Chapter Text
The needle moves as if it has a mind of its own. In fact, it kind of does.
You've been mending clothes for hours now, hands working on their own volition, confident in their movements after years of doing the exact same menial task, as you stare at the shirt you're repairing as if transfixed.
In truth, your mind is blank, exhaustion permeating every part of your being, muscles sore and tender from the heavy workload you've taken onto your shoulders.
It's all thanks to Williamson. Because of course it is.
The asshole had fucked up so bad that you had to move camps once again, leaving behind a sizeable amount of potential stolen goods and money, and thrusting more work onto the shoulders of everyone in the gang; Especially you and the other women.
What you wouldn't give for just a few minutes of peace and quiet and stillness.
A voice, deep and rough, halts your fingers. It lashes at you like a whip, in spite of the pleasant tone, the peace and quiet disturbed – a rock thrown into still water.
"Ah, hello, miss."
Your start, feel the pinprick of your needle before you see it, thin metal sliding through the flesh of your forefinger. It hasn't just breached your skin though; It's sunk into your finger so almost a fifth of the needle is embedded in you, and there's a slow trickle of blood emitting from the prick when you pull it out, all gentle and careful. The quiet rush of scarlet glides over your skin and you watch in tired defeat as it drips onto the white fabric you've been working on for the better part of half an hour.
Great. More work.
"Mr. Van der Linde," you reply, polite but short-handed, too fatigued to make real conversation, and cast him a sidelong glance.
He's looking as impeccable as ever, well put-together and handsome, his white sleeves rolled up above his elbows, revealing long expanses of sun-kissed skin and the dark hair strewn across his forearms. You wonder, as impulsive and brief as the thought is, what he would look like all disheveled and raw – what he would look like if he worked even half as much as you or miss Grimshaw or even Abigail, heavily pregnant as she is.
He's got a cigar curled between his fingers, a faint shroud of smoke floating in the air, curling around his head and throat with the familiarity of the gentle caress of a lover.
You press your bleeding finger past your lips and place it on your tongue. Its warmth and wetness soothe the sting, the metallic tang of blood spreading in your mouth.
"It's Dutch," he says, but it's strained – a mockery of the gentle cheeriness in his voice just moments before, and you turn yourself to face him better, to get a proper look at him, only to falter and freeze, caught in the stare he gives you. His eyes are dark, jaw set tight, and you can do nothing to stop the quiet shiver flowing forth within you. "How are you doing on a fine day like this?"
You slide your finger out of your mouth. There's spit sticking to it, your stained skin glistening in the sun, and you wipe it off in your already grimy skirt.
You think you see Dutch following the motion, the dark irises of his eyes shifting around until they eventually land on your face, but you're not sure.
Probably just the fatigue getting to you.
However, you are certain that his grip on his cigar had tightened, a small dent in the tobacco visible even from where you're sitting.
"I'm fine, sir."
Dutch looks as if your voice has snapped him out of thought and he clears his throat, takes a drag.
"I've seen you working, much more than usual. You must be terribly sore."
"Oh, I guess I am. It's been a busy few days. You know how miss Grimshaw gets."
Dutch chuckles, a low, rumbling thing that sends tingles down your spine. "I sure do."
He watches you for a moment, gaze searching in a way you're unused to, feel a scarlet flush rising in your cheeks. You avert your eyes, and focus on the needle and thread going in and out of the fabric instead.
Then, there are hands on your upper arms. Though you thought it impossible, you grow tenser, shoulders rising, breath catching in your throat. That is, until those hands - those big, warm hands – start making a path up and down your upper arms, soothing in a way that has the tension crawling beneath your skin dissolving like sugar on a wet tongue.
When they come to rest where your shoulders meet your neck, fingers dig into tender muscles
A moan brushes past your lips, faint and pitiful, but inevitable. You're aching, beneath it all, stressed and on edge after working yourself to the bone. Yes, it's somewhat miss Grimshaw's fault, but you wanted to help out as much as you could on your own accord too. She pushes you, but you're the one taking the leaps, damn near wrestling any and all heavy workloads out of Abigail's hands, even if she is only five months along.
