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His body aches like hell. He’s mentally cursing himself out for not agreeing to let John come along with him. A shopping trip should be easy, right? Just a quick swing in and out to pick up some odds and ends that everyone needs.
The air feels too thick. A cough is constantly building in his throat. He forces his nose into his elbow each time it forces itself out. He gets a few odd looks, but nothing as bad as he’s gotten before. Every time he nearly buckles over, his horse slows a bit, ears flicking back to catch the sound.
“Sorry, girl,” he wheezes out. “I’m a stupid bastard, ain’t I?”
She whuffs in his face when he dismounts slowly, creakingly, and gives her a pat on the neck. Her neck dips as she lets him hang on for a moment to catch his breath.
Nobody pays him much mind except to avoid him as he clomps up the steps of the general store and digs the list out of his pocket. Gets everything gathered up, paid for, and settled in his saddlebags. Puts his hands on either side of his saddle and pauses. Stares into nothing.
He doesn’t realize how long he’s been standing there until he’s jostled. Mumbles an apology and hauls himself onto his horse with a pained grunt. He has to take another moment to get reoriented. It’s much too difficult to turn her around on the dirt road and nudge her onward. At the least, she knows where she’s going.
Everything blinks in and out. It’s barely nighfall and he’s already exhausted.
“Sorry, girl,” he repeats, over and over. “Sorry.”
When he gets back to camp, half the chores still aren’t done, so he drops everything off to Pearson and gets to it. He sees Charles frown out of the corner of his eye. Mentally, he pleads with the other man to not stop him- it’s one of the few normal things he has left, even if it does hurt and take ages to complete now.
It feels an awful lot like no one gives a damn. He’s huffing and puffing and coughing out half his words and nobody has asked if he’s alright. He thinks Hosea is picking things up, but it’s hard for them to talk when Dutch insists on job after job.
I’m so goddamn tired. He slumps onto his cot and stares at the fabric above until his eyes give out.
He’s woken up much, much too early by Javier gently prodding him, explaining that Dutch wants to go on a train robbery. Reluctantly, he follows a couple of the other men to the horses, then out onto the trail, then along the railroad as Dutch instructs them on how to act (as if they haven’t robbed trains a million times before). They’re assigned positions and Arthur is both annoyed and relieved at how he’s put on the back burner.
“Keep up, son!”
“I’m keepin’ up,” he mutters.
There’s no issue at all as they stop the train, board the cars, and get all the jewelry and money from the passengers and luggage inside. Arthur keeps an eye out for the law, though his vision goes spotty in some places and he has to blink rapidly way too often. Just as he dips his head to rub furiously at his eyes, he hears hoofbeats. Within seconds, he’s hollering to the others, and they’re rushing out to get to their horses.
Oh, fuck, he thinks when he spots those green accents.
The first few go down easily. Arthur hates shooting horses, but he has to when the trees block his view of the men riding them. Dutch has no hesitation in kicking The Count into gear. The others aren’t far behind and before he knows it Arthur is starting to get left behind.
No, no, no!
His voice is hoarse when he tries to shout after them to wait for him. It’s a stupid thing to want, he knows, because if they slow they could die. It’s his fault for being too slow. For being distracted.
Dutch, please!
It’s too dark to even see the white flank of The Count. His own horse is doing her best to steer through the tangled greenery, but she’s losing steam, and he’s losing bullets. The next man he shoots he could damn near hug, he’s so close. Pain jolts through his shoulder after a flurry of gunshots reaches his ears. Everything slides sideways- he’s sliding sideways, toppling over, head colliding with the rough bark of a tree.
Please don’t kill my horse.
When he comes to, it’s muggy and dark, and he can’t help but burst into a coughing fit because of the dust. He can’t curl in on himself due to the ropes digging into his chest and wrists, so it’s nothing more than a painful, wheezing, wet thing that makes the men who’d been about to approach him recoil back. They stare as he takes big gulping breaths to get rid of the sting.
“We pick up the sick one?” one mutters.
“Seems it. Thought he’d be scarier.”
He ignores them. Focuses on making sure he doesn’t pass back out. A concussion at least, with the way his head is pounding, along with a shoulder full of bullet shrapnel. It hurts.
“Let’s leave his sorry ass alone. Go tell the boss.”
Figures.
In and out of consciousness again- he’s gotten so damn used to it it’s almost reassuring. He knows to expect it by now. It’s ironic. A sign that he’s dying is what tells him he’s doing okay.
If he was feeling better, he’d try to escape. Dig the spare knife out of his boot and cut his bonds. Go on a rampage through whatever hideout he’d been drug into and kill every single one of those bastards for daring to interrupt their robbery. Make it a point to Colm to not mess with them for a little bit (it’d have the opposite effect, but it’s the thought that counts).
He hopes the others made it back to camp. It’d be a shame if he died for no reason.
“Ah, it is him.”
The sneering voice pulls him out of his muddy brain. Footsteps ring through the room- a metal floor, maybe, or rock- and only stop right in front of him. A boot nudges his own. When he doesn’t move, a hand grabs him by the chin and tilts his head down, thumb pressing into the scar below his mouth.
“Colm,” he rasps out.
Said man’s brows furrow. “You sound hideous,” he states flatly.
“Feel like shit.”
“You certainly look it. What, has Dutch decided to go for the tough love approach?”
“Nnguh…” The speed at which Colm releases him and steps back when he starts coughing up a lung again would make him laugh if he could actually speak. Copper burns on his tongue; he spits out a rather significant amount of blood and phlegm. “Ow, shit…”
“...What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Non’ yer business.”
