please father savage me no further

by starz1p

Summary:

old thing I wrote with friend…will probably be unfinished

arthur cannot take it anymore

but dutch has ignored this until its too late. its been hard for everyone, but the sight of arthur so pathetic makes him angry. he doesn’t know why. he just feels so angry.

its only when arthur fades in his arms that he realises this is not a soldier but his son

 

(takes place in chapter six)

Notes:

MY BABY 33333 FRR durch when I catch you

I tried to really write Dutch’s paranoia getting in the way for his care, yet his attachment to his son conflicting inside him as well

most of all it’s just a big block of angsty comfort

Arthur had never been afraid to voice his thoughts; Dutch had taught him that. But he had never opposed him. Never spoke to him like this before, never challenged his lead. Arthur was different now, recent days seeing him slipping away, disappearing for days on end. Right when Dutch- when the gang needed him. The loyalty that once held them together felt like a thread hanging by a frayed end, he could tell the gang sensed it too. There was always this tension around the camp, a shared unease. Whispers of Arthur circled around the shadows, myths, fears, theories on the intent behind the changed manner of the man spread like wildfire. 

The stress was agonizing, with all the people he had lost, all the trust he had lost. Even ignoring his craving for stability and reassurance, the look his once right hand man gave him was infuriating. The utter nerve of Arthur, to step in and speak in the those words that belonged to…him. 

 

God, he missed Hosea. It should be him guiding Dutch, him berating and nagging as he always did. But he wasn’t here, and Arthur sure as hell wasn’t. His boy, or the man he used to call his boy, was supposed to be his anchor. He was supposed to stay by his side, have faith, but now he was barely even around. 

 

So who else could he settle for? Who else could he lean on? Vision still pulsating, the muffled noise in his ears cleared as he breathed in. 

“Look at him, prowling around like that.”

Ah, that’s right. Micah. 

Dutch nodded, feeling the presence by his side, eyeing the other traitor shifting around the camp. 

It was already quite dark, casting shadows that hid Arthur’s eyes. It was already rare enough that he was in camp, god knows what he was doing out there the rest of the time. The ghastly trees that blocked any sunlight did no favours for the mood of everyone, and it certainly amplified the recent terrible look in his eye.

“Up to no good, I bet. I mean, what could a man be doing out there so often when his “family” needs him? He’s abandoning us when it’s convenient for him; and we both know why’s that.” Micah hissed. He couldn’t help but agree, thoughts racing through his mind. They had run into trouble before, but every time Arthur had been there. All those lawmen, all those bounty hunters and enemies they had beaten and hurt through together, did that mean nothing to him? 

“You really think he’s-“ Dutch dropped his voice to a whisper. “He’s the rat? The boy’s been riding with me for his whole life, why would he turn?”

Micah scoffed, hand curling around the other man’s shoulder. “Trust me, I’ve seen fellas who murdered their own mothers for money. People change, Dutch. We just gotta figure out how to cut him loose before he…infects the rest of these folk. The wolf boy too.” 

It made his fingernails dig into his palm, the thought of his own sons plotting against him. But he couldn’t deny that everything had led up to this being the truth; the disobedience, the bitter greetings, the lack of faith. 

He couldn’t deny that Arthur had looked increasingly worse as of late. Deep, purple skin under his faded eyes, and a particularly skinny frame. But the rage countered any worry or fear he would have held and although he would never admit it, part of him felt deep disgust at what he had rotted into. It just made him angry.

“I’ll go speak with him.” He muttered, watching Arthur on the other side of camp disappear into the shadows as he approached his horse. Feeling Micah’s steady hand rest on his shoulder in support, a small confidence bloomed in his chest. “Go do some work, I’ll talk to you later. In fact, bring some of the boys out to do some scoping around. Don’t want any more eyes on us than there already is. And anyways, I want to speak to Arthur privately.”

Pausing for a moment, he thought to himself. He really needed to talk to Arthur on his own, but he didn’t want John or the others lurking around the corner, listening to his every move. It felt as though he was always being watched, always being seen. 

He didn’t want anyone to watch if things got out of control.

“Micah, you take John ‘n Charles out to look for any Pinkertons nearby. Get Miss Grimshaw to take the girls out for a night in town, not Saint Denis. We’re already wanted there, can’t risk pushing it more than we did. Send out anyone else to do some work. Just get them all out.”

Stepping forward from in front of his tent, he tried to ignore the silhouettes between the other cots, knowing those who weren’t asleep were surely watching him. It felt unfamiliar, as if they weren’t his family, but rather strangers. Onlookers. Judges, just like the rest of the world. He moved beyond the watchful eyes of the camp, closing the distance to the solitary figure. The hitching posts, distant from the flickering campfires, was engulfed in complete shadow. Arthur, figure obscured within the blackness, stood by his horse, a silent silhouette with one hand seemingly mindlessly caressing her mane. Dutch advanced, the gravel beneath his boots betraying his silent, careful approach. 

As he drew nearer, peering into the shadows, it became quite evident that Arthur was lost in thought. The rhythmic stroke of his hand over the horse's mane seemed so automatic, the shadows draped over his face in a way that hid his expression. Dutch couldn't shake the feeling that Arthur was somewhere else entirely, striking a nerve somewhere. He couldn’t fathom daydreaming at a time like this.

“Son, where are you headed?”

He received no response, to his slight irritation. Trying again, he raised his voice a little. “We need you right now, son. If you’re not doing anything there’s always chores around that need doing. The poor girls are working themselves into a sweat lately.”

Still met with prolonged silence, Dutch ran a hand over his face, annoyance bubbling within him. It felt as if he were addressing a ghost of the man he once knew. Once proud of. He let out an exaggerated sigh, lifting his head. "Arthur, if you're going to sulk around, could you at least do it elsewhere? You're beginning to be an eyesore."

Just as he turned to depart, a low, quiet voice cut through the night air, shattering the silence.

"You've lost your way, Dutch."

The words hung in the air, like a suffocating coldness. He turned back to face Arthur, his irritation now tinged with a dangerous anger. The man’s head was still hung, the hand in his horse’s man had stopped. He sounded…sad. Not angry, not defiant, just sad. But that didn’t stop great irritation from striking the other man.

"What are you talking about, Arthur?" Dutch asked, attempting to keep his tone steady, though the frigid ice in his words betrayed his facade.

His answer was even quieter, words slurred in a way that would’ve concerned Dutch if it weren’t for the piercing annoyance that ran through his veins. 

“Things don’t make sense no more. You don’t make sense.” 

Dutch circled, words sharper than before, eyes narrowed.. “Are you feeling okay? This is no time to be doubting, son. I ain’t lost it just yet.”

Arthur raised his head for the first time, eyes still not meeting the other’s. A wave of something heavy washed off him, and the leader tried to ignore the impact he felt. “I think we all lost somethin’, Dutch. But pretending everything’s gonna be fine ain’t helpin’.”

"This ain't a democracy, son. I make the decisions, and you follow." 

 

Finally, Arthur's eyes, the expected blue light surprisingly dull, locked onto the other’s. "I follow when it makes sense. Not when it's drivin' us off a cliff."

 

Dutch's restraint began to unravel. He stared into Arthur’s face, words now a cold threat. "You remember your place in this gang, Arthur. We need to stick together. Your complaining is not what we need right now. We need action, results. The gang's survival depends on it. You're not the only one dealing with hardships here"

 

"I'm just tryin' to keep us from dying, Dutch. Ain't that what you want?"

 

"Trying? You’re trying? Your trying is tearing us apart, Arthur. Your doubts, your second-guessing. It's insufferable."

 

"You can't keep telling yourself we're going to be okay. I love this family, you know I do, but maybe it’s time for us to let go."

 

The tension thickened, the air in the camp suffocating. Dutch, unable to contain the storm within him, unleashed a kind of fury, despite the small voice in the back of his head begging him not to. Jabbing a finger into Arthur’s chest, he snarled in his face.

 

"You think you're indispensable, Arthur? That this gang can survive without me?"

 

"I think it can't survive if it follows you blindly into damnation."

 

Dutch's mask of control shattered. His voice, once calculated, now echoed with raw rage. "You ungrateful son of a bitch! I brought you in when you were nothin', and this is how you repay me?"

 

Arthur blinked, hurt suddenly written all over his face. "Repay you? I've given you everythin'. But I just don’t see what we’re getting into, I-"

 

Dutch, beyond reason, bellowed, "Maybe you don't belong here, Arthur! Maybe you're too damn smart for your own good. Maybe if you feel that way, you should just get the fuck out of here! But that’s not what you want, is it? So quit whining like a fucking child, and for the love of God, quit giving me that lost dog look. It’s getting pathetic.”

 

"Dutch, I ain't..." Arthur's protest died on his lips as Dutch cut him off, the urgency in his voice reaching a fever pitch.

 

"No more excuses, Arthur! The gang needs you on your feet, contributing. We're all in this together, or we ain't in it at all. Now get up, get moving, and do what needs to be done! I can’t afford to carry dead weight on my shoulders anymore, so you need to shut up and do as I say, or is that too hard for you? Do you need someone to hold your hand? I’m sure those last few jobs you did, sneaking off with that native’s chief must have tired you out, huh? Is that it? Too much for poor little Artie to handle?”

 

He went silent for a moment, vision blurred with rage. The world seemed only as large as the ground he stood on. His breath finally catching up to him, he dropped his voice to a low tone.

 

“Sometimes I think you’re more effort than you’re worth.” 

 

His voice was barely audible over the pounding of his heart. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken resentment and simmering anger. Dutch's chest heaved with each ragged breath, his fists clenched at his sides as he felt the storm within him settling. He had finally made his point across, finally seemed to break through to Arthur that he couldn’t keep disobeying him like this. All he wanted was his son to come to reality again. To come to him.

 

Arthur's eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as he searched for words that would never come. The weight of Dutch's words hung heavy in the air, suffocating him with their raw bluntness.

And then, with a final, crushing blow, Dutch turned away, his disappointment echoing in the silence as he left Arthur standing alone in the darkness. 

 

Almost immediately, a pang of vague regret struck the older man. He wasn’t sure why; Arthur had been the one sneaking behind his back lately. Was it really that cruel of him just to give him a reminder of what his purpose was? No, all he was doing was setting the man back on the path to his, to their freedom. He was just trying to help. He was about to leave-

 

Until he heard Arthur stumble slightly. 

 

Narrowing his eyes, he turned back around as he noticed with a slight unease that Arthur was swaying. His eyes were glazed over, and his mouth hung slightly open.

 

“…Arthur?”

 

Dutch’s voice grew slightly quieter, still sharp and impatient but laced with a hint of surprise. He reached a hand out, about to steady Arthur’s shoulder, but halted. Now closer, he could make out the shaking that wracked his body.

 

“Arthur?”

 

The man didn’t respond, and when Dutch leaned down slightly to steal a glimpse of the face hidden behind dark bangs, he noticed ragged gasps escaping the younger’s breath. He was heaving, hunched, and a sheen of sweat across his forehead, dripping down his nose. 

“…dutch,” he whispered out weakly, before his knees gave, body collapsing forwards. Colliding against Dutch, the older man stood blankly as the younger tried to grasp onto him, fingers fumbling with the cloth on his vest, heat rolling off him in waves as he kept slipping.

 

For a second, he felt

 

Numb

 

As if the desperate, ill boy he had raised clinging to him wasn’t his, and he could push him away with ease.

 

He could abandon him right now and no one would know

 

But, oh fucking Christ, realisation soon hit him like a wave as his son was falling and needed his help and Dutch quickly stepped in and hooked his arms under Arthur’s, the weight surprisingly not heavy enough to bring him to his knees. 

 

"Arthur? Arthur, what's wrong?" Dutch's voice lost its edge, replaced by genuine concern. The younger man’s weight fell into his more, the other lowering them both to the ground. He cradled Arthur's face, slack and hot, fingers brushing over the sweat-drenched skin. A fever was evident, and Dutch felt a sudden sharp, painful stab of guilt for the harsh words that had passed between them.

 

"no..'m fine," Arthur weakly whispered, his voice a mere echo of the man who had stood so defiant just moments ago. Except he wasn’t, and Dutch had been yelling at a man barely able to stay standing. A thin, weak hand grasped at Dutch’s wrist, trying uselessly to pry them away.

 

"Christ, you’re burning up," Dutch worriedly murmured. The weight of their argument hung in the air, a bitter aftertaste. 

 

Did he just scream at his own son?

 

“…no, i-i…i just…i don’t…” The brown mop of hair slathered his face, plastered to his boiling skin, he looked so ghostly, as if he could slip away right here in Dutch’s hands. The older man slid his hand over his forehead, brushing away the loose strands. At the touch, Arthur whimpered slightly in pain before closing his eyes, breath puffing through his lips, too sick to even finish his sentence. His hand fell to his side, head completely abandoned to Dutch’s gentle grip. 

