Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mr. Morgan Finn,

I know what I know with certainty. The things I do not know, I long to find out. Morgan, you are something I do not yet know, and I fear I may have lost my chance to discover what secrets you hold.

I rarely find a need to explain I often fail to see why actions require lengthy explanations. In this case, however, it seems, mine might.

First, John Slotter. I have already detailed to you my reasons for remaining at his side. It was my protection as well as the other women’s. But… as you know.. there was also opportunity. Many men die here. Many of these opportunities go to waste. I do not understand your aversion to dissection but I know it well, which is perhaps why I still hesitate to include Slotter’s donation of material. Did you know I was included in his will? Do you know what he left me? He gave me one last corpse—his. Do you know what I did with it? Do you want to?

Second. I do not know how to address what you saw. I know I did not speak of it the way I would have liked when last we spoke. I… I have long been told by others that I have no feeling. Yourself among them. It is my belief that this is an incorrect assessment. When Thomas passed, I could not halt the flow of tears. When we uncovered the miners, something near guilt had settled in my gut. But when I heard… when I witnessed what was done to you… I was filled with what I can only describe as rage. I wanted to kill, Mr. Finn. And despite Slotter’s (and perhaps your) assumptions, it was the first time I experienced that sensation. I would have shot him. Would that have been more acceptable to you than what I did?

I do not intend to lie to you about the events that followed. When we first spoke of this… I was not able to provide a sufficient and accurate explanation. I wanted to cut him open and see his beating heart. I wanted to understand and I wanted to harm. Perhaps that was selfish, perhaps revenge was not something you would want. As it turned out, neither of our desires were even relevant in the slightest. I do not say this lightly, Mr. Finn, I was not given a choice. Yes, I wanted to. But I do not act on my every desire, and I would not have vivisected a man had I not been forced. I enabled Slotter’s… enabling of me for too long and was faced with the consequences. It seems I value my own life above the oath I took, because I would have been killed had I refused.

I would also like It is my sincere hope that I might be able to rescind or perhaps amend more of the comments I made to you. I have had some time to reflect and to reevaluate those who truly deserve my rejection. I will tell you what I did with John Slotter’s body. I buried it. I left him to his gods and devils and ghosts. It is not him who I need, but you.

But I would like to clarify reiterate the importance of the work. I have taken an oath to do no harm. And yet I have, as you say, done much of late. I intend to uphold that oath in future. My work with corpses enables me to more efficiently heal, and learn. Science is all I have. It is very nearly all I want. I promise you I will acquire these necessary tools in… in a manner more according with your principals, as long as you can find it within you to forgive the act itself…

I do not believe I will ever understand God. In some way, I believe this means I may never fully understand you. This frightens me. Is it possible to love when you do not understand? If you do not understand me, do not understand science, can you truly love me? I think I might love you, Morgan, but I do not understand that, either.

I am not entirely certain, but I believe you brought up Miss Logan to make me jealous, or perhaps to cause me harm. I must admit, you were successful. I hope this does not find you too late.

I still want you. I have no further explanation to offer you. I enjoy your company. I enjoy your touch. I do know if you will allow me back into your life, but I should like to reside there.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Rebecca Blithely

Chapter Text

Rebecca holds her sketchbook at an angle, twists it to the fading sunlight. She sighs. There’s something anatomically incorrect about it, but she can’t quite figure it out. Perhaps it’s the tongue? No. She leans back and twists her hair into a loose bun.

It’s about dinner time, so when there’s a knock at the door, it doesn’t take her by surprise.

What does surprise her is that is it not Fiona at the door. It’s Morgan. She blinks. He takes off his hat. He holds something in his other hand, a paper, neatly folded. The letter! She lets him in without a word.

For a moment, he paces about the room. His grip on both his hat and her letter tighten until his knuckles change color. Rebecca is unsure if she should offer him a seat, but he finally sits at the table, placing himself and his hat across from her sketchbook. So she closes the door, and sits too.

He has no grease on his face, nor any in his hair. But his attire is as masculine as ever, the same as any other cowboy or miner. Some part of her still wants to undo every button he wears, but she keeps this to herself. Instead, she thinks she should do her best to meet his eyes, remembering how often Thomas begged her to in any polite company. It had grown easy, with him, but today it wrenches her heart like he’s a stranger. Morgan does not look up from the table, however, and for that, she is grateful.

