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reddeadreference · 1 year

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Saint Denis Times No. 50

-Click here to return to the index for Newspapers-

This issue is available after completion of the mission: Visiting Hours

(All article transcripts below the cut)

Articles marked with * are exclusive to this region’s issue.

Articles marked with ** are only there upon completion of the related mission.

Doors of Iron Down

CONVICTS ESCAPE SISIKA’S DUNGEONS PRISON IS A CAGE OF WILD ANIMALS. CRACK OF RIFLES HEARD FOR MILES. ESCAPEES FLEE VIA BOAT.

Sisika Penitentiary is a well-known cage, filled with men who resemble wild beasts; seething, taciturn and surly. In a premeditated action, some of the striped felons broke free of their cages. The precipitated panic that ensued resulted in a gun fight with the guards.

A man and woman assisted the escape of one felon as convicts wrenched the iron doors from their cells and a volley of bullets flew in every direction, killing convicts and guards in equal numbers. The interior was left a mass of ruins as the savages and animals were eventually rounded up and returned to their dungeons.

Prison Governor Heston Jameson said the prisoner escaped via a waiting boat that whisked him and his accomplices away. Jameson says several days prior to the panic a flying balloon was seen high overhead, now thought to have assisted in the breakout. Several of the men confined on the island believe their sentences to be unfair as they were given multiple years for desertion during times of war. It is unknown how many died as prison officials are still putting together an official report and tally.

O'Driscoll Captured

REIGN OF TERROR OVER QUICK JUSTICE EXPECTED. CONSIGNED TO HANGMAN’S NOOSE.

For nearly ten years, citizens of numerous Western states have fallen victim to the savagery of Colm O'Driscoll and his gang of outlaws. They have robbed coaches, battered women and men alike, murdered, tortured, and committed sundry unmentionable atrocities. His wild, hot-headed and impulsive ways are the stuff of outlaw legend.

Bounties for his death or capture have long been posted far and wide. That reign of terror came to an end when the leader of the notorious gang, The O'Driscoll Boys, was captured during a routine coach inspection by a deputy. O'Driscoll was examined by Judge Taylor the next day. His sentencing was quick and concise. He will be hanged for murder in Saint Denis.

Tensions High

FEARS OF RETURN TO INDIAN WAR. ARMY IN AMBARINO ON EDGE. FORT WALLACE REQUESTS MORE TROOPS.

The management of the reservation is a cumbersome business, and the fact that issues occasionally arise is not the fault of the administration or Congress. Money is appropriated quite liberally and honestly for the care of the Indian people. The children are taught something of hygiene, fed and clothed, and given shelter. Yet still the Indians contaminate their own water and end up spreading typhoid to all and sundry.

The Indian Problem will not solve itself. The Crow, Shoshone, Cheyenne and even the Navajo have signed treaties and been moved to very generous reservations, taking to agricultural life and the tenets of Christianity. However, those contained at the Wapiti Indian Reservation remain warlike, spurred on by their chief and his son. Military officials stationed at nearby Fort Wallace warn that armed hostilities are a distinct possibility.

These Indians, acting in conjunction and harmony with government officials, could prosper and become friends to the Americans who have tamed the lands from New York to California. Instead, exhibiting savagery, ingratitude and surly behavior, the treacherous Indians falsely accuse mistreatment. In light of all the tensions reported in the region, Washington has sent another military delegation to try to reduce the tension.

Blackwater Athletics Team Missing

FRIENDS FEAR THEY HAVE BEEN FOULLY DEALT WITH.

Members of the Blackwater Athletic Club are still missing and their friends and family are excited by the gravest fears. They were last seen leaving the north edge of town for a group athletics run and, although the most thorough search has been made for them, they cannot be found. Certain facts around their disappearance have given cause for suspicion. The affair has created a sensation in Blackwater and the surrounding community. They had departed on a run and had intended to return the same evening.

Their friends are making a diligent search and police in neighboring areas have been notified. At first, there were rumors they had been kidnapped by Indians, however this appears to be false as no tribes have engaged in theft of livestock or kidnapping in some years. The Blackwater Athletics team were training for a competitive meet next month and were expected to take top honors in fencing, wrestling, and baseball.

Pinkertons Find Missing Man

ORIGINALLY BELIEVED TO BE MURDERED OFFICIALS PRAISE THE AGENCY

The Pinkerton National Detective Agency has concluded a thorough investigation into the case of a merchant who went missing last month. Conditions at the time of his disappearance led immediately to the theory of murder. However Pinkerton agents studying his accounts made some startling discoveries. John O'Neil, one of the most popular and widely known merchants in St. Louis, disappeared without a trace last month.

Initially thought to have been murdered, certain facts tied to his disappearance have given cause for suspicion. Officials hired the Pinkerton Agency to investigate. The Agents report that Mr. O'Neil was short in his accounts.

Through his shop, Mr. O'Neil handled several large sums of money and according to his friends fulfilled his trust honorably. After it was disclosed he was up to $5,000 short on his accounts and had taken to playing cards regularly, the suspicion of his friends was that he had taken his own life. After a thorough search of the hills and surrounding countryside O'Neil was found in a ravine, half-mad and wishing to die, saying he had brought shame on his name and family.

Officials and family members praised the agency for solving the mystery and finding O'Neil, who is recuperating from his injuries and exposure. Founded in the 1850s, The Pinkerton Agency has been instrumental in solving several disturbances, including labor disputes, and was even known to have foiled an assassination plot on the president.

Love Letter to Wall Street

25 MILLION IN TAX DOLLARS GIVEN PUBLIC IS INDIGNANT

Wall Street banks are expressing worry that the public is displaying misplaced outrage and indignation over the pouring of $25,000,000 in tax dollars into the stock exchange to protect asset values. They say it is needed because of the inelastic rules of the national banking system; however, many say that is a gross misrepresentation of the facts.

Wall Street has been fighting against government regulation for many years now. Senior bankers argue the claim that the only way the system can work is for them to get handouts of tax dollars is a ludicrous assertion, and that the system works as intended.

Refrigerating Machine Invented

REPLACES LARDER AND ROOT CELLAR IN HOMES.

The need for a constant replenishment of blocks of ice in order to keep the icebox well stocked and cool might be a thing of the past. A patent has been filed for a mechanical refrigerator that does not require replenishment of ice, no matter how hot the weather outside. A regulator automatically controls the flow of refrigerating medium in the pipes of the apparatus through use of thermostatic pressure and a compressor.

The device would allow the grocer or butcher to preserve meats and fish at a constant temperature and no longer worry about spoilage due to inclement weather.

The Art of Angling by Jeremy Gill

MUSKIE.

Any wise angler knows that a day on the water seeking muskellunge is a pleasant pastime indeed. A man can be excused for suspending brotherly love at the moment the serene calm is broken by the throbbing tug on his pole, threatening at any second to lose control.

He shrieks with pleasure, moaning as he fights the slimy beast, finally claiming victory, dripping, holding a writhing fish to his manly bosom. Glory and relief are his. The Muskie is a predatory fish that favors a lake lure, likes overcast conditions and fights hard. My fans have begged me to come claim a monster Muskie off the coast of Roanoke Ridge. I may go someday. If I see you, don't be shy. I won't bite. I'm not a Muskie, after all.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 newspaper

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honey-sweeeet · 2 years

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lamentation; arthur morgan

(cross posted from my A03)

cw; major character death

arthur mourns the loss of a very dear loved one

word count: 2.3k

Warm and muggy wind, heavy air and miserable rain. It was so damp, constantly. The ground was so soft it had sunk so easily under the wagon wheels as you rolled into the area. Sadie and Charles had cleared this place of the previous inhabitants, and you were lucky enough that the locals were terrified of the place. Night folk were not something to be messed with, but Sadie and Charles had driven them off nevertheless. You hated Strauss, but had to admit you were grateful he could think of somewhere to lie low a while. Until the men got back. You had helped Sadie run the place as best as either of you could on short notice, and Charles had been nothing short of solid help.

They had been gone for weeks now. How long would it take for the men to return? Hosea wasn’t here to give his wisdom, and you missed his company. He was pretty much your father after all this time, and you knew Arthur felt the exact same way about him.

Little Lenny had been buried beside him. You hated to call a funeral ‘lovely,’ but the union of the people around those two graves was heartbreaking. With Dutch and Arthur in Guarma and John in Sisika Penitentiary after the botched robbery in Saint Denis, you were the most senior member the gang had. It seemed fitting that you were the one to lower Hosea into his grave, and all you thought as you did so was that when Arthur returned, you knew you would bring him here alone to say goodbye properly.

You weren’t sure how he would take it. He was a man you had known since adolescence, just like John. You three were Dutch and Hosea’s earliest family, the children they chose. They were your mentors from almost childhood so it was obvious you’d see them a family. You were family. You are family. And you had lowered your father into his grave all the same. Little Lenny laid still beside him. ‘‘Blessed be those, who hunger and strive for righteousness,’’ Intoned Swanson, reciting a passage Hosea had quoted to you in your early days, and Arthur seemed to like as well. You knew it off by heart. ‘‘And blessed be those who mourn, for they shall be comforted,’’ He finished, waiting for you to stand from lowering Hosea. Charles placed a hand on your shoulder as all eyes laid on you. It was up to you to fill in the grave slowly as Abigail held onto Jack and pretended not to cry behind you. You rode Arthur’s horse back to camp after that. It seemed fitting somehow. A piece of Arthur was there with you and Hosea when you needed it.

You hated to say funerals were ‘lovely,’ but the whole thing was a beautiful way to be laid to rest.

That had been over a week ago now, after you had robbed the morgue with Sadie and Charles. There were days where you would wake in the Lakay shacks and think that this would be the end of your life. Between the people who were with you, there were less than ten people who would be able to defend themselves if it came to it. Tilly and Karen, Abigail perhaps. Susan, Sadie, Charles and Yourself. Pearson maybe, Uncle and Strauss not so much. Besides lacking the manpower, it was also the gun-power that doomed you in a gunfight. You feared there wasn’t enough to defend yourselves from the Night Folk, least of all the Pinkertons.

Some part of you wondered what would actually happen if they never came back. Charles told you how he had given the others a window to escape on a boat to god knows where. What if they never returned? Clearly you all couldn’t live in Lakay forever, there would come a time where one by one you would either die off or cut loose. One by one you would drift without resistance until there was no body left around. One by one the Night Folk would pick you off, or a fever would take you, or you would starve slowly, or a wandering alligator would catch you unawares. It was a cruel world, and you had no plans. They were looking to you frequently. You were taking Dutch’s place while they were absent.

Blessed be those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

It had rained again overnight. You knew the ground was already sodden and waterlogged as usual before you had even stepped outside the cabin. Your temporary repairs had to suffice, even if they were pitiful to say the least. It was early morning, and you were sat stoic in the chair at the back of the cabin. Sadie had walked out with a repeater for her lookout duty. Karen and Mary-Beth traipsed around the front room of the pitiful shack until Grimshaw would inevitably pick them up for work. Pearson and Abigail were outside cleaning fish. Beside you, Jack was curled up on his bedroll. In front of you, Charles sat with his legs folded while he braided his hair back. ‘‘You’ve been skittish for days,’’ He commented. ‘‘That’s normal, though.’’ How could you even begin to defend your recent mental absence? ‘‘You’ve been so disconnected. How much have you slept since Saint Denis?’’ ‘‘I don’t know, Charles. I can’t think past the most simple things. It’s just one thing at a time before I shut down. People are asking me to make plans for them and I can barely look after myself any more.’’ ‘‘Nobody is expecting you to work miracles, you know.’’ ‘‘I miss Hosea.’’ ‘‘He was a great man, and I know he was like a father to you. He deserved a better life than the one he had.’’ ‘‘He made the most of it though, didn’t he?’’ ‘‘I can’t pretend to know him any better than you knew him, he was closer to you than anyone else. But I believe that man did everything he could, and did right by all the people he could in his life.’’

There was shouting outside, and your mind was divided. Part of you knew it was the inevitable danger catching up with your band of murderers and thieves. Part of you hoped that it was the men returning.

Part of you was correct.

Arthur stood in the mud, being held by Abigail and Pearson. They rushed him inside and Grimshaw handed him a metal bowl of stew. He came and sat by you, the first to return. His nice shirt had been ruined and salt stained and muddied, ripped and charred and bloodied. He seemed slightly sunburnt, although it was hard to tell beneath the full beard he had grown in the weeks he had been away. The voices surrounding him were loud, but slowly they died down after some panic had been placated within the rest of the gang. ‘‘You need a change of clothes,’’ You said, ushering him away to his possessions a while after he was finally left alone. ‘‘You’re telling me,’’ He mumbled, dropping his random weaponry to the ground. He ran water from a basin over his face, through his hair. Swapped his clothes into normal attire. You chose instead to clean up his guns, if they even were his. ‘'I think you’re in need of a shave, too,” you commented, watching him slide on his work boots. ‘‘Wouldn’t hurt,’’ He said, moving to sit in a nearby chair. You sorted through his trunk of things, trying to find his razor.

He was quiet in his seat as you knelt between his legs to reach up and shave his beard away. ‘‘Hosea and Lenny?’’ He finally broke the silence. ‘‘We buried them a while back. I’ll take you there in the morning.’’ ‘‘What was it like?’’ ‘‘Swanson read that passage he loved so much. Me and Charles filled in the graves,’’ You shifted, moving to trim at his jawline easier. ‘‘Side by side. Not going to be bothered by anyone. I wanted to take him back to where his Bessie is, but we all knew that wasn’t going to happen.’’ ‘‘He was a better father than either of ours ever were �� or could dream to be.’’ ‘‘I wish you’d have been there to say goodbye with us all.’’ ‘‘Me too, but it still means something no matter who hears it, or how late it is.’’

That same night had been an ambush, as through the day the rest of the men had returned, Dutch and Bill being the last ones to show up around nightfall. Arthur was told to go with Charles through Murfree country come morning time, but he told Dutch there was some unfinished business to attend to. Dutch said he couldn’t bring himself to go see it. You could understand that at least. Wasn’t really something pleasant to put yourself through, anyway. It was already a dice roll of how Arthur would take it, would he be able to process a loss so significant? You’d hate to see him just shut down and lose what little faith he already had in himself.

‘‘It’s just around here,’’ You said, breaking the silence of your horses hooves. Neither of you had slept much last night, and it was adding to the sombre spirits in camp.

People had been moving corpses well into the morning.

‘‘Are you going to be okay?’’ Softer, after Arthur’s lack of replies. ‘‘I don’t know,’’ was all he said in return. You both dismounted into the soft ground. It was far enough out of the swamp that the alligators wouldn’t dig at them, but it was far away from the city and the road to prevent travelers from just stumbling onto them. It was pretty when the light filtered through the leaves above them. You left the horses hitched a few meters away.

‘‘Nice place.’’ ‘‘Nice as we could do,’’ you replied. ‘‘I hate to say it’s ‘lovely,’ but its a nice spot for them both.’’

You stood back and let him make his own peace with it. ‘‘Hosea, I- I’m sorry I weren’t able to do more. We shouldn’t have fixed that bank. I wish you were still here. I hope I was a good enough son to you. My real father was terrible, you know that. But I, uh. You were the father I hoped for. And I’m sorry I could not do more to save you.’’ He stood there, holding his hat and looking down at the shallow graves. ‘‘Lenny. Dear Lenny. You were a good kid. Such a good kid. I’m so sorry you got caught up in this as well. We trusted each other with our lives and I could not do more to save you despite the faith you had in me.’’ ‘‘Arthur, none of it were your fault,’’ ‘‘Well it sure feels like it,’’ He said, sitting down beside you in the grass. ‘‘That I made it out and they didn’t? That makes it all feel like my fault.’’ After a while he pulled out his journal to sketch the place, write down his own obituary for them. ‘‘The others will move on so easily,’’ He said a while later. ‘‘I wish I could get over this like the others. I wish it didn’t hurt so damn bad.’’ ‘‘Arthur,’’ You began, sitting up properly shoulder to shoulder with him. ‘‘The fact that the others will move on so easily is a testament to how much they meant to you, and you to them.’’ ‘‘I can love them without hurting, though. Surely it can be that way again?’’ ‘‘Sometimes loving someone is hurting so deeply for them. You of all people should know this. Love and grief work in different ways. Your grief makes you feel guilty, and your love reminds you of what you once had. When he first died, I felt nothing. It shames me to admit it, Arthur. But I was so empty. I didn’t even cry. I thought it must make me so horrible, so heartless. I thought it meant I had never loved him, but I knew I did. I realised it was my grief working in different ways, Arthur.’’ ‘‘I’d like to think you’re right,’’ He replied, after a small pause for contemplation.

Just as the sun was reaching mid afternoon in the sky, you both decided it was time to leave. Neither of you said goodbye again, it had already been said a long, long time ago. It broke your heart to see Arthur cry as he stood by his horse, but you knew it was best to let him grieve. He looked so unable to mount his horse and walk away. ‘‘I can’t.’’ He said, one hand on his saddle with tears brimming in his eyes. You moved around your horse to his in an attempt to comfort him. ‘‘If I ride off, it will be too final. I can’t do it. I can’t,’’ he pleaded with you. ‘‘Arthur, you’re torturing yourself here.’’ You rested your head on his shoulder as he lowered his head to his saddle and cried. Truly cried. ‘‘I know.’’ He said. ‘‘Blessed be those who mourn, for they will be comforted,’’ you quoted, reaching to wrap your arms around his middle. ‘‘For they will be comforted,’’ he echoed. He placed a hand on your head and righted himself until he would swing his foot into the stirrup and mount his horse.

You two walked the horses away slowly, eventually rejoining the main road.

#angst #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #emotional hurt #hurt/comfort #arthur crying breaks my heart #van der linde gang #post chapter 5: guarma

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ignorantarmiesclashbynight · 2 years

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Whumptober 2021 Day 28: it's not just in your head | nightmares | panic

By the end, the shadows even find him in his sleep.

