#relationships in red dead redemption

[say-hwaet]

The Dynamic Between Arthur and the Marstons (long post )

I guess I should say there are spoilers, just in case…

After playing the story through several times, I have to say, that Arthur Morgan is one of the best characters ever written. Aside from his development, there is so much depth to him, and regardless of his honor, there is so much to unravel.

I’ve been thinking about the relationship that he has between the Marstons, meaning John, Abigail, and Jack, and it really makes sense as to how Arthur acts the way he does around them in the beginning and all the way to the end.

A lot of his behavior, I think, stems from the loss of Eliza and Isaac. It is my opinion that he himself was torn between living a full life with them and remaining loyal to his gang, and before or by the time he had made a choice, it was too late, as they were killed in a robbery. This had haunted him since and it made him extremely bitter. Later in the game, he tells Rains Fall that he realized that he didn’t get to live a bad life and have good things happen to him. I also think that he was with Eliza after Mary had broken their engagement. I can get into my support for this later, but that isn’t what this post is about.

I think that Arthur was angry with John out of jealousy. He is the “golden boy” and clearly was Dutch’s favorite at one point. Not only that but after Arthur loses his own son and lover, John and Abigail get pregnant and he takes off for a year. He abandons his family, which Arthur takes personally. Arthur had tried to do right by Eliza and Isaac and still failed. So when John has Jack and is within the circle of the gang to help and support him, he takes off. Arthur gives up a potential life with Eliza and Isaac for Loyalty to the gang and John throws it all away. When John comes back, Dutch welcomes him with open arms, and Arthur believes that he would have been held to a different standard if he had come back after being with Eliza and Isaac for a long time. And it doesn’t help that John treats Jack like crap in the beginning of RDR2.

Arthur, imo, was a good father to Isaac when he was present. We can see this in how he treats Jack. In Arthur’s journal, he writes how he should have married Abigail, but due to his feelings for Mary, he didn’t. I’m not sure why after years of not hearing from Mary he would say this, but meh. Perhaps, the hope of starting over, or that she did pop in again at some point (which is how Abigail might have met her?). Anyways. I think he says he should have married her so that she would have someone to rely on and that he could be the father Jack needed. He cares about Abigail, but I don’t think it is anything beyond that. Arthur seemed to me not to be one to be with a woman without some sort of relationship, based upon how he treats women and the prostitutes in Valentine, so I don’t think he was ever with Abigail. Even so, Abigail relies on Arthur, and while he puts up a front, he gives her money for clothing and spends time with Jack. Heck, he even tells John to step up and be a dad. In some of Arthur’s conversations with John, he tells him that he can’t be two people at once. He’s speaking from experience. I think he’s subtly telling John he needs to make a choice as to what life he’s going to live. Hosea and Arthur both tell Abigail and John to leave at parts of the game.

When Jack is kidnapped, and eventually rescued, I think it is one of the most heart-wrenching missions and scenes. I can see it in Arthur’s body language that he longs for the family that he once had. He’s alone in his pain and when everyone is celebrating, Arthur doesn’t sing with the gang; there isn’t even the option to do it like it does other times. Even in my first playthrough, it seemed so sad to me. Everyone was drinking and singing, but Arthur just looked so sad.

So, it is at this point that John starts to step up, and Arthur starts to show symptoms of his illness. When he learns of his diagnosis, Arthur’s eyes open to the reality of the gang’s downfall, and he acknowledges the doubts/reservations he has about Dutch’s plans and schemes. He isn’t blindly loyal anymore. He tries to get John, Abigail, and Jack out, so that they can have the life that he had lost due to loyalty to the gang. He continually tells John to get out and that it would mean a lot to him. In his journal, after rescuing John from prison, he writes in his journal “…We’ve argued over the years, but I’ve grown to care a little for [John]. He’s less of a fool than he was, and maybe he can have the luck that has eluded me. Jack is an innocent little boy. In him, I see what I missed [meaning Isaac]. We did it.” This speaks volumes to me about how he feels about them in the end. He sacrifices himself to let John live. And though it isn’t forever, Arthur dies believing that he made it, and that matters. And hopefully, he could finally be at peace and see Eliza and Isaac again.

I could keep going, but I think I am too long-winded. I guess that helps when writing fleshed-out fanfiction stories, but not for posts. LOL

Would love to hear other thoughts or opinions, I’m always keen for a discussion.

[scargvl]

Brokeback Mountain but it's Charthur

i drew these on an ipad, which is NOT my preferred tool at all, so don't mind it too much.

[gremlin-boah]

Long distance relationship.

[rockscanfly]

I really don't think we talk enough about how fourteen years (estimated age for Charles is 27, he's stated he was 13 when he left home) of isolation and surviving on his own FUCKED Charles' social skills.

Like I see so many fics where for some reason he gets painted as the emotionally well adjusted one between himself and Arthur. I'm not saying he's not better than Arthur about keeping a clear head about his own sense of self and desires instead of letting them get mixed up with what other people want from him, like Arthur does. But. Fucks sake. That is a dude who will ghost you before talking about how you hurt his feelings, right there. Zero conflict management skills.

Meanwhile, Arthur grew up in a large family and is constantly serving as a mediator to the rest of the gang. And yet so many of the fics I've seen paint him as painfully incompetent at even basic social skills, which simply isn't accurate. He's coarse and has a temper, but he's still Dutch and Hosea's protege.

Lets see more of Charles being the messy one in their relationship. He's an incredible character with a lot going on internally, and I'm sick of seeing him used as the emotional support blanket for a man almost a decade his senior who is, frankly, better at interacting with other people than he is.

[ak319]

Dark A.M x fem!reader

-- ★ The Word of Claim ┃ ─𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟓─

Warnings/MDNI: Angst, slight fluff, abuse, extortion, mentions of non-con. // I don't condone such beheviour irl! Syno: Reunions you didn't expect. ✰ 9.2K.

★ Prev I concept m.list

Charles drove the wagon with steady precision, fast but careful. While you sat in the back, your body was frozen from the pain, and Grimshaw's firm grip was the only thing keeping you upright. The sharp, searing ache in your hand drowned out everything else, past grievances, and future fears. The only thing that existed was the torment of the present. The pain of the wound that you felt in your soul was more than physical.

At one point, as the wagon jolted over a rough patch, you caught yourself thinking, half delirious, half desperate, that maybe they'd have no choice but to amputate. The thought although exaggerated perhaps, wasn't entirely unwelcome. A missing hand might finally convince him to leave, to see you as damaged goods, no longer worth the effort. And no other man would dare approach you either.

But the idea of Arthur walking away, cutting his ties with you at last, made you laugh bitterly through clenched teeth. The absurdity of it. You knew better than to hope for an escape so simple.

You begged them, though, pleaded through the haze of agony. "Drop me off somewhere. Anywhere. Please." Your voice cracked, the words tumbling out in a rush, desperate to find even the faintest sliver of mercy.

But you already knew what the answer would be.

"We can't," Charles muttered, his voice steady but laced with quiet regret.

"Wouldn't do any good, you need to stop clinging on that hope. The sooner you accept....the less you suffer like this." Grimshaw added, her tone sharp this time, though there was something softer buried underneath, something she refused to show too openly. So she had finally said this too huh? Had become frustrated at your whining?.

Not surprised at all.

And deep down, you couldn't blame her. Grimshaw risking her place, her family, her sanctuary, for you? It wasn't a possibility.

When they finally laid you on a bed, the voices around you blurred a distant hum against the pounding in your head. The sheer relief of being off that wagon, of being around people, new people, people outside the camp, lulled you into the edge of sleep. The muffled chatter of the town filtered through the walls, a strange sort of comfort amidst everything.

But then...

Wait.

That voice. It tugged at something deep in your memory, something warm and long-forgotten. It couldn't be....could it?

Your eyes fluttered open as your body stiffened slightly. The familiarity of her tone, the way it carried... It was her. Edie. Your heart skipped a beat. Your Edie. A friend so close she might as well have been family once before everything fell apart. You had helped her financially and emotionally when she ran away from her family to pursue her dream of becoming a nurse, but never in your wildest dreams did you imagine she'd end up here.

Yet even as your soul surged with recognition and warmth, you forced yourself to stay still, to keep your expression calm. Pretend. Pretend you didn't know her. And damn her sharpness, because you knew she was clever enough to already be piecing it together, your circumstances, your forced silence. Her eyes didn't betray much, but you caught the faintest flicker of something. Understanding, surprise, sadness perhaps.

"What's happened here?. " she asked, her tone clinical but careful, as she put on her gloves.

Susan began. "Uh... her hand. It's injured."

Edie nodded, her movements swift and efficient as she approached. Her eyes met yours briefly, just briefly, but it was enough to make your breath hitch. "I'll check, just relax." she said simply.

She took your injured hand in hers with a gentleness you hadn't felt in what seemed like forever. Her fingers worked quickly, inspecting, prodding lightly, and each touch sent sharp bolts of pain racing up your arm. You couldn't stop the hisses and whimpers that escaped your lips, but she shushed you softly, her tone soothing as if speaking to a child.

"Hm," she murmured, her focus entirely on your hand. "We'll need to set it properly. Possibly splint it, maybe more depending on how bad the break is." Her voice dipped slightly, quieter, as though addressing you directly. "Do you feel immense pain?"

Your voice came out barely above a whisper, trembling. "Y-yeah. Kind o-of....it's...it feels numb."

"Okay, this might hurt a bit but just trust me." Edie's voice was soft, almost soothing, as she prepared the syringe. The pinch of the needle barely registered in comparison to the ache that had taken over your hand. She moved efficiently, murmuring occasional reassurances as she began the procedure, but you couldn't focus on her words.

Instead, your gaze shifted to Grimshaw. She needed to be out of this fucking room.

Think (Y/N), think---

Your pitiful whimper grabbed her attention. "Yes, dear?" Grimshaw immediately leaned closer.

Thank God Charles was still in the lobby, out of earshot.

"I-I need... some cloth... y'know, for periods," you stammered, your voice barely audible over the pounding in your chest. "Some new ones... Charles brought less than I needed, so can you... go buy them? Arthur gave you money, right?"

Grimshaw's expression flickered with hesitation, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I understand, but-"

Before she could finish, Edie looked up from her work, her sharp eyes meeting Grimshaw's. She nodded subtly, a silent exchange passing between them.

"Don't worry," Edie said, her tone firm but kind. "We'll take care of her. This might take a while anyway, so she'll be in good hands."

Grimshaw hesitated, glancing between the two of you, but Edie pressed on, her words leaving no room for argument. "Also, how about you grab some herbal medicines from the store while you're at it? We're out of stock here, and trust me, they're excellent for pain relief."

She turned her head slightly. "Marlee! Can you give this woman the names of those herbal pain relievers?"

A younger nurse appeared in the doorway, a slip of paper in her hand. "Here you go," she said, smiling and handing it to Grimshaw.

Grimshaw looked at the list and then back at you, her mouth tightening as if she wanted to argue. But after a moment, she nodded briskly. "Alright, I'll get what's needed."

The moment she left...

You both hugged tightly, and the dam you had been holding back for so long broke. Tears spilled freely as you sobbed into her shoulder, gripping her like she was the only tether to sanity in your chaotic world.

"(Y/N)..." Edie murmured, her voice trembling with emotion. "Oh God! I had heard what happened, from Edna. She told me what happened at your wedding. Otherwise, I wouldn't have---God, look at me." Her words stumbled over themselves, her hands gripping your shoulders to steady you and to take in the sight of you. "What have they done to you?! God...you look so different. Did he do this?!"

A faint nod was only what you could muster.

"Oh...my..." Edie's voice broke as she hugged you again, her arms wrapping around you with such ferocity, as if she could shield you from the horrors you had endured.

"The things they're saying about you and him back there-"

"D-don't! NO! Please!" you whimpered, pulling back, shaking your head frantically. "I don't wanna, I don't wanna go through this again! Please..."

Her face softened instantly, guilt flashing in her eyes. "I get it. I get it. I'm sorry. So sorry," she whispered, her hand brushing soothingly over your hair.

"Li-listen to me," you stammered, gripping her wrist tightly, desperation lacing your voice. "I'm gonna tell you the location, and you're going to my parents and telling them where I am, alright?"

Her eyes widened slightly, then hardened with determination. "Hm, got it. Got it, (Y/N). I'm with you."

"Have you been in contact with them though?"

"No," she admitted, frowning. "All of this...all the information about the tragedy, I got it from Edna through a letter. But don't you worry, okay? I'll go to Sable Creek today, right away. I promise."

And with that, you gave her the directions, which she quickly noted down before returning to bandaging your hand. Her voice dropped to a hush, soothing and steady, both of you painfully aware of Charles' presence just outside.

"Listen, take this too."

Before you could question her, Edie slipped something into your pocket, quick, deliberate, and leaving you no chance to inspect it.

"W-what-"

"It's for preventing pregnancy," she whispered sharply, her eyes darting to the door.

"Wha-" Your voice rose, but she cut you off with a firm glare.

"I'm doing this for you. What if you can't come back-"

"No, I get that, idiot," you hissed back, shaking your head. "But why would you even think, do you really think I'm gonna let him touch me? No way in hell!"

Edie's gaze softened, though her expression remained grave. "(Y/N)...speak facts here. What if he does? Would you be able to stop him?" Your eyes welled up as a shiver ran down your whole body. Painful whimpers shook your body. "I don't wanna hurt you but I am helping you by telling the truth. So be practical. It is for prevention and it is...taken after...God forbid-."

