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He is angry. It’s plain to see by his rigid stance as the both of you ride out of camp. You understand.
Collecting debts is dirty work - so is your usual work, but at least it is somewhat dignified. But where is the dignity in beating money out of a desperate bastard? In scaring people, barely scraping by as it is, into giving up what little they have?
None. There is absolutely none. And you knew that’s what got to Arthur the most - that these people, already brought so low by an unkind life, would be dragged even lower by Strauss’ predatory loaning business.
But Dutch had wanted him to go, and where Dutch willed, Arthur went. You don’t like it, but it’s not your place to question him. You’ve been with the gang but half a year. You doubt that Dutch would take kindly to you questioning his orders so boldly.
You both ride in silence as storm clouds gather overhead. It’s not the first time you go with him to collect a debt - in fact, the both of you make a rather formidable team: you are sometimes able to charm the debtor before Arthur even needs to step in, and if things take a turn for the worse, two guns are always better than one - but something doesn’t feel right this time. You do your best to ignore the feeling, though it gnaws at you more and more violently the closer you get to your destination.
“Right up here,” Arthur says, the first words out of his mouth since you left camp. He turns off the road abruptly, and you follow as best you can, your horse protesting at the sudden pull of the reins. You barely have time to catch up with him that he has already jumped off his horse and is storming toward the small house that belongs to your target. The flickering light of a fire and a flitting shadow betrays the presence of someone inside.
“Arthur, wait - “
Your words fall on deaf ears as he knocks at the door, more forcefully than he truly needed to. His anger seems to get the better of him and he pounds at the door again just as you walk up to him.
“Open up, goddamnit!”
“Arthur, I think that - “
A clatter and a yelp from inside interrupts you, and Arthur extends a hand to keep you away as he takes a few steps back before raising his foot and kicking the door open. It gives way easily under the powerful blow, and he shoulders his way inside. You follow him quickly. A man is laid out on the floor, having apparently tripped and fell.
“Lawton Mavis?” The man - middle-aged, rather frail - whimpers at the sight of Arthur. You’ve seen Arthur act like this before, when your charm was not enough, but somehow this feels different - wrong. This isn’t him. You know this won’t end well.
“Are you Lawton Mavis?” Arhur grinds out as he steps closer, looming over the other man.
“Yes, yes!” he answers, pulling himself away. “What do you want?!”
“The goddamn money you owe us,” Arthur answers. “And be real careful what you say next, friend - I ain’t in a good mood.”
You know what Mavis will say even before he opens his mouth - they always try to sell you that excuse. You pray you’re wrong, for once - that he’ll give you the money without a fight. But they never do.
“I don’t hav - “
Arthur’s fist connects with his jaw before he can finish his sentence. You’re used to violence, but the sound Mavis makes - half-sob, half-choke - makes you flinch. You can do nothing but watch at this point, even feeling a bit frightened of Arthur yourself, though you know he would never hurt you.
“I did warn you,” Arthur says, crouching over the man. You know he is truly angry when his voice is calm and even, instead of a roar - a cold kind of anger that would frighten even the bravest men. “Where is it?”
Mavis cracks an eye open, blood welling from between his lips. You see him weigh his options. His eyes stray to you, and your unease must be showing, because something changes in his gaze. He seems ready to give in, but Arthur is out of patience.
“Answer me!” his fist comes down again, this time on Mavis’ cheek. And then again, from the other side, with his temple. “Where’s the goddamn money?!”
Mavis brings up his hands in a feeble attempt to keep Arthur’s blows from landing. He easily bats them away as he grabs him by the shirt and hits him again.
“Where?”
“Stop, please - “
And again.
“Arthur - “
“WHERE?”
And again.
“ARTHUR, ENOUGH!”
You see him freeze at your shout, chest heaving as he stares down at the ruin of Mavis’ face. He lets go of the man’s shirt and stands up quickly, turning toward you. There is blood on his knuckles and spattered over the front of his shirt.
“Let’s go,” you say when you finally tear you eyes from Mavis’ wheezing form.
“The money - “
“Let’s go.”
You turn away without waiting for him, striding out of the house and toward your horse. It started raning, but you don’t care. You just have to get away from this place. You hear Arthur behind you, but you climb on your horse without looking at him, and you lead it at a trot toward the road. A few moments later, Arthur finally catches up with you. He rides alongside you in silence for a few minutes before he speaks.
“Y/N - “
“What was that about?” you snap. It was your turn to be angry. Angry at Arthur yes, angry at Dutch - for sending you both to do his dirtiest work -, but most of all angry at yourself, for just standing by and watching. You should have stepped in sooner. Right away. Made the two of you turn around and wait until Arthur’s anger had faded. But you hadn’t dared speak up, and now a man is laying somewhere in a pool of his own blood because of it. Because of you.
“I - “
“Thought you hated this work,” you cut him off again. “Thought you hated beatin’ money outta these poor bastards. Seems to me you were pretty quick with your fists this time, wasn’t you?”
“You know how they are,” he shoots back. Anger is still lurking beneath his words. “Try anythin’ to weasel outta - ”
“He didn’t even have time to try!” You shout, whipping your head toward him. You pull on the reins, stopping your horse in the pouring rain. You don’t care. “You jumped right to the beatin’! Woulda put him in the ground, too, if I hadn’t stopped you!”
He stops next to you, but before he can answer, you jump off your horse and lead it off the path, into the forest. You quickly find a tree that offers a bit of shelter from the rain and hitch your horse nearby before sitting down, your back against the trunk as you take a deep breath and try to calm down. You shiver and wrap your arms around yourself, bringing your knees against your chest.
“You’re right.”
You lift your head to look at him - the sound of the rain had covered his footsteps. He sits next to you, leaving a bit of space between the two of you.
“I was too angry,” he says quietly. “All I was thinkin’ about was that piece of shit Strauss. Almost thought it was him I was beatin’, I - “ he sighs. “I don’t know.”
You feel your anger fade slowly. This is a man who wants to do right by the people who saved him when he was just a child, a man who wants to do good but doesn’t always quite know how. A man ordered to do bad things for what he believes are good reasons. You drag yourself closer to him and put a hand on his arm.
“It’s alright, Arthur,” he looks at you and there is fear in his eyes - fear that you’ll never forgive him, that you’ll leave him. But you won’t. Never. “I understand.”
You rest your head on his shoulder and you feel his arm coming up around yours. His warmth is welcome as you shiver again from your rain-soaked clothes.
“Think it’s time I told Dutch I don’t wanna do this no more,” he whispers as his fingers trace patterns on your upper arm. You look up at him and meet his eyes. “And I think it’s time I spoke to him ‘bout Strauss.”
You nod in agreement and raise a hand to rest on his cheek. He leans into your touch and doesn’t resist when you guide him down toward you for a kiss.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your lips. “I don’t deserve you.”
You kiss him again and frame his face with your hands, looking into his eyes. He truly believes he’s saying the truth, you can see it, but you know otherwise.
“You deserve everythin’,” you answer. “And more.”