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Dutch was in his room, stewing.
He was beyond mad, beyond furious.
He was livid.
The trolley station was a goddamn trap. Bronte played him like the fool he saw them as. He should have known better, but he was desperate.
Not that he’d ever tell anyone that, but he was. He was slowly being pushed into a corner by Pinkertons and Cornwall and his funding, and he was starting to panic.
They weren’t broke, not by any rate. They had a good amount, but not enough. They needed more, and without access to the Blackwater money, they were still stuck.
He stares at the ceiling of the room. As decrepit as Shady Belle was, it was nice to have a room for once. Though he had blocked the windows with sheets, his head pounding from the trolley crash. He knew he should get someone to look at it, but he was too angry and, at this point, embarrassed.
He had returned with Lenny, swearing and cursing Bronte’s name, everyone knew what happened at this point. If they didn’t hear him, Lenny would’ve told them by now. He brushed off people’s concerns, even Hosea’s, stating he just wanted to be left alone. Hosea had tried to push, but he told the man how angry he was and that he didn’t want to take it out on anyone who didn’t deserve it, least of all his oldest friend.
He’s been in here for hours, replying it all over and over again. He wishes he could sleep, he’s exhausted, but the incessant pounding in his head won’t let him. It’s like he can feel the blood moving through his head with every beat of his heart. He knows he needs something for the pain, but that means going downstairs and outside. He usually has a few vials up here, but he knew he was out, always reminding himself to replace them and then forgetting again.
He’s been trying to fall asleep anyway, not wanting to see anyone, for people to be at him for anything, even if it was concern, but it’s been long enough he can’t continue to convince himself it’ll work. He sits up slowly, ignoring the red on his pillow, waiting until the world stops spinning to stand. He’s wobbly, and his head is worse standing up, but he’s motivated by the promise of relief. He could ask someone for it, but he doesn’t want anyone to know, the bruises on his face enough.
He takes his steps slowly, trying to look like he isn’t dizzy. No one’s in the house, he pauses at the door, he can smell the stew, hear the people. His stomach simultaneously growls in hunger and lurches sickeningly, he was not even going to try and eat. Not the stew anyway, he had crackers in his room for later.
He cracks open the door, exiting slowly, pleased to see most are too occupied to notice him. He manages to get to the medicine wagon, pocketing a few small vials of painkiller and making it a few steps away before he’s spotted. “Dutch!” He winces, quickly grabbing a roll from Pearson’s wagon next to him, making it look like he came for food.
He turns, spotting Hosea coming towards him, the camp now quiet as people notice he’s here. Hosea looks concerned, eyes studying him. “Are you okay?” He resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Fine.” This is why he didn’t want to come down, he didn’t want the prying questions.
He turns and heads for the house, but Hosea stops him, they’re by the fountain, and he knows people are listening, there’s a distinct lack of chatter. He knows they’re worried, but he just wants to be left alone, maybe get some sleep. “Dutch, you can’t be fine.” He’s got bruises by one of his eyes and up on his forehead, but they’re minor. They don’t know about the spot on the back of his head. “I just need to sleep.”
Arthur doesn’t look convinced from where he’s standing behind Hosea. “That was a hard hit.” He knows, but he just wants to forget about it. He doesn’t know what to say, not noticing Cain sneaking up. The dog snatches the roll from his hand and runs off with his prize. He just watches with a halfhearted glare. He’s actually glad, he didn’t want to have to try and force the roll down.
He hears Susan berate the dog before approaching them. He sees her and hears her to an extent, but it’s muted, the world is growing smaller, his head throbbing as the world spins, he can’t even remember why he came down, or what they’re talking about. He feels the world fall out from under him, then nothing.
“Dutch? Stop ignoring me!” Hosea puts a hand out, stopping Susan’s lecture, having noticed Dutch zoning out. “Susan.” Something in his voice had her pausing, Hosea moves in front of Dutch, looking into his eyes. “Dutch?” He searches the man’s face, but he doesn’t move. “Dutch!”
People are looking over, they’re concern doubled. Hosea sees his eyes roll into the back of his head, grabbing him as he starts to fall. “Fuck. Arthur!” Arthur runs over as he hits the ground, his body starting to convulse. “What’s happening?” People are coming closer. “Seizure.”
