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Something’s going on with Dutch and Hosea. Can’t put my finger on it.
I don’t mean bad, just… off.
Like they’re a few steps ahead of the rest of us. Like there’s a joke we ain’t in on.
I been trying not to think too much on it.
But it’s starting to stick in my head.
Arthur was always up early, but Dutch was somehow earlier, already dressed, already talking to himself in that low preacher’s murmur, already stirring the coals back to life like the fire owed him something. He didn't know how the older man did it, but there he was almost every morning, staring pensively into the flames.
As Arthur yawned and rolled over in his cot he could only feel thankful that he had no reason to pull himself up out of bed just yet. The sun was still painting the sky in dusty violet shades over the trees and no one but Dutch had yet roused from their own slumber. The quiet, just waking noises around him were soothing, especially compared to the sheer chaos of their regular lives. He closed his eyes, nestled against his pillow. Maybe a bit more sleep before breakfast, and then he could be off to work.
Just as his thoughts were turning towards drifting back into the safety and warmth of his bedroll, the clank of metal caught his attention and his eyes snapped open once more.
Arthur quickly focused his gaze towards the campfire and spotted Dutch simply pouring a ladle of coffee heated on the fire into a tin cup, but otherwise nothing out of the ordinary. God, him and his touchy reflexes. He just wanted to go back to sleep.
Just when he had thought himself safe to resume his nap, he spotted him filling a second cup as well, the steam from the rich liquid rising through the chilled morning air. He watched as Dutch poured a dash of whatever was in his flask into both mugs, then set one down on the stump beside the fire before abandoning it and walking away with the other one cradled between his hands.
Odd.
Sure enough, the mug he had placed to the side remained after a few moments and Arthur couldn't help but puzzle over its sudden presence. When Dutch made it to the complete opposite side of camp with clearly no intention to reclaim the drink, curiosity gripped him so firmly he simply couldn't let it rest. He was left awkwardly propped up on his cot, spying on a mug across camp with tired eyes. The more he squinted, the more ridiculous this entire situation felt. Finally, he huffed out a quiet sigh. Maybe if he went to investigate this he could also snag some coffee on the side...
But before he could push his blanket aside, a second figure came into view, slipping through the dark of the early morning like a quiet spirit. He found his breath catching when Hosea settled himself upon the empty stump beside the steaming beverage, hunching forward to cradle it between his palms.
He instinctively felt the urge to call out to Hosea and tell him that coffee was Dutch's and Hosea would surely be scolded for messing with it, but the words lodged themselves firmly in the back of his throat when the two of them made eye contact across the camp and Hosea raised his mug to Dutch. The gesture was received in kind, and with a smile hidden behind his own cup Dutch continued on his way, melting into the dark woods.
Oh.
Huh. Arthur had never realised Dutch made coffee for Hosea in the mornings. Guess he was never up early enough to see it. Well, guess that made sense, considering how long they'd known each other, and all. Hosea and Dutch, best friends, closer than most family. Best get their coffee ready for when they rise at the crack of dawn, right?
Well, that was that.
With a sigh Arthur sank back into bed, covering his face with his forearm. Perhaps if he tried to get a couple more hours of sleep before dawn broke, his eyes would stop feeling as heavy as they were lately.
It was hot already, that kind of heat that made your shirt cling under the arms and turned every breath thick. The camp was quieter than usual; no music, no yelling, just the low clatter of gear getting checked and rechecked. Horses shifting, leather creaking. That tense stillness that settled in right before a job, like the world was holding its breath.
Arthur sat on a crate near the edge of the clearing, rubbing oil into the metal barrel of his rifle. He wasn’t looking for conversation. No one was. Dutch and Hosea stood off to the side near the wagon, talking low, backs turned to the rest of them. Whatever they were saying, it wasn’t for the gang. Not yet, anyway.
The job was small, supposedly. Just a run into Rhodes to “remind” some rich bastard who he owed. But Dutch had that look in his eye this morning, half sermon, half stormcloud, and Hosea hadn’t smiled once.
"It's just a small job; two of us sneak into the Braithwaite's fancy new whiskey distillery and hold it up, nice and quiet. Maybe get a distraction going on the other side of the property." Dutch's voice carried, pitched low. "The Grays said they'll cut us in if we make a good show of it and get it out of commission for a good while. They don't want the competition, and neither do we."
