Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s a quarter to one in the morning, and Hosea is doing his best not to cry.

Someone has stoked up the main campfire across the clearing, and its light filters through the gap in the canvas of Arthur’s lean-to. He and Susan had lowered the flaps soon after they got Arthur onto his cot, partly to give the man some semblance of privacy, and partly so the rest of camp – woken by the commotion of his return – didn’t have to witness the grim spectacle as they peeled Arthur’s union suit off him, soaked in his own blood, sweat, and other bodily fluids that Hosea would rather not think about. Not because he’s squeamish, but because it’s further proof of their monumental failure to protect one of their own. His monumental failure to protect his son.

Three days. Arthur had been in the clutches of the O’Driscolls for three days. Judging by the bruising and raw skin, they’d had him strung up by his ankles, like a goddamn carcass at the butcher’s. Three days his boy had been at the mercy of those brutes. Injured. In pain. Trapped in clothes slowly being soaked through with his own piss and shit and blood from the beatings he’d clearly suffered. Alone. Afraid. Wondering why his family hadn’t come to rescue him.

He’d been barely conscious by the time they’d started removing his union suit, but the feeble groans that escaped him as they maneuvered his battered body were knives to Hosea’s heart. At first, they’d had to leave the area around his shoulder. His brave, clever boy had managed to cauterise his own gunshot wound – he’d even managed to dig out the bullet, according to Orville. But of course, he’d only managed a sloppy job. Susan had got out her best sewing scissors, cut away what she could, but there were threads of his union suit fused into the burned skin. And they couldn’t well leave it like that. So, with Charles brought in to hold Arthur down – his face a mask of grim determination – she and Orville (luckily sober enough to put his medical training to use) had gotten to work with heated needles, teasing apart the seared flesh to pull out all the threads and other debris. The pathetic keening noises coming from Arthur had put tears in Hosea’s eyes, and they haven’t gone away since.

Now, he sits alone at Arthur’s bedside, dimly aware of Dutch making another one of his grand speeches outside. Usually, he takes great pleasure in watching Dutch rally the troops, as it were. Dutch is a born performer, an artist. Watching him in full flow, with all his passion, his skill, his brilliance... Usually, it brings fire and hope to the hearts of all those lucky enough to witness it. But the cheers Dutch gets tonight are half-hearted at best, and Hosea is only half listening; instead, he is hyper-aware of every shallow, wheezing breath Arthur takes. Terrified that each one will be his last.

Hosea sees himself as responsible for the gang. If Dutch is their savior, then he is their guardian, ready to dispense a kind word, or some appropriate wisdom, or a boot up the arse, as and when needed. And while Arthur and John are his boys, the sons he never had, he is willing to do whatever it takes to keep every member of his rag-tag family safe.

Except, that’s clearly not true, a voice whispers sadly at the back of his mind – a voice that reminds him a lot of his dear Bessie. Because if it were true, Hosea would have insisted on mounting a search party the moment they realised Arthur was missing. Would have been firmer, would have prevented the ridiculous meeting, so obviously a trap, from happening in the first place. Later, he will be having words with Dutch, about his recent and growing rashness, his haste to throw the gang into sticky situations for increasingly vague pay-offs, then his bizarre reluctance to face, or outright denial of the consequences. Because surely, surely now he would see that this reckless course he had them on would only end in more heartbreak. He has always been the rational one, the guiding hand to Dutch’s drive, the temper to his fire. But Hosea doesn’t trust himself to form a coherent argument right now, as Arthur takes another quavering breath. Later, when he can get his own emotions under control, he’ll do what he should have done three days ago, and talk some sense into Dutch. Later, once Arthur is better.

Please God, or whoever is listening – let him get better.

Blinking hard, Hosea does the only thing he can do; wrings out a cloth from the bowl of water on Arthur’s table, folds it up and gently replaces the cold compress lying across Arthur’s forehead. He uses the old one to pat down all the parts of Arthur’s face, neck and chest that aren’t covered by bandages or blankets. Grimaces at the heat he can feel radiating from Arthur’s skin. His face, even in sleep, is taut with pain. When Susan had snapped at Orville to give the poor man some laudanum, the Reverend had admitted that he was reluctant to do so; it dulled pain, but weakened the body, he explained – and he was afraid that anything stronger than topical pain relief might put more stress on Arthur’s body than it could currently handle. How he had managed to remain conscious, let alone ride a horse, with the extent of his injuries and blood loss, was surely a God-given miracle. But, Orville had confessed in a smaller voice, he would be much more confident in Mr. Morgan’s chances of recovery if he made it through the night.

So now, as the darkest hours draw in, Hosea sits, and waits, and curses himself for his own weakness, and wishes his boy hadn’t been the one to pay the price for it. Gently cradles Arthur’s hand in both his own, willing him to take one breath after the next, feeble as they may be.

Hosea sits, and waits, and tries not to cry.

He’s so deep in his own thoughts he doesn’t even register the approaching footsteps – startles when the canvas flap is pulled back. But the person outlined by the firelight behind is not Dutch, as he’d feared it would be, because he has neither the patience nor the energy to deal with him right now. Instead, Lenny stands there for a long moment, hesitating, eyes on Arthur’s prone form. But then he turns to Hosea, proffering a steaming tin mug.

“Thought you might want one of these,” he says quietly. Hosea accepts it, breathing deeply at the scent of freshly brewed coffee. Takes a sip; strong, with just a dash of sweetness – just the way he likes it. Hosea nods his thanks, not trusting his voice. Lenny comes to stand at his side, and they both watch Arthur’s chest rise and fall.

“He’ll be okay,” Lenny says determinedly after a while. “Arthur’s the toughest of us all. If anyone can pull through this, it’s him. He’ll be back to grumbling and making fun of us all in no time.”

Hosea’s not sure who Lenny is trying to convince more; himself, or the misty-eyed old fool he’s brought a cup of coffee to. But when Lenny rests a hand on his shoulder, gives it a reassuring squeeze, Hosea lays his own hand over it, squeezes back.

“Thank you, Lenny.”

It’s a quarter past one in the morning, and Hosea manages a watery smile.

It’s gone midnight, and Kieran’s wondering if the kindest thing to do would be to just shoot Arthur’s horse through the head.

Atlas – Arthur’s appropriately named giant grey Ardennes – hates everyone and everything, except for Arthur himself, and peppermints. And sometimes Mr. Smith and Taima are allowed close, but that’s about it. In a good mood, he’ll let Kieran brush his withers and rump, after a bribe of one or two (or five) peppermints. But usually he just tries to bite a chunk out of him. Luckily Kieran’s real good at ducking out of the way of those who’d like to take a swipe at him.

Almost all of the gang are over by the main campfire – Mr. Van der Linde is trying to calm everyone down, but the harsh cursing and occasional whimper from Arthur’s tent isn’t helping and everyone’s jittery. Kieran half considered making a run for it while they were distracted; because the Van der Linde gang has been hurt, nearly lost one of their best men, and now they’d surely be out for blood. And too many of them still call him ‘O’Driscoll’ for him to have any confidence that he’s going to live to see the sunrise. But, as he’d turned towards the tree line, his heart and his thoughts racing, he saw Atlas.

They say that dogs are like their owners, but Kieran firmly believes that this is far truer for horses. Atlas is stubborn, built like an ox, and completely unshakeable. According to Arthur, the warhorse calmly stands his ground in the middle of firefights, will go out of his way to trample snakes, and even once picked a fight with a cougar while Arthur was hunting on foot – apparently he only knew because he came back and there was the carcass, head squashed in by a dinner plate-sized hoof. The world could go to hell in a handbasket, and Kieran’s pretty sure Atlas would just stand there, invincible and unfazed.

But now, the massive horse is lying on his side – even though he’s still fully tacked up – belly heaving with wheezy breaths. All half-baked thoughts of running leave Kieran immediately. If there’s one thing he hates, it’s seeing a good horse in a bad way.

Slowly, he approaches, checking his pockets for a peppermint. But Atlas doesn’t even lift his head to bare his teeth at him. Close up, Kieran can see foam crusting around his mouth, and that his coat is covered in dried sweat. But that’s immediately a bad sign, since he’s still clearly overheated; a horse that’s so dehydrated it can’t sweat no more is usually set for the great paddock in the sky. Or the knacker’s yard. The O’Driscolls had Arthur and Atlas captive for three whole days – Kieran knows exactly how well they treat their own horses, had spent near all his time with that gang getting them enough water, bringing them feed (since most O’Driscolls seemed to think the few mouthfuls of grass a horse could reach while tethered up were enough to keep it going), smoothing salve onto the deep welts left by sharp spurs and too-tight bits. He doesn’t want to think about how they’d treat the horse of a sworn enemy, especially when that same horse gave as good as he got and was probably a complete menace. Wonders if Atlas had been given anything to eat or drink in those three days. Wonders how far and how long he ran to bring his rider home. Wonders, as his big grey body shudders with exhaustion, if it’s even worth trying to save him, or if he should just ask Mr. Bell to put the poor beast out of his misery (not that he wants to be anywhere near the man; but Kieran’s not allowed to have a gun in camp, and he can’t think of anyone else who’d be willing to shoot Arthur’s horse).

But then there’s a strangled cry from Arthur’s tent, and Atlas’ ears prick up. Before Kieran can try to stop him, he lifts his head, struggles to his feet, manages a few stumbling steps towards his rider before collapsing to his knees, shaking with the effort. But he strains his head towards the ammunition wagon, whinnying lowly.

