rdrevents

[rdrevents]

The Wild Cat

Arthur returns to camp with a Christmas surprise

For @sad-sweet-cowboah for the @rdrevents winter exchange. I hope you enjoy this sweet little story 💙💙

The full story can be read below and on AO3

~~~~~~~

The snow was beautiful, but damn was the winter cold. 

The gang had tried moving a bit further south before the snow hit, but had only made it to a moderate climate before the snow hit and it became too much to move further. So while you weren't stuck up a mountain, you weren't in the nice warm desert either. 

Perhaps you were being a little extra grumpy this morning. Arthur had gone out on an errand for Dutch and Hosea, delivering mail and stopping at a fence to exchange some items for cash. Nothing dangerous, but it was a bit of a ride. Without your sweetheart sleeping beside you, the night had felt cold and long. Fortunately he should easily make it back by later in the afternoon. 

As you sipped your morning coffee, looking out over the white valley you were camped in, you tried to keep that positive in mind. He'd certainly been gone longer, and on more dangerous journeys before. But always you felt his absence. 

Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately), Mrs. Grimshaw wouldn't stand idleness, even when your mind was preoccupied with worry. In fact she seemed more determined to keep you working rather than let you sit in your anxious thoughts. 

By the time Arthur trotted in around sunset, you'd helped Pearson prepare some meats to preserve, had melted snow into water to do the washing, gathered coals from the fire pits to help Pearson cook, and helped patch a hole in Javier's jacket. Now you were taking some time to check the horses, picking snow clumps out of their hooves and making sure none had any injuries unnoticed. 

You didn't even have to look up when you heard the heavy footfalls of Boadicea crunching through the snow toward camp. Arthur’s snappy retort to Lenny’s call of “Who's that?” Was possibly the sweetest sound you'd heard all day, as grumpy as it was. He wasn't a huge fan of the cold either, and it made his rough exterior extra prickly. 

You finished picking the snow clumps out of Old Boy’s back hoof, setting it gently on the ground before straightening out. Arthur smiled as soon as he spotted you over the giant horse’s rump. 

“Hey darlin',” he sighed, dismounting before Bo had even come to a stop. He loosened her girth and removed his saddle bag before letting her loose to get some hay and find warmth amongst the herd. He tried to sling his saddle bag over his shoulder but stopped, lowering it to his side instead. 

“Bout time you rolled in,” you teased, brushing some snow off the fur of his jacket before wrapping him in a hug. 

“If it weren't for the snow I could have made that trip in one day,” he huffed, stomping his feet and rubbing his hands together. 

“Well I'm glad you're back safe,” you cooed, kissing his cheek before hugging him tighter. 

“Careful darlin’. You'll squish ‘im.” He chuckled, gently prying you from his front. 

“Squish who?” You asked, scanning Arthur's body. Surely he wasn't talking about his prick. He always loved when you pressed up against him there. 

“Not that,” Arthur huffed, following your gaze down to his crotch. He undid the top couple of buttons on his coat, grinning all the while as you spotted his surprise. 

An ashy gray fluffball with brown eyes peered out of Arthur's coat. You would have sworn it was a sentient piece of lint. It was hard to tell what the creature was until it let out a pitiful little mewl. 

“Who is this?” You gasped, reaching out to take the little cat as Arthur carefully unlatched its claws from his wool coat. The kitten immediately curled up against you, seeking warmth. 

“He ain't got a name. Yet,” Arthur grinned as he watched the cat search for an entrance into your coat. “Figured I'd leave that honor to you.” He leaned forward, stealing a kiss from you. “Merry Christmas, darlin'.” 

“What... He's for me?” You asked, looking between your sweetheart and the fluffy gray kitten in your arms. 

“Mmmhmm. I remember you talking about that cat you had as a little girl. When I found him I figured I knew someone who'd love him.” 

“Where did you find him?” You asked, watching as the short gray kitten tail disappeared into your coat. 

“Damn near the middle of nowhere,” Arthur huffed, rubbing his gloves hands together. 

“Just wandering the wilderness?” You studied the fluffy little cat, who was now peering up at you from inside your winter coat. “You sure you didn't bring home a mountain lion cub?” You teased.

“Well if you don't want him, give him back,” Arthur pouted. The twinkle in his eyes told you he was just playing along with you. 

“No. He's my little mountain lion,” you huffed, hugging the kitten close. Arthur chuckled. 

“He wasn't quite in the middle of the wilderness. I could see what looked like a homestead that burned down. I'd guess this little guy was the kitten of one of the barn cats. But he was all alone out there.” 

“Poor baby,” you cooed, wiggling your finger at the little kitten. Together you and Arthur made your way to the chuck wagon, and you easily found a can of salmon to feed the starving little furball before heading to your shared tent. The canvas tarps had been lowered around the tent to shield you from the cold, and to protect your privacy from the close proximity of your camp mates. It was still chilly, but the condensed space did provide some warmth. 

The kitten emerged as Arthur cracked open the can of salmon, smelling the yummy treat. Arthur set the can on the ground, and you helped the kitten pull itself out of your jacket. The ravenous little beast began scarfing down the salmon as soon as he was close enough, letting out little “nem nem nem” sounds as he ate. 

Now that the kitten was out in the open, no longer looking to burrow into the nearest coat he could find, you could study his features better. 

He was fairly young. Probably just old enough to be away from his mother. And even though the puffy coat you could tell he was skinny. The ashy color of his fur was textured with blacks and whites, giving a lot of density to his coloring. The tail was stubby like kitten tails are. But as this poor, abandoned kitten stood there, scarfing down the canned salmon, you couldn't help notice the happy way his little tail flicked back and forth. 

“I think he's a Maine Coon,” you mused, examining the kittens features. 

“Huh?” 

“It's a breed of cat,” you explained. “They're most popular up north in, well, in Maine.” 

“You know,” Arthur huffed, sitting beside you on the cot. “I never considered there were breeds of cats like there are horses or dogs. They're just... Cats.” 

“Trust me there are plenty of different cat breeds,” you giggled. “I'm not an expert. But I knew a woman who bred them. This little guy looks a lot like the kittens she had.” 

The little kitten was now finished with its meal and was now taking stock of the new environment. You wiggled your fingers at him, and the kitten focused on on your hand, ready to play now that he'd been fed. 

“If he is a Maine Coon, he's gonna get big,” you giggled, flouncing your fingers out of reach just as the kitten pounced. 

“Oh. So I did bring home a mountain lion cub after all,” Arthur teased. 

“Not quite,” you laughed. “But he will be one long kitty.” 

The kitten pounced at your fingers, narrowly missing your hand with its claws. He latched onto your skirt and climbed your leg, round eyes focused on your hand. 

Arthur watched fondly as the kitten played on your lap. The way your eyes shone down on the little creature, while your lips turned up in a giggle. 

“Do you like him?” Arthur asked. 

“I love him,” you said, grinning up at your husband. “Almost as much as I love you.” you tilted your chin up, and Arthur took it for the invitation it was and snagged your lips in a sweet but loving kiss. 

Arthur broke the kiss with a hiss, and you looked down to see the kitten hanging onto Arthur's hand, claws piercing the wool gloves while tiny fangs tried to nom on his fingers. You giggled and detached the fearsome cat from your husband's glove. 

As you held up the little kitten it let out a big yawn, tiny fangs glinting in the candle light. This time when you set him back in your lap, he curled up in the fabric of your skirt. 

“What are you gonna name him?” 

“I don't know,” you hummed, studying the little kitten. “I was thinking Ash, or Cinder to match his coat, and since he was found by a burned down homestead. Or maybe Coal, since he's a Christmas gift, but I've been very naughty this year.” You giggled. 

“No denying that,” Arthur teased, bending down and nipping at your jaw; the only thing he could reach with your scarf covering your neck.

“Thank you, Arthur,” you sighed, leaning against him.

“Merry Christmas, darlin'.” 

[rdrevents]

wound tending

summary: javier finds himself playing nurse and dealing with an oddly inquisitive arthur morgan who decided he couldn't lay in bed any longer recovering from blessed are the peacemakers

notes: happy holidays!! this is for my @rdrevents Secret Santa recipient, @teawithbee24! hope you enjoy

Time abandoned Clemen's Point for them all. They watched Dutch and Pearson unceremoniously dump Arthur onto his cot, while Arthur coughed and shined with the sickly sweat of infection. A chair was brought to his bedside like they were waiting for the tent to become a tomb, his corpse laying neatly for viewing. When the chaos became silent, Dutch ordered everyone to get back to the mission at hand - whatever that was. It could have been hours or months, yet they still obeyed. The gunslingers worked small jobs, the women did laundry that became mostly bloodied sheets. Pearson cooked with whatever scraps were offered. They ate broth and sat around the campfire. A lamp permanently burned in the quarantined tent, and few were allowed to enter. Fewer were allowed to leave.

Javier cradled his guitar like a shield, first frowning when he heard footsteps coming from the direction that had become a blind spot in his mind.

"Miss Grimshaw won't be happy to find you moving about," the musician warned, the last note of a song cut off lingering like smoke. Watching Arthur was like watching a feral animal explore its new enclosure with cautious steps and a hard stare scrutinizing each new obstacle.

"Keep playing and she won't need to know," Arthur scoffed, slowly and awkwardly lowering himself onto the log seat. His bottom lip almost vanished into his mouth, teeth clenching down like it was a gag designed to muffle the sound of a grunt in pain. Trying to afford him some dignity, Javier feigned intense focus on the tuning pegs of his guitar.

"How are you going?" he asked underneath the sound of the song resuming. Arthur's body went to slump forward with a sigh, before his left shoulder went tight in warning. He settled for rolling his eyes.

"Healing. Which I s'pose is good," he answered.

"You don't sound thrilled," Javier pushed, a coy grin on his face glowing in the firelight.

"I'm not meant to be lounging around. I need something to do, or I'd be better off dead," Arthur muttered in his own misery.

"The best thing you can do for us right now is to let yourself recover," Javier said, voice nearly matching the tune he was playing despite the inflection becoming lethally serious.

"Not you, too."