Hosea shook his head, huffing out a humorless laugh.
"Small job? Jesus, Dutch, those plantations are huge. There's guards everywhere. How are we supposed to sneak up there in the first place?"
"Oh, Hosea, don't you worry, my dear," Dutch laid a hand on the other's shoulder and squeezed gently, that charm of his rolling out so thick it practically stained the air. "I have a plan."
Arthur did his best to avoid outwardly staring at them, even though his full attention had turned onto the two older men. Sometimes it felt odd, being half-son, half-partner, half-subordinate to the two of them; like some plans were only for the grown ups while other times he was forced to make life or death decisions right along with them, with nothing but their shared experience to guide him. And here, at camp, even alone together, Dutch and Hosea, even after all this time, could go from friendly camaraderie to discussing dark plans over cold whiskey in the span of a couple words, switching between roles seamlessly. Arthur had gotten good enough to predict the shift in the way Dutch's posture tightened, and the way Hosea's eyes narrowed when Dutch stepped forward, dropping his voice, conspiratorially.
"You don't need to worry. I know our people, know their talents, and I know you better than anyone, my friend." He stepped closer still, voice dropping so low that Arthur couldn't quite hear it over the crackling of the campfire, and he simultaneously cursed himself for being so nosy. Hosea must have voiced some quiet, pressing question Arthur couldn't make out because the other man answered softly, words lost to the wind.
"Now now, Hosea."
He caught a glimpse of Hosea turning his chin up a fraction, face souring just as Dutch's hands slipped up and onto the man's shoulder's, squeezing affectionately. His knuckles tightened on the stock of his rifle when those hands started to smooth down Hosea's collar, dusting his lapels and settling once again against the sides of his chest.
Arthur shifted subtly from where he was seated, quietly trying to redirect his attention. Maybe it was just his imagination and they really were just standing a tad too close as they usually tended to do, deep in conversation. Yet the younger outlaw didn't have much time to ponder further, because Dutch was suddenly calling out;
"Alright! Arthur, Javier, John, Sean, come here! We have a job for you."
Arthur immediately startled, nearly toppling off his crate as he stood at his full, hurried height, trying not to look as guilty as he felt, like his ears had been burned red, caught snooping. He offered a small wave of recognition and crossed the distance, shoulders squaring into that confident pose of his once more.
"Alright Dutch, what you need us for?" Arthur crossed his arms against his chest, meeting his mentor's eye expectantly. He could ponder what the hell that exchange had meant later. Right now he had more important things to do.
Arthur couldn’t sleep.
He’d tried. Got horizontal for a while, listened to the frogs, stared up at the tent flap breathing in the breeze. But every time he shut his eyes, all he could see was Dutch riding out that morning, coat flapping like a goddamn flag, promising it’d be quick. Easy. Nothing to worry about, son .
Now it was past midnight and the fire was burning low, throwing shadows long and slow across the tree trunks. Camp had gone quiet in the way it only did when something felt off. Bill was asleep. Javier too. Even the horses had settled. But Hosea was still up, perched on the same rock by the fire he’d been sitting on for the past hour, maybe longer. Elbows on his knees, staring into the flames, hat pulled low.
Arthur sighed, and rolled onto his side, and rolled onto his back, and rolled onto his side again. He pulled his thin pillow over his head and covered his ears. None of it made a goddamn lick of difference.
He shouldn't be this worried. It was Dutch, for godsake. That man could sweet-talk his way into the Devil's pocket if he tried, not to mention had a knife in every sleeve he wore and a gun on each hip. He was doing this business before Arthur was even in the picture, and came home every time. Arthur knew that. He knew that.
That still didn't mean he wasn't worried.
He fidgeted with his sleeves for a while, just letting his thoughts toss and turn. He should just give up on sleeping, head down to the stream instead. There was a nice, wide, flat stone by the bank where he could go sit and stare and try not to worry as much. If anything, it was nice and cold at least, and probably a better choice than tossing and turning here with the knot in his stomach growing tighter every passing minute.