“Well, I was keepin’ you alive to get a little rough-” Arthur doesn’t have to ask to know what that means, with that tone, “-but it seems you’re not in the mood. Doesn’t seem particularly pleasant to…” His eyes slide down to the floor, then back up. “Perhaps I should just kill you.”
“Uh-huh.”
Colm’s mouth twists in frustration. He’s a lot easier to read now that Arthur’s seen through the mask a few times. “Bein’ borin’ on purpose? You really are at the end of your rope.”
Dutch left me behind. Then, he thinks, no, they would’a died if they waited for me. His silence is entertained for exactly five seconds before Colm sighs heavily and lights up a cigarette. He waves the men behind him away, glaring when they don’t immediately obey, smirking when they end up scrambling out the door. Smoke filters out of his nose like a living incense burner.
“...Tell me, Morgan, seriously,” he starts quietly. It’s so disarming that Arthur blinks up at him. “What happened to you?”
“Don’t know what yer talkin’ ‘bout-” He grunts when Colm’s boot slams into the space between his thighs, rocking the chair. It spurs another coughing fit but Colm doesn’t shy away from this one.
“Don’t play with me. Look at the state of you- I ain’t ever seen a man more sick in my life. You even been to a doctor?”
“Yeah.”
“Well?”
“I-” His head is spinning. He shouldn’t be entertaining Colm. He should be cursing him out, threatening him, and pushing all his buttons. Get his brains blown out in a fit of the older man’s rage and have the news reach Dutch (would his adoptive father care to get revenge for him? He can’t say for sure anymore, and boy, is that depressing). But Colm is prodding with an odd sort of gentleness, so it spills out of him like water from a spout, Colm’s hand on the knob. “I got tuberculosis. That’s what the doctor said. Have fer a while, I guess, ‘cause it’s gotten real bad, and I ain’t got much time left or somethin’, and it hurts like fuckin’ hell to do anythin’. Can’t stop coughin’ but that hurts, too-”
He cuts off with a wheeze. Dares to glance up at Colm’s face. It’s terrifyingly blank. Listening. Judging. A nervous chill runs across his shoulders.
“...We can’t fuck,” he finally mumbles. “I might give it to ya.”
“How kind of you.”
Colm’s hand brushes under his chin, skin and leather glove, and forces him to look up. Fingers dig into his jaw. He swallows back the coughs that bubble up.
“You ain’t the one who gets to decide that,” Colm tells him bluntly. “You’re forgettin’ another important part of this; I ain’t human, remember?”
“S-so?”
A sigh blows smoke over his face. It burns his nose. “I ain’t get diseases like you lot. High metabolism, different immune system, something like that. Who the hell knows.” He pats Arthur’s cheek and snorts. “Wipe that look off your face. I won’t kill you today, Morgan.”
“Why?”
“No point. You’re already dyin’, ain’t you? But I’m feelin’ rather kind, so I’ll extend a bit more than mercy. There’s a way for you to live, you know.”
He stares. I don’t. How? It doesn’t come out. But Colm reads him like a book.
“Avian bullshit. Some old tradition that I ain’t ever tried before. But it puts me at risk, too, so I ain’t gonna do it unless you’re serious. You go back to that little camp of yours and decide whether you wanna live and then you can come back to me. Got it?”
He nods, like a dumb dog.
“Good, good.” Colm hums. He leans forward and runs the rough pads of his fingers over Arthur’s nose, then across the ridge of his brow. Not kind, but not harshly. Like he’s petting him, reduced to a dog in everything but form, praised for finally listening and doing what he’s told. “I ain’t doin’ this for you,” the older man continues, absent. “If you die, Dutch might decide to give up the ghost, and I ain’t wantin’ that until our little game is over. Well, this would put me in a good position, understand? A favor- he’ll owe me for keepin’ you alive.”
Arthur makes a vague noise of agreement.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be keepin’ you here much longer. You better give ol’ Dutch my regards.”
And then he’s on his horse again, heading back to camp. She’s antsy, dancing a little, only calming a little the further they get from the O’Driscolls. He’s relieved that she’s not only alive but also in decent condition; he figures that Colm ordered them to not kill her, for some reason, and it’s another weird inkling he has to file away about the man.
It’s depressing for him to realize he’s shocked at the reactions when he gets back. Most of the others are staring at him like he’s a ghost (the relief on Javier’s face is palpable). Grimshaw’s face is drawn up tight in that angry, worried fashion he hasn’t seen in so long, and Hosea isn’t far behind her. He’s all but dragged to his cot so they can check him over.
“His shoulder,” she’s explaining to Hosea, forcing Arthur to undo the top of his shirt to show her the bare skin. “Shot, obviously, but it should heal. Are you sick, Arthur?”
The question takes him off guard. All he does is blink up at her.
“He’s been sick, I think,” Hosea murmurs. A warm hand tilts his head to the side. “Arthur, why didn’t you say anything?”
“Don’t- uh, I dunno.”
Hosea just frowns. He stands to the side as Grimshaw gets Arthur all wrapped up, watching, waiting. They talk in low voices about Arthur and Dutch and some other things he’s not paying much attention to. The old man doesn’t leave even when Grimshaw does. Instead, he pulls a chair over and settles in next to the cot as Arthur lays down.
“...If-” He hesitates when Hosea looks over. “If you were dyin’-”
“Oh, Arthur,” comes the soft sigh.
It pulls his chest but he pushes through. If he doesn’t look Hosea in the face he won’t start crying. “If you were dyin’ and someone offered a way outta it, would’j’u do it? Even… even if it was someone who- who shouldn’t be offerin’ it and it’d give ‘em a way to get back at someone else?”
There’s no answer for a long, long moment. All he hears is Dutch’s stupid opera records and the drunken ramblings of Uncle and Bill at the fire. He wets his lips. Tries to calm his heart.