Javier's eyes darted towards something over the lake: the expansive nothing far more interesting than the irritated, self-pitying scowl on the lead enforcer's face. His tongue found English too clumsy to be sincere in: the brevity of the words not bearing the weight of what he wanted to say.

"It's true. We need you, Arthur. For a few days there, we didn't know if you were going to make it," he said flatly, letting his hands become autonomous as they kept plucking away at strings like any other night. There'd been too many nights that felt like any other: a night where he was on guard duty, struggling to keep his eyes open, when he heard shouting from camp and feared someone had snuck past him. The relief of realizing it was Arthur had already consumed him before he watched the others drag Arthur to his tent, their workhorse too weak to lift up his legs. Someone had barked for him to get back to his post - and shouting became screams as their ragtag medical crew tried to clean the gaping wound in his shoulder.

"I've been shot plenty of times," Arthur mumbled, the pause before his reply more telling than the response.

"Not like that," Javier insisted, forcing the quick flash of a grin as he turned his gaze back. "If forcing you to rest means you getting better, we'll chain you to your tent like a dog."

"I'm not overdoing it sitting out here," Arthur countered, exhaling a silent laugh. The quiet became comfortable, consumed by the persistent soft melodies that came with the presense of Javier's guitar by the campfire. Arthur caught his mind wandering, chasing his thoughts back to the sensation of his foot silently tapping in time to the beat. Despite Dutch's best efforts, music had always eluded him, but he recognized the four-time beat. "What's that song about, anyway?"

"Huh?" Javier asked, brain lagging behind the question despite Arthur's gesture to the guitar.

"The song you're playing. It's the one with the howling."

"El coyotito?" Javier confirmed, eyebrows furrowed as he stared at the guitar like a possessed object in his hands. "I don't know. I wrote it while I was crossing the desert."

"You wrote it, and you don't know what it's about?" Arthur jabbed, finally distracted enough from his own mind to snicker. Javier joined in, chuckling at his own expense.

"It's about endings, I guess," he divulged, head tilting as though in his mind he was listening to his own lyrics for the first time. "Death. I'd just left Mexico, having killed a man over a woman - a woman too good for me, who didn't love me, knowing that even though I fled, my family would suffer for my actions. The nights were cold, and I had to choose between lighting a fire and revealing my location, or shivering. For days, the only reason I kept moving was a single, lonely coyote following me. He looked as skinny and rough as I felt. It was like dancing: we were both starving, both waiting for the other to drop their guard so we could move in for the kill. One day, he was gone. I was completely alone, with no reason to go on other than not wanting to die. I started making up songs to keep myself sane. El coyotito ended up being one of the better ones."

"Huh," Arthur said aloud as he thought. Javier flinched as he realized Arthur had actually been listening to his rambles. The corner of the older outlaw's mouth twitched, rubbing his chin to hide the smile. "John's right about you."

"What?" he asked with unmistakable nervousness in his voice.

Arthur snorted. "You are a cynic."

"You're the one that asked," Javier defended, despite the unnoticed tension dropping from his shoulders.

"I guess you're right," Arthur admitted, defeat in the bags under his eyes despite the days he'd lost to sleep. His knees creaked with the strain of standing, a profoundly unsettling pop as he tried to roll his shoulder and caused them both to grimace. Glancing over his shoulder with the affection one would have to a prison cell, he sighed. "I should get back to the damned tent before Grimshaw wakes me up to change my bandages."

"I'll do it," Javier offered, placing his guitar on his old ratty bedroll as if he were about to tuck it in. He was on his feet suspiciously quickly, as if he didn't trust Arthur's legs to carry him the few yards back across camp. "I'll tell her I changed them. She might leave you be for the morning."

"Don't like the odds of me sleeping, regardless," the gunslinger scoffed, obeying the gentle shepherding back towards the wagon hospital he dreaded as much as hospice.

"Just let me see," Javier tutted, unphased by the grumbling as he started to unwind the bandages. With each layer, the cream color of cotton became more yellowed, finally turning red as the last of it peeled away like animal hide from a carcass. Javier squinted as if wrinkling his eyes would distract from the smell - not the pungency of infection, but still unmistakably raw. "It's oozing."

"Weeping. Wounds weep," Arthur corrected, teeth clenched as he braved glancing down to the macerated muscle that was his shoulder. Before his mind captured the details and draw comparisons to the image of trambled rabbits, the wound was erased by a fresh patch of gauze. Javier fell quiet in complete focus, supporting the weight of Arthur's arm in one hand as he wrapped the wound. The touch was strange: Javier's hands far rougher than Arthur expected with how delicately the man preferred to carry himself, but more readily capable of being gentle than any of his other temporary carers. His fingertips looked as flat as trusses, angled by the smooth, solid scar tissue of a lifetime of his favorite instrument: impeccibly clean, but still bearing a permanent nicotine stain between his middle and index finger.

Perhaps when he was allowed the liberty of a pencil, he'd try drawing Javier's hands.

"I think you're better at this than Abigail. Maybe you should be our resident nurse," Arthur teased. Javier laughed, hands tensing with the passing thought of hitting the patient. They softened again instantly, fixing the last length of bandage into place firmly under its own wrapping.

"I'd miss the fight too much," Javier replied, the irony and sympathy not lost on either of them.

"Sure," Arthur agreed, surveying the cot like a battlefield for the arduous task of laying down. "Well, thanks for the company."

"Of course," Javier dismissed, despite the sudden softness in his voice. His footsteps were deliberately slow: mulled crunching over grass instead of the hardened dirt paths the gang incidentally wore everywhere they called home. Sighing through gritted teeth to mask pained muffles, Arthur tried to adjust on the canvas cot without putting weight on his shoulder. Quiet should have been good - it meant those on guard had nothing to shoot at; the rest of the gang were peacefully asleep; even Hosea's snoring seemed a little quieter in Clemen's Point. Arthur stared at the thin sheet ceiling of his wagon-side tent, and wondered if Hell would contain the same silence.

The first pluck of a guitar string seemed as loud as cannon fire wrecking through the still air, nearly sending Arthur bolt upright before the tune became familiar. Javier had moved from his stage at the main camp to the scout fire, facing towards Arthur's tent. It was like the sound was traveling through the earth, vibrating through the tent-posts and wire bedframe. Every sense was assaulted by the blanket of a melody. He couldn't hear anything other than that song if he tried.

Sleep insnared him before he had the chance to consider if their musician wound accept his gratitude.

[rdrevents]

Howdi everyone! Today is the last day to post your gifts (unless you have requested an extension) so if you haven't already, please do so! Giftees: if your gifter hasn't been in touch and you have not received your gift by the morning of Dec 25th, please get in touch either via email or tumblr and we'll follow this up. Happy holidays! ~ RDRevents

[rdrevents]

I forgot to post here! I wrote a small soft Charthur ficlet for @galateasfire for the @rdrevents Winter Exchange! 🎄❤️

Arthur miraculously survives his encounter on the mountain, and Charles is the one to find him. After everything, they finally get the ending they deserve.

[rdrevents]

Peace? Wishful Thinking (RDR Secret Santa)

Summary: You've been piling your losses within the gang, and what happens when you nearly lose Arthur again?

Warnings: Violence/injury, angst, and smut. The holy trinity.

Word Count: 4,115

A/N: Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everyone! Especially to my @rdrevents Secret Santa recipient, @twola, who requested Arthur Morgan x reader with the prompt "The only thing I ask is that you outlive me, so I don't have to live another day without you." Hope you enjoy!

Pain spiked down your blood-streaked arm as your fingers spasmed open from it, dropping the six-shooter with a heavy thunk to the dirty wooden floorboards. 

Your chest rose in ragged, shallow breaths as your head spun and the rush of fear flooded your mouth with saliva, your stomach churning as the sting of the stab wound and nausea rolled into one. 

Gunshots still fired. The shout of men and the thundering hooves of horses echoed through the forest, though nowhere near the abandoned cabin you’d chosen for your spot of safety, thank God. 

But it wasn’t just your spot, it was also supposed to be his. Arthur’s. 

Your back hit the wall of the cabin as you attempted to catch your breath, eyes closing to fight off the dizziness of panic. Everything had happened at once. What was meant to be a simple stagecoach robbery went awry when that stagecoach turned out to be a group of Pinkertons. 

By some pure luck, you and Arthur managed to outrun them, but they were hot on your tail. Knowing they wouldn’t end their pursuit, Arthur quickly suggested you headed to the rendezvous point while he drew them away. You hated the idea and protested immediately, but there had been no room, or time, to argue. 

The state line of New Hanover and Ambarino was a woodsy and mountainous area with thankfully plenty of hiding places. There’d been a sharp turn that allowed just precious moments of an advantage. Arthur instructed you to disappear into the forest while he remained on the main path, and you did just that, urging your mare between the pines and over boulders. The gunshots behind you didn’t ease your concern, and you dared not to look back just in case they managed to see you through the brush. 

It was either a blessing or a curse that they chased you closer toward the rendezvous point the two of you scouted out just days earlier; an abandoned hunting cabin that none would be the wiser to. Far enough off the main path that no one would find unless they were specifically looking for it. 

Which is now where you stood, waiting, listening. Your hammering heart began to slow and you breath was slowly evening out. The only two windows in the cabin were filthy, only allowing the blurred shapes of the outside to be seen. 

But the sounds continued to lessen, giving way to the silence of nature. Slowly, you straightened, the movement causing your arm to burn once more. In the craze you’d been shot at, and you glanced over expecting to find a hole in your arm. 

By some luck it wasn’t that, instead just a nasty, bloody slit just below the curve of your shoulder. You’d been grazed. 

Breathing in a sigh of relief, it caught in your throat as you thought about Arthur. You knew he could outrun the law, he’d done so many times. But the Pinkertons had been hot on everyone’s trail since Blackwater, and it felt like their pursuit was slowly closing in over the past few months. 

Would he be captured, or worse? 

Another wave of nausea rolled over you at the mere thought of— 

No. You can’t think like that. Panic would only make the situation worse. 

Taking a deep breath, you pushed the now torn jacket from your body with intent to patch the wound. You then stepped outside only briefly to retrieve supplies from the saddlebags, and giving a cursory glance of the surroundings. 

