Chapter 1: Damnation of the Dead
Chapter Text
Inside of a wagon is a group of girls from the Van der Linde gang, the joy of their personalities snuffed like a candlelight. The breath of the girls seems to be almost stolen despite the puffs of warm breath dissipating in the cold air. The tumbling wheels and whipping snow outside offer sound, but are washed out with an innate ease in the monotony of the ride. Jenny has died, and from the last time you have seen him, Davey looks to be on death’s door. Mac and Sean disappeared in the crossfire and may be dead or alive.
If you listen closely, you can hear Arthur and Dutch shouting to each other up ahead, hastily making plans in the wake of disaster. What feels like a short time later, the turning wheels of the wagon sound to a halt and you realize your body is no longer jostling with its movement. Snowy winds still screech, but you hear Dutch’s voice carry over it like a beacon. The gang files into a cabin after their leader, a disease of grief causing the group to seem undead. It anchors the feelings that already linger within you down to the base of your belly. How awful a feeling.
Abigail informs everyone that Davey is dead. This registers, but you quickly bear the weight of the knowledge. What’s one more to add to the pile?
Dutch’s unmistakable holler calls the attention of the group after the door to the cabin has closed. “Listen… Listen to me, all of you, for a moment.”
Your eyes fail to raise to Dutch, as they are fastened to the floor. You do not know what to make of this. You don’t know what to make of anything anymore.
“Now, we’ve had.. well, a bad couple of days. I loved Davey… Jenny… Sean, Mac, they may be okay, we don’t know. But we lost some folks.”
A sob cuts the air in between Dutch’s words from another member. Tears do not come, your resolve matching the icy air outside–cold, biting. Numb.
“Now, if I could… throw myself in the ground in their stead… I’d do it… gladly. But…we’re gonna ride out and we are gonna find some food. Everybody, we’re safe now. There ain’t nobody following us through a storm like this one… and by the time they get here… well, we’re gonna be… we’re gonna be long gone.”
As Dutch speaks, his words fade from your attention. Your faith in this gang, if there ever was any, is now gone. A spindly bout of anger and resentment pools in your gut, but not towards the gang. No, instead this feeling is reserved for yourself and the decisions you have made that led you here.
Perhaps, if you had followed your father’s way of life…
The fact of the matter is you have no other choice but to rely on this posse of individuals. After a month, they have become your only source of food, shelter, and safety. Not your opinion, nor how you feel on the matter, is relevant. Some of the people are good, and some are heinous.
Your mind is ripped to the present when a hand lands on your shoulder. It belongs to Arthur, one of the aforementioned latter.
“You alright?”
The unwanted attention from this man is out of the ordinary. His hand on your shoulder, you’re aware, has been the result of many a death. Yet here he is checking on you. Whatever scheme or trick he’s up to immediately makes you emotionally resign from the conversation.
A nod seems to suffice his curiosity, or his will to act on the matter. Instead, he pivots. “I’ll show you where you’re stayin’.”
You follow Arthur wordlessly through the cutting cold. The black coat he wears highlights the broad of his back against your snowed-out vision. Although the biting freeze that plagues the outdoors should match your resolve, the sight of him in front of you offers a strange sense of comfort in the bleakness of today. The cabin door swings open and shut behind the two of you, met by the solemn stare of Mary-Beth, who is awake and reading a book. Tilly and Karen have already gone to sleep.
“Should be enough blankets to keep warm,” Arthur says. He subtly tips his hat to you and moves to leave. A sense of dread washes over you when you watch the door close and Arthur’s steady back disappear behind it. As much as you yearn to not need anyone in your life, you dream to be held by arms like his—arms that won’t disappear. You dream for the unconditional acceptance of a man, even if that dream is loathsome by your own standards.
“Josephine?” Mary-Beth says quietly. She’s looking at you over her book when you turn away from the shut door of the cabin. “Want me to read to you?”
Pressing your lips together, you give a small nod. The space between you and Mary-Beth is closed when you lay down next to her seated side. It’s not the sort of comfort your body desperately and unwillfully craves, but she reminds you of your friends back home in Blackwater. Compassionate and unmovingly there for you even when you betray yourself by wishing that they weren’t. Mary-Beth’s hand brushes over the top of your head as she murmurs words from a book whose beginning you do not know. Before you can will yourself otherwise, you’ve fallen asleep.
~
Arthur Morgan has not had one singular second of a break tonight. The plan Dutch and Micah were set on quickly withered to a mess. Arthur and Hosea had been worried about Dutch and Micah’s boat scheme going awry. The former two unfortunately had their fears particularize into reality in the worst way humanly possible. Beloved members died, there’s talk of Dutch wrongfully murdering a woman, and now the morale of the rest of the gang is crushed if not non-existent.
In an act aligned with character, Dutch is barking orders at Arthur that file themselves in his brain without him even processing. In these moments—as there have been many—Arthur feels himself leave his body. His body carries on the motions, yes, but he is not there. Instead, Arthur floats above and watches life around him as it unfurls in a reckless and unseemly chaos.
Dutch gives another speech to boost some kind of notion of hope in his audience, who seems too withdrawn to even listen. The older members–Hosea, Ms. Grimshaw, help the rest move along to some place to rest.
Inside, Arthur logs through all of the things Dutch has deferred to him—ride out to a cabin, help set up, get food for Pearson, Abigail wants to speak with Arthur—until he spots Josephine. She is standing alone in a corner of the room, hair hanging over her face as she stares at the floor. It appears Josephine did not go with Ms. Grimshaw when she departed the cabin to show Karen, Tilly, and Mary-Beth where to sleep. He blinks a few times, feeling himself come back to the present. His chest tightens in a knot, his worry somehow knocking a bit of sense into him.
Arthur tells Dutch he will meet him outside to depart in a moment, and Dutch exits the cabin. Even as his boots hit the creaky wooden floor and he calls her name, Josephine does not look up at Arthur. He settles with a hand on her shoulder. The woman stirs and blinks up at him, the soul lost from her eyes.
“You alright?”
Josephine nods, feigning it despite her state clearly not being so. A part of Arthur’s heart churns in response, knowing how difficult being a new member in these kinds of situations can be.
Hell, these situations are still hard for him.
~
In the morning, you wake with your mind on Dutch—the memory of his comfort and reassurance in the stead of your absent father, and the validation he would give you whenever you felt worthless. While you’re technically closer to him by living in camp than you were a month prior, you’ve never felt further away. You cannot help but feel that he stands atop a pedestal too high for your reach, accompanied by his mistress, Molly O’Shea.
You try your best to shake the thought of him by sitting up in your spot and looking around. All of the other girls are asleep. Another girl seems to have joined in the middle of the night, her tawny hair poking out of a blanket on the floor, but you aren’t surprised. Your presence in this camp, after all, is evidence that Dutch takes in just about anyone who’s given him their sworn loyalty.
After snatching up a warm coat and gloves, you venture outside to find that the snowfall has lessened over the nightspan. The only few people stirring are Arthur, Charles, and Dutch, sharing coffee on a porch. At the opportunity that has just presented itself, your legs almost move on their own toward the group of men.