He dreams of Colter in the snow, lost in the blizzard. John, calling out for help; the snarling of wolves. He never gets there in time and the blood freezes in the ice—a permanent reminder of his failure. Sometimes he walks through the snowstorm forever; no direction, no time, no day, no night. Only the endless white, ploughing footsteps through the drift, searching for his lost brother, and he wakes shivering.

* * *

He dreams of a grand house, consumed by fire. A woman made of flame, pointing at him, blaming him. He’s looking for something. Someone. But the house is already a charred skeleton, burned down to its bones, and the smell sticks to him like tar, filling his nostrils with the stench of charred flesh. He hears the crying of a child and he remembers too late what he was looking for, digging through the still-hot ashes with his bare hands, and he wakes sobbing.

* * *

He dreams of drowning, pulled under black water by a sinking ship. A lifeboat, rising and falling on the horizon; his people, rowing away without looking back. He goes under again, claws his way back to the surface, but there’s not enough time to shout, barely enough to drag in half a breath before he’s dragged down once more, the current bludgeoning at him until eventually he stops fighting, his lungs about to burst, and he wakes gasping.

* * *

He dreams of a cave, tunnelling deep down into the earth, its rough stone walls dripping with blood. Screams echo up out of the darkness. Eyes stare out of the gloom. Decaying hands clutch at him, raking their fingernails into his skin. Rasping voices laugh at him as he runs ever deeper, knowing he ought to be going the other way, back up to the light, but he can’t seem to turn around. The blackness consumes him, burying him in dirt and rock and bones, and he wakes aching.

* * *

He dreams of those who’re gone; days past and years back. His mother, his first memories of kindness torn away before he was old enough to remember them. His father, dangling from a rope, eyes bulging, still glaring at him even in death. Bessie and Annabelle, and the grief that followed—watching his new family fall apart around him. Eliza and Isaac, and two graves he never should’ve had to dig. All the rest since. Mac and Davey and Jenny. Sean and Hosea and Lenny. That poor girl on the ferry where it all went wrong. In his dreams they follow him, cling to him, asking why he let it happen, asking why he didn’t stop it, why he couldn’t save them, and he wakes with empty apologies in his mouth.

* * *

He dreams of those not yet gone, but watches them die all the same. John, hanging from the walls of Sisika. Abigail, tied to a chair, Milton circling like a shark. Sadie, being dragged away by O’Driscolls. A Gatling gun, tearing through camp with a noise like the sky falling, bodies dropping all around him. And all he can do is stand and scream, wishing they’d taken him instead, and he wakes begging.

* * *

He dreams of his own death. Over and over. Hanging like his father. Shot and bleeding out. Tortured by Pinkertons until he does what they ask. And then it’s Dutch doing the hurting—the betrayal on his face far worse than the pain—calling him a rat. Micah, smiling as he drives a knife into his back, and he wakes clawing at the air.

* * *

He dreams of a stag and a wolf. A sunset and a mountain. A cliffside covered in red flowers.

He dreams of riding away and never looking back.

He dreams and he dreams but he never seems to get any rest.

And he wakes coughing.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I don’t know how else to finish up whumptober except with a bunch of super sad stories so here we go...

Also on AO3! Requests more than welcome (prompt list is here)

#whumptober2021 #no.28 #it's not just in your head #nightmares #panic #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #fic #canon character death #drowning #torture #hanging #stabbing #terminal illness #tuberculosis #arthur morgan #whump #angst

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reddeadrevolutionn · 3 years

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Why I don’t like Sadie Adler

Right so I’m probably going to get a lot of hate for this but here it is: I don’t like this woman. And before you go crazy at me just hear me out because I make some pretty valid reasons. Of course, If you are a Sadie fan that’s perfectly okay, there is no hate to you.

I think it’s good that a strong female character has been included, but if you think about it, her story doesn’t make sense.

Sadie lived on a ranch with no one but her husband. She would not have been in contact with outlaws, or anything remotely like that. But yet she instantly knows how to shoot a gun (and is supposedly good.) okay-maybe she’s used one before. But that would’ve been to scare off animals from her ranch! Not to shoot at someone who is shooting back at her.

And what about the mission in chapter 6 in which she somehow manages to ride with the men and jump from a horse onto a moving train???? (A skill that would be extremely hard to perfect) (like Javier ended up falling off a train back in chapter one?) when has she had the time to learn that?

Or when she says things like “when you gonna let me come robbing with you, Dutch?” Like how on earth would that go down??? Sadie has never even robbed a stagecoach, let alone a bank. You can see how well planned out bank robbery’s are, and to bring along a newbie as one of her first jobs would be like sending a lamb to the slaughter.

“Well what about feminism?” “We need a strong female character!” Yes I completely agree!!! But we have that. The women in camp are strong as hell. Tilly has killed someone before and has a sharp tongue. Marybeth is highly intelligent and kind. Karen is- well Karen. And what about the queen herself Susan Grimshaw? Are we just going to look over her? That woman can shoot a gun (as well as Tilly and Karen) and can kill you with a glance. She is truly frightening but still loves hard.

Feminism is not all about taking women and handing them a gun. Characters like that need build up- or at least a previous backstory relating to it. The men in camp have been shooting for years.

In the mission “horsemen apocalypse” (idk if that’s the name but it’s the one where Kieran dies) she runs out in the chaos and starts brutally killing O’Driscolls.

Okay I understand her hatred towards them. But that was just plain stupid. She could have gotten herself and/or Arthur shot. Like where is that gun experience???

And what about at the end of chapter 5 when the gang are moved into Lakay? Strauss claims “it was Mrs.Adler who saved us.” Im sorry- where was Charles during this? Sadie mentions that they both scared off the degenerates living there, but don’t you think Charles would have helped out??? That man does more work than Arthur in his entire 20+ years in the gang 😂

And okay- let’s give them the benefit of the doubt on that one. DO YOU SERIOUSLY BELIEVE THAT SUSAN GRIMSHAW SAT ON HER ASS THE WHOLE TIME??? No. Definitely not. Miss Grimshaw would have been the one to sort that gang out. Not Sadie.

And do you wanna know what pissed me off the most? THE EPILOGUE. I was excited that we got to be reunited with a gang member- but when John and Sadie treated each other like long lost bff’s I lost it.

I have not seen John speak to Sadie unless he had to. The closest I’ve got is after we rescued John from sisika and Sadie caught him up on the shenanigans that had happened. John is a quiet man- and Sadie doesn’t strike me as the type to befriend someone like that.

Like where has this great big friendship came from? And why is Sadie a bounty Hunter? She lacks the gun skills completely it just makes no sense.

Her aim went straight from “avenge my husband” to “become an outlaw 101”

Don’t get me wrong- Sadie could have been an amazing character if they had just given her a proper build up!!!! They rushed her storyline too much and it just made no sense.

(Also she pissed me off so much when you do missions with her because I fail them so easily because this bitch gets herself shot so easily.)

Okay rant over. Thank you for coming to my Tedtalk. Please add any ideas you have.

#rdr #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 headcanons #read dead redemption 2 #Sadie Adler #Sadie #mrs adler #dutch vanderlinde #van der linde gang #ted talks #outlaw gang #Arthur Morgan #rdr headcanons

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tahitianmangoes · 3 years

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Absolution - Chapter 2

Pairing: Micah x Arthur Summary: Micah often felt like he and Arthur were two sides of the same coin. Whether or not Artur shared that sentiment Micah didn’t know but ever since an encounter out west, inexplicably they keep finding themselves pulled back to one and other. NSF W | Not canon compliant Also on AO3 Chapter One

Chapter Two - You Scratch My Back, I’ll Scratch Yours

The new camp was called Horseshoe Overlook, Hosea said he’d been this way before a while ago. It was further east than Dutch had ever wanted to go but right now, it didn’t matter what direction they were going as long as it was the opposite of any Pinkertons still on their tail.

It was a nice camp, away from prying eyes in the Heartlands. Micah himself hadn’t been too far this way before, maybe a couple of years ago with some people he used to run with but he hadn't seen them in a long time… Last time he heard, they were stuck in Sisika penitentiary.

However, the Heartlands it seemed, was infested with O’Driscolls; spilling out of the local saloon, camping out in the fields between where they were and right to the border with Lemoyne. Not ideal but nothing they couldn’t handle, the O’Driscolls were small fry in comparison to what had happened on that boat in Blackwater.

Arthur hadn't said a word since the cabin. Micah didn't know what to say either. Arthur had curled up by the fireplace and slept after their encounter. Micah spent all night staring into the flames until his eyes smarted and the sun rose.

Micah had left Arthur asleep and ridden back to Colter with the supplies he’d found. When asked about Arthur he shrugged. Dutch seemed concerned but he also seemed to recognise that he shouldn’t question the matter.

Since moving to Horseshoe Overlook, there hadn’t been much time to talk to anyone, let alone Arthur. Maybe Arthur was right, they were even now and that was the end of the matter… So why did Micah keep thinking about it, playing it in his mind over and over like one of those flickery, moving pictures that people went to see?

If anything, that night in the cabin had made it worse. He could kid himself that at Gaptooth Ridge, it had been a one off, maybe they’d both just been frustrated - god knows it’s hard enough to get five minutes privacy to take care of yourself when you’re in a gang of twenty other people who always want something from you… But the way Arthur had pushed him flush to the wall and looked at him with intent in that cabin, like there was more to it than just having Micah suck his cock… But Micah didn’t know what and almost didn’t dare ask.

***

"Mr Morgan!" Susan Grimshaw's voice was piercing as she called Arthur from across the camp. Micah looked up from the table where he sat by Pearson's wagon playing solitaire. "One of the girls said she saw your friend Miss Gillis around Valentine..." "Mary?!" Arthur repeated.

Micah’s hat hid his face so they couldn’t see him looking up from his card game. Arthur had been busy since they got to the new camp, everyone had been really, all working to make back the money they lost in Blackwater. But it was rare for Arthur to be in camp during the day. If Micah had meant more to Arthur, he might have thought that the younger man was avoiding him. But he knew that wasn’t the case.

He absentmindedly touched his neck where he now wore a neckerchief to hide the bruises Arthur had left from that night in the cabin, biting and sucking at his skin.

Micah could see Arthur quite clearly from where he sat; he’d changed out of his winter clothes now and wore a sky blue button down shirt that matched his eyes and dark denim pants that fit him well.

Never had Micah heard Arthur's voice so excited, seen his eyes light up so as he said Mary’s name.

"Yes…" Miss Grimshaw said and her tone didn't go unnoticed by Micah, disapproving, which wasn't exactly unusual for Miss Grimshaw - a more sour faced dragon if Micah had met one. "Never did like that girl. Anyway, there's a letter for you by your tent from her." Arthur was about to turn and go to his tent when Miss Grimshaw lay an uncharacteristically gentle hand on his chest, "be careful with her, Arthur. That girl's nothing but trouble."

Arthur didn't humour her with a response. Micah watched him go to his tent and tear open the letter like a present on Christmas morning. He read it eagerly. Soon afterwards he left the camp.

Micah felt his chest tighten and didn't understand why.

A little while later, Micah found Dutch. Dutch was unlike any man Micah had ever met before. He was intriguing, magnetic and left Micah in awe. Despite being only five or six years Micah’s senior, he saw Dutch as an almost fatherly figure.

Micah’s father had not possessed any of the skills or qualities of Dutch Van Der Linde, instead he had been what Micah had soon learned to be a bottomless evil. Nothing Micah, his brother or mother did could change that. He resented his brother, Amos, for leaving when he did but only because he had wanted to go, too… He had just been too afraid.

Micah vowed, when he left his father, that he would never be afraid of a person ever again. People would only ever fear him.

He wasn’t afraid of Dutch, more afraid that maybe he would lose favour with him now because of this ferry business. Sure, no one could have predicted what was going to happen but this was Dutch and Micah’s job and Micah had let him down, in a way. People got hurt and that sort of thing didn’t sit well with Dutch.

Dutch was around the side of his tent reading. Molly O’Shea was inside the tent, she looked annoyed to see Micah come around but truth be told, she looked annoyed whenever anyone took Dutch’s attention off of her, which Micah noticed seemed to be more often than not these days.

They had robbed a train out by Granite Pass before coming down from the mountains. He had seemed pleased with the take but it wasn’t enough. He spent a lot of is time brooding and looking anxious around the camp now.

“Dutch, can I talk to you a minute?” Micah asked. He tried to talk softly to Dutch. He wasn’t afraid of him but… One wrong word could send Dutch into a fury, he’d seen it before when Davey has spoken out of line - it was startling to see Dutch’s face turn dark, eyes completely black, drawing himself up to his full and impressive height, Micah’s never noticed how tall he was until that time, how he was muscular, too. Dutch had bellowed so loudly that his voice echoed. He never lost his cool like that, not in the six months that Micah had been with the gang and Micah didn’t fancy having that same fate.

Dutch looked up from his book, amber eyes narrowed at Micah, “what is it?” He sounded a little annoyed. “Listen… I think… I want to go back to Blackwater and get the money.” “Out of the question,” Dutch said bluntly and turned his gaze back to his book but Micah saw that his eyes didn’t move, he wasn’t reading.

Negotiating with Dutch was almost like a dance - you just have to know the steps.

“Maybe I ain’t makin’ myself clear…” Micah said carefully, “I ain’t tryin’ to rob you. You know me better than that.” Dutch closed his book now with a sigh. “Just what are you trying to do, Micah?” He asked, still sounding impatient.

The topic of the Blackwater money was a sensitive one; while everyone else had scrambled to get out of there, Dutch and Hosea had hidden the money. They had thought that it was too risky to try to get out of Blackwater with it. Micah thought that sounded a little off but who was he to argue with Dutch? Only Dutch and Hosea knew where that money was stashed, Micah didn’t even think Arthur knew - Arthur trusted Dutch wholeheartedly and would never question it. Micah trusted Dutch too, in as much as Micah could trust anyone… But it seemed a little unfair how everyone’s money was hidden and only Dutch and Hosea knew where.

“I’m tryin’ to save you. Save everybody. I’ll go to Blackwater and get the money then meet you all some place… And we’ll be home free! That’s it.”

Dutch’s brow furrowed. Micah watched him intently. He was a well dressed man, and despite being down on their luck, that hadn’t changed about him. His crimson silk vest contrasted with his crisp white shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled to the elbow. The ribbon of his hat mated the vest. Dutch removed the hat to run a hand through the dark tresses of his hair while he thought over what Micah had said.

“Just… Just think about it, boss. That’s all I’m sayin’. The way I see it, we gotta try.” Micah knew full well that Dutch probably didn’t give two shits the way Micah saw it. But it was all part of the dance.

“I…” Dutch started, turning his gaze back up to Micah. He seemed a little at a loss for words momentarily. “I’ll think about it.” he said finally.

Micah let a smile break out on his face, “thank you.” He said, not forgetting that he was still beneath Dutch in all senses of the word and he was definitely not adverse to grovelling if that’s what it took for Dutch to see sense, to let him help and who knows, take over from where Hosea so obviously wanted to leave…

****

Later that night, when everyone else had gone to sleep, Micah sat by the campfire sharpening his knife. From where he sat, he had a perfect view of Arthur’s tent which was, as usual, empty.

Micah let his thoughts wander back to that morning. He wondered who this Mary woman was and how had he never heard of her until now? Was she an old flame? As long as he had known Arthur Morgan, Arthur had never had a romantic relationship, not even an unromantic one - he turned down whores in the saloons, ignored women who complimented him or gave him discount in stores on account of how handsome he was and continued with his sullen cowboy act. Micah had begun to doubt whether it was an act at all…

Just then he heard hooves approaching. Micah couldn't see who it was but he heard Bill who was on guard duty ask: “who goes there?” “Arthur, you dumbass.” Came the reply.

Micah couldn’t help feel his chest tighten again, his heart ripple. Why was he like this?

When Arthur came into view, he had a bottle of whiskey in one hand that he must have taken from the box by Hosea’s tent. As he approached the fire, he smelled like he had already been drinking. Micah didn’t look up but he could see Arthur out of the corner of his eye, hovering around the fire, watching Micah continue to sharpen his knife as if he hadn’t noticed the younger outlaw arrive. Micah didn’t look up or speak because he had no idea what to say to Arthur. Part of him thought that maybe Arthur had been right up in the cabin, maybe there was nothing to talk about.

To Micah’s surprise, Arthur sat down beside him at the fireside. Micah could see that there was something in Arthur’s other hand. A piece of paper. The letter from that morning.

Arthur was the first to speak. “You’re up late.” Micah shrugged, “so are you.”

“I… I was with someone in town… Someone I… Uh…” Arthur trailed off. It looked like it pained him to think about it, let alone say it. “Someone I was courtin’ a long time ago.” Micah let himself smirk. “What happened? She kick you out for the night once you were done?” “No.” Arthur replied, almost hotly, “It ain’t like that. She ain’t like that.”

Arthur’s voice wavered slightly. Micah had never heard him speak so earnestly or even speak this long, he usually spoke to Micah in short grunts like some farmyard animal.

Arthur continued, “she… Well, she was never really right for me. Too good for me. I proposed a long time ago. She turned me down o’ course. We was just kids really.”

Micah didn't say anything, he got the feeling that Arthur didn’t really want his input but rather just needed someone to listen to him.

“Anyway, her daddy didn’t like me.” Micah scoffed, “what do daddies know?” Arthur smiled weakly and drank from his whiskey bottle before continuing. “Maybe he was right. She weren’t made for this life. Sometimes I wonder if anyone really is…”

Arthur stared into the fire. Micah stared at Arthur.

“Anyway. She left a letter for me and o’ course, I went rushin’ over to her like the prize idiot I am… Knew she’s married now but, well, he’s gone. Pneumonia or somethin’; bad business. So she’s a widow now. Some stupid part o’ me thought maybe this was her givin’ me another chance now we’re both older.”