Still no sounds, no angry lawmen on horseback. 

No Arthur either. 

Pursing your lips, you hurried back inside and got to work. It wasn’t deep, but it stung like a nest of angry wasps when you cleaned it. No need for stitches. 

As you applied a balm and then a bandage, a memory surfaced. 

Arthur had come back to camp one night in shambles, after having been kidnapped by the O’Driscolls. You’d known something was off even before the men rode out to meet with Colm. Both you and Arthur knew it, but there was no arguing with Dutch. 

And when they came back without Arthur, the feeling festered. Dutch had no straight answer as to where Arthur was, only pushing your concerns off stating he was fine, probably off elsewhere for a while. It was in Arthur’s nature to go off on his own, and you knew that...but, something in your gut told you otherwise. 

You’d argued, shouted, demanded that the entire camp go out to find him as the day grew into night, but Dutch wouldn’t let up. It was only by Hosea’s calming words that you were able to tamper down from almost outright punching the leader, albeit with frustration. 

And you’d been right. Arthur was right, when he appeared with one foot in the grave, too exhausted to even sit properly on his horse and his shoulder in shambles from a nasty gunshot wound. 

Berating Dutch was the last of your worries, devoting those next few weeks to restoring Arthur’s health. Though it didn’t come unscathed; Arthur had always been strong. He’d never been so badly wounded and the thought of losing him...almost sent you into a spiral. 

And he saw it, saw you barely holding yourself together every time you changed his bandages, every time you fed him stew when he just had enough strength to lift his head and swallow. 

He wasn’t shy about his affections the moment his strength began to seep back in, pulling you onto his cot in the night, pressing sweet kisses on your cheek, your lips, your neck and whispering small “thank you”s against your skin. 

And when his shoulder healed, there was no stopping him from taking it further. 

Three weeks later, it was as if nothing happened, the only reminder was the knot of a scar branding his skin. He’d been ready to go right back out and contribute once again. 

But those weeks changed you, a harsh remembrance that mortality wasn’t a toy to be carelessly played with. Every thought you had about him leaving camp, going on another heist, everything that was considered a daily life now shadowed. 

You’d lost people along the way. Hell, you knew what came with this life. How many of those died when escaping Blackwater and making your way up to Colter? Sean was killed not that long ago. Almost lost Jack to a crazy woman’s antics. A child. And Kieran...poor Kieran. Who was next? 

The losses were piling up, and yet...Arthur kept going. And every time he rode out of camp, he took a piece of your heart with him. 

The memories burned in the back of your throat as your vision blurred. Angrily you swiped the tears away before they could fall, focusing back to the present. Arthur had to be okay. He had to be. 

Your wound was patched up, and you had nothing else to do but wait. You weren’t sure how safe it was to leave, and you knew Arthur would make his way back here. He knew better than to head back to camp in case he was still followed. 

Ambarino was harsh, unforgiving territory. No doubt he’d lose the Pinkertons fairly quick in the terrain. 

And so you waited. 

And waited... 

Minutes ticked into hours. You’d paced the cabin at least a hundred times. You’d glanced through a window at every pass hoping to catch a glimpse of the silhouette of the horse and rider you knew so well. You’d attempted to eat, but the rock in your stomach just made you nauseous again. 

Encroaching thoughts turned your mind into a warzone. Arthur received a tip about this job and asked you to come with him, knowing how it bothered you to leave you behind. Stagecoach heists were nothing new; you’d done it hundreds of times both with and without him. 

It has to have been a set-up. There was no way it wasn’t. Unless someone got the information wrong. 

You sighed and kicked at a clump of dirt on the floor. There was no point in pondering what went wrong and why, especially now. 

The sky steadily grew darker with the passing time, and you didn’t dare to reach for one of the oil lamps just in case someone was in the area close enough to see it and come snooping. 

But what if Arthur was close, looking for the cabin? Would the light be enough to beckon him closer, or draw him away? 

Exhaustion suddenly hit like a brick wall, and you found yourself collapsing into a rickety chair. The bed in the corner, as dusty as it was, looked welcoming, but you wouldn’t risk sleeping when there were too many unknowns still in the air. 

The cabin was nearly pitch black, aside from the weak moonlight peering through the grimy windows. A hoot of a closeby owl was the only other presence. The quiet sneeze of your mare just on the other side of the wall. 

Your gun rested in your hand, your eyes staring at the faint outline of the door. You only had to wait for Arthur to come in, or a Pinkerton, or wait until morning to leave. 

You hoped the first would be the only option. 

You didn’t know when you fell asleep, only that the rattle of the doorknob yanked you out of slumber. Heart racing and the grip on your gun tightened, you threw your hand up just as the door swung open. 

A large silhouette took up almost the entire frame, standing only slightly stark against the pined background. Your heart lurched to your throat as your finger hovered over the trigger. 

��I’m armed!” you warned, attempting to hide the waver in your voice. 

A voice carried in the space between you. It was just one word; your name. 

A voice that was so familiar, you almost dropped your gun. 

“Arthur?” 

Your legs, as tired and wobbly as they were, brought you from sitting to standing, to striding across the small cabin in a matter of seconds. 

He met you halfway, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you into a tight embrace. You sunk into his hold, relief flooding your entire being as fresh tears stung your eyes. 

His scent enveloped you, leather and tobacco and the slight earthy smell of his horse lingered on his clothes. He was warm, and you hadn’t realized how cold it was until that very moment. 

You looked up at him, his features slowly forming in the dimness. His blue eyes were bright, brows pinched as he searched your face. 

“I’m okay,” you confirmed. “You?” 

“Fine,” he said gruffly, and drew you in for a kiss, pressing his lips to yours. 

You melted immediately, leaning into his strong body, arms wrapping around his neck. His arms tightened around you, one hand leaving your waist to draw up your back, burying his fingers into your hair. 

The stark relief mixed with a heavier emotion, one that opened your mouth to Arthur’s silent inquiry. The kiss deepened then, lips and tongues and teeth clashing. He held you so close it was as if he was trying to absorb you into his body. 

Hell, you would do the same if you would. Your hands reached up to his head, clumsily knocking his hat off as your fingers found his soft locks. All that worry, concern, fear...melted into a heat that pooled into the bottom of your stomach. 

And Arthur was on the same wavelength. 

He backed you up, until the backs of your legs hit something solid. It caused you to fall back, hitting the lumpy bed. A cloud of dust swirled around you, and Arthur was anything but gentle. His roaming hands found the front of your pants, unbuttoning them and yanking the denim down from your hips. Your own hands busied themselves, unbuckling the gun belt from his waist then his jacket. 

The cool night air caressed the skin of your lower torso as more clothing was shed. You weren’t sure how long exactly before you were completely naked, but Arthur’s presence suddenly disappeared. You blinked in confusion, about to voice your displeasure when the glow of an oil lamp erupted into life, washing the cabin in a faint golden glow. 

Blinking again from the sudden light, you saw Arthur standing just above you. He was just as bare as you, your eyes first roving over his body. Dark blood spotted his forearms, but you saw nothing indicating injury. As your eyes dipped below his waistline, not shy about peering at his arousal, you then slowly brought your gaze upward, meeting his scrutinizing stare. 

“I needed to see you,” he murmured. “I needed—” he paused abruptly, eyes widening slightly and you knew what he was looking at. The bandage around your arm. 

“I was grazed,” you said. “That’s it.” 

The relief that took hold of him was immediate, washing away the tenseness in his muscles.  He then knelt before you, his callused palms sliding up and down your hips and thighs as he planted sweet kisses to your skin, working his way up to the aching space between your legs. His fingers were on you instantly, expertly finding the bundle of nerves nestled within the curls. You gasped as he rubbed, hips bucking against his palm. 

You spoke his name like a prayer, writhing on the dusty quilt as he played you like a fiddle. His other hand slid up the midline of your stomach, finding purchase on your breast. He rolled and pinched your nipple while his fingers prodded your entrance before invading your inner walls, causing a burst of pleasure to ricochet through your system. 

His thumb and fingers worked in tandem, his eyes never leaving your face the more you squirmed, sweet ecstasy ramping up almost too quickly. 

“Arthur, I—I’m close!” you whined, back arching and hips shuddering in his touch. 

“Let go, sweetheart,” he encouraged, his voice low and thick. 

And you did just that, the flame that burned in your core exploded like a firework, encompassing your entire body as you moaned your release, muscles tensing for a moment before it faded. 

Arthur eased his hands from you, and as you caught your breath and your heart slowed, you met his gaze. There was a glint of hunger in those beautiful eyes, one that you knew all too well. He leaned forward, planting his arms on either side of you, caging you between his body and the bed. 

His forehead pressed against yours, his breath almost as ragged as yours had been just a moment ago. 

“Need you,” he murmured. “Need t’ be inside of you.” 

You smiled, lifting your arms to find home around his neck again. “Then what are you waiting for?” 

He groaned, grabbing your hips and angling himself between your legs. He wasn't slow about his next move, plunging his hips forward and burying himself within you in one smooth motion. 

You gasped out loud, your nails scraping against his skin. That’ll be the only marks on him for a while, you decided, as any other coherent thought was lost with a deep kiss. 

His mouth moved on yours while he thrust again. It was hard and deep, absent of the gentleness he usually brought. No, this was fueled by carnal need and desperation. Driven by high emotions lingering from the failed heist, built up from the weeks of that slowly festering terror. 

But he was here with you now, together and real and—fuck, you were just...here. 

He pistoned in and out of you, his hands digging so hard into your flesh you’re sure there would be bruises later. But you didn’t care, especially as your nails scored down the expanse of his back. The marks left would be that reminder that you both made it back to one another tonight. 

His lips left yours to favor your jaw, then your neck, nibbling and sucking at the heated skin. It seemed his thoughts were aligned with yours. 

“Fuck,” he breathed against your skin. “Y’ feel amazin’” 

You returned that sentiment with a whine, wrapping your legs around his waist which only served to bring him deeper inside. His large frame twitched in your grasp, a deep grunt emanating from his chest. 

