Archive of Our Own

Spring in Lamarch comes slowly, slowly, and then all at once, creeks unfreezing and spilling ice water down from the mountains, turning the forest and farmland into a sodden, vibrant mess. The sweet, lime green of new growth traces its way through the waking countryside, leaving in its wake vallies bursting with wildflowers and budding trees. By early April, daffodils and crocus are exploding in heavy clutches along the road leading into town.

Hosea urges Silver Dollar into an easy canter, coming into Lamarch as the sun kisses the horizon in the West, the sky a brilliant mess of pink and red. The farm rests an easy hour’s ride out of town, distant enough to keep from prying eyes, but not so rural that the local gossips have missed the strange menagerie of Americans that took up residence half a year ago.

Lamarch is a sight bigger than Valentine, and finer too. The hotels and saloons have done well by the trappers that pass through on their way in or out of the wilds, hunting pelts. The hunters spend heavily on gambling and drinking and whores, and the town’s happy to put up with their drunkenness in exchange for the trade. So at night, main street is lit brilliantly, music drifting out of open doors, laughter and shouts competing to be heard.

But Hosea turns off the main drag before he gets that far, trotting up a narrow side street lined with comfortable, modest houses. At a small row home with a rich front garden, he dismounts, hitching Silver Dollar at the garden gate. He sweeps his hat off his head as he trots up the garden path, and readies an easy, hopeful smile before knocking.

Behind the richly painted door, he can hear a woman’s voice calling out indistinctly. “Oui, oui, oui, je viens - et à l'heure du dîner aussi, honnêtement …”

[Yes, yes, yes, I’m coming - and at dinnertime too, honestly…]

The woman who opens the door is young and dark haired, holding a baby on one hip.

“Mrs. Moreau,” Hosea says, bowing slightly. “I hope I haven’t disturbed you too much.”

“No no, Mister Mathews,” she says, her words rounded by the Quebecois accent that’s become so familiar over the last six months. The child, Adelie, gums at her mother’s shoulder, babbling in the focused way young children have. The woman turns, calling out over her shoulder. “Maman, l'homme américain est là pour toi!” She grins back at Hosea, adding, “Il a l'air très beau ce soir …”

[Momma, the American man is here for you! He looks very handsome tonight..]

Hosea grins at her sunnily, bobbing his head with a dumb, blank grin. He’s by no means fluent, but he’s managed to pick up a few words here and there, and even if he hadn’t, the girl’s voice is teasing and indulgent, and when she glances back at Hosea, there’s a mischievous glint in her eyes. Tres beau, eh?

A moment later, a short older woman strides into the foyer, waving her hands eloquently. Though small in stature, she’s a chaotic burst of energy, her hair gone snowy white with a few stubborn streaks of black remaining. While she’s no younger than Hosea himself, her figure is full and plush, her face creased with laugh lines.

She swats at her daughter playfully, urging her back into the house. “Vous fille terrible, entrez, entrez, assez de vos blagues. Ne me souris pas comme ça - le dîner va brûler! Pénétrer!”

[You terrible girl, get inside, get inside, enough of your jokes. Don't grin at me like that - dinner will burn! Get inside!]

“Madame Dunand,” Hosea starts, but stops when she rolls her eyes grandly. She turns to the foyer closet, almost disappearing inside as she fetches something.

“It is Marie, you know this, I have told you this many times,” she calls brusquely, her accent heavier than her daughter’s. Hosea thinks her words sound almost gilded.

“Of course, Marie, I must say I am terribly sorry for disturbing you, but - “

“It is the girl’s time, no?” she says, reappearing with a heavy doctor’s bag. “She is in difficulty?”

Hosea grimaces, shrugging. “I’m afraid I can’t be certain, Missus- Marie. But I’ve seen a few children born, and I don’t believe she’s any worse off than any other woman. But…” He sighs, trailing his thumb over the brim of the hat held in his hands. “It’s her first, and she and the father are fretful.”

“Ucht, fathers, as useful as tits on a bull during labor - is that not what you Americans say?” she asks innocently when Hosea chokes. She grins and shoves her bag into his chest while he’s distracted, striding past him with busy confidence.

Hosea watches her for a moment before shaking himself, hurrying down the path to keep pace with her. “I suppose some of us do. You wouldn’t mind coming out to see to her?” he asks inanely. She’s already halfway down the front path, smartly smoothing out her skirts.

“I will ride with you,” she says matter of factly, ignoring his question. “My useless son-in-law has taken my horse to Montreal while he looks for work - an artist!” She sighs and lets Hosea lift her up onto the horse, where she sits daintily sidesaddle. “She could have married a doctor! A lawyer! But - tch - she says, true love. He paints pretty pictures and cries over sad songs. My Adrien, God rest him, would be a mess if he knew. "

Hosea passes up her bag and swings into the saddle in front of her, chuckling to himself. “Better than an outlaw, at least?” he suggests, clucking the horse into a trot.

“Of this I am not so sure,” she sighs. “Criminals are always able to find work, no? And I believe that bullets cost not so much as some of his paints.”

*

John had thought the farmhouse a sprawling mansion when he’d first seen it, four bedrooms, a kitchen, parlor, dining room, and a few other spaces he couldn’t name a purpose for. Growing up splitting a tent with Arthur hadn’t really prepared him for having four walls of his own, even if he was sharing with Abigail and Jack. It was wonderfully strange, those first few months, settling into a routine that didn’t involve getting shot at or riding for days on end. But, time went on, and the farm had grown smaller under the forced hibernation of winter.

The bedrooms in the house went to him, Mary-Beth and Kieran, Hosea, and Tilly. All the rest of the gang were spread out over a few modest cabins set back at the edges of the fallow fields, probably once intended for farm hands. Of course, everyone was in each other’s pockets all the damn time, with the whole group of them crowded into the house for dinner most nights. If it wasn’t the house, it was the stable - an aging red ramble of a building with more than enough stalls for their horses, plus room for the goats and pigs that Kieran and Sadie had fetched their first month here. Five hundred acres was all well and good, but privacy was rare for all that, especially in the farmhouse. Initially he felt good about getting a room there for Abigail and Jack, but by December he was jealous of the privacy Charles and Arthur and the rest enjoyed out in the cabins.

This evening was a whole ‘nother matter, of course. He’d been there when Abigail was screaming Jack into the world, drinking at the campfire and trying to play cards as Grimshaw and Tilly helped her through it. Wasn’t until a few months later that he’d taken measure of all the demands heaped on his shoulders, by Abigail and Arthur and Dutch and anyone else that talked to him for more than five minutes, and decided, to hell with it, and struck out on his own. Didn’t stick, of course, and by the time he returned Jack had gone from a red-face screaming bundle to a blonde haired, babbling toddler, who laughed and giggled and spoke in stilted words.

There’s a pang of guilt there as he watches Jack patiently arrange a series of brightly colored wooden soldiers into orderly lines - a gift from Charles - but it’s an old, familiar thing. Regret and shame and hope all rolled into a confusing mass beneath his breast bone. He’s trying now, he tells himself. He’s got little clue on how to be a father, but apparently sticking around and not being a drunk is more than most men got.

There’s another piercing cry from the parlor and Jack plants his hands over his ears where he’s sitting on the dining room floor.

“What’s wrong with Aunt Mary?”

“She’s having a baby,” John says. Tilly had Mary-Beth walking circles around the house - apparently it was too early yet to have her start pushing.

Javier, seated at the table, murmurs something that sounds like a prayer. He, Lenny, and Sean had given up all pretense of playing cards half an hour gone, and were sitting there, wan, as Kieran wore tracks around the table with his pacing.

“She should stop,” Jack says plaintively, only protesting a bit when John laughs and scoops him up into his lap.

“Oh, lord, where’s Hosea with the midwife,” Kieran says for the fifth time in the last ten minutes, tugging at his wispy beard.

“Ask again, why don’t you,” Sean snaps. He’s been shuffling the discarded deck non-stop for fifteen minutes, his fingers dancing rapidly over the back of the cards. He and Lenny hadn’t been riding with them when Jack was born, and they both look deeply spooked.

“Shut it, MacGuire,” John says curtly. “He’s coming, Kieran.”

Mary-Beth cries out three more times before Tilly and Karen poke their heads into the dinning room - Tilly as self assured and calm as ever, but Karen looking annoyed.