He stared into the fire sadly and took another swig from the bottle.

“Turns out she just wanted an errand boy, someone to do her dirty work for her… She knew I was fool enough to do whatever she wants. Maybe ‘cause part of me thinks we still got a chance even though I know she ain’t about this life and I ain’t exactly the type to buy a ranch and live honestly… Sometimes I wonder if… If I’m the sorta person that can… Be loved…” Arthur let himself trail off. They sat in silence for a few minutes save the crackling of the fire.

Micah had never heard Arthur talk this way, not to anyone. Part of Micah had assumed that Arthur just didn’t have that in him. A big, brawny brute who was emotionally stunted. But now Micah saw the pain on Arthur’s handsome features and he hurt too, in a way.

“You can't go forcin’ somethin’ if it ain’t right.” Micah said, his voice taking on an alien, gentle quality. It took Arthur by surprise, he looked up at him now. The fire reflected in his eyes. Micah had thought he was more drunk than he looked but the way he looked at Micah told him different.

Micah watched the fire dance in those great blue orbs. Neither of them said anything but Micah knew. Micah knew what was going to happen and he was fully prepared to let it despite the fact that they were in the middle of the camp, despite the fact that if Dutch were to come out of his tent, if Javier who was sleeping just a few feet away was to wake, they’d be seen. But Micah let it happen anyway. He was powerless.

Arthur moved his head closer and they kissed. Arthur let the letter tumble from his fingers into the mud as he reached for Micah, one hand on his face the other he lay almost hesitantly on his chest. Micah reciprocated. He let his eyes close, let his lips move on their own, let Arthur’s tongue slip into his mouth and rub gently against his own so he could taste the whiskey he had just drunk. Micah felt his head spinning, like he was drunk too. All he could hear was the fire crackling, feel the warmth of Arthur’s hands on him and smell the musk from the swell of the younger man’s chest. Consuming. Intoxicating. He brought his hands up, running them through Arthur’s soft, fawn hair and Arthur made a sound, a sigh, a moan that Micah echoed back to him.

And before he knew it, Arthur had pulled away but his hands were still on Micah. Still, neither of them spoke. Micah let Arthur stand and guide him away from the main camp, behind Arthur’s own tent and into the treeline.

Micah was eager to kiss again and Arthur allowed him to once they were a suitable distance from the camp. Micah let Arthur grope him through his clothes, let Arthur’s fingers work at the buttons on his pants and slip his hands inside, palming his already semi hard cock. Micah let out a shaky gasp into Arthur’s mouth, the stubble from his beard scratching his skin, the smell of tobacco on his shirt filled up his lungs.

Micah’s fingers were quick to unbutton Arthur’s pants, too and take his cock in hand. He was hard and Micah could feel it pulse beneath his fingertips, the tip leaked with precum and Micah tugged on it making Arthur growl into his mouth. A growl that sent a pang of excitement throughout his body. Arthur reciprocated and the pair jerked each other, kissing hard, Micah pressing his hips against Arthur’s who rocked his back in response, drawing breathy moans from Micah.

Micah wasn't sure if it was the lust or the liquor or maybe both but he wasn’t going to question it. He also wasn’t going to admit that he had wanted this again, so so badly.

Arthur shifted, spitting on his palm before resting his weight on a tree behind him so he could take both of their erections in his hand and stroke them together.

Micah couldn’t stop himself letting out a guttural moan. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. The soft skin of Arthur’s cock against his own, hot and throbbing paired with Arthur’s slicked hand was an unprecedented type of bliss.

Micah’s legs shook and he could barely stand, Arthur let him lean forwards, able to support them both as Micah clung to him, hips fucking into Arthur’s palm as he stifled his moans and swore under his breath each time Arthur’s hand ran the length of his shaft, rough thumb swiped over his slit or reached down to gently tug on his balls.

Arthur kissed him to silence him and soon, Micah found himself rutting erratically, panting into Arthur’s open mouth, unable to concentrate on anything other than chasing his release.

He came in ropes, shuddering against Arthur. Micah’s release served as lubrication as Arthur continued to stroke, his hand in a vice-like grip around both of their lengths, Micah now trembling and whimpering pathetically through overstimulation. Arthur let out a low rumble in his chest as he came too, Micah could feel his cock pulsating against his own as Arthur leant back against the tree, eyes closed, wrapped in euphoria, hips thrusting more shallow now until he stilled.

Arthur let Micah stay leaning against him while they caught their breath. It was definitely the liquor that led Arthur to kissing Micah again, this time almost chastely before he moved away, buttoned his pants up and retired to his cot.

Micah sat on the edge of camp, he could see Arthur curled up asleep on his cot. After the buzz from his orgasm died down, he felt hollow. As much as he had wanted it, he knew he’d made a terrible mistake.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times..?

****

Arthur slept in the next day but Micah had already left by the time he woke. Dutch had approached him after he had eaten breakfast.

“Micah, I know you’re eager to get our money back and I commend you for it, son but it ain’t gonna be that easy.” He said. Micah half shrugged, half nodded. He was exhausted. Dutch didn’t seem to notice, he continued. “I just think… It’s better to chase new opportunities - always more money to be made, this is America after all… I know you got your heart set on the Blackwater money - I did too. But… I just don’t want no one else to get hurt or worse. Y’understand?” “Yes, boss.” Came Micah’s swift reply. “Good,” Dutch said with a hint of a smile. “In that case, I want you to go out scoutin’ west a bit but not too close to Blackwater. See what opportunities you can find. Take young Lenny with you.” “Lenny?” Micah repeated.

Micah didn’t not like Lenny Summers, he was indifferent at best. Lenny was the youngest member of the gang at just nineteen years of age - just a boy. Micah could almost smell the breast milk on the kid’s breath; he was young and inexperienced. They just didn’t suit each other.

But Micah knew it was best not to argue with Dutch Van Der Linde and so found himself riding out back west way again with young Lenny in tow. Lenny chattered and Micah barely listened, too busy thinking of the night before and Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.

They came across a small place called Strawberry, a dry town with not much going on - a lead that there was a man at the post office willing to pay them to sabotage stagecoaches but it was small fry. They needed to make up for all that money lost in Blackwater, all $150,000 of it. A stagecoach wasn’t going to give them that.

Later that day they found a saloon outside of Strawberry and as with all saloons, they also found trouble. Micah recognised someone there, a man he knew as ‘Skinny’. Skinny had screwed him out of money a while back, just after he lost his other crew to Sisika. Micah was the sort of person to hold grudges and so went to ‘talk’ to Skinny.

Lenny warned him against it, which Micah had shaken off - ”you worry too much, kid.”

But maybe this time, the kid was right. Micah had drank far too much whiskey already in a bid to numb some of the confusion he’d been feeling all day in regards to Arthur and whatever the hell it was they kept doing together…

Had he been sober, there may not have been a fight. Had he been sober, he might have been quick enough to escape the law. Had he been sober, he might not have been arrested and thrown in the Strawberry jail.

****

Micah woke up feeling like he'd been mown down by one of those stagecoaches he thought he was too good to hold up. His head hurt and he didn't remember how, when or why he got there.

Micah had been in jails worse than this before - always managed to get himself out somehow. They hadn’t gotten his name and didn’t know he was part of Dutch’s gang so he was sure he’d be let out sooner or later… There was an O’Driscoll in the cell with him who was as drunk as a skunk and blathered on about a banking stage him and his boys were planning on hitting. Micah ignored him for the most part. He was hung over and he could feel that he had a black eye but he wasn’t sure from where.

He found himself slipping into an uneasy sleep.

He was standing outside of the barn again, staring at the peeling red paint. He knew what would be inside if he went through the doors. He didn’t want to go through the doors. He didn’t want to see it again. There was the voice. It was always here. Always screeching at him. “Prove it! Prove it to me, ya yella bellied son of a bitch! He walked slowly to the barn door, laid his hand on the wood, it was warm from the summer sun. He remembered the heat. Remembered how it made the blood smell…

“Do it now! Prove to me you ain’t a pussy like that no-good brother o’ yours!”

He jolted awake forgetting where he was. The O'Driscoll snored on the cold floor of the cell beside him. Micah took a breath. He hoped that Lenny had enough brains to go and get help.

And help came, eventually, in the form of Arthur Morgan.

Micah had been sitting at the window of the jail, leaning his face against the bars which cooled his swollen eye when he spotted Arthur sauntering over to him. He looked like he’d had a haircut and a shave, maybe even a bath. His hair was trimmed now, off of his neck where before it had been longer, his beard also gone. He’d replaced his blue shirt with a black one. He looked good and Micah cursed himself for thinking so.

You can do a lot of thinking in jail and Micah had thought of nothing but their encounter at the camp - what had it meant? Why had Arthur allowed it again if he had said it was nothing before? Micah knew the trail was lonely, men would lay with other men, hell even cattle if that was the only thing available.. But Micah wasn’t the only thing available. Not thirty minutes north was Valentine full of working girls if Arthur wanted to relieve himself. Why did they keep coming back to each other?

“Hello old friend, have a good time, did you?” Arthur asked, smirking as he sidled up to the side of the building. “You gonna get me outta here, Morgan?” Micah asked, a hint of desperation about his tone. Arthur paused before answering, taking the time to put a cigarette between his plump lips, strike a match then light the smoke. “I ain’t decided yet.” “Real funny.” Micah replied, rolling his eyes. “Oh, I ain’t joking, cowpoke.” Arthur replied as he exhaled smoke. “I’ve heard so much bluster outta your mouth the last six months and now I got an opportunity to watch you be silenced.”

Micah’s eyes widened. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought that Arthur was joking. It seemed like such a juxtaposition to the man he had been kissing just a couple of days ago who had sounded so vulnerable and sorrowful.... “You- you gotta do something!” Micah replied. Would Arthur really leave him to languish here? That wasn’t the Arthur Morgan Micah knew at all. “Why?” Arthur asked, his voice low and rumbling. Micah’s pale eyes met Arthur’s. “I… I thought…” He stammered uncharacteristically and shot a glance back at the O’Driscoll who was still asleep. “I thought, well, y’know..?”

Micah looked at Arthur pointedly. Surely, he hadn’t forgotten the other night. Arthur shook his head quickly. “I told ya, I ain’t gonna talk ‘bout that ever again. Y’understand? It was a mistake.” “A mistake that happened three times? Sure, cowpoke.” Micah found himself saying hotly. “You shut your mouth or I will leave you here to rot, Micah, so help me I will.” Arthur looked away from Micah in the jail cell before saying, “don’t be mistaken, I’m only here because Dutch asked me. Nothin’ else.” Micah didn’t say anything. He glared at Arthur. Hated that he was drawn to him when he was such a self righteous prick almost all of the time.

Arthur used dynamite to blast the wall of the jail away. It was a loud and brash technique that suited Arthur. The lawmen up in the jailhouse were alerted immediately and Arthur handed Micah a revolver to protect himself from what was about to come. Micah didn’t know whether it was because of what Arthur had said, acting like nothing had happened but he suddenly saw red as lawmen descended upon them. Micah found himself shooting up the town as if his life depended on it. Arthur followed him, shouting after him, “what the hell are you doing?! Let’s just get out of here!” But Micah felt rage boiling over inside of him, rage because he had let Arthur do as he pleased and he felt used, he felt stupid. And now Arthur was being sent to save him, smirking at him like he was some little bitch. Micah would have preferred anyone coming to his rescue, anyone other than Arthur. “Have you lost your goddamn mind, Micah?!” Arthur was calling after him as Micah made his way through Strawberry firing on anything or anyone who resembled a lawman. “Calm yourself woman,” Micah spat at Arthur, “we’ll be fine.” “You have really lost it this time!” Micah felt a rush of adrenaline in a gunfight. He didn’t know if others did but there was little else that got him excited or made him feel as alive as bullets whistling past him. He got a thrill out of dodging and weaving, out of hunkering down then waiting for an opening to make that perfect headshot. Maybe it was something he’d learned from his daddy - the only times his daddy’d been proud of him was when he was unloading a chamber of bullets into someone’s chest. Together, Arthur and Micah were a force to be reckoned with - both excellent shots and efficient. They made short work of the lawmen and were able to make their escape. There was a lull eventually, Micah stood in the middle of the small town, chest heaving covered in sweat and blood - some his and some not. Arthur stared at him incredulously. “Come on,” Arthur growled at him, marching over to him as he unhitched his horse, a Missouri Foxtrotter like Baylock only Arthur’s was dapple grey. “Get on,” Arthur ordered, “before I shoot you, too.” Micah let himself chuckle. This almost felt normal. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.” Micah wasn’t worried about Baylock, he was a clever horse who would have returned to camp once Micah didn’t come for him. Arthur mounted up and reached down to pull Micah up too. Micah ignored the sparks he felt at Arthur’s touch.

Arthur spurred the horse onwards and they tore out of Strawberry. There were already reinforcements on their tail; with one hand, Micah held onto Arthur’s waist and with the other he shot at the lawmen. He pushed down all the thoughts he had about holding onto Arthur and being this close to him, close enough to smell him, close enough to press his lips to the nape of Arthur’s neck just to hear him sigh and watch him shiver. “Goddamn maniac,” Arthur snapped at him as they rode past Rigg’s Station, “I shoulda left you to hang.” Micah smirked. That was the Arthur he knew, not the sad drunk at the campfire. “Wouldn’t you get bored without me?” He asked playfully. Arthur grunted but didn’t reply. “That was some good shootin’ back there - gotta hand it to ya, Morgan.” “What was that you pulled back there?!” Arthur called back to him, not letting up on the speed though it seemed like the law was gone now. “Got a bit wild, that’s for sure.” Micah mused, not wanting to have to explain himself. “Wild!?” Arthur repeated, sounding dumbfounded.

Micah didn’t say anything else. He didn’t know what exactly had come over him and he wasn’t about to spill his guts and feelings to Arthur Morgan. Not now, anyway. Maybe if things had been different... If Arthur hadn’t acted like nothing had happened... “You owe Lenny,” Arthur told him sternly, “if he hadn’t found us in time… Well…” “You’ll all be thanked profusely. I promise.” Micah retorted. “You’re lucky Dutch has got your back for some unknown reason.” Arthur said coldly. Arthur slowed his horse down now. Micah still rested his hand on Arthur’s waist, the anger subsided giving way to something else but he didn’t understand it. He felt his chest tighten but different this time. It was dull, it throbbed and ached like he wanted to howl in pain. “Take me back to my camp.” Micah said to Arthur, “it’s at Monto’s Rest.” “You ain’t comin’ back to Horseshoe Overlook?” Arthur asked, surprised. He turned his head to look at Micah over his shoulder. Micah didn’t want to meet his eye. “No. I’ve been a bad boy, Morgan. Dutch ain’t gonna be happy with me. I’ll let him cool off or bring him a peace offering.”

Arthur rode to Monto’s Rest - Micah had set up camp there with Lenny before they went to the saloon. Baylock was waiting for him. Micah slipped off of Arthur’s horse and went to Baylock. There wasn’t much he cared about in life but his horse was one of them. “Hey,” he greeted the Foxtrotter gently and patted him on the muzzle, “what a clever boy you are.”

Arthur hovered awkwardly, not getting off of his horse but not leaving immediately either. He watched as Micah spoke softly to Baylock and fed him some hay: “you must be hungry, boy. Micah looked back to Arthur, puzzled. He’d half expected Arthur to make him walk back to his camp after that performance in Strawberry and he certainly hadn’t expected Arthur to hang around.

Why was Micah’s heart beating so hard in his chest?

“I…” Arthur started and Micah looked up at him, head to one side, “I’m glad Lenny got to us in time.”

Micah saw the flush play across Arthur’s cheeks and his blue-green eyes looked bright, just like they had done before. What was this? Not half an hour ago, he had said he’d leave Micah in that cell, he’d berated him for shooting his way out of town and now… Now he was saying he was happy that Micah was ok?

“Why…. why don’t you stay?” Micah found himself asking and he hated himself for it. Micah also hated how he had to crane his neck to look up at Arthur on his horse.

The night had drawn in now and Arthur’s features were shrouded by darkness but his eyes shimmered as they settled on Micah’s. Micah thought for a moment that he could see Arthur considering his proposition of staying. Whether it was just for a drink or for the night, Micah wasn't sure if he cared, he just wasn't ready for Arthur to leave just yet. Didn't want to be on his own again.

He hated how he became needy around Arthur. He’d been so angry at him but now he couldn’t be.

“I…” Arthur started, hesitating. “I should get back.” He said, looking away as he spoke.

It was all Micah could do but to bite his lip to stop him calling after Arthur as he turned his horse around to leave; it took all his will to stop him begging Arthur to stay with him.

He already felt his neck flushing with embarrassment. What the hell was he doing? This wasn’t him! Simpering after Morgan out of everyone..!

He hated himself more and more and more.

So he rode into Valentine a short while afterwards, drank too much whiskey and fucked the first whore who spoke to him.

The whore wasn’t the best lay in his life but she wasn't bad either. She wasn't Arthur though.

****

Micah woke up in the rented room above the Valentine bar the next morning. Light streamed in through the window and the whore was long gone.

Micah groaned and rolled over. He was naked, still had blood on him from the jailbreak the day before. He didn’t want to think about that or think about Arthur. He cleaned himself up and dressed, going downstairs to the bar. He needed food - he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten anything.

He ordered eggs, flapjacks and coffee. He sat at a table away from the main doors trying to let his pounding head subside. If he closed his eyes he saw Arthur, saw the blood from the lawmen in Strawberry, saw the peeling paint of the barn door…

“Micah Bell..? I never thought I’d see you again, let alone in Valentine of all places..!”

Micah’s head jerked up and his eyes were greeted with the sight of a well dressed man around the same age as him, tall and slender with a shock of red hair and vibrant green eyes that sparkled mischievously with a boyish charm as they met Micah’s.

