Chapter Text
For once, things weren’t going too poorly.
Arthur wouldn’t go so far as to say that he was feeling good , because he wasn’t. Nobody was. But there were days that were better than others, days where the camp wasn’t filled with cold glares or vicious gossip, when the tension and the stress was almost forgotten.
Those were the days following the nights when Arthur could actually sleep, When his chest wasn’t on fire, when he didn’t taste ocean water sliding down his throat as he drowned, unable to see if his friends and Micah had made it to safety.
Today was one of those days. Not a good day, because the Van Der Linde gang didn’t have good days anymore. But it was a better day and Arthur, allowing himself to be optimistic, noticed that they’d been having more of those lately.
Even Dutch, who had been reminding Arthur of a ghost lately, wandering aimlessly, unsure of what to do with its own existence, seemed to be doing better.
Hosea was still gone, there was no changing that, but he seemed to be slowly regaining the life his death had stolen from him. He still wouldn’t quite look Arthur in the eye, and he found himself mourning the loss of Dutch just as much as the loss of Hosea. Things weren’t the same between the two of them, and Arthur didn’t know how to fix it.
He and John were finally getting along, Arthur realizing for the first time how utterly stupid his grudge had been. John had come back, which was more than anyone could say for Hosea and Lenny.
Arthur just wished John didn’t look at him like he was broken, like the slightest touch would leave him shattered beyond repair.
“Would you stop?”
John had the audacity to feign innocence. “Stop what?”
Arthur only responded with an annoyed huff and kicked his horse, taking off across grassy path. John followed close behind, and Arthur almost regretted setting aside their feud. He was starting to miss when John wasn’t talking to him.
“I’m sorry,” John said, sounding as far from apologetic and one possibly could. “Just worried about you.”
“Well you can stop worrying about me because I’m fine.” It would have sounded more convincing if he hadn’t broken off at the end with a cough, wet and ragged and painful. The noise only intensified John’s scrutinizing stare and Arthur bit back a groan. His lungs still hadn’t fully recovered from his near drowning experience, and the nonexistent sleep schedule he’d adopted since returning wasn’t doing him any favors.
“When was the last time you actually slept?” John demanded. He was starting to remind Arthur of Dutch.
“How many times do I have to tell you I’m fine?” He’d slept last night, not nearly enough, but more than usual. “If you’re so intent on worrying about someone, worry about Dutch. He’s the one who lost his best friend.”
“Are the two of you ok?”
“John,--”
“Look, you don’t have to talk to me,” John said. “I’ll back off. But you should at least try talking to him.”
The conversation dropped, and Arthur almost hated the silence more than John’s persistent questioning, the quiet only provoking unhelpful thoughts he could no longer ignore.
Talking to Dutch was...difficult. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he and Dutch had simply had a conversation. It was all business now, short and curt, like Arthur was a stranger. Guarma had served as a distraction from the bank job, but now that they were back and things were somewhat settled down, the grief was hitting everyone full force.
Dutch especially, who seemed to forget he wasn’t the only one affected. Namely Arthur, who had loved Hosea nearly as much as he loved Dutch.
He tried to understand, to wait patiently, to pretend he didn’t miss Dutch’s company, but as time went on it got harder. Arthur felt isolated, like Dutch didn’t need him. Like he’d died along with Hosea in that bank.
It was a special kind of hurt to see him talking at length with Micah, planning , as he so colorfully put it. Arthur tried to ignore it, knowing he was being childish and unreasonable when it bothered him so much, but he couldn’t help it.
He said nothing to John, however, only grunting in vague agreement and turning his horse in the direction of camp.
Arthur should have known something horrible was going to happen sooner or later. Things had been almost peaceful, despite the distance between him and Dutch. So, of course, the universe was required the screw him over sooner or later. That was just how the world worked.
Arthur was expecting another particularly bad nightmare, an injury, a lost bar fight, or something just as painfully horrible.
Now, however, seeing what the world’s punishment really was, he thought he would have preferred the life threatening injury.
“Dutch? What are you doing here?”
Arthur had found a foot. An honest to good, bloody, severed human foot cut up to the ankle, just laying on the grass outside Valentine. That should have been the first sign that something was destined to go wrong.
John had been there, and Arthur had teased him relentlessly about how pale his face had gotten at the sight. Right up until they’d found the rest of the body, scattered around the clearing, and a rolled up piece of a map soaked in crimson.