Your throat tightened due to fear and disgust but also realization as you had totally overlooked this part, and you couldn't stop the trembling in your voice. "G-got it. Thank you so much-"

"Shh...it's fine. Relax. Just take these herbs in a little amount with tea. Remember , little amount."

The door creaked open just then, and both of you instinctively fell silent, slipping into the facade of normalcy. Susan stepped in with a warm, reassuring smile, her voice soft as she began asking questions about your health.

And just like that, Edie had to step away.

When it was time to leave, you couldn't even say a proper goodbye to her. The ache in your chest was unbearable, but you swallowed it down, telling yourself it was fine. It had to be fine.

Because soon...soon, you would be free.

❀˖°

The shopkeeper glanced from the quiet, starry night outside to the tall, broad-shouldered man now examining a rack of ladies' clothing. It was an odd sight, this burly figure flipping through fabrics and inspecting delicate jewels as if weighing their worth.

"Need a hand, sir?" the shopkeeper asked, more out of curiosity than necessity.

"I'm good," the man replied, not looking up.

Fair enough. The shopkeeper watched as the man added a few dresses to his growing pile. This was turning into quite the shopping spree. Last customer of the night, and judging by the variety of items he was grabbing, jewels, perfumes, and now clothes, it seemed like he was sparing no expense.

Finally, the man strode up to the counter, dumping his haul unceremoniously. Without missing a beat, he pointed at a shelf behind the shopkeeper.

The shopkeeper followed his gesture. "The shampoo? Which one, strawberry or vanilla?"

"Both."

Damn.

"Your lady's a lucky one. Here you go," he remarked, handing over a neatly folded scarf as requested.

"She ain't. I am. Why you think I'm buyin' these?"

The owner chuckled at the response. "I bet, sir. Anything else?"

"Total."

The shopkeeper began tallying up, muttering numbers under his breath before hesitating. "All of this would be well... $200-"

Click.

"Now?"

"I-s-sir, don't-"

"Now?" Arthur lifted the revolver just enough for the shopkeeper to see the glint of silver, all while keeping it angled away from the store's windows.

The shopkeeper's face paled. "F-f-free!".

Arthur chuckled, a low, menacing sound. "That's what I like to hear. Now pack 'em. And properly. Otherwise, you're the one getting packed tonight."

"I-uh-yes! Please don't-" The shopkeeper's hands shook as he hurriedly wrapped everything, his eyes darting nervously to the gun and then to Arthur's face, hoping for some sign of mercy.

When the parcels were finally ready, the shopkeeper slid them across the counter. "T-there you g-go, sir."

"I'll take some chocolates too on the way out... if you don't mind of course." Arthur holstered his revolver with deliberate ease, taking his time as he gathered the packages. "Good night, Mister," he said smoothly, tipping his hat with a smirk before entering the cool night air.

❀˖°

Arthur went through the motions clinging to the routine like it might steady him. A nod by the fire. A stop at the camp fund box, tossing in whatever he had. A quiet word with Dutch, though neither of them really said anything, and then to Ms. Grimshaw...

"She'll be fine," Grimshaw said when he mentioned you, when he asked, low and almost ashamed, about your hand. "The doc said it'll heal, but it'll take time." She paused, a flicker of sympathy softening her sharp tone. " She's been... quieter. More than usual. Not eating...and just...holed up."

Arthur nodded solemnly, muttering his thanks, but the guilt in his chest only grew heavier.

Time. Healing. Pain.

He hated every damn word of it.

"Bill," The man glanced over from the fire, raising an eyebrow. "What?"

Arthur stopped a few paces away, crossing his arms. "Anything happen while I was gone? Any fights? Any trouble?"

"No. Ain't been much of anything. The camp's been quiet." He took a swig from his bottle and shrugged. "You'd think it'd be good for once, but it's been downright dull."

"You're sure?"

Bill sighed, waving a hand. "Yes, I'm sure. Nobody's said or done nothin'. Least, not that I know of."

Arthur didn't answer right away. He glanced back toward the tent, then shook his head. "And (Y/N)?"

"No screamin' or fightin' this time."

Arthur huffed at his words but nodded and finally, he reached his tent.

He stepped inside, bracing himself, his hands heavy at his sides. But instead of finding you curled under the covers, as he'd expected, you were sitting upright on the edge of the cot.

You didn't look up when he entered. Your shoulders were hunched, your bandaged hand resting in your lap as your uninjured fingers absentmindedly toyed with the edge of the fabric. Suki lay curled beside you, her head resting on your thigh, but you didn't seem to notice her either.

Arthur froze, his throat tightening. Seeing you like this, quiet, defeated, looking so damn small, hit him harder than any blow he'd ever taken.

Now what?

Stop being a coward, Morgan.

He cleared his throat, a low, awkward sound breaking the heavy silence. "Hey," he murmured, his voice softer than he intended.

You didn't flinch, but you still didn't look at him, your eyes fixed on your lap. And that, somehow, was worse. He took deliberate steps toward you, his thoughts muffled as he sat down beside you. Clearing his throat gently, he murmured, "I'm back... much to your dismay." He awkwardly held up the bags of gifts, his grip tightening as he noticed your lack of reaction.

Suki perked up, her tail curling up faintly, and Arthur nearly smiled. At least she seemed calm.

His eyes drifted to you again, your figure still hunched and quiet, and his heart clenched. "(Y/N)? You... okay?" He reached out hesitantly, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face, his hand lingering near your cheek. What surprised him most was that you didn't recoil, didn't push him away or claw his hand off. The absence of resistance stung more than rejection.

"I... lost myself that night," he muttered, his voice thick with regret. "I... I am sorry. You jus' said his name and I-how can I just...listen to that. You need to understand. That is not something I will tolerate-"

"You were right." Your voice was steady but hollow, each word cutting through him like a blade. "Remember what you... said? That I had nothing.....That was true."

No.

His heart twisted painfully. 

"I... I was a fool," you interrupted his spiraling thoughts, your tone flat and resigned. "A fool to think that as a woman... I could have anything."

"That's....not true," You have me. Arthur rasped, his hands curling into fists, but you didn't seem to hear him.

"I thought... one day, I'd be sitting where my dad is now," you continued, your gaze fixed on some far-off point as if you were speaking more to yourself than to him. "I thought I'd build something... be someone."

Arthur froze, his hands curling around the bags as his chest tightened. He didn't know what to say. Stop it. The pain he felt hearing the emptiness in your voice was too much. He didn't like this. He didn't like it one bit seeing you like this. It broke him more than he ever thought it could.

"Please..." he murmured, his voice soft and almost desperate. "Look what I brought for you." His movements were rushed, almost clumsy, as he went to the hamper like an eager child, pulling out items and presenting them to you with trembling hands.

"Look, everything you told me you like," he said, his voice gaining a pleading edge. "Your favorite chocolates, the ones you liked as a child, they were so hard to find but I got em', and... look at this. This set. It's yours." He held it up, a delicate piece of jewelry, then a neatly folded fabric, but his eyes weren't on the gifts anymore. They were on you, on the way you sat there, unmoving, fragile. That's when it hit him.

You looked...weaker.

"Did you eat at all when I was gone?" His voice dropped lower, tinged with worry, but you didn't respond. "(Y/N)? Look here, at this stuff while I go and bring food, okay?"

He waited for a moment, hoping, praying for even a flicker of acknowledgment. But there was nothing, and his patience snapped. 

Arthur hesitated for a moment outside the tent, running a hand over his face. Something wasn't right, he could feel it in his gut. You hadn't spoken much, barely reacted to his presence, and now that he thought about it, the whole camp felt quieter than usual. Your silence was the loudest thing he encountered till now.

"Arthur! C'mere!."

"Yes...Dutch?" Arthur's reply was quieter, his eyes darting to Molly, who sat quietly on the cot behind Dutch, who returned his nod.

"Well, you weren't here...and the girl, y'know, I just couldn't bear to see the state she was in. So...I took her to see her parents. Hosea and I handled it."

Arthur's stomach dropped. 

They what? 

"Dutch--but why?-"

"What? Got a problem?"

"No- I just-"

 "She needed that, Arthur. A proper closure. And... needless to say, due to certain rumors now circulating about you two... well, it's affected them. They think she should stay here. For the better. And that's all it took for her father to say this and for her to shut herself...." Dutch trailed off, but the implication was clear. "She hasn't eaten or spoken since."

Is that why you said all that..?

Arthur felt the blood drain from his face. He wanted to yell, to demand why Dutch had taken such a step without him, but... what could he say? Maybe Dutch had meant well, he always means well,  and maybe it was for the best, but knowing what you must've heard, the rejection from your family, the weight of those rumors... it crushed him. How could you bear it? He couldn't fathom. He should have been the one who took you. Guess, it was for the better, it would have been worse if he had been there.

"Yes... Dutch," Arthur muttered, barely finding his voice.

Dutch's hands clapped onto Arthur's shoulders, his grip firm but meant to be comforting. "I care for you all, alright? She's part of us now, Arthur. And I want you to be happy, too, son. Just... take care of her. Make sure she's eating, resting, and you need some rest yourself."

Arthur nodded stiffly, his lips twitching into a broken semblance of a smile. "I will."

"And, um..." Dutch paused, tilting his head slightly. "Also, Mr. (L/N), well, I came to know he's facing some problems with the O'Driscolls. So I figured it'd be best to offer some help. And the price would only be that he stops funding Pinkertons to find us. What do you think about that?"

Arthur blinked, his breath hitching. "W-what? Since when?"

"Just some days ago before the girl's wedding was about to happen. When we went to meet him, he brought it up. Turns out, it's true. So, what do you say? We help him out? After all, they're your in-laws now, aren't they, boy? And getting rid of those pieces of shit is always worthwhile."

Arthur swallowed hard, forcing himself to nod. "Yes, Dutch. 'Course. I'll do it myself if I have to."

But the words felt hollow, like he was agreeing to something he couldn't quite understand. All he could think about was you, what you'd heard, how you felt, and how he could even begin to make it right. But somehow he also felt responsible and protective of your family. It's the least he can do...after this. Protecting them...was protecting you, you were once a part of them.

"I know you can. But remember the boys and I are here as well so when things get too much, we are available. Maybe (Y/N) will appreciate that too, y'know. See? We can be all nice when we wanna be." Dutch leaned back with a satisfied smirk. "I'll keep you updated if I hear anything about the 'Driscoll boys. Now, go on, go to your girl."

Arthur gave a brief nod, his jaw tight, and turned on his heel. He grabbed a bowl of stew from the fire, his movements mechanical as his thoughts churned.

He appeared back at the tent but you were under the covers already....and somehow he expected it...

Arthur hesitated for a moment, the bowl trembling slightly in his hands as he stood over the cot. "Here," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You need to eat. Please, they told me you ain't swallowed a single bite. At least half...please."

Again no response which only left him the option to sigh and put it aside.

He wanted to say more, to bring up the meeting with your parents. But the words caught in his throat. How could he comfort you about something that, in some twisted way, he had set into motion? The rumors, the whispers, the decisions made without you or him, it all tied back to him, to his mistakes.

He took out his journal, desperate to get these thoughts out of his mind as he began scribbling.

"I miss you, (Y/N).

Miss your smile, your laugh, the way you’d go on and on about things and make jokes out of anything.

I know you miss it too. The life you should be living. Not this. Not with me. You should be wrapped in silk and drowning in gold, not stuck in the mud beside a man like me. You should be surrounded by normal people, not outlaws and killers. You should be sleeping in a fine bed, not lying awake beside the same bastard who ruined you.

But don’t you see? The more you fight it, the more you tear yourself apart. And I can live with a lot of things. I can live without your laughter, without your warmth. But I won’t live with you shutting yourself away from me.

And you, you, should’ve known better than to utter another man's name..."

His pencil halted as he realized what he had written. His mind had gone in another direction. The other side. The one he hated to acknowledge but couldn't ignore. A primal side that found a grim satisfaction in the fact that your parents had pushed you away. That closure, painful as it was, came from them. Maybe now, with nowhere else to turn, you'd stop clinging to the past and start... accepting this. Accepting him. He hated himself for the thought, but it lingered all the same, buried beneath layers of guilt and shame.

It was necessary.

Shutting his journal he laid down beside you. He wanted to reach out, to hold your hand, to apologize, hell, to beg if that's what it took.

"I know... it ain't easy," he murmured after a long pause, his voice rough with emotion. "But... I'm here, alright? Always will be."

But who was to tell him that the real truth was a trip that had resulted in you having a gun barrel pointed at your head.

❀˖°

Few days ago.

It was the third day since he had left and thank God he still wasn't back, nobody told you when he would be and you didn't give a fuck to ask anyway. The camp was...empty almost. Dutch, Hosea, and the women resting in their places. The boys had been sent away to different jobs. Oh yes, Bill was here too.

That's why you now sat beneath the shade of a tree, a book resting in your lap, one you had finally felt sane enough to read. Suki lounged by your side, her soft purring a rare comfort. She got it so easy huh? Free to go wherever... whenever. An animal is in a better place than you. But even as you tried to focus on the words on the page, your mind refused to stay quiet.

Did Edie make it? Did she tell your parents? And if she did...why-

A sharp cough pulled you from your spiraling thoughts, accompanied by the faint smell of a cigar. You didn't even need to look up to know who it was, the shadow looming over you confirmed it.

One bitch out of camp, so what? The bigger one's still here.

"Ms. (Y/N), there. Happy?" Dutch greeted, his tone casual as he crouched down, extending a hand to pet Suki, who sniffed him indifferently.

"I wanted to..." He trailed off for a moment, the smirk transformed into a complete look of shame, shocking you.

