Archive of Our Own

“Arthur,” John groaned, voice whiny and a pitch too high for Arthur’s personal liking. The boy was seated behind him on the saddle, his forehead pressed against Arthur’s back in the space between his shoulder blades, as his arms wrapped loosely around his waist to keep balanced. The noon sun was already beaming down on them, so the proximity only adds to Arthur's mounting discomfort. Sweat trickles down his forehead and soaks his hair under his hat. It's longer than he likes it, the brown strands plastered uncomfortably against his neck in the heat. Skin sticky and flushed red, Arthur yearns for a breeze. They were few and far between— rarely strong enough to grant any lasting relief— but he wishes for them nonetheless. 

Anything was better than riding like this, with John’s abnormally warm body radiating its heat directly onto Arthur. He was scrawny, still in the process of picking up muscle after years of neglect, yet ran hotter than a furnace. 

“When’re we stopping next?” The young boy gripes, finally leaning back and giving Arthur what little space he can without falling off the horse. It’s been nearly a year since he joined the gang, and he’s done nothing but get on Arthur’s last nerves. He has a keen sense for figuring out just what makes Arthur tick and then acting as insufferable as possible until Arthur snaps at him. All he does is cause trouble and make whatever complaint he has everyone else’s problem.

Arthur sighs, looking over his shoulder to explain. “Few hours, at most. Hosea says they got a big plan for our next take, but we need ta get a feel for the town before we act.” He considers mentioning how Dutch has gone over this many times already, but he bites his tongue. “The town ain’t too far away, they say it’s called Gualva. We’ll probably camp out for a few days.”

“What’s Dutch planning?”

“Dunno.”

“Bullshit, you just don’t wanna tell me!” John exclaims, grabbing Arthur’s shoulders and shaking them wildly. The older boy doesn’t budge, however, and reaches back with one hand to shove John back down into the saddle.

“Honest, he ain’t told me. But with how cagey he’s being,” Arthur considers, adjusting his hat to sit lower on his eyes to block out the sun. “I’d say it’s risky. Which means you, Marston, need to stay outta the damn way.”

Arthur doesn’t have to see John to know he’s wrinkling his nose, making the same indignant expression he always does when Arthur offends him. He huffs, clearly pouting, and grumbles, “I don’t get in the way. I’m just as much an outlaw as you, Arthur.”

Arthur can’t help the affectionate smile that plays on his lips. “Sure, Johnny,” he says in an unconvinced tone. He lifts his gaze to scan the horizon, searching for anything out of the ordinary. If things go well, they should reach town before nightfall. John clears his throat behind him, coughing for a few moments then pinching Arthur’s side. He demands his canteen, which Arthur hands him begrudgingly, swiftly returning his focus to the path ahead.

Soon, the open lands become peppered with trees, ones that stretch tall and graciously supply them with the shade Arthur had been wishing for. Not only that, it also supplied them with plenty of cover when they settled down to camp. Their tents pitched, the fire lit, and stew simmering, Hosea announced he and Dutch were going to the saloon in attempts to learn any local gossip and uncover potential targets. That leaves Arthur stuck babysitting, despite his adamant protests he should join them in town.

“He’s plenty capable of looking after himself!”Arthur had argued. He was in desperate need of some alone time— which he planned to get by sneaking away from Dutch and Hosea when the time was right— that he couldn’t get if he stayed in camp. 

Hosea fixed him with an unimpressed look, brows pulling together with his lips pursed. The sour expression made Arthur’s resolve wither slightly, but he refused to back down. Then Hosea raised a hand and gestured behind Arthur. John was sitting by the fire, elbows resting on his knees as his head lulled to the side, lashes fluttering while he fought to stay awake.

“The boy’ll be asleep before we even get to town. We can’t leave him alone, Arthur, you know that.”

Arthur frowned. He had already lost this argument, he knew, and was left grasping for straws. “I used to watch over camp when I was his age,” he tried. It was true— when Arthur joined Dutch and Hosea he wasn’t much older than John, but he could still hold down camp when the older men went scouting. Arthur knew he had been a special case, that they did that out of necessity when they didn’t have a body to spare. Hosea is the one who voices both their thoughts.

“He ain’t you.”

That was a response Arthur couldn’t argue with. So, when Hosea asked Arthur to bring over his and Dutch’s horses, he did. The pair left soon thereafter, disappearing into the trees and becoming nothing more than shrinking silhouettes against fading sunlight. Black was quickly leaking into the oranges and pinks painting the sky, and Arthur knew it would be dark soon. He decided to take advantage of it, retreating to the outskirts of camp to sit against a tree trunk with his journal in his lap. Though he expected John to pester him, he was pleasantly surprised when he was left to his own devices. He drew until the natural light slipped away entirely, his pencil marks now indistinguishable against his paper. He rises from his spot with a groan, realizing he’d been slumped over for longer than he thought, and makes his way to the fire.

He assumed John would be there waiting, dozens of bothersome queries rattling off his tongue before Arthur’s ass could even hit his seat. It is frankly impressive that, despite the time they’d already spent together, he still manages to catch Arthur off guard with some of his outlandish questions. When he isn’t being nosey, he begs for stories, tall tales of his past exploits and grand adventures. Arthur indulges him, at times, but tonight he doesn't feel it in himself to embellish whatever story John demands of him— Dutch and Hosea are better at that, anyhow. Arthur, however, doesn't need to worry about annoying questions or pleas for stories. 