“What the hell you idiots doing?” Karen says.

“What’s it look like?” Sean says, spreading his hands, “Fuck all. Ain’t you supposed to be minding Mary-Beth?”

“Cause I’ve got lots of experience birthing children,” Karen sneers, pulling Sean’s flask from his hands and knocking back a long pull.

“Mary-Beth is fine,” Tilly says, even as another howl punches its way through the house. “No sign of Hosea yet?”

“Not yet,” Kieran says, “I - I mean, I got lotsa experience foaling if you think -”

“God DAMMIT, Kieran Duffy!” Mary-Beth screams from two rooms away, “You compare me to a horse one more time, I swear to god I won’t leave you with enough equipment to get me in this way again!”

Tilly pauses for a moment. “Best you leave her be, for now.”

“Right,” Kieran says faintly. “Right. Yes ma’am, you’re probably right.”

John snorts, casting his eyes around the room. They’re all here and accounted for, save for Uncle, who at the first of the labor pains had taken his dinner and a bottle of moonshine to the barn to ride it out in peace. And Arthur and Charles were absent, of course - they’d gone to fix some leak in their cabin an hour gone and hadn’t yet reappeared.

“Ain’t Arthur and Charles done patching that roof yet?” John sighs. “They been working on that for mor’n a week, the hell’s taking so long?”

There’s some kind of look that goes around the room that John don’t quite follow, like he’s both an idiot and amusing and they can’t figure out which one wins out, but before he can get his hackles up about it, Tilly says, “When did they take off?”

“Hour ago, almost,” John says sullenly, absently setting Jack’s hair to rights.

“Give them another ten minutes-” Tilly starts, but Karen makes a noise half way between a laugh and a protest, and Tilly grins before adding, “No, you’re right, give them another half hour, at least.”

Mary-Beth howls again, and John can hear Abigail and Sadie offering her soothing words, but something heavy clatters to the ground, followed by a string of curses from Mary-Beth so blue and rough it might as well have been the ocean.

“Though lord knows why they’d want to come back here,” she sighs, ducking back into the kitchen and is just directing Karen to fetch fresh towels for the bedroom when the front door bursts open and Hosea and the midwife stride in.

Madame Dunand makes John ansty, make no mistake. There’s something of Miss Grimshaw in her no-nonsense competence, her utter impatience for foolishness, but she’s got more laughter in her than Grimshaw ever did. Still, she’d taken the measure of John when they first met and clucked her tongue at him, as if wondering why he wasn’t tied to someone’s apron strings. John was a goddamn outlaw. He’d killed people, robbed trains, fled lawmen under a hail of bullets - and yet, to women of a certain age, it seemed that all they saw was some surly child. Dunand had pinched his cheek.

“Ah, my girl, my girl,” she says, doffing her coat and throwing it heedlessly at Hosea, who’s followed her in with her bag. “‘ow far apart are the pains?”

“Five minutes, more or less,” Tilly says, striding out to meet Dunand in the foyer, “Had her walkin’ for the last half hour or so.”

“Good girl,” Dunand says, disappearing into the parlour to chat quietly with Mary-Beth. A few moments later she walks into the dining room, looking exasperated.

“What, this is a play for your entertainment?”

There’s a bit of a commotion as all the men all scramble to stand up from the table, chairs sliding noisily across the floor. Sean even whips his hat off his head, fidgeting nervously under her gaze.

“This is no place for men,” she says busily. “Out all of you - go play in the barn.” She looks over Karen, her flushed face and nervous fiddling. “Take this one and the other blonde with you too - too many helpers, too many, Tilly and Abigail may stay. The rest - out! Shoo!”

“I - er, Madame Dunand, you see I - um. I’m - the father?” Kieran looks like he’s all eyes and adam’s apple now, a nervous pleading in his face. He's chewing on his nails again, wincing when Mary-Beth cries out from the next room.

“Him?” Dunand says incredulously to Hosea, who’s hanging wearily in the doorway, still holding her bag.

Hosea shrugs, smiling. “You know, I was surprised too.”

“Well, hey now -” Kieran starts, but Dunand is already waving a hand in front of his face.

“Very well - you are the father? You especially get out. No work for men.” At his crushed expression she seems to relent, sighing to herself. “Very well - you want to help?” He nods fervently and Dunand starts ticking things off on her fingers. “Go and find as much crocus, daffodil, queen-anne’s lace, and tulips as you can. You know these plants, yes? Good. Go, quickly now, it’s important.”

“Er,” Kieran says, looking confused. “Is it medicine for -?”

“Do I look like a teacher?” Dunand says, calling back over her shoulder as she bustles out of the room. “Go and get them! Quickly now! No questions!”

“Best not question her,” John says, dropping a hand onto Kieran’s shoulder, steering him to the foyer as the rest grumble and pack up their things, shuffling out the front door like chastened children. They step out into the cool spring evening, which smells of mud and hyacinth and rain. “Let the womenfolk see to her - ain’t much you can do besides be target practice, and Mary-Beth’s got good aim.”

“You sure she’ll be okay?” Kieran says, tossing fretful looks back at the house.

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” John said, shifting Jack around in his arms. “Why not?”

That don’t seem to have done much in the way of comforting him, and not for the first time John wonders just where the hell Arthur has got to - ain’t like Arthur’s some gifted speaker, but people seem to worry less when he’s around, looking steady and certain, having long silent conversations with Charles just with a few traded expressions and half-formed gestures. John can’t even imagine what them bunking together looks like - between the two of them, they probably go whole days without saying a word, just sitting around glumly working on one of their endless little projects, as if their cabin was in so much worse repair than any of the others.

Christ, their cabin is probably quieter than a tomb, he thinks, laughing to himself as he shepherds Kieran towards the barn, tucking a smile down into the messy spill of Jack’s hair.

*

“Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Arthur chants in a low, hoarse voice, muffled by the pillow he’s pressed his face into, his breath frantic and aching and deleriously good. Beside his head, Charles has firmly pinned his wrists to the sheets, the strength and pressure of it enough to send some half-acknowledged thrill lancing through him. But Arthur don't have much time to dwell on it; Charles drags his mouth up the back of his neck, hot and sloppy and wet, and slams into him with a well-practiced, earth-shattering ease that’s not yet grown old.

“Uh-huh,” Charles says, but it ain’t smug, it’s like he’s too worked up to get any kinda word out that’s got sense in it, and even that little puff against Arthur’s ear makes him shiver, his whole body jerking under the fantastically heavy and solid press of Charles against his back, his tongue laving up the crease behind Arthur’s ear in a way that makes him moan.

The novelty of doing this in a bed that bangs heedlessly against the cabin wall ain’t totally left him, even after spending most of winter curled up beneath heavy blankets with Charles, making love and passing long winter evenings, turning the other bedroom in the cabin to a workroom without anyone making so much as a peep about it. But, oh, a bed to themselves and no one listening on the other side of the door, no one caring too much about what they got up to when they was alone - that’s still incredible in its freedom, the kind of thing he ain’t ever dreamed of, even when he let himself think of keeping by Charles.

“God dammit, Charles,” Arthur gripes unsteadily, flexing his hands, and that does make Charles chuckle, low and amused and possessive, sending a pleasant tickle down Arthur's spine.

Charles eases up on Arthur’s right wrist, but before Arthur can reach for his aching cock, Charles beats him there, taking the length of him in a slick, warm fist, timing the jolt of his hips to the slow, leasuriely rub of his thumb over the head, almost cruel in how torn open it makes Arthur feel, how exposed. The next noise he makes ain’t words at all, just a bunch of broken syllables all piled up in his throat, twisted around a thread of devotion and Charles’ name.

Selfishly, he don’t even notice Charles finishing, is too busy spilling with a shout over Charles' clever fingers, leaving him so boneless and exhausted that it’s all he can do to collapse down into the sweaty sheets, sighing contentedly when Charles goes limp against his spine. Charles mouths mindlessly at Arthur's shoulders for long, tender seconds, the slide of his lips only made better by the following scrape of stubble. After a few moments of lying there in a messy pile, Charles pulls away with a regretful noise. Arthur cracks his eyes open as Charles rolls out of bed, watching drowsily as he pads nude across the room, bathed in the half-light from the dampened fire. At the dresser, Charles pours water from the pitcher into the bowl, splashing his face and using it to dampen a towel. Gorgeous, Arthur thinks, his brain too muddled for much else, but it's an easy conclusion to come to when sky is such a rich purple and the stars are blinking into being in the window framing Charles, who’s shiny with sweat and thick with the kind of muscle that only comes from hard work and good eating.

