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It’s night when Dutch stumbles through the door of the old house, a shack really, his clothes are plastered to his skin from sweat and the rain that comes in buckets from the heavens. His face stings with the sun burn from Guarma, beard long and itchy and he’s exhausted both emotionally and physically. He just wants some rest.
He pushes on the door and people rush up to greet him, his name is chanted as if he is some big hero, but he ain’t, not in the slightest. He sees Micah stood near a ladder with a smug look on his face; Dutch doesn’t even want to ask what it’s about. On a bedroll lays Javier, his injured leg supported on a sack of clothes, Charles is sat beside him seemingly free from harm. What catches Dutch’s eyes though is Arthur, his little boy, sat in the larger man’s lap.
“Arthur…” He whispers and watches as the boy’s head snaps up in his direction and splits in into a grin.
Charles stands with the boy when he feels Arthur begin squirming. Dutch feels his hands shake when he brings his son closer, nerves getting the best of him at the thought of holding Arthur after so long.
Charles passes him over and Dutch holds him tightly to his chest, probably crushing the poor child, his eyes feel dry and wet at the same time. He sees Abigail walk towards them, she seems pensive and Dutch feels the dread that passes through him.
“We buried Hosea, Dutch.”
Arthur squeals in his arms at the man’s name and Dutch feels his heart shatter. How do you explain to a baby that his pa is gone and not coming back?
The shake in his hands start anew and he gasps, suddenly feeling very vulnerable.
“A-Abigail. Can you, um, can you take Arthur please.”
“Dutch?” She questions.
"Please. Just, just take him.” He lifts the boy away from his chest, only for Arthur to give a grunt, his tiny fist clenching in his wet shirt.
“C’mon love, let go?” Abigail calmly requests, her hands gripping his waist to pull him back. He lets go with a scream, and Abigail pulls him to her chest as she desperately tries to quieten him.
Dutch looks down at his hands and sees the tremors before he hurriedly shoves them in his pockets. He feels everyone’s eyes on him, judging him, wandering what happened to dear old Dutch.
The door swings open and an enraged Bill storms through, shouting at Sadie to grab him a drink and how he tried to find them. His head rings with the arguing and the cries from his son.
“You asked everyone?” Dutch looks up when Charles asks in a rough voice.
“Well yeah! How else was I gonna find you!?”
“Dutch van der Linde! I know you’re in there!” The sound of Milton’s voice carries through the thin walls.
“Bill, you fool! You led them right to us!” Micah yells.
“Give them to the count of five… Actually… Let them have it.” Then the sound of a gatling gun firing up rushes them into action.
“Everyone get down!” Dutch yells and then everything explodes into a rush of movement, rounds of bullets penetrate the shack, narrowly missing them as screams and cries of the woman and children fill the air.
“Mr Milton! There are children here. Innocent children!” Dutch yells.
“Should have thought of that before joining the life of crime Dutch! You bought this upon yourself!” Then he turns to the man operating the gun, “hit them again.”
Dutch looks behind them to see Sadie and Charles crawling on their stomachs out of the back of the shack.
They had arrived at Beavers Hollow later that day after Charles and Sadie* cleared the caves. Molly had showed up and soon after was marked a traitor and shot. Arthur hadn’t stopped crying since they left Lagras, Dutch hasn’t seen him since the boy was boarded in the same wagon as the girls, Susan giving him an ugly look when Dutch just walked away to mount The Count.
He looks over to the boy in Mary-Beth’s arms, still whimpering. He looks as exhausted as Dutch feels.
“You have to buck up Dutch van der Linde. With that boy of yours. Hosea wouldn’t have wanted this.” It’s Susan, Dutch knows she’s right but that doesn’t quiet the rage he feels inside.
“Mr Matthews isn’t around to speak on it, Ms Grimshaw. Do not tell me what to do with my son.”
“Dutch, I’m serious.”
“So am I!” He yells, taking Arthur away from Mary-Beth before storming into their, his, tent.
Arthur goes down easy, the exhaustion from the day wearing on him and for that, Dutch is grateful.
As Dutch lies on the cot, a bottle of cheap beer in his hand, he feels the silence as if it were a weight on his chest. Absent is the physical weight of a man’s head against his shoulder, the soft breaths of the man who led beside him after so many years. The furs and blankets feel so cold without another person’s heat. Dutch misses the dip in the bed, the feel of a bony knee digging into his side, the sleepy murmurs against his ear at a ridiculous time in the morning. He misses Hosea. The only man that could ever talk down to him, his voice of reason.
Dutch looks over the stressed face of Arthur and finds he can’t bare the look of him, of his crib. Can’t shake the image of a laughing Hosea bent over the crib of the sleeping boy as he cooed in his sleep, the look Hosea had shot back at him with a bright and shining smile…
He’s not sure when he fell asleep, assumes it must have been somewhere between the third and sixth bottle, but when he wakes up it’s to Arthur staring at him.
He doesn’t greet the boy with smiles, little more than a grunt when he picks him up and walks out the tent. He drops Arthur off with the girls, young Tilly holding him close as Dutch walks away, unaware of the boy’s wobbling lip and big sad eyes staring at his retreating back.
He can’t bring himself to look too long; gone is the routine of feeding the boy his breakfast, of the time spent sat in the mud as Arthur had waddled between them and looked at them for reassurance before he giggled when he fell.
Dutch feels as if those times are long gone, without Hosea he feels empty. Like he’s missing a limb.
He shakes his head to rid the thoughts before he sits down with Micah and Bill with fake smiles.
By the third day, it was obvious that Arthur had figured out that something was wrong. Hosea had never left camp for so long, always coming back in a couple of days with a treat for the boy. He’s sat playing in the mud, his toy horse had been buried with Kieran after Arthur gifted it to him, Dutch looking over at him between pages of his book.