John is nowhere to be seen.

Arthur took his spot by the fire. He glances around, then returns to his journal. He forgot what a reprieve it was to draw and write in the pages; he didn’t have much time to do it when they were riding. It doesn’t take long for him to lose track of time again, becoming so immersed in his works he doesn’t hear the twigs snapping behind him.

“Arthur,” John speaks up, startling the man in question. He sinks into the spot next to Arthur like he belongs there, drawing his knees up to his chest. “What’re you doing?”

“What’s it look like I’m doin’?” Arthur sassed. Though his tone was light, something gave him pause: John was quiet, cheeks peaked. Choosing to ignore it, Arthur turned back to his half-hashed sketch. “I’m drawin’,” he amended quietly. “And writing.”

“I still can’t write,” John mutters, pressing his shoulder to Arthur’s in an attempt to get a better look at his pages. Eyes shining curiously, he continued. “Or read. Dutch ain’t too happy with me because of it, I think.”

“Dutch ain’t too happy with much of anything, ‘cept Hosea” Arthur kids, spurring John to laugh. His snickers broke into a coughing fit, however, one that caused Arthur’s concern to rear up once more as his gaze slipped back to him. “You alright, Marston? That don’t sound too pretty.”

“Just thirsty, I think,” John wheezes, shaking his head at Arthur’s narrowed eyes. The older man grips his pencil tighter as he resumes his drawing. “Yeah, sure.”

John doesn’t get up from beside him, choosing to stay and watch Arthur sketch. He occasionally murmurs requests— which Arthur reluctantly fulfills— and whispers comments about whatever Arthur is working on. The fire is their only source of light, now. At his inquiry, Arthur tears a doodle out of his book and passes it to the boy, who studies it silently before slipping it into his waistband. John’s requests become more and more simple before stopping completely. The orange light flickers and casts dancing shadows over John’s pale, sleeping face. His cheek is pressed against Arthur’s bicep as he snores lightly. 

“You got to sleep in the tent, Marston,” Arthur mumbles to him, resting his hand atop the boy’s head. He grunted, shaking his head and pressing his face into Arthur’s shirt. “Yer neck’ll hurt if you stay like this.”

“It’s cold in there,” John whined. Arthur frowns; it wasn’t as hot as it had been earlier today, the night air carrying a bit of a chill, but John certainly shouldn’t be cold if he was under his blanket. Arthur tells him so, and John just groans exaggeratedly, rolling his eyes. “I’m under my blanket, and it’s still too damn cold for me to sleep!”

He senses what John is getting at, and he knows if he doesn’t bite the bullet, the kid will probably sleep by the fire— he’s done it before in a fit of defiance against Arthur for refusing to give him the good pillow. Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs deeply. 

“If I say you can use my blanket, will you get to bed already?”

Bribery, Arthur has learned, always works well with John. “The good blanket?” The boy perks up, his crooked grin confirming Arthur’s suspicion that this was his angle all along.  He stands, making a show of stretching his arms as his jaw pops after he yawns wide. His shuffling steps retreat to the tent, and Arthur watches him go with a half-hearted scowl. “Don’t think you’ll get to keep it forever, you shit,” Arthur calls after him.

John mutters something about an “old bastard,” but otherwise doesn’t respond.

Arthur checks on John later, just poking his head into the tent. The boy has taken Arthur's blanket and is cured up in his bedroll with both comforters thrown on top of him. His breathing is uneven, brows drawn together as if he’s experiencing a fitful sleep, but the boy hasn’t complained about any nightmares or ill feelings as of late. He briefly considers mentioning it to Dutch and Hosea when they return, but Arthur decides to shrug it off. The sense of unease curling in his gut, however, isn't dismissed as easily as he'd like to believe.

Horse hooves pound against the dirt as the wind whips by Arthur’s face, partially covered by his bandana. One of his hands is on the reins, the other holding his schofield revolver. The weight of the gun in his hand is a balm. The familiar feel of the carvings in its grip, the way his finger rests on the trigger, it all helps keep his mind focused. He doesn’t falter as he lifts the gun and takes aim, an eye squeezed shut, and he fires on an out breath. For each shot he takes, each man he kills, two more seem to take his place like a hydra. 

Bullets are tearing past him, each unmistakable whizz making his heart beat faster. It pounds against his ribs, wild and frenzied as the lawmen gain on them. He risks a glance ahead.

Hosea is riding low on his horse, using one hand to shove John’s head down, too. They’re a good distance ahead of Arthur and Dutch, the fact as comforting as it can be in this situation. Hosea’s horse was the swiftest, and if things went bad for Arthur and Dutch, they’d just have to trust Hosea would get out with John. They’d have a better chance of breaking out of jail— or escaping a hangman’s noose— if Hosea was on the outside of the cell.

“Arthur!” Dutch yells, his stallion riding up beside Arthur. His own bandana is drawn up to cover his face, the look of it soiling his rich-man get up. His newest suit is now dusty, tattered, and smeared with blood that likely isn’t his own. “We gotta take these boys down .”

A bullet lands between one of the lawman’s eyes, his skull exploding in a misty spray of blood and brains. Through gritted teeth, Arthur manages, “Damn good idea, Dutch! Why hadn’t I thought of that?”

