Chapter Text
It hurt Hosea's heart a little, watching the boy curl into Dutch’s chest like a pup starved of warmth.
The boy looked so small like this.
It was the first thing Hosea had noticed as they got set up on their horses. He knew the boy was small, of course, but it wasn’t just the boy's height. It was the bones he could feel through the kid's too-big clothes; it was the tight curl of his knees pressed to his chest that made him that much tinier, that much easier to miss.
People only learned to be that small when they were forced to, when being big meant harsh words and harsher fists.
It was an odd feeling, worrying over a child he didn't even know, but the boy whined softly, and something lurched in his chest.
How could anyone look at this boy, this starved, scared little thief, and turn away? Raise their voice? Their fists?
Hosea was pulled from his thoughts by a soft chuckle as the boy's fist curled around Dutch's shirt, unwilling to lose his source of heat.
Their little chase must have tired the kid out, because even with all the awkward shuffling they had to do figuring out the best way to move the boy, he had slept on, only letting out the occasional whine.
He couldn’t help but smile at the sight as they made their way towards camp.
“He drooled all over me,” Dutch huffed as he pulled off his shirt, his voice lacking any real anger or annoyance
“We needed to wash that shirt anyway.” Hosea chuckled, letting his eyes trace the familiar lines of his partner's body.
“Coulda done it without the slobber.” Dutch shot back with a playful tut.
“You'll live.”
“Will I?”
“Imagine reading the newspaper,” the older man grinned, “The Great Dutch Van Der Linde-Killed by Drool. Not quite the glorious end people would think.”
“Oh, hush.” Dutch huffed, tossing his saliva-ridden shirt at Hosea in an act of petty revenge. “Go cook up those fish we caught earlier, kid's gonna be hungry.
Hosea cackled loudly as he left the tent, dirty shirt in hand.
When he returned, the boy was awake. The boy was awake, and he was scared.
Hosea could see it in the small, rabbit-like way his nose twitched, his eyes darting around in search of something. An escape, probably.
“Ah, I see our guest is awake.” Hosea hummed, sending Dutch a reprimanding glare for not getting him as soon as the boy's eyes opened. “Not for long, I hope?”
“I just woke up.” And, oh, how that small, raspy voice tugged at Hosea's heart, “And I'm not your guest. You kidnapped me.”
Which, okay, that was technically true, but the boy clearly didn't have anywhere else to go! They were trying to help him! Still, he had to give it to the boy.
“Eh, that's fair.” He allowed with a small nod of his head.
“Hey, uh,” Hosea began smoothly, “what did you say your name was again? Jim? Jeremy?”
Dutch caught on immediately, an amused glimmer in his eyes and a sly smirk on his lips.
“Uh,” The boy stuttered, a panicked look flashing across his face, “yeah, Jim.”
He had to applaud the boy for sticking with the lie. Or at least trying to. He wasn't very good at it.
“James.” Dutch corrected smoothly, and the kid looked seconds from heaving.
“That's right.” Hosea drawled with a slight tilt of his head, more amused than anything. “James.”
The kid looked like a cornered animal, his whole body tensed as his eyes searched the tent desperately, one last-ditch attempt to find an exit, a plausible escape.
He wasn't moving. A deer standing there, staring down the barrel of a gun. He didn't know yet that Hosea and Dutch were not guns, they would not shoot, they would not harm.
They would help him, Hosea swore it. They would guide him, protect him.
“So,” Dutch began, feigning normalcy and disinterest, “James, you wanna tell us your real name?”
“Arthur.” The boy, Arthur, admitted, his voice so small and meek, “Arthur Morgan.”
Arthur Morgan.
Arthur Morgan.
It suited him. Far more than James had.
“Arthur Morgan,” Hosea muttered out loud, just to test the name on his tongue. It felt good, right. “Nice to meet ya, son.”
“Indeed it is.” Dutch hummed, the soft glint in his eye telling Hosea that the boy was here to stay, and the older man was thankful that they were on the same page.
Dutch had never been too keen on children, so Hosea was pleasantly surprised by how utterly charmed he seemed to be with the boy.
