Chapter Text
Dutch crowded over his beer, hunching his shoulders to the dingy, colored lights strobing behind him. The gruff hoots and hollers and sultry music crackling over old speakers still reached his ears, but he paid it all no mind. All he wanted was a drink and some oversalted nut mix before he turned in for the night, he hardly cared for a strip show, or any of the other rowdy entertainment the dump of a bar he’d parked his arse in offered. He pulled his trucker cap lower over his brow and shook out his shoulders, sitting in the truck all day in the blazing sun sapped his energy, but it paid the bills and offered him some adrenaline every once in a while.
The whoops from behind him got louder and laced with what sentences could be strung together by the small group of rabble rousers too drunk for their own good. Dutch had clocked them when he came in, nothing more than a couple of low level mafia boys thrilled to pretend they were much better at their jobs and in a much better bar.
“This seat taken?” Dutch was about to snap at the owner of the voice that he wasn’t interested in whatever they were trying to sell or trick him into when the words died in his throat. The man to his right was tall, nearly as tall as him, but lean, with fluffy gold hair, a gaunt face, and sharp hazel eyes. He was dressed simply in slightly-too-big light wash jeans, a dark blue button down, and a buckskin colored jacket. Dutch waved his hand at the seat dismissively, taking a swig of his beer in hopes of dislodging the lump that had appeared suddenly in his throat. The man slid down beside him, carrying with him the scent of sandalwood aftershave and leather. Motioning for the bartender, the stranger spoke up in a soft, slightly scratchy voice, “Seems you’re the only other man in here not interested in the show.” Dutch snorted, casting a short glance behind them to where the next dancer of the evening had already come on stage and the men below her were whooping and waving pitiful amounts of money. “I came in here for an overpriced beer and to get out of my damn truck for five minutes. I don’t assume you’re here for the same?” No, this was no trucker. Dutch mused to himself as the blonde chuckled softly and ran long, thin fingers over the sweaty sides of his scotch glass. He just didn’t have that look about him, and Dutch knew or knew of all the truckers who ran Arizona routes. He had to if he wanted his smuggling business to remain the undisputed owner of the black market Southwest scene.
“No, not so much as that, just a long day that keeps on getting longer. Besides, women don’t exactly pique my interest.” Dutch hummed reedily, nearly choking on a swig of beer as excitement fizzled low in his chest. Maybe this blonde stranger could be a fun flirt, he certainly had Dutch’s attention, at least. “What, you got a problem with that?” The blonde’s gaze had gone steely and his back stiff, leaving Dutch stumbling for words, “No, no no friend, just - nice to be in good company. Call me Aiden.” Dutch stuck out one large hand, pasting on his most disarming smile. The blonde kept one eyebrow raised, but a spark of mischief replaced the wariness in his eyes as he took Dutch’s hand and shook it firmly, “Alfred, a pleasure.”
Dutch angled his body a little more towards the man, a thrill running through him when Alfred failed to mention it or move away in response. “Does that come with a last name, Alfred?” The blonde’s eyes were positively glimmering with mischief by that point, even as he snorted derisively. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” “Touche.” Alfred sipped at his watery scotch, a subtle smile revealing the most charming beginnings of age lines on his face as Dutch launched them into a round of small talk where very little real information was given out on either side and they both knew it.
Two beers on Dutch’s end and one tonic water on Alfred’s later, they were chuckling heartily over stories of Alfred’s rebellious youth and Dutch’s rebellious adulthood. It was long past when Dutch had promised himself he would turn in for the evening, but he couldn’t find it within himself to care, especially with the way his stomach swooped every time Alfred’s shoulder brushed against him as he laughed, or when the colorful strobe lights threw his handsomely thin face into light and shadow, or when he listened along to Dutch’s animated recounts of his (legal) exploits with a charmed, almost shy smile and twinkling eyes. Dutch was in the middle of his grand account of getting himself caught in a snowstorm in the mountains during his first year trucking when Alfred went suspiciously still, his delighted and somewhat teasing chuckles lapsing into emotionless silence, his eyes trained on the rows of bottles behind the bar and his face curtained and serious. Dutch trailed off, following Alfred’s gaze and inwardly letting out a noise of impressed surprise. It would look to anyone else like the blonde was just planning his next drink, but his gaze was actually trained on the mirror behind all the bottles, watching whatever was going down behind their backs with intensity. Impressive, and definitely not just some average bum, this one. Dutch couldn’t see whatever he was looking at, but whatever it was was interesting, and he wanted in. That was his fatal flaw, he’d been told, he just couldn’t leave anything interesting alone.
