Chapter Text
It starts how just about any bar fight should start: a drunk, stumbling man bumping into another, all sweat and stink and whatever the man drank before staining his breath as the tension peaks. Then, utter chaos.
The punch that lands on his cheek isn't unexpected, and honestly, not even that painful. He gives twice what he gets. The drum of fist against flesh used to be exciting, and every once in a while it still is. But not today.
His bad mood lodges itself further in his chest when he lands another hit right to the guy's nose, a satisfying crunch echoing through his bones as the cartilage warps under his hand. He can't hear it, not over the sound of glass breaking and tables turning, but he's heard it plenty before, and his mind is more than happy to fill in the gaps.
At some point, a big, hulking figure emerges from around the corner of the stairs. Maybe he's in charge, maybe he's not. Either way, the man—Tommy, he hears—takes a few steps towards Javier.
Something is being smashed over his head before he can do anything about it. He curls in, clutching the throbbing just above his neck, and the man takes advantage of it, wrapping his arms around his throat and yanking back. Arthur's kicking and punching before he really catches up with what's happening. Each time he drives his elbow into the man's stomach he lurches forward, and his hands loosen ever so slightly. Five or six of those and a well timed stomp on his foot is enough to pry him off. His knuckles sting when he knocks him out.
Tommy is still on Javier, and Bill, laughing in what Arthur could only describe as unsettling glee as he squeezes his fingers around a man's throat, yells, "Javier could use some help, Morgan!"
Arthur would've scoffed at the sarcasm if Bill wasn't absolutely right. Javier's skull cracks against the table, and while he can't see past Tommy's shoulders, he's sure if he could, there'd be blood.
"Hey, tough guy!" He shouts, and punches him hard on the back.
When Tommy turns, he turns slow, like moving the weight of himself is too much, even for him. Arthur grabs his shoulder and spins him around the rest of the way, punching him once in the stomach. Tommy takes it with barely a flinch.
It's then that Arthur realizes just how big he is. Hunched over and he's still reaching Arthur's height, with shoulders the width of the table and arms big enough to squeeze the life out of a bear.
Arthur tries to grab him, but suddenly his fat, meaty hand is on Arthur's shoulder, and the other is clocking him once in the face, as if for good measure, right before he throws him over the table.
Arthur rolls, but not gently. It's a blur of color and noise when he slams to the ground, and there's a distant, you want some too, huh?
He tries to stand himself up, but damn, Tommy hits hard, and the best he can manage is his hands and knees by the time Tommy is on him again.
Glass shatters, and he's tumbling off the front porch of the bar and into the street. He feels his breath escape him when he lands on his chest, but the mud is pliant enough and more forgiving than the dirt ever is, and somehow it's the most oriented he's felt all day.
"Come on, pretty boy."
Arthur is still rolling to his feet when he says it, and it strikes something hot within him. "Pretty boy?" He grunts. "You're kiddin' me. Pretty boy?"
Tommy is at him again, grabbing his face and throwing him to the side. The distance between them gives Arthur just enough time to fully come back to himself.
It's raining. People who were peaking out of their doors have started filing into the street, some with drinks in their hands, some with scowls on their faces, some with both. A few shout encouragements to Tommy as he prowls forward.
Whatever. He's already having a bad day anyway.
Tommy swings, fast for a man of his size, but still lumbering, and Arthur ducks under it, managing a hit. He follows it up with two more, until Tommy blocks, using the moment to take a set back. He waits for Arthur to strike first this time, and Arthur is more than happy to give it to him. Tommy blocks then swings, and Arthur narrowly avoids, though it wouldn't have mattered, because Tommy lands one anyway.
They go back and forth, trading and dealing. Blow after blow, scrape after scrape, and Arthur thrums with anger. He can feel it flowing through his veins, edging him on. He'll strike good, make Tommy wobble a little, build his confidence high enough to think he might win, but then Tommy will strike back, and it's like he's twenty and being knocked on his ass again. It's enough to keep him going.
Tommy manages to knock him to his knees again. Arthur secretly hopes that Tommy might knock him out so he won't have to sit through looking up at him anymore.
Into another chokehold, this one filled with a lot more panic and writhing. His forearms press so hard into his throat he thinks it might break, but he keeps doing what he always does—a combination of (desperate) elbowing and kicking—and he manages to keep himself intact. His vision is a little spotty, but he doesn't let it deter him.
By the time he finally gets Tommy off him, Javier calls to him from somewhere to his right. "You okay there, Arthur?"
Arthur gulps his next breath. "Yeah, I've got this son of a bitch."
Then they're back at it. The adrenaline takes care of most of the pain, and the world delves into another blur. Series of cries from the crowd fill the space between the sound of bloody fists hitting mud-caked skin. There's an occasional cheer for him from the sidelines, and when he gets the chance he looks over. Javier sits on the front steps, and Bill is propped up on the post next to him.
Charles watches from the shadows, arms crossed over his chest, leaned against the wall.
Arthur is wrangled down into the mud by the throat. Tommy is pushing his face down further and further, and for another terrifying moment he can't breath, gasping into the sludge as rain pours into the divot he's made. He twists, just far enough for Tommy's hand to slip off his cheek the barest amount, enough to widen his arms a little...
