Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He was getting cold. That wasn’t right. He was supposed to go burn in hell. He tried to blink, but either his eyes were gone or he had lost control of them; it was hard to say really, he didn’t feel anything anymore. Yet he wasn’t fucking dead yet. Nuisance to the end, Morgan.

If he could at least fall asleep for once… He’d always been scared of not waking up, but at this point he didn’t care. He was cold and bored, that’s not what death is supposed to be like –

“Are you alright?”

Oh thank god, finally. Angels sure took their time.

“I’m sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Arthur Morgan.”

Of course. Who wasn’t. He groaned, trying to blink once again, this time to see vague shapes above him – something that looked like the same trees and sky that had seen him fall, albeit colored red, and something that looked human and worried. Still not dead then. Maybe he was even getting better? Maybe he was going to survive.

He was going to survive. He forced his eyes to focus, taking the best breath he could – which wasn’t saying much, if the sounds that echoed in the silence came from him.

“Who’re you? he grumbled, half-successfully.

– Mary Linton.

– Arthur’s… hn… girl.” He’d never met her, but she was hard to forget when you knew everything about the man she’d left behind. She liked red, if he remembered correctly. Hopefully that extended to the blood he was coughing. “Came to get your… ring back?

– He told you about it? Is he around?

– Nah, he… left. Might find him for ya if –” If he didn’t die first. How could his throat burn so much when the rest of him was freezing? “If ya help me.”

The darkness that swallowed him hid her expression, but not the silence as she clearly hesitated. Come on, woman. He wasn’t going to die because Morgan’s stupid sweetheart was too busy pining for him to save a dying man –

“Alright.”

Then she picked up his arm to put around her shoulder, and he passed out.

*

A few weeks later

“Pass me the carrots, woman. And add some salt! More! Dammit, did you learn nothing? And pepper!

– I’ll pass the carrots to your ass if you don’t shut up, she snapped.

– That a promise?”

Dear lord give me strength. If Arthur had been a test, Micah Bell was the punishment. How she missed the time when he was weak, bed-ridden and gagged… It was something her and Arthur used to joke about when she tended to his wounds, without ever actually doing it because Arthur, even in pain, was civil and because frustrating as he was, she still respected him – but this guy? She’d almost heard Arthur’s voice encouraging her to silence him, and shoving the rag in his mouth had been the best thing she’d ever done. It was the one thing that had made him tolerable.

Why she kept picking up useless gunslingers she couldn’t tell. Though maybe the question of why they flocked to her so much was an even more concerning one…

“And now you smash ‘em… smash ‘em and dash ‘em and crush ‘em…

– I told you we shouldn’t let them cook so long.

– Shut up, princess. I like my eggs hard. Not soft, not half-soft, hard. If only you had bigger forks…

– A bad craftsman always blames his tools…

– Ha. Ha.”

Seeing him struggle was fun, but at the rate he was going she was worried he’d tear open his wounds again – and since she really didn’t want his bloody knuckles all over her food again, she gently wrestled the bowl from him to smash and crash herself, while he busied himself with pickles (sour, of course, because god forbid Micah Bell allowed anything sweet near his mouth).

“You know, Arthur was grea-

– To hell with Arthur!”

She jumped at the sudden outburst, clenching the fork in her hand without thinking to raise it. That was another difference between Micah and Arthur. Even hurt and furious, Arthur had never scared her. (Sometimes she wondered if it was because he was so kind or because she’d been too young and smitten to fully realize the danger, but it remained that Arthur, like a scratchy childhood blanket, was the only person that really made her feel safe.)

“To hell with… he’s dead anyway, he grumbled, looking away, running away.

– You never told me what happened that night,” she said calmly, lowering the bowl without taking her eyes off him. Micah was scary, but Arthur was hers. Better dead than ignorant. Now was as good a time as any.

“Nothin’. Shootout, dead guys, boom! Morgan dead.

– Then tell me why you were all broken without a single bullet wound.”

You don’t need to hear this, Mary, just forget it… But that was the thing; the more she heard his voice, the more she needed to know. It seemed they were unable to agree even in death.

“Micah, I-

– Nothing happened! We fought. The law found us, we escape ‘em, then Morgan start accusing me of shit and crawled away. He was sick, okay? He tell you he was dying?”