Horses, Kieran thinks, are just like their owners. Atlas is stubborn, built like an ox, and loyal to a fault.

He rolls up his sleeves, resolute.

It’s past midnight, and Kieran’s not sure if he’s going to live to see the sunrise. But he’s going to do his darn best to make sure Arthur’s horse does.

It’s getting near to noon, and Tilly’s thinking about life.

Living with an outlaw gang, you’d think life would be full of uncertainty, never knowing what’s gonna happen next, where you’ll be sleeping that night, where your next meal might come from, if it comes at all. Never knowing if today is gonna be your last. But life with the Van der Linde gang is surprisingly full of constants. Pearson’s stew is always available at the end of the day, and is always bland. Miss Grimshaw always appears out of nowhere the moment you even think about taking a break – to the point where Tilly thinks Karen’s witch theory might ring something true. Hosea always drinks his coffee and reads yesterday’s paper first thing every morning. Bill always loses at dominos, John and Abigail always bicker, Dutch always has a plan, Uncle always finds a way to get underfoot.

And folks always get hurt.

It had taken the combined efforts of Tilly and John to convince Hosea to leave Arthur’s bedside and get some rest himself, and they only managed it with multiple promises that Arthur wouldn’t be left alone for even a second. John weren’t looking none too good neither – all pale and shaken, but Tilly understands. For all his bluster, it ain’t hard to see that he still idolizes his big brother, even if the two of them do fight like cats most of the time. So Tilly had offered to take up the first watch, shooing him away. Then she’d sat down in the chair and gotten on with some mending – pricking her fingers more times that she’d like to admit as she kept glancing up at Arthur, to see if he was showing any signs of waking up – or even still breathing.

After a couple of hours or so, the Reverend had offered to take over, so now she heads for the beach, figuring she can stretch her legs a little before Grimshaw inevitably finds some other chore for her to do. And she wants to get out of the main camp area for a little bit – it’s too quiet, even though the only people out are Charles and whoever’s on watch. Dutch has forbidden them all from leaving until they’re sure Arthur hasn’t been followed – and Charles was sent out to scout the area, check there weren’t no O’Driscolls sniffing around. Usually it’s a novelty to have so many people at camp during the day, and meant no shortage of dominoes partners. But since last night the mood has been subdued at best, people casting worried glances at Arthur’s tent and each other. So, the beach it is.

She makes her way past the pier, heading for the old dead tree down the beach, keeping an eye out for any interesting shells she can bring to little Jack. But before she’s even halfway there, there’s the scraping of gravel on rock.

She freezes – thoughts of O’Driscolls with shackles and cruel knives and pistols sending her heart racing – and she can’t decide whether she should try and lead them away from the camp, in the tiny hope they hadn’t actually figured out the Van der Linde gang’s exact location yet, or run back screaming, in the tiny hope she can warn the others before she gets a bullet in her.

She balls her fists. Tilly Jackson is a lot of things, but a coward ain’t one of ‘em.

But before she can demand the bastards show themselves, she hears another sound – not the hiss of drawing knives or the snap of gun hammers, or cries of ‘get her!’

A muffled sob.

Cautiously, she makes her way towards the cluster of rocks higher up the beach. When she hears it again, she quickens her pace, rounds a boulder to find

“Mary-Beth?”

Mary-Beth startles, looking up at her in shock before quickly wiping at her eyes. Not that it does any good – Mary-Beth is a pretty gal, but an ugly crier: eyes red-rimmed and puffy, face all blotchy, runny nose, the works. Shaking her head, Tilly slips into the small space between the rocks, plops herself down next to her.

“What’s the matter, hun?” she asks gently, even though she already has a fair idea. Mary-Beth sniffles.

“O-oh, don’t mind me, I’m just bein’ silly.” But even as she says it, fresh tears spill over. Tilly can see Mary-Beth’s hanky, crumpled in her fist and already soaked. So she fishes out her own, hands it over. Mary-Beth mumbles in thanks before wiping at her eyes again. Tilly gives her a moment, before trying again.

“This whole situation with Arthur – it’s nasty, ain’t it? You don’t gotta pretend you ain’t upset by it, we all are. And I know you’s sweet on him.”

She slings an arm around Mary-Beth’s shoulders, half-playful, half-comforting. Mary-Beth lets out a wet laugh.

“Oh, no - I told you, I got over that crush ages ago! It ain’t that. Well... not just that,” she admits. Tilly gives her a squeeze.

“Wanna talk it out?”

The women of the camp have an important role to play – the place would be a shambles without them. It’s one of Miss Grimshaw’s favourite lectures – the men may keep the camp going, but it’s the women who keep it strong, who make it a home. Keep the place clean, keep it tidy, make sure that folks have clean plates to eat off and clean clothes to wear that aren’t full of holes. The difference between outlaws and common bandits, Miss Grimshaw asserted, could be measured in bars of soap.

But house chores weren’t the only thing the girls were needed for; they helped keep the camp sane. Tilly’s fond of most of the men in camp, but Lord; emotionally constipated, the lot of them. Couldn’t sort through their own issues if their lives depended on it. And all their lives depend on it, in a way. The Van der Linde girls could pick a pocket, get a fella drunk and rob him blind, play as a distraction, and Karen was damn good with that shotgun of hers. But it was the men who pulled in most of the big heists, the big money that kept them afloat, kept them with enough stores of food and medicine and bars of soap. The gang needed their men to be able to keep their heads when the bullets were flying. And so, if things seemed to be getting real dire, they’d have to grab one of the boys before he got too wrapped up in his own head, sit him down, and make him talk it out. And they’d been doing a lot of talking, lately.

“I just... I’m just wonderin’ where we’re all headed.” Mary-Beth admits in a small voice. “We been on the run for so long now, and I know- I wanna believe that as long as we all stick together then everything will come out right, but...” Another sniffle. “But now we’re losin’ folks – the Callander boys and Jenny. We nearly lost John, nearly lost Sean, nearly lost Lenny, nearly lost Dutch himself in Valentine. I mean, Christ Almighty, even I got a gun held to my head the other week when that coach robbery went sour. But Arthur, he... he always... and now he...”

Life with the Van der Linde gang is surprisingly full of constants: Javier’s lovely music, Charles’ unreadable expressions, Jack’s uncanny ability to find the biggest bugs around camp, Sean’s constant banter, and Arthur’s steadfast protection. Seemed like since the Van der Linde gang had been a gang – certainly since Tilly had joined them – Arthur had been there, looking out for them all, keeping them all safe, coming to their rescue when they got into trouble they couldn’t handle alone. Putting himself between them and bounty hunters and bandits and Pinkertons and O’Driscolls and all other manner of nasty folks, with that little quirk of his lips that said everything would be okay. And maybe Tilly’s been reading too many of Mary-Beth’s romance novels, but now their enforcer and protector, their sword and shield, is down for the count and...

And when you think about it, it’s terrifying. Because if Arthur can be taken out, then what hope do the rest of them have?

It’s about noon, and Tilly’s wondering about life, and where it’s going to lead them. But she still wraps Mary-Beth in a hug.

“He’s gonna be just fine. And someday you’re gonna use this in one of your stories as the part where the hero gets hurt, but he’ll get back up again, and everyone will get to live happily ever after. Just you wait.”

It’s early in the evening, and Hell, Karen thinks, is a place on Earth.

Specifically, Hell is other people’s socks. And shirts that have been worn for five days straight. And Lord, don’t get her started on the underwear. But socks, she particularly hates.

So when Pearson asks her to take a bowl over to Arthur’s tent, she jumps at the chance, chucking the socks she’s darning to deal with (or fob off onto someone else) later. Pearson’s been brewing up broth like a man possessed – never mind the fact that Arthur ain’t woken up yet and it’s all they can do to slowly dribble a few spoonfuls into his mouth and hope they don’t accidentally choke him. But that ain’t stopped the camp cook from actually trying to make something edible for the first time in his damn life, perhaps in some weird attempt to atone for his role in this whole mess – he made Sean go into town and get him some beef bones, since they were the most nutritious or something like that. Hell, he even asked Charles to collect some herbs for him ‘since I know Mr. Morgan likes his food over-seasoned’ (“or with any flavour at all” Miss Grimshaw had muttered from behind her sewing).

And that’s another funny thing. Sean’s been real... clingy, these past couple of days. Before he went off into town in search of beef bones and a whole shopping list of herbs and tonics from Hosea, he’d sought her out and just... hugged her. Wrapped her up and held on tight. And he’s been sticking close by most of the time since. Not being a pest like he usually is, just... just being beside her, letting their knees or boots or fingers brush against each other.

(You’d never get her to admit that she hugged him just as tightly.)

This whole business with Arthur has shaken up everyone. There’s a constant rotation of people in and out of his tent – Hosea, John, Grimshaw and the Reverend mostly, but the rest of them have been taking their turns to keep watch over him, or keep the others company during their vigil. Most of the men are being weirdly mopey – Trelawney came back from his ‘reconnaissance’ trip to town earlier in the day with word of a stagecoach carrying payroll, and even Uncle jumped at the chance to get out there. To escape the depressing atmosphere maybe – at least, that’s what Micah had declared as he’d swung up onto his horse. But the others – Uncle, Bill, Sean, Javier – mounted up while casting guilty looks towards the ammunition wagon. Maybe this was some bizarre attempt to make up for their lack of action while Arthur had been a ‘guest’ of the O’Driscolls. Or maybe they were just unhappy about not having their best gun around to watch their backs.

