Work Text:
To say that Arthur’s tired would be like saying Dutch is slightly neurotic - the understatement of the goddamn century.
It’s been disaster after disaster like an avalanche in the Grizzlies, with the trolley and the bank and the deep, aching loss of Hosea that still makes him sick to his stomach with sorrow to think about. Then it’d been the icy ocean shocking him awake and the searing heat of Guarma, the thirst so all-consuming he’d been on the verge of dropping to his knees in the sand and drinking the Atlantic.
The ride down to Shady Belle had been an all-too brief period of calm before the storm at Lakay, and he can still feel the shuddering of the Gatling gun under his hands. Then they’d moved up north, to the blood-soaked stone of Beaver Hollow, and Arthur hasn’t set foot in that cave because he knows what kinda godawful things happened in there. He hates this spot even though he knows it’s strategically sound, hates how it’s silent but for the wind, hates how the wind sounds like screaming that has him waking up with fear on his tongue and a racing heart.
He hates what they’ve become, and imagines that his hatred tastes the same as Dutch’s - bitter as yarrow root with righteousness. Still, though, Arthur’s is quiet, resentful, not crackling with violence. For all his anguish, he’s relieved that Sean, Lenny and Hosea would never see them all like this.
He finds himself wanting to rest. The fire’s suffocating, wood all burnt up and air thick with poison. He’s exhausted, down to his bones - the stubborn, weary kind that refuses to be fixed by the unsettled sleep he’s been getting recently. The camp is tense and it keeps getting worse with all this about the Indians and the army, and seeing Colm O’Driscoll swing did something mighty strange to Arthur’s heart, a confusing mess of emotions that he can’t understand. He saddles up his horse like he’s off on a hunt, and tells Charles not to expect him back until tomorrow.
Charles nods, and tells him to take care of himself. Arthur hesitates, the dam threatens to burst, and he rides away.
The season’s about to turn. He can feel it in the chill of the evening air as he heads south. Summer’s dying with the rest of them.
It’s been weeks since he’d been to Trelawny’s house, but after a couple wrong turns he finds the right courtyard and knocks on that green-painted door. He waits for a moment, looking round at the plants and the brickwork. The door opens and he turns to see a short, lithe woman with brown hair pulled back in a bun.
Arthur’s caught off-guard, wasn’t prepared to do anything other than fall apart.
The woman looks him up and down, then her red-painted lips curl into a wicked smile. “Arthur Morgan, I take it?”
Her eyes are blue.
He stares at her and sees Molly, sees eyes the colour of Lake Isabella thick with ice, all glassed over and staring up at the sky.
Was it fair that Hosea was buried and Molly was burned?
He blinks and he breathes and he remembers where he is. “Yes, ma’am,” he says. “How’d you know my name?”
“Well, as I’m sure you’re aware, my husband is particularly gifted at runnin' his mouth,” she laughs, syllables crisp. “He talks about you - and I don’t know how many other handsome, well-built blonde men he knows that’d come knockin’ at his door.”
That startles Arthur. “He thinks I’m handsome?”
“Sure he does, honey, and I certainly agree with him. He’s a man of good taste.”
“Acquired taste, maybe. I hope I wouldn’t be, uh, imposin’, if I asked to see him?”
“And he’s polite, too,” she says, playfully, before turning her head and raisin’ her voice. “Josiah! If you don’t come get your man, then I will.”
Arthur blushes. He’s been doing it annoyingly often this last week, since they moved camp up north and Arthur’s felt constantly ashamed of himself and the life he’s shackled into. Josiah comes to the door, looking pristine as ever with his peacock waistcoat and a happy look on his face, and he feels guilty for only ever making the man frown.
“Come now, Victoria, I hardly think that sort of shameless flirting is appropriate this early in the day!” he says, pretending to be scandalised. “Arthur - it has been far too long. Please, ignore the tiger at the door and come in!”
He walks in, tipping his hat to Victoria before hanging it up on the hook, hoping to make a good first impression on her, and to impress Josiah - pretending that he’s more than a walking corpse. The front room is smaller than he’d expected when he’d come the first time, with a handful of chairs and couches settled around a table, the furniture well-made and clean. There’s a kitchen in the far end of the room, with a proper stove and everything.
“And besides, he isn’t my man,” Josiah continues, locking the door as Victoria leans against the wall, watching Arthur closely. He feels like he’s been put on display, and stands awkwardly by the fireplace, still feeling like he’s about to crawl outta his skin.