But finding the energy to actually roll out of bed, cross the tent to grab his boots and jacket, and wander down towards the river was proving harder than he could have expected. His limbs felt sluggish, like he was pulling through honey, and exhaustion made his brain muddled. It had been a hard couple of days; a score that didn't pay and a robbery that had gone belly-up, a drunk sheriff that had recognized his face while passing all the way back through Valentine and a trio of bounties that he and John had worked together to haul in, all before sundown yesterday. He deserved a good, full rest tonight.
Yet here he was, curled up miserably like a stubborn child, dreading the coming dawn and worrying far more about a stupid mission than he should be.
Then he caught sight of movement.
There was a sound Arthur knew, the rhythmic thunder of hooves striking hard packed earth. And there, emerging in the silver moonlight between the trees, was Dutch and The Count, pale grey like smoke under the starlight, rider tense on his saddle, knees clamped to his horse's flanks.
Relief washed through him all at once, leaving him giddy and trembling.
Hosea, meanwhile, stood abruptly from his stone seat. Arthur watched with rapt attention from beneath the curtain of his tent as he paced over to Dutch, only stopping once directly in front of the dismounted man. Dutch looked disheveled, perhaps worse than he'd ever seen him, his vest undone, hair slick with sweat. Blood spatters graced his left hand, the knuckles scratched and raw. Yet he was smiling, grin wide and genuine.
"Didn't I promise I'd come back?" Dutch said, tilting his head in that playful, haughty way of his, spreading his hands as he walked. He clearly found Hosea's irritation amusing, and as always he was unbothered, even as Hosea stepped closer.
"So you did, but you were late," Hosea snapped, sounding irritated and relieved all in the same breath. "Dutch-"
Hosea reached forward and gently took hold of his bloodied hand, careful and tender, cradling it like something delicate. A dozen emotions flickered across Hosea's face in the moonlight, each too quick to name, his mouth turning down for a moment before he took a deep breath and finally spoke again, his voice steady;
"You are a goddamn idiot, you know that?"
Then Dutch was yanked by the collar and dragged over to the firepit, Hosea sitting him down like he was reprimanding a wayward boy. The whole display was made even more absurd by the way Hosea tenderly started fussing and tutting over the state of his hand, carefully turning the wounds this way and that in the dim light. Arthur could hardly contain his amusement and curiosity from there, propped up on his elbows and watching as Dutch accepted Hosea's lecture with uncharacteristic humility.
"What kind of fool stunts were you doing over there to come back covered in blood?" The older man grumbled, one hand cupping the other man's wrist, the other disappearing into his bag to pull out a roll of bandages. "What were you even trying to achieve? Risking yourself, riding alone. There could have been guards around for all you knew. Those damn families, especially the Grays, are ruthless, and you ride into the night on your own like some vigilante! Goddamn fool."
Dutch let the man's ranting run its course, keeping his head bowed with that annoying, charismatic little smile of his on his lips as Hosea thoroughly washed his wound and started bandaging up his hands, working delicately despite his temper. "Oh come now Hosea, it was the only chance we had-"
"-That is the last time you will ride out and leave me here! You hear? Next time, I'm going with you!" Hosea fussily checked and re-checked his work, neatening the corners. "We should have waited until everyone was well-rested and clear-minded, had a whole plan and a gun or two. But no, you couldn't wait. You had to go and-"
"-oh please-"
"Dammit, let me finish!" Hosea abruptly stood and thwacked Dutch lightly on the side of the head, expression souring further.
Arthur slapped a hand over his mouth to hide his sudden laughter at Hosea's fussing, biting down on his knuckle to keep it concealed, just barely. They really were ridiculous when they got like this.
"Fine, fine, I apologize." Dutch conceded finally, lifting both hands to appease Hosea's anger before catching one and gently pulling it into his grasp. "Please sit, now, and allow me to explain."
The look Hosea shot him was unimpressed, but he sat anyway, perching himself primly upon his usual rock as he leaned back. From then on, the conversation grew quieter as the two lapsed into familiar arguments that Arthur couldn't hear or make out from a distance. His eyes struggled to focus now, body straining to fall back asleep as he rested his chin on his palm, eyes lidding as he gazed out past the edges of his tent into the warm circle of firelight.
Dutch seemed tired and his gestures, though still elegant, had a tired drag to them. Whatever had happened, the experience clearly exhausted him and yet the man managed to hide it behind those sharp grins and postures. It was interesting, almost, watching the two banter back and forth until Hosea finally cracked a weary smirk at something Dutch had whispered. There it was again, those secret smiles the two exchanged that felt heavy and strange and altogether too warm to dwell on.
