Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It wasn’t anything unusual, not at first. 

Arthur didn’t get ill very often, not since he’d been a child, but he’d still sometimes come down with a bit of a sore throat or a minor case of sniffles. It was inevitable, living rough like they did, and he usually just dealt with it by himself - made some tea and took a hot bath to try and sweat it out. Every once in a while he’d even get the great luxury of sleeping in.

But the type of fatigue he’d started to feel lately had truly begun to irritate him, and by the time a week had passed, he was right sick of it. It was the kind of exhaustion that one got with a cold or something of the like, yet he didn’t have any of those other cold-type feelings. No runny nose or cough or fever. Just tired, and an ache that had settled into his muscles and joints and refused to leave. He would have thought it was from those mountains, had anyone else been affected.

That morning it was particularly aggravating, and he groaned as he pulled himself out of bed, dressing slowly and cursing under his breath as his back disagreed with the movement of pulling on his shirt.

He found Hosea by the campfire, enjoying a cup of coffee in the light of the New Hanover sunrise.

“Morning, Arthur. You feeling alright?” The old man asked, eyebrow raised, and Arthur only huffed. 

“Think I caught somethin’.” He grumbled, voice sounding rough even to his own ears. “You got anythin’ for it?”

Hosea hummed as he stood up from the fire, motioning for Arthur to follow. “Sure, somewhere around here. Strauss has some, but it’s all store-bought and I don’t trust-”

“Don’t trust that stuff, I know.” Arthur rolled his eyes and leaned against the support pole. He rubbed absently at the back of his neck, kneading the muscles there. They were pretty sore... in fact, his entire back was tender like he’d slept on a pile of rocks, all the way down to his legs.

Was he getting old?

Hosea turned back around and handed him a small dark bottle. “Here, take two drops before you go to bed for the next couple of nights, it should help.”

Arthur accepted it with a nod and went to put the bottle by his cot, frowning a bit as the pain surged a little stronger through his back. Maybe he’d pulled something? He didn’t really think he’d done anything crazy lately, but his version of crazy was a little different than most other folks’. 

“Let me know if you need anything else, alright?” Hosea called after him, and Arthur nodded without turning around, giving a dismissive wave over his shoulder. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

-=-=-=-=-

By the next morning, he felt worse. 

He grunted as he sat up, reaching down to massage his calves and frowning at how sharp it felt. He must’ve tweaked something, but how? Hauling bales of hay around camp would hardly be the cause, and he was familiar enough with riding long hours for the past two decades that the muscle aches and cramps he’d gotten as a kid hadn’t shown up in years. It could have been similar to growing pains, aside from the fact that he was pretty sure he was done with that, but there was an underlying... tingle that he didn’t know how to place. Pins and needles, like the limbs were asleep, only they weren’t.

Still, he had things to do, so he pushed himself up and got dressed - maybe a little slower than the day before, but that was fine. Walking to his horse Thursday, he put it all in the back of his mind and mounted up, needing to prepare for that train job John had mentioned. He knew where to steal a few oil wagons, so he presumed it wouldn’t be too hard.

He nudged his mare’s side with his heel, and frowned a bit as the thing didn’t move. The thoroughbred was still relatively new, sure, but it wasn’t green - it should respond. He kicked a little harder, and eased into a simple trot.

Arthur sighed and shook his head at the ornery state of mares. “Alright girl, let’s get goin’.”

He headed for Valentine, knowing he had seen oil wagons parked there in the past, and he was proven right as he came upon the southern side of town and spotted one left unattended by the auction yard. 

“Easy.” He chuckled to himself, barely sparing a glance over his shoulder as he climbed right from his mare’s back into the driver’s seat of the wagon. 

Stealing it had gone fine, getting it to Scarlett Meadows had been easy, and the next night, despite the continued discomfort in his legs and back, he’d followed through with the robbery as planned - well, mostly as planned, only with an additional Irishman.

But standing on top of that oil wagon with the train rumbling towards him, the tracks shaking and the wagon vibrating with the weight of the steam engine, he’d had the oddest sensation that his legs were going numb - like he was about to fall over.

He hadn’t, but it had been disconcerting enough that he’d blamed it for why he’d tripped when trying to board - not badly, but Charles had seen, and it had embarrassed him when the other man had asked if he was alright. 

“Yeah, ‘course.” He grumbled, shaking it off and ignoring how heavy his knees felt to lift. If he stomped a little more than normal as he walked through the train cars, it was just for the intimidation factor. When he’d been a bit clumsy walking through the cars, he’d blamed Sean for throwing him off by nearly getting his skull blown apart. When he’d had to crouch behind crates for cover as they were fired upon by law, he put it all on the adrenaline for why his knees shook as he stood up.

He took another dose of the medicine and fell into bed that night, pleased with the take and how clean the job had gone, despite all the law. Nobody had died - nobody important , anyway - and they’d made a fair amount. It was a little suspicious that the law had come so fast, but... well, sometimes things just happened.

If he was still achy and sore, if his muscles still felt tight and tingly, he probably was just getting old. It was bound to happen to him sometime, after all, and he should consider himself lucky to experience the aches of aging. That’s what Hosea always said.

-=-=-=-=-

The morning after that, he woke up in a bit of a fog. His body felt heavy and sluggish, and it took him longer than the previous days - more difficult than it should have been - to pull himself up and get dressed.

He had some horses to feed, and then he was going to grab some coffee and head out. He’d gotten wind of something strange at the doctor’s office in Valentine, and he was curious enough to poke around. Either that, or maybe pick up a bounty from the sheriff, or go after some of those gunslingers, or maybe-

He tripped, barely catching himself on the hitching posts, blinking a few times and looking back at the ground where he’d just stepped. 

There was nothing there.

“You drunk already, Arthur?” Uncle cackled, and Arthur turned to him with a put-upon glare. 

“Very funny. What, hopin’ you ain’t the only one?” He shook his head and brushed it off. Standing up straight, he took another look at the ground. Flat and smooth... maybe he’d just put his foot down wrong? His legs still hurt, sure, but... well, whatever.

He went ahead with the chores, ignoring how odd it felt to carry something - the way it made him want to spread his feet further apart for stability, or the way it made his back twinge. The pins and needles returned in his calves, and he frowned slightly, rubbing the muscles as he sat by the fire.

“Alright there, Arthur?” Charles asked, having sat down only a moment later. 

“Hm?” Arthur looked up, giving a short nod. “Yeah, legs is jus’ kinda sore. I ain’t as young as I used to be.” He joked, and Charles gave a small smile, shaking his head. 

“If you’re having muscle aches, I heard a soak in the hot springs could do wonders for it.” He suggested, and Arthur tilted his head in thought. 

“Really? Huh... guess it’d be hotter than a hotel bath, wouldn’t it?” He hummed, before he shook his head and stood up. “Ah, but that’s gonna have to wait, I got some stuff to look into. I’ll catch you later.”

“See you.” Charles returned the small wave, and Arthur and made his way in the direction of Flatneck Station, where a certain gunslinger-turned-hogger had been reported to live.

He ended up shooting Granger, naturally.

The whole encounter had bothered him; not because of anything Emmet Granger had said or done, but because of the effort it had taken to shovel hog shit. Finding his footing in the muck had proven a challenge, and there had been a few moments where he’d had to pause to regain his balance. 

Well, maybe he also hadn’t liked being mocked and called effeminate and girly while trying to get some damn story out of the old man about a washed up sharpshooter he didn’t even care about. So what if Arthur liked his hair a little on the long side? Old bastard barely even had hair.

Being challenged to a duel had been fine - fun, even. Maybe he’d provoked it by blowing that pile of pig shit sky high, but he’d done all the work to put it there, and it had been pretty funny.

Maybe it was cheating to use a gun in a knife fight, but Arthur considered himself a pragmatist, and didn’t really care about following the rules when he could just shoot his problems away. The whole obsession with honor that old gunslingers held seemed unnecessary to him. What was so bad about shooting someone in the back, anyway? Made it less likely they were going to shoot him.  

However, it was after he’d killed Granger and gone to pick up his unique looking gun, leaning over him to get a picture, that he realized he was starting to tip over. No, that wasn’t quite right, it was as though his legs were folding, and he’d barely avoided falling into the mess he’d just made of the man’s shit-pile. 

He landed on his knees on top of Granger’s corpse, instead. He actually fell.

“Sh-shit! The hell...?” He grit his teeth as he quickly pulled himself back up, tucking Granger’s pistol into his empty holster and making sure the camera hadn’t been damaged or dirtied in any way. 

His legs felt funny again, but he wasn’t riled up from the duel enough to blame adrenaline. He wasn’t distracted by young Irishmen messing up, nor was he dealing with a train barreling towards him. There was still the pain, but it no longer seemed like a strained muscle to him - he’d had those, and they didn’t prickle this way. 

Should he be worried?

No, it was probably nothing, just his age finally starting to show, and the wear and tear of a life on the road... Maybe he ought to visit those hot springs after all? But he still had a lot to do... He didn’t feel as though a vacation right now was fair to all the others who relied on him for the money he put in the donation box and the chores he did, the hunting for meat and pelts that kept the workload even between him and Charles, the favors and the jobs and... everything else.

He was just too busy. It would have to wait.

Chapter Text

A week or two went by, and the painful tingling in Arthur’s legs had only increased. It traveled up and down his calves, made his thighs burn and his ankles weak. He had greater difficulty pulling himself out of bed in the morning, though he did his best to ignore it and push through - and he told absolutely no one. He didn’t need people looking at him like he couldn’t handle a job, or god forbid, that he was trying to get out of chores.

Personal jobs went fine, even if he kept to roadside stick-ups that didn’t make him leave the saddle much. If his adventures around the countryside were slower and more difficult, if he tripped more and more often while walking across rolling grassy plains, he put it from his mind and focused on the endless list of tasks he had to do. Always something else, never a chance to pause - it was just the way things were.

He thought he was doing okay at acting normal, until John took a look at him as he shuffled his groggy way to the coffee pot one morning, a frown on his brother’s face as he watched. 

“You alright, Arthur?” He asked, and Arthur glanced at him, putting a hand on the card table to keep himself steady as casually as he could manage. He was half-asleep, felt like.

“Sure, why?” He cleared the early morning gravel from his throat and tried to shake off the lingering fog that weighed him down. God, he wanted coffee.

“You just... seem kinda funny.” John shrugged. “You hurt your leg or somethin’?”

“No.” Arthur narrowed his eyes, expression morphing into a scowl before he could help it. “An’ I ain’t funny. Mind your own business, Marston.”

“Fine, jeez.” John huffed and hunched his shoulders. “I was just askin’.”

“I look like I got time for your moronic questions?” Arthur didn’t know why his temper was burning so hot, just that it was, and all the pain and fatigue he’d felt was now spilling out of his mouth. “Shut the hell up an’ keep it to yourself, dumbass.”

“Jesus, Arthur, what’s your problem? The day just started, the hell could I have done already?” John snapped, and took a step forward. 

Arthur bristled, straightened his spine, and grit his jaw. “I ain’t gotta problem, but if you keep pesterin’ me, you will.”

“Oh yeah?” John continued to approach, and Arthur stood exactly where he was, stock still and quickly becoming furious. 

“Back off, boy.” His lip curled and voice lowered, and Arthur ignored the way his legs felt like they were shaking and turning to jelly. They weren’t, he was just getting worked up, that was all it was.

“Or what?” John snorted, his scarred face creased with a glare. “You gonna hit me, Morgan?” 

Stupid John. Stupid, stupid John. 

Of course Arthur was going to hit him. 

He growled and stepped forward, pulling his fist back, knowing he’d get him right in the jaw if he-

John shoved him, and rather than just make him stumble or pause like such a light shove should have done, Arthur toppled right to the ground. He landed hard on his back, wheezing as the breath was knocked from his lungs, and John seemed shocked that he’d actually done it. 

Arthur was too.

“O-oh shit, I didn’t think you’d-” John looked around, wincing slightly when he saw Hosea and Dutch watching the two of them with furrowed brows. He turned back to his brother and leaned down, offering him a hand up.

But Arthur smacked it away, heart racing and face bright red - humiliated. But more than that... he didn’t know if he could get back up.

No, no, he could get back up. It was just that his legs felt really odd, and they were slow and heavy when he tried to pull them underneath himself, trembling just a little, almost spasming. But he was fine, it was just that he’d gotten surprised.

“Arthur? Are... you okay?” John was watching him - watching his legs twitch and struggle. Arthur sneered at him, jaw tight, breathing fast as an icy hand started to grip his gut.

“Shut up, will you?” His legs should have been able to bring him up how they’d always done, but... it wasn’t happening. They felt weak, and even though he tried to push himself, he couldn’t manage.

“Arthur-” John reached out a hand once more. 

“Shut up!” He burst, heart hammering. In a desperate attempt to get off the ground, not be down and vulnerable and helpless, he grabbed the leg of the table and used his arms to haul himself up, leaning on it once he was upright, shaking and panting and pale. “Sh-shut up, don’t... don’t say nothin’.”