Dutch looks up when he hears a coo. Arthur is sat on the floor, a tiny fist pointing in the direction of the horses. He looks over and sees The Count stood at the hitching post, his head dipped when usually he held it so proud. The gang aren’t the only ones hurting, The Count and Silver Dollar were both raised together, near inseparable. Silver Dollar was left in Saint Denis when the Pinkertons grabbed Hosea, they were unable to retrieve him in time before he was whisked away.
He knows what the boy wants.
“Pah?” Arthur asks, lifting himself up to waddle over to Dutch and the man ignores him.
“Pah?!” He asks again, thinking his daddy hadn’t heard him.
“No”
That word he does know. He doesn’t like being told ‘no’.
“Pah!” He cries, bouncing on his toes, desperate.
“He ain’t here.” Dutch shouts. He doesn’t mean to. He feels so hot, head ringing with the boy’s cries and shouts for his papa.
The sudden loud voice scares the boy and he stumbles back, landing on his bottom. He whimpers in terror; his daddy has never done that.
Dutch hears Karen yelling at him as she picks up the boy but he doesn’t reply, standing up before storming into the depths of the cave where his little campfire lies.
The rest of the day sees Arthur sat near the girls, the poor boy to sad to play, wondering why his daddy suddenly wont play with him, where his papa had gone and when he’ll be back. Why daddy won’t tell him it’s all okay like he usually does when papa disappears.
Arthur avoids Dutch, his young mind warning him away from the man who shouts at him. It hurts knowing his own son is terrified of him.
He’d be a fool if he didn’t notice the other’s trying to keep Arthur away from him, ensuring that where Dutch is, Arthur isn’t. He sees them actively distracting the boy from him, in fear that if he gets too close Dutch is going to hurt him.
Hell, maybe I will. Dutch thinks humourlessly, but maybe he’s been hurting himself enough that hurting Arthur isn’t even a thought that crosses his mind.
Dutch feels as if inside he’s falling apart. He can’t bare the thought of hurting his son, their son, though he fears he already has. Hurt their boy, failed him in every way a father can.
As the boy cries at night, he leaves it to another member of the camp to comfort his crying son. The boy who Dutch hadn't let out of his sight since finding him hurts in a way that is unique to a father broken down by situation and circumstance.
During the days, Arthur crawls around camp in search of his father, trying to see Dutch and get some love, some reassurance. Everyone sees how Dutch avoids him. It’s hard to watch as the boy breaks his little heart over and over again, his tiny face crumbling when Dutch is just out of arms reach. John was brought home against Dutch wishes around this time, the man keeping Arthur company while he glares at Dutch’s back in betrayal for both himself and the boy.
Arthur doesn’t play anymore, barely eats despite how everyone tries to get him to. A boy so young exposed to so much death. Kieran, like his best friend. Sean and Lenny, like two older brothers. Hosea, his father. And even Dutch in most ways.
Arthur had stopped sleeping at one point, sadness and confusion keeping him awake. His crib had been moved out with the girls, Dutch unable to bring himself to help the boy, unable to calm him as he used to be able to, as Hosea was always able to. His nights were full of painful melt downs that no one could listen to without feeling the little boy’s pain.
It's one particular night when Dutch walks out from his tent; after the walls felt like they were getting close to choking him, the silence bursting his eardrums, the empty space beside mocking him for his loneliness.
He hears the painful screams and coughs of the boy, his son.
A nightly occurrence, like a record stuck on repeat; a heartbroken lullaby for the stars that no one asked for.
Dutch starts to make his way to where Arthur is, his feet light on the muddy ground, careful not to wake anyone. He pauses when he remembers how scared Arthur had been when he shouted at him and turns to head the other way. The empty space within his tent that terrifies him seeming better than facing his own son.
"Da... Da!" Dutch freezes when amongst the screams he hears Arthur call for him, his chest clenching as he risks a look and sees Arthur reaching out over his crib railing. His face is bright red, sticky with tears and snot, there's a lost and terrified look in his eyes as they dart around.
Dutch can't bring himself to walk away, can’t even look away. His eyes stuck on this boy, too young to look so afraid of everything, too young to know the horrors of the world.
Dutch can see the exact moment when Arthur realised he has Dutch’s attention; arms reaching out as far as he can, fists clenching, making grabby hands at Dutch, wanting daddy to comfort him.
Dutch swallows, chest feeling uncomfortably full. The boy looks like Hosea when he does that. When Hosea was tired and feeling lazy, or when he just wanted some affection, he would make the same grabby hands, with a grin on his face and Dutch would laugh.
There is no laughter. Not tonight.
Dutch clenches his eyes shut and let's out a shaky breath.
Arthur starts calling for him more frantically, terrified that Dutch will leave him again. Desperation driving him to begin hitting his tiny hands against the bars of his crib. He doesn’t want to be left alone again, Dutch can see that and hates himself for installing such a fear in the boy.
Arthur screams again, high and panicked and then delves into a coughing fit.
Without a second thought, Dutch rushes over. Nothing on his mind beyond helping his son calm enough to breath freely.
He lifts Arthur from the crib and clutches him to his chest, speaking soft words of reassurance into the boy’s soft hair.
“It’s okay, I’m sorry, baby, so sorry. Shh”
Dutch rubs a hand up and down the small back, whispering.
“Just breath, baby. You’re okay, shhh, you’re okay” Dutch chokes on his own sob, falling down to the floor with Arthur cradled to him.
“You’re okay.” His face is hot with tears as he rocks on the floor with his son, gripping him tightly.
Arthur clings to him with all the strength his little body could muster, making choked whimpering sounds when he gets each breath in.
“I’m sorry, Little Prince. Really, I am. I’m a little lost, but I’m trying. Please, you’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”