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It's been one of those days.
One of those days...
...when you wake up with your skin tight below the belt.
...when you feel every space where your dress sits slightly incorrect.
...when the mirror keeps revealing the weird details on your face and neck.
...when your flowing hair covers your shoulders but not the shame you feel for them being so broad.
...when the swishing fabric of your dress -- a faded sunset mix of pink, orange, and yellow -- cannot distract you.
...when you are only too aware of how your voice differs from all the voices of Grimshaw, Abigail, Mary-Beth, Tilly, and Karen.
...when you "volunteer" to take care of their sewing and washing and knitting as best you can while they head into town to "work" and Abigail heads off to find Jack.
It's been one of those days when you have to bite your tongue to prevent from crying or screaming or breathing too hard because it's all wrong. Just plain wrong. Even the fact that it's wrong is wrong, if society was worth listening to.
At least Grimshaw's taking pity on you by only bluntly pointing out your errors instead of berating you for them.
But pity won't fix that ache in your heart that's always weighing you down.
That pain that's stuck with you your entire life, even as you managed to start anew in life by some miracle. By running away and finding the Van Der Linde gang.
These people -- whom you care about more closely than you've cared about anybody before -- have been more kind to you and more understanding than everybody you ever knew in the hell they call civilization. Even when you were more well-off than most, no money you could care to acquire would ever absolve the sins society blames you for. The hurt that it would never let you treat.
You prick your finger for the third time in the last hour, and you have to stop to collect yourself. Squeezing your eyes shut and setting down the shirt and needle to hold your head in your hands, you focus on taking shaky breaths to calm down. You didn't feel like wasting makeup on yourself today, but avoiding crying is still your ideal. It barely helps, but a sudden voice brings you out of your mind instead.
"You doin' alright, girl?"
There's a certain uneasiness in Arthur's tone, and you would want to do nothing more than groan if you didn't already know how uncomfortable he gets with emotions -- especially his -- but you know it's because of how foreign these unique feelings of yours always are to everybody you ever meet.
Deciding to let him continue with whatever mountain of work he's been assigned today, you don't bother to look at him in front of you. "Not the best day for me, no. But I'll be okay if I can just get through these chores. Thanks for asking."
Arthur doesn't take the hint to leave. "And the rest of the girls? You ain't doin' all of their chores by yerself again?"
Since Arthur's being unusually chatty, you prop your head up onto your arm to look at him. "No, only what's mine and whatever I can of theirs while they work in town. Gotta make up for what I can't do anyhow."
"They ain't teach you how ta rob people yet?"
You want nothing more than for this conversation to end now. You straighten up, your face bunching together into a pout with your brows furrowed.
"Of course they have."
"Then why'd they leave without ya?"
"It ain't just about robbing people. It's about robbing men."
Your throat tightens slightly, and you make a sucking sound as your tongue hitches behind your teeth for a moment. Arthur doesn't say anything.
You continue, "About blendin' in to get their money and their information." Traitorous tears start to well up in your eyes. "Neither a gun nor a few pretty words ain't worth shit when next to the girls I look and damn well feel like somethin' that crawled out of a rotting corpse."
Because of how much they want to quiver, you tuck in your lips to hide them while blinking back the tears as best you can.
You curse yourself for all of this, for what feels like the ugliest truth: you'll always look wrong, sound wrong, and feel wrong, especially when the other girls are around for comparison.
Now you don't care about holding it in, even if Arthur's still there in front of you. You slump forward, both elbows landing on the table, and your head falls into your hands, your sobs pouring out raw and unrestrained.
You barely hear him say, "Shit," before he walks away. You suppose it's better than him voicing whatever he must truly think of you, even if a tiny voice in your head says that he wouldn't insult you so callously.
But through this gaping hole in your heart, you have to collect yourself again if you want to avoid inciting Grimshaw's ire for wallowing. You still have to finish your sewing before you can move onto the other girls' assignments, and you can't do either while bawling your eyes out over your own spiraling hatred. Though, nobody here has told you that it's inappropriate for you to cry, so you suppose you can make the most of it now.
You almost miss the sound of footsteps through your raking breaths and cascading tears. You ignore them even as they stop where Arthur had stood just a couple of minutes before.
Since camp's quiet while it takes you at least another full minute to finally even out, you let yourself believe the footfalls were imagined as you begin massaging your temples and your tears finally slow to a trickle before stopping all together. You wipe away the residue on the sleeves of your dress.
"Can ya lift yer head up fer me?" You startle as it's proven that Arthur is standing in front of you again, but you do lift your head and gasp when you see what he brought back.
