gwidien

[gwidien]

There's something wild about her eyes. It's always been there, though, that sharp, matchstick look, like she trusts herself more with a knife than with people. She doesn't trust all of the gang, either.

He saw tragedy coming the way clouds roll in before a storm. He saw it after news of Blackwater, then again with Cornwall. Pinkertons began creeping through, the thing that goes bump in the night. Now they're here a failed bank robbery and four deaths later, one in prison, and Trelawny can see everything cracking apart like leaves underfoot. 

The campfire pops and the sun quickly sets. Trelawny casts a weary eye around camp, wilting. “Trouble certainly has a way of finding you all,” he says.

Incessantly, too. He looks back at her.

“Dutch has always been good to us,” he insists. “To me,” he trails. Then, fading, “...You.” The truth stares him dead in the eye, face-to-face. Dutch never cut ties with him when everyone else wanted to. Dutch took Sadie in and gave her a second chance like he did for Arthur and John. Everyone else. Where is that Dutch now? Maybe in Saint Denis with memories of Hosea. Somewhere down in Blackwater.

Dutch sits at the far side of camp, his cigar burning. Micah sits nearby and stares back at Sadie, looming and dog-faced.

“I'm worried about you all. Turning on each other," he starts to wonder. "...Running off.” Trelawny hangs his head, his reflection rippling over the surface of his coffee. It's gone cold. "It's all gotten a bit grim."

TRELAWNY (@gwidien) said: “ what is this madness? ” ✩

❛ i'll tell you what it is- the workin's of a goddamn lunatic who's gone an' fooled himself into thinkin' he's some sorta god. just 'cause your ass ain't hangin' from a tree don't mean you ain't a nut. ❜ a glare is shot in dutch and co's direction. if looks could kill, mister van der linde and that rat bastard lackey of his would be long gone, languishing six feet under by now. really. when you strip away the charm and the plans, the fancy clothes and the cigars, just who- or what- is dutch van der linde? what does he stand for? apart from himself. not some other world- a new one, a better one- just the same old, shitty, senseless one they're living in now. but remade, according to the vision of a weak, selfish, fallible man. in her mind, men like arthur morgan are worth ten of the sort like him. ❛ you're smart to have been a stranger to this mess. if you ask me, we all should split. before the wheels really start fallin' off this damn thing. ❜ because just what the hell are they here for, exactly? out of love- loyalty? obligation? what the hell is she herself still doing here? where else would she go? maybe it's that, for some, this is all they've known, all they've got; this life. this family. but ain't family supposed to mean something? that you stick together and look out for each other? without that, without loyalty, what have they got? n o t h i n g. nothing but a whole lot of trouble. and grief.

#rcckstars #( gwidien: v: main. ) #sadies all fire and anger ): understandable #also sorry for the long wait caught me during my impromptu hiatus! #also i think about joe conjuring a snake under micahs hat after micah calls him a rat #the anti micah fanclub base is alive and well (funded by sadie and joe)

[gwidien]

The sucking wound on his head radiates, hot. So does his back. Mary-Beth's knees have pressed against it, and the feel of her works divergent ends: the first anchoring him from toppling in his semi-cloudy haze, the other creeping through the fringes of his awareness the way water floods from a bath, and the reasons why are not things he wishes to evaluate too closely. 

“In fiine fettle.” He sounds craggy, waving off the pain. Mary-Beth helps him up by the hands. It doesn't mean anything. “You always... have a way with me,” he exhales.

He only means no one else could have fixed him better. But it could mean something else. If it does, it would be best to forget about it like closing a book midway through. Other things exist that Trelawny would like to close the book on. Recent memories come to the fore… Josiah, battered, climbing rickety stairs to his home in the night. The look on her face, wide-eyed and stunned, with her skirt bunched in Cornelius’ tiny fist. The conversation that followed.

They trudge towards his tent hand-in-hand, and if there is anything off about Trelawny beyond the bruises, it's a lie.

“I might- have to stay here,” he begins, his voice worn and raggedy. It takes effort. "I know- what some of you think of me," he says. "Not... one of you." That he's all talk. He can't be trusted and he doesn't belong. Neither is his home home anymore.

She has warm hands, Mary-Beth, and muzzy-minded, his heart a little bit broken, he thinks she's soft, regrettably so. They finally make it to his tent, and he gingerly turns to her. "I'm home - sweet - home," he plays.

It left him ironically and wry, sweetly but haggard. Somewhere between then and now, he'd pulled from her hands.