“So you’ve said,” she says, pointedly mildly, tone unreadable.
Josiah glances at Arthur, then turns and speaks quietly to his wife. Arthur can’t make out the words, but Victoria’s demeanour softens and she nods. When she smiles at him again, it’s warmer and more genuine than the one at the door.
“A friend of Josiah’s is a friend of mine, so you let me know if there’s ever anythin’ I can do for you, honey. For now, though, I assume this is the kinda night where I’m stayin’ out, so I best get packin’.”
“I don’t deserve you,” Josiah calls as Victoria disappears into their bedroom. There’s the sound of a drawer opening and closing, then she walks back in clutching a boater hat and bag.
“No, you don’t,” she replies, standing on her toes to kiss Josiah on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As she goes to the door, Josiah stage-whispers, “Do give Kate my regards.”
Victoria blows him a kiss, then slips out. Arthur can hear the scraping sound of the key in the lock, then the stairs creaking. He feels like a voyeur, like he’s seen something private, not meant for him.
He likes Victoria, and thinks of introducing her to Charlotte. Maybe that’d brighten up her days. Bessie would’ve liked her too.
Is Hosea with Bessie now?
“Would you like some tea, Arthur? It might calm you down a bit,” Josiah says kindly, like he’s soothing a wild horse, but instead of finding it insulting like he usually would, it just warms the ragged thing he calls a heart.
Arthur’s first impulse is to collapse on the floor, but he grits his teeth, determined to act like he’s stable - Josiah’s a man of decorum, he’ll appreciate Arthur’s efforts at manners.
“Yeah, why not,” he agrees. Josiah glides over to the kitchen, filling the kettle and placing it on the stove, over the flame that licks at the bottom. Arthur leans on the counter and watches as he prepares it in a ritual more complicated than when he makes coffee over his campfire.
He places two little cups, saucers and a china pot on a tray next to the stove, talking while he waits for the water to boil that Arthur does his best to listen to but doesn’t take in much of, some gossip about a neighbor or something.
“My dear Victoria is a city girl through and through, couldn’t live anywhere else. I’m… more of a wandering soul. I suppose that’s why I joined up with Mr van der Linde all those years ago!”
He pours the water into the pot and adds tea leaves, then fills a tiny cup with milk and a tiny bowl with sugar. He wonders if it’s high society or just Josiah that’s obsessed with everything being so goddamn small.
He carries the tray over to the living room, places it on the table. He sits down, long legs crossed, and gestures with his stupidly small saucer for Arthur to sit opposite him. He dutifully follows. The cushions are soft.
“Can I tempt you to have some milk and sugar?” Josiah smiles. Arthur nods, just so he can watch those elegant hands move. There’s a blue pattern on the ceramic, a scene of trees and a bridge over a river. He’ll try to draw it in his journal later.
Like Dutch, Trelawny has a fondness for luxury - but unlike Dutch, he ain’t no raging hypocrite.
When he picks up the cup, it’s so hot it grounds him in the moment. Seems absurd, big brute like him in Josiah’s fancy house drinking Josiah’s fancy tea. Everything’s been seeming absurd lately.
He cradles the china gently. He wants to prove he’s good for more than just breaking and destroying things.
“What do you think of Victoria?” Josiah asks.
Arthur considers and sips his tea. It sure is better with sugar, the milk turning it the same rich caramel colour as the pelt of a deer.
“She’s right - you don’t deserve her,” he says drily.
Josiah rolls his eyes in mock exasperation. “I may regret introducing the two of you. I fear I’ll never get a moment’s reprieve again!”
Arthur forces a laugh, but it sounds tenuous, strained, even to his own ears.
“Of course, it’s lovely to see you again, but what brings you so far south, my dear?” Josiah asks, tilting his head.
He perks up at being called lovely like a dog being offered a treat. But where to start?
He clears his throat. "It's- it's been real hard, Josiah.”
“So I’ve heard, but I don’t know the full story beyond what I’ve read in the papers.”
“Well, after the river boat, we did a job at the trolley station that ended with us crashin' the trolley into a wall and bein’ chased by half of Saint Denis. Dutch decided to, uh, take advantage of us already bein’ wanted and we robbed the bank. We… we lost Hosea.”
“Oh.” Josiah’s face falls. “I’d- read as much, of course, but hoped it wasn’t true, that it was another of Hosea’s miracles. I will miss that man dearly.”
Arthur sighs heavily. “Me too.”