As you approach, Arthur and Charles’ attention snag on you. Dutch is the last to regard you, even as you stand right next to him. It’s only once Arthur and Charles greet you that Dutch joins in, acknowledging your presence.
“Josephine!” Dutch says, the gravel of his voice warming up the cold air. Dutch’s large hand finds place on your back. The weight of it feels foreign, yet familiar. Upon a glance at Arthur, you find his eyes darting between you and Dutch. Arthur’s gaze lands on you when he realizes you’re looking at him. “I was just telling these boys this camp needs some food.”
“Oh,” is all you can think to say. Charles turns to Arthur and says something quietly. The two of them leave in the direction of their horses.
“What do you say…” Dutch nudges you forward with the hand on your back. “You go join them hunting?”
You feel your chest seize up a little. The point in coming over to them was to talk to Dutch—and he seems to want to avert you once again. You know you can’t say no and there’s an unspoken power imbalance.
“I guess,” you say, a bit glumly.
“We all… we all have to start pulling our weight around here. This gang depends on your contribution.” Dutch’s eyes dart to the cigar in his hand, twisting the tip over a lighter’s flame. Once it catches, he wags the cigar and brings it to his lips. He eyes you through the smoke that he puffs out. Then, voice lowered, he goes, “Do it for me.”
At the response your body has to his addendum, you grit your teeth in aggravation. You know he’s deflecting. You already do contribute to the gang—otherwise, Ms. Grimshaw would have already had your head. The insinuation makes your blood boil, especially at Molly who sits on her ass all day. Turning to walk away, Dutch shouts a farewell to which you flat out ignore.
The two large men you’re heading towards—Arthur and Charles—can be unmistakenly identified across camp. Your boots crunching in the snow alerts them that you are following.
“You coming with?” Arthur asks, seeming a little bit surprised. The man, although having been nice to you thus far, has led a life you don’t want to imagine for the sake of your own wellbeing. You shrug in response.
“Better get another bow,” Charles says and disappears into the cabin to grab one. You feel Arthur’s gaze on you.
“You ever hun’ed before?”
Realizing his eyes look a bit brighter in the snow causes you to clam up a bit. It takes effort to make eye contact with Arthur, but you do. You wordlessly say no.
Arthur gently punches you on the shoulder. “Well—it’ll be my first time usin’ a bow, at least. You ain’t alone.”
The small friendly smile on his face drops a little awkwardly as he turns to head to his horse. There’s a possibility of ingenuity present in his disposition, but you don't want to frighten yourself with ideas before heading off alone in the snowy mountains with him and Charles.
Arthur leads a horse over for you to ride, and Charles reappears from the cabin with an extra bow in hand. The three of you head off into the abyss of snow-covered mountains.
“So,” Charles starts, after a few silent minutes of trotting along, “You have a reason for braving the cold this morning?”
“Dutch heavily suggested it,” you say, your tone dripping in discontent. Arthur guffaws and Charles makes a sound of acknowledgement.
“For all you know you’ll find huntin’ fun!” Arthur calls from behind you two. You huff out a little laugh involuntarily at that.
“Maybe.”
“Hunting is good for getting your mind off of things,” Charles adds. “We all need something like that right about now.”
“I can think of a few other things that could work,” you say. You pretend to think for a few seconds, then go, “Like, morphine. Or maybe alcohol.”
Arthur chuckles, finding your joke funny. While you wouldn’t have resorted to mind-altering substances two months ago, you might now.
“Hunting might be a healthier alternative,” Charles says, mood seeming to be a little bit lighter the further the three of you trek away from camp.
~
Bows look deceptively easy to use. The curve of the sturdy wood is fighting the strength of your arm and winning. Cold nips at the skin of your cheeks and the white felted mountains are closing in on you. The deer have been scared off about six times now—once by Arthur and every other time by you. Arthur already shot one deer down, and another by Charles who has left to go put the game on his horse. The prospect of being alone with Arthur puts you on pins and needles. Frustration and impatience to get back to camp begins to take over.
“Take a break,” Arthur says from behind you, to which you respond by begrudgingly putting the bow down. You feel dejected. Not only were you put on this trip so Dutch could get away from you, but you were also making it painfully awkward for Charles and Arthur, who seem more equipped for the task at hand.
“I don’t even know why I agreed to do this.” From kneeling, you slouch so your butt hits the snow. You hear boots crunch against the ground until the man is kneeling next to you.
“We gotta eat,” he says simply. “That’s why.”
Looking up, your eyes meet for a brief second until he looks away to the ground.
“Not with me on this job, y’all aren’t.”
Arthur huffs a laugh, the puff of air swirling around in the cold before it dissipates. “Sometimes you need a little break, is all.”
That eases your nerves a bit. When Arthur glances back at you, you see a small smile on his face. He pulls something out of his satchel—a box of cigarettes. He uses his teeth to get one out while flicking a lighter to life.
The scent of tobacco warms up the frigid air. You feel your mouth begin to water at the sight of a cigarette. When Arthur pulls it away from his lips, you absentmindedly lean closer to peer at the cigarette. Arthur laughs at this and passes it to you.
“You can grab one for yourself if you want,” he says. You shake your head and fill your lungs. The searing end of it hums happily around your eardrums. You cough a little as it comes out and hand it back to Arthur.
“Just haven’t had one since my Pa kicked me out of the house,” you say, and see Arthur’s head turn to look at you from your peripheral. “Rather expensive these days. But I don’t need to pick it back up full swing.”
He flicks the ash off into the snow. You watch it sear and melt the ice around it before it eventually wettens and dies.
“Why’d you get kicked out?” Arthur asks. The question is rather blunt, and in any other situation would be considered rude. You figure this man has never been one for the rules of polite conversation, though, knowing who he lives with day in and day out.
“I was raped." You have to pause to take a breath as you painstakingly recall the horrible event. "When I told my father the night that it happened, he freaked out on me for ‘having marital relations outside of marriage’. We got in a huge fight that ended with me getting kicked to the curb.”
Arthur doesn’t say anything, but he does hand the cigarette back to you. He sighs, and then you feel the weight and warmth of his hand on your shoulder. He squeezes, and it makes your heart squeeze, but you steel yourself. You take a large puff off of the cigarette to hide any kind of reaction.
"You're one strong girl, Josephine."
You're about to reply when something moves in the distance. A buck appears, its hooves leading a trail in the untouched snow. Arthur quietly picks up your bow to shove it into your hands.
“Go on.”
You lift yourself up to get a better stance on the ground with the bow. Steadying your breath, you pull your arm back against the resistance of the bow and try to line up the shot.
"Just breathe," he says, and you do.
On the verge of feeling your arm shake and your lungs empty from the action, you release the arrow and close your eyes once it’s taken flight. Moments later, Arthur shuffles up from the snow and begins to whoop and holler. You open your eyes to find that you hit the buck square in its head.
“I hit it?” You ask in disbelief.
“Ya did!”
Arthur seems way more excited about this than you are. You get up from the ground to walk over to the hulking carcass. Charles catches back up to you guys, and Arthur immediately spiels on about your success.