Each word like a gunshot, each letter of the last sentence carefully articulated even as he spat them as though against his will, wanting them as far from him as possible. The metal was shaking in her hand, as cold as she felt. She knew all that already, hearing it didn’t change anything; ever since finding an angry, hateful wreck with bloody fists and “Morgan’s dead” dancing on his lips, the story had been obvious. She’d had weeks to grieve, and she’d make solid progress in that, helped by the distraction that was her patient.

Yet hearing it hurt.

It hurt even more because she’d always known, because knowing meant she couldn’t be mad at Micah now. That ship had sailed, robbing her of that anger she so strongly wanted to drown in now that it was real.

And that she realized she hadn’t, actually, known. Arthur had been more pensive than usual, sure, but dying – more than usual? He hadn’t told her nothing.

“I’ll let you finish this, she said quietly before turning away.

– W-wait, don’t-

– I just need a moment alone, please.”

She ignored the half-outstretched hand (maybe it was her imagination) and closed the door between them. He really was dead.

*

If she didn’t know any better, she’d have thought Micah was anxious as she carefully examined his body, from the smallest bruise to the deepest knife wound. She’d probably looked the same at the beginning, unsure of what she’d discover under her amateur bandages, but that was many weeks ago and she felt almost confident in her medical skills now.

“Looks like you’re all healed, she declared as she put away the last compress.

– Well… Thank you.”

She turned away while he hastily put his shirt back on, busying herself with the tools until he left the room, at which point she finally exhaled. It had been long since she’d been this close to a man, especially half naked (since Arthur, obviously). The feel of scars under her fingertips, the warm skin, the… everything, deprived of the medical veil, was a lot very suddenly. She was glad though. Micah was all patched up and free to go on his way, so she could go…

Well, she hadn’t decided where yet. Maybe to visit Jamie. She certainly wasn’t in a rush to go back to Saint Denis.

She was wrapping the last trash bag, filled with less and less bloody bandages, when the door barged open with a loud bang. She’d gotten used to Micah’s brusque and nonexistent manners, but apparently the fear of tearing his stitches had been holding him back because this was worse than anything she’d seen before.

“Ready to go, sweetheart?

– What?

– Lodgings ain’t cheap, princess. Unless you looove the Annesburg air so much you decided to stay…

– No, of course not. I’ll be leaving in two days.”

She’d already paid rent for the whole week, she wasn’t about to waste it. Not anymore!

“Oh.” Seeming disappointed, Micah put down the bag he was carrying. “How lovely, two more days of coal and smoke.

– I thought you liked it here.

– I like the sounds, sweetheart. Wagons filled with coal… hmm… allll night and all day… Only a madman would like anything else.

– I like the view,” she argued reflexively. Their window had a view of a dirty wall and she only went outside to buy food.

“You’re crazy.

– Be that as it may, I’m staying. Nothing’s stopping you from leaving though. I don’t expect you to pay anything,” thankfully, since he never offered, “so you’re free to go.

– Ah… I am, ain’t I,” he repeated absentmindedly.

She sighed, straightening up, ready to wait. Living in a one-bedroom-apartment had made painfully clear how slow conversations with Micah could be; one moment he had all the retorts in the world, the next he needed ten minutes to craft a perfectly normal sentence. Somehow by the time he finally spoke again she’d almost forgotten he was there.

“S-so, since you’re not in a hurry to leave, on this beautiful night, will you, s-since you like the sea so much, take a walk on the beach with me, miss Mary?

– … Oh.”

It wasn’t like she’d never thought about it, in the way a girl thought about every boy she met, especially once she was a women well past marrying age. The conclusions had never been as flattering as Barry or Arthur’s, but she did consider, once or twice… But that was abstract daydreaming. A “if it happens, nothing to lose” dictated only by her brain. Did she want that though?

“The world ain’t safe for a pretty thing like you, princess… Travelling alone in these parts, ‘specially with-

– Alright, she decided suddenly. I could use the protection. And your cooking skills won’t be useless either, I suppose…

– Excellent! Let’s go.”

He grabbed her wrist, tight but surprisingly careful.

“I-

– Come on, miss Mary, sunset ain’t gonna wait for you.”

Chapter Text

“You should wear a corset sometime,” yawned Sean, watching lazily as Karen pulled the blouse over her head. A real tragedy that was, like the sun stopped shining.

“Right, she scoffed. You first.

