there was a bit of pity to be had.

Arthur dropped his hand and set the horse brush back in his saddle bag, withdrawing a beet from another pocket for his mare to nibble on.

"Good, girl." He smiled from the heavy head that turned to nearly bump his own. He took a moment to stroke one of her soft ears. "You're alright. Just gotta keep you clean, you dirty girl…"

She made a small whicker to contest his laugh. The Count wasn't the only pale beast in the herd. White tracked everything.

Dirt and dirty tricks, absolutely, as a new splash of white wavered now in the corner of his left eye, mixing together with a stark red. All he needed to do was lightly cant his head to see the only man in camp who boldly wore such a fickle color for pants, though he absolutely was not intending to stare at Micah's ass along the way. It just happened.

There was a noticeable weight to the footwork that he caught, almost a lurch in a every step that suggested either the nuisance was boozed up or broke down from his ongoing insomnia issues. Arthur caught the burn of smoke that smothered everything else, a telling sign that it had been another night the fool suffered, no doubt endlessly playing with his guns at the scout fire as was habit.

"You alright, Romeo?" He called out his thoughts before he could stop himself. Shit.

Micah paused again, exhaling a heavy, clearly dramatic sigh.

"This again? Don't you got something better to do?" He glanced over his shoulder.

"Sure." Arthur found himself smiling, hands on hips. Might as well commit. "Like askin' what crawled up your ass after what you tried with her."

They were definitely fighting words, language guaranteed to hold an audience with Micah. It was a gamble to dig up skeletons now buried, but he demanded answers. Micah never was nice for the sake of being selfless. Something about that one exchange in particular showed a stranger, more rubbed-raw side that Arthur had never seen before.

He didn't let Micah speak, however, talking over the sputter they both knew was going to be worthless words anyway.

"I know, I know, you're gonna say you're a ladies' man and tell me all the other times you popped off on the girls in good fun and all. Listen, cowpoke, I can sniff your bullshit faster than you can try to bury it."

Micah curled his lip at him for a moment, giving a "what the fuck" sort of gesture with his arms before he closed the distance between them.

"Yeah, well...not all of us got a golden tongue like you, asshole."

It infuriated him to no end to see Arthur looking unbothered by his spitting, a fact that made the amused smile he was receiving spook something unhinged inside of him. He retorted instead through his fist, curled tight into a firm knuckling against the other man's sternum. His teeth were bared in an unrepentent smile as he watched Arthur stumble.

"Why do you care so much about that? You want her too? You get all bristled up like a dog seeing another man putting on the moves, don't ya?"

The point he gave after was less threatening, only succeeding in turning his face redder than his shirt as he scowled under a barking laugh. He had no idea why this was such a knee slapper, though Micah also should have found his peace offering sooner and not missed Mr. McGuire's return party.

"Oh yeah, those were some moves, alright!"

Arthur was wheezing, almost doubling over and restraining every part of himself to not just burst out in another loud uproar as the amount of eyes on them was only growing. He had to wipe away the building tears with the heel of his palm, snorting from the ridiculous straight posture Micah had suddenly snapped to, lip twitching and chest puffed in a feeble attempt to weather the attention of the others.

"Ah, looks like it's a mighty big stick up pokin' up there then-" He put his hands up again to deflect the readying fist his way. "Calm down, Micah. I'm just teasing ya."

It was time to reign back. Unlike this jumpy jackrabbit before him, Arthur actually had sense and meaning behind his motives. He made a point of taking in a deep breath and pushing it back out, watching those ornery blue eyes darting all over his person and finding the blushing cheeks to be rather cute on big bad Micah Bell. Ridiculous...but cute. Human. 

He clapped a hand on Micah's shoulder, his smile remaining harmless.

"Ain't right to me that you have all the fun taking the piss out of folks and I with my "golden tongue" can't." He patted the spot in a too-tender fashion, nodding towards the baffled squint he was getting until the gesture was mirrored. Micah's smiles were never pleasant, nor was a nod from him anything innocent but it was a start. "So...consider it me just worryin' about you...brother."

The word felt curdled on his tongue but it hit the mark he wanted. Micah had pestered him enough with slinging it around in an attempt to slither into his good graces, just like his tension in the moment had loosened and he flicked his tongue out to wet his lips, long having cracked from his anxious breathing. 

Micah lowered his head, hissing under the number of stares he caught during a cursory sweep. His smile was fighting to stay, to play along; believe the jest was real.