“Colm offered?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Somethin’ you can’t get anywhere else.” It’s not a question. Hosea heaves out a sigh. “I should tell you no. I’m sure you know that. But I’m gettin’ mighty tired of all this running. We ain’t gettin’ any younger. And I don’t want to see you go before me. I’m worried about you, Arthur.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m glad you’re asking for my opinion. But you’ve been a grown man for a while now; I think you should be able to make decisions like this- especially about things like this- on your own.”
“But Dutch-”
“Ignore Dutch for now.” Hosea pats his leg. “He’ll be furious, but that’s on him. I’ll be on your side. The important thing is what you want.”
“...I don’t understand, Hosea,” he whispers. “What’re you sayin’ I should do?”
“I’m sayin’ don’t listen to me, Arthur.”
“But-”
“I won’t give you advice for this. Let me just ask you one thing. Do you want to live?”
Yes. God, yes, he wants to live so bad. There’s too much to live for around here. The gang, the changing world, and his potential future (if he has one beyond outlawing). He has to make sure John doesn’t do stupid shit, has to watch Jack grow up from a snotty toddler into a moody teenager and then into a full fledged adult. He has to make sure Tilly has someone on her side when she decides what she wants to do. He- he just has too much to live for.
Abruptly, he sits up. The look he gives Hosea is undoubtedly wide-eyed and crazed. But Hosea just looks back, patiently.
“I have to go,” he hears himself say, dazed.
“Susan will try to stop you.”
“You- you gotta stop her from doin’ that.” Help me, Hosea, just a little.
“I can try.”
He’s already halfway out of camp by the time he blinks. There’s still a churning of pain and exhaustion in his gut, but the adrenaline is overriding everything else. He shoves his hat down low over his eyes and ignores the stinging in his bandaged shoulder as he hauls himself into his saddle. Briefly, he can hear Hosea talking to Grimshaw, distracting her as Arthur gets himself the hell out of there.
I hope to god they ain’t shoot me for stormin’ up there.
The night is cold. Chilly on his arms and face as he leans low over his horse’s neck and prays he’s going the right direction. His stomach aches in a fear of Dutch’s reaction, in a bundle of nerves about his decision, about everything in between.
He nearly bowls an O’Driscoll guard over. The man yelps and then starts shouting at him. There’s a gun being waved into his face but he looks over the man’s head to see if he can spot Colm in the dark. When he dismounts he nearly falls on his ass.
“Ow, shit,” he hisses. He probably looks like an absolute fool right now. “Don’t shoot me, bastard, just take me to your boss.”
Colm’s men stare at him. They exchange a glance but give in suprisingly easily. The inside of the cabin isn’t any warmer than the outside of it.
“That was fast-”
“Shuddup,” he interrupts. His lungs burn and his words are dry as they’re forced out. “Just tell me how to do it.”
“Please. It ain’t that easy.” Colm blows out a stream of smoke and waves his men away. They go much quicker this time. “You do this, you work by my rules. I’m ruinin’ my own self for your sake, here.” Even as he says it, a smirk is curling the edges of his lips. “Besides, you’re too tired to argue, ain’t you? Best just listen and obey like a good little mutt.”
“Don’t call me that,” he mumbles. He can barely get the words out, his teeth are chattering so hard.
Colm rolls his eyes.
“I don’t- I just don’t wanna die. And that’s prob’ly makin’ me real damn stupid.”
“Sure is. Ah, Dutch will be wonderfully upset.” Colm bares his teeth at the thought.
“Tell- tell m-me-”
“For fuck’s sake, sit down before you fall over. Why didn’t you put on a damn coat?”
He shrugs. Slumps straight down on the spot, pulling his legs up close and rubbing his arms a bit. The exhaustion is starting to take over again now that his energy is gone. His head bobs as he forces his eyes to stay open. He jolts when Colm starts speaking again.
“An explanation, yes? I can’t tell you where it came from or the reason it works, but I did tell you about what it is, didn’t I?” Colm waits for an agreement before he continues. “Good. It’s called- what was that stupid name again?- somethin’ like a ‘bond’. A bonding ritual. You could say it’s the ultimate sort of coupling.”
We’ll be stuck together…? The idea of it makes him ill.
“Seems like you’re understandin’ it.” There’s a pause as the blurry image of Colm takes a drag of his cigarette. Still, through the haze his stare is cold. “Even if it does ruin things for me, it’s still a bonus against Dutch.” A finger jabs down at him. “We do this, and he kills me, he’ll end up killin’ you.”
He’s going to throw up. He gets exactly half a word out before he’s doing just that. The disgusted sound Colm makes is the only positive before his vision is blacking out again. He’s dimly aware of being pulled to his feet and steered into what he thinks is the corner of the room. A hand shoves him backward, but instead of hitting the floor he falls onto a mattress. Garbled protests come out but Colm- he thinks it’s Colm- ignores him in favor of cleaning his face off and patting his forehead condescendingly.
“Go to sleep, Morgan, before you cook your brain thinkin’ any further.”
It’s hard to tell just how long he’s slept. Once, when he opens his eyes, it’s brighter out and there’s a bit of noise outside the cabin, but he’s quickly unconscious again. Fades in and out until it’s starting to get dark again. It feels utterly fantastic to be getting this much rest after everything.
Guilt gnaws at his stomach.
“You slept a little longer than I expected,” Colm remarks. There’s a thick clunk as he sets a whiskey glass on the side table. Without his furred coat and hat, the older man is a lot slimmer than he seems (Arthur knows personally that it doesn’t make him any less dangerous). The bed dips as he sits on the edge and leans over to undo his shoelaces.