 

“Oh, Arthur, why didn’t you tell me?” Dutch felt sick as he leaned the other against his own body, fingers working to loosen his boy’s collar, pulling it back. He felt his gut wrench up as it just exposed more pale, veiny skin. “I thought you knew I was here for you, always, you...”

 

Did he just watch him faint, with no emotion at all?

 

He stared into Arthur’s gaunt face, a thumb brushing under dark red eyebags, purple veins breaking across porcelain white skin. When had his boy become so weak? When had he become so small? But Dutch knew, he knew the answer. He knew that he had been neglecting him, knew that he had frightened him. Hell, he had just been screaming at him. Screaming at a barely conscious, fevered, exhausted to the point of collapse Arthur. Screaming at him to work, that he was a burden, that he wasn’t worth it.

 

How disgustingly cruel it was of him to expect Arthur to trust him, when in the past few months he had just shattered the bond they spent decades building. 

 

Arthur weakly rasped, some breaths escaping in the agonising sound of soft moans, eyes squeezing shut as his head arched back, panting and shuddering and sweating and shaking and god so exhausted. 

 

Is this what Dutch had broken his boy down to?

 

“Easy now, Arthur, you’re gonna be just fine.. You don’t…don’t gotta work right now, just rest, okay? I’ll take care of you, you’ll be safe. Alright, Arthur? You just gotta…gotta hold on, okay?” He mindlessly rambled as he felt Arthur sinking down into his lap, his strength being drained at a terrifying pace.

 

Slipping a hand under his shoulders and legs, Dutch’s arms trembled as he lifted Arthur’s limp body, cradling him against his chest. He felt so light, too light, as if he was nothing but a wisp of smoke in the cold wind. Arthur’s head lolled back, neck devoid of any strength to support it, and Dutch felt his heart shatter at the sight. Dried blood stained down his thin neck, faint but obvious against pale skin. Dark, frozen eyes lingered on the trail, stomach dropping, before a horrible gurgle escaped Arthur’s lips. His limp body convulsed in Dutch’s arms, a ragged, wet cough seizing his body. The other man watched in horror as specks of blood bubbled out the corner of his mouth and dribbled down his chin, following the path down his throat.

 

“Oh, oh, Arthur, calm down,” he hushed, adjusting his son so that his head rested on his collarbone. He could hear that horrid rattle in the younger’s breath now, but as much as it hurt, it was far more bearable than that vile cough. He started carrying his son towards his own tent, eyes constantly on the rise and fall of his chest.

 

He flinched as the younger man wheezed suddenly, horrid rasps of air filling his lungs, a horrid whistling sound produced. 

 

“There, Arthur. It’s all…gonna be okay, son.” 

 

His own voice wobbled, and it stung - what was wrong with him? Playing father after abandoning his boy? How could he be the one to tell him it was all going to be alright? Was he just making false promises, once again? What if that’s what Arthur was thinking? Did he even trust Dutch? 

 

He barely even realised Arthur’s eyes had shut - eyes so swollen it was hard to tell. All dark and purple and puffy and tired. It felt like a stab in the older man’s side. The younger one’s lower lip quivered, little blood stains smeared across it, across his chin, his neck, collarbone, shirt. Sweat trickled down his forehead, fringe glued down by it. His boy was in so much agony. He needed to do something. 

 

Branches snapped under his feet, as they sprang through soil, desperate to get Arthur some help. His heart throbbed harder than ever, his ears ringing because of it, a lump building in his throat as he approached his own tent, stepping inside and setting his son down.

 

Tenderly, he pulled sheets over his shuddering body, fingers brushing as he did his best to plump the pillow, tucking Arthur in extra tight, desperate to keep him warm. He groaned painfully under Dutch’s touch, gasping in, a horrid rattling noise escaping his throat. The older man pressed his lips together, attempting to suppress his voice - ultimately failing.

 

“Oh, Arthur. I’m so sorry, my boy.” 

 

His fingers brushed over his son’s face softly, running over every crease, every blemish, everything that made him him. It brought him back to all those years ago, oh, when Arthur would try to sneak into his bed, sniffling and whining, clutching onto him under the assumption he was asleep. He’d pretend to be, allowing the boy to fall against his chest, snoring lightly. He remembered pulling the sheets extra high, an arm wrapped around his son. His son.

 

How could he be so blind?

 

He snapped out of it as Arthur’s body jerked, as he hacked and coughed once more, blood spraying out of his mouth, dark and red against his pale skin. He was so pale. 

 

“Don’t worry, my son. We’re going to look after you. It’s all gonna be okay. I’ll go fetch some medicine, Arthur. That’ll do you some good.”

 

He spoke reassuringly, turning his son’s head gently, fingers running through soft hazel brown hair, tousling it. 

 

Standing up, he sighed, glancing back before leaving the tent.

 

His feet trudging across the camp and sinking into the dirt broke the silence, as he picked up what he deemed essential. Every second wasted was another second of suffering for his boy, another second of hot white agony, of blood and pain. Every second wasted was a second that could’ve been spent by Arthur’s side.

 

He spun on his heel, quickly returning, heart now pumping dangerously as he stopped, using his free hand to pull apart the flaps and peer inside. 

 

Arthur was curled on his side, on the edge of the bed, crumpled sheets pulled over his chin. The mop of soaked hair hid his features, bangs plastered to his skin. He was still shaking, breathing laboured and faint. His fist clenched the sheets, the creased, faded fabric balled in his hand. He reeked of sickness, figure hunched up so hard that he looked small, even on the tiny bed. Dutch kneeled by his head, feeling the heat roll off him, and searched for the face obscured by dark bangs. His boy was sweating, face was half buried in the bed, heaving weakly into the covers.

 

His ringed hand gently reached forwards and separated some strands, touch delicate as he stroked the little bit of burning forehead that was exposed. Arthur didn’t reach at the contact.

 

“Arthur? You awake, son?” He murmured, hand retreating to his shoulder to shake it gently. He attempted to encourage the younger man to roll over, to relax, but Arthur only curled up tighter. He looked so pained, so exhausted, Dutch was beginning to worry he was too weak to even talk.

 

“Easy,” he mused softly, turning his boy onto his back. He worked his fingers around Arthur’s, untangling them from the sheets and resting them by his side. “I’m so sorry. You’re gonna get better, my boy, you are. I…I should’ve done better. Should’ve been better.”

 

He held his breath as Arthur moaned in response, not even sure if he heard or not. But the cries were strained, and with each whimper Dutch felt his heart break a little more. 

 

Trembling hands reached for the cloth tucked at his side, fingers trembling as he grasped the damp fabric. With his most delicate touch, he tenderly wiped down Arthur’s face and neck, speaking to him softly throughout the entire process. He wet the cloth again before placing it upon the boiling forehead, offering a small measure of relief against the relentless heat that engulfed him.

 

Arthur still gasped and spluttered, fighting ghosts long gone. His moans grew louder, the pained sounds escaping his lips, echoing in the little tent. Despite Dutch’s attempts to soothe him, he only grew more and more frantic, dragging in airless breaths as if they were glass, shaking and twitching. The older man felt as though he might break himself as he rushed to still his boy, running his fingers through hazel locks, shushing him desperately. With pain-staking care, he cupped Arthur’s flushed face, trying to encourage him to open his eyes, guide his gaze towards him.

 

“No, no, Arthur. You need to wake up, my love. You’re sick, you need to come back to me, okay?” He begged. He watched in utmost horror as involuntary tears began to stream down Arthur’s face as he choked, chest heaving and arching off the bed. 

 

“Shhh, shh, oh, please,” He rambled endlessly, the other hand beginning to slap his cheek gently. “Oh, son. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Come back, you need to come back. Please wake up.”

 

He continued to tap at Arthur’s cheek, praying for God to have mercy on his boy as he hacked, blood trickling down his face, down his neck. He hoped the touch offered some sort of comfort to him, the other hand still cradling his head. The cloth on his head had long fallen off, but Dutch couldn’t even care. He needed his boy to calm down.

 

A single, breathless, wet sob wracked Arthur’s body, heightened by his hyperventilation. The sound pierced through the quietness, pierced through Dutch himself. His heart felt wounded, ripped to shreds as he listened to the rawness of the cry, his own breath catching in his throat.

 

“No, no, don’t cry. Don’t cry, I’m here,” his voice cracked. “Can you hear me, son? It’s Dutch.”

 

“n-no…duh….dutch…he don’t- he” Arthur gasped, hiccuping violently with each wretched word. “h-he don’t…want me, he don’t love me, im not worth the effort.”

 

Dutch could only sit there, chest tight, heart rendered in two as he watched his boy shake and sob, crying softly that Dutch didn’t want him. 

 

He had said that.

 

Him.

 

“No! No, sweetheart, I-“

 

“…don’t l-love me! He don’t…he never did! He…he…he never wanted m-me! He never wanted me, he never wanted me, oh, God, I can’t take this anymore,” he howled, raw and weak and desperate. 

 

“Please, Arthur, listen to me.” Dutch pleaded, unnoticing the tears fogging his own vision. “I love you so much, I love you more than anything. You’re worth everything to me. My boy, my own boy. My beautiful, handsome boy. You’ve grown into such a fine man, such a good man. I’m so proud of you.”

 

Arthur seemed calm, breath shuddering. But before Dutch could be relieved, a small, shaky voice rung through the air.

 

“I don’t deserve to be good. I don’t even deserve to l-live.”

 

Dutch felt the weight of pure agony crush him, leaving him lightheaded, a knife twisting in his chest. No. No, not his boy. Not his son. He deserved so much more, he always did. Arthur, who was always helping the gang with their troubles, who was always making sure everyone had dinner to eat, who was insisting he was fine as he fainted in Dutch’s grasp.

 

Not his Arthur.

 

He felt himself break, the little bit of sanity he held together unravelling, all emotions heightening and coming together and the world shattering around him and the reality splintering into a thousand jagged pieces as he folded his body, drawing his forehead against Arthur’s hot one. Dragging in a shaking, unsteady breath, he let out an excruciating cry as he cradled his boy’s head.

 

“I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so sorry. I never wanted this to happen, I promise I didn’t. I just never wanted you to leave me, and I know it’s wrong, you were and you are always so compassionate, so strong, so perfect. My boy, my baby boy, please don’t talk like that, I can’t bear it,” he sobbed, running his hand through soaked locks again. “I’ll wash your hair for you, I’ll clean your back, I’ll take care of you. Just please don’t leave. Please don’t leave. You deserve so much love, and I’m so sorry I haven’t given you any lately. Please.”

 

He thought of Arthur, young and freshly hurt by the world, by his father.

 

He thought of Arthur, wounded severely and permanently by the loss of his own baby.

 

He thought of Arthur, stumbling home after suffering the torture of Colm.

 

And he thought of Arthur, collapsing after Dutch shrieked and insulted him, crushing him with his blame.

 

“d…du…tch?”

 

At the weak rasp, Dutch raised his head slightly, trying to smile through his tears as he placed one hand over the skin he was just in contact with. 

 

“Yes, darlin’. It’s me. It’s dumb, old Dutch.”

 

“…don’t….be all s-sad, Dutch. ‘M fine, really. Don’t gotta go an’…get yourself worryin’” he shakily whispered, raising a shaking hand out to the older man.

 

Dutch could barely stand to hear the words, catching the quickly falling hand and placing it on his chest.

 

“You need to heal for me to quit worrying, Arthur. So rest up, my dear.”

 

“I…oh…oh, Dutch, Dutch,” he cracked, tears swimming in his faded blue eyes again. “It hurts so b-bad, Dutch.”

 

“I know, sweetheart,” the older man whispered. He rushed to gather Arthur into his arms, the other slumped against him like a child. “I know. You‘ve always been such a brave boy. You can do this.”

 

“I d-don’t…I can’t… make it stop, Dutch, make it stop!” Arthur suddenly screamed, body seizing as he began to gurgle again. There was nothing at all, only his empty, ragged chokes. He was trying to throw up, except there was nothing to throw up really, except the acid in his stomach. And blood.

 

He retched, except silent, gagging and gasping and crying. Dutch willed it to stop, he prayed like he had never prayed before. He had seen people vomiting countless times, but never like this. 

 

“D-“ But gags cut off each word,  leaving him breathless. He rolled against Dutch uselessly, eyelids lowered. He was hacking up blood.

 

So much blood. It poured out his mouth, choking him, his tormented body trying hard to rid its throat of the clotting, sticky liquid. 

 

Dutch held Arthur in his arms, light headed as his boy’s muscles spasmed, chest slamming into his, legs scraping against the bed. His limbs jerked limply, head arched high against the torment, neck strained so hard that it looked painful. He was stiff, convulsing and shaking and noises cutting off as they escaped in gasps. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe.  He was feverish, underweight, he clearly hadn’t slept, and delirious. On top of all that, stressed out his mind. The sickness was raging through his body, taking full control of his figure. 