“She took that thang down!” Arthur points to you. Charles lets out a sound of surprise just as you arrive at the side of the creature to inspect it. You’re not quite sure what to do with it now.
“Nice work!” Charles calls to you. He marches through the high snow to reach you. “How in the hell did you manage a shot like that?”
“Pure luck,” you say earnestly. Charles laughs as if you were joking.
Arthur rounds the carcass and prepares to pick it up. “You want help with that?” Charles asks.
“Nah.” Instead of skinning it, Arthur hoists it over his shoulder like it's no problem. You balk at him, not even attempting to hide your surprise.
“How can you just—” you say, pausing for a lack of words. “Carry it like that?”Arthur’s head whips to the side to get a look at you, his expression quizzical.
“Why you sound judgemental?” The drawl in his voice is magnified from the strain of bearing the weight on his shoulder.
“Maybe I am,” you say, following along a foot behind him.
“Enough antics. Her horse won’t be able to handle the weight of that anyway,” Charles says.
Arthur stops in his tracks suddenly, causing you to bump into his back. You grunt and move away in annoyance. Without saying another word, he flops the carcass to the ground and begins to skin it. You can’t help the sneer that comes to your face from his misjudgment. Despite your disgust from him skinning it, you move around so you can get a better view. He looks up from the abhorrent task he’s up to and seems to notice your expression.
“Wha’chu smilin’ about?” He asks, then looks back down. You fail to respond, instead following after Charles to get on your horse. You hear Arthur acknowledge your lack of reply with a sigh and shake of the head. The preferred remains of the buck are stored on the back of your horse before he joins you in readying for the journey back to Colter.
~
As the horses trot through the snow with food strapped to their hinds, Arthur’s eyes unabashedly find their way to Josephine up ahead. He hadn’t known even a clue of what she had experienced leading up to her arrival in the gang, and he felt bad that he had never sought to learn prior to today. She is always quick to make a snide or negative remark, a trait Arthur went out of his way to avoid interacting with in part because it reminded him too much of himself. Josephine had gotten along with the women in camp fairly well, yet she was cold and standoffish anytime the men in camp tried to get to know her. In context with what she revealed to him earlier, it makes more sense.
‘What a woman,’ He writes in his notebook later that night, next to a crude doodle of the downed buck.
~
Although you had been excited to leave the snow, Horseshoe Overlook offers very little in the way of entertainment. You’ve babysat Jack, tried your hand at chopping wood, and helped Pearson. You have even gotten to know Keiran, the camp hostage—in the process, finding that he isn’t a bad man. God, Dear God, you have done just about anything to take your mind and eyes off of Dutch and Miss Molly O’Shea. The amount of resentment that wells in you could channel the heat of a thousand suns into one glare all the way across camp.
The worst of it all is that neither of them know of your feelings, nor care. They lounge within Dutch’s tent—which, of course, is cushier than every other tent in camp—as music plays from a phonograph loud enough for everyone else to hear. The tent flap is open, revealing the two of them directly in your line of sight. You sit at a table with Tilly playing dominoes, a game you still have no clue how to play. She’s beat you more than ten times, but you’ve lost the exact count.
“You seem distracted,” she says, clearing the table after another win.
Dutch and Molly are now sitting next to each other on the cot. Dutch has got his hand on her lower back as he makes a comment to Arthur who is walking by quickly. Arthur tips his hat to Dutch, then turns his head and tips it to you. He walks in your direction instead, ignoring Dutch who looks ready to launch another speech at Arthur.
You clear your throat awkwardly, remembering to address Tilly. “Yeah I am—by all the imaginary money I’ve just lost to you, Tilly.”
“Ha!” Tilly laughs.
“I think I’ve got this whole camp beat at dominoes,” Tilly responds.
“That,” Arthur says, stepping up to the table, “you have.”
Yet, when he says this he flashes a small smile at you, which you have to will yourself to pay attention to. This time, the distractor is not Dutch. Instead, it’s the way Arthur has his hand rested on his gunbelt. The visual is like the south end of a magnet; the north end, your eyes. A forced smile feels tight on your face.
“I suppose that’s my cue to pack this up ‘til the next time I see y’all pull out those beer crates,” Tilly says, which offers an easy exit to look away from Arthur.
“Tilly, I already don’t know what the hell I’m doing when I’m sober. I’ll be helpless if I’m drunk.”
Tilly grins and bumps her hand into your shoulder playfully as she leaves to the girls’ tent. You already know the usual schtick: play dumb until Grimshaw starts up her squabbling again. Might as well get away with it as long as possible before she notices.
Arthur awkwardly lingers around the table after Tilly leaves. Now his eyes are hidden under that brutalized hat he’s always wearing. The hat has got a few bullet holes piercing the rim of it. You decide to address his presence when he fails to speak.
“You need something?”
Arthur’s eyes dart up to yours now. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before he goes, “We was wonderin’ if you wanted to go huntin’ with us, Hosea and I.” He points a thumb over to the horses, where Hosea is saddling up. “Goin’ after some bear—but,” He says, and his hand drops to join the other around the gun belt—signing away your damnation, “we’re stoppin’ in Valentine, gonna get me a horse. I’ll get’chu one too, if you want.”
Before you wrap your head around the offer, your body is standing up. It heard some semblance of away from camp and immediately jumped at the opportunity.
“Yeah, I’m comin’, lemme change real quick,” you mutter hastily, heading to the tent Tilly disappeared into not too long before.
Moments later, you reappear from the tent in a pair of khaki pants, a green collared shirt, a brown vest and boots, and a hat. You are lacking a rifle, but you’re sure they will handle that once you get to Valentine.
Arthur’s mount to town is an unruly black Shire Hosea found to sell. The stallion bucks a few times when Arthur approaches. “Hush boay,” Arthur coaxes, in a voice so affectionate it seems almost out-of-character for what you know of him. The Shire quickly warms to Arthur, who exercises caution when putting the saddle on him.
“Josephine,” Hosea’s lilting voice calls to get your attention. “I’ve got you taking this one to town. I don’t know how much it’ll sell for, but I’m sure you can trade it in for something if you don’t like it.”
It’s a female dark bay Andalusian. Just randomly sitting here in camp. “How’d y’all get her?”
“Ahh—I saw her roaming around out around Strawberry,” Arthur casually chides in. You stare at him in disbelief.
“You just—”
“I’m getting deja vu,” Arthur says, cutting you off. “Yeah, I grabbed her from the wild.”
“The boy’s a horse whisperer,” Hosea says. “Let’s get on, I want to make camp before it gets dark.”
~
“Valentine is rudimentary compared to Blackwater,” you comment. Its roads are unpaved, the occupants of the city seeming to prefer horseshit-soaked mud instead. The people send the three of you loaded stares as you pass through on your horses, but you’re unsure of what there is to judge.
“Some folk you just can’t please,” Arthur says. Shame boils in you, so you shoot a look at him. You notice his mouth twitch upward, irkingly.