Arthur stares at the curve of his back.
“Honestly, I’m shocked you got this far. I would have expected Hosea to do somethin’ about it.”
The use of Hosea’s first name makes him startle. “...are we fuckin’?”
Colm casts him an annoyed look. “At least entertain my rambling.”
“How… how’s this work?”
“Cutting straight to the point, are we? Fine, Morgan, I’ll give you the basic rundown.” A hand slides along his jaw, no gloves this time, and he flutters his eyes shut instinctively. “Yes, we’re going to have sex. Unfortunately, it can’t be as one-note as before, and you ain’t get to be on top. It has to be a whole damn thing.”
His brows furrow.
“Don’t start complainin’- it’s ‘cause you ain’t got the appropriate equipment. Don’t worry, I’ll treat you well.” The words are accompanied with a soft, mocking laugh. “Now, can you get yourself naked or do I have to do it for you?”
“I got it,” Arthur grumbles, working at his buttons. Colm watches him for a moment, then pulls himself up further onto the bed, shoving Arthur’s legs wider and settling between them to continue watching. He’s entirely unbothered by the way his staring is affecting Arthur (he likely enjoys it, knowing the bastard). “All the way this time?”
“Yes.”
He refocuses back in on his stupid shirt, with the stupid buttons, picking them open one by one until he’s wiggling out of the thing and turning to his belt. Movement on the edge of his vision makes him glance up.
Colm is also undressing, though he’s taking his time with it. Arthur doesn’t know exactly why it throws him off kilter, but it does, and he stares until he’s glared at, to which he goes back to yanking his trousers off. He doesn’t miss the way Colm’s tongue darts out to wet his lips when he’s fully exposed. Some things can still give Arthur an ego boost despite his sickness, apparently.
“Quit staring.”
“Sorry,” he mumbles, very not sorry. “Ain’t seen you this bare before.”
“Of course not. Why the hell would I ever let you?”
“Uh-huh.” He remembers the faint, criss-crossing scars he’d seen along the older man’s back. His front side isn’t much better, a few thicker scars from knife wounds, and more body hair than Arthur was honestly expecting. Lean muscle moves when Colm does, leaning over to set his clothes to the side (it’s almost depressing how easily he can see the edge of ribs poking out. Does this guy eat?).
“You really do look hideous,” Colm sighs. His hands are scarily gentle as he takes Arthur by the face, turning it this way and that, taking in his eyebags, his pale complexion in its fullness. Thumbs brush along his cheekbones. His eyes are sharp as they run down the length of his body. “I’ve heard how this- tuberculosis, right?- eats away at the body, but it really is miserable to see. You’re quite literally wasting away. Don’t- ugh, don’t cry.”
“Sorry.” Hearing it stated so plainly is like a kick to the gut. He’s glad he didn’t break down in front of Hosea earlier. “How’s this go?”
“I told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I? Just lay back.” Colm rolls his eyes. “Stop giving me that look.”
“Thought’chu wasn’t my lover.”
It’s Colm’s turn to stare at him. He can practically see the wheels turning before the older man makes the connection. “Very funny. This does, in fact, make me your lover.”
“...Seriously?”
“If we followed the rules. Which we won’t.”
Right. His throat feels like mud. It feels more like Colm is inspecting him than doing any sort of foreplay, but there’s something reassuring about the blunt and clinical way that he’s being prodded (cold, always cold. Colm’s never had much warmth in his eyes). He thinks he’s had a little too much emotion for the week already.
It’s hard to argue when his life is on the line. He has so many damn questions; most of them are variations of ‘why did you give me the offer?’ though he knows the response it’d get. That can’t be the only reason, though. It can’t.
A grunt of pain escapes him.
“Quite a few bruises, eh? Good muscle on you, too-”
“Feels like yer puttin’ me out to auction.”
“Maybe I should.”
His head rolls to the side on the pillow. Breathing still hurts a bit, pinging the bottom parts of his lungs. It only eases when he inhales deep through his mouth.
Colm is jabbing his finger in all the painful spots. He’s doing it on purpose, too, because he’s smirking at the noises Arthur is making. His hand stops Arthur’s leg from flinching into his side and finally relents. Both hands slide up Arthur’s sides and he leans close to murmur. “I’ll make it feel good, Morgan, just focus on survivin’.”
“I-I don’t-”
“Shush. You know I don’t much care for yappy fools.”
He’s rewarded with a cheek pat for obediently shutting up. Talking with Colm makes him feel infuriatingly stupid most days, but right now it’s curdling something low in his gut that he can’t quite name. (He remembers, vaguely, a time when he was younger where Grimshaw was chiding him for following orders too blindly, too well to the point that Dutch could throw him into a pit of vipers and he’d fight before considering escaping). He’s loyal to a fault, apparently, but he really can’t see how that’s a bad thing.
Prob’ly ‘cause of situations like this. He bites the tip of his tongue when Colm starts stroking his length in long, even motions.
“How am I supposed to tell how I’m doin’ if you clam up?”
“You told me t’ ‘shush’-”
“You know damn well that ain’t what I meant.”
His nose scrunches. “...’least let me have this, you old bastard.” The grip on his dick tightens enough to make him wince. “Ow,” he whines out.
“Makin’ fun of me?”
“Nuh-uh. Just statin’ the truth.”
Colm scowls. But his hand loosens and he continues his touching, rubbing at particularly sensitive spots on the underside of Arthur’s dick, sliding his other hand under the closest thigh to squeeze the soft skin under his knee. He chuckles at the noise it elicits. “Even with your illness you paint quite the nice picture.”
“Uh-huh?”
“Perhaps I should have tried to seduce you earlier.”