"To ask you something," he finally continued, his eyes meeting yours. "I feel like maybe I was a bit harsh that day. So, as a form of compensation...How about I take you to meet your parents?"

No way.

"Wh-what?"

"Yeah. You ready?"

"But--Arthu-

"He isn't here and he won't be for a few more days. I figured you both needed a break, so I sent him for a good amount of time. No need to thank me." He stood up with a gentle smile.

"See? I can be nice. Now, missy get up and I'll be waiting for you at the stables."

Slowly, you made your way back to the tent, Suki trailing at your heels. But as the hope began to settle, so did the gnawing pit of anxiety bubbling in your stomach. What if this was some trick? Or worse, what if this wasn't?

You sank down onto the edge of your cot, your hands trembling slightly. For a minute, you just sat there, staring at nothing in particular, trying to calm the storm that raged inside you.

Wait.

What if... you go there and, like-

Breathe.

Your mind spiraled, the what-ifs circling like vultures. If Edie had already informed your parents, you shouldn't even be here right now. This could have been the perfect time for help to arrive. Arthur isn't around, but now Dutch is offering to take you there himself?

But then again... what if Dutch finds out about Edie through your parents?

No. You shook your head, forcing yourself to breathe deeply. You're overthinking. Relax. Your parents aren't fools. They would know how to handle themselves.

Just... get ready and leave.

Still, the pit in your stomach didn't ease. It churned with a deep unease, one you couldn't shake even as you tried to calm yourself.

You sat stiffly behind Bill as the three of you finally reached town. The journey to Sable Creek had taken half an hour or so, but your home was still a few minutes away. The familiar surroundings should've been comforting, but the unease bubbling in your chest refused to settle. How would your parents react and...how would you calm yourself in front of them?. The pain was bubbling over the surface, ready to be spilled in the form of tears and broken words in their embrace.

"Why are we stopping here?" you asked, your voice cautious as you slid carefully off the horse, mindful of your injured hand.

Dutch dismounted gracefully, tying up his horse with practiced ease. "A work needs to be done first. C'mon."

You shared a hesitant glance with Bill, who offered a grunt in response, ignoring you completely.

The building in front of you came into view, and your brows furrowed. A notary office?

You knew the place well enough, Mr. Mason was the officer, and you'd been here before for work-related errands. But what on earth could Dutch, of all people, want at a notary office? The man and legalities seemed as mismatched as oil and water.

"Appointment?"

"You can go in now. Mr. Mason is awaiting you," the receptionist announced to him with a polite smile.

As the three of you entered, Dutch greeted Mr. Mason first. "Oh, Ms. (Y/N), a pleasure to meet you," Mason said, gesturing awkwardly toward a chair. "Um, please, have a seat."

Warily, you lowered yourself into the chair opposite Dutch, who was already leaning back with somewhat a serene expression. Whilst, Bill lingered quietly near the wall.

"So," Dutch began, exhaling a puff of smoke from his freshly lit cigar, "let's get to business, shall we?"

"What is going on here?" you interrupted, turning your gaze sharply to Mason. "Mr. Mason? Care to explain? You know him?"

Mason hesitated, smoothing the papers on his desk with trembling hands. "Well, yo-u could say, Ms. (Y/N), that we are... acquaintances-"

"Excuse me?"

"Now, now," Dutch cut in smoothly, waving his cigar like he was conducting a symphony. "Calm yourself, missy. Let's just get the work done, shall we?"

Before you could respond, Mason pulled out a stack of documents, sliding them across the desk toward you and Dutch. Also, you didn't fail to see a certain...a certain fearful look in Mr. Mason's eyes too, the most jolly man you had come across. Your stomach churned as you reached for them instinctively, your fingers trembling as you flipped through the pages.

Dutch, unbothered, leaned back in his chair, puffing his cigar as if this was just another leisurely evening for him.

Your eyes darted across the bold lettering,

PROPERTY TRANSFER AGREEMENT

Grantor: Ms. [Y/N] [L/N] (hereinafter referred to as "Grantor").

Grantee: Dutch Van der Linde (hereinafter referred to as "Grantee").

Your breath hitched.

"What. The. Hell. Is. This?" you demanded, glaring at Mason, then at Dutch, who remained infuriatingly calm.

"Huh!?" Your voice trembled, the words barely forming as your eyes scanned the papers again. "What is this?".

Your hands trembled as you scanned the document again.

Your land. The plot in Cinderpoint. Nearly an acre of pristine property, yours. A perfect spot, rich with greenery, near the railway. And you knew exactly why Dutch was doing this.

He could afford to buy land elsewhere, hell, in the Heartlands, where an acre went for as little as fifteen dollars. Even this plot wasn't much more, maybe four hundred and fifty at most.

But this wasn't about money.

It was about being on the safe side.

He wasn't buying it and being a criminal he couldn't, that was too risky and too much work but having it "granted" ...it couldn't be easier.

And by having the deed, in his name, Dutch gained three things, legal cover of course, on paper, the land would belong to him, resale power, he could do as he pleased with it, and worst of all, long-term security if he planned to develop it, which you feared was his real goal.

No. This can't be happening.

"Now, (Y/N), listen," Dutch began smoothly, leaning forward with that predatory calm that made your stomach churn. "What we're doing here is mutual business. Since you live with us now, it's only natural, makes sense, really--that your property remains safeguarded. With us. With me. No?."

"You son of a bitch!" You exploded, slamming the papers onto the desk with your uninjured hand. "You think I'd hand over my assets? To you!? Are you out of your damn mind? This is mine! And what the fuck do you mean by 'safeguard,' huh? Just say it, say you're fucking looting me! You need it because then the law can't arrest you for illegal occupation!"

"Ms. (Y/N)-" Mason began nervously, his voice faltering under your glare.

"No! You---shut up! How can you do this, Mr. Mason? You... you know Dad, right? I've-I've worked with you. Please, don't listen to these people."

Dutch chuckled darkly, dragging his chair closer with a deliberate scrape against the wooden floor. "I'd say the sooner we get done with it, the better, darlin'. I am doing this for all of us. Including you. And looting? I prefer the term, 'acquire'."

He leaned in, his leg brushing against yours, boxing you in completely. You were trapped between his looming presence and the desk, his cigar smoke curling lazily around you like a noose.

Just then, the door burst open.

Another man entered, blond, with the weirdest mustache you'd ever seen.

"Ah, Micah, come on in," Dutch drawled, not even glancing up. "We just got started."

Micah smirked, his sharp eyes flicking to you like a predator sizing up its prey.

"Did the bitch agree yet?"

Your breath caught in your throat. The sheer disgust and fear this man evoked made your skin crawl.

"W-who th-!"

Before you could finish, the back of his hand cracked across your face. The impact sent you reeling, stars bursting in your vision.

"P-please, don't treat her like this," Mason stammered, standing abruptly. "Please-"

"Did we ask for your permission? And I am gonna do much worse to your wife Masey, now sit down!"

Your ears rang. The world tilted, your vision blurred by pain and humiliation.

Then, warm breath ghosted over your ear.

Micah's hand gripped your chin, forcing your face upward. His voice dripped with mockery.

"Arthur must be coddling you like some baby, but not us, sweetpea. We are, you could say... a bit tougher. So how about you be a good girl and sign-"

"Go to hell."

With a sharp snarl, you clawed at his hand, drawing a hiss from him.

You didn't hesitate.

Your fingers darted for the pen on the desk, gripping it tight, ready to stab-

Click.

"Sweetheart, cursing ain't gonna get you anywhere." Dutch's voice dripped with mockery, smooth and unbothered, as if this were all just a friendly transaction.

The cold barrel of his revolver pressed hard against the side of your head.

He winked at Micah, who stood right behind your seat, his hands gripping the back of the chair, fingers just barely grazing your shoulders.

Bill remained silent. Micah, on the other hand, let out a wheezing chuckle.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. Never in your life had you felt so... degraded. So helpless. Locked in a room with three men who could do whatever they wanted with you.

"It's just paperwork," Dutch continued, as if the gun against your skull was merely a formality. "Sign it, and you can rest easy knowing your little patch of paradise is in safe hands."

Safe hands.

"I am not doing it. I am NOT giving you as-sholes anything! You tricked me into coming here?! How low can you possibly go?!"

Micah clicked his tongue, then suddenly grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back.

You flinched, a sharp gasp escaping you as you thrashed against his hold.

"Now, now, Micah," Dutch drawled, not even looking at him.

Micah scoffed but obeyed, his grip loosening before he shoved your head forward again.

"As you say... boss."

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to steady your breath. Your heart told you to fight, but logic whispered otherwise. You were outnumbered. Cornered. And Dutch still had his gun pressed against you.

For now, you had no choice but to play along.

But for now wouldn't last forever. You prayed. God is with those who are patient, right? You have to remain strong.

Be strong...please.

"We're not leaving this building until you sign. And as for Mr. Mason here, well, sweetheart, it doesn’t take much to bribe a government officer… or to persuade him through other means." He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, letting it curl in the air between you. "So, what’s it gonna be? Are we doing this the civil way, or…" So that's why Mr. Mason looks disturbed. The bitter scent of his cigar filled your lungs, making you gag.

"You don't know half the things I'm capable of. Don't worry, though, you'll learn everything soon enough and then you will be thanking me. Now, sign the papers, or I'll blow your brains out right here. And after that... let's just say that poor little cat back at camp won't be so lucky either-"

"Don't! Le-eave her outta this! Ple-ase!.."

"Sobbing isn't going to change anything, so quit it. Just. Sign. The. Damn. Papers."

"You'll regret this. One day... you'll pay for t-his, you animals."

With trembling hands, tears streaming down your face, you signed.

...Done.

Just like that?

Your heart pounded, a dull, heavy ache in your chest as Dutch slid the pen from your grasp, his smirk stretching wider, the smirk of a winner.

"Wasn't so hard, was it now, pumpkin?" Micah sneered. His voice, his breath, everything about him made your skin crawl. He finally stepped back, standing behind Dutch this time, watching him sign with a look of twisted satisfaction.

When will this end?

"There. All done," Mason muttered, clearing his throat. His movements were stiff, reluctant, but he stamped the papers nonetheless, finalizing the transfer of your land.

He slid them across the desk. "There you go, Mr. Van der Linde."

Dutch leaned back, examining the documents with a pleased nod before turning his gaze to Mason. "And the security matter?"

"Handled," Mason confirmed, though his tone lacked enthusiasm. "You won't have any problems with the law. My contact's taken care of it, and your real name won't be on record.. Just present these original documents, and that'll be proof enough. After that, you can use any alias you want, so if the law comes sniffing around, they won't have a clue. And even if you use your real name, they can't just arrest you for owning this land."

Dutch grinned, tapping a finger against the papers.

"Perfect."

Your head remained frozen in time.

Memories blurred into the present, forcing you back to that day, the day you turned twenty. The day your father handed you the deed with a proud smile. You had visited Cinderpoint once, offhandedly mentioning how much you liked it. That was all it took for him to make it yours.

And now... it was gone.

A sharp knock broke through the silence. The trio stirred, but you remained motionless, no more than a hollow shell in your chair.

Dutch chuckled, his voice thick with amusement. "Mhm. I think it's who I think it is. Well, gentlemen, let's give Miss (Y/N) some privacy. She does deserve this sweet reward now, doesn't she?"

Their laughter echoed as they shuffled out, the door creaking shut behind them. Muffled voices faded into the distance.

Your father who rushed in, didn't speak right away. He just looked at you really looked at you as if memorizing every bruise, every tear-streaked inch of your face. His lips parted, but whatever words he wanted to say never came. Instead, he reached out, hesitantly at first, before pulling you into his arms.

The moment his embrace tightened around you, he broke. A choked sob escaped him, his body trembling against yours as he buried his face into your hair. His breath came in ragged gasps, and you felt his tears soak into your shoulder.

"I failed you," he whispered hoarsely. "God help me, I failed you."

You wanted to tell him it wasn't his fault, that there was nothing he could have done. But the words wouldn't come.

Your hands clenched weakly at the fabric of his coat, gripping it as if holding on for dear life. He held you for what felt like forever, gently rocking you back and forth as your sobs wracked through your body. His calloused hand ran over your hair, smoothing it down like he used to when you were a child frightened by anything.

"Shh, my girl, my sweet girl. You're safe now. I'm here."

His words, meant to soothe, only made your chest tighten further. Safe? When had you last felt truly safe? His arms might have shielded you now, but what had been stolen from you, your land, your dignity, your freedom...it was too much...

You felt him take a deep, shuddering breath, willing himself to calm down before pulling away just enough to look into your eyes. He cupped your face, his thumbs wiping away the lingering tears on your cheeks. "Breathe with me, sweetheart," he whispered. "Just breathe. I am here."

You tried. Slowly, painfully, your ragged gasps evened out into something steadier. Your father did the same, his forehead pressing against yours for a fleeting moment of quiet understanding.

And then, at last, he spoke.

"Just... a month before your wedding, I began having trouble with some of my merchants and clients being robbed on the trade routes. I kept it a secret as I didn't wanna worry any of you, especially you. It was the O'Driscolls," he started, his voice heavy with regret. "So, of course, I began funding the Pinkertons to deal with them..."

He paused, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "And... after-" His voice broke as he wiped away a tear. "After they took you away from me, I began paying for you to be brought back too but...I was also suffering a lot of losses in business. The agency was demanding too much from me and doing so little. Then Dutch...came, and he told me I needed to stop. Instead of wasting my money on Pinkertons, I pay him half to...fight the Driscolls. If I didn't stop interfering, if I didn't pull them back, then the next shipment to disappear wouldn't just be goods. Dutch will also start looting my clients. Will kill them. It'd be...bloody. My men. My family. And especially you, (Y/N)...even you and I just-- I couldn't!"

