Work Text:
Molly doesn’t know what she had been expecting.
When Dutch had invited her into the bustling city of Saint Denis, she should have known that it was for more than a day of fun and pleasure. They’d barely set foot in the town before he’d left her in a saloon with a handful of dollars and an almost fatherly tap on the head. “I’m sure you can entertain yourself, my dear,” he’d said before he’d disappeared to do business elsewhere.
The whiskey’s not even good, she begrudgingly thinks to herself as she glares at the thick bottom of the tumbler before her.
Once she’s tired of the ogling drunks and the mediocre drinks, she takes to exploring the city on her own. Just because she’s a young lady doesn't mean that she can’t handle herself. She’s seen Dutch parade through all kinds of disasters with nothing but his confidence, and confidence is key - as he loves to tell her.
She straightens herself and brush some dust from her skirt. She has a city to explore.
-
The tears sting in the corners of his eyes, and the frustration in his chest forms a lump in his throat.
He feels like a fool. For all he knows, he is a fool. A fool for thinking he could change. A fool for thinking he'd be good enough for a woman like her. A fool for running right back to her the moment she calls.
Arthur huffs out a sharp breath. A grown man like him shouldn’t have tears burning behind his eyelids because of something so silly as a broken heart - at least that’s what he’s telling himself. And it’s not his heart that’s aching as much as it is his pride. He feels used and hurt from the way she spoke to and about him in front of her idiot father. She’d had the nerve to give him hope, and he’d been a dumb enough to think he’d stood a chance.
Arthur sighs and smothers his hands over his face as he tries to wipe the thoughts and memories aside. His hands come away wet with tears that he angrily wipes them on the thighs of his jeans.
“Arthur?”
He whips around at the sound of a familiar voice in the unfamiliar environment. It’s Molly looking at him with worry as she rubs her hands together like a concerned wife. “What are you doing here?” She asks.
Arthur wants to ask her the same thing, but the words don’t come to him. “Just out for some errands,” he says and his voice is hoarse with sadness. He quickly turns and frantically wipes the evidence of tears from his face, preferring smudges of ash and dirt over showing weakness. He doesn't want to be sad in front of Molly. Doesn't want to make a fool of himself before her, too. "What are you doing here? Camp’s ways away."
Molly watches him silently before she tries to comfort him - and herself - with a smile. “I thought I’d tour the town before we leave,” she says. But no matter how hard she tries, the concern comes back. “Are you alright? You’re making me worry.”
“Worry? About me?” Arthur shakes his head. It sounds ridiculous. Why would she worry about him? “Ain’t no need, Ms. O’Shea.”
She frowns. The memory of his arms around her is so close, and she gazes longingly at his large hands, wishing that they could hold her once more. A wistful sigh escapes as she tries to replace her frown with another smile. “If there ain’t nothing to worry about, then might I borrow you for a moment? I’m in sore need of a guide.”
Just like she does, Arthur brushes some of the pain away and tries for a smile of his own. “It’d be my pleasure.”
-
They’ve never been alone like this before, far from the camp and far from the others. It feels strangely like freedom, something they both realize they’ve missed. Molly has her hand firmly on Arthur’s arm, and he makes sure to sweep her out of the way of any passing strangers and obstacles. She doesn’t seem to mind squeezing closer to him on the narrow paths.
“Have you done something with your hair, Mr. Morgan?” She asks as they wander past the church.
He has. He visited the barber just a few hours ago - for Mary’s sake. “A little trim,” he admits. “Can’t be runnin’ around the city lookin’ like a mop.”
Chuckling, Molly shakes her head. “You never look anything of the sort,” she says. “But this suits you.” Her hand wanders dangerously close to his face before she realizes it and snatches it away. However much she wants to stop and run her hands through his hair, it’s hardly her place to do so.
But Arthur notices and he can’t help but feel disappointed when she pulls away. “Molly, I-”
“Arthur?”
Both Arthur and Molly turn to the woman standing a few paces away, a small purse clutched tightly in her hands and her face contorted in a frown. Arthur gulps and his arms fall limply back to his sides. “Mary,” he croaks. “I thought you…” He doesn’t finish his sentence.
Mary shakes her head. “I… I couldn’t leave things as they were. Not while…” She stops herself and looks at Molly. “You said you were going back to… to them but…”
“Mary, I-...” Arthur can’t find his words.
Molly looks between him and the woman she’s never seen before, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who she was - or is - to Arthur. She averts her gaze, silently shuffling another foot away from Arthur as he speaks to Mary.
“It’s not that simple. I can’t just take off. They need me, they’re family,” Arthur explains.
“I-...” Mary shifts back and forth. “May we speak?” She asks. “In private?”
Arthur blinks, looking at Mary before he turns and looks at Molly, who looks increasingly uncomfortable.
Molly looks up at him and offers a sheepish smile. Slowly, she begins to back off, shuffling further and further away. “If the two of you’d like for me to leave, I’ll-”
“No,” Arthur says before she can finish what she’s saying. He reaches out and places a hand upon her arm. Relief fills him when she stops. “There’s no need. Please, stay. We’re…” He sighs and turns back to Mary with a new resolve. “There’s nothing to talk about, Mary. There’s nothing left.”
His words clearly displease Mary, but she’s gracious enough to accept them. “I see. Well… I suppose you have changed a bit, although not in the way I thought… or hoped.” She smiles wryly. “I wish you the best, and I hope you believe me when I say that.”
Arthur isn’t sure he does, but he gives a nod that’s stiff with forced politeness.
Molly, on the other hand, feels a familiar prick of feelings in her chest - like venom in her veins. She hooks her arm around Arthur’s and gives Mary a sharp look. No words are spoken, but glares are exchanged between the two women before Mary turns on her heels and leaves.
“Come on,” Molly says, squeezing Arthur’s arm.
He doesn’t have it in him to protest.
Neither of them says anything as they walk. They wander in silence - arm in arm - as people, horses, and carriages pass them by. Slowly, the mood shifts from thoughtful dread to easy comfort. The pair continue walking, stopping a handful of times to peer through the window of a store or watch a performer’s act along the street.
Time passes, and soon the midday sun has wandered down the sky, and the pleasant day turns into evening. They’ve made it around Saint Denis and linger by the docks. The breeze, the sunset, and the company make the bustle and the smog of the city more bearable.
“Are you alright?” Molly asks.
Arthur can’t remember the last time someone has genuinely asked him that, and now Molly’s asked twice in a day. “Ain’t no pretty way of sayin’ it,” he mumbles and adjusts his hat to try and act as if his chest doesn’t ache with anxiety.
“There’s no need for those,” Molly assures him.
Arthur still hesitates. “Need pretty words for a pretty lady,” he says. “This ordeal is one big mess. Nothing I want to bother you with.”
“Arthur,” Molly squeezes his arm tight. “Please.”
A long pause follows and that - in turn - is followed by a long sigh. “Let me get you a drink, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Molly offers him a smile - one that makes the weight in his chest feel a little lighter. “I’d love that.”