“I’m the one that started this whole thing,” Arthur grumbles. “An’ I was a kid when we met- that would’a been gross.”
“What kind of person do you take me for?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t really want to- no answer and his body still hurts. He can’t stop the grunt when Colm pushes two fingers in without preamble. It hurts more than it feels good. His leg flinches hard enough to jostle Colm, which makes the older man scowl.
“Relax.”
“Little hard right now.”
“Well, nothin’ I do can change that, can it? You’re in pain no matter what.”
Just deal, then, huh? “Yer so cruel,” he mumbles like it’s some new realization.
“Never said I wasn’t.”
“Jus’ hurry up.”
“I am.” Colm huffs. “Have some patience, Morgan, I’m tryin’ to help you enjoy this.”
Liar.
“Aw, you don’t believe me?” The fingers pull out without even trying to coax any sort of pleasure out. Not even a brush over his sensitive spots. He blinks slow as Colm shifts forward, getting himself comfortable between Arthur’s legs with what feels like too much casualty. His own body is heavy, heavy against the mattress. “What, too tired to even help anymore?”
“Mmng.”
“Deterioratin’ by the second,” the older man murmurs with what sounds terrifyingly like a concerned tone. “Fine. I’ll pick up the pace.”
Deal with the pain. Deal with the pain. Deal-
His yelp is loud enough to make Colm pause. If he was feeling better he’d laugh at the look on his face. He’s not expecting the other to pull out and reach out to take him by the face. Utter gently to ‘breathe’ as he wheezes, trying to take in more air than he can. All he can sputter out back is ‘why, why’ because he just doesn’t understand why Colm is being so odd.
“Shockingly, I do act nice sometimes-”
“Doubtful.”
“Do you have to be a little shit all the time? I was hopin’ you lot would grow outta that. I’ve decided I like you. I want to. Are those good enough reasons?”
“No.”
Colm gives him a lopsided, flat look. It makes his nose look funny (so crooked). Arthur thinks he must be real delirious if that’s something he’s trying not to laugh at right now. “I have to treat you somewhat nicely for this, you know. That’s the other reason.”
“Only somewhat, huh…”
“Only somewhat,” Colm repeats. His fingers are prodding again. Like he’s trying to figure out what exactly the issue was. “I do have the capacity to feel bad, no matter what you or Dutch say or think-”
“Don’ talk ‘bout Dutch right now,” Arthur blurts.
“My point is- I’m rather good at playin’ human, ain’t I? You had no clue ‘til you forced your way in. Not the best, but I’d give myself a gold medal.” He chuckles when Arthur furrows his brow. “Gettin’ tired of my talkin’ already? We’ve barely even started. Besides, it’s a good distraction. You ain’t even so much as wince this time.”
Oh. It’s true; he hadn’t noticed that Colm’s fingers had turned into his dick and now he’s seated to the hilt, having done so the whole time he was yammering. It’s uncomfortable but there’s not as much pain.
Colm leans forward, resting his arms on one of Arthur’s knees, eyes sliding over his body. “Settled?”
“Th-think so.”
“Good. Here, put a pillow- like that. Much better angle.”
Arthur stays silent- as silent as he can be, puffing out each breath and trying to ignore how thick each one is- as Colm grabs his hips, then decides he doesn’t like that, and switches to holding under his thighs. It’s easier to let his head roll to the side and close his eyes as Colm starts moving. Just let it all happen instead of forcing himself to pretend he’s not in pain.
He can’t tell if it’s the actual bed or the avian-magic-bullshit, but it feels like the pressure on his lungs is easing up, just slightly. Maybe he’s already dying and this is the way it’s happening.
“Am I losin’ you already?” Fingers tap his forehead. Like a sledgehammer straight to his skull. Colm sighs when he grunts. “At least stay awake until this is over. It does need a little bit of your engagement.”
“Does… it?”
“Yes.”
He pushes his face into the hand that touches his cheek. Even without looking he can feel Colm’s gaze burning into him. Always intense. Always searching. “It hurts,” he mumbles.
Colm doesn’t bother responding. He’s back to moving again, small thrusts until he’s sure Arthur won’t protest. It doesn’t take long for him to pick up the pace and focus more on the pleasure- his own pleasure, really- than entertaining Arthur. Prickles of pain shoot up his spine; he shifts instinctively to try and get rid of it (Colm voices his complaints but doesn’t stop him, so he ignores those).
He’s not sure how much time passes until Colm is touching his face and trying to coax him to pay attention again. Flinching a little, he blinks and stares; Colm’s wings are out, hanging loosely behind him. When he realizes Arthur’s staring, he pulls one forward to brush the tips of the feathers over his skin, real gentle-like. Enough to make him shiver.
“That got your attention, eh? You do seem to like ‘em.”
“Pretty,” he responds, like a drugged moron.
He wonders if he’s imagining the flush to Colm’s cheeks at the comment. “Perhaps you’d be pleased to know I’ve been keepin’ up with their care since last time.”
He nods.
“A real pain in my ass, ain’t you?”
Shrugs.
“Listen,” Colm’s voice dips low and he leans in. “You gotta verbally agree to some of this bullshit. It ain’t gonna be in a language you understand, but that don’t mean I ain’t gonna translate for you.”
How nice.
“Quit makin’ that face. Puttin’ it bluntly, think of it like a- a wedding vow. Somethin’ like that. Don’t grimace, you fool, I already know how you feel ‘bout it.”
A laugh bubbles up in his chest, catching painfully and turning into a cough. Colm doesn’t pull away even as Arthur clamps a hand over his own mouth to keep from spitting saliva all over him. It’s hard not to look at those wings much less resist the urge to reach out and touch them.
“Well?”
Oh, an answer. “S-sure.”