 

The older man looked down at his face. Arthur’s eyes were shut, slack. Foam bubbled at the corner of his mouth, teeth chattering together as he was so cold yet so burning hot.

 

He was going to die.

 

He was going to die.

 

“Oh, oh my God, oh my God, Arthur!” Dutch rushed to hold him, gather him and stop him from hurting himself. “You need to calm down, baby, you need to wake up. Please, please please, oh, my precious boy. My poor baby boy.”

 

He sobbed as Arthur continued to struggle against him, vomit and blood and spit staining his shirt. He reached for his head, cradling it, soothing his light-brown hair back. As gently as he could, he ran a hand over Arthur’s inflamed eye, thumb pulling down on his deep purple eyebags. He bit down on his tongue in worry as he could only see violent red. Letting go, he turned to his eyelid instead, prying it open as carefully as he could. 

 

Arthur’s eyes were rolled back into his skull, glazed blues nowhere to be seen, scleras glassy and milky. Dutch looked on in horror at Arthur’s face, slack but wet, covered in foam and blood that had dribbled down his cheek. Not a single breath of air was making it into his lungs. He was shaking violently, uncontrollably, shuddering and spasming, body fighting feverishly, Arthur drowning in his own blood.

 

“Arthur! Arthur, can you hear me? You’re scaring me, son. Please, please.” Dutch whispered breathlessly, clutching his son as he jerked. He ran his hand over Arthur’s forehead, stroking it endlessly. He didn’t know what else to do. “Please, God, please let this end. Let him rest. I’m begging you. Don’t take away my boy.”

 

He prayed and prayed, Arthur growing more and more violently, moans hitching in his throat. His body was contorted in pain, trying endlessly to drag in oxygen. His gasps for air were frenzy, choking on his stomach acid.  

 

“Shhh, shhh, oh, my precious boy, oh Arthur. My perfect boy. You can’t die yet. I’m here, I’m here.”

 

Arthur’s convulsions heightened, reaching a peak when he let out a horrible, strained gasp. His body completely arched off the bed, stiffening, eyes flying open to show bloodshot whites, before falling back on the bed. Limp.

 

Not breathing.

 

“Arthur? Arthur? Arthur!” Dutch roared, grabbing his boy and rubbing his chest ferociously. Arthur only limply lolled around, body still flaming hot. His body was unmoving, his head and torso unnaturally rolling around as Dutch kneaded his heart with all his strength. “No, no no no no no, no, come back, you can’t leave, there’s so much you still have to do. My dear boy. My boy, oh my God, no.”

 

He dug the heel of his hand into Arthur’s heart, trying physically to pump blood for him. He didn’t even know if it was working. 

 

Not his baby boy.

 

Dutch’s other hand slapped Arthur’s wet cheek furiously, trying so desperately to wake him up. But Arthur didn’t even react. The hand massaging his chest slowed, hand rubbing over protruding ribs. He could barely see, barely breathe through his sobs. He couldn’t lose Arthur.

 

“Breathe, breathe breathe. You can do this, darling.” Dutch put his palm on Arthur’s forehead, tilting it back, his other hand grabbing his chin. He worked to open his jaw, face slack and unresponsive. “Breathe, Arthur. Try, please try. I need you to try. I need you. You’re my entire world, my son. My son. You mean more to me than anything in the universe. I would gladly throttle every motherfucker in this camp if it meant you survived.”

 

As he cradled Arthur’s head, mouth poised to try and coax him to breathe. Dutch was quickly losing hope. Desperate and near going insane, he leaned down and blew into his baby’s mouth, willing for God to let oxygen into his bruised lungs. He forced his weight down again on Arthur’s poor, exhausted heart.

 

I’m so sorry, he could only think. He had failed his son.

 

To his astonishment, Dutch noticed with his heart pounding that Arthur’s chest moved. Shaking furiously, he forced down on Arthuts heart again, wanting to shatter entirely from pressure. But something was working. Arthur was getting air in him. A glimmer of hope emerged as his chest rose and fell weakly.

 

Pulling back, he worked to press on his chest once again, both hands forcing down on skin. He was just beating on a dying body, but he couldn’t give up. 

 

“Come on, baby. Come on. You can do this. Don’t give up just now,” he mumbled, feeling as though he might black out as well. He bit down on his cheek, willing himself not to for Arthur. 

 

“I love you so much, Artie. I love you. God, I love you. My very own son.”

 

Just as he was about to collapse, cradling his boy’s still body, he suddenly felt a slight movement under his palm. And another. He bent his ear hurriedly to his chest, and praise the Lord, there was a heartbeat. Even if it looked like every pump of blood shot hot, molten metal through his veins, he was alive.

 

He was alive. 

 

“Breathe, darlin’, you need to take a breath for me. Okay? Okay Arthur? Breathe in with me, okay?”

 

He took a long, heavy inhale, Arthur’s head cradled against his chest so he could feel the air enter his lungs, encouraging him to do the same. Arthur made a motion that looked like an attempt to clutch at his shirt, what little weight he had pressed into him.

 

“You’re doing so good, son. You’ll get better, I know you will. You’ve weathered so much, my angel. Oh, my angel. How did we ever deserve you?” He sobbed, looking down at his beautiful, bruised boy. He raised a hand to gently wipe at the tear streaks on his face, smiling even softer when Arthur finally started to breathe more normally, even if every breath was laboured. “Oh, that’s it, that’s it. That’s good, you’re doing so good.”

 

Finally, Arthur shuddered, head falling in a way that buried his face in Dutch’s chest. But finally, even if it rattled on his chest, air was finally back in his lungs. 

 

“Good boy,” he cooed, feeling dazed and exhausted, pressing a kiss on sweat-soaked hair. “I’m so proud of you. Could you take a sip for me? You’re going to be dehydrated.”

 

He sat Arthur up against him, fetching a flask of water from his side. In the few seconds he had grabbed the water, Arthur’s eyelids were fast drooping, head hung.

 

“Take a couple sips for me, Arthur.” Dutch used one hand to slip behind his bangs, onto his forehead, pulling back gently. The other hand grabbed the flask and put it to Arthur’s cracked lips, tilting it slightly until the liquid could slide into his mouth.

 

“Arthur?”

 

The dazed, delirious man only sat there, exhausted. In fact, Dutch wasn’t sure he was even awake. Dutch quickly set the flask down, fingers working on Arthur’s throat, massaging it between his index and thumb to make sure he wouldn’t choke. He slumped Arthur further down, grabbing a few of his neatly folded clothes to shove underneath the pillow.

 

“Hey, hey, stay awake for this little bit more. Then, you can rest.” 

 

But Arthur wouldn’t respond. Worried, Dutch gently cupped Arthur’s face, grabbing his chin, opening his jaw. He checked for any fluids that might’ve gotten stuck in his throat, and to his relief, he looked safe. 

 

“Arthur? Arthur?”

 

He was bad. Better than before, but still bad.

 

With sudden surprise, Dutch noticed that those swollen eyes were still cracked open, just by a little. He seemed out of it, mind completely, entirely somewhere else. 

Raising the flask again, he grabbed the fallen cloth and, oh so carefully, poured the cool water over Arthur’s forehead slowly. The water trickled down, mixing with sweat, pooling around his neck. Luckily, it seemed to do the trick, as Arthur shuddered in slight relief. 

 

They stayed like that for a while, Dutch wiping at his forehead while he laid there, leaning into the comfort. 

Eventually, Arthur opened his mouth, a weak noise escaping, before trying again to speak. And when he did, it was a horrid, raspy noise.

 

“d…d’n…” he stopped, breathing deeply before trying again. 

 

“don’…l-leave…’m. Pl’s… don’t…ab’ndon m-me. Don’t w-want t’ be…alone,” He whimpered, sounding so small and scared as if he was 14, begging not to be hit again. His words were barely coherent, slurred so hard in a way that Dutch could only just make out what he was saying.

 

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he was about to respond, was about to reassure his boy he would never go, but his throat was tightly shut.

 

His boy was delirious, fever raging so hard that he couldn’t properly comprehend himself. Because the other knew if he was sober, he would be begging Dutch to leave him, to save everyone else.

 

But now he was a boy, a weak, confused boy who was in pain. Not just any boy, but his boy. 

 

“Arthur, don’t do this to yourself. Not now, you’re not thinking right. Get some rest, son.” He whispered, fingers resting on Arthur’s forehead, stroking it continuously. The fistful of cloth that was clutched at Dutch’s vest tightened, so weak he could barely feel it.

 

“N…n…d…” he breathed, each noise sounding so unbearable. “d…th’yre…g’nna….kill me. p-please.”

 

Ringed fingers dug into the sheets wrapped around the younger man, that lump quickly returning. Brushing hair out of Arthur’s eyes, he swallowed, every little breath, every cough, every jerk setting him off.

 

“Ain’t…a-ain’t nobody coming to kill you, son. You’re safe with me. Dutch. Y…Your…P-Pa.”

 

“n…n’t listening…” Arthur only murmured, sounding mildly frustrated, curling into himself. Dutch kept running his fingers through his long, brunette locks, missing the days when they were so much shorter, so much lighter.

 

“…Who’s there, son?” Dutch spoke softly. He was afraid of all the answers he could hear.

 

“Th-th’m…they’re…” Arthur shuddered, suddenly his hands fell limp on his chest, scratching at it. “D-D’tch, t…killing me…c’n feel it, hhrts, can feel the k-knife.”

 

The older man paused, looking down at the younger man. “You’re just dreaming, Arthur. It’s just a dream.”

 

“…D-Dutch…need…need help….I…n-need…h-help…” 

 

“Oh, Artie. I’m right-“

 

His blood ran cold as he froze, hands curled carefully over his son’s head. The words that tumbled out of the younger man’s mouth were the same ones that came out as he cried for Dutch to help him, struggling under the knife, hands dangerously slipping a little every second or so as he stole a glance at his Pa, calling out for help. For help. 

 

But he did nothing. He did nothing. 

 

He was not there. 

 

Arthur flinched, moaning as his fingers curled, trembling as he coughed violently - almost like he was still struggling under that blade. 

 

“…come back, come back. Hurts so bad,” he whispered.

 

Dutch sat there, lost on what to do. What was wrong with him? He had raised this man, taken him as a boy into his arms and nurtured and cared for and loved him for 22 long years. All those nights he had spent, worrying over Arthur, wondering if he was going to be fine when he grew up. He had taught him to read, to hunt, to shoot, to ride. He had taught him how to live, raised him into his son. He had never known fear properly until the day Arthur stumbled home, drunken close to death, murmuring about two graves. He was so scared he would lose his boy, scared he would never see those bright blue eyes shine again. They never really were the same.

 

For a while, even though it was so long ago, he was a father.

 

And that night, at the oil refinery, he was childless.

 

The man on the floor with the knife pressed against his chest, just a stranger.

 

The name Arthur Morgan had meant nothing to him.

 

“I’m..I’m back. They’re gone. They’re all gone, sweetheart. They’re dead. I’m back. Here, son. I’m here. Your Pa. Dutch. I’m here. Arthur. I’m here for you. I’ll make it all better.” 

 

“….D…Du..D-Dutch..?” 

 

Blood fell from his lips as he spoke the name, as though it invoked even more pain in him, in his body, his mind, his heart. He shuddered, and the feeling of both dread and guilt that had already been planted in the pit of Dutch’s stomach grew a little more.  

 

But he felt relief spike through, as his boy finally recognised him. Good. That was good.

 

“Yes. Yes, son. It’s me. I’m back. I’m here. Oh, my boy. I’m here. You’re alright. I promise you that.”

 

The younger man’s eyes opened just a crack wider. Oh, his eyes. His eyes. Once so bright and blue and full of life, now dull and glassy - foggy with pain, stricken with grief, with exhaustion beyond comprehension. 

 

“….D-…Dutch…”

 

“Oh, son. Oh, Arthur. My…my son. I’m so-“

 

“….W…W-What….did…did I…do, D-Dutch?” 

 

Silence, except for the distant sound of crickets chirping. Dutch stared at him, not knowing what to even say. 

 

“What? Oh, Artie. You’ve never done any wrong. You give all you’ve got for…our family. You do so much.” 

 

“….N-N…No. I…ain’t never..never done any…any good. Not for…a-anybody. I give…a-all I got but…it ain’t…it’s useless. I’m….u-useless. Jus’…say….i-i-it…I can’ do what…I’m good for…”

 

His body convulsed, and he spat blood out directly onto the older man’s chest. Dutch looked on worriedly, but Arthur just looked ashamed. 

 

“…That’s why…y-you left me, ain’t it? Havin’…a burden…isn’t…good. I…barely got any fight left. I ain’t…of any…use.”