"Well...ain't you sweet...my best pal." He flashed all of his teeth in a long chuckle, smacking Arthur hard on the bicep and then tearing himself away. "Good ol' Morgan..."

Arthur noticed the jab dying in a sigh from the other man's lips, Micah's eyes beginning to strain under heavy lids. The man looked like hell when he stood like that, almost swaying the longer he stayed put. Clearly, this little exchange was burning the final threads of his energy, so Arthur sidestepped him until they were hip to hip, his hand slipping from Micah's shoulder to push under his bicep and up into his pit. He used the entirety of his slung arm as a guiding force, pushing the exhausted fool into a stumble with him.

"The hell you doin-?" Micah snapped out of it after a few steps. He tried to shove his way out but was crushed right back into his fellow outlaw's ribs. Arthur was a strong bastard, damn him.

"Would you knock it off? I'm taking you back to your tent, dumbass."

"You started all this!"

"Hey. I ain't the one caught trying to get cozy in front of the whole camp..."

Micah's hand was right on his pec, pushing at him like an ornery kitten.

"You ain't my mother, Arth-ur. Fuck you ."

Arthur exhaled through his nose and feigned a pearly grin towards Grimshaw as she stopped her sewing to stare at them both.

"Either I do it or Susan will. She's real eager to give you what on that age thing you said to her."

Micah and him both paused together, looking over their shoulders to catch the sneer coming from the woman.

"...take me to bed, Morgan."

"Why'd you say it like that.."

The tent wasn't an eyecatcher, a bit on the small side and equipped with only the necessities to make camping life a step up from sleeping under full exposure. Considering Micah's difficult relationship with rest, Arthur was not surprised to see how immaculate the bed and crates were.

"Yep, little patch of heaven, ain't she?" Micah mumbled as he pulled away to take in his space, hands on his hips. He was clearly digging for time.

Arthur hummed as he closed the flaps and tied them. 

"Get on it, moron."

"...are you still here?" Micah looked back at him. "Gonna undress me too, cowpoke? I know what sleep is like- hey!"

He could only stand there, hands back into fists as the other outlaw took a seat on his bedside crate. 

Arthur fished his journal from his vest and peeled it open. He licked the pencil tip while scouring for a clean page, ignoring the glare he was receiving.

"Just makin' sure you actually stay put. Don't want a shaky trigger finger out there."

When it was clear that he wasn't going to budge, Micah ultimately gave in and climbed onto his cot to tug off his boots. The silence between them felt oddly domestic, with Arthur letting his gaze roll over to watch the gun belt be delicately placed on the ground beside the white hat. 

He was honestly surprised that Micah hadn't cussed him out right there and shove him out; perhaps he really was dead tired. 

Another quick look confirmed at least part of the theory, as the grumbling pissant had gotten into a comfortable position on his belly, arms coiled around his pillow and…leg curled in such a lurid way that his ass was perked up. Bastard was grinning at him from where his face was half buried.

"Figured you'd want a shot for your art if you insisted on staying, sweetheart ..."

Now Arthur knew what it was like to feel pink in the cheeks while making eyes at Micah god damn Bell. He regretted licking his lips in the moment.

"Quit wigglin' your ass, Christ…"

"I dunno, cowpoke, you seemed really fixed on it earlier." Micah crooned. "Look now, who's insecure…"

Arthur glanced over again to catch Micah's eyes closed. A peculiar thought overcame him, dawning as he observed the picture framed before him. Micah hardly ever loosened up to this extent, often too alert to where everyone was at all times, watching his back from every perch…

He had laid himself completely exposed to Arthur in this bafflingly intimate moment, his gun belt out of reach, knife stabbed into a wood block that served as a headboard…it made for something worthy of a new page to scratch on to pass the time.

Arthur was about halfway through drafting the basic framework of lines when he was interrupted by a long purr that rolled into soft chuckling at the end.

"You really are a sap." Micah mumbled. He nuzzled his face against his pillow and stretched an arm out under it. "Hope you are getting my good side."

Arthur raised a brow. He sat upright, wincing from a light crack in his lower back. How long had he been hunched?...

"Yeah, well…someone's got to keep you in line. Maybe I'll rub off on you."

Micah snorted. His exposed eye parted, just enough to lazily squint at his watchman. 

"If you do, shoot me."

They both surprised each other with a shared laugh, which hushed as quickly as it came. Arthur scribbled for a few more seconds until he put his pencil down, frowning.

"You…really alright? With me in here…drawin' you?"

Micah closed his eye, sighed, and raised his leg to crack his ankle. 