He clasped onto hers.

mary beth wasn’t entirely used to worrying about trelawny. he came and he went, sometimes without anyone realising — but there was something about that particular day when the rest of the outlaws rode into camp without him, that something was afoot. everyone chalked his latest disappearing act up to classic josiah trelawny behaviour, that he would saunter on by in a few days. . . and he did. he wasn’t put together as usual, no perfectly slicked back hair with an aurora of sophistication about him — no, he was bloody and bruised, a version of himself that she had never seen before. it was such a rare sight to see that mary beth audibly shrieked, hands failing the task at hand as she dropped the needle and thread before rushing over to him.

she’s sat atop an apple crate with him leaning against her legs, hands busying themselves with patching up a nasty cut on his scalp. it’s quite the picture for any onlookers, a tender moment shared between the pair. she silently wonders about his wife, if he’d ever came home to her in this state. . . if she’d ever patched him up like this. ultimately it matters not. what matters is dulling the pain in her chest and the ache of his wounds, putting him back together again.

blackwater. the word alone sends shivers across her body, an uneasy breath escaping from her lips. she desperately tries to focus on her fingers fixing the wound, but she’s distracted by the sheer amount of his blood that paints up to her knuckles. “you poor thing…” is all she can manage, gently patting down his hair once she had managed to stitched the wound and stopped any immediate blood loss.

her cheeks flush at his words. her inner voice is telling herself that he’s concussed, he doesn’t truly mean it — but with trelawny, every word he speaks sounds like gods honest truth. “helps that i’m decent enough at sewing, hm?” she smiles, taking both of his hands as he stumbles on his feet. “let’s lay you down, okay?”

#gaskills #( gwidien: v: main. ) #imagining mb helping him across the camp like helping grandma cross the road

[gwidien]

quiet afternoons in saint denis. / @gwidien.

#gaskills #( marybeth: r: we're the heirs to the glimmering world. ) #( gwidien: p. ) #actual in game content we were deprived of

[gwidien]

Arthur's fingers tremble, and he pretends it's the preemptive twitch before a fist. The line of Arthur's mouth quivers, and he pretends it doesn't.

If I still can, he tells him. If.

Trelawny stills.

"I, um... How- do you mean?" he asks, each word higher and sweet. His mouth falters. An off-guard smile.

He thinks he knows, but it's easier not to think about. Trelawny never did like looking things dead in the face. Like how he ignores his wife sleeping in a half-empty bed, his chair vacant at dinner. Like how it's assumed there will always be tomorrow, a thing you take for granted. Arthur squeezes his shoulder like this may be the last time he ever will, and if this is hurtling towards something at all approaching the word goodbye, it isn't.

"I, em-" Trewlany glances elsewhere, nowhere, until he doesn't. He steps in, barely closer. "Come and see me, Arthur," he murmurs. "In a hotel - in Van Horn. I know a few places you can hide... For them.” He sounds further away. "...You." Because Arthur never thinks of himself. Someone should. Trelawny still feels the hand on his shoulder, the oppressive warmth that comes before farewells. Maybe he can get them on their feet again. Start new.

“You know me. Out and around," he adds, needlessly explaining why he knows, needing to fill in the silence. It's deafening, and he watches him. "Won't you, Arthur?"

        ❝ I ain't sure what happened. the path we all went down... it ain't right. ❞ he knows better than to openly question Dutch and his sanity most of all. Trelawny hasn't been around enough to see it with his own eyes, so Arthur doubts he knows. but to most of them, to those who aren't afraid to see the truth — Dutch's mental state — it is quite an obvious situation.

        after Hosea's death, Arthur didn't even have time to mourn him, to grieve. neither did Dutch and god knows what it did to him. just thinking about it there's clear evidence of the trauma the loss caused as Arthur's bottom lip begins to quiver and his fingers begin to shake, hopefully not enough for Trelawny to notice.

        instead the other man's eyes dart over to his tent, the outlaw's eyes follow — he sees his own belongings which he will have to abandon at some point. he knows that much. ❝ I can't run. not now ❞, he explains. is it too early, too risky to give away his plan? it's just a feeling but it's there, Trelawny is on his side. and sides will have to be picked, sooner or later.

        ❝ I wanna get 'em out. the women, Jack, John maybe — I wanna make sure they're gone when hell breaks loose. after that... I might run. but you should, you gotta, before all that. ❞ Arthur raises his hand, places it on the other hands shoulders and gives a firm squeeze. the fabric feels soft against his own calloused fingers. ❝ if I still can... I'm gonna run, as soon as they're safe. ❞ if only he knew where to go.

#worsethanwolves #( gwidien: v: main. ) #what if joe helped some of them relocate/resettle at the end a bit?? 🤔 #or well at least offer it before leaving

[gwidien]

@rcckstars asked: downfall . find my muse collapsed on the ground . 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃 & 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 sentence starters (accepting)

Light blurs against his eyelids. Trelawny unpeels them and, finally, he comes to. 

John is there. Around him, a few other men lie still over the ground. It dawns on him then the way light illuminates a room—memories of an argument, someone throwing accusations about ‘stealing my woman’, then an exchanging of fists, a figure that looked a lot like John emerging before he suddenly smacked the ground.

“Don’t mind… me,” he excuses himself, sounding off-hand. He starts getting to his feet. “Though some shut-eye might do me some good.“

The end left him curiously amusing, partly high. Trelawny looks off-kilter. Red glows by the corner of his mouth, the last punch before he fell. His hat was knocked off, lying on the ground. He picks it up, somewhat haggard, and has the look of a man who’s ready to call it a day.