“Now ain’t the time to get smart, son! Shoot!”

With that, he splits, putting some distance between them once again. Arthur returns his attention to disposing of the last of the men tailing them.

They manage to shake the lawmen, outriding those who attempted to pursue and shooting those who matched their pace. Arthur felt bitter as they rode, teeth clenched tight. His sour feelings were made worse by the fact they were fleeing without bills to line their pockets or gold to weigh the conscious, the entire scheme going up in flames before it could even get off the ground.

The word that Dutch Van Der Linde and his associates were on this side of the state, running from the law, had traveled much faster than any of them could have anticipated. Arthur, personally, assumed it had partially to do with his gaudy schemes and tendency to galavant, but that was neither here nor there. The town was jumpy, on edge, viewing each newcomer who passed through town as killers and thieves. Only made them all the more likely to smoke out true outlaws when they came through. 

The bank tellers didn’t take kindly to Ogden Darwin and Greggory Carr, two entrepreneurs looking to make it big in the Heartlands— not while Ogden’s slicked back hair and distinctive mole were synonyms with that of an infamous outlaw’s, and certainly not while Greggory had the cadence and charisma of a well-seasoned conman. Arthur had to admit, this was the smartest lot of fools they’d ever tried to rob. The bank owner must have requested the sheriff sit in, hiding in wait for their return; Ogden and Greggory hardly even got to threaten the man behind the counter when the sheriff stepped in. His badge and pistol shined, but it was the gleam in his eyes that chilled Arthur. He was greedy, thirsting for blood and the kind of recognition a man could only receive when he killed another. It was a hunger Arthur encountered often, yet one he declined to become personally acquainted with.

And when a man with such greed stood before you, Arthur found it was a civil duty and common courtesy to shoot him down. Stationed outside, watching through the window, Arthur took aim. Two shots rang out, the glass exploding as the sheriff was shot in the chest. Arthur turned on his heel and dove off the porch just as a shower of bullets came raining down where he’d been standing. Damnit, they must have been set up. He sprints to where they left the horses and John just outside of town. Dutch and Hosea were on his tail. They had packed up earlier that day, just in case, and he found himself once more thankful for Hosea’s cautious nature. It had saved his hide many times over, and would undoubtedly do so again.

Currently, however, that nature was what had them riding for nearly four hours without a break. Though used to riding for long periods of time, even Arthur was starting to tire. He glances over to John, who was still riding with Hosea, and grimaces at the sight. The kid looked rough, the traveling clearly taking its toll on him. He frequently coughs and attempts to muffle the sound with his hand, pale face adorned by a thin sheet of sweat. 

“Maybe we ought to start scouting a place to rest, Dutch,” Arthur drawls as he rode up beside the man. He can feel John's eyes on his back, but he refuses to acknowledge him. 

“We’re going to have bounty hunters and lawmen on our asses for days, Arthur,” he responds, slouching back in his saddle and rolling his shoulders. He held the reins loosely, the three of them having momentarily slowed to a walk in attempts to give the horses some semblance of rest. “We need to keep moving while there’s daylight.”

Fingers curling in the mane of his horse, gently untangling the knots, Arthur knew he couldn’t argue. Logistically, it was true. His jaw clenched before he sighed, softly whispering an apology to his horse and promising to buy her dozens of treats as soon as he could. She seemed to understand him, snorting as she continued to trot. He then muttered a silent apology to John as their pace picked up— the boy looked green in the face.

His pasty complexion only worsened. John was sicker than he was letting on, the muffled coughs becoming stronger and more frequent. Each one was coarse, no doubt scratching the inside of his throat and making it sore. He briefly thinks of how they found John, nearly dead as he hung limp from a rope, and thinks that his throat would have been sore, then, too. Maybe that’s why the boy’s voice was permanently raspy, Arthur thinks, but soon that train of thought is interrupted. One particular coughing fit has John clutching his stomach and wheezing in attempts to regain his breath, the action hidden by the hunch of his shoulders. 

“Dutch,” Arthur eventually called out again. It had likely been over an hour since he last asked, but he once again suggested the idea of stopping for rest. It was well past noon, now, the heat feeling like it came out of hell with a vengeance. Not a lick of a breeze was present, and the patchy shade provided little relief. It was also rough terrain to travel, the shrubbery and rocks lining the sides and even creeping into the middle of the path acting as a hazard for their exhausted horses. Sweat beads on Arthur’s upper lip as he speaks. Dutch tries to wave him off, but Arthur continues. “I insist we oughtta let the horses rest, Dutch. I ain’t sure we’ve ever pushed ‘em this hard and we can’t exactly risk losing one ‘long this stretch.”

The brim of his hat hides Dutch’s eyes in its shadow, darkness casted over his features. The only sounds to be heard are those of the horses’ hooves and the rustling of the leaves overhead. The breeze hits the back of Arthur’s sweaty neck, chilling him and sending bumps down his spine. Then Dutch lifts his head, tugging on his reins as he veers off the path. Over his shoulder he calls out, informing John and Hosea of the slight change in plans. Arthur lets out a small breath of relief and follows him through the underbrush. They eventually find a small clearing by a creek, covered enough to provide shelter as they regain their bearings and allow the horses to drink. Arthur’s legs ache when he puts both his feet on the ground, and he groans, knees weak. If this is how getting old feels, maybe he should bitch less about Hosea’s bitching. 

