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eighteen seventy-nine
Dutch and Susan aren’t doing too well lately. Arthur can hear them arguing when they think that he’s asleep, voices hushed but angry over the crackling of embers, and he tries not to listen but he can’t much help it without getting up and walking out of earshot, which he suspects would embarrass Susan. So he keeps his eyes shut tight and his back to them, not moving a muscle until either they give it up for the night or he manages to drift off, whichever comes first.
One night, they sit together in silence for a long time after Arthur turns over in his bedroll several feet away, so long that he’s actually nearly asleep when she finally whispers, “You’re too close with him, Dutch. Too affectionate. It just ain’t healthy, or right.”
He can hear Dutch chuckle some, imagines him shaking his head, dark eyes alight with the glow of the dying fire, “I can assure you that your imagination is simply running wild. I’ve taken him under my wing, that’s all—you can see he needs somebody to look up to, Susan, can’t you? There’s no harm in that. He’s just a boy.”
“Well, that’s what worries me! He doesn’t just look up to you. He looks at you different, like he don’t think you can do anything wrong in the world, and I - I love you, Dutch, but even I ain’t convinced of that. I don’t know what’s goin’ on in that big head of yours, but you surely ain’t his daddy,” there’s a shuffling sound, and then Susan adds, even lower than before, “Or whatever else it is you’re trying to be.”
“Now what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it’s supposed to mean,” Susan replies darkly after a well drawn out pause, and Arthur wishes he knew but supposes Dutch must because the man doesn’t ask again, “He’s been through more than enough without you confusing him. I just won’t have it... A boy his age doesn’t know much better, but you certainly do.”
Dutch lets out a bark of laughter, and then, probably only pretending to remember himself, hums delightedly, as if this is the funniest thing on the planet, “So that’swhat this is about, hm? Why, I hadn’t the faintest clue, Miss Grimshaw, that you’d feel threatened so easily, or else I might not’ve invited you along in the first place.”
Arthur swallows hard, eyes blinking open as he gives up all pretense of trying not to overhear. Dutch never calls her Miss Grimshaw, not when they’re alone, anyhow, and he guesses Dutch must be a mite angrier than he sounds. He’s always been good at that, at talking sweet and playful and dangerous all at once, and even though he’s never spoken to Arthur that way, it still unnerves him.
“Dutch.” Susan’s tone is short, a warning.
Of course, Dutch don't heed many warnings, never has from what Arthur can tell and likely never will, and so he keeps talking. Except now his voice has lost its amusement, gone all flat and hard instead, and that is far worse than honeyed words and winsome smiles, “This gang—this family, because that is what we are, all of us—has no place for a green-eyed monster. I suggest you look inward before turning it on me again. We have an understanding, don’t we, my dear?”
There comes a noise like a wounded animal, and then footsteps stomping away through the dirt until they fade out of earshot. Dutch sighs and everything is silent again—well, everything except for Arthur’s mind, which whirrs away frantically inside his skull.
Now, he may be quiet, and young, and thick-headed, as Bessie always says, and maybe it wasn’t until Dutch or Hosea taught him that he knew how to read or write proper, but Arthur Morgan is far from stupid. Even including the odd outlaws that fall in and out with them regularly, depending on where they are and what they need, he’s the only one young enough to be called a boy, the only one Dutch is so close with, so who else could they be talking about other than him? Who else had Dutch “taken under his wing” quite like he had Arthur?
His throat feels tight. If that’s true, then what does Susan mean? What’s he not supposed to know better about? He knows Dutch ain’t his daddy, and he ain’t confused or, even worse, addled. He watched the lawmen drag Lyle away, kicking and spitting and cussing—watched the bastard hang, kicking and twitching and swinging.
And Dutch—well, Dutch Van der Linde is nothing like Lyle Morgan, that’s for damn sure. He is something else entirely, something different but better, so much better, and whatever it is Susan’s accusing him of, Arthur knows it ain’t true. Dutch is a good man, the best man he’s ever known, who only hurts people who deserve it (—shoot fellers as need shootin’, save fellers as need savin’, feed ‘em as need feedin’—), and it’s because of him, not in spite of, that Arthur knows he doesn’t deserve it. That’s more than Lyle ever did, anyway, with his penchant for swinging first and asking questions later. No, Dutch protects Arthur, Dutch feeds him, Dutch saved him. More than anything, Dutch would never hurt him. That is what he knows.