”Well. They’ll certainly feel that in the morning,“ he says, the words coming from the back of his throat, cheeky. Trelawny glances at the men, then, and as if it wasn’t already an indelible fact, as if John was wondering why he didn’t handle the fight all on his own- ”I’m afraid that wasn’t in my wheelhouse.“

#rcckstars #( gwidien: asks. ) #( gwidien: v: main. ) #lmk if youd like me to change or fix anything. was thinking john could possibly lend him a hand in a scuffle?

[gwidien]

@erysibe asked: company .   silently  sit  with  my  muse  to  comfort  them. 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃 & 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 sentence starters (accepting)

He’s still rough around the edges. He’s done his hair. His clothes, changed and new. The rest of him is still sore, and an angry, vicious red has settled over his cheek and his forehead, the front of his throat ruddy-raw. Come tomorrow, they’ll be black and purple, indistinguishable from the night. It’s not what bothers him.

“Time to smell the roses,” Trelawny says, faking the vigor, because the natural questions to ask him are ‘are you okay?’ and ‘what are you doing?’ He looks down ever so slightly. “...No,” he admits, finally. “I’m not.”

Mary’s taken her place around him. The rest have gone about their day, most not knowing that he has a home in Saint Denis. Or that he has a wife and two boys. Or that, not long enough and a half ago, he’d ambled into camp like a kicked dog with the intolerable weight of knowing that bounty hunters were looking for his family. That a wolf-eyed woman, her face shredded, sent men for them. 

"I worry about you all. Everyone here," he lingers, trailing weakly off, "and home... And I wouldn't know what to do if anything happened to you. That's the rub. I want it all and I-" He drops his hand, the look about him deflated. "It seems I'm in a bit of hot water."

He's too vague, but maybe she already knows. Maybe she'd heard from someone else. Trelawny's face stings, and he does not shine today.

#erysibe #( gwidien: asks. ) #( gwidien: v: main. ) #it was a bad day for him ): gonna hug this sad faux englishman

[gwidien]

@shinemade asked: ❛  tap . tap my muse on the shoulder to garner their attention 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃 & 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 sentence starters (accepting)

"Marr-velous." The word rolls. He switches gears, whimsical. "You do have a way with words."

Trelawny's at a café. Someone else is beside him, another dubious connection, surely. He has wavy hair. A starched collar. The man had passed him a slip of paper, and Trelawny had read then pocketed it away, satisfied.

“Farewell,” he singsongs, lifting his hand. Then, dropping it with a flourish— "and adieu."

The man leaves and Trelawny watches before flapping his newspaper open. There's a tap on his shoulder, and he turns around. 

Long hair, red like bourbon. A woman stands before him. The brim of her hat throws a veil of a shadow, dark as a mourner, only it does nothing to hide the jagged scar ripped down her face, brow to cheek. She has a gun. Cotton white. A bounty hunter, maybe, if not for the fact he doesn't have a price on his head, cross his heart and hope to die.

"Oh, well" —he fakes a laugh— "here for me?" he asks, pitching higher. "Trouble... at home?"

Trelawny has set his paper down. He looks like the bird that swallowed the canary, maybe caught off guard, maybe an act. He looks like a man who thinks he's being wrangled home, and he stays in his seat. "I couldn't be happier, you know. Thick as thieves, me and the missus," he chimes, lilting. Something about him wilts. "A moth to flame..."

#shinemade #( gwidien: asks. ) #( gwidien: v: main. ) #taking a page from rdo here #ty!

[gwidien]

@gaskills asked: ❛ patch . help  my  muse  patch  up  a  wound  . 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃 & 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 sentence starters (accepting)

It's a once-in-a-blue-moon thing. A rare astronomical event. Trelawny, always so put together, never a wrinkle in sight, had ambled into camp in total disarray, his hair run through a hurricane… his sleeve torn… bloodied head to toe. Rarer than a total eclipse. The Big Bang.

She volunteered to put him back together. She would, of course. Mary-Beth with her relentless kindness— She doesn't mind getting her hands dirty, her fingers slicked warm in his blood, and as he sits slightly out of sorts, his head bleeding, he does not think of things he shouldn't or of how he's married. Mary-Beth smells of vanilla. 

“They found me- with the gentlemen,” he strains, righting himself up, “down in Valentine.” His head's started to lull. He feels a tugging at his scalp and flinches. “It appears they’ve rattled- quite a few cages in Blackwater.”

The hunters spotted him in Valentine with Dutch and Arthur, Charles, Bill, Javier. They knew he was connected to the gang, then, and wanted the bounty. Trelawny takes a full breath. Every inch of his ribs protest. Sore and aching, in his beat-up stupor and hazy-headed exhaustion, he sees smears of colors in his periphery. Mary-Beth looks like stained glass. That's not normal.