Finally, she says, “I understand that you are here to discuss the contents of my letter.”

Morgan nods. He places the letter on the table and unfolds it. “Took me a while to, uh, understand all this. I’m not—” he shakes his head and chuckles, “I’m not the best reader.”

Rebecca wants to offer some fresh apology, but she finds she has run out of words. Instead, she gives him a small nod.

“There’s lot there… lotta,” his eyebrows wrinkle, “lot you’re asking of me. But there’s also a lot you’ve been decent about admitting.”

“Thank you.” Her voice comes out much quieter than she’d been expecting.

“Do you still believe—do you honestly believe I would hold you back?”

Does he want to her to answer literally? Does he mean that he’ll accept her science? She can’t understand his tone. Her eyes dart back and forth as she tries to think of the safest answer. She can feel herself begin to exhibit a fear response. She has sweaty palms, her heart is beating faster than its normal rate, and… she’s waited too long. He’ll want an answer.

Morgan’s expression changes. He looks gentler, somehow. He reaches out a hand and takes one of Rebecca’s. “Would it be helpful if I asked you a different way?”

“I believe… that would be beneficial.”

“Okay. Lemme try again. Do you think I’m the kinda person to stop someone from doin’ what they need to survive?”

“No, but—”

“Do you think I’d stop them if it made ‘em happy, too? Even if a great number of other people thought it was wrong?”

She looks at him, and suddenly remembers Fiona’s reaction on that horrible night. Other people certainly find Morgan’s actions wrong. She shakes her head.

“The only reason I’d dream of stoppin’ ‘em is if they were hurting someone. And you, you,” he holds up the letter with the hand not holding hers, “you promised you were done with all that.”

There are tears welling up in Rebecca’s eyes and she fights to prevent a cascade down her cheeks. She squeezes Morgan’s hand.

“So. Do you think I’m gonna hold you back?”

The tears win the fight. They free-fall all the way to her sketchbook and wrinkle the page where they land. “No. No, and I am truly sorry that I said that to you.”

“S’ok.” He laughs. “I gotta say, I was really glad at many of the things you said in that letter. I really made you jealous?”

Rebecca dries her eyes. “Yes,” she smiles, “quite a lot.”

He grins back. “Well, that was the idea.”

Rebecca nods. She can feel something shift, uneasy in her, and so she takes her hand back. There’s things left she still has to say, and she doesn’t know how he’d react.

“What’s wrong, sweet?

“I need to tell you something else. Do you remember how I said… in the letter, it was the first time I had wanted to kill a man?”

Morgan nods slowly.

“It was. That was true. But it was not the first time I have killed.” She can feel her hesitation weighing on her. “When Thomas and I first attempted to leave Janestown, he was incapacitated, in the wagon, he needed to stay upright, I wanted to make sure he was upright, and the driver... the driver we paid…the situation became,” she looks intently at the grain of the table,” “unsafe. He—“ She presses a hand firmly into her own shoulder, echoing his motion.

Morgan opens his mouth, concern etched into the lines of his face. But she has to continue.

“I killed him. Later that night, I saw him again, and he— and again, unsafe,” she takes a shaky breath, “I felt unsafe... I did not intend to but—the blood—“

Morgan stands up from his chair, helps Rebecca up from hers, and pulls her into a tight hug. She holds him back, gently, at first, and then tightly too, and can feel his tears seeping into her shirt as his body shakes.

“I’m glad,” he mutters into her neck, “I’m glad. And I’m glad Casper is dead too. May they and John Slotter and every man like ‘em rot in Hell.”

Rebecca does not believe there is a Hell for them to rot in, but she nods into his chest. She doesn’t want him to ever let her go.

Eventually, though, he does. He has to. He lets go and Rebecca is left wanting. She is full of wanting. She wants to understand, she wants to slice her knife carefully through skin, she wants to cure, she wants to feel Morgan’s fingers gently caressing her, she wants to draw, she wants to learn, she wants everything to be okay in this moment, she wants him to hold her again, so tight she can’t breathe, she wants, she wants—desire tears through her so suddenly and forcefully that she sits down abruptly.