– Come on, Karen, for my birthday! I’ll help you tie and untie it and all!

– Oh please, like you’d have the patience for that.

– I mean it! You’d be like a present! The glorious prize at the end of the hunt!

– Idiot.”

She was smiling though, so he pretended not to hear. God she was pretty. Even when she was dressed, she was like… like… what was prettier than the sun? Fire? She was prettier than dynamite. Her hands paused at her belt, eying him thoughtfully.

“Want to go for a second round?

– For real? Oh, I always knew you loved me!

– That’s not – oh, whatever. I just want to enjoy this before Grimshaw wakes up.

– You looooove – Shit, wait, no!

– No?

– I mean yes, but we can’t! We have to see Micah!”

Energy flooded into him and he jumped up, hastily buttoning his shirt and grabbing his hat under Karen’s wide eyes.

“Micah Bell.

– Yes! Come on, it’ll be good. That’s what I came to tell you before!”

Karen sighed.

“Fine.”

God he was lucky to have her.

*

They were stalking between the trees, following a trail only Sean could see (or imagine) towards a goal only he knew (or dreamt up). She was getting worried someone would notice them and shoot them, honestly: everyone was a bit on edge, and they probably looked suspicious enough… She was about to say something when Sean hushed her, as though he’d read her mind, and crouched down.

“Here! he whispered. Look!”

She squinted at the setting sun, trying to see what the hell he was talking about. All she could see was more trees and a large rock.

“On the floor. That’s his foot.

– Oh god, did you kill Micah?”

I love you. The joy in her voice was like music to his ears and he regretted not killing him if that was the result. Her hand squeezed his arm stronger, her breasts pushing against his –

“No. Not yet! But shh.”

He lead her around and closer until they got a better look.

“He’s reading?

– Has been for an hour, since before I came for you. But the best part is what he’s reading!

– How do you know?

– The cover, my lovely dove, speaks without words,” he grinned wisely.

She squinted. No way of seeing the cover of an open book… Rats, she’d have to ask Sean. He’d be so pleased. She was about to, when Micah – somehow she’d almost forgotten him – hummed to himself, sounding almost peaceful.

“Summer night… summer night. Yes, I’ll remember that…”

She turned to Sean, nudging him with her elbow.

“What’s he reading? she whispered.

– Oh ho, you really want to know?

– Sean!

– Well, if you –

– Who’s there?

– Shit!

– You and your loud mouth!”

They didn’t bother hiding and ran for it, hearts pounding until they were in camp; a safe place to collapse to the ground and laugh hysterically, breathless.

“What- so what was he-

– Miss Jones, finally gracing us with your presence?

– Oh you old crow, just give me five minutes…

– I gave you hours. The laundry ain’t gonna do itself! Now!”

*

“O-o-on this beautiful ni- summer night… Will you dance with me, Miss Mary-Beth?

– No, I will not. You’re… I’ve got two left feet.”

*

She watched Micah slide back into the shadows, giving him the shortest of minutes before jumping to Mary-Beth’s side.

“So, you and Micah Bell? she sang-whispered.

– Oh, you were listening.

– Not that it’s any of my business, but we saw him earlier… Me an’ Sean.

– You and Sean, huh?

– Do you want to hear what I know or not? she snapped.

– Alright, alright. You were with Sean.

– Did you know he did research? Apparently he read the whole first volume of The lady in pink for this!

– So that’s where it was! I thought Tilly had borrowed it!

– Right? He was really into it too, copied lines and everything! It was so funny, Sean –”

She whispered excitedly, lost in the story; though not enough not to notice the sparkles in her friend’s eyes. It reminded her of Molly, long ago, and Abigail even longer. She missed the times when they’d all gather to gossip and chat about their idiots.

*

The gun was probably shining from a mile away, brighter than the moon, but he didn’t care. The other was no better, and he didn’t want to go to camp to get another – and without a gun to clean, he had nothing to focus on to stop himself from thinking. Not that interesting. Not. That. Interesting. Not that interesting. At least Arthur hated him, the correct and polite way.

“God damn people…

– Micah?”

He nearly jumped out of his skin, gun pointed at the intruder before he realized it. He thanked the gods he didn’t believe in for holding him back before he pulled the trigger, until he remembered and realized who that was and regretted not having shot – himself, if not her. This was a baaaad day for the last Bell.

“Do you have a moment?