Leaning over into Alfred’s space, Dutch made it look as if he was simply after a handful of the woefully under-salted nut mix from the bowl to their right. “Enjoying the show now, are we?” He purred softly near the blonde’s ear. Alfred blinked in surprise, catching Dutch’s cunning expression and the twitch of a smile poorly camouflaged by his mustache. “A funny one, you are.” Alfred shifted on his barstool a bit, gently but clearly pushing Dutch's knees aside with his own. “Now, you really should get outta here. Just get in your truck and go.” Dutch reeled a bit, dumbstruck.
“What? If I did somethin’ to offend-” Alfred’s glare could’ve lit snow on fire. “You didn’t. This just doesn’t concern you anymore. Now pay your tab - or better yet, I’ll pay it, call it a stroke of good luck - get in your truck, and drive. away.” Dutch grunted, now more frustrated than surprised, there was a puzzle here, and his brain was working overtime to click all the pieces together fast enough. He spared a rapid glance behind them, catching a glimpse of large amounts of cash and small baggies on the low table in front of the small group of men he’d noted earlier. They were talking amongst themselves in hushed tones and with shifting eyes. One man with greased back hair glanced up to the pair at the bar, eyes beady and suspicious. Dutch swayed on his chair, throwing one arm over Alfred’s shoulders and laughing a little too loudly and flatly, hoping his “drunk as a skunk” routine was still up to snuff.
“Like hell.” He rasped in Alfred’s ear, attention half trained on the slowly quieting sounds of the group behind them, “I know that’s a nice mark but it’s not worth the trouble. Just drop it, friend.” Alfred didn’t reply, he and Dutch had both heard the creak of a chair bowing back into place behind them as someone stood up. Alfred’s muscles rippled under Dutch’s arm as he rolled his shoulders back.
“Goddamnit, get down.”
Dutch, for once in his life, actually listened when someone told him to do something, and ducked away. His escape was aided by a hard shove on the arm from the blonde. He tumbled to the dirty floor, landing awkwardly on his stomach just as he heard the telltale click of a safety being cocked somewhere behind him. “Well well well, you really thought this was a smart idea, didn’t you?” Dutch pushed himself up to a kneeling position and turned to take in the scene unfolding at the bar. The blonde, Alfred, was still seated just as Dutch had left him. But now, his hands were up in surrender and his expression had turned drawn, mouth contorted in a grimace at the press of the gun at the back of his head, the muzzle lost among the shin blonde waves.
His voice came out smooth and unaffected, as if he was simply asking the bartender for another round, “I have absolutely no idea what you mean, gentlemen, I just wanted a drink, is all.” The man with the gun, the leader of this ragtag bunch by Dutch’s gut feel, cackled reedily as his friend fanned out behind him. “And this is a singing lounge in Tahiti. Colm showed is your picture, Hosea Matthews. He knew you and your bumbling idiots would try to pick us off, no batter what backwater hole we found to hide out in.”
Dutch felt an ugly, hot prickle rise in the back of his throat. Colm O’Driscoll had picked off a number of his friends and allies over the years, and now it was only a matter of time before the men recognized him, too. He’d grown out his hair and gained a bit of weight since they’d last gotten wind of him in the area, but his distinctive face stood out regardless. Dutch weighed his options: he could cut for the back of the dingy bar and run for his truck, these half-wits would probably be too caught up in their gloating and murdering to notice… or, he could stay and fight. He was always a bit of a fan of an underdog, and the defiant blonde - Hosea - before him was practically the definition of one. Five against one were brutal odds, and everyone in the room knew it. Dutch rallied his senses, preparing to throw himself headlong into trouble, just like he always did.