Karen slips through the flap of Arthur’s lean to – they kept the front and side ones down to give him at least a little bit of privacy (not that Arthur’s awake to appreciate it), but had taken to pinning the back flap open during the day to let some fresh air come in off the lake. It kept the tent from turning into an oven during the heat of the day – and blew out the nasty smell of infection and sickness too. Karen’s eyes first land on Arthur, still looking exactly as he had last time she saw him; ashen, coated in sheen of sweat, unmoving. But then she looks to the figure in the chair, and pauses.

Grimshaw is hunched in, worrying her handkerchief in her hands. One of Mary-Beth’s books described a character as looking ‘despondent’, and Karen would say that’s about what Miss Grimshaw looks like right now. It makes sense, Karen guesses – the old dragon has known Arthur since he was a kid, stands to reason she’s got a soft spot for him.

“Got some broth, Miss Grimshaw.”

The older woman jumps and looks up at her, before tucking her hanky away, smoothing her skirts, and sniffing loudly.

“Thank you, Miss Jones. Help me get him up?”

Karen sets the bowl down on the table, and together they manage to somewhat get Arthur into a sitting position, Karen seated behind him and being careful of his injuries. And she hates how his head lolls on her shoulder, hates that someone usually so strong, so sturdy, is now completely dead weight against her. But she adjusts herself anyway, helping to tilt his head as Grimshaw carefully spoons some of the broth into his mouth, waiting a while between each one. Arthur can swallow, sort of. The Reverend said something about automatic reflexes and only partial unconsciousness, said this was a good sign. And Karen ain’t no doctor, so who’s she to say whether he’s talking a load of shit or not?

But it’s been near on three days since Arthur returned, and he still ain’t showed any signs of waking up proper. And they’ve been spoon-feeding him broth or water or honey and milk every couple of hours since yesterday. And what goes in has to come out, you don’t need to be a doctor to know that. But that ain’t happening. To the point where Karen had actually hoped for a foul smell as she pulled back the blankets to shift Arthur. Karen hates laundry duty, but she’d wash Arthur’s bedding every damn day if it meant his body was working right. But it clearly ain’t.

Miss Grimshaw only manages a few spoonfuls, not even half a cup, before some broth starts dribbling from his lips. Miss Grimshaw wipes it away, sniffs again, and they keep him upright for a few more minutes before lying him back down. Karen collects the bowl, pauses on her way out.

“Has he...?” she gestures vaguely, but Grimshaw had looked after enough wounded over her time with the Van der Linde gang to know what she means.

“No. Not at all.”

“But, don’t that mean his insides ain’t working right? What if he’s hurt in some way the Reverend can’t-”

“I don’t know what it means, Miss Jones!” Grimshaw snaps. Sniffs again. And Karen stares.

“...Susan?”

She ain’t ever seen Miss Grimshaw cry before.

She sets the bowl down, pulls up the stool someone’s brought in, tentatively puts an arm around her. And Grimshaw doesn’t weep, but she clasps Karen’s hand tightly as they both watch Arthur’s motionless form.

Evening’s getting on, and Hell, Karen thinks, is a place on Earth. Ain’t nowhere else people would have to suffer like this.

It’s morning – Jack isn’t quite sure what time because he doesn’t have a little clock like lots of the adults do, and even if he did, it’s very hard to read them. Uncle Hosea has been teaching him, but it’s so confusing! He knows they go from one to twelve O’Clock, and he knows you can have ten-past one, twenty-past three and so on. But when the big hand gets past the six, it’s not forty past seven, it’s twenty to eight, and you’re supposed to count backwards - counting forwards is hard enough! But Uncle Hosea says he’s very impressed that Jack knows his five times tables and that he’s very clever.

Jack is making his third flower chain of the day for Uncle Arthur. He got back to camp four days ago, but Jack’s not allowed to see him, because he has to rest. But it isn’t fair – everyone else in the camp goes in and out of his tent, except for Uncle Dutch and Mr. Bell. And it actually looks like a tent now, with the big covers pulled down. Jack doesn’t like that – it’s nice to be able to look over and see Uncle Arthur is there. But Momma promised that she’d take all his flower chains to Uncle Arthur when she goes to visit him. And there are lots of flowers around the edges of camp here – Miss O’Shea has been taking him around to pick the prettiest ones. Jack hasn’t talked to Miss O’Shea much before, but she’s actually really nice, she even lets him braid some flowers into her hair, and usually only Momma and Uncle Arthur let him do that. She even showed him how to make a flower crown! He made one for Uncle Arthur, but it wasn’t very good. He can’t wait to tell him about the big dragonfly he found down by the beach – he wanted to show it to Momma but then it flew away. He chased it and it flew near Uncle Arthur’s tent just as Pa was coming out, and Pa looked really sad. But then he saw Jack and yelled at him, told him “you know you ain’t supposed to be noisy around here!” And Jack tried to explain about the dragonfly but Pa was still mad and then Momma arrived and they started fighting again, so Jack went over to the other side of camp to see if any lost treasure had shown up by the shipwreck. It hadn’t, but at least it was nice and quiet, and there were more dragonflies. Not as big as the other one though. Maybe he can draw it and Momma can give that to Uncle Arthur too.

He’d already given her a drawing to bring him, last night. It was a drawing of Aunty Tilly playing with Cain, and Jack drew a butterfly too because those are pretty. And Momma had said it was a really good drawing. But then she’d said something real strange.

“Jack... you know your Uncle Arthur loves you, don’t you?”

And Jack had said yes, and he loved Uncle Arthur too, and he loved Momma.

“And you know he’d never leave us unless... unless he had to, unless he had no choice. You know that right?”

Jack isn’t sure if she means leave like Mr. Trelawney does, or leave like Uncle Davey had. But he didn’t ask. Said he knew that Uncle Arthur would always be there. He couldn’t wait for his fifth birthday – he’d promised him he’d teach him how to ride! And Momma had done that thing adults do when their mouth smiles but their eyes look sad. She said that Uncle Arthur really liked the flower crown, and that she’d take his drawing to him. And then she’d gone to Uncle Arthur’s tent, and he could quickly see Uncle Hosea and Aunty Susan when she pulled back the door flap, but he didn’t get to see Uncle Arthur. He hopes he liked the drawing too.

It’s sometime later in the morning, maybe late enough that’d he’d have to count backwards, and Jack gets to work on his fourth flower chain. Maybe today he’ll be allowed to give it to Uncle Arthur himself.

Fucking hell, it’s late. And fuck that Adler woman, the frigid bitch. Letting women be on watch duty is ludicrous in Micah’s opinion. Misses Adler and Jones may look all tough with their shotguns, but Micah bets they’d run squealing at the first sign of real trouble. And he’d told Mrs. Adler when she’d shown up to take over from him, invited her to his tent instead, and the goddamn whore had slapped him and said next time she’d shoot him! Bitch. Agh, she ain’t even that good looking anyway.

Micah strolls back through camp, rubbing at his still-smarting cheek, when he pauses. From this angle, he can see into Morgan’s tent – they’d left the front flap up, for whatever reason, and he can see Swanson sagging in the chair. But it’s just the Reverend keeping watch – everyone else has gone to sleep.

And Micah’s night suddenly improves immensely, because he’s just had a most wonderful idea.

He heads on over to Morgan’s tent, casually shutting the flap behind him. Swanson is snoring softly, chin dropped on his chest. What a waste of fucking space – in fact there are a lot of freeloaders in this damn gang, Micah doesn’t know why Dutch keeps them around.

“My dear Reverend!” he simpers in his best ‘it’s a pleasure to see you’ tone. Swanson wakes with a snort, looking around blearily.

“Mr. Bell? Oh, Heavens, I must have dozed off. Oh, Mr. Morgan! Is he-” and Swanson’s checking his charge over, feeling for a pulse, listening to his chest, and Micah can’t help but roll his eyes at the whole pantomime. God, everyone was putting up such a fuss over Morgan. You’d think they’d just lost another hundred and fifty thousand dollars, the way they were all carrying on, moping around, looking worried and miserable. Micah just doesn’t get it. If Morgan can’t handle a little heat, is stupid enough to let himself get captured, then who the hell cares if he carks it?

Micah’s still pissed about that. The Van der Linde gang has had a feud with the O’Driscolls forever, sure, but Micah’s made a point of studying the habits of the remaining outlaw gangs through newspapers and the like over the years. He knew Colm would have hidden men too, had been counting on it when he invited Morgan along. He just wishes they hadn’t done such a sloppy job. But then, if they’d been more competent, Micah would miss out on the fun. Silver lining, and all that.

His thoughts are interrupted by Swanson’s heavy sigh.

“No change. Oh, Mr. Bell – I am afeared I will be saying his last rites.”

“Oh, don’t say such things Reverend. We can’t lose Mr. Morgan, what’ll we do without him?!”

Swanson sighs again, and Micah can smell the whiskey on his breath from here.

Perfect.

“I only wish I could do more,” he wails, slumping back into the chair.

“No, no, Reverend, you are doing God’s work here. I am sure Mr. Morgan will pull through in your capable hands. I only wish I could do more.” Micah removes his hat, hangs his head. “This is all my fault. You have no idea, Reverend, how much it pains me, wounds me, to see a brother in arms laid low. If only I could bear his pain, I gladly would.” He looks up beseechingly at Swanson, and the man is nearly in tears himself. This was almost too easy.

“Oh Mr. Bell, you are not to blame for poor Arthur’s plight! Those dastardly O’Driscolls-” he’s interrupted by his own belch.