– O-of course. A problem at camp?”

Arthur must have been busy. That was the only reason they’d ever ask after him, after all.

“No, she said while sitting down on the rock he’d been occupying, gesturing at him to join her. I just wanted to talk.”

She was so pretty. Arthur’s, but pretty. She didn’t even look at him, weirdly shy and probably not thrilled by the company, but still – she was here, for some reason.

Mary-Beth took a deep breath. Turned to look at Micah. And smiled.

“Karen told me you borrowed my book.

– Me?” He scoffed, heart racing in panic, wilder than in any shootout. “Why the hell would I read a girl’s book? I ain’t some –

– Did you like it? I think it’s the worst of the series, but it’s also my favorite. The romance is so sweet, don’t you think? Did you read all of it?

– I didn’t –

– I know it’s bad, but… It would make me really happy if I had someone to talk about it. It means a lot to me. The author is a former friend of mine, you see, a woman, and seeing her succeed as a writer is… really encouraging.”

She was looking at him even less, favoring the points of her shoes, giving him ample time to see her small smile and the red on her ears. Shit, what had he gotten himself into? He wasn’t into “encouraging”, he wasn’t even into reading. He’d just wanted some help getting laid. What would nice girls like to hear in this situation?

“Didn’t know it was a woman,” he decided finally, gripping his gun and oily rag tighter. Yeah, that was good. Distract her from the feelings.

“Of course! No one would buy her books if she used her own name. It’s actually – well, I probably shouldn’t tell you that.

– Why the hell wouldn’t they? Who wants to read romance by some old man?

– See, you do get it! I swear, it’s cute when they try but it’s still so boring. That’s why I’m glad… that’s why I’m kind of glad you picked this one.

– Uh. Sure.”

The girl had just reminded him of her. And the alternatives were a dragon-slaying knight and a woman in pants, and he’d rather kiss Morgan than borrow their lines. Micah Bell wasn’t going to play heroes.

“Anyway, I should go before Karen gets worried, but… It’s been nice talking to you. We should do it again sometime! I mean,” she giggled, her chest bouncing somewhere under her red cheeks, “you still haven’t told me if you liked the book. Even if it’s not really your thing.

– I’ll- I’ll tell you next time.”

He made a point to stare at her ass as she left, before burying his head in his hands. Shit, now he had to read the whole thing again, he didn’t remember a thing.

Chapter Text

“Oh, Micah! Great timing! Come here, I need to talk to you…

– All right, boss?

– Yes, yes, just come here.”

Regardless of Dutch’s somewhat hasty reassurance, as he closed the flaps of his tent, locking them in a cell of heavy yellow, Micah had to worry. The camp and all his escape routes had all but disappeared. The walls may have been mere sheets, but compared to the general state of the camp they were so high-quality they felt as intimidating as rocks – even for someone who had spent enough time inside to usually feel relatively at ease. There was no exit, no light, no shadows; just Dutch. And maybe Micah’s mistakes. What was the latest one again…? Something to do with Arthur?

“Don’t stand there like that, sit down! This isn’t an interrogation, smiled the older (? he'd never dared ask) man.

– Sure boss. So, what do you need?” He sat next to him, leaning in with his usual, half-cunning half-seductive smile. “I’m real glad you trust me so much, but this is awfully mysterious even for you…

– It’s something I’d rather not have the others overhear.”

Dutch leaned back. Micah tried not to feel hurt. He’d even bathed (well, almost drowned, Hosea had pushed him into the lake with strength even a dying bear would envy) earlier! But no, no. Now wasn’t the time to check his smell, now was the time to focus. Dutch was looking at him too intensely to think about something else.

“Micah, my dear” (Micah ignored the way his heart skipped a beat). “I can trust you, right?

– Of course, boss.

– I need you to do something for me.

– Sure, boss.

– It’s about miss O’Shea.”

What.

“She’s distracting!” Dutch sat straight, fire in his eyes, frowning passionately. “She’s always asking and crying – Micah, you know what I’m talking about. Much to my regret, everyone knows. Woman, my boy, are way more trouble than they’re worth. At least Susan…” He shook his head, refocusing his attention on the nodding, but confused, blond. “It has to stop.”