“You boys had a chance, you know. You could’ve let us round you up peacefully, I might’ve even cut you a deal for informing on Colm. But that chance is long gone now, I suppose…” The O’Driscoll boys laughed without humor, the leader lowering his gun slightly, opening his mouth to toss an undoubtedly ill thought out joke to his comrades, but he never got the chance.
Dutch barely had time to see, let alone register the swiftness with which Hosea swung around, the glint of a large knife following the blur of his hand as it arced through the air in front of him, leaving a deep, spurting wound in the leader’s neck that splattered scarlet blood in a wide trail across the blonde's face and hair. As the man dropped to the floor, Hosea swiped the gun out of his limp hand, shoving the body towards one man fumbling for his own weapon as he shot another twice in the chest. Three men remained, rapidly drawing their own weapons against the blonde as he tried to fire again and failed, the gun in his hand clicking uselessly. Hosea groaned loudly, preparing to use the gun as a blunt force weapon as Dutch finally shocked himself into gear. He reached into his waistband for his pistol, but found only air where it should be.
He whipped his head back, realizing it had skittered across the floor and under a couch when Hosea had shoved him out of the way. He debated making a lunge for it when the quick succession of sickening thuds forced him to spin back. Two of the O’Driscoll men were rushing to stuff their drugs and money back into forest green duffel bags, as the final man who could've been a professional strongman by the look of him, had wrapped his hands around Hosea’s neck and begun to squeeze.
Hosea’s booted feet slipped against the blood-slicked barstool legs, his hands scrabbling uselessly against the man’s arms, blunt nails doing little against the the thick fabric of his suit. There was a nasty rip just above the blonde's right brow, spilling blood down the side of his face and into one already swelling eye. The man choking him wore bloody brass knuckles on both hands, and the bloody hunting knife had clattered down below Hosea’s feet. Through the haze of blood and oxygen loss, Hosea’s eyes latched onto Dutch’s, before he quickly glanced down at the knife at his feet then back to Dutch. Shifting up into a crouch, Dutch nodded minutely, and Hosea managed to discretely kick the knife over towards him. It barely had time to rattle to a halt before Dutch had it in hand, closing his grip around the familiar yet alien hilt as he lunged for the brute at the bar. A dangerous calmness swept over him as he shot upwards, quiet and fast, wrapping one large hand around the attackers face, ripping him off Hosea and plunging the knife blade into his neck, catching both his windpipe and carotid arteries with one deadly stroke.
The man collapsed, letting out tiny chokes for air as Dutch locked eyes with the blonde before him, somehow even more coated in blood than before. He nodded his thanks as one hand went up to rub at his sore neck. No longer pinned where he sat, Hosea tugged a pistol from the shoulder holster expertly hidden underneath his coat and slithered past Dutch, eyes trained on the final two gang members, scrabbling for their weapons but weighed down by their duffel bags. Two short, loud pops echoed through the tiny bar, and suddenly all lay still and quiet, save for the cheesy music still piping in over the speakers.
Hosea let out a weary, rattling sigh, searching for an unbloodied shirt corner with which to wipe the blood off his face and hands. Dutch fumbled for a handkerchief, holding it out to the blonde like it was a live grenade. The man waved it off with a murmured thanks, having found a clean triangle of fabric near the hem of his shirt that hadn’t been soaked through. He tugged it up to wipe off his face, and Dutch couldn’t help but notice the toned, tan expanse of stomach it revealed, adorned with what could’ve been freckles but were just as likely to be blood splatters. He also couldn’t help himself from noticing the shiny silver police badge clipped onto his belt next to the holster.
Dutch swallowed an audible gulp. Shit. He’d hoped Hosea was just from a rival gang of the O’Driscoll’s, sort of an-enemy-of-my-enemy situation. But no, Lady Luck never smiled that favorably upon Dutch, not when he’d used up so much luck fleeing into Arizona from New Mexico just the day before, that is. His heart was pounding in his throat. He could, of course, kill the man and make a sprint for it, do it up nice to make it look like a fight between the O’Driscolls and the blonde with no winners when the smoke cleared. If Hosea was after Colm’s men, there wasn’t a snowballs chance in Hell that Dutch’s name didn’t appear in the case file too, right alongside his stupidly still recognizable mugshot from almost ten years ago.
