#I love how Arthur tries so hard not to hate on the hat | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mollierdr2 · 6 months

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Cherry Waves

hey guys here is my fic

Summary: Long play off of Harvest Moon (and another bit I should probably write at some point) that takes place during Chapter Six. F!reader wants Arthur to leave the gang, but he feels a sense of obligation to his family, so he wants to stay.

Warnings: Majorly canon-compliant, could have been shorter, cussing????

Word Count: 13k

'He thinks we’re a lost cause, you thought. He thinks we’re not gonna get out in time. Deciding not to press it, for fear of getting a response you didn’t want to hear, you nestled your head into Arthur’s chest. “Goodnight.”

Arthur kissed your head, saying, “Mmm, goodnight.”

He knew you knew.'

In the swamp, you found that a shift had occurred in yours and Arthur’s relationship. He was more distant, spending more time away from camp. He’d come back exhausted and bloodied, often crawling straight into bed without a word. When you asked why, he’d give you the same answer: ”well, somebody’s gotta do the work”. You’d noticed a new weakness in his muscles, a hollowing of his face. He’d acquired a cough, too, and sometimes you’d wake up to him hacking in his sleep. He blamed it on the weather, saying that he was just getting used to being back in America.

It was no surprise when, after a day out with Sadie, he came and told you that he was sick. “What is it?” you asked, looking up at him from your shared cot. He stood, hands on his hips, in the corner of your rickety room.

“Tuberculosis,” he said, wiping his face with his hand. “I ain’t got much longer.”

“Okay,” you said after a while, staring at his worn boots and swallowing hard. “What are you gonna do?”

“I dunno,” he admitted, looking past you. “I can’t just die though.”

“No,” you agreed. “We could head West and get you some good air, maybe? Colorado?”

“They know us there; we won’t be able to hide out.”

“Not if we stay in the mountains. Hell, you could stay in a sanatorium and I could-”

“I ain’t goin’ to a sanatorium.” Arthur put his hat on the small table next to your cot and took a seat. He shook his head. “That won’t work.”

“So what will? We can’t stay in the swamp.”

“Dutch wants me and Charles to go find us a new camp anyway–somewhere North of here–so it’ll be better.” Arthur took a deep breath, wheezing.

“I suppose,” you said, taking his hand. “It’ll be okay.”

“Sure,” he said, grim.

*****

The new camp was bleak. Everyone was on edge with each other, and poor Molly had been killed–bless her soul–for none other than loving Dutch. She’d never taken to the rest of the group, becoming a bit of scapegoat, but you had tried a couple of times to know her. You figured her death was more of a reason to get away from the gang you had loved so much; you weren’t sure how much longer you guys would have together. In your almost 6 years with everyone, you’d never seen someone from the gang killed in camp until now. You felt bad.

The whole deal felt bad. Seeing Micah and his new “friends” filled you with an anger you couldn’t describe. Seeing Dutch pull away from the rest of you, abandoning the gang that he had created was infuriating. Watching your husband the workhorse go and do everyone’s bidding while he was dying made you feel the worst, though. His plan, you had learned, was to change nothing. He’d just keep chugging along, doing the same as before, despite the obvious restrictions his body was trying to put on him. He’d thinned considerably, attempting to hide this with vests and jackets, but you noticed how his shirts hung from his shoulders. You noticed the circles around his gray eyes, which used to glow green and blue and gold.

You nagged at him constantly–about eating, getting away from the gang, resting when he needed to–but he never listened to you, always dismissing it with yes, dears and we’ll sees. You hated it. You hated that the two of you were stuck in this mess. Arthur needed to get away from this! He was dying. You guys had a limited time together, now more so than before, and you didn’t want to give any of it up, but he was just throwing it all away. To keep your mind off of this, you spent your time split between Abigail’s tent and your own, either talking to her or reading (you found reading to be the perfect escape). In doing this, in keeping to yourself and avoiding the war that tore down the only home you’d ever known, you found yourself resenting it all. You resented your husband for staying here and getting himself sick. You resented Dutch for leading all of you into this mess. You resented Miss Grimshaw for continuing to put you girls to work, despite her obvious knowledge that it was all going to shit. Most of all, though, you resented yourself for letting this happen to you. Yes, Arthur had dragged you to camp all those years ago, but you had chosen to stay. You chose to marry him, to love him in sickness and/or in health, and now you were face-to-face with the reality of that statement. To run away on him–to get the hell away from this disaster and go somewhere proper–would be a betrayal, and that was something you weren’t willing to do.

Arthur was away with Sadie–shooting some O’Driscolls, or so you’d heard–and you occupied your mind with a poetry book. Back against a big tree, you lazily gazed upon the words on the papers, hardly comprehending any of them. You couldn’t help but wonder if he’d even come back. If he’d get himself killed this time. You could picture it perfectly: Sadie would come riding back into camp, calling for you or Dutch or John or maybe all three of you. She’d tell you guys that something’s wrong–something with Arthur–and that he fell and couldn’t get back up and she wasn’t strong enough to get him herself. Dutch would send out battalions to fetch him (or at least the Old Dutch would, but that seemed to be an entirely different man, as of recent) and you’d sit and wait like you always did, just hoping to God that Arthur would come back home to you and cup your face and kiss your forehead like he always had. And he wouldn’t. John would tell you that Arthur was dead and you wouldn’t even cry. That was the worst part of these visions–you wouldn’t cry in any of them. You couldn’t bring yourself to shed a single tear, not even in your imagination. No tears for a man who did it to himself.

The truth is that you felt, in the deepest part of your psyche, that things would be easier if Arthur would just die. If he died, you could breathe again, even if only for a little while. You knew your husband; you knew he’d never leave. And you would never leave him because he’d been there for you for everything. He was there when your mother wrote, asking for help. He was there when you pretended to hate him and instead of being angry at you for it, he told you he loved you–the first person to say that–and danced with you all night long. He was there when you learned you were pregnant and he was there when the baby was born blue. He was there for everything, so you had to be there for him.

When Arthur did come back, you hadn’t even flipped the page. You were so lost in thought that you didn’t notice him striding toward you, quietly coughing into his fist. “Y/N,” he said, catching your attention. “Hey.”

“Hey, Arthur,” you said back, not looking at him. You felt bad for what you’d been thinking about–thinking about how it would be if he was dead–but you couldn’t help but ponder these things. It was a very real possibility that he would leave and never come back. You used to go with him on these things, that way you never had to sit and worry–besides, you knew your way around a weapon–but since you learned you were going to be a mother, you hadn’t picked up your rifle. It didn’t matter that your son hadn’t lived; you were trying to be a new woman. Less angry, less impulsive. Less like Arthur, you supposed. You weren’t the one flirting with death. You were caught up in their torrid love affair, waiting on your darling lover to come back home and realize he wanted you. The waiting killed you. The realization that it would be easier if you didn’t have to wait any longer on him–if it would just end then–killed you a little less.

“Whatchu readin’?” he asked, sinking down next to you. “Something far beyond my level, no doubt.”

“No, it’s just Dickinson,” you replied softly, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Read to me.”

Taking a shaky breath, you sat up and recited the poem on the page, saying, “‘There is a pain—so utter— / It swallows substance up— / Then covers the abyss with Trance— / So Memory can step / Around—across—upon it— / As one within a Swoon— / Goes safely—where an open eye— / Would drop Him—Bone by Bone.’”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Arthur said, chuckling a little. “But it sounds pretty, don’t it?”

“Yeah,” you whispered. You put your head back on Arthur’s shoulder, inhaling sharply. “I’m glad you didn’t get yourself killed.”

“Did you think I would?”

“Maybe. You know I’d prefer that you… minimize your excursions.” You folded the book shut and held it in your lap. “I don’t want whoever you’re out with to bring me back a damn corpse for a husband.”

“I ain’t gonna get killed-”

“You’re killing yourself right now, Arthur. Don’t be a fool,” you interrupted, sitting up. “This is killing you, and you know it as well as I.”

“Don’t talk about that here,” Arthur said, hushed. “We can discuss it later, okay?”

“Okay,” you said after a while. “Okay.”

“Let’s just sit here for a while, though,” Arthur said, grabbing your hand. “It’s rest, like you’ve been askin’ for.”

Electing not to argue, you leaned back into Arthur’s side. You had fought and fought for the past month, and it was nice to pretend for a soft, sweet moment that everything would be alright. That he wasn’t going to die. That you probably wouldn’t go with him, whether you wanted to or not. The dread had weighed on your chest since you’d heard his diagnosis–like a heavy man was sitting atop your ribcage–but you could ignore it when it was just the two of you like this. And then Arthur would cough or wheeze and the weight would be back.

*****

Days later, Arthur was supposed to blow up a bridge with John. Sitting in your tent with the canvas drawn, you said, “What’s the point of this anyway, Arthur? What’s this gonna do?”

“I dunno,” he admitted, standing next to his wardrobe, grabbing a black shirt. “But Dutch is convinced that the ‘noise’ that will come with it is gonna help us; I can’t see how.”

“You’re a fool if you do what he says for much longer. He’s not worth it anymore.” You grabbed your book–a new one, called Her Ladyship’s Elephant–and lay back on the cot. Arthur tucked his shirt into his pants, wheezing a little. Your stomach flipped.

“I know he ain’t, but…”

“But you’re too loyal to do anything about it; I know.” You opened the book to the page you were on, adding, “I’d just like to get to spend more time with you, you know. Away from all of this-”

“Y/N…”

“But you won’t leave; I know.”

Arthur put his hands on his hips, breathing shallowly and looking at his feet. “Now, I-”

“Don’t try pretendin’ otherwise. You know it. I just want to spend my last days with you someplace nice; not in this shithole.” You stood, walking over to your husband and linked your arms through his, wrapping yourself around his weakened torso. “I love you too much for that, okay?”

Arthur returned your embrace, saying, “Okay, darlin’... okay.”

You dug your chin into his chest, taking him in with all you could muster. He was dancing a dangerous line, teetering closer and closer to death every day. You wanted to remember every detail, every single sensation you felt as he held you in his arms which, even in their weakened state, were strong around your body. “For me?”

“For you,” Arthur agreed, pulling back and holding you at an elbow’s length. You pretended not to notice his hesitation in answering. “I’ll try my best to get us outta here.”

“That’s all I ask.”

He cupped your face, kissed your forehead, and said, “I gotta go now, okay? I’ll be back in an hour or so; no longer. Just gotta blow up this damn bridge and I’ll be back to you and we can work on findin’ a way out.”

“Okay.”

“I love you, darlin’.”

“I love you too. More than anything,” you answered, smiling softly. “I’ll see you soon, cowboy.” Arthur jokingly tipped his hat and exited the tent, leaving you with your book. You climbed back onto the cot, opened the book, and started reading, enveloping yourself in a world you could never escape to.

When Arthur got back, the two of you laid on the cot together. You read him passages from the book that you found interesting, and he listened, despite having no interest in a woman who had randomly acquired an elephant. At this stage, the two of you spent every possible moment together, clinging to the other’s company like it was the only thing preserving your sanity. Maybe it was. You never could tell when Arthur would meet his maker, so you felt every inclination to stay as close as you could to him; to hold on and never let go. When it got dark, you put up the book and turned to Arthur, asking, “Did you talk to John?”

“About what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Arthur; about leaving?”

Arthur glanced down at you, brow furrowed. “I told him that he needs to get the hell out of here before it’s too late, if that’s what you mean.”

“And what about us?”

“I’m not leaving until John is safe, Y/N. He’s got… more, if that makes sense. It’s not just him and Abigail; they got Jack, and the boy deserves a better life than this.”

You nodded, your stomach flipping again. He thinks we’re a lost cause, you thought. He thinks we’re not gonna get out in time. Deciding not to press it, for fear of getting a response you didn’t want to hear, you nestled your head into Arthur’s chest. “Goodnight.”

Arthur kissed your head, saying, “Mmm, goodnight.”

He knew you knew.

*****

The day had started like any other–Arthur would wake from his restless slumber and scramble out of bed, pulling his pants and boots on, kissing your forehead, and leaving without waking you–but you were unable to shake the uneasiness that hung over Camp like a wall cloud before a tornado. Dutch had disappeared into the cave and you could hear fragments of his conversation, though you couldn’t tell who he was speaking with. Perhaps it was himself, or it was another one of his “visions”, where he claimed that he could see Hosea. It wasn’t worth trying to figure out, at this point. Dutch was more than a loose cannon; he was a lit fuse. Everyone in Camp waited, air thick with anticipation, for Dutch’s inevitable explosion. You couldn’t blame Arthur for leaving so early.

“Hey, Y/N, would you mind talkin’ to Dutch for me?” Abigail said, startling you. You looked up from your journal, which you hadn’t written in for weeks, and snapped it shut. “I think I’m onto something, but I need you to, uh…”

“Get him out?”

“Yes, if you would.” Abigail smiled sheepishly. “You don’t have to–I don’t blame you if you don’t want to–but I think I found somethin’ good.” Leaning in, Abigail whispered, “I think he’s hidin’ our money in there.”

You raised your eyebrows. “I can try, Abigail, but you know he’s not doin’ well. He knows as good as you how I feel about this place…”

“I won’t be long; promise.”

“I guess you have yourself a deal, then,” You said, standing.

“Maybe, if you’re lucky, he’ll kick you out of Camp. That’d force Arthur to listen to you,” Abigail said, stepping off toward the cave.

“Or I’d end up like Molly…” You responded, too quiet to hear.

You glanced around Camp as you made your way to the cave, taking note of Javier and Bill’s strange alliance. It had always been your impression that they hated each other–it seemed that Bill hated Javier for being Mexican and Javier hated Bill for hating Mexicans–but now the two of them found middle ground in their fiercely blind loyalty to Dutch. Arthur was loyal like a dog, but even a dog learns to stay away from the owner that abuses them for so long. It puzzled you, their loyalty. You wondered how bad things had to have been for them to think that this–the constant badgering about faith and money and scores while running faster and further than you’ve ever had to run before–was better than what they would have faced. Did they really still believe that this was freedom? If you could still bring yourself to write, you figured, you’d write about that.

As you approached the cave’s entrance, Abigail split off to the right, waiting in the corner behind Dutch’s tent, safely tucked out of sight. “Dutch?” you asked, voice echoing on the cave’s moist walls. “Are you in here?”

“Mrs. Morgan!” Dutch boomed, appearing from one of the many tunnels. “How are you?”

“Well, I’m… I’m not well, Dutch. Do you have a moment to talk about Arthur?” You asked, craning your neck and frowning slightly. “He’s in a bad way.”

“Of course!” Dutch put his hand on the small of your back, guiding you to his tent. “We can always talk about Arthur and his issues with Old Dutch.”

“Oh, he doesn’t have issues with you,” you lied, “but I’m sure you’ve noticed that he’s not doin’ too well.” The two of you stepped into the tent, with Dutch motioning for you to take a seat in the wooden chair across from his cot. He settled into a chair of his own. Abigail scurried into the cave without catching anyone’s attention but your own.

“This is about that? My dear, Arthur is fine. Hosea was sick for years and that wasn’t what took him out. It’ll pass–all things do. This, this will pass. I know things are hard for you right now, it’s hard for everyone, but I promise you that I will get us out. We’ve got a train job planned and that will be it, Mrs. Morgan. Just one more score and you don’t have anything to worry about. We will hop on a riverboat and head to Chicago or New York and then head off for the tropics. I have a plan. You just need to have some faith.”

“Dutch, he has tuberculosis.” You said bluntly. “He doesn’t have much time left. I’m not asking for a grandiose speech to inspire me, I’m just asking that you help him out a little. He’s sick. I know that you love him–I love him–and I’m afraid that you’re working him to death.”

“I’m doing no such thing!” Dutch said, raising his voice slightly. “It’s all apart of the plan.”

“And what is that plan?”

“I told you: Tahiti. One last score, and we can get there.”

“You’ve been saying that for as long as I’ve known you; how do I know that this is the real one?”

“Have some goddamn faith in me.” Dutch fired back, a scowl painting itself on his face.

“Why should I?” You challenged, leaning forward. “Where did faith get Sean and Lenny? Hosea?”

“Don’t talk about Hosea-”

“Hosea would be so disappointed in you.”

“Don’t talk about Hosea!” Dutch repeated, glowering.

“Why? You don’t want to think about what he’d say? I’ll tell you what he’d say; he’d-”

Before you could finish, Dutch was in your face screaming, “I have a plan! You do not get to tell me anything. I am sick of your incessant complaining! You know nothing of Hosea, and you know nothing of this situation!”

You raised an eyebrow, holding your mouth agape. The tension between the two of you was palpable; the hatred radiating off of his body was overwhelming, but you held his stare. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. Arguing had always come easy enough for you–sometimes your timing was a little off or you didn’t emphasize the right words–but you rarely found yourself at a loss of words. When you did find the right words, though, you knew they’d hit. “I see straight through you, Dutch van der Linde. It’s a shame that no one else does.” Carefully, reeling from the encounter, you stood and excused yourself back to your tent, hoping that Abigail had made her exit from the cave in enough time.

Upon exiting Dutch’s tent, you found that everyone was watching you, aside from Karen, who was passed out by a tree, and Jack, who was playing quietly in the dirt. Javier gave you a nasty look and muttered something to Bill, who smiled. “Gentlemen,” you quietly uttered, scurrying past them.

“You know, Arthur can’t protect you forever,” Javier called after you. You kept your head down, closing the flaps of your tent. You hadn’t intended to cause a scene, but you were having an increased difficulty in holding your tongue in times like these. Maybe you were just tired of always doing what you were told. You couldn’t tell.

It was no secret that you were unhappy. You had your moments, sure, but you hadn’t been content since you lost your baby. Samuel, your son, was supposed to make things better. He would’ve given you a life away from all this. Sometimes you’d lay awake at night and see his tiny, wrinkled face. His face that never crunched up and cried. And just like every image you’d conjured of Arthur’s death, you could not cry at the death of your son. You could not cry at anything. You could only observe, watching and silently simmering at the injustice that had been committed against you. Your life, you felt, was an injustice. You could’ve been good, somehow, and you never were. It was easy to blame the circumstances–it was easy to say that this was Dutch’s or Arthur’s or Samuel’s or society’s fault–but you knew it was no one’s but your own. You were bitter and devoid of anything positive. You’d fought against living your whole life and now here you were, a shell of a person with nothing to come from an empty existence. When you died, there would be no one left to remember you by.

You climbed onto your cot and grabbed the journal from your nightstand, opening to an empty page. You had nothing to write. You wanted to write something, you wanted this desperately, but you couldn’t find the words to adequately express your emotions. You were stuck. You began scribbling the word stuck over and over and over again, handwriting growing larger as you went on. You were stuck. You could not leave but you could not stay. You could not go to sleep but you could not stay awake. You could not fully love Arthur but you could not hate him. Stuck.

You were interrupted by the front curtain flap opening. Quickly, you slammed your journal shut as Arthur strode into your tent. “I been thinkin’”, he said.

“Does it pay well?” you responded, too quiet, in a daze.

“Funny,” Arthur fired back. “Anyway, I was thinkin’ and you know how we need to get John and Abigail and Jack outta here, right? All of the girls, too?”

“Yeah…”

“I got a plan for it; I have to run it by John, but we’ll… what’s wrong?” Your husband took a seat at the edge of the cot, looking at you with a furrowed brow.

“I talked with Dutch.”

“Why’d you do that?” Arthur leaned back, taking your hand. “It wasn’t good, no?”

You chuckled slightly. “Of course it wasn’t. I was tryin’ to help out Abigail but instead made it all about myself; she must think I’m terribly selfish.”

“You live with criminals of the highest offense and you’re worried about bein’ selfish?” Arthur teased. “She seemed fine; don’t worry about it.”

“Wait, you saw her?” you leaned forward, turning toward Arthur.

“Well, yeah. She was gettin’ onto Jack about runnin’ away or somethin’. It was pretty loud; I’m surprised you didn’t hear it.” He said it like it was obvious. You sighed.

“That’s good.” You leaned into Arthur’s side, resting your head on his chest. “I missed you today.”

“I missed you too, darlin’,” he said back, but you were sure that he didn’t miss you the way you’d missed him. He put his arm over your torso, holding you comfortably.

“You’re so warm.” A soft smile crept across your face and you wiggled closer to your husband. “What’d you do today?”

“Well, I went fishin’ with a Civil War veteran named Hamish and taught a young widow how to shoot. Then I went into Annesburg for a drink and ran into Archie Downes–Mr. Downes’s son–and learned that him and his Mama never left like I told them to, so I went an’ fetched his mother and gave ‘em more money. It’s the least I can do.”

You nodded. “I got screamed at by Dutch and maybe threatened by Javier.”

Arthur chuckled. “A day in the life.”

Smiling, you responded, “No doubt.”

*****

In the week that followed, you watched and waited as Arthur followed Dutch around, doing whatever he asked. You quietly simmered, doing your chores and reading without a word to anyone. How could Arthur go and obey Dutch’s every word, execute his every whim, and not try to get you guys out? Did he not value you? The relationship the two of you had carefully fostered for the past 5 years? Maintaining a relationship with Arthur was like trying to fight the government; you were always losing. You’d fought the government for the greater portion of two decades, and you never won. The same was true with Arthur–you never won. At the end of the day, you might be in his bed, but his mind was occupied by Dutch Van Der Linde and his fancy words. You knew when you fell in love 5 years ago that you’d never be the sole occupant of Arthur’s heart, but it was worse now, knowing that Dutch didn’t care for Arthur anymore, or at least not in the way he had. For him now, Arthur was a weapon, and it simultaneously broke your heart and filled it with rage.

Was Arthur this oblivious or had he just allowed it to happen?

You figured it was the latter. You were tired of it. When Arthur returned from the oil fields–Dutch’s latest escapade, with the intent of sticking it to the Army–it was late and you were looking for a fight. You’d quietly stepped aside all week, but you were done. You were sick of this, of giving Arthur everything and getting nothing in return.

“You’re late,” you said, standing with your hands on your hips.

“It was a goddamn mess; I need to sleep.” Arthur sat at the edge of the cot, yanking his boots off of his feet.

You scoffed, eyebrows raised. “That’s it?”

“Yes. I don’t want to talk about it right now, Y/N, please. It was awful.” He stood and removed his gun belt and pants, tucking them neatly into his wardrobe.

“It’s almost like I told you it would be bad–that all of this would be bad. How long have I been trying to get you to leave this life? A year? I thought that getting sick would give you some sort of clarity–that you’d decide that this is what matters–and you’d finally choose me, but you’ve done the opposite! You’re leaving more, and you come back looking worse and worse every time… When are you gonna come back in a casket, Arthur Morgan?” You spat, voice hushed. You were surprised that Arthur hadn’t interjected to defend himself.

“Not now.”

“Now,” you said, remaining firm. “I waited for you. Everyone got back here way before you did; why?”

“Because I got a goddamn boy killed, okay?!” Arthur fired back, looking up at you. “I… I don’t know exactly how it happened, but we was leaving the building and I slipped and he saved me, but… not before it was too late. He was shot in the belly for savin’ me.”

You were quiet at that. “Oh,” you said, softening.

“Dutch… he left me. He could’ve turned around and helped me, but he didn’t and got that poor boy–Eagle Flies–killed for it.” He paused before quietly adding, “Charles and I brought him back to his pa before he died; that’s what took me so long.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, trying to meet his eyes.

“I know you are,” Arthur answered, staring straight ahead. Then, almost out of nowhere, he began coughing, his body quaking. He stooped over, hands on his knees, hacking up blood, desperately gasping for air in between each croup. You were at his side immediately, softly rubbing circles on his shoulder. The pit in your stomach seemed to reach your feet. You couldn’t help but feel selfish for all of this–for throwing a fit when a boy got killed–and now Arthur was hurting again and you couldn’t do anything to help him.

As he continued to choke on his own air, you guided his shoulders down, laying him flat on the cot. “Shh, it’s okay,” you whispered. “I’m sorry, Arthur.”

Tears brimmed your eyes as you watched your husband slip into unconsciousness. You couldn’t fall asleep for a while–not until the sun was beginning to rise–and when you did, it was filled with the same bad dream, playing over and over in your mind. You were stranded in a county jail when Arthur–young, healthy Arthur–came bursting in to bust you out. Guns brandished, he told them that he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot first and think second, something he used to threaten people with often. Every time, the deputies elected to shoot him. You watched Arthur die again and again and again, shot down by some scrawny teenagers with guns who shot for the sake of shooting, and there was nothing you could do. He crumpled to the ground, crawling toward you, saying your name–a plea of sorts, begging you to help him. Just as he’d get to you, finally gripping the cuff of your worn-out jeans, you’d wake up. You’d wake up in his arms, letting the sound of his slow, steady breath ease you back into your fitful slumber.

You slipped out of bed before he’d begun to stir, grabbing some coffee for the both of you. When you came back, Arthur was sitting on the cot, legs hanging over the edge. “Just the two of us today,” he said, taking the cup from you. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” You took a seat next to him. “You takin’ me somewhere?”

“I was thinkin’ we’d go to Valentine or Strawberry–get you a book or something and rent a Hotel room.” He took a sip of the coffee.

