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concretevampire · 1 year

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Early Morning Breeze cont.

arthur morgan x f!reader ꔫ 8.1k ꔫ domestic sadness + angst, some violence too, idk what happened but this got kinda sad // based off of the Dolly Parton song // religious themes

A/N: this is a pt. 2 because people to seem to be asking for it! can be read by itself/ as a stand-alone but if you want to read pt 1 it's here: Early Morning Breeze

“So, tell him with the occurents, more or less, which have solicited. The rest is silence.” Your head lolls to the side, tongue sticking out. Jack giggles. You crack an eye open. “You don’t make for a very convincing Horatio, Jack.”

He giggles again, leaning back into the grass. “I don’t know how it goes.”

Propping yourself up onto your elbows, you hum. “That could be an issue.”

“What happens next?”

You think, trying desperately to remember a play you haven’t read since you were a teenager. A gunshot sounds in the distance. Ravens fly into the air in a wild blunder, black embers ripping across the sky.

Just a hunter. You pray it’s just a hunter.

“Now cracks a noble heart. Good night sweet prince,” you grab Jack, fussing his hair with a tight smile, “And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!” You turn back to the forest, eyes narrowing. Another gunshot sounds. “Why does the drum come hither?”

He pulls away, hands on your shoulder. “What does that mean?”

“Well it means,” and you try to come up with an intelligent answer. You couldn’t be bothered. “It means Horatio is very sad.”

“That’s sad.”

You nod. “It is, isn’t it?”

Jack stands up, eyes searching the grass for a stick. Something to wack and stab with. “Are there any happy plays?”

You snort, laying back in the grass. “Maybe.”

“Do you know them?” He bends down, poking around in the mud.

“It seems the happy ones haven’t stood the test of time, Jack.”

He turns back to you, twig in hand— small and frail— too skinny and too young to be a sword.

“Uncle Hosea said the same thing.”

Your eyes look to the sky, gray and heavy. The sun never seems to shine in Beaver Hollow. Another gunshot sounds.

“He did.”

Jack circles around you, swinging his twig uselessly. “Did Uncle Hosea like Hamlet?”

You sit up, knees coming to your chest childishly, as if Hosea were still blonde and still alive.

“Uncle Hosea liked it.” He didn’t. He liked A Midsummer Night’s Dream more. Lovers gone mad and neurotic. Deluded by their own frivolous needs. Or deluded by pixies.

Pixies would be preferable.

You clear your throat, shrugging. “But he liked reading all sorts of things, not just plays.”

Jack drops his twig, already gone in search for something stronger. “Reading’s boring.”

“Well, you will be the most bored lawyer in the world then.”

He groans, head dropping. “I don’t want to be a lawyer!”

You snort, standing and brushing at your skirts of any grass or mud that could have stuck. “Tell that to your Ma.”

Jack huffs as if the gray skies have fallen to his little shoulders: the weight of the world settled onto a four-year-old.

“She doesn’t care,” he bemoans.

Your hands go to your hips, head tilting as you look his little body over. “She doesn’t care?”

And he nods furiously, pouting indignantly.

“Well then, if she doesn’t care you would be stuck at Mr. Bronte’s,” you poke at his ribs, “eating pasta for the rest of your life!”

He smacks your hand, frowning. “I like pasta!”

You wave him off. “You’d get tired of it after a year.”

“Not true!”

“True.”

“Not!”

Laughing, you bend down to fix the collar of his jacket, tightening it against the chill that permanently hangs over north New Hanover. Just another beast to fight against with the impending militia of Pinkertons, Cornwalls, and O’Driscolls.

Another gunshot sounds, closer this time. Jack grabs for your skirts, eyes peering into the forest– more curious than scared. Thank God.

“It’s just a hunter,” you sooth, patting his back. But he stares for a moment longer. Another torrent of ravens flies over the both of you, cawing loudly. North American banshees. They seem to break his stupor– he grabs for your hand and pulls you from the trees.

“Let’s go home,” he declares. And you follow, knowing it’s best to get back anyway, lest suspicion grows.

Whether it be crazed or not, suspicion is suspicion.

Molly was not spared, and though you have been with the gang longer than most, there’s a growing despair in your heart, an amalgamation of wailing demons that’s telling you mercy would not be shown. Your efforts, everything you’ve given– whether it was your all or not– will not save you.

This is out of your control.

Now, admittedly, it has never, ever been in your control, and you would be a fool to think it ever was.

But beyond control, you barely have a choice anymore. What can you possibly do? As Dutch’s mind rots away– festering and bubbling synapses– you can only act as an audience member, chained to your seat.

It’s maddening.

But you blame the cold. The frigid air for the sleepless nights and trembling fingers. The biting breezes for your nauseating headaches.

Arthur’s getting worried about you.

You’re getting nervy in your old age, Sean used to joke. But it’s not his supposed old age; it’s not him at all. It’s Dutch and it’s you and it’s the loss of Hosea. His devastation is apparent but he refuses to speak about it, like a stubborn child holding their breath.

Refuses to admit it because, just like you, he thinks that if he does, something bad is actually happening. And there’s only so much you can do for a person who can’t stand help in the same way he can’t stand celery in his stew or the way you tuck your cold hands under his stomach as he sleeps.

Once again, this is out of your control.

