#difficulties of parenting

[say-hwaet]

If I Had to Do it All Again

Chapter 27: Blackwater, Part I Next Chapter: Twenty-Eight Summary: May, 1899. Eliza and the children have gone. But where? How does time find them? Warnings: Mature themes, language, spice, MDNI Word Count: ~11,200 A/N: The song Madness kept popping into my head. While the original, by Muse, is done in a genre not exactly in alignment with the western/Victorian setting of this fic, I found an acoustic version sung by a young woman, which would be in Eliza's perspective anyway. But the loud cry of "I need your love" in the original is also fitting so, take your pick, I guess... haha

You finish jotting down the day's reflections in your journal, the pages filled with swirling thoughts and inked musings. The paper rustles softly as you close it and place it gently atop your old wooden nightstand, its surface gleaming under the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Suddenly, a gentle knock resonates from your bedroom door, a muffled sound that breaks the silence of the room.

"Come in," you call out, your voice a soft invitation.

The door swings open with a quiet creak, and Arthur's head appears around the edge, his eyes warm and familiar. "Just wanted to say goodnight," he murmurs, his voice a gentle lullaby that fills the room with comfort.

"Oh, then please close the door. I don't want the light to wake Isaac." He comes in, closing the door behind him. "Is he still asleep?"

"Yeah."

You exhale slowly and lean back against the headboard."Good. It's been quite the day for him."

Arthur gently lowers himself onto the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. You shift, drawing your knees up closer to your chest to make space for him. "Shoah," he says softly, his gaze thoughtful, "He's a sensitive little guy."

You nod in agreement, a warm smile playing on your lips. "He's got a big heart," you reply, your voice filled with affection. "It's almost too big for him," you add, imagining the tenderness and vulnerability that seem to overflow from him.

"I think he got that from you."

You hug your knees and tuck your nightgown around you. "What, you don't have a heart?" you tease.

Arthur tucks his chin, chortling softly at your remark. "Well, you said so yourself, I'm rough around the edges."

"That may be, but that's only surface deep. I know you keep that tough exterior to hide what's inside."

He raises his hands in a defeated gesture. "You seem to have me pegged."

You shrug, a hint of playfulness in your eyes. "Maybe for some things. In others, you're still a mystery. I bet that journal of yours has a lot of secrets."

"And they're mine to keep."

"Of course, just like my journal holds my secrets."

He shifts his body toward you, a playful grin spreading across his face. "So, you're a bit of a mystery, too, huh?" he teases, his eyes glinting with curiosity under the dim light.

"Maybe," you reply, a hint of mischief in your voice, "Though you already know my deepest secret." An expectant silence envelops the space between you, the air thick with unspoken words. As your eyes lock, the lightness in Arthur's expression slowly dissipates, his smile slipping away like the last rays of the setting sun. He averts his gaze, looking past you into the distance. You feel a pang of urgency; you don’t want this night, painted with laughter and shared secrets, to conclude on a somber note.

"Speaking of secrets..." You rise from the bed and walk over to your hope chest, its polished wood gleaming softly in the dim light. Arthur's eyes follow you with curiosity as you lift the lid, its hinges creaking slightly, and begin to rummage through the neatly arranged items inside. After a moment, you retrieve a carefully wrapped parcel, its paper crisp and tied with a delicate ribbon. You return to Arthur, placing the package gently in his lap. "I meant to give this to you, but I only just finished it while you were out with Isaac. I figure now is as good a time as any to present it to you." You resume your spot on the bed, the mattress sinking slightly beneath you, and watch as he unties the ribbon and peels back the paper. Inside, he finds a meticulously crafted shirt, the fabric a rich azure cotton adorned with subtle vertical stripes. Each button is sewn with precision, perfectly aligned and gleaming. The craftsmanship speaks volumes of the care and attention you poured into its creation.

"I can't believe you did this for me,” he finally says, barely above a whisper. In all his life, no one has really made him anything. Besides his mother, that is, and that was nearly twenty years ago. “Thank you."

You shrug bashfully, tucking some loose hair behind your ear. "I wanted to do something nice for you...I just wish that I had done that sooner."

Arthur turns to you, his eyes flickering with a hint of nervousness about what he is about to say. "You gave me Isaac, Eliza. I don't need nothin’ else." His voice is earnest, carrying a weight of sincerity that tugs at your heartstrings.

You can feel a warm flush creeping up your neck, settling into your ears, turning them a rosy pink. The thought of asking him to stay begins to take root in your mind, a delicate seed of hope that you carefully consider nurturing. You long to reach out, to touch the tender part of his heart, one final appeal that might persuade him. The memories of his time spent at Aspen's Way and the precious moments shared between you both seem to weave together, forming a tapestry of possibility that suggests it could work this time.

"Arthur," you begin, your voice tinged with a mix of hesitation and resolve. "I know that we've done things a certain way, which is why I haven't said much, but... I need to say this..." You anticipate him interrupting, perhaps with a gentle word or a raised eyebrow, but he remains silent, his eyes fixed on yours, urging you to continue. "I...I've wanted to go with you, many times," you confess, your heart pounding like a distant drumbeat. "I've wondered what it would be like, to be by your side, to experience life differently if I were near you all of the time." His gaze is unwavering, a steady flame that lights up the depths of your courage, encouraging you to lay bare your heart.

"But, I have finally realized that...that this life is better. Having a home is better. A homestead. One place that's truly ours. That's what Isaac needs. That's what you need." You lean forward, your hands feeling clammy and heart pounding. "You'd be safe with us. No one knows who you are. Isaac needs his father to protect him. I–I need you, too."

He turns his gaze away, his silence heavy in the air. You extend your hand, gently resting it on his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. "I love you, Arthur," you say softly, your voice a tender plea. "Please stay. Even if it’s not right here, but somewhere close—just so you can be nearby to see Isaac more often,” and you hesitate before adding, “To see me."

Arthur now understands that you have no intention of leaving Aspen's Way. He feels a weight settle in his chest as he grapples with the realization that he cannot have you under these circumstances. A crossroads lies before him, demanding a decision. Perhaps the time apart will grant him the clarity he needs to ponder his choices. You are firm in your stance; marriage is only an option if he chooses to remain. Arthur sits there, his gaze fixed on the wooden floor, avoiding your eyes. He clears his throat, the sound a quiet interruption in the tense air between you.

"Dutch—Dutch has plans to head south for a while."

The abrupt shift in the conversation casts a shadow over your mood, a wave of sadness washing over you. You lean back, withdrawing your hand from his arm, the warmth slipping away. "How long?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I ain't shoah," he replies, his tone carrying a note of uncertainty that echoes in your mind.

A prickling sensation begins to form in your eyes, an unmistakable sign of the tears threatening to fall. You swallow hard, determined to keep trying, to find the right words to reach him.

You just have to.

"You—you have a home with us, Arthur," you implore, your voice filled with earnest desperation. "It isn't too late to quit and be like everyone else." The plea hangs in the air, a glimmer of hope amidst the growing tension.

Arthur turns his head, and your eyes meet, locking in a gaze that speaks volumes. His expression mirrors the one Isaac wears when he asks, "You mean it?"—a look filled with hope and a touch of vulnerability. Arthur's eyes seem to plead silently with you, as if he desperately wants to believe your words.

You lean forward once more, gently caressing his face with your hand, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. "Truly, I mean it," you assure him, your voice soft and earnest. "You have it good here; please don't leave us."

He leans his face into your hand, the warmth of your skin a comforting presence against his cheek. As he closes his eyes, surrendering to the intimate gesture, his eyebrows knit together, a silent testament to the turmoil within him. It is as if an invisible force is pulling at the very fabric of his being, leaving him unsettled. He senses that the moment to make a decision is slipping away like sand through an hourglass. Your gentle touch is a soothing balm to the deep ache in his soul, offering a fleeting moment of solace, but he knows it cannot quell the storm raging inside him.

For the past four years, he has meticulously suppressed his feelings and desires, locking them away in the deepest corners of his heart. Yet, as your fingers gently trail to the back of his head and weave through his hair, a profound longing stirs within him—a yearning to be enveloped in your embrace. He craves the solace of knowing that your arms will welcome him upon his return. He senses that it will be a considerable time before your paths cross again.

