Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The room was still in semi-darkness, Rip’s body clock pushed him to wakefulness at this early hour; a habit ingrained in him since his teenage years. He could almost taste the stillness of the ranch, in the sparking of the day he knew this would soon change. Despite the two weeks that had passed since the attack on the Yellowstone ranch, he could still sense the nervousness in the air. Even while the occupants of the bunkhouse slept he could feel the palpable disquiet that hung in around his colleagues. He could sense it in the haunted look of Kayce or in the absence of Tate buzzing around the stables. John Dutton’s hospitalisation had rocked the entire ranch right to the core, including his bedmate.

He cast his eyes down to Beth, curled close to his chest. He knew she was running herself ragged, spending all day by her comatose father’s bedside brazenly disregarding the medical advise to take things easy while she too recuperated. Goddamn she was stubborn. He could see dark circles under the canopy of her bangs, she looked as tired as he felt. Her small body was draped over his midriff, swaddled in the tangle of blankets, obscuring the raw injuries on her back. He felt guilty as she shifted slightly as if she was reading his thoughts, an incoherent moan melted into a plaintive question, checking if it was morning already. Rip whispered a sibilant shush into his semi-conscious fiancée’s ear. “Back to sleep, Darlin’”. He hoped this would encourage her to eke out some additional rest, he would still his racing heart by watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. He placed one hand in her hair lightly massaging her scalp. Beth was alive, Beth would be ok, they would face these problems together

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The morning light streamed in the bedroom window, bathing its warm glow on the room’s occupants. Rip was holding her, cradling her tenderly; miraculously avoiding her many injuries; as she had snuggled herself into the crook of his arm. Dimly she can feel the soft pressure of his fingers stroking her head. In the twilight between sleeping and waking she forced her mind to focus, grappling to maintain her tenuous hold on wakefulness. She had a long day ahead of her, but it was difficult to marshal her thoughts on anything other than the fiery pain of her back. It still hurts like hell and it took a few detached seconds to realise the low whimpering noise is actually spilling unbidden from her own mouth. She can sense Rip’s tension beneath her. Her tired body continued to betray her, the agony of burnt back demanding rest that she couldn’t afford to give it.

Beth hands ghosted their way up to Rip’s face, seeing the concern writ large in his expressive eyes. She exhaled a throwaway remark that she was fine, knowing that the words were hollow to both of them. She straddled him briefly, allowing him an unobstructed view of her unconvincing smile, feeling like she could melt into him when he gently returned her good morning kiss, his large hands cupping her face. The tenderness was welcome, but she knew it had to be short-lived, she wanted to be at the hospital to visit her father before morning rounds, which meant hitting the road soon.

“Hmmm, Darlin’ not so fast, your father can wait. I need to check on your back”. He holds her gaze watching the turmoil play across her tired face, he assumed she was weighing up the consequences of defying his request, she hardly looked as if she had the energy to argue with him but he wasn’t foolish enough to underestimate her bravado. She acquiesced only when he reaches for her small hand, placing it on his stomach where the rough cauterisation scar meets the tight musculature of his torso. The evidence of the frantic patch-up job after the Beck-goon had shot him in the gut. It reminds Beth how anxious she was to tend to Rips wounds, in what seems like a lifetime ago, a different nightmare that they had both overcome. She cast her fingers gently down the strong chest in front of her, reading the scars as if they were braille record to Rip’s bravery and loyalty to her family, it solidified her decision that it would be churlish of her to decline his kind offer.

She allows the strong hands to settle her onto her stomach, resting the non-injured side of her face on the pillow. She watches Rip as he gathers the medical supplies. Carefully, he peels the layers of gauzy bandages back exposing the red and tender skin to the fulness of sunlight. He fights the tight knot of anger that rages inside him, as he looks at the raw mangled mess of Beth’s back. He is intimately familiar with burn marks from being at the giving and receiving end of the Dutton Brand, but his fiancée’s back is like one giant burn. He can see striations of shrapnel marks, criss-crossing her back in raised scar-tissue lines interrupting the red-raw welts that overpopulated previously flawless skin.

He reached for the ointment, working it across her tensed shoulder muscles. He listened to her breathing judging by her hitched breath when he encountered particularly tender wounds. He tried to ignore how white her knuckles had become as they twisted themselves into the pillow. He could see her eyes were glassy but stubbornly she remained stoically still, accepting the treatment without complaint. Rip continued his work until the burnt skin was slathered in the cool ointment. He dispensed with the disposable gloves, before grabbing the small pill bottle and a glass of water for his last piece of medical ministration.

She felt vulnerable; but safe; lying in the bed. She marshalled her thoughts as well as her breath. She knew what was going to happen next, so she dragged herself upright, closing her eyes briefly to stop her vision spinning. She watched Rip’s ambling progress back to her bedside, his expression an inscrutable poker face in no way confirming her fear that he had seen her momentary weakness.

