Work Text:
Despite his goal to get Dutch back to camp as soon as possible, Lenny doesn’t urge the horses to move faster, keeping the wagon at a steady but slow pace. Whenever he considers speeding up, Lenny glances at Dutch, studies his wobbly stance and dazed expression, and decides against it; he doesn’t want to make Dutch’s head hurt more, nor risk him fainting. His worries are pointless anyway, given how Dutch hasn’t complained about their speed once, but Lenny can do little but worry.
“Lenny, would… would you mind pullin’ over?” Dutch asks, snapping Lenny out of his thoughts, his voice laced with urgency.
“Sure thing,” Lenny says. He slows the wagon to a complete stop, turning to stare at Dutch. His passenger looks worse than ever, hunched forwards and hugging his elbows, his clammy face even paler, but Dutch doesn’t give Lenny long to look. Before Lenny can grab his arm, Dutch lurches to his feet and stumbles down from the wagon, almost tripping. “Dutch, where are you—”
Dutch doesn’t respond, staggering a few wobbly steps away, doubling over and… vomiting all over the grass.
“Shit, Dutch…” Lenny gasps, jumping down and rushing to Dutch’s side.
Before Lenny reaches him, Dutch’s legs buckle and he sinks to his knees, leaning forwards with one hand braced against the ground and the other pressed against his stomach. Lenny crouches down beside him, hand hovering over Dutch’s back, unsure if Dutch will find a hand rubbing his back soothing or patronizing.
Once the wave of violent vomiting ends, Dutch spits into the grass, groaning. “Lenny, don’t tell Hosea ‘bout this,” he says, voice scratchy. “Don’t want him to worry.”
Lenny holds back a sigh; why must Dutch downplay his injuries like that? But Dutch is the boss, so he nods. “Okay, Dutch.”