“I’ll get a gun for Josephine while you two are in the stables,” Hosea cuts in, unaffected by your tit-for-tat with Arthur. You’re left with Arthur once again today, the two of you stopped outside the entrance of the stables. You should feel on-guard, but he’s just recently had his beard shaved and it makes being afraid of him rather difficult.
“You want a different horse?”
“I’m okay. I wouldn’t mind a new saddle, though,” you say, slyly slipping in the last part.
Arthur huffs out a miffed laugh at your coyness. “Fine. Which one you want,”
“Get me one of those cream-colored ones,” you say.
Arthur is about to leave when you’re mid-sentence, but pauses after you finish speaking. He looks at you expectantly. As the two of you make eye contact, your heart hammers and your mind races through possibilities of what he wants from you. You force yourself to refrain from backing away from him, hopping on your horse and leaving.
Arthur sighs, looking put-out. It’s then that you realize what he wants you to say.
“Please,” you add, a bit anticlimacticly.
When he leaves, you notice that he left the mare he was riding outside. You hadn’t realized he wanted to keep his as well. Dismounting your horse, you circle around to her front to feed her a few sugar cubes. You feed Arthur’s as well, the “difficult mare”, as described by Hosea, not exactly living up to the name. He winnies and nuzzles your hand after he’s finished chewing.
Arthur reappears from the stable, your saddle in hand. You notice as he comes closer that the quality of it is exceptional. Arthur begins to saddle up the horse for you. The appearance of this outlaw against the pristine cream saddle that he holds sends your mind into alert. The two clash too harshly for you to ignore.
“How’d you pay for that?” You ask as you hover near his side, voice hushed.
“I handed some money to the cashier and he let me leave with it,” Arthur says bluntly. As he moves away from the now-saddled horse, you notice that his shoulders are tense and he seems mad.
You hesitate on asking whether or not he forced a discount out of the shopkeeper, but you have a feeling that his disposition is due to your previous question. You keep your mouth shut. Instead, a beat later, you settle on, “Oh, well. Thank you.” He eases up a bit and tips his chin down, shielding his eyes.
Hosea catches back up with you and Arthur, a new rifle in tow. “Are you keeping your horses?”
“They’ll do,” Arthur says, mounting his horse.
Hosea takes the new rifle off of his back and hands it to you from his seated position on the horse. “This one’s a Springfield. You might want a few tester shots before tomorrow so you can get a feel for the recoil.”
“Alright,” you say. You fumble with the strap to put it over your shoulder; it hangs a bit limply on you but you can’t find reason to complain. Remembering yourself, you say, “thank you”.
“You can thank me by taking down that bear,” Hosea jokes. You can’t help but giggle at this. The tension you felt from upsetting Arthur lessens with Hosea’s presence.
After mounting your horse, the three of you begin your trek northeast of Valentine. As Arthur and Hosea spark up conversation about the past and Hosea’s late wife, you can’t help but feel appreciative for the ability to make some ground away from camp. The air is brisk, but the sun provides a warmth that circles like a cat finding sleep on the crown of your head. Getting away from people brings an odd sense of comfort, despite being in the company of two outlawed men.
“Where you think Micah and Lenny got to? Susan sent them out scouting, but I figured they’d be back by now,” Arthur says. This line of conversation draws you out of your wandering thoughts to tune in.
“I have no idea. I hope they weren’t picked up,” Hosea says.
“I hope Lenny wasn’t picked up,” you say, as if correcting Hosea.
Arthur laughs so hard at this that his horse begins to slow down in concern. As his spell dies down, he gets out, “Why she sent Micah, I don’t know.”
“He’s effective, in his own way. And Lenny’s got a good head on his shoulders,” Hosea says. His optimism seems unrealistic for the life he leads, but you can’t help but respect him for it.
“Shouldn’t have taken them this long,” Arthur replies.
“No, but no point in thinking the worst.”
~
“He better be worth all this drama,” Arthur mutters snidely about the bear as Hosea heads off to his tent to sleep for the night. The comment was a little funny, but you couldn’t complain, given the reason you agreed to this in the first place. This is your first night sleeping without Sadie, Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Karen in weeks. You miss them, but you don’t miss the sounds of kissing over yonder, or even moaning on some nights. Sometimes you have nightmares about it. The peace and quiet resets you and puts your mind at ease.
“It’s a bear,” you say matter-of-factly, “‘course it will be.”
Arthur hums, staring into the fire. Your focus narrows on a firefly not too far away after catching yourself gazing at Arthur. A beat of silence passes. You get an idea.
“Shall we have a smoke?” You ask, feigning a British accent.
What looks like against his own will, a smile slips onto his face. “Will you be more tolerable if I say yes?”
“What do you mean by that?” You ask incredulously. This time, it’s his turn to pointedly ignore you. He fishes a cigarette out of his satchel.
“You’re always so…” He trails off, eyeing you like it will fill the rest of his sentence in with words. “So presumptuous. Or maybe snobby. Was your daddy rich?”
The surprise that statement elicits from you is hidden when you deepen your voice, mockingly, “Why you sound judgemental?”
He lights the cigarette and takes a draw off of it. Then, he stands and moves around the fire to sit right next to you. Admittedly, your heart races—until you find out the close proximity is only to pass the cigarette to you. When he hands you the cigarette, his fingertips brush against yours and your eyes lock.
“Was he?” He asks again.
“Nah, pastors don’t make much in Blackwater,” you say.
Arthur hums, breaking eye contact to look at the spits of ash floating in the air above the fire. You take a puff off of the cigarette. He’s silent for a moment, before, “I think…”
“You think?” A mean joke is on the tip of your tongue, but when he turns his head to look at you again you realize his demeanor is serious.
“I think you think I’m worse than I really am. Which,” he pauses and looks away, “must be pretty bad, given I’m not the best humanity has to offer.”
The words soak in. The feeling you get is that of someone who has just had their diary read by another living soul. You feel vulnerable.
“What, like you’re above forcing a discount out of the stable handler?” You ask, voice cutting to desperately mask your true feelings on the matter. Seconds later, you realize you’ve just gone and done the exact opposite; you proved him right.
“I’m not sayin’ that I am,” he says, “but I paid in full ‘cause you’re worth every penny.”
What feels like disgust wells in your throat until you realize the feeling is more foreign—and you’re choking down a sob before you can even identify it as one. You take another puff to hide the confusion to your own reaction, fingertips quivering as you hold it to your face. Arthur reaches over to take it from you once you pull it away from your lips, and he doesn’t press when you stay silent.
The two of you pass it back and forth for another while, the conversation sinking into the night’s air. Even if not intended, Arthur’s words pierced through you like a bullet through your temple.
“I’m ‘onna put this out if that’s okay,” Arthur says, once it’s down to a stub. His voice is deeper when it’s hushed. You nod at him, crossing your arms against your chest as you feel goosebumps bloom all over them.
“You okay?” He asks.
“Yeah,” you say, sounding a little weaker than you intend. He puts it out on one of the rocks placed around the fire.
“You okay with sharing a tent?” Arthur asks.