But even still—it just ain’t right. The words shove their way into his mind, and it occurs to him, suddenly, that it might have something to do with those funny feelings he’s been having lately. They’ve been worrying at him, after all. The way his stomach twists and flutters when Dutch touches him, or grins at him all proud, or catches his eye with a playful wink… It just ain’t right.
And then there are the dreams, the ones full of flickering light and lidded gazes and rough hands all over, the ones that leave him stiff and aching or sometimes even wet down there when he wakes with burning cheeks. He hasn’t told anyone about those things, though, not even Bessie, and he always takes care of himself and cleans up quick in the mornings, so how could Susan possibly know?
“Arthur,” and, lo and behold, that’s Dutch’s voice coming from the dark, brimming with amusement once more, “You’re thinkin’ too loud, son, I can practically hear you from here.”
Arthur’s heart nearly stops beating. A wild, despairing thought captures him—has he been speaking out loud this whole time?—and he wants to throw up but instead he is frozen in place, still feigning sleep, hoping and praying silently to a god he doesn’t even believe in anymore.
Dutch chuckles, low and deep. He sounds like he’s still sitting by the fire. “It’s alright, my boy, I’m only kiddin’ you,” he says, and Arthur feels the tension bleed out of him like a stuck rabbit. How special it is to be my boy. “Oh, c’mon, I know you’re awake. Just come and sit with me awhile.”
So Arthur does. Of course he does. Dutch calls, and he comes, because what else would he do? However, he does so slowly, calmed enough to feel ashamed about being caught eavesdropping, but by the time he approaches the fire, hovering hesitantly just outside the circle, Dutch is laughing again.
“You look like you’re on your way to the gallows, Arthur!” Dutch is sitting on a fallen log, the one they had dragged over upon making camp the evening before, and he pats the empty space beside him, “Cheer up, and come sit. You want a smoke?”
Despite the late hour, Arthur glances around the camp. No one else seems to be awake, except for Susan, probably, and she doesn’t look to be anywhere within earshot. He isn’t sure why he feels the need to check, anyhow—ain’t nothin’ wrong with sitting by the fire. Finally, he shuffles closer and drops down onto the log beside Dutch, leaving a modest few inches between them, “Yeah, sure.”
Dutch offers him a cigarette and Arthur takes it without meeting his eyes, rolling it gently between his forefinger and thumb. Once he feels Dutch’s gaze move away, he allows himself to watch as Dutch produces another for himself and a matchbook from the small metal container sitting open on his thigh. Used to be you could read the engraving on it, or so Dutch says, but now it’s all scratched and dull from years of sitting in his pocket, carrying around the cigarettes he rolls by hand. Apparently it belonged to his daddy, but he never says any more when Arthur asks.
Dutch strikes the match against the grain of the book and cups his free hand around the flame as he brings it up towards his mouth. Shadows dance over his face, more dramatic than from the campfire alone, and amplify the strong line of his jaw, the handsome slope of his cheekbones. Arthur’s eyes land on the cigarette, perched so delicately between Dutch’s chapped lips, and he swallows audibly.
Smoke curls up into the air and suddenly Dutch is crowding into his space. “Here,” he prompts, then cocks a brow when Arthur does nothing but stare at him, “Your cigarette?”
Arthur blinks stupidly, once, twice, then tips his head down to hide his embarrassment, eyes shut tight as he gruffs out, “Right. Sorry.” As he slips the cigarette into his mouth, he can hear Dutch stamping out the first match—probably burned down to the end in the time it took him to catch up—and striking a new one. He waits patiently.
“Arthur,” Dutch says following a beat, firm but far from unkind, and Arthur’s eyes are already fluttering open by the time Dutch’s thumb slots under his chin, tipping his face back up towards him. Again all he can do is stare, dumbstruck, as Dutch holds the flame up to the other end of the cigarette. His thumb disappears in favor of cupping the match against the wind again, but the tip of his pinky finger brushes against Arthur’s cheek as he does so, lingering near the corner of his lips even after the tobacco is burning bright red, “There we are.”