“Careful, it’s-”

“Damn, that’s hot!” he said, yanking the cup away from his mouth. The two of you shared a sideways glance and burst out laughing.

“I tried to warn you!” You said, setting your drink on the nightstand. “I just poured it!”

A smile spread its way across Arthur’s face, but it faded as his laughs were replaced with coughs. Right, you reminded yourself. We can’t laugh anymore. You took a sip of your coffee, cheeks flushed. It was embarrassing to watch him like this. You felt bad–the constant stomachache you had was a way of always remembering–but you felt embarrassed for seeing Arthur, a man used to being strong, in such a pitiful state. It felt like you were looking down on him somehow.

“I’m okay,” he mustered, still coughing. “It’s… it’s okay.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, staring at the ground before you. “I think we should camp out in Big Valley. It’s so beautiful over there.”

The coughing ceased and Arthur nodded, wiping blood from the corners of his mouth. “Sure.”

“We could go fishing and then stay the night in Strawberry–I think a bed will help you, you know–and maybe we could get a portrait done… Well, I don’t know, there’s no portrait places around, but I think it would be nice,” you rambled, turning back to your husband.

“Yeah, that would be-”

“Arthur!” Dutch called, side-stepping into your tent. He shot you a dirty look. He hadn’t been very welcoming since your encounter in his tent. “I thought I heard you. At least you ain’t run off like the rest of them.”

“Whatchu mean?” Arthur asked, leaning forward.

“Pearson, Old Uncle–the traitors–both gone at dawn. They said to young Tilly they were runnin’ to save themselves. I think Mary-Beth left as well.”

“So it goes,” Arthur muttered, shaking his head. So it did. If it were up to you, you and Arthur would have been gone with them. Of course, it wasn’t, so here you sat, next to your husband and the man he loved more than anything. You slipped your arm around his, a subtle and unconscious showing of possession.

“They are goddamn cowards, Arthur. Cowards. Of all the time we spent, to run off…”

Standing, Arthur interrupted, saying, “Well I guess they don’t wanna die, Dutch.” Your arm fell to your side.

“Ain’t nobody gonna…” Dutch grabbed Arthur by the shoulder and led him out of the tent, leaving you to yourself. You made it your business not to listen, out of respect for Arthur’s privacy, more than anything, and perhaps as a sort of guilt for the way you’d carried on the night before.

You could hear bits of the conversation. You heard Arthur loudly exclaim something about there always being a train, before coughing. You heard Dutch saying something about insisting–and from his tone he was not happy–before Arthur came barging back into the tent, saying, “Get ready. We gotta go rob this damn train and we need all the guns we can get.”

“Arthur, I ain’t been on a job since-”

“I know, Y/N, but I’d feel better if you were with me than if you were waitin’ back here. Miss Grimshaw, Tilly, and Abigail can handle the packing just fine without you; I need you with me, okay?”

You nodded. “Okay.” You quietly stood and made your way to the weapon cabinet, digging your engraved Bolt Action out from the bottom. Arthur stepped out, quietly talking with John about the train job. You then dressed yourself in a purple checkered shirt and navy jeans, topping off the outfit with a black hat. You clipped your gun belt into place, carefully tucking your volcanic pistol into its holster. Arthur had his own matching set, engraved with his initials. You hadn’t carried your weapons in almost a year in an attempt to get straight, but if Arthur said now was the time to dig them back out, you believed him. And, admittedly, you had missed the rush you felt behind a powerful weapon.

When you stepped out of the tent, Arthur smiled a little. “Hey,” he said.

“Let’s get this over with,” you responded, walking past him. Dutch stood at the center of the camp, rallying the troops in some way or another. “Let’s ride out, gentleman,” Dutch shouted, arms raised. Everyone muttered their agreements, climbing onto their mounts, as Dutch repeated himself, saying, “Let’s go!”

The group of you took off, heading South for what would either be your ticket out of hell or your ticket straight to it. You stayed close to Arthur’s side, for fear of harassment by Micah or his lackeys, and did your best to keep the growing uneasiness in your stomach at bay. Arthur had respected your wishes to stay out of the fight for almost a year–since Micah had joined the gang–and now he was asking you throw yourself back into it. You wondered if it meant Arthur was worried–if he thought that it was going to be so bad that he needed you to be there. You swallowed hard, paying attention to the road in front of you.

“Okay, let’s pick up the pace,” Dutch called, “The train is due in Saint Denis in an hour.”

“We’re robbin’ a train in the middle of a city?” Arthur asked.

“No,” Dutch clarified. “It’s going to stop there, take on mail and water, let off some boys headin’ home on leave, and then it heads out.”

“They know the bridge is gone, Black Lung,” Micah taunted, inching closer to the two of you. “There’ll be a patrol past Annesburg, waitin’ down by the river to collect the money.”

“Shut up, Micah,” you whispered.

Simultaneously, Dutch said, “We sneak on quietly and then we get a short time to stop the train–before it reaches the patrol.” The bunch of you continued forward before Dutch said, “John, you go get that dynamite. We’ll meet back up outside of Saint Denis.”

“Y/N and I will go with him,” Arthur added, motioning at you with his hand.

“As you wish,” Dutch said back.

The three of you broke off from the group, heading westward to wherever John had planted the leftover dynamite he and Arthur had used to blow up the bridge. “It’s this way,” John instructed, leading the pack. “It’s nice to see you back with the gang, Y/N,” he added.

“I asked her to come with,” said Arthur. “It might be a shitshow–trains always are–and I wanted some extra insurance.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure how all this will play out.”

“This is one big goddamn group to be riding back into Saint Denis,” Arthur admitted, getting side-by-side with John.

“Yeah, and I heard the Pinkertons have pretty much taken over Van Horn,” John responded. You nodded, as if either of them could see you. “They moved a whole heap of men in there. Things are closin’ in fast.”

“Shit,” Arthur softly exclaimed.

John led you and Arthur the rest of the way to the wagon, and despite yours and John’s protests, Arthur insisted upon getting the dynamite himself. You rolled your eyes. He didn’t need to be carrying a 30-pound crate anymore.

“You know we can get that, Arthur,” you reminded him, leaning forward on Waldo, your horse. A red chestnut Arabian, Waldo had been your horse for nearly as long as you’d been with the gang–you and Arthur found him shortly after you’d fallen in with them.

“I’m fine,” he called back, a hint of aggression in his voice.

“As you like.” You patted Waldo and gave him a sugar cube. “You’re a good horse, boy.”

Arthur tucked the dynamite into his satchel and mounted back up. “So listen,” John said, “Abigail just told me… the money… it’s hidden in the caves at Beaver Hollow.”

“What the hell is it doin’ that close to camp?” You exclaimed, falling into step next to John and Arthur.

“I know! Dutch is gettin’ even sloppier than we thought!” John said back.

“Are Abigail and Jack ready to leave?” Arthur asked.

“I think so,” John responded, an uneasiness in his voice.

“Okay… Whatever happens with this job today…” Arthur began coughing, still saying, “wherever Dutch and them go next, we’re getting you the hell outta here. We’re gonna get you the money you need. Knowin’ the three of you got out, well… Maybe all this’ll still mean somethin’... Tilly and Susan too. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

You hoped that included you.

He wouldn’t say it then, whatever plan he had for getting you guys out of there, and you knew that–it was a conversation for you two to have in private–and despite knowing the end was coming, you hadn’t anticipated its arrival to be this soon. But part of you wished that he would have mentioned you–his wife, the woman who had stood by his side for nigh on 6 years now–because it would have meant that he believed that you were something he was fighting for.

You’d talk about it later, if you could, and you’d apologize for making an ass of yourself the night before. These weren’t things to be discussing with John around; he didn’t need to be aware of your guys’s relationship issues, especially when he was having his own. “You’ve always had my back, Arthur,” John said.

“Well, perhaps not always,” Arthur corrected, and you smiled, remembering how angry he’d been when John left.

“Anyway, here we go… One last train, guys.” John pushed forward.

“One last train…” Arthur repeated. Your stomach flipped. One last train.

*****

The three of you caught up to the rest of the gang soon after, and you couldn’t help but remember the last time all of you had ridden into Saint Denis–when Hosea died. You slipped away with Abigail, but you still saw it all happen. You shook off the memory, trying your best to seem nonchalant. To the people of Saint Denis, you were just a woman with her husband and his friends. Sure, the whole lot of you were heavily armed, but many people in Saint Denis were. Besides, this was a city–people would have needed to worry about other people to care about what you were doing. You took a deep breath, reminding yourself that you would be okay.

“You good?” Arthur asked, having noticed your anxiety.

You nodded. “Just nervous, is all. Haven’t been on a job in ages.”

“One last time, gentlemen,” Dutch started. “I got us a river boat. We’ll head up to New York or Chicago, and get a real boat from there to the tropics.”

“Chicago ain’t on the Coast,” you whispered, rolling your eyes. He didn’t have a damn plan, and you knew it. These other people, they might not have caught on, but you could see his bullshit from miles away.

“So long as it isn’t Guarma,” Javier said from behind you.

“Oh, it’ll be paradise, son!” Dutch reassured, as if he knew what paradise even was. You were certain that he’d do the same thing he always had–the whole ordeal reeked of his and Micah’s ferry job in Blackwater, and all that had come from that ‘one last score’ was more ‘one last scores’.

“It’s all coming together, Dutch, just like we planned,” Micah chimed in.

“That okay with you John? Arthur?” Dutch mocked, “Or do you ‘insist’ on something different?” You wanted to say something, but Arthur put his hand out, as if to say ‘do not’.

“Sounds about as good now as every time I heard it before,” John fired back, saying exactly what you were thinking.

“Oh, Abigail must be real excited, all packed up like she is,” Micah taunted. “I could just see her in a little grass skirt-”

“Don’t talk to me, you son-of-a-bitch,” John interrupted.

“Boys, boys, okay now, let’s keep it down,” Dutch said, attempting to slip back into the role of the level-headed peacemaker that he’d refused to play for so long. “We don’t wanna draw attention to ourselves goin’ through here. Nice and easy through town, fellers.”

Continuing to push, Micah said, “Ah, Saint Denis… good to be back. Happy memories, huh, John?”

“Will you shut up, Micah?” you fired. “He ain’t botherin’ you.”

“That’s enough!” Dutch declared. “Quiet, all of you.”

Dutch led the lot of you the rest of the way to the train station, occasionally nodding or saying hello to people on the sidewalks. When you arrived, all of you dismounted, Dutch giving everyone their instructions, saying, “Cleet, Sadie, and Y/N, you board halfway along. John, you and Arthur are gonna board at the back. Rest of you, follow Micah and I, and join once they stop the train.”

As if on cue, the train came barrelling into the station. Bill, in his infinite wisdom, said, “Here she comes,” as if it was not already abundantly clear that the train was on its way. What also happened to be obvious was the fact that the train was not slowing down.

Arthur glanced at Dutch as the train passed you by, saying, “Should I just… sneak on now?”

“Goddamnit,” Dutch said, looking back at Micah. It was odd how he’d gone from looking at Hosea to Micah, of all people. “Well,” he decided, “everyone mount up.”

“We’re still going through with this?” Arthur asked, brows furrowed in disbelief.

“Of course we are!” Dutch fired back, and the lot of you climbed back onto your mounts in hot pursuit of the runaway train. John yelled at Arthur–something about catching up–but you ignored it, focusing on your own task: getting onboard the train and getting to the money. You pushed Waldo forward, guiding him into a sprint. You jumped onboard in the back carriage, which was flat. Pistol drawn, you took out two of the guards that emerged from the car in front of you with a familiar ease. You followed Sadie and Cleet through the train, taking out guards whenever you could. The three of you made it through without much kickback, and it wasn’t until you heard yelling from behind you that you realized something had gone wrong: one of the train cars caught on fire, and John and Arthur were stuck on the other side of the fire.

“Let’s get over there and see what we can do to help,” you said, motioning for the other two. Without checking to see if they had followed, you made your way to the flat car in front of the one on fire. Just as you got there, Arthur and John jumped onto the car from The Count and Brown Jack.

“Uncouple that carriage, before it blows us all up!” Arthur shouted, pointing at the burning carriage.

“I’m on it!” John called, running to the back of the car.

In front of Arthur, there was a gatling gun, presumably left out open by whatever soldiers you’d shot down minutes before. He looked around, taking note of the lookout on the hill–meaning you guys hadn’t stopped the train in time–and glanced back down at the gun.

“Man the gun, Arthur!” John shouted.

“Sure,” Arthur said back, grabbing the head from its wooden crate and latching it onto the post. John uncoupled the carriage with ease, too, releasing the train from the fire that had threatened your pursuit. John called for all of the riders to get on the train, and, as Bill jumped onboard, John was clipped by a bullet in the shoulder, sending him flying backwards off of the train.

“John!” Arthur shouted, flinching from the shots. Quickly, he whipped back around, shooting the soldier who had knocked John down in the head. Dutch promised to get John, so long as the rest of you got the money.

You nodded at your husband to reassure him, saying, “Man the gun. We got you covered.”

“I’ll go stop the train,” Bill said, grabbing his rifle.

“Do not stop the train!” You responded, shooting a soldier trailing you guys. “You can secure up ahead, but do not stop this damn train or we’re dead, you hear me?”

“Got it!” Bill shouted back, heading to the front with Javier and Cleet.

“Shit, we got a lot of riders on our tail, Arthur,” Sadie said, guns drawn.

“I see ‘em.” Arthur was already shooting at the three or so men headed towards you. As the soldiers approached from all sides, Arthur began swinging the gun around, killing men and horses alike–it’s hard to aim with a gatling gun, after all–and you and Sadie tried your best to assist him.

“It’s nice to see you in action, Y/N,” Sadie shouted. “I heard you was good with a gun!”

“I’m better with poetry books, but sure, I can handle myself in a gunfight,” you said back, shooting the hat off of a soldier in pursuit. “There’s a horde of ‘em to the left, Arthur.” Arthur nodded and swung the gun to the left as you shot at the soldier again, this time shooting him out of the saddle. You and Sadie continued to shout your warnings at him. After passing through a bridge, there appeared to be no one else on your tail, so you said, “Get off the gun; we gotta get to the money.”

The three of you pushed forward, only going a couple of cars further than where you’d been. Arthur quickly dug the dynamite out of his satchel and placed it on the doors. “Alright, I guess I better blow this thing,” he muttered.

Stepping back, he shot the dynamite, and the doors came open. He ran inside, with you and Sadie posting on either side of the door. “We got something,” he said, looking around. “We got something!”

Throwing a money bag to you, he instructed you to catch. “There’s more!” he said, tossing a bag the size of your torso at you. And another. And another. You were so overwhelmed with the amount of money that you didn’t notice Bill barrelling toward you, jumping from the top of the carriage.

“Morgan!” he said, “The driver’s dead! This thing ain’t stoppin’, we gotta get off.”

“Okay then,” Sadie said, dumping a bag of money into Bill’s arms. “Let’s go!” The four of you grabbed your bags and dove off of the train, barely making it off before it went flying from the bridge Arthur and John had blown up.

You looked down at the wreckage, saying, “Jesus.”

“We’re alive,” Bill chimed in.

“Yeah, just about,” Arthur said back, looking at the rest of you and coughing.

“Let’s get the hell outta here; regroup with the others,” you said, stepping away from the cliff, which you preferred not to be particularly close to in the first place. The rest of them followed you back. You were met on the tracks by Dutch, Micah and Joe. “Where’s everyone else?” You asked, heaving your money sack onto the ground.

“Where’s John?” Arthur added, staring at Dutch expectantly. The rest of the men–Javier and Cleet–fell in.

“I tried,” Dutch said, looking down at all of you. You slipped your arm around Arthur’s–a reminder not to fly off the handle at whatever response he got. “I tried.”

“He didn’t make it,” Micah said, peering at you guys from behind Dutch. You felt sick. With John gone��dead, apparently–Arthur was left with a choice you knew he’d never make. He could stay with Dutch, link himself to the carnage, latching even tighter to Dutch’s dry, empty teat, or he could take you and leave, ending all of this once and for all. “That patrol killed him. We had to run.”

“Come on,” Dutch said abruptly, before any questions could be asked. “Let’s go. Before another patrol turns up.” The men took off, leaving you and Arthur on the tracks. You watched him, trying to catch his gaze for just a moment, but he wouldn’t look at you. He stared straight down, wheezing.

“Let’s go, Arthur. We don’t have time to fret, okay? We can worry about this later, but right now, Dutch is right; we gotta go.” You tugged at Arthur’s arm, dragging toward your horses. He moved without protest, still quietly pondering the events that had just unfolded. You had a feeling that whatever happened after this would not be good.

You and Arthur saddled up, taking off after the gang. The ride back to camp was… solemn, with no one saying much. As tense as things had gotten between everyone, John was a part of the family, and that took its toll. At least it did on most of you. Dutch and Micah seemed to be just fine about the ordeal, quietly chattering at the front of the pack. You were sure Arthur had noticed this too, but didn’t say anything about it–he wouldn’t be in the mood to talk much, not after what you’d learned.

Right before the turn to enter camp, everyone in front of you slowed up. You eased Waldo to a halt, looking around. “What’s goin’ on?” you asked Arthur, brow furrowed.

“Don’t know, but I don’t like it,” he whispered back.

And then you heard it. Young Tilly, scared out of her mind, saying that the Pinkertons took Abigail. Arthur sent you a sideways glance, an odd expression painted across his face, and you realized that he’d chosen to fight for John, even though he was out of the picture. The family he never had, or something like that. Maybe if your son had lived, he’d fight like this for you, you thought. Micah insisted to let Abigail go–to let her die–because John was already gone, and despite Arthur’s pleas, Dutch could not be swayed in the opposite direction.

Arthur threw himself out of the saddle, positioning himself beneath Dutch–in front of The Count–like he was begging him to go rescue Abigail. Tears swelled in your eyes at the sight of it–seeing your husband begging Dutch to save a woman he’d refused to let go hours earlier–and you knew that, despite your own protests to the whole affair, you’d go with him. You’d help, not because you thought it was the best way (you couldn’t help but side somewhere in the middle with this; you found yourself wishing for a third option where you waited a while before sneaking in and getting her out), but because you knew that it was the only way Arthur would go, and you were afraid he’d get himself killed while you weren’t with him.

They ignored him and rode past, leaving you and Sadie and Arthur and Tilly and Jack to yourselves. Arthur coughed, putting his hands on his knees and spitting blood. “Well, I guess that’s that, then.” He stood. “All them goddamn years.” Without pausing to think, he grabbed his horn to mount up. “I’m goin’ to get her.”

“Not without us, Arthur,” Sadie said, pushing forward. You nodded, adding, “We’ll cover you.”

Arthur frowned, saying, “No, Y/N, you need to stay. Me and Sadie’s all we need. Get everything together and we’re runnin’ after this. We’ll go down to Big Valley and get that portrait.”

You frowned. “I don’t want to leave-”

“I know, but it’ll be faster. Once Abigail is safe, we’re out of here, no questions asked. Stay with Tilly and Jack. We’ll meet up at Copperhead Landing and go from there, okay?”

“Okay,” you said breathlessly. Climbing out of your saddle and making your way to him, you said, “Oh, Arthur, I-” You leaned into his chest, holding back tears.

“I know.” He cupped your face, kissing you softly on the forehead. “I love you, darlin’.” He reached into his satchel, pulling out stacks of cash and other valuables. “Take this back and pack it up. And the money, too. It’ll get us out of here.”

“Okay. Stay alive for me.”

“I will, darlin’. I will.” He kissed you again, this time with more urgency. He mounted up, saying, “I’ll be back.”

“You’d better.” You climbed back onto Waldo and watched as Arthur and Sadie disappeared into the distance. Turning to Tilly, you said, “Take the money bags and Jack straight to Copperhead Landing and I’ll meet you there once I’ve got our stuff. We’ll regroup there and get you someplace safe.”

She nodded, squeezing Jack as if to tell him that things would be okay.

“I don’t think it’s safe for you to go back into Camp.” You added, and Tilly agreed, so you set off in opposite directions–Tilly towards safety and you towards a battlezone.

When you got there, everything had been stripped. Miss Grimshaw was ordering people around while Dutch and Micah conversed by Dutch’s tent, which hadn’t been touched. You quickly dismounted and made your way to yours and Arthur’s tent, trying your best to be discreet, but it still caught the attention of Javier, who’d been sitting by the fire next to Bill.

“Running from something?” Javier asked.

“I’m packing, just like the rest of you.” You bowed your head and continued forward, stepping into your tent.

“Where’s Arthur, then?” He followed after you.

“Doing what you folk were too cowardly to do,” you fired back, closing the curtain to your tent in his face.

As quickly as you could manage, you dug through everything, putting the essentials into a leather suitcase with your initials engraved on the handle. You packed shirts, skirts, pants, books, and all of your valuables. Arthur’s pictures, his mother’s flower, his shaving equipment. Your wedding rings. Newspaper clippings, your respective journals. Little knick knacks Arthur had gifted you after his many journeys. It scarcely fit in the suitcase, but you managed. You layered your clothes to take more. You couldn’t leave it all behind, not with the little money you two had. You gripped your suitcase and hurried out.

“Leaving so soon?” Micah called after you.

“They’re traitors,” Javier taunted.

“I oughta show them what we do to traitors,” Bill said in response.

You kept your head down and continued towards Waldo, strapping your suitcase onto his back. The men continued to hurl insults towards you, about how you were abandoning them and that they knew Arthur was crooked. You wanted to turn and scream at them, to call them fools for staying and bastards for refusing to help Arthur, but you kept your mouth shut, determined to let everything work out. You’d get out. You’d head somewhere new, somewhere he could breathe again, and it would be okay. You’d get your portrait done and live on a homestead like normal couples did. Maybe you’d try to have a kid again.

“Going somewhere?” A familiar voice said from behind you.

“I do not wish to speak to you, Dutch,” you said, trying to sound cordial.

“Ever since you came along, Arthur has been doubtin’ me, you know?” He stepped next to you, putting his hand on Waldo. “You’ve been whisperin’ in his ear for six years now.”

“Arthur’s not doing anything. This is on my own accord,” you lied. “I can’t stay here any longer–it’s too much for me.” You mounted up, looking down at Dutch. “I wish Arthur would agree with me, but he’ll be back, no doubt. He’s too damn loyal.”

Dutch laughed, watching as you pulled away, riding out of Camp for what would be the last time. You didn’t know if he believed you or not, but you hoped he wouldn’t follow you. Everything would be fine if he didn’t follow you out. You couldn’t imagine that what you did mattered, seeing as how you had hardly contributed to any of Dutch’s causes (except to say that they’re dangerous), but it was hard to tell with Dutch anymore.

You waited at Copperhead Landing with Tillly for hours. There was no trace of Dutch or Micah or any of the other guys from Camp, but there was also no trace of Arthur or Sadie. Eventually, you grew restless, and left your things with Tilly so you could sneak into Van Horn yourself. You hadn’t been on the radar of the law in years–they wouldn’t expect to see you barrelling into town, especially not dressed like a proper lady.

You managed to walk through the town completely unscathed, strolling right up to the front of the building the Pinkertons had posted up in before you were questioned. A fat man with a bald head asked you where you were going and you hastily held a knife against his throat, telling him you’d kill him if he didn’t lead you into the building. The best part was–being that it was almost dark–that no one could see you. He walked you straight in, hands up, telling them not to shoot you.

In the room, you found Sadie hogtied and gagged on the ground and Abigail strapped to a chair. Arthur was nowhere to be found. “Put your guns down or I’ll slice his throat,” you instructed the two guards. They did, raising their hands to the sky. You stepped forward and kicked their weapons away. “Untie them.” You motioned towards Abigail and Sadie with your free hand, grabbing your pistol right afterwards.

“No can do, Mrs. Morgan,” a voice said from a dark corner of the room.

“Who the hell are you?” you asked, looking towards the location of the voice.

“Agent Milton, Pinkerton Detective Agency. We thought you were dead until we heard of another woman running with the Van Der Linde gang on that train stunt you pulled earlier. I never thought I’d see you in the flesh.” He stepped forward.

“I’ll slice this fucker’s throat-”

“I don’t doubt that you will. But we have your husband back here, and it’d be a shame if we did the same to him.” He grabbed a lantern from a table next to him, holding it towards the dark corner of the room. Sure enough, there was Arthur, bloodied, barely conscious, and tied to the wall. “Have you ever heard of lex talionis, Mrs. Morgan?” Milton asked.

“Of course I have,” you spat. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; what do you want in return?”

“Give me Dutch Van Der Linde or they’re dead.” Milton smiled.

“I can’t,” you responded. The man you were holding wrapped his arm around yours. “He’s packing up to leave right now; I don’t know where he’s going.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“That is the truth,” Arthur said weakly, coughing, from behind Milton. “They’re leavin’ with the money.” Blood dripped out of his mouth. Milton turned towards him, setting down the lantern.

“Calm down, Mr. Morgan,” he said. “That’s quite a cough he’s got there.”