Guilt would tear into you all night if you made him sleep outside his own tent. Although just the idea of sharing space with a man makes you tense up, the possibility of it being with Arthur spurs you in an equal and opposite direction. You kick yourself for having such thoughts.
“We can share.”
As if sensing your internal monologue, Arthur reminds, “You don’t have to.”
“It’s really okay,” you say with a little more conviction. Arthur seems to believe you on this go around.
“Alright,” He relents, getting up. Arthur offers you a hand.
You take it, trying not to revel in the warmth of his hands as they grip yours to pull you up. The existing prejudice Dutch has set for Arthur begins to waver. Perhaps, he isn’t so bad. After all, he’s bought you an expensive saddle, helped you learn to hunt, and is willing to sleep outside for your comfort. As you walk behind Arthur to his tent, you’re greeted with the same oddly comforting view of his back.
The interior of the tent is rather small. Arthur clears his throat and you look up at him a bit awkwardly.
“You can back out anytime,” he says.
“Please stop asking me,” you snip. Then, as if licking over the wound you just landed, “And what if I wanted this outcome?”
You’re not exactly sure what part of you compelled you to say that in that manner, but the shocked look on Arthur’s face makes the embarrassment worth it.
“Don’t play with me,” he deadpans, blowing out the lantern. You hear him shuffling to lay down. His silhouette is visible in the dark; Arthur has his hands crushed to his sides in a disarmingly adorable fashion.
“That cannot be comfortable, Arthur,” you tease, laying down as well and propping yourself on your elbow to look at him.
“Shut up,” he says, but you hear him shuffle around again until he seems more relaxed.
As you try to close your eyes, you can’t help but yearn for his touch. You imagine him closer than he is now, holding you until sleep grabs your other hand.
~
Arthur wakes. He’s just awoken from the best sleep he’s had in ages. That is, until he realizes the source of the heat that has enabled such sleep is from Josephine. His eyes blink open to find his face is shoved in her hair. In his sleep, not only did he begin to spoon Josephine, but he also stupidly woke up with an erection.
The morning air is brisk, having permeated through the canvas during the night. Birds chirp outside. The moment is nice, despite the wicked circumstances currently plaguing Arthur. When he finds the will to move away from Josephine’s backside, she stirs. She flips over and her eyes wearily bat open. Her arm hugs the curve of her hip and waist as she lays on her side, shirt having come undone a few more buttons during her sleep. It’s probably one of the most arousing things he’s seen in years. Granted, he hasn’t exactly had the company of a woman like this in years either.
Arthur wills these thoughts away from his head, but once he does, he finds that Josephine's eyes are now open, darting between Arthur’s face and crotch. Slight surprise spreads over her face before she gets up and gathers a few of the garments she stripped off in the night like her vest and hat. When she begins putting them on, Arthur takes it as his cue to leave the tent. He has no clue what to make of the encounter he just had, but the embarrassment will be enough to last him a lifetime.
In an awkward attempt to reconcile the situation, Arthur hastily skewers two pieces of meat over the fire Hosea sits at.
“Mornin’,” Hosea says, a cup of coffee already occupying his hand.
“Mornin.”
“Did you two stay up late?”
Arthur intentionally keeps his eyes lasered to the meat he’s cooking over the fire. Hosea has a knack for pointed questions like this.
“She and I like to share a cigarette before we hunt,” Arthur says. When he looks up at Hosea, the man has an inscrutable look on his face.
“Sounds like a fun time.”
Josephine comes out of the tent around the time Arthur is done making breakfast. He waves the skewer limply to wordlessly show the other piece of meat is for her. If he tries to use words he will make a complete and utter fool of himself.
“Good morning,” she says, kneeling next to Arthur. He gives Josephine the cooked meat, which causes a chain of subsequent expressions on her face—he could identify disgust, and then gratitude, but the rest are hard to discern. She awkwardly takes it with her hand, “Oh, thanks. I suppose I’m meant to eat this with my hands?”
Instead of replying to Josephine’s snark, Arthur rips his food off of the skewer and shoves it in his mouth, making a point to look at her while he dramatically makes a show of his chewing. Arthur enjoys the way her nose and upper lip crumple up in disgust, but what’s more satisfying is the way she can’t help the laugh that escapes her.
“Barbarian,” Hosea says, which elicits more chortling out of Josephine.
~
The Grizzlies is a nice area of land—pristine lakes reflect noble pines and snowcapped mountains. While Arthur imagines the area may be treacherous for outlaws to live, he still finds it fun to explore. After recent events the gang has been in, Arthur appreciates just being able to get away.
Arthur still feels residual embarrassment after this morning with Josephine, despite the peace of escape. She carried on like nothing happened. Arthur is convinced that she is pretending to be okay with what she saw.
Hosea pulls off to a riverbank and Josephine and Arthur follow. A man fishing nearby nods his head at the three of them.
“Should be some tracks here. Get your rifles,” Hosea says.
As if in a trance, the next hour is spent noting clues as to where the bear could be. Josephine is more focused on the task than even he and Hosea. On several occasions, she finds tracks when the two men are convinced they lost the bear.
Since the move to Valentine, Arthur has not felt in control of himself. The looming feeling—that one where he feels he controls his life from a floating perspective above his head—has increased drastically. Every time a camp member says they feel like the gang is doing better, Arthur can’t help the sense of doom.
Yet, hunting with Josephine brought him back twice now. This sense of being is so out of the norm it’s overwhelming. Feeling alive is out of the norm.
“It’s not too far off. Let’s set the bait up, Arthur,” Hosea says, breaking his thoughts.
“Alright.”
Arthur pulls the bait out, placing it in the middle of a clearing between rocks. As quietly as possible, he joins Hosea and Josephine in their hiding spot.
“Get ready,” Hosea says.
Arthur looks to Josephine, whose eyes are wider than usual. If he wasn’t mistaken, he’d say she looked a bit scared. He takes his hand off of his rifle and touches her elbow gently.
“You alright?” He asks in a whisper. Josephine lifts her eyes to meet his. Arthur sort of resents the fact that his heart begins to hammer.
“Mhm,” she replies, turning her head to look at the rock instead. It frustrates him to no end that she’s always putting on some mask. She’s not great at lying.
“I think there’s somethin’ wrong with that bait,” Hosea says. It catches Josephine’s attention.
“Let’s just take a look at that,” Hosea says, getting up. Arthur follows and Josephine stays behind the rock.
“You sure about that Hosea?” Josephine hisses as they approach the bait.
“We only just set it,” Arthur adds wearily.
“I know, but we need to do this right…” Hosea trails, poking at the bait. “Give me a hand here. You got a knife?”
In what seems all too quickly, a bear the size of a behemoth approaches Arthur and Hosea. “Shit it’s too close!” Hosea says, leaping out of the way behind a rock. Arthur looks up at what is likely about to be his death. He draws out his rifle and shoots it only once before the bear is slamming its body down to the ground and pinning him under it. He hears the shooting of a rifle as he sees his life flash before his eyes, the bear’s fur and blood overtaking his vision.
The gun rings out a total of 6 times. Then, a massive weight is atop his chest and it’s impossible to breathe.