But you let yourself ignore it as Jack tugs harder, pulling you into camp and towards the dying fire.

It was quiet at Shady Belle, but here in Beaver Hollow it is silent– and this aching, foreign silence ripples excruciatingly through your bones as Jack warms his hands. But you prefer it. Prefer it over the arguing and killing.

Better it be silent.

But it seems your luck has dwindled— not a new development— and Dutch is now hollering. For you.

Shit.

There’s an attempt to ignore him; you would cut your ears off and burn them in an act of morbid defiance if that’s what it took to get him to stop. But Micah is watching. His Cerberus.

So you bid Jack farewell and step towards Dutch; back straight, fingers clasped tightly as if you were entering a confessional.

You have no sins to reveal though. Nothing to worry about. So why are you?

“There you are, my dear,” and he closes the flap of the tent behind you.

“Dutch,” you greet softly.

“I have a gift for you.”

You turn to him, brow raised. “A gift?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he walks over to his nightstand, “it’s insulting.”

You laugh breathlessly and shake your head. “Sorry.”

And he gives you a book. It’s not big, not very extravagant, but that’s why it intrigues you. Because with Dutch, things are always big and always extravagant.

He doesn’t really know how else to live. As a fish to water, a man to money.

Carefully, you open the cover, eyeing the title. “An Essay Concerning Human Understanding,” your mouth hangs open, almost in confusion, “this is,” frankly, “old.”

“I know. He’s no Miller or Emerson, but Locke certainly had some things to say.”

All men do if they think hard enough.

You nod a bit. “I think I read it before. When I was in school.”

Dutch leans back on his desk. “Have you really?”

You flip further, hands delicate on the yellowed pages, drying leaves at your fingertips. Another frailed, withering mind contained in words. “Something about parrots.”

He chuckles, crossing his arms, and you look into the air. Thinking beyond your body.

“Therefore some, not only children, but men, speak several words no otherwise than parrots do, only because they have learned them, and have been accustomed to those sounds.” You turn back to the pages. “Parrots.”

Dutch eyes you wildly. As if maybe he could cut your brain out and replace his with yours.

You pretend not to notice, deciding to shut the book and turn to him.

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

You can’t help but wonder. “Why these essays? Why Locke?”

He shrugs lazily. “Thought of you when I saw it. You did always like the analytical ones.”

Not really. It was always such a drag, having to read fifteen pages on one point. They were actually Dutch’s favorite, but you never had the heart to go against his taste. And now, a question lies laced in your exponentially drying saliva— though you should leave while the silence still hangs.

While you still have a chance.

“Is this it?” You ask, pressing the book to your side.

“No,, no.”

Of course. But you bite your tongue and accept your fate. It is in part your fault.

“What is it, Dutch?”

He comes off of his desk, approaching you slowly. “I need a favor from you.”

Funnily enough, you smile coyly; like everything that’s happened in the last few months subsequently hasn’t. Like you’re still in Blackwater. Like you’re still one big, messy family. “When do you not?”

He smiles at you too, gently and softly, the excrements of a memory.

“What’s the favor?”

“I need you to go to Blackwater.”

You freeze. And your despair deepens, cauterizing every cell and nerve until you become numb. “What?”

“Now, I know it sounds crazy, but I have a plan.”

“You always have a plan,” and it comes out harsher than you intended. Harsher than you really expected. And it makes him freeze, face dropping, eyes darkening infinitely. Ravens.

“Listen to me,”

“Dutch, no.”

“Listen,”

“I can’t,”

“Listen!” He grabs your shoulders harshly. You can almost remember how the act used to be comforting. Why does it feel so long ago? His breathing is harsh against your cheeks and nose— panicked— as you wait for him to put a bullet in your head. Why doesn’t he just do it already? “I just, I have a plan but I need your help.”

“Blackwater? Blackwater!?”

“Just hear me out!” And there’s an urgent shake to your shoulders, silencing you. “You go in anonymously, or disguised,”

“You go in disguise!”

“I can’t,”

“You,”

“I can’t! They know me, they know my face, they’ll know it’s me! They know Arthur and everyone else, they know us. You have to do this for me,” his plea is frenzied, strange and uncoordinated on his deep voice.

“And they don’t know me?!” You counter. “Dutch, they know me too!”

His grip tightens on your shoulders. “There’s money there. More than you can imagine. I need you, I’m begging you to do this,” his hands raise to cup your face.

“I’ll die.”

“No, no you won’t,” he takes a deep inhale, “I have a plan.”

“I don’t care.”

“Listen. You go in, wail about how the Van Der Linde gang kidnapped and raped you,”

“For eight years?” You add incredulously. He pulls away, hands gripping into fists, begging.

“They’ll let you live. You’re lucky to be a woman.”

Lucky.

“You have plausible deniability,” he continues, “and then you can grab the money and go. And then it’ll be okay! We’ll be okay.” He revises. “We can go to Tahiti or the Philippines, whatever you want, just as long,” and he takes a breath, “as you get that money.”

You shake your head desperately.

“You have to.”

Silence falls, one pair of terrified eyes looking into the other. You trust this man; a strange blemish of a father figure; and you can only pray that he sees your humanity and eases.

But perhaps that part of him has finally been discarded: the understanding caretaker. You have entered Exodus.