 

He looked away, before looking back up at his father. Dutch swore he saw tears in those eyes.

 

“…D-Dutch? I-I’m sorry…Dutch. I-I…g-gave you everythin’. I’m sorry…i-it wasn’ more. I…I-It’s…I…”

 

He retched, moaning in pain once more, eyes closed.

 

He was right. He didn’t have any more strength left in him. And yet Dutch had pushed and pushed and pushed him beyond his limits.

 

“…my fault. S-Sean…Lenny…god, t-that poor Kieran kid.”

 

He paused for a second, looking up at the older man with the most sincere, scared guilt swimming in his eyes.

 

“Hosea.”

 

Dutch could feel his throat close up. Oh, he missed Hosea. He missed the solid warmth of his body, weight pressing into his as they sat next to each other in front of the campfire. Before John, hell, before Arthur. 

 

It was just him and Hosea. Young, stupid and tackling the world together.

 

He always knew what to do. He was the smart one anyways. The caring one. His hands were so warm compared to his.

 

And then they raised two boys together, and one of them was in his arms right now, spluttering and shaking and dying. And Hosea was gone.

 

 

But Arthur was still here, even if barely.

He wondered what Hosea would do if he saw them now. If he saw the conditions they had fallen into now. The frayed relationships they had fallen into now. The way he treated Arthur. John. His family. 

 

He’d be disgusted. Disappointed. Angry. God, he probably wouldn’t even look Duch in the eyes. 

 

“Arthur. Oh, Arthur. Listen to me. Good and proper, son. Hosea wasn’t your fault. Sean wasn’t your fault. Kieran….Lenny….none of that was your fault. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. It never was.” 

 

Arthur’s gaze never left his, eyes dulling and glossing over once more. The corner of his mouth tugged up a little, and when he spoke Dutch realised tears were flowing down not only his cheeks, but down the older man’s too.

 

“Issac. Eliza.”

 

Oh, no. Not them. Not them. Arthur had grieved over this, and Dutch had grieved over the loss of his boy. He didn’t want to go through this again.

 

He remembered the day he became a grandfather. It seemed ridiculous, but overwhelmingly happy. He felt proud. It was odd; he never really planned to have children, yet he had become a father to a father. His very own boy, a Pa. 

 

He had never known pain until the day his Issac died. Because that was also the day his Arthur died.

 

He cupped Arthur’s cheek, thumb brushing away stray tears.

 

“No, Arthur. They were never on you. You did so good for them. You was a better Pa than I’ve been lately. I’m so proud of you, son. You did the best you could. And it was enough.” 

 

His thumb made slow, smooth circular motions on the younger man’s cheeks, stroking it softly. Fingers brushed upwards, cleaning hair out of his face. Arthur trembled under his touch, body shuddering. 

 

“…n-no…”

 

“Shhh. You’re making yourself worse. In fact, the only person you really gotta blame is ol’ Dutch.”  He chuckled a little, before sighing sadly.

 

“Shh. There. There’s a good boy. There. You’ve done so much. You need to rest, son. God knows you’ve earnt it.”

 

Arthur’s eyelids lowered, breathing rattling out. Though foggy, Dutch could make out the pure despair and pain in his eyes. But he looked a little more at ease, a little more at peace.

 

Finally, Arthur stilled. Dutch continued to cradle his head, murmuring to him, soothing him. He wished so desperately he could make up for all the suffering he had inflicted upon him. He gazed at his son’s face, tracing along the bags under his eyes. 

 

He wanted to get help. But he couldn’t bear to leave Arthur. Micah and the others should’ve been coming back soon, but now the thought only disturbed him. 

 

Arthur had always warned him. Hosea never seemed to like him either. But he didn’t know how else to stay sane, how else to keep himself from splintering into pieces But that cost his son falling apart altogether. 

 

Dutch didn’t know what to do.

 

Arthur needed help, bad. He couldn’t just abandon him here whilst he left to go get help though. But he didn’t look in any shape to move either. If only he hasn’t asked the rest of the gang to leave for the day, but what would he even say to them when they returned? He didn’t want to think about it, but if they returned? He knew most of the girls were itching to get out already, and there was no surprise that John and his family needed safety elsewhere. He could really only count on Micah, but could he?

 

His thoughts were interrupted as Arthur groaned, stretching his neck upwards. There was no hesitation. Arthur needed help now.

 

Dutch clicked his tongue, gently slipping a hand underneath Arthur’s soaked back. He sat him upwards, resting his weight against himself. He stayed like that for a little while, contemplating his decision.

 

The Count was far too small to support Arthur the whole trip there, and he never really liked the man either, even when he was a boy. Arthur’s shire, on the other hand, seemed large enough to somewhat comfortably handle both of them. 

 

The shire that Arthur was given by Hosea. He never got rid of him, and Dutch had noticed he spent extra time brushing his mane and nuzzling his neck ever since the eldest man had been murdered.

 

Yes. He would do that.

 

“C’mon, Arthur. Up you get.”

 

He was surprised to find that hauling the younger man up required little to no strength because he was so light. It made his heart drop down to his feet at how frail Arthur had grown. How small he seemed in comparison to how he had once been. How thin he was. How little he clearly weighed. He felt horrified. 

 

His sunken cheeks, elbows sharp as knives, his ribcage practically bursting out of his skin - how had Dutch not noticed? How had he not seen it? How had he not realised? 

 

Using his arm to support Arthur, he slowly helped the man along, trying not to watch him stumble and shudder, reeling back in pain at every step. Twigs broke underneath their feet - worn boots sinking into dirt as they made their way across the quiet camp, infiltrating the silence. 

 

Arthur’s shire was of a great size, enough to hold the both of them. Dutch had never paused for a minute to take in the sheer beauty of the animal. Under the pale moonlight, its dark, lustrous coat held a subtle, blue-ish gleam - its mane and tail thick, and lush. It seemed strong - broad and tall and muscular, hair fine and silky. 

 

Dutch reached the horse, running his free hand along its back, feeling that soft fur from in between his fingers. Carefully, he hoisted Arthur up, sitting him down on the shire, before pulling himself up and shimmying onto the saddle, the leather warm and worn, yet comfortable to sit upon. He wrapped his arms around the younger man to secure him, while also taking the reins, digging his heels into the horse and beginning to ride out. 

 

The air smelt of smoke and petrichor and Dutch couldn’t help but feel reminded of all those nights around a campfire, singing songs and eating stew, talking and laughing and dancing. The guilt dug deeper inside of him, and he dug his fingers into the reins, swallowing as he focused on Arthur instead. Arthur was the priority. Arthur needed help. Not him. Arthur. 

 

He could feel the man shiver against him, and he rode on a little faster, determination driving him harder than ever before. 

 

“Nearly there, Artie. The doctor’ll know what to do, son. Everything will be just fine.” He spoke with confidence, hoping to boost the spirits of both parties, to cast some sort of light into the dark situation.  

 

They soon approached Saint Denis, hooves pattering across a bridge and reaching pavement, streetlights guiding the way. Dutch glanced upwards at the sky, wondering what the time was - whether or not the doctor would even take them. It seemed late, straws strewn across the clear dark blue welkin. Rich folk lived in this town. The buildings were lavish, the housing clearly high end. He looked back at the road, slowing the shire down as they took a turn, approaching the doctor’s office. He slipped off the horse, taking Arthur down and hitching it, the younger man groaning as he wrapped arms around Dutch, putting his weight onto him, allowing him to rush him inside. 

 

He burst open the doors, Arthur quickly gasping at his side.

 

“Help, he needs help!” He yelled directly at the doctor behind the counter. Startled, the man rushed to his side, both of them looking so shaken and tired. 

 

Dutch looked on helplessly as the doctor pried him away from his boy, forcing them both back as Arthur hacked into the floor. He tried to force his way to his boy, pushing and struggling against the other man.

 

“He needs help! Are you insane? Let go!” He roared, finally shoving the man aside and dropping to his knees beside Arthur, shaking and heaving on the floor.

 

“Bring him in. Now. Don’t let any blood get on you,” the doctor spoke, pale faced and voice wavering slightly. “Quickly.”

 

Dutch’s heart raced as he hauled Arthur into a small room, beckoned by the doctor. It smelled of sickness and blood, even stronger than Arthur did. He could barely see, barely hear the door slam behind him as he hauled the sick man onto the examination table. He laid there, wracked with violent trembling that shook his entire body, panic gripping the older man as he watched his son’s struggles, chest tightening with every laboured breath.

 

“Can you help him?” His voice was raw with emotion, begging and pleading. He sounded young all of a sudden. The urgency in his tone seemed almost wild, animalistic.

 

“Oh, it’s him. I always wondered if he had anyone looking out for him. Glad he does. Poor feller.” He rummaged through some drawers, leaving Dutch feeling as though he was hit with a blow in the stomach.

 

“What do you mean, ‘it’s him’?” He snapped, Arthur’s gasps draining out any other noise in the world. “I just brought him here, he needs medical attention. You name the price, friend, just help him.”

 

The doctor’s expression softened as a flicker of sympathy crossed bud features before he turned away from the cluttered drawers, needle in hand. Dutch felt a knot form in his stomach. Everything was too suffocating. He couldn’t breathe, not until Arthur could.

 

“What’s wrong with him? You’re a doctor, ain’t you?”

 

Dutch’s voice cracked, his voice lowering to a whisper. When he spoke, his words were thick with emotion, tears threatening to break through his vision.

 

“…what’s wrong with my son?”

 

The doctor stilled.

 

“You don’t…know?”

 

Every second stretched into endless time, the ground starting to warp around him, walls closing in.

 

“Know what?”

 

The doctor looked at him, face solemn and disappointed. He looked at Dutch in a way that could only resemble sorrow. With a heavy sigh, he sat down, gesturing for the other man to do the same. 

 

He looked Dutch in the eye, time slowing as he opened his mouth.

“I’m afraid, not too long ago, I had diagnosed your friend with tuberculosis. I’m real sorry.”

 

He didn’t hear him right.

 

He couldn’t have.

 

Dutch felt as though the ground had been pulled from beneath him, the words hitting him like physical blows. Tuberculosis. No, that couldn’t be right. He couldn’t have heard the doctor right. His Arthur was strong, lively, he wasn’t ill. He had fought through so much. It couldn’t be right. It just couldn’t. The very thought was inconceivable, impossible. It had to be a mistake, a misdiagnosis. He was such a brave soul. This couldn’t be real, fate couldn’t be that cruel.

 

His baby boy. He couldn’t be ill, he couldn’t die. Because if he died, so would Dutch. 

 

“Tuberculosis?” The words barely escaped his throat. 

 

He had to be dreaming.

 

“It’s true, I wish I could say otherwise. He’s been fighting this illness for some time. It’s taken a toll on him, I’ve seen.”

 

He must be dreaming.

 

“It’s a…progressive…disease. He’ll be gone soon.”

 

Gone?

 

“You…you can make him better, right? You can fix him?” He sounded like a child, throat closed and words whispered, but he couldn’t care less. 

 

“I’m sorry. I regret to say I have some idea how he’s gotten this bad, you should’ve seen the times he’s visited. I’m not…well, I won’t question the work you fellers do. But it ain’t doing him any good. I had hoped he was somewhere warm and dry by now.”

 

Suddenly, Dutch felt a surge of anger threaten to consume him. There would be time for recriminations later. Right now, he would give the whole world if it would save Arthur. Why didn’t he fucking notice?

 

“…What-“

 

“I can’t confirm.”

 

The silence felt all too loud for Dutch. It ran around his head and rang in his ears, growing louder by the second,

 

“Well…w-what..do I do?”

 

“Make sure he eats. Sleeps. Gets…rest.”

 

“…He’ll…get better?”

 

“….no. But a good, healthy lifestyle outta do him some good. Keep him from fading away a little faster.”

 

Fading away.

 

Arthur was dying. 

 

“You’re wrong.”

 

He sounded shaky, but he didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t know what else to do besides deny it.

 

“He can do it. He’s a strong man.”

 

He turned to his boy, lying on the table grunting in pain. He looked so frail. So sick.

 

“Ain’t that right, son? You’ll get better? Right?” He stroked Arthur’s hair, willing him to open his eyes and answer back ‘yes, Dutch’ like he always did. 

 

But he didn’t this time.

 

“Well, I’ll give him this shot. It’ll put some energy in him, but make sure he gets some proper rest. There’s a hotel nearby, you can bring him there. Get some hot food in him.”

 

“Yes. Course.” Dutch whispered, nodding quickly. He watched as the doctor took a needle, flicking it before taking Arthur’s arm, stretching it out and placing it against pale, clammy flesh. The man shuddered as skin broke, fingers curling slightly, before sighing. Dutch waited a little while, before approaching Arthur, examining him carefully. He seemed a little more at ease. Good. That was good, Dutch thought.