Arthur was practically sitting, his legs hardly able to support his weight, and he didn’t understand what the fuck was going on. He heard Dutch call something over to John, heard John respond, but he wasn’t focusing on what they were saying. 

His legs were tingling like crazy, and the pins and needles hurt - enough to make his breath hitch and his eyes sting. A noise rose up in the back of his throat, but he quickly cut it off and put a hand over his eyes.

He was fine, he was fine. Nothing was wrong. His legs were fine.

“What’s going on here?” Dutch walked over, tone preemptively admonishing.

Arthur took his hand away from his face and shook his head. “Nothin’.” He breathed, feeling like he’d choked down a handful of leeches. “I’m fine. Ain’t... ain’t nothin’.”

“You sure, Arthur? You don’t look so good.” Hosea now, and Arthur very suddenly felt cornered - he hadn’t noticed him approach, hadn’t realized until now how most of the gang was looking at him. 

“I said I’m fine, goddammit!” He snapped, biting his lip as another flash of pain flared up. He couldn’t help the growl that left him as a sweat broke out over his forehead and the back of his neck, his gut twisting at the sudden agony. 

“No need for a temper, son.” Dutch frowned, stepping up to his side, watching the way Arthur’s legs shook. Arthur wanted to stop him from looking, but he didn’t know how. “What happened?”

He didn’t say anything, keeping his mouth shut, trying to breathe as the pain sharpened and dulled in a senseless rhythm.

“John?” Hosea turned to him when it was clear Arthur wasn’t about to answer, and the younger man was as confused as one might expect. 

“I-I dunno. Arthur was... walkin’ kinda odd, I guess, and he got all pissed off when I asked him why. Tried to hit me, so I pushed him, and...” John shrugged, gesturing to the ground. “Well, you saw. Didn’t think he’d actually fall.” John recounted, just like the snitch he was, and Arthur gave a bark of rage.

“I told you to shut your mouth, Marston! Ain’t you got enough brains to listen to a damn word I say?” He moved on instinct, taking a step forward to go after John, wanting to grab him by his scrawny little neck and choke those words out of his bastard throat.

But his legs had other ideas. They didn’t go as far as he’d meant them to, feet dragging unexpectedly in the grass. In a sudden pitch, he fell forward and landed flat on his face.

“Jesus, Arthur!” Dutch immediately went to pull him back up, but stopped short when Arthur rolled over and swung at him. Dutch slowly raised his hands and took a few steps back, Hosea hesitating only momentarily before he did the same, pulling John back with him. 

Arthur was wild-eyed and white as a sheet, breath coming in great big puffs that struggled from his lungs. Both men recognized this, though they hadn’t seen it in years - Arthur felt threatened, a feeling he didn’t experience in its true capacity all that often. He felt afraid, and it was like flipping a switch for Dutch and Hosea to pull back and allow him some space. If they didn’t, there was going to be a bigger problem when their very much adult son threw an adolescent fit.

“Hey now,” Hosea muttered, lowering his voice. “We just want to help. Are you hurt somewhere?”

“Ain’t hurt, an’ I don’t need your d-damn help, don’t need-” Arthur’s throat closed, and he fought through it. “Don’t need nothin’. I’m fine, jus’ gimme some damn space.” He needed them to go away, not look and not watch.

Hosea and Dutch nodded, with the younger of the two nudging John and jerking his head to the side. John took the hint and left with one last look at Arthur, and Dutch went off next, snapping at everyone to get back to work. There was money to be made, and they didn’t have time to be gawking.

It was just Hosea left then, and he slowly sat in one of the nearby chairs. “Hope you don’t mind, Arthur, my knees ain’t what they used to be.” He said, and Arthur just nodded, didn’t mind, had a lot more to focus on right now.

Like how even though the spasms had stopped and the pain had lessened, his legs felt leaden and difficult to control. He had to try twice as hard to get half as much result, and it didn’t make any sense. He was walking earlier today, less than an hour ago. There was no reason why he couldn’t get up and do it again. There was nothing wrong, he was fine, and there was no reason why he couldn’t just get back up.  

Biting his tongue to prevent any more rogue noises, he slowly brought his feet where he needed them and used the table again to lift himself back up. His thighs trembled and his ankles felt like they were going to roll, and it was hard. But eventually he got to his feet and held himself there, slowly letting more of his weight rest on his legs, little by little, until he was standing on his own. 

He turned to Hosea, whose pale face was blank as he watched his son struggle. “S-see? ‘M fine.”

“Right you are, Arthur.” Hosea offered him a tight smile. “But, did something happen to make you trip? John pushed you the first time, but what about the second? Are you sure you aren’t hurt?”

Arthur took a deep breath and shook his head. “No, s’nothin’. Jus’... jus’ a mistake.”

The older man let his eyes linger upon Arthur, and then hummed. “Well, why don’t you take it easy today?”

Arthur swallowed, shaking his head in refusal. “The damn day jus’ started, Hosea. I gotta find that debtor for Strauss, look into a few things ‘round Valentine, Javier wanted some oleander...” There were so many things he had to get done. His effort was important to the way the entire gang functioned, he couldn’t take a day off because his body was acting strange.

“But that can all wait, can’t it? Might as well take a break now that nothing is urgent, I think we’re all due a little breather after the past few weeks.” Hosea suggested, his tone mild. Arthur suspected the real reason Hosea was saying those things, but he didn’t want to admit to anything. If Hosea was playing dumb, then so would he.

He chewed on his lip as he looked at his father, then over to the horses and the rest of camp. He saw people looking at him despite Dutch’s warning. He saw John standing by the fire with Charles and Lenny, speaking to each other as they kept glancing at him. Saw Grimshaw trying to get the girls back to work, but they were surely gossiping about him too. And Micah was staring, standing off to the side and drinking it all in.

“I... Fine, but I’m goin’ for a ride.” Arthur needed to get out of here, even if it meant walking across camp to get to his horse.

“Are you sure?” Hosea pressed, and Arthur turned to him and grit his teeth. 

“I ain’t jus’ gonna sit here all day, Hosea.” He was almost desperate, his face still pale and his breath stuttering. Hosea seemed to debate with himself before he sighed and slowly stood.

“Alright. I think I could use a ride, too. I’ll get the horses ready, why don’t you wait here?” He passed Arthur by, put a hand on his shoulder for a moment and offered a smile. 

Arthur just nodded and let out a breath as he waited for the old man to walk on. Once he was alone, he put a hand to his face and clenched his jaw. The seams he’d been struggling to hold together were starting to fray.

His legs were okay, they were fine. It just... it didn’t make any sense; it wasn’t as though he’d been injured, and it no longer felt like a simple cold, and yet he had no idea what might be causing this. Maybe... It was just one of them things? A nerve acting up, maybe some strange type of dislocation. He’d certainly gotten in his fair share of scrapes and scuffles, it could have something to do with that fight with Tommy, or... or any number of things. Probably nothing major - it couldn’t be. He’d feel better soon...

He stood there for a while, and by the time Hosea returned he’d mostly gotten control over himself. Still, a ride was sorely needed, and he followed after Hosea with a slow and awkward gait - but at least he wasn’t about to tip over.

He made it to the horses alright, but when it came time to lift his foot up into the stirrup, he hesitated. 

What if he couldn’t do it? What if he couldn’t get into the saddle?

“Alright, Arthur?” Hosea was already atop Silver Dollar, and Arthur didn’t dare look at him as he nodded. 

“Yeah, ‘course.” He shoved back the worry, placed his hands on the saddle horn, and slowly lifted his leg up. Christ, why was it so difficult? He’d done it a thousand times before, and even if over the past few weeks it’d gotten harder, it hadn’t been like this.  

He was nearly there, the tip of his boot almost brushing the stirrup, but his leg suddenly dropped without any say from him, and he had to bite back a snarl of distress as he almost lost his balance entirely. Only his hand on the saddle horn saved him from yet another fall.

Breathe, calm down, try again. Just a mistake. Clumsy, he was always so clumsy.

He got it on the second try, but still used his arms to pull himself up and swing himself forward, settling into the saddle and breathing a heady sigh of relief. He’d gotten up, which was proof that everything was fine.

Hosea started to say something, but Arthur cut him off, not wanting to hear it.

“Let’s go.” Arthur didn’t bother naming a destination - he didn’t have one. He only clicked Thursday into a walk, not even attempting to use his legs to urge the creature forward, taking her out of camp and picking a direction at random.

Hosea followed, coming up to silently ride beside him. The tension felt thick, like lightning building in the air, storm clouds brewing dark and low, but Arthur refused to so much as look at his father. He kept his eyes forward and his mouth shut, Thursday gathering herself into a trot and nearly unseating Arthur before he calmed her back into a walk. He tried to hold on with his thighs, but... maybe the saddle wasn’t set right, he hadn’t really checked after all. 

After an hour of riding into the arid Heartlands, Twin Stack Pass looming like a pair of shadowed obelisks in the distance, his father opened his mouth to speak.

“You sure you’ve been alright?” He asked, and Arthur shuttered himself off, shoulders going tight. 

“Yeah.”

“You may be a brute, but you’re not a klutz, Arthur, and you’re not as stupid as you act.” Hosea let the words hang, and Arthur knew he was being admonished for his stubbornness.

But he didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to delve into the core of his barely smothered fear. “Ain’t got nothin’ to say.”

Hosea let out a heavy sigh. “Maybe you could try to explain how you feel right now?”

How he felt? 

He felt like he was living in a nightmare. The type where it was hard to move no matter how much he tried, the type where he was always too slow, could never be quick enough, could never do enough. The kind where the world was turning too fast and he couldn’t get off.

But he didn’t say that. “Don’t feel like nothin’.”

Hosea knew he was lying. “If you’re hurt, you can tell me. I’m not trying to badger you, but-”

“I said I ain’t hurt.” He bit harsher than he’d meant to, the snarling grimace of a frightened dog, but he didn’t want to get into this, wanted the ride to clear it from his head as much as it could.

Hosea rubbed the back of his neck, before dropping his hand back to the reins and nodding, frustrated but knowing there’d be no point in needling any further. Arthur could shut his mouth tighter than a bank vault when he wanted to. “Alright.”

They fell back into silence, and Arthur tried to distract himself with the scenery, with the pronghorns scattering away from their horses, with the ravens and vultures circling above, and the rabbits darting through the scrubby grass - and not focus on the tingling in his legs or the pounding of his heart. He was fine, he was fine.

He couldn’t not be fine.

It was nightfall when they returned, and by then Arthur was more confident in his ability to get down from the saddle than up. It would just be sliding down and landing, easy. He was almost able to pretend that the morning hadn’t happened, and he might have, if it wasn’t for the way Hosea watched him as he dismounted, or how John was looking back at him from his post on watch. 

He didn’t stumble as he set his feet on the ground, but he felt himself bristle like an angry cat regardless, and he stood there for a moment as he forced himself to calm down. His legs didn’t hurt, didn’t shake, it was all just in his head. But... Now what? He didn’t feel particularly hungry, and he’d wasted all the daylight hours. What was he supposed to do with himself?

“Thinking?” Hosea asked, and Arthur shrugged. 

“Kinda.” He muttered, tucking his thumbs into his belt. “I, uh... I’ll take care of the horses, you go on.” He was tired, but he had no reason to be, and he was still unsure if he’d walk funny or not, if he’d fall again. It had been humiliating enough to do it twice already, and if he did it a third time...

“Grab some dinner, hm? Then maybe get an early night.” His father suggested, and Arthur frowned. 

“Don’t need to, I’m-”

“Fine, I know.” Hosea cut him off, nodded as he smiled tightly. “But, do me a favor and take a load off. Been working awful hard these last few days, might do you some good.”

Maybe Hosea was right, and he’d just overworked himself a bit too much? Arthur considered that, glancing over to his cot and chewing on his lip. He was being told to rest, and it wasn’t as though he never relaxed around camp. Just... not usually. There really wasn’t much for him to do anyway, what with all the chores being done and nobody asking him for anything. And since his appetite was absent, perhaps he could just go to bed?

He was so goddamn tired.

“Sure, guess so.” He agreed, and didn’t see the way Hosea’s shoulders eased with relief. 

The old man smiled again, but his eyes were intensely focused. “Off you go.”

“Sure.” Arthur looked down at his legs. He took a slow step, resting his weight on it carefully until he was sure it wouldn’t drop him. And the next one. And the one after that. He sighed in relief.

Arthur sped up to a normal, ambling pace and it remained fine, because of course it would. He made it all the way back to bed without tripping or stumbling, and practically collapsed onto the creaking cot, ignoring the way he was panting and shaking from how hard it had been, focusing only on the fact he’d done it.

It may have been awkward and cumbersome to lift his legs to pull his boots off, but he ignored that too, and simply turned over onto his side and tried not to think about anything.

-=-=-=-=-

The pain woke him, but after weeks of his mornings starting that way, he was slowly getting accustomed to the near constant ache and the occasional sharp jabs, and figured he could handle it as long as he wasn’t stupid about things. 

It was as he’d tried to get out of bed to grab some coffee that he realized the pain was not the only issue.

His legs would barely move.