He and Dutch have already dismounted as well. Their map of the state is already drawn and laid out against a fallen tree. Hosea studies it carefully, one finger tracing up the river as the other holds the compass, and Dutch stands beside him. The dark haired man has his arm looped around Hosea’a waist, hand resting on the pistol the older man carries as it sits in its holster. Arthur scoffs, his own skin crawling at the idea of any physical contact in this sweltering heat. He turns away, nose wrinkled, and realizes John is no longer by the horses, his mop of wiry black hair nowhere to be seen. A cursory glance around confirms that John must have snuck off somewhere, maybe further down the creek. Arthur ain’t sure why he would do that, though, or why he wouldn’t announce it. He can no longer ignore the concern he feels, and he curses himself for it all the while he stomps through the woods in search of the leech who snuck into their camp under the guise of being a child.

“Marston!” He shouts out, following the creek downstream. He’s careful, avoiding holes or sudden drops as he searches. The bubbling of the winding brook is the only answer to his calls. Arthur sighs, running a tired hand down his face as he ventures away from the water into the shrubbery. He can hear better, now, and he stops to listen when a certain noise reaches him.

Gasps, a heaving breath, then the distinct sound of gagging.

Instinctively his hand goes to his gun, fingers brushing the leather holster as he lurks closer to the origin of the sound. He narrows in on a large pine tree, slowly and silently rounding its large trunk to peek around the trunk. He drops his hand from his side almost immediately.

John is leaning against the tree, fingers clutching at the bark so tightly blood trickles down his skin. The other arm clutches at his stomach as he vomits, the sound of it alone making Arthur want to look away; however, he doesn’t, and he sees the pile of bile at John’s feet. His stomach is empty with nothing else to discard, but he is still heaving as he gags, yielding nothing but spit that dribbles down his chin and into his hair. His body finally stops shaking and he groans, gasping for breath.

“Marston,” Arthur speaks up, clearly startling the boy. He straightens, trying not to induce another vomiting spell as he wipes at his mouth with his sleeve. Arthur reaches out, yanking John closer by his arm to press a hand to his forehead. His skin is feverish and clammy, running even hotter than is normal for the boy, and Arthur curses under his breath. John tries to shove Arthur back but fails, and his oddly ashamed expression contrasts his defensive tone. “I ain’t mean to go get sick, by the way.”

“Course not,” Arthur says. “Nobody does.”

“Really, I ain’t even sick.”

“Johnny, you're a breath away from fallin’ onto your face.” Arthur gestures with his other arm to the boy as a whole, then points back towards camp “I’m telling Hosea and he’s gonna give you somethin’ for that bug ya got.”

“I ain’t sick, Arthur!” John all but yells, digging his heels in literally and figuratively when Arthur takes him by the scruff of his shirt. The attempt is futile, seeing as Arthur has more muscle than two Johns put together and the boy is particularly feeble at the moment, but it still serves to make Arthur’s jaw clench. He just grips the fabric tighter and pulls him along a bit harder. “You’re sick, Marston. Been sick for days, but just haven’t told no-one. Ain’t that right?” He bites.

John’s eyes widened with surprise at Arthur’s words, not realizing he was being so closely observed. “You been coughing, shaking, shivering, and you thought we wouldn’t notice?”

John flinches back but doesn’t miss a beat in his response. “Dutch hasn’t. Hosea neither,” he declares. Arthur’s steps falter, a frown tugging at his lips. He was right. Hell, John had even been riding with Hosea for the past few hours and he hadn’t said a single thing about the boy’s clearly compromised health. Dutch, well, he was Dutch, never too concerned with the boys’ personal affairs.

“They’ve been busy planning. Ain’t had time to think about much else,” Arthur manages, continuing to take John back to camp. The boy stops fighting, only muttering something under his breath that Arthur can’t hear— damned kid needs to stop doing that— and following along. He knows the unsaid implications his words carry, they ain’t had time to think about you, and he feels a spark in his chest, lighting his ribs aflame and burning the flesh of his throat. For now, Arthur swallows the smoke and fire.

John allows himself to be dragged back to camp, now leaning against Arthur and letting the older man carry some of his weight. Eventually, they break into the clearing and Arthur spots Hosea and Dutch by the creek. Hosea has crouched down, filling a canteen with fresh water as they taunt one another good-naturedly. Dutch’s eyes scrunch at their edges and his cheeks are a rose red as he crookedly grins down at his partner, who returns his amusement. Seeing the look of contentment on Dutch’s face and the lack of annoyance on Hosea, Arthur figures they have mapped out their next move. When John coughs at Arthur’s side, the pair of men turn.

Hosea’s eyes flick over to Arthur then down to John, taking in the sight of his disheveled appearance and the bile staining the front of his shirt. His light brows draw together and a wrinkle forms between them as his expression becomes one of concern. “Boys?”

Before anyone can speak, John gags, once again hunching over and clutching at his stomach. Arthur hovers at his side as he alternates between bitter coughs and suffocating heaves, unable to catch his breath as his body turns against him. Hosea is moving already, Dutch lagging behind him; whether it’s because he’s trying not to get in the way or because he doesn’t know how to react, Arthur isn’t sure. The next few minutes are a flurry of movement, Hosea ordering Dutch to retrieve certain tonics from their supplies as he tells Arthur to bring over some crackers and water to help settle John’s stomach.