 

“…I can’t thank you enough. Can…can I…pay you later?”

 

There was quiet, as he watched the other man replace the used needle and set it down on a tray. 

 

“…Don’t worry about that right now. You go get him to that hotel.” 

 

His voice was tinged with sympathy, and Dutch took it gratefully - quickly hauling up his son, desperate to get some proper food in him, to clean him up, and to get him in a nice warm bed, all rested up. 

 

Helping him through the door and out the building, he assisted the younger man back into the horse, arms wrapped around him tighter this time. He couldn’t let go. He was so scared. He could feel Arthur slipping away bit by bit every second, fading away, shrinking smaller than he already was. 

 

Every raspy breath in, every rattly breath out drove Dutch further into fear, because every breath felt so excruciating to hear, so painful to watch as his chest struggled to heave up and down, it might as well be his last. He was thankful the ride to the hotel was a short one. The fact it was fancier than any saloon he had ever been to told him enough - this was just the place Arthur needed. 

“Stick ‘em up, cowboy.”

 

“Very funny, Dutch.”

 

He hitched the horse once more, helping Arthur off of it, approaching the hotel and pushing its doors open. 

 

The saloon buzzed with activity, a cacophony of laughter and yelling mingling with the clinking of glasses and shuffling of cards. Women walked past him, seductively licking their lips, but he couldn’t care less. The air was thick with the scent of whiskey and cigar smoke, creating an atmosphere that was both intoxicating and familiar. It was dim, lighting golden and red, shadows shifting as he pushed through the crowd of people, Arthur pulled close to him protectively.

 

Near the corner of the room, a rowdy poker game was in full swing. He flinched as the table roared, Arthur flinching back as well. He bit his lip, wrapping his arms tighter around Arthur, trying to shield him from the noise. He could tell eyes were on him, watching him judgmentally as he shoved his way to the bar.

 

“Bartender, excuse me.” He impatiently stamped his foot on the ground. “Excuse me, we need a room now.”

 

The young bartender finally tore away from the crowd he was laughing with, giving the man a slight look, one that reeked of distaste.

 

“You oughta clean up, sir. And- and is that blood?”

 

“Shut up and do your job,” Dutch snarled, rummaging through his pockets to slam down the few coins inside. “A bath, then. Both, get them ready now.”

 

Suddenly, the young man’s eyes widened. “Ain’t that the sir who was in here, while ago? Looking for Bronte, I think. What happened to him?”

 

“Drunk, that’s all. Are you going to run that bath or do you need me to shut that mouth?” He bit back, eyes wide and feral. He couldn’t be asked to pretend to be polite, not when his son was so badly unwell. 

 

“U-Uh, no, sir. Room ‘n bath’s getting ready, just head on upstairs. I hope he’s well.”

 

Dutch’s hands trembled as he half-carried half-dragged Arthur up the flight of stairs, each step feeling like a mile, the weight of Arthur’s limp body heavy against him. He could feel the stares of other patrons burning into his back, but all that mattered to him was Arthur. 

 

Finally reaching the top of the stairs, Dutch stumbled slightly under his weight, but quickly regained his balance. He scanned the hallway around the room, eyes falling on the bathroom.

 

“Here, Arthur. We’ll get you nice and clean, then you can have some warm food. Alright? Sound nice?”

 

A hand touched his shoulder, making him jump. He snapped around. A woman, dressed in beautiful clothes and makeup, batted her eyelashes at him.

 

“I’ll take care of him for you, Mister. You can leave him with me.”

 

Dutch didn’t know why, but his hold on Arthur tightened. This was his mess- his boy. His fault to clean up.

 

“No, darling. I’ll handle him.”

 

“Alright then.” She spun on her heel and left, as Dutch approached the bathroom, fiddling with the doorknob. He could sense a sort of confusion in her tone, but he felt he had to do this. He didn’t want anyone else to see Arthur in his condition.

 

He opened the door, quickly closing the two inside. Immediately, a wave of warmth enveloped him, contrasting with the cool air of the saloon. The flickering light of the fire danced across the wallpaper, casting shifting shadows across the room, the crackling of the flames so comforting and alive. The tub, already filled with soapy water, reflected the soft glow of the flames.

 

Dutch immediately set Arthur on the floor, peeling away at his sweat-soaked clothes. 

 

He felt horror wash over him as he took in the state Arthur was in, the state his body was in. His ribs pressed against his skin as though it was some sort of fleshy cage, desperate to burst out. He was so slim, so frail, elbows sharp as blades - skin so tightly draped over his body it looked uncomfortable to even host - he was so thin it barely stretched over. His once tanned skin was now a sickly shade of gray, bruises standing out from his pallid complexion. His stomach sunk in, looking far too dangerously deathlike.

 

He felt sick to his stomach, hands trembling as he set Arthur down in the warm water, watching the man relax, muscles loosening, mouth hanging ajar slightly, eyes shut. Dutch dipped one hand into the water, looking at his boy in fear. 

 

His limbs floated listlessly in the water, head lolled to the side. He watched as Arthur’s chest rose and fell, the only indication he was even clinging onto life. 

 

“Oh, Artie.” he whispered. He felt overblown with emotions - wracked with horror, guilt, disgust, fear, misery, anxiety. No. He needed to be there for Arthur. 

 

“…Don’t you worry, son. I’ll clean you up. You’ll be good as new.” He tried his best to hold a tinge of reassurance to his voice, desperate to provide some sort of ease, some sort of relief, comfort, anything, to the younger man. 

 

He knelt down, wetting his hands, beginning to scrub at the dried flecks of blood sprayed around Arthur’s mouth. He gently scraped them off, fingers scratching against patchily shaven fuzz, clearly done under shaky hands. Another pang of guilt hit him. He had made it so hard. He had done that. Him. Him. 

 

He tilted Arthur’s head carefully, heart dropping to his stomach as those crackling flames painted shadows over the younger man’s face in such a way it simply sculpted out those caved in cheekbones more, the space in them hollow and dark, lips thin and cracked and split, the bags under his eyes cast as darker, puffier, the shade creating such a contrast it made his face seem pale as chalk, unnaturally and unnervingly white. The water gently lapped at his skin, the younger man having no reaction.

 

Gently, he scrubbed the underneath of his chin, all down his neck. 

 

“You wanna know something, son? You’d never quit wriggling about when it came to this. You’d never sit still.” 

 

He chuckled to himself, dampening hands once more, scooping up suds and running fingers through soft brown hair, slowly wetting it. 

 

“Sit still! Stop wriggling about, Arthur! Why, son, you and that dog may as well have been rolling around in mud like two pigs in a barn. I ain’t never getting this dirt - I said, stop!” 

 

“Leave off, Pa!” 

 

He smiled to himself sadly, massaging Arthur’s scalp. He chuckled once more. 

 

“Oh, son. Looks like you still got your Pa washing you clean at your grown age.” 

 

He shuddered as he continued to wash and scrub, shivering as fingers collided with collarbones, with ribs, with each reminder of the fact Arthur was withering away. Fading away. Slipping through his very own fingers. 

 

It reminded him more of when he had first brought Arthur back with him. How small and silent he had been. How broken he had been. How scared he was. Weak, desperate. Afraid. 

 

He could remember all too well hesitantly attempting to scrub at the boy’s hunched over frame, scratches and bruises having littered his back, eyes pale and misty, hands shaking, flinching at every touch - at every time the skin along his fingers pressed against Arthur’s own. 

 

“There ain’t nothing to be scared of.” 

 

Similar to now, he hadn’t been able to warrant a response. 

 

“Don’t that feel better? You feel better, my boy? All nice and freshened up?” He tried to maintain a cheery tone, rubbing Arthur’s shoulder dotingly. The man’s eyes were open now - just by a crack. His eyes were glossed over, unable to focus on anything. 

 

“Now…we just gotta get some food into you. It’s been a long night, son. We’ll get you to bed for as long as you need after. Don’t worry about anything else. You’re gonna rest from now on. We’ll take care of anything you need. We’re your family, Arthur. And that’s what family does. D’you understand?” 

 

He waited hopefully for a response, for a sign, for anything, but nothing came. He smiled regardless, helping his son out of the water, taking a towel and wrapping it around him, patting him dry. 

 

“There, Artie. Let’s get you dressed, and fed, and then we’ll put you to rest. Okay, son?” 

 

He watched in concern as Arthur visibly struggled to respond, pupil blown wide open. He sat the man dow, pausing as he realised he didn’t even have any spare clothes. His union suit would have to do. It was sure to be on his horse, he would be incredibly quick. 

 

“Arthur, can you wait here for me? I’ll be quick. Don’t take off that towel, we don’t want you catching a cold on top of your…well, you'll be okay. You’ll be okay.” He watched Arthur with worried eyes, silently pleading for him to understand. Just to hold on a little longer. Then, with a reassuring pat on the shoulder, Dutch dashed out the room, footsteps echo down the stairs and to the horse waiting outside. 

 

Outside, the cold night air bit at his skin as he rummaged through the bags. He snatched up Arthur’s union suit as well as the bedrolls tied on the animal’s flank. He spared a second to pat the beast, silently thanking it.  

 

Slamming the door open with full arms, he dashed back upstairs, not wasting a second. Arthur was still sitting there, dazed out his mind. 

 

“Here, Arthur.” Dutch said gently, kneeling beside the tub and offering him the clothes. “Let’s get you dried off and into some warm, new clothes, okay? We’ll take care of you, I promise.”

 

After Arthur was dressed, Dutch ushered him across the hallway into the room they had rented. He rushed to draw the curtains, blocking out the glaring street lights, Arthur still standing there in the doorway, leaning heavily against the frame. The room greeted them with gentle warmth, suffused with a soft, floral scent. The soft glow of oil lamps bathed the furniture in a golden hue. In the middle, a decently sized bed beckoned invitingly.

 

“Here, Arthur, lie down.” Dutch gently guided the younger man to the bed, sitting him down. With a gentle hand, he eased him onto the soft mattress, the other’s movements heavy and sluggish.

 

“I’ll get you some food in a moment, sound good? Or do you just wanna sleep?” He asked as comfortingly as he could, hand halting in the air worriedly.

 

Arthur blinked, then blinked again. Even turning to gaze at him seemed like tremendous effort. Momentarily halting, he looked into Dutch’s eyes, so exhausted.

 

“Arthur?”

 

The man looked faintly frustrated, mouth opening a little, nothing coming out. Finally, he nodded, all his strength going into the simple action. Head starting to fall forwards, Dutch immediately slid his hand on his forehead, feeling his warm skin.

 

“Okay, you stay here. You’re not…you’re not healthy yet, my boy.”

 

With a tender, heart-aching smile, he rose from the bed, pausing for a moment to cast a worried glance at Arthur’s half conscious form. He quietly left the room, searching for anything to nourish his son.

 

Venturing into the bustling saloon below, his heart swelled with determination, charging right to the bar again. The young man stepped back, eyebrows raised slightly in concern.

 

“N-Now, sir, is there anything else you need…?”

 

Dutch stopped, noticing the fear in his eye. Sighing and smoothing back his hair, he felt exhaustion run over him once the adrenaline had passed. God, he was tired.

 

“Just…something light, easy to eat. You serve any sort of soup?”

 

The man smiled slightly, nerves starting to relax. “Sure, we’re serving beef broth tonight. It’s our Saturday Special.”

 

The older man, relieved, handed over some coins. He needed to borrow some dollars from Arthur’s saddle again, needing to pay him back later. When he had returned with the money, the bowl was already on the bar, steaming hot.

 

“You look like you could use some unwinding. How’s bout a beer?” The bartender asked lightly, attending to some glasses on the side. 

 

“N…No, not tonight. I need to get this back to my friend. I’ll pay extra if you let me bring this up to the rooms?”

 

“…I don’t know, Mister, I-“

 

Dutch brought out another 10 dollars, pressing it on the counter.

 

“Please.”

 

“…Alright, sir. But please don’t make a mess.”

 

Dutch nodded, taking the bowl carefully and rushing back upstairs. As he ascended the stairs, head heavy with concern for his boy, a group of men passed him on the way down. He could hear their whispering, words soaked with disdain.

 

“Look at those two,” one of them murmured under his breath, voice dripping with scorn. “Filthy and disheveled. They don’t belong here.”

 

He couldn’t care less, except he stopped entirely when he heard the next few words, sharp as knives.

 

“We don’t need those…outlaws around. Kids oughta be kept away from those freaks. Just imagine what would become of them, swept away into that disgusting fantasy.”

 

Stop it.

 

Shaking his head, he turned around. The man was looking directly at him, staring into his eyes.

 

“What a shame it would be for an outlaw to raise a child.”

 

Dutch blinked. He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut then opening them again.