“Sure,” you responded. “Tuberculosis. He’ll be dead soon anyway… and you with him.” You tightened your grip on your pistol, getting ready to aim, when the man you were holding flipped you over his body, slamming you into the hardwood floor, winding you. In doing this, though, he’d managed to slit his own throat. Suddenly, Milton was staring down at you, gun drawn. The other men were trying to locate their own weapons.

“Don’t move an inch!” Milton shouted. You still had the knife in your left hand, soaked with the man’s blood, and your pistol in the right. “Let go of your weapons or we’ll shoot!”

You were effectively stuck. A gun aimed straight at your face and only a knife to defend yourself with. One of the men picked up his revolver. You weighed your options. You could try and get the knife to Arthur, but there was no guarantee that he’d be strong enough to do anything. Or the gun, but you weren’t sure he’d be able to see well enough to shoot. You could try to get it to Abigail, but she wasn’t untied. Still, her bonds looked loose. She started wiggling, nodding at you. You flung the weapons towards her.

“Arthur will be dead, sure, but I’ll be just fine. We offered him a deal, Mrs. Morgan. It’s a pity he refused to take it.” He sneered at you.

“He’s a fool. I’ve been tellin’ him that for 6 years.” The other two men appeared around you, pointing their revolvers at your head. Abigail was wiggling her arm loose out of the corner of your eye.

“Not all you folk have quite so many scruples. Old Micah Bell…” Milton stepped back, leaning against the table that he’d set the lantern on.

“Micah?” Arthur asked.

“You mean Molly?” You chimed in, sitting up a little. One of Milton’s men shoved his revolver in your face, forcing you back down.

“Molly O’Shea? We sweated her a couple of times, never talked a word, had to let her go. Micah Bell… we picked him up when you boys came back from the Caribbean and he’s been a good boy ever since.”

Abigail gave you a slight nod, free, and quickly got to untying Sadie.

“Micah?” You asked again, stalling. “But he’s been so-”

“He told us about everything; the job today, your involvement with the Indians and the Army.” Milton crossed his arms with a confident swagger.

“Then why’d you ask about Dutch?” You asked, frowning. “If you knew where we were the whole time, why would you ask?”

“Wanted to see if you’d tell the truth about the whole thing. We’ve heard that Mr. Morgan was undecided.” You glanced back to Abigail and Sadie, then back to Milton. Arthur coughed, his head limp, and blood dripped from his mouth to the floor. He looked pathetic. You wished you could rush to his side and help him somehow, but you were a little occupied.

You figured the best thing you could do from there was come up with a little sob story until Abigail had freed Sadie and gotten their weapons, so you said, “You know, I’ve waited on Arthur to get away from this for ages. All I ever wanted was for him to cut loose and run away from that Gang. I knew it would be our downfall.”

“That it was, Mrs. Morgan,” Milton said, but then a gun was fired and he crumpled to the ground.�� Two more shots rang and Milton’s men followed suit, falling onto the hardwood floor.

“Horrible men,” Abigail muttered, turning away.

“You okay, Y/N?” Sadie asked, offering you a hand. You took it and stood, nodding, and then made your way to Arthur.

His arms were in shackles that were chained to the wall. “Oh, Arthur,” you whispered. “Search their bodies for keys to these things.”

Sadie found them in Milton’s pocket, so you unlocked Arthur’s shackles and he came tumbling down onto you, unable to support himself. “What did they do to him?” you asked, looking at the girls.

“They nearly beat him to death,” Abigail said, frowning. “They caught him trying to untie me and attacked him.”

“Let’s get him up,” you said, motioning for Abigail and Sadie to get on either side of him. The three of you stood in unison, supporting Arthur’s weight. “They’ll have heard the commotion we made, so more of them will be coming, no doubt. We need to get out of here.”

The three of you led Arthur to your mounts, helped him on, and hurried out of Van Horn, magically escaping a gunfight. When you got to Copperhead Landing, Jack was asleep in Tilly’s arms. The only light in the area was from the moon and stars. You tapped Arthur’s thigh, saying, “I gotta get down.”

Arthur nodded glumly and slipped off the side of Ralph, his horse (Abigail was on Waldo), and held on to his back for stability. He couldn’t hold his head up all the way. You wanted to take him away somewhere, to bring him to a place where he’d be able to rest, but you guys had a long way to go.

“Where’s John?” Abigail asked, frowning at the sight of Jack and Tilly, but no John. “He didn’t run, did he?”

“He’s… he’s dead,” you managed. “He didn’t run on you guys–he wouldn’t do that again. I’m so sorry, Abigail, but he… he fell and Dutch-” Abigail burst into tears, pulling you into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry.”

“We’ll go back for him,” Arthur mumbled, stepping away from Ralph and towards the two of you. “We’ll go find him and give him a proper burial like you wanted, but I gotta have a little chat first.”

“Arthur-” You tried to interrupt, but he continued. You broke from Abigail’s embrace.

“Abigail and Sadie, you go with Tilly and you find someplace nice to stay, please. You got any money?”

“No, not-”

“Here.” Arthur reached into your suitcase and pulled out the stack of money he’d handed you earlier. “Take it and get the hell away from here.” You watched frantically as Arthur gave away your last bit of hope that the two of you would make it.

“Oh, Arthur,” Abigail said, but Arthur put his hand up, telling her not to say anything and just go. The whole lot of them did, leaving you and your husband with your horses.

“What the hell was that?” you asked, brow furrowed. “You’re giving them our money?”

“They need it more.”

“I thought we were running away.” Your voice broke at this, tears filling your eyes. “How are we gonna run away if you gave them all of our money?”

Your husband grabbed your shoulders, forcing you to look at him. He looked defeated, in a way, as if he’d fought against himself about this and finally lost. “I’m sorry. I have to go back and warn them. Micah, he’s… he’s leading all of them to their deaths.”

“They want to kill you, Arthur! They think you’ve betrayed them!” You pleaded, trying to catch Arthur’s gaze, which he refused to meet. “Arthur, please.”

“It’s been 20 goddamn years; I can’t just let them die.”

“What about your wife?” You begged. “What about what you said earlier? What about Big Valley?”

“I can’t… it’s… they need to know, Y/N, I’m sorry. I need to tell them and then we can meet up again.” He pulled you close and kissed your head, but you pulled away from him.

“I’ll never forgive you for this,” you spat. “I’ll never forgive you for picking them over me after they left you!”

“They didn’t-”

“They did! You told me last night, Arthur. They left you! There’s nothing for you there anymore. Abigail, Tilly, Sadie, and Jack are all gone. Charles is gone. John’s dead. What more could you possibly get there? I have all of our stuff!” Tears spilled from your eyes, and as much as you tried to blink them away, they stayed steady.

“I have to tell them about Micah. I can’t leave them like that, not after 20 years, not knowin’ it’s him. I don’t need you to forgive that, but I need to do it.” He climbed onto Ralph, his amber champagne coated Missouri Fox Trotter, and looked down at you. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“You’ll die.”

“Maybe not. Go up to the Wapiti Indian Reservation and find Charles. He’ll know what to do, darlin’-”

“-Don’t call me that-”

“-okay?” Arthur offered a weak smile. “I will meet you there as soon as I’m done, I promise you.”

“And then what, Arthur? Then we help the gang get on a boat to New York because it’s been 20 years and you’re obligated to do that, too? When will it end?” You wanted to hit him, to curse him for lying to you, for almost dying, for leaving you alone. You hated this so much. He was going to his death. You knew it. You knew he would never come back to you, even if he said he would. There was no way they wouldn’t kill him for accusing Micah–they were too blindly loyal–and you’d sit and wait. The vision would come true. He wouldn’t let you anywhere near Camp and, frankly, you didn’t care to be. You didn’t want to fight in that battle because it wasn’t yours. But you wished he’d see it your way, because his way had an awful ending that you were both all too aware of.

“Y/N…” he said, his voice quiet. “I love you.”

“I love you too, but I hate you.” You wiped your tears. “You’re killin’ yourself.”

“I know.” He gave you a solemn nod.

“Why can’t we just go be happy, Arthur? Is that so hard?”

“This is all I’ve ever known.” He looked forward, grabbing his hat from his saddle bag and putting it on his head, which was bruised from the beatings he’d already taken. He was hardly able to sit upright on Ralph, much less able to fight.

“You’ve known me…” He started heading towards Camp, unable to hear you. “Arthur, you’ve known me!” you shrieked, sobbing. “Oh, God!” You fell to your knees, your entire body shaking with sobs. He’d left you. He didn’t wait to hear you out anymore–you knew he wouldn’t–and now you were on your own. Nothing to live for, no one to remember you by. He’d be dead before morning–you were certain of this. Eventually, you managed to climb into your saddle and start towards Wapiti, but it was only out of fear that the Pinkertons would find you and have you shot or hanged for your entanglement with Milton.

*****

In the weeks that followed, you fell into a terrible, hollowing depression. You wouldn’t eat or drink anything that wasn’t forced down your throat, you wouldn’t talk. Charles was there, of course, but he’d never be your husband and he’d never be able to bring him back. Eventually, he went and found Arthur’s body, which was apparently at the base of a tree on a ridge that faced the East. He let you choose a burial spot, which faced the West like Arthur had always wanted. You didn’t know what to do anymore. You’d always had some sort of hope for the future–you’d imagine what everything would be like when you guys finally managed to get away–but now that he was gone, there was nothing to imagine. You quit reading and you definitely didn’t write. You just sat. It was a shallow existence, sure, but you did not know how to live without Arthur anymore. He’d saved you all those years ago, and now he was just gone.

You wanted to hate him. The way he left you was shitty and you knew it, but you could not hate him for it because you’d always known that it would be like that. You knew it would end up like that before he was even sick. Still, you felt betrayed. You were supposed to stick together in everything–he was supposed to choose you–and he hadn’t. You were used to being the second choice, of course, but that decision cost him his life and you both knew it would. He chose death over what could’ve been happiness with you. You’d never forgive him for that, even with all of the love you had for him.

“Did you eat today?” Charles asked, appearing at your side.

“No.”

“Have some soup; it’ll hydrate you too.” He handed you a bowl.

“I’m not hungry,” you said, trying to pass it back to him.

“I’m not asking. Eat it.” He pushed it back towards you. “You have to eat something at least once a day. You’ll starve yourself.”

“Maybe I want to die,” you fired back.

“You don’t want to die of starvation. That’s a painful death.” Charles grabbed a soup bowl of his own and drank from it.

“Maybe I want a painful death.”

“Eat. It’s not a request.” He forced your bowl towards your lips, despite your protests.

“Fine! I’ll get it myself!” You slurped the soup loudly, just to annoy him. “Better?”

“Yes,” Charles said, then he stood and left. He was never one for conversation, but you knew that he was there for you more than anyone else. Probably more than Arthur had been, thanks to his loyalty to Dutch. He checked in on you every day, forced you to eat, forced you to get dressed, and told you how horrible every way you’d tried to die would be. Burns, for example, were far too painful to deal with. It’d hurt to breathe. You’d sit in the pain until your heart finally stopped because it was trying too hard to fight the burn. Gunshots would be slow and agonizing, but also messy. You’d bleed everywhere as the gunpowder spread around inside your body. Knives were the same–far too messy and unreliable for convenience. What would you do if you lived, after all?

You wanted to hate Charles for this, too, but you couldn’t because, like Arthur, he took care of you. He was one of the only people in your godforsaken life who had shown that you mattered, so even if you were mad that he forced you to live, you were thankful that he cared enough to want to make it happen. And he understood your pain. He missed Arthur too. They were best friends, the pair of them, so it was hard on him, too. He wouldn’t show it, but when you couldn’t sleep at night, you could hear him moving restlessly, too. You were in the same boat, in a way, except Charles had never been abandoned by him.

*****

Years and years later, on your own homestead in Canada, you and Charles lived out a quiet life together. He’d married a fine young woman from the Reservation and moved up North to get away from the carnage you’d both left behind. You lived in a house separate from theirs, one small enough for you and another–room for Arthur, if he was still alive–and you were mostly content. You’d go South a couple of times a year to visit Arthur’s grave–to keep it maintained and such–but you spent most of your time on the homestead. You learned to work honestly. You kept to yourself. You wrote.

One time, on a visit to Arthur, there was a man with dark hair facing the cross. He was wearing Arthur’s hat. You immediately burst into tears at the sight of his hat, which caught his attention, and facing you was none other than John Marston. “Y/N?” He asked, stepping towards you. “Oh, my God!”

He wrapped his arms around you as your knees buckled, keeping you solidly upright. “John,” you managed, hardly able to speak through sobs. “How did… how did you…”

“They left me, Y/N, Dutch and them. I got back to Camp when Arthur did and he… he helped me get out of there. He was beaten pretty badly, by then, but he didn’t tell me nothin’. How are you?”

“He helped you get out?”

John nodded. “Said somethin’ about how he knew it wasn’t over and that he had to finish the job.”

“Did he mention me at all? Was he going to come back for me?” You sat on a rock facing the grave and John took a seat next to you. You sniffled, wiping your face. John was alive. He was alive because of Arthur.

“He kept talking about Wapiti, but he was spent before we got to the top of that mountain. Gave me his hat, but I think you should have it.” He took off his hat and offered it to you. “It’s more yours than mine, anyway. You knew him better.”

“Thank you,” you mumbled, taking the hat from him. “Did you see him die?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I always assumed he did. I learned from Charles a couple of years back. I think he’s up North now-”

“He is. We live on a homestead together.”

“Really?” John raised his eyebrows, smiling a little. “Good for you guys.”

“No, not like that. He has a wife. They just let me live there. It’s good, honest work.” You looked down at the hat in your hands, inhaling deeply. “No, Arthur is my only love, I fear.”

John sat for a second, staring at the ground. “He was a good man. The last thing he said to me was to check in on you, but I never did. I went to my family and we ran, but… I wish I had gone to find you. Maybe I could’ve brought you back to him or somethin’... I don’t know.” He took a deep breath. “He loved you, though. I know that.”

You nodded. “Not enough to run away with me.”

“No, he was going to. We’d talked about it the whole time we stayed in Beaver Hollow. He mentioned it to Sadie, too. I bet Charles knew he’d planned to.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell me?”

“Would it have made a difference?”

You thought on that for a moment. “I guess not.” You smiled softly. “I get the feeling that Charles has kept a lot from me.”

“He’s not very sociable,” John responded with a slight smile. “I’m glad you’re okay, Y/N.”

“You too, John. Last I knew of you, you were dead. Where are you staying now?”

“Little ranch called Beecher’s Hope down in West Elizabeth. You should come down sometime and visit. It’s nice.”

“I’m okay,” you said, staring at Arthur’s grave. “This is the furthest South I come anymore. I don’t want to see anything else–no more reminders of Arthur, you know?”

“I suppose.” John took your hand, shaking it, solemnly meeting your gaze. “I have to get back to my family.”

“I have a couple of people to check in on, so that’s okay. I keep tabs on some of the people who knew him.”

John smiled. “He’d like that.”

“I know. He’d love the homestead I’m living on. It’s so open and free…” You sighed. “I miss him. I see him everywhere.”

“Me too,” John said. “Me too.”

*****

Years and years after the death of John Marston and Charles Smith, you found yourself ill with pneumonia. You’d watched as the world grew up around you–becoming something you couldn’t recognize–and though you’d remained set in your ways, you felt that you lived in an entirely different place. Your homestead had stayed the same, though, and it was here that you were determined to die.

Janet, the great-granddaughter of Charles Smith, liked to listen to the stories you told. She sat at your side and listened as you recounted the time you and Arthur danced under the stars after he’d told you he loved you. You could see him then, sitting sweetly in the chair opposite Janet’s, and you could smell his musk. People smelled better in 1966 than they had in 1899. His hand was by your arm–you could practically feel the warmth coming from it. His breathing was no longer ragged and weary like it had been in his final month, instead rhythmic and soft. You smiled. “He’s here now,” you told Janet.

She smiled back, thinking you were crazy, and squeezed your hand as Arthur eased you into a quiet, peaceful death. You were together again, at last.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption two #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 arthur morgan #canon compliant #idk

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lacrymatoryao3 · 9 months

Text

Redemption Was Just The Beginning

Chapter 2: September, 1899 (Continued)

[1]

To the world, Arthur Morgan is dead. As he tries to face the idea, in a lush valley in Ambarino he comes face to face with a woman from his past, and they must reckon with an era long gone. Especially when she has secrets of her own.

(Rated explicit simply because eventually there's smut in this.)

3,315 Words (AO3 Link)

Ana Maria Gardener stood at the counter of the Hoosier cabinet in the kitchen as her son groggily ate his breakfast. She put together his lunch for the school day, wrapping the contents into a tea towel and placing it in a tobacco tin painted and shaped like a wicker picnic basket with a sealed glass bottle of milk.

Her son sighed and stood up, taking his plate to the sink, “How much longer do I have to do this again?”

“Do what? Go to school?” Ana replied in Spanish, “Well, you just turned 10. I’d like you to stay in until the term ends after you turn 13. I think you’ll be enough of a man by then to take over some of my responsibilities.”

The young boy turned and looked at her. She reached over and smoothed his straight, raven black hair and continued with a more gentle tone, “So, I’m afraid you have another 3 years.”

He rolled his eyes. They were striking for a child of his ethnicity, especially compared to his mother’s deep brown ones, bright and soulful ocean blue. They cut through anyone he gazed upon, almost glowing in contrast with his light tanned skin.

The grandfather clock chimed eight times. Ana handed her son a balled up bundle of mint, thyme, and basil to clean his mouth and teeth. He dutifully put it into his mouth, chewing it as she followed him into the living room for his coat and hat and out onto the porch of the house where she handed him his lunch and books. He leaned over the railing and spit the concoction out when they became tasteless, sauntering down the stairs to the barn.

Ana wrapped the wool shawl over her shoulders tighter for extra warmth. She looked at the overcast sky above Cain Valley and the rocky peaks of the Bear Mountains. Autumn had not even officially arrived yet, and the snow was already threatening. She frowned. Even after so long her Mexican blood hated the cold. It made her long for Guadalajara, the birthplace she hadn’t seen since she was a child.

Her son came back to the house riding on top of Josefina, a patient dark brown and white Tobiano patterned American Paint mare. Behind them he was leading Enrique, an old a trusty Appaloosa stallion with a coat of white with black Dalmatian spots. Ana had taught him well, the boy was so gentle and patient with them. It made him more experienced than others his age. In those moments, Ana allowed herself to think of his father.

Ana hitched Enrique to the post in front of the house. He reached up to her son, who leaned down and let her kiss him on the forehead.

“No fights!” She said firmly, “I do not need another letter from Miss Svensson about it!”

The boy nodded, but she knew by the look in his eyes he wasn’t going to promise anything he couldn’t keep, “Si, Mama. See you later.”

“I love you!” She called as he rode away to meet with the other children waiting at the main gate of the property.

“Love you too!” He replied.

The group wandered out of sight as the stage coach arrived, dropping off new visitors to the hotel she owned and picking up the old ones waiting on the porch. They were a diverse bunch, around similar ages give or take a few years. Some were Chinese from Mr. and Mrs. Liang, some were Irish from Mr. and Mrs. O’Hogan, a couple were black from Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, and hers half-Mexican. Despite their presence in the town for many years, and most accepting and welcoming of them, there were still ones who were not. That extended to their own children. It was no wonder her son, strong in his convictions, ended up getting into schoolyard brawls. Another thing of his father’s she saw in him, that she couldn’t curtail no matter how hard she tried.

She walked across the curved brick driveway to the inn on her property. Through a back door she entered a small office. She sat down at the desk, opening a time book sitting on the surface. She scanned through the names, noting the days and times they worked. Very rarely did the team she had miss days, or not fulfill the 8 to 10 hours she asked of them, without her knowing beforehand. She mentally totaled the pay for them. She went into the drawer and took out the stack of paychecks. She pulled out six of them and filled them out one after another, adding the same information each time with the exception of the names they were for.

She got up with the paychecks in hand, taking a satchel off a hook and putting them inside it before slinging it over her shoulder and across her chest so it rested on her hip opposite. She went to a safe hidden in a cabinet below a bookcase, entering the combination to open it. Inside was the money the inn made the past two weeks. She quickly counted it, first the bank notes and second the coins - $300.76 in total - before she put them in the satchel as well. She also grabbed a gun belt with a loaded revolver, buckling it around her waist under the bag.

Ana returned to Enrique at the her house, who was idly munching on some grass along the path as far has his tether could allow him to reach. She unhitched him and mounted him sidesaddle. She scratched him behind the ears, the horse making an unbothered huff as she guided him onto the main street to the general store a short ride away.

The general store was always busy, however the crowd always cleared the counter when Ana arrived. She politely greeted them, scanning for any unfamiliar faces who might cause trouble with the business she needed to attend to.

Behind the counter was a Mr. Latini. He was a scrawny man who always wore thick, round glasses and sported a mustache almost too big for his face. He had been the proprietor of the store, like his father before him, and shared 50/50 ownership with Ana since her husband passed on his businesses to her. It was something he was never thrilled with. She could always see it in his eyes when she came in for her half of the profits. For what reason she was never sure, perhaps because she was a woman, or because she was Mexican, or both, but he was smart enough to never debate about it. They both made out well in the end. She was never unkind or unfair, so they simply made their pleasantries and he gave her the money - $591.04 this time around. She nodded, put it in her bag, and got back on her horse.

The Farmer’s Bank of Cain Valley was the grandest building in the town. It was an ornate two story Neoclassical styled with large windows. Inside it was just as fancy with its carved wood paneling and accents and chessboard marble floor. It wasn’t busy yet, Ana being able to walk right up to one of the teller’s windows.

She took out the money and paychecks, sliding them to the teller, “I’d like to deposit the money and get these notarized to distribute.”

The teller gave her a slip and a pencil to fill out while he placed the proper stamps on the checks to make them exchangeable. They traded the pieces of paper and the teller took the money, recounting it at lighting speed to make sure he had the right amount. He disappeared for a moment, returning with a receipt.

“Thank you.” Ana said, putting them in her bag and departing.

The sky had cleared when she trotted back to her property on Enrique, the sky a vivid light blue and the sun warming the area a bit more. On payday Ana felt like she was on a grand tour of some sort. She would go into the blacksmith’s, paying to Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. She would go to the stable, putting Enrique in the paddock and paying Mr. and Mrs. O’Hogan, despite the fact Mrs. O’Hogan’s work was limited due to how pregnant she was. Her last stop was back to the inn, going through the main entrance to pay Mrs. Liang, who would hold onto her husband’s for when he returned in the evening. Ana took her satchel and gun belt back into the office.

Between the house and the inn Ana picked some bundles of herbs in the large garden, some for cooking and some medicinal. She carried them inside, walking through the floral wallpapered hallway to the kitchen. She hung them over the oven range nestled in the old renovated hearth to dry. She pulled out some small logs from under the oven, placing them into the firebox. She filled a kettle with water from a pump attached to the dry sink and placed it onto the stove.

She brewed tea, sitting at a secretary desk in the living room. She filled out a ledger book to keep track of everything she did that day, then moved on to reading the September issue of Good Housekeeping. There was once a time she believed reading those ladies’ magazines would teach her how to be a proper, honest woman. Now it often reminded her that most of the men and women who wrote for them were rich and metropolitan, out of touch and no understanding of how most people lived or raised their children. Damn Easterners.

Mr. Liang drove in a few hours earlier than expected, surprising Ana to see the wagon pull up in front of the living room’s large bay window. He jumped from the driver’s seat and raced up the stairs to the porch. He knocked on the front door rapidly, not stopping until Ana answered.

Liang bowed, “Madam Ana! Sorry to bother, but something important came up as I was return.”

Ana’s brow furrowed, “Is everything all right, Mr. Liang?”

“Came across man at Bacchus.” Liang began to explain, “He in back. He not good shape. Seem very sick. It came and go during ride, but I thought you could be help.”

Ana nodded and followed Liang to the wagon. Liang climbed into the back of the covered bed, hearing him say something to the man. The stranger grunted and replied.

His voice… Could it -? No. Ana knew that wasn’t possible. She swallowed that hope, waiting for Liang and the stranger to emerge.

Liang guided him out with the stranger’s arm around his shoulder. Liang told him where to step and had him sit down on the platform that doubled as a seat, letting him catch is horrible sounding breath. Ana’s eyes widened. A rush of disbelief washed over her, so intense it made her light headed. She stumbled backward, grabbing the stair railing to steady herself.

“You all right, Madam Ana?” Liang asked. Ana wasn’t able to form the words to reply, still staring at the stranger. He finally looked at her. His eyes were still the deep and soulful pools of ocean blue she remembered, but their clear sparkle gone. They were glassy and graying, bloodshot and sunken. Their life replaced by a painful sorrow.

He squinted in vague recognition, “…Anie?”

Anie… She hadn’t heard that in so long… His voice was still the same deep and warm baritone, but more rugged and raspy with age. It subsided the shock. She went over to him, sitting next to him and almost collapsing in the seat. She reached out, almost expecting the figure before her to disappear in an instant until her hands rested on his cheeks. She took in his face. He was older now, as was she, but the lines from the rough life he had led suited him more than it did her much softer ones. He had a few more scars than just the one on his chin that she remembered. She could tell his nose had been broken many more times. There was also the pitiful things. His features were gaunt. Under the deep purple and yellow bruises he was so pale, except for his cheeks and lips which were a feverish blush which burned under her fingertips. His beard had traces of both old and fresh blood trapped in the hairs. Above it all, he was there before her. After so long, she had him in her grasp again.