His questioning gaze lingers on her for a moment before returning to the table when he sits.

She doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know how to communicate this wave of desire to him, now that their shared trauma makes the silence heavy. But maybe, maybe it’s best to ensure they’re on the same page. She tilts her head, considering the phrasing. And carefully, she says, “Do you have any remaining concerns with regards to the letter?”

He nods and picks it up. She watches him traces his index finger gingerly across the ink. He looks up, his finger still near the top. She can see him rolling an idea around in his mind before speaks. “I think I’d’ve felt the same, were it me with the gun.”

She nods, too.

There’s more to say, probably. And probably, those are things best said another time, so she lets the letter speak for itself.

He returns to the document, and his finger travels a long way before he asks, “Are you worried that our moral differences could cause more of a problem…I mean, our lack of understanding about ‘em?”

Her expression must have changed in a way that worries him because he adds, “I already swore to you that I won’t stop your science, given you aren’t murdering for it. It upsets me, sure, but it’s yours. I can readily promise again, if—”

“No.” She sighs. “No, Morgan, I do not believe it will be a problem, I—” She remembers, too suddenly, praying when Thomas died. She remembers her shaky kneel, her hands clasped together, and praying, hard, that Thomas and Emily were together again. It embarrasses her, still, but she wonders if Morgan would like to hear about the break in her absolute atheism. She promises to confess it someday. “I think as long as we continue to respect one another’s beliefs, and… maintain a certain curiosity about them, I think we will be alright.”

It’s strange, talking to him like this. She realizes this is the first time they’ve been able to speak this honestly or this kindly with each other. She smiles. He smiles, too.

“I think I’m inclined to agree.” Morgan glances back down to the letter, and this time, when he looks up, his eyes do find hers. And it’s okay, when they do. Maybe more than okay. He asks, “You still want me?”

The word want sends a jolt of electricity through her.

“I still want you.” She wants. She wants. She wants him.

“What time is dinner?”

The question boggles her for a moment. But then she pieces it together: at dinnertime, someone will knock at the door and he wants to know if their conversation will be interrupted. She looks at him. No. It’s not the conversation he’s concerned about. She looks at him again and suddenly she feels it radiating off of him. He wants, too.

With every ounce of regret she can put into the word, she says, “Soon.”

He lets out a long, frustrated sigh. Desire is so apparent on his face that it hurts her to stay seated.

There’s a knock.

“Dammit.” Morgan looks at her, and shakes his head.

Rebecca can only shrug in return. She stands, opens the door. Fiona is there, a smile on her face. “Dinner’s ready. We got Kat and the girls to join, and amazingly, Isabelle, and—” her gaze falls on Morgan, still sitting at Rebecca’s table. “And…” she swallows. “And Mr. Morgan can come too, should he desire it.”

“Will Miss Logan be there?” Rebecca asks, because she wants to know and because she hopes it will make Morgan laugh.

“Of course, isn’t she always?”

Morgan is chuckling before she finishes the sentence. Fiona looks back and forth between Rebecca and Morgan before backing away. She says, “See you shortly,” and takes her leave.

Rebecca is still buzzing. She shuts the door, firmly. She begins to stride toward Morgan, but he’s already up out of the chair and they crash in the middle. He lifts her up and her legs, on instinct alone, wrap themselves around his waist. He grins. She grins, too. And then, she kisses him. The electricity buzzes its way up and down her spine and out through her fingertips and she thinks it could maybe blind her. His hands hold her steady and her hands hold his neck and run through his hair and she is keeping track of time but she never wants to let go.

Eventually, she does. She has to.

Her legs drop to the floor, and she is about to turn, to take his hand in hers and walk to dinner just like that, but her eyes catch his again, and she wants… she wants. She wants to draw him the moment she gets back from dinner.

Chapter Text

Everyone knows how quickly relationships move in Janestown. That’s why, after two weeks, everyone wants to know why Rebecca Blithely and Morgan Finn aren’t married yet. They have excuses piled high, but they fall on deaf ears. Rebecca is a widow, and certainly she is strange, but she needs the protection that comes with marriage like anyone else out here. And Morgan, well, he’s strange too. But he’s also noble. It would be better for everyone if they married quickly.