Micah grinned, mighty pleased to be here. So Dutch had finally had enough, huh? He’d never thought he had the guts to kill someone so close, not with the way he talked about the women, but love could do miracles apparently. The others would notice if she disappeared though. They’d have to fake a goodbye letter… Maybe he could convince her to write it herself before putting one between her eyes.

Holding his breath to stop himself from shaking, he put his hand on Dutch’s knee with fake confidence, only exhaling when the other didn’t draw back.

“Well, Dutchy, you came to the right person. Ain’t a hobby of mine to kill women, but –

– Kill? Micah, what are you talking about? I don’t want you to do Molly any harm!”

Ah, it was Molly again. He liked miss O’Shea better. He frowned, flinching under Dutch’s wide eyes. Feeling the leg that, despite the outrage, hadn’t moved. Was it a sign? A signal?

“Then what do you want from me?

– To seduce her! Why would you think – what sort of man do you take me for? I don’t want any harm to come to her, he repeated. Am I clear?

– Crystal, he grunted. ‘cept for the part where you want me to – to…”

Was it just him or did the mood shift? Dutch seemed to relax, get closer to him even, as if the misunderstanding had been nothing but a brief nightmare. His thigh, still under Micah’s hand, was burning; between that, the Lemoyne heat and the dark eyes, at once intense and softer than ever before, he felt himself melting.

“You’re so important to me, after all…” he said, barely above a whisper, his voice tensing every muscle in Micah’s body. “It shouldn’t be too hard to make miss Molly see what I do, should it?

– I… uh, if you think –

– I know, Micah. I know. I trust you.”

*

He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten out of the tent, or out of Dutch’s presence, or out of his own head. The thrill of someone trusting him, liking him, had been overpowering. And that someone being Dutch? A man so many admired? He didn’t care how important he was or how reluctant the affection was, he was going to do anything to keep it.

Which was how he found himself sitting across Molly, stews abandoned before them – Micah because he was too focused on Molly, Molly because she was used to better and needed to be a little more starved to stoop this low, probably. And wasn’t that fitting? Food-starved, loved-starved, Micah could work with that.

“You’re one pretty woman, miss.

– … thank you.”

Weary but not opposed. Yeah, this could work. He could get her in bed easy enough, and then all he had to do was fuck her once or twice and they’d be done with it. Right? Dutch hadn’t been exactly clear with his plan, but surely he didn’t expect Micah to entertain her too long. He’d been very clear about the secret part, so it couldn’t last, right? He tried not to think about it too much, fighting against the stupid fear of a lasting relationship with the red-head.

“I like the dress. It suits you… better than that thing from Overlook, anyway.”

He snicked – choking back the sound, he wasn’t supposed to make fun of her after all – and she finally looked up at him. Well, up… maybe down.

“I didn’t know you cared so much about women’s fashion.

– Oh, I only care about the fashion I care to see gone…” He leaned forward, sliding his hand towards hers without touching it. It was at this precise moment that he realized that besides getting physically close and whispering in a suggestive voice, he had no idea how to flirt. So he did what he did best: repeat someone else’s words. “The prettier the wrapping, the prettier the present.”

He hoped his smile seemed sincere enough. Okay, Micah, you can do this. She was looking at him, she was pretty enough, he was on a roll! And Dutch needs it. The silence did make him nervous though. Was he supposed to keep talking? Usually the girls left or told him off before he got this far…

“So, what do you say, we take it somewhere else? I know a reaaal nice place… Fresh water…

– No walls, I suppose.”

Honestly? She wasn’t even that pretty. He didn’t know what Dutch saw in her, except maybe the hair. He’d take a drunk Karen over her any day.

“Plenty of trees if it’s the vertical you’re after, princess –

– Pig,” she spat, throwing a rag into his face before storming off. That could’ve gone… much worse, he smirked to himself, waving innocently to Morgan. After, all, this was a secret affair – and Molly O’Shea, bright red and fists trembling, had retreated into the forest.

*

“Don’t… ah… a word to Dutch, she panted into the evening air.

– Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Sex was… weird. Fun on good days, but always kind of a chore. So much wasted movements, so much useless talk… he liked it enough with whores and girls like Karen, that could take care of themselves – he’d probably like it enough with someone like Mary-Beth, pretty enough to make him want to touch her. With women he wasn’t paying nor infatuated with, he was finding, it was pretty boring. Wasn’t Molly’s fault, really. He just wished she’d stop talking about Dutch. Or stop moaning and only talk about Dutch.