Arthur squinted as he tried to keep his eyes open, yet eventually, his body won the fight and his eyes grew heavy as the conversation slowed to a natural, comfortable, sleepy crawl. Still, as he fell asleep with that calm, flickering fire bathing the camp in hues of gold, he swore he felt himself smile, warm in the gentle embrace of relief that Dutch had made it home safe.
He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.
He was just looking for his damn canteen. Left it near the horses, probably, and now he was nearly bone dry and annoyed and walking through camp in the late afternoon heat, only to stop short when he heard them.
Dutch’s voice, sharp and cutting, already mid-sentence.
“-can’t keep second-guessing me every time I make a decision, Hosea!”
Arthur froze behind the wagon.
"Of course not! And I don't, normally. But that job was too dangerous, even for you! What were you thinking, luring an O'Driscoll into town! What the hell were you trying to do exactly?" Hosea snapped back, tone clipped and cold, the kind of rage that simmers below the surface.
There were very, very few times Arthur could ever remember Hosea raising his voice like that. Each time the memory of him bursting with wrath, not shouting with fury but snapping like a gunshot, had burnt itself into the walls of Arthur's mind. Each time he remembered the flash of his eyes, the tilt of his chin, and the way he would stalk, stalk, to loom over them with his teeth bared. Hosea might not look it, but he could be terrifying if he so wished to.
"I can take care of myself perfectly fine! I just needed some leverage and it just so happened that that no-good little snake stumbled straight into my trap! I was more than capable of handling it-"
"That's not the point!" Hosea snarled right back, tone so biting it sent a chill up Arthur's spine.
"Then please do enlighten me, because I have no clue what you're complaining about!"
Dutch had picked himself up to his full, intimidating height, posture squared as he jabbed a finger aggressively. Unlike Hosea, it was far more common to hear Dutch raise his voice, and yet even his typical venom-laden baritone had an unusual intensity to it, anger seething from his clenched jaw and a wound up sort of energy rolling off his shoulders in waves. It made Arthur instinctively draw back, chest going tight while his body peaked at the threat of danger.
"You don't, huh?" The older man barked. "You rode off on a suicide run in a dusty town full of angry rednecks and expected me to, what, shrug and act like nothing was the matter? Oh no sir! All is well and good! Dutch Van Der Linde knows no fear, now will someone bring me the nearest gun?" Hosea mimicked his voice poorly, snapping his teeth around the words. "Do you even think anymore, Dutch?"
"I am thinking!" Dutch stomped closer, jabbing an accusatory finger at his chest. "And you should know what the hell I'm thinking better than anyone!"
"Really? Should I now? You expect me to know what's happening in that empty, brash skull of yours and yet you go running off on wild hunches without telling me any damn thing!"
"Well sorry for not consulting you on every action I make like a god-forsaken governess!"
"Damn you, you arrogant asshole! If you're going to act like a spoiled child then maybe I'll start treating you like one!"
"You are supposed to be on my side!"
"I am on your side!" Hosea gripped his hat and tossed it onto the ground with a frustrated roar. "But someone has to remind you you are not God!"
Dutch's face was flush, eyes going dark and lips peeling back from his teeth as his brows sank low over the bridge of his nose, indignant.
"What, so I need a damn babysitter now?"
"What you need is someone who can hold you accountable!"
"I get the job done, that's all there is to it!"
"It is not!" Hosea lunged forwards to catch him by his lapels and Arthur tensed. "You damn well know what you're doing, and I need you to focus ! Dutch, we are depending on you, and people's lives are at risk. Every job gone wrong, every bullet, is blood on our hands. Don't you forget that! We're not just living here, running scams anymore. This is bigger, and it has consequences."
"And I can handle it!" Dutch snarled, all the soft charm gone, replaced by sharp, hard planes. The handsome curve of his jaw went jagged and harsh, face caught in a half sneer, eyes unreadable. Arthur drew a shuddering breath, watching their feet as his mentor stepped forward again, looming closer, until both Hosea and Dutch came to stand toe-to-toe, radiating pure, coiled frustration. "Every one of these jobs we pulled, I knew was dangerous. But it needed to be done, and I have taken the reins, and it has worked!"