Every bit of your body was inflamed, nerves singing from the absolute need and desire surging through your blood. Nothing else mattered in that moment but him. Alive and well and safe...for the time being. 

That burst of reality hit you like a train, and you mentally shoved at its unwelcome invasion. You needed to take control, then and there. 

Your hands slid to his chest and you pushed, though kept your legs around him. Arthur seemed to understand and ceded, switching positions with ease. He stretched on the bed while still enveloped in your warmth. His gaze swept to yours with a heated stare, and you moved. 

Up and down and gyrating, riding him like a well-practiced bronc. He groaned deeply as his hands flew to the curves of your waist, twitching underneath to keep with your rhythm. 

God, you loved when it was like this. The power, the control of his pleasure from being on top of him. The way he melted underneath you. 

Arthur was all force. Built with muscle, angled planes and power. The way he exuded his prowess had you trembling in more ways than one. There was a time when you would admit he scared you, but never like this. 

Sure, you were a force to be reckoned with all your own. But to wield this man...this outlaw...this honed weapon, to your will like this— 

His hands cupped and squeezed your breasts as they bounced, drawing a gasp from you and pulling you from your thoughts. 

“So damn beautiful,” he rasped breathlessly. “Ridin’ me like you stole me.” 

A smirk crossed your lips at the same time a flush colored your cheeks, momentarily breaking eye contact. You stole him, alright. Stole his heart straight from his chest, just like he had yours in a vice grip. 

And you’ll keep it for life, despite what the others say or think. They can all fall off a cliff if it meant you and Arthur were never separated. 

You leaned forward, hands grasping the wrought iron headboard for support as you took him deeper, driving your hips against his over and over, watching as his face contorted. His grip went from your breasts to your hips again, snapping upward and bringing himself to eye level with you. 

Arthur held you hard, meeting your rhythm with equal haste. The cry you uttered was swallowed his fervent kiss, all lips and tongue and teeth. 

Your second release was barreling toward you, fast and powerful. Your entire body convulsed as it crashed into you, moaning like a whore, and Arthur’s deep groan indicated he felt your spasms. 

His pace increased, erratic and rough as you came down trembling from your high. The way his grip tightened and his breaths shortened, he was close too. 

Your hands left the headboard to cling to his neck, depending the kiss as his bucking never ceased. You knew the instant he gasped into your mouth when his climax hit, and you ground your hips against him simultaneously, pushing him inside you to the hilt. 

He froze, a deep grumble in his belly as he released, pulsating between your now drenched walls. Pulling his mouth back just a few inches, he let out a low, breathless curse. His forehead rested against yours, your chests heaving in tandem as you fought to catch your breaths. 

Silence encompassed the cabin, the only other movement the slight flicker of the oil lamp, casting dark shadows against the wooden walls. 

A moment passed, then two, as your breathing quieted and the sweat on your skin cooled. 

Arthur sat up straighter, his eyes flicking to yours. He gazed at you, half-lidded and face flushed beneath the stubble and slight streaks of dirt. You raised your hand to wipe one away, just across his cheek bone. 

There were no words at the moment, but the post-orgasmic bliss began to fade. 

“I thought the worst happened,” you admitted quietly, turning your face away. 

You felt his fingers against your chin. The touch was gentle but firm, guiding you back to look at him. “It didn’t,” he reminded you softly. “I made it back. I always do.” 

You nodded, but that lingering thought from earlier clouded your mind again. “But what if you don’t next time?” You asked, your chest beginning to knot. 

His brow furrowed. It wasn’t the first time you’d had this discussion with him, it’s happened more than once after his ordeal with the O’Driscolls. “You know it—” 

“Can happen, of course I know,” you said thickly. “But nowadays, it’s just…more of a possibility than ever, Arthur.” 

He was quiet then, his gaze breaking away and you knew he was thinking about the others.  

“It’s been nothing but one tragedy after another,” you continued. “And I…I can’t take watching all this play out, knowing that it may be you next.” 

Arthur grit his teeth at that, but the flicker of pain that crossed his expression meant it hadn’t been just your concerns alone. 

The words we should stop always rose to the back of your mouth but never landed on your tongue. How could you ask Arthur to leave his family and the life he knew for twenty years? When he didn’t even want to leave it for his once fiancée. 

But how much longer was he willing to go? 

You leaned in, resting your face against his bare shoulder. “I love you, so much,” you sighed. “I just want you...want us...to be safe.” 

His hand slid up your back to curl into your hair, and his head moved to place a kiss to your cheek. “I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice heavy. 

Your throat burned with unshed tears. You blinked, trying to force them away, but they ran hot down your cheeks. God, how many times would this conversation play out between you two? Until Arthur would stop trying to reassure you and just agree? 

“I wish we could just...go,” you said, finally releasing those words out. 

That statement hung heavy in the air, the tension becoming more palpable by the second. He shifted then, leaning back as far as the headboard allowed him to look at you. 

His gaze was searching, a small furrow in his brow. There was no taking back what you said, and you met his stare levelly, although your vision was slightly blurred by tears. 

“We...need to,” you said, voice thick. “Before we...before you get hurt again, or worse. Or if someone else dies, or—” 

He kissed you then, so deeply and passionately that it almost caught you off-guard. His hands rested gently on your cheeks, swiping away the tracks of tears. He pulled back then, his throat catching on a swallow. 

“I might be too wrapped up in this,” he admitted. “It’s too late—” 

“No, it’s not,” you cut him off. “Arthur, how close were you to losing your life last month? How many people have we lost recently? We almost died just hours ago! How much more will it take?!” 

He closed his eyes at that. You knew what all of those deaths meant to him, even Kieran’s, when Arthur merely tolerated his existence in the group. It was wearing him down even if he didn’t want to admit it. 

“I can’t take another funeral,” you continued, fresh tears stinging your eyes. “Especially not yours.” 

He shook his head at your words, as if trying to physically shoo them away. He was quiet for a moment, his face full of tense contemplation. Finally, he met your gaze again. 

“The only thing I ask,” he started, his voice steady. “Is that you outlive me, so I don’t have to live another day without you.” 

Those words twisted your insides. It was as if he was saying goodbye to you. 

“Arthur, don’t do that,” you said. “Please don’t.” 

He drew in a deep sigh, his expression pained. “I don’t know what else to say.” 

There were a million other things you could think of. To agree with your ideas, to assure you that the two of you could outlive all of this, not have to rely on breaking the law countless times over to live a life of peace. 

What started off as promised paradise slowly turned into poison, and you had to make him see that somehow. 

And that’s what you silently vowed to do. 

[rdrevents]

RDR Winter Gift Exchange 2025

A/N: So excited to once again participate in this fun event put together by @rdrevents and to post this gift for @krystal-callahan.

I haven't had much of a chance to write for Dutch before, so I this was a great opportunity to do so - so thank you for that chance!

I hope you enjoy it! 🤗

This should have been a simple robbery. A small heist with a small reward, but a reward nonetheless.

Dutch knew deep down in his bones that it should have been a quick in and out, no alarms raised, nobody hurt and none the wiser. Which is exactly why he couldn't understand why he was now sprawled on the ground with a pistol aimed at his face and Hosea shooting daggers from his own spot in the dirt. He didn't need to look at his face to know it was shrouded in a deep scowl. 

He didn't understand what had gone wrong - where he had miscalculated. 

The previous night at the bar he had spent a few hours (and consumed a few drinks) watching and waiting for the right target, and eventually he had appeared. Drunk, mouthy, and all too willing to share information, the poor sap had apun him a tale - and what a tale it had been. His wife had left, he worked a unfulfilling job and his children had all grown and moved on better prospects; leaving him behind to wither away in Valentine. All in all, the perfect target.

Dutch had downed the last of his whiskey (the beef in the local saloon never sat quite right with him) leaving the empty glass on the table and took the stool next to him, patting him on the back before subtly drilling him. Where abouts in Valentine did he live? Where did he work? What sort of things occupied his day?  Anything that could help him determine the best time to sneak into his supposed empty home and make off with a few valuables. 

When he returned to camp later that evening, leaving the man in semi-better spirits, and shared his plan with Hosea, he had seemed intrigued. A simple homestead robbery? Why not? After some discussion and a night's sleep underneath their belt, they hitched up their horses and returned to the small livestock town, lying in wait until the perfect moment to strike. 

Hosea, the patron of the arts that he was, concocted a scheme. He would distract with his own colorful tale of sorrow - a missing horse and desperate need of assistance, while Dutch would slip in the back and collect what he could. 

None of that seemed to matter now. Not when he was mere seconds away from a swift and immediate death. Hosea;s outcome not much brighter. 

Dutch felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple and he fought the urge to swipe it away. Swallowing hard, he found himself at a loss for words - something highly foreign to him. He stole a glance at Hosea and nearly withered at his gaze. Somehow he understood that his problem had become his to fix. And why not? It was his fault they were in this mess, so it only made sense that he should get them out of it. 

Mustering up a boost of courage, he intended to do just that.

"Listen, good sir," He stammered, holding up one hand cautiously as he propped himself up with the other. Anything to keep the man's temper at manageable levels. "We were only trying to -" "I know what you were 'trying' to do." The man spat, furrowing his brows even more. "You were trying to rob me blind." 

"Now that is a grievous overstatement. We merely -" 

"I don't care what kind of statement you think it is. I ain't about to let some uppity traveler steal from me. I should just shoot you right now and be done with it." 

"You wouldn't want to do that, my friend." He said quickly so as not to be interrupted a third time. 

"And why not?" 

A few more beads of sweat began to gather just above his eyebrows. "Well, you wouldn't want the law involved." 

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second, and that was all that Dutch needed. The man's hand lowered ever so slightly; the gun no longer pointed right between his eyes.  "Why the hell not?" 

"It would be a hassle," Dutch started, slowly moving to crouch. Balancing his weight on his feet instead of remaining in the dirt. He kept his hands raised out in front of him. "And an unwelcome presence in your otherwise quiet, peaceful home. No one wants that." 

"I-I suppose not." The man stammered, his anger slowly, but surely, evaporating and replaced with something akin to uncertainty. 