Slowly, he opens his eyes, and there you are, gazing intently at him. Your eyes, rich with emotion, reflect a mixture of concern and an unwavering love. It was always love, deep and unfaltering, shimmering behind those beautiful, warm eyes, a beacon of comfort and connection amidst the uncertainty.

He doesn't want you to be concerned anymore.

Propping himself up with his right arm, he leans in toward you, his eyes focused and intent. Reaching out with his left hand, he tenderly cups the back of your head, his touch both comforting and electrifying. As he draws nearer, your lips hover just inches apart, suspended in anticipation. You wait on bated breath, uncertain of your next move, when he softly kisses you. The moment stretches, his lips lingering on yours, and just as he starts to pull away, you lean in, deepening the connection into a passionate kiss. Your heart races, pounding in your chest as you gently cradle his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin as the kiss grows more intense, igniting a shared spark between you.

It is then that you feel his hand move slightly, slowly, up your leg and under your nightgown.

You instantly pull away and gaze deeply into his eyes, a kaleidoscope of emotions swirling within them. His hand freezes, palming the silken skin of your thigh, as if time itself has paused. Your eyes, wide and searching, lock onto his, trying to decipher the silent message they convey, all while you catch your breath, the air around you thick with an unspoken tension.

He knows what you are asking. You are waiting for an answer.

Without uttering a word, he gently lifts your hands and unwraps them from around his neck, carefully placing them over his chest. You can feel the rhythmic, powerful thumping of his heart beneath the soft fabric of his shirt, each beat resonating through your fingertips. His touch lingers for a moment before he releases your hands, allowing them to rest on the button of his shirt. Slowly, with deliberate movements, he begins to slide his suspenders off his shoulders, the fabric whispering softly as it glides down.

He has given his answer.

Keeping your hands firmly on the first button, you lean in, pressing your lips against his once more. His suspenders, once taut, now hang loosely at his sides like the gentle drape of a curtain. Without breaking the kiss, you both move seamlessly, working together to shed his layers that separate your bodies and souls. Your hands tremble slightly, a testament to how long it has been since you last experienced this intimacy. There's a flutter of embarrassment, a whisper of self-consciousness, but he doesn't mind. Each of your touches is tender, conveying just how much this moment means to you.

In a fluid motion, your nightgown is lifted over your head, cascading to the floor like a whispering breeze. The warm glow of the lamp bathes your body in a soft, golden halo, highlighting the warmth and inviting allure of your freckled skin. 

He lets a soft breath escape him; you look more beautiful than the starry sky. He brings a hand to touch you, to palm your waist gently, to feel your ribcage expand over your lungs. Living. Breathing. Breathtaking. You smile, and he lifts his eyes to watch you as you carefully, slowly, lie down on your back. 

And his body, a pillar of strength, moves to be supported above you, his arms at your sides, as he looks down at you.

You remain like this for a moment longer, taking your time to regard each other’s bodies, to observe how time has changed you. Your hand reaches up to him, fingering the recent scars on his body, the ones that you don’t remember ever seeing. He nearly shivers at your touch, watching you silently, taking deep breaths to steady himself.

You trace the lines of his scars, your fingers delicate yet probing, as though trying to understand each mark's history. "These weren't here before," you murmur, a hint of sadness threading your voice, and your finger follows a thin line that starts from his navel to his hip bone. “You could’ve died…”

Arthur nods slightly, his eyes never looking away from you. "Yeah," he replies huskily. “But I’m still here.”

Your eyes lift to meet his again, and you notice the thin ring of blue in a deep circular darkness. “Yes, you are…”

His voice is hoarse, almost a whisper, as he continues, "Wit’chu." There's a promise in his words, one you hope he intends to keep. He lifts his right hand to gently cup your face, thumb brushing away the tears that have started to trace paths down your cheeks.

“Come to me,” you whisper.

And so, gently holding you, you fall into each other as the world disappears.

***

A soft, distant cry echoes from beyond your bedroom door, gently nudging you from the depths of sleep, though not quite bringing you fully into wakefulness. Your hand instinctively reaches forward, eyes still sealed in the comfort of slumber. "Arthur, can you...?" you murmur, expecting the familiar warmth beside you. Instead, your fingers brush against nothing but the cool, vacant sheets, a hollow reminder of absence. Your eyes snap open, startled, and you sit up abruptly, scanning the room with urgency. The sight that greets you is unsettling—his clothes are missing, leaving only a sense of unease in their place.

His new shirt is gone. 

Maybe he's outside, you rationalize.

But Isaac is crying.

You swiftly throw off the covers and leap out of bed, the cool air hitting your skin as you step out of your room. As you reach for your robe, your ears pick up a soft creaking, and you follow the sound down the dimly lit hallway. There, in the entranceway, stands Isaac, his hand on the doorknob, the front door inching open to reveal the world outside. "Isaac!" you call, your voice echoing slightly in the quiet of the early morning.

"He's...g-gone...!"

You hurry over to him, your footsteps quick and purposeful, and gently pull him away from the door before shutting it with a soft click. You try to adopt a soothing tone, your voice laced with warmth and reassurance. "Isaac–" you begin.

But Isaac's voice is filled with distress, his eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears. "He's gone, Mommy! He said he'd stay longer! He promised!"

You gently lower yourself onto your knees and wrap your arms around him. "Isaac, come here," you whisper soothingly. His words dissolve into a stream of muffled sobs as he buries his face into your chest, seeking comfort. With a tender strength, you lift your growing boy into your arms and carry him to the well-worn rocking chair in the corner of the room. Settling into the creaky wooden seat, you readjust Isaac on your lap, feeling the warmth and weight of him. Slowly, you begin to rock back and forth, the rhythmic motion soothing both his distress and your own heart.

At that moment, you gently thread your fingers through his hair, the strands soft and silky against your skin, in a calming, tender manner. You start to hum a quiet, soothing melody, though your voice wavers, shaky and uncertain, as tears stream silently down your cheeks, glistening like droplets of rain on a windowpane.

He’s gone. He’s gone.

***

“Okay, Mr. Wilson, I think that was the last of ‘em,” you sigh as you wipe your hands on your apron. “Is there anything else you needed?”

Mr. Wilson steps out from behind the bar, still cleaning one of the remaining glasses that were in the lineup. He talks around a large cigar in his mouth, one of the few pleasures he’s afforded before the evening shift. “Naw, that about does it, Marie. You go on, now.”

You smile, relieved that you are free to go. “Thanks.”

“How’s your little-un doin’? Stayin’ outta trouble?”

You frown as you hang up your apron on the wooden notch and reach for your hat and coat. “That’s what I’m about to find out.”

The bald-headed man clicks his tongue. “Not another meetin’ with the school marm…?”

You sigh. “Another one.”

Mr. Wilson feels compelled enough to take out his cigar, waving it at you as you head for the door. “I’m tellin’ ya, you need to straighten her out. God knows she will turn into one of those delinquents you read about in the papers…!”

Since you’ve lived here, you’ve heard plenty of others' opinions on your parenting. It’s 1899, and even with the turn of the century, folks around here are stuck in some of the old ways, including how to raise young girls. Most would just ship her off to a boarding school, or some sort of place to make her into a prissy queen bee.

But even if that is what you wanted, it would be far from solving the problem. You know what’s making her act in such a way. 

But you can’t do anything about it. You know you can’t. 

But you still want her to behave.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Wilson.” You reach for the door knob and pull it back. “I’ll die before I let that happen.”

And you step outside.  

Sometimes you forget how dry West Elizabeth is, after being in so many humid places. It only makes you more attentive, more self-aware, and you always make sure your children take a canteen of water with them. 

You pause a moment to watch people pass by in wagons, on horses, and on foot. Most are dressed in well-tailored attire, some more casual than you. You don’t have time to change out of your day clothes, a simple cotton shirt and pants, for something more demure, you’re already running late. 

As you step down from the platform, you hold onto your hat as a strong breeze whips up through the city street, some women holding onto their parasols. You chuckle to yourself. You find it pointless to wear dresses, skirts, and bloomers anymore. Just more stuff to collect dust. 

It should be Blackdust, not Blackwater, but you suppose that still wouldn’t be accurate. 