It's like heaven, the way his hands move across the expanse of your back and work at the strain and stress contorting every part of your being, something strange yet tempting curling in your stomach when he delicately pulls at your sleeves, exposing the naked skin of your shoulders to the tepid weather.
"So tense."
Your mind, in that exact moment, catches up to what's going on, Dutch's voice much closer to your ear than before. Close enough to feel faint puffs of breath brush against the shell of your ear. He's moved behind you, rendering you unable to see him, your only point of contact being his strong hands on your shoulders. Your back. Your collarbones.
He's so soft-spoken, every word spoken with gentle charisma and sympathy, tongue curling around syllables in the most delectable way. And yet, he's so close that you can feel the vibrations in his chest when he speaks, giving his voice an air of menace – a predator soothing an unsuspecting prey.
"It has not escaped me, miss, that you've been working extra hard these past couple of days. Trying to make up for Mr. Williamson's blunder?"
Yes. That's exactly what you've been doing. Miss Grimshaw too. As much of a pain in the ass she is from time to time, you have to admit that she's only trying to do right by the gang, and you do your best to follow in her footsteps.
And you attempt to express this, say, "It's the least I can do,"
His laugh is a rumble. "Now you're just selling yourself short, my dear."
He tears another groan from you, thumbs digging into a particularly sore bundle of nerves in your shoulders. His fingers, deft as they are, grab onto and exterminate any point of stress or tenderness they can find, working over naked, pliable flesh, and you just sit there and take it, caught up in the wonderful relief of it all, eyelids fluttering close. Exhaustion takes over.
"I, too, have found myself in need of relief from all this stress, you know."
And you're wide awake.
You open your mouth to reply, to protest – assert that you never meant to imply otherwise and that you're grateful for everything he's done and does for the gang: For you. However, as your lips part, the words get stuck on your tongue, breath hitching at the exact same time your stomach swoops.
Dutch rests a hand on your throat.
It's a heavy thing, his rings cold against your flushed skin, fingers curled just enough to apply a gentle, yet unyielding pressure against your larynx, his skin coarse against yours. Your heart picks up speed, fluttering in your chest with the speed of hummingbird wings, and you know he can feel it because his thumb rests on your pulse point, pressing down slightly
"You know, there are other more pleasurable ways of helping you relax. Take your mind off of things."
You were shot once. In the gut. You remember so vividly the suddenness of the wound, the swell of equal parts warmth and mind-numbing pain in your abdomen. It rendered you lost and helpless – as if you were drowning – in the middle of a shoot-out, vision blurry, like you were watching everything through a window while it's raining. The only thing you could focus on through it all was the warm hands on you – the dash of bright scarlet by your side.
It feels like déjà vu.
Except now, along with the warmth in your gut and feeling of helplessness seeping into your skin, bone-deep, there's a throbbing. Lower than your gut. Between your legs. And coursing through your veins is something gushing and fiery and impossible to rule.
He moves further up, cups your jaw, fingers digging into bone. There is pain there, but it pulses along with pleasure. He could crack your jaw if he wanted to.
A part of you – a foreign part you did not know existed – would let him.
The tip of his thumb is on your lower lip, pulling down, barely dipping in. A brush of his fingertip over the dryness there has you releasing a shaky exhale. His touches are delicate but purposeful, akin to how an artist runs a paintbrush across his canvas. You cling to it, blooming beneath his caresses. They warm you like bright rays of sun from the inside out, flames licking beneath your skin in a way you've never experienced before.
"My tent is always open, dear." Breathless. Helpless. What can you do? "Come to me if you need anything. Anything at all."
He pats you on the cheek – his fingers like claws – and walks off as if nothing happened. As if he hasn't left you a blushing mess, heat curling and burning in the pit of your stomach, thighs rubbing together in a vain attempt to ease the pressure that's gathered at the crux of them, sensitive skin flush with goosebumps.
The promise in his voice, carefully wrapped in pretty words and resolute touches, is delectable and lascivious and terrifying all at the same time.
You carry on with your work. It's all you can do. Except, now, your mind is everything but blank.