He still held the big hunting knife in his hand, its weight balanced in his palm. He could so easily stalk up on the man, end this whole problem right here and now.
Something twisted deep in Dutch’s sorry excuse for a conscience when he thought of killing Hosea, snuffing out the life of this avenging angel before him, who had, to his credit, given Dutch every possible chance to run before the fight broke out. Hosea was still busy wiping blood and brain matter from his boots when Dutch cleared his throat. If he fooled those idiots maybe he could fool this man too, “So, can I claim self defense on that guy? Or at least defense?” He motioned with one boot clad foot over to the man he’d killed, lying prone a couple feet from Hosea. The blonde hummed, face serene as his remaining good eye tracked over the carnage they'd caused, “I wouldn’t be too worried about charges springing from this, especially since you did it in service of life and law, Mr. van der Linde.”
Shit. Damn it. Damn it all to Hell.
“Huh?” was all he could choke out in response.
“Don’t insult my intelligence. As if dying your hair back to black and packing on some muscle could fool anyone besides those nitwits Colm hires.” Hosea’s steely hazel eyes bore into Dutch’s wide brown gaze. The blonde shifted his weight to one hip, “Did you seriously think that would work?” Dutch shrugged noncommittally, glancing away to try and salvage at least a scrap of his ego. “When the wind blows their heads whistle, I assumed, rightly I might add, that this was enough... But in my defense I didn’t expect to run into the law tonight!”
Hosea let out a sharp bark of a laugh, his face crinkling with the genuineness of it before he winced away from his own mirth, obviously bothered by the deep slice above his eye. Dutch forced down the bubble of instinct that told him to sweep forward and examine the gash. Since when did he, Big Bad Dutch van der Linde, leader of one of the most notorious smuggling operations in the West, care about a lawman?
He retraced the couple steps forward he hadn’t realized he’d taken and crossed his arms over his chest defensively. “I suppose now when you try to apprehend me for my litany of interesting and daring extralegal exploits?” Hosea looked up at him with his remaining good eye from where he’d been examining one of the bodies with a feigned interest. “Try?” Dutch uncrossed his arms, grateful in that movement for the way his shadow eclipsed the shorter man. “Try. You’re not the only observant one here, Old Man. I saw that limp you tried to hide, and that looks like a pretty nasty head wound, must be aching something fierce right about now.” Drawing himself back up to full height, the blonde glared at Dutch with one shrewd hazel eye, which, now that Dutch allowed himself a chance to notice, was rather fetching, the brown-green of his iris rimmed with a cloudy grey. “I’ve had far worse. Regardless, back up will be closing in in…” Hosea checked the plain looking witch on his wrist, “...about two minutes. I suggest you make yourself scarce, Mr. van der Linde. My colleagues aren’t nearly as liable to look upon your presence here as favorably as I am.”
Dutch took that merciful boot to the ass for what it was, not questioning what made Hosea choose to let him walk free, nodding his thanks as he tugged his trucker hat back on, tucked his pistol in his waistband, and struck out towards the front door. “A pleasure doin’ business with you, Hosea, although I hardly hope to repeat it.” The blonde scoffed as Dutch passed close enough to brush his broad shoulder against the edges of the lawman’s coat, winding over the bodies with a sort of big cat-like grace.
“Oh, and Dutch?” Dutch turned, the man behind him still splattered with blood and illuminated by the lazily tracking pink, blue, green, and yellow lights from the stage, “A word of advice, take those damn fuzzy dice out of your windshield, any outlaw clown with a shred of common sense would know not to leave his notorious good luck charm visible while fleeing a murder scene.”
Grinning, Dutch tapped two fingers to his hat brim in salute as he slipped out into the Arizona darkness, gravel crunching underfoot as police sirens wailed in the distance.