“Clinton Jones?”

“The very same! How the hell are you!” Clinton asked, pulling up a chair and sitting at the table beside Micah. Micah found himself uncharacteristically lost for words as he stared into those dazzling emerald eyes. Clinton seemed nonplussed at his old friend’s silence. “Let me buy you a drink! It’s been how many years..?” “Too many,” Micah replied rather bluntly. He was taken aback. Hadn’t seen Clinton since he was a boy. Back then, they had been very close but since Micah took off on his own, Micah had pushed those memories down.

“How’s Emily?” Clinton asked Micah. “Amy.” Micah corrected him, a sudden jolt carved through him like a knife. “She… She passed away.” “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” Clinton said, though he didn’t sound it at all.

Micah found himself speechless at being presented with his past so suddenly and unexpectedly. A working girl set Micah’s food down before him and he began to eat, a distraction from having to make small talk with a childhood friend.

“What are you doing out this way?” Clinton asked Micah, watching him attentively. Micah shrugged casually, “jus’ this and that. You know how it is, Clint.” Clinton laughed softly, “been years since anyone called me that. It’s Clinton these days… Or Agent Jones.”

Micah didn’t show that a jolt of panic ran through him. He had known Clinton had been interested in joining the law when they were younger - not wanting to follow a life of crime and urging Micah to do the same. But Micah couldn’t, his daddy’d never let him. And then after what happened out in Ohio there was no going back, Clinton knew that.

“I work with the Pinkertons now, Micah.” Clinton said, almost gently as if he wanted to soften the blow. “It’s what you wanted.” Micah replied, not meeting Clinton’s eye now. Clinton moved a little closer to Micah now, dropping his voice as he spoke, “even me just sittin’ here with you is a risk, especially after what happened with your daddy.” Micah’s eyes darted up to Clinton’s. “I never told no one about you, Micah. I swear.”

Micah stopped eating. Had he not been Micah Bell III, his hands might have shook as he held the cutlery and he might have been worried about just how convenient it was that Agent Clinton Jones of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, former close friend of Micah Bell, just happened to have tracked him down to Valentine, especially after all that chaos he had caused in Strawberry.

Perhaps Micah had not been as anonymous as he had thought back in that small, Strawberry jail.

“Thanks.” Micah said. “That’s what friends are for - helpin’ each other.” Clinton said with a smile, “maybe you could help me, Micah..? ‘Parently, there’s a bunch of people out this way - outlaws - just robbed a ferry in Blackwater and then a train owned by Mister Leviticus Cornwall. Maybe you heard about it?”

“Can't say I have.” Micah replied smoothly, picking his knife and fork up again and resuming his breakfast, “you know me, Clint… I ain’t really one for reading the newspaper.”

That wasn’t the answer Clinton had wanted as he moved his head further still, his smile diminished but still playing on his lips like someone who knew they had a royal flush in poker. “Listen, Micah. I don’t wanna be coy. Dutch Van Der Linde is a wanted man and I want to help put him behind bars.” Micah shrugged, slurping at his coffee in a purposefully obnoxious way. “I think think I’ve heard o’ him but… I’m afraid I can’t help you old friend.”

Micah went to stand now and Clinton followed suit. “Micah!” He followed Micah to the doors of the saloon rather desperately now, “Micah, I know you know somethin’. You was seen with Van Der Linde out west. Now I came to you without tellin’ no one because I still… Well… We was close once.”

Micah hesitated as he walked to the hitching post. “We was.” Micah conceded, not looking at Clinton now. “Long time ago now, Clint. Long time ago.” “Don’t mean that it didn’t happen or that it didn’t mean anything.”

Micah let his hat hide the expression on his face. He hadn’t thought about Clinton Jones for twenty years. Many people had come and gone since then.

“Clint…We was kids.” “I don’t wanna have to resort to blackmail. I thought, maybe you’d still have some sort of fondness left… Thought you’d want to help an old friend out - you scratch my back, I scratch yours?” Micah turned back to Clinton now. He searched his face not knowing if he could trust him. When could you ever trust a Pinkerton?

“They’d still be interested in you after what happened in Ohio, you know. They got your daddy but as far as I know, that bounty’s still out on your head.” “Clint-” Micah started, shaking his head. “I won’t tell ‘em a thing, I swear… If you help me, Micah. I can guarantee your freedom. And money, too - Dutch has a pretty price on his head.” Micah’s face stayed stony. Clinton reached into his inside jacket pocket and held out a sheet of paper to Micah. It was Dutch’s bounty poster. Micah took it without looking at it.

“Just think about it, Micah. I’ll be in touch.”

#morbell #rdr2 #micah bell #arthur morgan #red dead redemption #writing

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12timetraveler · 4 years

Note

hmmm what about the reader is a bounty hunter who attempts to capture Flaco since he's got such a high price on his head, only for Flaco to over power them and... well... you can decide what he does with them? >:)

Chapter 39 of Campfire Stories

La Lobita

For you an all the other Flachoes

As much as you tried to avoid it, tried to hope and pray it would never happen, as much as you had avoided it, grabbing any other bounty you could, anyone but him, you were finally handed the poster you never wanted to see. Because of course you should work this bounty. You were one of the most esteemed bounty hunters out there. You were one of the few who actually stood a chance against him.

Flaco Hernández.

You considered tearing it up, burning it, tossing it aside. Maybe spend a few days up in the mountains, take a tumble down one of the rocky inclines to give yourself some bruises and say you couldn’t get him, say he’d escaped. Maybe even protect him some and say he’d fled north to Canada. But what kind of bounty hunter would you be if you let emotion get in the way? A pretty lousy one.

When you’d first been busted out of Sisika, and had been desperate for work, you’d followed a tip deep into the Grizzlies. They said there were two people up that mountain who might have some jobs for you to do. A young couple named the Adlers, and a gruff old outlaw, Flaco Hernández.

So, half frozen, you found yourself stepping into Flaco’s little cabin, only to have a pistol raised to you. He’d threatened you, he’d laughed, he’d shot holes in the floor at your feet. Then he’d send you out on a simple job to get rid of a rival gang who’d set up too close, like the madman he was. It was easy enough for you, even weak and half-starved as you were, having just broken out of prison. And Flaco paid well, well enough that you decided to make the trip up the mountain again.

At least once a week you found yourself making the journey into the mountains to see if Flaco had any work for you. He always did, and you always got the job done (sometimes by the skin of your teeth, but you got it done all the same). In fact, you found yourself working more jobs for the older gunslinger than you did anyone else.

Slowly, the two of you grew closer. It seems wrong to say you were friends with the legendary gunslinger, but you were certainly closer than acquaintances. His most trusted employee he called you, but it was shifting into something more. Sometimes after a job, Flaco would let you stay in his cabin for a few hours, warming up by his little fire while the two of you swapped stories.

Once you’d gotten your bounty hunting badge, wanting to find more legal work, you’d thrown your all into it. You went up the mountain less and less as you earned more notoriety as a bounty hunter. It felt wrong and awkward to do jobs for a man with such a high bounty, now that your job was to bring them in. You’d never managed to bring yourself to tell Flaco. You knew he wouldn’t like it, maybe he’d even feel betrayed. You were afraid of how he’d react.

No. It was more than that. You needed to be honest with yourself here, or you might very well end up dead. You weren’t just avoiding Flaco out of fear of what he’d think. You were avoiding him out of fear that you may be more loyal to him than your new-found role in life. How could a bounty hunter continue any sort of acquaintanceship with someone so infamous? You always knew one day you’d likely be handed his bounty poster, and you needed to make sure you could do your job.

You also had to admit that, at least for you, it was more than a business relationship. Somewhere between hunting down bears in the snow and delivering loot bags to the tops of the mountains, you’d fallen in love with him. It made no sense, but you couldn’t deny your feelings. Especially not if you were going to do this job right. You still had a few hours riding to do. You needed to come to terms with it before you reached Flaco’s cabin.

Riding through the snow, dread filling your stomach, you had to wonder what would have happened if you’d gotten up the courage to act on your feelings. If he had reciprocated. Would you still have become a bounty hunter? Or would you be working jobs for Flaco, living up in that snowy little cabin with him. As ramshackle as the cabin may have been, and as cold as the mountains were, you didn’t think you’d mind, so long as you were with him.

“Shit,” You muttered, shaking your head, as if trying to shake off your feelings. You were deep in the shit.

You’d spent many nights imagining what could have been. A bed of pelts. Soft fur on your bare skin. A warm man on top of you, worshiping you, drawing screams from your throat with every thrust. Burying himself deep inside of him. Oh yes, you’d gasped Flaco’s name many nights while taking care of yourself.

But who were you kidding? He was the Terror of the Grizzlies. You were just some vagrant, hardly of any notoriety, except for one arrest that hadn’t even been for a crime you’d committed. He would never have felt the same. You were just a lackey. Someone to do jobs for him and nothing more.

Consumed by your thoughts, you hadn’t even realized how much progress you’d made, until you came over the little hill and were staring down at Cairn Lake. You stopped your horse for a moment. This was it. If you went down that hill now, you’d be turning your back on Flaco for good. You could still turn around. Every part of your body was screaming at you to turn around. But you steeled your nerves and nudged your horse forward down the slopes.

You didn’t bother trying to sneak up on the cabin. Flaco would have heard you coming the moment you started down that hill towards the lake. You’d have to take a more direct approach. You hooked your lasso to your belt as you dismounted. Your horse huffed and pawed at the snow, as if asking why in the hell you were stopping here.

You took a deep breath and strode toward the cabin, boots crunching in the snow. Slowly you approached the cabin, much like the first time you ever came here. You pushed the door open, expecting to see Flaco sitting in his chair by the fire, like he always was. You were more than surprised when he wasn’t there.

Click

Read the rest on AO3

#Campfire Stories #flaco hernandez #flachoes #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #ao3 #flaco hernandez/f!reader

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sternbagel · 3 years

Text

Inspired by the wonderful OC lore that @charlotte-balfours-garden wrote and posted, I decided to finish this piece that’s been sitting in my drafts for months about my own RDR OC, visual references here!

Note: This takes place in canon, Chapter 3, and while everyone calls her Alberta Taylor at this point, it’s not her real name, just something she’s been going by for years because of something in her past. Professionally, she’s a bounty hunter, but has dabbled in other things.

Read This First

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well, at least the one thing today that hasn’t been surprising is Arthur finding Al has dragged a chair over to his tent to read, one leg propped up on the chest at the end of his cot. Sometimes she’ll set up there to get ample shade from the sun, and according to her, the chest is the perfect foot rest height.

“Afternoon, Arthur,” she greets lazily as she turns the page.

“Miss Taylor. Comfortable?”

“Sure.” She cuts her eyes up at him from under the brim of her hat, seemingly just to give him a greeting glance and smile, but when she spots the shiny new accessory pinned to his vest, her head raises higher. “You steal that off a dead lawman or somethin’?”

And it begins, Arthur thinks with a snort. “No, Dutch—” he waves an arm in the direction he came from, though Dutch has long ago left that area—“got us ingratiated with the local sheriff, so now we’re honorary deputies.”

“Was Sheriff Gray drunk?”

That’s surprising. They only met the sheriff yesterday, and he’s not sure the full story of their encounter has been relayed to the rest of camp, just the orders not to cause any trouble. “How’d you know his name?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he realizes that most likely, it was Hosea. Those two are close.

She answers with a cavalier shrug before he can say anything. “I’ve been here before. Once. Didn’t stay long.”

Arthur takes the bait she leaves out. “Why not?”

“Well, it’s Lemoyne. I don’t spend very long here if I can help it. But first time I got to Rhodes lookin’ for bounty posters, Sheriff Gray was puking in the bushes. Somehow he managed to get out that they do all the bounty hunting themselves. No reason to go back.”

“Well, that’s pretty much how I found him when I went lookin’ for Dutch and Bill.”

“Figures,” she laughs, shaking her head. “Not that I really care, but where is Bill? Didn’t see him come back with y’all. Still with the Sheriff, ingratiating himself?” She looks thoughtful for a moment. “I didn’t get that impression off him, but I wasn—”

Arthur holds up a hand and shakes his own head with a smirk. “No, no, the Grays around here don’t seem… his type. Matter of fact, I should probably warn Bill to just play it cool—“

“What, drunk, dumb, and ignorant ain’t Bill’s type? What about that guy we saw him chattin’ up at that saloon in Armadillo?”

“That ain’t what I mean,” he snorts.

“I know.” Al flashes a playful smirk. “I’m just messin’.”

“Well, anyway, no, he’s off hidin’ some wagon full o’ moonshine we stole off some bootleggers under the Sheriff’s orders. Hosea’ll know what to do with it.”

“Moonshine?” This seems to pique her interest, again to Arthur’s surprise. “You know who you stole it off of?”

“Yes…” Arthur’s eyebrows knit together. He slowly lumbers over to his table, laying down the deputy badge and watching her carefully. Al’s expression is calm, but it’s a thin enough veneer that he sees the curiosity building by the second. “What’s it to you?”

“Curious.”

“Yeah.”

The book in her lap finally closes. “I used to run with some moonshiners not too long ago.”

“Alberta Taylor. Well, I never took you for a bootlegger.”

She throws an arm over the back of her chair and lets her head fall back, exposing more of her neck. It’s then that Arthur notices she’s not wearing her usual green neckerchief. Or her green jacket. She must be really burning up to be in just her workshirt and jeans. “Not every professional bounty hunter is a staunch upholder of the law, Arthur Morgan,” she says matter-of-factly with a lift of her brow.

“I never said that. Didn’t mean it neither. I mean, look who you fell in with, I know better. I just ain’t seen you drink much moonshine.”

“Sure. Always been more of a beer and tequila woman.”

He plops down on his cot and lights a cigarette. “Then what you doin’ runnin’ with moonshiners?”

“Tell me who you stole the liquor off of first, cowboy.”

Arthur concedes. Al is stubborn. “The Braithwaites. And those fellers that run around here with those yellow bandanas. Sadie and I ran into ‘em a few days ago. Uh—”

“Lemoyne Raiders?” She sneers. “I’d hoped someone had snuffed ‘em out by now. Hijo de putas.”

He takes a long drag of the cigarette before answering. “Yeah, that’s them. You’ve had some run-ins with ‘em, huh?”

“Like I said, just the once. Three of them stopped me on my way into Rhodes. Brought ‘em into town, dead, which is when I met Sheriff Gray. They didn’t have any bounties on ‘em, so all I got outta one of his deputies was five dollars. I know they weren’t even worth that much, but he coulda paid me more,” she grumbles. Her light Cuban accent comes out more the lower her voice goes.

“Sounds about right. Least ya got paid somethin’.”

“I guess.” She picks at the spine of her book for a moment. “Wasn’t long after that I met a… moonshiner legend, so to say, through a mutual friend. Though friend seems to be pushing it.”

He gets the sense she’s not fully sour on the “friend,” so his shoulders shake in amusement.

“He was a lot like Uncle, actually.”

“Lord.” Arthur snickers, smoke billowing out of his mouth.

“Yeah. Not as lazy. Probably younger, but who knows.”

“I reckon Uncle ain’t as old as he wants folks to think. Besides just bein’ too lazy, it’s probably why he don’t trim his beard.”

Al laughs, rougher than usual until she coughs and clears it up. “Damn humidity.”

“Tell me about it,” Arthur agrees, leaning forward and propping one elbow up on his knee. “So, this… moonshiner legend.”

“Ever heard the name Maggie Fike?”

The name isn’t familiar, but it isn’t unfamiliar either. “Don’t think so,” he settles on.

“Well, she’s been mostly out this way rather than out where y’all been running around. Revenue Agents caught up to her a couple years back, tried burning her alive. Didn’t work, but gave her a nasty scar and bad eye. Almost puts Marston to shame. Almost,” she adds with a grin as he walks between Arthur and Strauss’ tents.

“Take a look in the mirror, Miss Taylor,” he grumbles back. Then he chucks a cigarette butt at a chuckling Arthur. “You too, Morgan.”

John disappears around the side of the tent as Arthur brushes off the butt. “Cranky cause he ain’t had his midday nap.”

“Pick better material.”

Al chuckles and presses the palm of her hand on her hat, affixing it more securely to her head. “Anyway…”

“Anyway…” Arthur sighs lightly. “You said she survived?”

“Yeah, went into hiding for a while. Somehow got a hold of my ‘friend’, who then asked me for help gettin’ her business back on its feet. Easy work at first. Finding a good location for the shack, gettin’ her some supplies, that stuff.” She waves a hand around. “Most folks don’t pay much mind to a bounty hunter buyin’ supplies in bulk like I was or destroying illegal stills. Sometimes I brought in the other moonshiners to the local town to collect on a bounty. Made for a better cover for what I was really doing.”

“Takin’ out the competition.” Arthur chuckles.

“Exactly. Then came—”

“What the hell are you two talkin’ about anyway?”

Al puts her hand back on her hat before tipping her head back, almost touching the back of the chair, and looks at John, upside down. Arthur leans forward more to get his own look and the rangy outlaw, who’s circled back around to the other side of his wagon.

“And what the hell is that?” John asks. He’s looking directly at the badge on Arthur’s table, disgust etched into his features. As if it’s some rotting, maggot infested carcass Arthur’s using for decoration.

Arthur sighs and briefly explains again.

“So this is just another excuse for you to play dress-up, eh? Guess I need to tell Hosea you’re itchin’ to go scammin’ with him again.”

“You do that, it’ll be your pecker in the stew pot next meal.”

Al’s crossed her arms over her chest and is watching them with barely contained amusement. “Playing dress-up? I don’t think I’ve seen that side of you yet, Arthur.”

“And you won’t,” he growls. “Only reason Hosea takes me on those jobs is because he knows I hate it. Just once I’d like him to take Marston instead.”