His voice cracked slightly, but he forced himself to go on. "So I had a choice. Keep funding the Pinkertons, who were looting me in their own way, keep fighting against Colm who already had me by the throat, and risk losing everything... or cut my losses and trust that Dutch, twisted as he is, would at least keep to his word that he'd deal with the O'Driscolls himself for me...." He exhaled sharply as if disgusted by the words leaving his own mouth. "It wasn't much of a choice at all."

So...he is valuing his money right now? Is that what it is? You just can't understand anything at this fucking point.

He looked at you now, his eyes pleading. "Please, (Y/N)... you have to understand. I didn't just fold because I was scared. I did it because there was no winning against him. Not like this. And I want you to be safe among those vultures! I can't sleep knowing that...they might do something to you!"

"Stop it, Dad," you interrupted sharply, your voice trembling but firm. "Just stop."

He fell silent, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of it all had finally crushed him.

You reached for the glass of water on the table, the cold liquid doing little to soothe the fire raging inside you. Setting it down with a clink, you stood up, your gaze distant.

"You're giving up, aren't you? Edie must've come to you, and that's why you didn't send...any help? Because business is everything to you? You just believed his....silver tongue? He manipulated you Dad! That's all he did! That's all he knows to do!"

"(Y/N)-"

"You were my ideal dad." A whimper escaped your lips as you stepped back, your voice trembling with pain. "So perfect... I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. You weren't just my dad, you were my best friend. And now? You kept me in the dark about this?" You gestured around you, the betrayal evident in every movement. "Tell me, was staying here, this business, this country...was it worth more than me?"

"(Y/N), when I make decisions, I have to think of everyone," he replied, his tone heavy with pity and pain.

"Your mother-who, I might add, is still in trauma-and Rayan-"

"Was it worth it?!" you interrupted, your voice rising to a shout that reverberated through the room.

"Leaving and starting over from scratch isn’t easy. And right now, with the recent robberies, it’s even worse. My most valuable clients… they’ve lost trust in me, (Y/N). And of course, they’ve heard about the whole incident." He exhaled sharply, frustration lacing his words. "Now they think I was in bed with outlaws all along, that I’ve been using them to loot, to scam them, God, it’s all a mess." His voice wavered, quieter now, but no less burdened. "That I gave you away… as some kind of prize-"

"Stop."

"Not just me, (Y/N)… you too. You were my partner, after all. They’re raising questions-"

"Were?"

A heavy pause.

God...

Your chest burned with the new, agonizing reality that settled in, your breaths coming in shallow bursts as you stepped back, as far from him as you could, though the room felt like it was closing in. The space between you both, once filled with warmth and trust, was now an abyss you couldn't cross.

"These people... they may be heartless," you continued, your voice trembling, "they may have destroyed me because that's what they do. They're criminals, Dad. Bu-t you? You were supposed to be my father. You were supposed to p-rotect me."

He opened his mouth to speak, but his words faltered, breaking on the edge of his throat. "I still am, what more can I do?! I am stuck here." he pleaded.

"No, you're not! You did not..." The words tore from you like a scream trapped in your chest. "If you had, I would've been in my house. In the arms of Mom. Not with a gun to my head, not being tossed around like a ragdoll by a man who calls himself my husband! I thought...you are the most capable man to do that...Dad. There must have been a way! You always had a s-solution for everything! Taught me everything and yet... " Tears blurred your vision as you looked at him, your voice trembling with fury. "Do you see this? He-he did this! And now this? You're giving up everything for this?" You gestured wildly, as though you could point to the ruin of everything he had once stood for.

His face twisted in pain, the guilt heavy on his brow. "Forgive me, but... I can't. You have to accept reality, (Y/N). If you don't--if I don't-then we're all dead. At the hands of either Dutch or that bastard Colm. I can't suffer more losses. I don't even know anymore what's right or wrong. These people--they're targeting everyone. And you...you were too supposed to be sensible. Did I raise you to hang around with an outlaw? And tell me... tell me why? Why did you--Doreen told us about you meeting Arthur! Why did you? Why did you let it go that far? Your mother even warned you! Do you know how disappointed she is? Where were your senses at the time?! How can you be so foolish (Y/N)?! You took advantage of our trust!. And this went on for a whole year?! Then what the hell did you expect?!". His voice cracked with now anger and confusion.

The rush of guilt hit you like a wave, and your hands shook, gripping the armchair in an attempt to steady yourself. You shook your head, frantic. "I--I know! It's ALL MY FAULT, isn't it?!" The tears came then, hot and fast, as your chest heaved with the helplessness and sorrow you couldn't contain. "Oh my God. I can't..." Your vision blacked out for half of a second making you nearly fall on the table.

"(Y/N)?!" His voice cracked with concern, and he moved closer steadying you. "I'm sorry. Please, don't..."

"No....I am sor-ry...M' so sorry. I shouldn't h-ave..."

Your words, your hurt, they couldn't be contained. And so, you let them spill out in a torrent, once again in his chest, not caring anymore whether he understood or not.

"Omar?" Your voice softened, cracking as you remembered the horrifying day once again. "Omar, Papa-?"

"Dear..." His voice faltered, a tear slipping down his cheek as he tried to explain. "He--he tried. He tried to find you. But his family... they weren't having it...weren't happy he was in contact with me and the law regarding you and just....took him to another state with them. They left. But he... he did try. I know he still loves you."

Not for long...he'd find someone else, a normal woman, with good reputation, with no connection to any gang and live happily ever after...

"At least he... tried," you muttered bitterly, pulling away from him. Your chest tightened, the ache inside growing deeper, suffocating you.

He pulled you closer, his fingers trembling against your arms. "Please, (Y/N)... one day, things will be different. I promise. I-I’ll find a way. When I can afford it. These people will be caught, and you’ll come back. I know you will. We will never turn you away."

Empty words. Promises...

"So… it’s your clients, then? Your business. Society mattered to you, after all-"

"Yes, one way or another, it does. It was a tragedy the first time, something we could all move past. But this time, you chose to be part of it. You shouldn’t have, dear. You shouldn’t have."

You see it now. He isn’t fighting for you, he’s asking you to accept it. To wait. To bear it for as long as necessary. Maybe forever.

It's over.

"Do you--are you hearing yourself? I can't take it... papa. I ca-n't-"

A loud smack on the door made you both jump. It was no less than a siren, indicating your return to hell.

This is it then...

A strained silence filled the room as you both matched eyes one last time, your heart heavy, more broken than it was before. There was nothing else that could be said to lessen the pain, no wish to be made, no comfort to be found. And here you thought you might have had a peaceful reunion with your family...

"Tell Mama and...Rayan...I love them."

❀˖°

The ride seemed endless, the hooves pounding against the dirt road a cruel rhythm to the vile words surrounding you. How long were you supposed to endure this? These men... these animals.

It wasn't until the camp came into view that he cornered you again, this time pinning you against Bill's horse. And you, despite the trembling in your hands, met his hardened glare with all the strength you could gather.

"If he can break one hand, I can do worse."

"Dutch!? What are you, stop it! And you both--fuck off!" Hosea came running, intervening immediately. He stepped between you both, and his voice panicked. He shoved Bill and Micah away. "Why didn't you inform me before leaving Dutch?! I was gonna go too! You couldn't let me-" But Dutch silenced him with only a lift of his hand.

"Not everything needs to be handled with gentleness, Hosea. And make sure she understands," Dutch said, his voice cold. "Listen here now, Arthur, he's not to get wind of this. Nobody does. You keep it to yourself missy. He'll know when I want him to know."

"Now you see everything, don't you?" Dutch's voice dripped with mockery. "Your father is practically grateful to me for agreeing to defend his caravans from the O'Driscoll boys. So you'd better be grateful, too. Because if your family can eat and sleep safely to this day and comin' ones, it's because of me."

"You see these people?" Dutch gestured toward the camp. "They have my name attached to them. You are a Van der Linde first and a Morgan second. That means you listen to me. And you'd better damn well listen because if you think for a second I can't harm your family, you're sorely mistaken."

His words hung in the air, suffocating and filled with poison. They twisted the air around you, wrapping themselves around your chest, making it hard to breathe.

"But trust me, you'll come to realize this is all beneficial for you, too. When I build on the land, I'll make sure you and Arthur get the most spacious room. After all, you deserve nothing else."

A gasp of pain escaped you as Dutch left, Hosea's voice drowning around you. His hands reached out to comfort you, but you violently shrugged them off, backing away, further and further, until you were now curled into a cocoon on the cot, shaking like a leaf.

Vultures.

Selfish.

Greedy sons of bitches.

That’s all they are. That’s all they will ever be.

❀˖°

The night was deathly quiet, the kind of silence that gnawed at his insides. Arthur lay on the cot, staring at the ceiling of the tent, listening to the faint rustle of the wind outside and the soft, uneven sound of your breathing. You were finally asleep, or at least, he thought so.

He couldn't stop seeing your face from earlier, the emptiness in your eyes, the way you barely reacted to anything he said or did. It haunted him. That hollow look, sunken eyes, that broken silence, it wasn't you.

Arthur shifted, propping himself up slightly to look at you. Your hair was a mess, splayed across the pillow, your bandaged hand resting limply near your face. Even in sleep, your brows twitched, as if the hurt followed you there too.

It was unbearable.

His hands trembled slightly as he moved closer. He didn't care if you woke up, didn't care if you lashed out, screamed, hit him. Hell, maybe he deserved that. But he wasn't going to let you lay here like this, drowning in whatever torment--- the world, had handed you that day.

Arthur slipped an arm around your waist, his touch cautious at first, but then firm. He pulled you into his warmth, pressing you close, his chin resting lightly against the back of your head. His heart pounded against your back as if it could somehow beat hard enough to protect you from the woe and despair that were clawing at you.

You stirred slightly, before settling again. Arthur's breath caught, but he didn't loosen his grip. He couldn't. He wouldn't. Even if you woke up and pushed him away, even if you cursed him for this, he couldn't let you go. Not when you needed this, even if you didn't want it.

He tightened his hold, his hand smoothing over your arm in slow, steady motions, as though trying to will away the hurt through sheer proximity. "I gotchu," he whispered against your hair. "I gotchu, darlin'."

You're not gonna sleep so broken. Not after whatever you heard back there.

★ Next

─AN: Interactions are always appreciated and I will always love reading your guys' comments. To be added or removed from the tag list you can mention it. I hope this chap fed you guys well-〒▽〒 (●'◡'●)

★ tag list: @m1stea @warmsideofthepillow03 @thatoneraeder @marzintears @nxttaru @cazzacarm @she-is-my-unrequited-love34 @nulixity @poll-u @bajabish @cheesycheddarr @luzzbuzz @dilfsarelife @ninastyless @claire-is-here @raeraypoca @hopingtoclearmedschool @lain3iwakura @bashfulcowgirl87 @catjsashrine @bipolarbitties @lizynownow @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @meheheasasa @necktattooed @jbrownta

[allthemeniveloved]

Almost

Summary: John may have slipped up and called you his wife after you failed to rob a drunken man.

Tags: hyper-feminine female pickpocket reader, John Marston x you, fluff, one derogatory name used.

a/n: I'm feeling super uninspired and am struggling to come up with new ideas but I just know I'm craving husband/father/family man/epilogue/rdr 1/protective John Marston BAD.

The saloon in Rhodes buzzed with its usual mix of raucous laughter, clinking glasses, and the faint strain of a piano in the corner. You had slipped in earlier, your heels clicking softly against the wooden floor as you scanned the room. It wasn’t your first time playing the damsel in a bustling saloon, using charm, lip gloss, and wit to ease a few coins out of careless pockets. Tonight, though, your mark—a swaying, red-faced man with a sloppy grin—seemed an easy target.

Or so you thought.

Your fingers had just brushed the edge of his coat pocket when he spun around, his meaty hand slapping yours away. “What the hell d’you think you’re doin��, lady?” he barked, his words slurring but his anger sharp.

“I—I’m sorry!” you stammered, backing up a step and clutching your bag to your chest, your heartbeat thundering. Your wide eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape, but the man’s booming voice drew everyone’s attention.

“Tryin’ to rob me, huh?” He staggered closer, his breath reeking of whiskey. “You think you can get away with that? Little whore!”

A heat rose to your cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and panic. The saloon grew quieter as the patrons turned to watch the scene unfold. You took another step back, your voice soft and pleading. “I didn’t mean—please, it was a mistake—”

“Don’t give me that!” he snapped, his voice loud enough to rattle the glasses on the bar. “You’re nothin’ but a—”

“Hey!”

The sharp, commanding voice cut through the tension like a knife. Your head whipped around, and there he was—John Marston, standing just inside the saloon doors. His eyes locked on the drunken man, his jaw tight and his expression dark. He crossed the room in long, purposeful strides, the spurs on his boots clicking with each step.

“You leave my wife alone,” he growled, his tone low and dangerous.

Your breath hitched. His wife? The words hung in the air for a moment, and though you knew it wasn’t true, the way he said it—so fiercely, so protectively—made your heart skip.

The man blinked, momentarily confused. “Your wife? She—she was tryin’ to rob me!”

John stepped between you and the man, his broad shoulders blocking you from view. “That so?” he said, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge. “Funny, all I see is a drunk fool harassin’ a lady.”

“She—”

John didn’t let him finish. “I don’t care what you think happened,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. “You’re gonna turn around, walk back to your drink, and forget all about it. Or we’re gonna have a problem.”