Colm sighs.
“Uh, yeah. Yes. I ‘gree.”
“Good. Now don’t cough for a minute.”
“Ain’t like I’m controllin’ it,” he grumbles. But he doesn’t even as Colm grabs him by the face, fingers digging into his cheeks, and holds him steady as he kisses him. Careful and warm. There’s a brief pull away where Arthur sucks in as much air as he can- and Colm lets him- before it’s reconnected and he’s feeling fuzzy all over.
Oooh, I like that. It’s soothing all his aches and pains. Lets him finally relax and sink into the mattress as Colm utters words against his lips. That’s their language, huh? A bit whistle-y and smooth. It sounded odd coming from the older, brash man.
Maybe he could learn it.
“Whatever you’re thinkin’, I’m sure it’s ridiculous.”
“Ain’t stupid.”
“Not what I said. Fallin’ asleep again?”
“Yuh-huh…”
“Forcin’ yourself awake- you do that often? Relax already. There’s nothin’ more you need to do.” Rough knuckles slide against his cheekbone and then tug at his ear. Colm snickers when he grunts. “Unless you’re feelin’ up to it enough to get off.”
“No…”
More prodding at his sides and then at his neck. Both hands on his face, tilting it this way and that. Back to his sides. Searching, not soothing, or just trying to pick him apart. It’s hard to tell when his brain feels like scrambled eggs and his body feels like a pack of lead bullets. Tellin’ me to sleep is easier than me tryin’, he thinks blandly. Did he even finish himself?
Arthur wakes with a jolt. Alone in the bed and staring at the ceiling. A chill sweeps over his shoulders, so he pulls the blankets up to his chin and wiggles further down. The curtains are all pulled tight- it’s as if Colm is trying to keep anyone from looking inside while he’s gone.
Prob’ly sets a bad standard to get in bed with your enemy.
He can breathe better. He sits up and stretches his arms, then his legs, then twists his body around until all the joints are popped and it aches in a delightful way.
While he’s here, he should snoop around. Nothing soothes Dutch’s rage like insight on the people he’s trying to best; Arthur’s already dreading heading back to camp and having to explain to the man that not only did he run off, he all but screwed up his chances of revenge.
I feel sick. How long have I been here?
Pressing a hand to his chest, he hauls his trousers on and wanders over to the kitchenette. An absolute mess; dishes piled in the sink, half-eaten tins on the counter, and most of the cupboard doors are left open to some degree. His gaze slides over to the table just a few feet away to see a similar scene of papers stacked precariously and a map barely visible in the middle. Towns are circled or scratched out. Newspaper articles cut out and clipped together.
It all seems so much more frantic and slapdash than the way Arthur’s used to. Making his gang so large and distant is coming back to bite him in some ways, really, and Colm’s not getting any younger.
How old do avians get? His shoulders jump as the door slams.
“Oh, you’re standin’.”
Arthur watches as Colm exhales heavily. Sheds his coat and moves about as if he’s not even there. There’s a commotion outside but Colm pays it no mind.
“Somethin’ on your mind?”
“…Lotta things.”
The older outlaw hums.
“Am I- am I really okay now?”
“You can breathe, can’t you? Practically dyin’ on my doorstep and now you’re movin’ like nothin’ happened. What d’you think?”
His head bobs dazedly. “Why’d you… the windows?”
“Well, sorry for lettin’ you sleep without any interruptions.”
He can feel his eye twitch. “What were you out doin’?”
“Are you a housewife? I was on a job. What else would I be doin’?” Colm nearly yanks a drawer out of the side table, plucking out a pack of cigarettes. There’s no effort to close the drawer after himself. He slumps into the worn couch and frowns down at the stick between his fingers until Arthur realizes he doesn’t have matches on him. Without thinking, he swipes a box off the busy table and makes his way over, holding it out. The old man shifts the cigarette to the front of his mouth and juts his chin out.
Arthur gives in and lights it for him. Ignores Colm’s smirk as he puts the box back and flicks the used match into the sink (he’s surprised the dirty dishes don’t catch fire).
“I’m surprised you’re still around now that you’re awake.”
“I just got up.” It takes him a bit longer than he would’ve liked to find his shirt. Colm watches him button it up with an unblinking stare. “Ain’t sure if we gotta talk ‘bout things, either.”
“Why would we?”
“’Cause-” he motions around. Guilt and panic builds in the pit of his stomach. “I gotta go back and explain all this.”
“Sure do.”
“You ain’t gonna give me a lick of help.”
It’s not a question. The corners of Colm’s mouth curl upward. Instead of an answer, he takes a deep drag of the cigarette and blows out a thick cloud.
“Shit, Dutch ain’t gonna be happy with me,” Arthur continues under his breath. “Can’t wait to deal with that.” His belt is looped back on quickly. Sitting with a grunt, he hauls each boot on and double checks that the spurs aren’t loose. Even with all the sleep he’s gotten, with the lack of his illness now, he’s utterly exhausted and it only worsens when he thinks about the inevitable confrontation. “Where the hell is my watch?”
“Have mine.”
He startles. “What?”
Colm is already digging into his pocket as he repeats himself. That same pocket watch Arthur had stared at back in the jail- which feels so, so long ago now- is pulled out and held by the chain as Colm waits for him to take it.
“You sure? It’s, uh, somethin’ you’ve had for a while, right?”
“Observant, ain’t you?” Is all Colm says back as he slings the heavy metal disc into Arthur’s palm. Smoke drifts into his vision as he inspects it a bit closer. “Consider it a dowry of sorts.”
“Ain’t how it works.” I should know.
He earns an eyeroll.
“...Thanks.”