“Arthur…” Ana whispered, holding back tears, “It’s you… Dear God, it’s you…”

He nodded weakly, “Yeah. It’s me.”

Ana embraced Arthur tightly, burying her face in his shoulder. He felt so thin and fragile. His proud and strong, broad body withered away.

“You shouldn’t be this close to me, Anie,” Arthur said, “I’m real sick.”

Ana nodded. She let him go and turned to Liang, “Mr. Liang, could you go into the house and prepare the sick room? Afterwards I need you to fetch Dr. Anderson to take a look at him.”

Liang bowed, “Yes Madam.”

Ana put her attention back on Arthur. She took the shawl off her shoulders and wrapped it around his.

She sighed and shook her head, “You look like shit.”

Arthur remembered how blunt she could be, especially in her accent. He was unable to keep himself laughing, “I feel like shit.”

Ana helped Arthur stand. She led him into the inn, keeping her hand on his back. It felt nice for Arthur to be inside, warmed by the fire that crackled in the lobby.

“Mrs. Liang!” Ana called.

A small Chinese woman appeared from a hallway holding a stack of clean towels, “Yes, Madam Ana?”

“Are any of the bath rooms available? This gentleman here badly needs one.”

Mrs. Liang handed Ana some of the towels and a white nightshirt, “I just do up them all. Everything ready.”

Ana thanked Mrs. Liang and led Arthur down the hall. She chose one of the bigger baths. Despite how thin Arthur had become, he was still a rather large man. She didn’t think to ask, maybe she probably should have, but she was more focused on the task. She took the shawl off him first, then started for the closures of his suspenders to remove them.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Arthur remarked, putting his hands up to stop her, “What’re you doin?”

Ana put her hands on her hips and raised a thick, dark eyebrow, “What do you mean? You’re filthy. You clothes are filthy.”

“Yeah… But… Y’know…”

“Arthur, we have seen each other naked. It’s been a long time, but still. There’s no need for false modesty. Especially in your condition. I need to see how bad it is.”

Arthur relented. He knew she was stubborn when she was determined about something. At least, she was when she was younger. He just wished it wasn’t stripping him bare. She continued with his suspenders, throwing everything on a mirrored vanity. She moved on to the black bandanna he had tied around his neck, the one he used as a mask during robberies, then to his shirt. Ana made a remark about it, surprised it was still in one piece. He tried to recall if he had it that long, the beaten light blue shirt with dark blue double pinstripes. He had to agree it had seen better days, showing its wear and tear with stains of various substances and origins permanently soaked into the fabric.

“Hold still.” Ana ordered. She circled around him, inspecting every inch of his torso. His chest and stomach were deeply bruised like his face. She traced her fingers along the lines of his ribs, finding fractures that had begun to heal. He had a fresh scar on his left shoulder, still a light shade of pink. His condition heightened her worry. He was so underweight he was nearly a skeleton.

Her voice broke, “Oh, Arthur… What happened to you?”

Arthur winced, “Tuberculosis happened to me, Anie. And a man who ain’t even worth givin’ a name to.”

“Consumption…” Ana exhaled. She rubbed the bridge of her nose with her fingers, trying to gather her thoughts. He was right. If it was that disease, he was sick, and there was very little to do about it.

“Then I guess you came to the right place.” Ana added. She tapped him chest, motioning to sit on a stool next to the bathtub. She pulled the boots off his feet, and helped him take off his pants. Like a mother, she instructed him to get in the tub.

The steaming hot water felt good on Arthur’s infirm body, scented by lavender and rose oil. He laid back with a hum, watching Ana wander around the room to get things. She put a large bath sponge and a bar of Castile soap on the tray over the tub, going to the vanity and producing a shaving kit and a pair of scissors. She sharpened the razor blade before sitting down on the stool, dipping the shaving brush into the foamy cream and painting his beard with it. As she was with other blades Ana handled the razor well, carefully but quickly taking the hair off his jaw starting from below his right ear and ending below his left. She dipped the razor in the water to wash it off and dried it. She wiped the rest of the shaving cream off Arthur’s face with a washcloth that was warmed on top of the pot bellied stove in the room.

Ana smiled and rubbed the scar on Arthur’s chin, “There you are! There’s the handsome man I knew.”

“I’m gonna have to disagree with you,” Arthur chuckled, “ain’t nothin’ handsome ‘bout me.”

Ana made a sour expression and then rolled her eyes. She dipped the bristles of a hairbrush into the water. She started working on his hair, which had grown long and fell down his neck. She brushed it until whatever trapped in his locks had been removed and it shone with golden tones of polished copper. They didn’t speak for a while as Ana focused on cutting his hair. She wasn’t a barber by any means, but trimmed it to a normal length for a man and keeping it a little bit longer on top. She gave it one last douse before parting it on his right side.

Arthur was the one to break the silence, “Madam, huh?”

“Only the Liangs call me that.” Ana replied as she moved on to washing his body, “It has something to do with their culture putting an importance on honorifics. The Chinese have a very specific view on courtesy.”

“I guess. Jus’ sounds weird is all.” Arthur said, hissing through the ache when she went over a bruise, “How long you been here anyway, Anie?”

“Ten years. I ended up here after…” Ana trailed off.

He looked at her and nodded, “I understand.”

“I was fortunate somehow.” Ana continued, “I got married. I had a baby. My husband died. I got left with this business of his. My son is t-… Nine now.”

“At least one of us figured out how to live honest.”

“It wasn’t easy, Arthur. In fact, it was almost unbearable for a couple of years. When you spend all your life on the run, doing whatever you needed to do to survive in spite of any law. Ending up on the other side of it, your instincts still remain.”

Ana assisted Arthur out of the tub. She wrapped him in the warm towels and helped him dry off. He put on the knee length white cotton nightshirt and a pair of matching slippers. After all of what he bad been through, he had to admit it was nice to be clean.

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 posting #rdr #red dead redemption #arthur morgan fanfiction #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 fandom #rdr2 fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #rdr2 community #red dead 2 #red dead redemption arthur #red dead redemption community #arthur morgan rdr2

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tiptapricot · 2 years

Text

Moon Knight Liveblog thoughts, The Friendly Type

I love this opening scene w Layla but who is the lady truly like

How did they get to know each other bc she sorta acts like a mom but also not rlly n also she isn’t credited as such

Marshmallows :-)

Layla ilysm

I wish this scene didn’t have music almost bc the asmr would b amazing

LAYLA DOES YHE FACE PICKY THING IRL NOT JUST AS A DUAT NURSE OGHGGHGG

HER STIMMMMINGHGGGGGGGH

She also works her lips a lot

THIS LOGO SONG YESSSSSSSS

Episode two w the boring ass normal music should step up

Marc Jumpy Guy Spector

The way he’s running so fast n then is just already late lol

“Owh shit :-/“

“Oh wow”

“Ooo we dancin we fightin what we gonna do”

The slap… THIS FIGHT FUCKS

Love the musicCCC GOD

The dynamic vibes slap so hard ahhHgGghh

Marc looks great disheveled too

Jake just stepping in like “lol sorry guys don’t go after me or I’ll kill you” *gets in a cab*

MARC USED STEVENS ACCENT I THINK WHEN HE ASKS WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME???

“Just let us go man 😟”

Marc Jumpy Guy Spector again

He looks so dumb when he runs

These poor bystanders

“Mahc… that’s enough”

Jake moment again woooooo!!!!

Also knowing the changes when the camera pans between Marc n reflections is practical n Oscar doing it in real time makes this ep even MORE FUCKING EPIC

The pause before “he’s just a kid” n then seeing Marc push all ot it away

God

We don’t talk enough about that moment jfc

Khonshu’s neck black hole lmao

“Anger them enough… and they will enact a hate crime on my fruity ass”

*Does a gay little eclipse that pisses you off*

Literally the limp wrist moment is the next scene

Also Khonshu is so stupid he’s so dumb he’s like “we gotta b perfect haha no I won’t tell you anything or prepare anything byyyye”

“Ohhh I’ll be there 😏”

Steven is… I love him “Oh my days” what if I kissed u huh??? On the nog?

YATZIIIIIILLLLL her voice is so nice

“Ok…. Cool” Marc interacting w ppl makes him sound so funny

“The only melody Khonshu enjoys is the sound of pain” Marc that’s…. Really funny

JUST TELL HIM HES GONNA B POSESSED DUDE STOP LEAVING HIM IN THE DARK

The trial scene makes me fucking feral

“We despise your garishness” STOP BEING HOMOPHOBIC

OSCARS ACTING IN THIS SCENE MARC LOOKING MORE AND MORE AWARE AND AFRAID OF WHATS HAPPENING GODDDD

THE TEAR

IM NOT OK IM NOT OK ALSO THE LIGHTING IS RLLY NICE

The little whispered “fuck” Marc I’m so sorrry I love you

Arthur Crunchy Feet Harrow coming out of the gate swinging w the ableism

Harrow shut up shut up shut up shut up

Marc’s poor body

Watching them blur here is ridiculous like they’re both being triggered but I think it’s Marc that breaks through n tries to punch harrow bc u hear him say stop n Khonshu say shut up

HARROW SHUT THE FUCK UP I WANNA KILL YOU

“We will not tolerate violence” oh I see tolerating ableism n verbal attacks but not physical ones I see I see also HARROW I HATE YOU

Marc…. Looks so fucking…. In disbelief and so wrecked and so sweaty and teary and vulnerable his voice cracking and he’s scared and he’s scared of harrow for te power he has over him god this fuvking scene I’m not ok

What other memories is this echoing what other experiences is this mirroring where he wasn’t believed and was yelling to listen but no one did bc he was written off for being seen as lesser

And Marc feels as if he’s lost after, as if not being normal cost him everything. His brain and his struggles and that being weapon used like always causing him to lose

THE MUSIC FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

He went back for his hat :-)

Marc failing at an interaction… felt

LAYLA YESSS

BOAT SCENE BOAT SCENE YESS

Layla u are glowing get his ASS

“Copy that” you military ass guy I love you

Layla finger fiddling again

SALKAAAAAA

I need to see their wedding

I’m getting goosebumps I love them the like emotional tension here n Layla has the power

“It… doesn’t matter” the way his voice breaks

AND HIS FINGERS AUTOMATICALLY OPEN WHEN LAYLA TAKES THEM N HE FIDDLES W THEM I LOVE YHEM I LOVE YHEM OK INLOVE THEM

The way he gives her her hands back n pats them like giving the affection back, returning it bc he doesn’t need it

Layla in a ponytail somehow almost changes her character to me she just looks like like she just looks she LOOKS SHE LOOKSSSS

What happened between Layla n Mogart I wanna see the drama

Marc fails a social interaction part 2, electric boogaloo

Layla just like “o baby no”

Marc just not knowing shit ab Egyptian stuff is so funny n then Steven’s like that one tik tok meme

“I receive: the body. You receive: the info you need”

“He’s praying” IS SUCH AN OVERLOOKED LINE

Steven n Marc bantering my loves

Let Marc say fuck

Mogart I hate you

The way Marc can’t act when harrow is there…. The trauma from the trial still so fresh and that power imbalance and uncomfortability freezing him

“You piece a shit..” real

Also w Marc being unable to act, it’s also after he starts turning Layla against him and it’s just the same and he just can’t he can’t you can see a shot of his face that almost looks identical to the trial

It’s like a silent panic attack

But then harrow leaves n he can breathe again

THIS FIGHT SCENE MY BELOVEDDDTGE CAPE IN A MOON SHAPE SHEILDING LAYLA

“Buy me some time” “I can do that :-)”

Also the music AGAIN

MARC RUNNING THROUGH THE FUCKING FENCE IS SO FUNNY HE DOESNT EVEN JUMP JUST ZOOP

Marc growling… baby you are neurodivergent ily

“Thas it… alright that’s it that’s it time out!”

“Take… the body… take the body take the body Marc”

Lol get stabbed

Imagine seeing ur husband get impaled

LAYLA W THE KNIFE NECKLACE I LOVE HER I LOVE HER

“LAYLAAA!!”

The grab n roll is sOOOO satisfyinGGGG

“Tik tok marc spector” shut UP

“Aigh… I really liked that jacket… o wel”

Marc in da car call that Carc

He has nice shoulders

Bologna :-)

Marc just breaking internally n pushing her away the scene where they’re driving makes me weep they’re just tearing at the seams n both so sad but also angry

Marc getting upset easily felt felt

Some of Khonshu’s neck tendrils r taught into his neck n some just dangle lol

THE AWITCH W THE CAR MIRROR that’s the scene that got me to watch actually I saw it on Instagram n was like ohhHh

Steven’s eyelashes n the way he looks at Layla adoringly

“Egyptians invented modern.. navigation” baby you are so cute

“It’s French” LAYLAS LAUGH

They’re both so pretty they need to kiss

Watching this scene after that one comic ab Layla not knowing why it’s not working hits diff I love her

Khonshu sad scene….

His voice is so deep and soft….

The stars r fucking beautiful

This scene gives me goosebumps

Layla has a scrape on her shoulder

THIS SCENE THIS SCENE THIS SCENE OF TURNING THE STARD BACK AGHGGGHHGGGGHHHHHGHHHHHGHHJJHHGGHHHHGGHJJHGGUHJHGGHHJJ

God it’s so pretty it’s so pretty I’m out of my mind it’s so pretty I’m in space I’m eating wood

Khonshu dying hurts why does it hurt the way he yells and crumples n the suit breaks away and the bones snap and shatter and he groans in pain and Steven can feel it and feel it leaving him and he reaches out to Khonshu as he dissolved into dust, desperate and scared and so sad and then just goes totally limp… the tie severed from the body for the first time in a decade and the immediate mystical biological whiplash

*ahem* Harrow…. I hate you. Also stop having crunchy toes.

This episode slaps so hard everyone else shut up yes I like it more than the tomb which comes next and it’s bc SO MUCH HAPPENS AND ITS PACED SO WELL

YESSSSSSS THIS ENDING THEME WHY DO ALL OF THEM FUCK SO HARD YESSSS

#the fruit is talking again #MK liveblog

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ttuesday · 3 years

Note

my i trouble u for some soft headcannons for the VDL boys?? 🥺 🥺 ur writing is amazing and always cheers me up 💕 💕

awwwwwwww

Arthur

Arthur’s very comfortable around you so sometimes when he’s sat next to you and doodling in his journal, he’ll start to sing to himself.

If you compliment his voice, he starts blushing and stutters over his words but he’s grateful for your praise.

One of Arthur’s favourite things is when you and him are both cuddling in bed and he tells you about his day. Usually he just rambles about something while ye fall asleep but it always relaxes him and it makes him feel like a normal person and not an outlaw.

Dutch

Dutch loves dancing with you. One night when ye were both in Saint Denis after a job, Dutch heard the trumpet player preforming. He asked if you’d dance with him. The street was quiet and it was as if it was just the two of you and the music.

Dutch never understands how you could ever feel insecure or self-conscious. While you sit on his bed, Dutch kneels in front of you and listens intensely as you vent. Afterwards he holds your hand and tells you every little thing he loves about you.

When you both wake up in the morning, Dutch likes to lazily give you some kisses before getting up to face the day.

Charles

One of Charles’s favourite things to do is kiss up your body. He starts at your leg, goes up your thigh, your torso, your chest and then your neck before finally reaching your lips. As he kisses along you, he mutters compliments about how amazing you are.

If you ever fall asleep by the campfire, Charles will carefully pick you up and carry you to bed.

Charles is so goddamn protective over you. Literally all you have to do is point at someone and Charles will throw them into Flat Iron Lake and go make sure you’re ok.

Micah

Micah absolutely HATES when people go at his things… but you’re the exception to that rule. If you’re sitting down at the campfire or helping Pearson cook the stew, Micah normally comes over and puts his hat on your head.

It’s his way of ‘subtly flirting’ and he encourages you to wear his hat, telling you it suits you and that it makes you look like a real outlaw.

Micah can get emotional when he’s drunk but it’s the one time he truly tells you how much you mean to him. He knows he’s lucky to have met you and no matter what, he wants you by his side forever.

John

We all know John isn’t the best at art but he loves practising his drawing skills but sketching pictures of you. Sure, most of his drawings look like Jack’s done them but it’s the thought that counts... right?

John loves relaxing with you. In the evening, he sits down under a tree with you and watches life go by. It’s very simple but it’s comforting.

John isn’t a fan of people going at his hair but he doesn’t mind it when you run your fingers through his hair. He’s even let you put a small plait into his hair once.

Bill

Bill purposely leaves his shirts lying around in the hopes that you’ll wear them. The sight of you in his shirt makes his heart soft and another part of his body very hard.

Bill never really had the time for baths but now that he’s dating you he makes sure to schedule in times to have a bath. Of course you’ll be in the bath too.

When he’s had a few drinks, Bill usually gets tired very fast so there has been a few times where he’s fallen asleep with his head resting on your lap.

Javier

Whenever you feel sad, Javier will try everything to cheer you up. He’ll sing to you, make some jokes, give you hugs and tell you funny stories about robberies he messed up in the past.

Javier was determined to help you learn the guitar when you first joined the gang. Yeah, he was using it as a way to spend more time with you and you didn’t learn much about the guitar but Javier still sees it as being a success.

If you ever get hurt, Javier prides himself on becoming Doctor Escuella and bandaging you up. Even if you just accidentally cut your finger while playing five finger fillet, Javier will take it seriously and take good care of you.

Sean

Sean loves to play fight with you. He brags about how amazing his fighting skills are and that he could show you a thing or two to help improve your skills. But of course he always lets you win.

You don’t need a blanket when you’re dating Sean. This man will literally sleep on top of you to keep you warm. I mean, he adores cuddling so he’ll fall asleep on you anyways but he says he does it to keep you warm.

He has tried to serenade you before. Sean paid Javier a few dollars to play the guitar while he loudly sang to you but Sean had to stop when Miss Grimshaw started yelling at him for being so noisy.

Hosea

Hosea absolutely adores soft kisses, especially when you’re both around camp and he sneakily gives you a quick kiss when no one’s looking.

Hosea has learned that patience is truly a virtue so whenever you’re stress or having a bad day, he knows it’s best to wait until you’re ready to vent instead of asking you a million questions about what’s wrong.

If you ever have any problems, all you need to do is tell Hosea. He gives you a small hug and reassures you that everything will be ok. And by the next morning, Hosea has somehow worked out your problem for you.

Lenny

When you can’t sleep, Lenny goes and gets you a blanket and your favourite book. He wraps the blanket around you both and reads to you until you finally drift off.

If he goes on a job away from camp and Lenny knows he’ll be away for a few days then he makes sure to leave little notes around camp for you to find. The majority of the notes are Lenny reminding you that he loves or a inside joke only you would understand.

Every morning Lenny goes and gets you tea/ coffee (whichever one you prefer, or maybe water if you’d prefer that).

#I hope these are soft enough ;-;#I always struggle with soft HCs for some reason lol #but ily and hope these are good #you’re my fave deputy #and my fave Caleb <3333 #rdr2 #headcanons #writings #arthur morgan #micah bell #dutch van der linde #john marston #bill williamson #javier escuella #charles smith #sean macguire #lenny summers #hosea matthews

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randomshenaniganery · 3 years

Text

Differences in Howl’s Moving Castle book and movie characters

Most of the characters are not themselves anymore

Sophie is not outspoken and she only gets emotionally in like particularly stressful moments. She’s very calm and for some reason is like immediately into Howl lol

Book Sophie although she was very shy and timid when she lost her inhibitions because of the curse she went all the fucking way. Like that one guy I was too shy to talk to I will now scream at because he’s a mess and I’m a mess too. She has no awareness you’d have to hit her with a brick to understand a hint, she has magic and uses it without knowing about it constantly, talks to things to relieve stress

Mikael (i hate the spelling but for some reason its like this???) he’s pretty meh, a child literally.

Michael Fisher, a love struck hard working stressed out foil of Howl. He’s doing his best okay be careful of the pure bean.

Howl Pendragon/Jenkins this guy is like very chill and dramatic but in a super low key way which is why the hair scene was so weird for me even when I didn’t read the books yet because it just felt out of place.

Howell Jenkins (howl pendragon) you know from the fucking start that he is THE dramatic hoe and he does not hide it. He never broke character and he never tried to be the cool guy in front of sophie because in a way he was honest about his personality instead of pretending to look better.

Witch of the waste a standard ghibli villain ngl she turned good? or just old at the end idk

Witch of the waste (book) oh yeah no she died, she’s super smart pretended to be a teacher and all that, gloated about killing someone that the book had introduced earlier, put on red hair after they cursed sophie

Wizard Suliman?? Pentstemon?? they merged suliman and ms pentstemon into one character. I hate it.

Bejamin Sullivan (wizard Suliman) is pretty strong, a good boi, kinda whipped for lettie but who can blame him? rip he was either a dog or part of a decapitated body for most of the book

Ms Pentstemon Ben’s and Howell’s teacher, the person who revealed sophie had powers lol, also revealed that sophie put a spell on howl’s clothes, she died RIP

The dog he’s just a dog Percival (The dog); Is a mix of the prince of Ingary and Wizard Suliman (also I love how Howl is a fanboy of the arthurian legends he gave himself the last name of king arthur and he named his kid morgan and the dog percival i love this stupid dork)

Lettie Hatter a blonde in a shop that has like what three minutes or screen time??

Lettie Hatter a talented smart witch with a sharp tongue, long dark hair and very ambitious goes against societal expectations, worries over sophie, technically fell in love with a dog but also a man thats a mix of two different people so there’s that, scams a prince at some point as well

Martha Hatter also smitten but smart about it, strong minded, she sus her own mother, wants to have ten children, worries over sophie, a cinnamon bun yeah no they didn’t include her in the movie

Franny Hatter, was worried about sophie briefly, wore a hat, never appeared again

Franny Hatter, single mom of three, was accused of using sophie for money but never was talked about again, is pretty happy with how things turned out, broke what do i do marry the rich duh

calcifer is pretty much the same but he develops less, may your bacon burn

calcifer arms and a heart seeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, stop bullying me, hint hint he doesnt have a heart, give me food, I hope your bacon burns

The King; war hero, outgoing was like in one scene

The King of Ingary; stressed (tm), has like one daughter being threatened, my brother is missing, my royal wizard is probably dead, the candidate for the next royal wizard is trying to fucking escape, I’m at war with another country, i need sleep

Turnip Head prince; is magic and was cursed got cured by sophie, blonde twink

Prince Justin; part of him was in Percival, part of him was in a decapitated body prepared by the witch, was a simp for Lettie ngl, bromance with Sullivan maybe u v u, brother how dare u let my totally not bf go to the wastes im LEAVINg

Turnip head scarecrow; was a spell from Benjamin, is absolutely terrifying, has strong magicks, was an antagonist for a bit, gave sophie a turn, absorbed a skull and started talking, hardcore af

#howl's moving castle #howl's moving castle book #studio ghibli #howl pendragon #howell jenkins #howl jenkins #sophie hatter #michael fisher #percival #wizard suliman #benjamin sullivan #lettie hatter #martha hatter #prince justin #ingary

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theshelbyclan · 4 years

Text

Brotherly Discomfort

Summary: After ‘the talk’, your brothers are adamant to protect you, but you throw yet another curveball their way. Part 2 to Growing Pains

(Gif by @nofckingfighting) A/N: This is part 2 to my most popular fic Growing Pains and I used anon’s request: Could you do a Shelby sis story where she’s a lesbian and in love with a woman and her family doesn’t know. The family is trying to get her into an arranged marriage with a man and she can’t figure out how to tell them she’s a lesbian cause she feels they won’t except her? Sorry if that’s too much. Love your writing so much btw!! Thanks for this request babes, hope I did it justice :) Words: 2387

*** “Right, Y/N, sit down,” Tommy sighed deeply and pointed at a single chair by the kitchen table, “We need to talk.” As you sat down, three brothers loomed over you. Tommy lit a cigarette like his life depended on it, Arthur couldn’t stand still if his life depended on it and John seemed to have forgotten what his life actually depended on, so he just stood there, unsure of everything. “We’re having another talk,” you stated. The last one, only a few days ago, was still fresh in your mind.