"Exactly." Dutch cooed, putting his silver tongue to work. "We can resolve this...little misunderstanding ourselves, right?" He didn't even wait for the man to respond. "Now, my partner and I will just take our leave and you won't ever have to worry about us trespassing again. Does that seem fair?"

A moment passed before he finally responded. "Alright," He lowered his weapon to his side. "Just make yourself scarce. I don't wanna see you again." 

"Wouldn't dream of it." And Dutch meant it.

---

It was moments later that the two outlaws found themselves (and their horses) ambling along at a slow pace back to camp, their proverbial tails tucked between their legs and their spirits well, and truly dampened. Dutch shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, feeling Hosea's frustration looming like a dark rain cloud. He searched for something to say. Anything to break through the barrier that had risen between them. But nothing came to mind. 

"Well," the silver-haired outlaw said after what felt like decades. "That certainly wasn't our finest moment. I can't even consider it a good moment. What on earth went wrong, Dutch?" 

Dutch flinched inwardly at the sharp bite as Hosea said his name. The scathing rebuke was well-earned, he knew, but it still made him feel like a little kid again. A feeling he truly despised.  

"Hosea, I do not quite know what to say." He started, fighting the shame that began to bubble up inside him. Something almost foreign to him in this stage of his life.

"A first for you." He shot back, his gaze focused on the trail before them and his posture rigid. 

"I made a mistake, Hosea." Dutch said, bristling. "It happens." 

"Yes, mistakes happen. But not for something as simple as this. Not to you." Hosea, sighed and finally turned to look at him. There were still traces of anger in his old eyes, but it was partnered with concern. A concern for someone that had been with him from what seemed like the beginning of time itself. Dutch recognized that look well. He carried that same feeling within him too. 

"What happened back there Dutch?" Hosea asked quietly. "I'm just trying to understand." 

"I don't know," Dutch said after a moment, and it felt like the truth. One moment he had been rifling through a chest of belongings, elated at the prospects, and then in the next he was flung out the front door with a force he hadn't been expecting; landing sprawled on the ground and heavily surprised. 

He looked down at the reins squeezed tightly in his hands and let out a sigh of his own. "I suppose I just got caught up in the excitement of it all. It's been some time since we pulled a heist together and I guess I let it get the better of me." 

They rode on in silence for a bit, the dull trod of their horse hooves and their occasion snorts the only sound. Hosea looked ahead once more while Dutch ruminated on his admission. Somehow Hosea managed to drag out even his deepest kept secrets. A talent he cursed on many occasions. 

"Still trying to impress me after all these years, huh?" Hosea said finally, when the silence seemed to stretch on. There was a hint of humor in his tone, and Dutch knew they had crossed the path to forgiveness. 

"I suppose so," He chuckled, shooting Hosea a wry smile. "I am nothing if not a showman. Though I can't say where I picked up the habit."

A knowing look passed between them and even Hosea couldn't help but smile. 

"Oh, I'm sure you've learned a few things here and there." 

"And I'm sure I will learn a great deal more in time." 

"Perhaps," Hosea said simply. "But, for now, maybe leave the petty dealing to our younger, less boisterous proteges? At least for the time being?" 

At this, Dutch couldn't help but laugh out loud, tossing his head back. "I think I can manage that." 

"I'm impressed, Dutch. I was afraid I would have to resort to shallow tricks to keep you in camp." 

"Not this time, old timer. Not this time." 

"Good." Hosea said, nodding his head approvingly. "Now, I don't know about you, but I'm parched. Care for a drink back at camp?"  "Certainly, old friend." 

Hosea tapped his heels against his horse, urging Silver Dollar into a lazy trot. Dutch did the same with The Count, keeping in stride with him as they made their way back to camp. He breathed in a breath of fresh air and exhaled the temporary bad blood between them, glad that things had returned to normal. 

[rdrevents]

Happy Holidays! Here's your finished Kieran Duffy and Branwen, their so cute together :))

@verdemoun @rdrevents

[rdrevents]

Arthur Claus?

❄️❄️❄️Seasons Greetings!❄️❄️❄️ @sanx049

I hope you have a wonderfully Merry Christmas and a warm holiday season. This little fic is my gift to you, hope you enjoy!

I had a lot of fun writing this. I took inspiration from your prompt about a gang/camp scenario. Plus who doesn't love Arthur doing the most at every possible moment? :) This fic was also crossposted to Ao3 so other folks might also enjoy. Do let me know if you have an ao3 account I could use to officially gift it to you there.

Summary: After a series of misfortune, the gang finds themselves cold, broke, and otherwise down on their luck. Arthur notices everyone's dwindling spirits, particularly little Jack. Despite what he'd said about being helpless himself, he takes it upon himself to organize something to bring everyone's spirits back up.

Words: 4k+

@rdrevents

It’s hard to decide which is colder; the miserable weather or the people moping about their equally miserable camp. Arthur sighs, tucks his head closer to his chest, and tugs his jacket up to block the chilly wind. 

    Nearly a week ago the cold set in. Dutch hasn’t delivered a good speech for a few days, too caught up in trying to plan their escape from this precarious situation. Cold and wet, hungry and broke, and on the run from both the law and O’Driscolls after a stagecoach turned out to be a clever setup. It knocked them off their kilter, left a few men injured, and spirits down. 

     Sticking by Dutch’s side is Hosea. The two commiserate about their next moves from the torn fabric of Dutch’s old tent. Susan’s coming down harder on most everyone around, including Mr Pearson. Speaking of, the mentioned man started whining to Arthur about their lack of food a few days ago, and he hasn’t stopped since. Strauss sits around with no money to count and little resources to stretch. Swanson lingers around their pathetic campfire, shaking and sleeping and waking in those fits of his. The girls are mostly kept busy between tending to themselves and the men laid up; Bill, Mac, and Lenny. Uncle is Uncle, he’s fine, if not annoying, which is nothing out of the ordinary. 

     With little to no reason to leave camp aside from hunting and replenishing in the nearest town, most of them sit around, moping, twiddling their thumbs and trying to keep busy. It’s not the men and women Arthur worries about however. They’ve all experienced hopelessness that rivals this. 

    He peers through the hair which fell on his face, too damn long but nowhere to get it cut and no one around he trusts to do it, not after last time. 

     Little Jack Marston sits in his mother’s lap, bearing a look so listless and sad Arthur has to look away. The boy is too smart for his own good; even if he doesn’t have an understanding of their situation, he’s observed the mood around camp and somehow absorbed it. He’s moping worse than any of them. 

     How much he could’ve remembered from last year Arthur doesn’t know, but the boy looked forward to the colder season only weeks ago. A lot of folks had. With Dutch’s insistence they’d steal a tree, nab a few pieces of decor, and shoot something big and meaty for Pearson, it was hard not to get caught up in the excitement. To be hopeful for a while. 

     “Arthur, you got a second?” A voice steals away his attention.

     If it ain’t the person I want t’see the least. Arthur lifts his head at the call of his name. His horse sniffs and huffs, blowing a visible gust of cold white air in his direction. 

     “Maybe. Depends on what you want.” 

     John bristles, and frowns. For a second Arthur thinks they may fight again. Hell, with the lack of action getting to him Arthur might welcome a fight. At least it’ll give him something to do. Despite his assumptions, John’s frown dissipates. 

     “Look, I know how things is, but I need t’ask you something.” 

     Typical John. 

     “What?” Arthur asks, his voice a little harsher than it needs to be. 

     “It’s,” John pauses, and glances over his shoulder, “it’s the boy,...and Abigail too I guess.” He scratches at his chin and neck, dark and stubbly; he lost his razor and mirror it looks like. 

     Arthur eyes him curiously. Marston’s relationship with his own son is basically nonexistent, but somehow better than his soured relationship with the mother of his child. Yet, here he stands, ready to ask Arthur for his input when he’s ignored so much of it in the past. 

     Arthur swallows his resentment for the time being. “What about them?”

     “Don’t know if you noticed, but folks are…down.” 

     He chuckles. “You think I’m blind? Of course I noticed.”

     “And the boy, he…I mean, he’s a good kid, usually happy. But he ain’t smiled or laughed or nothing for a week.” 

    “And that bothers you?” Arthur asks pointedly, unable to suppress the snark at the end of his question. 

     Again, John frowns but doesn’t address his attitude. “Look, you’re good with him. Ain’t there something you can do?”

     Arthur stands up straighter. Once again John Marston comes to him, asking him to shoulder his burden, to take on his responsibilities. If he weren’t so cold, so tired, and so fed up with their predicament, he might’ve shot the other down then and there. Instead, Arthur sighs. His thoughts on John aside, the boy’s mood is unfortunate. What might rival that misfortune however is Abigail Roberts; her taking it all on her shoulders while her good for nothing husband prances about, trying his utmost to avoid his own family. 

     “Should I wave my hands around, say a few words, try to will our shit circumstances away?”

     “Goddammit Morgan, I’m not askin’ for me. It’s just… you’re good with him, hell, you’re good with everyone. Always takin’ care of folks. I just thought, maybe you could do something?”

     Do something? He goes out to get what little supplies they can afford without being asked, he puts up with Susan and Pearson’s nagging, and endures Dutch and Hosea’s ramblings; and Marston wants him to do more than that? To hell with him!

     “Look, I ain’t in the mood for this just now. If your family needs something then it ought to be you who takes care of it. I can’t do nothing for you.” Arthur looks away. There’s something about John’s pathetic, dark-eyed stare that usually had Arthur giving into his requests like he was dealing with a Goddamn child, instead of a hardened capable man. 

     John says nothing for a second, then he clicks his teeth. “Alright then. Sorry I asked. Don’t know what I was thinking, you got a lot to do. Abigail’s been kicking my ass about the boy, I figured you’d know what to do.” 

     “Your problems are your own.” Arthur digs into his pocket, feeling around for the pack of smokes he’s certain is in there. He finds nothing, then remembers he’d tossed it to Tilly earlier that day. “Best be on your way.” 