"Only if you burn it, pervert."

When the silence persisted, Micah grunted and raised his head to get a more proper look at the other man. His cheeks and neck tingled from the patient, almost doting look that was taking him in, lingering for a moment more before dipping back down to add more to the elusive sketch.

"Maybe. Maybe not. If you behave…" Arthur smiled. "Gonna capture this moment- the only time in history that Micah Bell is actin' friendly."

"I'm always friendly to you, Morgan."

"Sure, sure." He paused and bit his tongue before he could let manifest what he actually wanted to say. This was a rare moment, insightful and fleeting, ready to be cherished. Even he was honorable enough to admit this was actually enjoyable for once. "Just…keep it up and out of trouble, alright?"

He studied the progress he made so far, perfectly capturing in graphite what he felt tickling his belly: a troubled man, snuggled up, finally at peace. 

"...cowpoke."

His breath stilled. 

"...Yeah?"

Micah was barely holding on at this point, his eye lid straining to push above his pupil. His jaw danced for a moment, finding resolve more easily in nearly chewing the fabric as he shifted. Despite the tiny voice and through the muffling between bed and elbow, he knew Arthur was leaning in close enough to hear.

"You're the only one here who really gets me. That's why."

[peacockeryabound]

The Last Honest Men, Part 1

(From the story of the same name on my Archive. Part 1 of Chapter 1.)

Synopsis: "Have a little faith", that's what he always said. He, of all people, shouldn't have to worry about doubting himself.

On the cusp of a new chapter in his life, cracking slowly under the pressures of his cause, Dutch Van der Linde begins to question if his heart is in the right place, and with the right people.

(Pairings: Dutch Van der Linde/Molly O'Shea, Dutch Van der Linde/Susan Grimshaw, Dutch Van der Linde/Hosea Matthews

-------------

There was something liberating, about standing at the cliff end of the camp to look out at the unspoiled frontier beyond. Horseshoe Overlook...it was still cold as sin and the camp assembly had staggered due to fatigue and hunger but what was important was they were out of Colter. This was the true spring lands, their little patch of haven in the spry woods. There was fresh wood, abundant game, berries and herbs...they had made it.

Not for long, not without sacrifice, but they made it. In celebration, Dutch perched upon the finest fallen log he could find and took to wafting a cigar while he enjoyed the beauty that the Heartlands offered. He could hear the girls behind him, fussing about with organizing, of Uncle sassing back over some unclean retort about his appearance. Pearson was preparing a stew that actually smelled halfway decent. It brought a smile to his face.

But only for a moment.

Prideful as he was, satisfied as he was, it was not easy to savor the entirety of the morning when Arthur was instigating a rundown behind him with Hosea over the losses they had sustained. They had to bury Davey up there in the mountains, forever alone in a land he had no choice to die in. Jenny had to go even higher, up near a frozen river with just two bits of wood to resemble her cross, miles away from any beaten road. Alone. At least Davey got to rest in Colter when they left.

The reverend gave him hell on that one, and that was a sermon coming from a man who couldn't say a straight sentence on a good day. It was pitiful, Dutch now remembered. Sean was still missing. Mac too, probably dead as well. Hosea nearly froze himself to death beside him on the wagon train. Little Jack, trembling against his mama in some broke down cabin in a godless blizzard...

He leaned forward, as if those few inches were enough to get out of earshot. Hand firmly cupping a knee, he indulged in his smoke again and licked the plumes rolling down his tongue.

Blackwater was a hot mess. It was the whole damn reason they were all here right now, running further into east territory when he had been scolded too many times by Hosea and Grimshaw about his original hard sell on settling west...southwest. Southern California?...all minute details in the big plan, unimportant right now. That he nodded too and exhaled through his nose, right down into the belly to savor the musk of the forest, all the pine and wood smoke that made his knees weak.

Losses had to happen sometimes. He had his time to mourn, but through sacrifice came victory, and they made it. He pushed himself back onto his feet and tightened his back, windmilling his arms to crack his shoulders into a pose that meant business.

"Friends," He started with open arms, "It's a fine morning." He took some steps closer to the two men, who each gave him tired expressions. "The birds are singing. The dew is fresh. It's a beautiful day in Eden, and we are its children." He slung arms around both of them, but only Arthur managed some semblance of a smile. Kid knew his place well; he had that faith in him. That could make any man feel like a powerhouse. Hosea...

There was one hell of a cold squint coming his way.

