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The moon hung low over Clemens Point, a warm, amber glow painting silver onto the rippling lake. Crickets chirped in a slow, sleepy rhythm, their music weaving with the soft crackle of a campfire. Most of the gang had turned in already—Arthur snoring lightly in his tent, Tilly curled up with a book, and Sean probably passed out somewhere inappropriate. But Dutch and Hosea sat just outside Dutch’s tent, an old wool blanket draped over their knees, a tin of peach cobbler between them.
Hosea took a bite and made a show of considering it.
“Bit too much cinnamon,” he muttered, poking at the filling with his spoon.
Dutch raised an eyebrow, already half-laughing. “You say that every time.”
“Because it’s true every time.”
“Could’ve made it yourself, old man.”
“And rob you of your moment of domestic pride? I’d never dream of it.”
Dutch leaned back in his chair, pipe in hand, grinning sideways at Hosea. His beard had gone mostly gray now, catching the firelight like a halo around his jaw, but his eyes were sharp as ever, flickering with mischief.
“You’re just mad I finally got Pearson to admit I make a better cobbler than he does.”
Hosea gave a noncommittal hum and took another bite. “He only said that because you guilted him into it. Brought up your poor dead mother again, didn’t you?”
Dutch let out a dramatic sigh. “She did teach me how to bake, you know. Might as well get something out of her long-suffering ghost.”
“You never even knew her recipe.”
“She spoke it to me in a dream.”
“Oh, Lord.”
Hosea chuckled and shook his head, the lines around his eyes creasing in that way Dutch had always loved—gentle, worn-in, like pages of a book you couldn’t stop reading.
They lapsed into silence for a moment, the good kind. Dutch puffed on his pipe, exhaling slow spirals of smoke that drifted up into the tree canopy. Hosea leaned back and stretched out his legs, resting his arm along the back of Dutch’s chair like he might on a park bench in Saint Denis, if they were ordinary men.
“Camp’s quiet tonight,” Dutch said after a while.
“Mmm. For once.”
“You think maybe, someday, we’ll have more nights like this?”
Hosea looked over, eyes soft. “You getting sentimental on me, van der Linde?”
“Maybe.” Dutch's voice had lowered, gentled like the lake wind. “Or maybe I just like this. You. Us.”
“Hmm.” Hosea looked off into the trees, thoughtful. “You always did want peace, even if you went looking for it with dynamite.”
Dutch laughed, deep and full. “I’m improving.”
“Somewhat.”
He nudged Hosea’s knee under the blanket. “You’re supposed to say I’ve matured.”
“Oh, I would, if you had.”
Dutch gave a long, theatrical groan and slumped sideways until his head rested on Hosea’s shoulder. Hosea didn’t push him off, just smirked and kept eating cobbler one-handed.
“You’re heavy,” Hosea said, fondly.
“You’re bony.”
“Still sharp-tongued.”
“I’ve got to be, to keep up with you.”
They stayed like that for a long while, the fire dying to coals, the stars thickening above them. Dutch closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of Hosea’s old flannel shirt and the faint smoke clinging to it.
“You remember that house we found up near Annesburg?” Dutch murmured.
“The little green one with the porch swing?”
“Yeah. You said it was too drafty.”
“It was too drafty.”
“I thought it was perfect. Had a view of the valley. Garden out back. Could’ve had chickens.”
“We’d have killed those chickens within a week.”
Dutch grinned, eyes still closed. “True. But still… nice thought.”
Hosea didn’t answer right away. His spoon scraped the last of the cobbler from the tin.
“We’ll get there,” he said at last, voice low. “Someday. A real porch swing. A dog, maybe.”
Dutch cracked one eye open. “You? Letting a dog in the house?”
“If you’re going to dream out loud, I get to dream too.”
Dutch chuckled, reached up, and laced his fingers through Hosea’s where they rested behind his chair. The gesture was simple, subtle, but it lit a warm spark in Hosea’s chest.
He squeezed Dutch’s hand gently. “You know,” he said, “for all the noise you make, you really are just a soft-hearted fool when the fire burns low.”
“Takes one to love one.”
Hosea didn’t argue that.
Somewhere out across the lake, a frog croaked lazily, and the world seemed very far away. No Pinkertons. No train jobs. No distant, crumbling dreams. Just two old outlaws under a blanket, talking about peach cobbler and dogs.
Dutch leaned up and pressed a kiss to Hosea’s cheek, scratchy with stubble. “Don’t let me forget this,” he murmured.
“You won’t,” Hosea replied. “Not as long as I’m around.”
Dutch smiled, tucked his head against Hosea’s shoulder again, and let the night carry them.