The older man seemed to take that moment to reach deep for whatever composure he had left, as his next words were uttered low and slowly, expression scrunched. Arthur found himself subconsciously clutching the front of his shirt where his heart was thundering away, knuckles bone-white against the fabric.
"I'm not asking you to be a saint, Dutch, I'm asking you to let me in." Hosea whispered. The intensity of their voices seemed to drop until only the wind could carry the barest breaths. "I can't watch this life we have carved and built from a-a goddamn distance anymore. I need to be part of this, and I want to be by your side. Let me. Don't keep shutting me out."
"What are you implying?" Dutch had crossed the remaining distance, and was leaning in, pushing, their noses nearly touching as he spoke. Arthur nearly took a step forward in an impulse to physically separate them, a feeling bubbling up inside him too anxious, too possessive, like the air had changed between them, but caught himself before he came into their view. "Are you saying you can't trust me, Hosea?"
Dutch's gaze never left Hosea's even as he moved forward a little more, pushing, and Arthur felt sick because it was too much, too close and-
"You're changing," Hosea whispered, and that made Dutch blink for a moment and pull back a tad, confusion creasing his brow and for once the charismatic man seemed to fumble, for once he was the one without the words as Hosea continued in the same, subdued tone. "That's what it feels like to me."
Dutch swallowed. "Then if you don't like it, feel free to walk."
Hosea barely flinched at the barbed tone, lips thinning, and he stood straight in order to hold the other man's eyes in his steady, steely gaze.
"If I wanted to walk, I would have done so twenty years ago."
And when Arthur exhaled in relief at those words, his breath caught and held in his throat, because then Dutch was stepping closer to cup the side of Hosea's neck with one warm, broad palm, the motion slow and reverent, a question rather than a claim. His face had turned suddenly uncertain, his gaze turned hopeful in the face of Hosea's exasperated glare and clenched jaw, an intimate expression of desperate longing, fingers digging in just a tad too tightly. Hosea made no attempt to escape, expression instead softening from his mask of neutrality.
And then Dutch leaned in and, hesitating briefly, rested his brow against Hosea's and sighed. Arthur found he couldn't even breathe, suddenly feeling intrusive,and guilty for even still watching the two. Dutch's head slipped down to rest upon Hosea's shoulder, and for the briefest, rawest moment, Hosea lifted his hand to brush Dutch's unruly hair out of his face and tuck it behind his ears with tender, unshaking hands.
When Arthur's chest constricted to the point of pain, it was with that single touch he turned and fled, as fast and as quietly as he could.
It kept happening.
Never in the middle of the night, never with fanfare. Just small, quiet exits: Dutch and Hosea riding out early with some vague talk of scouting routes, meeting contacts, checking fences that no one else could seem to find. No one questioned it. John didn’t ask. Susan didn’t care. Everyone was used to the two of them vanishing like smoke and returning with nothing much to report.
But Arthur noticed.
How could he not, when every few days, maybe every week or so, the two would slip away on their horses and return, dusty and sweaty and tired but laughing, sharing smiles no one could see while the camp welcomed them back like nothing had changed. They always seemed lighter afterwards, the creases gone from their eyes. More vibrant.
Arthur figured they must have been dealing, but couldn’t figure out why they couldn't do it with everyone. It would've been easier if they were. Dutch liked working in groups; he liked a show, liked the attention, and he usually had more success when the camp watched and gawked and gave their congratulations. Why now would they be dealing out alone in secret like this? He'd just never understand the way those two ran things.
It was one afternoon, when Arthur was wasting time sketching the birds from a distance that he heard the hooves come galloping up from the hill. Sure enough, Hosea's Turkoman trotted into camp a moment later, Dutch following soon after atop his Arabian. Arthur did his best not to be too obvious in his staring, occasionally glancing down to his journal and scribbling off to the side to act busy, eyes flickering upwards and watching from under his brows.
The men's boots hit dirt as they swung off their steeds, already yammering off about what needed doing next, something or another, but Arthur immediately noticed how Hosea stumbled a little getting off his horse. For just a moment, he had a knee buckle and a hand slam on his thigh for balance, before Dutch immediately reached out a steadying hand, that little dip in his cheek dimpling as he raised an amused brow. Hosea batted him away.