“You sure about that?” Al studies John as if she’s a talent agent in the big city. “Doesn’t he like to avoid mayhem on those jobs?”

John snorts indignantly. “Yeah, well, I’d like to see you try and follow Hosea’s lead. I swear even he don’t know what he’s doin’ half the time.”

“But it works.” Her eyebrows raise pointedly.

“But it works,” John concedes.

“Well, next time you go, let me know. I’d love to watch y’all work.”

“Whatever,” John grumbles as he waves her off and saunters away. Apparently he’s given up on butting into their conversation.

“I ain’t pullin’ that type of job with Hosea again. What we had set up in Blackwater, sure, but not...” Arthur wags a finger in the air, then unfurls the rest of his fingers and waves his hand once before letting it fall back in his lap. “Not that. The girls and Trelawny are much better’n me anyway. Safer that way.”

Al shrugs. “I won’t argue that.”

“So, back to what you was sayin’?” Arthur’s not willing to let the moonshiner story drop. It’s not often she lets down her walls and tells stories of her past that don’t directly involve some bounty she’s nabbed. He knows what happened to her family, but that had been a moment he wasn’t meant to see, and neither of them have ever brought it up again.

“So after we get a shack set up, she gets word of where this old buddy of hers is, go rescue him so he can make our moonshine. Not long after that, her nephew’s gettin’ moved from Sisika, so I go rescue him.”

Arthur pulls the cigarette from his lips and folds his arms across his chest, leaning back against the wagon. “Just you against a bunch of lawmen?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, Morgan,” she drawls, lolling her head to the side.

“Suppose I shouldn’t be,” he chuckles.

“No, actually, I had a couple friends with me, cashed in on some favors. I’m not stupid or reckless enough to take on an armed prison transport.”

Arthur just shrugs. “Woulda believed you either way.”

“You’re too trusting,” she remarks. There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, but her eyes sparkle with something else.

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“Well, we bring them back to the shack, get the business up and running. Enact some revenge on a rival of hers in the meantime, I get to kill the agent who tried to burn her. Spent about a year with them. I didn’t do a lot of the actual running of moonshine, one of those friends who helped me break out Maggie’s nephew, Lem, did most of that. I focused on taking out the competition, clearing out Revenue Agent roadblocks when we were sure we couldn’t sneak past them. The real dirty work. But I didn’t mind, kept me moving, out of the government’s crosshairs enough that I could keep killin’ those damn agents.”

Arthur cocks his head curiously. But she isn’t done talking, so he lets her continue, holding onto his question for now.

“Couple months before I ran into y’all, I told them I’d have to leave. I’d spent so much time in this area, couldn’t… Needed to get out and go back out west. See some old friends, see some open country. They reckoned they’d be fine without me, but threw them the name of another friend I knew’d be able to help them, pick up my slack.”

“So… you think they’re still runnin’ that shine?”

“No reason not to. Never heard anything about her being captured. Got a letter from them while I was in Blackwater, actually. They’re doin’ well.” She gives a fond, reminiscent smile. “That friend is working with Maggie now, too. Dunno how she stands him, but…”

“Good. Since we’re over this way, you plannin’ on seein’ ‘em?”

“They’re north, Roanoke Ridge territory. Might, if I feel safe leavin’ you fools by yourself for more than a week.”

Arthur chuckles and shakes his head. “I reckon we can survive without ya for that long.”

“With all the trouble you been causing lately? I don’t think so, Mr. Morgan.” Al fans herself with her book, smirking at Arthur pointedly.

“I actually got another question for ya,” he diverts.

“Shoot.”

“I been thinkin’ about this since you got here, but now, knowin’ how much you seem to hate the Revenue Agents, how come you’re a bounty hunter, takin’ payouts from the government, but runnin’ with a bunch’a outlaws? After a year of runnin’ shine, that is.”

A simple shrug is her reply, and the pause is so long Arthur isn’t sure she’ll actually give him an explanation, until, “You have your code, I have mine.”

“Huh,” he grunts. They watch each other casually for a long moment, then he asks, “You gonna explain?”

He can see her weigh her options, and eventually she relents. “You know…” Her expression immediately tells him what she means: her past, what happened to her.

“Yeah,” he offers quietly.

“Well, nobody’s born a seasoned gunslinger. When I first started bounty hunting, I had to take the easier targets. Most big pay days, or the jobs that are good start for those of us that’re green, they’re people who rob banks with a pen, rich people doing rich people crimes. They’re soft, easy, and all it really takes to catch them is knowing the land better and being tougher than city folk. Which ain’t hard at all. So, until I could stand on my own, those were the only kinds I took. Then I started goin’ after the bastards I really wanted to. People like the Johnson Brothers.”

She nearly spits the name. Arthur feels the sting in her soul.

“I never take those soft bounties anymore,” she continues after a deep breath, seeming more like herself again with every word. “Unless I need a break. But it’s been a while since I have.”

“Been a while since you took a bounty at all.”

She must notice the question in his voice. Not judgement, but question. “No. You’ve been kicking up too much fuss. Wouldn’t be smart for me to be seen around town here more than once or twice.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. While it is mostly true, it’s about all he’s going to get out of her, but he knows the real reason why. Even if she won’t admit it to herself. “Got me there, Al.”

“Not hard to do, Arthur.”

#also we're going with the bill is gay theory. but like. half the gang is gay so she's not making fun of that.#she hates bill. so she's making fun of HIM directly.#hope that comes across lol.#also i hope it's okay to tag you in this!!! I can fix it if not #rdr #alma tejada #my fics #i guess that's gonna be a tag. i mostly just share this shit with friends and post my much bigger projects elsewhere

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my-funky-little-cowboy · 4 years

Text

Yeehawgust Day 9 | Cattlepunk Characters: John Marston, Abigail Roberts, Jack Marston Word Count: 1,472 Warnings: None

John shoved the final bag into the back of the wagon, he turned quickly and the bundle rolled back and out of the wagon.

“Oh come on, now!” John groaned, the contents of the pack scattered on the ground.

He stopped, seeing Arthur’s satchel among the things littering the ground. A pained expression flashed across his face as he bent down to pick the bag up, wiping the dust from the worn leather. It was heavy in his hands. He was sure they had emptied all the weird trinkets and collectibles that Arthur had stuffed away all those years ago.

He flipped open the bag and reached inside. His hand dusting over the worn cover of a book, he pulled it out, his breath caught in his throat and he closed his eyes. He let his arm with the satchel fall, his head falling back.

Arthur.

He opened his eyes slowly, turning to place the satchel in the bed of the wagon. Slowly cracking open the old journal, he smiled looking down at Arthur’s elegant handwriting. He flipped through the pages, his heart ached as he recognized the small drawings of Jenny and Sadie from that final year.

He continued to flip through the pages, leaning heavily against the wagon. The memories of that last year flooding back to him, his heart heavy. Seeing all the people Arthur had met in that last year, the interesting sights, his diagnosis. He stopped briefly, the words he read next haunted him.

Turns out, I’m not very well. Got tuberculosis. Doctor did not know how long I would last. All them bullets shot at me, all them horses threw me, all them fights and it was beating up that pathetic little fella Downes that killed me, I reckon. He’s the only man I been near was real sick. He begged for mercy and I beat the bastard and he died. And now I’m dying too. The way of the world

John stopped. He hadn’t known then, he knew Arthur hadn’t been feeling well, a cough here and there. Nothing he didn’t expect his brother to bounce back from, but then the bank job had gone so wrong.

The gang split and God only knows what went down on Guarma. Abigail had said it was bad. When Sadie and Arthur had come for him at Sisika he looked like a hollow shell of the man John had grown up with.

Those following weeks, watching him waste away, that promise, the only thing Arthur had asked of him, the thing that kept him going even now.

He looked back down at the journal, flipping through the rest of the pages, Arthur’s final thoughts. He stopped on a page with a portrait of a man, and beside it a curious looking building with the name Dover Hill scrawled under it. He skimmed the entry and it’s talk of grand machines and mechanical men.

Marko Dragic

Had he ever heard about what happened to his curious friend? He snapped the journal closed hearing the footfalls approach.

“Almost done, John?” Abigail asked as she reached the wagon, Jack following behind her, the crate in his arms overflowing with provisions.

“All loaded up here.” He slid the book into the pocket of his jacket, turning to greet them. He reached out and took the crate from Jack, loading it into the back of the wagon.

“And all that?” Abigail motioned to the fallen contents of the pack and John grinned sheepishly.

“Right, I’ll get those loaded up now. One of the bags fell.” He rubbed the back of his neck and dropped down to pick up the miscellaneous pieces, placing them into the wagon.

Abigail shook her head and climbed into the driver’s seat, waving for Jack to climb up into the back. John tossed the last of the items into the back and climbed up next to her. He picked up the reins and cracked them gently, the wagon pulling out of town.

It had been nearly 7 years since the Marstons had been back down this way, back to where Arthur had given everything up for them. They rode slowly through the valley, the familiar paths from that winter, through Roanoke Ridge, he recognized the trails as they came closer to Beaver Hollow, and he steered them north of the area, opting to take some of the less populated roads as they moved farther west.

They continued west into a bone-chilling wind as the sun dropped below the mountains, the trees becoming thicker as they moved farther into the forest.

A moose call echoed through the valley, starling Jack who looked up from his book.

“What the hell was that?” Jack exclaimed!

“Jack!” Abigail shouted, smacking his head gently. “This is all your fault!” She frowned at John and he chuckled.

“Jack, watch your mouth.” He stifled his laugh and Abigail nudged him with her shoulder.

The wagon splashed through the shallow water as they crossed the shallow river, the cold water splattering John’s leg as he hung it from the wagon, turning his attention back to the road and the sign off to the side. The crude carvings pointed west to Colter, south to Saint Denis, and north to...Dover Hill?

John pulled back on the reigns, slowing the horses as they came up to the sign.

“We should find a place to set up camp tonight, it’ll be dark soon...and cold.” His curiosity piqued, he pulled the wagon down the northern path toward Dover Hill curious to see what Arthur saw all those years ago.

They wound up the trail, eventually the path opened and a large building came into view. John pulled the horses to a stop.

“What is this place, John?” Abigail asked.

“I don’t know, sign said Dover Hill, and the name looked familiar.” He trailed off.

“Looks abandoned. Maybe we should head back to the road?” She offered.

“Wouldn’t you rather stay indoors if it’s an option?” John hopped down from the wagon, pulling the shotgun from under the seat he moved toward the building, leaving Jack and Abigail in the wagon.

He knocked loudly on the door and waited, no response. He put his ear to the door, silence. He tried the handle and it relented to his push and he disappeared into the darkness.

“Hello?” The light spilled into the space in front of him, reflecting off the dull glass.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette pack, grabbing the small matchbox from within. Striking a match to the rough wood a dull glow filled the room. He lit the end of his cigarette and scanned the room for a lantern or candle, finding one and lighting it, he swung it back around the room.

The light flooded the space, the walls were lined with bulbs and levers, the panels dark without the electricity flowing through them. John ran his hand along them, his fingers leaving thick trails in the dust. He stopped in the doorway that led into a large caged room, the body on the floor was long dead, the skin tight to the bones and the clothes in tatters. The dark stain of the blood surrounded the body, long dry, the boot prints from the body gave John all the story he needed.

Damn, wonder if this was that fella.

He lifted his lantern, casting the light into the rest of the room and his jaw dropped. The room filled with mechanical metal men in various states of completion, enough to form an army, forever waiting for directions that would never come.

He turned back, looking to where he left his family, and back down to the floor, the bloodied footprints leading out of the room back toward the front door. He looked back at the army and a chill ran down his spine, the vacant lifeless eyes leaving him feeling unnerved. John grit his teeth as he carefully surveyed the room once more before making his way out of the building.

John reappeared in the doorway and Abigail crossed her arms over her chest.

“Find anything? Anyone inside? It’s getting cold! We need to either settle here or find someplace before nightfall, otherwise we’re gonna freeze!”

John shook his head, pulling himself back up into the wagon, tucking the shotgun up under the seat. “It’s clear, but someone got killed in there. I think we should move on.” He said, his eyes locked on the building, the uneasy feeling still settling in his gut.

It wasn’t a lie, but it was sure gonna be a hell of a lot easier to explain than that other stuff. He gently cracked the reins, turning the wagon around and moving back toward the main road, he shook his head. Arthur sure had met some strange folk.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #john marston #abigail roberts #jack marston #yeehawgust #hyde tries writing #arthur morgan #fanfic #one shot #john misses his brother D:

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another-fxcking-rdr-blog · 4 years

Note

Can we do an angsty death thing like earlier? But with Charles, Arthur and John? The one with the reader saves their life but at the cost of their own pretty please 🙏

Trigger warnings: Death and blood

Charles:

Gif credit: @lysitheavon

"Charles!"

The panic in your voice is evident, as you see one of Colms boys raise his shotgun to Charles' back.

You jump on the guy without hesitation, wrestling him for the gun.

Charles turns just in time to see you stab the man in the neck and in retaliation the man pulling the trigger, the weapon unfortunately pointed at your abdomen.

You both fell on the ground, the O'Driscoll choking on his blood and you curling to your side, your arm holding your stomach where the shotgun blast was fired.

Charles is by your side, all concern for his surroundings gone as he cradles you in his arms.

"You fool!"

He's not angry. He's scared.

He presses a hand on your stomach but it does little to stop the blood.

You laugh weakly.

"You should be more careful~" you smile at him.

His eyes dart around for anything that might help but you hold his arm, steadying him.

You reach up your hand, caressing his cheek.

It seemed for a second like you were going to say something but the words die in your throat and the light fades in your eyes as Charles holds you.

---

• Charles is easier to anger after that.

• He snaps at the other camp members quicker if they push him, Micah especially

• He blames Dutch, partly.

• If Dutch hadn't done a sloppy job of planning, you might still be alive.

• When the O'Driscolls attack Shady Belle, Charles fights with a fury that the rest of the gang hasn't seen.

• The O'Driscolls killed Sadies husband and took you from him and now poor Kieran is gone as well.

• When Dutch comes up with the plan to rob the Saint Denis bank, he wants to argue.

• When he distracts the guards at the docks he thinks of you and your bravery.

• When Arthur and the others return from Guarma, Charles is back to being himself.

• He still mourns you everyday, but he knows you'd want him to heal and though he feels responisble for your death, he slowly learns to remember the happy moments between the two of you.

Arthur:

Gif credit: @fyeaharthurmorgan

"Shh-" you raised your hand to quiet Arthur who was in the middle of a story about his younger days in the gang.

He stops immediately and his hand drops to his holster.

You look around your little campsite, the shadows blending together in the darkness of the night, the only sound you hear is the crackling of the campfire. You cant even hear any animals around.

Something is wrong.

You can barely finish that thought when five men, bounty hunters, rush at you and Arthur from the surrounding bushes. You hear shots behind you, but you have no time to look.

Your hand finds your revolver and you point it at the nearest bounty hunter, firing your gun.

The bullet catches him in the jaw and you shoot him again. You move on to your next target who rushes at you and you both fall on the ground with a thud that takes the wind from you.

You manage to catch him in the gut with your knife and you roll him off of you, getting to your feet.

Your eyes fly to Arthur who has his back turned to one of the hunters as he fights with another.

Before you know it your feet are moving and you manage to push Arthur away just before the man fires his rifle.

Arthur turns and shoots the man through his eye and he falls to the ground.

He turns to you, ready to scold you for your reckless move, but the words don't come out when he sees you on the ground, a puddle of blood forming under you.

• He takes your body back to camp in silence.

• He insists on burying you himself and carves an eagle on the wood they use for your headstone.

• He takes flowers to your grave everyday from that day forward

• His notebook is filled with drawings of you and apologies of not being fast enough and not being good enough to save you

• He never loses his guard again, blaming himself for your death

• He can barely sleep. Images of you on the ground and the fear that if shuts his eyes for a second too long, someone else in camp might suffer the same fate

• In his final moments he thinks of your smile

John:

Gif credit: @prairiemule

Hosea was shot.

You could barely process that Hosea was really gone when you heard voices.

Someone was talking.

You couldn't be sure.

Your ears were ringing and everything was going too fast and too slow at the same time.

Someone grabbed your arm and you locked eyes with John.

He was yelling.

"-ve to get out of here! Are you listening?"

You blinked.

We have to get out of here.

You nodded and he started pulling you towards the big hole in the banks wall. When did that get there?

Something doesn't feel right and you turn just in time to see one of the bastards that were shooting at you.

He grabbed onto Johns shoulder and pulled him back.

You punch him in the face before he can put John onto the ground and feel his nose breaking under your fist.

You push him to the ground and turn to John, telling him to run. It was your fault you two had fallen behind.

You feel a burning hot pain in your side and your ears are ringing again.

Your side is wet with blood but before you can blink the end of a rifle hits you in your temple and your vision goes blurry.

Vaguely you feel yourself getting pushed to the ground and your hand being handcuffed behind your back.

You see John fighting off your attackers before he too gets knocked on the ground.

The rest is a blur of feeling sick and your heartbeat deafening you.

John is talking to you, telling you you'll be alright, that Dutch is gonna be back for you too.

You lean into Johns shoulder in the back of the carriage taking you to Sisika Penitentiary.

You never make it over there.

• John puts all his grief and anger into working the fields at Sisika.

• When Arthur and Sadie finally arrive to rescue him, he keeps quiet most of the journey.

• He's furious at Dutch for not coming sooner, though he knows you were beyond saving.

• His heart aches when he tells little Jack that you won't be coming back.

• When he hears Micah talking about you he attacks him without hesitation.

• It takes Charles and Arthur a while to pull him off of him

• "Keep their name out of your god damn mouth!"

• His grief wrecks him but he stays strong for Jack and Abigail, and he knows that you would hate to see him like this.