"You can talk of the Good Book with Swanson in a ditch. We are farther east now than the plan intended." The old man pulled out of the embrace. His nose curled to match Dutch's. "Arthur has the damn right to talk about Blackwater as it was what got us all into this mess."

Dutch stared for a moment until he gave a snort and drew Arthur in closer. He was mindful of the cigar as he gave the young buck a good smack on the back for his presence. 

"And we can talk about Blackwater, later. Let's not spoil the good fortunes we find ourselves in this morning, eh Mr. Matthews? Mr. Morgan?" 

There was something always charming, about the reception of Arthur's clueless stare and that exasperated sneer from Hosea that just made him want to grin. They both side glanced to each other, shared a sigh and both backed off to resume whatever duties had possessed them. He waited with a hand in his pocket and his cigar to his lips, smiling behind the smoke when the old man only took a few more steps before tensing his shoulders and pivoting back around.

Hosea pointed at him. 

"You and me, tonight. We're going to have a talk."

Dutch raised his cigar and gave a proper head bow. 

"Of course, old friend. Until then, go and take a walk under the warm sun. It'll do your legs some good."

Hosea made a dismissive gesture at him and stomped off, leaving him with his thumbs hitched into his belt loops while he surveyed the camp. It was coming together very nicely, not bad for a bunch of heathens on the run. With the majority of the tents set up, everyone was finding their own place amongst the chores. Jack was watching Javier tune his guitar. Strauss fussed over the log books under his tent. Susan barked orders for the girls to wipe down the tables while she smacked Bill upside the head in passing for nodding off against some crates.

A glance to his side took his focus back to his tent, where she stood there waiting for him. Dutch smoothed back his hair as he began to saunter close, performing a more appropriate bow when he was able to smell her perfume. 

"Mornin', Miss O'Shea." He mumbled into the back of her offered hand.

-----

Yes, even a man such as himself could have doubts, but he would have been a poor and sorry fool if he had turned back on his own beliefs for a second. Times had been tough and supplies were almost bone dry for the next few days, but the Van der Linde gang was nothing if not tenacious. A few of his boys were already out scouting towns and stalking targets, and blessed be the angels who stayed behind to ensure the camp was comfortable. 

He looked over his coffee cup, eyes following the shambling Uncle who stumbled by while digging for gold down his pants.

Alright...most of them. 

Dutch took a swig as if it were a shot and perked from a heavy grunting that sounded off behind his tent. He recognized that unrepentant growl anywhere.

"Arthur! What in God's name-"

"Yeh, well..." the outlaw shifted to keep the drunk man over his shoulder. "God don't want him today."

They both shared a chuckle and he watched the good reverend be carried off and daintily dumped onto his bedroll like a bag of sand. Arthur was dusting his hands as he sauntered back, waving off Dutch while he was given an appreciative clap on the bicep.

"Much appreciated, for going out and checking on him, Arthur." Dutch smiled through a nod. 

"Sure. Father Swanson told me all about his declarations of giving up the hard stuff." Arthur mused as he reached into one of his pockets. He deposited a stack of bills into Dutch's hand, returning the pat while taking pride in the stunned expression on the big man's face. "That came from his little confession at the poker table."

Dutch guffawed as he counted every dollar, glancing up as he watched his number one sauntering off with a whistle to his tune and a pep to his step. Arthur didn't seem any worse for wear after carrying an entire drunk over one shoulder, which would explain the energy behind his hat tip during his walk past both Hosea and the large rifle the man was cleaning.

Now, that was an interesting sight...

Dutch took a long drink while blindly dumping the bills into the collection box, observing the old blonde stand and mumble something to Arthur when they reunited. They both inspected the gun and Arthur made a jab about shooting elephants, earning himself a warm smile that wasn't too common these days. They walked off together, guns in hand and satchels slung around their shoulders, fat with supplies for some grand adventure.

He'd have to ask, what the big occasion was. In due time...

Dutch smiled at Mary-Beth when she sauntered past on her way to the cooking pot. She caught his eye and brought her book up to hide her face and the shy grin he swore he caught.

She ended up being on his mind for a good portion of the day, enough to distract from both the suspicious glances from Molly and thoughts of Hosea. It was only when Dutch sat down in his tent to draw up a pencil and his notebook that he truly knit his brows, licked his lips and really reconsidered his priorities. 

