Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

November in the Grizzlies is cold and unforgiving, and Charles is feeling it’s wrath. 

Surviving has always been something of a sport for him, no longer a test of nature against man but a long feud that generally simmers and only occasionally rises to a boil. Yet even for the expert, winter in the mountains is nothing to be taken lightly. It’s a fight that Charles knows he can win but still doesn’t take any chances with. 

Pack full of food, salted meats and grains, nothing in cans that will stick to his frozen skin and flay his aching fingers. Guns holstered and away for the same reason, though still accessible. His bow is his primary weapon, always at the ready and vastly preferable to the ricocheting echo of a gunshot through the valleys and walls of the mountains. Wolves and the deadly cold are the only things liable to actually kill him, but their chances of doing so if he isn’t careful are better than his chances of surviving a chance encounter. 

Charles had been planning to cross the Ambarino region in order to get to the eastern tribes without running into any major settlements. Towns around Lemoyne or West Elizabeth made him extremely visible, and therefore an immediate target when traveling alone. He’d been with a caravan for a little over a month, but even then it did little to keep him from being noticed in places he’d rather not be. 

He might be safe, if he was quick and kept to the woods and plains. His chances were still better in Ambarino, with the wolves and the chill and the ultimate neutrality of nature. 

The snow is heavy and packed, obscuring any existing trails that he might be able to follow, but Charles follows any animal tracks he can find to guide him down a steep slope as safely as possible. He finds a decrepit old home on the edge of a lake that will keep him warm for a while, and is grateful for his luck. The snow is getting heavier, and is beginning to soak through his players of clothing. It will freeze to his skin soon, if he doesn’t take advantage of the lakehouse.

Charles is nearly to the house, maybe another ten minutes at his current pace, when smoke begins to roll from the chimney and the small windows are lit with the light of a fire. He hadn’t seen horses, but the rocky outcroppings and an oddly angled covered stable behind the house mean that they could be easily hidden. He’d assumed it was empty because everything was empty, save for a creature seeking shelter from time to time. It was a deadly assumption, now that he’d wasted time coming around the safe side of the lake to get to the house. 

The storm would likely kill him, were he to trek on long enough to find a new shelter, sparse as shelter was in these parts. He was better off seeing if the lake house's occupants were keen to share their safety, and seeking alternate shelter only if that went poorly. Usually, people who are driven to stay in such conditions are sympathetic to others in the same position.

Usually.

Approaching the lakehouse slowly and with all his weapons sheathed and away, Charles takes off his gloves and raises his freezing hands in a peaceful surrender.

“Hello?” He calls out, nervous but steeled for whatever he might find. This close, he had been able to hear the slight murmur of voices, but they silenced at his call. After a tense moment, the door cracked open and a rough-looking blonde man stepped out with a vicious rifle held easily in his large hands and pointed at Charles.

“What’dya want?” The man calls back, his voice gravelly and suspicious. Charles is unsure of whether he even wants to share the shelter with whomever has taken it up, but the bite of cold against his bare fingers is enough to curb his instinct to isolate. 

“Just shelter,” Charles calls back. “I’ll be moving on tomorrow, but we both know this storm will kill me if I don’t get out of the cold.” The man just stares at him, clearly undecided, and snaps something quietly back at an unintelligible voice from the house. “I have some food, to make it worth your while.”

That seems to be enough to peak someone’s interest from inside, because a different voice barks, “Just let the man in, Arthur, you oversized guard dog.” The man with the rifle, Arthur, rolls his eyes and lets the rifle drop from being directly pointed in Charles’ direction. He’s still readied though, as if to say, Don’t try anything.

As if he would. Charles is nearly ready to weep in relief at the mere idea of a true fire for the night.

Stepping onto the porch of the house, Charles nods at Arthur gratefully. He’s relatively handsome, and clearly the muscle of whatever their group is. About the same size as Charles, if an inch or a few shorter, with a nose clearly broken more than a handful of times. His expression is hard and attentive, and Charles can’t blame him for it when he realizes that inside are way more people than he’d been expecting. 

A woman with a young son, who's clearly been crying for a long while now. Two other women are comforting her - one of them dark-skinned, which comforts Charles greatly. A few more men and women are sleeping or eating scraps of food, bundled up and clearly desperate. One of the men stands, and the immediate silence that ensues tells Charles that this is their leader.