The bed dipped to accommodate his weight, he sat next to her, she could tell he had caught himself from throwing a casual arm to envelop her in a hug, they both knew her reserves of self-control wouldn’t be able to manage even the smallest of jostling. Instead his beefy hand met her thigh, “Please Beth, take the medicine”, presenting her with the glass of water first. She fired him knowing scowl, damn him and his dammed politeness, she longed for the little pills to take the edge off the stabbing pain shooting darts along her back; but not at the expense of her wits. She knew the heavy-duty medicine dulled her senses making everything fuzzy. She needed to drive to the hospital, talk the doctors and the administrators. “Rip, I’ll take ‘em once I’m back, I promise”, she felt a flare of pride as she managed to keep her tone even, as she cast the proffered glass back to him.

Rip stroked her hair again, looking at her in his own frustratingly know-it-all way. “Darlin’, you’ll be wanting a stiff drink after after a day in the hospital, I’ll drive you.. come on the Doc’ said pain pills and antibiotics once a day until the bangage comes off for good”. She sullenly takes the medicine, dry swallowing the chalky tablets with a grimace. Her mind churns at the realisation that this was the first time she could ever recall her soulmate ever taking a day off, a small part of her relaxes knowing that Rip would ferry her to the hospital.

She grabbed her clothes, pulling on her jeans before she steeled herself for the additional layer of pressure on her back. She pushes her head through her t-shirt, momentarily surprised that the drugs have kicked in so readily. This morning her top is only a discomfort, she almost wants to cry in relief at this fact. Rip crouches ready with her shoes and a puppy-dog expression, goddamn him she couldn’t even ridicule him for his Prince-fucking-Charming impression, she is silently thankful for his consideration.

“Stop looking so smug, I only put up with you as you are so easy on the eyes”.

Chapter Text

John Dutton released a pained grunt. With one long rumbling groan, he half stumbled in his final step to the fireside couch. He was worn out from the events of the day. White-knuckled, his hand strained with the strength required to keep him nominally upright, forcing against his tired body’s desire to collapse where he stood. Wordlessly he surveyed the lonely room, forcing his racing breath to calm, he allowed himself to slump to a seated position. He now fully understood the incredulity that his former nurse had shot him this morning while he fired her. His old-man-body was weak as a kitten and straining overtime on his stubborn refusal to eschew the rest he needed to recover fully. This morning's stitch in his side had coalesced into intermittent stabbing pains as he had ambled around the ranch earlier, an attempt to survey the damage to his home and livelihood.

His current stillness allowed fresh waves of physical pain to assail his senses, acting as a chaser to the turmoil in his mind. He was dammed sure he wasn’t going to spend any more time in Jamie’s co-opted bedroom, surrounded by various machines and that fucking awful hospital bed. If only his healing ability was an equal match to his desire just to turn back the tide of time and threats to his family. He marshalled his energy, pressing his tired hand to the bridge of his nose, allowing himself an exasperated sigh. When that did little to assuage his frustration, he balled his fist, pressing the knuckles painfully and fruitlessly into his forehead, happy to be the master of this fresh pain.

After three tired beats he opened his eyes, to see the harried face of his daughter swim into view, the same haunted look in her eyes from their conversation earlier. The plaintive expression on her face still hauntingly sad. The ghost of his earlier question ‘what did we lose?’still hung heavy between them. “You need to rest up Daddy, I can come back tomorrow”. John’s reflexes belied his tiredness, he reach for Beth’s hand and guided her to sit beside him, the silence amplifying the ominousness of their conversation. “I saw what is left of the cabin, honey. I’m sorry”. Beth meet his gaze briefly, her wan face accentuated by the worried look in her eyes, her uncomfortably stiff posture told John there was further revelations that his daughter was weighing the cost of relaying. She looked so tired, as she worked up the courage to begin their promised tête-à-tête.

John listened to the blow-by-blow of each set-back; the worrying travails of Monica and Tate, followed by the detailed exploits of the Bunkhouse and the pile of bodies left in the wake of the attack on the ranch. He stewed on the admission that Jamie was leasing a swathe of his land to the vultures at Market Equities. John could feel the cold fury rage within him, at his son's selfishness. He fought to control it, as his thoughts re-centred on Beth, sitting stiffly on the ledge of his couch her back unnaturally rigid angled away from the cushioned-back.

“Let me see, please”.

John could have sworn he had seen a flash of trepidation flicker across Beth’s face. An alien look for the bravest person he has ever known “See what?, Daddy. You should talk to Kayce about visiting Tate… I’m…” Beth could no longer complete her thought as her voiced trailed off into silence. It was rare her father initiated physical contact, so his tender hand cupping her face had struck her dumb by distraction. He angled her jaw slightly, allowing the ambient light to elucidate the thin red cut that nearly bisected her cheek, somehow in the privacy of his room it looked redder against the pallor of his tired daughter’s face.