“We are,” you brother confirmed. Arthur took off his cap like he was attending a funeral and stumbled, “We, uhm… We’ve had an idea.” “Christ,” Polly mumbled from behind her newspaper and you couldn’t agree more. “The thing is,” John finally spoke, “We’ve been worried after we… talked.” “Right,” you nodded, “Because of he subject of our conversation?” “It’s not just that!” your brother continued, with a slight frantic edge to his voice, “You’re growing up, but you’re still running around with the dogs at all hours. You won’t listen to anyone, do whatever you please…” Tommy continued where John faltered, “The truth is, Y/N, you’re getting to be too wild.” “Oh, fuck off, Tom,” and you got up with every intention to leave the room. “Sit down,” he said sternly, “We can’t have another Ada situation.” “Situation?” your eyebrows shot up, “What do you fucking mean by a fucking situation?” “The baby, Y/N,” Arthur explained. “I’m sorry,” you were boiling inside now, “but please explain: was the baby the problem or the man she had the baby with the problem? Or possibly, maybe, the fact that you three had no say in the matter?!” “That’s not the point,” John could feel this conversation wasn’t going as planned, “The thing is we couldn’t stop it!” Polly scoffed behind you, so at least you felt like someone was on your side. After a few moments of silence, your anger got the better of you and you slammed a hand down on the table in a very Tommy manner, “So what did you three fucking geniuses come up with?” Tommy pointed at you menacingly, “You fucking watch your mouth. You may be sixteen but I will still wash your mouth out with soap if you don’t mind that tongue…” “Minding my tongue…” you repeated, rolling your eyes, “Fine. So, what’s the plan? Arthur? John? Are we going back to the old ways and am I being married off to some good gypsy boy?” You turned around at Polly and laughed at your own joke, but when the room fell silent once again, you realised you’d hit the jackpot. Arthur had known you since the day you were born. He’d been twelve at the time and he could recognise every little expression on your face. Like when you were little, you used to scrunch up your nose just before you were about to cry for hunger. Or when you were sad, a small wobble in your chin just before the tears. Or when you were angry, a wrinkle in your forehead gave away the tantrum that was about to follow. This was happening right now. So he held up both hands and said, “Y/N, he’s from a good family…” “Nope,” you said, adamantly. “He is,” John confirmed gently, “and he has horses.” “Fucking no,” you shook your head. Tommy sighed, “We already made the deal.” “You promised your sister, just like that. That’s low, even coming from you, Thomas,” Polly’s cold voice sounded. If there was one person who could break his tough exterior, it was his aunt, “Well, what the fuck should we have done, Pol? Let her run wild, like you, eh?” But you stood up and walked over to Tommy. This was the man who had raised you, cared for you and disciplined you most of all, but right now, none of it mattered. So you slapped him hard, once. “Undo it Tommy,” you hissed, “Undo it or I’ll fucking cut you.” In the background you could hear Arthur mumble at once, “Okay, we’ll undo it…” “Give me one good reason,” your brother’s face, now only inches away, remained emotionless. You sighed and decided to throw all caution to the wind. “Anna,” you said, calmly. “What?” John asked immediately. So you repeated, voice raised, “Anna!” Three frowning brother stared at you, not understanding at all. “Remember when you asked me what hisname was, last week?” you called out exasperated. “’John’, wasn’t it?” Arthur looked at you. “No, it wasn’t fucking ‘John’, Arthur, she just said so,” John explained to his oldest brother. Tommy lit another cigarette, “What’s your point, Y/N?” You pointed at your neck where the nearly faded hickey could still be seen if you knew, “The name of the girl who gave me this is Anna.” “That would be bloody fantastic actually, because we wouldn’t have to worry anymore about a baby situation…” John squinted, “I think she’s serious…” “Oooooh fuck…” Arthur sighed, suddenly connecting the dots; “We’ve been keeping an eye on the wrong fucking people, John.” But John burst out laughing, “Didn’t see that one coming, did you, Tommy?” Slowly, your brother sat down and started smoking his second cigarette, “Pol, contact Madame Ross, tell her the wedding is off.” But Aunt Polly was having none of it, “You got us into this mess, you can fix it.” And then fear settled suddenly into the pit of your stomach. You looked at Tommy and asked softly, “Are you mad?” “Nope,” he said, head dropped down into his hands. “Disappointed?” “No, I’m not disappointed. But you should’ve told us, eh?” You shrugged, “Didn’t think you’d… approve.” “Why?” John asked, “We don’t care that you like women.” And all the love you had in you went out to your brother in that very moment. “Y/N,” Arthur started and he looked so angry that uncertainty took over again, “Why the fuck did you not tell us before we… explained?” “Because it was hilarious,” Polly commented unhelpfully. John started giggling again, “Fucking unnecessary is what it was.” “Arthur?” you asked, fear seeping into your voice. He sighed deeply, fidgeting with his hat, “It’s not the women, Y/N, I don’t care about that. It’s you and… anyone really. I don’t like the idea of you with anyone. Remember when she used to play with the coals, remember John?” “Yeah, I remember,” John smiled. “Black like the night she’d be!” Arthur remembered out loud, “Sweet and innocent.” “Well, she’s not anymore,” Polly sipped her tea. “I fucking see that and I don’t like it,” you eldest brother’s smile faded quickly. “Right,” Tommy raised his head again, “Guess we need to change our approach.” “There really no need…” you started. But he continued, ignoring you, “So you like girls, eh?” “Yep,” you confirmed meekly. “Only girls?” You nodded, “Well, one in particular.” Arthur looked at Tommy like he would have all the answers, “Now what, Tom?” You could now start to see the humour in all of it. Your brothers’ faces were an absolute picture! John could hardly contain his laughter, Tommy looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders and Arthur was filled with the absolute dread at another conversation like the one you had last week. “Oh, come on!” John called out, “I’m sure we could offer some advice!” He winked at you and a smile spread across your face. “Yeah!” you said, “I mean you all like women, right? This should be even easier!” “It’s not,” Arthur muttered. “I like women,” John said to no one in particular. “What about you, Tommy?” you asked your brother sweetly. But he just rolled his eyes and continued smoking. A part of you wanted to joke about him and Alfie, but you decided against it at the last second. “Horses?” you ventured, “Tommy, any advice on this with the famous analogy of horses? “Horses don’t really…” he waved a hand, coughed and stopped talking all together. “Well, at least you don’t have to be afraid of her getting pregnant,” John said to Arthur, who was as white as a sheet now. “That’s right,” he replied in a low voice, “but that’s my entire speech out the window, because there’s no waiting ‘till bloody marriage either…” “Well,” you tried to comfort your older brother, “You did offer me some good advice the last time, Arthur. You said there was no hurry and to not do it unless I wanted to?” “Right! I did say that. That, yes, it still stands!” Arthur looked around the kitchen triumphantly. “And John,” you continued, “you said to not put anything in my mouth unless I wanted to. Sound advice that was, now more than ever!” “Fucking hell,” Arthur crumbled again, “I can’t do this again. Tom, say something.” “Women….” Tommy started off vaguely waving his cigarette around, “they want love.” “We do.” “And they always want to take things slow.” “Can you imagine?” John interrupted, “Two women together? Must take ages…” “You’d be surprised…” you started, but when you saw your other brothers’ faces, you shut your mouth quickly. Tommy glared daggers at his brother and then turned to you, “How did you become an expert all of a sudden, eh?” “Talked to Ada,” you shrugged. “You talked to Ada…” he repeated lowly and threw his head back. “Wait,” John said suddenly, “Is this why you hate wearing dresses?” “Or why you drink whiskey like a man?” Arthur added, carefully. “That’s just because she’s a Shelby,” Polly explained matter-of-factly. “Or why you never sit on chairs?” John continued, “Or hang out at the factory all the time! Or why you always talk about votes for women…” You held up a hand to stop your brother, “None of that has anything to do with me liking women, John. That’s just… me.” “So what does have to do with you liking women?” your other brother asked in his typical low voice. “Me liking women…?” “So how does it work exactly?” John furrowed his brows, “Like, without… a man there?” “John,” Arthur warned him with a grumble. “Well, both people are enjoying themselves, for starters…” you replied in earnest. “Fucking hell,” the eldest interrupted, “She’s turning into Ada, she bloody is.” “Have you never seen two women together, Arthur?” you asked innocently, “Not even in London?” “They’re all mad bastards down in London, Y/N, the things I’ve seen there…” “Well, imagine me now.” Tommy had just taken a sip of his whiskey and practically choked on the spot, “That’s fucking it. You’re not to go near the BSA again!” “Why?” you called out, “It’s not like all the women in the world are gathered at the BSA!” “I will not have you behaving,” he struggled to find the words but finally spit, “like those fucking women in London!” “Don’t worry, Tommy,” you tried to comfort him, “I’m still… we haven’t actually…” “Oh, thank God,” Arthur sank down in his chair. “Well, when you do, just be gentle, alright?” John offered some advice, “And light a candle! Women love candles.” “Candles, check,” you noted. Tommy downed his whiskey, recomposed himself and added, “And make sure they’re in the mood first…” “To get ‘happy’,” you said, “like Arthur said last time,” “Yes,” he sighed deeply.

“Cut your nails,” John said out of the blue, “Esme told me.”

Arthur turned to his brother, “What the bloody hell do nails have to do with anything?”

“Well, it’s for when you…”

But Tommy silenced you with a gesture, “Please, Y/N, don’t.”

“Right,” and the quiet returned in the small kitchen. Well, at least now they knew, so that terrifying bit was out of the way. Apart from that, you weren’t quite sure if this was going great, because your brothers seemed absolutely petrified and slightly annoyed at your sudden revelation. Maybe it would’ve been better if you hadn’t told them. Then again, marrying a ‘good gypsy boy’ was the last thing you wanted in life. So maybe you could lighten the mood just a little.

“I have a better idea,” a sudden glint came into your eyes, “How about I offer all of you some advice!” The tables had turned already and this couldn’t possibly get any more awkward.

“Nope,” Arthur stood up and promptly marched out of the kitchen, talking to himself, “I can’t. That’s my baby sister and I just fucking can’t...”

“Arthur, where are you going?” Polly called after him, mirth clearly audible in her voice. And he replied, “I’m going to find this Anna, make sure she’s from a good family…” And then he was gone.

Tommy looked from you to Polly for a few seconds before he cleared his throat and mumbled something about business. Polly smirked at you and his face was full of annoyance at it all, “I need to get back to Dangerous. The horse. Tell me some other time, eh?”

“Tommy,” you asked carefully, “Are you sure you’re not mad about me liking women?”

“Princess, I honestly don’t give a fuck who you like,” he said, while putting on his coat and hat, “I just want to meet this Anna and if she hurts you, I’ll still kill her. None of that has changed, eh?”

This was strangely comforting to you.

And just as you were about to offer some unwanted advice, he left the kitchen in a hurry and called over his shoulder, “If you have any questions, Ada apparently has all the fucking answers!”

So you turned to your aunt, “That went well, didn’t it?”

“At least the wedding’s off.”

“Thank fuck,” you smirked and Polly smiled at you encouragingly, “You don’t mind, Aunt Pol, do you?”

“I’m with Tommy,” she said returning to her stern voice, “The fact that it’s a woman won’t make me hesitate.”

“Right,” you nodded, “She makes me happy, though.”

“Good,” Aunt Polly continued to read the newspaper, “Bring her over for tea. Let’s make the boys really uncomfortable, shall we?”

Still laughing, you stood up with the intention of getting on with your homework, when you suddenly noticed John was still sitting on the chair in the back of the kitchen.

“What do you want?” you asked him bluntly.

“I’m waiting,” he said, hands upturned, “You promised me some advice, remember?”

***

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jiilys · 3 years

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featuring The Line, also on ao3 here

“You’re a lot better at this than Ron.” Harry said into the phone.

“Well that’s not hard,” Ginny said, not mentioning how she still occasionally picked up the receiver upside down. “Speaking of, he’s started growing a moustache since you left. It’s ghastly.”

“Oi!” Ron’s voice, annoyed, in the background. Harry grinned.

“Oh yeah?”

“It looks like he��s got biscuit crumbs on his upper lip.” Harry laughed, and Millie glared at him from behind the post office counter, “Oh, lovely, he’s giving me the finger.”

“I’ve started growing a bit of a beard actually.”

“Come off it.”

“Feeling left out?” Harry joked

Ginny snorted. “Yes, desperately. Isn’t it hot?”

“Well I think so.”

She laughed, clear and quick, and Harry could imagine her, all limb, leaning against the kitchen cupboard curling the phone wire around her wrist. He’d bought the phone as a bit of joke before he’d left, and then as a joke she’d installed it, and then for a joke he’d rung her, and then this was how they talked now. Arthur had apparently worn a suit when the electrician came to install the power plug.

“Isn’t it hot though? Bill says Australian summers are killers”

Harry looked at Teddy, sat on the post office floor in nothing but shorts sucking an ice-pop. “I’ve been sunburnt in places I never have been before, but it’s mostly fine.”

“Wow, sexy.”

“Bet Ron loved hearing you say that to me.”

“I’m sorry Harry, you want to do what to me? Put that where?”

“Gin-“

“No, we couldn’t in my room, there’s not enough room. Lounge is better, more space. On the dining table.”

Harry could hardly talk. “Stop,” he choked, “He’ll never speak to me again.”

“He left when I said the bit about the lounge, said I was being ‘very immature.’”

Andromeda, desperate to get out, away, gone, bought the land in Australia six months after the war ended. She’d said it was because she’d always liked the heat, but when Harry got there he knew why. He’d never seen anywhere so unlike England, the Australian countryside was all scorched earth, red dirt, dry trees. It could have been a different planet entirely.

He’d followed her six months later to be with Teddy, who at almost a year had hair permanently sunshine yellow, except when it rained it went as grey as concrete. Harry liked the spiders, sand, sunburn of it all. Sometimes, dumbly, he found himself missing sheets of rain, but only when it was so hot he could barely see straight.

Mostly he liked how there was nothing to do there, nowhere he had to be. He was teaching himself how to drive, burying things for Teddy to sniff out (dog nose), going into the tiny town to talk to Ginny on the post office phone, and helping Andromeda build a shed out the back. He’d never used magic less. The days were long and the nights were longer, but it was so different here that that too felt right.

He didn’t know when he’d go home. He kept meaning to set a date and then just didn’t, and then everyone stopped asking. It was stupid, but he felt like he’d know when he was done.

“Dad won’t let me see the phone bill,” Ginny said, picking up on the third ring and not saying hello, “It arrived this morning and he’s been locked in his office all morning with it.”

“Oh, God, I can-“

“Don’t you dare offer to pay for it. I don’t even think it’s that much, I think he’s just trying to recreate the logo at the top or something.”

“I-“

“Stop trying to pay for it- “

“I’m not– “ Harry, who had been, was silent. Then: “Gin, please-“

“No- “

“But- “

“Shut up-“ she said, unbothered, “Mum asked if you got the stuff she sent.”

“I did, the biscuits were excellent. And the tea bags” Harry had cleaned out the tin so Teddy could use it as a hat, which he had been wearing for two days now.

“I told her they already had tea in Australia but she didn’t believe me.”

Harry smiled, “I didn’t mind.”

“She said that even if they did have tea they wouldn’t have English Breakfast, or they would call it something crazy like ‘Australian Outback Breakfast’.”

“How thoughtful of her.”

“Stop being nice about it, it’s ridiculous.”

“It was nice of her.”

“Australian Outback Breakfast, Harry”

“I hate tea and hate that it was graciously sent to me by your mum.” Harry obliged.

“There we go. Killed any snakes yet?”

“Oh yeah, loads. Bears too.”

He could hear her smiling, “Bears, huh?”

“All in your honour.”

“Naturally. Still no success in seducing Millie?”

Harry looked around to the post office reception desk, a stones-throw away from the phone, to where Millie– middle-aged, cardiganed, glasses– was pretending to read the paper and not hate him.

“Haven’t you heard? Wedding’s in the Spring.”

“Damn. Well, we had it good there for a while but true love always wins.”

He laughed, and Millie gave him a look. He waved. She ignored him and went back to the paper.

Ron sent letters, barely legible, by owls that had to be nursed back to health in the bath.

Harry,

Sorry for the writing but I’m on the muggle train because we’re going to Ireland for a few days to stay with her Hermione’s Aunt because she’s ‘dying to meet me’ (???). Anyway, Hermione also says to tell you that Ginny is thinking of cutting a fringe, because apparently that’s important. Apparently girls do that in a crisis, or whatever, she’ll write and explain it.

Ginny is basically living at ours now. The other day she put a Hollyhead Harpies poster up in the living room and when I tried to charm it off all the players screaming at me like Sirius’s fucking mum, so I just moved the cabinet in front of it. Bloody nightmare.

Honestly it isn’t even half bad having her around, she knows all these drinking games and set up your room and sometimes has a go reading over Hermione’s policy reports to the Ministry when I’ve sworn off them. Do not tell her I don’t mind her being round she’ll be annoying about it. I’m getting that Harpies poster off the wall.

Hope Teddy is good and everyone is demanding more photos as usual. All Victorie has to do is chew the carpet around here and everyone gets a bit teary, including me. George jinxed Perce’s glasses into binonoulars the other day and for a weird second everything felt like before and Vic giggled and then George looked like he’d been hit the fucking nightbus. I don’t even know how to explain it– kids really just have no idea about any of it.

Hope Andromeda is good and that the driving is going better. Dad’s framing all of the phone bills he gets which Gin probably already mentioned but I can’t tell you how weird it is to go into my old room and it’s just a bunch of framed bills. Hermione says hello which I’ve already written but she said I didn’t make it clear enough.

We miss you mate. Home soon yeah?

Ron

Often, he thought of the week he’d told them he was leaving. Hermione, drunk, talking to Ginny on the patio of the burrow when she thought everyone was inside. It makes sense, really, she’d said, He’s never been anywhere he wasn’t hunted too. Ron had looked at him and then loudly dropped his firewhiskey and the girls had jumped, turned around, stopped talking, but still. He’s never been anywhere he wasn’t hunted too. Huh.

“How’s driving?”

“Oh, fine. I killed a swan.” Harry said, demoralised. Ginny laughed for a good two minutes.

“What?”

“I hit the wrong pedal and speed up instead of slowing down. I didn’t know what to do so I just moved it off to the side of the road.”

“Ah, the Boy who Lived strikes again.”

“Stop,” He was smiling, “What if Teddy had seen it?”

“He’s not even two. He probably would have thought it was, like, having a lie down or something.”

Harry was laughing now, “A lie down?”

“Yeah, a spontaneous, truck-induced–“

“–Permanent–“

“–Permanent, lie-down. I’m almost jealous now actually.”

Andromeda was in her garden a lot. Getting anything to grow was near impossible, but she wouldn’t stop working at it. She kept saying that soon they’d be able to have a green beans salad, so Harry just drove to a market and stuck a few green beans in the ground to make her laugh. As a sort of joke they’d started calling the land ‘the farm’ even though nothing ever grew here.

They took Teddy to the ocean for the first time and his eyes went blue the second he saw it. The beach where they’d buried Dobby was overcast, water as grey as dishwater, but here the it glittered like glass, blue light come alive. Teddy sat in the shallows, trying to flatten waves with his fists, laughing.

Andromeda sat on a towel by the dunes under an enormous hat, tears running down her face, abruptly laughing when Teddy tried to eat sand or fell over a sandcastle. Harry knew how she felt. Impossible, how two years ago Teddy had two living parents and Harry had been seventeen, dead and walking, and now they were sat on the beach, people they loved dead for real, as Harry and Teddy lined up shells on the shore.

It was three in the morning but Harry snuck in through a backdoor, cloak on, having to jimmy the lock because he forgot his wand. The streets were pitch black, only three streetlights in the whole main street, with two of them not working anyway.

“Why’re you awake?” Ginny said lightning quick, knowing the time difference by heart, and Harry’s chest unlocked. It was stupidly comforting, Ginny’s voice, how she never said hello on the phone because she never learned, how if he really made her laugh she’d hold the receiver away from her, like he wasn’t desperate to hear it.

“I thought I saw Sirius today,” he couldn’t stop himself, “There was a dog on the farm and it was huge and I thought– I forgot he was dead. Isn’t that stupid?”

There was only Ginny’s breath down the phone. Picture: her in the kitchen, gripping the receiver, still. The memory looped in his brain, how Sirius’ name had risen in his throat, how odd it felt there, how long it had been since he’d said it aloud.

“No.” He almost didn’t hear her it’s so quiet, “I went to the shop yesterday and asked Ron if Fred was in the back. I forget too.”

His heart slowed, the memory of the shop: solid and real, running again, made for laughing, rose up, only then he shut his eyes and saw everyone laid out in rows, glassy eyes, and somehow he was walking through the forest again, going to die, but not soon enough–

“Harry.” Ginny’s voice, dragging him back to earth, “You did everything you could. Sirius knew. Everyone knew. No one could have done better.” She sounded so sure, voice as clear as glass, he’d be a fool not to believe her, “It hurts because they loved us. They loved us. That’s the part to remember.”

“You are kidding-!” This time Harry didn’t say hello.

“I’m sorry, who is this?”

“Harpies reserve!” Harry was yelling in the post office and Millie looked appalled, “They’ll promote you in two weeks, you genius, I knew it– “

“I’m sorry I really have no idea who this is.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t say anything.”

“I sent the letter!” Ginny dropped the joke, indignant.

“We spoke two days ago! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me then–”

“–I sent our fastest owl.”

“Marius is currently passed out in the sink–“

Ginny laughed, “I wanted you to get the letter,” she said, finally, “I wanted you to see it. Did you see Madeline McKinnon signed it?”

She sounded like a kid. He grinned. “I did.”

“Best beater this century sent a letter to my house, asking me to be on her team. Madness. The English team are after her you know, it’s all over the Prophet.”

“I hope you’re not expecting me to send the letter back because I think that really will finish Marius off.”

“Please, you think I sent the real thing? Dad made twenty copies. He hung two on Ron and Hermione’s fridge and sent one to Aunty Muriel.”

Harry grinned, “You’re brilliant, I’m hanging my copy on the front door, framed.”

“The moving logo may cause problems for the muggles”

“Who cares? I want to tell everyone about this. Chaser for the Harpies–“

“I’m a reserve.”

“For now.” He could hear her smile through the phone, “What did everyone say?”

“Ron said I was a traitor and that he was also proud. Mum cried. Hermione promised to actually watch a game, George reminded me about nicking his broom all that time so technically he was also partly on the team, Bill bought a season pass, Charlie hung a giant Harpies poster in his shite apartment and sent a photo, Luna sent me awful flowers that won’t stop smoking, and Percy called to congratulate me on my admission to the ‘Hollygrove Harps.’”

Harry laughed, “Incredible.”

“Yeah, Perce’s was particularly heartfelt.”

Harry,

I’m sat at the dining table and everyone’s still here, but Mum wanted me to recap Charlie’s birthday dinner right now because she doesn’t want you to miss anything. Hermione also agreed with this mental idea.

Dinner Summary:

Food was good

Hermione tried to explain the electric collage or whatever decides American elections to Dad, it was stupid.

Hermione says it was electoral college not the eccentric cage or whatever I wrote

George got Charlie a life-size model of the Horntail that he almost opened in the house. Mum had a fit.

Dad told a story about how the Muggle Foreign Minister ended up with a bathtub cursed to drown anyone in it.

Ginny wants me to say Percy is wearing a cardigan Millie would be proud of. I do not know what this means. Better not be a sex thing.

Hermione says hello (again she insisted I write this down like it isn’t obvious)

Mum wants me to say we all miss you still (again, obvious)

She also wants to know if you need her to make you any shorts (do not answer this)

Charlie wants to say cheers for the gift – apparently they only do that burn cream in Australia and it’s hard to come by

George doesn’t have anything to say he just wanted to be involved so I’ve written this so he’ll bugger off.

I’m bloody sending this now, I feel like a quick quotes quill (Fleur asks how you are). Have a good one mate.

Home soon yeah?

Ron.

Sometimes, when he was driving home from the post-office just after the sunset, everything sat in the new-dark, he’d remember when he used to be on watch, sat in front of the tent holding Hermione’s wand with everything going wrong, and how only then he’d let himself think about Ginny. Her voice, long laugh, longer legs, telling him to move over, pass the milk, look left, met her later, skip that flashcard, relax, put Luna in as chaser if it all goes arse up– she’s Ravenclaw but I’ll vouch for her. Dumb hours spent on the Quidditch pitch, sun going down, watching her get shot after shot past him like she even needed the practise. C’mon Potter at least try to save these, you’re making Ron look like Wood. Her hair everywhere, laughing, head back, both of them impossibly far from the ground

I really don’t want to die, Harry would think in the dark, wand out, ready for it, I really don’t want to die and miss out on you

Harry,

Sorry I couldn’t call but everything’s been nuts here and I wasn’t sure when I’d get to talk to you. Malcotti’s fucked her ankle so I may actually get put in for a game?? She’s been told to take it easy for a week and we play the Magpies in four days, so?? I’ll let you know when I can call. I’m currently writing this at the post-office desk and running late for practise.

Sidenote: this express owl cost me four galleons so I hope it does a dance on its arrival or at least arrives within the day. Tell Andromeda hello and that I’m still rooting for the green beans. Also, good luck for the driving test!! I’m sure you won’t hit anything living or dead and/or drive into a lake, but also if you do just confund the instructor. I solemnly swear not to tell Hermione.

Thinking of you. Kiss Teddy for me,

Gin

The click of the receiver: “I only have five minutes, we’re about to eat.”

Harry smiled, “How’s home?”

“Absolutely nothing to note. Victorie threw up on Bill yesterday, so that was a joy.”

“Supportive as usual.”

“Hey, I am supportive.” Harry could tell the phone was jammed between her shoulder and her ear, heard a knife on a cutting board, “Supportive of Victorie’s right to throw up on Bill whenever she wants.”

“Are you cooking?”