“Josephine, help me get it off of him, quick!”
Arthur is trapped for about a minute before he can regain his breath. He rolls his head to the side, his sight fading in and out of darkness. The bear lays dead aside him. Josephine is standing behind the bear, her face eerily blank as she stares at it. Her once pulled-up hair now has strands poking out and in her face. Hosea has a hand on his knee, regaining his breath.
At the sight of this, Arthur forces himself to breath and begin to stand, but struggles in the process. One of his biceps has been clawed, but nothing he can’t mend. It’s a miracle the bear didn’t go straight for his throat or face.
“You guys alright?” Arthur asks, once on his feet. Hosea and Josephine look at him as though he’s a mad man.
“Son, are you alright?” Hosea parrots incredulously. “You just got mauled by a bear and by the grace of Josephine you’re still here.”
“What you mean?” Arthur looks at Josephine, who remains quiet.
“She killed the bear, Arthur.”
“Ha!” Arthur shouts. A few more, and a maniacal fit of laughter overtakes him.
“Is he alright?” Arthur vaguely hears Josephine say. He begins to regain composure, standing upright.
“I’m fine,” Arthur says, shaking his arm a little. “I’ll be okay, it’s not too bad.”
“We should probably head back to camp so you can patch that up,” Hosea says.
Arthur clears his throat. He’s not sure why, but the enormity of what just happened has not hit him quite yet. His heart aches to be alone—or rather, away from camp. He knows the second he steps foot there, it will be right back to more, and more, and more favors.
“You two head back, I’m going to get a room in Valentine.”
“See a doctor while you’re at it,” Hosea says. He begins to head off to his horse, but Josephine tips her weight from foot to foot instead of following after him. “Jo, you coming?”
“I like the nickname, Hosea,” Josephine says, a little bit of light returning to her demeanor. “Arthur, is it alright if I come with you? I been wanting a wash-up for a while now.”
“Sure.”
~
After Hosea leaves, Arthur pulls out a knife and heads to the bear. You trail behind him, a sudden wave of exhaustion overtaking you. You’re damn sure the recoil of the rifle left bruises on you, and you wish you had listened to Hosea and taken a few tester shots with your rifle. Despite your state, you tap on Arthur’s shoulder as the muscle under it moves with the task of skinning. He pauses, turning his head slightly to the side.
“Can I help?” Your voice sounds weak, and you hesitate grimacing in the aftermath. He grabs your wrist gently and places the hunting knife in your hand.
“Hell’uva task, but if you took her down I know you’re up for it.”
You huff a small laugh and kneel next to the beast, majestic in its eternal sleep. “How do I do this?”
Arthur explains it to you, and you dive in, beginning to try and finish his work. He stands by and watches.
“This is disgusting!” You complain. Arthur laughs at you, the usual cadence of your conversations with him returning.
“Yeah, well, you’re disgusted by everything last I checked.”
“Oh, you’ll have to forgive me, I forget myself sometimes,” you reply, tone dripping in sarcasm.
“Oddly,” he says, ignoring your last statement, “not by me, though.”
At this, you whip your head around to look at him incredulously. “Yeah, oh-hoh-kay. You are a mad man.”
“I’m just teasin’,” he says, but it only serves to piss you off more.
The task of skinning the bear is over a while later, after which he takes over gathering meat and wrapping it.
“Thank you for savin’ me,” Arthur says, his words pointed at his busy hands.
Processing your feelings in light of his near-death experience is damn near impossible. It’s easier to pretend the level of fear coursing through you when you fired off those bullets never happened. You try to think of words in your head appropriate for Arthur.
“I’m just glad you’re still alive,” is all you can find. It’s genuine, and more so than you would have expected from yourself. A comfortable silence falls over the two of you, neither daring to break it for the rest of the time you occupy the Grizzly woods.
Chapter 2: Tomfoolery and Human Waste
Summary:
tw: referenced SA, violence
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Are you sure you ain’t never hunted?”
The thumping of the horses’ hooves is soaked up by moist dirt that is paved into a trail southwest. The stretch to Valentine shrinks faster than Arthur expects it to.
“Unless I hit my head, I have no recollection of such a thing,” Josephine replies beside him, “Aside from your help, of course. Think I got bruised from the recoil though.”
“We’ll take a look at it once we get to the hotel,” Arthur says. Silence erupts between the two as Valentine appears into sight, the busy residents’ tasks creating bustle amidst the placid nature surrounding the town.
“Mind sharing a room?” Arthur asks. The words stupidly stumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. He stammers a little after then, damns himself under his breath. Well, it’s been said now.
“Sure,” Josephine says, as if agreeing to something like fishing. Arthur shuts up after that, lest he ask anything else so foolish.
~
Warm, bubbly water hugs your frontside up to the ears. After expelling as much air as possible through your nose, you finally raise your lips above the surface of the water for air. The image of that bear being shot over and over by the steel in your arms conjures fragmented memories you try hard every day to bury.
The deed is done now. You must keep reminding yourself of this. But that’s enough of the bath; enough time with your thoughts.
Valentine’s hotel is comfortably quaint, which comes as a surprise to you, who considers the embellishments of the town negligible if not altogether abandoned. Arthur lies expanded atop the one king-sized bed in the room, boots and outfit included.
As the clunking sound of your stomping feet over crowds the room, Arthur props himself up on his elbows to watch you with amusement dancing in his eyes.
You’re a heathen,” you breathe as you swat his feet off.
“You remind me of Ms. Grimshaw,” Arthur drawls, rather lazily. You think it’s meant to piss you off.
“And you remind me that we’re primates,” you deadpan back.
“You’re funny, you know.”
“Whatever,” you say, looking away from his face. “Just don’t put your dirty shoes on the bed. Now get up and sit on that stool over there. I want to mend you quickly so we have time to get to the bar.”
“Since when?” He asks incredulously. But he’s already sat on the stool now, unbuttoning his shirt—rather distractingly, your brain infuriatingly notes. “I don’t think I have drinking in me after today.”
“You have to—as payment for me saving you.”
“I don’t think that’s how that—”
“Oh, be quiet, Arthur,” you say, grabbing his arm once his shirt is cast to the floor. You examine the gash carefully.
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
“I know just about as much as you know,” you say sarcastically. Arthur heaves a sigh.
“Dig through my satchel. Should be some stuff in there.”
With the equipment in hand, you return to Arthur. You try your best to carry yourself with confidence.
“How’s your arm, by the way?” Arthur asks, but when he does so, his free arm raises to gently cup one of your arms. At the touch, your hand accidentally jerks and he sucks in a breath through his teeth.
”I-I’m sorry,” you mutter, feeling a strange, uneasy feeling beginning to emerge in you. “‘m fine.”
Forcing your face to stay stoic, you do as you’re told and try to avoid your feelings of inner disgust. Blood is always a reminder. Like the clicking sound of a trigger right before a gun is pulled.
The wound reopened after Arthur’s bath, so blood continues to muddy your work. In your head, you reassure yourself a few times that it’s fine, and that you’ll be okay. He gives you instructions patiently as you blindly poke through his skin, no doubt making mistakes along the way.