“Must be ill from the ride,” Hosea sighs. John is sitting on a fallen tree, nibbling at a cracker every so often but never taking too large of a bite. Hosea had forced medicine down his throat minutes earlier, explaining what medicines he could take with others and how some would counteract one another if taken at the same time. Arthur didn’t know how he knew this, but John hadn’t been listening, frantically chasing down the taste of the tonics with water.

“I ain’t so sure that’s from just the ride, Hosea,” Arthur comments. A lit cigarette dangles between his lips and he takes a slow drag. He’s leaning back against one of the trees in the shade, exhaling a plume of smoke. Arthur would soon be proven right, John’s stomach refusing to hold anything as he vomited up the medicine and what little food he had managed to swallow. Crackers, biscuits, fruit, jerky— none of it stays down. Eventually, when it’s made abundantly clear they can’t travel with John in this condition, they make the call to set up camp.

By nightfall, the fire has been lit and two tents pitched. John curled up in his and Arthur’s the moment it was ready, condition only declining. His chills are bad and his fever even worse, sweat causing his matted black hair to stick to his forehead; he gets some sleep but it’s uneasy. Tossing and turning, Arthur can almost hear John’s wheezy, labored breaths from where they’ve tied the horses for the night. One of Arthur’s old shirts has been used as a makeshift rag, dampened in attempts to break his climbing fever.

Arthur carefully brushes the horses, watching Dutch and Hosea from the corner of his eyes. They’re sitting by the fire, their only source of light now that the sun has set, talking in low voices. Arthur can’t distinguish their words— he thinks that’s intentional— but his eyes go back to the tent John sleeps in. Hosea looks upset, Dutch even more so.

“—longer this can go on, Dutch.” Hosea’s worried words reach Arthur’s ears as he slowly approaches. 

“The boy is a survivor . Some… some little fever ain’t going to crush that spirit,” Dutch stresses, voice tight and words clipped. His grandiose manner and showmanship seem dulled, frustration fraying his patience as he tries to work through this disruption in their plan. “And it certainly ain’t gonna kill him.”

“He needs a doctor.”

“You’re as good as any doctor I’ve met.”

“I read one book on it, Dutch, but I am by no means a medicine man,” Hosea grits out. His hands curl into fists as his knee bounces, the heels of his boots thumping rhythmically in the dirt. Arthur takes a seat, knowing his presence will be ignored unless he makes himself obtrusive enough. 

“Well, Hosea, what do you suggest we do?” Dutch sasses. He’s fraying at his edges, like he often does, the stress he feels leaking into his demeanor. His hair is disheveled, pomade disrupted by the way he constantly runs his fingers through it and his dark eye bags seem accentuated by the orange fire light. He continues, “the closest town is half a day’s ride south east. They’ll be lawmen all up and down those roads, we have to keep heading west, or north.”

Arthur grits his teeth. It’s true and he knows it. He had snuck a look at their map earlier; the closest town to them is to the south east, and they just spent six hours riding from the south this morning. To the west there’s a city, but it’s a whole day’s worth of travel in rough, desert terrain. Rain in this area has been scarce this season, and sticking to the rivers and creeks is the best way to ensure they don’t find themselves stranded without water. There are few rivers guiding eastwards from here.

“So, we’re just gonna let him work through it?” Arthur snaps.

There— obtrusive.

“We never said we weren’t going to figure this out, Arthur.” Hosea sighs, clearly thinking through their best course of action. Dutch nods in agreement, adding, “It just ain’t an option to head south, son. Not now. If this hadn’t been so sudden, we coulda worked something better out, but,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as the words sink in.

Arthur feels his anger rear its ugly head, once again scorching the lining of his stomach and creeping up his esophagus. This time, when it threatens to char his lips and turn his teeth to ash, he doesn’t force it back down.

“It won’t sudden,” he seethes, fingers twisting and clutching the fabric of his pants between his fingers. “He’s been coughing for days and been actin’ mighty miserable here lately. You both ain’t noticed ‘cause you was too busy scheming to pay the boy any mind other than to scold him— and he’s noticed it, too.”

“If you noticed it, Arthur, how come you didn’t speak up?” Dutch asks, the tension rising incrementally with each passing second. Before the spat can escalate further— Arthur was beginning to rise from his seat— Hosea breaks in.

“Enough! It’s too late now so there’s no point in tearing one another apart. We can assign blame later after we figure out what we’re going to do.”

Arthur sits back, and Dutch crosses his arms over his chest as if he were a petulant child and not this gang’s leader. Arthur takes some satisfaction in the glare Hosea sends to the man, who is pointedly ignoring his gaze. The next few minutes are spent in tense silence, occasionally broken by the crackling and popping of the firewood. Hosea cautiously begins another conversation, talking through a potential plan out loud as Dutch gives his input. None of the ideas involve immediate care for the boy. Once they’re thoroughly distracted and he knows he’s no longer their concern, he shoves to his feet. He’s heard enough.