He swings and hits Tommy hard in the jaw. When the man reels, Arthur pushes himself to his elbows, brings his leg back and kicks him square in the balls.
Tommy cries out, clutching at his groin, and Arthur takes advantage of the moment and pushes him over, straddling him, and begins beating his face into the ground.
Arthur doesn't hold back. The repetitiveness of it is nearly meditative, and he falls into the rhythm of it. Swing after swing after swing. The throbbing of his knuckles does nothing to hold him back. Something had to give, and right now, the blood-choked groans from the man beneath him are enough.
He doesn't know how long he went at it, but he doesn't argue much when he's stopped, only stares at the man. He's sure he looks half-mad. He may be.
Tommy lays in the mud, eyes closed but certainly not dead, and as his rage gives way to exhaustion, Arthur wants to lay down there with him, close his eyes and will the rest of the oncoming aches away.
Instead he gets up and stumbles his way through the crowd, finds his way up the steps of the general store, and watches as the sky clears. He breathes.
"Making new friends again I see, Arthur!"
Arthur turns, and Trelawny is there, trailing behind an amused Dutch, in his suit—the same one he saw him in last, all those months ago—looking prim and proper, down to his extraordinarily clean gloves. He huffs.
"I thought you'd gone to New York?"
"And miss all this glamour?" Trelawny smiles. "You must be joking."
Arthur smiles back and feels a twinge in his jaw for it, along with a throbbing in the back of his mouth. A loose tooth, probably. "How are you?"
Blackwater, the cops, the money. All of it washes over him as he sits down on the old, worn wood of the store, rubbing his abused knuckles. Sean, miraculously alive and in the hands of some underpaid bounty hunters instead of being shot or hanging by a rope. Them, going after him. That lucky bastard.
The other three join up somewhere in there. Javier and Bill look about as bad as he feels, new arrays of bruises and blood splattered across them. Javier has a notable bump on his forehead, and it looks like his nose might've been broken, but for what Tommy was doin' to him, he looks pretty damn good. Bill looks, well, like Bill. Scuffed, hurt, and bleedin'. Charles, on the other hand, stands as tall as before. There's a bruise blooming on his jaw, just under the scar that's splayed along his cheek, but Arthur can't see any other sign that he'd been in a fight. His arms are still crossed, but it doesn't hold the same weight as it did before. More... friendly, maybe. Calm. He doesn't know.
Arthur is told to meet up with the rest of them when he can, and is sent off to clean himself up.
He discovers his split lip when he sees his reflection in the old barrel full of water, and feels it when he scrubs the mud out of it. It bleeds somethin' awful, and he's hissing through his teeth as he presses his thumb into it when he catches someone moving in the corner of his eye.
"Need somethin'?"
Charles is leaning against another wall with his arms crossed again, and if Arthur hadn't seen him lob a chair at someone earlier, he'd almost believe his arms were stuck like that. "You okay?"
Arthur glances at him. "Better than ever."
Charles hums, and Arthur wipes more mud from his nose. His sleeve bends weird, stiff from the mud. He's momentarily grateful that he tucked a fresh shirt in his saddle a few days ago, though the girls'll have a hell of a time gettin' the rest of his clothes clean. He can hear the complaints already.
"You headin' back to camp?"
"For the time bein'," Arthur shrugs out of his coat and tries to rub some of the brown away, but to no avail. "Why? Need me to pick somethin' up?"
"Yeah. Some salve, if you could. I don't want to listen to Javier whine about his injuries if I don't have to."
"Alright. Anything else?"
"No, should be it." Charles finally pries himself away from the brick, and something in Arthur's chest shifts, but he can't place what. "And take some for yourself too."
Arthur shakes his head. "I'm fine."
"C'mon, Arthur. Look at yourself."
He hesitates, then peeks over the barrel again, squinting at himself. "'S not that bad."
Charles says nothing, just raises an eyebrow.
Arthur sighs. "Alright. Thank you."
Arthur watches as Charles goes from aloof to pleased and back to aloof, all in the span of a few seconds. And if that doesn't leave him confused as hell.
"Don't mention it," Charles says, stepping around him to head to the street. Something passes through his eyes, though, and when it does, he leans over and presses a hand to Arthur's shoulder.
Now that he can actually see them, Charles' knuckles are as torn and bloody as his own. Something about it shakes him so violently it's as if Charles struck Arthur himself.
When he finally meets his eyes again, they're alight with what he can only describe as mischief. "And don't make us wait too long, pretty boy."
Electricity jolts through him. Arthur resolutely ignores it, instead choosing to roll his eyes and drop his head, shaking it to dispel the lingering voice of Tommy in the back of his mind. "Don't you start."
When he looks up, Charles is smiling. Then he's gone.
Arthur stands there a moment. His shoulder aches where Charles' hand was, a throb similar to the one rocking through his jaw. He wants to peel off his shirt and examine it, check for any marks Charles could've left on his skin. Look for proof that what he's feeling is real. That it's not an illusion.
For now, though, he slides on his jacket, leaves the alley, and works on finding his hat.