“But if there were only something I could do,” Micah continues, “I must express my admiration Reverend; you are such a good man, such a knowledgeable man, such a kind man, watching over poor Mr. Morgan day and night.” Micah ain’t into fishing, but he’d say he’s got a bite, the way the bumbling idiot is looking all puffed up and pleased. “And, I wonder, if, maybe... perhaps I might join you? I shall never be able to atone for what I have caused, but if I can be here for my brother, if my presence might be of any help in some small way...”

“‘A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.’ My dear Mr. Bell, you are most welcome here,” Swanson declares fervently.

So Micah pulls up the spare stool, waits ten minutes, thinks about that pretty half-caste girl he saw at the saloon, and that fat old idiot he swindled. Like candy from a goddamn baby. Speaking of which...

He glances over, and sure enough, Swanson’s head is nodding, mouth hanging open. Time to reel this sucker in.

Micah clears his throat and Swanson snaps upright, giving himself a shake.

“Reverend, your constant care is truly admirable, but you must be exhausted! Please, why don’t you go get some rest?”

“Oh, no, I can’t leave Mr. Morgan unattended-”

“I will come and get you if there is any change whatsoever, you have my word.” Micah does earnest pretty well, if he may say so himself.

“I don’t know if I should...” Swanson dithers. Micah wracks his brains, trying to come up with some bible nonsense.

“‘To help others, we must first help ourselves,’” yeah, that sounded about right, “go on, Reverend, get some rest, you deserve it. I will remain vigilant here, I promise.” He puts his hand over his heart for added effect.

“Well, I suppose a few hours’ sleep won’t hurt...”

“Not at all, not at all. Good night, Reverend.” And with that, Micah ushers the wretched moron out of the tent, shutting the flaps up nice and tight behind him. Waits until he hears Swanson’s stumbling footsteps fade away before turning back to Morgan. Fucking hell, he looks like a piece of shit that the cat spewed up.

He plants himself in the chair, waits another ten minutes just to be sure Swanson isn’t gonna come wandering back with a case of guilty conscience. But all remains quiet.

He gives Morgan’s cot an experimental kick. The whole thing shudders with the impact, but Morgan doesn’t stir. Micah feels a grin coming on. He stands, reaches down and tugs one of the pillows out from under Morgan’s head – the sentimental fools were even giving up their damn pillows in the hopes of making an unconscious man more comfortable, honestly. It was enough to make him gag.

Pillow in his hands, Micah stares down at Morgan’s pale face.

“Not so high and mighty now, are ya?” he whispers. And oh, won’t it be such a tragedy, poor Mr. Morgan succumbing to his injuries and dying quietly in the night? He adjusts his grip on the pillow, leans forward-

And is interrupted by a low, deep growl.

Micah whirls towards the tent flap. The little brat’s dog has somehow nosed his way through and is standing in the entrance. Hackles raised, growl rumbling in his chest. Watching Micah with eyes that suddenly seem far too smart.

Micah shakes himself. It’s just a damn dog.

“Get outta here, mutt.” He makes a shooing motion, but the dog stays there. Micah huffs. He’ll beat the damn thing with his belt later. Right now, he’s busy. He turns back towards the cot-

And the growl turns into a full-blown snarl, revealing big, sharp teeth.

Micah swallows, looks at the dog, looks at the pillow in his hands, looks back at the dog, looks at Morgan.

The dog takes a step forwards, and Micah tosses the pillow to the ground.

“Fuck it, I ain’t gonna risk ending up as ugly as Marston. I’ll deal with you later, mutt,” he spits, before ducking out of the side flap.

Cain doesn’t really have a sense of time. But he knows when one of his packmates is hurting. Now that the nasty one is gone, he steps in, licks at the hand dangling over the side of the bed. When he gets no response, he sits down beside the bed, and stays on guard through the night.

It’s twenty-seven minutes to eight, and Leopold Strauss is trying to do his sums.

Strauss is not, as a rule, a god-fearing man – he prefers logic and reason, the elegant truth to be found in numbers. But if he were, he thinks he could safely say that His wrath Incarnate was currently in the Van der Linde camp.

Ms. Adler had wandered past a few minutes earlier, returning from her watch post, and had stuck her head into Mr. Morgan’s tent. Only to swear so loudly it alerted half of camp.

“Shit, is he breathing?!”

Once it had been ascertained that Mr. Morgan was in fact still alive, but burning with a fever even worse than yesterday, and buckets had been brought up from the lake in order to soak the man in wet rags to try and bring his temperature down, the shouting had started.

Mr. Van der Linde, when angry, is a frightening man. Strauss has never been on the receiving end of one of his tirades, and he never wishes to be.

But Mr. Matthews.

Mr. Matthews is utterly terrifying.

After everyone had yelled over each other for a few minutes, it was also ascertained that Mr. Bell was supposed to be watching Mr. Morgan, and had abandoned his post, so to speak. And now Mr. Matthews is laying into him with such ferocity that everyone else has taken several steps back. Heaven hath no fury like a protective parent, Strauss muses as he watches the proceedings over his spectacles, having given up on his accounts book while the racket continues.

Finally, Mr. Bell slinks off, metaphorical tail between his legs. People are still rushing in and out of Mr. Morgan’s lean-to, but things are quiet enough that Strauss can get back to work.

Over the past few days, he has been taking stock of the camp’s funds, doing some financial forecasting. And things are not looking good.

He’s run through the calculations half a dozen times. Mr. Morgan is the highest-contributing individual in the camp, in terms of money or assets, both permanent and temporary. He has the highest average contribution record in terms of dollar input, and frequently contributes supplies such as food and medicine, thus decreasing their outgoings significantly. Not to mention his gun-slinging skills have allowed the gang to partake in higher-stakes heists than lesser marksmen could afford to attempt, increasing the gang’s average take overall.

With Mr. Morgan unavailable, Mr. Smith has had to devote all his time to hunting – even Mr. Escuella has had to start fishing on a more regular basis to keep the food stocks from falling too low. Pelts and rare scales can be sold, yes, but not at a rate that can match intake from jobs. And Misters Smith and Escuella are also two of the gang’s highly-skilled guns – with more of their time devoted to keeping the gang fed, less money will be brought in.

No matter which way he tallies things up, no matter how conservative his allowances, or austere his calculated outgoings are, he keeps reaching the same conclusion:

This gang cannot survive without Arthur Morgan.

It’s four minutes past eight, and the commotion around Mr. Morgan’s tent has died down, people going back to worried glances and hushed whispers. And Strauss is not a god-fearing man.

But he prays for Mr. Morgan’s swift recovery. For all their’ sakes.

It’s noon. It’s time. Today is the day.

Dutch straightens his vest, re-sets his hat on his head, and makes his way from the main campfire towards Arthur’s wagon.

Gets within five paces.

Swerves and swings by his tent, grabs his fishing rod, heads for the beach instead.

His grip on the rod conveniently hides how his hands are shaking.

The days since Arthur’s return have been... confusing. Arthur did look truly dreadful when he came in, but Dutch assumed that after a night’s sleep and some good old-fashioned TLC, he’d be back on his feet and about camp in no time. Because that’s what Arthur always did. There was that time when he was a kid, and he came down with that nasty influenza bug and barely left Hosea’s bedroll for five days straight, but other than that Arthur has always been...

Strong. Reliable. Loyal. Always able to push through, because he knows Dutch is- he knows people are counting on him.

So, Dutch had just presumed that as he smoked his morning cigar, Arthur would emerge from his tent, looking worse for wear sure, but upright. But this time, he didn’t. So Dutch smoked a second cigar – it had been a hell of a night for all of them after all, and Arthur was probably just sleeping in a little, perfectly reasonable. But by the time he’d finished with the second one, Arthur still hadn’t come out of his tent. And he didn’t come out the morning after that. Or the morning after that. Or even the morning after that. And this morning it was Mrs. Adler who came running out, yelling that Arthur’s hardly breathing.

And that had kicked the camp into action. And that’s what’s confusing Dutch the most. Not the fact they so care for their brother, no, that’s good, keeps the gang together, keeps them strong, unified. But the mood in camp has been glum these past few days. Dutch had thought – had privately hoped – that Arthur’s capture and subsequent escape would galvanise them, inspire them, that they’d want to get out there, do their work. Dutch had made one of his finest speeches, in his opinion, on the subject – about avenging their brother, not with bullets, but with money. With success. The best way to pay back Colm O’Driscoll? It was to get filthy stinking rich, and rub it in his face. Show him that their way of life led to true freedom, leave him and his mongrels behind, scrabbling about for dimes like the lowlifes they are.

But instead, the opposite seems to have happened. Everyone is reluctant to leave camp. Mr. Smith only leaves to hunt, then comes straight back, and cannot be persuaded to go out on jobs. The girls will not go into town for a bit of light robbing, in case Susan needs them for something. The boys will go out if given a task, but also return the moment the job’s finished – no one’s sniffing out leads. Thank God for Micah. Mr. Strauss, weasely little man he is, had pointed out that Micah ain’t actually been bringing much money in – and what of it? At least the man’s out there, taking some damn initiative! And as for John... John’s been the worst, outright refuses to be outside of a fifty-feet radius from Arthur. Stubborn boy. Dutch wishes he’d take a leaf out of his brother’s book and start giving a damn about the camp coffers.

Here’s the thing. They’re the Van der Linde gang. Van der Linde. His gang. His people. He picked up every sorry waif and stray here, gave them a home, gave them a purpose, gave them a life. All he asks for in return is their loyalty. He is, after all, at the center of it all. He’s their leader, their messiah, the man with the plans. He’s the linchpin holding it all together.