Arthur spends a few minutes pampering Vanity, stroking her nose and giving her sugar cubes. He holds his palm flat as she nips at the treats, and he finds himself apologizing to her for the second time today as he retrieves his saddle and slings it over her back. He straps it secure, and her protests are no more than a deep sigh. 

Arthur opens the flap to John’s tent, dirty boot nudging the boy’s sleeping form. “Get the hell up, Marston.”

The boy groans, curling further into himself with a shiver. Reluctantly, Arthur crouches, rolling John over and removing the rag. His calloused fingertips brush the boy’s damp hair out of his eyes before he places his palm to his forehead, cursing under his breath when he feels how hot it is. He pulls his hand away.

“Get up.”

“Why, Arthur?” John wheezes, barely able to crack his eyes open.

“”Cause I’m taking you to a doctor.” His words are curt as he yanks his personal lockbox out from the corner of the tent, yanking it open. He shoves some bills into his satchels then closes it once more. John now has sat up in bed with the blanket around his shoulders. His eyes fall closed again, and his body leans to the side and nearly topples over, but Arthur grabs him in time. John doesn’t protest as he’s pulled to his feet, but he keeps a tight hold on Arthur’s blanket. The older boy doesn’t comment, only guides him out of the tent and to the horses.

“Arthur?”

The man in question carefully lifts John to sit on the front of the saddle, reaching up and securing his blanket to keep it wrapped tight to fend off the chills and, maybe, help him sweat out the fever— as unlikely as that is, at this point. If anything his condition will worsen on horseback.

Dutch now stands a few feet away, and he repeats, “Arthur, what the hell are you doing?”

He places one boot in the stirrup and throws his leg over the saddle, settling into his seat with a soft grunt. He settles into the saddle as he’s done hundreds of times, taking the reins into his bare hands. He usually prefers riding gloves, but he didn't think to grab them before mounting and he certainly isn’t retrieving them now. Arthur glances down at the two men beside him for only a few moments before he has to look away.“I’m taking Marston to a doctor.”

He clicks his tongue, guiding his mare across camp in the direction of the main path. It’ll be slow going as they walk through the vegetation, but once they make it out Arthur plans to stop only if necessary. He’s made up his mind, and nothing they say will make him change it.

They try anyway, though. 

“It’s not safe to leave right now, and you know that,” Hosea points out. Arthur doesn’t look at him, can’t bring himself to as his ears burn with shame. He’s never liked making Hosea worry; still, he shakes it off, refusing to let his resolve crumble before he even leaves the clearing. “I can handle myself.”

The two of them disappear into the underbrush—voices call after them, but he stopped listening— and the darkness immediately swallows them whole. Hosea sighs, running a tired hand over his face then glancing over at Dutch. He’s not moved, rooted to his spot as he squints, almost as if he believes they’ll come back through the same path they left moments ago. But the sounds of horse’s hooves only get softer, then they stop entirely. Suddenly, camp seems suffocatingly lonely, with only the brook and breeze to keep them company.

Everything hurts.

John’s limbs ache something fierce as he is whipped side to side, up and down. His head is throbbing at each jolt, and he feels himself lose his balance a couple times as he leans over, his entire being acting as dead weight. But something has a tight hold around him, keeping him from topping over despite the jerkiness of his current predicament. He’s warm, a blanket wrapped around him, but at the same time he’s freezing, teeth chattering as the occasional chills go down his spine.

He struggles to open his eyes and, when he does, he can only make out dark, blurry shapes. Lifting his head is such a daunting task he doesn’t even try, letting it roll side to side with his body. It's too heavy for his shoulders, which also ache uncomfortably. He tries to keep his eyes open, wanting to see where he is and what’s going on; however, having his eyes open makes his stomach roll uneasily, nausea returning and slowly creeping up his throat as saliva pools on his tongue. Eventually his eyelids are too heavy for him to hold open, and he eventually stops fighting them. Instead, he blinks long and slow before opening them again, the time he spends with his eyes closed only lengthening. 

Pink and orange flood his vision when his eyes open next. He’s just coherent enough to make out the familiar shape of Vanity's head in front of him, the mare’s hooves pounding against dirt as she gallops. His thought process is non-linear as he narrows in on the conclusion that Arthur must be the one sitting behind him, arm wrapped around John to ensure he doesn’t fall. A sharp pain stabs him just behind his eyes, and he groans.

“Arthur?”

A low, gruff voice he easily recognizes drifts to his ears, but they must be full of mucus because the sentences sound muffled. He can’t distinguish a single syllable, despite his efforts— which are admittedly lack-luster— so he stops trying even as Arthur keeps talking. The words are fuzzy and his vision is blurry, and he’s so, so tired.

“Arthur!”

The name tears out of John’s aching throat like a plea as two foreign faces loom over him. The room he’s in reeks, the stench of bile so sour and suffocating the taste of it lingers on his tongue and coats the inside of his mouth. It makes him gag, and he leans over the edge of the mattress he’s laying on to vomit onto the floor. His ribs nearly shatter in his chest as his heart drums against them relentlessly, beating even faster as he’s pinned down to the bed by the strangers at his side. The starch white sheets beneath him cause his head to spin, knives and needles prickling his insides as he looks around the room, eyes wild. His gaze lands on a figure on the far end of the small room. Their back is to them as they riffle through a cabinet.

When they turn around, a noose is in their hands.