The man’s face reddened further, his chest puffing up like a rooster preparing for a fight. But then John’s hand drifted casually to the revolver on his hip, his fingers resting on the worn grip. The tension in the room thickened, and you could feel the weight of every eye in the saloon on the two men.

After a long, tense moment, the drunk muttered something under his breath and stumbled back to the bar. John didn’t move until the man was seated and glaring into his glass. Only then did he turn to you, his sharp gaze softening when it met yours.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

You nodded, though your legs felt shaky beneath your petticoats. “I—yes. Thank you.”

John sighed, running a hand through his hair. “What were you thinkin’, tryin’ that in a place like this?” His tone wasn’t scolding, more exasperated, and laced with something else—worry.

“Well, I thought he wouldn’t notice!" you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Well, he did." John said, a sigh escaping his lips as his gaze drifted to his feet.

You bit your lip, your heart still racing, though for a different reason now. “You didn’t have to say I was your wife,” you said softly, looking up at him through your long lashes.

He shifted, scratching the back of his neck, his cheeks taking on a slight flush. “Seemed like the fastest way to get him off your back,” he muttered. Then, after a beat, he added, “Didn’t figure you’d mind.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Not at all.”

His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then he glanced around the saloon and offered you his arm. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get outta here before he gets any ideas.”

You took his arm without hesitation, the warmth of his touch steadying you as he led you out of the saloon. The cool night air hit your face as the door swung shut behind you, but you barely noticed. All you could feel was the solid presence of John at your side, his protective energy wrapping around you like a shield.

As you walked to the horses, you couldn’t resist teasing, “So…wife, huh?”

John smirked, his lips quirking in that way that made your stomach flip. “Don’t you get any ideas either, little miss.” he said, though his voice was warm, almost playful.

You laughed softly, the tension from the saloon finally melting away. “Too late,” you said with a grin, and though John rolled his eyes, you didn’t miss the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

John shook his head at your teasing, his smirk lingering as he helped you up onto your horse. The warm press of his hands at your waist sent a flutter through your chest, though he seemed entirely unaffected, like it was second nature to him. He mounted his own horse in one swift motion, settling in with an ease that only added to the rugged charm he wore so effortlessly.

The two of you set off at a steady pace, the quiet night settling around you. The occasional chirp of crickets filled the silence, the moonlight casting a silver glow over the dirt road. You glanced at John out of the corner of your eye, but he was focused ahead, the lines of his face hard to read.

Finally, unable to stand the quiet any longer, you broke the silence. “You really didn’t have to do that back there, you know,” you said softly, your voice carrying in the stillness. “I could’ve handled him.”

John let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he adjusted his reins. “Sure looked like it,” he said, the sarcasm clear in his tone. “What were you gonna do, bat your lashes at him and hope he forgot he was mad?”

“Well, it usually works,” you shot back, a playful lilt in your voice. “Just not on belligerent drunks, apparently.”

John glanced at you then, his dark eyes catching yours. “Guess it’s a good thing I was there, huh?”

You huffed, though you couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. “I could’ve talked my way out of it.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, his voice dry but tinged with amusement. “You’re lucky he was too drunk to really make trouble.”

You sighed, your gaze drifting to the moonlit trees lining the road. “I hate being caught off guard like that. Makes me feel… small.”

John’s expression softened, though he kept his eyes on the road. “You ain’t small,” he said firmly. “You’re smart, quick, and you’ve got more guts than most folks I know. But next time, maybe don’t go tryin’ to pick a fight you don’t need to.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Pick a fight? I was picking his pocket.”

“Same difference,” John shot back, smirking again. “Just stay outta trouble, alright? You’re too pretty to be tanglin’ with folks like that.”

The unexpected compliment caught you off guard, and your cheeks warmed despite the cool night air. “Too pretty, huh?” you teased, trying to cover your flustered reaction. “That’s what you think of me?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly realizing what he’d said. “Don’t go twistin’ my words,” he muttered, though there was no real bite in his voice.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” you replied with a sly smile. “But for the record, you make a pretty convincing husband.”

John chuckled, the sound low and rich. “That so?”

“Mm-hmm,” you said, leaning slightly toward him as your horses walked side by side. “You had everyone in that saloon believing it. Even me, for a second.”

He didn’t respond right away, his jaw working as though he were weighing his words. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, more thoughtful. “Did what I had to. Ain’t gonna let nobody hurt you.”

Your chest tightened at the sincerity in his tone, and you looked at him more closely, trying to read the expression on his face. He didn’t meet your gaze, his eyes fixed straight ahead, but there was a tension in his shoulders, like he was holding something back.

“You mean that?” you asked softly.

He finally looked at you, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “Every word,” he said simply, his voice steady and sure.

The weight of his promise settled between you, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to fall away. You wanted to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come. All you could do was hold his gaze, your heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the lingering adrenaline from the saloon.

John cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “We’re almost back to camp,” he said, his voice gruffer now, like he was trying to shake off the vulnerability that had seeped into it.

You nodded, your throat tight. “Right. Camp.”

The rest of the ride passed in comfortable silence, though your mind was anything but quiet. By the time you reached Clemens Point, the camp was quiet, most of the gang already asleep. John dismounted first, tying his horse to a post before turning to help you down. His hands found your waist again, his grip steady and sure as he eased you off the saddle.

When your feet touched the ground, he didn’t immediately let go. His hands lingered just a moment too long, his eyes searching yours in the dim light. “Get some rest,” he said finally, his voice softer than before. “You’ve had a hell of a night.”

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thanks, John. For everything.”

He gave you a small, lopsided smile, the kind that made your chest ache in the best way. “Anytime,” he said, before stepping back and turning toward his tent.

[ticktockmyclockworkhart]

where dutch would be rn if fumbling 10/10 hotties had a salary

[arthursfuckinghat]

The fight with Tommy during Americans At Rest has always fascinated me. Seeing the way that Bill and Javier are just happy to watch tells us plenty about the kinds of fights that Arthur had likely gotten into over the years, but it's Charles' reactions that interests me.

He looks.. disappointed. Or at least unimpressed, maybe even shaken.

Charles' reactions are the more telling ones in the scene. Unlike Bill and Javier, who are caught up in the spectacle of the fight, Charles is more distant. He doesn't cheer Arthur on or encourage him, he just watches quietly.

It wasn't even Arthur that started the fight, but by god was he finishing it.

Charles didn't say much during the fight, or even after, he never brings it up again. Part of me thinks less that it was because he was horrified by the senseless violence, but more that he was just disappointed in Arthur for the way he handled it.

There's finishing a fight, and then there's what Arthur did to Tommy.

Needless punch after needless punch, beating that man until he was left permanently damaged after each hit. It wasn't about Tommy anymore, it was about Arthur letting the spirit of the fight get the better of him and doing more damage than he needed to amidst the chaos.

Arthur would have gladly killed Tommy, swing after swing until the man wasn't breathing anymore, and he probably would have if it wasn't for Mr Downes.

It's as if it wasn't just about the fight anymore, it was about Arthur’s internal conflict, his rage, and the frustration with his own life that just manifests in moments like these. It's a way of lashing out at something bigger than Tommy, something he doesn't know how to handle. Maybe his past, his regrets, or maybe just the man he’s become.

And Charles probably sees that. He sees Arthur as someone who is capable of more, someone who should know better, and someone who still has room to grow, even in the few months they've known eachother. But in that fight, Arthur isn't showing the restraint or self awareness that Charles values so much. It's almost like Charles is witnessing a man lost in himself, consumed by the very violence he’s been trying to avoid, and that's what brings out his disappointment.

The whole situation is one of the first few painful reminders that Arthur’s journey isn’t just about external struggles, but internal ones too. He’s not just fighting the world around him, but himself too.

In a way, Charles' disappointment could be a reflection of his hopes for Arthur. He sees Arthur as someone who is more than his role in the gang, more than the violence he’s trapped in, and when Arthur falls into that trap again, it’s not just a disappointment in his actions - it’s a reminder of the potential that’s being wasted.

It's a subtle but very significant difference in how Charles sees Arthur compared to the others in the gang, and it hurts.

[feinv]

omg idea hear me out

lowhonor arthur morgan is having dinner with farmer's daughter reader and her father

what her father didn't know isthat arthur and reader were having a sort of teasing banter under the table... do u get me

write this however u want ofc nsfw or not -🎀

what if not under the table but on the table? ;)

low!honor arthur x fem!reader. flashbacks of smut.

the clinking of the silverware was accompanying the three of you as you were having dinner, your dad and arthur engaged in a conversation you weren’t even part of.

he was a bad man. that’s what everyone was saying, especially when it came collecting the money that was owned to his gang, and your father was unfortunately on that list of people. arthur made a deal with him that he would get every one third of what your dad earned by selling the goods from the garden.

of course, he could demand more than one third. he could demand half. hell, he could demand the whole income to match his reputation, but having your father pay small amounts just gave him an excuse for coming to your house more often. an excuse he needed to see you.

he was infatuated with you, from the very beginning; how nervous you were around him; how your hands were shaking a little when handing him the money; how your cheeks would burn when he stood a little too close to you. he knew he was a goner when he saw a sweet thing like you and didn’t want to ruin it. he just wanted to have it. to have you. and he did. ;)

so while him and your father were carrying a discussion, your own thoughts were occupied with the flashbacks of what you and arthur did yesterday, blood rushing to your cheeks every time he glanced your way and gave a knowing smirk.

————————————-————————————

your back was flat on the wood, sprawled over the same exact table as he pounded into you, standing tall on the edge of the furniture. the back of your thighs was pressed to his torso, your feet on each side of his head as his hips jerked back and forth, his rough hands gripping the fat of your thighs and soothing them every now and then.

“ye feel so good, sweetheart.” his baritone voice praising you when you replied back with moans and whimpers, his swollen tip kissing your cervix and sending jolts of pleasure all over your body.

he leaned closer, the back of your ankles resting on his shoulders as he bent you in half, thrusting deeper. “prettiest girl i’ve seen,” kissing your soft lips hungrily, swallowing your whines, “even more prettier for me like this,” before his own chapped ones left open mouthed love bites wherever he could reach.

he made you see stars so many times you lost the count, your body so limp the only thing you could register were his love confessions in between his own groans, promising to get you out of the creaky old house and giving you anything you would ever ask for. <3

[cowbeeboy]

i think it’s funny how there were no solo missions with dutch in the game. and the missions with dutch we did see, we saw arthur always doubting him in some way or another. meanwhile hosea, hosea and arthur got into the silliest adventures, they talked about important and honest things, they teased and generally acted like a father and a son would. and i think that’s so important to show who arthur’s real parent was.

[2demondogs]

Hi! Could I kindly request headcanons between Charles x reader? No specific topic, just want Charles content ♥️♥️♥️

Sure!! I did random ones :3 Gender-neutral reader!

Charles is a living furnace. Even if he's cold, he'll be running much hotter than you are. It makes for both good and bad evenings spent together. Laying on him for a while never fails to be comfortable at first, but unless it's freezing outside you'll wake up feeling — and sweating — like you were tucked in a Dutch oven all night.

Often times, you try to keep him company as he stands guard. Key word: try. Charles is always focused while on duty, falling into this near-disassociated headspace of both zoned out and tuned in. It'll take him a while to understand that you just want to spend time with him, or miss him. Reading a book nearby while he watches the treeline is valuable time together, anyways.

Easing into conversation is not his strong suit, especially if he's very invested in the answer to whatever question he's thought of or if he's got an observation he'd like to share. Be ready to talk about some deep shit well past midnight, or to have him ask about your relationship with your parents like he's talking about the weather.

Less stressful conversations are started the same way. Charles rarely breaks a silence first, unless he takes special note of it and grows anxious. Unlike how he feels about most people, he quite likes your conversation, and so he feels a need to make his end of it meaty. He's shown you how to pack a pipe, how to whittle various little tools, and other things that are useful enough to pass as worthy of telling you.

Charles is both bad and great at comforting you. After a while, he'll figure out what you respond to the best, whether that's physical comfort or talking things out. If you ask him for something in tears, he'll break a few bones — his or another's — to get it to you. But if you've got no idea what to do, he doesn't really, either. And he's not apt to start lying to you of all people, and in a vulnerable state like that, to boot.

In more romantic moments, he'd like to think you will leave a stain on one another's lives. When you haven't got much, you start to carry pieces of everything that's not yours to make up for it; ask Charles to describe a stranger from every year of his life, and he can tell you how they looked and why he thinks of them still. Lonely people tend to treat life like a story, and he was lonely for a long time.

Charles can dish out the tooth-rotting nonsense, but he can't always take it. Expect a lot of filler words and crutch phrases if you ever open your heart and then prod more than an I love you, too out of him afterwards, because his usual reaction is to smile or kiss you and let his brain go completely empty for a minute.

[phosporo]

okay...

[hikamancer]

A Perspective on Arthur, Dutch and Hosea

As the game progresses, there are a lot of ways Arthur becomes more and more similar to Hosea, most especially in chapter 6. Much like Hosea, Arthur questions and confronts Dutch on behalf of the well being of the other gang members. Like Hosea, he feels and expresses remorse for the decisions he's made in life and regrets that he has little time to change things and make them right. All throughout chapters 1-4, you can hear Hosea having heavy bouts of coughing, and it's implied that, like Arthur, he's dying of an illness. Hell, Arthur even looks kinda like Hosea when he was younger.

But perhaps the clearest example of their similarities is when Dutch outright says it during this conversation in chapter 5.

"You sound like Hosea. I miss... him."