By the time Charles rolls back into bed, Arthur is drifting pleasantly, the whole world gone soft and pink. Charles murmurs something into the back of Arthur’s neck, some kind of soft question, but Arthur ain’t paying attention to much else but the heaviness of his limbs. Charles repeats himself, and when Arthur still don’t answer, Charles makes an annoyed sound and breaks the warm, quiet moment by smacking Arthur hard on the ass, loud enough that it's as much the noise as the pain that makes Arthur yelp.

Arthur sputters, rolling up onto his side, only to find Charles grinning at him, his hand spread soothingly over the mark Arthur can feel raising up, sharp and not entirely unpleasant.

“I said, do you feel okay?” Charles asks, smiling, ducking down to kiss Arthur before he can answer.

“I did until a few seconds ago,” he grumbles, smoothing his hand over the side of Charles’ skull. He’d shaved the sides of his head only a few days past, and Arthur is still growing used to it. When Charles just looks at him expectantly, Arthur sighs and rolls his eyes. “Yes, I feel fine. More’n fine. You always ask.”

“I always want to know,” Charles says, kissing him again, and adding in a low voice pressed just to the shell of Arthur’s ear, “Plus, maybe I just like hearing you say yes.”

That makes Arthur grin, just feeling so foolishly happy, almost giddy with love and gratitude. He twines his legs through Charles’ and rolls onto his back, pulling Charles atop him, chuckling quietly as they fit together. Charles rolls his shoulders and settles in a comfortable sprawl over Arthur’s chest, his mouth pressed warmly against the pulse point in Arthur’s neck. He’s heavy and solid and now so familiar in Arthur’s arms. When Arthur slides his hand over the curve of Charles’ ass, kneading the muscle in a distracted way, Charles grumbles quietly, pressing a biting kiss against Arthur’s neck.

“Oughta get back up to the house,” Arthur says, some indeterminable time later, petting through Charles’ hair.

“If we don’t, John’ll send Jack down after us again,” Charles agrees sleepily. Arthur winces at that memory, though god bless little Jack for not asking questions when he tottered into the cabin and found the two of them “wrestling.” He sighs heavily.

“I can’t figure Mary-Beth wants more people in the house,” Arthur mutters, “But everyone’s gonna be antsy. Was the same when it was Abigail’s time.”

Charles lifts his head, pressing a kiss against Arthur’s chin before rolling away and out of bed. “C’mon then,” he says, picking up their clothes off the floor and tossing Arthur’s trousers onto his face. “Best we get back before they come looking.”

*

Truth be told, Sadie ain’t too bothered about being banished from the house with Karen and the men. Ain’t like she ever had children, though her and Jake had spent plenty of fun, satisfying evenings trying to get her in the family way. But it ain’t ever took, and she’d spent one whole winter miserable over it before she’d woken one morning and looked at her husband, her farm, the little life they’d built together, and realized there wasn’t anything missing.

And god knows, she wouldn’t want to raise a child in the life. Abigail had done her best by young Jack, but she was one of the first to sign on to Charles’ plan, so fierce and determined to get her boy and her man out safely. That’s the sort of bull-headed stubbornness Sadie could get behind.

Leaning against the side of the barn, Sadie rolls a cigarette and lights it, taking a deep, satisfying drag. The rest of the riffraff are holed up in the barn, playing cards and drinking and laughing too loud in that nervous way people do when they’s trying not to worry. Javier’s plucking away at his guitar, old familiar ballads drifting one into another. Somewhere out in the west pasture, Kieran is frantically climbing over fences, trying to pluck up every wildflower he can lay hands on. What the midwife wants with them, Sadie ain’t got much of a clue, but Dunand was a funny old lady. Sadie liked her, but there was always some mischievous glint in the woman’s eyes that made her hard to take at face value.

But it’s a pleasant enough night, cherished all the more for taking them one more day away from winter. It had been a long few months bunking with Karen and Sean, and the fact that they’ve all made it through to springtime without bloodshed might be proof of God’s work on earth. The cabins are practically palatial for what they are, and she has a bedroom to herself - thankfully one that does not share a wall with Karen and Sean’s - but spring had been more than welcome when it rolled across the farm, thawing tempers as much as the ice up in the mountains.

Speakin’ of lovebirds, she thinks, smiling to herself when she spots Arthur and Charles walking up the path from the cabins, grinning at each other over some unheard joke. It's hard to say when she’d seen them for what they are to each other. There was always something easy between the two of them, some level of comfort that had at first seemed strange to her, given how recently Charles had joined the gang. She couldn’t quite place it, not until Charles had pulled her aside three days after Arthur had come crawling back to them on bloody hands and knees, more corpse than not.

“Why you doin all this?” she’d asked suspiciously after he’d laid the whole plan out. She hadn’t been entirely certain that it wasn’t some loyalty test from Dutch, designed to expose her as a traitor. At that point, Charles hadn’t yet talked to Hosea, and the conspiracy felt frail and dangerous when it was just Charles, Abigail, and herself.

Charles had rolled his eyes, as annoyed as she’d ever seen him, and stared off for a few moments before he had seemed to come to a decision.

“Your husband - Jake?” She'd startled a bit, ready to spit venom at him for even saying her Jake’s name, but before she could, he’d pushed on. “If you could’ve done anything to save him, would you have? Even if it meant lying to him and hurting him and running away? Even if it meant you couldn’t keep him, afterwards?”

“You know I would,” she had said, wrong-footed and confused. “But he was my husband -” she’d started to add, and had been shut right up by the look Charles gave her, unashamed and stubborn and plain. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Charles had sighed, looking off at Arthur’s tent, where the man was still lying in fevered sleep. “I could do this without you,” he’d said eventually, “But not near as easily as I could with your help. Please, Sadie, at least think on it.”

A month later, she was riding into Blackwater beside Karen and her terrible dye job, off to pick up the biggest cache of money she’d ever seen in her life. Strange the way life moved along at odd and awkward angles, never predictable from one season to the next. One life dies and the next grows up through the ashes. Knowing that didn’t much help with the grief, but even on bad days she could appreciate the comfort of new growth.

When the boys start heading up the path to the house, Sadie lifts her fingers to her lips and blows a sharp whistle into the night air; Charles and Arthur jerk around before they reach the farmhouse steps, looking at her askance.

“Midwife kicked all us all out,” she calls, jerking a thumb back at the barn. “You’ll wanna come here if you wanna avoid her wrath.”

They redirect and come trudging towards her through the damp grass. When they get closer she pops the cigarette in her mouth and grins at them. “How’s that leak coming along, boys?”

Arthur gives her a blank look. “What leak? We got a leak? Where? The farmhouse?”

“Our cabin,” Charles says patiently, raising his eyebrows at Arthur. “Remember? That’s what we went to-”

“Ohh,” Arthur says, and Sadie’s delighted to see a blush under Arthur’s tan, light but certainly there for anyone looking for it. “Uh. It’s just fine, Mrs. Adler,” Arthur says airily, and elbows Charles when he starts to laugh. “Why thank you for askin’.”

“You two are a fine goddamn mess,” she says fondly. She reaches out and flips up Arthur’s collar for him.

“Hey, hey, what’s the big idea,” he gripes, hand going to his neck.

She cackles a bit, relaxing back against the wall. “I’d leave it that way if’n you don’t want to show off that bite mark on the back of your neck. Kinda hard to explain, that. What - you gonna tell John you slipped off a ladder and landed on Charles’-”

“Sadie,” Arthur says, scandalized, before she goes on, laughing as she finishes -

“-mouth?”

Charles starts laughing quietly, dragging a hand down over his face. “What are you laughing about?” Sadie says, “You got your shirt on inside out.” Charles stops laughing, startled, and his hand goes frantically to the seams on the sides of his shirt, only to find them turned the proper way around. He shoots her a glare. “Yeah,” she says, snickering. “But I made you look, didn’t I?”