 

The group of gentlemen were staring at him as though he was sprouting four eyes, brows furrowed questioningly.

 

“Can I…help you with something?”

 

Dutch blinked again. The men were at the bottom of the stairs, nowhere near as close as he was just a second ago.

 

Did he even say that?

 

“…my apologies, boys. Be on your way, don’t mind me.”

 

World spinning, he hurried faster to his rented room, slamming past people. Door creaking open, he desperately scanned the small area. 

 

Arthur still laid there, chest rising and falling. He looked almost peaceful, if it weren’t for the dangerously pallid tone that streaked across his face.

 

He sat down on the side of the bed, weight gently sinking in. He gently brushed away a stray lock of hair from Arthur’s forehead, his touch feather light against heated skin.

 

“Arthur? You awake, son?” He whispered, voice a gentle caress. 

 

The younger man opened his eyes with intense struggle, a hand weakly reaching out.

 

“…d…duh…”

 

“Oh, shh, it’s alright. Don’t waste your energy, sweetheart. We need to get you fed, you can’t keep starving yourself. Don’t you remember when we first picked you up? Hell, we fed you so much that you puked. Me and Hosea were scared half to death, we were. Thought the first week we picked up this kid would be the last.” He chuckled sadly, setting the bowl down on his lap.

 

“You were so small.”

 

He suddenly felt tears threatening to break, choking back a sob. When did his Artie grow up so quickly? How could twenty years pass by in the blink of an eye?

 

“…”

 

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he wiped away the tears that longed to spill. He had to be strong. For Arthur. The younger man was quickly fading, visibly struggling to stay awake.

Leaning in closer, he wrapped an arm around Arthur’s shoulders, pulling him close. Brown hair pressed flat against his chest, he cradled the younger man close to his heart, resting his chin atop freshly washed hair.

 

“We’ve been through so much together, haven’t we?” He murmured, voice soft.

 

Despite everything, he was so proud of his boy. Even after going through hell, a hell created by all sorts of cruel twists of fate and punishment, he was still holding on.

 

“It’s okay. It’s okay, darlin’. Here, eat something for me, please,” he cooed, taking the spoon and holding it against chapped lips. Arthur, head slumped against the other’s chest, barely responded. 

 

“Arthur? Please, you have to eat. You can’t get any thinner than you already are.”

 

He gently pushed the metal to his lips, willing Arthur to open it. Finally, after some more coaxing, the younger man allowed the hot broth to slide down his throat, visibly flinching at the pain of swallowing. 

 

Dutch winced. “Oh, I’m sorry, darling. I know it hurts. Do you still want to try again? It’s alright if not, we can sleep a bit for now.”

 

Arthur breathed deeply, dragging in ragged breaths. Dutch felt a slight shake of his head, chest swelling with pride once again. He was such a brave soul. 

 

“Okay, okay. Here.”

 

He didn’t know how long he sat there, gently coaxing hot soup into Arthur’s throat, hushing him and massaging his neck whenever he moaned in pain. With each swallow, he searched Arthur’s face, heart clenching as he saw the man try to hide his sharp pain. His throat was already bright red, swollen and sore. He almost wanted to break down into tears at every gasp, but he bit the inside of his mouth, willing himself not to break here and now.

 

Finally, Arthur drank a spoonful, before turning and hiding his face into Dutch’s chest.

 

“You done, sweetheart?”

 

He had barely finished half the bowl, but Dutch wanted to sing to the world about how thankful he was. 

 

“That’s…that’s a good boy. God, Arthur. How did the world manage to create something as precious as you?”

 

He ran his fingers through soft, hazel hair, the scent of fresh shampoo still lingering. He was so exhausted, but at least he had some food in him now.

 

“You’re doing so good, son. I know it’s painful, but we need to get you well and strong. We can’t have you fainting in the middle of the streets now, can we?” He smiled tenderly, continuing to stroke fluffy hair. Arthur shifted slightly, face half hidden in his father’s chest. For a second, he looked almost like he was about to laugh. 

 

“…’l..r’dy…h’ve…” he slurred, voice drowsy and incoherent. 

 

Dutch paused, carefully brushing hair out his face. He was delirious, both from the fever and from the shot earlier. He sounded so young.

 

“What was that, son?”

 

Arthur closed his eyes, voice breathless.

 

“..al..ready…h’ve..”

 

Dutch froze. 

His hand remained carefully poised above Arthur’s head, fingertips mere inches away from his face. Horror stilled his body, as he sat there, staring at the younger man pressed against his chest. 

 

“You….” His voice trailed off, hand falling to his side in disgust now. Disgust directed at himself. 

 

He had a responsibility. To keep his boy safe. To care for him. To look after him. To love him. 

 

And he had failed. Failed his boy. Failed that angry fourteen year old, bitter and broken by the world - hissing and clawing and biting. Failed that twenty year old, who had come home, eyes once so bright and blue now dull and glassy, face pale as snow, unable to utter a single word. All those promises he had made. The stories he had told. They meant nothing now - the love and colour and meaning and thought behind them washed out, faded, empty, idle. Once holding such a high value - filled with care, care no amount of money could buy - now worth nothing. Stories he could simply recycle for the sake of it. 

 

He had failed the man in front of him right there and then. But this time he could not take it back. Every breath was limited - a measure, a unit, a symbol for how little time his boy had left. Every cough, splutter, every dark drop of blood against pale sweaty skin was a prompt. Cheeks hollowed out, the flesh scooped out a reminder of the life being spooned out of Arthur’s hands - blood thinning every day, exhaustion rotting his bones, eyes swelling up, growing dark and puffy. 

 

“I’m so sorry, son.” 

 

His voice broke, emotion ripping into it, shredding it into pieces. It cracked, raw with regret, guilt, sadness, grief. Grief. How selfish. He was already mourning the loss of his son, a loss only fueled by him, him and his greed, his hunger, a force of cruelty that had driven them apart, blinding Dutch in the process, blinding him, rendering him unable to see the damage he had wrought. 

 

His own vision blurred a little, and before he knew it, tears were trickling down his cheeks. He wiped them with his thumb, sniffling, He needed to be brave for Arthur. Strong. He couldn’t cry. He needed to focus on Arthur. 

 

“I have….I can’t even explain. I have no excuse, son. I was selfish. Greed blinded me. What a fool I am. I shoulda been there to help you, Artie. I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry. I….I love you, son. More than anything. You…You’re my whole world, my boy. You…changed my life. And…I still threw you away. Like you were nothing. But you ain’t. You’re more than that. You’re everything to me. You mean everything to me.” 

 

He watched as the younger man processed this, eyes opened a crack of the way, a glassy, empty blue peering out from in between the lids. Lips crackled, he opened his mouth, before closing it.  

 

“.....s…’rry…” he mumbled. Dutch watched in pure heartbreak as Arthur’s eyes watered, tears seeping down his face. He shuddered, as he sobbed, trembling under his Pa’s touch. 

 

“Sorry? Oh, Arthur. You got nothing to be sorry for. I should be sorry, son. I…I was a fool. Hell, I still am. But that’s gonna change now. My boy. I’ll look after you, okay? Every single minute of the day.”

With careful hands, he wrapped the spread a little tighter around Arthur, making sure to keep him still and warm. He laid the man’s head down against the soft pillow, smoothing hair out of his face, gently rubbing his cheek.

 

“I love you, son. I really do. I’m…I’m so sorry, son.” 

 

He spoke desperately and breathlessly, eyes scanning over the shrunken man, hot red face pressed into the pillow, fingers curling as if he was young once more. Dutch chuckled, albeit a little sadly. 

“You always used to do that. With your fingers. You’d curl them like that, son. I’ll be surprised if you don’t pop your thumb in your mouth like a baby next.” 

 

Arthur groaned as the older man shifted his weight, the mattress creaking slightly. His arm straightened itself a little, as he semi reached out.

 

“....d….don’….l….leave…m-m…” 

 

He stumbled over his words as he croaked them out, voice breaking even more. His fingers brushed against Dutch, as he reached for his Pa, as if he was a small child again, gazing up at the person who had put so much into making him who he was. 

 

Dutch certainly had. 

 

He felt a sudden pang of self-directed anger, guilt, sadness. He had placed so much hope, love, care, into this boy, before digging his hand into his heart and tearing those things out, as though he was engulfing any cravings Arthur struggled so badly to satisfy - and only by having his Pa around would he be able to do so. 

 

“I ain’t never leaving you again, my dear boy. I swear to you. Please, Arthur. Please believe me. Please just rest.” He was begging. He wouldn’t have even dreamt of doing so a few nights ago, let alone to Arthur of all people.

How could he have felt so resentful towards his son? How could he let pure hatred boil and bubble and blind him? Sew carelessness into his mind and force him to turn his head the other way, make him neglect him? His needs? His ailment? What was wrong with him? 

 

“Please, son. I’m so sorry, son.” 

 

But it was too late.

 

Arthur was going to die soon.

 

He couldn’t comprehend a life without Arthur. Before any of the others, before they were a gang, it was just their little makeshift family.

 

Oh, Arthur. Oh, John. He had failed both of them so badly. His other son, he had left to be hanged. They were going to kill him, and he didn’t even do anything. It was Arthur. Arthur who saved everyone, Arthur who saved his brother. Dutch felt proud at how much his boys cared for each other, and intense humiliation at the fact that he was the one they were protecting each other from.

 

He had never wanted this.

 

“Arthur.” He bent down and pressed his forehead against his boy’s, breathing in the same space. “Please don’t go.”

 

He didn’t know if he could handle it if he lost his boy. 

 

“Please don’t die.”

 

He was barely even breathing after Hosea left.

 

“Please.”

 

Anyone but his son. What sort of cruel joke was this?

 

It was all going to end soon. His eldest, his beautiful boy, his child he had raised from the earth into a man. All those nights spent around the fire, laughing, cooking the fish Hosea had caught (Dutch was never much of a fisherman), sleeping under the stars. Watching his baby grow into a strong, strong soldier. He felt shame, the moon and night and thin thin air all judging him at once, observing him change over the last twenty years into a different type of father. Not even a father, a monster. 

 

He dreamed of another universe, one where he was a good Pa, one where Arthur didn’t have to leave. It felt so real, yet so far away. It was surely not right; he simply couldn’t function without his son, he just couldn’t. 

 

“Arthur.”

 

The name fell from his lips, cascading along with fresh tears. It tasted bittersweet, each choke of the word catching in his throat before he sobbed it out, brushing his lips endlessly against his boy’s forehead.

 

“Arthur. Arthur, Arthur, no, Arthur. You can’t do this to me.”

 

He willed the Earth to heal him, prayed for any God to paint the colour back into his son’s face. He had never truly been religious, but he found himself begging and begging any form of higher being to be kind to his Arthur.

 

His Arthur, his baby, his very own child.

 

“Please, Arthur. Please. Please.”

Cold tears fell from his eyes onto the younger man’s cheeks, as he hoped with his whole heart, as he pleaded to the foreign concept of a deity of some sort, placing a hand on his son’s face, feeling how worn it was, how thin it was, how swollen and puffy and exhausted it was. 

 

“You’ll get better, son. Won’t you? Yes. Course you will. You’re my strong boy.” he murmured, tucking sweat soaked hair behind his ear. Arthur shakily lifted a hand in return, fingers brushing against Dutch’s own as he attempted to grasp onto his Pa’s hand, perhaps hoping he would pull him out of this. 

 

Dutch picked up on this, nodding. He took his son’s hand, squeezing it dotingly, bringing it up and kissing it gently. 

“I’ll care for you this time. Just….I’ll do everything. Everything. Please get better. Don’t leave me. Not you, Artie. Why you? Why are they taking you from me? Why are you going through this?” 

 

His voice broke, as he laughed sadly.

“You never deserved any of it. Any of what you went through. I wish I coulda been there more. Perhaps…I could’ve made it easier for you. Like any Pa should.” 

 

There was silence, and he laughed again. He felt as though he was going insane. Everything was being taken from him. Everything he valued most.

“Arthur.” he mumbled, shaking pressing calloused fingers against his forehead, squeezing his hand, gasping shakily. 

 

“Please.”

He whispered for the first time in his life words he was terrified to say.

 

“I don’t know what to do.”

A few days passed, Dutch stubbornly pulled to Arthur’s side the whole time. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten. He felt heavy, as though the world would crash down on them soon. And it would. But for now, he needed to make sure Arthur was healing, at least enough to walk. The morning light filtered dimly into the hotel room, casting a soft glow onto his boy’s paper-white face.

 

He needed to bring Arthur home, back to camp. Back where his family was. Although the real bed and the hot food was doing him good, they were most certainly going to get caught if they stayed for too long. 

 

His mind was racing. He still had that damned train job, and even though he knew Arthur disapproved, it could finally get them enough money to be free. He could bring Arthur somewhere warm, somewhere dry, somewhere he could watch his boy thrive a little until he passed. He owed him that at least.