“I’m cutting potatoes by hand to avoid the lounge because Fleur and Mum are talking about how to discipline children.”

“Sounds tense.”

“You don’t know the half of it. Ron had to pretend to be on the phone with you earlier for ten minutes just to get out of there. He says hi– fuck!”

Harry heard the phone fall, “Ginny?”

A scrambling on the other end, distantly: “You’re bleeding on the potatoes!”

“Hi,” Ginny’s voice, a little breathless, “I cut myself.”

“You alright?” Harry asked, quick-shot.

“Oh, yeah. Just blood. Admirably everyone is showing a lot of concern” (Percy’s voice, distant and mournfully, “well there’s no way we can eat these now”)

He thought about going home sometimes, about the flat with Ron and Hermione he was currently paying for that he’d never lived in, what he’d do back in England. No one had ever come out to visit him here, some unspoken agreement they’d all made to give him space. Except, knowing Ron and Hermione and Mrs Weasley and he’s never been anywhere he wasn’t hunted to it probably was very much spoken, it’s just he wasn’t there for it.

The thing is, if he went home that meant no more seeing Teddy every day, sitting around eating cereal, watching him walk into walls or turn his nails pink, giving him ice cream for lunch and strap him into the truck, driving around the farm doing spins just to make him laugh. Even after all this time Australia was so far from the familiar, every night him and Andromeda sat on the deck lazily casting cooling charms, looking at all the stars.

On full moons Teddy got in bed with all the curtains open, blinds up, just to look at the moon. He couldn’t sleep unless he saw it. Harry wondered if he ever did anything like that, got pulled towards something of his parents without realising it. Quidditch, probably. Looking for something without knowing, not sure what you were really missing. Teddy’s huge eyes, the moon, and that familiar feeling: Stop, wait, I can’t believe I’ll never see you again. Come back, I wasn’t done yet. I don’t know how to do it without you.

It was pitch-black, four in the morning Queensland time, but it had been the only time she’d had free. Harry was leaning against the booth wall, letting the cloak slip, exhausted. Ginny cleared her throat in an odd way.

“So, you know I hate asking about this. It makes me– I don’t want to be that person” She sounded, wrong, uncomfortable, like white knuckles gripping the receiver, “But everyone’s been asking and I want– when do you think you’ll be coming home?”

Harry was quiet. All this time away– almost a year, eleven months, it occurred to him– and she’d never asked. She was the only one who hadn’t. “Oh, I don’t know. Soon, I guess.”

“Yeah.” She said, unreadable. A beat went past, and Harry could feel the shift, how that was the wrong thing. He could hear her breathing. “Do you want– if you want, we could take a break-“

“No” Harry said, so fast, “No, no I don’t want that. Do you want that?”

“No. No. I just– I don’t want this to be difficult. I don’t want you to feel, like– obligated. If you want like room away from everything I get it. Just tell me– I don’t want– Just tell me.”

Harry’s heart was going into his chest like an endlessly slamming door. How to explain it? You wouldn’t believe the space here, all this room, all this time I have. I didn’t think I’d get it. I want space but never from you.

“I’m not with you because I feel obligated. I’m– That isn’t how I feel. I don’t want space or a break or anything.”

Silence, endless, pouring down the phone. He could be sick. Then, Ginny’s voice: “Okay.”

“I’m coming back to England, Gin. I’m coming back, just, when I’m– when I’m done. I’m coming home. Soon.”

“Okay. I just wanted to make sure that this– that this is still good.”

“It is.” He was so stupid. A war ends and everything finally works out, everyone safe for real, and he goes running to the other side of the world and doesn’t say when he’s coming home. Ginny, at home, getting a phone wired up just to call him. He had no luck for seventeen years and then it all came at once, and now he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“I love you,” he said, which he never said because it felt heavy, full of gravity, and he spent all his time trying to make her laugh.

Deep breath. He could hear her shoulders unknotting through the phone. “I love you too.”

“Harry?”

“Ron?”

“Can you hear me? Is this?– how do I know if this is on?”

“It’s on,” Harry said, hurriedly, “Is everything alright?”

“I tried to give Pig a letter for you this morning and he bit me and flew into the window.” Harry started laughing, “So I thought I’d try give him a break.”

Harry pulled himself together, “Yeah maybe that’s for the best. How are you?”

“Oh, the usual. The shop is still nuts so Hermione stopped by to help out on Saturday and ate half a Bile Biscuit thinking it was shortbread– hilarious. George threatened to charge her. If Ginny’s not at a practise she’s at our place drinking all the milk, and Luna came by the other day and threw all the stuff in the fridge out because she said it was infected with ‘Mimilice’. You?”

“The same. Teddy turned his leg into the end of a snake the other day and I had a fit. Andromeda put him in the sink so he couldn’t slither away before phasing back. It’s currently 39 degrees.” Ron laughed.

“God, even your voice sounds hot.”

“Woah, mate. I’m seeing someone and so are you.”

“Ha ha.” Ron said sarcastically, “I wish I could turn this up so everyone in the empty living room could have heard that.”

“Please don’t try to use the speaker phone, you’ll accidentally dial the embassy or something.”

“’Speaker phone’? What could the phone have to say?”

Teddy turned two and Andromeda make him a cake by hand with a spider on it that moved. He blew out the candles and looked bemused, sat in a top Hermione had sent, still holding onto a scrap of ribbon. Harry took him outside and sat him on his Nimbus Seven Series, entirely too long, and Teddy did slow circles while Harry held the end, watching him laugh, tiny hands grasping the handle. Suddenly, like being thrown through a window, Remus was in front of him, standing in the Hogwarts Hallway, breathless and happy, saying his sons name.

The post office has been closing for a good fifteen minutes, but Harry brought the cloak, pretended to leave, then snuck back and picked up the phone again.

“I think I just saw Millie’s husband.”

“You’re kidding.”

“A guy came to pick her up, he had a hat on, she got in the front seat–“

“What kind of hat?”

“I don’t know, normal. Like a normal old-person hat.”

“You didn’t say he was old.”

Harry grinned, “You really thought Millie seemed the type to be with a 25-year-old?”

“Hey, you’re going out with me after all–“

Harry spluttered, “I’m a year older!”

“Year and a half–“

“You’re unbelievable. That is not the same.”

“Just because you like younger women–“

“I don’t like younger women, I like you, or I did until a few minutes ago. I’m now reconsidering.”

“You like me.” Ginny said, not really serious but also deadly so.

Harry smiled, said dryly, “What gave me away?”

Harry had started dreaming of home, the staring in the street, dishes washing themselves in the Burrow, Hogwarts lake dark and silky as eels. He couldn’t tell what had brought this on, only that he was now driving into town every day to talk to Ginny, and now Ron, Hermione, even Neville were coming to the phone.

“They miss you” Andromeda said, unprompted, drinking muggle wine on the deck one night after dinner, “Molly wrote last week asking if you mentioned when you’d be coming back.”

“Oh,” Harry said, because he couldn’t think of anything else. “Do you think you’ll come back?”

The question hung between them. Terrible thought: Teddy never back in England, Teddy growing up where Harry couldn’t see him.

“I will.” She looked back at him, unbearably, and it was everything that went unsaid.

“How?” Harry asked, unthinking.

Andromeda looked back out the window, the pressing dark, the unbearable heat. Even after all this time, making dinner, sitting on the dark deck, weeding the garden, she was still unreadable. Grief undid you in layers.

“Because Nymphadora would want me to.” She said, simply. “Because I want her to think I’m brave.”

The post office shuts for a week because Millie goes out of town, and the place is small enough that that means it’s not open till she gets back. Harry makes it four days before apparating hundreds of miles away, almost splinching himself in the heat, dizzy from lack of practise, and stumbling to a payphone at the side of a highway.

Click. “Didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

“Yeah, I went out of town to call.”

“Out of town huh? Miss me that much?” Ginny’s voice, joking.

Unbelievably, Harry thought. “Yeah well, Teddy isn’t much of a conversationalist.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that, you’ll knock his confidence.”

“He’ll get past it. How are you?”

“Fine. Well– actually, you won’t believe what happened at practise on Thursday, I hope you’re sitting down–“

“I’m not–” Harry grinned

“Squat then,” Ginny said blithely, “because Jacqueline has actually gone full bonkers–“

“My parents say its incredible “ Hermione’s voice, the only person in his life who spoke in a normal tone on the phone

“Yeah, we’ve been actually.” Harry didn’t have the heart to tell her that Teddy had found the Great Ocean Road blindingly boring and had only made it an hour in before him and Andromeda had decided it wasn’t worth the screaming anymore.

“Yeah, Mum and Dad were thinking of coming down, doing it again.”

Harry played along, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She was endearingly fake-casual, “Maybe Ron and I would come too.”

“Ron wants to drive 150 miles along a stretch of boring road with your parents?”

“You didn’t say it was boring.”

“Slip of the tongue,” Harry smiled, “What about the Ministry? And the shop?”

“We’re thinking about doing travelling.”

“The year we spent in a tent in various country-sides not enough?”

“Funnily enough seeing the sights wasn’t top of mind then.”

Harry smiled darkly, “If we’re going travelling let’s do Italy, or America, or something. Soon. Somewhere none of us have ever been.”

Hermione left it a beat too long for it to be a normal silence, “I heard Italy is beautiful, the history there is incredible…”

Harry could almost hear talking to Ron later: “and then he said if we’re going travelling, ‘we’re’, Ron! And ‘soon’! he thinks he’ll be travelling with us ‘soon’!. And Ron, “so you didn’t ask when he’s coming back then?, and then Hermione: “didn’t you hear? soon! He said soon!”

He was walking back to the car from the post office one day, Teddy plodding beside him infatuated with a passing goose, with Ginny’s voice still swimming around him, the sound of Ron telling her to shut up, pass the receiver, I’ve got to tell him the Cannons score, and he walked into the travel agents and booked one-way ticket to England for next week. Just like that.

Stupid, really, how he heard their voices all the time (walking in the street, making a sandwich, fixing the plumbing) but had never made the connection. He was in the street like always, hearing the call all again, and thought I wish they were here for real, and then walked into the air-conditioning and pulled out his chequebook. It really was that easy. The goose was still outside when he left holding his ticket, Teddy squirming to get closer to it with a full-on beak that Harry was trying to hide with one hand.

Home soon Harry thought the whole drive home, the thought expanding in his chest, the window open, his hair blowing everywhere– longer than it had ever been. Even when he got back to the farm, told Andromeda (who promised to follow in a year), made dinner, went to bed, he imagined he would feel different. Something huge and unfelt before, but really everything was the the same as ever. He just missed them, is all. He was learning that sometimes love really was that simple, that it was reason enough.

“I read that people sometimes make signs at airports.”

Harry smiled, phone cord wrapped around his palm. “Saying what?”

“Guess you’ll find out tomorrow.”

“Oh, God.”

“Don’t worry, no magic involved. We don’t want to alarm the muggles. Luna asked if she could bring her lion hat but Hermione got intervened.”

“Luna’s coming?”

“Yes, duh. Everyone is. It’s been a year a half.”

Harry, who had had visions of kissing Ginny ridiculously for an hour in front of the plane, adjusted his expectations.

Ginny, as usual, reading his mind: “Don’t worry. I’ve briefed Ron that I’ll still be kissing you senseless so he had better start getting over it.”

Harry grinned, “Bet he loved that.”

“He called me a cocksucker, and then I pointed out that actually I hadn’t been in a year and a half–“

“Gin!”

“–and he said my name exactly like that, yeah.”

Harry couldn’t stop laughing, bright red in the post office for the last time as Millie shushed him, “You are unbelievable.”

“Well, believe me.” she said, dryly, “I’ll be seeing you in 29 hours.”

Harry, also counting, ducked his head, grinning. It turned out all his best luck was waiting at this part of his life, who knew. Thank God, Thank God, Thank God.

“I’m going to be totally unusable, you know. The flight’s twenty-one hours.”

“Yeah, you’re an idiot. I know you’re on a whole no-magic kick but this really is the limit. What are you going to eat?”

“Hermione says they serve eggs and stuff.”

“Wow, really? How?”

Harry considered. “I actually have no idea. Maybe please bring some chips or something to the airport.”

Ginny laughed, the best sound in the world, “Only if you bring me some eggs.”

#sorry this is late sorry to all my unanswered messages i had to post this today i had to get it away from me!!!#hinny #hinny fic #harry potter #ginny weasley #otp: several sunlit days #i have to run everyone is waiting on me sorry everyone i love you all lots i turn 21 in three days who could believe it!!!#carolineswritingtag

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sirensmojo · 3 years

Text

"Low lows"- Hubby! Tommy Shelby x Reader

Warnings: ANGST, mention of losing a baby. It gets better in the end.

gif of @mayzkaban {here is the post}

Summary: You and Tommy drifted apart after the loss of your baby. It’s the first time in months that you visit him.

A/N: I'm SO sorry for this... I was listening to Dermot Kennedy - Lost and got carried away with sad stuff...

*Masterlist*

*House of Commons, London*

“Mr Shelby, your wife is here. Should I let her come in or tell her to wait?”

Tommy’s icy eyes lift to his assistant in a hurry, confusion mixed with curiosity all over his face.

“Let her come.” He succeeded at wording, waving his hand. He leaned back in his chair, getting rid of his glasses and clearing his throat.

It has been five months since the last time he saw her, and six since their little daughter died.

A day hasn’t passed when he didn’t think about her. She looked a lot like himself, she loved horses and the more she could be outside in nature, the happier she was.

He remembered fondling her long and soft hair while she was squeezing him as hard as her little arms allowed her to, and whenever he would come back home, she was the one to welcome him. In those times he was less stiffened, he was content.

Tommy tried to free his mind from painful memories by pressing his thumb and index on his eyes when he heard the door opening.

Here she was, the woman who gave him his wonderful lost loved one. The woman he still very much loves regardless of the complicated situation, the woman he needed the most in those times.

But she was also the woman that refused to see him considering it was his fault if their Sophia lost her life.

Y/N seemed well, light makeup on her face, finger-wave Y/H/C curls with a deep brown hat at the top of her head. Her long brown woollen coat on top of a cherry red dress. It was her favourite, and he wondered why she was wearing it?

She walked into the office slowly, joining the chairs in front of his desk. Y/N sat down and finally raised her gaze to her husband, who was staring at her already, “Hi, Tommy. You look terrible.” She ultimately said, worry in her voice.

He was surprised to feel like she cared, which Y/N didn’t miss noticing.

“How’s work?” She continued as if he wasn’t ignoring her.

Tommy coughed, abruptly getting up. He couldn’t do it, he wouldn’t sit here and talk with her as if nothing had happened. She wasn’t wrong to think it was his fault, and he knew it the most. Even looking at his own reflection in the mirror stopped his lungs from getting oxygenated, he would always glimpse, at the back of him, the ghost of their daughter, pointing at him with her little chubby fingers...

Drinking and smoking were all he knew at one point, but even that he couldn’t continue to do as life kept going on, business needed to be done, and he had so many people relying on him, and his wife wasn’t there to keep him sane.

It was easier that way anyway, he didn’t need to be reminded of his mistake every time he’d look into her eyes that were darkened by the bereavement.

In this battle, he didn’t only lose his wife and daughter, he lost himself a little more.

If he was fully honest with himself, Tommy would admit he didn’t even know how he could still make it to the end of the day, shaking hands and going to sleep.

Sleep.

It was another thing he lost. The first weeks after the loss of their daughter, the couple didn’t even see each other, Tommy being too filled with rage, he tracked down Father Hughes and took his time torturing him and every single one involved in the abducting and killing of his daughter. But when the hunt was finally over, he had to come home, and face his other half hurting. Or should he say, he had to hear her whimpers, every day, every night, before losing her too.

Y/N wasn’t even sleeping by his side anymore, but how surprised he was that one day, he woke up to Frances waiting outside his bedroom door, fear and worry filling her dark eyes.

He opened the door after preparing himself for another meaningless day and bumped into his maid, she was standing straight, head down, “What is it?” His grumpy voice echoed on the corridor’s walls.

Frances lifted her face to him, her eyes staring into his blue ones. She seemed worried, but she couldn’t say anything for some reason.

Tommy raised his brows, waiting.

“It’s your wife, Sir…” She crossed her fingers together, “She left early this morning... told me not to wake you up... she left a note.”

Tommy looked to the end of the corridor, to the guests' rooms. It wasn’t the truth, right? She couldn’t just leave like that.

He walked past the maid without saying anything and went downstairs, “In your little girl’s room, Sir” Frances added, assuming he was looking for the note.

As soon as the words reached his ears, Tommy stopped, his body stiffened. He slowly looked up the stairs, he hadn’t been in this room since…

He exhaled deeply and went up again, walking reluctantly to his daughter’s room before pushing the door.

Everything was still in place, even the sweet perfume of candy was still present in the air. He blankly blinked a couple of times, glimpsing a folded paper on the perfectly made bed.

He walked into the room, his heart tightening at each of his steps. He ultimately grabbed the paper and unfolded it,

“Tommy, my sweet love,

I don’t understand how it happened although I’m aware of business risks and I regret happier circumstances, our family moments.

She looked so much like you, both physically and mentally, so whenever I see you, I see her, which is too much at the moment...

Though, I don’t hate you... I could never.

But I need time.

Keep business in place, take care of Arthur. Visit Polly and, most of all, take care of you…”

After that, sleeping seemed impossible and even breathing cut him deep. Every time he would close his eyes, he would see the face of his daughter handing her hands to him and calling “Daddy! Come look at my horse.”

“Tommy?” Y/N’s voice led him to look up to her. Her head was tilted to the side, he must have been lost in thoughts for too long.

His back was flat on the wall when she got up. A faint smile on her lips, she got closer to him, raised her hand and reached for his cheek that she tenderly fondled.

Tommy’s eyes were deeply rooted in hers, and he felt it to his core, here she was, his Y/N.

“I’m back now, we’re going to get through this.” She reached for one of his hands and squeezed it. “Together,” she added, trying to convince him.

He intertwined their fingers together.

#tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders #husband tommy shelby #hubby!Tommy Shelby #Thomas Shelby x reader

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queenxxxsupreme · 3 years

Note

I just thought of something- Arthur as a dad and having a little girl that he's so overprotective of and he's got a ranch and he's all healthy and thick- This should be canon I swear.

A/N: BABE this might have just started a mini series involving dad!Arthur and my new ending to rdr2 that I know we deserved. There’s at least going to be two more parts (that could be read separately from this one) including Daisy’s birthday which has some members from our lovely gang in it and some drama as well as the part where Daisy gets her first horse which also has some drama in it! Also just saying, I am open to dad!Arthur requests...

Additional Note: So in this, Charles’s SO is named Lucy and Abigail and John’s unnamed daughter that they eventually have is named Grace :) They are just mentioned but in this RDR2 AU mini series they will be appearing!

Warnings: DOES INVOLVE SPOILERS FOR RDR2 ENDING, mostly fluffy!, female!reader,

***

“I’m a survivor, Morgan!”

Arthur jolted awake. His hands gripped the pillow beneath his head with white knuckles.

For a split second, he didn’t know where he was. The room was dark save for a bit of moonlight that came in through the curtains that covered the window.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes as he tried to get his bearings. A thin layer of sweat covered his skin. He pushed the quilt and fur blanket off of himself, throwing his legs over the side of the bed.

Arthur’s gaze fell on the end table by the bed. The picture on the table brought him back to reality.

He picked the wooden frame up, a small smile coming to his lips. It was a picture of you, him, and Daisy when she was a newborn.

“Oh how time flies.” He murmured quietly, placing the picture back down.

Arthur glanced over his shoulder to where you should have been sleeping, but that side of the bed was empty. It wasn’t too much of a surprise that he was alone. You had trouble sleeping sometimes. But it was odd that he hadn’t noticed you getting out of bed.

“I’m a survivor, Morgan!” Micah Bell’s voice thundered in Arthur’s ears. “That’s all there is! Living and dying!”

Arthur stood to his feet and moved down the hallway, making his way to Daisy’s room. He pushed the door open and poked his head inside.

The little lump beneath the blankets on Daisy’s bed settled Arthur’s racing heart. All the worry that had been swirling in his stomach dwindled down at the sight of his seven-year-old daughter.

The family dog, Carson, huffed from the foot of her bed, alarmed that someone had opened the door.

“Shhh, boy.” Arthur tried to hush him before he could disturb Daisy, but it was too late.

“Carson.” She whined.

“Sorry, sweetpea.”

“Daddy?” Daisy turned over in her bed, brushing her messy hair back out of her face.

“Didn’t mean to wake ya up.” Arthur moved into the room, giving Carson a pat on the head. “Just wanted to check on ya.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause…. Well ‘cause I was just worried about ya.” He explained.

Daisy looked up at him for a few moments.

“Momma said you was havin’ bad dreams.”

Arthur furrowed his brow.

“When did she say that?”

“Earlier when she came in to check on me.”

Arthur would’ve laughed if the reason that you both were so insistent on checking on Daisy wasn’t because of your past.

“Were you havin’ bad dreams, daddy?”

“No, sweetpea.” He started to tuck her in, making sure the blanket covered her properly and that she was comfortable. “I was just a little restless. Sometimes it’s hard for daddy to go to sleep ‘cause he knows there’s so much to do around here.”

“I can help you do stuff, daddy.” Daisy offered. “That way you can sleep better.”

Arthur smiled.

“Sweet girl.” He leaned down to kiss her forehead. “You help me plenty. Try to get some rest. Tomorrow is a busy day. Do you know why it’s a busy day?”

A huge grin spread across her face.

“I get a horse.”

“What? No, no. That don’t sound right.” Arthur shook his head.

“Daddy!” Daisy giggled.

“I’m just teasin’ you, sweetpea.” Arthur kissed her head once more. “Sleep tight, sweetpea. First thing tomorrow mornin’, we’ll be goin’ into town to get you a little horse.”

“What if I want a big horse?”

“Well, we’ll have to just see what the stables have got.” He chuckled. “Good night, sweetpea.”

“Good night, daddy.”

Arthur closed the door to Daisy’s room behind himself.

He looked down the hallway towards the kitchen, hearing the sound of a quiet conversation.

He found you and Hosea sitting at the kitchen table.

“Drinking coffee in the middle of the night? What is it with you two?”

“We’re already up.” Hosea shrugged his shoulders. “No point in trying to go back to sleep.”

You chuckled a little.

Arthur moved around to stand behind your chair.

“Was Daisy up earlier?” He leaned down to kiss your head.

“Yeah, briefly. Carson heard something outside and started barking.” You nodded, taking a sip of coffee.

Arthur looked to the large window in the kitchen that looked over the backyard. His brows furrowed together.

“Hm. Why didn’t I hear nothin?” He moved towards the window, lingering towards the side instead of standing directly in the middle.

“You were talkin’ in your sleep again.” You said quietly. “You only do that when you’re having real bad dreams.”

Arthur nodded.

“I already went out there and looked around. Didn’t see anything.” Hosea told him.

“I’m gonna go double check.”

“What- You think I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“That’s not it, old man.”

Hosea watched as Arthur disappeared down the hallway, going to the backroom to retrieve a gun.

“He only wants to see for himself that there’s nothin’ out there.” You spoke so only Hosea could hear you. “He was sayin’ Micah’s name again, Hosea.”

Hosea let out a sigh.

“He thinks Micah’s gonna come after him.”

“You don’t think so?” You tilted your head to the side a little, eyebrows drawing together. “After…. After what happened…. Arthur ruined his plans at getting the money from Blackwater. Dutch died on that mountain. You’re the only other one who knows and Micah knows you’re here too. It would only make sense for him to come here and…. and I’m afraid, Hosea.”

Hosea shook his head softly, reaching over to take your hand.

“Micah Bell is a coward, Y/N. He knows it. He knows Arthur’s got all of us in his corner. You, me, Charles, John-,”

“But Hosea, we’ve got families.” Your voice cracked. “We have Daisy and-and Charles and Lucy are having one of their own. Abigail and John have Jack and Grace. We-We ain’t what we used to be.”

Hosea was quiet for a few moments.

Arthur passed through the kitchen fully dressed and carrying a shotgun.

Your eyes met his briefly. The air in your lungs escaped. It felt like someone was sitting on your chest.

The back door closed behind Arthur.

“If it comes down to it, Y/N, we will do what we have to do.” Hosea assured you.

You nodded your head, wiping the tears from your cheeks that managed to escape.

***

A half an hour had passed and Arthur had yet to return to the house. You ventured out to find him. He sat on the front step with the shotgun still in his hands. Upon hearing the front door open, he looked over his shoulder.

“Do you plan on stayin’ out here all night?”

He didn’t answer you, turning his head to look back to the woods.

You sat down next to him, slipping your arm around his. You kissed his shoulder and leaned against him.

“Is everything okay?”

“I just…. just got this feelin’ that ain’t sittin’ right with me. That’s all.”

“We’ve been here for four years, Arthur. We’ve been quiet, haven’t drawn any attention to ourselves and haven’t let any of the locals know our real names. There’s no way he’d know where we are.”

“If that snake wants to find me, he could. I know it. And if he…. I don’t want him anywhere near Daisy.”