A small shift was all he got, no matter how hard he tried, and as the minutes wore on and he barely made progress, his heart began to race and his neck dampened with a cold sweat. 

What was this? What was happening? He’d been okay yesterday, he’d been fine. Why wasn’t he fine anymore?

“N-no... no, no...” He pulled the blanket back in a moment of sheer panic, half expecting his legs to simply be gone, but they were still there, he could see them and feel them, but just not... not move them.

“C’mon dammit, no!” His voice was high with fear, such an uncharacteristic tone from the outlaw that it barely took a minute for Hosea to arrive at his lean-to with a cup of coffee in his hand, followed by Dutch only half-dressed. 

“What’s the matter?” 

“What is it?”

Both men spoke at the same time, looking at Arthur and trying to see what the cause of his distress may be. But he was breathing too quickly to respond, becoming dizzy and tingly all over, a buzzing sensation centering below his waist.

“Arthur? What’s going on?” Dutch asked again as he stepped forward. He knelt by Arthur’s bedside, and that got the outlaw to look at him, face pale.

“M-my legs, I-... th-they won’t!” He stuttered, shaking his head and unable to get the words out right. What was happening? This couldn’t be happening, not to him.

Dutch paused, face going tight as he looked at Arthur’s motionless legs, and then back. “Quit messing around, son, this ain’t funny.” He muttered, and Arthur felt his stomach drop out.

“I ain’t jokin’!” His voice cracked, breathing so fast he felt as if he wasn’t taking in any air at all. Please, God, please, let this be a dream, a nightmare. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be real!

His fathers looked at each other and went quiet, and Arthur was sure that didn’t mean anything good. They communicated silently between themselves, and Dutch stepped back as Hosea came forward to take his place, passing off his coffee cup without looking.

“Okay, Arthur, calm down. We’ll figure this out, but you gotta tell me what’s going on.” He urged, expression dire, and Arthur choked on a noise as he opened his mouth. 

“I can’t.” He shook his head, shivering. “I-I dunno... I don’t know.”

Hosea’s eyes traced Arthur’s face, then down at his legs, and he furrowed his silver brows before he backed away, only a few steps. 

He cleared his throat and sounded determined. “It’s alright, just calm down. No need to panic, just relax and stand up for me.”

Arthur choked. Didn’t Hosea understand that he couldn’t? And yet the older man just gave him a short nod, encouraging, and Dutch motioned for Arthur to try. 

So he tried. 

He attempted once more to move his legs off the bed, yet still, they barely listened. A little movement, barely an inch, but nothing more. He tried again, and got the same result. He could feel them, but they refused to respond properly to anything he did. They were limp and heavy, and the harder he tried, the more upset he became.

“I-I’m tryin’, I jus’... gimme a second, h-hold on... lemme... lemme try again...” He was panting, eyes wide, refusing to understand what he was seeing, what was happening. It couldn’t be, it wasn’t. No, no, no.

“Arthur...” Hosea whispered, his confidence crumbling as minutes passed, and Arthur snapped his head to look at him, face contorted into a fearful rage.

“I said gimme a damn second!” He roared, loud enough to startle a few birds from a nearby tree, to make the rest of camp turn and stare, if they weren’t already. 

Staring at him, watching him struggle to move, watching him fail, seeing how he couldn’t do it.

He grabbed his left leg with both hands, pulling it harshly to the side and watching it hang off the edge of his cot as if it belonged to a dead man; limp and useless. 

Arthur let out a noise like a wounded animal. His hair stood on end and goosebumps prickled along his flesh as a chill ran through him. He felt like he was going to throw up.

He could feel it; could feel his bare toes in the soft grass, could feel the cold morning air on his ankles and the shift of his jeans against his skin. But it wouldn’t move. Bile rose in his throat as he shook his head and refused to accept this.

Blood pounding and lungs tightening, he forced himself to shift his other leg - anything, anything at all would be enough. A ragged noise caught in his chest, face turning red with exertion, eyes stinging.

It was working, he was doing it, just a little more.

But he only got it halfway to where he wanted it before he felt something else; a slowly seeping warmth between his thighs, spreading out from the crotch of his darkening jeans. He went utterly stiff, color draining from his face in mortified shock.

He’d... pissed himself. 

“Did you just-” Dutch was cut off by Hosea’s sharp elbow to his stomach.

“Go get a wagon ready, we’re taking Arthur to a doctor.” The conman breathed, no room for argument in his tone. 

No more playing dumb.

But Dutch was just staring, eyes wide, frozen in place. Hosea shoved him to snap him back to what was needed, and Arthur’s mentor finally tore his eyes away as he hurried off. 

Hosea crouched in front of Arthur again, took his hands and made Arthur’s eyes lock with his own. 

“I-I didn’t...” Arthur choked, so far past terrified and humiliated that he wasn’t sure there were even words for it. The awful, cruel truth was pressing in on him, too much for him to take. Suffocating, he was suffocating.

“It’s alright.” Hosea said softly, gently, though his bony hands shook as he held onto Arthur. “Don’t worry about that, son, but you need to be honest with me right now. Will you do that?” He made sure Arthur nodded before he continued, asking that dreaded question.

“Can you move your legs?”

“‘C-course.” Arthur tried to laugh, tried to brush it off, but it just came out as a dry sob instead. “Of course I can, Hosea. D-don’t... don’t ask me that. I can, I can do that. I-I... they jus’ feel kinda fu-funny, that’s all.”

“Funny how?” Hosea squeezed his hand, pressure and warmth and comfort. Arthur couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look at anything or anyone, just clenching his eyes shut as his breath hitched.

“Heavy... an’ n-numb, but not... not all the way, only a bit. I... I can feel ‘em, but they ain’t... they won’t listen, y’know? Been tinglin’ past few days or... w-weeks, I guess... hurtin’...” He bit his lip, eyes watering despite it all. “D-d’you think there’s... somethin’ wrong?”

“Maybe, but we’re leaving right now.” There was so very clearly something wrong that Hosea’s response was a weak attempt at diversion and nothing more. He glanced over his shoulder as Dutch whistled, signaling the wagon was ready. 

“B-but it’ll be fine, won’t it?” Arthur opened his eyes and pinned his father with a stare that broke the old man’s heart. Hosea clearly didn’t know how to answer that, and so he chose not to.

“Let’s get you up. I’m gonna need some help, is that okay? Can I call someone over to help?” He asked. Arthur nodded, putting his face in his hands as Hosea stepped back. 

“Charles, can you come here?” He didn’t need to ask, really, as Charles had been hovering nearby, jaw tight and eyes worried. He readily came over and did not need to be instructed on what to do, simply grabbed Arthur’s hand and pulled it around his shoulder, scooping his arm under Arthur’s legs and picking him up like a bride with a soft grunt.

“W-wait, I-” Arthur tried to protest at that, at the way he could feel the cool air chill his soaked pants, but Charles just shook his head.

“That doesn’t matter.” He said softly, carrying him through camp, past everyone, before setting him down in the wagon. Arthur couldn’t lift his eyes from the roughened wood beneath him, trying to pull himself further into the back and cover his crotch at the same time. Charles reached out to help him, and he tensed and bared his teeth with the instinct of a wild animal.

The hand was dropped, and Charles stepped back, looking at the other two with brown eyes wide with worry, seeking guidance. Dutch did nothing, only watched Arthur struggle as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. 

Arthur felt his gaze like two burning pinpricks digging into his flesh.

“Charles, up here with me.” Hosea was already seated in front, and the large man joined him after a moment of hesitation. Dutch stayed in the back, still staring, as Hosea snapped the reins. The horses started out of Horseshoe Overlook at a brisk trot, which Hosea whipped into a canter as soon as the wagon cleared the trees.

Dutch’s jaw was tight and his hands were clenched, and the smile he gave Arthur was woefully transparent. “You’ll be alright, son. We’ll figure this out, and you’ll be alright. Trust me.”

How many times had he heard something similar? How many times had those promises fallen through? It felt like a gramophone with a chipped cylinder, the same sounds skipping and repeating over and over again. He was no fool, he knew Dutch couldn’t promise anything, and yet... With all the fear he could feel battering away inside his ribcage, Arthur latched onto that statement like a drowning man; he didn’t have much choice.

Chapter Text

They brought the wagon right in front of the small doctor’s office, wheels skidding in the mud and people shouting in alarm, and Hosea barely waited for the horses to stop before he jumped down and rushed inside, calling for the doctor.

Charles and Dutch had to lift Arthur upright, supporting him on either side as they pulled him off the wagon. His legs wouldn’t hold his weight when they tried to set him down, and Arthur was forced to cling to them, nails digging into Dutch’s shoulder and fingers pulling at Charles’ shirt.

He felt like his mind was shutting down, unable to cope with what was going on, vision narrowing and a high-pitched tone whining in his ears. This was a dream, this was a dream. It had to be a dream.

Hosea stepped out of the door and urgently waved them in, but his frantic motions seemed as if they were happening in slow motion. Arthur was helped inside, guided through the doors and into the back, the scrape of the wood on his bare toes as Dutch and Charles dragged him along felt like sandpaper, and the smell of medicine stung at his nose. He was settled onto the low table, but Arthur struggled to release Charles’ shirt when he attempted to step back. He felt all tight and knotted up, cold and burning at the same time.

Charles must have said something; he saw his lips move but he didn’t hear it. He could only stare at him, uncomprehending, as his friend's face pinched in some tense and rough emotion he didn’t recognize. His hand was gently pulled off, Charles spoke again, and then he slipped back out the door to leave Arthur with his fathers and the physician.

He was shaking, hands clutching his own thighs in a death grip as if it would melt down the world around him, wallpaper decaying and sloughing off to show the rotten wood underneath. He was having a nightmare. He would wake up to the smell of coffee and the sound of Grimshaw chastising him for sleeping in so late. Hosea would roll his eyes at his laziness and Dutch would hasten him off to get some work done. That’s what would happen.

Any second, he’d wake up. Any second now.

-=-=-=-=-

Ben Calloway shut the door to the examination room and turned to Dutch and Hosea, looking between the two of them. “You said you’re his father?” He asked.

“Yes, this is his uncle.” Hosea answered, nodding at Dutch, and the man didn’t care to scrutinize that too closely. 

“What’s the problem?” He asked, and when Arthur remained mute, Hosea answered for him, recounting the events of that morning to the doctor as he checked their boy’s pulse and breathing and reflexes.

When it got to his legs, that little mallet on his knees received no response. He paused before he tried again, harder, but received only twitches, delayed and uncoordinated. 

Arthur made a sound in the back of his throat that had him backing off.

Dr. Calloway went to a desk and pulled out a pad of paper and a pen, beginning to jot things down. “You said he could walk yesterday?”

“That’s right.” Dutch swallowed, “He had trouble, but he could move.”

“Has he had a fever recently, a cough? Anything like that?”

“No... He asked for some medicine a few weeks ago, but he didn’t say anything about a fever.” Hosea glanced at Dutch, who shook his head.

“Weeks?” The doctor frowned at that, scribbling a few more lines. “Any vomiting?”

“No.”

“What about complaining of malaise, or pain?”

“When he first asked for the medicine, but nothing else until just now. Said he’d been feeling odd for a few weeks.”

That got the physician to look up from his notes. “What exactly did he tell you?”

“He’d thought it was a cold, but... this morning he said his legs were heavy, tingled and hurt, but felt numb. He’s been... clumsy, lately. He fell the other day and had trouble getting up and walking it off, he could barely get into his saddle. And then... he... this happened.” Hosea’s voice entered a tight wheeze, and Dutch placed a hand on his shoulder, taking over to give his voice a break.

“He’s not clumsy, he’s not frail, just... look at him.”

Arthur, broad shouldered and broad chested and broadly muscled, currently shutting his eyes to the conversation around him, biting his nails and pinching his legs as if to assure himself they were still there.

“Hm.” The physician moved to a bookshelf, taking out a manual and paging through it. He glanced at Arthur, and then at Hosea. “And his... uh, accident?” A gentle way to put it, the evidence soaked into Arthur’s crotch.

Dutch shifted. “He ain’t done that before, never.”

The man only hummed and went back to his book. “A few weeks... nothing before that, though? You’re sure? No fever?”

Wringing his hands, Hosea started to shake his head, and then paused. “N-no... well, I mean, how long before?”

“I...” The doctor paused, reading a few passages before he shut the book and put it back. He seemed reluctant, taking a deep breath and running a hand through his hair. “Look, I ain’t tryin’ to waste your time; this is beyond me. I don’t have the facilities here to diagnose him, but if you want my opinion, well... it sounds like something I’ve heard about before.”

“Which is?” Dutch frowned, the hand on Hosea’s shoulder tightened, knuckles white.

“It might be a long shot... but did you hear about the outbreak in ‘94?”

Dutch’s heart skipped a beat, and Hosea placed a hand over his. “What outbreak?” 

Again, the doctor paused, but only for a moment. When he spoke, it felt like a train had run straight through his office.

“Polio.” 

Both men went stiff, reeling with that single word and everything it meant. That was... ludicrous, he couldn’t be serious. 

But he was.