Your shoes make a satisfying clip-clip on the cobblestones as you stay close to the right side of the street, making your way to its end. Your destination is just outside of town. You’re used to walking it, as you only have one wagon cart, and it is at home with Farm Boy, who is resting before his nightly commute. 

As you continue down the street, your mind drifts back to the last few months. How easily you’ve settled here. It was a long journey, traveling the hundreds of miles, relying on the help of strangers. You were surprised there was that much benevolence left in this world, having been living with a group of thieves and murderers.

And when you arrived at Blackwater, you thought you had reached the promised land, despite its desert and dry landscape.

You know you are near the school, when you hear the cacophony of children playing.

Children shouting.

Children screaming.

Fight! Fight! Fight!

Your steps quicken, the familiar surge of adrenaline prickling at the back of your neck as you approach the chaotic scene. Dropping to a brisk jog, your heart beats in time with the urgent sound of children's raised voices, their cries echoing off the nearby buildings.

“Get up, Tommy!”

“Yeah! You can beat ‘er…!”

You round the corner, eyes scanning over the small crowd that has gathered in a dusty patch near the schoolhouse. There, at the center of the throng of shouting children, stands Alice, her overalls covered in dirt, a balled fist raised, face flushed with anger. Two boys lay on the ground before her, nursing bruises and torn shirts.

One lies beneath her, looking up at her with a scowl. “You fight like a girl!”

But she roars back, changing her stance as she reaches for his collar. “That’s ’cause I am one, dumbass!”

You push your way through the circle, your voice rising above the shouts of the children. “Elizabeth…!” Even though it isn’t her real name, it’s ingrained in her now, causing her to immediately lift her head and see you approaching. She freezes, fist still raised, other hand gripping Tommy’s shirt collar as you storm over to her. “I never raised you to beat up on anyone, much less talk like that…!”

The children standing around immediately stop cheering and quickly scatter, not wanting to get caught up in whatever reprimand you might deliver on them as well. You grab Alice's arm, pulling her up and away from the boy on the ground. Her breathing is heavy, chest heaving with each breath, and you can see the fire still burning in her eyes, unquenched by your arrival.

"Elizabeth, how many times have I told you to stop picking fights?!”

“I didn’t start it, they did! They was callin’ me names! Sayin’ things about my—!”

You turn her away from Tommy, facing the school, as you haven’t forgotten your appointment. “That doesn’t matter, you need to ignore them and let it go…!”

“Daddy woulda been proud of me!”

You nearly lose your breath at the mention of him, but you can see the tears in your daughter’s eyes. You know she’s hurting, missing him just as much as you do, but you can’t let her keep acting out this way. Your eyes soften, if but for a moment, but you remain firm in your tone. “We will discuss this when we get home.” You begin to walk towards the school. “Right now, we need to meet with Mrs. Thorne.”

“But Mama,” Alice moans.

“Enough…! I would have rather you had left with your brother at this point.” You had given Alice strict instructions to wait at the school for you instead of heading home with Isaac. Now, you’re wishing that her disobedience translated in that direction instead.

Alice falls silent as you tug her along, her steps reluctantly matching your brisk pace. Her head hangs down, and you can feel the tension radiating from her small frame. As you approach the school steps, you take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the upcoming conversation.

The school has only two classrooms, with two teachers. The city is growing, so undoubtedly the need for more instructors will come. For now, Mrs. Thorne teaches the younger groups, while Miss Lane teaches the older groups. Next year, Isaac will be moving to the older class, and Alice and him will be separated.

Another reason, you believe, for Alice’s rebellion.

You’ve been to the school more often than you’ve ever been to church, and you find the classroom fairly easily. You maintain your grip on your daughter’s arm and only let go before you knock on the door.

“…Come in, Mrs. Leland.”

You look down at your daughter, who only faces forward, eyes on the door. Her single plait down her back is all frizzy and like rope, dirt, and who knows what else marks her face. You’d normally take a minute to wipe off her rosy cheeks, but you know it is futile at this point.

You reach for the door knob, turn it, and let your daughter step inside first.

The room is well lit, each desk is in its neat row. The chalkboard spick and span. And there sits Mrs. Thorne, hands folded on her desk. 

“You’re late, Mrs. Leland.”

You feel your hackles rise at her remark, and you keep your hands unclenched by placing them on your daughter’s shoulders. “I was breaking up a fight between your students in the front yard.” Your jaw tightens, and you keep your eyes steeled as you meet her gaze. “Were you aware of it, or are you oblivious to what happens on school grounds?”

Her mouth parts, surprised by your grit. You’re usually rather soft spoken and demure whenever you have met, always agreeable and willing to cooperate for the sake of peace. But suddenly you’re not as malleable as she was expecting. 

She closes her mouth and clears her throat as she readjusts the glasses on her face. “Have a seat, Mrs. Leland.”

You nod curtly. “Thank you.” Hands still on your daughter’s shoulders, you gently guide her to the chairs in front of Mrs. Thorne’s desk. “Let’s sit down, Elizabeth.”

Still not speaking, Alice heads over to one of the chairs, plopping down on it with an angered huff. You calmly sit down and remove the hat off your head. You place the hat on your lap, smoothing out the fabric of your trousers as you prepare yourself for the conversation ahead. Mrs. Thorne remains seated, her posture rigid, the lines of her mouth tight with disapproval. Her gaze shifts between you and Alice, assessing the situation with a critical eye.

"Mrs. Leland, it is no mystery as to why I requested this meeting…”

You shake your head. “No, Mrs. Thorne, it is not.”

“Your daughter Elizabeth is not only a ruffian in play, she’s also negligent in her studies. She’s constantly looking out the window, and likes to argue with me and other students during instruction.”

This has all been strange to you. When you were teaching Alice and her brother back at camp, they always gave you their undivided attention. Of course, there were moments where you had to reel them back in, but that is normal for children. They aren’t meant to sit still for hours on end.

But you’ve only been aware of the fights. The behavior indoors is new to you. “How long has this been going on?”

Mrs. Thorne lifts her chin. “Long enough. I had thought that in time, she’d adjust, given that she’s new here. But alas, I have learned that this behavior is more of nature rather than…well…”

You grip your hat tightly. “Elizabeth has never acted out this way before.”

Mrs. Thorne pushes up her glasses, a force of habit, you’ve noticed. “Forgive me, Mrs. Leland, but in my line of work, that is something I’ve heard time and time again.”

You take a deep breath, your fingers tightening around the brim of your hat as you prepare to respond. "Mrs. Thorne," you begin, your voice steady despite the anger simmering just below the surface, "Elizabeth has been through more than most children her age. She's had to adjust to a lot of changes. Now, I’m not excusing her behavior with the other children, but—”

“Well, then, how would you explain away the academic performances? The fact that she challenges the material I teach?”

You furrow your brow. “The material?”

“Yes…! When we have discussed topics in history, she insists on the ridiculous things! One example being that the Midwest is more east than west, and another being that outlaws and gangs still exist…!” She scoffs and gestures to a book on her desk. “The United States is far more civilized now. We are dawning a new century, and we cannot have a future if we are stuck in the past.”

You look at your daughter, who looks into her lap. She isn’t ignorant. She’s known who her father is, what they do, despite your and Arthur’s best efforts to keep it hidden from her. You had tried to protect Isaac when he was little, but it all eventually came into the light, like everything else.

But for her teacher to insist that she’s wrong, when you know for a fact that outlaws are a present entity, it strikes you a different way.

As you look back at Mrs. Thorne, you feel a surge of frustration at her words, but you strive to maintain composure. “Mrs. Thorne, I don’t know where you get your information, but I assure you, outlaws are very much alive and well. It is true that America isn’t as wild as it used to be, but people still get attacked on trains and held at gunpoint. You can’t remove that from existence, or from the papers.” You lower your voice as a protective strength fills you. “It is one thing to correct a child when she is wrong, but how dare you make my daughter a fool in front of the entire class?!”

