Chapter Text
Saint Denis had solidified its hell-like place deep in Arthur’s heart mangled with anger.
He couldn’t escape the city - the grime from the alleyways stuck under his fingernails, the smog ingrained into the fabric of his clothes.
Arthur couldn’t escape regret strangling his throat - reminding himself constantly with the thrum of his pulse that if he was smart enough, Hosea’s body wouldn’t of the ground, reminding himself constantly with each throb of his headache that if he was just quick enough, Lenny would be shuffling through the broken window, same as everybody else.
But he wasn’t smart enough. Wasn’t quick enough.
And for that, his mentor…his father, lay cold on Saint Denis’ road, his blood filling the cracks of the stone
And for his hesitancy? Lenny, one of the Van der Linde’s best (and secretly one of a select few who Arthur wished would escape the gang) met his end believing they’d make it out.
Needless to say as the gang shuffled into the building and into a sunlit room, Arthur could barely contain his bubbling anger.
All those in attendance slunk into the room, each finding solace in the brief rest given to them. Javier and Bill managed to slope themselves against the wall, where Micah leaned against a wood crate. Finally, Charles practically collapsed into the rickety wooden chair in the center of the room, his shoulders slumping.
Charles looked beyond exhausted, Arthur noted. The dark circles under his coffee colored eyes had become more prevalent as the gang moved camps, his eyes losing the golden glow they had before the gang had made it east.
And as the number of those who wished to spend their night on guard duty for the camp dwindled, Charles had been taking on more shifts to cover for the lack of manpower - more than Arthur thought was healthy, his heart panging in remorse for the man.
Quite frankly Arthur couldn’t stop his heart hurting for Charles.
With what had started as innocently being sweet on the other man mangled itself painfully into a depressed longing for him, his heart aching day after day
Arthur knew that with his position in the gang, Dutch would see any attempt at a relationship more than professionally with anybody in the gang - hell, anybody in general - as a personal vendetta against the plans he had broiled for so long.
He had seen it before with Bessie. He saw it now with Abagail. And because of it, no longer was John Dutch’s favorite, his “eyes clouded with the type of lies only love spins,” as Dutch would say.
So, fat chance this pitying feeling deeply constricted in his chest would subside any time soon.
His chest currently ached with longing for hours ago, when Hosea had clapped him on the shoulder in reassurance before the robbery. When Lenny had been so willing to play a round of poker “for good luck.” Arthur didn’t mind the money he lost, anymore. He’d pay the rest of his money if he had a chance to protect both of them
Arthur took a quick peek out the blinds covering the broken window, the air of the city irritating his nose just as quickly as it came.
“Just how do you think we’re gettin’ out of this one, Dutch?” Arthur started accusatorially, jabbing a finger at Dutch’s blood red coat. “I’ve never seen the law this angry! Like kickin’ a goddamn hornets nest.”
The older man rolled his eyes, striding away from his place at the window with his hands clutched behind his back.
“Arthur here’s noticed the situation,” Dutch jabbed, lips pursed angrily. “None of us can make it back to camp, law would find us too quickly. So, what do we do?”
Consensus around the dusty room was exhausted at best, no one daring to pique Dutch’s interest.
Dutch strode to where Charles was slumped in the chair, quickly nudging his shoulder for him to move. Charles, of course, sprung off the seat for him, now slumped tiredly against the wall, his arms clutched around his knees.
“Dutch?” Arthur snapped, gesturing his hand to Charles. The rest of the gang’s eyes flitted to the cowboy apprehensively, Charles soft ones meeting his own.
Dutch was silent, eyebrows furrowed in muted anger, refusing to acknowledge either of the two.
“Charles was sitting there.” Arthur started. “He robbed this bank, same as you. Look at him, he’s exhausted!”
“We wait until nightfall. The Saint Denis docks aren’t far, there, we can catch a boat.” Dutch said grandiosely, ignoring him.
“They’ll be monitoring any exit out of here,” Micah slunk into the conversation with a sly grin punched at Arthur’s incredulous expression. “What say we use the swamps to make our exit? Won’t be as heavily patrolled while they cover the front exits of the city now.”
“Dutch.” Arthur argued again. “Charles’ been sacrificin’ his time to make sure this camp is safe. Hell, he was up a full day before the job - least you can do is let him rest awhile,” Dutch’s eyes blazingly meeting his at last with a ferocity Arthur was hurt at seeing aimed right at him.
“Mr. Morgan,” Dutch spat, “I do properly suggest that you keep your longing for other members of our gang less obvious to the rest of us.”
Arthur’s heart scrambled up from the rusty locked box in his chest straight up into his dry throat, not daring to meet Charles’ eyes.
No way did his reaction do anything but confirm to the other man that indeed, it was a desperate longing that kept his eye out for him. But more was it a defense of decency and character for him to speak up to Dutch’s rude gesture. In the gang, all Arthur had was pushed around by Dutch on the daily - did that mean that Charles was destined to the same fate as he?
“I, uh,” Arthur managed to choke out, eyes incredulously wide. “What’chu mean?”
Dutch sighed aggravatingly, meeting Arthur’s muted but nervous expression. “Don’t think we don’t notice how much you throw your responsibilities for this gang down for Mr. Smith. You’re the only one to jump at the opportunity just to hunt with the man, though half the time I don’t see game getting carried back? You’ve donated less and less to the box each day so the rest of us have to sacrifice to pick your slack? You’re losing your touch, Arthur.” Dutch scoffed and Arthur felt the rest of his heart crumble into pieces.
“Dutch, that isn’t too fair to-” Charles made a noise in protest, eyes narrowing slightly when catching Dutch’s glare.
“Not a word from you, Mr. Smith.” Dutch shot back. “You make your favoritism clear enough to the rest of us.”
“Favoritism? Dutch, seriously-” Arthur started angrily.
“I’m being oh-so serious, Arthur. Your constant ogling of Mr. Smith here lets the rest of us down to do the work you leave behind. Don’t know how that’s too fair for us.”
Arthur’s protest died in his throat. Sure, he had been picking up less and less to do at camp. But as he spent more time around Shady Bell, with Dutch’s plans beginning to sound more like his worn gramophone record, with Hosea’s cough getting worse by the day, with Karen drinking herself into a stupor along with Uncle and Reverend? The camp had become a desolate place as the reality of Dutch’s plans sunk in.
Arthur wasn’t sure they’d make it back west.
Or to Tahiti.
It was beginning to look like they’d all face the gallows before the sun shone on any of them ever again.
Charles gripped his knees tighter, sinking his head onto his arms as Micah’s snickers filled the tense room.
“Ohoho, you hear that?” Micah’s eyes gleamed maliciously, “Cowpoke here’s got it bad! You think if they catch you sinner, that they’ll get you for sodomy before robbery?”
“Micah,” Arthur growled back, the other man slinking off into silence with a wicked grin jagged across his face.
The room lapsed into a tense silence, only broken by Dutch’s angry huffing as he struggled to come up with a desperate attempt to escape.
“The swamps, Mr. Bell. Will do. We wait until nightfall.” Dutch broke the silence with a final statement, the silence sweeping back in like a suffocating blanket of fog.