Except.

He’s been watching people go in and out of Arthur’s tent these past few days. Watching their worried gazes, listening in to their anxious conversations. But also their attempts to cheer each other up, their collective efforts to keep everyone’s spirits from dropping even further than they already have (and Lord knows, Dutch isn’t having much luck with that). But there’s nothing – no heist, no victory, no score – that’s ever brought the gang together like this before.

It’s... confusing.

He casts out his line, not really caring whether he catches anything. It’s just something to do with his hands while he thinks.

But then of course Hosea has to come up and interrupt his train of thought.

“Hosea,” Dutch greets, perfectly amicable.

“Dutch,” Hosea responds flatly. Dutch resists the urge to roll his eyes. He’s going to be the bigger man here, not going to mention that this is the first time they’ve spoken since the verbal hiding Hosea gave him two days ago. At least he was gracious enough to take Dutch out of earshot from camp first. And he does feel terrible about what happened to Arthur, he truly does, but how was he supposed to know he was going to get kidnapped!? Besides, he thought he’d taught the boy better than to get snuck up on by some dimwit O’Driscoll...

“Didn’t see you earlier. You been out?” Hosea asks neutrally. And Dutch has to resist the urge to scoff this time. Hosea knows damn well he hasn’t left camp today.

“No, just been busy, you know how it is.” He waves a hand vaguely, as if that could encompass all his responsibilities as their leader. He carries on staring resolutely out at the water, though he can feel Hosea’s gaze boring into him. But Dutch won’t give in. Eventually, Hosea sighs.

“Are you not even going to ask how he is?”

And Dutch does scoff at that.

“I had assumed that if you had any news, you would have told me by now.”

A long silence. Then,

“You should... you should really go to him, Dutch.”

Here’s another thing. Dutch does not fear death. He doesn’t.

But he does fear anonymity.

He fears not the bullet that will surely end his life; what he fears is that whichever battle is the one to end him, will be... unremarkable. Will be nothing more than a footnote in a history book, if remembered at all. He fears that all he’s done, all he’s achieved, all his life’s work will just be... forgotten. He hasn’t done enough to cement himself in the history books yet, to create his legacy.

Because with a legacy, comes immortality.

And Arthur... Arthur always gets back up. Always. Except now he’s not. And that... that scares Dutch. He doesn’t want to see how bad a state Arthur’s in. Because Arthur is his greatest creation yet, and if he goes then... Then maybe it means Dutch is incapable of building a legacy. That he’s a failure. That he was wrong.

“I’d prefer not to embarrass him more than he already has been, Hosea. A man doesn’t like to be seen laid low.” Arthur especially didn’t, Dutch had made sure of that. Had to keep him strong. Hosea laughs, but there’s no humour in it.

“I’ve known you more than twenty years, Dutch Van der Linde, I know you’re squeamish. You should still go to him.”

“Are you saying there’s anything I can do to help?” he asks sardonically.

“I’m saying, you fool, that this may be your last chance to see him alive.”

Dutch turns to face him properly at that and... God.

He has never seen Hosea look so tired, or so old.

“His fever... it’s worse. Ain’t nothing more we can do. It’s like his body’s making one last stand. Orville reckons that by tonight either the fever will break, or... or we’ll lose him.”

And Hosea’s spun on his heel and is halfway back up the beach before Dutch can choke any words out.

He turns back to the lake. Stares unseeingly at the water’s surface.

The wood of the rod creaks in his grip.

He thinks about legacies. Thinks about linchpins.

It’s getting late at night, and Dutch hasn’t gone.

Instead he sits on the washed up log on the beach, unable to bear being in the main camp. Literally everyone, save Micah and Bill who are on watch, is in camp. Word always spreads through the gang like wildfire, and now they’re all here just... waiting. Even Molly has spared him her usual nightly tirade about some perceived slight or another, instead sitting with Abigail and Jack by the main campfire. Even the horses are upset, stamping and snorting more than usual, picking up on their riders’ anxiety no doubt. Atlas has recovered under Duffy’s care, but has pulled out his hitching post three times in an effort to get to Arthur. They’ve had to start tying him to a tree. Dutch puffs heavily on his third cigar, listening to snippets of low, nervous chatter.

Chatter that suddenly goes quiet.

Dutch spins around, heart freezing in his chest.

Hosea has emerged from Arthur’s tent. From this distance, Dutch can’t read his expression.

Seconds tick by like eons.

“He’s awake!”

From the cheer that goes up, you’d think they’d just pulled off a hundred thousand dollar heist.

As Dutch makes his way through the crowd of excited well-wishers – and they part to let him through because of course they do – he thinks that maybe, maybe he’s not the only linchpin.

And as tired blue-green eyes meet his, he finds that he doesn’t mind.

It’s a quarter to one in the morning, and John’s finally managed to convince Hosea to go to bed.

Well, okay, it was probably Arthur’s gentle Go to bed old man, y’look worse than I feel that did it, but John will take the credit for wearing down his resolve first. Now it’s just him and Arthur – John sitting backwards on the chair, resting his forearms on the backrest, while Arthur is propped up on nearly every pillow in camp, much to his embarrassment. Any of his mumbles about ‘don’t need to make such a fuss’ were quickly drowned out by the crowd of rowdy outlaws crammed in and around his tent, insisting that he shut up and let himself be looked after for once. Arthur had eventually given up, looking bewildered at all the attention. When his brother had started to look too overwhelmed, John had taken it upon himself to kick everybody out. It hadn’t been too hard actually, since he’d had some unexpected muscle to help – Atlas, goddamn beast that he is, must’ve heard Arthur’s voice, bitten clean through his tether, and had barged his way into the lean-to, pushing everyone and everything out the way to get to Arthur. And John knows for a fact that Arthur’s got cracked ribs and cringed when the horse shoved his big head towards his chest – but Atlas had stopped up short, instead giving his rider a good sniff all over while Arthur had patted his neck.

“M’okay, boy.”

John never thought he’d say a horse could eye up something critically, but he swears that’s what Atlas did, turning to gaze at Arthur with one dark brown eye. After he went and licked Arthur right up his face (“Mmrrlgh!”), he was apparently satisfied, and let Charles lead him away.

After that it was just Dutch, Hosea and Grimshaw to contend with. Grimshaw had started crying near as soon as Hosea had said Arthur was awake, and hadn’t stopped (“You stupid, stupid boy! Don’t you ever scare me like that again!” “Yes Miss Grimshaw.”) Dutch had laid a hand on Arthur’s knee, a proud smile on his face.

“Welcome back, son.”

Then he’d led Miss Grimshaw away, declaring they all needed a stiff drink. Hosea and Arthur had talked while John attempted to keep Cain out, his tail wagging so hard his entire back end was swinging. He’d only caught snippets of their conversation – Hosea apologising again and again for not rescuing him, Arthur telling him not to, Arthur apologising again and again for getting caught, Hosea telling him not to, Hosea apologising for not stopping them from walking into a trap, Arthur apologising for worrying them, and in the end John had to interrupt before someone else started crying.

Now it’s just the two of them.

And John knows Arthur needs to rest but... but he just wants to stay a little longer. Because John’s spent a lot of time in this chair over these past few days, and he was worried that he weren’t ever gonna see Arthur awake again. And he has to say it, before he loses his nerve. Has to say it before things go back to normal and him and Arthur stop talking to each other outside of jobs. Because... he’d just sorta thought that they’d have time to work things out, once Arthur had finally forgiven him. Because Arthur always forgives him, eventually. But when he’d come out of his tent and seen them dragging Arthur towards his, covered in blood and unable to stand on his own, he’d had the horrid realisation that maybe they’d never have that time.

And... and he misses his big brother, dammit.

So, he says it.

“I’m sorry.”

Arthur’s eyes slide towards him, brows raising faintly in question.

“You... you always come for me, when I’ve gone and got myself stuck. And I didn’t come for you. I wasn’t there, when I shoulda been. And I’m, I’m sorry.”

John’s not even entirely sure if he’s just apologising for not rescuing Arthur from the O’Driscolls, or something more. But he can’t bring himself to meet Arthur’s gaze.

“John.” His voice is level, betraying nothing.

Maybe he’s gonna brush off the apology with some mean comment, like he has with all the apologies before. Maybe he’s gonna give him shit for being so damn sentimental. Maybe he’ll just accept it but then not say nothin’ and things will go back to normal no matter how John wishes they wouldn’t.

But Arthur does none of those things.

Instead, what he says is, “I... I really need t’pee.”

And John can’t help dissolving into surprised giggles, giddy with relief.

“Ain’t funny, asshole!” Arthur groans, but there’s no real anger in his voice, so it only makes John laugh harder, muffling himself on his arms because it’s late and if he gets caught keeping Arthur awake he’s gonna get yelled at.

“Have you- have you been needin’ to-” he manages.

“Since I woke up? Yeah. But everyone was makin’ such a fuss, couldn’t get a damn minute to myself to go outside.”

“Hosea will kill you himself if you try and get outta bed, you know that.”

“Yeah I do know that, that’s why I’m askin’ you.”

“And that’s only if Grimshaw don’t beat him to it.”

“C’mon John. All the times I snuck you outta camp, and you won’t even help me get to the bushes?!” Arthur isn’t pleading, not quite, but it’s a near thing.

“There’s a chamber pot right under your cot here,” John taps it with his boot. The deadpan look Arthur gives him only makes him start giggling again.

“Who’da thought - Arthur Morgan, Notorious Outlaw, Wanted Man, and Complete Prude,” he snickers.