As he scratched down unrelated notes, he thought back to their time in Colter. Blackwater was enough of a stress riding on his ass but the bigger priority of sheltering and feeding their family had allowed him to stuff down the guilt of it for a time. He remembered the half frozen lethargy of the women, of Micah cussing up a storm over the living conditions, of Pearson trying to take a cleaver through what frozen game Arthur and Charles hauled back. He remembered the skin of his own cheeks feeling like it was going to chip away from the biting cold as he led a few of his boys up the hillside to eliminate the nearby O'Driscoll competition.

Dutch realized he had been scribbling a growing circle around a freckle in the paper. He sighed, dropped the pencil into the center of the splayed pages and leaned back to stare up at the roof of his tent. He couldn't get Blackwater off his mind.

No, he was not going to spook the gang by admitting to the horror show in the presence of those who had not witnessed it. It was not right, to bring the ghosts of that botched job back into the minds of the survivors who had outrun the bullets with him. He closed his eyes. Try as he could, he couldn't shake the image of Hosea, shaking like a shitting dog in front of a pitiful fire in Colter.

He had overheard Arthur mumbling to Javier one night over a campfire dinner, that he had been concerned over that harsh weather which was going to do the old man in. Everyone had suffered during the storm in Colter, but Hosea's poor health had dipped into a terrifying low that had left him sluggish and slow on the up draw. It had gotten to one point where it was uncertain to distinguish the rattle of his coughs and the shivering from the cold. 

Colter was the result of those Pinkerton dogs back in Blackwater...but it was also because of his own poor shots. That dead girl's face was going to haunt his mind for years to come.

"Dutch?" Molly's voice caused him to jolt. She was peeking through from a lifted flap, her expression suggesting she had been talking for a few seconds without him noticing. "Did you hear me?"

"Molly...Molly." He greeted back with a distant smile. "My sweet garnet from the Isles...c'mere, darlin'."

Her approach was slow, hesitant. This hadn't been the first time they got into it over his headspace lately, though she bit her tongue and sighed through her nostrils. Instead, the ornery thing folded her hands and cocked her head with all the presence of a scolding mother.

"You told me that you were going to take me to Valentine. For the picture show."

Dutch blinked. He might have been staring longer than he thought, as her nose was scrunching her face more and more into a tight glare. In the face of impending chaos, he did the sensible thing and closed his book. It strained a bit between his hands due to the pencil still trapped inside, but if bulging at the seams under pressure wasn't a metaphor that Hosea always lectured...

He grinned.

"The picture show! Yes, of course, Miss O'Shea I did promise you that." He stood up and looped an arm around her waist. The haphazard crash of the book behind him made the corner of his lip twitch. "This was...tonight, wasn't it- OW! Damn you, woman!"

Molly smacked him again, hard across his chest. 

"Well, if it was next Tuesday, I wouldn't be harping on you now, would I?"

She huffed at him and gave his mustache a light tug, her expression fighting to remain bitter. The longer they looked at one another, his hand upon her own cupping his cheek, all that came out of her was a small sniffle.

"Darlin'..." His voice was soft as he moved, chest to chest with his free hand settled on her hip. "You know I would give you the world. Do you doubt me on that?"

Molly looked uncomfortable. "Dutch..."

"Mo-lly..." He was kissing along her knuckles.

"No, I don't doubt you, Dutch..." her voice became hushed at the end. She made a defeated gesture with her hands before she crossed her arms and looked elsewhere. "Even if you make me want to." 

He watched her push by to take a seat on their shared cot. It had felt a bit cold these last two nights, despite the body heat shared between them. Something twinged inside of his gut during his approach, himself bracing for the tutting on the last time they had even made love during all of this mess. After he had taken a seat next to her, Dutch offered his palm to her back, noting her refusal to lean back against the sway of his stroking.

"I promised you a picture show." He repeated. She nodded. "I...got a little carried away, it seems."

If that wasn't a bullseye of an answer. Every member of this damned stubborn gang reveled in hammering that point in every day. Dutch Van der Linde, the dreamer, the fool (and all its variations), the huckster, the murderer. 

That last one struck deep, as was the dirty price of freedom. That McCourt girl's face was back in his mind, overlayed on Molly's face. Young, big doe eyes, lips parted in dawning horror from the crazed look of a madman pointing at her...a small coo was made and he blinked. It was so simple a sound and yet it unlocked a memory he had desperately tried to keep smothered down inside of him; Annabelle's voice. She made sounds just like that, right when he would tuck a curl behind her ear or draw pleasure out of her from his mustache kissing her neck...he flinched from her hand suddenly stroking his jaw, wiping something wet that had settled down his cheek.

"Such a softie." The voice gave a small hum and her lips were pressing against his.