He raises his cup, and Josiah clinks his tea against it. They both drink.
“Anyway, “ he continues, “we escaped the bank on a ship, which then crashed, so we ended up in the Caribbean, helpin’ some Spanish, uh, revolutionaries or somethin’.”
“That explains your radiant tan,” Josiah says, smiling charmingly.
Arthur knows for a fact that his face is pale and sunken. He thinks about cutting out the rest, instinct telling him to keep it all back, but the dam’s about to burst and Josiah looks so very reassuring, like he really wouldn't mind if Arthur let go.
“We got back and met up with everyone else in the bayou, but the Pinkertons found us and there was one hell of a shoot-out. Sadie and I got John outta Sisika, and I'm thinkin’ Dutch woulda left him there if we hadn't done it ourselves. We moved up north near Annesburg, camped outside this cave that we cleared out that was full of these awful inbred bastards. Colm O’Driscoll swung, and that's the only good news we've got recently - it's been so goddamn quiet at camp, ‘cept for when everyone gets to yellin’ at everyone else. I couldn't stand bein’ there no more.”
“That sounds positively awful,” Josiah says quietly, like he ain't sure if it's his turn to talk.
“Well, I got a hot air balloon ride outta it all, so… ain't all bad,’’ Arthur jokes. "But this, hunted by the Pinkertons, killin’ our own, it sure as hell ain't what I signed up for. You know, it used to be fun, just trickin' folk and shootin' when it got bad.”
He drinks more tea, catches his breath. It's strange, Josiah being the one sitting and listening, but the dam’s broken now and it all rushes out.
“There used to be a point to it all - gettin’ us all out west, free of the law and the government. Now we're... we're just killers, fightin’ for the hell of it. I think Dutch would rather make a last stand and go out in a blaze than admit he’s wrong and let us go. We would all rather live out our days on a ranch somewhere than die just to make a point. Not sure any of us know how to do anythin’ other than cause trouble, though. I ain’t blind no more - the world seems brighter, and my life seems even more bleak.”
The days are still long this late in August, Josiah’s waistcoat lit up sapphire and emerald in the light from the windows. It’s something pretty to look at while he talks.
“And I'm, uh, real sick, too. Tuberculosis. The doctor said it was only gonna get worse.” He smiles ruefully. “He said he was sorry.”
Josiah leans forward and takes Arthur’s hands in his, palms warm from holding his cup.
“As am I, my dear,” he says, genuine as Arthur’s ever heard him. “As am I.”
All the sincerity is too much all of a sudden, and he pulls his hands away.
“God, I’m sorry.” Seems like all he is nowadays is sorry - to Charlotte, to Londonderry’s widow, to Rains Fall. “I’m just- exhausted. I can’t sleep up in the hills, expectin’ to be ambushed by the Murfrees or the Pinkertons or stabbed to death by Bill or Miss Grimshaw. I think I’ve been actin’ crazy recently.”
“Would you like to go to bed?” Josiah asks earnestly.
Arthur chokes on his tea. “I, uh, wasn’t expectin’ it to be that sort of visit.”
“I mean in the literal sense,” he says good-naturedly. “As much as I’d like to do otherwise, you don’t seem especially… stable.”
He considers, but it isn’t a difficult decision. All he can think of is blissful unconsciousness.
“Okay,” he says, voice hoarse.
Josiah smiles, reaching over and plucking the cup out of Arthur’s hands. “Come along, then.”
The light’s fading. It always seems to be sunset when he’s with Josiah.
“Could I persuade you to take a pair of my pyjamas?” he asks. Same phrasing as earlier when he offered tea and said can I tempt you like he’s giving Arthur an excuse to accept.
He bites back a sarcastic remark, because he’s so used to pushing away kindness, knowing he don’t deserve it - but he’s been trying to change, these days. So he nods.
Josiah smiles, and it’s radiant. He goes to the closet and picks out a few pairs - why does he have so many? - while talking. “Do you know what fine living is about? Rituals, Arthur. Real luxury is having the time to pay attention to the small things we care about.”
“Like the tea?” he says, jokingly, as Josiah’s holding up a shirt against his chest.
“This one’s much too small, it’ll never do,” he mutters to himself, lifting up a second one. “Yes, like the tea. Wholly unnecessary, but - yes, that shall do nicely - it brings me joy.”
“Like the river boat job?” Arthur says, tone softer, the memory of that evening still settled sweet and comforting in his chest. He’d never felt so cared for, and it was by a man he hadn’t even known that well by that point.