Your fingers graze the skin of his arm, and it takes a considerable amount of will to not flinch away. The feeling of just a breath of physical connection embodies what you believe a high volt of electricity sent up your fingertips, through your arms, and right to your heart feels like. The palms of your hands grow uncomfortably sweaty, so much so that the needle slips over your thumb like a capsizing boat. A grumble grits through your teeth, which grabs Arthur’s attention.
“You alright?” He asks, somehow worsening your already precarious situation. Although administering stitches isn’t exactly the easiest of tasks, you can’t imagine it would make you diffident to the point of impairing you altogether. Yet you stand here, neck to ears clammy and hot, heart racing.
“Stop worrying,” you say. You flash a smile without glancing up at him, knowing the nervous placation won’t reach your eyes.
“It seems like I should.”
Arthur peers at your handiwork—or lack thereof—as you squint your eyes at the wound in concentration, but you feel dizzy. Repetitively, your mind goes,
Don’t look at him. Don’t look up. Don’t look up. Don’t look up—!
Blood slicks on your fingers as the wound hasn’t fully closed. It isn’t Arthur’s wound you see anymore, but instead, every other time that sleek velvety red has coated your palms, and every other night it wouldn’t wash away in the bath.
—
All that remained of your suffragette sign was a bloodied stake of wood, sharpened by the callousness of the fight minutes before. Your family home had a lantern out front, to which your legs carried you home just as an old familiar horse would. At a glance down, your dress was torn and bloodied, and you were exposed, but you couldn’t count anything left to lose. Yet, you couldn’t help the sense of dread despite the worst having already happened; your father would be another kind of beast to tackle.
The front door creaked open, and your father’s silhouette blocked the entrance. One glance up and down your body filled his face with rage, questions and spittle flying as he shouted at you. A sense of numbness cradled you as you bore the brunt of his treatment, but a part of you knew you couldn’t take it anymore.
His words are tuned out, but you know by the way his shoulders are squared and the way his forehead is crumpled down in utter disgust that this won’t end well. He pressed forward, cornering you into the dining room. It was the only lit room in the darkened home. A lantern hung limply over the table and the firelight in the lantern flickered ominously as you sat down in one of the wooden chairs.
Off the surface of the table he swiped up a Bible, its cover worn and spine creased, the pages yellowed. The warning bells sung by your gut on the walk to the house had been vindicated. Dread shook to anger.
“It wasn’t my choice, you stupid bastard!” You yelled back. You stood from the chair, which toppled over behind you.
By then, the blood on the stake you still held had dried and browned into the wood. As you continued, the man in front of you eyed the weapon in your hand. Your voice darkened as you continued, “You never gave a damn about me, so why should I follow your self-serving code?”
“Because you’re a disgrace of a daughter,” your father said, the booze on his breath carrying in the air like a rancid secret. It hit your nose with the same sharp edge as his words.
“I could say the same for you as a father.”
The dash to him was pure instinct. You had had your fill of hateful, pathetic men tonight, and it was this moment you decided you would up your kill count by another. Splinters poked into the soft skin of your hand as it tightened impossibly around the stake. It raised, then lowered, then raised, then lowered, and then you were toppled on top of him, the look of fear in his face burning into the backs of your retinas. And then he just—slumped. Eyes glazed over. Any muscle he had went limp with the lack of autonomy. His chest no longer rose but instead gurgled around the wooden stake still pierced into it.
The man in front of you was reduced to a body. A dead one, that would eventually—given enough time—decay.
When you rose to your feet, your vision swerved. You shook your head, but it only intensified the vertigo. You stumbled back, still trying to reconfigure your understanding of the world, what just happened, and what you had done.
Some semblance of control returned. You darted into your father’s room to get his stashed-away money. You grabbed a carry-on bag and stuffed some random clothes into it, and then you ran for the front door.
In a flurry, you scrambled into the streets of Blackwater—officially a two-time killer by the dawn of light.
—
Arthur’s hand on your shoulder yanks you out of that dining room, out of your father’s limp body and dead stare, back into this cramped hotel with nothing but the sound of your name.
Before you can stab through Arthur’s skin once more, Arthur maneuvers his bad arm around you and grasps your shoulders, just tight enough to feel unmoving. A gut reaction makes you want to hurl, or run, or stab him, but perhaps be held and comforted by him as well. The two emotions conflict like warring tides lashing at each other.
His gaze is so intently on you that your eyes can no longer try to escape him. It’s silent, and you are left darting between looking at his left eye and then the right, and back fearfully. Your entire body is frozen, or tense, or some combination of the two. The feeling draws up memories from a tale on the threshold of disaster, one recalled to memory too many times today. Uncomfortable arousal gives way to panic, and a familiar terror surges within you with a renewed force.
And then you just…crumble. It’s as if a dam comes crashing down, and tears begin to fall. Your ears block out the sounds of anything but the sobs that escape your throat.
“It’s alright,” Arthur says, but his voice is muffled amongst your thoughts. He’s pulled you to his chest now, rubbing your upper back in slow, soothing circles.
The two of you stay like that long enough for the panic to settle. Once it does, your cheek lies against his chest. The world begins to feel okay once more as your breathing syncs with his.
You pull away first. Arthur doesn’t ask if he did anything to provoke that or what happened to cause. His lack of questioning is more than welcome.
He cuts the loose stitch, and when he puts on his hat and shirt, you wonder if he’s got a second wave for the saloon.
“What about your arm?”
“We’ll go to the doctor and then the saloon,” he replies easily. Arthur doesn’t elaborate further.
A wave of guilt crashes you. “I don’t want to make you pay. I really can do it,” you insist. You follow him out of the door of the hotel room and down the stairs.
“You’re fine.”
He doesn’t say anything more, but when the stairs reach the floor, he moves his arm so his hand cups the small of your back gently. The movement is just enough to be appropriate and also stir you into craving more. Arthur only serves to confuse your mind into a bigger muddling mess of what you want from him.
The doctor is done with Arthur in a matter of minutes, making you feel like a fool. The walk to the saloon is spurred on by your wish to be rid of the shame.
Valentine’s bar is much more apropos for fitting in with the town than the hotel is. A few fellows gamble away their pot in poker, the bar is full of men who haven’t bathed, and working women stalk the place, the occasional flirtatious offer added to the mix.
“Something strong for me and the lady,” Arthur tells the bartender. Glasses clink and the subsequent whiskey burns your throat—you have to make an ugly face and then shake it off again before you can even begin to recover.
“Blegh,” you say lamely. Arthur chuckles, but with the ease he takes his shot down, you know he isn’t as affected by the liquor’s strength. The shot works its way into your blood quite a bit faster than you expect. Granted, you realize you haven’t had much to eat today.
After a meal and a few more shots, the dusk blurs to night, and the bar tilts with your laughter. The night swigs through shots, some disgusted by all the dirty, slovenly men surrounding you and Arthur, others dying of laughter over unintelligible things. Heat pricks the back of your neck just as a budding sunburn would. The room is swimming around you sickeningly.