     “Right. Well, thanks.” John swivels on his feet, though he lingers for a few seconds. Maybe he’s waiting around, expecting Arthur to give in and agree to save his ass like all the other times.

      It ain’t gonna be like all those other times, not just now. 

     John finally slinks away, leaving Arthur and his horse alone again. His attention shifts to his animal. She sniffs at him, nuzzling her nose against the hand he’s got sitting there. Probably looking for something to eat. 

     “Sorry girl,” he shushes her. “Ain’t nothing I can do for you neither.” 

***

     “Hey Arthur, c’mere for a second.” Abigail beckons him toward her. “Can you please watch him, just long enough I can get something to eat?”

     “Sure.” How can he say no to her? Though it is a curious thing she’s asked him over any of the girls. Or his own damn father. “You uh, asked John?” 

     She huffs. “Dutch needed him for something. Left a while ago. I know you probably have things to do, but everyone’s so caught up and I-” 

     “Hush, I understand. Go take a few minutes, I got the kid.” He tells her. 

     Something in her blue eyes soften, relief overcomes her, “thanks Arthur, I can always count on you.” 

     She leaves him be but for some reason her words stick with him. She can always count on him? What about now? He shakes his head.

     “Hi Jack!” He says with a smile, wondering if the boy can tell a real one from a fake one. Hopefully not.

     “Hi Uncle Arthur.” Jack looks at him, then drops his head. 

     “Where’re your things? I don’t see no toys.”

     Silence then, “I left them at the other camp.” 

     Oh. “Well, you can always practice your letters.” 

     Jack looks down, fiddling with his fingers. A blatant display of stress. 

     “You…don’t have your books, do ya’? Let me guess, you left them at the other camp.” Arthur says.

     The boy looks up at him with big shining eyes, craning his neck. “Don’t tell Ma, she’ll be sooo mad.” 

     No wonder the boy’s been so glum, he’s sitting here with nothing. No toys, no books, no one talking to him. Abigail’s been with him, trying her best, but she’s tired and often needed elsewhere. John’s been keeping an eye on him at least, the little good that’s doing. Hosea is busy. Tilly is busy. Dutch is busy. Sure, sometimes Arthur checks on him, but it’s just not enough entertainment for a boy his age. 

     “I won’t tell her nothin’, promise.” 

     That seems to make him smile, just for a second or two. Then it’s back to sulking.

     Arthur sighs, taking a seat on a nearby chair. The boy is usually chatty with him if no one else. Yet he sits there quietly now. 

     “Ain’t heard much out of you. What’s wrong?” 

     Jack seems to contemplate, staring up at the sky as he does. “Hmm, Ma and Pa are busy. And they look sad. So is everyone.” 

     “No Jack, they're not sad, no one is. Folks is… just a little,-”… what can he say to a child that won’t make them worry or ask more questions? “They’re tired, and they’re thinking…about where we’re going next.” 

     “It’s cold here.” 

     “I know Jack.”

     “And boring.” 

     “Yeah.” Arthur chuckles.  

     It’s like he figured before. The kid is perceptive even if he doesn’t know it himself. There’s no way to lift Jack’s spirit, no point in trying if everyone else is still down and stressed out. The kid’ll just work himself up again.

     There’s nothing he can do. Nothing at all. 

    “Arthur!” Abigail joins them again. He gets up from the chair, beckoning her to take the seat. She does, smoothing her skirt and tugging her jacket up a bit more. “Thank you for that.” 

     He nods at her, wondering briefly if he should mention anything about Jack, but the kid’s sitting right there, and he promised he wouldn’t after all. 

     “It’s no problem. I’ll catch you later.” 

     Arthur leaves them be, reflecting, pondering. Jack won’t cheer up so long as the camp is all gloomy. Mood around camp won’t get better unless they get out of here; or unless they’ve got something to bring their spirits up. Though what could do the job? 

     Just then he hears laughter. Loud and annoying and clearly coming from Sean Maguire. Javier jerks awake from where he sat at a table slumped over, knocking a bottle over and cussing. Following that is the sound of Pearson calling out. “Food’s ready!” 

   Food. Booze. Sean. A series of ideas smack him in the face and suddenly, Arthur Morgan has a plan.

***

     With a rifle slung over his shoulders John makes his way to guard duty, or rather, he was until he notices the small crowd in the middle of camp. 

     He peeks over everyone’s shoulder and frowns, his mouth falling open slightly. What the hell?

     Past the crowd of people standing shoulder to shoulder, he first spots Sean Maguire with a hand on Jack’s shoulder. The young man is in the middle of telling a tale, his movement exaggerated and his voice loud.

     “…And some say he’ll visit the do-gooders while they sleep, leaving them gifts of all kinds. Toys for the little boys, dresses for the girls, maybe coins for their parents! Tell me that don’t sound magical, eh kid?” Sean’s got Jack captivated in a tale he’s clearly weaving on the spot, but dammit, the kid is more lively than he has been in quite a time.

     John’s eyes fall to the big old circular table sitting in the middle of the commotion. His eyes go wide. 

     Their odd mismatched plates and bowls sat neatly in their respective piles, along with their mugs and tin cups. A few brand new bottles sit next to them. John recognizes all but one, whose label is shining and clean. Oddly enough he spots pieces of paper with names on them, fixed to each bottle with twine. Gifts? 

     Nevermind the booze. There’s the beginnings of a feast, or the closest to one that he’s seen in a while. Potatoes, carrots, peas and corn, things he knows have to have come from a can; he’s lived off canned food his whole life, he recognizes it instantly. In the middle of the plates sits a few good looking hunks of meat, those ain’t seen a can for certain. 

     Susan stands beside a pile of chocolate bars, also tied up with twine and paper on them. She calls out folks’ names and hands them out. More gifts? 

     The table itself is oddly decorated with pinecones and branches with dried red berries. Individually wrapped hard candy is strewn about another plate next to some coffee, this one only holding biscuits. Most are cracked in half and clearly from a tin, but still certainly put there with care. Twine ties a few pieces of greenery to each table leg. John isn’t much for style and presentation, but he has to admit it’s a pretty sight. 

     “What is all this?” Dutch takes him by the shoulder, not unkind, just caught off guard. 

     “I…have no idea.” 

     “Oh look! He’s left something for you.” Sean’s voice steals their attention. 

     “Really?” Jack pipes up with enthusiasm only a child could have. 

     “Says your name on it after all!” Sean kneels down, grabbing a wrapped box from beneath the table, giving it to the boy. 

     Jack lights up, forgoing his manners and tearing newspaper and twine until he gets it open. Then, he stares down with a wide smile overtaking his round face. “Look! Ma!”

     Abigail comes into view, her face also a clear look of disbelief, but she’s smiling as she looks down at the boy. “What’cha got there?”

     The kid holds up two new books, one in each hand. A few folks give him an exaggerated whoop, a few clap; mostly, John notices they’re happy to see the boy’s blatant display of innocent joy. It’s a welcome change for sure. 

     “I bet your Pa can help you read those,” Abigail looks up, singling him out in the crowd. 

     John opens his mouth but someone else speaks up from behind him and claps him on the back.

     “Yeah, he’ll do that.” Arthur. “Won’t you?”

     John looks at him, then Abigail, then the boy. His wide eyes and happiness, Abigail’s hopefulness, Arthur’s threatening form looming near him; “of course.” 

     “Yay! Thanks Pa!” The boy doesn’t wait for any other prompting, he dives right back into the box half his size. 

     John takes a step back, turning to face the other man. Arthur’s standing tall, an innocuous look on his face, but John’s known him for a long time. Something is off. His eyes are ringed and dark beneath, and they droop. His shoulders aren’t so straight. His back is hunched. He’s tired. They all are, but him more than usual. Realization dawns on him.

     “Huh, wonder what else is in that box.” 

     Arthur shrugs. “How should I know?”

     John’s eyes narrow. “When’d you have the time to do all this?” He asks quietly. 

     “Do what?” 

     “Don’t bullshit me Morgan.” John turns back around at the sound of laughter from Jack, who’s feeding Hosea a piece of chocolate with his already messy hands. Abigail’s musing over him, while most other folks have settled around and began picking at the goods. 

     When he turns back to Arthur, to press him further, he pauses. Arthur’s suppressing a yawn, rubbing his eyes, blinking a few times. Lord, he’s beat. 

     “How?” John asks gentler than before.

     Arthur sighs. “I had help, so don’t go thinkin’ I did this on my own. Woke Pearson up an hour earlier, had to promise him the best bottle. Ha! Susan was already up, I had her and Tilly help me.” 

    “Just where’d you get all this?” John asks.

     “Uh, in town?” Arthur answers like it's obvious.

     “You went yesterday?” 

     “I went last night.” Arthur scratches his beard. 

     “Last night? And no one asked you where you were headed?” 

     Arthur sighs again. “Believe it or not, Sean can keep quiet when he wants to. Certainly not now though, I think he’s still yapping away.” 

     A glimpse over his shoulder confirms that. 

     “He was happy to keep quiet last night, even gave me some suggestions.” Arthur yawns. “Now, I got’ta go get some shut eye, you have anymore questions need answering, or am I free to go?” 

     John’s just got the one. 

     “Where’d you get the money for all that?” 

     Arthur visibly sags. “You remember the stagecoach we did a few months back?”

     “Yeah.” John’s not sure where this is going. Arthur couldn’t’ve had money remaining from that. Could he? 

     “Well I splurged a little. Bought a few nice things. A pistol, got a set of buckles, a good watch.” 

     Meaning dawns on John. “Oh, Arthur, really? You sold ‘em? Those were…yours.” 

     Arthur gives him an irritated look, shifting on his feet and looking away. “Weren’t nothing.” 

     Weren’t nothing? Just how selfless could he be? Just as John gets ready to retort, Jack calls him.

      “Pa! Come see this!” 

     When he turns back around Arthur gives him a hard look. “Go be with your family. Oh, and I picked you up a razor and a mirror. S’in your tent.” 

     He’s off before John can say another thing to him.