You rack your mind for options or scapegoats; something that will keep you far away from that city and maybe alive. “Does Arthur know about this plan?” You ask hesitantly. It’s a stupid question, makes you feel like a real whore, but you know it’ll make Dutch pause.

And he turns away, huffing. “Why does that matter?”

“It matters to me,” you say, diminishing your earlier aggression. Anger will get nowhere with him. It’ll only send him into another paranoid fit: guns blazing, mind wilting.

Spreading plague and famine.

Dutch looks back at you, eyes gleaming with a kind of savagery that humans were never even meant to know. “And if he did know? And he agreed? What would you do?”

You swallow. “I’d put a gun to his head.”

He raises a brow, grossly curious. “Really?”

You take a deep breath. “I will not risk my life for this plan.”

Something snaps. You’re not sure what it is, but it does. “You won’t risk your life for this gang,” he says pointedly. Accusatory. And any sort of love or affection he ever had for you has left. Gone is the man who pulled you from the arms of abusive professors and ravenous nuns. Gone is the man who dressed and fed you like his own. Gone is the man you first believed in.

Now you’re being confronted with Dutch Van Der Linde.

“I have always risked my life for this gang.” You assert, your fingers shaking, almost dropping the book.

“Have you?”

“Yes. I have.” You step away, eyes unable to stay with his. “I always have.”

“So why don’t you now?”

“Because I’m,” ‘Tired. Worn. Sick of fighting for an imaginary future,’ “Because I don’t want to die, Dutch.”

“You won’t die.” And unlike the former compassionate assertion that statement used to be, it’s grown cold: a matter of fact.

“You have such a way of promising things,” you muster, lips pursing with grief. Grief for a man who is standing and breathing.

His hands rise, fingers pressing into his temples as if he could will the rot from his mind with one simple act. “Go.”

And you do. You won’t waste a second if it means life or death.

You’re relieved to feel just how cold the air is outside his tent. It’s chilling, almost painful, but it’s better— angel’s breath across your furrowed brow. But the relief is eradicated when you make eye contact with Micah who, of course, is sitting just outside Dutch’s tent.

His fingers fiddle grotesquely, preparing to dissect and devour.

“Since when did you go yellow? You were always the feisty one. Morgan must be rubbin’ off on ya.”

Your jaw clenches.

“It’s a shame really,” he grins, revealing rows of crooked teeth. “I always liked that about you.”

You walk away. He follows.

“Oh, but you have been so uppity lately. I wonder what it is. Morgan hurt ya?” He taunts.

You continue your path, neither speeding up nor slowing down.

“Nah, he ain’t the type. Too soft and too dumb to be hittin’ his woman.”

There must be something someone needs you to do.

“Ohhhh, I know what it is,” Micah feigns realization. “Bet he hasn’t fucked you in a while. Broodmare missing it, ain’t ya?”

The camp seems so empty.

“I can help with that,” Micah steps closer, voice louder. “Why don’t you meet me tonight?”

Your hands twitch uselessly at your side.

“One o’clock. Outside. Just you and me. I’ll give it to ya good.”

You pause.

“Out by the Kamasa. No one will know. Morgan won’t know.” And he finally comes into your peripheral, a mass of sin and maggots. “What do you say? Yes or no.”

Turning slowly, you eye him with a violent look. Something vicious that Dutch taught you. But you walk away again— and this time he doesn’t follow.

Entering your tent, you slam the book down onto your cot before collapsing next to it, face mashing into the pillow; a rotten peach to an oversized, cotton pacifier.

You scream a bit. Then sigh. Scream a bit more. Roll onto your side. Stare at the photos Arthur has hung up.

He looks like his father. The first time you saw the mugshot you told him that too, and he didn’t seem pleased with the notion. But they’re twins.

Same easy eyes. Same strong jaw. Same pout.

You’ve always wondered what his parents would think of you. Would his father think you were a waste of time? Or just a whore? How about his mother? Was she kind? Would she have been protective? It doesn’t matter though, and you should probably stop groveling.

Especially because the tent has opened, Arthur stepping in with searching eyes. His nose crinkles into a funny smile when he sees you.

“There she is.”

“Hi.”

He walks over, sitting at the edge of the cot by your hip. “Gonna tell me why yer in a mood.”

“No,” you rise, scooting to sit next to him, “mainly because I’m not in a mood.”

“Yer always in a mood.”

“Says you,” and you stand, flicking his hat as you do. For a moment you think to stop, ask Arthur if he’s heard anything about Blackwater from Dutch. But you decide against it when you see the darkening eye bags, the deepening cheekbones.

He’s been running himself dry.

It’s painful to watch— he really has been reduced to a workhorse. Something to plow the fields so that Dutch can sow the seeds of another fruitless plan.

And the worst part? He’s afraid: just as much as you and everyone else.

But he will never admit it.

He couldn’t. Because if anything, no matter how much he hates it all— this weight he’s pulling— he cares too much to let it go. He would rather collapse under the strain than leave you without something to pick at; fruit or not.

It’s a pattern of self-inflicted abuse he revels in.

Because when love is shot in bullet dosages, you learn to lick your wounds and ignore the blood. I’m used to it, Arthur will tell you. It doesn’t help. There was a time when you had hoped to show him something different, and you have, but you’re starting to believe it will always be an uncomfortable novelty.