Mrs. Thorne leans back, the creases in her forehead deepening as she processes your words. She appears momentarily taken aback by the intensity of your response. “Mrs. Leland, I didn’t mean to—”

“Exactly. You didn’t mean to do anything. My daughter is bright, and all you have done is sit back and watch her fail. I am not above doing my part to help my daughter learn, but I’ve seen enough evidence these past three months on how you teach, and my son, who never tells a lie, has told me much.” You go to rise from your chair, the legs of it screeching on the wooden floor as you push it back. “My daughter will be rightfully punished for the fight this afternoon, but if I hear more about this academic negligence and derogatory treatment toward her, I will take it up with the school board.” Your gaze is unwavering, your voice firm, every word punctuated with a cold, resolute edge.

Mrs. Thorne's lips press into a thin line, her eyes narrowing slightly as she meets your stare. “Very well, Mrs. Leland. I will take your concerns into consideration,” she responds, her voice maintaining a professional tone despite the clear tension in the air.

You nod, not fully satisfied but recognizing that this is perhaps the best outcome for today. "Thank you, Mrs. Thorne," you say crisply, standing back and tapping Alice gently on the shoulder. “Come along, Elizabeth.”

She stands up slowly, and as you turn away, you feel her slip her hand in yours. You almost stop at the gesture, surprised that she’d even want to share affection with you, after reprimanding her outside.

Well, it’s something she wanted to do. Of course, she knows the gesture doesn’t exonerate her from her wrongdoing, but she’s somewhat inspired. It means a lot that you came to her defense, in the way that she had imagined you would.

You both leave the classroom and keep silent as you walk down the hall and out the door.

The sun will be setting soon. You and Alice need to get home before it gets dark. You’ll need to have supper and help the children with their homework before going to bed.

“Mama…?”

You look down at your six-year-old daughter, meeting those beautiful blue eyes of hers. “Yes?”

She bites her lower lip, worried about how you might react to her question.

And her silence is making your curiosity peak just a little. “Yes?”

“Do you…? Do you think he misses us?”

You know who she means, and it makes you ache inside.

You hope he does.

You can only squeeze her hand. “Let’s just head home, Alice.”

“You called me Alice, Mama…”

You blink. “Oh, right. I just…I’m sorry.”

Alice finally smiles. “It’s okay.” Her eyes catch the light from the sun, making them look like crashing waves. “Sometimes it’s nice to hear it.”

And you start toward home together.

***

As you reach the house, you see the smoke coming from the chimney. Dinner is cooking, and you’re relieved, but guilt pangs at you. It was your turn to cook dinner tonight, but you must be a lot later than you thought you’d be.

You like to call it home. It’s small, but with two bedrooms, a kitchen, washroom, and a living room, it is enough. Isaac has to sleep in a cot in the living room, and you and Alice share a room, but you have a good system going. Though, sometimes, Isaac craves solitude and will spend a couple of nights in the safe house, just beyond the property. 

You spot the small garden you have in the gated yard. It appears that it hasn’t been attacked by crows this time, and that makes you glad. The earth here is rough, and so you make do with drought-resistant vegetables for canning. You’re happy to work in the soil again. It has been too long. 

The front door swings open just as you reach the bottom step to the porch, and Isaac steps outside.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he says, bypassing any sort of greeting.

You nod, forcing a smile. “Will you tell her I’m sorry?”

He nods, and turns to head back inside, leaving the door open for you.

“I hope we’re not having beans again,” Alice grumbles.

You squeeze her hand. “You will be grateful for what you get to eat, won’t you?”

You motion for her to step inside first, and you hear her sigh loudly. “I guess…”

“We won’t talk about what happened at school today,” you say softly so only she can hear. 

“She’s gonna ask.”

“Leave that to me.” You close the door behind you and hear the sound of pots clanking and water running. “We’re back, Annabelle.”

Following the sound, you enter the kitchen and see a dark-haired woman standing in front of the sink. She looks over her shoulder, her green eyes sparkling as she smiles at you. “How’d it go?”

You feel Alice tug on your arm. “See? I told you…”

You swat at your daughter gently. “Go wash up, Alice. You’re caked in dirt.”

She nearly rolls her eyes, knowing she’s being shooed off, but obeys. She drags her feet along the wood floor, letting you know that she’s disgruntled about the whole thing, and she disappears down the hall. 

You wait for the washroom door to close before speaking. “I think I want to pull Alice out of school.”

Annabelle’s eyebrows lift. “Oh?”

“She needs time to adjust, and putting her in a classroom full of students is overwhelming for her. Mrs. Thorne just got done telling me that she’s failing academically.”

Annabelle finishes rinsing off a large pot and begins to dry it with a towel. “That doesn’t make sense. Alice is very bright.”

“Which is why I want to pull her out. The teacher doesn’t seem to care and would rather argue with her than come alongside her. It doesn’t help that she has already gotten in trouble for fighting before.”

Annabelle nods thoughtfully. She knows you’re stuck on teaching your children yourself, having done it for most of their lives. 

You’ve had this conversation before, each time bringing up another reason why you should take one, if not both of your children, out of school. 

But Annabelle, steadfast Annabelle, has the same response every time. 

“I can keep working, but I won’t be able to keep up for long. It’s easy to feed myself on my wages, but we have livestock now and three other people to feed.”

There it is. Reason returns again. You were so eager to start a new life that you convinced Annabelle to go in with you on chickens and a cow. You have Farm Boy and Rooster for transportation, and then you needed to help repair the tiny stable. All expenses, all money taken from Annabelle’s savings, and what you’ve been able to earn from your job as a waitress. 

Annabelle’s right. She won’t be able to keep up with it on her wages alone, even if she’s the most sought-after saloon girl and makes the most tips. 

You didn’t know she’d be open to that profession, but she’s told you that it’s the most powerful she’s ever been. To refuse men night after night and get up on stage to sing a few numbers, allows her the free will that she feels was robbed of her years ago. She’ll never fall in love again. 

And you’ve never seen her happier. 

When you showed up at her door, after traveling for hundreds of miles, she couldn’t believe it. There was no question in her mind whether or not she should take you and the children in. She made room, clothed you, fed you, and got you that job as a waitress. And thankfully, she didn’t ask about Arthur. She already knew enough by his absence. 

You work days, she works nights. It lets you have a normal schedule with your children while guaranteeing someone is home at all times. When Annabelle told you about the safe house, you were excited to know that there was a safe place for retreat, but you hoped you'll never have to really use it. 

“I suppose a girl can dream,” you finally say, turning toward the serving dish of cooked beans on the counter. You take it and begin to walk over to the kitchen table, where Isaac silently has been doing his arithmetic. 

“Those have been getting better, I hope,” Annabelle comments, changing the subject. “Alice hasn’t been complaining of you talking in your sleep.” She chuckles softly, going for the cornbread in the oven. 

You only told Annabelle about your dreams solely because she asked you. You’ve brushed it off, only sharing one recurring dream you keep having. Of course, you tend to skip over some details, but you try to convey the main atmosphere. It’s not like she can do anything about it. How can anyone explain them away, when they’re so vivid and telling? 

They haven’t been getting better, but you’re glad you haven’t been talking in your sleep. You’d hate for Alice to pick up on what they could be about. The last thing you need is another reason to exacerbate her anxiety and loneliness. 

“I suppose so,” you lie. “They’ll have to quit eventually.” You set the dish of beans on the table and tap your son’s paper tablet, getting his attention. “Set that aside for now, darling.”

He sits up in his chair, stretching his arms after focusing intensely on his homework. He’s become more reclusive since moving to Blackwater and gives everything to his studies and his stallion. You haven’t seen him draw or write much, but he has asked you for a new journal. You figure he’s still doing it, even if you can’t see him writing or sketching away. “Okay,” he sighs, and collecting his things, he rises out of his chair and goes to put his homework away. 

“Now if I could only get Alice to be as dedicated,” you say under your exhale. 

“Don’t rush her, Eliza. You said so yourself, she just needs time.”

Time. You’ve had a decade, and it still isn’t long enough. “She mentioned him today.”

Annabelle sets the cornbread down on the table with a soft clack of the glass on the wooden surface. She removes her hands slowly, clutching tightly onto the potholders. “I see.”

You go to sit down, the table now set, and rest your elbows on it, supporting your face in your hands. “I know she misses him. They had a bond I can’t describe.”

You hear Annabelle sit down next to you, and she grabs your fist gently, encouraging you to come out of hiding. “And you don’t miss him?”