***

     Finally, finally they managed to leave that sorry excuse for a camp. Dutch finally pulled his head out of his ass, and with Hosea’s direction he led them onward and outward toward someplace better. No longer than a few days, and now the gang is good and settled someplace better than they’ve been in a long while. The weather warmed enough to travel in comfort, enough to lift the spirit of folks around him. It’s a real miracle if he’s ever seen one. 

     It’s not just the folks whose spirits have lifted. The animals are doing much better too. Boadicea returned to her regular self, much to Arthur’s pleasure. 

     “Hey Arthur, can I steal you for a minute?” 

     He peers up at Marson’s freshly shaved face. “What now?” He mumbles with a blessedly dry cigarette hanging from his lips. 

     “Just get up and follow me.” John leaves no room for argument as he walks away. Arthur’s got half a mind to let the fool trott on by himself, but for some reason, he follows the other man. 

     “You steering me toward trouble now Marston?” 

     John honest to God laughs at that. “Nah, I reckon you’ll like this.” 

     Arthur’s scowl deepens. God help Marston if he decided to try some nonsense today. After everything he’s done he needs a break. A day, a few hours, a single hour; is that too much to ask around here? 

     John leads him toward the horses, where a few other folks are standing around. Then, he stops and clears his throat. 

     It’s like he blew a whistle for some call to action. Folks turn around. Abigail, Tilly, Marybeth, Karen, Sean; they’re all here. Arthur lifts a brow. 

     “What’s going on?” 

     Karen and Marybeth share a look, Tilly spots a guilty smile.

     “Arthur,” Abigail starts. “What you did for Jack, well, that was real good of you. Lifted most of our spirits too.” 

     “I agree, and you certainly enlisted the best accomplice,” Sean snickers. 

     John steps past Abigail, stooping down lowly before standing upright with a large box in his arms. “Ain’t much, but a few of us thought you should have this.” 

     Arthur stares at the box, then at John, then to the rest of them. “What’s this?” 

     “It’s a gift, from all of us.” Tilly says. “A few others chipped in too.”  

     “Javier, Hosea, even a few cents from Uncle.” says Marybeth. 

     “Course’ we had to pick it from his pockets,” adds Karen. “You can thank Abigail for that.”

     Abigail laughs. “Weren’t nothing. Now take it.” 

     John hands him the box. Arthur takes it, his eyes widening. 

     “It’s heavy! I thought you said it weren’t nothing much?” 

     Another round of guilty looks from the small crowd. 

     “Look, I think the words yer’ lookin’ for is ‘thank you’, ain’t that right?” Sean says. 

     If he wasn’t so surprised Arthur might have smacked him over the head, or at least threatened to do so. He swallows hard, unsure of what to say. “Thank you. All a’you. This is…it weren’t necessary.” 

     John snorts, “don’t even know what’s inside yet.” 

     “Open it!” Says Marybeth. “Please!” 

     The box is crudely wrapped in newspaper, the sides tucked in messily and a few spots are stained and torn. It tears away easily. Arthur takes off the lid. 

     He pauses, then chuckles. 

     “Okay, this is…,” he chuckles again, shaking his head. 

     He pulls a small pouch out. From the gaps in the cloth he sees strands of hay sticking out. There’s another, and from it he can smell the peppermint candies. There’s a few perishable things; a pear, an apple, a few carrots with dirt still on them. There’s also a small hard bristled brush, and a few tonics, all sitting atop a new saddle blanket; they really pitched in to get things not for him, but for his horse? It’s…kind of funny, but practical. Needed.

     Arthur looks up. “This is real thoughtful, thank you, all of you.” 

     “Arthur,” Abigail says, “there’s more things.” 

     More? Arthur rummages around, frowning as he looks under the blanket. Then, he finds it. A book? A brand new leather bound journal and a good pen. A belt buckle, no, two of them? A bottle, a big one at that, a good bottle of dark whiskey. A pack of premium smokes. 

Just when he thinks that’s all, his fingers touch the edges of something square, no, something rectangular. Arthur slips a hand inside and feels for that one last thing. 

     Seconds later, he pulls it out and blinks. Words die in his throat. He stares down at a picture of his dear Ma, fitted and framed carefully. Perfectly in fact. 

     “I…how?” He looks up at the rest of them. 

     “Took a little bit of effort and snooping to get that picture.” Tilly tells him. 

     “Who?” That picture was pressed in the back of his old journal, an old thing falling apart at the spine, hidden away at the bottom of his trunk of things. Arthur looks to Abigail. She’s always been a good thief. Was it her? 

     Abigail shakes her head. “Ain’t me.” She tilts her head to the side, to where Marston stands with his hands behind his back causally. A hint. A confirmation. 

     “Really? John?” Arthur says in disbelief.

     John shrugs. “It weren’t hard. I just, waited for you to be busy. I knew where to look.” 

     He should be mad at the thought of John invading his space like that. Any other day he would be. He looks down at the framed picture. His Ma is smiling faintly. It’s an image he’s seen a hundred times, the only image of her he has left in fact; but seeing it like this, cared for, treated so nicely. Well, Arthur Morgan might think himself a hard man, but this is enough to melt his heart. 

     “I don’t know what to say.” 

     “You don’t have to say anything. Just, take the gift and take the thanks.” John tells him. 

     “Just don’t turn around and break it,” Karen says. 

     “Never,” Arthur replies. He means it. “I’ll take good care of this, thank you lot. It’s…this is…thank you.” 

     Sean breaks away first, prompting others to join him. Karen follows, Marybeth and Tilly return to their spots. Abigail goes too. Only he and John are left standing there. 

     “Was I right? Do you like it?” John’s grin is sheepish. For a moment, Arthur forgets to be annoyed or mad at him. 

     “I love it, really. I wasn’t expecting that from…anyone.” 

     “Yeah well, m’sure everyone’s glad to see you happy for a change. Enjoy it.” John says, then quickly adds. “Dutch thinks I’m on guard duty, I have to go.” 

     Arthur bids him a goodbye, and soon he’s standing alone. He’s still clutching that picture of his Ma, still looking down at it when his horse whinnies. 

     Arthur chuckles. “Yeah girl, there’s plenty in here for you too.” 

[rdrevents]

All is Calm, All is Bright

This is my entry for the @rdrevents #rdrSecretWinterExchange! Its the first time for me to participate in something like this and I had a ton of fun doing it!

the prompt was: johnigail and/or marston family centric - marston family’s first christmas on the ranch

PG13-ish? Language (hey - it’s Red Dead) and there’s some insinuatin’ of things that married folk do. Happy holidays @vittoriaisfuckingpathetic!

God damn woman, goddamn woman with those goddamn pretty eyes, and evil smile and…

Oh, who is he kidding? That woman’s got him wound tighter than a two-dollar watch. That’s why he’s heading into Blackwater when the prairie is cold as dickens and he feels like he froze his ass off on this ride into town. The grey clouds cast darkness over the land, and though sunset is a few hours off, it is dark enough to lose one’s way easily.

John Marston groans underneath his heavy coat, tucking his head into the open collar, “C’mon now boy, just get me into town and I’ll getcha all the damn treats that you want.” 

The roan Tennessee Walker beneath him nicks its head up, neighing in discomfort against the wind rolling off Flat Iron Lake. Blanketed in white, snow covering the prairie, he can barely see the trail ahead of him, having to rely on muscle memory and his sense of direction to get to Blackwater.

“It’s Christmas. The first time the boy’s been in a home for one, hell, it's the first time I’ve been in a home for one. Probably you too.”

Abigail, as always, was right. Her voice rings in his ears, and though he wants to grumble terribly, it warms him to see her smile as he leaves. Seeing excitement in Jack’s eyes, for the first time in a very long time. Fortunately, It's not long before he comes upon that old white church on the top of the hill heading into town - he’s able to urge his horse to trot faster down the well-traveled road, where hoofprints and wagon tracks have the ground visible underneath the snow. 

The plod of his horse's hooves change their tenor as he reaches the cobblestone main streets of Blackwater. It's a sound that he bites back a derisive comment to - much preferring the soft, muted sound of his horse walking on the open prairie. When John reaches his destination, he slides out of the saddle and hitches his horse to a post in front of several shops. He brushes snow off of his shoulder as he quickly moves toward one of the shops.

Blackwater Sundries - Family Owned since 1895

The bell above the door rings as he pushes the door open, quickly closing it behind himself to stave out the cold wind.

“I’m here to pick up an order under the name Marston.”

The young woman behind the desk smiles before turning to the table behind and her, grabbing a wooden crate. She struggles, slightly, hoisting it to the counter, and John leans over the counter to steady her by taking the crate's edge. 

“Thank you kindly, Mister Marston. This here’s got a smoked ham, a can of candied yams, a can of asparagus, a wrapped fruitcake, and a bottle of my momma’s mulled wine. She just made it this morning. A Christmas gift for everyone who made an order with us.”

“That’s mighty kind of her, Miss.” John slides the crate closer to himself on the counter. He digs one hand into his satchel for the envelope of money that Abigail had sent with him for the order. Placing it down on the counter, he gazes once over the crate and its contents, “Miss, do you possibly have a sack to put this all in? I only have my horse, ain’t brought my wagon.”

“Course, Mister. Let me wrap up the bottle in extra canvas.”

After the girl wraps all of the items carefully in canvas and finally in a large sack, she holds it out for John to take,  “Ham is already spiced and smoked, so just have your wife warm it up in the oven. Yams and asparagus just on the stovetop. Shouldn’t take more than an hour and you’ll have a nice spread.” She states cheerily as John shoulders the sack.

He snorts to himself as he nods a farewell, striding back to the door and the howling wind outside. Blessedly, this was one meal that Abigail would not be able to ruin. He loves that woman from here to hell and back, but Lord, cooking wasn’t one of her strong suits.

John braces himself against the cold as the door swings open, gritting his teeth against the blustery wind that rushes through the city street. Cursing to himself again, he quickly secures the bag to his horse’s rump, taking a moment to dig in his satchel for a peppermint candy that he feeds the Walker before unhitching him and climbing up.