The white ceiling overhead is now a crooked sycamore tree. Two men at John’s side hold him by the arms, keeping him from escaping as the hangman creeps closer. The boy’s knees are shaking so badly that the chair he’s been forced to stand on wobbles beneath him. John screams out for Arthur again, voice raw as he kicks and flails. But no horse is approaching from the horizon line, no cowboy is riding low with his gun drawn, and no bullet comes whizzing overhead to free him from his death sentence.

The pad of Arthur’s thumb traces over the engravings on his gun’s grip; even as he closes his eyes in search of rest, his hand never strays from his weapon. Not this far southeast, when posters of his face are plastered along each building and hang inside each general store. He hadn’t seen many this morning when he came galloping into the town of Easturst, but that was liable to change. There was no telling how long his luck would hold.

He tilts his head back, squinting at the naked wall across from where he’s seated. The chair at John’s bedside is hard, digging into his tailbone and further exacerbating the soreness plaguing his muscles. In retrospect, fleeing Gualva in such a rush only to mount back up that very night and ride for another few hours was not the greatest idea, yet he’d done it. After Arthur left camp and made it to the main path, he dug his heels into Vanity and gripped the reins tight. John was unconscious for most of the ride, coughing and wheezing in his sleep. A few times Arthur stopped so the boy could empty his stomach onto the ground beside them, but he was never lucid enough to speak. At dawn, when they were nearly at Easthurst, he came to for a few minutes, mumbling Arthur’s name under his breath before passing out again. 

The rest of the time Arthur spent looking over his shoulder, making sure no lawmen or even bounty hunters were on his trail. He couldn’t afford to get into a shoot out, not with John out of commission and no one here to provide support if things took a turn for the worst. Sticking to the trail may have heightened his chances of being recognized, but it minimized the odds of injuring his horse, so he followed it closed until he could make out the silhouette of a small town on the horizon.

Easthurst’s residents were already going about their business by the time he strolled into town. Stagecoaches were already making their way through the dirt roads, dogs nipping at their wheels, and the men who weren’t drunk or hungover were working. He lowered his head as curious gazes turned to study this strange outsider with a boy on his saddle. 

Arthur’s story seemed to convince the doctors: Arthur, his ma, pa, and John were passing through the state in order to reach some newly acquired land they bought for farming. His kid brother fell ill during their travels. Needing to reach their estate to close the deal and sign some papers, their ma and pa went ahead while Arthur took his brother to the nearest physician. 

He glances over at John. His dirty cheeks are littered with tear streaks, making Arthur’s heart squeeze in his chest. The boy’s fever had spiked at an alarming rate and he was borderline delirious when the doctors took them back into his room. Though he wasn’t acquainted with many, even he could tell this doctor’s office was nice. There were fine chairs in the waiting room and different sections of the building were reserved for different purposes, rather than having one single room. He had been asked to wait out front, but he felt uneasy as they carried John away all by himself.

Arthur has become accustomed to living in a perpetual state of worry. It was routine to sleep with a gun at his side and to go about his days with throwing knives in his boots. The price on his head grows every day. When he joined the Van der Linde gang, which was really more of a duo at the time, he accepted the fact safety would be a relative term. There was only higher risk or lower risk, better or worse odds; never risk free or guaranteed. Arthur developed thick skin and a sense of apathy that left him generally unbothered. But he still shivers, the hair on the back of his neck raising when he hears the guttural way John screams his name from beyond a heavy oak door. His entire body goes rigid, stock-still as his blood suddenly roars in his ears. All he can hear is the fear in John’s voice, the unbridled panic that wasn’t like anything Arthur had ever heard from him.

Then he shoves to his feet as his senses return to him, barging through the door and down the hall. He’s just in time to watch the doctor administer John, flailing, and shot of morphine, two nurses having to hold him down. His eyes seem distant, fixed on a point far away as the wild look in them fades. Arthur refused to be escorted out of the room, pointedly brandishing the fine pair of shooters that hung on his hips. He leaned against the windowsill, then, and watched them administer what medicine they could and work to bring John’s fever down.

That was hours ago. According to the doctor, John wouldn’t be waking anytime soon. 

Arthur paid for their services and their silence. His pockets were much lighter now than when he rode into town, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care yet, especially not to complain. With one last look at John, he sighs, shifting in his chair. He leans his head back, hat resting low over his eyes to block out the midday sun, and closes his eyes.

It’s sundown by the time John stirs, shifting against the comforter with a groan. His chest rises and falls deeply, struggling to catch his breath after he coughs loudly. When he opens his eyes, Arthur just watches in silence. The boy’s eyes are glazed over, the whites of them red, and he blinks hard a few times before they shoot wide open, one of his hands going to his throat. Whipping his head around, he spots Arthur, the tense hunch of his shoulders melting away as relief floods his expression.

“Arthur,” He chokes, voice cracking so badly Arthur cringes. It must hurt him to swallow, nonetheless speak.

“It’s me, Marston. ‘M right here, never left.”

Still looking out of sorts, John nods, slowly, relaxing back into the bed. He looks at Arthur for just a few seconds longer before closing his eyes, chest falling into a steady rhythm as he sleeps soundly for, likely, the first time in days. The next time he wakes— at nearly noon the next day— he’s in much better shape. The color has returned to his face, providing his cheeks with a warm red glow and the tips of his ears with a colorful burn. Though he still needs to rest, he is much more cognizant. The syrup the doctor has been giving him works because, when he speaks, he doesn’t appear to be in overwhelming pain.