“If Dutch doubts you, show it to him.” Ashes are flicked into a tray. At his curious look, Colm adds, “You’d either have to kill me or- well, whatever this is, to get it off me. He’ll know.”
It’s a bit ominous, but Arthur nods obediently despite it. He can imagine the look on Dutch’s face already. The watch is heavy in his breast pocket. “Sure. S’pose I shouldn’t let him come stormin’ over here.”
“Why not?”
“Well, he’d- uh, he’d try to kill you.”
“And if he does that, he’ll have your dead body on his hands, too. Wonder how he’d reckon with that.”
Arthur rubs his jaw. He needs to shave. “...Guess so.”
“You can leave, Morgan. I’m not some needy woman who wants you to stay by my side.”
I wish you would ask anyway. Arthur shakes the feeling away before it can take root. He’s a romantic at heart, but he shouldn’t let it grow in a relationship that he knows is built on nothing but coercion and sneering facades.
Tentatively, he asks, “Can I see ‘em ‘fore I go?”
“Hm?”
Face red, he falters a bit before clearing his throat. “Your… wings. Can I see ‘em again ‘fore I leave?”
Colm squints.
“Please?”
“Why’re you beggin’? The answer is no. I’m too tired.”
Disappointed, Arthur wipes his hands on his trousers and shrugs at nothing in particular. His body feels heavy for a completely different reason now. Every step towards the door has him feeling like Colm will suddenly call out and insist he stay.
He feels that way the entire shameful walk to his horse. The stares of Colm’s men are knowing and degrading; he doubts they know the whole story, but it’s obvious he’d come crawling back into their leader’s lap to get bedded, and now he’s got to go right back where he came from. Colm’s never been the type to get attached to anyone he can’t control.
“Sorry, girl,” he mutters.
The horse huffs as if to say ‘kept me waiting, didn’t you?’
He pats her neck and sighs. She turns and starts ambling down the trail without him having to steer her at all. He holds his head high even as the snickers follow him. All the way until he’s finally out of sight and can let himself slump.
What he’s not expecting is to meet a very frantic John. Their horses damn near collide. John yanks Old Boy’s reins too hard; both rider and mount are panting, sweaty, and wild-eyed.
“Arthur!”
“Hey-”
“Arthur?!”
He has to grab his brother’s reins from him to force him to actually stop and breathe. John grasps at him- his shoulders, his arms, and then wraps him into a tight, awkward hug. Nearly hanging out of his saddle to do so.
“...How long was I gone?” He asks when John’s chest-heaving calms a bit more.
“Almost a week,” is the choked response.
Shit. “Didn’t realize.”
“You-” His brother grabs him firmly by the shoulders and gives him a once over. “You look a lot better. The hell happened? Where’d you go? Hosea said you were gonna be fine, but he wasn’t givin’ anythin’ away, and it was really steamin’ Dutch.”
“It’s a long story.”
So he says, but he still lays it out as well as possible when they finally start back on road. John’s face goes through a remarkable amount of expressions in a short period of time.
“You’re kiddin’.”
“Not at all.”
“Is he- hell, he’s like-” A pause. “He’s Hosea’s age, ain’t he?”
“Hosea’s a good age,” Arthur says immediately.
“Sure, but I wouldn’t think ‘bout- actually, I ain’t even wanna compare that. Can he even get it up?”
“That’s what you’re askin’?”
“Weren’t you sick? Did’j’ya get him sick? I hope you did.”
“No, he… it made me better, actually.”
John falls silent. It doesn’t last long. “...You were real sick.”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
And god, does he sound all choked up. Neither of them look at each other, because it’d break the moment, and Arthur thinks this is an important thing to keep talking about. “Didn’t wanna worry you.”
“I was already worried! Hosea said it was real bad. He said- he said you were dyin’.”
Wearily, Arthur mumbles, “Dutch sure ain’t gonna be happy with me.”
“Dutch can go to hell,” John croaks. “I’m just glad you ain’t dead.”
“Don’t say that where he can hear you.”
John just mutters something about how Dutch can just deal with whatever, but doesn’t push it. Their horses are nearly touching, side by side, occassionally nudging each other. It’s silent until they reach the edge of camp, and then Arthur’s heart is hammering in his chest again and John’s shoulders square like he’s preparing for a gunfight.
Most of the camp is out on jobs. He’s thankful for it as they make their way across the grass towards Dutch’s tent. Already there’s raised voices arguing about something.
“Arthur! Where the hell have you been, son?”
His gut rolls. Knowing now that Colm had had a solution to his sickness has him wondering why the hell Dutch hadn’t offered that- though he’s still stuck on how he hadn’t even noticed the illness in the first place. He doesn’t get the chance to answer before Dutch is going off again, complaining about how lazy the rest of the camp is, how the others have been sullen since he’d vanished and the like.
They missed me? That bad?
“Really, Arthur, you have got to let us know when you’re disappearin’ for so damn long! If what I’ve been suspectin’ is true-”
Oh, god. Oh, god, don’t say it.
John tenses behind him.
“I just ain’t sure how to feel about it,” Dutch sighs, stroking his beard like he’s having some big, important thoughts. Painfully familiar, that dramatically sad tone in his voice. Arthur feels like a kid with his hand in the candy jar even if he doesn’t think he’s really done anything wrong. “Why would you willingly go to Colm? Why wouldn’t you-”
Hosea has appeared around the side of the tent, hearing their voices, and his face just lights up when he sees Arthur.
Arthur has to stop himself from crying a little when he goes, “Hey, ‘Sea.”
“Arthur,” Hosea’s voice is warm and he has no hesitation to pull him into a hug. Squeezes the nape of his neck in a reassuring gesture. “Don’t worry,” he tells Arthur knowingly, hushed near his ear. “Whatever he says, it’ll be fine.”