“I'm under quite the spell of yours," he wonders, breathier but colorful. She bandages him up gently, and he settles down, seeing stars. "...Ever the magic touch, you are.”

#gaskills #( gwidien: asks. ) #( gwidien: v: main. )

[gwidien]

@worsethanwolves asked: patch .   help  my  muse  patch  up  a  wound . 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃 & 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 sentence starters (accepting)

“I wouldn't… put it past them,” he struggles, more strained than he’d hoped he’d sound. He winces under Arthur's touch. “Trouble- has a way of finding you all.”

He means bounty hunters will try looking for him again. Or at least certainly the gang, now more than ever. Arthur and Charles had killed Stoudemire's men. Now it's personal. 

It hasn't escaped his notice, though. It wasn't the first time Arthur had shown up as mysteriously as a thump in the dark, there to save him. There had been that bumbling drunk all the way in Blackwater, then the law taking him to Rhodes and possibly the noose, now, today: the Stoudemires. And Trelawny, in his starry-headed delirium, might think Arthur could be fated to him in the way the moon orbits the Earth, never too far away. At least there when he needs him. 

“Aren't you a sight for sore eyes.” It leaves him throaty and with effort, and he straightens himself from slumping. He croaks. “I didn't think you'd find me,” he musters. Then, driftier, "...But you always do."

Arthur doesn't have the softest touch, and he winces again.

#worsethanwolves #( gwidien: asks. ) #( gwidien: v: main. ) #arthur always here to help this guy

[gwidien]

@erysibe asked: what are you reading ? the 𝑫𝑼𝑺𝑻𝒀 𝑻𝑶𝒀𝑩𝑶𝑿 starters (accepting)

Trelawny looks up. He sees her. "Ah. Misses Linton," he chimes. He bows his head, just barely. "Lovely - as - always."

Mary has made her way into his orbit. They don't often drift into each other's gravity like this—he's away most days. She leads her own life—but today, their paths have aligned and Trelawny has already set up his tent, tonight being one of his once-in-a-blue-moon camp nights. She asks him what he's reading, and he closes it. The cover, worn but taken care of, looks up at her.

The Castle in the Field of Lavender.

"A friend of mine has gotten quite the kick out of this," he muses, lilting even when steady. Trelawny reopens the book as if he has nothing better to do then looks off at the distance, whimsically woeful. "Well." He makes peace with it. "Curiosity killed the cat."

#erysibe #( gwidien: v: main. ) #( gwidien: asks. )

[gwidien]

You okay? Never finer.

#( gwidien: p. ) #worsethanwolves

[gwidien]

She'd kissed his cheek. It would have meant something different had they both been surrounded by four walls, all alone. A kiss to the hand may have been followed by a kiss on the cheek. A kiss on the cheek to a corner of the mouth. For a moment so instantaneous as to be unconscious thought, anyone might have envisioned the series of events that may have followed afterwards—a laugh and a smile, the floorboards creaking as they walk hand-in-hand—but if ever the thought had crossed Trelawny’s mind, no one will know.

Instead, they're putting on a show. He guides the Braithwaites with his wedding-day eyes, love-struck and all make believe, until he goes rigid.

He flops to the ground, and Charlotte gasps.

She will know what to do. Panicking and out of her wits, Mary-Beth will excuse herself to their house for medicine, scrambling and heart-in-throat. She'll tell the Braithwaites to stay because what if he goes blue? Or if it suddenly floods and he drowns because no one was here? And before they ever realize she lied and crept into their home, robbing them blind, she'll be back perhaps with a sloshing bottle of tonic, twisting the cap and her hair glued to her forehead. They’ll excuse themselves so he can recover.

Really, they’ll be galloping far, far away.

Where do the Braithwaites keep their valuables? Conceivably in their bedrooms. Inside their jewelry boxes. Mary-Beth splays her hand on his heaving chest, and the Braithwaites never have the chance to form a coherent thought before, suddenly, it's just them.

"My- My heart!" he panics, blubbering and airy. He scrabbles. "I can't- I can't-!"

“Easy, Mister Kimble." Francis tries to steady him. Doesn't know what to do with his hands. "You're alright."

Trelawny wheezes choppy and hard until any man would see the rainbow blur of lightheadnesses. They surround him like a dying dog, his hands twitching at his chest for air, and the Braithwaites pointlessly surround him like a school of gaping, open-mouthed fish. One of the wives shrieks at her husband to get a doctor. The doctor's too far, he barks, angry under duress. She shrieks back at him. Get someone. Anyone.

"My- My wife- Where is she?" Now, the onset of delirium, Trelawny hazy-eyed and blathering. "I can't- I can't do this without her-"

They tell him she's gone to grab him his medicine. Byron tries sitting him up—'This'll help you catch some air'—and Sophia fans him. They say he'll be okay. She'll be here any minute. She'll be here any second.

How long has it been? His thoughts swing to whether she's made it inside or if she's run into trouble, to how much she's stolen and what she's grabbed. He can see the mounting impatience growing on their faces, too—anxiety, maybe? The start of wariness?—and they think the color has started to drain from his face.