The problem with Rebecca and Morgan is that they tend to have a hard time doing what’s expected of them.

He spends most nights in her bed—it’s a wonder she hasn’t caught, the women whisper, maybe it’s a doctor trick, maybe she can teach us—and she begins to fill her sketchbook with portraits of him right alongside the organs.

He apologizes to Miss Logan, one beautiful afternoon near the stables. She says she’d always known he was a goner for Mrs. Blithely. She says that night he kissed her, she’d really needed comfort and he’d been a kind enough friend to give it. She says thank you, and there’s no need to be sorry.

Fiona, tight-lipped for what feels like so long, finally breaks her silence. But she breaks it to Rebecca, asks, how is it you two can be happy together, you know, in bed? She gets an answer far more detailed and specific than she would have liked. But she dreams of Miss Logan that night and doesn’t share Morgan’s secret with a single soul.

Rebecca curls toward Morgan in the dark. His breathing must have given him away, because she presses her nose to his. “I have an important question.”

He has grown used to late night science interrogations, and so blinks his eyes to wake himself up. “Yes, my dear?”

“Would husband be the correct term for you?” The pace of his blinking increases rapidly. He pulls back, sits up. The question has managed to shock him.

Her motions mirror his, her eyes wide and wondering. She says, “Because, I was considering the linguistics of you, and how you like to be Mr. Finn, and you like the way I say ‘He is incredibly handsome,’ But... would you also like the word ‘husband?’”

“Is this a proposal?” He can’t decide if he’s joking or not.

She becomes indignant immediately. “Certainly not! It is nothing more than, than professional curiosity, I—”

“I’m joking,” he says, and decides that he is. He takes her in his arms, and continues, “though I’d’ve accepted.”

“Morgan!”

“Yes, Rebecca, I will answer your question.”

Satisfied, she nestles herself into his embrace and waits.

“I think—Well. Well, at least to the town, it can’t be a choice. I reckon it’d have to be the right word. But otherwise, I’d, I’d always thought I’d grow up to be a wife.” He shakes his head. “Always thought I’d have to be one. But I’ve taken a kinda refuge in these clothes… in those cowboy words...” She always gets him musing, late at night. He’s still not sure how she does it, but he adds it to the growing list of things he loves about her. “I’m not sure I could ever fully divorce myself from bein’ a woman? And not sure I’d want to?”

She mumbles something into his shirt.

“Did you say I haven’t answered yet?”

She sits up and untangles herself from him. “No. Well, yes. But I am rather enjoying your candor and your ability to advance my own understanding of womanhood. So if you feel the need to continue…”

“No, no, husband works just fine.” Morgan reaches out to pull her close again but she rolls out of the way and scrambles to the end of the bed. He spends a lot of time thinking about how brilliant she is, how wonderful, but right now, it’s her beauty that strikes him. It’s not a surprise, but it feels like a revelation every time. His heart aches.

“I have another question.”

“Oh? Don’t I get a minute to recover from the first one?”

She arches an eyebrow at him, and he adds that to the list too. He can tell she’s counting to sixty in her head, and he doesn’t need to check his pocket watch on the dresser to know she’ll get a full minute exactly. Sometimes, he think she takes him literally because that’s just how her mind works, and other times he thinks she does it on purpose. He can’t tell which this is.

Morgan rolls off the bed and lifts his pants from the floor.

“Are you leaving?”

“Is that your question?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the small, delicate band of metal he’d been carrying around. Morgan knew she had been resistant to the idea for quite some time. She had her reasons: Thomas has just died, it’s a loss of freedom, we need time to understand each other completely. And she had been right. But during their time together, they had learned. He knows so much about her—he knows how her breath slows as she falls asleep, he knows the way her smile quirks up at the sides when she’s working out a new surgical procedure, he knows when and how to curl his fingers so that… well. He knows she knows him, too. He loves the way “my dear” “my darling” and “my love” feel on his lips, but he’s been waiting for the moment he can say “my wife.”

He doesn’t have anywhere to hide the ring, so he just holds it, and crawls back under the sheet.

“What is that?”

“Ask your question.”

“Will you… Morgan Finn, if that is a wedding ring I will eviscerate you.”

“It’s not.” He’s going to be eviscerated.

“Will you be my husband?”