“We shouldn’t get involved,” John warned as Arthur, setting aside all his personal morals, took the paper from the body’s remains. “Arthur…”
“You just wanna let this guy roam free?” Arthur challenged, knowing he was just looking for any kind of excuse to distract himself from...everything. “He seems just a bit unstable, don’t you think?”
“I think it’s the law’s job. Jesus. What kind of serial killer wants to be found?”
“The crazy ones,” Arthur said, smearing the wet blood on his fingertips on his pants. “You sure you ain’t interested?”
“Not even a little.” John grimaced, turning away from the bloody clearing and practically sprinting to his horse. “And I don’t want you doing this alone.”
“I think I can handle it,” Arthur shot back. And he had. He’d found two other bodies, a new piece of the map with each equally gruesome one, recognizing the locations fairly quickly. One of the benefits of never quite settling down, he supposed. He had the roads memorized.
He’d found what he assumed to be the last body (he certainly hoped it was the last one) and followed the dried blood trail behind a pile of rocks.
And there was Dutch, expressionless, staring at the dismembered body like it was the most normal thing in the world. He looked up as Arthur approached, raised an eyebrow, and held up the last piece of the bloody map.
“Took you long enough,” Dutch grumbled, thrusting the paper in Arthur’s chest. Arthur suddenly felt on edge standing next to him, the cool autumn air now thick with tension. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to Dutch, it was that he couldn’t . He couldn’t break past the wall Dutch had put around himself. The wall that seemed to only be for Arthur.
“How’d you find me?”
“John told me you’d come across this man’s...work,” Dutch explained. “He said it might interest me and you could use the back up.”
“Of course he did,” Arthur muttered. Marston, the softie, was actually trying to force Dutch and Arthur to talk. Like they were children who needed an adult to stop their incessant fighting. Arthur and Dutch weren’t fighting they were...Dutch just seemed cold. He needed time.
Dutch crossed his arms,“If you’d prefer someone else, Arthur--”
“No, that’s--”
“Good.” He held out his hand. “Show me what you have.”
Arthur, fumbling momentarily with his satchel, produced the rest of the map and handed it to Dutch, who easily pieced it together against the rock. Arthur peered over his shoulder, recognizing the structure.
“That’s right outside Valentine,” he said. “Old shack in the woods. I’ve rode past it a few times. It’s not far.”
Dutch hummed, gathering up the papers and handing it back to Arthur. He started back towards the path and whistled, The Count’s hooves filling the quiet air in seconds.
“Glad you’re gallivanting has finally been put to good use,” Dutch said. Arthur felt a pang in his heart, remembering Hosea saying something similar when they’d first arrived. Of course, things had been better back then, happier. Hosea’s tone was always light, his words nothing more than gentle teasing.
Dutch...Arthur couldn’t even tell what Dutch was trying to say.
The ride was deathly silent, Arthur never quite able to gather the courage to even open his mouth. He had no idea why he was so afraid, what could have happened to make Dutch, one of the few people he could always talk to, seem to unapproachable.
Arthur couldn’t understand to make Dutch turn so cold against him. Was it just Arthur? No one else seemed unsettled around Dutch, nobody mentioned anything off. Was that it? Dutch had just...stopped caring? Stopped needing Arthur?
He tried to tell himself that he was being stupid. That he’d been nothing but loyal to Dutch nearly his whole life. That of course Dutch still cared about him. But he couldn’t keep the thoughts from flooding his mind, plaguing him, and he felt the stress and insecurity slowly pile up.
The rundown shack couldn’t come into view soon enough, his mind finally able to focus on something else. Dutch and Arthur slowed, both taking their weapons from their saddle and dismounting, Arthur grabbing and lighting his lantern.
The walls of the shack were decayed and lifeless, the building clearly unused for years. But there was a cellar around the back, the doors unlocked, and Arthur couldn’t suppress a shudder as they opened with a low squeal.
“ Try not to kill him if you can,” Dutch said, like Arthur was the one with the history of losing his cool. “It wouldn’t hurt to do the law a favor.”
Arthur thought about pointing out that it wasn’t their job, or reminding him about Bronte or that old woman on Guarma, but he kept his mouth shut. There was no need to make Dutch resent him even more.