“Charles and Lucy are just down the road. You know Charles is just as vigilant as you are and with those dogs he’s got, he’d know if anyone was setting up camp in the woods between our property and his. If need be, next time Sadie comes through we can ask her to dig around and see where Micah’s at. You know she’d be willing to help.”

“I hate to get her involved.” Arthur muttered, shaking his head softly.

“If it involves the future of her niece, you know damn well she’d want to be involved.” You rubbed his arm. “It’s early, but we still got a couple hours before the sun comes up.”

He let out a breath.

“M’not gonna sleep at all tonight, pumpkin.”

“Then at least come lay down. Let me read to you. You don’t need to be out here alone with just your thoughts.”

Arthur’s eyes found yours.

“You know I love you, don’t you?”

“I know.” You smiled. “Come on.” You patted his arm and stood up.

“Daisy’s real excited about gettin’ herself a horse.” Arthur put his hand on the small of your back as he walked behind you. “You don’t think she’s still too young for one, do you? I mean, she’s so small. She’s smaller than Jack was and he was a tiny kid.”

“She’s just fine for her age, Arthur.” You assured him. “It’ll be good for her to get started with a horse now. It’ll keep you both busy all spring.”

“What if she gets hurt?”

“She’s bound to get hurt. It’s a part of growin’ up.”

“I don’t want her gettin’ hurt.”

The door to Daisy’s room opened and Carson slipped out.

“Daisy.” You said her name. “You should be in bed. It’s four in the morning.”

“I can’t sleep, momma.” She lingered in the doorway to her room, a frown on her lips.

You looked back to Arthur. He nodded his head, moving past you so he could get to your daughter.

“You wanna come lay down with me and momma? She’s gonna read a storybook to me.”

“Yeah!” Daisy held her hands out for him. Arthur grunted as he picked her up and placed her on his hip.

Carson slipped into the bedroom just before you closed the door. Arthur put Daisy down on the bed and took his hat off, placing it on her head.

“Daddy! It’s too big!” She giggled, pushing it back so it didn’t fall over her eyes.

“Nah, I think it fits just perfect.” He grinned. “I’ll be right back. M’gonna go change. Don’t get too comfortable though, sweetpea. You’re in my spot.”

You slipped off your houseshoes and pulled a book from the shelf.

“Momma?”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Where can I get a hat like this daddy’s?” Daisy put Arthur’s hat on the stand next to the bed and then settled back against his pillows.

“I reckon if you mention it to daddy while you’re in town tomorrow he can get you one.” You sat down on your side of the bed, opening up the book. Carson made himself comfortable at the foot of the bed.

A few moments later, Arthur returned to the bedroom. He stopped just after shutting the door and put his hands on his hips.

“Sweetpea.”

“Yes, daddy?” She giggled, bringing the blankets up to cover her nose.

“I think we got a problem. Where am I supposed to sleep if you’re in my spot?”

She giggled again, pulling the blankets up over her head as if to hide from him.

“Arthur, she needs to sleep some.” You told him quietly. “Don’t get her-,”

He didn’t listen. Instead, he chose to tickle her through the blankets. Daisy’s delighted laughter filled the room. You couldn’t help but smile.

Once Arthur was content with her laughter, he stopped tickling her and pulled the blankets back. Daisy’s hair was a mess.

“Little Miss Daisy, we are definitely going to have to fix your hair in the morning.” Arthur leaned down to kiss her forehead. “But first, you need to get some sleep.”

“Nuh-uh! Momma was gonna read to us!”

“I’ll read until someone falls asleep.” You yawned. “Though I might be that someone.”

“You heard your mother, sweetpea. Scoot over so she can read us a story.” Arthur nudged Daisy over towards the middle of the bed.

Once the two were settled, you began your story.

“A long time ago, there were two cowboys….”

Taglist: @doggone-cowgirl @winterwolf @lauramb7 @caraqas @bluscryn @krenee1drful @zodiacaldust @nonodino @gabstaroc @cal-lifornication @thefirelordm @sargeantsea @sokkasdarling @thecollection @mayday1284

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x reader fluff #dad!arthur morgan #dad!arthur morgan fic #rdr2 #rdr2 fic #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan ask #kacey answers

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murderousginger · 3 years

Text

Gentle Giant

Arthur Shelby x reader

Word count: 1,708

Warnings: Adultery. Sex. They're criminals guys, they do bad things.

Requested by @caelys for this song.

You tried not to stare, but you failed every service. You resolved yourself to sitting opposite them in the circle of foldable chairs instead. Easier not to be seen breaking your neck over a married man, rising suspicions and idle gossip among the chickens.

The meetings were held in secret in the pastor's business. Quaker service was simple and pure. You all read the Bible together and discussed passages as the pastor mediated the flock if discussions got heated. Those of you with the urge could sing whatever the lord influenced you to. Or, you all sat in silence if no one felt compelled to talk.

You sang quite often.

It soothed you and seemed to soothe others, so you were regularly called to sing at the beginning of the meeting.

You liked making others feel at ease and were often called on to welcome new members or talk to those that felt the need to talk to someone.

As a widow, you often helped after service to put the chairs up or see to the children while their parents did the rounds of greeting others. You weren't there for the gossip or the social hierarchy that so many used these meetings for. You just liked being around similar minded people.

And then Linda brought her husband around.

They were dating at first. Arthur, following Linda around like a lost puppy with his hat wrung in his hands, was hard to ignore. His face was haggard in that same way most men that returned from the war was, but his eyes were soft. He kept his voice soft around everyone and often looked to the floor, but there was a sense of power hidden in his rough hands, his brow, his tense back. It was as if he was a lion hiding as a lamb in fear of being cast out.

Linda never particularly liked you; she never particularly liked anyone that she couldn't control or otherwise bend to her whims. She was a strong woman with a strong voice and the opinion it needed to be heard. You both stayed cordial but otherwise away from each other, but you couldn't help but be interested in him.

There were whispers. A Shelby, they said. Dangerous.

But he didn't seem dangerous. He seemed lost. All too eager to follow Linda to whatever she dragged him into if it meant she continued smiling at him.

He became a regular member, following Linda on her constant reach for more. You found yourself talking to him more than once as she made her rounds, and that's when you realized you cared about the quiet, strong man that was being overshadowed by his ambitious wife.

Today, the smell of gunpowder and whiskey was stained on his clothes from the night before. His eyes still floated along as if he was half drunk. Linda held his arm in a vice grip as she dragged him along to make the rounds of greetings after service. Her smile was tight and never met her eyes. The honeymoon phase was well over.

"Y/N, so nice to see you!" Linda's voice raised in fake cheer.

"And you, sister of the lord!" you answered back with equally fake cheer. "How are you both this morning? Late start?"

"Good!" Linda sung. "We are good. Nothing slips past you! Our resident songbird also has eagle eyes."

Your mouth fought to grimace at the dig, but you kept your smile plastered on.

"And you, Arthur?" you asked softly, ignoring Linda. "How did you find the service?"

"Your voice always brings out other's inner light to service, Y/N," he said with a smile. "It's a right beautiful way to start a Sunday."

You smiled, tucking your chin to your chest to hide your embarrassment at his comment.

"Thank you."

"Really?" Linda said as she looked up to her husband. "Her voice always had a grit that I thought belonged in a nightclub rather than singing to angels. Oh look, let's go say hello to Mr. Peyton."

Linda dragged Arthur off by the arm as he shot you an apologetic look and you bit your cheek at her comment. His compliment bounced through your brain even as Linda's comment stung.

You started to gather the chairs, folding them and carrying a few at a time into the pastor's office to pack away into a storage room. With almost 30 members, it would take almost a dozen trips to collect all of the chairs.

You turned around to make your way for another trip when the door swung open and Arthur came in with 4 or 5 chairs tucked under his arms.

"Thought you could use a hand," he said with a small smile. "Save you a few trips, songbird."

"That's very kind of you, Arthur," you smiled back. "Thank you."

You opened the storage door and let him set the chairs down with the rest. He patted himself, turning to you as you both stayed in the doorway.

"Sorta selfish, too," Arthur said hushed. "Helping you gets me out of the rounds today. I'm in no shape for pleasantries with Linda's friends."

You both chuckled.

"Well I won't tattle on you, Arthur," you chuckled. "It's not my cup of tea, either. That's why I offer to do these types of things. I like being helpful."

"It'll be our secret."

Your heart fluttered as he stood in the doorway with you, looking down on you with those soft, sad eyes. The whiskey made his breath hot and your mind race. You didn't want to think anymore.

You reached up on your toes and you kissed him, feeling him freeze under your touch. You pulled back to see a look of shock on his face but also a spark in his eye.

"We shouldn't do this, love," he stammered, his hands finding your hips as you raised to your toes to meet his lips again. "I'm married to Linda. It's Sunday after a service. You're a good Christian woman."

"And you're a good Christian man," you replied as your hand found his chest. "You try to be, and that's all that God asks of us. It's Linda that demands more of you."

Arthur licked his lips and your eyes followed the movement for a moment as you bit your own. When you looked back into Arthur's eyes you noticed the spark grew brighter.

"She's just trying to keep me from sin, love," he said hoarsely. "She's a good woman who took pity on a sinner and is trying to keep my soul saved."

"Or she's trying to control you, Arthur," you replied. "Just like your brothers do. I don't want to control you. I want to be beside you."

"What do you know of my brothers?"

You shrugged.

"Church holds the spirit as well as a lot of gossip," you say. "Whatever they say about your business is not mine to judge you for. I only think that Linda is using the phrase 'love the sinner, hate the sin,' in the wrong way intended. Your inner light is valid."

"How old are you, songbird?" Arthur asks suddenly, his warm rough hand lightly caressing your cheek. "What do you want with an old man?"

"I'm two years older than Linda," you laugh as you press his hand into your cheek.

"You church girls always look so young," he murmured as you pressed closer to him. "Like sin ages a body."

"Kiss me, Arthur," you sighed. "You're stalling."

And he did. Hesitantly. Softly. His mustache tickled your nose but his lips were soft against yours. Your heart slowed, just like time did.

When a light sigh escaped your mouth -- the faintest moan of happiness -- Arthur's tongue grazed your lip and you happily allowed him access to explore.

His hands held onto you like you were an anchor. He pressed you backward out of the doorway until you were lifted clumsily onto the pastor's desk, knocking over a chair on the way. The noise made you both jump and freeze for a moment. Arthur's hands played at the hem of your skirt.

"We shouldn't," you said breathlessly. "Not here. Too many people could walk in."

Arthur kissed you again, trailing kisses to your ear and down your neck as his hands pushed your skirt higher.

"We can be quick, songbird," Arthur growled into your neck. "An old man can make quick work of a beautiful lady."

"Arthur," you gasped as his fingers found their destination and he pushed your underwear to the side.

Your head fell back as he pressed into you and growled into your chest. His hands gripped your hips roughly, surely causing bruises as he found a rhythm.

"Say it again, love," he mumbled, pulling you back to the moment rather than being lost in the sensation. "Say m'name again, sweet like."

"Arthur," you said softly as you bit your lip. His thrust sharpened and you held onto him as your pleasure rose.

"Sounds like fuckin' music," he murmured.

"Arthur," you moaned louder before his hand clamped over your mouth to stifle the yell of passion you wanted to make as he got rougher.

There it was, the beast that hid behind the softness. And he was glorious.

He buried his own head into the crook of your neck as you bit his hand and came, him following moments after.

He stayed inside you, catching his breath over you before reluctantly stepping back and tucking himself away.

"Can you find a reason to get away, Arthur?" You asked as you smoothed your shirt and stood up from the desk to straighten your skirt. "Can you visit me tonight?"

"Ayuh," Arthur nodded. His eyes looked clearer than before. "I'll tell Linda there's business and come round after dinner."

You nodded, guilt stinging you as he said her name. Your lip began to tremble as the realization set in.

"Hey," Arthur said, his finger tracing your lip. "None of that, love."

He kissed you softly, once again a lamb.

"Tonight," he said as he kissed you. "We'll have time to be slow. Until you're hoarse from singing my name."

You smiled, feeling the bruises forming on your hips now that the thrill was over.

"Tonight, then."

#arthur shelby x reader #peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #storytime with murderousginger #arthur shelby

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author-morgan · 3 years

Text

Title: Sweet Caroline

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader

Rating: M

Summary: One day a man in black comes to take you away and it just happens he’s the best man you’ve ever met. Tagging the crew: @dynamicorbit @kvitravn @wolfxkissed

Header image by @kvitravn

BE WARY OF a man in black. In retrospect, you should have heeded your mother’s wisdom and warning —would have saved you a lot of pain and headaches to learn from her mistakes instead of making the same ones. Arthur Morgan had been a man in black when he rode into town at the head of a band of nefarious outlaws one crisp autumn morning.

The Van der Linde gang left the small town with a dozen bags heavy with gold and silver, a trail of corpses of those who stood in their way lining the streets. That’d been years ago, about seven by your reckoning. You’ve made too many mistakes to count since then but asking Arthur Morgan to take you away from a small-town hell wasn’t one of them.

Pearson howls like a wolf at the full moon when you dig into the bloody hole on his calf, pulling the slug free. The silver round clinks when you drop it into the washbasin, leaning back with a sigh as John takes your spot, dressing the gunshot wound with a thick salve and torn piece of calico fabric. A quick buck off a set of loaded dice in an alleyway hadn’t turned out in Pearson’s favor —luck saved him from a bullet in the head, just like luck saved him from the loan sharks a few months back.

Rising, you pat the Fat Man’s cheek, leaving behind a bloody handprint fore wandering off to the edge of camp for a breath of air away from the fire and those gathered around it. Arthur follows after you, not ready to let you out of his sight after he almost lost you in the shootout with the law and those wronged following Pearson’s foolish gamble. There was a reason the camp’s cook was supposed to stay behind on missions and errands —his days as a soldier in the navy were long past.

You dip your hands into the wash barrel, scrubbing away from blood from beneath your fingertips. Too often, you find yourself with the blood of those you care about on your hands and clothes. Should’ve listened to mother, you think, bitter. Bracing your arms across the barrel, you look down at your reflection —increasingly unhappy with the woman looking back at you.

“He gone be okay?” Arthur asks, stopping next to you with his arms crossed. He worries about the gang, even if he tries not to show it, but seeing through his hardened exterior is something he almost hates you for. When Arthur Morgan rode out of some rinky-dink town in the middle of nowhere with you on the back of his horse, he would have never guessed it would turn into this. You worked off your debt a hundred times over and still stayed.

Straightening, you dry your hands with the apron on the front of your shirtwaist and skirt —the finely made ensemble less than a month old and already ruined. “Cooking’ll still be shit,” you laugh, the crooked smile on your lips not quite reaching your eyes, “but he’ll live.”

Broken chords from Javier’s flamenco guitar fill the air as the night’s revelries startup with a song and dance. Arthur reaches for you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist, pulling you toward him. You lean your forehead against his shoulder, feeling the weight of the day settle in as the sun sets. “I can’t keep this up, Art,” you breathe, hand twisting into his blue-cotton shirt. First, it had been him, then Sean and John, and now Pearson. “One day, I ain’t gone be able to patch you boys up.”

This work is dangerous, and it’s just a matter of time before someone makes a dire mistake or the law catches up —losing people is inevitable. You know it, everyone knows it. Arthur props his chin on the crown of your head, arms wrapped tightly around your waist. “Don’t think ‘bout that day then.” Looking at the heart of the camp, he thinks the two of you won’t be missed too much for just the night. He leads you to his black Arabian steed —a handsome mount affectionately named Topthorn— and helps you up into the saddle before mounting behind you and taking the reins.

Away from camp, the path steepens and grows rockier. Off in the distance, you can hear the burbling of a stream growing closer. “Where we goin’?” You ask, looking over your shoulder.

His arm tightens around your waist, drawing you back flush against his chest. “Ain’t far,” he says at your ear, “promise.” It’s a place he stumbled across north of camp tracking the poor deer who became supper a few nights back. A quiet spot at the base of the mountains —perfect for a swim, a bath, or even contemplating life. The trees part off the rugged trail, and Arthur pulls back on Topthorn’s reins when the small waterfall comes into view —the water almost glowing in the silver light of a full moon. He slides out of the saddle, hands quickly finding your waist to help you down.

“Been a while since it was jus’ you and me,” Arthur notes, hand splayed across your lower back.

“That it has,” you agree, turning to drape your arms over his shoulders —fingers locking together at the nape of his neck as you look up at him. Kiss me, you think, and it is as though you’ve said the words aloud. Arthur reaches for you, pulling you closer to him by the hips so he can kiss you breathless. You sigh into his kiss, hands sliding down the broad planes of his chest as you tilt your head so your noses don’t bump together. It’s a lazy kind of kiss—slow, unhurried, but with heat, you’re never quite able to describe when talking to the girls about some of your little escapades with him.

He pulls back too soon for your liking, laughing softly when you make a sound of protest as you chase his mouth with yours. “What’d I do to deserve you?” He asks, lips curving into a lopsided smile as he takes your face in his hands, thumbs softly stroking your cheeks. You run your thumb over the scars on his chin and reach up on your toes, lips brushing against his. It’s all the answer he needs —I love you.

Stepping back, you work the mother-of-pearl buttons on your shirtwaist free and then the belt of your walking shirt, shrugging both pieces off and into a small heap next to you. “What’re you doin’?” Arthur asks, scratching the back of his neck as he turns his gaze. It’s far from the first time he’s seen you in this state of undress, but ever the gentleman, he still looks away —even if the curve of his lips says he’ll steal a glimpse or two.

“You can’t bring a lady to a waterfall–” you pluck out the pin holding the twist in your hair in place “–and not expect her to want to freshen up, Mr. Morgan.” Mr. Morgan, he smirks, shaking his head —it’s the way you say his name like a sweet song that does him in every time. “Now–” you push aside your hair, revealing the laces of your corset “–help me?” Arthur steps behind you, hands working the ties of the undergarment. You turn back to him as he drops the corset atop your discarded clothes, his eyes flitting over curves barely hidden under a threadbare chemise.

Wordlessly, he sinks to his knees and pushes the hem of the chemise up around your waist. Your fingers brush his as you take hold of your skirt —holding it out of the way. Arthur lifts one of your legs from the ground, sliding off your boot as he drags the stubble on his jaw across the inside of your ankle and calf, stopping just at the bend of your knee with a soft kiss. He places your foot back down and repeats the same teasing motions, but this time, his kiss does not stop at the knee. Scooting closer, he lifts your leg over his shoulder —hot breath fanning across your inner thighs.

Setting his hat aside, he starts with a slow line of open-mouth kisses and listening to how your breathing hitches and body tenses in anticipation. He drags the flat of his tongue over you, stopping to flick the tip against your clit —sweet torture. “Arthur,” you gasp, hand twisting into his honey-colored locks. He repeats the motion, again-and-again until his fingers brush the inside of your thigh, and he shifts. Your honey-sweet taste and moans harden his cock. First, it’s one finger, then two thrusting and curling inside you as his mouth tends to your clit, laving, and suckling.

His blue eyes flash upwards and meet your desperate gaze, and he grins, sucking your clit into his mouth. That’s all it takes. You tremble, knees wobbling as you breathe Arthur’s name in a broken voice as he holds you up, still lapping at the sweet release like a he’s a man lost in the desert, and you’re an oasis. His lips and stubble on his chin glisten with your essence as he sits back on his haunches, easing your leg from his shoulder.

When he rises, he trails his fingers along the neckline of your chemise, pushing it off your shoulders, leaving your bare in the cool night air as you step out of the puddle of stained cotton and toward him. You can taste yourself on his lips when they finally meet, his tongue sweeping across your bottom lip before kissing you slowly. The kiss is languid and soft, your hands grasping at Arthur’s back to pull his chest to your own. Your hands wander down to his hips, unbuckling his belt and undoing the button and zipper of his pants as he undoes the buttons on his shirt —adding it to the growing pile of clothes.

Arthur curses and groans when your hand slides into his undone pants, fingers wrapping around his hard cock —stroking him slowly as you pepper kisses along his jaw and down his neck, across his chest. “Darlin’,” he chokes, voice wrecked and breathing heavy. It’s a heady feeling, knowing he’s like this because of you. As much as he doesn’t want to, Arthur pushes your hand away and hastily kicks off his boots, stepping out of his pants so he’s just as bare as you.

You take a moment to admire him. Strong arms and legs, a broad chest covered with a dusting of hair, a real man right down to his hard cock, throbbing and dripping with need —built for riding, fighting, and fucking, you’d told him one night drunk on shine when you crawled into his tent. Arthur pulls you down onto the blanket of moss and grass at the water’s edge. His hands leave your waist and slide up to your breasts, cupping them gently. You moan, feeling his smile against the side of your throat. He trails kisses down to the junction of your neck and shoulder, biting down slightly. He kisses down your throat to your chest, stopping when he reaches a rosy nipple.

His eyes look back up at you, and his grin is devilish before his tongue drags across the sensitive flesh, making you gasp, hips grinding into him. “Arthur, please,” you whisper, back arching as he takes your nipple into his mouth, softly sucking at your flesh. He pulls away after a moment, looking up at you with lust burning bright in his eyes. Settling between your thighs, Arthur braces his weight on one of his forearms —staring down at you as cock presses into your warmth. Your walls flutter around him, and you spread your thighs wider, helping guide him as deep as he can go.

He groans, rolling his hips into yours as he kisses you again, slow and thorough, mapping out your mouth with his tongue. You moan into his mouth, clutching at his shoulders as he breaks the kiss, eyes looking into yours once again, the lust quelled by something sweeter. Arthur grips your thighs tight, releasing one of them in favor of stroking over your lips and cheek with the rough pad of his thumb. Between the little noises you make, and how your body starts to tense and spasm around him, Arthur knows he won’t last long —not after it’s been so long since he had you proper.

You draw your legs up his sides and push your hands into his hair, clinging to him as his thrusts become faster, harder, more erratic. He slides a hand between your bodies, finding your clit with his thumb. “Arthur,” you cry, feeling the budding heat rise in your belly again and control slipping away. “Babe,” you gasp, tugging on his hair. Eyes screwed shut and teeth bared, he ruts into you, even as the wave of fire floods your veins and your walls squeeze his cock. It’s enough to break him as he chases his end.

He pulls away, hips stuttering, nearing his peak, and buries his face in the juncture where your neck and shoulder meet. Biting down hard, and you feel the warmth of his release spreading in your core as he thrusts weakly a few more times before stilling. Arthur rests his head on your breast as he strokes your side, listening to the frantic beat of your heart as it slows with your breathing. You whine at the empty feeling when slides his softening cock from your cunt, rolling off to the side. He grabs his drawers and shirt —you both can worry with bathing and dressing in the morning. For now, Arthur only wants to keep you at his side.

Arthur brushes off his hat and sets it on your head. The black hat is a little big, the brim dropping down over your eyes, you tilt it back into place. “Looks good on you,” he muses with a crooked grin. His shirt looks good on you too —the old blue shirt half unbuttoned and hanging off one shoulder. A sight he wouldn’t mind waking up to every morning.

“Think so?” You ask with a smile. He nods and, it's like you can see the cogs turning in his mind. What’re you even doin’ with an ugly old man like me? You can hear him saying. Sighing, you sit up and swing over into his lap, placing his hat back atop his head. “Well, I think it looks better on you,” you tell him. He won’t argue, not when your lips are brushing against his.

He folds his hands behind his head, looking up at the sky, and smiles to himself when you rest your head on the crook of his arm. Glancing between Arthur and the clear night sky, you start humming the old song your father used to sing about his sweet Caroline. The tune sounds familiar, and after a moment, he knows the words, it’s one he’s heard before in saloons and whispered at babes’ ears like a lullaby. Arthur draws in a slow breath, picking up at the next verse in a low rasp “…the grave and the garden won’t be satisfied till your name is next to mine.”

You shift, half sitting up. His eyes fixed on you —gaze softer than a bed of summer wildflowers— with a smile tugging at his lips. In these rare moments, Arthur Morgan is at peace. He reaches out for you, calloused hand cupping your cheek as he tries to memorize the lines and curves of your face and how you sigh and lean into his touch, settling back down against him.

It’s nights like these you long for the most, and every time you wish they could last just a little longer. Just laying under the night sky forever with Arthur Morgan, the man you loved. No more killing. No more stealing. No more running. Just the two of you and the cosmos overhead. You rest your head on his chest, running your fingers along the trail of dark hair down his stomach as he traces lazy shapes on your back, still softly humming the same sweet song.

Be wary of a man in black, your mother used to say, holding your hand as you both watched from the front porch as your father rode off into the sunset, he’ll steal your heart. She’d been right, of course.

#Arthur Morgan #Arthur Morgan x Reader #Arthur Morgan Fanfiction #Arthur Morgan Smut #Red Dead Redemption 2 #my writing #yall should listen to Caroline by Colter Wall #just saying #oops #kinda went ham #have a lemonade with some emotions

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cutesilyo · 3 years

Text

no place in the world (like manila) — an amephil fanfic

A few months after the outbreak of the Philippine-American War, Alfred falls in love with and is betrayed by a bright-eyed teenager with the prettiest smile on this side of the Orient in a single night.