“Like you,” Josiah says tenderly.
He hands Arthur the pyjamas, dark green and softer than his union suit. He runs his fingers over the fabric, marvelling at how smooth it is.
“Might be a bit tight in the shoulders, my, dear, as I am not blessed with the same heroic physique as you. I’m more the running away type,” Josiah continues cheerfully.
“I’ve noticed,” Arthur says, deadpan.
“I’m a lover, not a fighter!” Josiah declares, striding into the bathroom.
While Josiah combs the pomade out his hair, Arthur puts on the clothes, thinking how mortifying it would be if he ripped them. By the grace of- well, whatever he’s believing in these days- the fabric remains unscathed. He breathes in the traces of Josiah’s cologne. He gets out his journal and flips through the last few pages, then closes it and puts it on the nightstand.
Josiah comes back in, dressed in crimson, and his hair is soft like it was after he’d been beaten by those bounty hunters all them weeks ago. Arthur wants to touch it, but doesn’t know if he’d be allowed - Dutch never liked him messing up his carefully-done hair.
He turns on a little oil lamp on the nightstand and says, “I hope you don’t mind if I do some light reading?”
“No, that’s fine,” Arthur replies. He’s used to sleeping in all manner of conditions.
Josiah picks up his book, pushes back the covers and climbs in, settling himself in the middle of the bed, propped up against the headboard, leaving room for Arthur on both sides.
He has no idea how this sort of… arrangement… goes.
“I, uh- how do you want me?” Arthur asks, face heating up.
“However you like,” Josiah says, amused.
Arthur feels a flash of frustration, feels like an idiot for needing to be told what to do. He considers just walking out, dismissing this whole thing.
But he wants it.
It ain’t Josiah’s fault that he hasn’t spent his whole life giving orders.
Arthur sits down on the bed and swings his legs up, then shuffles closer to Josiah. He feels more shy and vulnerable than when he was in the bath, and the man quite literally had a razor at his throat. He craves affection, and hates that he craves it. He just wants to feel life under his hands.
He rests his head on Josiah’s chest, arm over his waist, tangles their legs together. He flicks his gaze up to meet Josiah’s, to make sure it’s okay. He ain’t expecting the look of tender warmth on his face, the fondness in his expression.
He’s never known how to love without hurting - but now, he thinks he could learn.
“I’m sorry I’m in such a state,” Arthur says, muffled by Josiah’s pyjamas.
“It so happens that I quite like you in this state.”
How strange, to feel the vibrations of Josiah’s voice.
“Still. Thank you, for the, uh, altruism.”
“Don’t thank me for being selfish,” Josiah says. “I am more than happy to take as much of you as I can get, regardless of what state you’re in. I’m a con artist, remember - I’m rather good at working with what I’m given.”
Josiah reaches down to card a hand through Arthur’s hair. He melts into it, feeling himself relax for the first time in a while.
“And don’t think I haven’t noticed those bruises of yours,” he continues quietly. “I’ll come back to camp, try and keep an eye on things.”
Arthur lifts his head to look up again. He opens his mouth, wanting to defend Dutch, but… he ain’t blind no more.
He props himself him on his elbow and takes his journal from the side of the bed. He offers it up to Josiah. “I… don’t quite know what to say, how to explain, but- can you read my journal? And, uh, tell me if I’ve… been better than I used to be?”
Josiah’s eyes are kind as he takes it, fingers gentle on the leather. “Of course, my dear.”
He’s got Arthur’s heart in his hands.
Part of him wishes he wasn’t so goddamn sweet, wishes he’d treat him like the monster he is. This gentle handling hurts more than being hit until he bleeds.
For a few minutes, it’s silent, still, but for the turning of pages. Arthur keeps his face buried in Josiah’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the steady pounding of his heartbeat. Life seems so fragile to him now that his days are numbered. He waits for judgement, anxiety seeping into his mind, ignoring the urge to snatch the journal outta Josiah’s hands. It’s intensely private, his mind flayed open, but he- he wants to be seen.
He carefully puts the journal down on the nightstand and tugs Arthur closer, so his head is right beneath the hollow of his throat. He leans down and kisses the top of his head.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Josiah murmurs into his hair.
Cielito lindo, like Javier’s song. He’d always wanted Dutch to call him that.
“I’m scared,” he says, closing his eyes. “I- I just hope I’ve done enough to justify stickin’ around for so long.”