It’s quick. Too quick. Arthur is only just beginning to process it all when Dutch leans away again, acting all the world as if nothing significant just happened. Maybe that means nothing significant did happen, but Arthur certainly feels somewhat changed. ‘Course, Dutch has always been affectionate with him, fond of slinging an arm around his shoulders playfully or grasping his forearms tight when he wants to make sure he’s listening good—hell, the first year Arthur’d been with the gang, before more regular meals and the day-to-day life of an outlaw caused him to sprout like a weed and fill out a bit, Dutch would sometimes swing him around the fire at night as Hosea played the harmonica and Bess and Susan clapped and sang; when they stopped to bathe and wash their clothes at a creek or a pond, he would sling Arthur, never ever naked but often already stripped down to his undergarments, over his shoulder and parade him around before tossing him into the water with a splash.
But that had been innocent, harmless, normal—Susan found no problem with their relationship then, did she? No, she used to laugh right along with Hosea and Bessie as the two of them collapsed around the fire, breathless and dizzied from dancing; as Arthur surfaced in the water, spluttering and swearing but only playing pretend at being angry with Dutch. It’s just that something about the moment they just shared feels different. In the near-hundred times Dutch has lit a cigarette for him, he’s never done it like that, never gets so close or touches him at all. It feels—It feels deliberate. Where Dutch’s fingers had been, Arthur’s skin tingles.
“So,” Dutch begins after a long moment of silence, and Arthur looks to him, watching faint bits of a smoke puff out from his lips with each word, “You wanna tell me what’s keepin’ you up so late?”
Arthur bites at the inside of his cheek instead of answering right away. He doesn’t really want to admit to listening in on their argument, but he supposes Dutch already knows, anyway. “I, uh, heard you an’ Susan fightin’.”
“I see,” Dutch hums, not sounding very surprised, and says no more.
After another drag from his cigarette, Arthur works up the courage to ask, “Is she angry with me?”
“With you?” This time, Dutch does sound a bit surprised, and Arthur can see his brow furrow out of the corner of his eye, “No, no, ‘course not, Arthur, you’re just perfect. No one’s angry with you.”
Arthur pushes the toe of his boot through the dirt in mindless patterns to distract himself from the way Dutch’s praise spreads warmth down his spine, “Is she angry with you?”
That draws a wry huff of laughter from Dutch, “Yes, I daresay she is, but it’s nothing you need to be worryin’ over. Everything’ll be just fine.”
“Is she gonna leave?” Arthur asks, worrying anyway. Even if she isn’t upset with him, won’t it partly be his fault if she leaves the gang? If he weren’t around, would she and Dutch even be fighting?
“No, Susan’s not goin’ anywhere,” Dutch assures him with a shake of his head, idly flicking ash from the end of his cigarette. It’s nearing its end, as is Arthur’s, but enough tobacco is left for him to puff more smoke in and then out again before continuing, “She’s working herself up over nothing, Arthur. Women do that sometimes. Tomorrow she’ll be back to normal, you’ll see.”
Unconvinced, Arthur starts again, “But Dutch, she said—”
“Arthur.” Dutch cuts him off, stern and edging on impatient. His tone is hard enough to make Arthur flinch away despite himself, despite the last two years of progress, and as Dutch catches the movement, he softens and sighs. “You trust me, Arthur, don’t you?” He pauses, smiling almost out of pride when Arthur nods immediately, emphatically, even though he still looks skeptical, “Good, I’d hope so. Now just listen to me, please. What’s going on between me and Susan ain’t any concern of a boy’s, alright? We’ll figure things out and everything will be fine, I promise you.”
Arthur wants to be reassured, he really does, but for some reason, his teeth are set on edge. If he were a dog, he images his hackles would be raised. He’s just a boy… A boy his age… Ain’t any concern of a boy’s… Thing is, it sure feels like it oughta be a concern of his. Sure feels like it’s entirely a concern of his. How is it he’s old enough to be an outlaw, but too young for the truth? Too young to know better, to even know what he shouldn’t know better about? It makes him feel like Dutch doesn’t fully trust him, and besides that, it just ain’t fair.
And he says as much, albeit with more petulance than he intends, as he drops the butt of his cigarette into the dirt, crushing it under his boot, “That’s bull, Dutch, and it ain’t—it ain’t fair. If it’s got somethin’ to do with me, I deserve to know.”
Dutch, for his part, looks taken aback, as if he hadn’t expected any resistance, but only for a moment before schooling his features, “I said it’s no concern of yours and I mean it. I thought you said you trust me, or am I rememberin’ that wrong?”