"For Chrissake. Someone get in there and help her," Byron suddenly orders, jaw tight.

Francis rises, and Trelawny hopes he sees her in the distance.

she stands there starry eyed and in awe of the way josiah is able to command their attention, have each one of them hanging on his every word. it seemed as if the braithwaites were in two minds. . . wanting to know more about this strange and enchanting couple, and torn between bidding them farewell and returning into their lodgings for the evening. mary beth had started to silently panic, slowly but surely convincing herself that this wasn’t going anywhere — that they couldn’t stand and fill them with nonsense all evening, they needed to make decent headway to be able to escape with all the money they could. but she trusted trelawny more than most, trusted in his ability to play the long game. . . understood that they had to be smart about this.

so mary beth plays along. laughing in all the right places, affectionately glancing between the women and her husband for the evening. when he arrives at their so called meeting place, she feels a pang in her chest. oh how she wishes it was true. “you heard that right, miss. in!” she laughs softly, sweet and soulful as she clings onto his arm lovingly.

“i’m hardly the strongest swimmer, either! but when i saw this positively dashing man of mine at the mercy of a boisterous puppy dog, i had to do something!” she’s impressed at how she’s doing, how she’s able to go along with this nonsense and make it so convincing — but she’d never admit that.

the women are positively glowing at this show of affection, bright smiles against their features as they try to navigate if it’s the strangest or most romantic tale they had ever heard. her hand rests up against his cheek for a moment, pulling herself closer to him. “oh, you. . . you’re going to make me blush!” she beams, pressing a quick kiss against his cheek before her attention is drawn back to their crowd. they still aren’t biting the way they had hoped they would, they simply stand bewildered, shocked, amazed. it’s almost as if trelawny reads mary beth’s mind, can sense the anxiety as he holds onto her hand as they walk. eventually they slow, the physical cue of a fork in the road is the way he squeezes her hand, the shock on her face already setting in.

a dramatic gasp falls from her lips, and for a moment it is genuine and totally convincing. for a moment she forgets that this is all an act, that this is merely apart of their plan — a perfect improvisation on josiah’s part when he drops to the ground dramatically. “oh, darling!” she cries, falling to her knees beside him as she places her hand flat against his chest.

“it’s. . . it’s his heart! they say he’s such a romantic that his heart can’t take it.” her head raises to the braithwaites who are all equally shocked and horrified, all rushing to their sides. these poor fools, mary beth thought — perfectly falling for their con. “would you be so kind as to stay with him for a moment? i have medicine inside our room!”

#gaskills #( gwidien: v: main. )

[gwidien]

“Mm. Had a bit of cold feet, did he?” Trelawny watches as Arthur climbs up onto his horse. Moths circle the gas lights around them, and he starts down the road. "I'm - just - glad he's back, dear boy... and that's better than most," he adds on. Then, curiously- "Although my parents could have gone out for a bit more fresh air."

It'd been better if they were around less. It came out casually like a comment about the weather. Like he's wondering what he'll have for dinner tonight. But he can see it: John afraid. He imagines John not ready to be a father, or to be a husband, or for the responsibility of being more than just himself where he can afford to be reckless and stupid. Maybe even selfish.

He thinks about Tarquin and Cornelius, his family oblivious in Saint Denis. 

It doesn't show on his face.

“He'll come around." He says it like a wave of the hand, but reassuring. He lilts. "...All good things to those who wait."

They pass by a closed tailors and a couple smoking dewy-eyed on a balcony. Even from here, he can hear the piano chiming, the echo fused with the clacking of clicking hooves, and Trelawny thinks about how Arthur would be angry at John. Arthur is built on loyalty, responsibility, and family, blood or not.

Micah isn't family, and he'll see why soon enough.

"Oh, I'm certain we'd get on like a house on fire," he says, droll and exaggerated, throaty. He's joking. Or not. Trelawny looks over his shoulder just as they make their way down the road, and he spots the building. "It's the stuff dreams are made of, Arthur," he promises, routing back to the cocktails. "The stuff... dreams are made of."

        all he can do is nod and shrug and nod again. how is Trelawny always able to see things so clearly even though he isn't around. he seems to know exactly what's going on even though there isn't even much to see — Arthur is more or less trying to avoid John instead of openly confronting him how he feels about him leaving the gang. yet, on his last visit, Trelawny caught that little detail and made so much more sense out of it than Arthur ever could himself.

        ❝ it ain't like he can't do what he wants... John, y'know ❞, the gunslinger explains as he places his left foot in the stirrup and mounts Boadicea's back as easily as ever despite the drinks he's had. her red coat is shiny, even in the dark. the moment he takes his place on her back always feels like coming home. it gives comfort, he feels more confident whenever he sits in the saddle. ❝ this ain't about us. but he shouldn't have left his family just like that. ❞ it's the first time he ever spoke the reason for their feud out loud.