“You have,” Josiah says. “All those people you’ve been running around the country helping - the widow, the veteran, the French artist I simply must meet one day - you have changed their lives. Now, I may be- what was it you called me, a slippery eel?- and no expert on philosophy like Dutch, but I’ve known you for many years now, Arthur. We’ve always been friendly - at least, on my end - but I wouldn’t say we became friends until recently, after that dancing lesson two years ago at the earliest! I know, it’s difficult to trust someone as foxy as me.”
He pauses for breath, then smiles, a little sheepishly. “The point, rather, is that you have become a good man. Perhaps you haven’t always been one in the past - though who amongst us have - but you are now, and that is what counts. You’ve made the most of your time that’s left, and I hope you will continue to do so. You are good, Arthur Morgan.”
He’s been so used to living on scraps of back-handed praise from Dutch, and didn’t realise how much he’d hungered for something more. Emotion is bubbling up inside him, effervescent like the mayor's champagne, spilling out his eyes and onto Josiah’s shirt. It’s been building up for God knows how long, and the hot shame of it makes him feel even worse, sobs wracking his chest.
“Alright now, darling, it’s okay,” Josiah soothes, wrapping his arms tight around Arthur. He draws little circles onto his back with his thumbs, and he feels so solid and real and alive.
”I wish I could leave,” Arthur whispers, confesses, and feels even worse. Loyalty has been all that’s mattered to him, all he’s been good for, and now it hurts to admit he’s lost faith. What is he without it?
“You’ve made your decision to stay with Dutch and while I certainly wish otherwise, I won’t attempt to sway you from your course. I respect you that much. I can’t… promise that everything will be alright, because there’s no point in chasing delusions. But I can promise that I will be here with you until- the end.”
“Thank you,” Arthur chokes out between the sobbing and coughing.
“I’d ask you to stay with me - really, I would - if I thought you’d choose me over him,” Josiah says, soft with regret and without ire. “So I won’t ask.”
He keeps stroking up and down Arthur’s back, letting him calm down until he can breathe again.
“I’m- I’m sorry, I got your shirt all wet.”
“My clothes dried after taking a dip in the Lanahechee - I’m sure they’ll recover from this,” Josiah admonishes playfully, tilting his head again. It reminds him, as always, of birds - although with his peacock waistcoat...
Arthur laughs, a little hysterically, at the image of Josiah as a peacock in a top hat. He absolutely has to draw that later.
“I’m all tired out now, Josiah. I ain’t talked so much in my life.”
Josiah picks his book back up.
“Go to sleep, then, my dear boy. I’ll defend you fiercely from any bandits who come charging in here.” He kisses Arthur on the forehead again. “Sweet dreams.”
He dreams of a deer and wakes up to darkness, head cushioned on Josiah’s chest, holding him close. Josiah’s asleep too - so much for his promise about keeping watch, he thinks fondly - with his arms wrapped loosely around Arthur, book discarded on the pillow next to him.
He don’t deserve Josiah. He ain’t a murderer like the rest of them, and he only takes from rich bastards who deserve it. He wishes he was strong enough to leave the gang, and wishes he could thank Josiah properly.
But he’s always been a man of action. Words just get tangled up in his mouth.
So he blinks himself awake and props himself up on his elbows, watching him at peace, then, gently as he dares, brushes his mouth over Josiah’s.
Arthur’s used to the sensation of a moustache against his skin, and Josiah’s lips are soft from that fancy balm he uses.
He’s about to pull away when Josiah stirs, threads a hand through his hair and cups the back of his neck with the other, tugging him closer. Arthur’s lips part immediately, feeling dazed already at the contact, and Josiah sweeps his tongue over his lower lip.
It’s like that for a few exhilarating seconds, then he breaks the kiss, breathing a little heavy, and moves to push himself up so he’s nearly sat against the headboard. He draws Arthur up towards him, then slides a hand down his spine to the space behind his knee, pulling his leg to the side, and he’s confused, then-
“Can you-”
“Oh, yeah, let me-”
He swings his leg over so he’s straddling Josiah’s thighs, thrilled at being allowed to be on top, at Josiah being the one to put him there. Sure, he knows he ain’t in control - he’s still the one on his knees - but Dutch has never liked having Arthur above him so it sure don’t happen often.
He loves the way Josiah’s looking up at him, eyes dark and wide, like he’s- something good-
Something worth having rituals for, worth paying attention to-
“We have time, Arthur,” he whispers. “We have time.”