Chapter Text
In Arthur’s defense, most rich people were stupid. He knew it from the stories his father had told whenever he bothered to come home, knew it from the way those pompous assholes never bothered to glance around. By necessity, Arthur was pretty good at pickpocketing, and if that failed, he was fast. Sure, he hadn’t eaten in a few days, but that just made it easier to slip into small spaces, so, really, it was an advantage.
That’s why Lyle Morgan spared oh so little food for his only son, no? Thieving was easy when ignorant eyes slid past little bodies and bruised skin. That’s why the eldest Morgan whispered sweet promises of food and shelter and love, love, love if only his darling boy would just sneak his tiny hand into the pretty ladies' purses, take that tall man's shiny watch, put on those pathetic puppy dog eyes and get them some goddamn money.
All for naught, in the end.
Lyle Morgan was dead, and Arthur was not.
It hadn’t taken long after his father’s death for Arthur to abandon the small town that had once been his home. Sneaking onto trains and stealing from the folks of whatever sorry place he wound up in, never daring to linger too long.
All things considered, this new place was pretty nice. A large settlement that was shaping up to be a trading port or something of the like, teeming with those looking to expand their wealth and influence or whatever it is rich people did.
He’d only been there for a few days before he saw two well-dressed men and figured it would be a quick cash grab, a few bucks if nothing else. Enough for food, hopefully. Or clothes, Arthur mused as the sharp cold of winter seeped through his clothes, torn and dirty and too big for him.
Arthur knew he should properly scope out the men, but the impatient grumble of his caved-in stomach demanded he act now, and, well, who was he to deny his body? Continue to deny his body, anyway.
It wasn’t hard to slip through the crowd, wasn’t hard to slink forward or slip his hand into one of the men’s pockets, a movement he had become accustomed to long ago. It was easy, borderline second nature to the boy after all his years of experience. He wondered if his father would be proud.
He pulled out a coin purse before slipping away, pride rushing through his veins at the weight of the bag in his hand, surely a sizeable sum! More than he'd dare to hope for, most definitely.
Arthur dared not run through the crowd, as much as he wanted to, unwilling to draw attention to himself lest his prize get taken from him. He weaved between people and horses and carriages and did not turn when he heard a cry of indignance behind him, barely breathed when he heard the heavy patter of feet rushing straight towards him.
They couldn’t have known it was him. There was no way. Arthur had done nothing suspicious, was just walking through the streets like everyone else. As far as everyone should be concerned, he was just some random kid.
Which, apparently, wasn’t enough, a fact Arthur mourned as he was yanked back by the collar of his shirt, his fate sealed when that little coin purse slipped from his dirty fingers and clattered on the ground.
For a brief moment, the boy wondered if he would hang as his father had. There was a phrase he had heard once in passing that seemed to apply to this situation. Oh, what was it? Something about apples and trees.
Arthur couldn’t be bothered to remember, too busy clawing and biting at his captor, who made a noise of shock at the boy's vicious response but stubbornly did not let go, much to Arthur's dismay.
“Christ, this kid's feral, Hosea!” the man hissed as Arthur kicked at him, the man’s companion(Hosea? Sounded fake) looking oddly amused at the sight, “Grab the money before this little scoundrel gets the chance to scoop it up again.”
“Of course he’s actin’ feral, Dutch,” the older man huffed as he scooped up the coin purse, “ You scruffed him like he’s a dog.”
“Let me go!” Arthur demanded, cutting off any more conversation by thrashing and scowling, none too pleased with being talked about and handled like he was some wild animal.
The men didn’t even glance at him, too busy quietly conversing with each other to bother with Arthur, which the boy took as an insult. He’d nearly robbed the pair, and they couldn’t even give him the time of day? They should be mad! Yelling at him, turning him over to the sheriff, anything!
A scowl etched itself onto Arthur’s face as he peered over his shoulder at the men, who finally deigned to look at him, though there was more amusement in their eyes than anger, which made Arthur's eye twitch.
“What's yer name, boy?” The man questioned after a second, a small smirk on his lips.
Arthur took a second to recall the man’s name. Dutch, was it? Dutch and Hosea? What an odd pair. It only took a few seconds before the boy decided these men wouldn’t get a word out of him.
The silence lingered in the air, and the man holding him, Dutch, shook him a little, as if the answer would spill from the boy's empty pockets.
“We ain’t mad at ya, lad, just curious.” The eldest, Hosea, assured with what was probably supposed to be a comforting look, “We ain’t gonna turn ya in, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Arthur was more worried about hanging, but he supposed the two sort of went hand in hand, so he didn’t make any move or sound to correct the man, not that he'd be talking to them anyway. Keeping his mouth shut was harder than he thought it'd be, sarcastic comments and insults building on the tip of his tongue.
He couldn’t be hanged if he wasn’t caught. Arthur couldn’t remember if that was something his father had said or if he had just learned it over time. Well, he was caught now, and even if the pair seemed to have no ill intentions towards him(Yeah, right), Arthur knew it meant nothing good.