He's holding a yellow primrose bloom and a purple cluster of wild, flowering mint in his cupped palms.
Every thought in your mind is blanketed by disbelief, and you can only stare at him in confusion as he sets them gently down onto the table.
"Just hold still, alright?"
You tentatively nod, wondering if you've either misunderstood something or begun dreaming somehow.
Arthur first clears off the mint leaves and moves behind you to begin braiding your hair. He tucks each cluster of flowers into sections of your hair as he works.
It takes a few minutes, with him occasionally muttering soft curses under his breath when he has to redo a section, but he's thorough, and it feels more secure than you've ever managed on your own. You are keenly aware of how stiff your posture is during the entire interaction.
You think Arthur's completed his work when he comes back to the front of your view. And yet, he reaches towards you and tucks the primrose into a notch of hair above your right ear. He hands you the hand mirror you'd left face down on your bedroll, and you remain speechless as you examine the well-woven braid and its flora. Your face is entirely flushed by now, so he takes the opportunity to speak.
He scratches his neck and glances away as he starts, "Tilly made us, Marston an' I, learn how to...y'know. 'S been a few years since I've done one, but I thought it'd suit you." Arthur swallows, and you realize he's blushing too. He seems to doubt himself for a moment before speaking, "Think you look great."
You start crying again before you can get the words out. "Oh, god. Thank you, Arthur. This is...oh, god."
Each time you wipe away your tears, more rush out to replace the vacancies, but they come from a gratitude that echoes in your soul. Like watching the sun rise after it promised to come back when it set. Even as you blubber, you're smiling, and the ridiculous contradiction makes you want to laugh as Arthur shifts in place, avoiding eye contact.
When you know you can articulate yourself again, you reach your hands out for Arthur's own hands, and he obliges almost sheepishly. His are tough and worn, which contrasts with your softer skin. "Thank you. This means so much more than I know how to explain. This is beyond wonderful. Thank you, Arthur." You beam at him.
"Jus' wanted to see ya smile again is all. It weren't nothin', really."
"It's not nothing to me. It's thoughtful."
"Right." He pulls his right hand away to scratch the back of his neck again before pulling his hat down to obscure his face.
"It's okay if you've got other things to do. I'll see you later."
"Shoa...I'll, uh, catch you later then."
The rest of your chores get completed before the other girls return, and your progress on the other girls' chores is impeded when Jack and Abigail come over for casual conversation.
But you can't stop thinking about how beautiful you feel.
You feel more vulnerable with your hair braided back rather than covering up your shoulders, but Abigail compliments your new look while Jack admires how the flowers are interwoven into your hair, and your heart lightens up on its hammering beat. They return to Hosea for Jack's lessons after a while, but you're still smiling.
Even the sun's glow seems to take a step down from being harsh well before it begins to set.
Grimshaw reappears by the time the other girls get back, and although her presence prevents any of them from being overt with their comments, their intrigue and excitement at seeing somebody had braided your hair is still palpable within every knowing glance and cheeky grin they give you.
When the sun starts to set and the light's about to prevent any further work from being done, you excuse yourself from the rest of the girls before Grimshaw leaves them and they can interrogate you.
You head over to the fire, where Arthur's staring into the flames to ignore Sean and Uncle as they ramble and joke with each other.
"Arthur."
He looks up to face you to the right of him, and both of the other men quiet down slightly to try and listen in.
Arthur's face is barely tinged pink, but he only reddens further while you stare at him to try and gather up the courage for your next moves.
You sit down next to him. "Thank you. Again."
He turns back to the fire as he mumbles a mix of words between acknowledgment and bashful dismissal.
Your heart's trying to beat out of your chest, but you steady yourself on the ground with your palms planted flat.
You lean forward and plant a kiss on Arthur's cheek.
Uncle cackles, Sean lets out a whoop, and you can hear the girls cheer excitedly from somewhere behind you.
Your face is as red as Arthur's was, as he's now wide-eyed and speechless as he continues to stare into the fire, the blush evenly spread from his nose to the ends of his ears.
Only for a fraction of a second do you doubt your decision because he then immediately pulls you closer, draping an arm around you and interlocking his fingers over yours.
Arthur turns to you, his beard rasping softly on your skin as his mouth moves and sighs, his breath padding against your ear. He whispers, "I wanted ta tell you...yer prettier than the sunrise."
The fluttering of your eyelids and that rush of bliss match the airiness lifting you up with his words. He kisses you on the cheek before pulling you closer and resting his head against yours.
You lean your full body into Arthur, cradled by him, and savoring this dream come true.