“You’re a nuisance,” Arthur mutters, futzing with his collar until Charles knocks his hand away, setting it up to hide the mark from view. “And it ain’t that we’re lying to John - I just, uh.”

“Everyone else figured it out without being told,” Charles says, sighing heavily. He’d been so skittish in those first few weeks at the farm, clearly unnerved by all the knowing glances and half-concealed jokes - all meant kindly, of course, but they seemed to make him anxious. Sadie figures Charles’ life taught him well enough to hide what he was, but Arthur hadn’t ever learnt those lessons, and just stubbornly blundered through the world, daring everyone to accept it or fuck off. Arthur wasn’t so foolish down in town, of course, but it had been an entertaining few weeks, watching Charles and Arthur sort themselves out. She dearly suspected that it had been the subject of their first real fight - leaving aside whatever almighty reckoning happened when Charles finally came clean about his plan - but she wasn’t so foolish as to go asking. ‘Sides. Seems they made up well enough.

“John’s about as sharp as a draw full of spoons,” Sadie says, stubbing out her cigarette, “C’mon then, Sean’s lookin’ to start a poker game, and I’m looking forward to watchin’ him lose with poor grace.”

*

It should be said, the moonshine hadn’t been John’s idea.

It’s brutal stuff, brewed by some hillbilly that helped out Charles and Arthur on their ride north. The man kept sending up a case every few months, a few heavy jugs of liquor as clear as water with enough of a kick that even Uncle winced at the first sip. Last time, the delivery had come with a note for Charles and a fine, unmarred deer pelt, which had the man grinning to himself the rest of the week.

Regardless, ain’t like John’s had time enough to hit the bottle on the regular, not with the thousand little things that need doing to keep the farm tick-tocking along. So, to say the moonshine hit him hard is...well.

“Y’er a damn lush, Marston!” Sean cries, laughing where he’s sitting on the hale bale opposite him, Karen tucked snugly onto his lap. Between them, an old barrel has been upturned for a game of cards. Or it had been - John had tried a trick shuffling he’d done a thousand times before but his fingers were dumb with drink and the cards had spiraled out of his hands and into a shower around them. Now, Jack is giggling as he totters around, fetching them and asking John to do it again.

“You are a low-down thieving bastard, Sean McGuire,” John says, leveling a finger at him over the wreckage of the card game. After a beat, he cracks a grin. “But...you’re not wrong. What in the world do they put in this stuff?”

“Nothing but the tears of angels,” Sean says, clinking his glass against John’s. “And also, probably, potatoes.”

“Seeing as how the cards are now covered in horse shit, I think that puts an end to our game,” Javier says, absently strumming his guitar. He gives John a look, “A better man would have just admitted he’s afraid to have his pocket emptied rather than sabotaging it.”

“Well good luck finding a better man,” John says, leaning back in his chair. “They’re in short supply ‘round here.”

As if summoned by his words, the side door to the barn swings open and Charles and Arthur duck in, Sadie following quick on their heels. There’s a chorus of “hellos” that go up, and Arthur waves them away, circling round to drop down next to Hosea, who’s still working his way through the Sunday paper.

“All set with that patch job, boys?” Hosea says mildly, twitching down the corner of the paper to smile at Arthur.

Arthur clears his throat awkwardly and nods, grabbing two glasses and the liquor from the makeshift table. “I reckon so. It’s, uh. All taken care of.” He pours himself a draught and hands the spare up to Charles.

“Until tomorrow evening round this time,” Karen mutters, but she quiets when Sean pinches her.

“We expecting more rain?” John asks, not following, but Arthur just makes an exasperated noise and plows on without answering.

“You got that widow woman down from town to see to Mary-Beth?”

“I did,” Hosea says, turning to a new page in the paper.

“She’s sweet on you,” Karen says to Hosea, grinning. “She’s lookin’ for a taste of American cooking, if you know what I mean.”

Hosea sighs deeply, rustling the paper. “It would be difficult not to,” he says primly. “Madame Dunand is a talented and forthright woman. We’re lucky to have her help.”

“Uh-huh,” Lenny says, grinning where he’s sprawled out on the ground, “Think she’s looking to help you outta your trousers, but that’s just me.”

“Alright, alright,” Hosea says, folding the paper away. “Aren’t there any other things you lot have got to keep yourself occupied? Lenny, aren’t you still seeing that Algonquin woman who comes round to trade?”

“Chepi? Could be I am, when she’s down from the reservation.” Lenny said, still smirking. “But this is a lot more interesting, Hosea. How many hearts you broke in your life, old timer?”

“More than a little, less than a lot,” Hosea admits, chuckling to himself, a wistful look flashing over his creased, familiar features.

“Mrs. Dunand doesn’t seem the type I’d like to cross,” Charles says, leaning against the wall beside where Arthur’s sat himself down on a hay bale, close enough that his thigh brushes Arthur’s shoulder. “Seems like the sort of woman who could get you strung up in the town square with just a few rumors and some baked goods dropped off at the right door.”

“Which is why I intend to treat the good woman with all the respect she deserves,” Hosea says gallantly, only spoiling it a bit by winking at John when he catches his eye.

“I don’t know ‘bout all that,” Karen says, leering as she swigs from Sean’s flask. “Sometimes what a lady really needs is a little bit of disrespecting.”

“Lord in heaven, you’re a bunch of children,” Arthur says, chuckling. “You gossip like old maids.”

“I figure it’s mostly harmless,” Sadie says, something sly and knowing in her tone. “‘Less you want us to find something else to talk about?”

Arthur makes a noise that’s half cough, half choke and waves Sadie off. “Oh, far be it from me to interrupt all your hectoring. By all means.”

“Where’s Kieran got to?” Charles says, passing his glass down to Arthur for a refill. “Midwife let him stay in the house?”

“Hell no,” John says, snorting. “She set him on some errand gathering flowers. Ain’t seen him for almost an hour.”

“He fretful?” Arthur asks, not looking up from the pour.

“The dear boy is fretful on a good day,” Hosea sighs, “And today...is not a good day. I’m half surprised Marie didn’t give him laudanum.”

“Ohhh, Marie, is it?” Sean says, arching his eyebrows, “Here was me thinking it was ‘the widow Dunand’?”

“I’ll have you know, I’m writing the lot of you out of my will,” Hosea says regally, bending down to scoop a set of dominos out of his bag. “I’ll leave all my riches to Silver Dollar and Cain, such that they live in the standard to which they’re now accustomed. Now,” he says, smiling, “Who’s up for a game of dominos?”

*

The next hour or so passes easily, the tension gentled by Harold’s moonshine as much as Javier’s mindless strumming on the guitar. Charles watches Arthur lose five dollars to Hosea and win back another three off Sean, and joins in when Karen starts a round of Ring-Dang-Do. Arthur’s had enough to drink that he’s sagging against Charles where they sit on the floor, his body thick and warm and pressed perfectly into Charles’ side. Idly, Charles thinks about pulling Arthur into bed tonight, wrapping his legs around Arthur’s hips, and getting Arthur inside him while the cool spring wind eases through the open windows. There’s a touch of disbelief, still, that it’s not just fantasy, that Arthur is his simply for the asking. Before, he’d had to be so careful, planning out whatever stolen moments they could manage with the sort of care and patience Charles typically reserved for a hunt. Most nights, now, Charles goes to bed with Arthur’s face tucked against his chest, the huge warm sprawl of the man a welcome pressure on his heart.

There had been a few folk over the years that knew Charles’ preferences, and none that he’d told directly. That was a quick path to a mob and a rope tossed over a tree branch, and Charles was too practiced at staying alive to give any bigots the chance. And so, he’d spent years being careful, seeking out like-minded men, or those who didn’t much care whose mouth was wrapped around their cock. He’d never been so foolish as to go looking for love. But then, he’d never anticipated Arthur Morgan, his gruff, tentative affection, his plain and unfettered reverence when they went to bed together.

Charles realizes he’s staring at Arthur’s profile just as he catches Sean winking at them lecherously, laughing as he whispers something into Karen’s ear. Charles had also never expected to be surrounded by a bunch of unhinged madmen that seemed, more than anything, amused by them. The most Charles had hoped for was covert tolerance - he’d been prepared for that. What he’d not been prepared for were the winks and nods and Karen goddamn Jones asking him in the kitchen if he could give her any tips on how best to suck a man off.