Your silver spoon, a frivolous nuisance.

Sighing, you bend down and kiss his cheek. “You should rest.”

“I ain’t all that tired.”

“You certainly look like it.”

“Callin’ me ugly?”

You scoff, shoving his shoulder gently. “You do that enough for the both of us.”

“Guess so,” and Arthur plays with your hands a bit, thumb rubbing at your ring finger— what used to be a pale band of skin there has tanned and calloused. Time has gotten the best of you. “Got a pretty good catch today, so maybe the stew won’t be so bad,” he speculates out loud.

“That’s like hoping a dog hasn’t licked itself.”

Arthur snorts, rising to wrap an arm around your shoulders and kiss your jaw. “Bah, I ain’t that hungry anyway.”

“So much on your metaphorical plate keeping you full, hm?”

“Sure,” and he rubs your back a bit before pulling away. “I’ll see ya tonight though?”

You bite your cheek. “Maybe.”

“Just maybe?”

“I don’t know, Arthur.”

“What don’t you know?”

You smile hollowly to yourself, shaking your head. “It’s nothing. Just thinking.”

“You do that too much.”

“Yeah, and so do you, so,” and you push him towards the tent’s exit, “go manhandle a log or something.”

“Sometimes I think ya hate me,” he complains, but he’s smiling. And naturally, you smile back.

“Maybe I do. Woe is you.”

His face drops. “I hate when you talk like that.”

“Like what?”

“A damn pompous fool.”

“Awe,” you smile, patting his cheek. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

He raises a brow. “I’d rather you not.”

“No, it’s a quo- oh nevermind.”

“Thou art more lovely and more temperate,” he finishes for you. Seems Hosea taught him something. You beam.

“I am, thank you,” and you fix your apron around your waist, “see ya later.”

“Tonight.”

“Okay.”

He sags in the corner of your eye. Beaver Hollow has created a strange, shared disappointment. It’s new, and you’ve both grown too weary to try and fix it.

Once we get out of here, Arthur keeps telling you. Over and over again, his mantra. It used to be comforting but now it just makes you sick, cigarette smoke blown in your face: insulting and demeaning.

You won’t have it anymore.

So you walk away— off to find another meaningless chore that will distract you for the time being. You have nothing else to do with yourself.

Moving hay bales around, you ouch and ooh at the way the straws poke and scratch, but pay no real mind. The horses have served as some source of comfort during this time; you often find yourself drifting towards them thoughtlessly.

Precarious creatures they are, but there’s an inherent kindness to their mannerisms.

You brush and pat them; feed them sugar cubes and peppermints because you might as well spoil something. Sadie joins you eventually, braiding Hera’s mane lovingly. A sister in arms.

You don’t know Sadie very well. Well, you know she’s good with a gun and has a temper, but you like that. She reminds you of yourself when you first joined the gang.

Ruthless.

Though you can’t say you blame her. In fact, you’d rather she be ruthless and mean and brutal. To an extent, you admire that sort of malicious strength— praying you still contain it.

You offer Sadie a peppermint for Hera, and she smiles politely, uttering a thank you. And then you’re off again, searching to make yourself useful.

Dinner is as peaceful as it possibly can be. Jack’s already dozed off, but you, John, Abigail, and Arthur sit at a table, scraping away at stew. Knights of the Roundtable and their extravagant feast.

Few words are shared, mainly John and Arthur passing half-hearted jokes at one another. Sometimes Abigail chips in.

It’s been like that lately.

Arthur’s knee bumps against yours under the table, though you don’t flinch nor do you move away. You don’t even acknowledge the contact. Instead just continuing to miserably eat as if his legs were simply the breeze; there because, well, where else would they be?

And Arthur prefers it this way. Prefers the normalcy of it all.

It’s a sliver of hope.

The thought that you can still stand his touch calms him more than he cares to acknowledge. That at least if he can’t voice his worries, he can show you he still cares. Show you that he misses your voice and your thoughts, and the way you used to dawdle idly during dinner.

But there’s a heartbroken passion to the way you smile at him and fix his hat. As if you were begging for him to save you; from what, he’ll pretend not to know.

The hand he has resting on his knee tightens into a fist. He’s failed you. But with the eyes watching all he can do for now is brush your hand away and continue eating.

The usual.

Only when Arthur has you under him does he ask. You’re nipping at his neck, trembling fingers clawing at the cotton of his shirt, chemise messily pulled down your shoulder— and yet he can’t.

This culminating dread is keeping him at bay, keeping him from going further. He’s had enough.

And so he pulls away, looking you over carefully. He looks sad, like you’re a stray mutt. Hungry and cold, shaking with the need for affection. But your eyes shine piously for him.

He’s seen the look before.

In a chapel back in Blackwater. After you had vowed impossible things to him and to God where after he could only gasp ‘I do’.

Hands drifting silently, they come to play with his hair. And you have always liked it a bit longer— just for the fact you get to brush it away. Arthur’s not sure what to do next.

Option one: ravage you entirely.

Option two: let you rest.

He chooses something in between, coming to kiss your lips again— gentler, less hungry— like you’ll never have sex.

And then he steels himself, pulls away, and clears his throat. “Are ya ever gonna tell me what’s wrong or do I have to guess?”