Hey! I hope this was atleast halfway decent and close to what you wanted :D Thank you SO much for requesting this and thank you to the amazing blogs for letting me borrow your gifs!

I hope to grow as a writer and artist and keep posting stuff like this on this blog :)

#rdr2 #rdr2 writing #rdr2 john #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 charles #tw death #tw blood #rdr2 x reader #red dead redemption 2 x reader

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slicedmayonnaise · 3 months

Text

decided i'd add to an old post I made. (kind of a short fic??)

°°°°°°°°

It had been months since the world had ended. Almost a year since John was abandoned by his brothers and father. He still hadn't found the strength to open up that satchel Arthur had given him. Hell, he hadn't even touched his own. These past months had been spent numb. All he could do was cling to what little he had left. Cling to his wife and son and pray that he never lost them the way he had everyone else.

Finally, though, John began digging through his own satchel in search of a necklace he thought he remembered having. Something he had stolen and intended to donate to the camp, but never did. Thankfully. He needed money, and it was a nice gold necklace that he could sell easily. And just as he thought, there it was. His fingers felt the cold chain and he fished it out. But something else came out with it. A red neckerchief. It fell on the floor. John's heart stopped. Embroidered on the cloth were the letters "J.E." John felt a twisting in his gut and a lump building up in his throat. Gone was the numbness. That was now replaced with a wave of emotions as John bent down to gently pick up the fabric.

"Javier," John whispered to himself. His voice cracked over the lump and it was all he could do to keep himself from sobbing. So many emotions tied to one item. Joy, depression, fear, regret, disdain. John wasn't even sure what he felt. Perhaps frustrated would be the best word for it. Questions raced through his mind. Why did Javier leave him? Where was Javier now? Was he even alive?

John held the neckerchief to his nose and let out a silent wail. His scent. Javier's scent. Even more memories and emotions. More frustration. Javier's scent. Javier's taste. Javier's voice. Javier's touch. It all filled his head, enveloping his brain just as the cloth had once enveloped his lover's neck. Why had he turned cold? What could have changed while John was in Sisika? John could no longer stop the sobs nor the tears that rolled down his cheeks. His heart ached just as it did that night so many months ago. When he left Arthur on that mountain. The pain of his bullet wound was nothing compared to the hurting in his chest.

"John?" Abigail had caught him. He didn't even hear her approaching. "I finally got Jack to sleep," she spoke softly and carefully. She placed her hand on his shoulder. "You okay?" Finally, she saw what had prompted this episode. "That's.." She trailed off. John cleared his throat and attempted to stop himself from emasculating himself further. "I found it in my bag. I didn't even know I had it." His voice broke and shook a hundred times. Abigail continued to rub his arm, trying to bring him some sort of comfort. A touch that said 'you're not alone'. "I know you miss him," she said, trying to be as gentle as possible with her words, "I do, too, but.. You gotta realize, John.. He don't love you. Not anymore." John sniffled and wiped his face with the sleeves of his shirt. "I know that. I just wish I knew why." John was holding the neckerchief tightly. To the point where his knuckles had turned pale. Abigail stroked her hand over his and his grip loosened.

John took a step towards the fire. It's glow was blurred from his teary eyes. He brought the neckerchief up to his lips and kissed it softly. Then he let go. It fell into the flames.

"Goodbye, Javier."

#jovier #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #red dead fandom #red dead redemption community #red dead redemption two #rdr #red dead #red dead 2 #john marston #javier escuella #abigail roberts

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rdro-oc-simps · 3 years

Text

TIME TO NERD OUT ABOUT MY SILLY TRANS COWBOY

Backstory:

This is Aiden O'Malley. He's the son of Irish immigrants, Patrick and Jane O'Malley. He currently resides in a cabin in Tall Trees, West Elizabeth with his husband, Jonah Miller. He also has a twin sister, Colleen, who lives in Hennigan's Stead.

Aiden's family lived in Roanoke Ridge for some time, but after Aiden came out and started to transition, they moved to keep him safe. They still kept their Catholic beliefs, sure, but they loved Aiden too much to cast him aside.... Even when he was framed for murder and sent to the Sisika Penitentiary.

Aiden spent some time there behind bars, doing his work and staying quiet. When he was going to return to the mainland for a job, he was excited, but he tried to keep this contained. It made it even better when this was his prison escape.

Horley helped him get set up in the Heartlands with Cripps, the camp caretaker. Aiden was very shy at first, and seldom talked to Cripps, but once they got comfortable around each other, Cripps was sorta like a therapist to him. He feared his family wouldn't want him back after being framed for murder.

Aiden worked to become a trader and collector, then he bought his first horse: a Kentucky Saddler named Deacon. They were a strong, brave duo. Nothing could stop them... Until Aiden was attacked by a rival posse that left him injured and weak for months. Deacon managed to get him back to camp so Cripps could take care of him. Who knew Cripps was so good with a needle and thread.

Once he was better, he set out to be a bounty hunter. He always wanted justice for those who had been wronged. It pained him to hear people taking advantage of the nicer ones in society. This is where he met his future husband, Jonah. They met at a bar in Blackwater. Jonah called him "cat scratch" because of the scar on his eye. They got along well, and it pained Aiden to see him leave.

They met once again in Rhodes, which is when Aiden finally joined a posse. He no longer felt afraid to travel. He knew he had people who would help him out if he got into trouble again. This proved true when someone tried to attack them, and Aiden pretty much sacrificed himself to keep his friends safe. He ended up getting shot in the belly.

Aiden's posse managed to get him back to camp so Cripps could (hopefully) do something. He had to get the help of Maggie, a moonshiner. Together, they were able to removed the bullet and stitch up Aiden as best as they could. Aiden was squeezing Jonah's arm until the pain got so unbearable he passed out. The healing process turned into a long few months of Jonah wondering if Aiden would ever open his eyes again.

Aiden eventually woke up, and it was a huge relief to everyone in the group. They managed to come back even stronger than before... And Aiden got a boyfriend out of it. Jonah finally asked him out after courting him for so long after a big bounty hunt. They brought in the Owlhoot Family, which called for a celebration.

More Info:

- Aiden is an introvert who can come off as a jerk due to his quiet, closed-off nature. He is cautious around new people, but as he grows to trust them, he will let his walls down. He gets along with horses better than people on most days.

- In his down time, Aiden is usually found at home. He and Jonah tend to the horses and garden together. Their dream is to move out to Hennigan's Stead so they can have a proper farm. The one they have currently is fine, as they have enough room for horses, a few cows, goats, and sheep, and their dogs and cats. However, they want a goal to work towards.

- I also like to think that Aiden and Jonah eventually have kids (2-3 daughters), but I'm indecisive. I know they would be the best parents 👉👈 Even though Aiden 10/10 has mama bear/mother hen mentality and would be overprotective. He does NOT want anyone to touch his babies. Meanwhile, Jonah embraces the chaos of parenthood and encourages their kids to be rowdy.

SORRY THIS GOT SO LONG. I just love my silly cowboy OC and have to talk about him to someone or I will combust

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reddeadreference · 1 year

Text

Blackwater Ledger No. 69

-Click here to return to the index for Newspapers-

This issue is available after completion of the mission: Visiting Hours

(All article transcripts below the cut)

Articles marked with * are exclusive to this region’s issue.

Articles marked with ** are only there upon completion of the related mission.

Doors of Iron Down

CONVICTS ESCAPE SISIKA'S DUNGEONS PRISON IS A CAGE OF WILD ANIMALS. CRACK OF RIFLES HEARD FOR MILES. ESCAPEES FLEE VIA BOAT.

O'Driscoll Captured

REIGN OF TERROR OVER QUICK JUSTICE EXPECTED. CONSIGNED TO HANGMAN'S NOOSE.

Tensions High

FEARS OF RETURN TO INDIAN WAR. ARMY IN AMBARINO ON EDGE. FORT WALLACE REQUESTS MORE TROOPS.

Blackwater Athletics Team Missing

FRIENDS FEAR THEY HAVE BEEN FOULLY DEALT WITH.

Pinkertons Find Missing Man

ORIGINALLY BELIEVED TO BE MURDERED OFFICIALS PRAISE THE AGENCY

Love Letter to Wall Street

25 MILLION IN TAX DOLLARS GIVEN PUBLIC IS INDIGNANT

Refrigerating Machine Invented

REPLACES LARDER AND ROOT CELLAR IN HOMES.

The device would allow the grocer or butcher to preserve meats and fish at a constant temperature and no longer worry about spoilage due to inclement weather.

Mark Johnson Captured **

[]

Mayor Lemieux Resigns **

PLAGUED BY SCANDAL.

The Mayor of Saint Denis has abruptly resigned as questions began to surface in regards to his ties to organized crime. Mayor Lemieux's recent programs of cultural enrichment and democratization involved the collection at the Saint Denis gallery, which is beginning to gain national attention after a surprise endorsement from Professor Shiftacre of Yale University. He also worked to secure a huge endowment from newspaper owner Hector Fellowes for construction of a library.

The Mayor's assistant Jean Marc Mercier has assumed the post and vowed to press on with the programs with a new spirit of transparency and principle in honor of the work begun by Lemieux.

The Art of Angling by Jeremy Gill

MUSKIE.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 newspaper

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milwrites · 4 years

Text

Weird that it happened twice, right?

chapter four - masterlist

a/n: i’m really proud of this one, it’s a real favourite of mine, and is the end of where the story follows canon. obviously no one has died that does in-game, and i intend it to stay that way :) italics are john/narrator as usual :)))

word count: 3k

T/W: sexual assault, death, blood, lots of swearing.

Fingertips brushed against each other once more as guards pulled us in opposing ways, the 17 men being separated from the 2 women. I resisted violently, the men restraining me simply slipping a gag into my screaming mouth. A yell from John and I was thrown into the second cell in the past month. The women around me were terrifying to begin with, all of them much older than me and they spoke with not an ounce of tenderness, but I appeared to bring out the maternal nature in all of them. Perhaps the sight of a battered teenager in a prison that most died in before they were even hung softened even the hardest of hearts. They all seemed to protect me in some way; a few offered me some of their food from between the bars, others sliding me illicit bars of floral soap. I didn’t know what to make of it, didn’t think I deserved it until many of them opened up. They were mainly killers, but most had exacted revenge on a man who wronged them, and then kept killing. I told them stories in return. I had been educated as a member of the upper class, even if I had been treated poorly, and could recall many tales that had offered me escape from my life. I told told them stories of the mighty Thor and devious Loki from the norse myths, and managed to condense entire plays of Shakespeare into about ten minutes. It let us leave the penitentiary for a while, go to Asgard or Venice or the faerie kingdom of a Midsummer night's Dream.

John didn’t get the same level of closeness with his inmates. The men were killers or worse, and while John could play the act better than all of them, he stayed silent as much as possible. His thoughts were so loud as to overpower his voice, he could feel death coming once more and this time he knew Vesta wouldn’t appear to save him. He wished he could have said good bye to Jack. He wished he could have told the kid how much he loved him, how proud he was, how he was going to be a great man one day. He knew Arthur would look after him, and hoped that upon seeing the man assume responsibility for a child, Mary Linton would return to him, and they would raise Jack as best they could. If not, he consoled himself that Sean and Karen adored the child, would spoil him rotten of course, but he would be happy. He wondered if he’d been good enough. He decided he hadn’t. Decided that a good father would have quit this life long ago, a good father most definitely wouldn’t be hung for his crimes before his child could celebrate his 5th birthday. Tears were falling freely, as he thought about the boy being told neither parent would return home, that he would never ride down to the river to see deer with Vesta again, never play cowboys wearing his father’s hat again. He bit his fingernails to stumps and his lips a bleeding mess just considering every one of his past mistakes.

A prison guard rattled my cell to wake me. My sleep was fitful, dreams bloody. I’d braided my hair days ago, flyaways sticking to my sweaty face, which to the guard must have seemed like an invitation to enter my cell and pin me to the wall. I scratched and bit and kicked at him, my every effort doing nothing against the large man. I was crying great gulping tears, terrified at what was about to happen and even in the moment feeling guilty as I thought of John. The man let out a choked gurgle, the wet sound of blood filling his throat.

The woman in the cell beside her had been hiding a shiv for weeks, not planning on using it but keeping hold nevertheless. She had lodged it in the man’s meaty neck, and I pushed him off me, shaking with residual fear and snot still dribbling down my chin. “We- we’ve got to-“ I sniffed. “Got to get him out- and hide the shiv.” I never got the chance to move him. Other guards had heard the racket and were gathering outside the cell. A younger man pulled him out before locking my cell again, and I cried out in horror as they shot my saviour there and then. Gone. She didn’t cry out as she fell, her eyes only widened and her lips parted in a silent gasp. A fresh set of tears gilded my cheeks, the woman having given her life only to protect me from the assault almost every woman in the jail had been through. I wondered if it had been the kindness I had tried to offer, or how young I seemed, or even that it was that enough women had been through hell at the hands of the guards, but it would stick with me forever, the selflessness of a self-proclaimed murderer.

I felt hollow and empty, like the fear of death had been wiped from my mind. Death was so casual here. There were hangings every day, multiple at once. The guards told me regularly that I was to be hung with Marston, and it gave me comfort to know the last face she saw would be the one she loved most dearly. It even set me counting down the days, eagerly waiting to die at the promise of seeing him once more. How far away England seemed, that simplicity of life only punctuated by threats and callous words.

I didn’t see the balloon pass over, and was unaware of the commotion it had caused. I also didn’t hear the shots fired as a set of guards were killed out in the fields and an ultimatum was shouted over the prison walls. And what an ultimatum it was.

My cell door was opened by a scared looking boy, barely older than myself, the grip he held on my shoulders tight enough to bruise. I knew in that moment my time had come, and wryly wondered if this would get me to Valhalla. I welcomed death at that point, as it meant seeing John, maybe for all eternity. I held my head high.

Until I was greeted by an ever-so familiar voice.

“She don’t look too bad all things considered. Head’s still up high ain’t it, Mrs Adler?” The deep tenor of Arthur Morgan was joined by Mrs Sadie Adler’s western drawl. “Let’s get Marston and then we can assess our wounds maybe.”

I gaped at the sound of them, speaking lowly to the boy still gripping me tightly. “Well I’ll be damned.” It had been long decided in my mind that no one was coming for us; the first few weeks had me nursing a candle of hope that spluttered out soon after.

Cobblestones gave way to weed ridden grass under my bare feet even as the cast iron gate of Sisika Penitentiary groaned and shuddered its way open. I stumbled across the threshold, over it, and out onto the island, wasting no time in careering into arthur. He slipped me a revolver and a clip of ammunition. Another protesting screech of ill-fitted hinges and the gates rolled open for a second time.

He’d grown a beard, I noted with a face of disgust.

The miserable expression he’d worn for over a month faded away to a tentative smile at the moment he saw her wrinkled nose and creased brows. A niggling voice in his head hissed poisonous accusations against the girl: she hated him now, she had been hoping he rotted there so she could leave and live a better life. She suffocated it with a beaming grin, leaving Arthur’s side to cannon into him at full pelt, only knocking most of the air out his lungs. She mumbled into his chest, a slurred comment about how much she’d missed him, peppered with expletives and the odd nonsensical noise. A low rumble of mirth and a sharp exhalation of air was his only reply, him not trusting words enough to express himself.

“Ah hate to break up this heartfelt reunion but they are startin’ to shoot at us.” Reminded Arthur, the world having faded quite away for us both. Indeed, bullets were raining down from the battlements, being blocked only by the brick wall the convicts and their rescuers had gone and hidden behind. Chunks of plaster flew from the wall, chinks of light shining through. Sadie started issuing orders.

“John, (Y/N), make a run for it now ‘n’ we’ll cover you. There’s a boat in the marshland.”

We bolted. John seized my hand and held tight, his long strides easily outstripping my much smaller ones, and practically dragging me across the fields. Engaging the guards was suicide, between us we had 12 shots while each guard would have around 16 - and would be on horseback too. Instead we hid, darting from cover to cover, Arthur and Sadie leaving piles of bodies in their ever destructive wake. I saw the boat with a gasp, the sudden realisation that I was still alive, still with John and oh-

We would see Jack again.

John clambered into the boat first, giving me a hand climbing in. Two neat piles of clothes sat in the bottom of it, one with a hat on top and the other with- “Are those my guns?” pure delight shine through my question, my eyes lighting up as I spied the distinctive blued metal of my pistols. I rummaged a little more in the pile to find that they were my clothes too, and I scrambled to get changed while we waited for Sadie and Arthur. John did the same, happier to see his hat than guns, but expressing enjoyment at the reassuring weight of them at his hip. I let out another delighted laugh; I had found that Sadie had fully stocked my bandolier with ammunition, it spanning my chest with shiny cartridges peeping out from their leather keepers.

The gunfire came closer, Sadie taking a running jump into the boat and Arthur following closely, giving the boat a powerful push before entering it himself. For a while the only noise was the splash of the oars hitting the smooth water and the breathless recovery of the fighters, until John spoke up. “I don’t know how to thank you. I thought Dutch was gonna orphan Jack if I'm bein’ honest.” Arthur and Sadie exchanged apprehensive glances. Arthur inhaled deeply, looking pained as he explained himself. “Dutch, well he didn’t exactly sanction us comin’ for yer. He actually told us not to. Said he had a plan and such but it was bullshit so we came anyway. So don’t expect a great welcome I guess.”

The silence returned again, none of us knowing exactly how to respond.

beaver hollow - 1899

John didn’t know how many more times he could cradle her close to him like this, broken and beaten. He held back his rage for Jack’s sake, who was soundly sleeping leant against his father’s other side, too tired to fully register their return. He hated that his every dream ended with her dying in his arms, and that he had to wake up and see her dreaming the same dreams. She shifted in her sleep, muttering something that sounded distinctly like a threat, and moved closer to him. Beaver Hollow set him on edge. They didn’t have a proper tent, more a canvas shelter with two bedrolls under it, and he found himself shielding her with his body from prying eyes when she woke up in distress most nights.