 

And maybe, if a miracle happened, he would even get better. He needed to get enough money. For everyone, for John and Abigail too. They needed him. They all needed him, of course they did.

 

He was so close, so close, to leaving this damned country behind and escaping to freedom, to a new life where he could finally, finally be happy with his family again. With his sons, watching them grow and work as ranchers, simple lives under the stars. 

 

Hosea would’ve wanted that, too.

 

But even as he dreamed, doubt gnawed at his heart. Would Arthur be strong enough to even make the journey? All the insisting, the insisting that John and his family should be let go. It couldn’t be the only way, there had to be a future where all of them were together. He couldn’t go through on a path where everyone would leave him, he couldn’t, it was so unfair.

 

He gently brushed Arthur’s hair away from his forehead, smiling gently. For now, he needed to get his son home. And safe. And…he would have to tell everyone. Would he? He could surely just lie, just stall until he had no choice. But there was no way to explain their absence or the way Arthur couldn’t even stand on his own two feet.

 

“How’re you feeling, Arthur?” His voice was gentle, steady, as he helped the man sit up a little, propping pillows to support him. 

 

“Ready to go back, son? Back to camp?” Dutch’s voice was laced with a hopeful smile.  Arthur nodded a little, face contorted in pain, but trying his best to look determined. Dutch’s heart clenched, wanting nothing more than for him to rest here for as long as he wanted. Still, Dutch assisted him, helping him out of bed. 

 

Each step seemed like an eternity, brushing past staring guests and whispering folk. God, he hated the whispering. It never bothered him this much until lately. He guided him out of the room and along the corridor, down the stairs. He nodded his thanks to the man working at the saloon, a sympathetic smile flashed back, before swinging open the doors for them to exit.

 

The burning daylight caused Arthur to flinch, eyes too sensitive. With careful movements, Dutch quickly escorted Arthur up, hoisting him up onto the horse, seating himself on the saddle. He could hear the noises get louder, voices to the right and left of him, filling his head. 

 

“What a sad sight.”

 

Arms tightened around Arthur as he clung onto the reins, digging his heels into the beast’s body, riding down the road. The town faded behind them, sounds of civilization giving way to the steady beat of the horse’s hooves. 

 

The sun felt warm upon their backs - its light giving a welcoming embrace in contrast to what the cool and eerie night had given off before. It cast a golden glow along the road, as it stretched on for miles, the distance planting a foreign seed of worry in Dutch’s mind, one he neglected as it had not sprouted yet. He hoped they would make it back to camp quickly. He didn’t want to think about the possibility of them not being able to do so - getting into trouble, or a delay occurring.

 

He listened to the galloping of the animal’s hooves as they drowned out the rattle of Arthur’s every breath, as they clashed against the dirt of the road, twigs snapping beneath them. He could feel the younger man’s chest heaving as he inhaled, each gasp a struggle. He was obviously in a slightly better state in comparison from a few nights ago, but he was still bad. It brought a crushing feeling to Dutch’s chest, as though it was being weighed down by something heavier, slowly cracking open under the pressure. 

 

He made sure not to ride on too fast, as he knew it would only cause Arthur more discomfort, but he was well aware of how long the journey was going to take. At least a day - they’d probably have to stop for a night too. He shuddered at the thought of Arthur resting upon hard ground, sore body laid against uneven ground, against dirt and rocks and twigs, only aching more when he awoke the next morning. 

 

The horse cantered a little further, as bright morning light faded from a golden colour into a darker, ambient orange glow - as noon crept in, hours passing by. It had begun to cool now,  and little rabbits and such running along the road had disappeared, perhaps threatened by the foreshadowed night that was yet to come. Dutch was well aware of this, and it worried him - he needed to get Arthur back to camp, back to his tent - a decent place of shelter. He was sick. He couldn’t let him rest in the middle of the wild, not in his current condition. 

 

“…d…”

 

“Shh, we’re nearly there. Go back to sleep, son,” he ushered gently, rubbing his palm against the younger man’s hands. “I’ll handle it. You won’t have to say a thing.”

 

He felt Arthur shudder, before falling limp against him once again. Biting his lip down, he dug his heels into the animal, mentally apologising as it cried out before speeding faster. 

 

All he did was hurt.

 

Finally, the trees of Beaver Hollow came into view, light shielded by the dark ceiling of leaves. The trees loomed tall and foreboding, twisted branches reaching out like skeletal fingers against the sky. Dim light of dusk filtered through the thick canopy, casting eerie shadows that seemed to shift into figures with every gust of wind. The usual chatter of birds and wildlife was conspicuously absent, replaced by an oppressive silence that seemed to press in on them at all sides. He breathed in, air heavy with the earthy scent of damp soil and decaying growth. But somewhere underneath it all, there was the underlying odour of something rotten, something foul that made the older man’s stomach churn with unease.

 

As they entered the camp, Dutch heard a familiar, raspy voice yell out into the woods.

 

“Dutch’s back! Arthur too! He…”

 

Relief and concern died in John’s throat as he watched the two ride straight into camp, Dutch clambering off Arthur’s horse, holding him steady on it.

 

“Micah! Charles, John, anyone, get over here!” He yelled desperately, voice cracking and raw. 

 

The world spun around Dutch, his senses overwhelmed by the chaos of movement and shouting. He couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t see clearly through the blur of bodies rushing past him, faintly registering a pair of hands at his own back. All he could feel were hands grasping at Arthur, pulling him away from Dutch’s own half-wrapped arms. He didn’t know why, but he tightened his hold, unwilling to let go. Voices swirled around him in a cacophony of noises, air hot and stifling, heart hammering in his chest as he clung desperately to his son, feeling his unmoving limbs being jostled around as hands lowered him to the ground. All he could hear clearly was Arthur’s faint rasps. The forest floor seemed to til beneath him, ground unsteady on his feet as he stumbled forwards. Everything was such a jumble of sensations, the warmth of Arthur’s body against his chest, the frantic shouts of everyone else. 

 

He was vaguely aware of John and Charles beside him, their hands attempting to pry Dutch’s hands off.

 

“Dutch, Dutch let go, we need to bring him to his cot!” John snapped wildly, fearfully. 

 

Finally, Dutch seemed to register the faces around him, fingers unravelling as he watched his son lift off the ground, hands all over his limp body as they carried him to his bed.

 

“…my tent. He stays in my tent,” he whispered, a shaky hand pointing at Arthur. Charles nodded, signalling to John.

 

The older man was still kneeled in the dirt, wind knocked out of him as he finally realised there were hands rubbing his shoulders, a voice whispering in his ear.

 

He needed voices.

 

“Come now, Dutch, you need to rest up. Can’t do much for him right now,” a honeyed, soft voice at his shoulder. Turning around, he raised his head to come face to face with a familiar sight,

 

Micah smiled, kneeling by his side, the only presence by his side. 

 

“I knew Morgan was, well…he ain’t doin’ the best. You need to stop worryin’ about him, boss, it’s doing you to the ground. Let us take care of him.”

 

Dutch shuddered, shaking his head.

 

“…He’s my son, Micah. I…Oh, hell. He isn’t…doing good. I can’t help but worry. I want to care for him.” 

 

“Oh, but…Dutch. You can’t let it blind you. You’re…our leader. Oh, and a mighty fine one at that, too. How could you let him distract you? One man over the rest of us? Haven’t you forgotten how…how suspicious he is? How…curt he was? He was against everything! He didn’t like anything you did! How? How are you letting him occupy your mind? He’s a traitor!”

 

He spoke softly yet passionately, and Dutch paused. 

 

How could Micah even say that? He was trying to help, of course he was, but there was no possible way Arthur could have betrayed them now, not after what had happened. He had fought for everyone’s lives, had fought for Dutch

 

But maybe…maybe in some way, Micah was right. Maybe over the top, but right. Right in the sense that he’d let Arthur cloud his vision, despite the doubt he had held over Dutch’s every move. He worried over Arthur, he prayed for Arthur, but he needed action in order to save him.

 

“No, Micah. I can’t leave him again. He saved you too, don’t you back down on him now.” He replied quietly.

 

“I know, boss, you know I love him like a brother. We’re family.” He lowered his voice. “I just think…I just think that maybe he’ll be too much to handle, you know how hard it’ll be providing for him while he’s-“

 

“We will take care of Arthur. He will be alright.” Dutch replied, hands balled into a fist. His voice shook.

 

Micah gently patted his back, standing up. “I know he will. He’s…he’s a…fighter. Yeah, he’s a real fighter.”

 

“Course he is. Course. Always has been. He’ll see through this too, Micah. Always does.” 

 

He felt as though the confidence his voice so proudly held was wavering around the other man, who smiled, dusting himself off.

 

“Sure he will. Gonna be just fine, ‘specially with somebody like you around. You always know what to do, Dutch. You put this family first.”

 

“Thank you, Micah.” 

 

The other man nodded, feet treading loudly as he walked off, humming under his breath. Dutch’s head swam as he thought, mind restlessly trailing back to Arthur with nothing else to distract him - no noise spared outside of the crickets and the wind and all the cool night brought with it. He took what Micah said into consideration. 

 

Something about it rubbed him the wrong way, but…he knew Micah meant well. And in a way, he was right. Arthur would take up time, and energy. Maybe he would be too much. But he knew it would be worth it to bring his boy back to good health. He knelt there, convincing himself he was satisfied with this conclusion - before spotting John out of the corner of his eye. Scrambling from the dirt, ge brushed himself off, and approached, trying to keep a composed image. 

 

“He’s in my tent? He’s resting? You’re keeping him warm, right?” The confidence and coolness he had hoped to maintain left his voice as words poured out anxiously, anxiety tainting his tone. The cool-headed, calm and collected image he had painted himself was already crumbling apart, desperation scrawled all over his face instead. John’s face was untelling as he scanned it, trembling a little.

 

“Tell me!” He spoke louder, voice wavering. 

 

“What the hell happened to him?!” John suddenly snapped, features twisting into an ugly snarl. He sounded angry, but after years and years of raising him, Dutch could tell when he was trying to mask fear.

 

“I…”

 

“What happened to him? Why’s he…why’s he like…that?”

 

“I didn’t mean…I…”

 

But what could he say? He had pushed Arthur to this. Now his younger brother was in front of him, those wide black eyes shining in worry.

 

“…Dutch, is he gonna be okay?”

 

Dutch blinked dumbly, looking at his son. 

 

His son.

 

His son?

 

“He’ll…he’s sick. We need to get him some rest now. I brought him to a doctor earlier, he…I’ll explain later.”

 

Dutch struggled to find the right words, throat tight with emotion. John shook in front of him, seething in rage, but he knew the both of them couldn’t express themselves the way they wanted to. Never really could.

 

“What did you do to my brother?”

Two days. Two days had passed since he brought Arthur back to Beaver Hollow, and he had barely woken up since. There was no denying it now- there was less and less chance that they would all make it out together. But there was no other way; he had to make sure they could thrive, that he could thrive. And the only way to do that was for Arthur to be by his side.

 

Something about his mind felt wrong, a voice hauntingly familiar that doubted his every thought. But he brushed it aside, reassuring himself over and over that things would be okay. Because they would be.

 

As long as things stuck to the plan, he was certain everything would be fine.

 

“What did you do to my brother?”

 

He had looked John in the face, eyes angry and wild. And he hadn’t been able to come up with a valid response; all he could do was give a morbid silence, one that stretched the distance between him and his younger son. What could he say? This was his fault, of course it was. But he couldn’t admit that to John; what would he think? What would he say? He would just take his woman and child and leave, and if his other son left then he would surely lose it right here and now.

 

The other camp members were just as horrified. Susan had tended to Arthur’s side, every time he had entered his tent he would be greeted by the sight of the woman mopping a pale face, body covered in sheets in a desperate attempt to warm him up. Tilly had taken over her role instead, working herself hard and unstopping, asking Dutch how the ill man was every time he saw her with those big, doe eyes. In fact, nearly everyone in camp, safe for a handful, pestered him with that exact question over and over.

 

“Is he gonna be okay?”

 

And each and every time, Dutch would nod, wordless and exhausted. Even Micah would ask, though his tone dripped of something foreign. Either way, he was glad for him to care, in his own strange way. 

 

John Marston was a little different. He rarely saw to Arthur at all, instead sitting outside the tent even throughout the night. Dutch knew his boy (or at least he once did), knew that he was afraid. The way his knee bounced, the way he flinched every time Arthur’s weak groans filtered through the thin walls.

 

More than that, the glare he would inflict upon Dutch every time he neared, dangerous and protective. And even if he tried not to, even if he didn’t mean to, Dutch realised he would give back the same, cold look. 

 

“So. What’s the plan?”