You’re breathless, brows scrunching as soon as he asks.

“What?”

Arthur pulls away further, swallowing. “Today,” ‘and the day before. And the entire week. And the weeks prior. And the entire month. And all the way back to Colter,’ “what was botherin’ you?”

You huff heavily, pressing your head further into the pillow. “You wanna talk about this right now?”

Arthur works his jaw, the telltale sign that he’s pressing his tongue against that chipped tooth of his; a frustrated habit.

“Yeah. I do.”

Your head lolls to the side, eyes distant before nodding. “Alright.”

And he pulls you up so that you’re sitting next to him. The way you hug your knees to your chest has his heart dripping with nostalgia— leaking into his stomach uncomfortably as he remembers a simpler time. When Hosea was still blonde and you both still wore your rings.

Arthur realizes you’re waiting for him to start and takes a moment to string the right words together.

“I just want you to tell me what’s botherin’ ya. I ain’t blind, I can tell it’s somethin’.”

You glance through the crack of the tent, into the darkness. Arthur looks there too. “It was nothing,” you start, “just,, just some argument me and Dutch got in.”

“‘Bout what?”

Your eyes narrow. “Something about Blackwater.”

Arthur’s head snaps to you. “What?”

You then turn to him, confusion and frustration marring your features. “So you didn’t know anything about it?”

“About Blackwater?”

“Yes.”

“No, I don’t know anythin’ about it.”

Confusion turns to anger. “I knew it.” And you stand, pacing the tent floor. Back and forth, and back and forth against the grass and mud— a deer caged by white canvas.

“What did he say?” Arthur supplies, still sitting on the cot. He watches you go left.

“It was just another one of his idiotic plans,” you say. He watches you go right. It starts to make him nauseous– your back and forth– so he reaches for you, gently, cautiously, like maybe you’ll stomp his hand into the ground and run away.

“I’ll talk to him about it,” he settles, fingers at your wrist.

It’s supposed to be comforting, and for a very long time it has been, but his words and touch have made it worse. Much worse.

Your anger is biblical.

And Arthur can’t identify it or console it, nor could he understand it coherently. It simmers under your skin in a blasphemous way. In a way that will lay him on a cross and rip holes into his palms and feet; and all he can do is starve and pray.

He’s already consolidated that you will be the one to bury him, and subsequently be the one to unearth his body.

Stupidly, your rage reminds him of when you had first entered camp— dragged in by Dutch in the middle of the night, covered in mud and bruises like dark lace— skirts ripped, lip bleeding. And he did not ask where you came from, and neither did you. Paired with your anger, that odd, mutual understanding laid a foundation.

“You’ll talk to him about it?” You ask incredulously. “And you think he’ll listen? Or care?” Your hand waves towards that dark crack in the tent. And though nothing is visible, Arthur can feel the hell that awaits outside of your lantern lit alcove. “You think he won’t turn you into another Molly?”

He fumes a bit at that, standing with his hands placed on his hips. Looming over you. He never did like using his size against you— not like this at least. “I ain’t some woman he keeps around to fuck.” Arthur bites.

“I know you’re not,” you eye him, “you’re his son. Which is arguably worse.”

Shaking his head, he purses his lips.

“And it’s worse for me,” you continue, “God, you should’ve seen the way he looked at me today! Like I had just ripped his prick off and thrown it in his face. I was so sure he was going to kill me.”

It’s a funny image. You’re both too upset to laugh. His frown deepens. “Did’ya say anything to him?”

Your eyes widen, looking into Arthur’s, disbelieving. “Are you serious?”

“I just wanna know.”

“Of course I didn’t.” You step away from him. “It’s Dutch, Arthur. He’s the instigator.”

“I know he is, but-“

“No. No, I will not let you put this on me.”

“That’s not what I’m doin’,” he says, reaching for you. You take another step back.

“Yes it is.” Silence falls. Tense and waiting. “I don’t know why you still believe in him.” You do know. He isn’t a religious man– and those kinds of men look for faith, for vision, in something else. Desperately. Hopelessly. To ease whatever craving for enlightenment humanity was cursed with.

“Once we get out of here he’ll come to his senses,” Arthur utters stiffly. Your hands grip into thoughtless fists; that familiar emetic feeling consumes you, ripping through your pores.

“We will never get out of here,” you seeth. And it’s the first time you’ve ever defied the promise that he’ll save you. It hits him bluntly– a hoof to the chest– the anguish in his eyes and slacking shoulders apparent. Dead weight. “And we will die if we stay here.”

“Don’t say that,” he commands perilously.

“What am I supposed to say?”

“We jus’ need more time.”

Your eyes close, willing hot, angry tears to stay in their damn place. “It has been months,” you quaver. “Months of running and hiding and killing.” And the anger dissipates, a sorrow beyond hope replacing it. “How much more time, Arthur?”

He’s quiet.

“Because if you give me a time, I will wait. So how much?”

“I don’t know.”

“A week? A month?” Your voice is shaking, “Two months? A year?”

“I don’t know!” He begs. “I just need you to trust me.”

“I do trust you, but you scare the shit out of me! Every single day you run off, doing God knows what for Dutch, and I never ever know if you’ll come back,”

Arthur backs away, opening his mouth to refute.