“I’ll do my best,” he said, quiet and obedient, and Dutch seemed satisfied. Arthur led the way down the stairs, holding out their only light source in front of him, moving slow and careful.
The cellar was definitely the hideout of a serial killer. Animal bones, human bones, blood stains, and body parts lined the walls, attached to rusted hooks and bloody weapons. Arthur kept his eyes on the ground, feeling as though he might be sick from the blood alone, his head beginning to pound and his eyes watering.
“You alright over there?” Dutch asked, and Arthur nodded quickly, clearing his throat.
“Fine,” he said, holding his lantern up to a rack of weapons, all stained a dull, faded red. Some of the stains looked fresher than others. “You think this is maybe our guy?”
“Very funny,” Dutch scoffed. He squinted through their limited illumination, the lantern doing very little. “Doesn’t look like he’s home. You stay here, I’m going to get another lantern. See if you can find anything.”
Staying alone in the psycho killer’s cellar filled with human remains was probably the last thing Arthur wanted to do ever, but he nodded and watched as Dutch felt his way along the walls and found the stairs.
Forcing himself to move, Arthur stepped away from the weapons and made his way to the table at the other end of the room, littered with scattered papers and open envelopes.
There was a letter placed on the desk next to an open jar of black ink, a pen discarded on the ground. Arthur briefly scanned the note, some long-worded statement to the editor of some fancy newspaper, and Arthur almost filed it as irrelevant before he saw the words glisten. He ran his thumb over the last line of writing and his blood ran cold.
The ink was still wet.
The sound of the cellar doors shutting made Arthur jump, nearly spilling the ink all over the letter.He spun around, reaching for his gun, but everything had gone quiet and still once again.
“Dutch?” The lack of response prompted a cold dread in his gut, and Arthur readied his gun. “Dutch, that you?”
There was still no response and Arthur wondered briefly is Dutch was messing with him. Just a few months ago, when things were lighter between them, he wouldn’t put it past him. But now…
Suddenly, there was a silhouette of a man in front of him, moving closer in the darkness of the shadows. He lunged forward with an animal-like snarl, fast and rapid, Before Arthur could so much as aim his gun something heavy and solid was flying towards his face, colliding with his temple.
Stars danced across Arthur’s vision, the room tilting dangerously, darkening as the lantern fell. He stumbled his knees hitting the ground, and something else slammed into the back of his neck.
He grunted as his jaw hit the cold ground. His vision went fuzzy and he fell, slipping into the clutches of unconsciousness.
Arthur awoke, slowly, to the feeling of ropes digging into his skin. He’d be lying if he said it wasn't a familiar feeling, the tight burn against his wrists and ankles. There was a rope around his neck, just tight enough not to strangle him, keeping Arthur from even raising his head.
His eyes fluttered open, meeting nothing but darkness, but the decomposing smell told him he hadn’t been moved far.
“Dutch?” he called, clearing his throat when his voice came out raw and hoarse. He tried to move to no avail, the bounds and the darkness working together to trap him, to leave him helpless. “Dutch?”
“Your friend isn’t here,” a voice said somewhere above him, and Arthur tensed. A lantern was lit, creating a calm yellow glow, and through Arthur’s limited field of vision, he could see a thin, balding man with a mustache and expensive suit smiling down at him.
“What did you do to him?” Arthur demanded, just managing to keep his voice from shaking as he met the killer’s eye.
“Nothing yet,” he said, and Arthur already felt some of the panic wash away. “But I will. He’ll be next, don’t worry.”
The man set down the lantern and moved away, returning a moment later with one of the knives from the rack on the wall, still stained with the blood of whatever poor bastard had been unlucky enough to cross paths with this lunatic.
The man knelt down beside Arthur, who tried in vain to twist away, tugging at the ropes until he was sure his wrists would start bleeding. THe man smiled, almost gleefully, like he was watching a child.
“Struggling will only make it worse,” he supplied. Arthur felt the cold steel of the weapon slide under his chin and his heart began to pound painfully in his chest, his breaths becoming faster, panicked. “Do you like pain, sir? It’s about to become your friend. Your very close friend.”
Arthur tried to respond, trusting himself to think of some well crafted argument or insult that would distract his captor long enough for him to think of a way out of this. But his voice caught in his throat when something began to dig into his side, blinding hot pain shooting through his body as he desperately bit back a scream.