What stands out to me about this line and its delivery is how dismissive it feels. When Dutch hears Arthur expressing concern about the rest of the gang, reminding him of the potential of costing more lives with his recklessness, he doesn't fully hear it as Arthur speaking. He hears Hosea's words, and it strikes grief in him, but he doesn't respond to what Arthur is saying.

I think that to Dutch, Hosea and Arthur always had their specific places/roles at his side. Dutch and Hosea co-founded the gang, united by a common dream. They'd been close friends for 20 years, and Hosea was always there as his consultant. He respected Hosea perhaps the most out of anyone in the gang, and he was one of the few people who he'd actually listen to and seek advice from.

On the other hand, Arthur is the boy whom he and Hosea raised. They brought him up into their life of crime, teaching him, instilling their values into him, and he became their protégé and the gang's lead enforcer. That's the way it was for Dutch. He was the leader, Hosea was the right hand and the brains, Arthur was the left hand and the brawn. And he loved and relied on them both for what they were. But while his love for Hosea was one born out of a more genuine respect of equals, his love for Arthur came with taking him very much for granted. Like a loyal guard dog.

But now Hosea is gone, and Dutch has lost the only voice that kept him in check. The disastrous Saint Denis bank heist and Guarma have left Dutch completely disarmed, but instead of actually reflecting on the deaths he's responsible for, and recognizing what's at stake for the rest of the gang, he instead scrambles to reassert himself and continue trying to "win the chess game" so to speak ("Maybe life ain't such a thing to cling onto so tightly").

(It's worth noting that the chess moves Dutch recites before intiating this conversation is an actual maneuever called "the Dutch Defense," where you sacrifice all your pieces to win.)

But Arthur has started to see things beyond just Dutch and his game, especially after his TB diagnosis. Though Arthur, at his heart, remains loyal to Dutch, he was also loyal to Hosea and, consciously or not, espoused himself to Hosea's ideals of prioritizing the safety and morality of the gang ("I guess I'm more interested in saving lives than winning at chess").

Dutch, however, does not properly recognize Arthur's shift in perspective. Throughout chapter 6, he views Arthur's many attempts at saving those around him as acts of disloyalty and betrayal. Because Arthur's role has not changed in his mind at all. Arthur is still meant to be his muscle, his workhorse, to have his back, because that's what he relies on him for. But Arthur is speaking and acting on ideas above that station. "You sound like Hosea." And so he dismisses Arthur's concerns, dismisses his actions as disloyalty. And it hurts him. All he can see is Arthur changing and turning on him, and that breaks his heart. And he responds to these feelings by detaching himself from Arthur, lashing out at him in anger and disappointment, clinging ever tighter to his own interests and leaning on Micah, a blatant yesman to all of his reckless actions.

It's not until the very end that Dutch is able to realize those feelings. When Arthur, beaten and dying, is lying at his feet. Warning him of Micah, telling him how he gave him all he had, that he tried so hard to save everyone and was still trying to save Dutch. This boy that he raised, that he loved for 20 years, gave him everything. And Dutch did nothing but take advantage of him until it was too late.

I think in that moment, not only did he see Arthur dying, he finally saw Hosea dying in front of him as well. Only then, once everything else had fallen apart, did he realize how much he loved Arthur, how much he loved Hosea, how much they and everyone else who died loved him, and that it was all his fault. And being confronted with that reality, seeing it in the fading of Arthur's eyes, hearing it in his last breaths, was too much for him to bear.

So he just walks away.

[scootkiddo]

It’s so sadly apparent that Arthur struggles with deep-seated depression.

When looking in the mirror at the Valentine motel he comments on how ugly he looks, how old he is, how no wonder “they leave” him. At the saloon when Lenny asks him why he never got married Arthur says “no one would have him” but in a tone that causes deflection with self-deprecating humor. While going fishing with Javier and the fish won’t take his bait, he explains that it’s not the bait, that it was him, and how he and Hosea were always better at fishing. When journaling about his TB diagnosis he writes how he “always longed for death.”

It’s so heartbreaking because that low self-esteem is reinforced by the losses that have befallen him coupled with the outlaw life he leads. He was groomed from a young age into believing his hands were only good with a good as opposed to a pen with parchment, yet he captures facets of life in ink so beautifully. He claims to be dumb and ignorant, but he speaks with a far more educated vocabulary & knowledge than most. There are so many values stored within Arthur’s soul, but his blindspots thrown down to him like a lifeline only allow him to see the heartaches of his life. And the only way to make sense of those heartaches is to assume he simply deserves them

[pyromanics-hollow]

i lowkey love his design

[ak319]

Dark A.M x fem!reader

-- ★ The Word of Claim ┃ ─𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟔─

Warnings/MDNI: mentions of abuse, slight fluff // I don't condone such beheviour irl! Syno: Faith and fear walk hand in hand, but which one leads? ✰ 7K +++ pics ain't mine. First one by Miranda tho the other two i can't find again-/Pinterest.

★ Prev I concept m.list

A day later....

Finally a secluded spot to unravel your pain and misery and bandage it up again-

"Here you are... and hey-" Arthur crouched down in front of you, gently taking your hand into his rough, calloused ones. "Let me change it."

"I am doing it-"

He ignored your protest, already reaching for the bandages and the kit. The set of his jaw told you there was no arguing with him. He worked quickly, carefully unwrapping the old bandage, as though afraid to hurt you further. His hands were steady, but you noticed the way his brows furrowed when he saw the bruises and marks beneath.

You leaned back against the tree, letting the warm sunlight bathe your face, and turned your gaze elsewhere, as if looking at him would make it worse. A slight wince escaped you as he cleaned the wound, but you refused to acknowledge it. Instead, your eyes wandered to the camp, landing on... what was her name again? Adeline? Addison? Your mind was so cluttered, a constant swirl of noise ever since that day. It was as though your thoughts had grown too loud to leave room for the simple things. At this point, you'd almost be surprised if you remembered your own name.

For a fleeting moment, you thought about telling Arthur everything. The truth burned at the back of your throat, but you forced it down. What would it change? Dutch’s threats weren’t empty, and Arthur… well, he was loyal to a fault, wasn’t he? A damn lapdog to Dutch’s whims. What could he possibly do against the man he followed like a shadow?

Hell, for all you knew, he might break your jaw just for thinking you were trying to drive a wedge between them. As if your words matter to anyone...

But you couldn't let yourself give up. Not yet. Not like this. Not like your 'father.'

Your gaze drifted back to... Abigail-yes, that was her name-her hand resting over her stomach as she sat down for a break. Pregnant, wasn't she? Susan had whispered about it the other day. Six months along was it? And John... it was his or... not?

Your eyes flickered to Arthur's hands as he delicately wrapped the bandage around your injured hand. Caring now , are we? His movements were precise, almost tender, his full attention on the task at hand. You couldn't see his eyes beneath the brim of his hat, but you didn't need to.

Good.

The less you saw of him, the less you'd have to think about everything that had gone wrong. And knowing Arthur, he'd probably stick around the camp for the next few days after being gone so long. Another headache you'd rather not deal with.

"Ohoo, lovebirds..."

Not again.

That voice grates like nails on a chalkboard.

Arthur doesn't even look up, but you see his shoulders stiffen. You sigh heavily as Marston strolls into view, a cocky grin plastered across his face.

"What do you want?" Came your ' dearest husband's' irked response but John only grinned wider.

"What? Can't I stop by to check on my favorite couple?" John leaned against the tree, crossing his arms like he's settling in for a show. "Ain't it sweet? You playin' doctor, Morgan. Real cute."

Arthur ignores him, focusing instead on tying off the bandage with practiced precision. You can see the tension in his hands, though, the way his fingers tighten for a moment before relaxing again.

"Didn't mean to interrupt your...moment. You know, domestic bliss and all that. Didn't think you had it in you, Arthur."

Arthur finally looks up, his glare sharp enough to cut. "Boy, you got about five seconds to turn around and walk away before I make you regret comin' over here."

John holds up his hands in mock surrender, but his grin doesn't waver. "Alright, alright. No need to get your britches in a twist. Just thought it was funny, that's all. You, playin' house-"

"John, I swear to God-"

"Fine, fine, I'm leavin'," John says, stepping back with exaggerated drama. "Don't want to interrupt your little picnic or whatever this is. Y'know, honestly you haven't changed much, Arthur. Same grumpy ass. (Y/N)-what was the point of all this, am I right? Perhaps you need to cut him some slack-" John's giggled like a little boy as Arthur abruptly stood up.

It's always better to ignore whatever the hell this shit-show is.

"Fine, I'm leaving," John grumbled, though the grin lingered on his face as he turned to walk away.

"You better not go out and get wasted in a ditch again," Arthur called after him.

"Hm... doesn't suit someone who's about to be a father," you couldn't help yourself. Thinking your voice was only loud enough for you was proven wrong as John froze and turned.

"What did you jus' say?"

"She said nothing wrong," Arthur cut in, his voice firm as he sat back down.

"'Course' you're gonna say that," John bit back, but there was something bitter in his tone. He lingered for a moment, then shook his head and walked off, muttering under his breath.

Well...that was fun, I guess.

Arthur sighed, his broad shoulders still taut as his eyes lingered on the spot where John had disappeared into the trees. Turning back to you, his expression softened, though the steadiness in his hands never faltered as he finished tying the bandage.

"Ignore him," he murmured, his voice quieter now, carrying a faint undercurrent of regret. "He don't know what he's talkin' about. Like always."

His words drifted between you, but your mind was elsewhere, slipping back to your father's voice-low, steady, carrying that all-too-familiar tone of resigned wisdom.

"In business, (Y/N), a little humility now buys you power later."

So that was it, huh? That's what he did too? Lowered his head to criminals just to keep things intact?

But why?

Why hadn't he sought help? Why not turn to his allies, strike a deal, pay off the Pinkertons together? That would've been the logical move-everyone benefits. Unless, of course, they refused. Or maybe... maybe it was his pride. Not being indebted to someone. He hated that. Yeah...maybe he couldn't stomach the thought of owing anyone.

Or maybe, somewhere deep down, he had simply given up on you.

A much easier option. After all, you were just a daughter, weren’t you? A forgettable commodity at the end of the day. Someone else’s burden now that you’d reached the right age, or some bullshit like that.

If that’s how he saw it, then bravo. Because in 22 years, he never once made you feel lesser. And now, all of a sudden, it was as if he’d cast you into a bottomless pit, the same man who once held you above everything else.

Damn good acting, 'Papa'.

Letting you slip into this life so society would forget. So they wouldn't have to answer uncomfortable questions about you, about what happened.

But then why did his words keep ringing in your head?

Your gaze shifted instinctively, drawn to movement in the distance-Abigail, her figure cutting through the morning haze.

Then to Arthur.....as his hands, rough yet uncharacteristically gentle, brought you back. His calloused fingers brushed yours, his touch more tender than you expected as he kept your hand resting in his lap. His focus remained on you, not prying, not pushing-just steady.

Humility...

Then, as though deciding he'd earned it, Arthur shifted closer, settling beside you with his back against the sturdy trunk of the tree. He moved cautiously, like he was afraid you'd vanish if he wasn't careful, his arm brushing yours in the process.

Damn, this feels nice, he thought, letting himself ease against the bark. The warmth of the sunlight fell over you both, weaving through the branches, casting everything in golden tones. For once, it was just the two of you. No bickering, no shouting, no chaos.

You were quiet, lost in your thoughts again, but Arthur didn't mind. Not one bit. At least you were here, close enough to touch, close enough for him to feel like everything is well.

❀˖°

"Whose this for?" Molly asked, her tone sharp as she crossed her arms, stopping Susan mid-stride. The plate of steak and mashed potatoes in Susan's hands trembled slightly as she stared back at Molly.

"For (Y/N)," Susan replied tersely, as if daring Molly to question her.

Molly raised a brow, unimpressed. "Why do you, of all people, baby her the most? You don't do this for anyone else."

"Is there a problem, O'Shea?" she shot back, her voice laced with irritation. "Because that girl there needs to eat."

"So, what? You're just going to spend all the best meat on her? There's an entire camp to feed, Susan."

"Arthur and others brought enough meat for everyone. One steak for her isn't gonna hurt anyone. And considering how much he does for this camp, they both deserve it. So unless you've got a better way to keep her from wasting away, step aside."

Molly's lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn't say another word as Susan brushed past her with the tray in hand. With a huff, Susan marched over to the tree where you and Arthur sat, placing the tray down with a sharp clatter.

"Here," she muttered curtly, her tone making it clear she wasn't in the mood for gratitude. "You better finish it all, dearie."

She walked off without waiting for a response.

"Damn, well you heard her darlin'. C'mon."

You couldn't deny that your mouth watered at the sight of the steak and mashed potatoes. The comforting smell of it made you realize just how hungry you actually were. Before you could grab the fork, he did.

"No, you're not feeding me like a baby in front of everyone," you muttered, feeling a bit embarrassed at the idea of him spoon-feeding you in front of the camp.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because I said so."

Arthur didn't miss a beat. "And I want to, I have to," he said, his tone still light, but with a hint of something softer underneath. "Besides, you ain't moving from here till this finished."

"You're...you're...going.... to do whatever you want forever, huh?"

The implication, which he, of course, didn't catch on to... made you shiver.

Edie's words echoed in your mind. "(Y/N)...speak facts here. What if he does? Would you be able to stop him?"

"Do you want me to stop carin', darlin'?"

His voice was more serious now, his gaze steady, searching your face for an answer. You gulped in horror.

No....no..

Not to his question-but to your own thoughts. The ones creeping in, whispering things you didn't want to acknowledge.