 

Dutch heavily raised his head, turning to face the voice at his side. He was sitting outside, smoking a pipe as evening dusk fell through the roof of leaves. It was the same pipe Arthur had gotten for him just months prior. 

 

“You are a gentleman, Mr Morgan. I raised you well.”

 

He could barely think straight. But he had to. 

 

“I…I don’t think we oughta give up on that train. Everything we’ve set up, it’s all for this. And…and we can finally leave.”

 

“Couldn’t have said it better, boss.” Dutch felt a familiar palm rest on his shoulder. “But what about Morgan? He’s too sick to come with us, surely. He’s gotta rest up, he can’t be overworking himself yet- and I know he’s a strong boy, I do. But we can’t have him along, can we?”

 

Dutch nodded, raising a hand to pat at Micah’s. “You’re completely right, son. He’ll stay here while the rest of you boys will come with me. We’ll bring that Adler woman as well, and the girls will watch over Arthur.”

 

Micah sucked in air through his teeth, shaking his head. “Dutch, we oughta make use of them. Susan can scout for those Pinkertons down southwest, make sure they don’t find us. The rest can come with us for backup, can’t they?”

 

“Who’s gonna look out for Arthur then?” Dutch replied almost immediately, raising his head to meet Micah’s gaze.

 

“Ohhh, he’ll be well enough by then to look after himself. He’s a big boy, Dutch. He can survive a day by himself.”

 

“…I’ll think about it.”

 

He felt the other man pat his shoulder before the sound of footsteps over dry leaves crackled away, leaving him alone.

 

He could surely use the extra eyes, the last thing he needed was for the law to find him- to find them. But to leave Arthur alone?

 

He signed, putting his pipe back into his pocket as he turned to his tent, wanting to check on the man now that his smoke break was over. Crossing over to the little camp by the cave, he caught sight of another figure sitting by the tent as always, eyes narrowed and fixated on him. He was hunched over, lips pressed together in a thin scowl.

 

“You goin’ in?”

 

“Yes, John.”

 

“…don’t do anything stupid.”

 

Dutch felt his blood boil. As if John had the right to criticise him- bit of course he did. He was right. So why was he still so angry?

 

He gently opened the flap to the tent. 

 

Moonlight spilled into the tent, casting the younger man lying there as even paler. It brought a slight pang of pain to Dutch’s chest, but that was quickly overcome by a more paternal urge as he watched Arthur’s head roll in the other direction, as Susan tended to him, attempting to cool hot clammy skin with a dampened cloth. 

 

She turned to face him, nodding in his direction, before focusing back on Arthur. Dutch stood there silently for a few moments, wavering slightly. 

 

“Miss Grimshaw.” 

 

His voice trembled. It held no authority. No power. It was quiet. Barely even audible. She again looked at him, pausing. He cleared his throat, gathering his thoughts. A little more firmly, he said:

 

“If you’d be so kind as to give me and..my son a minute, please.” 

 

For a moment, she didn’t move - as if she was hesitating. But she nodded, setting the cloth down.

“‘Course, Dutch.” 

 

It was just the two of them now. Dutch smiled, kneeling beside his son.

 

“Your old man’s still in the game, son. And boy, are we ready as ever. I know….I know it’s been…tough, lately, but….this is it, my boy. I’ve done it again, Artie. I…I have a plan. A good one, this time.”

 

Silence. No cough or wheeze or sob could outweigh this. Arthur was silent.

 

“Arthur?”

 

“….no.”

 

He croaked the word out, utilising it as a sort of blade, cutting through the tension. It took Dutch a minute to realise. 

 

No?

 

No?

 

He smiled nonetheless - albeit a little strained. 

 

“What do you mean by that, my son? No….maybe I didn’t explain properly. This is the last time. The last plan. There are no more to come. We’ll be free, son. Like we were meant to be. We’re a family. We listen to each other. Do what’s best for each other. And as the head of this family, I…I know what’s best. I make the call, Arthur.”

 

Pale blue eyes once filled with love and adoration now stared at him in disgust.

 

“When can I go robbin’ with you, Dutch?” 

 

“Sean.” His voice was as cool as his gaze. 

 

“Lenny. Molly. H-Hell….even that..Kieran boy.”

 

“Arthur. Listen to me, now. You need-“

 

“Hosea too.”

 

There was silence again, as he stared at Dutch. 

 

“I….”

 

He looked away briefly. 

 

“I understand you’re worried, son. But…I truly know what’s best. I’m doing what’s right for us, son. I know…you’re sick outta your mind. I know, my boy. It’s hard. Especially for you. You never liked being coddled anyhow. You need to trust your old man, Artie. Everything I do is out of nothing short of love, and care, and devotion to this family I have built from scratch. It is my role to do what is best. We cannot let…any personal feelings contradict that. Just…I only ask one thing, my boy. Have some…have some faith. Some faith in your Pa. Trust me, Arthur!” 

 

Arthur looked at him with tired eyes. He opened his mouth, faltering for a second.

 

“…don’t you…t-trust me too…?” He whispered, voice weak and exhausted.

 

“Of course I do. Of course.” Dutch reached over and grabbed his hand tightly. “But…but you’re sick, son. And you’re tired. And right now, all we need is enough money to get you somewhere warm and dry, and then you can start healin’, and everything will be better.”

 

“…ain’t…g’…happen…”

 

“It will happen.” Dutch’s voice was sharp, firm. “Don’t you say that, Arthur. I’m doing this for you.”

 

At this, Arthur almost seemed to let out some sort of horrid, weak laugh. 

 

“Don’t…okay, Dutch. You ain’t listenin’ anyways. B-But…’m coming with. Please.”

 

“No.” He immediately spoke, squeezing the other’s hand tight. “No chance in hell, my boy. You stay here and you get resting. Everyone else will be on lookout, so you don’t gotta worry about things goin’ wrong. The law ain’t gonna be able to find you here, we’ll have lookouts surrounding you, and you’ll have a good, peaceful day to yourself. Won’t you be glad to get away from these people for once?”

 

“…don’t. This ain’t a good-“

 

“Arthur, this is the only way. One last score. It’ll all be over. It’s so close, can’t you feel it? It’s right within our reach, it’s what we’ve been working towards, it’s what we’ve given so much to. This is our chance at freedom! And it’s going to work, nothing will go wrong.”

 

Arthur gazed ahead, hand limp in Dutch’s hold.

 

“…why’d you even tell me?”

 

Silence.

 

“I-“

 

“Dutch, even…even if I got down on m-my knees and begged, you w-wouldn’t hear me. But please…after the job, if John wants to t-take his share ‘n leave with his family, let ‘m. And…and pl’s keep ‘m safe.”

 

Dutch met his eyes, faded and weary, those blues carrying so much dread and exhaustion.

 

“I promise, Arthur.”

And then suddenly, he wasn’t sure how many days had passed. But they had gone by, the words replaying in his head every second. The days and the nights all blended together, everyone’s voices melting into one. Apart from Arthur’s. But he barely wanted to talk at all, and that left Dutch with no one other than himself to whisper to, clinging to himself as he painfully watched the seconds tick by, stretching into hours, into years, except it couldn’t be that long because Arthur didn’t have that long left.

 

He snapped his eyes up from his lap. Once again, sitting by his son’s side. He was fairly certain Susan was talking, her mouth opening and closing as she tended to the younger man. Dutch nodded, unable to hear anything besides the deafening rasp of bruised lungs.

Through his mind, Arthur’s wishes rang, as the deteriorating appearance of the man helped whatever it was that was gnawing at him dig even deeper. He continued to stare forward, watching as she nursed the man. He heard something briefly, but chose not to acknowledge it, thoughts drowning everything else out. 

 

“Dutch?” 

 

She continued to prattle away, but he didn’t let it take from his focus.

“Dutch!” 

 

No. He-

“Lord help me. Dutch! Hello?”

“What? What is it?” His voice held a more prominent, defensive value as he snapped at her, lips curling to form a frown. She stared at him - was that disgust in her eyes? No, surely not.
“I don’t need-”
“You’re letting him die.”
“What?” he whispered. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and she furrowed her brow, staring at him in confusion. 

“I said, he’s not getting any better.”
“No. Don’t lie to me. I ain’t no fool. I-” He stopped himself in the presence of Arthur, lowering his accusatory finger. Susan seemed bewildered, shaking her head.

“You’re losing it, Dutch.” She spoke coldly, as though the man in front of her wasn’t one she had spent years in the company of. She spoke like he was a stranger - one that had ripped the life out of her.

 

“I ain’t- I ain’t lost it yet. I’m not letting my son die. He’s…he’s going to get a little better, once we get that money. He’s already getting better, just look at him.”

 

He gently caressed Arthur’s cheek, the man still deeply unconscious in sleep. He looked almost angelic.

 

“Mister Van der Linde, I’ve been here ever since the beginning. I’ve even been through the hells of his puberty, you know very well. You’re not the only one who’s losing him.”

 

Dutch snapped his gaze to hers, eyes wild. Uncontrollable. “You know nothing about him.” He whispered, body still and words dripping in something foreign. He seemed to have sucked the air out of the tent, time slowing down so that the disbelief in her eyes were long lasting, morphing into hurt.

 

The woman now silent, Dutch turned back to the man lying on the bed, silently stroking his hair. He wasn’t sure what was happening. His whole body shook, and he dared not to steal a glimpse at anything other than Arthur. Especially not the presence beside him. 

 

What was wrong with him?

 

He was terrified that if he made the mistake of taking his eyes off Arthur, he would lose all composure right here and now. He needed Arthur. He needed his solidity, needed to feel that soft, hazel hair between his fingers. If he couldn’t, then he would instead feel his whole world shattering, splintering, body number yet ablaze with mania.

 

“Ain’t that right, son? You’re already getting so much healthier. So much better.” He cooed with a crazed smile, hand tightening in his scalp. “Yeah, that’s right. My boy.”

 

He couldn’t let go.

 

He couldn’t let go.

 

He truly couldn’t let-

 

“Dutch! What’s wrong with you?”

 

And all of a sudden, she was between him and his boy. What was she doing?

 

Why was she interfering?

 

“You’re gonna hurt him! He ain’t a doll for you to clutch at like that,” she snapped, tenderly smoothing down the tufts of hair that laid messily atop Arthur’s skull.

 

Breathing sporadically, Dutch registered a numbness in his hands. Looking down, he saw the same dirty-blond streaks in his palm.

 

Hazel hair beneath his fingernails.

 

“You’re gonna hurt him!”

 

All of a sudden, it felt like he couldn’t breathe at all.

 

“I…I’m…I think I’ll get some air,” he managed to mumble, or at least he thought he did, the buzzing in his ears too strong for him to hear. 

 

Maybe she was right. Maybe he needed to get some rest.

 

Maybe that would stop him from destroying anything he touched, keep him away from those precious to him. He really didn’t know anymore.

 

Getting up, he walked over to the exit of the tent, mind still spinning. He had to make a choice soon; either let his family go for good, or risk the train. A sick, dreadful notion came with the first, one that made him feel as though he himself was splitting apart. But the thought of Arthur’s words, the pleading and begging for him to cut them loose, clawing at him with a ferocity that clung deep into his bones.

 

Maybe he really was going crazy.

 

“Get out.” he muttered. She stared at him, pursing her lips and shaking her head in disappointment. She was disappointed. In him. 

“I said, get out.” Spinning on his heel, their eyes locked as he snapped at her. Her gaze was cold yet confused, and it made him feel worse about his state - was there really something wrong with him? What was wrong with him? 

 

“I ain’t-”
“Out. Get out. Get out. OUT!” He finally broke, yelling out, causing them both to jump. Anger washed over his paranoia, shaping it into a sort of venomous hatred, one that his eyes, his gaze, his voice all carried. 

“Dutch.”
“Get the hell out. I don’t even wanna look at you. You snake. You’re all snakes. The lotta you. Get out. Leave me with my boy. My only good one left. He ain’t rotten. Not like the rest of you.”

She seemed hesitant to leave the frail man’s side, but nodded quietly, slipping out of the tent in defeat. Dutch stepped back to Arthur’s side, mopping his brow, standing over him dotingly. 

“There. There, son. I’m sorry ‘bout that. You understand. Course you do. My last boy.” Planting a kiss upon his forehead, he sighed shakily. 

“No. All of them. They’re all wrong. You’ll get better. You’ll pull through. You always do, my son.” He spoke with determination, bringing his fist down gently onto the man’s chest, in a light, playful manner. 

“We’re okay. All of us. Everyone’s a little stressed…but this’ll be the last job. Once and for all.”

He felt a sudden pang as he remembered Arthur’s request, John wanting to leave with his family. 

 

To leave? Was this gang not his family? He felt dread wash over him, as he contemplated. They needed to stick together. Nobody could abandon ship. Especially not in these times. They needed John just as much as they needed anybody else.