There are gasps from those who heard, Dutch continuing to convulse. Hosea cradles his head, so he doesn’t bang it on the ground, suddenly pulling his hand away to see blood on his fingers. Arthur’s eyes widen. “Dammit, he didn’t say it was that bad.”
Hosea wants to retort, say of course he didn’t, because he wouldn’t, but he needs to focus. He’s counting the seconds, he doesn’t have much knowledge of seizures, but he knows enough to keep Dutch from hurting himself more. After one minute and 44 seconds, he finally stops, with only the occasional twitch after. “Hosea?” Susan’s voice is quiet. He glances over his shoulder. “Get a doctor.” Not usually one to bring them to camp, he knows this is beyond what they can treat.
He turns his attention back to Dutch. “Dutch? Can you hear me?” He gets a slight head movement. “Can you open your eyes for me?” It takes a minute, but his eyes flutter open, his gaze unfocused. “There you are.” Dutch seems to see him but not be focused on him, it’s concerning. “Charles, can you help Arthur take Dutch up to his room? Lenny, bring the doctor up when they come.”
Charles and Arthur each grab an arm, Arthur supporting Dutch’s neck as he gets his bearings. He moves slowly, barely coordinated. They pull him to his feet, and he tilts, knees buckling. They catch him, Hosea’s eyes caught on the red streak on the back of Dutch’s head, a rivulet of blood trailing slowly down his neck.
He follows them into the house and up the stairs, which is a challenge since it’s barely wide enough for two people, but they manage to get him upstairs without incident. When they enter his room, Arthur notices the covered windows, Charles's voice is tinged with worry. “Arthur, Hosea.” They follow his gaze, spotting his pillow with a patch of blood on it. Hosea swears, though Arthur’s not sure what language it is, and they lie him down carefully, turning him onto his side, so the doctor has access to his head.
They wait, listening to Dutch’s breathing, and finally, they hear footsteps. Lenny opens the door, and another man follows him in. He scans the room, eyes stopping on Arthur. “Mr. Morgan!” Arthur straightens. “Dr. Renaud.” Lenny looks between the two. “You two know each other?”
Alphonse enters, setting down his bag and opening it. “Sure do. I had my wagon stolen down in Rhodes by some nasty men who thought me being black was an insult to them.” He gives Lenny a look, the man nodding in understanding. “Just when I thought my life was over, everything I had gone for good, Mr. Morgan appears.”
Hosea had a small smile on his face, like he’s not even surprised. “He retrieved my wagon, for no reward! Just did it to be kind! Now you can imagine how often that’s happened to me! From a white man no less.” Lenny chuckles. “Sounds like Arthur. Man’s been like family to me.”
Arthur looks away, embarrassed by the praise. Alphonse seems impressed, even more so by the fact that Charles is there, he seems to realize no one here has an issue with skin colour. “Now, I was told everything on the way, let me see.”
They impatiently wait as he examines Dutch’s head, looking into his eyes and taking his vitals. He pokes around the wound, stitching it before cleaning up. Hosea looks at him expectedly. “The seizure was caused by swelling in the brain from the hit. He has a severe concussion, but you probably figured that. It doesn’t feel like his skull is broken, there may be a crack, though. I’m guessing he’s had concussions before, enough hits to the head can lead to these things. It could be a one-time thing, he could have more later, or in a day or week or even months. It could become common or never happen again, unfortunately, you’ll have to wait and see. It’s not something you can easily diagnose ahead of time.”
Hosea feels his chest tighten. “I have a booklet in my wagon on the types of seizures and what to look for. In the meantime, don’t be surprised if he’s extra tired or has moments of confusion. Come find me if anything serious happens or even if you just have questions.” Hosea nods, his eyebrows furrowed. “Thank you, Doctor. What do we owe you?” Alphonse shakes his head. “Nothing.” Hosea opens his mouth, but Alphonse holds a hand up. “Mr. Morgan saved my livelihood, I am more than happy to help.” Hosea doesn’t have the energy to argue, “Well, if you ever need help with any nasty folk, we can lend a hand.” Alphonse nods, bidding them goodbye, Lenny following him out.