You relent to her gentle pulling and meet her eyes. “No,” you lie again. 

She smiles knowingly. “You don’t even think about him?”

You feel the sting in your eyes. You can’t cry. Not right now. You forced them down each time and have taken pride in being able to do it.

To keep it down, you speak in a whisper, suppressing sobs deep in your chest. “What do you think I dream about?”

She clicks her tongue. “I don’t think a large stag appearing in your dreams means it’s Arthur.”

“If you know him like I do…” Your mind goes to that night in the woods, the breath from his nostrils like smoke. His posture strong and tall. “It does.” 

Her eyes widen slightly, understanding that you have been keeping more from her than you’ve let on. “Is that what you think? You think you’re dreaming about Arthur?”

You blink, and a single tear rolls down your cheek. “I don’t think…I know.”

Her eyes soften, her brow pinched in empathy. Her hand leaves your wrist to pat your upper back. “It will get better, hon. You need to give yourself grace, too.”

You nod, sniffing hard to build your wall back up again. “Yeah,” you cough. “I’ll be fine.”

And just in time, you hear Alice thumping barefoot across the wooden floor. You quickly wipe your eyes and turn to look over your chair to see her wearing a clean pair of overalls but no shirt. 

“Alice Elizabeth…!”

She freezes in her steps, groaning. “Aw, what did I do now…?”

You pause before you let yourself raise your voice again, covering your eyes with your hand, and you feel Annabelle’s hand on your shoulder, as though saying, “I’ll handle this.”

“Alice, darlin’, you forgot to put on a shirt.”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t forget. Don’t need one.”

“Yes, you do. You don’t wanna get burned from the sun, do you?”

Alice shrugs, her bare shoulders swimming under the straps. “I won’t be outside. So I won’t need one.”

Annabelle then firms her tone. “Then if you ain’t gonna do it for yourself, do it for your mother.”

Alice’s eyebrows lift, and her eyes fall on you, still covering your eyes as you try to remain composed. She’s been caught up in her own grief, her own sadness after being swept away in the night, then waking up to an open sky and miles away from her home. She still holds that against you, still angered by being taken away from her father before even getting the chance to say goodbye. 

She’s heard your explanations, how you all needed to be safe, but she knows there’s something more. Something you’re not telling her. 

But your soft utterings in the night tell her much. The soft cries of your subconscious, speaking louder than your reprimands or downcast eyes. 

“Okay,” she says softly, and turns to head back to her room. 

You lift your eyes just in time to watch her go, your heart aching with the complexities of motherhood and loss. The weight of the secrets you hold tightens around your chest like a vice. You know you're doing what's best for your children, but the cost sometimes feels too high.

As Alice's footsteps fade away, Annabelle squeezes your shoulder. “Remember, Eliza…” She pauses a moment for brevity so you may really listen to what she has to say. “Grace.”

***

Right after dinner, Annabelle readied herself for her shift at the saloon, and after Isaac helped hitch the wagon cart, she drove the wagon into town. She will be gone all night, and you and the children won’t see her again until tomorrow afternoon. 

And as Annabelle has left, so has the day, and it is time to retire for the night. It is an evening ritual, after helping your children with their school work, to spend time with each of them as you tuck them in. There’s something special about it, something safe and warm, that affords you minutes to improve the bonds with your children. You couldn’t really have one-on-one time in camp, having only the single tent to share sleeping space, so this is a welcomed change. 

You decide to tuck Isaac in first, as you want to avoid the pressure of shortening your conversation with Alice. You still have to talk to her about the fight this afternoon. As you finish braiding your hair, you walk down the hallway and find Isaac on his cot in the living room, his back propped against the wall as he reads a book. You can’t see the cover, as it is blocked by his propped knees, but he seems really engrossed in it. 

You lean against the entryway, tying the rope to your robe. “It’s time for bed, Isaac.”

He doesn’t look up, still reading the pages of his book like rapid fire. He turns the page and clutches the ends tightly, clearly getting to a good part. 

“Isaac…?”

He still doesn’t look up. 

You lean away from the entryway and walk calmly over to him. Once you reach his cot, you lean forward and tap him gently on the head. “Isaac.”

He looks up, and the way his brows lift, the softness in his eyes, you see his father there, and you almost lose your train of thought. “Yes, Ma?”

You clear your throat, snapping out of it. “Time to go to bed.”

“Oh,” he chuckles sheepishly and sets his book down on the end table. “Sorry.”

Your curiosity piqued, you point to the book. “What is it you’re reading?”

As he pulls the covers over himself, he turns his head and eyes the book. “Oh. It’s a law book.”

What? A law book? You thought it was a well-written novel, not a law book. You help tuck him in, reaching for the cotton blanket and pulling it to his chin as he lies down. “Why are you reading something like that?”

Isaac doesn’t want to tell you. He doesn’t want you to know what’s been on his mind, what occupies his thoughts. After all, you don’t mention it, you refuse to talk about it, and that tells him enough. 

He shrugs his shoulders. “Dunno.”

You see the melancholy expression in his eyes, the slump in his shoulders. You motion to sit down on the edge of his cot, easing into it slowly so as not to squish him. “Nine-year-olds typically don’t read law books, son.”

He knows that. Most of the boys at school would rather sneak penny dreadfuls or catalogues of corsets into the school, all huddling under a tree to get a peek. While he might admit to having had a look once or twice, he’s got bigger problems, other worries. He shrugs again. “I guess I’m just not normal.”

You smile at him and reach to run your fingers through his hair, coming it back a little. “You’re special. You’re unique.”

“I guess.”

He’s got something on his mind, you know it. You and Isaac have always been able to talk about things, to be open with one another. But these past few months have been more challenging. You’ve been trying to balance it all, you’ve done it so seamlessly before, but you know you’re slipping. 

“Sweetheart, I know that living here hasn’t been the easiest, but—”

“Ma.” Isaac interrupts you gently. “You don’t have to explain it to me. I know why we left.” You close your mouth and study his calm expression, and watch a small smile appear on his face. “You wanted to keep us safe.”

That’s what you told him and his sister. While it is true, you know you’ve had to tell yourself that to convince yourself that it was the right thing to do.

“And we are safe,” you manage to say. 

“But…” he struggles with his words, unsure if he should even say them. “You ain’t happy, are you?”

You feel them coming, those tears that irritate your eyes and make your nose burn. You sniff loudly and comb his hair more fervently. “I will be,” you promise. “What matters is that you are happy.”

His smile falters, and his answer betrays his sobriety. “I think so. I like school. Even if the teacher is mean.”

“Mean to Alice?”

He shrugs again. “It isn’t just Alice, it’s the poor kids.”

“That doesn’t make sense. If it’s because of that, she’d be mean to you as well…”

Isaac avoids your gaze. “She is. Alice just gets in trouble because she stands up to her.” 

You feel one of the stones in your belly grow hot, your protective nature rising up. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“Because…you’re always worried about us and you’ve been tryin’ to help Alice. It didn’t make sense to have you worryin’ about me, too.” He brings his hands out from underneath the blankets, picking at his fingernails. “It’s like Aunt Annie says, we just need time.”

You reach for his hands, squeezing them as they clasp together. “I will always worry. It’s my job as your mother. You just can’t go on living while worrying about me.”

“But Dad always said—” He grimaces, realizing his slip. His father is such a sore subject with you, and he tries his best to avoid it altogether. 

But you don’t chide him, or ask him not to speak of Arthur. Though you avoid speaking about him, you almost want to hear it, having been six months since you left him. Just because Arthur isn’t a part of your life anymore, that doesn’t remove him from your children’s lives. “Well, what—” you begin, just as timid with your words as he was. “What did he always say?”

Isaac unclasps his hands beneath your palm, bringing them out to hold your hand. “He said it was his job to look after you, so you didn’t ever have to watch over your shoulder. So you can keep looking ahead. But…” His eyes begin to glisten, and his lip trembles softly. “But since he’s not here…who’s gonna…” He sniffs, swallowing back a sob. “If he hadn’t come back…when those men came…” Then he looks up to meet your eyes. “Who’s gonna look after you now, except me?” 