Arthur was small and meek and starved, but was also obviously very stubborn and strong and slick. Smart enough to survive on the streets for however long he'd been out there.
Hosea turned his attention back to Arthur, who looked torn between being terrified and attacking. He smiled softly.
“Well, Mr. Morgan,” Hosea began playfully, “I don't know about you, but I am famished. There's fish on the fire now.”
Hosea had to bite back a laugh as he watched the boy's face twist in confusion, mouthing ‘famished’ as if he'd never heard that word before. He probably hadn't.
“I'm hungry, too.” Dutch cut in, subtly clarifying for the boy, who made a small noise of realization.
Arthur looked unsure, unconvinced of his safety, but also clearly hungry, his stomach giving a loud growl that betrayed any protest he might have come up with.
“That settles it!” Dutch laughed as he moved towards the tent flaps, turning his back and giving Arthur a subtle way out by opening the flaps too wide.
They might not be good men, but they weren’t monsters. If the kid didn't want to stay, he didn't need to.
Still, Hosea was quietly grateful that the boy didn't take it, apparently too food-motivated to do more than stare at the opening for a few seconds.
“You ever had fish, son?” Dutch continued as Arthur inched forward, tempted by the promise of food.
“Don't call me that.” The boy spat, tone laced with venom. “I'm not your son, I'm no one's son.”
Ah. An orphan then. He might've just ran away from home, but somehow, Hosea doubted it. The boy didn't seem the type.
“Alright,” Dutch huffed, looking only slightly annoyed as he threw his hands up in surrender, “don't call you son. Noted. You want to eat or not?”
Arthur pursed his lips but gave a small nod, his hunger evidently winning out.
“Well then, Arthur,” Hosea cut in, “Let's go eat."
Two meals within twenty-four hours? This was either a blessing or a trap, and looking at the men in front of him, he knew it wasn’t the former.
Besides that, the fish was actually really good, far better than the food at the restaurant.
It was crispy and flaky, and it practically melted on his tongue. It was so good, like nothing he'd ever had before, the taste and texture complementing each other perfectly.
It must have shown on his face, because both men were staring at him, looking thoroughly amused.
He couldn’t find it in himself to care all too much as he tore through the meat of the fish, simultaneously savoring it and swallowing before he could properly chew.
“You're gonna choke.” Hosea hummed mildly, again with that stupid knowing look.
…
Okay, so, Arthur did choke, but it was Hosea's fault! He wouldn't have choked if he hadn't inhaled to shoot back a retort to the man's words. He was the victim here!
He was only choking for a few seconds before Dutch laughed loudly and smacked him hard on the back and dislodged it.
The smack wasn't hard, but Arthur was instantly on edge. It shouldn't, he knew it was to help him, but he wasn't all too keen on being hit by men he didn’t know. It was bad enough when his own father had done it.
“Thank you.” He grumbled after a few moments, eyes glued to the leftover fish in his hands.
Dutch said nothing, but Arthur could feel the eyes on him.
“How long have you been on your own?” It was Hosea who spoke this time, his voice soft.
It made Arthur's skin crawl. He didn't want their worry, he didn’t want their attention. Attention meant pain, it was one of the earliest lessons he learned, only solidified with his time on the streets.
He said nothing. It was the only thing he could think to do. He could lie, but last time they saw right through it. He could be honest, but that would mean… that would mean what?
He didn’t know these men. As kind as they had been so far, he still didn't know their reasons, and even if it was real, Arthur knew it wasn't going to last. It never did.
Would answering provoke their anger? Or would they pity him? Which was worse?
He'd been quiet for too long, the question lingering in the silence for a second too long. Apparently, the lack of an answer was enough.
“That long, huh?” Hosea hummed, but he held no pity on his face. A sad glint, maybe, but not pity. Not anger.
Still, Arthur couldn’t stand it, being the center of attention. He needed to get the eyes off of him, he needed them to stop talking to him, stop giving him food, stop everything.
He needed to know why he was here, why they hadn't ignored him like everyone else had.
“Why did you take me?”