Your fingers curled tighter around the grass beneath you. If he stopped caring... if this warmth, this presence, this side of him disappeared-then even breathing would be hell. You didn't know how much more you could take...

Ironically, right now, he was the last person you wanted to be indifferent to you.

Arthur ignored your hesitation, and without a word, he picked up a forkful of mashed potatoes and fed it to you. You almost wanted to refuse, but the warmth of the food and the genuine care in his eyes made it impossible to protest.

"You're a stubborn one, always have been," he said under his breath, almost teasing, but you could tell he was relieved to see you eating.

Just as you took another bite, Suki wandered over, her tail swishing behind her. She meowed loudly, rubbing against both of your legs as if demanding a share of the food. Arthur chuckled, giving her a small portion of his steak.

"There you go, girl," he said softly, placing a few pieces on the ground for the cat. "Good girl."

He turned his attention back to you, his expression softening as he watched you take another bite yourself. His hands gently rested on the tray, a quiet sense of pride in his gaze. Both of you, his good girls.

For a moment, everything felt simple. The warmth of the sun, the comfort of the food, and the quiet care from Arthur-it was almost enough to make you forget about everything else.

But you couldn't. It's never that easy.

Just as you finished your meal , the sound of hooves cut through the air, and your body immediately stiffened. A cold shiver ran down your spine, and you instinctively shrank back, your mind racing with the recognition of who it was.

Arthur didn't notice your shift in demeanor. He was too focused on the figure approaching, the one you were dreading.

Micah.

He spotted Arthur right away and made his way over, heading straight toward him. You felt a sickening twist in your stomach. Before you vomited the food back out, you pushed yourself off the ground and quickly moved to Abigail's side, keeping your head down.

"Howdy, cowpoke," Micah's voice rang out, dripping with mockery.

Arthur, still not realizing the full extent of your discomfort, watched you leave. His eyes narrowed, and he stood up, positioning himself between Micah and you, blocking his view. His frustration was evident, clearly annoyed that his quiet moment had been disturbed.

"Whaddya want?" Arthur, his tone colder than usual.

"Just came to say greet, is that a crime now?" Micah's voice, dripping with sarcasm, echoed through the camp.

Arthur barely spared him a glance. "Just cause' you can doesn't mean you have to," he jabbed back.

"All this attitude cause' I interrupted some quality time with missus or somethi-"

"Watch it."

Micah let out an exaggerated sigh with his smirk still in place. "Geez, here I am, bustin’ my ass workin’ for y’all, and this is the thanks I get? Our groom boy’s got his feathers all ruffled." He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Tch, tch. Y'know… I’ve got some news about (F/N)…"

At the mention of (F/N), Arthur's posture stiffened, and his eyes narrowed in immediate interest.

"Word is, it's happening a day later, Wednesday. On a train. They're planning to loot his cargo there. Poor man..."

Arthur's expression hardened, the gears in his mind already turning. He was about to speak when his gaze flickered toward you, still with Abigail. He took in the sight of you, your back turned toward him as you conversed with Abigail.

Arthur hesitated for a brief moment. He gave you one last glance before turning sharply, walking to join Micah, who was already heading toward Dutch's tent.

Arthur's thoughts swirled as they walked together, Micah prattling on about the finer details of the plan, but a small part of him couldn't help but notice how you'd seemed... settled. Abigail wasn't bad, she kept her distance, minding her own business, leaving you to breathe.

Good, Arthur thought. You needed that. You didn't need anyone stirring the pot. His mind quickly snapped back to the present. Micah was waiting for him to catch up, and there were more pressing matters to attend to now.

But even as he walked ahead, a part of him stayed tethered to you, wishing he could somehow fix the rest of the mess you were in. Maybe later. For now, business was business.

❀˖°

"Must be such a dark hour for you, bearing his kid."

The 19-year-old blinked, her mouth agape as she processed your comment. If it were any other day, you might have laughed at the shock in her eyes.

"Relax, I'm kidding," you added quickly, though the tone wasn't entirely playful. "Well... not really. Having a kid with a kid. Big bummer. Anyway, how's it going?"

"Um... good," she said hesitantly, still trying to figure you out. "Thanks. Seems like... you're settling in, then?"

"Mhm... like you, I don't have a choice, you know. But again, do women ever really have a choice?"

You settled on the chair beside her with a heavy sigh. There was a tense silence that both of you didn't know how to break--well Abby did.

"Ms. O'Shea had a choice. But look-"

That made you nearly snort along with her, but you managed to contain yourself, the words tickling something dark within.

"Can't believe someone would...leave everything behind to be with a...never mind. She's rich too right? Had a good life?"

"Yeah. She did. People... do silly things in love."

"Evil too..."

"I-I am sorry for-

"It's alright."

She turned her body a bit to your side, getting comfortable. "So...what should I call you, just (Y/N)..?"

"Yeah. Just (Y/N)," you answered flatly, your voice empty of any warmth. "Don't bother with a last name, and all that Miss stuff, please. Both names I've been given, and neither of them... really feels like mine...now. One's forced, the other... lost. Anyway, hand's...fine, I guess."

She stayed quiet for a moment, processing your words. You saw her glance at your hand, still wrapped in bandages, but she didn't press.

"Ms. Grimshaw said to not talk to you thou-"

"It's fine. And it's not her 'order', it's...his. But well, don't see him getting all red now...so it's fine."

The air between you two settled into something more comfortable, though unspoken thoughts lingered just beneath the surface. You weren't quite sure what either of you expected from this conversation, but for the first time in a while, it didn't feel as much like a battle. Just two people trying to make sense of things they hadn't chosen.

She just seemed like one of those people you could instantly connect with, for reasons you couldn't quite understand. God knows how the hell she'd connected with John, but whatever-her story was her own.

"So how... far along are you?" you asked, trying to shift the topic a bit.

"Seventh month is bout to start..." she replied, her voice quieter now, distant almost.

"Mhm. You are... don't you think...that bringing a child in such a world...I mean..." you asked, not trying to be cruel but feeling the weight of the words as they left your mouth.

"I did think it was," she admitted, looking down at her hands for a moment. "But... it's gonna be the only thing that's mine in this... broken life and..." Her voice trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished, and you leaned in slightly, expecting her to say more.

But she let it go. And you did too.

You glanced back at the leader's tent, now closed off, and asked, "He come here often?"

"Who...?"

"That... um, Micah guy."

"Oh, him. Yeah. He does. Never stays, thankfully. Loves to run his mouth too."

And hands too. Son of a bitch.

"Mhm."

"Why?" she asked, a curious tilt to her voice.

"Nothing. Never seen him, that's why. Anyway... I'll be right back." You quickly turned away, heading back to the tent. It wasn't until you reached the chest that you noticed it still packed with gifts. Sitting down, you began to sift through them.

Jewels...

Fabrics.

A scarf.

Can't wait to burn them...

But wait, damn. He actually got your favorite chocolates. You stared at the box for a moment, the urge rising inside you. You knew exactly what you should do-destroy it, reject it, but-

Control, (Y/N).

Then an idea struck you. A plan. Like a final piece to a puzzle. Yeah, these are something to be kept. And used for the better. For the right time. A gift for later on. But for now.

Let's go give some fruits to Abby.

❀˖°

The night was thick with silence, save for the sound of Arthur's steady breathing beside you. He shifted slightly, his voice breaking through the quiet.

"Tomorrow... I'll be going to... get some people off your father's back."

Wait , he's sharing his schedules now...?

You swallowed, the tension building in your chest as your mind raced, bracing for what he would say next.

"The 'Driscolls are after his cargo, so we're gonna get 'em. And no, we are not taking anything. Never on my watch."

You exhaled sharply, "What more can you take...?" The words were more to yourself than him. As if anything can get through him when it comes to this topic.

Arthur's head snapped in your direction, his eyes scanning the back of your head with a sharpness that you could feel even without looking at him. He softened a little, though, glad you were finally talking.

"Not this again," he muttered, but there was no real annoyance in his voice, just that lazy, drawling exasperation that only made your irritation spike further. His hands found you before you could shift away, pulling you into him with an ease that made your stomach twist. "Go to sleep, darlin'."

"I will when you-" You pushed his hand away, irritation flaring in your chest. "Don't touch me."

He let out a low chuckle, ignoring your struggle as his grip tightened, arms locking you in like a trap.

"Yeah? You sure about that?"

Your heart kicked against your ribs. "Arth- "

"Hush now." A lazy drawl wrapped up in a tease once again. He nuzzled closer, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear.

"Quit your fussin’ and sleep." His fingers curled at your waist, grip just firm enough to remind you who was holding who. "Ain’t lettin’ go, so don’t bother askin'." He exhaled slowly, like he was settling in, like you were nothing more than some restless thing that just needed patience and a firm enough hold. His hand, warm and heavy, splayed against your stomach, fingers idly tracing slow, lazy shapes.

Your heart pounded in your chest, and you couldn't tell if it was the words, the situation, or the way his hand had slid just a little lower that had you so riveted in fear.

"(Y/N)...speak facts here. What if he does? Would you be able to stop him?"

His body pressed against yours, too close, too overwhelming yet made you felt safe in this camp of....venomous , unpredictable , lecherous men.

Look how low you've fallen, you thought bitterly, that this is the comfort you've come to crave.

But you knew why you felt this way. It was because you were still traumatized due to the recent incident, the one day, you actually would have appreciated Arthur's protection. How would he have reacted to all of that? Would he have just stood and watched his 'father figure' with pride or stepped in? Dutch's words and...the pain of further loss and...what more that would come. It was all too much to bear , no matter how much you still tried to be strong.

At least your family is not suffering....

❀˖°

Arthur was busy packing, his movements slow and deliberate, each gesture a quiet reminder of the control he wielded. The sound of his boots scraping against the ground filled the silence, and his sharp eyes flickered toward you the moment you stepped out of the tent.

"Where you goin'?"

You froze mid-step, the weight of his voice pulling you back like a chain.

"It's not even...dark yet, Arthur," you shot back weakly. He glanced up, his gaze narrowing, and you swore the look he threw could have pinned you to the ground. But he didn't say anything, returning to his packing as if the exchange was already over.

The silence pressed down, thick and heavy. You hesitated, unsure whether to retreat into the safety of quiet or take advantage of the moment. You chose the latter.

"Arthur...?"

"Mhm?" He didn't look up, his focus still on the task in front of him, but the hum of acknowledgment wasn't dismissive-just calm. Too calm.

You cleared your throat, the knot in your chest tightening as you tried to muster the courage to ask what had been haunting you. Another discussion or, more likely, another fight-either way, you couldn't hold it in any longer.

Here goes nothing.

"You... said that..." The words stumbled out, and you felt your voice falter. You hated how small you sounded, but you needed clarity. "In the café. Remember? You said you'd-if you could-you'd leave this... lif-"

A short scoff cut you off as he turned, the brim of his hat dipping low enough to shadow his eyes. "That was different," he said, his voice carrying that unyielding certainty you'd come to resent. "When I said it back then... it was if you had said yes. But now-like I told you-we've got the same world, you and me. And I don't think I have it in me to leave these people who need me."

Your stomach twisted painfully, the weight of his words sinking in like a stone.

"W-wait-so... you're going to do this... forever?"

"Not forever--I dunno'..." he replied casually, turning back to his packing like the conversation meant nothing. "But there ain't any signs of leavin' the gang. Not anytime soon. The gang needs me, and Dutch..." His voice softened, almost fond. "Well, he stood by me through all this. Wouldn't look right if I just up and left, not after what he did for me, would it?"

You wanted to scream. The pit in your stomach churned, bile rising as the realization hit. Support? He meant support him doing the Word. Of course. Of course , how can he ever forget such a gift he was bestowed upon by Mr. Van Der Linde.

"And another thing," his voice cut through your thoughts, low and firm, leaving no space for argument. "You need to get this through your head now. I think you already do, don't you? What Dutch is to me. To all of us."

Your breath caught in your throat. The weight of his words settled heavy in your chest. "Don't tel-l me you're gonna start forcing my thoughts about someone too-"

"Ain't forcin' nothin'." His voice was edged with something firm, the tone that of some school teacher as he stepped closer, his shadow swallowing the space between you. "Just tellin' you how it is. So listen real good. Never, and I mean never, talk about leavin'. And don’t go runnin’ your mouth about Dutch in front of anyone else. That ain't somethin’ you just throw around. 'Specially not as my woman. You know why? 'Cause the young ones here, they look up to Dutch. To Hosea. To me. And now? Like it or not, they’re lookin’ at you too. If any of us start sayin’ shit like this, then what hope do they got?"

"We’re all tied together in this, and this gang, it ain't just a gang. It’s a family. Start pickin’ at the seams, talkin’ careless? You ain’t just riskin’ yourself. You’ll tear the whole damn thing apart."

He exhaled sharply, but his voice softened, just a fraction. "And he cares for you too, in his own way. You know that. You've seen it. He took you to your family, didn't he? See? He always does. Hosea does. Most everyone here does... I do too."

All you could focus on amongst the bullshit he just spewed was...

"Against Dutch..."

"Against Dutch..."

The words echoed in your mind, lingering long after he'd said them. You weren't surprised though.

"Ya' ain't just some girl in camp no more. Being my wife ain't just words. That comes with weight, so hold it steady. Do it right."

Arthur didn't wait for a response, didn't need one. He grabbed his coat, the one you had gifted him ages ago. The mere sight of it repulsed you now. Reminded you of your mistake and delusion of that friendship. The movement snapped you out of your trance, just in time to catch his next command.

"Hand it over."