Dutch… He tried to focus on him, on why he was doing this – the mindless thrusts, the empty caresses, kisses where his moustache worked more than his mouth – and not on how Dutch had done it. Despite him, his eyes trailed down to where his dick disappeared into a bright, red bush. The occasional sunbeam made it dance like fire, which was the nicest thing about this whole ordeal. He kinda liked watching it.

“Just like… yes… ah, Dutch –”

He wasn’t him, but he was where he had been, following in his footsteps more faithfully than anyone ever had; he had fucked her, his dick had been there… If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was him; confident and loved and all-powerful. He could almost pretend his dick wasn’t his, wasn’t dusted in blond hairs at all but dark instead, cleaner and –

He came with a groan after what felt like an eternity, finally collapsing next to the panting red-head. She’d seemed satisfied. His job was done.

He should say something.

“That wasn’t half bad, princess.

– I suppose, she sighed.

– Want a smoke?”

She frowned, her usual expression slowly sliding back into place, and he rolled on the side with a shrug. He fished out a cigarette, putting it between his lips without lighting it. Maybe a cigar would be better.

Outside – or well, behind the horizon, since they were outside, on rapidly cooling grass – the sun was almost gone, leaving in its place the bright light of night. He heard Molly pull her dress back in place, probably for the cold – it was still open when he turned to her, covering her body without doing shit for her modesty.

She wasn’t that pretty at all. She was there, and somewhat willing, and evidently fighting tears behind her shut eyes, disheveled and mute and barely pretty at all. But she… wasn’t that bad, either. He suddenly felt oddly close to her, unwilling to leave; not after what they’d done, and maybe not at all.

“Give me that, she said finally, plucking the cigarette from his lips with whip-like determination. Got a light?

– Sure.” The flame flickered between them as he looked at the great miss O’Shea’s maybe-first smoke and smiled. Too tired to smirk. “The fire lady can’t light her own?

– Oh, shove it.”

Not that bad at all.

Chapter Text

“Mister Bell, did you wash the dishes?

– What?

– The dishes, she repeated (im)patiently. Those things we eat in.

– No, I haven’t, he hissed. I never ate in them and I’m not some woman.

– Pity. Karen! Where’s Tilly?”

She stormed of in a flurry of red and gold (her dress and the sand) (Micah’s favorite colors, as it so happened), leaving him alone with a sour grimace on his face. Before she’d moved on to someone else, she’d sounded disappointed – he hated it, he hated her, he hated himself, he hated everything. It reminded him of all the ‘no’s he had told his father before learning everything he was expected to do. Did you lock the door? Did you wake up Amos? Did you throw that body in the river? Did you do the dishes? Did you wash the dishes? More often than not it was Amos’ work, but every so often he was asked and every time, without fail, he had to say no – he hadn’t thought of it. No one had told him to. Shit. He hated the silent disappointment every no brought.

So the next morning, he washed the dishes. And after thinking very hard about what else he could do, to hopefully say yes for once – not because he needed the old hag’s approval, okay, he just needed everyone to remember that he was competent! – he refilled the water bucket too.

And then Charles Smith woke up, so he ostensibly sat next to the fire and proceeded to not do anything for a few hours before everyone else woke up.

“Mister Bell.

– Miss Grimshaw.”

She wandered absently around the coffee pot, greeting the others amongst idle chatter, and panic suddenly bit into him, rudely unprompted. What if she wanted something else today? Or nothing at all? He hated wasted work, but he couldn’t just point out what he’d done. That would be pathetic.

Hours passed, the girls soon ushered to the laundry, and he grew more restless by the minute. Even cleaning his guns wasn’t enough to calm him down – partly because the motion reminded him of the knives and forks he’d cleaned earlier. Damn woman…

“Mister Bell.

– What? he barked out, his mood officially at an all-time low, and she frowned at him, seeming to hesitate.

– The stew is almost done. Are the dishes ready?

– They are, he grinned proudly, straightening up like a praised dog.

– Excellent.” She smiled back, reminding him that she was still kind of beautiful – in that dried flower way. “Thank you.

– Weren’t for you,” he mumbled, feeling his cheeks heat up and fighting the urge to disappear.