I hadn’t told him what happened in Sisika. It seemed needless to me; he already knew it had been hell, because he’d been though it too. I didn’t need any more pity from him either.

The early hours of the morning cast a rosy glow over our prone bodies and the quiet stillness of the camp. Neither us them were asleep, both pretending for the others sake that we were.

“John? I need you over here a moment.” Dutch hollered from the other side of the hollow. Not receiving more response, he strode over to them, calling John again. “Can it wait?” I had no trace of patience in the way I spoke to him. I hadn’t challenged Dutch's seeming lack of action to spring them from prison, but the deep injustice was constantly boiling beneath my skin. “You aren’t busy, Miss (L/N). Neither is John.” Her tone had riled Dutch and he talked coldly to her, still taking the moral high ground as ever. I had sat up to speak to him, a shawl draped across my shoulders to for warmth. John started to stir, placing a restraining hand at my arm that I ignored. Dutch turned from me entirely, addressing John about a job he wanted to send him on. I fucking snapped. Stood up and started talking. “Shut the fuck up. Shut up. How can you ask him to go out on a job for you right now? We have been back less than 24 hours, Dutch, his son hasn’t even been able to speak to him yet. Remember his son? The one you were more than happy to orphan as long as it didn’t mess up your goddamn plan? You claim to care about every one of us, and yet when it really comes to it it’s only Micah fucking bell that you rescue every single time. You sprung him from the gallows within a week, and let me and john rot there for more than a month, let jack be parentless for a month.” I laughed a spite filled laugh. “But fuck it, eh? We’re back now aren’t we? Never mind the fact that we were beaten to shit in the meantime, never mind the fact that he might not be ready to head out again. At least you still have the money.” A crowd was gathering, Micah moving to Dutch and urging him to shut me up. Dutch shrugged him off, letting me continue. “You know. A woman died for me. She had no ties to me, had no idea who the flying fuck I was, and yet she gave her life to protect me. A guard tried to rape me. In my cell. And she stuck a shiv through his throat. That woman was a killer, a murderer, a convict, and yet she was willing to die for me having known me three weeks. She did more for me than you. I have stole and lied and why? Because you asked me to.” My voice had broken, tears streaming down my cheeks and yet never breaking eye contact with Dutch. John’s hand reached for his gun, Arthur stopping him, at my words. I didn’t look at him, but reached my hand out to meet his, gripping his fingers tightly. I swallowed. Turned around and scooped a now awake Jack into my arms, wordlessly carrying him to the horses as he begged to see Bonnie.

Everything changed for Dutch in those moments. He watched the girl carry the boy toward the horse that had been so aggressive without her, her small body relaxing as she patted her mare. Piglet followed over, then John, who settled next to her with his arm around her waist. A family. He saw then that it was a family that without Arthur and Sadie would have been broken beyond repair, the child an orphan and the two animals never to see their mistress again. The sight of Jack wriggling from (Y/N)’s arms to play with the terrier forced him to recall watching the boy crying inconsolably into her wiry fur. It had been 2 weeks since John and (Y/N) had gone, and Jack had thrown as many tantrums as he could muster to bring them home. Exhausted, hurt and with nothing having changed, the boy had sat on the floor and cried floods of silent tears, which Piglet had come over to lick away. The dog had sat herself as close as she could before him and allowed him to just clutch at her. Dutch had ignored it as best he could, ignored Hosea too, refusing to take responsibility and instead letting Micah assure him that it was for the greater good. He should have known the man was only too happy to let them die. He felt a fool. “Quit wallowin’.” Arthur's voice cut through his self-pity. Dutch glared at him for a moment before nodding and moving to leave his tent. Arthur caught his arm. “I tell you this now, Dutch, I will kill Micah myself if you don’t. he’s a rat. he’s why Pinkertons been findin’ us so damn fast.” His voice was low with anger. “You do it. I'm done killing.”

We were still playing with the horses, I had myself wrapped up and grooming Bonnie's sleek coat properly, luxuriating in the way I was able to talk to John about nothing in particular. Jack and Piglet had tired already, sat side by side with Old boy grazing beside them. Dutch cleared his throat. I didn’t look up from the knot I was pulling from my mare’s tail. John raised his head, face set and arms folded, expecting confrontation.

“Sorry isn’t going to cut it. I know that.” Dutch began with his hands as if in surrender. “But I can only offer you my heartfelt apologies - I failed you, my son, you and your family. And vesta I-“

I turned around to look at him, my face already softening. “I can never understand how it must have been. But I'm getting you out of this. All of you. No more plans. I was thinking-“ I cut him off, filled with a rush off forgiveness for him, an urge to hug him taking over me. I never had that much self-restraint. I looked up at him from the hug. “Let’s start again.”

We watched the sun setting across Roanoke ridge, basking in the residual warmth before the wintery chill of November air really set in. He pulled me in even closer, his warmth spreading into me, he and kissed the top of my head.

“Let’s start again.”

#john marston x reader smut #rdr2 #john marston #john marston x reader

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journal-of-an-outlaw · 3 years

Text

Price to be Paid - Chapter 33

Read on AO3 here

Dear Journal,

I always hate starting these things. Never know what to do to signify another passage starting when the ending of the other was just on the other side of the page. Be it days or months, the one thing that never changes is how close my last entry was. I guess this is to document my thoughts so that when I’m an old man I can look back and reflect on how life used to be. Most of the time I just draw something awful and leave a caption so when my eyes can’t see right anymore I’ll know what I was attempting to preserve. If I make it that far I’ll have plenty of stories to tell.

Anyways.

I know the last time things seemed to be doing well. I got married to a woman who changed me. Dutch had a plan to get us out. John and Abigail were getting along just fine, even little Jack was learning to hunt rabbits and small critters. But it all changed so quickly, where do I even begin…

The bank. I know that damned job was where everything went wrong. Micah and Dutch never stopped talking about it the whole time we were in Guarma so I couldn’t forget any detail even if I tried. And I did try. The first week stuck in that humid hell I was too angry to speak and drank myself into a stupor that would rival Reverend Swanson; alcohol helped me ignore the pain in my chest where my heart used to be. Maybe that’s why he drank. To forget. Everyone tried to talk to me but I wasn’t in a place to listen. They tried to tell me everything would work out, that she was alright and we just had to focus on one thing at a time. But that was bullshit. I just kept seeing Hosea get shot and my wife being carted away, and I was stuck helpless to do anything against it. I’ve never before realized that was my worst fear; watching from the outside as people I love get hurt.

The Pinkertons showed up too fast to not have known about it before but there was no way any of us would have ratted out the gang when we were so close to our goal, so close to leaving and putting behind us any thought of betrayal or being on the run any longer. I spent more than one night stuck on that island replaying it over and over but I couldn't make sense of it.

I should have been faster. I shouldn't have let Dutch separate us. As soon as that snake Milton yelled I knew we were done for.

I shouldn't call him that. I know I can come up with something worse. Technically he is my father in law, but he is the reason Hosea is dead and the woman I love is...gone. Who knows where he’s hidden her away. No wonder she never told me about that mess, I would have never believed someone so good and true was family with that vile man.

She probably thought I’d hate her for keeping the secret, but the truth is I couldn’t care any less. Sometimes you don’t get lucky enough to pick your family. I know that better than anyone.

Micah claims they planned it together, for her to distract her father long enough for us to escape, but I’m not too sure yet if I believe that. I saw the look in her eyes. Panic. Fear. Then that stubborn heroism that should have told me to drag her out with me no matter the cost. It was in the set of her mouth, and how her eyes narrowed enough to give away her thoughts. Just a few of the things I love so much about her. But in an instant she was gone. Locked eyes in the middle of the chaos was the only goodbye I got.

Losing Hosea was hard, to say the least. He was more of a father to me than Dutch was in all the ways that mattered. He taught me to swim and fish and how to read the leaves and stars at night. He taught me that waiting is sometimes the best strategy, and to never go anywhere without a good strong lie as to why you’re there. He was kindness and compassion, but also cleverness and hard edges when he needed to be. I looked up to him more than I knew and his absence will leave a painful hole that cannot be filled.

But my grief is nothing in comparison to Dutch’s. His...it’s like a pain he’s unwilling to admit is there. Like he’s afraid that acknowledging it will break the damn he’s built and everything will come crashing down. I worry what it means for him, for me, for all of us. Hosea was truly the angel sitting on Dutch’s shoulder.

I somehow made it out of Guarma and that whole mess alive. A boat took me back and I had the unfortunate luck to land in Van Horn. I must be getting old, my bones seem to have absorbed some of the exhaustion I’ve been feeling for nearly a month now. But I got myself a horse and should be back at Shady Belle tomorrow afternoon to whatever wreckage is left from my former life.

The thought of seeing my wife seemed to be the only thing getting me through the days since that cursed robbery. Her smile, the sound of her laugh, her soft hand in mine. I miss it, sometimes so much I am nearly brought to tears and in those moments I understand why Dutch doesn’t talk much about Hosea. Like watching the sunrise with burning eyes, sometimes the pain that comes with it makes you aware that it happened at all.

Part of me knows that what’s waiting for me at Shady Belle isn’t good news, but I can’t think about that just yet. Hope is the comforting shadow beside me.

I should have known better than to expect a good night’s sleep. My eyes were so blurry I mistook a tree for a man on the side of the road. Even my body knew that nothing is how it should have been.

Shady Belle was empty. Well, worse than that. It had echoes of the gang being there, our last hurrah as we rode out to the gates of victory so blind to what was about to happen. Cans littered around where we ate together, scuff marks all across the dirt from our boots, even a small pair that must have been Jack’s. The worst though was a carving I found on one of the poles of the front porch of my initials in a heart that she must have drawn without me knowing. I tried to etch it into my notebook but found I couldn't stand there for more than a few moments without the familiar pain of missing her taking over my senses. Maybe one day I won’t feel like I’m being ripped apart by all of these emotions.

Inside was empty. Nothing remained of the time we spent in those walls. I couldn't bring myself to check the room I had shared with YN for the fear of being entirely overwhelmed again. Instead I found a letter from Sadie Adler, a woman of many surprises, waiting for me in the living room. She must have known I would come back.

The quiet didn’t last too long before a couple of Pinkerton fools in the employment of Mr. Milton came around. From what I overheard they returned to Shady Belle every single day to see if we had returned but had no such luck. That meant two things; that the gang got away safely and the other’s from Guarma hadn’t come to the house. For a few moments at least my heart settled but that didn’t last long. These days it never did.

I rode straight to Lakay even though I despise the damp, disgusting heat of the swamps. My eagerness to see people I knew won over my hatred for the area. Eventually I found my way to a small village, if you’d even call it that, of buildings set up along the river bank. Time and humidity had worn away at any pride these homes must have held, the moss clinging to anything that needed to be filled back in. It was silent save for one man in the farthest hut chopping away at some type of meat.

Pearson for the first time in my life was a sight for sore eyes. Luckily Abigail was behind him and Sadie behind her so I was quickly welcomed with warm arms and a bowl of stew that was the finest I had ever tasted. There were questions, so many questions, but they held their tongues for the time being and let me settle into a bed for a few hours of sleep. Finally the exhaustion caught up with my body and I was overcome with aches and a cough, but that I ignored too.

Tilly, Uncle, Lenny, Karen, Sean, Mary Beth, Strauss, Molly, Charles, and everyone else was safe and hidden away. We were safe for the time being.

Micah and Javier arrived the next day with the same story. We all needed rest, but there were things to do. John had been captured and taken to Sisika. Abigail pulled me aside and asked about YN and I did my best to hide my pain, but she told me what happened after we got caught in the gunfire. She was taken somewhere north, or at least that’s where the wagon headed, and some man named Staten was her watcher. My blood nearly boiled, but Abigail calmed me down until the agony of losing her ripped me apart and I had to go sit on the dock before anyone else saw me. How am I to deal with this alone? I would give anything to have her back by my side again, father be hanged.

Not two days later a rain storm kept us inside, and set up the dramatic entrance for Dutch’s grand return. Things all broke loose. Abigail was yelling about John again, Micah on about something else. The man didn’t even have a chance to sit down before he was bombarded again. We raised a glass to Mrs. Adler for saving the gang in Dutch’s absence, her and Charles were the only reasons things continued on.

She found me staring at the water the next morning. I was sitting there, thinking of my wife, and Sadie must have known. She tried to talk about knowing loss and feeling my pain, but there’s no one in the world who knows what I’m going through. What we’re going through. My wife is somewhere I don’t know and I can do nothing about it. Every second of every day I feel like a failure for letting her down. I want to be there for Dutch as he needs the support, but I can’t help think that as time ticks on she’ll forget me and move on. Not sure what I’ll do if that happens.

Bill Williamson is a right fool. That night he came busting into the sleep house going on about how hard we were to find, saying he asked everyone he could find, and I knew trouble couldn't be too far behind. Only someone truly hoping to meet death walks into a nest of vipers. I had just finished my glass of whiskey when I heard her voice.

At first I thought I imagined it. There were plenty of times that the desperation in my mind had boiled long enough that her sweet tones called to me from somewhere just beyond my reach. At first I longed for them, for any gentle reminder that she was as real to me once as the glass currently in my hand. Then after a while they hurt to hear and the words got all jumbled together. Like she was farther away than ever. Like I needed reminding.

But sitting inside that house I heard her clear as a bell. Not the words she spoke, it was far too loud inside for that, but I could tell it was her. My heart knew too and started pounding in time with the rain hitting the roof. Dutch saw me and asked why I had frozen in place but Abigail had heard it too. She stood and stared at me, wondering what was taking me so damn long to move but it was like my legs had grown twice their weight. I finally got myself up and pushed through the sudden silence around me to stand at the door.

There she was again. She had to be real. But she sounded...off. Like something was wrong.

Calling for me, for us, or anyone. I was so full of terror I couldn’t breathe. But someone touched my shoulder and I came back to life, opening the door and finding my dream standing before me. Wide eyed and desperate, much like myself, but there was a warning in her eyes I couldn’t decipher from so far away. Her hands were up in the air shaking like a leaf. Her head shook slightly. I was overcome by a need to preserve this moment of reunion and committed her to memory for once she was back in my arms and I could draw her in this here journal. Honestly I can’t describe how I felt knowing she was at least alive. My heart wanted me to run to her and throw caution to the wind, but my gut told me something worse was lingering in the shadows with an alligator grin.

Just from looking at her I could tell Milton had damn near starved her for the dress she wore was much too large, hanging off her arms and shoulders. The blood was what cued me in. Rust red stains splattered the front and ice filled my veins at the realization of who’s ghosts she wore wrapped around her. That bastard Milton paraded her around in a costume like he was putting on a show, but I was done being a puppet.

Arthur Morgan was nobody’s fool.

Arthur.

His eyes were murderous but whether that was aimed at you or not remained unknown. The rapid thumping in your chest flooded into your ears as well but the words passing between you didn’t need to be spoken. You didn’t need to hear them to know what he would say.

Seeing Arthur after all that time was a breath of fresh air in a world that had been a dusty haze for the past month. It was awful and wonderful at the same time to be standing so close yet unable to move any closer. Your soul ached to return to its rightful place. The stress of standing there with the weight of all that had happened could be seen as your hands shook and your shoulders tensed and your heart broke all over again.

More light passed onto the muddy ground as the door behind Arthur opened and a few cautious faces moved out. Dutch. Abigail. Bill. Lenny. Charles. Sadie. Anger and confusion colored their expressions. You hoped they all could understand.

A strange feeling passed through you as you noticed Micah was nowhere to be found.

Arthur took in deep, heavy breaths as you held eye contact. Under any other circumstance standing beneath the stars in the dark of night would be almost romantic, especially with the twinkling fireflies blinking their messages all around you. But the rain and the tension crackling across the night like lightning changed that. In fact it changed everything.

The rain covered the sound of wagons rolling in and the footsteps of Pinkerton agents as they crept around the perimeter to trap the Van der Linde gang from escaping. The lightning bugs hid the glints of metal from the guns being raised and taking aim. And you, the queen of the chessboard, were meant to hold the outlaw’s attention as the plan slid into place around you. Your father had been almost gleeful explaining it to you and it made you sick.

“YN...what’s going on?”

Dutch held his hand out in front of his adopted brother but kept his eyes trained on you.

“Don’t say anything, Arthur. We don’t know what this is.”

A voice hissed behind you. The horrible reminder that you were not there of your own accord. You were not there to be rushed to safety, to explain and convince those you loved that you have never walked out those bank doors if you thought any harm would have befallen them.

“I…” The words faltered as they mingled with the falling rain. “I am here to...offer a deal on behalf of Cornwall Kerosene and Tar, the United States Government, and the Commonwealth of West Elizabeth.”

“A deal!” Dutch snorted. “And what would that be?”

Tears rolled down your cheeks at the thought of what had to come next. Only when your shoulders shook from the tension of holding them back did you look away from Arthur, praying to anyone who would listen for a way out of this.

“You have nowhere left to run.” The words were plain but landed like a slap in the face. Milton had prepared a lengthy monologue and you fought to remember all of it. “My father has chased you relentlessly and ultimately you will submit. There is a price big enough on your heads that bringing you in dead would still earn him a fortune. But there is dignity and pride in turning yourself over alive instead of ending up d-dead like that...fool Hosea Matthews.”

The hiss behind you continued as the people in front of you balked at your words. It hurt to know Milton was twisting the knife in but you held the weapon.

“If you come without a fight, you will all be allowed to live. If not, I can’t -”

“Allowed!” Dutch responded. “What is this, there’s no honor in this choice. I will not be commanded like some dog after what your father did to Hosea!”

This time the words hurt you and you answered with a flinch.