This is not a love story.

Also available on AO3.

—

"Sir, I don't think it's safe for you to leave the camp," Major-General MacArthur warned. "I don't know how, but the revolutionaries know your face. They could attack you!"

"Pshaw," Alfred snorted. "I'm a nation. What could they do that could take me down, huh?"

MacArthur's mustache bristled in displeasure. "Be that as it may sir, might I remind you that you only arrived in Manila a week ago? Knowing you, you'd just get lost and I'd have to put together a whole squad of troops just to hunt you down. You could get captured, Alfred. I don't know how to tell you just how badly that would bring down morale."

Alfred just wagged his fingers, a bright grin on his face. "Look, if I get captured, I'd bust out of whatever crappy holding place they'd put me in without barely breaking a sweat! And knowing our soldiers, that's just the stuff that would make a great story to tell at dinnertime. How's that for morale?"

The way that MacArthur simply stared at him blankly told Alfred that this was not a convincing argument.

"I hate it when you do that," he groaned, slumping back on his seat. The leather was hot with the heat of the tropical sun and it stuck uncomfortably to his skin. Oh, how badly he wanted to just finally get up and leave. "I'm just saying, I can't stay inside here forever just waiting for you to dictate our next move."

"It's part of our strategy—"

"And it's boring. I'm bored, Major-General. I might as well look around." Alfred's eyes glinted dangerously. "Besides, you'll capture the whole nation for me soon enough, won't you? No harm in wanting to see what we're winning once this war is over."

The silence lasted for a few seconds before the major-general sighed in defeat.

—

Private Patton R. Wilkes was assigned to “accompany” Alfred while he roamed around Manila, but he knew that MacArthur just wanted someone to make sure he would actually return to camp instead of getting lost or, God forbid, taking the next ship back to America. Though the both of them were dressed in civilian clothing, the private carried himself with a strict stiffness that just screamed hardened military man. If Alfred wanted any chance of escape, it looked like the private would be hard to shake off.

Alfred tried to stay optimistic about the trip anyway. He hadn't paid much attention to the city while he was on the way to the American camp, but he certainly expected it to have an air of exoticness. He was a bit disappointed not to see anything like the palaces of Japan or the distinctly oriental architecture of China. Instead, he found street signs written in Spanish, the excited chatter of fast-talking brown-skinned people, and the cacophony of guitars, church bells, and the sound of horse-drawn carriages trotting along the stoned roads. Walking around Manila was like looking at a funhouse mirror version of Mexico: more or less the same, but with just enough differences to make his head spin.

"Uh, you alright there, sir?" Patton asked.

"Was just thinking about a bad memory, is all," Alfred grimaced. He's sure that Alejandro would have his head once he returned to the continent. He's been pissing off a lot of Spanish-speaking nations recently, that's for sure. "Come to think of it, the Philippine Islands must have its own personification too, right?"

The private's face darkened. "He's a force to reckon with, sire. Haven't seen no hide nor hair of him myself, but some guys in the other squadron barely survived after fighting with the kid."

"A kid?" Alfred furrowed his eyebrows. He didn't know there were still nations out there who were that young. Then again, he was only a teenager himself, and he was even younger when he fought against Arthur as well. "I don't know how I feel about fighting a kid. Couldn't I just give him a lollipop or something and this could all just work itself out?"

He meant it as a joke, but Patton seemed to take it seriously and started furiously shaking his head. "Don't think you could even try negotiating with him sir, the kid's a savage. Hacked and slashed his way through the guys with some kind of golden knife, they said. We're lucky our medics are so darned fast, otherwise, we would've been down almost a dozen men from him alone."

Something in Alfred's resolve hardened at the thought of losing his soldiers to someone so brutal. He clapped the other man on the shoulder and said, "Don't you worry, Pat. We'll end this soon, and when we win, we'll make sure that nobody from these islands ever lays a hand on any of our own."

That seemed to comfort Patton somewhat, though he was still shaking with anger. "I'll give them a good walloping right by your side, sire."

"Now that's the kind of patriotic determination I wanna see!" Alfred crowed. He then immediately scrambled for his wallet and hurriedly gave the private a wad of bills. Some onlookers openly gawked at seeing the number of dollar bills in his hand. "Tell you what, why don't you buy some booze, head back to camp, and inspire your fellow soldiers, eh? God knows we need some fun around here."

"Um," Patton blinked, caught off-guard. "I don't know if Major-General MacArthur—"

"Tell Major-General MacArthur that I'm just trying to boost morale," Alfred winked. "Also, tell him I'll back by next morning!"

He didn't get to hear Patton's response as he took off running wildly in the opposite direction. He barely registered running past the stores, wet market, and the cathedral; he just wanted to be alone and independent, exploring this new land to his heart's content. The buildings were shorter and the roads were narrower here than in his own country, but Alfred was just so glad to finally be in a place filled with people just like he was used to.

Alfred collapsed on his knees, winded. When he looked up, he was surprised to see that he had apparently made it to one of Manila's many ports. Past the numerous small fishing boats and trading boats, he could see that the sun was already beginning to set. The sky was painted in a pretty combination of pinks and oranges in contrast to the ocean's blue, the stars already starting to twinkle faintly into appearance one by one. The rhythmic lapping of the waves against the rocks seemed louder than everything else around him — a stark reminder that no matter where he went, there was always something bigger to discover.

He stood there for a moment, mesmerized when a loud grunt startled him out of his stupor.

He turned to find some kind of bull staring at him with its beady eyes, its long horns curving towards the back instead of to the front. It was pulling a wagon full of leafy vegetables that Alfred couldn't recognize, and the old man riding it looked startled to come across a foreigner.

"Hijo, padaan naman po," he said, with a strained smile.

"Oh, sorry, I don't know what you mean," Alfred tried, but the man just continued smiling at him. He was starting to think that maybe abandoning Patton, who wasn't fluent but at the very least conversational in Tagalog, was a bad idea.

Luckily, someone came to his rescue. A teenager with bright eyes approached him, an amused twitch of the lips on his sharp face. He was dressed simply: unlike the suit and tie ensemble of the richer Filipinos he'd come across or the pale blue uniform of the Philippine Army, he wore a thin white top and trousers cut just above his ankles. The scabbard on his hip would have been concerning if Alfred didn't know just how many Filipinos carried knives in their daily lives. All in all, he looked just like any other street vendor, but the red handkerchief tied around his neck was vibrant enough to make him stand out. "You are American, yes?"

"Ah yeah," Alfred flushed, a bit flustered. The way the stranger leaned in was a little too close for comfort, but he looked harmless and at least he spoke English. "Can you help me? I think that man is talking to me, but I can't understand what he's saying."

The teenager grabbed his arm to pull him to the side. The old man tipped his straw hat in thanks, and the teenager smiled, saying: "Pasensya na po, lolo! Hindi kasi taga-rito."

The two of them watched the wagon pass them by. They stood there in silence for a moment, and then Alfred blurted out, "I didn't know I was in the way, I swear."

"You did seem quite distracted." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other boy laugh. The both of them turned to each other at the same time, a small smile on each other's faces. "Not that I blame you. I am sure you have sunsets in America, but it is different here than in other countries. I think the colors are more vibrant, do you agree?"

"Certainly takes my breath away," he admitted. "I do have to ask, how come you speak English so well? I've only been in Manila for a few days but I don't think I've met another Filipino that's as good as you are."

The teenager only laughed again and held on to Alfred's arm tighter. As he looked up at him, his eyes and grin were equally bright with mirth; and despite himself, Alfred was a bit charmed. "Us Filipinos are not as stupid as you think, señorito. Now, you say you are a stranger to Manila, yes? Come with me, and let me show you around my city."

—

They ended up hailing a tranvia, a carriage made to carry a whole group of people instead of just a pair. Alfred found it small and quaint, making an internal note to build tram lines in the city once he was able. Yet the energy that the teenager had with him was larger than life. He had apparently noticed the other passengers giving Alfred a suspicious side-eye, and immediately launched into a round of jokes to dispel the tension. Though he barely understood the jokes due to them being told in a mix of Spanish and Tagalog, the way that the whole tranvia burst into loud laughter was enough to assure him that his companion was quite the comedic performer.

When they got off, the driver even thanked them for the entertainment and told them not to pay the fare anymore. Alfred let out an excited whoo! as the teenager did an exaggerated bow.

As the carriage rode off, Alfred turned to his new friend and exclaimed, "Wow! The way you handled that was amazing! I mean, I've been through worse than an awkward train ride, but you definitely saved my ass back there."

The teenager blushed slightly. "Think nothing of it. I would rather see my companions happy and comfortable in my care than anything else."

"Still, that thing you did was certainly a swell sight." Alfred breathed in the cold evening air and let it out with a contented sigh. He looked straight into the other boy's eyes as he said, "And it's really nice that you're going through all the trouble to be with me tonight too! Like, we don't even know each other's names but you just whisked me away like some kind of fairytale hero! That was really awesome of you, I have to say."

"You are a man of sweet words," the teenager said, with a smile that looked almost bittersweet. Then, as if he had completely forgotten about his melancholy, he grabbed Alfred's arm again and dragged him towards the next street corner. "But let us not waste time talking! Most of these shops close soon, and I would hate for us to miss them!"

Helpless, Alfred let himself be strung along.

Sadly, most of the shops they went past had already closed for the day. Still, the teenager cheerily talked his ear off about what wares they sold and the local gossip about the people who ran those stores — like Pepito, owner of the clay pottery store, who had apparently given away all his lotto winnings to the next city's blacksmith. The one time that they had actually been able to buy something was when they came across a small, brightly-colored cart that apparently sold the Filipino version of ice cream. Both the vendor — Mang Tomas, as he was introduced — and the teenager had chuckled when he brought out a wallet full of dollars, so the teenager had to reach into his own pocket to pay with a few coins. As they walked past yet another cathedral, Alfred caught his friend singing the hymns under his breath. When they reached the plaza, the teenager then asked the lady standing nearby — Aling Nena, he was told — to give him a jasmine garland, the scent of the white flowers so powerful that it immediately made Alfred sneeze on his friend's face when he put them around his neck. Yet instead of getting mad like he expected, the teenager had only laughed and told him he looked handsome.

No matter where they went or who they talked to, his friend always seemed to know everyone's names. Alfred had no idea how he had the time to possibly get so familiar with all the people around him, but he certainly understood the sentiment; he loved talking with all the Americans that he came across with too. Personally getting to know the people who made his nation always made him feel more connected with them in a way that war and politics never could.

And if the Philippine Islands was truly to be his someday, Alfred knew he wanted to treat them similarly. More than anything or anyone else though, nobody in the archipelago had intrigued him most than the young man beside him whose smile was brighter than any star.

Yet all his experience in small talk failed him tonight, and not for lack of trying. Every time he asked questions about his friend, he was always diverted away from the topic.

Which part of the city are you from? was met with a vague Do you ask the flower which vine it came from? You are better off simply enjoying the whole garden.

Where is your family? had been completely ignored as his friend said You must be hungry, yes? I know a place with the best empanadas this side of Binondo.

What is your name? earned him a cheeky wink and a teasing If your mind still ventures to inane questions like that, then I am not doing very well in completely impressing you.

How old are you? made the teenager burst out into loud, hearty laughter that lasted for more than a minute. Alfred didn't even bother to try asking anything else after that, choosing to focus on his empanadas and arroz a la valenciana for the rest of the meal.

Later, when they were served a bottle of gin to share along with a bowl of peanuts, his friend had the grace to apologize for his behavior.

"I truly am sorry," he said, but the playful grin on his face made it difficult to take his apology seriously. "I simply do not think that you knowing more about me is more important than us having a good time together."

"How am I supposed to find you again if I don't know who you are, huh?" Alfred couldn't stop himself from whining. He ignored the glass in front of him, taking a swig straight from the bottle and letting the alcohol burn down his throat. His friend watched him in bemusement. "This has been the best night of my life in a long time. And if this is the last time we see each other, I don't think I'm going to forgive myself if I don't push you into giving me a hint."

This time, it was his friend's turn to take a drink: he filled his glass half-full and downed it all in one go. "You are certainly bold, señorito, I will give you that. A good friend of mine warned me about how loud and annoying Americans were, but it seems he neglected to tell me about how forward you all were as well."

Alfred resisted the urge to roll his eyes; of course, he would get deflected yet again. "Alright, I'll bite. Tell me more about your friend."

The teenager looked surprised. "You wish to know more about a man that insulted you?"

"If this is the closest I get to you telling me more about yourself, I'll take it," he shrugged. "Besides, I'd love to know how this friend of yours thinks. Americans are the greatest people in the world! He must be stupid if he doesn't know that."

The other boy laughed. "Of course you would say that, you biased brute. And I will have you know that my friend was quite smart, actually. One of the smartest men I have ever known."

Alfred felt like he wouldn't like the answer, but he asked anyway: "Was?"

All traces of laughter from his friend's face faded away into a hollow smile. "Killed by firing squad a few years ago."

Silently, Alfred poured gin into both of their glasses. They drank in solemn solidarity.

"My sincere condolences," said Alfred, and he meant it: he had lost too many friends himself over the centuries. "And I'm sorry I called him stupid."

His friend waved it off. "No worries. Pepe was incredibly intelligent, but he definitely had his fair share of stupid moments — you wouldn't believe how many times that man fell in love over the course of his short lifetime. Still, I miss him terribly and I wish he was still around. God only knows what he would have thought about everything happening at present."

"Oh, I know the feeling." Despite him dying decades prior, Alfred still longed for George Washington's steadfast guidance sometimes. He reached, a bit messily, for another drink. "It's uncanny, yeah? Some people just have this weird ability to analyze the present and predict the future. I certainly don't know how they do anything like it, really. I kind of just talk big and hope for the best."

"Funny that you talk about the future," the teenager chuckled. "Somehow, my friend even managed to predict that you would come here, Alfred. I did not believe him at the time, of course, but here you are."

"Here I am," Alfred repeated faintly. "Hold on, how did you know my—"

"Why were you all alone in my city, señorito?" His friend interrupted, looking up at him through his eyelashes. He leaned closer, close enough for the skin of their arms to touch, and Alfred suddenly forgot about all his worries. "I was very surprised to see you on your own, looking every bit like a lost little lamb. You are very lucky that I found you."

"Lucky indeed," he murmured, adjusting the collar of his shirt. It felt like the temperature in the room had risen by a dozen degrees. "Just wanted to explore, is all. MacArthur told me we had to stay low for a few more weeks, I got bored, and he let me out."

Those bright eyes were practically glittering as the teenager looked up at him, his fingers slowly tracing up his arm. "And you were alone? I always thought American soldiers traveled in pairs, but perhaps I was mistaken."

"No! No, you're right, you're definitely right," Alfred stammered out. He was sure his face was completely red by now. "I was with Private Wilkes earlier, but we, ah, got separated. He must be on the way back to Bulacan by now."

"How unfortunate," the other practically purred, clearly delighted. "Say, tell me, how did this Wilkes look like? Because I am sure that he does not look as handsome as you do."

That damned smile, now coy instead of kind and sweet, was tantalizingly close. If only he had the courage to lean down—

Alfred, trying desperately to distract himself, grabbed the bottle again and took a long swig.

There were about a million promises that threatened to spill from Alfred's lips, each one more outrageous than the other: Come with me. Stay with me. I'll keep you safe. I'll love you. Yet at the moment, he found himself tongue-tied. He didn't know if it was the alcohol or the atmosphere or the way the young boy across the table had so effortlessly allured him, but he felt like he was about to go insane. He barely registered the both of them standing up to leave, didn't question why they didn't need to pay at the restaurant, paid no heed to what his friend had whispered to the men standing guard by the door. His mind was in a muddy haze, and all he could focus on was the fact that his friend was holding his hand as he was led into the dark streets.

Dimly, Alfred thought that however striking he looked by the setting sun, he looked much more ethereal bathed in moonlight.

He must have said this aloud because the teenager laughed.

"You are a man of sweet words," he said, and there's that oddly bittersweet smile again. "And I wish we could have met in better circumstances."

"What's wrong with the way we met today? I had fun," Alfred argued. He swayed slightly on his feet, and his friend held on to him to keep him from falling. "Didn't you have fun?"

"You forget we are at war, señorito. And you forget that you are seeking to control me and my people, not find a lover." Despite the harsh words, the way his friend said this was soft and sad. Almost like he was somehow hurt. "It does not matter what we feel today if we are bound to fight each other tomorrow. Should you not know this by now?"

They walked together in silence, each supporting the other. Slowly, Alfred's alcohol-induced dizziness began to subside. It was replaced by a growing emptiness in his chest — and a heavy, heavy realization.

"You knew I was America this entire time." When his friend deigned to respond, he continued. "Then, why...?"

At this, the teenager laughed — broken and wistful and desperate, all at once. "I do not know myself. I was ready to attack you, but for some reason, the look in your eyes as you watched the sunset stopped me. I thought, if you could look at my country with such amazement, then you could see that this war is unnecessary. That if you could know my land and my people the way I knew them, full of vibrancy and color and light, then you could realize that they did not deserve to die.

"Yet as the night went on I began to realize my efforts were fruitless. It was not them you were looking at anymore, but me." Here, his friend faced him; Alfred barely catching a glimpse of his wet eyes before the teenager looked away. "Believe me, I would love to spend another night like this with you. But you have your responsibilities and so do I."

"Fruitless," Alfred repeated hollowly. The cold night wind was in stark contrast to the hot rage he felt bubbling inside him. He forcefully wrenched himself away from his friend, yelling: "You made me tell you classified information!"

In seconds, he watched the teenager's face go from shock to hurt to an angry glare.

"Do you not understand how badly I need to win this war? My people did not give their lives to free me from Spain just so you could swoop in and take over! So forgive me, señorito," his friend spat mockingly, "for trying to find whatever advantages my poor nation can get against such an imperialistic nation like you!"

"And do you not understand what we're trying to do here?" Alfred shouted. "We are fighting this war to save you! Don't you see that your country is a mess? That you're underdeveloped, uneducated, and unfit for self-rule? I was the hero who helped save your people from Spain, jackass, and—"

"—and you promised to give us independence, and yet all your countrymen seem to do is kill." The teenager finished, both his eyes and the hilt of his knife glinting golden under the moonlight. "Is that what freedom means to you, America? I beg to differ."

As Alfred stepped away from him in furious, furious betrayal, all he could think about was that the other boy looked so small.

"I thought of you as my friend," he said.

"And I thought of you as my liberator," the teenager said coolly. "I see we were both wrong."

A harsh whinny interrupted them both. Alfred turned to find Patton riding a chestnut brown horse, his face red from exhaustion but seemingly unharmed. The private stopped in front of him, dismounting without grace on the pavement. His face was red from exhaustion and his clothes looked considerably ruffled, but otherwise, he looked unharmed.

"It ain't my position to say this sire, but don't you dare ever try to run away from me like that again," Patton panted, giving a quick side-eye to the other teenager before dismissing him. "We best hurry now, because those two won't be happy about their stolen horse."

Just as he was about to ask who those two were, a pair of Filipinos with muskets turned the corner and ran towards them. He vaguely recognized them as the same two men who were standing guard at the restaurant. They shouted loudly, a mix of Tagalog and Spanish expletives that Alfred could barely recognize, and a phrase distinct enough that he felt like it was something significant: amang bayan.

Patton evidently recognized the words. He looked at him in a wide-eyed panic, saying, "Sire, we need to leave—"

And as quick as lightning, Patton fell to the ground with a sickening crack. Caught completely off-guard and his arms restrained, he was helpless against the teenager who had a knife at his throat: a knife that, as Alfred began to realize with a horrified lurch of his stomach, was engraved with golden flowers and the insignia of an eight-rayed sun.

"You must be Private Wilkes," the Philippines smiled. "I do hope you are enjoying my country."

"Get off him or else!" Alfred screamed, the combined events of the night making him feel like he was about to reach his breaking point. He reached for the pistol he kept hidden on his belt and took aim, hoping to God that the other nation wouldn't force him to shoot. Even after everything, he didn't feel like he had the nerve to hurt Philippines after the hours they spent together; maybe some other day, but not tonight.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the two men had caught up to them. They angled their muskets at him from a distance. The horse, which Alfred had been planning to use for escape, had already taken off running in the commotion.

Patton stared up at him with fear in his eyes, a bleeding gash on his forehead, and Alfred's hands began to shake.

Above all else, Philippines was still smiling: eyes bright, amused twitch of the lips on his sharp face. Slowly, he stood to approach him.

Like a switch had been flicked, his features turned soft and kind again — more like the boy that Alfred had met earlier, the boy who had dragged him around the streets of Manila with lighthearted laughter, the boy whose smile was brighter than any star. All Alfred could do was stand there, mesmerized once again, as his hand was gently pried away from the gun.

"Alfred," Philippines said this quietly, almost like he was invoking a prayer. He motioned the men to stand down. "I do not wish to fight."

"I don't want to either," Alfred admitted. Maybe there was hope... "C'mon, we can talk this through, right? Look, we haven't had a battle in months. It should be really easy to negotiate, yeah? I'll set up a meeting with your generals and mine, we'll have a civil discussion with no weapons allowed, and we'll reach a compromise."

The other nation was leaning in, and this time, Alfred took his chance. He held Philippines' cheek in his hands and they kissed, soft and quick and chaste.

"Of course," Alfred said, as he pulled away. "I would need your complete surrender—"

He was swiftly kneed in the stomach, disarmed, and shot.

"Alfred, I do not wish to fight," Philippines said, as he watched Alfred collapse to the ground. "But I have to. I hope you understand."

He vaguely registered Patton reaching out to him as his eyes closed and the blood pooled around him, but all he could focus on was watching the other nation walk away into the darkness.

—

When Alfred came to, he was already back at camp. Without thinking, he immediately trudged to the general's war office.

"Good morning, Major-General MacArthur," he smiled, bright and cheery. "Gather the troops. I want to destroy Manila immediately."

—

Notes:

This is set in October 1899, during those months when there were no battles or skirmishes between the two armies. On the first day of November, the Americans launched a major attack on the Filipinos. This attack happened in San Fabian, Pangasinan, not in Manila, but let's forget about that.

Major-General MacArthur is, of course, Arthur MacArthur Jr., who was a major military figure during the Philippine-American War. I also claim artistic license in hinting that the American camp was in Bulacan because it probably wasn't.

Alfred's comments about Manila looking like Mexico are based on a comment by former president Manuel L. Quezon when he visited Mexico back in 1937: "Everything was the same." He meant that very, very affectionately.

Here's a nifty map of modern Manila. Alfred and Patton start out in Quiapo, which is basically the heart of downtown Manila. Alfred runs all the way to Muelle del Rey, which, coincidentally, happens to be the same place where the Jones Bridge stands today. Alfred and Phili take the tranvia to Binondo, Manila's business district and home to the world's oldest Chinatown.

The names of the store owners and vendors that Phili talks about are references to assorted media in Philippine pop culture. Pepito is a reference to Pepito Manaloto, a long-time comedy show about a man who won the lotto. Mang Tomas (Mang being an informal way to refer to a male adult older than you) is the name of a popular brand of gravy. Aling Nena (Aling being an informal way to refer to a female adult older than you) is a reference to the song Tindahan ni Aling Nena, about a boy who falls in love with a storeowner's daughter.

The garland of white jasmines that Phili puts around Alfred's neck are supposed to be sampaguitas, our national flower. They're usually sold near churches and are given as a sign of respect.

I have no idea if there are actually empanadas and valenciana sold somewhere in Binondo, but let's jot that down to artistic license. But these are very much Filipino foods that were adapted from Spanish foods, which is why Phili brings it up when Alfred asks about his family.

The old friend that Phili keeps talking about is Jose Rizal, our national hero. He is primarily known for being a great writer, whose novels inspired the Philippine War for Independence, and for being killed for it. He is also known for being having a long list of lovers, many of them not even Filipino. Lesser known is the fact that he visited America, hated it, went on a train ride with an American, and hated it. He wrote a whole diary entry about how much he didn't like America and Americans. He had also predicted that out of all the world powers, it would be America who would probably take an interest in conquering the Philippines when Spain was out of the picture. Go figure. Rizal was also affectionately known by his nickname, Pepe.

I imagine Phili to be particularly proficient in arnis, which is also known as kali or eskrima. It's a kind of Filipino martial art, most easily recognizable as that one martial art where everyone is dual-wielding a pair of sticks. The sticks are actually for training. Traditionally, arnis is fought by dual-wielding knives or swords, and it's meant to be quick and efficient in defending, attacking, disarming, and killing. Phili's fictional ornately designed knife is inspired by this very real ornately designed knife. The detail of the eight-rayed sun is a reference to the eight-rayed sun in the Philippine flag.

Lastly (phew!), some Tagalog to English translations!

Hijo, padaan naman po - Young boy, kindly let me pass Pasensya na po, lolo! Hindi kasi taga-rito - Sorry, grandfather*! He's not from around here. Lolo literally means grandfather but is a general way to refer to any elderly man regardless of any actual blood relation. Amang bayan - Fatherland

#hws #hws america #hws philippines #usph #amephil #hetalia philippines #hetalia america #aph philippines #aph america #historical hetalia #mine

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