“Welcome to paradise, friend,” the man says with a laugh. He’s smooth, charming. Charles is suspicious off the bat, but he can’t deny feeling strangely at ease as the man ushers him inside and right beside the fire. “What’s your name?”

Charles pulls back the somewhat obscuring hood of his coat, looking him and everyone else watching in the eye. “Charles Smith,” he says, nodding again in greeting to each face turned up to him. They do not look afraid, and it eases Charles enough that he kneels beside the fire and places his hands as close as he can without burning himself.

“Dutch Van der Linde,” the leader says, and there is a pause after that makes Charles feel like they are waiting for a certain reaction. When he says nothing, Dutch chuckles and nods, seemingly relieved. He sees Dutch flick his hand deliberately, dismissively, and thinks that maybe Arthur had been readied for a poor reaction of some kind. Charles makes it very clear that he didn’t notice a thing, and keeps his guard up. 

“What brings you to the Grizzlies, Mister Smith?” The older man who’d been sat beside Dutch speaks up, leaning forward to reach out and shake Charles’ hand. “Hosea Mathews, a pleasure. We don’t run into many in these parts, which I’m sure you can sympathize with.”

“I can,” Charles says, and watches as Arthur sits down beside Hosea. A younger hispanic man moves to make room for him even before he reaches the spot, making Charles think Arthur must be one of the primary members of their group. A caravan, or perhaps a gang. Interesting. “I’m moving east, but I don’t fear the mountains. It was safer to move this way than through the plains.”

“Mm. Clearly so,” Hosea says, thoughtful. He has a smooth demeanor, too smooth to be unpracticed, but he still sets off far fewer alarms than Dutch had. “You’re safe here for the night, at least. I know you’ve no reason to take us at our word, but you’re certainly free to get however comfortable you’d like to. Anything you could carry in that pack of yours, I’m sure we’ve already got.”

“Ah - right,” Charles murmurs, remembering, and slides his pack off in order to sift through its contents. The child, maybe three or four and already far too gaunt, seats himself beside Charles with a comfortable curiosity that says they’ve encountered strangers often. It reassures Charles, too, as the boy starts pointing at things and asking about them. His arrows, handmade and fletched with the mismatched feathers of felled birds. His hair, braided and beaded in the way of the Plains Cree. His skin, darker than other natives’ due to his split heritage. 

Charles’ answers are short and direct, and he’s relieved when it doesn’t put the boy off his questioning. His mother dissuades him at one point, saying “I’m sorry for Jack, it’s just been some time since we’ve met anyone new.” Her name is Abigail, and she has the sharp face of a woman who has seldom cowered in her life yet hasn't been hardened by that fact. Charles likes her and her son immensely, and without doubt.

“No need for apologies,” Charles says to her, soft and easy, and then says to Jack, “You’re smart. Keep asking questions, it will always do you well.”

He hands a strip of salted deer to Jack and revels in the pleased noise he gets in return. Charles watches curiously as Jack, without hesitation, begins breaking it into pieces and handing the bits off to others. Charles hands Jack three more strips of the meat, and allows the boy to distribute it. It feels fair somehow, like there’s no way to really dispute the act of a child. It also speaks strongly to their unity, their loyalty, the morals born and bred into this group of ragtag people clearly running from something.

Charles meets Arthur’s eye while watching Jack flutter around the cabin. He looks less suspicious than before, taken over more now by something intrigued. Still wary, of course - Charles still is himself - but he seems to be paying attention now to more than just any quick movements. 

“Thank you for your generosity,” Charles says, “I hope you’ll forgive me asking for one more thing.” 

“Being?” Hosea says, leaning back against the wall with a curious lift to his brow. 

“A damn cigarette.”

Arthur coughs a laugh, clearly startled. Dutch laughs as well, followed by Hosea and a few of the others that were paying attention. It’s charming, and makes Charles decide to trust them. Lightly, and only for now, but trust nonetheless.

“C’mon with me,” Arthur says, grunting as he stands. “I’m sure I’ve got a few in my saddlebag you can take for your own.”

It’s surprisingly generous, and Charles nods as he stands to follow. 

The cold is more bitter, more biting now that he’s been tucked up by a fire for an hour or two. It’s fierce, but ignorable as Arthur leads him around an outcropping where the wind is blocked. There are horses, maybe ten or twelve, and various wagons packed with supplies. It’s impressive that Charles hadn’t seen any trace of them leading up to the lake or the cabin, but it was also snowing heavily enough to cover tracks in hardly an hour.