        ❝ cocktails? is that what the likes of you drink? ❞ the mood's better again, the tone of his voice more playful. closer to the fact that Arthur isn't exactly sober at the moment. not drunk, but not sober either. ❝ well, I guess it won't hurt. you lead the way ❞, he says into Trelawny's direction. ❝ I'm telling you, this new feller — Micah — I just got a bad feelin' 'bout him. can't tell why though... wait 'til you meet him ❞, he keeps muttering as if he was talking to himself rather than to Trelawny. Micah just is that kind of a bastard Josiah wouldn't like, either.

#worsethanwolves #( gwidien: v: prologue. ) #i imagine trelawny doesn't know about arthur's son or the mother of his son #at least i imagine that's why arthur had such bitter feelings about john skipping out on them

[gwidien]

@gwidien said "i'm not saying, 'do it anyway,' but you're going to."

saint denis was always alive no matter what the hour, perpetually filled with all manner of folk going about their business — crimes and high society functions alike. it wasn’t a place that mary beth frequented often no matter how much she would’ve liked to. before dutch and arthur had found her all those years ago, she’d spent her fair share of time in saint denis, helping herself to the contents of all the rich fools pockets — but it had been a long time since then, and mary beth was starting to feel like a different person entirely. hardened, whimsical, caged. that was who she was now. trelawny’s voice pulls her away from her thoughts, eyes guided away from the tall building of the theatre that stood before them.

“of course i’m going to do it, josiah! it’s easy.” her words sounded so sure of themselves, her hands clasping together enthusiastically as she bridged the gap between the two of them. above where they stood was a poster advertising benjamin lazarus, the epitome of magic. it was no secret to the locals of saint denis that he was a fraud, not only in his theatrical act but within his personal life too. a fraud with lots of money, money to burn. . . money he wouldn’t miss if mary beth were to do something about it.

“now i just need you to distract him, i don’t know. . . maybe rough him up a little.” her shoulders shrug slightly, a tight smile curling at both ends of her lips. she takes his arm and leads the two of them around the back of the theatre to the stage door, the cogs turning in her mind as she did. “the epitome of magic! i’ve never heard something so ridiculous in all my life. that’s you!”

#gaskills #( gwidien: saved. ) #( marybeth: r: we're the heirs to the glimmering world. ) #and then they rob the man blind for being kmart magician #mb saying joe's the epitome of magic though 🥺 true romance is robbing a man together #holly also yet again comin in clutch w her writing

[gwidien]

Arthur pulls away, and an inexorable cold settles where his arm used to be. 

No, he didn’t believe what he’d said. Trelawny wants to believe it, that he’ll come back here another day, and another after that, maybe a month and a week in between. Another all the same. He wants to believe there’ll be something to come back to, like all of this is the cotton-mouthed haziness that comes after a dream—the confusion before remembering where you are.  

"Seeing this, Arthur. Seeing you-" He looks elsewhere. Nowhere. "...The others." The words linger like smoke in the air. They fade away, and he wilts. "What has happened to you all?"

Karen is lost in ethanol misery. Dutch holes himself on the edge of camp. Lenny, Hosea, Sean, and Molly are dead, and as everyone else hangs their heads down, quiet as mice, Javier and Bill steal glances this way like they expect something. A rat or a snake. A knife in the back. What happened?

A lot happened. A lot he missed because he doesn't live here like Arthur does. Arthur, always resolute and unshaken, told him he's scared, and eye-to-eye, Trelawny is aware, wholly, of his powerlessness against it.

“You'll pull through... one way or another." He says it like he's trying to convince himself. He trails off. "You always do."

He hopes so.

A moment passes. Trelawny's belongings and tent are still standing, Morgan's eyes like the weight of an ocean. Then, as if he couldn't leave it at that— "You could run, Arthur. Run far away from here..." he says, the words oscillating. Rising, falling. "...But I know you won't."

Arthur helps everyone. Who helps him?

        the two men rarely ever met when it had been just the two of them, usually someone else had always been around. now might as well be the first time Arthur truly remembers and he is surprised to see how the both of them seem to be much more alike than he would like to admit. keeping their facade up is important — the tough enforcer, never scared, always making sure that the gang is safe. the wicked conman, always so quick-witted, good at keeping himself just out of reach. yet now, neither of them is afraid to let their guards down and face the most painful truth.

        ❝ you don't even believe yourself, do ya? ❞, the outlaw remarks dryly. he retrieves his arm, takes a step back and looks straight into Trelawny's eyes. the look in them, his smile — just as fake as his words. ❝ there's gonna be nothin' left to come around to. ❞ and Trelawny won't come back, no matter how much he likes to pretend he would.

        the last question catches him off guard. Arthur's forehead forms a frown, deep wrinkles covering the skin above his eyebrows. ❝ I — uh... ❞ the right words just don't seem to come as easily. he's scared shitless of the future, of losing the people he loves and all he ever knew. what is he supposed to do, where is he supposed to go after everything went south?