Calloway continued. “A colleague of mine was treating some of those poor souls, and mentioned to me in a letter that he’d heard from folk who’d already contracted the disease as children and fully recovered, but the symptoms had returned, only without fevers, not contagious. It didn’t seem like the full form of the disease, and progressed as you’ve described. I’ve heard talk about something like this in other places, but... only talk.” He stopped, and the room was silent in its wake. 

Hosea turned to look at his son; Arthur had his head in his hands, and his breathing had become hard and fast. But he didn’t speak or look or react in any other way.

The doctor slowly moved back to his notes, looking over what he’d written, speaking more gently now. “Did your son ever have polio? Maybe a case that went away with no lasting issues?”

Hosea and Dutch looked at each other, and then turned back to Arthur. “I...” Hosea rasped. “He’s adopted, since he was fourteen, but before that... I don’t know.”

“Arthur?” Dutch moved forward, almost touching his arm before thinking better of it.

But he didn’t answer, not for a long while, and nobody pressed him. They just waited, listening to his rough breathing and the ticking of the clock on the wall. When he finally lifted his head, the look of unadulterated fury on his face had Dutch quickly stepping back. 

His teeth were bared and his voice was the growling rumble of a feral dog. 

“This asshole don’t know what he’s talkin’ ‘bout, there ain’t no way, ain’t no fuckin’ way!” His words cracked with a distress he wouldn’t let show, but couldn’t fully hide. “You don’t actually believe this lunatic, do you!?”

The doctor’s eyebrows went up, and Dutch raised his hands and tried to be the voice of reason, even if his thoughts were whirling and his heart had stopped. He had to say something. 

“Now son, l-let’s just calm down and-”

“Calm down?!” Arthur roared like a wild cat, not even giving Dutch the chance to soften his anger. Without waiting to hear another word he tried to get up from the table, intent on bullying his way out as he usually did when his patience or temper had reached its limit. 

He only managed to fall to the floor in a heap, legs twitching with a spastic, telling irregularity.

Calloway winced and reached for him, but Dutch knew better than to let the man - a stranger - get too close, and held an arm out to stop him in his tracks. 

Arthur pushed himself up, hands flat on the floor, raking in air through his teeth as his face colored dark red. He looked past Dutch, straight at the doctor, coiling up to strike like a diamondback.

“Ain’t none’a that true, you can’t really think that makes any kind’a sense!” His anger, hot as a blue flame, was edging into desperation, and no one could get a word in edgewise. “You think you can jus’ tell lies ‘bout me? Say what’chu want an’ I won’t do nothin’? Well fuck you! I’ll put a bullet in your goddamn skull, you sunnova bitch! How ‘bout that?! How ‘bout I crack your fuckin’ teeth?!”

“Arthur, that is enough!” Dutch snapped, worried what might happen if he let Arthur’s temper run free. He turned to the doctor, who had backed up and seemed unsure if he should be worried or not. “Don’t listen to him, he’s...”

Ben Calloway just nodded, eyes still a bit wide. “N-no, I... I understand.”

“The fuck you do!” Arthur tried to grab the leg of the examination table to haul himself up, and Dutch looked sharply at Hosea. 

It was fairly clear they were done here. 

Hosea quickly moved to the door and called Charles back in, who kept his face blank as he saw the scene in front of him. But he was dutiful as always, and tried to help Arthur off the ground despite the outlaw spitting and snarling. 

“Get the hell off’a me! I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him! Stop it, Charles, God fuckin’ dammit!” Arthur raged, and Charles got a fist to his shoulder and jaw, but he didn’t let go, only giving a soft grunt and pulling him up like he’d done before. Charles got him outside and back into the wagon, stepping away before he could get hit again and rubbing at his cheek. He seemed lost, stricken despite his usually stoic expression. 

Hosea first got Dutch settled in the driver’s seat, and then came around, placing his hand on the young man’s shoulder.

“Go sit up front.” Hosea instructed softly, and Charles nodded, taking the reins as Dutch was practically immobile. Hosea figured he was the only one Arthur wouldn’t hit, and climbed into the back with him. He tapped the side to let Charles know they were ready, and the wagon began to rumble down the road. There was no more need to rush.

None of them commented on the tears in Arthur’s eyes, nor the way he trembled.

“He’s a liar, ‘Sea, I don’t got-” Arthur coughed to cover what his father knew to be a sob, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “I wanna go home.”

Hosea swallowed down anything else he might have said, nodding even as he felt his own eyes water. “I know, Arthur, we’re going.”

He wasn’t sure what else to do.

They’d brought him back to bed - which Grimshaw had thankfully cleaned up - and Charles beat a hasty retreat as Arthur’s rage had found new kindling, growing bigger and hotter. The rest of camp was quick to find things to get them out of Arthur’s firing range.

“He don’t know what h-he’s talkin’ about!” Arthur had said that over and over during the short ride from Valentine, denial so sharp it was cutting through him and causing his words to spill out in an uncoordinated rush. “Heard he were a crook, crooked, prob’ly got a goddamn opium den back there, gettin’ addled! H-he prob’ly ain’t even a-a real doctor!”

Hosea and Dutch could do nothing but let Arthur burn himself out - as horrible as it was to admit, the fury was rather tame when it was confined to a bed. It still took over an hour, but eventually he’d screamed himself hoarse, gotten himself so worked up that he’d run out of steam, left leaning against the side of his wagon, panting and exhausted. 

Only then did they approach; Hosea with a cup of water that he carefully passed to his son, and Dutch bringing over a chair.

“You done?” Dutch asked after Arthur sipped the cool liquid. He just grunted, eyes closed. Dutch took that as a yes. “Hosea and I are gonna figure this out, but in the meantime... I need to hear it from you. ‘Cus... if you can’t move, if it’s polio... we are gonna need to know.”

It wasn’t in Dutch’s nature to manage surprises very well, and this one was rather extreme, but while Arthur had raged and hollered, Hosea and him had spoken. At first Dutch had wanted to agree with Arthur; that doctor clearly didn’t know what he was talking about, because there was no way that Arthur had polio. Not his strong, capable Arthur. There was no way he’d contracted it, no one else in camp was sick, and he hadn’t shown any of the other signs. 

Hosea had asked if the specifics of the diagnosis truly mattered when Arthur still couldn’t walk, and then reminded him exactly what the doctor had said; a non-contagious form that only presented in folk who’d had it before. The old con had then gone on to say that no matter what was wrong, they had to figure out what they could do. Maybe it would clear up on its own, but when had Dutch ever heard of a man losing complete control of his legs, only to gain it back again? 

Aside from hucksters peddling snake oil, neither of them could think of a case.

As always, Hosea was right. It still ached in Dutch, still made him recoil from what it all meant, but... Arthur needed them, more than he ever had before, and in a way he’d never needed until now.

And so they sat, waiting for Arthur to reply and tell them the severity of what they were dealing with. Their boy just screwed up his face and ducked his head.

“Let’s try it this way,” Hosea sat on the edge of the cot and placed a finger on Arthur’s ankle. “From here down, can you move it?”

Arthur hesitated, but when his toes didn’t so much as wiggle, he shook his head. 

Hosea moved his finger to Arthur’s knee. “Here?”

Arthur shook his head again, breath visibly bottle-necking inside his throat. Hosea looked at Dutch for help on this, and the man moved to sit on the bedside table, his hand resting on Arthur’s shoulder, hesitant at first, and then firm.

Hosea nodded, let Arthur regain himself just a bit, and then his finger moved up to touch the top of Arthur’s thigh, right at his hip joint. “And... here?”

A shift was his answer, the most that Arthur could do, but it was clear that the movement was not what he’d intended. Hosea took his hand back, setting it in his lap and looking at Dutch, whose face was pale and drawn. 

“But you could... feel where Hosea touched you?” He asked, and Arthur slowly nodded. 

They fell silent then, digesting this information and adding it up. Arthur wasn’t numb, but had described numbness coming and going, along with pain, pins and needles, the sensation of his lower limbs being weak and difficult to move... and now he couldn’t move them at all. It had come on over a few weeks, manageable at first, and then suddenly debilitating.

Hosea had seen polio before, as had Dutch, but that had been in children or the elderly, or sometimes people who had survived but been left permanently affected. Arthur was not like that; he was in the prime of his life, strong, physically fit, and hardy. He’d never mentioned or exhibited a weakness of any kind... but they’d only known him as an older child - whatever had happened earlier on, well, Arthur never liked to speak about that, only telling as much as he had to.

“Arthur... would you humor me?” Hosea asked, and his son looked up at him, eyes reddened but dry. “Did you have polio when you were a child?” Arthur only shrugged, so Hosea changed the question. “Maybe you had a bad fever, and a tough time breathing and moving around?”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, and he looked quickly back down, not answering. They waited, Dutch gently kneaded the muscles in his shoulder to offer comfort, until finally, he spoke up.

“Dunno, but...Yeah, maybe.” His voice was torn and rough, barely more than a whisper. He sounded exhausted.

Hosea allowed himself a moment to prepare for whatever he might pull from Arthur’s mouth. He wanted to be wrong, he wanted the doctor to be wrong, but God, if it didn’t seem like he was going to be right.  

“Do you know how old you were?”

“No. I-I dunno. Four or five, maybe.” 

It was the right age. He took a deep breath. “Can you describe it for me?”

“I don’t remember, ‘Sea, it was a long time ago.” The attempt at diversion didn’t stick, and Arthur hunched his shoulders a little more. “Got sick, an’ my father sent me an’ my momma outta the house. Spent a while in some church, I think. Dunno how long. Then I got better, an’ we went home.” He explained, and vague though the memories were, it was enough to paint a picture for the two older men.

What Arthur was describing sounded like a sanitarium, probably a small one inside a church for women and children. Of course a young boy wouldn’t know that, but if Arthur and his mother had contracted polio, his father would have naturally sent them away so they did not pass on the disease.

“Do you remember if your mother was ill during that time too?” Hosea pressed, and Arthur shrugged and chewed his lip. 

“I... I guess. She... died not long after. ‘Bout a year.”

Arthur’s mother must have eventually passed away from her illness, or at least the effects of it, while he had recovered - growing older and stronger and likely benefiting far more from Dutch and Hosea’s nutritional generosity than they were aware of. 

He’d been very skinny when they’d picked him up, but it had made sense for a boy so young, forced to fend for himself as long as he had. Hosea hadn’t thought Arthur had been sickly looking, not any more than was reasonable, but if they’d met him almost ten years after he’d recovered, at that point there would naturally be no sign of it, right?

Only, now... Arthur couldn’t move his legs. Thirty years past when the illness had first gripped him, could it really have... returned?

They needed to find another doctor, that was an unspoken understanding between the two older men. Someone had to know something.

As Dutch got up and left, no doubt to pace and drive himself crazy, Hosea shifted and closed his eyes, every ounce of worry like a leaden weight inside his heart. He didn’t know what they would do, not yet, but he wasn’t about to give up.

“... ‘Sea...?” Arthur whispered, and he sounded so terribly contrite. He saw how red Arthur’s face was, how he picked at the blankets and couldn’t meet his gaze. 

“Yes?”

“I... I’m sorry to... I jus’...” He struggled, and Hosea allowed him the time he needed to get the words out. And when he finally did, Hosea understood why it was so difficult.  “C-can you grab me... some clean clothes?”

Oh. That was right, he was still wearing... It must be incredibly uncomfortable, not to mention humiliating to ask, and he could hear the apology woven into Arthur’s request.

“Of course, son.” There was no need to think about it, and Hosea got up to search through the chest at the foot of his cot. He pulled out an entirely new outfit, but paused as he was about to hand it over.

“Do you need help?” He asked, and Arthur’s face was ruddy, ears hot, and he shook his head vehemently.

“N-no, I can do it. But, uh... is there some way to, I dunno...” He gestured at how open his cot was, bared to most of camp, and Hosea was struck by how complicated this was all about to become. How much would they have to change, how many little things would never be the same?

‘Don’t think about that now, just help him.’ He forced himself to focus, nodding and fighting to keep his face neutral. Arthur didn’t need to see him crack.

“Let me look for something, I’m sure Grimshaw wouldn’t miss a few extra sheets.” Hosea didn’t want to linger and cause his son any more embarrassment, quickly heading over to the girls’ wagon where all three young women, plus Sadie and Grimshaw, were silently sitting. 

Susan picked her head up as Hosea approached, hands twisted in her lap. 

“How is he?” She asked, and Hosea stopped short, forcing down the urge to bite back at that question. Grimshaw cared about Arthur, and she was only concerned... she had reason to be. Not to mention... they had all seen it, heard Arthur ranting and cursing, watched as he’d failed to get himself out of bed. 

There was no secret to keep.

“Not too good.” Hosea muttered, throat tight. “We need to find someone else, another doctor or... somebody. But in the meantime, I want him to have some privacy. Is there an extra set of sheets, or some spare canvas?”

“Of course.” Grimshaw quickly began to search through the wagon, and Hosea let himself breathe, tight and constricted, but not about to turn into a coughing fit.

“Hosea?” It was Tilly, hesitant and watery. “Can Arthur... walk?”