“Dutch, please,” you licked your lips, your eyes darting to Arthur. “You don’t have to fight! Everything will be alright, just listen to me -”

“Everything will be alright?” The leader repeated back. “I believe nothing of the sort. Mrs. Morgan, do you know what happens to folks like us who the law doesn’t see favorably? Who aren’t the shiny, golden children of society? They are hung like common street criminals and forgotten in the ashes of our history books. I refuse to fade away as an ink spot upon a page, I refuse to let others make my choices for me, and I refuse to listen to a bully who hides like a coward behind others! We demand to be more than that legacy fated for us by others. We demand our god given right that others only dream of, freedom!”

His speech was beautiful but it didn’t change the fact that mere feet behind you sat a Maxim gun, manned and ready to fire, if they didn’t listen to your pleas. Dutch’s pretty words did nothing to stir the rebellious spirit in your chest and instead caused more tears to run down your cheeks. The flare of his independence was bright, but that meant it couldn’t burn for much longer.

You weren’t the only one affected by Dutch. Behind you the men lying in wait rustled out of the bushes and crept up with their guns drawn, each footstep stringing tension across your shoulders.

“I was wrong about your father, YN.” Dutch drew in quick breaths at the sight of the ambush. “He’s not only a coward, but a fool too. You see, he’s underestimated us once again and that will lead to his demise. Now, boys! For Hosea!”

The world erupted in gunfire and smoke around you. At Dutch’s signal everyone hiding inside fired away at the agents planted around the swamp, yelling and filled with rage at the thought of revenging their beloved Hosea. Loss was a strong motivator, and as you clamped your hands over your ears you wondered how long the haze of distraction would last. The maxim gun fired continuous deafening rounds and all you could hear above the ringing in your ears were the screams of people you loved. Your knees sank into the mud as panic rippled across your skin.

Milton shouted behind you, commanding his men like he was trying to storm the gates of hell.

Dutch retreated into the cabin leading his rebel crew in a secret assault against the forces of perceived evil who had come to change his ways.

Where did you fit into all of this? What was your place and how did you go about getting there? Was your only hope to run and hope it would find you? It only took a moment to come to you. There was only one anchor in this hurricane and it was the same one you returned to time and time again.

Arthur Morgan.

As Dutch retreated Arthur hesitated to leave you behind. His eyes darted through the dark to try and find you while he ducked for safety. Terror clenched your heart and you screamed for him to get out of the line of fire, you would find him.

Forcing tension into your shaky limbs you knew you would regret it if you never even tried to get to him. The air above you was filled with shouts and raindrops and gunshots but nothing could distract you; this was your only shot and you would not throw it away. A door to your right swung open and light flooded the ground and you took off pumping your legs as hard as you could to cross the muddy ground getting closer and closer to your goal.

Breathe. You had to get to him, you were so close.

Behind you bodies hit the ground and you had no doubt that Arthur had taken most of them out. He had incredible aim in the worst of times, and this was definitely one of those. Even Dutch couldn’t rival him and after a few competitions no one else had bothered.

“YN! Over here!”

“Javier!”

You had never been so happy to see the dark haired man in your life. He grabbed your arm and pulled you inside, yanking you down to the floor immediately to avoid another spray of bullets from the gatling gun.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to help!” You pleaded with him. “Someone needs to take out that gun, what can I do?”

“Stay down, Dutch has a plan!”

You both ducked to the floor as a window shattered above you.

“It better be quick, we can’t hold out for long!”

From outside one of the agents yelled above the chaos. “There’s too many of them, we have to retreat!”

“No!” Your father bellowed back. His voice was too close for comfort. “We do not back down, we have the power of the law on our side.”

“The power of the law ain’t fighting two of the best shots this side of the Mississippi, boss! We are!”

Javier let out a breath that sounded like a laugh and shook his head. “Mrs. Adler’s out there too now, won’t be long. Between her and Arthur I don’t think the Pinkerton’s stand a chance.” There was a pause as Javier eyed you warily. “Your father, that is.”

“Javier -”

But you couldn't finish your sentence as the back door flew open and someone called out to him. He nodded at you and crawled his way to the door to see why he was needed, leaving you alone to hide from the debris falling all around. As the door shut behind him, you caught a glimpse of red coat tails that looked awfully similar to what Micah usually wore.

More men were dying outside, you could hear the yells of defeat as the maxim gun came to a stop but you were running out of time. Something inside of you said the clock was ticking and you needed to move.

Breathe. In, out. Breathe.

“Where did she go?” Milton bellowed from outside. The bullets had stopped and the air felt deathly still. “Where did that bitch go?”

“Don’t you talk about my wife like that!” Your heart swelled at Arthur’s words.

It sounded like he was in the barn next door. If you could sneak without being caught this was your chance for a getaway. Perhaps the only one.

“Get out here now before I blow this whole place to hell! Turn yourselves in and die with nobility.”

Your eyes squeezed shut. Block him out, he’s bluffing. A ball of nerves formed in your stomach like a hard thing weighing you down and you fell to the wall for support as you gathered the courage to move again.

“Agent Milton, I believe this is where we part ways. You are alone and outnumbered, give it up.” Dutch answered.

“Never, Van der Linde. I am tasked with bringing you and the others in…” his voice tapered off as soft clicks rang out and you imagined from your hiding spot behind the wall everyone aiming in his direction,

“How about this,” the dark haired man suggested. “You and I can make a little trade. Me and my friends here will walk out of here safely and you will not pursue us if we give you something you want.”

A bark of laughter responded. Milton was not pleased with the child's play that interrupted his duty. “And what would I get out of this deal?”

“Your life?” Dutch shot back. “A chance to live another day? No?” There was a pause as Dutch walked forwards and you dared a peek out of a nearby bullet hole to observe the scene. “Maybe something a little more valuable. Your daughter for instance?”

Two rough hands suddenly grabbed your shoulders and yanked you upwards and you let out a cry of disbelief. They hadn’t made any noise walking up, or perhaps you were too trained on listening to the conversation outside to notice.

“Get your hands off of me!” You cried out at the same time Arthur yelled something from outside.

“Shut up, Princess Pinkerton. And walk.”

You should have known. Did the man who walked you down the aisle really have no regard for your life? Micah gave you a shove to move forward and you hesitated for only a moment. All you wanted was to help your family escape safely and to keep your father from enacting his twisted sense of justice. You wanted to feel safe and free, but there were too many obstacles holding you back. Was this really all your life would be?

With dirty hands you wiped your cheeks, squaring your shoulders and preparing to face him again. It wasn’t going to be easy. But there didn’t seem to be another choice.

“Dutch what in the hell are you playing at?”

Falling rain once again met your face as you walked out and took in the tense scene before you. Dutch, Arthur, Bill, and Charles all had their pistols focused on your father who in turn stared down his barrel at Dutch. The two men were everything the other despised, and you were caught in the middle.

“My daughter?” Milton still seemed shocked to see you. As if he hadn’t been the one to bring his own child to a gunfight and had simply found you there.

Arthur was held back by the iron grip of Charles as he habitually tried to come to you. The look of pure sorrow on his face broke your heart but there wasn’t enough time to think about yourself and how you felt. Soon he would be out of sight.

“That’s right. Take her, and the two of you leave and never come back to chase us around the country. Me and my friends will never cause another day of trouble for you and we all leave with our lives. Isn’t that what we want, after all? To live and go our own ways?”

It felt like he had slapped you across the face with his words. The fact that you were the bargaining chip was not lost as you stared down the man with newfound hatred.

“Don’t I get a say in any of this?” You snapped back. “Or am I unimportant enough to both of you that my value lies only in my silence?”

“Oh Mrs. Morgan,” Dutch chuckled darkly. “I have missed your temper. But today, my dear, is not the day to fight like it's your last. Be a good girl and run along with your father.”

Something in his tone made you hesitate, the hatred pausing for just a moment. Was there something else going on? Had he not abandoned you just quite yet? It was a glimmer of hope but that was all you could find so you held it close. He gave a slight nod in return.

“Fine. But I won’t forget this.”

Dutch’s gun slowly moved to take aim at your head and you caught your breath at the sight. He was filled to the brim with frustration and rage. But somewhere in his eye was a calm collection as he formed a plan.

“Now get out of here. Both of you. And don’t come back.”

Milton’s free arm shot out and gripped yours too tightly, his eyes still focused on the outlaws escaping of their own design before him. His men were all dead. There were two horses left to ride out and no wagon. He had truly and utterly lost but he refused to admit it.

Arthur’s eyes were dark as you tried to meet his but he wouldn't look at you. The flush in his cheeks gave away how worked up he was and you wondered if it was all too much and he had found his breaking point. You wouldn't blame him if he didn’t want you anymore, things were just so damn complicated. It hurt but his happiness came first.

Your father took a step backwards and dragged you with him and panic hit your stomach.

“Dutch…Dutch! Don’t let him do this,” the tears started no matter how much you tried to keep them in. “You don’t know what it’s like, please.”

The small group watched you with hard eyes of confusion and hesitation and you didn’t blame them. Sadie had a mean look to her, but that was probably from the heat of battle. Charles looked sad and your heart ached for your friend. Even Bill looked hesitant to send you off with Milton, but no one moved against Dutch. Something whispered to you this might be the last time you saw them.

You fought every step of the way but eventually Milton got you on a horse and tied the reins to his with a length of rope. Any last drops of hope were drained out of you at the sight of the others breaking away hurriedly. It was just Dutch, Arthur, Sadie, and Micah left that you could make out through your tears as your world fell apart.

“Stop crying, I can’t think,” Milton muttered harshly.

“Everything I love has been taken away from me, by you! And now I’m stuck with you again I think I have the right to be upset.”

“You have no right to anything,” he replied. “You are nothing in the eyes of anyone and that’s all you will be.”

The horses started moving and you looked behind you one last time. Without the rain the evening appeared softer; the firebugs had come out to blink to one another and the moss swung lazily around the canopy. Dutch had finally lowered his weapon but you noticed Arthur was gone from the group, no doubt off to chuck your wedding ring into the bayou and let the memory of you fade with the small metal object as it sank into the murky riverbed.

If only you could touch him, feel him, let him know that nothing was his fault and every mistake had been tallied in your name. Arthur had scrubbed his slate clean in your eyes, it was time he saw that too. You missed him more with each step your horse took away.

It was torture to to ride on with your father as emotions swirled all around you. He pushed the horses at a fast trot to leave the swamps as quickly as possible, paranoia creeping up on him like the sounds of crickets at his back. You could no longer hold back the sobs that shook your body. Sorrow at losing everyone again. Nerves about going back to being a prisoner. Utter and complete heartbreak at the thought of Arthur hating your every fiber. It was all too much. How could one person cope with this much feeling?

“I ever tell you why I joined the Pinkertons in the first place?”

Milton’s voice caught you off guard and interrupted your sorrow.

“N-no, and I don’t care -”

“I joined,” he continued on. “Because I wanted to put order where there was only chaos. The Pinkertons were a respectable organization I could put myself behind, gain respect myself and do something worthwhile for society. We left Boston after your brother...died and I couldn’t stand the pain. My work eventually came second to drinking and I knew then that was my lowest point.”

“But you kept drinking, you still do,” the thought of stale whiskey making you shiver.

“Since you ran off I haven't touched a drop. You see, in the past I myself was the chaos and I needed order to save me. Our family was broken but I couldn't look past my own pain to see that you both needed me instead of the shell of a man I was parading around as. Your mother is a good woman and pulled me up when I needed it. She packed us up and moved us out all on her own. I was simply a shell.” You had never heard your father talk like this and wondered what brought about the nostalgia. It was strange to hear about a time you dreamed so often of but in reality knew nothing about. He looked softer as he spoke. “I never wanted to be like that again. Yes, I still drank to forget but I was finally in control where I belonged. We had a good house, in a good town. I had a good wife and a good daughter. Only when that bastard Van der Linde moved in did you start to get reckless, going to town with that dark haired woman and forgetting where you came from. It didn’t take me long to realize you were the only thing left I had to steer away from chaos. My little girl.”

His honey-covered words were hiding something but you couldn’t figure out what it was. The way he spoke of chaos and control sounded religious; he truly meant to save others the same way he found for himself. You sat in silence for a moment before thinking of something to say.

“I’m not your little girl anymore,” your voice remained steady. “To be honest I’m not sure I ever was. Growing up with a daddy who drinks and hits you takes away any kindness he offers and twists it into something evil.”

“You see what I mean?” Milton’s temper flared for a moment and he carefully brought it back in. “All of them, they turned you away from what’s right. They worship savagery.”

“These aren’t things that changed because I met them, they were always wrong! Do you really not see that?”

Milton hesitated before answering. “The life you lived there wasn’t...These people are just playing pretend. They have no sense of contributing to something larger than themselves and it’s so small minded, you were raised to know better than that.”

“Maybe I don’t want to contribute to something,” you muttered. “Maybe I just want to know what it is to not live bound to any rules other than what I need. I’ve seen your justice, father, and I don’t want any part of it.”

Weariness slipped into your bones at the conversation. It was the longest you two had spoken in months, almost a year, and his blind passion did nothing to sway your feelings towards the Pinkertons.

“I’m sure you’ll change your tune. Your mother is too.”

Your head shot up at that. “Mother knows what you’ve done? And she agrees?”

Before he had a chance to answer, a horse came thundering up the road behind you. Squinting through the evening fog you couldn’t make out the rider but had a feeling in your heart that it was someone you knew. They drew closer and with each passing second you grew more anxious. Your father pulled out his pistol and kicked the horses faster.

“Milton!” A feeling of relief washed over you at the sound of the voice. “You ain’t going anywhere with her. Give it up!”

“Arthur!”

The hose below you let out a nervous whinny. It struggled against you pusining to turn with your legs and the yanking from the rope as your father pressed it to go faster than before. You were desperate to get to your husband but it was nearly impossible with no control and you wanted to cry out in frustration.

“Get back, Mr. Morgan. We had a deal but I’m not surprised you snakes went back on it,” your father spit, looking back. “You’ll get nowhere with this stunt.”

“Stop, please stop!” You begged. Arthur was gaining closer with every second.

Milton spun around to check on the pursuer’s progress and the look on his face was murderous. Rage flushed his face and the pressure to flee made the veins in his forehead stand out at a horrifying attention. He paid you no attention as he kicked his horse again.

With less than ten feet between you Arthur kept one hand tightly on the reins and held the other out to you, reaching as far as he could to try and bring you to him. As if on its own, your arm stretched to try and meet his fingertips. You held on to the saddle horn and tried to ignore the sounds of protest coming from your father that drove the horses on somehow.

“Just a bit more, darlin’. I got you. Don’t be afraid!”

“I’m not, I’m not!”

The sound was bordering hysterical. The distance between you was all you had to overcome and then you would be safe and home in Arthur’s arms again. Your heartbeat matched the echoing of hooves around you at the thought of making it to Arthur and simultaneously what would happen if you didn’t.

His blue eyes held yours with no malice and your own fears melted away momentarily. For a month you had been kept apart, by Dutch, by your father. It was time to end all of that.

Just as your hands brushed one another in their first reunion Milton screamed and whipped around to face the two of you.

“Enough! I’ve had enough of this!” The pistol in his free hand raised to take aim at the moving target. “Leave us now or die!”

“No!” You screamed, moving in front of Arthur as best you could to shield him. “Father stop!”

“Milton put the gun down!” Arthur’s voice was low and hard, anxiety weaving its way through at the thought of either of you getting hurt. By now he had a firm grasp on your wrist and the pressure of his hand on you gave you strength. Your mind ran wild trying to think of a way to get out of this alive.

But there simply wasn’t enough time.

The missing heat from Arthur’s fingers registered at the same time as your scream ripped through the muggy air. You clawed at the empty space next to you and watched in horror as a red stain blossomed across Arthur’s shoulder beneath his hand. He looked up almost bewildered.

“Arthur! Arthur no!”

You twisted out of the saddle and fell to the ground with a hard thump. The impact hurt but you pushed it aside. You had to get to Arthur.

Milton stayed silent but circled back around. You ignored him and ran, if you could get far enough you could both still get away. But hope slipped out of your grasp as he came closer.

The shot hit him right in the shoulder and he was bleeding. A lot. Harsh, ragged breaths pulled in and out of Arthur’s chest as he applied shaky pressure to the wound and cursed in agony. You knew there was no way he could ride both of you in that state.

“How could you!” You screamed at your approaching father. “That is my husband you just tried to kill!”

“Milton -”

“Enough of this foolishness!” Milton shouted, spit flying in his desperation and rage. “I will not have you acting like a child any longer. This ain’t over Morgan. You tell Van der Linde -”

“YN -”

“We’re not leaving him! He could die!” Milton gave you a pointed look. Anger bubbled up inside of you. “No, I refuse to go with you.”

“You don’t have a choice. If he dies no one will come after us and you will stay with me. If not,” your father shrugged. “I’ll kill him later.”

Just as you went to join Arthur, Milton grabbed your arm. You struggled and pulled to no avail. He was stronger and dragged you further and further from your husband who held himself up precociously, blood covering his chest.

“I said enough!” Your father yanked you one last time and looked down at you with rage and a hint of pity in his eyes. “You clearly need to be reigned in more than I thought.”

A blinding pain exploded on your right temple and radiated down your neck. Arthur cried out but the sound was lost as your father brought the flat end of his pistol down, hammering it into your temple to knock you out. Unfortunately it worked; you couldn't fight him anymore and Arthur was all but dead if no one knew where he was to help him.

Your last fleeting thought before losing consciousness was that this had to end. The chasing, the fighting, the pain of losing good people who didn’t deserve their fate. It was time to take back the control others had over you and set everything right that had toppled into chaos around you. In a twisted sense your father’s words about disorder and structure were true. Just not in the way he wanted.

You were no one’s pawn and never would be again.

#rdr2 #Red Dead Redemption #fanfic #price to be paid #chapter 33 #I don't think I posted 32?#oh well

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