It’s a cold, long ride back to Beecher’s Hope, and night has truly fallen by the time John can see the glow of lights from the main house. He leads the horse to the barn, opening the two large doors and bringing the Walker to one of the stalls where he had shoveled fresh hay into. John brings his hand down the horse’s mane affectionately as he unties the bag of items and pulls the saddle from the horse’s back. Once the Walker is settled, John shoulders the bag and heads back outside, walking quickly up to the house, pushing inside the door seeking warmth.

“Pa’s back!”  John hears his son shout from down the hall as he closes the door behind him. He shrugs some of the snow off his shoulder before kicking his boots off on the threshold. 

“Go on and help him then!” Abigail shouts from the kitchen.

“Sir -” Jack bounds into view and holds his arms out and John hands him the sack of goods, “Mind the bottle in there.”  The boy nods and carries the sack carefully toward the kitchen.  

John finishes kicking his boots off and shrugs his wet coat off as well, hanging it on a peg near the door. He treads forward, further into the house, where the main room is brightly lit with sconces, candles, and oil lanterns to fend off the darkness of the night. Abigail has hung pine boughs on the mantle, cut from the trees on the furthest north reach of the ranch, right as it borders Tall Trees. The scent of pine wafts through the house, and John has to stop and survey the room, so filled with life, even in the darkness of the season.

Abigail flutters around the house like a madwoman, taking the bag from Jack and immediately running back into the kitchen. She orders the men of the house around as if she is in the army - wash up, change your shirt, Uncle, I swear to god if you drank John’s good whiskey you will sleep in the barn tonight -

By the time that he, Jack, and Uncle return in some state of cleanliness, Abigail has warmed up the food and placed it out on serving plates on the table. John cannot help but to stare at the bounty of it all - he was so far removed from the starving kid stealing bread at Jack’s age. Even far removed from eating Pearson’s stew around a campfire.

“Sir?” Jack waits patiently, his hands on the chair in front of him.

“Go on now, sit down and let’s eat.” John waves his hand at the table as he pulls out his own chair, and the clank and clatter of forks and knives on plates as food is served fills the room.

“And look at this - the Christmas spirit has even gotten to a sour ol’ bastard like John Marston o’er here.” Uncle guffaws between swigs of whiskey straight from the bottle, obviously having had quite a few sips before dinner even started.

“Old man, I swear-” John points his fork menacingly at Uncle.

“It’s Christmas, John. Have a heart and don’t abuse the elderly, for once.” Uncle retorts, to which John rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to threaten the old man, as per usual.

Abigail glares from across the table and John swallows his insult, breathing out his nose as he spears a piece of candied yam.

Soft conversation continues through dinner, the teasing and retorts that usually take up the table are blessedly absent - for once. John glances up from his empty plate across the table to his wife, and the smile that she gives him makes the hardened gunslinger blush - blush - of all things.

She mouths a “thank you” as Uncle drones on about how his stories are better in every way than Jack’s books - his son interjecting about how Uncle is no literary luminary. Laughter floats through the house - flashes of the quiet, empty room when he had just built the house dance behind John’s eyes - he is so thankful those days are behind him.

The dessert is served and eaten, conversation remains light and cheerful. For tonight, at least, work at Beecher’s Hope is forgotten - the crush of debts or ‘success’ at ranching. 

“Alright now, Jack - go on and wash up and head to sleep. It's past your bedtime.” Abigail points one finger at her son as she finishes her glass of mulled wine and John can swear he sees a blush in her cheeks that he had not seen in years. After Jack grumbles for a moment and bids everyone good night,  Abigail clears the table and with a yawn, retires, walking behind John and kissing him on his brow on her way back to their bedroom.

John has a few more glasses of whiskey with Uncle before they retire, recalling glory days gone by. Uncle’s storytelling gets more and more ridiculous with each drink - One-Shot Kid my ass. Mumbling something about how his lumbago ails him, Uncle schleps over to the couch. For once, John does not scold him about getting up to his place in the attic. Perhaps it was this ‘Christmas spirit’ that Abigail had gone on about. Standing up from the table, John rights the mostly empty bottle of whiskey as he looks up at the clock on the wall, another contraption Abigail insisted on furnishing this house. It’s past midnight - technically Christmas at this point. He sighs, slowly strolling down the hall to his son’s room.

He checks on Jack, pushing his door open ever so slightly. The boy has fallen asleep with his oil lantern next to his desk still on, a book open across his chest. John frowns, stepping fully into the room and making his way over to the bed as quietly as he can. He gently, carefully extracts the book from Jack’s grasp, placing it down on the bedside table; open to the page that his son had been reading. 

John lingers, his finger on the switch to the lamp. The orange glow of light casts shadows through the room, and for a second, he swears the boy in the bed is a ragtag child, dirty and angry, saved from the gallows by wayward outlaws.

He shakes his head at the vision as he turns off the lantern, plunging the room into darkness. As his eyes adjust, he quietly makes his way back to the hall, pausing once again to look upon his son, silently swearing to himself that Jack will never have to live as he did at this age.

He yawns, rolling his shoulder as he walks back into the dining room, past the leftovers of the veritable feast they had for the Christmas meal, not bothering to clear it up until morning. Idly scratching his bicep, he winces slightly at the pull in the muscle - even after all these years, there are dull aches from the bullet wound he obtained in Roanoke. Brushing off the pain, he continues down the hallway, to his and Abigail’s bedroom. He quietly opens the door, expecting his wife to be fast asleep this late in the night.

He’s surprised when she isn’t, the fireplace blazing and sconces lighting the room.

Abigail lounges upon the bed like some expensive lady of the night, her long chemise lacy and near translucent in the night. Jesus, she’s as beautiful as she was at eighteen when he couldn’t have enough of her. 

“Thank you, John.” She whispers softly. He almost can’t hear her, so enraptured by the sight of her with her long hair unbound, laying out on that bed.

Abigail nicks her head upward with that sly grin that stole his heart. John raises his eyebrows in questioning as he follows her motioning - finding a bright green sprig of leaves hung over the bed frame, tied with a red length of yarn.

“C’mon over here, gunslinger.”

[rdrevents]

Surprise @glowingdove I got your name for @rdrevents Secret Winter Exchange. I loved the prompts you gave, but I couldn't go past Arthur and Sadie meeting as kids.

I hope you enjoy! This was so much fun to write.

Happy Holidays!!

[rdrevents]

PHEW! So glad I was able to finish this up for @roamingtigress ! Happy Secret Winter Excange! I was sit picturing this in my head for weeks but was unable to wokr on it, I hope you like how it turned out!

This piece was for the @rdrevents 2024 winter exchange which I have giddily recived my own piece for and cannot wait to read! Thanks to everone behind teh scenes. Little events like this are forever a blast <3

[rdrevents]

Coffee by the Campfire - A mini RDR2 fancomic (1/1)

My piece for @charlessmithhasmyheart as part of the RDR Winter Exchange run by @rdrevents :D I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed making it !!

[rdrevents]

Christmas gift for @storytellering !

For the @rdrevents gift exchange

Hope you like it at least a bit lol

[rdrevents]

hey, JB!! ( @thedogslegart ) <3 happy holidays, i had so much fun writing your gift :3 and thank you @rdrevents for the most fun ive ever had in a fandom event!!!

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)

Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Jack Marston & John Marston, Abigail Roberts Marston & Jack Marston, Charlotte Balfour & Jack Marston, Rachel the Horse & Jack Marston (Red Dead Redemption), Margaret & Jack Marston (Red Dead Redemption) Characters: Jack Marston, Charlotte Balfour, Margaret (Red Dead Redemption), Abigail Roberts Marston, Background & Cameo Characters, Rachel the Horse (Red Dead Redemption) Additional Tags: Minor Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Suicidal Thoughts, Substance Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Smoking, Stranger Missions (Red Dead Redemption), 1920s, Grief/Mourning, Survivor Guilt, Mentioned John Marston, Mentioned Uncle (Red Dead Redemption), Adult Jack Marston, Mentioned Edgar Ross, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Canonical Character Death, Post-Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Gun Violence, Arthur Morgan’s Journal, High Honor Jack Marston, Jack Marston Needs a Hug, this time he does not get one however, RDR Secret Winter Exchange, jack talks to his horse like a well adjusted not lonely individual, some animal symbolism to represent honor level, Mentioned Arthur Morgan, Blood and Injury Summary:

Jack knows he should feel happy for her. Instead, something cold and hollow cries for attention in his chest.

(Momma’s blank stare as she sat in the family room, her hands covered in Pa’s blood. Jack tried helping her clean up, but she could barely look at him, let alone move to the bathroom to wash off the grisly stains.

“Ma?” Jack spoke, and she jumped a little, like she hadn’t seen him there even though he was holding her shaking hands. “I… I can’t carry ‘em by myself.”)

Charlotte looks at him, that pitying look on her face again, and he realizes he’s gone silent. “I’m real happy for you, ma’am.”

He wishes he meant it. He wishes he could feel anything but bitter.

(Jack Marston battles with grief, honor, and whether any of it means a damn thing at all.)

[rdrevents]

Happy holidays! Here's my gift to @yeehawpurgatory for the @rdrevents Secret Winter Exchange! Here's One Arthur and John warming up at camp after John fell into a frozen lake, as requested ✨

[rdrevents]

why did you only reblogged the charthur post, the other ships posted their submissions too don't play favorites :'(

Hi,

As per previous SWE events, all gifts will be reblogged, however the two that have currently been reblogged** were the first and only ones at the time to have appeared in the channel activity feed.

I'm reblogging gifts before and after work as they appear in my feed until I can look for any stray gifts via the #rdrsecretwinterexchange tag on my one day off before Christmas.

This blog organises events with inclusion and non-bias at its core, so I would appreciate you not hiding behind anon and accusing me of favouritism when that's not the case.

Respectfully,

RDRevents

--

EDIT: **the second reblog is actually in my drafts as I apparently didn't get a chance to finish its tags, so this will be included in the reblogs I will be doing tomorrow morning.

[rdrevents]

𝓐 𝓠𝓾𝓲𝓮𝓽 𝓜𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽

Merry Christmas @catthecowboy Secret Winter Exchange 2024 @rdrevents ❄️