In any event, it was a lot to get used to, and a lot of it more pleasant than he’d expected.

“You ain’t ‘checking on the roof’ again tonight,” Karen says to them, smirking. “We’re all in this together, Mister Smith.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Charles sighs, sprawling back against a stall door until he’s more horizontal than not. Harold’s moonshine never disappointed. They really should set some aside for Kieran, who will likely need it more than the rest of them. Speaking of… “Anyone seen Kieran lately? I thought he was fetching plants for the midwife?”

“Been more’n an hour,” Hosea says, frowning as he packs his pipe. “You don’t think that damn fool got himself eaten by a bear?”

“If anyone could….” Arthur sighs, absently picking at a patch on Charles’ trouser knee that was coming loose. “I could go out lookin’ for him if you-”

Charles is just opening his mouth to volunteer as well when the barn door bursts open and in darts Kieran Duffy, looking like he’s spent most of the evening crawling on his belly through the fields with the devil himself on his heels.

“Is she - is it time yet?” he asks frantically. In his hands he’s holding a mess of plants, some of them torn so hastily from the ground that dirt still clings to the roots. There’s a smudge of dirt on the bridge of his nose.

Hosea gives him a concerned look, rolling to his feet. “Not that we’ve heard, my boy, where have you -”

“I was just tryna find all of what Mrs. Dunand set me after and I lost track of time and by the time I realized I was over in the far east paddock and it took a while getting back with my hands full - oh, lord, I must have dropped half of what I picked, do you think she’ll- “

“Easy now, Kieran,” Hosea says, gently as if he was talking to a fretful stallion, but Charles has known Hosea a good amount of time, now, and he sees the grin he’s trying to hide. “I think we would have heard if there was anything worth hearing. Easy now, drink this, why don’t you, it’s medicinal.”

It’s a while before Kieran stops coughing, his eyes streaming down his face. Probably isn’t kind to laugh, but it was hard not to when the boy ended up pink as a sunburn, hacking as Hosea claps him soundly on the back.

“Alright, alright,” Kieran says eventually, waving him away, “Very funny, alright? Lord, you all are gonna go blind from drinking that swill.”

“Puts hair on your chest,” Lenny says, grinning. “You could use some.”

Kieran half heartedly throws a bruised blossom at Lenny’s head, muttering to himself.

“I’m gonna go on up to the house to hand this over to Mrs. Dunand,” Kieran says, straightening up. But a few seconds tick by and he doesn’t move, just stands there worrying his lip and staring into the middle distance. After a moment, Hosea raises his eyebrows at him.

“Kieran? You gonna head on up, or-”

“I was just thinking,” he says in a rush. “Maybe one of you folk could come with me?” He dashes a muddy hand back through his hair. “I mean, in case she needs us running more errands? Two hands are better than one, my ma always said -”

“Saints preserve us, Duffy,” Sean says, cackling. “Are you afraid of that woman? She’s a little old lady, for chrissake.”

“I ain’t ever seen you lip off to her, MacGuire,” Sadie says, smirking. “All ‘yes ma’am’ this and ‘right away Mrs. Dunand’ that.”

“I’ll go,” Charles says, rolling to his feet, dislodging Arthur’s arm from his thigh. Arthur makes a faint noise of protest; his cheeks are pink with the drink and he tends to sprawl all into Charles’ space when he’s had a few, loose and affectionate and unbothered by the sly looks thrown their way. Charles squeezes Arthur’s shoulder before he steps away. “I’d like to know what she’s fixing to do with these weeds anyway.”

Kieran sags with relief, clutching the muddy mass of flowers to his chest. “Thank you kindly, Charles.”

When they make their way up to the farmhouse, Kieran stands fidgeting on the porch for several beats, staring at the brass knocker. Even through the door, it's just possible to hear Mary-Beth crying out, the sound of it enough to make Charles’ feel uneasy. He knows some field medicine, sure, maybe a bit more than the rest of the gang, but that was mostly for fevers and gunshot wounds. He hadn’t ever been around a woman in labour, and these noises are the kind he usually associates with men dying long, messy deaths. No wonder Kieran was such a god awful mess.

When Kieran just keeps on staring at the door, his Adam's apple frantically bobbing up and down, Charles reaches over his shoulder and knocks loudly, startling Kieran out of whatever thought he was stuck in.

“Thanks,” Kieran says, his voice a dry whisper. Through the door, Charles can make out a rapid string of annoyed French before they hear footsteps on the stairs. Kieran straightens up just as the door swings open, and Mrs Dunand stands before them, busily wiping her hands on a towel.

“Yes?” she barks, “Did you think we would forget to tell you when the baby was born? It is not yet time, go back to the barn.”

She’s just starting to close the door again when Kieran, surprising Charles to no end, manages to get his foot in the jamb and stops her.

“Uh, Mrs Dunand? The flowers? I got all the ones you said - “

For a moment, the woman looks confused, but she recovers after a pause, hiding a slight smile behind her hand. “Ah, yes, of course. Yes.”

“Where you want me to put them?”

She tuts as she inspects the messy clumps of buds, shaking her head. “No no, you are not done. You go back to the barn, you pick out the five most perfect flowers from each plant.” She casts her gaze around the foyer before grabbing a sack of scraps from beside Tilly’s sewing machine. “You pick out a ribbon, yes? Ten inches long at least, one-inch wide, you understand? And then you stay in the barn until I come get you.”

“Er, yes ma’am, yes,” Kieran says bobbing his head. “Uh, ma’am, what color should the ribbon be?”

“Why would that matter?” Dunand says, and smartly closes the door in their faces.

After a moment, Charles drops his hand onto Kieran’s shoulder, steering him gently down back to the barn. “C’mon then, Duffy,” he sighs. “Lets get to sorting your flowers.”

*

When they get back down from the house, Charles sets Kieran up sorting his bundle of weeds in Branwen’s stall. The mare lies down beside him as he works, lipping at Kieran’s collar and huffing noisily into his hair.

John finds Arthur in the hayloft, looking down at Kieran and Branwen with a smile on his lips. Kieran is fussily arranging the flowers into neat piles, only letting himself get distracted when Branwen nips at him for attention.

“That horse is gone over on him, ain’t she?” John says, chuckling.

Arthur huffs out a laugh. “Shore ‘nough. She’s more like a puppy for him than Cain is. Ain’t ever known a man with such a gift for horses.”

It’s true. They ain’t breeding horses out here - not yet, at least - but Duffy was among the first of them to get an honest job, breaking horses in at a cattle ranch the other side of Lamarch. Word got around town quick that all those strange Americans might be a motley crew, but they did good work, honestly and cheaply. It would take a real suspicious bastard to look into Kieran’s doe eyes and see anything criminal there.

So Kieran was their first tentative ambassador to this new life of theirs, earning trust and trade with his boyish smile and earnest “yes ma’ams.” And because the townsfolk loved him, they tolerated the scared-up, dangerous-looking men he arrived with. The girls, too, had done their part, spending their coin at the local shops and gossiping with the wives and matrons of the town at the Sunday market. And slowly, the town opened up to John and Arthur and all the rest. The man at the general store knew John on sight now, and usually had a handful of penny candy to send back home to Jack. It was...strange. Having a reputation not tied to a bounty was a whole new world to grow used to.

“Was I this much of a wreck when it was Abigail’s time?” John asks, nursing his flask.

Arthur chuckles. “Naw….by this time you was blind drunk and sleepin’ face first in a mud puddle.”

“Thanks for reminding me. I coulda drowned, you know.”

Arthur grins at him. “We ain’t that lucky.”

John socks him one in the shoulder. “You ever think about it?”

“‘Bout what?” Arthur says - he’s looking down at the rest of the gang, a fond smile on his face. Karen is pulling Charles up to dance with her, sliding in against him easy enough that John’s half-surprised Sean don’t do so much as raise an eyebrow.

“Bout getting a good woman, having some kids. You was good with Isaac before…”

Arthur turns to look at him, plainly exasperated.

“Sorry,” John says quickly. “I don’t mean to bring it up, but I just. We’re outta that life, near as much as we can be. No one would be angry if you got a wife and settled down.”