Deep breaths, slow and careful, so he didn’t break apart right there in front of them all. 

“No.”

-=-=-=-=-

It took three days before Arthur agreed to try a different doctor - three days of needing help for nearly everything, and the outlaw hated it. They’d kept sheets up and tried to ease him into taking help - but he was angry, and each offer of assistance was met with a spiny, furious fight. He barked and snarled and bared his teeth whenever anyone so much as came near, and Hosea knew the only way to get him to calm down would be to force him to face the truth - no matter what it was. 

And so after days of snapping and shutting down, Arthur finally agreed. And yet the agreement only came with Dutch’s steadfast assurance that this one would know what he was talking about, because they were taking him to a professional in the big city - Saint Denis. This doctor had better resources, better schooling, better everything, and he wouldn’t tell them something that wasn’t true.

So when the man asked the same questions and gave the same answers, it shattered him.

“But how could it be polio?” He seemed frozen, sitting in that chair and clenching his hands on the armrest, staring at the doctor with wide eyes. “I ain’t... H-how’d I...?”

“I couldn’t tell you exactly how, son.” Dr. Joseph R. Barnes sat in front of him, pipe in his mouth, expression grim. “It’s rare, but a doctor named Raymond and a French neurologist by the name of Jean-Martin Charcot were the first to really write about it, back in ‘75. Charcot described progressive muscle atrophy in polio survivors, sometimes appearing decades after the initial infection and recovery. He hypothesized that the neurons had become sensitive, and therefore overuse of the muscles first affected by the illness would cause a resurgence of symptoms in around twenty to eighty percent of cases. Nobody really knows.”

“What does that mean?” Dutch asked from beside him, and Dr. Barnes leaned back in his chair, puffed on his pipe, and furrowed his brows. 

“Well, from what I understand, if your son was particularly active, it may be why this has happened. Think of it like a telegraph wire; the messages sent from his brain, down his spine, and to his legs have been weakened, and the more he used those telegraph lines, the weaker they got until they snapped. It’s not fatal, but I’m afraid there’s very little I can do.” 

It was an answer Dutch had expected, but that didn’t make it easier for any of them to hear. Of course Arthur was active, he almost never sat down for Chrissakes, and if they had caused this, even unknowingly...

A muscle in Arthur’s jaw ticked, and he put his hands in his lap, clenching his fists. “Th-there’s gotta be a cure or somethin’, right?”

“There’s no cure for polio, son. At least it’s not contagious like this, you won’t have to worry about passing it to anyone else.” Dr. Barnes seemed genuinely apologetic, but that didn’t do much to quell Arthur’s rising anguish.

“But I... I gotta walk, I gotta work.” His voice cracked, and God, Hosea could barely stand to hear him speak like that; like he was begging, trying to convince the doctor to reconsider his decision, as if he had any control over the truth.

“Work isn’t something you should attempt, you could hurt yourself or make things worse. It hasn’t affected your breathing, but that doesn’t mean it never will. If you need help making ends meet, there’s charities for folk like you.” Barnes’ response was blunt, and he couldn’t know what he was saying, had no way to know just how much of a killing blow that was to the man Arthur had always been. 

“No, that’s... No.” The outlaw turned his face away and gave a trembling, disbelieving laugh, putting a hand against his head, running his palm over his eyes and then back up through his hair. Hosea could see as Arthur let that sink in, let it rip into his heart and latch onto his soul.

His hand began to shake and he brought it back down over his eyes, hiding his expression as he bit his lip nearly hard enough to puncture the skin, holding his breath as if it would turn his ribs into a dam that was strong enough to withstand this rising tide. 

“We ain’t taking any charity.” Dutch answered, somehow still so prideful and resolute. Of course he’d refuse, and Hosea may have called him pigheaded and stupid, if he hadn’t known that Arthur would never accept it anyway.

Barnes nodded slowly. “But you can accommodate a cripple?”

The outlaw jerked at the word like it was a hot iron brand. 

“A cripple?” Arthur’s voice was rough, scored steel rasping over iron - the desperate and hopeless attempt to break a chain with a nail file. “F-for life, jus’ like that? I can’t... I-I can’t fix it?” 

Dr. Barnes sighed, taking his glasses off and wiping the lenses on his shirt. “I’m real sorry.”

Perhaps it was the objective, definitive nature of the diagnosis, the clinical erasure of everything he was and thought he could ever be, but the fight seemed to leave Arthur’s body in a shuddering rush.

But the good doctor had mercy; this clearly wasn’t news he’d enjoyed giving. He stood and walked over to a large wooden cabinet in the corner of the room, rifling through a drawer and pulling out a leaflet. He looked it over, and then passed it to Dutch. 

He grasped it mechanically, eyes slowly raking over the lettering and the illustrations, taking several minutes to understand what he was looking at.

An orthotist.

“There’s a specialist in the city, he could make your boy a pair of braces so maybe he could get around on his own. Other than that... Make sure he’s comfortable. That’s all you can really do.”

And that was that. It was undeniable.

Arthur was immobile from the waist down because of a childhood case of polio, coming back thirty years later to wreak merciless havoc. No doctor or surgeon or medicine man could fix it, no snake oil or miracle tonic would help. His legs would hurt and shake and remain unresponsive for the rest of his life, and that’s just the way it would be.

Chapter Text

Arthur did not take the news well, after he finally accepted it. He would oscillate wildly between pure unadulterated rage and a deep, dark melancholia that nothing could rouse him from. Hosea knew better than to take any of it personally; they were really just two sides of the same coin. He knew they were both expressions of Arthur’s grief.

Still, knowing not to take it personally didn’t make any of it easier to handle. With Arthur having no chance to regain the use of his legs, everything about the way the gang functioned had to change. No longer could Arthur pull in scores or run jobs, and trying to cover the money, food, and chores seemed an almost ludicrous task. Arthur had regularly been pulling in at least one hundred dollars a week in cash or goods for years, all by himself, and yet just one attempt at a score without him - a stagecoach robbery - ended so disastrously that Tilly had nearly been shot and Bill had lost a tooth and half his ear. 

And once he’d heard about it, Arthur had been beside himself.

“I can’t stay like this, Hosea! Tilly nearly died ‘cus I can’t get outta this goddamn bed!” It wasn’t easy to talk him down from that, and it ended with Hosea needing to stretch the truth and assure Arthur that everything else was going fine, it was just bad luck and didn’t have anything to do with his current state. He wasn’t sure that Arthur believed him, but he seemed to wear out soon after he’d started shouting, and Hosea left him to rest with a heavy heart.

He was becoming a shell of who he’d been, and nobody knew how to fix it, because the one thing that would help was something nobody could give. It wasn’t just his mobility he’d lost; along with that came losing a heavy portion of his pride. 

If he couldn’t get to the edge of his bed to use the bucket they’d set for him, he’d... have an accident, and that was a whole affair of lifting him up to clean him off, change his clothes, and replace his sheets. If he wanted to avoid the shame of that, he had to instead endure the embarrassment of asking for someone to help him. Hosea also suspected that Arthur wasn’t able to hold his bladder as well as he had before, though he knew it would only humiliate him further were he to ask.

He couldn’t get out of bed on his own, struggled to wash, and while he could remove his own shirt without trouble, trying to put on or take off pants when he couldn’t lift his legs was nearly impossible without assistance. 

Arthur also rarely had the energy to do those things by himself. The pain would become so bad at times that it was all he could do to just sleep through it, and other times it would keep him up far past the point of exhaustion. Hosea wanted to help him with that too, but giving him morphine carried its own risks, and he wasn’t willing to subject Arthur to addiction on top of everything else.

And to make matters somehow even worse, whether it was from illness or self-hatred, Arthur was hardly eating. It made the aches and pains worse, caused the spasms in his legs to strengthen, and the already lagging energy in his body to wane. When he did eat, there had been a few instances where he’d choked on food or retched it up, which led Hosea to fear that he couldn’t even leave him alone for something as simple as that. Hosea took to spending most of his time by his son’s bedside, only taking breaks when he slept or snarked. Dutch had to remind him to eat and sleep, but how could he? What if his boy needed something and he wasn’t there?

Arthur could hardly do anything by himself, and Christ, if that didn’t tear at him, and then cause him to tear at everyone else.

Grimshaw had come to Dutch after the second week of this, expressing her own exhaustion, and her inability to play nursemaid as well as tend to the day-to-day requirements of a twenty-person camp. Not to mention that it was at least a two person job to take care of Arthur; the only ones strong enough to lift him by themselves were Charles and Bill, and Arthur was not about to let Williamson near. But Charles was often gone hunting just to keep up - which also made him unavailable for jobs. Laundry had more than doubled, and Grimshaw felt torn between wanting to take care of Arthur and having to deal with his biting mood. She had blatantly begged them to do something about it. 

And she was right, things could not continue as they were; not for the gang, and not for Arthur. They were barely pulling in enough money to keep up with expenses, and while they’d been in worse financial spots before, it had never been anything so permanent as this. Arthur was their main breadwinner, and now that he was forced into disability, that did not come without stress for the rest of them.

But to let Arthur know that, to make him feel as if he was a burden or a drain... Hosea loved him too much to entertain the thought. No, they would take care of him, no matter the cost - monetary or otherwise. They would not abandon him, as Micah had said one night by the fire. 

It was Micah, Bill, and Lenny. The youngest of the three clearly didn’t enjoy the company he’d found himself in, and Hosea had initially gone over to offer some distraction. What he’d ended up hearing... oh, it had boiled him.

“All I’m sayin’ is, what’re we able to do for him? I ain’t a nurse, and you sure ain’t either, Williamson. Wouldn’t it be better for everyone if Morgan was off in some... home? This gang can’t afford another dead weight, especially a cripple.” Micah made his point to those gathered beside him, voice loud and brash, and Arthur surely was able to hear him if he was awake. 

Hosea hoped he wasn’t. 

“Shut your fucking mouth.” His voice was ice and thorn, and his hand rested near the grip of his pistol. “Don’t even think of saying that again, or you’ll find yourself really learning what it means to be dead weight.”

Micah had put his hands up, affecting innocence, but that little spark in his eyes gave him away. “Oh, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. But you can’t pretend Morgan ain’t an invalid, old man, and I ain’t sayin’ anything that ain’t true.”

Hosea pulled his gun from the holster and cocked the hammer back, pointing it right at Micah and watching as that smug look dripped right off his fucking face. 

“Keep. Your. Mouth. Shut.”

Oh, how he wished he could shoot the bastard. But that wouldn’t help anything, and he’d holstered his gun and stalked away from the fire, leaving behind the silence he’d created and hoping the goat-fucker choked on his whisky.

Dutch had tried to excuse Micah’s words as nothing more than misguided concern, but Hosea wasn’t willing to swallow that serving of utter horseshit. 

“So you agree with him, then? You think we should just leave Arthur at a... a hospital?” He hissed, harsh and angry, and his long-time friend had stuttered and balked. 

“No, of course not, Hosea! But the fact remains that we don’t... we don’t know what we’re doing. We ain’t equipped for this kinda thing; this is a gang, we ain’t built for caretaking.”

That response, however coldly logical it was, pierced Hosea through the heart. “So because he can’t walk, he’s no longer the boy we raised for twenty years? He’s not our son anymore? We just give up and let him rot!? God damn you, Dutch Van der Linde!” He couldn’t help it; after all these weeks of holding strong for everyone else, he broke down. 

His punch landed hard in Dutch’s gut, doubling the man over in a second. He hadn’t anticipated it, though he also didn’t attempt to retaliate, eyes more wide and shocked than angry. But that was all Hosea had the energy for, and he collapsed down on Dutch’s bed, face in his hands, giving into the exhausted and overwrought tears that had been lying in wait ever since they’d left Saint Denis. 

Arthur had lost almost everything, but Hosea was grieving too. What parent didn’t have expectations for their children’s futures? He’d wanted Arthur to be happy, maybe find a way to get out of this life... but now he couldn’t leave the gang behind, he couldn’t make it on his own. His grown son was as helpless as a child, and it was just so damn unfair.

Dutch coughed, hesitated, and then sat beside him, bringing him into his arms. Hosea turned his face into Dutch’s shoulder and held the back of his stupid vest. It had been a long time since he’d done that, maybe not since Bessie had died. This entire... mess wasn’t the same, but God did it hurt.

“I’d never leave him.” Dutch’s voice was watery and thick as he spoke. “We’ve raised him for more than half his life, you can’t think I could ever forget that, Old Girl. But I have to think about how this affects us all, not just him... not just you and I. Believe me, my friend, from the bottom of my heart I wish... I wish I knew how to help, that there was a way to... to make it easier...” He swallowed audibly, and Hosea knew the conflicting position Dutch was in.

He was Arthur’s other father, but he was also the leader of a gang of wild outlaws, and he wore the weight of his responsibility heavily enough already. Adding this put pressure on him in a way that didn’t affect Hosea quite the same, and clouded him in ways that the older man could avoid.

“It’s not easy, and it won’t be. We have to admit we’re as helpless as he is when it comes to changing this.” Hosea croaked, tears having roughened his voice. “And quite frankly, you’re shit at that.”