        ❝ I think — I'm scared ❞, he admits truthfully, his voice nothing more than a whisper. ❝ I don't know what I'm gonna do — if I... if we... who knows how this is gonna end. ❞ it's probably the most honest he's ever been in his life. until now, Arthur kept his eyes well hidden underneath the brim of his hat as he spoke. but now as he looks up the eyes he meets are honest, compassionate. it's more than he dared to expect.

#worsethanwolves #( gwidien: v: main. )

[gwidien]

The Braithwaites balk. One of the men, Byron, smiles in that overly-polite way that seems to say, No, thank you. Not today. Instead, he tells them, "We wouldn’t want to interrupt your honeymoon."

"No interruption," Trelawny quickly rebuffs, throaty and rosy. He rocks onto his toes. "No interruption at all."

It’s decided. He knows, now, that societal convention has compelled them to come along. He also knows that their wives, struck by the candlelit awe that comes with a romantic story, are still dangling on his and Mary-Beth’s hook, dreaming, perhaps, about all the unspoken details about their love. If their husbands will ever be as affectionate. When that day will be. 

Mary-Beth is a kindred spirit. How he stumbled upon her, toffee sweet and with an inclination for thievery, is beyond comprehension, but she's one in a million, lying and playing the role like she was born for it. My valentine bringing me to a delightful little town called Valentine! Unscripted. The hand nestled on his shoulder? Wonderful. That soppy, dreamy way she looks up at him, her eyes bedsheet soft and both green and blue, an ocean or prairie-

"We met... in a lake." Trelawny starts the story, pausing dramatically. He watches as Byron sets the boxes down on the porch, the others puzzled.

"In?" Sophia asks.

"Indeed," Trelawny pipes up, smaller and croaking. He's proud. "In." He and Mary-Beth lead the way thereafter, slowly inching through the yard. They wade through a patch of bluebonnets, his hand over hers. "I'd just gone out hunting with my Whippet," he recounts, rascally, "by the name... of Juniper." He'd drawled that name out long and slow. Then, laughably quick, he says, "She barrelled through my legs and sent-me-into-the-lake."

"My word! And your wife?" Sophia asks.

"She- She tried to save me, but Juniper-!" An audible gasp, the implication clear. Trelawny splays a hand over his chest and looks back to Mary-Beth, puppy-dog-eyed. "Right... into... the lake... My dear Madeline, I-I told her, 'I thought I drowned,'" he says, lowering himself on one knee. His voice pitches sweetly high, and he takes her hands. "'Did you... take my breath away?'"

The ladies smile, at first mortified, now finding it all entirely endearing and charmingly quaint, love at first sight. The men regard him like he couldn't hurt a fly if he tried, a man who needs a woman to fish him out of water. Let them think he's a meek, harmless buffoon. Trelawny twinkles.

"My wife. Isn't she" —he clasps his hands in front of his chest, still down— "stupenda," he finally says, marveling. "Bellisima."

"You must love each other very much," Charlotte says, and he makes a throaty sound.

"What - could be more important?" he dares dramatically, his tone dipping low. So does his head.

"Absolutely, Mister Kimble. Oh, absolutely."

He rises, and they've hardly made any headway leading the Braithwaites to their lodgings for tea. The conversation twists and turns, darting from what's it like where you're from to what do you do before, finally, they've sailed to the front of their house. Trelawny's walk slows to a crawl and suddenly he suddenly locks in place.

"Darling, I-" His face goes white, body rigid. He squeezes her hand. "I think- I think I'm ill."

He wheezes and violently flops to the ground.

for as long as she could remember, mary beth had been running cons. taking from those who wouldn't miss it, who weren't even grateful of the abundance of wealth they had acquired - the braithwaites fit that description better than most. for generations they had been at war with another infamous family, the gray's. . . and although they were stupid beyond belief, they didn't hold a candle to the braithwaites in terms of maliciousness. they had told each other that this would be easy, a walk in the park — and with josiah by her side, mary beth was finding it more like a game of make believe, not a dangerous con that could turn sour in an instant if anything took a turn for the worse.

with her hand resting against his shoulder she offered a reassuring squeeze, half to quell her own nerves and to give trelawny a queue that she was ready — that the act had begun.

“quite perfect, my love. being here, with you. . . it’s like we’re in heaven.” the words almost got caught in the back of her throat at how ridiculous they were. who in their right mind would think such a deplorable place like valentine was anywhere near heaven? rich fools from the city, that’s who — and that’s who they were pretending to be.

as the women stepped out of the coach one by one, it was difficult not to be taken aback by how elegant they all looked. a special shopping trip of course had been arranged for mary beth before this outing of theirs, an elegant green dress of her own had been purchased for this very moment — but she still felt like a fool dressed in such finery in front of these people.

smiles and pleasantries were exchanged, josiah taking the lead as mary beth played the ever doting wife — looking to her husband with dreamy eyes, her hand still resting against his shoulder. it was all going according to plan, the braithwaites absolutely falling for the yarn that trelawny had began to spin.