“I can think of at least one person that would be,” Arthur says, and John’s fairly sure he’s being laughed at, but John can’t quite work out why. He’s about to press it when the barn’s front door rolls open and Javier abruptly stops playing. All the folks freeze and watch silently as Mrs. Dunand picks her way daintily into the barn.

Childbirthing was no easy feat, John knows. He’s known more than one woman who’s died bringing a new life into the world, no matter how healthy they was nor how hard the midwife worked. The silence feels fraught for long seconds, only the snuffling of the horses and Jack’s mindless chatter filling up the night.

“Well?” Mrs. Dunand says when no one greets her. Kieran stumbles to his feet at the sound of her voice; he’d been sitting oblivious in Branwen’s stall, too preoccupied to note the strange quiet. John watches him grab the greenery and ribbon from the barn floor. “Mister Duffy? Would you like to come meet your daughter?”

Kieran almost goes down, John would put money on it, but Hosea’s there to prop him up, heartily clapping him on the back. Kieran’s voice comes out as a wheeze the first few times he tries to speak, but eventually he manages, “Mary-Beth is -?“

“Very tired, but otherwise doing well.” Dunand gestures impatiently. “Come now, the poor woman wants her sleep. We do not have time to stand here watching you catch flies.”

Kieran’s mouth clicks closed and he straightens up, and just like that the gang takes it as a cue to let loose that long-held, terrible breath. An exuberant cheer goes up, and Hosea is promptly uncorking some fancy bottle of champagne that he’d dug up god knows where. Lenny produces a few cigars, sticking one between Kieran’s lips before the midwife can drag him away.

“Oh, Mrs. Dunand,” Kieran says fretfully, fumbling the cigar out of his mouth, “I got them flowers all counted out like you wanted and got the ribbon - do you still need them or-?”

Marie looks over the collection of buds and greens critically, clucking her tongue as she discards a few crushed petals. “The ribbon?” she demands, once she’s gathered the lot of them together in her hand.

Kieran supplies it readily, shifting his weight back and forth like an anxious toddler. She nods and lays the bundle down on a table, aligning the stems with care and using the ribbon to tie the lot of it together with a neat little bow. Satisfied, she hands it back to Kieran.

“You give that to your lady when we get inside,” she instructs, ignoring Kieran’s spluttering. “She has worked very hard, she deserves a nice bouquet, no? Now, come,” she says, reaching up to catch him by his ear, and is lecturing him about washing his hands and getting the dirt out from out under his nails as she drags him up to the house.

“That woman’s got a mean streak,” John says, laughing as he follows Arthur down out of the hayloft. At the bottom of the ladder, Charles throws an arm over Arthur’s shoulders, grinning from ear to ear as he passes an old mug full of champagne into his hands.

Arthur chuckles, leaning into Charles. That’s a bit surprising, John thinks. It didn’t seem like Arthur’s had enough to need help standing, but if Charles minds, his face don’t show it.

“Sure as hell she does. Knew I liked her,” Arthur says, smiling in the lantern light as Javier launches into some fast-paced, spirited jig. In the clean, crushed-grass smell of spring, they raise their mismatched glasses, laughing and hollering as the stars spin high overhead.

*

They been celebrating long enough that Arthur’s feeling a bit unsteady when he ducks outside to light up a cigar, sighing out in contentment as he blows out a stream of rich, earthy smoke. From inside the barn, muted strains of celebration filter out, a comforting hum of revelry and relief. Someone’s playing the harmonica and it seems Uncle’s roused long enough to pick out a ditty on the banjo - from the laughter, Arthur can guess Sean is swinging Karen around the makeshift dance floor, bellowing out whatever song lyrics he can remember or improvise.

Safe, he thinks, idly picking out constellations in the depths of the night sky. Wasn’t ever a word he’d found himself believing in. He ain’t ever put his faith in a higher power that was keeping him safe in the palm of some divine hand, but he could put his faith in Charles and the rich new life he’d sown for them.

The door creaks open and Charles steps out to join him, his hair falling down out of the cord he’d used to tie it back, a lingering smile making his face open and soft.

“Wondered where you got to,” Charles says, leaning against the barn beside him. There ain’t much light here except that from the hanging sliver of the moon, and it gilds Charles’ features in silver, all graceful lines and shadows.

“Was just thinkin’ about you.”

“Oh? What about?”

How you saved us, how you forged a new life out of scrap parts and affection, ‘bout how you hold the whole of my world in your hands so deftly, Arthur thinks, but lacks the words to say it, so what he does say is, “Was thinkin’ we should go check on that patch job we done earlier.”

Charles chuckles, ducking his head. “That pitch, tricky stuff. Oughta make sure it took properly.”

“Wouldn’t want anymore leaks,” Arthur agrees, holding Charles’ gaze until they’re both laughing, smiling at each other like a pair of dumb kids. Arthur is just reaching to fold his hand into Charles’ when the front door opens up and Tilly and Abigail trot out of the house, both of them looking weary. Tilly yawns into her fist, murmuring something unheard to Abigail as they approach.

“Hey there boys,” Tilly says, stretching out her shoulders as they draw level with them.

“Thought you two’d be keeping the rest of them outta trouble,” Abigail says, smiling. “John passed out yet?”

“‘Parrently he only does that when it’s you, Miss Roberts,” Arthur says. “Now he’s just getting all philosophical on us. ‘Nother few pints and he’ll be down, no trouble there.”

“He’s also singing,” Charles says heavily, smiling when Abigail groans. “You might want Hosea’s help getting him back up to the house.”

“If he needs that much help he can sleep in the sty with the rest of the pigs,” Abigail says, but she grins when the sound of John’s singing is briefly heard through the rest of the din. “God help me, why must I love such a fool.”

Arthur’s eyes flick up to Charles, watching him contentedly. “Well god bless the good folk that love fools, ain’t sure what you done to deserve it, but I’m sure them fools are grateful.”

Charles glances at him, halfway between exasperation and a smile. Before he can say anything else, Tilly gives the pair of them a look and raises her eyebrows.

“Speakin’ of,” she says meaningfully, “I wouldn’t go off together just yet, Mary-Beth wants to see you.”

“Huh?” Arthur says, pulling his gaze away from Charles, “What for?”

The girls trade a knowing look, but they just give them identical innocent smiles. “Like we know,” Tilly says, giving them a shove towards the house. “Go on now, get. Ain’t good manners to keep a lady waiting, especially one needing as much sleep as her.”

“Both of us?” Charles asks, and Tilly rolls her eyes.

“Yes, lord in heaven, just do as you're told. I figure we’re owed some liquor for tonight’s work and the more time we’re out here squawking at you two, the less time we’ve got to get on the outside of some brandy, you hear?”

“It ever occur to you that them ladies are the scariest folk in the gang?” Arthur says in an undertone as they make their way up to the house.

Charles chuckles warmly. “You only just figuring that out?”

Compared to the barn, the house is dead quiet, just the sound of the old beams settling and the faint, mewling protests from the baby upstairs. Dunand appears at the top of the stairs as they step inside, nodding at them smartly.

“You boys go wash your hands, yes? I have told Miss Gaskill that it is not proper to have so many in and out after birthing, but children do not listen to good sense, hm? Go now, wash up in the kitchen, soap and water. You will not like it if I have to tell you to do it again.”

“Good thing Grimshaw’s in a different country,” Arthur mutters as they bump elbows over the sink. “Think there’s gotta be some law against having two of them together at once.”

“Hush,” Charles says, but he’s laughing, carefully scrubbing off the dust and sweat of the day.

They present themselves at the bedroom door a few minutes later, knocking gently before Mrs Dunand lets them inside.

“Here they are, Miss Gaskill,” the midwife says wearily. She points a finger at the pair of them. “No dawdling, now. The girl needs her rest.” She looks over her shoulder, sighing gustily. “And the father too, I think.”

The room is cozy, big enough for the double bed and dresser but not much else. They must’ve stripped the bed and redressed it already, because Mary-Beth is tucked up under the covers, the child at her breast. Beside her, Kieran sits dumbfounded at the headboard, staring down at the pair of them like a man looking at creation. Kieran’s bouquet lies at the edge of the bed, a riotous burst of color in the otherwise plain room.

“Hey there boys,” Mary-Beth says, looking up at them. She’s still a bit sweaty, hair sticking in streaks to her forehead, and her voice is hoarse, but she’s got a light in her eyes that’s all joy and wonder. Arthur thinks that there ain’t many things in life so lovely as the three of them in that moment, peaceful and gentle, like the sky after a storm.