There was a wet chuckle, an agreement. At least Dutch wasn’t denying it.

“He doesn’t need the head of the Van der Linde gang, he needs family, which means you too.” Hosea continued.

“I know, I just... I don’t know what to do.” It was barely a whisper, but Hosea heard it all the same. For Dutch to admit such a thing showed how deeply he was struck by Arthur’s pain. Dutch’s empathy was a wild, overgrown thing, a double edged sword. But it wasn’t the first time Hosea had pruned that bleeding heart of his, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“I do.”

-=-=-=-=-

Hosea made the call to buy those leg braces, and while they needed to dip into the camp funds to afford them, Dutch - however reluctantly - agreed that since Arthur had given so much over the years, it was just as much his money as anyone’s. No more cigars for a while, and they’d do without sugar for the coffee. The Blackwater money would have helped, but... it was best not to try for that.

The man in Saint Denis who made the braces needed Arthur’s measurements, and they knew better than to ask Arthur to make another trip. Dutch had the idea to bring him a pair of Arthur’s pants to show him what he was working with, since most of Arthur’s clothes had been tailored at one point or another. 

It would work, though the orthotist warned he’d probably need adjustments after some time, since Arthur’s muscles would waste away if they hadn’t begun to already, making his legs thinner and possibly bowing them, though one could never tell until it happened. He also made it clear that without proper and consistent use of the braces, the wasting could cause Arthur’s joints to slip out of alignment, leading to easier dislocations and even breaks if he were to fall.

They would take two weeks to make, and they were damn expensive, but it was worth every penny as far as Hosea was concerned - and he’d made it clear that what he thought was necessary, Dutch better think too. He hoped it would be a nice surprise for Arthur when they were finished, a way to bolster him back up and give him some hope.

They didn’t expect the nightmare it turned out to be.

“Why’d you do this?” Arthur had been stunned at first, but soon was snarling, quickly becoming so furious that his face flushed red. “Why’d you do this?!” 

His inability to get up and storm off had reduced him to beating his fist against his thigh, punching the side of his wagon, and swinging at Dutch when the man tried to stop him. 

Grimshaw’s fatigue with Arthur’s temper was not unfounded.

“Arthur, son, just give them a try.” Dutch tried to talk him down before the flames got too high, but it was no use. “You could-”

“Could what, work? Make a damn use of myself? Or jus’ hobble ‘round an’ go be a joke at the other end of camp?” Arthur gave a bitter laugh, eyes wet, the circles beneath them dark. “Look at me, Dutch, for once! It’s all pointless! I’m nothin’ but a burden, a lame horse, dead weight, so jus’ do us all a favor an’ put me outta my Goddamn misery!”

He must’ve heard Micah after all.

“Hey!” Dutch snapped, eyes wide and fists clenched. “Don’t talk like that!”

“Oh yeah? Then how should I talk, mister high-an’-Goddamn-mighty!? Want me to kiss your ass like your new favorite, Micah Bell?!”

“That is enou-!” 

“Fuck you!” In his wildfire rage, Arthur picked up the closest thing within his reach; Boadicea’s horseshoe. He pulled it off the side of his wagon and sent it sailing through the air, and if Dutch hadn’t been as quick as he was, or if Arthur’s aim had been any better, it would have cracked him square in the head.

“Arthur!” Hosea’s voice was sharp and loud, beyond a simple reprimand, and normally it would have been enough to curb the outlaw’s temper and force him to rein it back in, but not now, not lately.

“Get the hell away from me! I’m done for, don’t you get it?! St-stop tryin’ to help, jus’ gimme a bullet an’ lemme fuckin’ die!”

They’d left him alone, unsure what else they could do and wanting to avoid any more projectiles. Even as the shouting ceased to be replaced with muffled sniffling, Dutch and Hosea sat nearby, the braces on the table between them, at a total loss.

Camp was hauntingly silent.

“That could’ve gone better.” Hosea muttered, and Dutch pinched the bridge of his nose. Arthur had always been sarcastic, pessimistic, and sour, but... he’d never been like this.

“How can he talk like that, Hosea? We’re only trying to help, we’ve been doing all of this for him, and he’s acting like an ungrateful child.” Dutch didn’t handle other people’s outbursts very well, never really having gotten the hang of handling his own, and Arthur behaving so wildly was taking a toll on him.

“Stop it.” But that didn’t mean Hosea was going to let Dutch talk like that. He smacked him on the arm, giving a glare that soon slid off his face. “He’s... having a rough time.” He sighed heavily.

Dutch snorted at that, dry and humorless. “You think so?”

“It hasn’t been that long yet, Dutch. He went from complete independence to being bed-bound in a few short weeks. We have to be patient with him while he adjusts.” He was telling Dutch as much as he was reminding himself. Patience, God please, patience.

“And what do we do while we wait for that?” Dutch frowned, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring hard at the dirt between his feet. “We can’t leave him in that bed until he wastes away, Hosea.”

A moment passed between them, and then Dutch spoke again, voice lower, softer. “He doesn’t actually want to die, does he?” Dutch looked carefully at his companion, who returned the hesitant gaze, serious and tight-lipped. “You don’t think he’d... try anything, do you?”

Hosea didn’t think it was an idle threat - Arthur wasn’t really known for those.

“Don’t make me answer that.” He muttered. “Let’s just make sure there’s... nothing available. We need to give him some time, and maybe... it’ll pass. Until then, we... We work on this, we find a way to get him out of that bed.”

They fell into silence as they thought over every possible solution. Dutch got up to pace, and Hosea closed his eyes and let the outside world slowly filter away. They didn’t know where to go from here, so it was worth looking back at where they’d been. There must have been a path they’d overlooked.

Arthur couldn’t move his legs, which was what the braces were for; they would stiffen and support the joints, allowing Arthur to put his weight on them, and with the aid of crutches he could learn to walk again. The point of the braces was to walk, and Arthur was still struggling to come to terms with the fact that he couldn’t.  

Maybe... it was too soon? Maybe there was an in-between step?

“What about a chair?” Hosea asked suddenly, and Dutch paused in his rut-digging to look at him, requesting Hosea to continue with the tilt of his brows. “I mean, a rolling chair. We could find one, I’m sure. It might be better to ease into the idea of braces, get him feeling a little more confident first.”

Dutch slowly sat back down, rubbing the hair on his chin as he thought about that, both men glancing to Arthur’s now silent tent. They wondered if he’d worn himself out again.

“It would do him good to get out of that bed, even if it’s a chair. But... would it work out here?” He glanced around the Overlook, saw the little rocks and bumps in the ground, and then as one, they turned to the ledge that dropped more than a hundred feet below.

A beat passed between them.

“We’ll move.” It was a quick and easy decision. Hosea didn’t even have to think about it.

“Valentine’s a bit of a bust, anyway.” Dutch nodded, sitting up straighter and adjusting his vest. “We’ll find a better spot, near a better town. I’ll look over my maps tomorrow, and send some of the boys out scouting once I’ve got an idea.”

“I can ask some of the associates I’ve made recently where to find a chair, might not be that hard.” Hosea felt the beginnings of relief starting to smooth over the harsh, jagged lines of his worry. This sounded like a better plan than they’d had in a long while.

“I want to help.” Both men looked at John, coming up to them from where he’d been eavesdropping. He’d avoided anything and everything to do with Arthur since that first incident in camp, unable to process Arthur’s illness any better than the man himself. But unlike Arthur, their younger son did not also have grief to contend with, and it seemed he’d finally accepted things.

“I... I know there ain’t nothin’ we could’ve done,” He went on, parroting back the words that Hosea had told him days ago. “But... he’s my brother, and I can’t stand a moment more of this.”

“John...” Hosea’s heart tugged with something other than heartache for the first time in weeks. “If you’d ask around for chairs while you’re out and about, it would help us get one that much faster. And... Can you think of any places we could move? Somewhere flat, without cliffs, and not too cold.”

That was another thing; Dr. Barnes had mentioned that Arthur would become more susceptible to cold weather, and in turn, getting sick from it. They had to avoid places where the winters were harsh if they didn’t want Arthur suffering any more than he already was.

John chewed his lip and turned his eyes skywards, as he often did when he was thinking. “I... I might know a place, but I’d have to check, s’been a while. It would take me a couple days...”

“You’ve got my blessing, son, go.” Dutch supported that wholeheartedly, and it seemed to be everything John needed. He hastened himself back to his tent, immediately packing a bag before mounting up on Old Boy and heading out.

Dutch and Hosea watched him go, grasping hands to bolster their hope.

-=-=-=-=-

John returned two days later with mixed news; while there was indeed a place that was big and flat enough for Arthur and the rest of the gang to fit - some place called Clemens Point - it was right on the shore of Flat Iron Lake in Lemoyne. Even though it was warm, that was a bit farther south than Dutch really felt comfortable going, but he hadn’t been able to locate an alternative that was any more promising. 

The further north they might go, the rockier and hillier the terrain tended to become, never mind how cold it was, and he knew that even if Big Valley seemed attractive with it’s wide open spaces and fresh air, it was home to bears and cougars and O’Driscolls - predators that would have too easy a time picking off his eldest son.

East was even worse, with the region of Roanoke essentially a deathtrap for someone who couldn’t move; the hillsides not only steep, but crawling with lunatics. Anything further south than Scarlett Meadows would be swampland, which would be inaccessible to Arthur, not to mention how sorely Dutch hated the idea.

West would have been ideal, if he was honest with himself, but that was a road not worth traveling in more ways than one. He didn’t even want to think about what might happen if the Pinkertons found Arthur like this.

There was no immediate rush to pack up and leave, and so for once, Dutch allowed Grimshaw and Pearson to let him know when they were ready. In the meantime, he had to tell Arthur - and hopefully avoid another outburst.

He made his way over to Arthur’s tent, pausing outside just a moment to see if he could hear anything. Sometimes if Arthur was awake, he could hear the scratching of a pencil in his journal, though that was seldom nowadays.

There was only silence, so he slowly pulled back the flap and went inside, seeing Arthur on his side, turned towards his wagon with his back to the world, breath not deep enough to be asleep.

“Afternoon, son. How are you?” He sat himself in the chair left by Arthur’s bedside, and wasn’t all that surprised when he didn’t get a response. He didn’t let it stop him though, and cleared his throat as he began to speak.

“So, Hosea and I have been talking, and we figure we’ve pretty much run Valentine dry. We’re gonna get ready to move on, and if you’re up for it, we could start getting your things packed.”

Dutch waited, drawing on his patience and remembering what Hosea told him about not taking it to heart. But if there was one thing that got under his skin almost more than anything else, it was being ignored. 

Not that he’d interacted with him all that much lately, at least not on his own. It had been hard for him to know what to say to Arthur, and while his anger was difficult to handle, it was at least a familiar sting. But when Arthur needed care, Dutch floundered, and struggled to rectify this new reality with his vision of who Arthur had been before, and left that task to others. He wasn’t used to this, and still found himself thinking of Arthur first when jobs came to mind, only to have his thoughts stutter and stall. 

Not to mention the little niggling guilt in the back of his head that he’d been partly responsible for this. 

If he hadn’t pushed Arthur so hard, if he’d made better choices, taken fewer risks... Had the freezing temperatures of Colter been to blame? The panic and rush of Blackwater? Or something that had happened before all those things? And pieces of him blamed Arthur for not telling them sooner, never taking proper care of himself, and hiding his condition until he couldn’t any longer. If Arthur had mentioned something sooner, when they might still have been able to do something about it, would it have become this bad? If only Arthur hadn’t been so damn stubborn...

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to push those thoughts away and focus on Arthur, who still hadn’t replied. He was just about to open his mouth again when Arthur slowly pushed himself up, leaned against his wagon, and pinned Dutch with a dull-eyed stare.

“‘Kay.” Was all he said.

Dutch blinked. “Okay?” He repeated, and Arthur just gave a nod. “You don’t even wanna know where we’re going?”  He’d expected more resistance. This listless acceptance was... disconcerting.

“What for?” Arthur grunted, not meeting his father’s eyes. “You’re jus’ gonna drag me along no matter what, can’t exactly stop you.”

This... wasn’t Arthur. Anger and vitriol, irritating though it was, was something he’d been prepared for. Hosea had mentioned Arthur’s temper worsening, and while he had said things about melancholy... Was it really this bad?

The things he’d shouted that day with the braces came back to circle inside Dutch’s head. He’d tried to tell himself they were things Arthur hadn’t actually meant, things he’d said in the heat of the moment, but... he couldn’t deny that Arthur had said them. They’d made sure any guns or knives were kept out of reach, but it was only a precaution, right? Hosea being overly cautious like usual...

Right?

“Arthur, we ain’t gonna drag you anywhere,” He began, but Arthur’s rough, bitter laugh cut him off. His eyes were puffy and hollow in the dim light inside his tent, and Dutch looked away from him.

“Don’t bullshit me. What’s the point, Dutch? Why’re you tryin’ so hard? I ain’t gonna get better. Movin’ or not ain’t gonna make a difference. I know you’re jus’ findin’ another spot cus the doctor told you to make me comfortable.”