“Marston.”

“All right, all right,” John relents. Because yeah, he really doesn’t think getting up and about is good for Arthur right now, and Hosea will have both their hides if he finds out. But he knows his brother hates feeling weak, hates feeling useless. Figures that right now, the potential damage inside his head is more important to deal with than the damage to his body. The least he can do is help him take a piss with some dignity.

He stands, moves the chair back, then steps over to Arthur’s table. Picks the entire thing up and shifts it towards the end of the bed. Arthur watches him curiously.

“We’ll go out the back way, less chance of someone spottin’ us.”

“Jesus, you that scared of the old folk?” Arthur snorts. But his smirk falters when he sees John’s own expression.

“You nearly... People were real worried about you Arthur,” he murmurs, “you scared everyone pretty good. Ain’t just gonna let you get hurt again. C’mon,” he says quickly when Arthur starts to look guilty, leaning down to get his good arm around his own shoulders. It’s a struggle, to get him to standing, taking Arthur a lot longer to get his feet under him than John would like. But they manage it, and after John’s stuck his head out to make sure the coast’s clear, they slowly make their way towards the bushes out behind Strauss’s wagon, keeping quiet as possible. Arthur’s leaning heavily on him, which is really a bad thing, but hell if it doesn’t remind him of all those times they’d snuck back into camp, giggling and hissing at each other to be quiet in turns. John sets Arthur next to a tree he can lean against. Starts to walk away to give the man some privacy, but not before he catches him trying to undo the buttons on his new union suit with one hand. Huffs and goes back over, quickly undoes the couple that are important.

“Christ,” Arthur grumbles, but John’s just glad his face is flushed with embarrassment, not fever.

“Cheer up old man, most people are glad when someone else is undoing their drawers! You need me to hold it for you too?” he teases.

“Fuck off,” Arthur half-growls, half-laughs. Immediately regrets it, by the way his hand goes to his ribs, and John winces on his behalf. But he seems steady enough, so John leaves him to it.

He wanders back over to Arthur’s wagon, looks over their supplies as best he can in the faint lamplight, thinks they might need to stock up on rifle cartridges. Hears the snap of a twig somewhere behind him, suddenly realises he’s gonna have to explain why Arthur ain’t in his cot. Turns around while trying to wipe the slightly terrified grimace of his face. But the figure he can make out shuffling towards him isn’t Hosea or Grimshaw.

“What’re you doin’ you idiot?!” John hisses as he stalks over “Why the hell didn’t you wait for me to come get you?!”

“’m not completely useless John,” Arthur mumbles back “I can still walk thirty damn feet-” And then his legs go and buckle underneath him. John half-manages to catch him, grapples with him as he attempts to hold him up in a way that won’t hurt his shoulder or ribs. Fails, judging by the tiniest of noises that comes out of Arthur’s throat, and the way he’s buried his face into John’s shoulder, breathing hard.

“Okay, I’ve got you, you’re okay, just, take a breather for a second, I’ve got you...”

Eventually, Arthur gets his breathing back under control and John gets his arm around his shoulders again, and they slowly shuffle back into Arthur’s lean-to. And John’s as careful as he can be, but this time Arthur can’t bite back a groan when he has to sit down on the cot and get his legs up in front of him. John tries to arrange the pillows behind him as he eases him backwards, trying to keep him comfy, while guilt crawls up his spine. When he pulls back, Arthur’s several shades paler than he already was, sweat beading on his brow. John doesn’t think twice about grabbing the cloth from the bowl of water that’s still on the table and starts lightly dabbing at his face, like he has so many times over the past few days. And it’s testament to how truly shit Arthur must be feeling, that he doesn’t even protest, just leans into John’s other hand against the side of his head, eyes closed.

After a while John tosses the cloth back onto the table, but stays perched on the side of the cot for a little longer. Uses the thumb of the hand against Arthur’s head to tentatively trace a still-healing bruise on his cheekbone. Arthur inhales through his nose, blinks his eyes open.

“Mm, s’rry,” he grunts as he shifts, leaning back into the pillows more.

“You want some whiskey? For the pain?” John asks. Arthur shakes his head slightly.

“Nah. Head’s clear f’r the first time ‘n days. Don’t wanna get all fuzzy ‘gain.”

And John’s not sure about ‘clear’ – Arthur’s drawl always gets worse the sleepier he gets. But then he blinks at the implication.

“You were awake?”

Arthur hums, looking up at the canvas ceiling.

“Sorta? Sometimes? I could hear voices summa the time, damn felt it when someone moved me. Think... think people were holdin’ m’hand a lot.” He frowns. “But ‘m not sure how much of it was real n’ how much was jus’ dreams. Had... had some real weird dreams. But... but it was nice. Not bein’ alone.”

His eyes keep fluttering closed, but he cracks them open, meets John’s gaze.

“Thank you.”

And John’s not sure how to deal with the level of sincerity in those two words.

“For what?” he huffs, ducking his head. “I didn’t... I wasn’t there-”

“Yer here now.” Arthur says calmly.

And John wants to protest, because in no way does that make up for his complete and utter failure... But those blue-green eyes look so sure. So he smiles a little.

“Get some sleep, Arthur.” He stands – doesn’t miss the look of uncertainty that flashes across Arthur’s face. “Don’t worry, I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

He grabs the chair, swings it round so it’s facing the cot proper this time. Sits down and settles back, arms loosely folded across his stomach. Toes his boots off and stretches his legs out, worming his feet under the blankets near Arthur’s shins. Arthur makes a face.

“Why’re your feet always so damn cold?!” he grouses.

“Ah, quit whinin’, ya big oaf.”

“Little brat,” came the automatic reply. They share a small grin, but then Arthur turns his head to the side.

“What’re these?” he asks, looking up at all the flower chains, at various stages of drying out, that Abigail has hung from his lucky horseshoe nail.

“From Jack. Abby let slip that she was hangin’ ‘em off that nail, then Uncle said something ‘bout the luck rubbing off on ‘em – so I think the kid got it into his head that every flower necklace he made you would bring you luck. Now there’s pretty much no flowers left ‘round here.”

Arthur huffs a laugh, winces, then settles back, still with a smile on his face.

“They’re real nice. He’s a good kid,” he murmurs.

“Yeah, well, hope you feel the same way about dragonflies. Boy’s obsessed. He’s got a big one he’s been going on and on about to anyone who’ll listen.”

And John rambles on about all the weird dragonfly trivia he never thought he’d know in his life, but has managed to pick up over the past couple of days, until Arthur’s breathing has evened out and his face is relaxed in sleep. Then John settles in, leans his head back against the chair. Can feel Arthur, albeit through the fabric of a union suit and socks, warm and alive.

John’s got no idea what time it is. But for the first time in a while, he feels like things are gonna be okay.

Chapter Text

It’s gone eleven at night.

Fitting, really, Hosea thinks dejectedly. The eleventh hour.

He’d re-covered Arthur with the blankets a while ago – the fever seemed to be coming down, and he had dared to hope. But Arthur’s skin, hot and clammy for the last five days, continued to cool – now it has a chill, and Hosea has half a mind to call out for someone to bring in more blankets. But he’s hesitant to contact the world outside Arthur’s lean-to. Partly because he knows that the moment anyone outside hears from him, they’ll get their hopes up. And partly because...

Partly because it feels like so as long as the rest of the world, with all its cold, uncaring cruelty, can be kept outside the tent flaps, then maybe Arthur can be spared.

Partly because he fears that if he takes his eyes off Arthur for even a moment, he’ll turn back to find his boy has slipped away.

After the initial panicked start to the morning, a peculiar mood had settled over the camp. Over the course of the day, as news of Arthur’s worsened condition spread, nearly everyone in the gang had visited his tent at some point – forever asking if there was anything they could do, if there was something they could fetch for him. The girls had been in and out all day, constantly bringing water buckets and fresh cloths to soak Arthur with, along with plates of food that Hosea can’t bring himself to eat. Mrs. Adler, ever practical, had offered to go and kidnap a doctor from town, Hosea just had to say the word (and he honestly wasn’t sure if he should feel heartened or concerned by her zeal). When Lenny delivered another cup of coffee, Sean had come in with him – quiet and subdued for once in his life, staring at Arthur as if, even after five days, he still couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, until Lenny gently tugged him away. Javier had come in with his guitar, said he’d heard that some people can still hear things even if they’re unconscious, so maybe Arthur would like to hear the new song he’s been working on (and the tune was indeed pretty – if not a little melancholy). Even Uncle had shuffled in, hat in hand – mumbled something at Arthur, patted Hosea’s shoulder awkwardly, then left. But Hosea could swear the man had tears in his eyes.

And a small part of him, angry and anguished and afraid, wants to ask them where all this care and concern was a week ago, when Arthur failed to return from the parlay with Colm. John had certainly snapped something similar at Bill this morning, when he suggested riding out to Saint Denis to see if the Chinese community there had any special herbs for fever. But Hosea’s seen enough people suffer a loss, experienced it enough himself, to recognise regret when he sees it. Knows that being asked for the hundredth time ‘shall I fetch you some tea?’ really means ‘I wish I could do something to help him’.

Susan and Trelawney sat with him for a while, quietly reminiscing about the first time they met Arthur, amusing themselves with stories from his youth (“Why, do you remember the first time I did the handkerchief and frog trick in front of him? He hid behind you or Dutch for the rest of the day! Boy wouldn’t come anywhere near me!”) Perhaps it was an attempt at comfort, and Hosea smiled and hummed and forced chuckles here and there. But really he wanted to demand to know why they were talking about Arthur as if he’d already passed, as if they’d already given up on him.