“Where are we?”

“Easthurst, down south. Dutch and Hosea are riding north. Once you’re better we’ll ride to meet ‘em.”

John opens his mouth to say something, then closes it, swallowing his words and opting for a single nod in acknowledgment of Arthur’s news. Sensing he has more to say, Arthur remains silent, deciding so wait him out. John is many things, but quiet is not one of them, and he starts shifting uncomfortably in bed. The sheets rustle softly beneath him and he sighs sharply, finally speaking up.

“Why’d you bring me here?”

Arthur blinks, lips parted slightly in confusion. He thinks it’s a damn dumb question, but he indulges John, saying, “You were sick, Marston. Still are.”

“I know that.” John huffs again, seemingly frustrated Arthur doesn’t understand his question. He tries to ask again, but stops halfway through when he stumbles over his sentences and hisses, “shit.” He flops back with an angry look on his face, features pinched tight as he tries to rethink his phrasing. 

“You look constipated,” Arthur points out helpfully. 

“I’m thinking!”

“Well, your thinking face makes you look constipated.” Arthur snorts, sitting back in his chair with a smirk. John doesn’t take the bait, however, and a silence settles over them for a few moments.

“I mean… why’d you bother?”

Inclining his head to glance at John from the corner of his eye, Arthur considers the question. Turning it over in his head a few times, it doesn’t take long for him to hone in on the true nature of his question. He realizes John doesn’t want to know why Arthur brought him to a doctor; he wants to know about who isn’t here. Slowly, he says, “You were bad off. They weren’t sure on what to do next, so I made the decision for ‘em.”

John just nods, eyes downcast as the atmosphere in the room shifts to something colder. He murmurs, “I would’a gotten over it sooner or later.” 

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“All I ever do is slow us down,” he mutters, dejected. 

The older man sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose before again dragging his hand down his face. The stubble on his jaw is prickly, hair having grown out after a few days without shaving as he normally would. He can feel the jagged flesh under his fingers there, a scar long healed over, and lowers his hand. When he speaks next his words are blunt. “You’ve always slowed us down, John, since the very beginning. If that bothered us, you think we’d still be taking you along?”

The boy sighs. “No.”

“You listen to me, John,” Arthur begins, shifting in his seat to fully face John. Arthur isn’t one for sap, never leaning into his emotions or dwelling on events of the past. He chooses to think with his head and fight with his fists, his heart only feeling heavy when the liquor bottles get light. Because of this, he keeps his expression stern, only speaking when John reluctantly meets his gaze; he’ll say this once, and he won’t repeat himself.  “You ain’t a bother. We don’t keep you around out of pity, or obligation. And if I have to waste a few days’ travel makin’ sure you get whatever damned medicine you need, then so be it. I venture that’s a much better use of time than spending a day waiting around in mourning after we had to bury you cold in the dirt. Don’t you think so?”

John frowns for a few moments, silently processing the words as his lip begins wobbling uncontrollably. He bites down on it hard, sniffling as tears gathers at the corners of his brown eyes. He looks away, swiftly wiping at them with the backs of his hands. Puffing out his chest and gathering a newfound sense of pride into his tone, John voices his agreement.

Arthur smiles softly and stands from the chair, stretching his back in an excuse to look away and hide his grin. Removing his hat, Arthur sighs. He places it onto John’s head more forcefully than necessary, purposefully ruffling the boy’s hair as he twists the accessory on his head before he’s shoved away.

“I’m going to make sure Vanity’s bein’ looked after proper in the stables,” he explains. John is looking up at Arthur from under the brim of his hat, which he removes and cradles in his lap. “If you act right between now and when we leave town, maybe you’ll have yourself your very own hat.”

John gasps excitedly. Small dimples press into his cheeks as he grins, the crooked smile he wears awfully endearing. “You’re giving me yours?” 

“Hell no,” Arthur laughs, walking towards the door with his spurs rattling behind him. “That’s my hat, and long as there’s breath in my lungs you ain't getting’ it. But,” He pauses at the threshold, looking over his shoulder at the bedridden boy. "I’ll let you take your pick at the store, me payin’.”

Arthur doesn't have much left— in terms of cash— by the time they ride out of Easthurst. John, however, has a new hat, which his grimy fingers carefully trace the details of as he and Arthur trot along on their journey north. While the threading on it is nice, the leatherwork nothing to scoff at, John had picked it out within moments of entering the general store. Plenty more were on display, pricier ones Arthur would have reluctantly purchased for him if he asked. John hardly spared those a glance, and Arthur never could figure out why. 

 What John had been looking for was a hat with thick interior lining, good for hiding notes away in. Holding a piece of paper in his hands, the boy smiles as he tucks it into his new hat. It’s a haphazard sketch that was done by Arthur some time ago, of the two of them as blocky shapes drawn by his steady hand, and John didn’t think the man even remembered drawing it. He kept that sketch close until the edges of the parchment frayed and the smeared graphite nearly obscured the image as a whole. But John didn’t mind the smears or the smudges. He didn’t need bold lines or sharp shapes to know it was a drawing of him and his brother.