Beth let her head droop down, no longer meeting her father’s astute gaze, she could not find the energy to start an argument. She allowed herself a deep calming breath before she drew her cotton t-shirt over her shoulders untroubled by her nudity. She was surprised as her father lifted her chin again his eyes never wavering from her face, “it’s ok, I need to see”. She could feel a traitorous tear, slide down her unblemished cheek, her watering eyes glassy with further unshed tears. She willed herself to remain stoic as she turned her back not trusting herself to fall asunder when the current concern of her father would turn to pity. She closed her eyes, wishing to un-hear the strangled gasp from the Dutton patriarch at the full display of the true extent of her injuries. She knew that; largely thanks to Rip’s morning minstration; her wounds were healing, it was just the pain meds that continued to sap her of energy, she was a Dutton she would continue to power through the hurt and pain.

While the deeper burns and lacerations stayed hidden under a fresh patchwork of bandages, the majority of the flesh on her back remained a blistered red mess, criss-crossed by a mottled jumble of raised white scars. She heard the hitch in John Dutton’s breath as he surveyed the extent of her injuries it left no ambiguity on his assessnent. She waited for an explosion of anger that never came. Her body went rigid when she felt an experimental touch of fingers to the small of her back, a glancing stroke almost ephemeral. She made no attempt to stop him, she couldn’t will herself to vocalise a plea to be gentle, knowing that he was straying dangerously close to an especially tender spot. Almost as soon as she had identified the thought the fingers were gone and she could hear a shuffling sound behind her. She sagged in relief at the respite, allowing herself to open her eyes carefully, once she was certain she wouldn’t cry. Was her back still that repulsive? Once her vision cleared she was surprised that her farther had returned, standing inscrutably in front of her with his hand proffered to help her up. She allowed herself to be lead to his bathroom, no discussion passing between them.

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John prided himself as being a simple man, but his mind was racing. There were so many words, too many words but none that were even fractionally sufficient to express his emotions or offer a modicum of solace to his injured child. His base desires screamed to the forefront of his mind a white-hot desire to burn whichever bastards had hurt his daughter; but not now; not while his Beth sat so forlornly in front of him. As he reached for her hand to guide her to the bathroom, he couldn’t help but acknowledge internally that his late wife would be immeasurably better at the care and comfort side of the familial pact.

“Honey, I’m going to take off the bandages and get you in the bath, ok?”. John’s softly announced his plan, waiting for Beth to nod in acquiesce, hoping that explaining his actions might cure the faraway look in her eyes. She worked with him in tandem to remove her shoes and jeans. He saw the latent tension melt from her shoulders once she was semi-submerged in the bath. He was struck that Beth was very much her mother’s daughter, for all her bravado she was still his little girl too. Memories of happier times watching Evelyn bathe their children drifted to his mind a simpler time when the magic of a hot bath could cure all ills.

He lost himself in the mindlessness of washing Beth’s hair, using the happier thoughts of the past to tamp down his murderous rage. He watched his daughter relax as he continued to massage her scalp, her eyes closed as if she was deep in meditation, as he sluiced away the foam of shampoo. In an act of pure muscle memory, he found himself plaiting the wet hair loosely, the makeshift ponytail giving him an unobstructed view of Beth’s resting face. He reached his hand out to gather his late wife’s towel robe; helping Beth out of the bath; before enveloping her in the precious cocoon of its fluffy warmth.

He watched as his daughter stifled a small yawn, he wondered if she was experiencing the same melancholic sensations that he was, the scent of Evelyn’s shampoo redolent in the air. He carefully lead her back to the seated position where their conversation had first started. He kissed her forehead, wondering if this was what Beth felt while she watched him recuperate in the hospital. He lowered her head onto his waiting lap, her tired eyes opened slowly to meet his. She was oblivious to whatever comforting words her father is whispering, she casted him a small smile, understanding the gesture but more importantly revelling in the attention that he is lavishing on her. He can see that she has lost herself into the seductive embrace of sleep, their talk would have to wait until tomorrow.

He stayed on the couch watching the slow rise and fall of his daughter’s breath, it felt like form of therapy to him, until he was interrupted by the soft rap of Rip’s knuckles on his door. He looked on jealously as his foreman’s strong hands gathered his daughter tiny frame. “I’ll take her back to her bedroom, sir. She’ll need fresh bandages and her pills in the morning”. John didn’t sense any deference in Rip’s statement and Rip had already left the room before he could curse his own dimwittedness, he could have let them stay in his room, in the grand scheme of things bunking in Jamie’s room for another night would have cost him nothing. He pushed himself back to his feet, the room once again empty, he would need pray that he would discover some solace in the morning.