“Hey Mary-Beth,” Charles says, his voice a soft rumble. “Congratulations. Mrs. Dunand said it’s a girl?”

“Uh-huh,” she says softly, smiling as the child stops suckling. Gently disengaging, she hands the swaddled baby up to Kieran as she sets her clothes to right. “I know you’s are probably tired, but we wanted you to be the first to meet her. ‘Specially you, Charles.”

Charles frowns, watching as Kieran carefully slides off the bed, crossing the room with the girl in his arms.

“If it were a boy we was hoping to call him Charles,” Kieran says, trying to pass the little girl into Charles’ arms. It’s probably one of a half-dozen times Arthur’s ever seen Charles truly spooked; he takes a half-step backwards, holding his hands up in front of him like a man offered an armful of lit TNT.

Behind them, Mrs. Dunand tuts and nudges a chair into the back of Charles’ knees, sending him sprawling heavily down into the seat.

“Tch. Men are fools - you all go around with your guns and horses like big tough Americans and see a baby and you are all skittish as cats,” she says matter of factly, gently taking the baby from Kieran’s arms and passing her into Charles’. “Here. You hold her close, yes? Elbow under her head. She does not bite. Yes, like that. Good.”

The girl is pink-cheeked and sleepy, blinking up at Charles with drowsy blue eyes. Arthur circles ‘round back of the chair and leans over Charles’ shoulder, crossing his arms on the back of the chair, looking down at the small bundle clutched so uncertainty in his arms.

“But,” Mary-Beth says from the bed, watching the three of them contentedly, “Seein’ as how it’s a girl, we’re thinking we’re gonna call her Charlotte. Long as that’s alright by you, Charles.”

Charles makes a noise that Arthur can’t quite place, and when Arthur turns his head he can see Charles’ eyes are wet and he’s looking down at Charlotte with wonder in his eyes. He lifts one hand, tracing a finger down her cheek.

“I -” Charles swallows noisily, his voice coming out as a creak. “I. Of course you can - I just -” He takes a steadying breath, looking up at Kieran and Mary-Bethy with shiny eyes. “Why?”

“Way we figure, she wouldn’t be here if’n you hadn’t done what you done,” Kieran says, sitting back beside Mary-Beth at the headboard.

“Didn’t ever think we’d live a life as fine as this,” Mary-Beth says, sliding her hand into Kieran’s. “And that’s down to you, Charles.” She laughs, shaking her head. “I don’t think I could write anything more lovely than the sort of things you done outta love.” She blinks damply at them. “Thank you. I don’t say that enough.”

“Didn’t do it for thanks,” Charles murmurs, staring entranced at Charlotte, whose eyes are sagging. Between one moment and the next, she slides off into sleep, tucked safely in the circle of his arms.

“Don’t mean you don’t deserve it,” Mary-Beth says, resting her head on Kieran’s shoulder, yawning greatly.

“Very precious,” the midwife says busily, her voice cutting abruptly and efficiently into the soft, amber moment. “Now, momma and baby need their rest, yes? Give me the girl, ah, yes, careful,” she says, taking her from Charles. There’s a bassinet by the window, and she lays Charlotte down easily. “Off with you, now. There will be enough time to gawk at the child tomorrow.”

Kieran embraces each of them tightly as they leave, hard enough that Arthur’s ribs creak. The boy’s voice cracks as he thanks them again, and Arthur makes a face at Charles’ over Kieran’s shoulder when the boy clings onto him too long.

As they step outside the farmhouse, it’s gone long past midnight and the air is cool and humid; light and music spill from the open barn doors like lines of afternoon sunlight, suffusing the farm with some deep sanctity that Arthur can’t put a name to, but which he feels it in his chest all the same. All this splendor, wrapped up for him with a bow, all because Charles had made the foolish choice of loving him. Of saving him, all of them, even that delicate new soul upstairs.

“What-?” Charles says, still palming away some tears as Arthur tugs him round the corner of the house rather than walking back down to the barn. Since they left the room, Charles’ been quiet, a perfect little crease between his eyes as he turns something over and over in his mind. Arthur’s seen it enough times to recognize it, to feel some quiet joy just from watching the man think. Arthur don’t respond except to make an innocent noise, ignoring him until they’re pressed up in the shadows, Charles backed against the side of the house, boxed by Arthur’s arms. He don’t protest when Arthur leans in to kiss him, soft and tender, deepening it until Arthur’s hat tumbles off the back of his head and Charles fists are clutched in Arthur’s shirt.

“What’s that for?” Charles asks, his lips brushing Arthur’s.

“I need a reason?” Arthur says. There’s times these days that his heart don’t feel like it’s meant to hold this much joy, like it’s some tired muscle that’s been disused so long it aches with heavy work. He ain’t much good with his words, but his hands and lips and body seem to be more eloquent than his mouth will ever be. The kisses he presses along Charles’ jaw are soft and scraping; Charles leans his head back against the wall to give him more room.

“Don’t reckon I know what I done to deserve you,” Arthur says into the rich, quiet night. Before Charles can protest, he goes on, “But I ain’t asking questions. I’m just - far, far luckier than any one man has right to be.”

“You’re a fool,” Charles sighs, but he’s smiling, his hands sliding over the curve of Arthur’s ass with comfortable familiarity, pressing them together from their ankles to their chests.

“That too,” Arthur says, laughing and he’s kissing Charles when all hell breaks loose.

Looking back, he’ll realize that the celebrations down in the barn had been getting quieter - the lanterns had been snuffed and the instruments packed away. They might have once celebrated from dusk til dawn, but they ain’t as young as they were, and running the farm properly don’t leave much time for hangovers, not the way outlawing had done. So the gang was packing it in at the relatively tame hour of one in the morning, and the lot of them were walking up the path from the barn. In the shadows of the house, they weren’t exactly hidden, but neither were they going at it in the middle of town. Evenso, fools like John Marston had a tendency to get lucky.

“Hey, hey, Arthur - izzat yo- what he hell are you doin?” John’s voice goes from drunkenly shouting to scandalized between one syllable and the next - when Arthur looks up, John’s standing in the middle of the path surrounded by the rest of the gang, all at different levels of sober. John’s eyes are wide and confused and he staggers in place, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Arthur ain’t totally sure if that’s down to the booze or the shock.

“Ah, Christ,” Arthur mutters, but Charles just drops his head down onto Arthur’s shoulder, his body shaking with laughter.

“What’s it look like, Marston?” Arthur calls back, unashamed, still pressed up against Charles. Behind John, Sean sticks both fingers in his mouth and lets out a piercing wolf whistle.

“But - but you. You’re - you - Charles?” The rest of the gang has broken out into laughter; beside John, Abigail drags a hand down her face, looking up to the heavens for support.

“You sure you want this man for your brother?” Charles murmurs to Arthur, grinning.

“Hell no,” Arthur says immediately. “But I ain’t got much choice in that. Hosea wouldn’t let me trade him for a horse when I was 14, I don’t reckon he’s gonna let me do it now.”

“Alright then!” Sean says, “Hosea, you’re runnin’ the book, who’s closest?”

Hosea rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Reckon I’ll have to check, but I think Mrs. Adler had ‘bout a week from now. Pot’s yours then, Sadie.”

Sadie is grinning, her thumbs hooked through her belt loops. “Please and thank you, Mr. Matthews. I’ll be taking that in small bills, if you please.”

John staggers around in a circle, looking at all of them with wide, betrayed eyes. “What - I. You all knew?” He spins back around to Arthur and Charles so quickly he almost goes down. “You two is - You’re. Since when?”

“You walked in on us in the barn last week, John,” Charles says tiredly, pinching his brow.

John sputters, pointing at Arthur accusingly. “I- I. You told me you was helping him with his spurs!” he shouts, pink in the face.

Arthur groans, remembering. “And you believed me? Good lord, Marston, what kind of stupid are you?”

“I bought the pair of you whores last week down in town!” John yells, though whether it’s because he’s riled or because he’s trying to be heard over Karen’s hysterical laughing ain’t entirely clear.

“Don’t remind me,” Arthur says. “That was awkward as all get out. What were you thinking, sending those girls over when you left?”