“Arthur,” Dutch sighed, leaning forward and running a hand over his face. “This decision is yours too, we won’t go if you’re against it.”

“Why, ‘cus you feel bad for me? ‘Cus you pity me?” Arthur barked, suddenly angry.

“Because you’re my son.” He said, voice firm and resolute, even if Arthur wasn’t wrong. Dutch did pity him, as foreign a feeling as it was.

Arthur tightened his fists and clenched his jaw, but the anger didn’t last, and he ducked his head down. “Bet you regret that now, don’tchu? Should’a never picked me outta the gutter, would’a saved you all this trouble. Better off dead an’ you know it.”

Dutch couldn’t stand to hear this. He moved forward without thinking, kneeling on Arthur’s cot and grasping his shoulders, startling Arthur into looking into his eyes.

“No.” He whispered, his own throat feeling harsh. “I don’t regret a damn thing, and that’s not gonna change. I... I know this is hard, I know how difficult this is for you.”

Arthur’s lips thinned and his nostrils flared, but his eyes were becoming damp. “No you don’t.”

“Don’t I?” Dutch shot back, and tightened his grip. “I raised you, and for all these years you’ve been by my side. Don’t you think I know who you are by now? How could I not know what this has done to you?”

And God, wasn’t that the exact reason why this was all so painful for Dutch. Knowing Arthur, knowing his dreams and whims, seeing as he’d grown from a ratty little brat into a skilled and capable man, but had never quite lost that wild spark... And now, that spark seemed gone. And it was so damn hard to see.

“If you’ve seen what it’s done, then why ain’t you left me yet?” Arthur’s voice had dropped, and his breath stuttered in his lungs. 

“Because I promised I’d never leave you aside, didn’t I? Twenty years ago, I promised you that. Hosea and I are always with you, we have been ever since the day we met. The curious couple and their unruly son, ain’t that right?” He paused, breathing to keep control over himself, to offer Arthur a rock. Bloodshot blue met fiery brown. “I love you.”

Arthur’s breath hitched and skipped, and his bottom lip trembled before he gathered it harshly between his teeth. Whether Arthur accepted his words or not, he had no idea, but Dutch was not the type of man to leave another to despair alone.

He brought him to his chest, carding a hand through Arthur’s tangled, unwashed hair, feeling when Arthur’s shoulders began to shake. “Oh, my boy.”

-=-=-=-=-

They moved camp soon after, everything packed and ready to go by sunrise. It took a few hours, but they managed to get to Clemens Point with relative simplicity. Arthur was in the back of a wagon with Jack and Abigail, a blanket thrown over his legs. He’d been cold that morning, wanting to wear a coat despite their destination being much warmer. Nobody told him he couldn’t, and so he was bundled up against the side of the wagon with Jack sitting by his side, chattering quietly to his mother as Arthur drifted in and out of sleep.

He was fully out when they arrived, and not even the bustle of setting up a new camp awoke him. Jack carefully climbed down from the wagon after Abigail, wandering over to Hosea and tugging on a pant leg. 

The old man glanced down and smiled. “Well hello there Jack, like the new place?”

The boy looked around, seeing everyone setting things up, and then turned back to his grandfather. “I dunno, we just got here.”

Hosea laughed. “Right you are. Is there something you need?”

“Why is Uncle Arthur so sleepy?” His big eyes were wide and curious, and Hosea was struck by the fact that Jack didn’t really understand what had happened to Arthur. Hell, he barely understood it. 

Hosea took a knee and put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You know how when someone is sick, they need lots of rest to feel better?” He began, and Jack nodded. “Well, Arthur is sick.”

Jack’s little mouth pulled downwards into a frown. “Uncle Arthur has a cold?”

“No, it’s a little more complicated than that.” Hosea tried to think of how he could explain this to a four year old. “Arthur... well, you’ve heard us talking around camp, haven’t you? About how Arthur’s legs are...” He wasn’t sure how to phrase it, but the young boy proved how smart he was by nodding his head.

“Yeah, his legs are asleep. I’ve heard Uncle Arthur getting real mad about it, and saying words momma told me not to repeat.”

“And you shouldn’t repeat them.” Hosea agreed. “But Arthur is mad because... he won’t get better.”

Those big eyes got bigger. “Is Uncle Arthur gonna die?”

Hosea’s heart clenched, and he shook his head quickly. “No, son, no, Arthur won’t die. He’s just... he needs help with things, and it makes him upset. He’s in pain sometimes too, and all of that makes him very tired, so he needs to sleep.”

Jack was silent as he turned that over in his young mind, glancing over to the wagon where Arthur continued to doze, his little expression thoughtful. 

“So... it’s okay? Momma told me not to bother him, but I miss him.”

Oh, from the mouth of babes. Hosea squeezed Jack’s shoulder and heaved a little sigh. “I know, I do too. But Arthur’s tired, and a little sad, and it’s better to let him rest.”

“Oh.” Jack’s face fell, and Hosea hated to see the young boy wilt like that. He was so sweet, somehow remaining a beacon of innocence in this den of wild men. Arthur’s soft spot for the boy was hardly a secret, and while Hosea was at a loss for how to help him, maybe... maybe Jack could?

“Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you draw Arthur some pictures? I think he’d like that a lot. It might help him want to be awake a little more often.”

And just like the strike of a match, Jack’s eyes lit up and his face brightened. “Okay! I could make him a necklace, like the one I made for momma!”

Hosea smiled, the youngster’s energy infectious. “That’s a wonderful idea! You go on and get started on that, alright?”

“Okay grandpa!” And he was off, scampering between Pearson’s legs, on the hunt for daisies. 

“God, what a good kid.” Hosea muttered to himself as he stood on creaking knees. 

“It’s a wonder he’s John’s.” Dutch chuckled as he came up behind him. 

“Don’t let him hear you say that.” The old con replied, a spark in his eyes.

Dutch clapped a hand on his shoulder and shared a grin. “I’d never.” He turned back towards the slowly assembling camp, taking note of what was being placed where. “I think, perhaps, putting Arthur somewhere he could get a view of the sunset might be best. Close to us, but not too close. Or, do you think closer to the horses?”

Hosea shrugged off Dutch’s hand and leaned so they were shoulder to shoulder, casual as you please, drawing the man’s attention back to him. “Maybe let’s give Arthur the chance to pick for himself, hm?”

They both turned to look at their slumbering son, expressions softening.

“Once he wakes up, of course.” Hosea muttered, and felt Dutch nod along beside him. A hand slid into his, and he gripped it tight.

Chapter Text

The first few days at Clemens Point were alright, as far as John was concerned. Yes, it was hot, and yes, there were more bugs than he’d’ve liked, and yes, they were near a very large body of water that he would have preferred not to be so close to, but the sunsets were nice, the air was fresh, and Arthur seemed to take well to the climate.

Or at least John hoped so. Today was the first day that the canvas hanging around Arthur’s cot were pulled aside, allowing the light and warmth of Lemoyne to enter that little cloister. He was sitting up, looking out over the water with a faraway expression, but it was better than the rage and sorrow that had been covering him like a disease... Well, shit. 

Hands in his lap and blanket over his legs - even in this heat - Arthur was quiet. Something that wasn’t peace, but still wafted calm.

The rest of camp mirrored this shift in Arthur’s mood, and John wondered if it had always been that way, and he’d just failed to notice. Grimshaw was sitting easily with the girls, Jack and Abigail were reading with Hosea not far off - the old man was always nearby - and Dutch was talking with Lenny about philosophy. Charles was taking a break from chores for once, and Javier was around the campfire with him, Sean, and Kieran. Uncle was with Swanson and Pearson, talking about something over by the chuckwagon, laughing quietly to themselves. 

It was... better. It would have maybe even been good, if not for the way Micah was watching Arthur too, his expression decidedly less pleasant. It irked him; he’d heard the things Micah had been saying, mostly to Bill, but it was enough to make John want to smack him. 

Calling Arthur things like that... Well, Arthur had called himself plenty of rotten stuff, but it was one thing for him to say it, and quite another to have it come out of Micah’s putrid mouth. Saying that he was worried about how they’d get enough money, pushing Dutch harder than before to go back to Blackwater ‘For the sake of the gang, of course!’.

Horseshit.

And now, the way he watched Arthur raised John’s hackles. It felt as though he was witnessing a predator stalking its prey, and that entire mindset was just... inappropriate when it was directed at his older brother.

Maybe that was why he walked over to Arthur’s tent and sat himself down. 

“Hey.” He cleared his throat, and Arthur turned to him with a surprised blink. 

“... Hey.” He replied roughly, no doubt still recovering from all the screaming and hollering he’d done the past few weeks. John decided to help him and pulled out a cigarette, passing it to an increasingly confused Arthur. 

He took one for himself and lit them both, easing back into the chair. Arthur hummed in quiet thanks, pulling a drag into his lungs and letting it out slow. 

The side of Arthur’s wagon was newly decorated in a handful of woven flowers, bands made by John’s son. There were a few childish drawings pinned up as well, and he wondered if that had something to do with Arthur’s curtains being drawn up. He didn’t know how often Jack had been visiting, but surely more than him.

He turned away from that thought.

“Nice view?” John prompted, unsure what he was supposed to do now that he was here. But it was better than letting Micah have some sort of perverse peep show, or whatever he’d been doing.

Arthur hummed again, and looked back out over the water. “Sure.” He put the cigarette between his lips and let it rest there, freeing his hands. John wondered if it was a habit he’d done before, or if it was something new, now that he only had two working limbs and needed them available.

He wondered how much of Arthur he’d never get to see again, and how much he’d never seen in the first place.

“You want somethin’, Marston?” Arthur asked, having turned back to him, and it was John now who was staring off into the distance. 

“Ah, n-nah, not really. Just... came to sit. S’that alright? If you ain’t in the mood for company, I could-”

“Shut up.” Arthur sighed, eyes closed as he puffed on the cigarette, smoke flowing out his nose. “You c’n sit, but you’d best not ramble on. Got a headache.”

“Sure.” John agreed quickly, and let quiet fall over them both. It wasn’t bad, not like some of the silences they’d shared in the past, and after a moment Arthur surprised him by reaching over to his bedside table and picking up his journal, flipping through pages of scribbles and thoughts, before he stopped on a blank one. 

He turned back to the lake, ran his fingers along the page, and began to sketch.

John tried not to peek... but if Arthur was doing it right in front of him, did he care if he saw? It had been years since John had tried to get a look inside Arthur’s journal, and he’d nearly got his nose broke for it, but surely the man wouldn’t dangle this rare treasure right in front of John’s face without expecting him to grab for it?

“Move to the left.” Arthur said, soft and sudden, and John almost jumped. 

“What?”

Arthur didn’t look up, “You’re blockin’ the light. Move.”

“O-oh, sure.” John scooted the chair to the side, and Arthur nodded and fell back into silence, head down and eyes on his paper.

The afternoon stretched on, the scratching of Arthur’s pencil the only noise he made, and by the time he closed the journal and tucked the graphite into the binding, the sun had shifted enough to throw the horizon into shades of pink and orange. John had gotten a good look as Arthur’s drawing took shape and came to life on the paper, and he was... well, pretty damn impressed. He knew Arthur did a lot of drawings, but he’d never thought they were that good.

“Why’d you let me see?” He asked, unable to help it.

Arthur took his third cigarette between his fingers and tapped the ashes off into the dirt. “Didn’t. Jus’ didn’t stop you from lookin’.”

John huffed. “What’s the difference? And that don’t answer my question.”

“Difference is, you was lookin’ anyway, an’ I didn’t care to go through the trouble of stoppin’ you. But I ain’t called you over here to watch.” Arthur gave him a look that had the younger man averting his eyes. 

He wasn’t talking about the drawing.

“I... I was thinkin’-”

“Bad choice.”

“Shut up, Arthur, I’m tryin’ to be serious.” John scowled and shook his head. “I was only thinkin’ that I... ain’t really seen you, last couple weeks. I’m... I ain’t been sure what to say... guess there ain’t much I could’ve said, but... ain’t like I forgot about you. Wanted to give you space, I guess.”

Arthur leaned against the side of his wagon, watching John as he spoke, something gentle but dim in his eyes. 

“Glad to see me?” He repeated, snorting blue smoke. “Why? Ain’t I been a holy terror? Not to mention real sorry to look at.”

John swallowed and shrugged. “I-I...” 

This was the part he’d been afraid of; the part where he had to pick his words carefully. He didn’t want to say something thoughtless and spark a new rage or cut a new hole inside Arthur, but he didn’t want to say something rehearsed and pointlessly placating either. He wanted to be honest, but he wasn’t sure how to do that.

“Don’t hurt yourself, John.” Arthur deadpanned, and he just gave on picking the right words, and decided just to say the real ones.

“I’m... I’m sad, alright?” He admitted roughly, and Arthur seemed shocked to hear it. “But it ain’t why you think. I just... I don’t wanna... see you like this. Like you’re... done.” His face felt hot, being this vulnerable didn’t come naturally, and it prickled in his stomach like butterflies. 

But it was true. He felt like he needed to say it, and maybe Arthur needed to hear it.