“Never said I don’t,” Arthur frowns, stuck between his fear of giving Dutch the wrong idea and his irritation at not being taken seriously, “I just—”
“Then trust me—” Dutch speaks slow and somber, eyes as dark as the sky above as they bore holes into Arthur, “—when I tell you to leave it alone. Do you understand, boy?”
Now that’s downright mean, and it stings, but Arthur learned real young to hide his hurt with anger and so he seethes. He springs up off the log, his whole body tightening up defensively, hands clenching into fists at his sides as he exclaims a little too loudly, “Call me that one more time, Dutch, I swear—I’m sixteen, not a goddamn—”
Dutch stands and, despite that growth spurt, towers over Arthur, causing the words to die in his throat. “Oh, but you are a boy, Arthur Morgan,” Dutch is nearly whispering and it’s menacing. This time, when he reaches for Arthur’s chin, he takes his entire jaw in hand, forefinger and thumb pressing into the sides of his throat, holding him still so Arthur can look nowhere but at him, “Only boys throw tantrums when they don’t get their way.”
Arthur swallows again, able to feel his throat contract and constrict against Dutch’s fingers. His grip is tight and unrelenting, and his hand is rough, callous, but large and warm and comforting in a strange way. Maybe comforting isn’t exactly the right word… It almost feels like his mind has gone quiet, blank, his anger simmering away until he’s left feeling childish and guilty. He can’t bear facing Dutch’s disappointment any longer, and so drops his gaze down to his chest instead, feeling a flush creep from the tips of his ears down to his neck.
What would Hosea say if he were awake to hear this? He’d probably agree with Dutch, that Arthur is acting like a boy. Bessie would probably tell him he’s being disrespectful, especially after all Dutch has done for him, after Dutch saved his life. He owes him his trust and his loyalty, and while he’s not exactly convinced that they weren’t fighting about him, if Dutch says it’s none of his concern, then it’s none of his concern—at least, not until he can prove himself, prove that he isn’t some foolish child.
“M’sorry,” he eventually manages, sheepish.
“I’m sorry, what?”
Dutch is looking at him expectantly and Arthur feels his cheeks grow even warmer. Confused, he tries, “M’sorry, Dutch?”
Dutch clicks his tongue and squeezes Arthur’s jaw harder for a moment, “Have you been behaving like a brat, Arthur?”
“Y - Yes,” Arthur answers hesitantly. Part of him thinks that’s the answer Dutch is expecting from him, another is more clueless than ever, and another still thinks it’s just plain true. He has been a bit of a brat. Dutch is scary like this, but there’s something dark and thrilling about the way he’s touching him, speaking to him. Images scatter through his mind, fake memories from his dreams—Dutch pressing him up against a tree with a hand down the front of his pants, ordering him to his knees with that achingly slow drawl, littering him with bruises and bites and scratches under his clothes so that they have a secret to share.
“Then it’s sir,” Dutch corrects him, infuriatingly calm.
“M’sorry, sir,” Arthur chokes the words out. He feels like he’s sweating. There’s heat pooling in his stomach, the beginning of an uncomfortable strain against denim. What is happening?
Dutch hums thoughtfully, almost critically, “You’re gonna listen to me from now on, aren’t you, Arthur?”
Arthur nods, and then, when Dutch only stares harder, hastily adds, “Yes, sir.”
“And you’ll let me take care of things, won’t you? Unless I say different?”
“Yes, sir.”
Finally, the grip on his face loosens. Dutch’s hand instead slides up to cup Arthur’s cheek for the briefest of moments before patting it gently and falling away. “Good boy,” he emphasizes his praise with a smile, and relief crashes over Arthur like a wave, “You’re forgiven.”
And as quickly as things shifted between them, they shift back. “It’s getting awfully late,” Dutch steps back and puts an ample amount of space between them, again so casual and composed that Arthur wonders if he didn’t just dream the past fifteen minutes, “Go on back to bed now, son.”
Arthur fights the urge to say yes, sir as he forces his feet to move away from the campfire. Before he gets too far, his name comes soft from behind him, and he turns back towards Dutch as if it were a command.
“Goodnight,” Dutch has a smirk playing across his lips, and he winks when Arthur meets his eye—he suspects it’s the only acknowledgment he’ll be granted, at least for now, “and sweet dreams, my boy.”
Arthur returns to his bedroll and lays back down on his side, with his back to the fire. His heart is pounding, his mind is reeling. When he does finally sleep, his dreams are burning.