“And don’t you say a word about how it’s always been like that because it hasn’t. Because you’re not just going up against some dumb outlaws who pick bones for fun, these are people who seriously want you dead, Arthur, and,” you choke back a sob, “and for good reason.”

He’s gone still. Like a winter tree, his limbs hang frozen and useless, gone dead from the cold and other miseries. What does that make you though? A storm?

And you’ve stripped him of all his male inclinations; fostered and trained like an obedient dog. He’s no longer a man, but a person, sad and mournful as they come.

“What am I supposed to do?” He finally mumbles.

You shrug uselessly, sniffling. “Give up?”

Arthur smiles hollowly, shaking his head. “Twenty two years and you want me to give up?”

“I don��t want you to, but I’m asking you to. For your sake.”

“I can’t do that.”

You smile too, just as hollow and watery. Easily washed away. “I know.” That’s the worst part.

Arthur looks away, the line of his shoulders straightening. Back to being an angry moron. A dumb brute. A workhorse.

A man.

You nod as he turns back to the cot, sighing heavily. Collapsing, he runs his hands down his face, his back facing you. Exhausted. The argument was pointless but it was waiting to happen for weeks, prowling around you both; thoughts like coyotes.

You sit down at the edge of the cot, hands laying limply in your lap.

Arthur rolls over at some point, quietly watching your frame. “You gonna come to bed?”

“Soon.”

“Okay.”

And you wait. Wait for the crickets to crescendo and his breathing to decrescendo— to filter out into consistent whole notes— quiet snores a staccato on every other breath. You turn towards Arthur, seeing that he’s rested his hand by your hip, gentle and open.

You think of reaching out; wrapping your fingers around his in an adoring apology. Kissing each knuckle and soothing each callous. But you don’t.

Instead you stand, tremulously collecting yourself. Without bothering to dim the lamp, you approach the flap of the tent, staring into the eternal darkness.

A question. An opportunity.

To step into the depths of hell so that you can escape its pit. How many circles were there again? Nine? Feels like the tenth. And you stand there for a long time, still and silent, long enough for your nose, fingers, and toes to have gone numb from the air.

A statue amongst screeching souls. Crickets.

You look over your shoulder, seeing that Arthur’s still asleep. His hand is where you left it, reaching out. The Creation of Adam. It’s a chance. A beckoning option to return to his side and repent.

You step outside.

You don’t actually know why or where you’re walking but you know you have to– because if you stop moving, the darkness will flood your lungs: suffocating and choking until you drown on adrenaline and fear.

You’re terrified.

It’s uncontrollable, animalistic, and most of all irrational. He’ll kill me, you keep thinking. And you don’t know who ‘He’ really is; Dutch, Arthur, God; but you know you can’t turn back.

Not now. Not anymore.

So you sob. Quiet, hyperventilated gasps for air that leave you reeling for your consciousness even as you keep pressing forward. You must look pathetic– your face hot with heavy tears, paving a path towards irresistible exile. It’s almost impossible to remember the last time you cried like this; you were small, still hurt about why the world offered so little when it promised so much.

It’s disparaging how you will always be that girl.

Always scared and sad– wanting too much to be soft and kind– not knowing that it’s useless. You’ve tried so long to tuck her away, but you suppose, in the end, you never grew up all that much.

Just a tall child, running off with a broken heart once again.

Wiping clumsily at your tears, you stomp into the Kamasa, ignorant of its blistering cold. You let the water splash at you horribly, turning every bone in your body to ice. It’s tumultuous and piercing; so you let yourself sniffle loudly, hiccuping against the sobs.

“What the hell are you doing?”

You pause, a wail catching in the back of your throat. Right on the edge.

It’s Micah.

And you turn to him, standing still as the current blunders against your thighs. A deer in lantern light. His eyes are narrowed, gnarled fingers branching out over his holster.

“So did’ya come out her to take a bath or fuck me?” And his silver eyes sweep over your figure. Your chemise has gone sheer from the water, clinging to your figure: hiding nothing, your body exposed to the world, and worst of all to him. But you continue to stand eerily in the river, not caring as it shoves at you. A siren. He grins evilly. “Not like I’ll give you much of a choice”

Something ruthless awakens. Bloodthirsty. Those demons in your heart.

You hide it though, approaching Micah clumsily from your spot. His smile splits his face, folding and creasing in all sorts of unnatural ways. And the strain of growing arousal in his trousers is obvious; but you ignore it, coming closer.

“Heard you and Morgan arguin’,” he teases, “that’s all it took for you to run to me, huh?”

Your eyes raise to meet Micah’s.

“Oh, I just cannot wait.”

Your hands reach for his hips.

“Eager, aren’t ya?”

Quickly, faster than you can really even process, you grab for the hunting knife hooked to his belt and stab it into his shoulder. Through muscles and tendons it goes, slicing across red hills. And you press infinitely hard— up to the hilt— just for good measure.

This euphoria in violence is savage.

Micah releases an agonizing scream, ravens shooting into the air violently. But you continue, twisting the knife to add to his torture. Rivulets of his blood run down your fingers, crimson drops of his soul bleeding out into the world.

Just the two of you as witness. Him and the devil.