"Don't you start." He heard the mutter under Hosea's breath, though not unfriendly.
It was subtle, but now Arthur saw it, and found he couldn't unsee. A slight limp, barely a hitch, but there. Something Dutch, that cheshire, sharp bastard, was obviously grinning at as the two fell back into step, walking away, side by side. Huh, he must've fallen off his horse while they were out. But if so, why was Dutch's collar also all crooked and loose, hair mussed and that infuriating smug curl of his lips barely hidden? And what about the red mark Arthur could almost make out on the side of Hosea's jaw just peeking from beneath his high-necked coat-
Oh.
Oh.
Like a train roaring down the track, smashing through Arthur's own inelegant attempt at obliviousness, and his thoughts came to an abrupt and startling halt.
Oh, SHIT!
It was late, and camp had quieted. The kind of quiet that came after a good meal, a long ride, and no fresh blood spilled. A few stragglers still sat near the fire, Javier tuning his guitar, Pearson washing up the pans, but the conversations had gone soft. Everyone was settling. Letting the night take them slow.
Arthur was on his way back from the lake when he saw them.
Two figures huddled against the trunk of an oak tree. Dutch, boots propped up, smoking. And beside him, a tired Hosea, slumped into him. One arm slung casually across Dutch's shoulders, cheek resting against his shoulder. Their free hands entangled loosely, lazy, too familiar.
For a brief moment he paused, finally feeling a tiny part of his brain settle, pieces clicking together after so, so long. Everything falling into place and the tension and anxiety uncoiling. That final nail driven home. A line finally, finally , drawn.
All these years, and they never said a thing.
It was honestly a bit embarrassing how long it took him.
Well, he didn't know whether to call it bravery, or stupidity, but he couldn't help his mouth curling into a grin, watching the two old outlaws bickering under their breath. The way Hosea slapped his arm when his expression shifted into an amused smirk. The way he snorted when Dutch jabbed him playfully with an elbow. The quiet way Hosea tugged his coat around both their shoulders, like he'd done a thousand times with Arthur after they'd been caught in the rain. Or the fond exasperation on his face as Dutch reached out and carefully, tenderly brushed a strand of hair back, fingertips tracing the curve of his ear.
And Arthur realised he'd spent twenty years watching them move around and with each other in a perpetual orbit, full of silent looks and passing touches. Perhaps, more than anything, their relationship was in the silence, the small motions and the unspoken. Something he only saw when he was really looking. It was strange. He felt a flutter of confusion, embarrassment, and excitement, something fluttering behind his ribs, and not at the intimacy (though that too) but because maybe...
They did, truly and wholly, love each other.
It was a surprising epiphany that sent a rush through Arthur and had his gut clenching. But at the same time, he had to stop and chuckle at himself. Because of course they did.
He could see it now, in the way Hosea always turned when Dutch entered the room. Or the way their hands always seemed to brush in casual reassurance. How sometimes they looked at each other like no one else existed, that hidden little glimmer in Dutch's eyes when he called Hosea his partner, and in the fond, subtle little smile that curved on Hosea's lips when the outlaw made his big plans and turned to him for approval.
Twenty years. Arthur felt his grin soften, and something close to relief settled heavy in his bones. Finally, looking at them felt complete. He could see it now. Dutch, alone, was charismatic and dazzling and shining and sharp, and Hosea wise and smart and cunning, but together... well. Together, they were just whole. A dynamic of their own making, a well-oiled machine where they ran parallel. Even if they did bicker like an old married couple.
The firelight felt warm. Comfortable. He watched the smoke rise towards the dark, star-filled sky.
In the end, Arthur Morgan just didn't have the heart or desire to judge them. He wouldn't. God knows the whole damn country and the law was doing that for them enough. He figured he'd follow these fools as long as the stars still guided them, and they let him be part of their foolhardy scheme. Until death claimed him, he'd let them lead.
Besides, he reasoned with an amused grin, love wasn't really such a bad thing to see out here.
I figured it out.
Should’ve seen it sooner, maybe. It ain't exactly subtle when you know what to look for.
Dutch and Hosea…
Oh hell.
Them two is like the sun and the moon spinning around each other but pretending they ain’t watching each other move.
I reckon it’s always been this way.
Not sure if it makes things better or worse, knowing it.
But it sure as hell makes things clearer.