He’d left Tilly and Charles watching over Arthur when he’d gone to make one last plea to Dutch, to get him to come and sit with the boy they’d raised as a son, to be there for him. To let Arthur know – because maybe he could hear them – that Dutch still cared about him. The look on his face must have said it all when he returned, because Charles just shook his head sadly, squeezing Tilly’s shoulder as she clasped Arthur’s hand tightly in both her own.

Abigail was the last to come in – brought him a warmed bowl of stew, telling him he really should eat something. Promised, as she reached over to smooth Arthur’s sweat-matted hair, that she was taking care of John. And oh, John. He’d been with Hosea for most of the evening, until it became too much. He’s always had a restlessness to him, ever since he was a child – never been one to stand inaction. Having to sit back and watch Arthur battle a foe that couldn’t be shot at was clearly driving the poor boy mad – Hosea had sent him away a while ago, for his own good (and for the sake of his shirt, he’d joked weakly – and it was only then that John seemed to realise he’d been picking at the hem so much that it had frayed). So now, once again, he sits alone at Arthur’s bedside, watching Arthur’s chest weakly rise and fall, below a bright circle of fresh flowers hanging above him – one last flower necklace from Jack.

Last. Is this it then? Has he really given up on Arthur so easily too?

But the past five days have been among the worst in Hosea’s life. Arthur’s been hurt before, they all have; Hosea is no stranger to sitting at bedsides, offering care and comfort. But since he’d passed out on that first night – from pain or infection or sheer exhaustion – Arthur hasn’t stirred once. Orville had peeled back the bandages on his shoulder the day after he returned, and declared that as the bullet wound didn’t seem to be turning gangrenous, he didn’t think they’d have to amputate his arm. But the relief from that prognosis was short lived, as infection continued to burn through Arthur’s body. And Hosea’s not naïve – he’s seen what fever can do to people. Even if his body can mend, Arthur’s mind might have been damaged – Hosea’s heard tales of people waking up from comas but not remembering who they are, or who have to re-learn how to walk and talk. Others turn full idiot, unable to speak properly or do basic things like feeding and dressing themselves (and he’s not sure, these days, how much he believes in a higher power or ‘tempting fate’; but he can’t help but deeply regret making all those jokes about ‘Fenton’).

He wonders, if it comes to that, how long they’ll have. How much time Dutch will allow before he starts talking, gently, benevolently, about finding somewhere nice – a Convent-come-hospital or some type of convalescent home – where they can leave Arthur, where he can rest. Because surely, dragging him across the country in his state was an act of cruelty. That surely, abandoning their son to the care of strangers would really be an act of mercy. Because – and in the hushed seclusion of Arthur’s tent, he can admit this to himself – these past five days and more, Hosea’s sometimes looked at Dutch Van der Linde, his best friend and partner of over two decades, and felt like he was looking at a stranger. He used to believe all the nonsense Dutch spouted about them being above the law, that their way of life was more honest, more ‘pure’ than all the wolves who played at being civilised while preying on the sheep as much as they could, and called it progress. Used to believe in Dutch’s self-fashioned image as a Robin Hood of the Wild West, with his merry band of gentlemen thieves and good, honest conmen. Now he wonders if his greatest con was of himself.

Then Arthur’s breath – shallow, but steady for the past few hours – hitches, and he lets out a long, deep sigh.

Then there’s quiet.

And Hosea bows his head as his old, worn heart breaks.

Arthur wasn’t the first youngster he and Dutch had helped out, back in the day. Usually, they’d just buy the kid a hot meal, some new clothes if they needed them, and give them more than enough money for a train or stagecoach fare to get them wherever they needed to go, if they still had family somewhere. Or they’d use all their sweet-talking skills to persuade a local business to take them on as an assistant or apprentice. So when they’d stopped a scrawny child from being beaten by two grown men behind a saloon in some town Hosea can’t even recall the name of, he’d just assumed that things would go the way they usually did. He can’t remember if there was something specific about Arthur that made them invite him to come back to their camp with them instead. But it’s one of the best decisions they ever made.

But perhaps he was selfish. Perhaps he should have insisted on finding Arthur a place to work – a stable somewhere, he’d always been good with horses – as soon as he was old and strong enough to lift a hay bale. Because what sort of life had they given him, really? Dutch would say that they saved him; freed him from the shackles of a society that cared naught for poor orphans, taught him skills like reading and writing and horsemanship and hunting. More importantly, he’d say they’d given him freedom, that they’d taught him there was another way to live, outside of a ‘civilisation’ that was structured to benefit the few at the expense of the many.

But they’d raised Arthur into an outlaw. Into a thief and a killer. Into a man with a four-digit price on his head. They’d destroyed any chance he might have had for a normal life, multiple times, by keeping him with them – when he was a scared and malnourished fourteen-year-old, when he was engaged to Mary Gillis, when he had a son of his own. True, Arthur had flourished in their care, and there was a time when Hosea’s heart would near burst with pride looking at the confident, competent young man that scrawny, frightened child had grown into. But now, he wonders.

What could Arthur have looked back on in his life, with fondness, with pride? What did he have to show for all those years he’d devoted to the pair of crooks who dared call themselves fathers? Had they raised a son, or a disciple? Or an attack dog? He’d wanted to believe that he would leave Arthur, and John, and all the rest of them, in a better world than the one he and Dutch found them in. But now, all he will leave Arthur with is a crude wooden marker.

Give my love to Bessie for me, he thinks, squeezing Arthur’s cold hand in his own one last time. And to that sweet boy of yours.

Had they really saved him, that day behind the saloon? Or had they just prolonged his suffering?

As tears blur his vision and grief tightens his throat, worse than any noose, a voice at the back of his mind wonders how he’s going to tell the others.

And then the hand in Hosea’s own squeezes back.

He jerks upright, staring, shock mixed with disbelief mixed with hope so fierce it burns. And blue-green eyes – glassy, bloodshot, unfocused, but open – blink back at him.

And the rational part of Hosea’s brain, the one that can case a joint or pick a mark or judge a job in an instant, is telling him that they’re not out of the woods yet, knows that this could be worse, not better. He’s even heard of some unfortunate souls who wake up from fever-induced comas, but are unable to do anything more – alive, awake, but unable to move, unable to communicate. A fate worse than death, especially for someone like Arthur. He had decided this morning, that if it came to that, and it seemed Arthur truly wouldn’t recover, then he would not let his boy waste away, trapped in his own body. He would make it quick, even though he’d spend every second of the rest of his life loathing himself for it. He owed Arthur that, at least.

But Arthur’s eyes focus on him, and he takes a shuddering breath.

“’sea?” he croaks.

And Hosea can’t stop the soft sob that escapes, despite the fact he’s smiling so hard it hurts, as he reaches out to gently stroke through Arthur’s hair.

“Arthur. Oh, my boy. My dear, brave boy...”

“Why-” Arthur rasps, before coughing weakly. Hosea pulls himself together, reaches over to the table to grab a cup of water, and helps Arthur raise his head with one hand, carefully tipping the cup to his lips with the other. Arthur drains it before sagging back into the pillows, looking around blearily.

“...’m at camp...?”

“That’s right,” Hosea says gently, smoothing Arthur’s hair off his face, “you made it back.”

“Back?” Arthur peers at him in confusion. “Where’d I go?”

You went right into a trap. I trap I saw and did nothing to protect you from.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Hosea asks instead. Part of him hopes that Arthur can’t remember any of it – that he’ll get away with only physical scars, and be spared any mental ones left by whatever horrors the O’Driscolls put him through. Arthur just frowns, looking up at the canvas.

“Trelawney... took me t’rob some singin’ lady. And then we... Pearson wanted to talk to Dutch because-”

He tries to sit up suddenly with a gasp.

“Shit, they- it’s a trap, they’re gonna-!”

“Calm down, calm down, it’s okay, look at me, Arthur, everything’s okay,” Hosea soothes, carefully pushing him back down. Hopes no one outside heard that, because he wants to make sure Arthur really is okay, at least mentally, before letting the others know he’s awake.

“The law-”

“The law ain’t none the wiser to whatever plan Colm had for us, and they don’t know we’re here. You escaped, Arthur. You made it back five days ago. You did so good, son. I’m so proud of you...” he keeps up the calming tone and gentle touches until the panic leaves Arthur’s face and he slumps back into the pillows again.

“Five days?” he whispers hoarsely.

“That’s right. Gave us one hell of a scare, kid.” He tries to say it lightly, hoping that the old joke – because Arthur has protested at being called a kid since he was a kid – will mask five days’ worth of fear and heartache. But something must show in his face, because Arthur’s hand finds his own again, giving it another squeeze.

“I’m still here, old man,” he murmurs.

“That you are,” he concedes softly, smiling as he carries on carding his fingers through Arthur’s hair and Arthur leans into the touch, eyes slipping closed.

And he wants to be selfish again; wants nothing more than to tuck his boy in and curl protectively around him like they used to when Arthur was small and plagued by nightmares. Anything to keep that cruel, cruel world beyond the tent flaps at bay for a little longer. But he knows he’s not the only one who has been desperately hoping to hear Arthur’s voice again these past five days.

“Gonna let you sleep,” he says gently, “but everyone else will want to see you too. Think you can stay awake just a little longer?” Arthur seems lucid enough – and God knows, the gang could use some good news.