“Try to relax,” the killer soothed. Arthur shuddered, refusing to look at him. “I’ll make sure to take it slow.”
The knife began to move, slow just like he’d so graciously promised, and Arthur was fairly sure the leisurely speed was just making the pain worse. He felt dizzy, nauseous, and his struggled quickly grew more desperate which only succeeded in pulling at the gashes on his torso.
“Dutch!” He called, purely out of instinct as the knife dug deeper. He thought he heard something over the man’s cheerful humming, but he couldn’t be sure. His blood was rushing in his ears, slowly drowning out everything around him. The pain only worsened and his cries grew more frantic. “Dutch! Dutch!”
There was a loud noise from somewhere around him and suddenly the knife was gone, ripping out of his skin and Arthur hissed in pain. There was another noise, louder and closer than the first one, followed by another, and then another. Arthur, dazed and confused, could only shrink back against the floor and squeeze his eyes shut.
“Arthur?” a new voice said, and Arthur’s eyes flew open when he recognized it. Relief washed over him, mixing with the searing pain, and he could only offer a pathetic nod. “It's ok. You’re fine. He’s dead. Let’s get you out of here.”
It was the softest Arthur had heard Dutch’s voice in a long time. The relief of the ropes being cut free, first carefully on his neck and then his limbs only intensified his dizziness, and Arthur realized idly that he was shaking.
“There we go,” Dutch said, slipping his knife back into his bag. Arthur caught sight of the man, as bloody and dead as his victims, discarded on the other end of the room. He quickly averted his gaze, instead watching as Dutch peeled back his shirt to get look at what the knife had done. “Jesus. Alright, you’re going to be fine once you’re cleaned up. Wait here, I don’t want you moving yet. I’m go--”
Dutch moved to stand, stopping when Arthur quickly reached out, clamping a hand around his arm. He frowned, seeming to notice for the first time just how hard Arthur was shaking.
“Arthur?” Dutch said. He didn’t sound annoyed, like Arthur had feared, only concerned and mildly confused. “I have bandages in my saddle. I’ll be right outside.”
Arthur nodded, swallowing. “I know, I… I’m sorry, I just need a minute. Just...just stay for a minute. Please.”
Dutch, seeming to understand, nodded and settled back down on the cellar floor, his hand squeezing Arthur’s wrist, just above the rope burns. Arthur didn’t let go of his arm, trying desperately to get control of his breathing, painfully aware of Dutch’s eyes on him.
He’d been in worse situations than this, come much closer to death more times than he could count. But there was a difference between going down in battle, taken down by an enemy too fast to even really understand what had happened, and being tied down, helpless and defenseless, forced to look your killer in the eye while he slowly drained the life out of you. He shuddered, still feeling oddly numb and distant, and he wondered how much blood he’d lost.
“What happened?” he asked when he was sure he had proper control over his voice.
“Bastard got me from behind,” Dutch grumbled. “Locked me out of the cellar while he...dealt with you. Should’ve taken the gun from my saddle. Seems like I got to you just in time.”
Arthur nodded, letting out a shaky breath. He was becoming slowly aware of the cuts on his stomach, the blood seeping through his shirt and pooling onto the floor around him.
“Five minutes earlier would have been better,” he said, and Dutch smiled, apologetic. “I could, uh, use those bandages right about now.”
Dutch nodded, giving Arthur’s wrist a last, gentle squeeze before standing. “I’ll be right back,” he promised and Arthur nodded, trusting him. He scooted back, leaning against the wall as he watched Dutch hurry up the stairs.
In Arthur’s opinion, getting captured, tied up, and nearly killed by a psycho serial killer was beyond enough punishment for having a few moderately good days that weren’t even much of an improvement to begin with.
But clearly, the universe felt different.
Dutch had just come back into view, stepping down onto top of the stairs when Arthur felt the ground beneath his fingers begin to move. Dutch clearly felt it to, and his confusion turned to alarm as the shaking grew worse, reaching the walls and sending clouds of dust spiraling into the air.
“Cover your head!” he shouted and Arthur, regaining some of his awareness, realized what was happening. Earthquake. At what could not possibly be a worse time.
He obeyed, watching in horror as the staircase gave way and Dutch disappeared from view. Arthur had barely enough time to react, to feel the dread fully set in, before the ceiling came down and Arthur’s world went black once again.