“You on foot, then?” Arthur asks as he digs through a saddlebag, producing a half-full pack of cigarettes and offering them to Charles after taking one for himself. They’re somewhat crushed, one or two of them surely broken, and the best thing Charles has ever seen. They’re a relief, after weeks of being too far from civilization to partake in any luxuries. 

“No,” Charles starts, then pauses as Arthur strikes a match for the both of them. The sweet, acrid taste of the smoke draws a sigh out of him. “My horse is up the mountainside, not too far. She’s safe and fed, for the moment. I had doubts that any shelter adequate for me would have space for her, and I couldn’t move quickly enough with all the supplies, so I had to compromise.”

Arthur nods, humming thoughtfully as he closes his saddlebags back up. He looks at Charles thoughtfully, then huffs a laugh. “Well, shit. You wanna go get her? We can ride, borrow Nell or somethin’ and bring her here right quick. If you leave your things here, you can be sure no one will know it’s here. It’s not a guarantee that your things won’t get stolen, but it’s the closest I can give you to a promise.”

 Charles thinks for a moment, having few hesitations but not willing to seem too eager to trust. “Yes,” he says slowly, after a thoughtful pause. “I would appreciate that.”

“Alright, then,” Arthur says, and flicks at the brim of his hat as if it helps him think. He takes the reigns of a sturdy-looking Kentucky Saddler and leads her to Charles, who greets the mare with quiet words and a gentle hand. The mare seems pleased after a moment of uncertainty, and lets Charles place his palm against her neck, flat and firm. Arthur watches with idle interest, a long line of ash clinging to the end of his cigarette as it burns away quickly in the cold. “Her name is Nell. Well, Nell the Second, but she answers to Nell. Seems like she takes to you well enough,” he says, perhaps a bit more kindly than before. 

“I take well to horses,” Charles says, by way of explanation. That seems to be enough for Arthur, because he simply hums, mounts his own horse without another word and clicks her into motion toward the cabin. Only a moment behind him, Charles leaves his pack and takes only his bow and quiver, mounting the mare without even a nicker from her.

Arthur hollers to Dutch, and explains to him where they’re going when the man steps outside to inquire. He doesn’t ask Dutch, which Charles finds interesting considering the apparent dynamic of the group. It’s further proof that Arthur is one of the primary members, and holds more power than one would assume at first glance. Yet, he doesn’t seem particularly smart or talented, aside from sheer strength. It must’ve just been duration, then, that put him in such a high position of power. No matter your personal use, seniority will always prove a point in gangs as loyal as this one seems. 

They follow the bare remnants of Charles' tracks through the snow, not too far buried by the storm due to Charles’ being on foot going down the slope. Landmarks help too, and an arrow jammed into a rock’s crevice to point the right way when the path forks and drops off dangerously in the opposite direction. The walkway is narrow, but not treacherously so, and leads to a relatively hidden cavern in the stone where Taima stands, nonplussed but clearly pleased to see Charles. Taima and Nell II sniff each other curiously, but Taima is otherwise occupied as Charles dismounts and immediately buries a hand in the loose layers of her mane. He tugs on one of her braids, and Taima chuffs, twisting her neck to nip at him playfully. Charles chuckles, and digs through one of the smaller saddlebags to grab a handful of sweet, small mushrooms. Taima happily takes a few, and Charles looks to Arthur before offering some to Nell II or his own mare. Arthur is leaned forward in his saddle, arms folded just above the horn and face lit as he laughs quietly. 

“You are,” he starts, waving Charles on as he feeds a handful of mushrooms to the other two mares. “Not really what you seem,” Arthur settles on after a moment of thought, which actually draws a soft laugh out of Charles himself. 

“I suppose so.” Charles doesn’t shrug, but his tone conveys the action just as clearly. Arthur snorts, shaking his head. 

“Well, if that’s everything, let’s head on back. I’m sure your girl there is ready for some real rest.”

The ride back is quick, downhill and fresh with tracks as Nell II follows behind them diligently. Dark is beginning to settle in by the time they get back to the lake, and the lakehouse is a dot of light and smoke that brings surprising comfort to Charles.