“’Kay.”
“Doesn’t he look much better, Dutch?” The older man continues, holding Arthur at arm’s length so they can look him over.
Suddenly shy, he glances towards the ground.
“You’ve already got a better complexion, son, all you need to do is fill back out. We can get that worked out pretty easily, can’t we? Charles has gotten some good game lately. It won’t be too hard. What do you think, Dutch?”
Dutch looks stunned.
John mumbles and leans forward enough to bump into Arthur’s back. His fingers hook into the back of Arthur’s gun belt and he’s sure the younger man’s gaze is burning into Dutch.
“I- well-” Dutch clears his throat and quickly composes himself. “Sure, sure… Hosea, ain’t it a shame, though, him havin’ gone to Colm of all people… I mean, you know what that means, don’t you? Are we sure it was all explained properly…?”
I ain’t that stupid.
Hosea sighs the same way he always does when Dutch is spiraling. “He knows what it means.”
“But-”
“Why don’t you get something to eat, Arthur? Sit down and have some time to yourself now that you’re back.”
He opens his mouth to protest but John’s already shoving him away. When the hell had his baby brother gotten so strong? Strong enough to steer him all the way across the camp to the food wagon where Pearson’s been pointedly pretending to not listen in. He’s loaded up with a plate of meat and veggies and then promptly sat at the nearby table. John stares at him until he starts eating.
It’s good.
“He gotta get his head outta his ass,” his brother is muttering. “Thinkin’ ‘bout his appearance and his stupid revenge when you were just tryin’ to live. Ain’t as if Colm forced you to stay with him.”
“He kicked me out pretty quickly,” he manages around his spoon.
“Yeah, after a week.”
“I was ‘sleep.”
“For a whole week?!”
He nods.
John’s mouth opens and shuts. He leans back and just stares, wide eyed, stretching his long legs out and smacking his boots into Arthur’s shins. Does it again when Arthur grunts with a wrinkled nose. “And he just… let you sleep?”
“Got busy or somethin’.”
“Maybe he ain’t so cold hearted after all.”
“Wouldn’t be sure ‘bout that.” He can’t help but grin when John just huffs and goes back to staring.
It’s only when he’s sitting at his cot, untying his bootlaces, does he remember the watch. His brain is still muddled from all the others lavishing him with attention- all that touching still makes him feel weird- and he has to pause to figure out if he’d dreamed that moment or if it had been real.
The cover of the pocket watch is still dented and scratched, but it’s shiny, freshly wiped down. Ticks softly when it’s closed and louder when he flicks it open. The hands move smoothly. The glass is barely yellowed around the edges. He doesn’t need to move the dial; the time is already set near-perfectly.
It seems like just about the only thing Colm’s cared for without much in return. And he’s just given it away.
He swipes a thumb over the glass and frowns. Kicks his boots off the rest of the way. ‘Dutch will know’. The opera music is low but constant and there’s a light on behind the tarp of Dutch’s tent. Molly isn’t in there now, too put off by his confusing rambling from earlier. No doubt the older man is reading one of his novels. Sulking to himself that he got told off by Hosea.
“Arthur?”
He jolts so hard he nearly falls off his cot. Blinking, he turns to see John peering around the wagon that makes up the wall of Arthur’s tent, all fidgety and nervous, looking like he’s fifteen again in just his sleeping clothes. Antsy as they make eye contact.
“Um, how you feelin’?”
“Fine. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
“Can’t sleep.” John shifts closer. The look on his face is constantly switching between faux casualness and pinched worry. He looks intrigued by the watch but doesn’t ask. “Are you- can you?”
“Sleep?”
“Yeah.”
“Ain’t got that far ‘fore you barged over here.”
“Oh.” Then, “Sorry?”
He waves the apology away. “What’chu need, kid?”
John makes a face. “...Jack’s askin’ ‘bout you. Won’t sleep ‘cause of it.”
“Thought you said you was the one unable to sleep.” With a sigh, he sits up and leans down to haul his boots back on. “Alright, I’ll come over there.”
“Don’t gotta get redressed or nothin’.”
Jack beams up at him. The look Abigail gives John makes it apparent she’d been against coming to get him, but the combination of John’s sad puppy-dog look and the mention of Jack had been enough to get Arthur moving again.
“Are you okay now, Uncle Arthur?” The boy asks in a stage whisper. Then adds, “Are you sure?” when Arthur nods.
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
Abigail murmurs softly to John when he sits next to her. Arthur watches his brother whine and pout as he reassures their kid that he is fine and no, it’s not really that interesting what happened to him (children don’t need to know those details).
It’s with less reluctance than he lets on that he agrees to stay in their tent for the night at the boy’s pleas and John’s almost desperate stare. Poor Abigail’s expression is pleading in its own way even as she insists he doesn’t have, and that she’s sure he’d rather sleep in his own bed. He gives in and hauls an extra bedroll inside in the empty space.
Within seconds of laying down, John is shoved up directly next to him and Jack is just as close. He hopes at the very least that it gives Abigail some reprieve even if it makes his own sleep restless.
Arthur lifts the watch back up into his line of vision. It’s too dark to read it. But he brings it close to his ear and listens as it ticks along. Like a tiny metronome, reminding him of everything that has happened over the course of- how long had John said it’s been? A week, he thinks.
He prays to whatever god he can think of that Dutch doesn’t stay mad at him. That Colm won’t take too much advantage of their new dynamic. That he made the right choice.
Sandwiched between his brother and his nephew, able to breathe clearly- it feels right even as it feels wrong. Whatever the answer is, he’s got people behind him and people he cares for. He can make it through.