“I was thinkin’ how sad it was you two never got a woman on your arm! What the hell did you do with them?”

“We played canasta,” Charles says, trying to keep a straight face. “Always hard to find another pair that plays a good game.”

“And you all knew?” John demands of the rest of the gang. Arthur’s enjoying having a good laugh at John’s expense, but under all his blustering, John’s voice has gone hurt and betrayed. When he turns back around to Arthur, his eyes are shiny, even as he keeps on shouting. “I’m the only one you didn’t tell?”

“Rest of us didn’t need telling - ain’t our fault you can’t see something so feckin’ obvious,” Sean says, who’s now laughing so hard his eyes are streaming. “Good lord, you’re a damn mess, Marston.”

“It’s plain as day,” Uncle says from the rear of the group, nodding sagely.

Arthur rolls his eyes, still fitted comfortably against Charles. “Oh, like you known so long, old timer.”

Uncle affects a wounded stance, lifting his nose up in the air. “I known from the start, since you boys went out to deal with that Achering bounty, back round the start of last spring.”

Arthur’s ready to tell him to stuff it in and stop lying when he does some quick arithmetic and darts his eyes over at Charles.

“That was - when we, uh.”

Charles also looks shocked, his mouth hanging open. They’d been chasing Achering down for a bounty outside Strawberry when they’d been forced into a pup tent to wait out a sudden, early spring snow, pressed against one another in that scant privacy, when Charles took him in his hands the first time, Arthur a wreck of want and uncertainty as the snow came down gently outside.

“There’s no way he could - no,” Charles says, shaking his head, but Uncle just stands there looking proud of himself.

“Plain. As. Day,” he says, nodding to himself.

Ain't much time to dwell on that because John is looking hurt and angry now, watching them with wide, wounded eyes. But John wasn’t much good at feeling embarrassed, and right now he looks like the scrawny urchin Hosea had once dragged back to camp, shoulders hunched defensively, lookin’ ready to bite.

“You don’t trust me?” he demands, his voice creaking. “Still?”

“Aw hell,” Arthur grumbles, rolling his eyes, but that awful uncertainty in John’s voice managed to land a blow on him, sharp enough to wind him. “Believe it or not, John Marston, there’s things in the world that ain’t about you.”

“Yeah, it’s just a damn coincidence I’m the only one that don’t know yous guys is inverts,” he spits out, crossing his arms pissily over his chest.

Javier, who’s been standing alongside John, grinning at the fallout, suddenly goes serious, giving John a long, unflinching look. “You best think wisely about the words you use, Marston.”

John throws up his hands, immediately on the defensive. “Ain’t sayin’ it’s bad!”

“So what are you saying, John Marston?” Abigail said, folding her arms over her chest and looking at him archly. When John draws breath to speak, she cuts him off. “Maybe you should hold off saying anything until you sobered up, huh?”

Above, there’s a mewling, unhappy cry followed by a string of furious French. A moment later, Mrs Dunand wrenches open a second storey window and sticks her head out, glaring down at the lot of them balefully. “What is the meaning of this? You all make enough noise to raise the dead! Look what you have done, waking the baby.”

“I’m real sorry about that, Mrs - Marie,” Hosea says, whipping his hat off his head, holding it over his heart. “Just some - family matters. You understand.”

Mrs Dunand looks annoyed, but she softens up for Hosea more quickly than she has for anyone else. She pats the tight bun on the back of her head demurely. “Well. You all have your family matters in the good light of morning, yes? Also, I will be staying the night.” She pauses, drumming her fingers on the sill. “To look after Mary-Beth and the baby, of course.”

“I would not have it any other way,” Hosea says happily, taking John roughly by the ear and dragging him inside, ignoring the muttered insinuations from Lenny and Sean. “I’ll just get to putting the other children to bed.”

A moment later, it’s just the folk that live out in the cabins lingering outside, Sadie, Sean, Karen, Javier, Lenny, and Uncle.

Sadie grins at them. “You boys gonna walk back with us, or…?”

“I reckon we’ll find our own way home,” Arthur says quickly, and ignores the laughter and whistle as the group sets off down the trail to the cabins, the bubble of their voices bleeding away into the unquiet night.

“Now where was I?” Arthur says, tucking his thumb under Charles’ chin to tip his face up, kissing him gently. Usually they ain’t got the height difference to make it necessary, but Charles is slouched comfortably against the wall, and is kind enough to let Arthur indulge himself a bit. Charles makes a soft, content noise into his mouth, his hands warm and sturdy on Arthur’s sides.

“That could have gone better,” Charles murmurs, but he ain’t fretful or pulling away.

“Could’ve gone worse. Could’ve popped him one.” Arthur grins. “Who knows, maybe I’ll still get a chance if he don’t get his head out of his ass quick enough.”

“We live in hope,” Charles says tiredly, but he’s still smiling. The night’s been one peak of emotion after another, but pressed together in the lee of the house that Charles found them, on the land he’d sussed out with all his careful planning and love, Arthur finds it hard to have a bad feeling about anything, least of all John Marston getting himself into a sulk.

“I don’t got words for how much I love you,” Arthur says, and he means it to come out like the simple statement of fact it is, but somewhere between his brain and his mouth the words crack; there’s a whole storm of feelings pressed against his throat, gale-force strong and rending and the best thing he’s ever felt in the world.

Charles runs his fingers back over Arthur’s cheek, and what’s in his eyes is a reverence that Arthur surely don’t deserve. Not in a thousand lives of honest living could a man hope to earn a look like that from someone so good as Charles. Charles smiles, holding Arthur’s head in his hands when he kisses him, his voice soft and gentle when he says. “I reckon those work just fine. C’mon now,” he says, sliding his hand into Arthur’s back pocket as he pushes away from the wall. “We should get home before Mrs. Dunand dumps some ice water on us.”

They walk on home. Spring continues its gentle unfolding around them, accompanied by a chorus of peepers and birdsong, the sweet smell of sap and flowers on the wind.

*

“A very strange family,” Marie says, watching out the front door. Hosea leans on the opposite wall, watching as Charles and Arthur make their way down the trail. The rest of folk have finally gone on to bed, even young Charlotte has been rocked back to blissful sleep. They’re the only two left awake in the house.

“You’re not wrong.” He glances over at her, weighing his words. “Of course, Marie, your discretion would be-”

She waves him away. “You Americans think you invented everything, I am not a foolish old woman to go around making a fuss out of love.”

“I would say you’re not an old woman at all,” Hosea says, grinning at her. She swats at him playfully.

“I would say you are so sharp you probably cut yourself, Mr. Matthews.”

“Hosea,” he corrects gently, twinkling at her. It’s a smile he’d practiced when he was a young man, hopeful and mischievous and full of promise. It comes more easily and honestly now than it ever had before, especially with such a strong and forthright woman in front of him, looking at him like she knew the make and measure of him, and was still thinking about letting herself be charmed.

She hums, reaching up to pluck the bobby pins from her hair. It’s snowy white and full of soft curls as she lets it fall down around her shoulders. “Miss Abigail said you had prepared your own bedroom for me.”

“It’s at the top of the stairs,” Hosea says helpfully. “Small, I’m afraid, but freshly made up.”

“And you?”

“We’ve a cot in the barn,” Hosea says, shrugging. “Usually for whenever Abigail tosses John out for being thick.”

“He must spend most nights there,” she says, but her eyes are dancing. “It’s not good for an old man to be sleeping out in the cold.”

“Well, lucky me I am not an old man. Just -” He waves his hand. “A distinguished gentleman of a certain age.”

Marie snorts like a horse, and Hosea finds himself wholly charmed. Just as he’s getting ready to head outside, she stops him with a soft hand on his shoulder.

“You know, an old woman could develop a fearful chill sleeping alone in a drafty old house,” she says, smiling. The house is as warm and draft-free as any other, but Hosea turns to her, smiling, all the same.

“It would be such bad manners to allow that to happen,” he says earnestly. “Whatever will you do?”

The chuckle that Marie lets out is wholly dirty and delights Hosea to no end. She reaches out and undoes the top button on his shirt, not looking away from his eyes. “Perhaps you should come help me think on the matter. A smart man like you, I am sure you have some ideas.”

“So very many ideas,” Hosea agrees, and lets her lead him by the hand up the stairs.