You remember when he had first shown a strong spirit, that stroke of courage. That afternoon when he held your revolver and pointed it at Dan and his group of bandits. He had thought the same thing then, you see that now. The man of the house at just four years old. You can only imagine how often he thinks of that day, letting it influence his decisions now, his protective character, and loyalty to his mother and sister. 

You lean forward and kiss his forehead, then touch your nose to his. “I will look after me. I can fight and I can shoot a gun, remember?” You feel him nod his head against yours. “I love you, my son.”

His arms immediately go around your neck, bringing you close. “I love you too, Mama.”

***

You’re careful to enter your bedroom, the door squeaks loud enough to wake the dead if you aren’t. Your eyes immediately go to the left corner of the room, where Alice’s bed is. You find the shape of her small body under the covers, her head facing the wall. 

You think about her small frame, the fire in her eyes. You’ll never admit it, but you’re impressed that she managed to beat up three boys, all larger than her, in rapid succession. 

Alice was right. Arthur would have been damned proud of her. 

Unsure if she’s awake or not, you walk quietly to her bed. Sitting on its edge, you pull the blanket up more to cover her shoulders, and then gently brush a strand of hair away from her face. She stirs slightly, the movement subtle, but she doesn't give herself away.

You sit there for a moment, watching her breathe, the rise and fall of her chest steady and even. The room is quiet except for the occasional creak of the tree branch scraping against the side of the house, the wind picking up again. For a dry climate, there are more thunderstorms than you can count.

You let your hand rest on Alice’s arm as she lies still, and you feel words bubble up inside you. Words that you wouldn’t say to her if you knew she was awake.

“You’re so much like him, you know…” you begin. “So brave. So strong and stubborn.” You listen to yourself and chuckle. “Okay, we’re both stubborn, but you’re like a dog on a bone when you set your mind to something. Like he does. Did.” You rub her arm with gentle sweeps of your thumb. “I wish I could be like that. I wish that I hadn’t been a doormat most of my life. Your father he—he doesn’t let people walk all over him. Except Dutch. That man has your father wrapped around his finger.” You frown. “That’s why we had to leave.” You watch her unmoving figure, feeling your words dissolve into the quiet of the room. "But I hope, one day, you understand why it had to be this way. For us. For you and Isaac." You sigh softly, feeling the weight of everything unsaid pressing down upon you. "I'm trying, Alice. I'm really trying."

You stay there for a moment longer before leaning in close to kiss her softly on the cheek. “I guess I’m proud of you, too. Mrs. Thorne was definitely wrong about outlaws, wasn’t she?” You rise back up to a sitting position, then stand. “Goodnight, Alice.” And you turn, walking over to your bed on the other side of the room. You ease onto it slowly, feeling the weight of the day slide off. You then blow out the lamp, slip under the covers, and lay down to sleep.

After a few minutes, once she can hear your steady breathing, she flips over to find your sleeping form, tears streaming down her face.

***

Your back scrapes against the tree, your mind racing, heart pounding, as your fingers work to remove his gun belt. The air is cold, but you hardly notice, the warmth of your bodies radiating heat like steam into the darkness.

He squeezes your breast again. Harder, making you mewl in his ear.

The gun belt falls with a thud on the ground, forgotten as his hands explore you more fervently. Your own hands are not idle, tugging at the fabric of his shirt, pulling it from his trousers. The urgency between you is palpable, the night air thick with desire.

He pulls back to look at you, his eyes searching yours in earnest as you nibble at his bottom lip. “The body…” He lets out a sigh, as though regretting the duty set before him. “I gotta take care of it.”

You feel the disappointment rise in your chest, and like a fool, all at once. “Okay.”

He steps away from you, taking your hands in his as you come away from the tree. “Meet me at my wagon,” he suggests huskily, and he swallows thickly. “We can…”

Finish what you’ve started. Yes.

“Yes…” you sigh, and he pulls you in again for a kiss.

“Go now….”

You nod and hurry. You feel light on your feet, the stars like twinkling lights guiding your way back to camp. It is as though you run faster than you ever could. Leaping in bounds, reaching the moon.

Slipping past the horses and the other neighboring tents, you slip behind the canvas leading into Arthur’s domicile. You push out any worries about discretion. You don’t care. You’ve managed silence once upon a time, surely you can do it again.

You ready yourself, tousling your wavy hair. Unbuttoning your shirt, removing your shoes. Any slight sound outside makes you nearly gasp, thinking it is Arthur.

You’re doing it this time. Nothing is going to change your mind.

It has been a while waiting, but it only feels like seconds when you hear the jingle of his spurs as he approaches.

The flap of the canvas rustles gently as Arthur steps inside, his silhouette a dark shape against the faint glow of the dying campfire outside. His face breaks into a relieved smile when he sees you there, anticipation written across his features, mirroring your own excitement.

"Eliza," he breathes out, the word carrying all the weight of his emotions, his longing. As you rise, he swiftly crosses the small space between you, his hands reaching out to draw you into his embrace. His touch is firm yet gentle, the warmth of his body against yours chasing away the chill of the night air.

You melt into him, your arms wrapping around his neck as he buries his face in your hair, taking in a deep breath.

While you welcome his embrace, his touch, you have not snuck into his tent for mere sentiment.

“I want you, Arthur,” you whisper lowly, catching his earlobe between your teeth teasingly. His body stiffens for a split second before he exhales slowly, the breath ruffling through your hair. “Right now.”

Arthur’s hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer until there's no space left between you. His voice is a low rumble as he responds, “Not before I tell you…” He pulls away and gazes intently into your eyes, looking you up and down as though searching for something. “I love you.”

The words. The words you’ve longed to hear. “Say it again.”

His breath hitches slightly, the confession hanging in the air like a sacred whisper. "I love you, Eliza," he repeats, his voice a blend of strength and vulnerability.

You can't help but smile, the intensity of your emotions swelling in your chest. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him even closer, and you bring your lips to his in a kiss that seals everything he's just said, every promise that might lie in those words. The world outside the tent fades to nothing, and all that exists is the warmth of his skin, the depth of his kiss, and the certainty of this moment.

You feel yourself taking charge, making him turn so his back is facing the cot. You take urgent steps forward, causing him to back up until his calves reach the cot’s edge. “Help me,” you beg, as your hands go to his chest and begin to undo the buttons of his shirt.

His fingers work in tandem with yours, eagerly slipping off the fabric barriers that separate skin from skin. Under the gaps of light seeping through the canvas, you can see the glint in his eyes, a mixture of adoration and raw need that makes your heart throb painfully in your chest.

The shirt falls away to the floor, and his hands find your open coat. Without saying a word, he pulls it off of you, a mixture of force and gentleness, both of which aren’t unwelcome.

Your coat, then your shirt and chemise join his clothing, and when your hands return to the waistband of his pants, you see the goosebumps rise on his flesh. You want to see him. You want to touch him, to feel the entirety of him against you. Your fingers tremble with anticipation as you unbutton his trousers, your movements hurried, fueled by a desire that has been building for what feels like an eternity.

Arthur's hands are not idle either; they roam over your skin with a possessiveness that sends shivers down your spine, movements to not hinder your work of pulling down his pants, but to maintain contact at all times.

And once he steps out of his pants, you take a moment to gaze upon the map of his body. Every muscle, every vein, every time his chest rises and falls.

And the most magnificent part of all, and the sight of his girth makes your center ache, your legs tremble.

You finally lift your eyes to find him staring at your half-naked body, and you realize you still haven’t removed your skirt. “Oh,” you sigh.

Arthur takes a step toward you. “Allow me—”

But you hold your hand out, stopping him. “Lie down,” you demand.

Arthur's expression registers mild surprise, tinged with an amused respect as he complies. He lowers himself onto the cot, his movements deliberate and controlled, his gaze never leaving yours. As he lies back, his eyes remain fixed on you, filled with an intensity that makes your heart skip.

You then work slowly, tantalizingly, as your hands go to your waist, your thumbs slipping into your waistband. You slowly push your skirt down, working your bloomers at the same time. His eyes follow your movements, his breath growing heavier with each inch of skin revealed. When you finally step out of the pooled fabric at your feet, standing before him in all your vulnerability and strength, there's a flicker of something profound passing over his face—a mix of admiration and raw desire.