His eyes followed her as she went around camp, barking at everyone but him. He watched her carefully from his usual spot, eyes half-hidden under the brim of his hat, trying to figure out what she missed – surely there would be something. This time he wouldn’t get caught by surprise. She’d forget to assign a chore, and by god, he’d do it before she could be disappointed he didn’t read her mind and… do it. He frowned. Why did it feel like she was winning? I mean, he wasn’t losing so it was fine, but…

“Mister Bell, could you grind some coffee when you have time? We’re nearly out.

– Sure can, old queen.”

He mentally cursed himself the moment the words left his mouth, but she only raised an eyebrow, dumbfounded. You and I both. What the hell even was that?

(He ground the coffee, of course. Later. At night. Right next to Bill’s head, so his snoring covered the noise.

The little smile she directed at him as she poured herself a cup the next day made his heart skip in a very unpleasant way.)

*

Feelings, he was coming to find, were way more universal than people said. Disappointment felt bad no matter who it came from. Praise too. Didn’t matter if it was Micah Bell Jr. or some old lady, they hit enough to keep him working, a shadow agent secretly sharpening axes and feeding chicken.

Unfortunately, what was good for his ego was bad for his (already messed up) sleeping schedule, and downright useless to his efforts (well, vague wishes) to make people like him – part of him hoped someone would notice and call him out. The larger part was terrified.

(Thankfully, no one ever did – except maybe Kieran, but no one cared what a mute idiot had to say.)

Still, whatever Susan asked for, he did. It wasn’t the worst routine he’d ever had.

*

“Mister Bell, could you get us some new dishcloths?

– Dishcloths?”

How the fuck was he supposed to do that? Go to a store and buy cleaning supplies? Fuck no. He had his limits. He was opening his mouth to tell her exactly that, with exactly that amount of profanities and anger, when her hand landed on his arm, warm and firm.

“It would really be a great help.”

He stared at her for a moment, stammering half-finished thoughts until landing on:

“I’ll, I’ll see what I can – I’ll see what I can do.

– Thank you, Mister Bell.”

*

It had been two days since Susan Grimshaw asked him to buy dishcloths and lo and behold, he hadn’t. She hadn’t asked about them yet, which had saved him from the embarrassment of explaining that he’d tried and chickened out the moment he stepped into the store (of course he wouldn’t have told her that, but he’d have thought about it while lying and, yeah, he was a terrible liar), but it was bound to happen. He watched the girls enough to know that the rags were getting thinner by the day. Soon they’d be rubbing dishes with air.

It was just. He couldn’t.

“You can help if house choses fascinate you so much, snickered Javier as he passed by, noting the intense look he was giving Abigail. I’m sure you’d be good at it, with all the time you spend cleaning your guns…

– Fuck off.”

Everyone had been talking to him more – usually to annoy him – and he had no idea why, but he also didn’t care. They could all burn in hell. What he needed were towels, thanks from the old crone and to be left the fuck alone.

Whatever. He’d just tell her he didn’t want to. It was true. She couldn’t complain if he rejected the job first, anyway. He slid the revolver back into the holster at his waist, gently patting it to make sure it stayed in place, and got up, ready to face –

“Good morning, mister Bell.

– Ain’t nothing good about it.”

The words were always on his tongue, prepared like a sword, but the rest of his body froze in cold sweat. Ready? Please. He couldn’t wait for Dutch to ditch all these useless women and children so they could go back to honest, murderous robbing.

“Did you get those towels I asked for?

– No.”

Shit. Shit. She was opening her mouth. She was going to say something. He’d fucked up.

“Was hoping you’d come with me, he smirked, possessed by a spirit of seduction he’d never known before. Ain’t too kind, you know, sending a man on errands that ain’t even your husband…

– Oh, is that the matter? Listen, Mister Bell, I don’t have time for –

– Please, he purred, leaning closer. Call me Micah.”

She stared at him for a few seconds, long enough that his eyes itched to break the contact and his tongue to say something, anything insulting. He fought back. Focus on the red, Micah. Pretty eyes she has. He just had to see it through once, in case he had any chance; he didn’t of course, and even if he did flirting with Dutch’s previous girl was too risky for him, but some part of him hoped. After all, her smile was so pretty when she looked at him…

A quick sigh interrupted his never-to-be-used escape plans and before he could react, a hand grabbed his collar and Susan Grimshaw kissed him. Well, it was barely more than a peck, but it counted.

“I’ll be waiting by the wagon. Micah.”