And you had never enjoyed torturing things: it was always a quick kill: a snap to the neck, a shot to the head. But with Micah, you’ll draw it out. Push the knife deeper, twist it harder, until he’s reduced to nothing but a pile of evil and limbs.

Let him suffer. He deserves it more than anyone you know.

Revenge is a fool’s game, Hosea used to say. Arthur’s started saying it too. But you couldn’t care. Not when Micah is screaming and bleeding under your touch.

You could do this forever. Keep him here for infinity.

“You bitch!”

Your knee jerks up, slamming into his crotch. Micah collapses, gasping for air as you rip the blade from his flesh. And you watch him for a moment, reveling in the desimation, before stepping away, spitting in his face, and walking off.

You hear him howling curses as you enter the forest.

John finds you shortly: he’s on watch tonight. Must’ve heard Micah scream. And you’re sure you look beyond crazed, not even human. A piece of clay on ecstasy.

“What the hell happened?” He asks, gripping his shotgun tighter. You glance at your bloody, knife-occupied hand.

Shrugging, you stumble past him, not bothering anymore.

Oddly enough, the sight of Dutch standing at the edge of camp washes some manic form of peace over you. That maybe he’ll kill you— put an end to this all. A new form of mercy. But Abigail and Arthur stand guard at his side, the both of them looking equally mortified as you step nearer and nearer.

It’s been some time since anyone has looked at you like that.

You drop the knife when Arthur grabs you, dragging you away into your tent. You can tell he’s trying to be gentle but he’s failing miserably; grip like a vice on your bicep. And he practically throws you inside, breathing harshly.

“Have you lost your goddamn mind?” He hisses, nearly shaking with ire. “What the hell were you thinkin’ runnin off into the night like that knowing damn well someone coulda killed ya?” He glances at your red hand. “What the hell happened?”

You sniff. “I stabbed Micah.” Simply stated.

Arthur stares. His lips curve up but he certainly isn't happy. He’s polarized between chewing you out and giving congratulations. “You stabbed Micah.” He repeats.

“Yes.”

Sighing, his head knocks back to stare at the canvas ceiling. “So you have lost your goddamn mind.”

“I think so.”

He looks you over; checking for bruises and scratches, having no other natural way of telling you he was worried. His hands come to cup your cheeks, turning your face this way and that; and they stay there even when he finds nothing.

“Is this about the fight we had?”

You lean into his palms, eyes closing. “I don’t know what it’s about anymore.” And it’s the truth. There’s no other way for you to put it. Somehow, this madness is because of everything and nothing all at once. Real limbo, heaven and hell mixed.

Pursing his lips, he swallows. “You can’t stay here anymore.”

Your face scrunches up into an ugly sob, but you have no tears left to cry. Nothing to offer in your sadness. Nothing to argue in your despair. And he’s right. You can’t stay. Not only because you denied Dutch and stabbed Micah all in one day but because this last month you have been crumbling.

Falling apart right in front of his eyes. A prolonged, devastating erosion.

And Arthur can label himself The Provider all he likes, but you were always the strong one in the relationship: emotionally stable, mature, good with your words. You were the one who took his bullshit and shoved it back in his mouth so he knew it was more than just him suffering consequences.

But you were too kind to let him suffer through it. Always have been.

It’s you who sits with him on bad nights, and it’s you who feeds him when he couldn’t be bothered, and it’s you who undresses him at the end of the day.

But here you are, entirely deprived of all your sanity, begging for his help. And he can’t even think coherently. So he has to let you go. What else can he do? He at least won’t allow you to be tormented– not by Micah or Dutch, or even him.

You have to leave.

“Yeah,” you whimper.

His bottom lip tucks under his top one; and you know Arthur– know that he doesn’t cry– but you know that means he wants to. Bending down, he brings his face next to yours.

“Did you do this on purpose? To force my hand? To make me throw ya outta here cause you’ve gone mad?”

You shake your head, hands raising to hold his wrists gently. “No. No, if it was on purpose you would be coming with me.” You explain. And none of this was on purpose. None of this was premeditated or thought out, and it was all driven by a need to feel human again.

Arthur presses his forehead to yours, breathing deeply. Quiet. Thinking. Something he says he doesn’t do. “Is Dutch gonna kill me?” You whisper after a moment.

Arthur pulls away, shaking his head. “Nah. Dutch ain’t gonna kill you. Someone was gonna stab Micah eventually.”

And you remember what Dutch had said to you earlier today.

“They’ll let you live. You’re lucky to be a woman. You have plausible deniability.”

Lucky.

Funny, maybe you are.

Arthur moves around the tent, grabbing your things and hurriedly shoving them into a knapsack. “Get dressed,” he mumbles at you, distracted.

“I’m sorry.” You say suddenly. It makes him pause. And he turns slowly, eyebrows furrowed. “I’m sorry, Arthur.” You stare at your hand.

He’s silent, not knowing what to do. You don’t really ever apologize, mainly because it’s usually him who’s in the wrong. It’s unprecedented and there’s no plan to move forward. No routine you’ve developed. It scares him.

“That’s alright,” he says.

You grimace, amused. “That’s alright? Really?”

He sends a pursed smile. “Jus’ get dressed.”

And you do, slowly but surely. As you rinse yourself clean and pull on petticoats, there’s a heavy weight hanging– a profane fog. The both of you are too scared to acknowledge that your time together has suddenly become very limited.