“now isn’t that just the most thoughtful thing you’ve ever heard of? my valentine bringing me to this delightful little town called valentine!” the women smile, all practically swooning at the display of affection that stood right before them. it was easy for mary beth to understand them — many a time she too had swooned at josiah’s endless talent of playing the romantic, falling for it hook, line, and sinker.

“oh my, are you lodging here too? how lucky we are!” the young woman beamed, her free hand placing itself against her chest as if she was bowled over by this revelation. “we’d be delighted if you were to have tea with us.”

#gaskills #( gwidien: v: main. )

[gwidien]

One day, over a piping hot teacup and his newspaper spread open, Trelawny looked Mary-Beth square in the eye. The Braithwaites are in Valentine, she'd said, sitting across from him at the café.

Now, as fate would have it, so are they.

Mister and Misses Kimble out on a quiet getaway. He has the story worked out in his head, and he holds her hand because that's the ruse. They'll say they're married and renting a place—it would be scandalous living together otherwise—and they'll pretend to be the Braithwaite's neighbors, only for a spell. They'll both spin a yarn. They'll welcome them to town. Then, fitfully and dramatically, before anyone realizes, he'll make a distraction, blue in the face.

"Here we are," he says, raring to go. "Easy as can be."

The stagecoach has finally arrived. Trelawny, closer than he's ever been, lays a hand along the dip of her back, Mary-Beth looking up. The clock has started.

Warm and soft, a moment and chaste; they kiss, brief.

Something in his belly stirs, and they pull away.

"Misses Kimble," he draws out, playful, dangerously rakish. There's a smile in his eyes. "How are you this evening?"

His hand is still on her back until it isn't. The stirring stays, and they start their way down the yard.

One by one, the Baithwaites climb out of the stagecoach. A man grouses as he helps his wife down, another ambling around on the other side with his hands full of boxes and ribbons, and a woman dressed in what could only be goose feathers stands near the porch. Her neck stretches as she catches them approaching. The rest follow suit.

"Hel-lo, ladies." Trelawny's voice sails, absolutely cloying. He dips his head. "Sirs."

They introduce and welcome each other, then, Byron, Charlotte, Francis, and Sophia, all of them back from shopping. Trelawny pats her hand on his arm and, ever-high, "My wife and I are on our honeymoon," he croons.

"Congratulations. That's real sweet. Real sweet." One of the men, Francis, pulls the word 'real' long. He has missing teeth. "Why'd you go with Valentine?"

"Oh, well-" Trelawny turns to her, hopelessly besotted. His eyebrows pinch together like he's pleading. Like she's heard this one a hundred times before. "My dear, would you" —he pauses, honey sweet— "would you... be my Valentine?"

The Braithwaites laugh just as he hoped they would, the ladies smiling. "Touché."

"We're from the city, you know," he jumps back in, vibrant and wily. "Wanted to see the wild, get in touuch with ourselves," he rumbles, all bravado. "Live like the locals do."

They must think he's hilarious, because they laugh again, nodding in agreement about the wilds and the not-quite-civilized locals, the country bumpkins. Later, they ask about where they're from and the wedding and how they met.

@gwidien sent ‘a kiss pretending to be in a relationship together.’

there they were, back at it again — this time in valentine. the town that felt only a stones throw from their camp wasn’t much to shout about, certainly not in the same league as saint denis or even strawberry. . . but it was slim pickings when you’d emptied all of the pockets that were worth emptying in all other towns. josiah and mary beth made quite the pair when it came to deception and robbery, both of them luckily enough to be graced with a look and air about them that didn’t suggest even the slightest bit of trickery, but of course that was far from the truth. she was used to being the distraction on these kinds of cons, playing up to the southern belle stereotype that she had been branded with. . . but when she and trelawny stepped out together, they were on entirely equal footing.

that particular evening in valentine was drawing to a close, the conclusion of their con just around the corner. it had been mary beth’s idea to wait for that particular stage coach to pass through the town — the coach that held a braithwaite with more money than sense. the actual plan on how they would carry out such a treacherous task? trelawny hadn’t divulged into that just yet. . . only that the two of them acting as a married couple would be at the crux of the successful deception.

it was difficult for mary beth not to romanticise such an endeavour, almost impossible to not trick herself into believing that this was the truth as their hands laced together effortlessly. just as they had predicted the stagecoach pulled into the neighbouring guest house, the preverbal curtain for their performance finally lifting. as the pair stood underneath the awning of the guest house in a close embrace, the exchange that she had been working herself up about for what felt like weeks was materialising right in front of her. with her lips up against his in an instant when she received the queue of his hand resting against her back, mary beth dizzied slightly as they moved together in unison. this was the start of act one, and she couldn’t let her romantic sensibilities get in the way of such a score. . . but she couldn’t help but think that it was already too late.

#gaskills #( gwidien: v: main. ) #mb is so sweet dizzying meanwhile he invented annoying