Chapter Text
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Arthur had lost track of time in that dank basement, his world turned upside down—literally. Blood pounded in his ears, and his ankles felt like they might snap off any second from supporting his whole weight. Colm's boys hadn't pulled any punches, beating him senseless until they got bored and wandered off for a drink. The bastards probably thought it was all in good fun, but Arthur's bruised and battered body begged to differ.
His shoulder was the worst part, throbbing with pain and reeking of infection.
Every little movement sent shockwaves of agony through his body, making him grit his teeth so hard he thought they might crack. The smell was enough to make his stomach turn, a sickly sweet stench. Arthur's head swam, his thoughts all out of order. How long had he been hanging here? Hours? Days? It all blurred together in a haze of pain and delirium. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd drifted in and out of consciousness, each time hoping it was all just some twisted nightmare.
But no luck. This was as real as it got, and Arthur was starting to wonder if he'd ever see daylight again. The gang would come for him, wouldn't they? Or had they written him off as dead already? The thought made his gut churn worse than the infection. The shame burned almost as hot as his wounds when he thought about how he'd broken down and wept. Not just from the pain, but the gut-wrenching fear that his family had left him for dead. The thought of being forgotten, abandoned in this hellhole, was enough to break him.
Suddenly, footsteps echoed through the basement. Arthur's eyes fluttered open, struggling to focus in the dim light. His heart skipped a beat as a familiar figure came into view.
"Dutch?" The name escaped his cracked lips in a hoarse whisper, barely audible. His vision blurred, a mix of tears and exhaustion making it hard to see clearly.
"Hold on, son. We're comin' for ya." Dutch's voice cut through the haze, rough with worry but steady as ever.
It wasn’t real. Arthur's chest heaved as a sob tore through him, raw and desperate. His brain was playing dirty tricks, showing him what he wanted most right in front of him. His pa.
"Pa— Please—" The words tumbled out, ragged and broken. Arthur's whole body shook, desperate to fold in on itself but held cruelly in place. It was too much.
"Well, looky here! The big bad outlaw's cryin' for his daddy!" The O'Driscoll's voice dripped with mock sympathy, each word like gravel on Arthur's raw nerves.
Goddamn O'Driscoll bastards— Arthur's thought was cut short as a boot slammed into his gut. He retched, his empty stomach clenching painfully as he fought for air. The pain was excruciating, a white-hot agony that radiated from Arthur's core and spread through his entire body. Each breath was a struggle, his ribs protesting with sharp, stabbing sensations. The O'Driscoll's boot had left a deep, throbbing ache in his stomach, and he could taste blood in the back of his throat.
The O'Driscolls weren't done with him yet, though. They never were. They circled like vultures, their eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure. One of them grabbed a fistful of Arthur's hair, yanking his head back with brutal force. Arthur's neck muscles strained, sending jolts of pain down his spine.
"Ain't so tough now, are ya?" Another O'Driscoll sneered, brandishing a rusted knife. The blade glinted dully in the dim light as he traced it along Arthur's jawline, just hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. Arthur clenched his jaw, determined not to give them the satisfaction of seeing his fear or pain. A third O'Driscoll approached, cracking his knuckles ominously. Without warning, he drove his fist into Arthur's already battered ribs. The sickening crack that followed told Arthur at least one had given way. His vision swam, dark spots dancing at the edges as he fought to stay conscious/
The pain was all-encompassing now, agony that threatened to overwhelm him. Every nerve ending felt like it was on fire, his body a canvas of bruises, cuts, and broken bones. And still, the O'Driscolls laughed, revelling in his suffering, their cruel taunts barely registering through the haze of pain.
"I'll kill every last one of you bastards," Arthur snarled, his eyes burning with a mix of pain and fury, locked onto each O'Driscoll in turn. Despite the agony coursing through his body, a flicker of satisfaction warmed his chest as he watched them flinch and take a step back. Even trussed up like a hog for slaughter, Arthur Morgan was a force to be reckoned with, and these yellow-bellied cowards knew it.