“Hmph, not had anything to gawp and gossip about for a while huh? Sure, send ‘em in,” Arthur grunts, struggling to sit upright. Hosea bites his tongue to keep from snapping ‘we’ve all been worried sick about you, you self-deprecating fool!’, instead helps Arthur up into a sitting position, when Arthur pauses, looking down at himself, apparently only just noticing he’s not wearing anything but bandages.

“Uhm...”

“We needed it to be easy to treat your wounds,” Hosea offers in explanation.

“How many people is ‘we’?” Arthur asks, sounding a little dismayed.

“Oh, don’t fret mademoiselle, we preserved your modesty where we could,” Hosea soothes, lips quirking. Arthur just huffs in annoyance, then winces.

“Mighty considerate of you,” he drawls as Hosea goes to the chest at the end of his bed.

“Now, I took the liberty of having Sean pick this up for you in town. Thought a nice blue would bring out those pretty eyes of yours!” he says with forced cheerfulness. In truth, he’d told Sean to get any colour that wasn’t red; if he had his way, he’d never see Arthur in red again. Never wanted to be reminded of the night he returned to them – red fabric of his union suit dark with blood, red skin flushed and sickly with fever, red injuries, angry and swollen and turning septic, covering his body.

Arthur just eyes the union suit Hosea’s holding up dubiously.

The next few minutes are filled with much cursing and grumbling on Arthur’s part, as Hosea helps him to wrestle himself into the union suit without moving too much. Hosea doesn’t understand why he’s making such a fuss; he’s seen Arthur naked more times over the years than he cares to count, there’s not really much room for luxuries such as modesty in their way of life. But he tries to muffle his laughter nonetheless – it wouldn’t do for the others to hear and all come to investigate; Arthur’s blushing hard enough as is.

“All right,” Arthur sighs once they’re done, gingerly leaning back into the pillows, “send in the peanut gallery.”

Hosea lets himself laugh now, giving Arthur one last pat on the knee before slipping out through the tent flaps. And you’d think Arthur had plague, not bullet wounds, the way everyone was sitting so far away from his wagon – as if frightened of whatever was on the other side of the canvas. But there’s a ripple effect as they notice him, and every single face turns to him, all of them somewhere on the spectrum between anxious and hopeful.

And Hosea can’t keep the grin off his face.

It stays there as he watches from the corner of Arthur’s tent, as the others delight and fuss and tease and tell Arthur they knew he’d pull through all along. Not even Dutch’s blustering can put a damper on his mood – not when Arthur is smiling like that, even if he does seem a little dazed by all the attention. Hosea claps Orville on the shoulder, thanking him for his work, hands his handkerchief to Susan when hers is streaked with tear-smudged eye makeup, and cheerfully ignores John nagging him to go get some rest himself. Nearly goes against his better judgment and grabs Atlas’ halter when the big brute forces his way into the tent – but stops when he sees he’s just checking on his rider. And he could swear he got ten years younger just from standing next to Kieran when Arthur thanked him for taking care of his horse – the surprised-but-beaming smile on the boy’s face could probably cure most ailments.

And it’s almost ironic, he thinks, looking on as the rest of them finally disperse, still with big grins on their own faces, still calling back jokes and well-wishes to Arthur as they head for their tents, or to the fire for a celebratory drink. Because Arthur, despite how well he plays the role of intimidator, has always been quiet, always been shy, never sought attention or admiration – actively avoided it, most of the time. And yet, he seems to inspire that loyalty that Dutch craves so much.

As he steps back to let Charles lead Atlas away, he silently makes a promise to himself. Never again. Maybe this thing with the Grays and the Braithwaites will work out, maybe not. But even if not, he’ll find something. One last con. Something big enough to get them the money they need. He won’t stop until his family has enough that they can disappear, and finally be safe. He doesn’t want to see Arthur, or any of them, covered in red and barely clinging on to life ever again. He’ll find something to save his family. Even if it’s the last thing he does.

But for now, he rights the chair that Atlas had knocked over (but thankfully didn’t stomp to splinters), placing it back at Arthur’s bedside and taking a seat again as Arthur leans back into the pillows, looking tired but happy.

“Told you they’d be pleased to see you awake,” Hosea says, resting his arm on the pillows so he can carry on carding his fingers through Arthur’s hair, smiling fondly when Arthur leans into it again.

“Still surprised they ain’t already divvied up my stuff,” he mumbles, “which reminds me – if I do kick the bucket, you get my cot. Tell Sean I said to keep his paws off.”

“Don’t- don’t talk like that, Arthur.”

He can’t keep the strain out of his voice this time, and Arthur hums at him questioningly.

“I’m so sorry,” Hosea says softly, after a long moment – carrying on stroking through Arthurs hair, but unable to look his boy in the eye, looking at the lump in his union suit where his shoulder is swathed in bandages instead. “I shoulda saddled up Silver Dollar and gone out to find you the moment we realised you were missing. And instead I let myself be talked into-”

“Hey, come on now. Ain’t your fault,” Arthur protests, but Hosea just shakes his head.

“I should’ve known better, hell I did know better, I knew it had to be goddamn a trap and I still didn’t-”

“And so did I, but I still went along anyway. Colm played us all for fools. And I shoulda known they’d try something – they saw us, on the way, saw there was three of us, they musta known Dutch’d have a lookout somewhere when only him n’ Micah came over to talk. I was just too stupid to keep a lookout for myself.”

“You ain’t stupid, Arthur,” Hosea says sharply, “I know we tease you, but you ain’t. You were smart enough to get away, all by yourself – we’re the idiots who should’ve realised something was wrong sooner. I should’ve realised the moment Dutch and Micah came back without you. And instead I just sat here fretting like an old maid...”

“I’m sorry, for worrying everyone,” Arthur says quietly, and Hosea looks up at him then, silently berating himself once again; despite over twenty years of trying, he’s never been able to keep the boy from taking responsibility for things that weren’t his fault.

“Don’t be,” Hosea says gently, shifting to sit on the side of Arthur’s cot, hand curling over his good shoulder. “You did good, Arthur. You did so good. I’m so proud of you. Though,” he sighs, “I wish I didn’t have to be...”

Arthur gives him a confused look.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” he manages to say around the lump forming in his throat. “I’m sorry you had to go through all that. I’m sorry you ended up there in the first place, that you- When we took you in, I never thought being held hostage would something that you risked by being with us, I thought we would always keep you safe, that we’d make a better life for you, and now-”

“Hey, hey, come on, that ain’t fair,” Arthur argues, struggling to sit upright again. “You did give me a better life. You taught me everything I know – how to read and write and ride and shoot and... and you taught me...” Arthur’s eyes are getting glassy again – but for a different reason this time, Hosea suspects; because his eyes are starting to sting too.

“Before I met you, and Dutch, I was... I didn’t think anyone would ever... I was all on my own, hell, even my own pa didn’t give two shits about me when he was alive, and I thought I’d never- But then you...” Arthur swallows thickly, pressing his lips together.

“I had to escape, Hosea,” he finally whispers, “I couldn’t let you come for me and walk into a trap, I’d rather die than... you’re my family, I...”

Hosea makes a soft sound and gently tugs Arthur towards him, carefully hugging him. Arthur brings his good arm up to hang on to Hosea tightly, burying his face in the crook of his neck like he used to when he was that scared child, looking so much younger than his fourteen years, unable to articulate his terror and how much he needed, craved just the slightest bit of comfort, of human kindness that he’d gone without for so long. Hosea tries to think of the last time they’d done this, the last time he’d held his son, and doesn’t like how he comes up blank. He makes another promise to himself. More hugs, for both his sons, who have been taller than he is for years but still couldn’t express their feelings if their lives depended on it. More hugs, more pats on the back, more quiet talks over coffee in the mornings, more reminding his boys that they’re the most precious things in his life.

“I know,” he whispers, pressing his lips to Arthur’s temple. “Love you too, kid.”

Arthur hangs on to him, breaths a little ragged, until someone loudly clears their throat.

“Hate to ruin the moment,” John drawls as he sticks his head in through the flaps, “but if I don’t let this dog come see Arthur, he’s gonna pull my damn arm off.”

Sure enough, Cain’s tail is wagging so hard he’s almost vibrating, and he whines excitedly when he sees Arthur as John pulls back the tent flap a little more. Hosea helps Arthur sit back again, busies himself with tucking the blankets around him and pretending not to notice him roughly wiping his eyes.

“Say hello to Cain, but then you should get some rest, Arthur,” he tells him. Arthur just grins, even if it is still a little tremulous.

“Yes ma. How ‘bout you follow your own advice?”

His smile softens when Hosea quirks a brow at him.

“Go to bed, old man. Y’look worse than I feel.”

Hosea just huffs, pretending to swat Arthur upside the head – but smooths his hair one last time before standing.

“Sleep well, son,” he murmurs. “Don’t keep him awake too long, John,” he adds as John passes him, Cain practically dragging him into the tent.

“Yeah, yeah, I won’t- Jesus, hey, no, down you stupid mutt! His ribs got enough of a beatin’ as is!”

“Aww, quit bein’ sour, he’s just happy to see me, arntcha boy? C’mere!”

“Ow! Goddamn- not helping, Arthur!”

It’s a quarter to one in the morning, and Hosea is doing his best not to cry.

Because, glancing back one last time at his boys – at Arthur, upright and smiling as he pets and coos at an ecstatic Cain, and John, grumbling as he holds the dog back by the scruff, but all the while watching Arthur with such blatant relief and exasperated fondness – he can’t remember the last time his old, worn heart felt so full.