You move towards him, the air between you charged with an electric pulse, something powerful beyond the ether, that seems to make the world outside disappear. You carefully climb onto the cot, straddling his hips, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath you. Arthur's hands settle on your hips, guiding you closer, his touch a catalyst igniting a fire within. The intimacy of the moment wraps around you both like a cocoon, isolating you from everything but each other.

You lean down to kiss him, softly at first, but then with a growing urgency that feeds off the heat between you. Your lips move together in a rhythm set by the beating of your hearts, deep and insistent. Arthur’s hands roam up from your hips, fingers tracing the curve of your back, sending shivers that ripple across your skin.

He deepens the kiss, his tongue meeting yours in a dance that stirs a hunger too long denied. The sensation of his hands on your skin, the taste of him, pulls a low moan from your throat. You press closer, the contact of his skin against your thighs, reminding you of every moment you've imagined this reunion.

"Eliza…” his voice comes out hoarse, bordering on urgency and pleasure. “I meant when I said I weren’t a patient man…”

You chuckle softly, the sound a gentle ripple in the quiet room, as your hands glide over the contours of his muscular pectorals, feeling the warmth and strength beneath your fingers. Your touch trails down to his firm abdomen, where each defined muscle seems to respond eagerly to your caress. Slowly, you push yourself up, your body rising gracefully on your legs, using him as support. With one hand continuing its journey down his abdomen, you find him, ready and wanting, a palpable anticipation in the air. You align yourself with him, a perfect fit, as you begin to lower yourself. "To tell you the truth," you say, your voice a whisper that mingles with the shared breath between you, "neither am I," as you sink down, feeling the connection deepen with every inch.

Arthur's breath catches, his hands gripping your hips with a tenderness edged with urgency, guiding you as you settle fully against him. The sensation is overwhelming, a mingling of pain and pleasure that sends ripples through your body. Your head falls back, a soft moan escaping your lips as you let it overwhelm you, just a moment longer.

But you won’t let yourself be tortured. Bringing your head back up, you look down to meet his eyes, seeing the desire and affection swirling in their ocean depths.

That’s when you start to rock back and forth.

Your movements seamlessly harmonize with his instinctive thrusts, creating a slow, deliberate rhythm that gradually builds a crescendo of urgency within you both. His gaze is locked onto yours with an intensity and steadfastness that speaks volumes, as if attempting to convey every emotion that words could never adequately express. The connection between you is palpable, a silent symphony of shared feelings and unspoken desires that fills the space, making the moment profoundly intimate and deeply resonant.

“Dear God,” he moans, and you chuckle at his exclamation, a mix of amusement and satisfaction swirling in your chest. The sound of your laughter seems to stir something deeper within him; his movements grow more deliberate, each thrust meeting yours with an increasing fervor.

The cot creaks under the weight of your united rhythms, a steady soundtrack to the rising heat between you.

It creaks louder.

And louder.

Crack. Crack.

CRASH!!!!!

BOOOOM!!!

You rise out of bed with a start as a flash of white fills the room for a fraction of a second, followed by another crash of thunder.

BOOOOOMMMMMMMM…!

You’re breathing heavily, gasping for air as you look about the room.

The room.

Your bedroom.

You were dreaming again.

Settling down, you sit there, in the dark stillness that now fills the room after another echo of thunder fades away. The sheets are tangled around your legs, a testament to the fierce reality of the dream. Your heart is pounding, still caught in the grips of that vivid encounter with Arthur.

Outside, another grumble of distant thunder rolls across the sky, a deep rumbling sound that seems to resonate with the turmoil inside you. For a moment, you sit frozen, your mind grappling with the transition from dream to the stark reality of your lonely bed.

You swing your legs off the bed, the cool wood of the floor grounding you as you stand and walk carefully over to where your daughter sleeps, needing to reassure yourself of her presence. The room is dim, with only the occasional flashes of lightning casting brief illumination. You reach Alice's bed and watch her small form rise and fall gently with each breath. The sight calms you somewhat, anchoring you back to reality, the reality where Arthur is not by your side, making love to you with a passionate fervor.

You’re glad she didn’t hear you; you hope you didn’t say anything to give you away.

Maybe it would be best if you slept in the safe house for a while, at least until you get these dreams under control.

If they ever will be.

Thank you for reading! :)

Tag Requests: @photo1030 @eternalsams

[infizero-draws]

drawing deltarune every day until chapter 3&4 drop ✨(day 101)

childhood sweethearts

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BUG BATTLES - Kabuto Park

This was supposed to be my week off, but I have games to play. I previously discussed Kabuto Park's demo, and I was extremely excited about it. When I saw that it would be released during my off week, I sighed, screamed at my wife to come play a fun bug game with me, and sat down at my computer on Thursday to talk about it today. Regardless, she got mad at me for raising my voice.

This week is Kabuto Park

Kabuto Park is a bug collection, card battler from Doot, and Zakku . The game was released on May 20th for the PC and retails for $5.

I would like to extend a sincere thank you to Doot for providing me with a key, allowing me to play the game and discuss it on time. My appreciation is on another level.

I don't pick up insects. Anything that remotely scuttles freaks me out, and so I stay as far away as possible from the things. In Kabuto Park, I can play as Hana, a young girl on summer vacation, who is also participating in the bug-battling competition. Guiding you throughout the onboarding is Midori, an expert at bug catching and bug-battling.

Kabuto Park is broken up into four separate areas: A farm, a swamp, a forest, and a lake. Each area houses a number of common, uncommon, and rare bugs to catch and battle with. Click on a magnifying glass to initiate the minigame of "pressing space at the correct moment." Hitting the blue mark gets Hana closer to the target bug, making the mini-game easier, and the green line is a sure thing to catch it.

There are beetles, butterflies, bees, dragonflies, and loads of other bugs that have their own weight, level, and attributes. It's all very fun to look at and engage with.

Once caught, a report card is given to the player that has the weight, size, and level of the bug, with a cute little snippet of information about the bug and the cards for the battle mini-game. You can either keep them or sell them for rare candies to level up existing bugs with. Keeping bugs puts them in your collection to view at your leisure, and favoriting them gives you a special surprise. Leveling up your bugs gives them a better chance while in the BATTLE ZONE.

When finished with catching bugs and evaluating them, you can pick three to do battle with. Every bug has its value in Strength, how fast you push opposing bugs, defense, how hard you push back when defending, and how quickly you generate energy to play cards. Battling from there on is simply playing a card battler.

Two teams of three enter the ring, and one leaves victorious.

In Kabuto Park, each team has a timer to push and a timer to defend, so prioritizing defense/power boosts during those times is key, and focusing on the pushback cards on the offense can snag a win. It might not seem like a deep gameplay loop, but it can be really, really fun at times. Having your team on the verge of losing and then getting a card that generates energy to then play two medium-big knockbacks to take the lead is exhilarating. Win and you get money to upgrade the net for more chances at catching bugs, boots to explore different areas, and increase the chance of rare bugs.

If you must make a game about bugs, you'd better make the game super cute, and Kabuto Park does just that. Every time I caught a bug, there was an audible "aww" from my wife and me because the bugs and everything are so cute. The hand-drawn/colored style makes the game incredibly inviting. The bugs are adorable with their big, non-threatening eyes, and the environments capture the summer vibes perfectly.

Zakku is making the music again, and it is perfect. The little jingle when exploring areas and catching bugs is a summer vibe, and the battle music drives me to want to destroy the other child's bugs in battle.

Kabuto Park can be completed in one sitting, and that sitting is such a memorable experience. my wife and I wanted a small and large bug team, and both OVERPERFORMED. The adorable nature of the game makes playing it even more fun, the art design is great, the sound design is catchy, and the overall gameplay loop is certainly fun. Interacting with bugs has never been so fun.

For a 2-3 hour game, I had so much fun. Screaming at the top of my lungs when I narrowly defeat a child in a bug battle is the proudest moment this year.

8/10

Source: BUG BATTLES - Kabuto Park

[cesiscribbles]

Astra is not a morning person.