As they get the horses back to the alcove along with the rest and dismount, and Charles gets Taima untacked, the two men are silent. It’s comfortable, an ease that Charles wouldn’t have thought them capable of so quickly after meeting. Charles doesn’t particularly like Arthur, but thinks that maybe that’s not quite accurate. He doesn’t trust Arthur, but wants to like him enough that it’s making Charles somewhat wary. Hesitant to look too long, to look at all.

Taima finally settled and integrated with the rest of the horses with relative ease, the two make their way back to the cabin. Charles intends to maintain the silence, unwilling to encourage further indecision on his own part. Yet, he can’t deny himself one final curiosity. 

“What’s your mare’s name?”

“What?” Charles doesn’t look up from where he’s watching his feet, walking carefully through the deep snow. 

“Your mare - an Arabian? What’s her name?”

“Adelaide.” Charles realizes that he no longer hears Arthur’s footsteps, and looks back. Arthur stopped a few paces behind him, bearing a strange expression that Charles has no hope of interpreting and wishes he didn’t care to understand. There’s a moment of hesitation before Arthur moves to catch up, no longer looking at Charles or anything at all for longer than a moment. “Her name is Adelaide.”

Chapter Text

He dreams of his mother’s strong hands building their tipi, her sister Sâkowêw laughing alongside her with their near-identical smiles. Nuna whispers to her sister conspiratorially, and they both look back at Charles with soft, adoring eyes. Nicawâsimis , Nuna says, and Charles lowers the partially braided strips of leather in his little hands to look to his mother. Nanâtawâpahtam kipâpâ, tâpwê piko ani?

Charles nods, and takes his leather strips with him as he stands to wander through the tree-tall tipis to find his father. Kiyâmapiw , says Sâkowêw, and he does not see their concern but he can hear it in their voices as they fade out. Nuna’s quiet sigh has followed him for years. Êhê, wawânêýihtam . 

He wakes with a jolt to the dim winter sun, and breathes a sigh like Nuna’s. 

The lake house is quiet, full of the soft sounds of breathing and a few snores and chuffs as the sky only just begins to lighten from night. Charles rises, carefully stepping around the sleeping bodies of strangers to pad out onto the porch and light a cigarette.

Arthur is there, hunched over a faded journal bound in red leather. His hand holds a pencil hardly more than a stub, dwarfed by his large hands. It’s strangely charming, seeing as there’s another pencil wedged in the back of the journal that looks new. Like he simply prefers to get all the use out of the thing as he can. Charles has a thought that he’s probably not used to having another lying in wait. He’s only got a moment to make the observation, as Arthur seems to remember himself and closes the journal quickly, hiding whatever it was that he was filling the pages with. He looks up, but Charles is already looking away to focus on lighting the given cigarette. The lack of attention seems to soothe the rising spines of Arthur’s defensive exterior, and he relaxes even further as Charles deliberates before handing the cigarette to him to share.

“Mornin’,” Arthur says belatedly, taking a grateful drag. The smoke blows out through his nose in a seemingly endless cloud as warm, foggy breath replaces the exhalation. Charles turns his eyes back to Arthur as if now he is allowed, their gazes meeting mildly.

“The storm is moving south,” Charles says. He squints at the horizon, trying to see the differentiation in the clouds. Arthur grunts, nodding as he passes back the cigarette. 

“It’s about time. We’ve been stuck in this damn house for days.” Arthur looks up as a younger but haggard-looking man steps quietly out the door onto the porch with them. They share a nod, and the man looks to Charles with a crooked half-smile.

“We been introduced yet?” 

Charles puts out a hand in lieu of a response. “John, right?”

John nods and takes his hand, giving it a firm shake. “That’s it. It’s good t’meet you, Charles Smith.”

----

The caravan packs itself up quickly and efficiently under the sharp tones of an older woman whom Charles doesn’t know the name of. She feeds him at one point, putting a bowl of hot stew into his hands and bustling off before he can even say thank you, let alone ask her anything. They’re clearly a well-oiled machine with distinct and vital gears, all working to move each other forward.

He learns names and details over the day and a half that they all spend together. Hosea and Arthur are key figures, and he sees their chemistry; wonders how deep that loyalty goes. John and Arthur bicker like brothers, something which everyone seems to be accustomed to. The actual brothers, the Callander boys, are the hotheaded fools. Tilly is a sweet thing, a moral compass unmatched by anyone else Charles had met in the group. 