He’d make them pay, every last one of ‘em. Just as soon as he could free himself from the ropes that held him, and when he did… well, they’d better start praying to whatever God they believed in. He was going to make sure they regretted ever laying a finger on him.
"Don't get cocky, Morgan!" One of them sneered, crouching down to get right up in Arthur's face. His breath stank of cheap whiskey and rotting teeth. "Colm's gettin' antsy. Looks like your precious Dutch don't give two shits about ya anymore. We'll be puttin' you in the ground soon enough, you can count on that—”
Sound erupted above ground. The O'Driscolls' heads snapped up like startled prairie dogs, their eyes wide with sudden panic.
"Well, ain't that somethin'," Arthur croaked, a smirk tugging at his split lips.
The whole place erupted like a powder keg. Gunshots rang out, sharp and loud, punctuated by shouts and screams. Arthur's heart nearly leapt out of his chest. His boys had come for him after all. The O'Driscolls scattered like rats from a sinking ship, tripping over themselves in their haste to get topside. Arthur couldn't help but let out a wheezy chuckle, even though it sent pain lancing through his ribs. Served the bastards right.
He could hear the chaos above, the sound violence was music to his ears. The gang was tearing through Colm's men like a hot knife through butter. Arthur could almost picture it – Dutch leading the charge, guns blazing, with John and Charles at his side. Maybe even Bill and Micah, much as Arthur hated to admit it. Time seemed to stretch on forever as Arthur hung there, helpless as a child. Every second felt like an eternity, his body screaming for relief. But he held on, gritting his teeth against the pain. His family was coming. They hadn't abandoned him after all.
Finally, mercifully, footsteps thundered down the stairs. Arthur tensed, ready for another round with Colm's boys. But it was Charles who burst through the door, his face a mask of controlled fury. Behind him came John, wild-eyed and panting.
"Jesus Christ, Arthur," John breathed, taking in the sight of his battered brother.
Arthur was sure he was a sight to behold, and not in a good way.
His face was a mess of bruises, cuts, and dried blood, one eye swollen shut and lips split wide open. His union suit torn and filthy, stained with blood and God knows what else. The stench of infection hung heavy in the air, emanating from the festering wound on his shoulder. His body hung limply from the ceiling, ankles twisted at unnatural angles from supporting his weight for so long. Every inch of visible skin was mottled with bruises, some fresh and angry red, others fading to sickly yellows and greens. His chest rose and fell in shallow, laboured breaths, each one clearly causing him pain. But despite it all, there was still a defiant spark in his one good eye.
"'Bout damn time you boys showed up," Arthur rasped. A weak smirk played on his busted lips, but there was no hiding the relief in his eyes. Charles didn't waste any time with words. He whipped out his knife and started sawing through the ropes holding Arthur up. John hovered nearby.
"Easy there," The man muttered as the ropes finally gave way. Arthur’s body crumpled like a sack of potatoes, falling head first. John caught him under his arms before he hit the ground, grunting under the dead weight.
"I got him," Charles said, quick to help. Between the two of them, they managed to get Arthur more or less upright. His head lolled, his good eye struggling to focus. "Where's... where's Dutch?" he slurred, his voice barely above a whisper.
John and Charles shared a look over Arthur's bowed head. "He's upstairs," John said quickly. "Takin' care of business, you know how he is."
Arthur nodded weakly, not quite buying it but too worn out to argue. His legs felt broken, and every breath sent daggers through his chest. But he was alive, and his family had come for him. That was something.
"C'mon, brother," John said, his voice gruff with emotion. "Let's get you outta this shithole."
It wasn't until much later that the bitter truth got to him—that Dutch had never shown up, never even planned on comin' for him. The realisation stung worse than any of the wounds those O'Driscoll boys had inflicted.