[youngpettyqueen]

Miles calling Julian 'Jules' one (1) time is probably a writing fuck up and yet it lives rent free in my head 24/7 and its gotten to the point where I do need to write a super niche fic about my hyper specific headcanons about how that comes about that maybe 2 other people would read

I have visions of a Rascals-esque episode where Julian gets de-aged due to a time anomaly or some fuckshit but unlike Rascals Julian is just fully a 5 year old. no memories of his adulthood or anything. pre-augmentations, pre-enhancements, pre-everything little Jules Bashir is now on the station and they've gotta deal with it. and I mean, who better to care for Jules than Miles and Keiko- who are both very good parents, and also they've dealt with this sort of thing before

this entire thing is self-indulgent on every level because I want an excuse to get into my really specific headcanons with Julian and disability. like we know I hc Julian as being audhd. but as a kid, as Jules, I think he was non-verbal. I also think he had dyspraxia. he doesnt name anything when he talks about what he was like pre-augmentations, he keeps it vague, and leaning into that I think Miles would only have a vague idea of what to expect when interacting with Jules, and he finds himself completely unprepared for what Jules is actually like. and also trans Julian supremacy and I dont think he really tells people he's trans so Miles is also not expecting Jules to be a 5 year old girl

I imagine Miles is maybe expecting Jules to be very similar to Julian and to be very chatty and extroverted, but more awkward, and maybe just not understanding a lot of things. instead, Jules doesnt speak beyond a few words and vocalizations. she moves constantly, but its mostly fidgeting and stimming- she doesnt like to walk, and shes very clumsy and bumps into things and falls down a lot. Miles and Keiko spend most of the time carrying her around on their hips, like they would Molly. she doesnt like being around lots of people, and is very easily overwhelmed. they figure out very quickly that shes a very good hider, because she scares the absolute shit out of them when she takes off and it takes a solid 3 hours to find her

they do figure things out pretty quickly. she gets overwhelmed by noise easily, so Miles has some headphones replicated for her- smaller versions of the ones he has for ear protection. Jules communicates mostly through body language, pointing at things and smacking things and grunting a lot, but they cant figure out what she means. Keiko roots through her old school supplies and gets Jadzia to turn a PADD into a communication device. Jules absolutely fucking LOOOOVES the PADD and they make a strap for it so that she can carry it everywhere. turns out shes very inquisitive- shes constantly using the PADD to ask 'whats that? what's that? what's that?' about basically everything

the thing they have the hardest time with is that things dont stick easily for Jules. Miles and Keiko are answering the same questions over and over, but she just cant retain a lot of what shes taught. she gets things mixed up a lot, and is confused easily. she cant read at all and has a hard time figuring out what pictures are depicting. the PADD is very helpful, but also very basic with visuals, because Jules just cant comprehend words or more complex visuals. she gets frustrated really easily and cries, and its really hard to calm her down. she has a lot of sensory issues and cant communicate exactly what upsets her about how things feel, leading to a lot of trial and error, and several thrown utensils and spilled plates and bowls

still, Miles and Keiko handle it all. Jules feels safest with Miles and clings to him a lot. he does a lot of his work during this time with Jules in one arm, her headphones on, big curious eyes watching him work. but, in the evenings, when Jules is tired, she curls up close to Keiko on the couch, and Keiko strokes her short hair, while Jules runs her hands over the soft material of Keiko's skirt. Jules and Molly get along- they dont play together, but Molly will read little stories to Jules, and makes silly voices that make Jules laugh. Jules is so gentle with Kirayoshi- she won't hold him, but she gently strokes his hair, and hums at him, and Keiko recognizes the lullaby shes trying to echo

sure, she isnt the easiest child. but at the end of the day, accommodating her isnt the hardest thing Miles and Keiko have ever done. Miles thinks back to how Julian described himself as a kid, thinks about the fuss his parents made about how they couldnt deal with the guilt and heartbreak of watching their child fall behind. he thinks of after that, Julian quietly wondering if maybe his parents were just trying to make things easier for him. maybe they did have good intentions. he's wondered the same thing himself. maybe in their own way, they thought they were doing the right thing

he's thinking about this while he's holding Jules, curled up against him and asleep. he's barely slept these last few days, he's about at wit's end trying to handle all of this, he misses his Julian and he wants him back. but when he looks at Jules, theres no resentment. he isnt even annoyed. she drives him up a wall, but shes a kid- thats her job in life. as for the cognitive piece, well. they can figure all that out if they need to. he laughs at himself a bit- thinking ahead about Jules' future already, those dad instincts kicking in. doesnt hurt to be prepared, he tells himself. just in case

it occurs to him, as he's dozing off himself, that genetic enhancement and DNA re-sequencing dont cross his mind. not once. and when he looks at Jules with tired eyes, feels the peaceful rise and fall of her back under his hand, he finds that he cant imagine himself doing it. cant imagine taking this child in, and telling people how to cut and paste and re-arrange her DNA. he cant imagine wanting to make her into anything but the child she already is. he cant imagine thinking that she was so difficult, so far behind, that she had to be changed into an entirely different person. he loves Julian, he wouldnt change Julian for anything, but he finds himself loving Jules, too. he wouldnt change her, either. not a single thing

Keiko sees the anger behind his eyes when they put Jules to bed for the night. she asks him about it after they shut the door. Miles stands at the door for a moment, thinking about that little kid inside that he cant save from what's to come. and he just tells Keiko- "Richard and Amsha Bashir can go to hell."

[sweetestflow3rs]

showed this on twitter, but consider the new setting in the making RIGHT NOW!!!

[nqueso-lies]

If that does end up being a bucktommy + Madney scene for 817, I wonder if the Buckley parents are back in town for Maddie’s pregnancy. Maybe a family dinner scene?

Please god not the Buckley parents. Have we not suffered enough this season? Season 9... sure. Throw that shit at them while they're living together and discussing the future but right now??

Can we just breathe? Can we just get three fucking words x2 first??

[verflares]

early bird wip since i havent shared any in a long while.......... i think he's neat

[antidisneyinc]

I assumed the malformed prerogative of a lot of late gen z/gen alpha to treat imagination and fiction on equal terms with real life was due to so much of their lives being entirely online from childhood onward, thus having a skewed understanding of how things on the internet impact real life and vice versa... but I am informed by friends in education that there is a third scary element to this triangle of internet/screen addiction and failures of parenting, which is that there is now a large portion of kids over the age of 10 (!) who do not exercise their imagination in literally any way. they do not read, they do not play pretend with their friends, they do not do creative play with their parents. widespread aphantasia in the digital age was not something I knew to be afraid of but the implications of an entire generation failing to develop their imaginations are terrifying tbh.

[strawberrisoulmate]

it's kinda funny having an irl boyfriend now because on the surface, he's nothing like my f/os, but i was having a conversation with him the other day where he was asking me to tell him about ichigo + a couple others and as i was describing him out loud, i could hear all the similarities in their personalities/backgrounds that made me stop and be like oh shit, maybe i do have a type.

[harukowitch]

Casually listening to the Rolling with Difficulty podcast today Campaign 2, Season 2, Episode 2 as I drove home from work and we finally get some more of Nix’s backstory! I thought that her name was spelt Nyx based off Goddess of the Night which would make sense with her class/race. What the fuck do you mean her siblings are Nemo and Nil?!?! Nobody, Nothing, and Nonexistent. Who the hell names their kids this? Legitimately had a mini crisis in my car when I realized this.

[nid-pysgodyn]

Good lord, q!Mouse actually crying over Empanada accidentally falling off of the castle bridge and getting downed. Like, it was a complete accident in literally every way but it still scared her so badly. Q!Mouse is gonna be such a great egg mom. I love her and Em so much already.

[worldofgoo]

i was a quiet kid that didnt really express itself very much or ask for anything and i could entertain myself if i realized nobody was paying attention to me but it lead to me feeling neglected/ignored when it seems like from my parents perspective i just never expressed any types of needs or distress, whenever i ask my mom about my childhood she said i was "low maintenance"

[whentherewerebicycles]

this might be nuts but I think my sister & I might try to do a trip abroad with the baby next fall

[gece-misin-nesin]

Bruce Wayne stop slandering your dead son whose murder you were high-key responsible for challenge

[sparklyoats]

Lil mans birthday has been a succes🙏🏻❤️

[galaxyseclipse]

when you're suddenly not the only baby anymore