Chapter Text
Dutch always had a plan. Or he liked to say he always did. Always had plans of living free from the law, escaping the law to some tropical island when it closed in on them from all sides of the rapidly dying 'wild west' their age was over and there was nothing they could do to change that except continue stealing and killing and stealing and killing until they scraped up enough money to give Dutch the freedom to take himself and his gang wherever he most pleased, Tahiti maybe. Somewhere where the van der linde gand could lay low, act as if they had never done the things they had done to get there and live out the rest of their days as something honest, maybe mango farmers.
It was here he stood, thinking about these plans of his that he scrubbed at the mucky, scaly plates that covered The Counts legs. The baryonyx, having such striking white coloration due to albinism, always ended up looking filthy after a single wander off to the nearest stream to fish or a chase for some deer or perhaps a robbery that had resulted in a hasty exit. Whatever The Count had gotten up to, his scales were always dusty or caked in mud by the end. And oh, how the fussy dinosaur hated it, he always shook and hissed and pestered Dutch until he set aside an afternoon to scrub some mud around his thick claws or dried gore around his long, slender snout.
Cleaning the scales of some brutish beast who was to vain to clean himself and to bloodthirsty to keep clean? How unlike the leader of such a fearsome gang. Dutch thought to himself when The Count rumbled contentendly, eyes closing like a happy cat, the dinosaur was loyal. Very loyal. The two had bonded over the years of robberies, plans and the expansion of the gang and the reduction of areas where their lifestyle was allowed to remain unbothered by the law or civilisation. The good ol' days. That was what Dutch missed, or the part of it that meant sitting by the fire late into the evening after a successful robbery, bellies full and hearts warm with the strange sense of peace that came from what most deemed a hard life where survival was all that mattered. But it was often more than that.
As Dutch let his mind wander and sink into nostalgia while he worked on removing a particularly difficult chunk of dirt stuck under the scaly folds of skin at his ankles. He thought about just how far The Counts loyalty ran for him. How he wouldn't allow anyone to help Dutch or take over with cleaning his hide, wouldn't even let other members of the gang pat him without throwing a fuss with a threatening growl and a shake of his head. It was truly only Dutch he allowed to interact with him, as if he was to prideful to form a bond with anything less than a fearsome leader of an equally fearsome gang.
A certain story surfaced in his mind. One that had happened years ago but was still almost fresh in his mind.
It was the time when Arthur, then younger and obviously less of a grumpy fool had tried to take The Count out for a ride. Or maybe just to prove that the baryonyx actually tolerated him (which he certainly didn't.) And this had, of course. Resulted in The Count shaking his big frame hard enough to have Arthur dangling off the side of his back, one foot still lodged in the stirrup, and using his equal parts impressive and intimidating jaws. Grabbed Arthur by the back of his jacket, pulling him practically through the mud and dropping him unceremoniously at Dutch's feet where he watched. Effectively giving Arthur a stern warning to not try anything funny with him and a set of new holes in his jacket.
Dutch looked fondly upon the memory. It seemed like yesterday and decades ago. God, The mess in Blackwater and the freezing cold temperatures of Colter. Where the snow shone as bright and pristine as The Counts soon to be spotless hide had truly shaken himself and the gang alike. They had lost several members in that...massacre, and Dutch wasn't planning on losing anyone else anytime soon.
The Count gave a shake not unlike the one he'd done to remove Arthur from his back, but to instead shake off the dust Dutch had scraped free from his back. Dutch stepped back and rested a hand on The Counts scaly snout. Both seemed satisfied, satisfied that the big dinosaur was clean and satisfied that one day. Hopefully sometime soon, all of this. This endless cycle of loss and stealing and killing and running and being hunted would be over, he was going to make sure of it.