Dutch is a cog all his own. His care and charisma is something entirely separate from anything Charles has ever seen before. The members of the caravan bend and sway at his command like wheat in the wind. It’s almost unsettling, until Charles realizes he’s being treated with the same respect and kindness as the rest of them. Dutch has created a home for these people, and they cherish him for that fact.

Charles can’t blame them. A home sounds rather nice. 

He decides, after a wholehearted invitation from an entire group of people, to travel with them a bit longer. They’re headed east for now, which is the exact direction he’s going anyway. Charles is only trying to find somewhere safe to settle. His mother’s people are long gone, and he’s in need of security of some kind. This ragtag bunch of people offer not only security, but a hearty variety that Charles finds extremely charming. Brown skin and accented voices, a beautiful change from the areas of this world that have no interest in housing a man even darker than simply Cree. 

So he stays. And stays. And stays.

--

There’s two catches in all of the things seemingly lining up so well for Charles.

The first is that the caravan he’d tagged along with was, in fact, a gang. This isn’t a bad thing so much as a shocking one, but it makes sense when he puts all the pieces together. The ‘lovable misfits’ descriptor is true, but somewhat more sinister when you know they use that to their advantage. Yet, the things they take advantage of are the systems which failed them as individuals. Charles can understand that, has been that before. It’s hard to not deeply relate despite the hesitation he feels about crossing such a line for himself. Safety in numbers, yes, but if he joins their ranks he becomes a criminal all the same.

The second is that Arthur Morgan is more curious about him than Charles was ready for. The man constantly drifts to his side, addresses him in conversation, draws him in in any way possible. And Charles… lets him, allows himself to be corralled and directed by the man. It’s a strange sensation, but he feels that he and Arthur share something unique and unknown with each other.

Charles always wants to be closer, though. 

That might pose a problem. 

As time goes on, Charles cares less and less about something like that.

In taking care of the gang, Charles pays less attention to his feelings and more on survival. It’s the only option, when the winter is driving down hard around them and freezing out all their food choices. They’re living off rabbits and jerky, and hard tack for those who can stomach it. Some would rather their bellies ache, and Charles can’t entirely blame them. 

So he leaves for three days and brings back two deer.

After that, Dutch sings his praises for hours around the fire, gratuitously as always. Charles waves them off and watches Pearson gut and hang the two carcasses in preparation. They’ll hang for a few days, though they won’t cure as well as they usually would due to the cold. Charles doubts that anyone will spend much time actually tasting the food as it goes down, though.

In an impressive feat of stealth, Arthur places his hand on Charles’ unsuspecting shoulder. Charles jumps a bit, startling a laugh out of the other man. “My apologies,” Arthur says with a chuckle, sitting himself down on the ground beside Charles. “I just wanted to thank you.”

“For the deer?”

Arthur nods, and carefully lights a cigarette with cold fingers. “For helping. You’re pretty new around here, but you threw yourself into our troubles and helped solve ‘em.” He nods, thoughtful. “That was good of you.”

Charles thinks for a moment, appreciating the sentiment. “It was decent of me.”

With a surprised little snort of laughter, Arthur nods. “Decent is plenty around here.”

What an odd statement. It reminds him of the gang itself;

Soothing, but warning too.

----

They’ve been traveling together for nearly three months when Dutch decides to take the ferry at Blackwater. 

Arthur would’ve never let it happen, Hosea neither. That’s what anyone says when Dutch is out of earshot. It’s the biggest mistake of Dutch’s life, and Charles wonders how long it’ll take for that to start eating away at him. Charles sees it sometimes, that haunting little scene where Dutch reacted quick as a whip and shot the girl beside him like it was nothing. It casts across the backs of his eyelids like a picture show and eats away at even him for simply being a part of a blatant murder. 

It hurts to think it. Dutch must be grieving for more than just the girl.

Micah becomes a point of tension in the gang. Overall, the men like his gumption despite a job gone wrong and the women resent him for whispering all the wrong things in Dutch’s ear. It makes sense, all of it. Even Dutch, who seems so incapable of accepting what he did that he idolizes Micah instead. Arthur and Hosea are lost in their loyalty to Dutch and their moral compass screaming that something is wrong.

The gang is losing the glue that once held it so closely together. It begins to melt away with Dutch’s resolve and confidence. As long as Dutch lives in denial, the group can’t survive.

Charles sees. And sees. And sees.