Hosea moves to the bed, pulling off Dutch’s boots. Arthur knows what he’s doing, helping by removing the man’s gun belt. He hears clinking in his pocket and pulls out some vials. “Hosea.” He passes them over, Hosea sighing at the sight. Sometimes he hated how stubborn Dutch was, refusing to admit he was in pain. He doesn’t want to think about what would’ve happened if he had stayed in his room, if they didn’t know he had the seizure. He could’ve-
He cuts his thoughts off, there’s no point. Dutch is fine now, he is alive and healing. That’s what’s important. He pulls the blanket over him, pulling a chair up beside the bed. Arthur pats him on the shoulder, knowing it’s useless to try and move him. He pats Arthur’s hand, giving him a pained smile, watching him and Charles leave. He knows Arthur is worried, but the man hates being idle. He’ll probably go do chores or something to keep busy.
Lenny comes back up with a small book, the one the doctor told them about. He’s left alone again, reading the book carefully. Then reading it again to be sure. He sets it nearby with the vials Dutch had grabbed earlier before settling in to keep an eye on the man.
Hours later, Hosea is leaning on the side of the bed, chin resting in his hand, the other on Dutch’s arm, his finger tracing slow circles. He’s watching the man’s face, looking for any signs of waking or, heaven forbid, another seizure. He sees his eyelids twitch, his eyes opening slowly. “Hey.” He keeps his voice quiet, and Dutch’s head turns, catching sight of him. “Hey.”
It’s barely more than a whisper, but it raises his spirits. “You okay?” Dutch seems to think for a moment before seeming confused. “I’m not sure.” Hosea frowns. “What do you remember?” Dutch thinks for a minute, blinking slowly. “My head was sore. I came down for,” He trails off, sounding unsure. Hosea reaches for the vials. “These.” Dutch looks at them, “Oh. I, I don’t remember anything past the bottom of the stairs.” Hosea swallows his worry. “The doctor said that might happen.”
Dutch looks at him instead of the vial. “Doctor?” Hosea nods, “We brought a doctor to look at your head.” Dutch doesn’t seem pleased. “Why would you do that?” He opens his mouth again, no doubt to continue, but Hosea cuts him off. “Dutch.” His voice is stern, laced with anger and concern. Dutch snaps his jaw shut, and Hosea continues. “You had a seizure. In the middle of the damn camp.”
Dutch’s eyes widen. Hosea sighs deeply. “Your head was bleeding, you were barely coherent. I was terrified. So I sent for a doctor.” His grip on Dutch’s arm had become harsh. “He had to stitch your head, said you had a severe concussion, and could possibly have a crack in your skull. He doesn’t know if this will happen again or if you’re fine. We have to wait and see.”
Dutch’s other hand reaches over, wrapping around Hosea’s wrist. Hosea looks at his hand, “You should’ve just told us. If you had stayed in your room,” Again, he cuts himself off, this time because of the emotions threatening to break his composure. Dutch squeezes his eyes shut. “Can we argue about this later? My head is still throbbing.”
Hosea looks up, seeing Dutch’s eyes now barely open, face creased in pain. He reaches out with his right hand, the one previously supporting his head, lightly scratching Dutch’s scalp. The man sighs, leaning into the touch. “I’m mad at you.” Dutch squeezes his wrist. “I know.” There’s no more talking, Hosea gently massaging Dutch’s scalp until the man falls asleep, his face smoothing out.
Hosea leans back in his chair. He was a mixture of concerned and angry. There were too many things causing those feelings. The gang, Bronte, Pinkertons, Cornwall, Arthur, Dutch. Different reasons but the same emotions.
It exhausted him. His health was declining, and it terrified him to think of what he’d leave behind. He just wanted one thing to go their way, to have the same confidence Dutch did in the plans.
But that’s always how it’s been with them. Dutch was the confidant one, he didn’t even need a plan, he would just go with whatever was happening and not worry about it.
Hosea, on the other hand, worried too much. He liked to have backup plans, to know what to expect. Not that he couldn’t ad-lib if needed, he did come from theatre, after all, but he liked the security of a well laid out plan.
He was an overthinker, he saw every flaw, every way something could go wrong, and he hated it. He always tried to hope for the best, have faith, as Dutch said.
He watches Dutch sleep and wonders if he’ll ever see the man’s hair turn grey. He runs his fingers through it again, wondering what he’d look like. It makes his heart ache.
He doesn’t think he’ll get the chance. He doesn’t know if it’ll be his health or something else, but he just knows. He’s not got too much time left. He’s hoping perhaps the plan he’s working on for the bank will be a success. Then perhaps whatever kills him won't be so bad if he knows they have the money to settle.
He knows he won’t be moving for a while, he’s going to watch over his friend for as long as he’s able.