Cut short by your lack of control and Arthur’s suicidal loyalty.

And Arthur wants to be angry at you.

Wants to scream at you for your thoughtlessness, for your act of revenge— but he can’t. Firstly, because something like this was bound to happen (he just didn’t think it’d be you) and second, because even if he was dying, losing all his strength— the one thing he has— he would carry you out.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Dutch tries talking to you when you exit the tent. You keep your eyes trained on the ground, not seeing if he wants you dead or wants to know what happened.

Arthur puts a hand on his chest, shaking his head. Telling him to “ignore the fool”.

And you can feel the eyes on you as you leave. It’s best that way. To escape alive and crazier than you came rather than dead and entirely sane.

You can hear Jack’s quiet, tiny voice fussing.

Arthur takes you to Annesburg, having you sit at a bench as he buys a ticket. One ticket.

And then he joins you, takes his spot next to you as you watch the sun rise over the water; peeping a childish hello. Patching up whatever transgressions occurred during the night. Kind and new, eastward, a distance you’ve both been running from throughout your entire lives.

“Here’s the plan,” he hands you your ticket, “this’ll take you to Wallace Station. Once ya get there, there’s a track going up to Oregon. When ya get to Oregon,” he shuffles around in his satchel a bit before pulling out an incredible stack of bills, “you get settled there.”

You stare at the money.

“And when I take care of things here, I’ll come lookin’ for ya.”

You shake your head and he grabs your hand, placing the money in your palm heavily.

“It’ll be okay.”

You give up, dropping the money in your lap worthlessly.

“Where did we go wrong?” You mutter, eyes trained on the horizon. Arthur does the same.

“Maybe when ya married me,” and he coughs a little, patting his chest, “just a thought.”

“That would mean it’s entirely your fault.”

“Ain’t it?”

Pulling the silver chain from under the collar of your blouse, you undo the clasp perilously, slipping the ring off. For a moment Arthur thinks you’re going to hand it to him— a final rejection.

You’d become a final glowing pearl in his line of women.

But instead you slip the band on your finger, fiddling with it a little in a familiar way. Just how you used to all those months ago. “I don’t regret it.”

“Maybe that’s where we went wrong,” he snorts.

You shrug. “You loved me. I loved you. It was enough.”

Arthur scowls. “We still love each other.” He defends. God help him if you don’t.

You shake your head, eyes still on that sunrise. Golden and warm. Fleeting canary. “We do. But it stopped being enough for both of us.”

Arthur wants to argue. That it’s still enough, that this is enough, but you’re leaving. And that’s that.

“Guess so.” He mumbles.

You glance at the money, sniffing. “Do you think it’ll be enough?”

“It better be,” Arthur grumbles. “Worked my ass off for it.”

You smile a bit. “Maybe I’ll get the chickens we talked about. And that dog.”

“Dog would be nice.”

“Missing Copper?”

Arthur smiles. “Always. He was a good boy.”

You smile too. But then you seem to remember yourself, and the smile drops. “Do you think I’ll be able to find a job?”

“You will. Yer smart. Don’t worry too hard about that.”

“I’ve never had a real job before.”

“Yer tellin’ me robbin’ and killin’ ain’t a real job?”

Usually you would laugh. But you don’t, reserving yourself to the sun. “We wouldn’t be here if it were.”

He sighs. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. “Is it nice in Oregon?” You fill.

Arthur mulls it over, head nodding back and forth. “Sure, from what I remember. But I dunno if it’s the same as that.”

“That flower your Ma gave you is from Oregon, right?”

He nods. “Cliff Maid. Grows on the mountains.”

You smile a little. “Maybe I’ll find some.”

Arthur opens his mouth to reply, but he can hear the train in the distance. He knows you can too. An impending doom that you both willingly signed up for. Funny, how resigning yourself to hell doesn’t make it any better.

“I hope I won’t have to wait too long for you,” you mumble.

“Not if I can help it,” and he pats your hand.

You almost roll your eyes. “Sure.”

The train shrieks. “Gettin’ close,” he says idly.

“Yeah,” and you stare towards the tracks before shoveling the bills into your knapsack.

Something overcomes him then, a primal devotion that has him leaning forward and brushing a hand against your shoulder so he can kiss you. And Arthur has always hated public displays of affection— turning him awkward and uncomfortable— but in this situation it’s easy.

And you lean into him, hand clasping around his gently. Maybe if he keeps his eyes closed for long enough he can imagine you’re still in Blackwater. Imagine that he’s just recently started going sweet on you— not even together yet.

It’s pleading and desperate; one last act of adoration before you go.

And for once, Arthur prays. A real religious man.

He prays for your safety and your happiness, but most of all, he prays that he’ll come back to you and that you’ll be waiting for him. Maybe he will or maybe he won’t because Arthur doesn’t believe in God. Doesn’t really believe in anything anymore.

He’s lost his faith and the will to care.

And when he pulls away, you smile. Real, genuine, the happiest he’s seen you in quite some time. So he can hope things will be okay. It’s highly likely they won’t.

And if anything, he’ll die and leave you waiting permanently in Oregon. We shall see. But at least he can say he prayed, if it matters.

The train arrives, ravens ripping into the air as it does.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan fanfiction #reader insert #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfiction

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