Another blur and the two of you are dancing. His solid chest is against your back, the vibrations of laughter shared and absorbed between the two of you as you move across the saloon together to the beat. In the whims, you forget the stench of whiskey and sweat in the air—the kind you would typically make a fuss about. The floor tilts when you spin, your stomach rolling with it, and in comes a blossoming nausea that sits in wait. You press closer to Arthur anyway.
You bump shoulders with Arthur, who has loosened up considerably as well. On the tumble out to the porch, Arthur does his best to keep you upright while doing the same for himself. It’s not the most successful endeavor; the result is the two of you, arms swung around each other’s shoulders, tumbling back and forth. The swaying moves the walls and floors of the room too, laughter crashing from every corner of the room; it’s too loud, too close, too much. You feel your stomach begin to knot, but get distracted when Arthur’s bad shoulder bumps the wall as the two of you step outside.
“Argh!”
“Y’okay?” You slur out.
He nods his head, the hand once around your shoulder now gripping the freshly stitched arm. Your vision is blurry, but you do your best to walk up to him and bring his hand away. “Don reopennit.”
“I’m fine~, Jos’phine,” Arthur slurs back, bringing his arm back around you. The two of you conjointly stumble down the stairs into the muddy, horseshit streets.
“I ever tell you how much I HATE Valentine’s streets?”
“Prob’ly,” Arthur replies.
“Well…I’hate ‘em,” you proclaim.
At another point, you’re in the hotel bedroom with Arthur. The lights are all on, despite the night being overripe. You sit cross-legged on the floor next to him.
“You ain’ never mentioned your mother,” Arthur brings up, out of nowhere. You stare into the fire that warms the small room, the question eliciting a collage of memories of her.
“She left when I was eight,” you say, the alcohol in your blood making the statement more raw than anything your sober self would ever allow. “I don’t blame her, though. I’d leave in a heartbeat if I was married to anyone like my father.”
“You think she considered what you would go through when she left?” Arthur asks,
“I guess it doesn’t matter to me. She’s my only shot at having a parent. That’s why someday I’d like’ta find’er.”
A few more moments of silence pass with Arthur shifting next to you, unavoidable to your attention.
“I can help you, if ya’d like.”
The weight of his offer sits on your head a moment before you can process it in its entirety. “Arthur, you’d do that? It’s sort of a fool’s dream.”
“Fool’s tasks are my favorite. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think searching for your mother is foolish.” ‘’
The firelight casts shadows around like dancing puppets. Something deep within you has ached for this for a long time. When you shift forward towards him, it’s more primal than cognizant. Moving your weight over your knees, your head raises an inch above his. Arthur looks up at you, curious or intrigued you cannot tell.
Even in your drunken state, your heart skips around in your chest, and your cheeks feel impossibly hot. The slightest tumble would bring your lips to his, a prospect that morphs your belly into nervous butterflies.
Arthur moves closer as if to close the gap, but pauses when your lips are just a hair away from brushing together. It's you who eventually can no longer outlast the wait.
The unceremonious nature of your kiss with Arthur fills your head of fantasies; ones of owning a small homestead and sharing kisses in light streaming through the kitchen window. He doesn’t conquer or lead, but not for a lack of care. His hand cups your head, fingers entangled within your hair. It’s affectionate in a way you’ve never quite known, the way he entangles his fingers into your hair. Your lips glide and lock together, softened by wetted lips and hindered tongues.
He tastes of tobacco, strong coffee, and whiskey, and you drink as though it might steady you, or your life. Instead, the heat of it swirls in the back of your head until you cannot tell if your dizziness is owed to Arthur or the liquor in your blood.
You straddle his lap, his legs now extended over the rug-covered floor, his back supported by the frame of the bed.
Take, take, and take more, races through your head over and over, becoming kindling for the fire crackling down nether. The slow and careful nature of the kiss begins to deepen into something more sensual when Arthur places his hands on your waist. You can feel Arthur alternating between tightening his grip there and then softening, as if restraining himself, but you’re drunk, and you won’t let the little shred of regained power within you slip out of your hands. Wringing your hands into his shirt collar, you yank him in closer and grind your hips over him.
Arthur’s chest rumbles from a strained grunt. His hands glide slowly, tentatively, to your ass, which you moan in appreciation for. Spurred on by the positive response, his touch grows more confident until he’s guiding you against the bulge in his pants, not for one second breaking the kiss.
Something shifts within you, but not in a direction you’re expecting. Perhaps the alcohol wore off, or perhaps it’s that irk you keep pushing down inside. A wave of nausea sweeps over the intense arousal, tenfold. You break away from the kiss quickly, needing air.
Abruptly, you pull yourself away and stand, the room tilting as you do. The action is unconscious and surprises you as much as it surprises him.
“Are you okay?” Arthur asks in concern. He gets up as well, any hint of prior yearning in his face now erased.
“I just feel a bit sick.” An omen of vomit is somehow already present in your voice. Arthur seems to recognize your state and guides you to the balcony gently.
“Just breathe.” The sound of his voice is hollowed by your dulled senses. The world swerves to and fro, as if you are on a ship. The sickness in your belly is one you cannot run from, nor escape. He gets you out to the ledge of the balcony, which overlooks the alleyway. “You’re doing well," he says, patting your back while you do your business over the ledge.
In between spells, you get out through a scratchy throat, “This ain’t attractive at all.”
Arthur chuckles, but the pats on your back change to those soothing circles he’s so achingly good at. His other hand moves to your hair to pull back the loose strands.
“You feel better?” He asks once it seems to be over.
“Mhm,” you mumble, exhaustion beginning its onset. Arthur helps you back into the room and has you sit on the bed. He leaves the room for a bit and then comes back with a cloth and a bucket of water.
“Come here,” he mutters, his hands cupping the backs of your knees and gently pulling you forward on the bed so your legs dangle. Carefully, he starts to clean your face. The cold water on the cloth feels like mint on your skin, and half slumped over, you begin to laugh quietly at the sensation.
~
As Arthur takes care of a half-asleep Josephine, his inebriation only amplifies the guilt he feels for his desperate attraction to her. There’s something in the way she views the world that enraptures him. It is as though her wall of disdain is a mirror of his own. There are cracks in it, her shield, but he can tell she desperately tries to plug them up for fear of showing how vulnerable she truly is. Arthur is not foolish enough to think that his comfort would ever be enough to remedy the way she has been treated.
Still, the urge to treat her with delicacy overpowers him every time she’s near.
In the morning, Arthur wakes with his mind and arms wrapped around Josephine, breathing and living her scent. He knows he ought not to get too attached, but he lets himself linger there anyway, if only for a few moments.
For now, that’s enough.
Notes:
i promise i'm updating this i'm just a busy gal. chapter 3 will be done soon, hot off the press
cowtism on Chapter 1 Tue 05 Aug 2025 11:15PM UTC
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witherwild on Chapter 1 Wed 06 Aug 2025 06:55AM UTC
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GodOfWar23 on Chapter 2 Thu 04 Sep 2025 05:55AM UTC
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