Your eyes darted to his outstretched hand, following it to the satchel resting on the table beside you.

You gritted your teeth, defiance bubbling up, but you swallowed it down calmly. Reluctantly, you shoved the satchel into his hand, hoping to pull back quickly and end the moment. But Arthur had other plans.

Before you could step away, his grip closed around your wrist, pulling you toward him in one swift motion. His arms encircled you, firm and unyielding, pressing you against his chest.

"Hey-"

"Shhh," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "Now... this feels like home."

He silenced any further protest by burying his face in your hair, breathing you in deeply, as if he could imprint your scent into his very being. The warmth of his breath ghosted against your skin, and for a moment, his hold softened-but only enough to pull you closer, to make escape impossible.

But then...

"Don't wear those perfumes I brought you outside." His voice shifted, dropping into something darker, laced with a quiet warning. "I don't want anyone catching a whiff of you."

As if you were planning to-

You wheezed, struggling against the pressure of his hold, trying to shift just an inch away, taking the opportunity to wipe your tears away on his apparel. "Why'd you bring them, then?" you managed.

"To wear inside," he replied smoothly, a smirk curling in his voice. He let the words settle, then let out a small, almost amused breath. "You ain't worryin' 'bout all that anyway," he muttered, about the previous topic. "Ain't like you got anywhere else to be."

His grip eased, but not enough to let you go entirely. "What now? You wanna live in a house, huh? You think you'd like that? Nice little place, far from all this?"

A quiet chuckle, low and knowing left his lips. His fingers flexed against your back, keeping you close.

"Was just...asking."

"Yeah? Jus' askin', huh? Is that so?" He dipped his head slightly, trying to catch your eyes, but you kept them down, hidden in your hair.

For a moment, he was quiet, then-

"Well, don't." His voice was softer now, but no less firm. "Ain't no use thinkin' 'bout things that ain't real. "

His hand came up, fingers brushing against your chin, coaxing you---commanding you to look at him.

"'Less you tellin' me you want it."

As if.

"Y-you should go."

Arthur’s smirk deepened, eyes glinting with something just shy of amusement as he leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted against your skin. "Always so eager to see me off, huh?" His voice was low, laced with something almost mocking. The hand on your cheek gave two light taps, patronizing, possessive, just enough to make your stomach twist.

"Kay'," he muttered, the smirk never leaving his face, though something darker flickered in his eyes. "Don't do anything stupid. And take care. Ya' hear?."

❀˖°

The sound of hooves grew louder as Arthur and a few others returned from the job. Arthur's mind was still tangled with the events of the day, but as soon as his boots hit the familiar ground, his eyes scanned the camp.

His gaze landed on you-there, in the cooking wagon, bent over the wooden table with a knife in hand, cutting vegetables with a precision that betrayed the weight on your mind. Your posture was stiff, distant, and the quiet motion of your hands only seemed to underscore your discontent. It hadn't escaped him that you were avoiding him, and the sight of you, calm yet distant, sparked a flicker of anger in him.

The memory of the way your hand had looked-broken under his own force-still lingered fresh in his mind. He'd done that. He had to do that. But now, seeing it bandaged up like a delicate thing, it twisted something deep in his chest. He was angry-angry that you still looked so calm, so cold despite everything.

His steps were purposeful as he approached, his boots heavier now, the tension in his chest rising. Without a word, he was beside you, his hand snatching at your wrist with an intensity that made you flinch.

"What's this?" he growled, eyes flicking to your bandaged hand, still raw from what he'd done to it. He could feel your pulse beneath his grip, steady but colder than he liked. "What the hell do you think you're doin' with that knife, huh? Your hand shouldn't be near such things."

You blinked, lifting your eyes slowly to meet his. The anger in his voice cut through the air like a knife, but you didn't flinch. Instead, you straightened, your knife paused mid-motion.

"How'd the job go?" you asked, voice calm, steady. It was as if you were talking about the weather. "Was anything stolen?"

Arthur blinked, thrown off by your lack of the usual rage, the usual hurt. The words died on his tongue for a moment as his brow furrowed. The job-protecting your father's cargo from the Driscolls-it had been messy. Tense. He wasn't sure whether he was supposed to be angry with you or the world around him. But you, asking him about the job, still holding that knife like it didn't matter-didn't even seem to care that he'd broken your hand, it made his chest ache in a way he couldn't explain.

He snatched the knife from your hand, his eyes narrowing. "First, give me that. And why the hell are you workin', huh? You should be inside, restin'-"

"To protect my other hand.... Didn't you say I should participate?"

"I--I didn't mean-" He stopped himself, frustration clear on his face. "I said my work. Scratch that, you ain't doin' any work with that hand for now." His tone softened slightly, a fleeting concern. "Now, come-"

"Arthur! How'd it go, son? The others say it went well."

His posture stiffened as he turned away from you, positioning himself between you and Dutch. "Uh-yeah. Went well. There weren't many of them, only around ten, I guess."

"Mhm, good," Dutch chuckled, his voice low as he stood behind Arthur. "Well, let's eat then. But hey, look at you-gettin' all sly. First thing you do after a job is rush to (Y/N), and in the kitchen, no less? Never thought I'd see you in here. Hell, Pearson would be laughin' his ass off if he saw you now."

Arthur's cheek flushed a deep red, and you swallowed shrinking further behind, the familiar lump in your throat growing with each passing second. The curses bubbling in your chest. Oh how you wished to stab everyone with that knife right now and never stop.

You knew exactly what Dutch was doing-teasing, poking at your the wound, while simultaneously...keeping up the facade.

"I-well-"

The deep chuckle echoed through the camp again, and Dutch waved a hand dismissively. "No, no. Don't mind me. Of course, I'm happy. See you both around then."

❀˖°

After coming back and making sure Arthur and the others were resting, Hosea made way across from the stables to his friend's tent.

"Dutch?"

"Oh, come in, Hosea."

Hosea stepped inside, pulling the tent flaps closed behind him before placing a small package on Dutch's table. "Here. $750. And he sent this...letter too.."

Dutch opened the envelope and let out a soft scoff.

"The usual...'Take care of my daughter now that I am doing what you want, please--yada yada-' Well, he kept his word at least. Tomorrow, I'll head to the courthouse to pick up the filed deed, then to the county clerk to finalize the transfer. The process is a bit lengthy, but..." He smirked, fanning the cash slightly. "This will help speed things along. By tomorrow, it should all be done. Which means, Hosea, we're that much closer to breaking ground."

Hosea shifted slightly, crossing his arms. "Yeah... about that. Will taking (Y/N) to the county be necessary?"

"No, of course not."

"Right. And the construction-?"

"Me and you will head out next week to buy the materials."

"So, we sending any of the boys to help or...?"

Dutch leaned back in his chair, considering for a moment. "I was thinking we could pay for labor, but it wouldn't hurt to have Mac, Davey and Bill check in from time to time."

Hosea hesitated before speaking again, his voice lowering slightly. "And Arthur? What if he finds out? What do you think he'll say?"

Dutch exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Not much. I mean... he won't like it, sure. But I just don't want him knowing. I don't need any more damn drama. You wouldn't believe the headaches I've been getting. And what would he do? Take it back? Pft." He tossed the last of the counted bills onto the stack and leaned forward, elbows on the table. "We keep this quiet, Hosea. Just until it's all set in stone. I just want this all started as soon as possible."

"No need to complain now, Dutch, when you're just as responsible for this headache as I am."

Dutch let out a low chuckle, leaning back in his chair and propping his legs up on the cot. "Oh, come on, Hosea. Don't act like you didn't like the idea." He spread his arms with a self-satisfied smirk. "Moonshine, just imagine the cash flow. Perfect location-near the railway, but not too close to civilization. And now? We own it. Ain't no son of a bitch gonna argue with that."

Hosea's lips pressed into a thin line. "Good plan, I'll give you that. Long-term security, in more ways than one. What I fail to understand, though, is how you suddenly got so law-abiding."

Dutch let out a rough chuckle, the sound filling the tent. "Because, Hosea, some bitter pills need swallowing if you wanna stay healthy and strong. Get it?" He tapped his temple. "And it's not like we're turning saints. We're doing this for the bigger picture. The bigger reward."

He glanced toward the flickering lantern, his smirk widening. "High time we played smart. And God bless Micah for the moonshine idea."

❀˖°

Arthur looked up, caught off guard by the sight of you standing there. Of all people, you were the last he expected to come asking for him.

"Arthur... you free?"

He blinked, shutting his journal and rising from the crate. "I-yeah. What is it?"

"About going... out." Yes, he wanted to take you out to 'clear your mind' but you didn't see a purpose in that, well until now.

"Sure, let'-"

"For Abigail."

His head tilted slightly in confusion. "Roberts? Wh- I don't get it."

You shifted on your feet, glancing around as if searching for the right words.

"She needs to be properly checked... at a clinic. For once. It's necessary."

Arthur wasn't sure what to feel. Proud? Curious? Shocked? Maybe all of the above. He knew you were the most educated among the women, and if anyone understood these things, it was you. You'd seen your mother go through it with your brother, after all.

"Um... so you want me to take you both to the doctor?"

"Yeah.... I'll go tell her."

Before he could respond, you were already walking away. Arthur exhaled a small chuckle, a faint smile tugging at his lips. What a strange way to settle in. And the first place he was taking you? A clinic.

Not that he was complaining.

❀˖°

"Is... is it necessary, (Y/N)?" Abigail asked for what felt like the millionth time.

Your grip on her hand tightened slightly as your expression softened. "Trust me... it is."

Your gaze flickered to the doctor as he pulled on his gloves, then to the door-where Arthur waited outside.

Clearing your throat, you tried to distract yourself. "Last time I was here... for my hand, there was this nice nurse. Ed- um, what was it- oh yes, Edie?."

"Oh, Edie. Ms. Moore," the doctor corrected with a nod. "She's on the evening shift today."

"I see."

"Relax for me, Ms. Roberts. Just a routine check."

It was useless coming here-or at least, it felt like it. But when the doctor finally gave his reassurance, you caught the grateful smile on the girl's face.

Someone's happy, at least.

As the three of you exited the clinic, you, as always, ignored Arthur's existence and made sure Abigail got into the wagon first.

Arthur stood frozen as he stared at the poster, just like he had when he saw the one about your father... a year ago. But this time, it was different.

Ms. (Y/N) (L/N), taken from her wedding to Omar Alban.

"If anyone sees my fiancée, please report to the nearest station. A hefty amount will be offered on the spot! She might be spotted with a gang, the Van der Linde gang, and the man named Arthur Morgan."

His eyes burned when they landed on the sketch beside yours-his own face, drawn with just enough detail to be unmistakable.

No mention of the Word. No acknowledgment that you were now someone's , his wife.

How dare he-

But deep down, Arthur knew the man was doing what he was supposed to. It didn't mean he had to like it. The guilt crept back in, tangled with jealousy and the bitter truth that he was still alive to have this posted-to know that this existed because of him.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw you, frozen just like him. But he didn't miss the tears you blinked away before sitting beside Abigail. That sight alone made his fingers curl into fists.

In one swift motion, he tore the poster down. Abigail clung to your arm in fear as well, her eyes trained on Arthur as he climbed into the wagon and sped off without a second thought.

The wagon rattled over the uneven road as Arthur drove it hard, the tension between you both a heavy, unspoken force. Abigail sat beside you, her grip firm on your arm as if she patted your back.

Arthur's knuckles were white against the reins. He hadn't said a word since ripping that damn poster down, but you could feel the anger radiating off him-anger at Omar. At himself? No, that would be a miracle.

"You okay?" Abigail's voice was quiet, hesitant.

You nodded stiffly, though your throat burned. You weren't sure what you felt-, grief, rage, fear? The sight of Omar's words...his effort made every droplet of blood in your body dry...due to the heartbreak. And Arthur tearing it down....how symbolic.

You shut your eyes and turned away , the distance between the town and you three increasing.

❀˖°

"Bastard thinks he can just put a bounty on ya' like you're some lost damn dog."

You bit your lip, your gaze fixed on your hands. "He did what was....right." You barely could speak the words, making them come out in a slight whimpered mess.

Arthur scoffed. "Yeah? As if he didn't see me doing the whole-" He cut himself off with a frustrated shake of his head. "Forget it. It's useless talkin' to you about that anyway."

You stared at him blankly as he sat on the cot, seething, his fingers working at the tension in his neck.

"You don't have to... worry about him."

His gaze snapped to yours, sharp and searching. A thick silence settled between you.

"He dead?"

How could he say...that so casually?

"No. But he's not... here anymore."

Arthur huffed a laugh, laying back with a sigh. "Gave up, huh?"

".....Made to."

"Yer' daddy told you?"

"Yeah....how else would I know?" There was a tremor in your chest, in your voice-so quiet you almost missed the words yourself,

"Funny he thought someone could waltz in, pull you outta this, coin after ya’ from some damn poster, like I wouldn’t put a bullet in the poor fool first. Hell, I almost wish someone had tried... just so I could see the look on their face when they realized they weren’t makin’ it out alive."

Your stomach twisted, fingers clenching into the fabric of your clothes. Your legs weakened, your body caught between warmth and a bone-deep chill as you settled on the chair.

You didn't notice when Arthur moved until he was suddenly in front of you, his fingers tilting your chin up. "Ain't right, but what is?". Your teeth clenched on instinct, your gaze darting away. Pulling away was futile.

And just like that, he was gone, leaving you with more space to breathe, leaving you room to breathe. The closest thing to chivalry you'd seen from him since all this began. I'll show you what's right.

★ Next

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