The older outlaw looked back towards the water, flicking his thumbnail repeatedly over the butt of his cigarette. John could see the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed, how his empty hand gripped the blanket on his lap. Could see the tiny twitches of his legs beneath that. Was it because he wanted to stand up, or did it just happen? Did it hurt?

“I am done, Marston.”

John sat up, spine straight. “No you ain’t, Arthur, and it ain’t like you to talk like that.”

“How would you know?” Arthur’s voice was darkening with the beginnings of his temper, but John plowed on regardless. 

“Cus I know you, you dumb bastard. I’ve known you for fourteen years, so don’t start actin’ like we’re strangers.” Maybe John was getting a little heated too.

“Yeah, you known me.” Arthur turned to him, but his expression wasn’t as fierce as his words would suggest. More than anger, it was anguish. “An’ the man you knew is dead. I can’t even throw myself in a grave unless you tossed me in, an’ you ain’t likely to manage that, you scrawny little shit.”

“Dammit, Arthur, shut up!” John snapped, his chest aching in a way he knew must be for his brother, but his blood burned too hot to let compassion show. “I know it’s hard, but that ain’t reason to just give up, and if that’s what you wanna do, well, I ain’t about to let you!”

“How you gonna stop me?” Arthur shot back, teeth bared and fists clenched.

“I’ll get you a goddamn chair!” John stood up without further explanation, storming across camp and mounting his horse, practically running through the tree line in his furious haste.

That had taken the wind out of Arthur’s sails, and he stared after John, eyes a bit wide.

“... The hell’s he talkin’ about?”

-=-=-=-=-

Arthur found out what the hell John was talking about when he came back to camp three days later, Old Boy pulling a cart with a strange looking chair and a few odd sized wheels loaded into the back of it.

He had no idea what it was, but he watched as Hosea and Dutch came crowding around his brother, praising John and obviously very pleased. They unloaded the wood and wicker chair and set about attaching the larger wheels to the sides of it, the smallest secured in the back, and then Hosea began to push it over the soft grass right towards him. John followed behind, and both came to a stop once they entered his tent, his father hesitant but hopeful. He realized this... thing must be for him.

“Hey, Arthur... what do you think of giving this a try?” He suggested warily.

Arthur knew how bad he’d been lately. He felt guilty, immensely, but he couldn’t help it sometimes. He would be in so much pain, be so goddamn tired, and the humiliation of it all withered his self control at every poke and prod. Still... he wasn’t sure what to feel about it, and it left too much room for anger.

“How much you spend on this?” He growled, lip curling back in a snarl. 

John scoffed. “It took three damn days gettin’ this thing, and that’s what you say? Shit, Arthur, it didn’t cost nothin’!”

“Oh yeah? Then where’d you get it?” Arthur challenged, sitting up a little straighter. Christ forbid he’d stolen it.

“I met a feller, a carpenter, he needed some favors done, so I told him I’d do ‘em if he gave me one’a these. Now, you gonna get in the damn thing or what?”

Arthur eyed his younger brother, but with all the raging and fuming he’d done lately, he’d more than worn himself through, and he didn’t have the energy to keep up the fight. Instead, he glanced at the chair. 

The solid back and wicker seat seemed... fine. The arms and frame looked sturdy, and the wheels on the sides were large and stable. There was a secondary ring that jutted out along the outer rim, which he wasn’t sure he understood the purpose of, but it looked... intimidating. 

He faltered. “Wh-what’m I s’posed to...? How do I, uh...?”

He heard Hosea release a breath, pushing the chair closer and positioning it just along his bedside. “We’ll figure it out together, Arthur.”

Arthur looked at it warily, swallowing back his nerves and feeling fear, of all things, start to bubble up. He didn’t want to be afraid of some stupid goddamn chair, but...

Would it be another failure? And how pathetic would he look this time, if it was yet another thing he couldn’t do?

“John’s gotta get lost.” He muttered, unable to attempt to move with his little brother looking at him. 

The younger man huffed, but he didn’t seem bothered. If anything, he looked a little pleased. “Sure, whatever. You’re welcome, by the way.” He scratched at the scars on his face and left with Arthur’s stare - not heated, but firm.

That just left him, Hosea, and the chair. 

“... Pull the sheets down.” Arthur mumbled, unrolling his sleeves and fidgeting with the cuffs. His heart was racing, but he couldn’t help it - this was new, and lately, new had not been good.

“Of course.” Hosea didn’t hesitate as he went about shrouding them in privacy. It was darker, but there was still enough light to see, and Arthur couldn’t find any more excuses. 

“Uh... h-hold it steady, alright?”

“I won’t let it move, promise.”

And then all there was left to do was try. 

Because he was sick of being in this bed, sick of having the same damn view of the world day in and day out, sick of relying completely and utterly on other people, all of whom had much better things to be doing. He was done with it all, and if this could at least let him... get around...

Lifting up on thin arms, he grunted and huffed, trying to position himself. It was difficult to figure out how to maneuver his body, and harder still to do it.

“Here, let me-” Hosea started, but Arthur cut him off before he could fully offer. 

“I got it.” If he couldn’t even manage this on his own, then what was the point?  

His skin was sore where he’d been laying, his hips and tailbone ached, and he found himself getting winded from almost nothing. He hadn’t realized just how weak he’d become.

Twisting until his back was to the chair, he used one hand to shift his legs a little at a time until they were more or less in front of him. Getting his hips in the right alignment, he then pushed himself to the very edge of his cot. 

“Y-you got it st-steady?” Arthur checked over his shoulder, breathless and tense.

“It’s steady. Are you sure I can’t-?” Hosea suggested, and Arthur glared. His father shut his mouth and cleared his throat, nodding. “Alright, well, maybe try grabbing the arms and pulling yourself back? L-let me know if you need help.”

Turning back around and swallowing the spike of anxiety, he released his death grip on the edge of the cot, and his hand scrambled behind him until he felt the smooth wood of the armrest. He gripped it tightly, and took another breath before he did the same with the other. Leaning back felt precarious, like holding one foot over a cliff, and he wanted this part to be over with as soon as possible. He shut his eyes tight, gave a grunt and a heave, and pulled his body back until his ass met the wicker. 

He held his breath, waiting for something to go wrong, but when nothing else happened and he remained safely within the chair, he opened his eyes. His legs were still on the cot, and Hosea slowly pulled him away, letting them hit the backboard beneath with a dull thud, resting with his knees bent and his feet supported. A short spike of pain resonated up his bones, but that did nothing to overshadow what he’d just done.

“Shit, I... it worked.” He exhaled in a heady rush, blinking a few times before he looked back at Hosea - who was beaming with pride.

“Well done, Arthur.” Hosea’s eyes were bright, and there was a moment where father and son simply looked at one another, basking in the accomplishment. He then took the blanket off Arthur’s bed and placed it over his lap, face showing nothing but a vibrant excitement. “What say we go get some coffee, hm?”

“C-coffee?” He was stunned; a minute and yet monumental thing had just occurred, and he was still rather short of breath. 

“If you’d like, that is.” Hosea corrected. “Do you want to?”

He thought about it for all of two seconds. “Sure.” 

He could go get coffee, nobody had to bring it to him. Oh, it had been too long since he’d done such a simple thing, and he felt a certain eagerness start to build where his fear had been. 

He quickly rubbed his face and took a few breaths, getting himself under control before he’d leave the protective privacy of his tent. With a nod, Hosea slowly pulled him out into the light, and Arthur squinted at the sudden glare, holding his hand in front of his eyes - he hadn’t worn his hat in a while. Hosea was kind enough to pause and let him adjust to the brightness, and soon enough Arthur lowered his hand and took a look around. 

His breath caught in his throat.

All he could do was stare, seeing the cloudless blue expanse reaching out forever above him. Underneath the canopy of his wagon, he realized he hadn’t seen the sky properly in... he didn’t know. He’d been asleep during the trip from Horseshoe, and before that, the only times he’d been out in the open had been... upsetting to say the least, and he hadn’t been paying much attention to the scenery. 

But there, right then, he could finally see the tops of the trees, towering and waving in the subtle breeze. Birds hopped around from branch to branch, calling to one another, swooping and darting to catch insects that filled the air with flittering noise. He could see more of the lake, and the shore on the other side appeared like a hazy mirage in the heat that danced in ripples above the surface of the water.

“Oh,” He swallowed around the lump in his throat, something settling down inside him that had been so out of sorts, but he hadn’t known what until just then. He still lived outside - but he hadn’t gone anywhere, hadn’t roamed aimlessly through woods or plains or hills, he’d just been stuck in one spot and... he’d believed that was where he’d spend the remainder of his life. A dark and solitary prison with no need for a lock, the door left open and still he couldn’t leave.

And he’d just crossed the threshold.

It felt like his soul was waking up, beginning to stir from just beneath his breastbone like a bear coming out of winter slumber; half-starved and ragged, but alive.

“Alright, Arthur?” Hosea whispered softly from above him, running a hand through his hair and bringing him back to himself. 

“‘Course.” He cleared his throat and adjusted the blanket over his legs, just for something to keep his hands busy. “We gonna get that damn cup of coffee or what?”

Hosea patted him on the arm, turning the chair and pushing him towards the fire. The ground wasn’t perfectly level, and there was a bit of jostling, but Arthur took note of how the wheels worked. He wondered what the iron rungs around the rim were for, and why they were so large. He was sure he could grab them and- 

Move himself around. 

Good Lord... this might be something he could do.

The seats around the campfire were not empty; Javier, Sean, and Charles all perked up at the sight of him. The first two seemed utterly gobsmacked to see him, but Charles bore a small smile that lit up his eyes.

Charles, who had been helping him this whole time, and to whom Arthur had barely spoken a word aside from those thrown in scalding fury. Arthur had even punched the man, as ashamed as he was to admit it. Charles was a saint for putting up with him. 

Hosea set the chair where it wouldn’t roll and went to gather the coffee, and all too suddenly, there was a spotlight on him.

In record time, Sean’s surprise morphed into a grin. Arthur barely had time to worry about some comment on the chair, his legs, or his appearance, before he started chattering away.

“Oi, there he is!” Sean crowed, “King Arthur, back with his subjects! It’s been an age since I seen ya! I was gettin’ worried you’d forget all about ol’ Sean MacGuire an’ I’d hafta reintroduce meself! Though maybe it’d be a blessin’ in disguise, gettin’ ta meet me twice!” He was boisterous, and Arthur felt a little stunned as the Irish terrier yapped at him like nothing was wrong.

His mouth felt dry, and he felt the moments tick on as he sat there, mute. He was... nervous. Why in the hell was he nervous? This was Sean.

‘Say something, you idiot.’

“A-ain’t sure if that’d be a blessin’, so much as a curse.”

Even if his comment didn’t carry the usual energy, Sean seemed immensely pleased to hear it, and gave a bark of laughter. “Aha! Now that’s the English I remember! I know ya love me, Arthur Morgan!” 

And just like that, Arthur felt himself settle a little. Perhaps that was why Dutch kept Sean around - it certainly wasn’t for his marksmanship. 

“To my great displeasure.” Arthur drawled, accepting a cup of coffee from Hosea and holding the warm tin mug in his hands, looking down and catching his face reflected back at him within the dark liquid. He grimaced. 

“Ah Christ, I look a mess.”

He’d done his best to keep up with his beard, but he’d been avoiding the mirror and, well... he looked like a kid who’d tried shaving for the first time. His hair had gotten long, too. Unwashed and stringy, his beard patchy, he looked like Marston, and wasn’t that a sorry sight.

He took a sip and tried to focus on something else.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, hermano.” Javier, no doubt helped in part by Sean breaking the ice, waved off Arthur’s comment. “You’re not as bad as Uncle.”

Arthur scoffed. “Think I’d die if that were the case.” 

Javier laughed, Charles’ smile widened a bit, and Sean outright cackled. Hosea gave him a nudge on the arm, familiar and fond. That was normal. That was good. He was a little out of practice, but who wouldn’t be?

He sipped his coffee again, and felt the warmth slide down his throat and heat him up from the inside, a comfortable feeling, especially considering he was always rather chilled nowadays. It was summer in the south, but he’d been unable to roll his sleeves up without getting cold.

He’d... lost a bit of weight... Well, a lot of weight. Around a month hardly moving, and barely eating two meals a day hadn’t done him any favors. But the sun was warm and the sky was clear, and being near the fire chased away any lingering nip he might have felt. Being near friends didn’t hurt neither.

“Y’all been... been good?” He asked, and Sean once more took the lead, chattering away about this and that, something inconsequential enough that it didn’t matter when Arthur barely followed along. It was fairly overwhelming, just the four of them and him, and he needed a bit of time to catch up with all those words. He tired easily nowadays, and trying to focus was harder than he’d thought it would be.

His eyes drifted over to the horses, watching his Thoroughbred graze with the rest of their little herd. 

“How’s Thursday doin’?” He asked abruptly, cutting Sean off mid ramble, and Charles took a drag from a cigarette before answering.

“She’s alright, difficult at times, but me and Kieran discovered your trick.” There was a bit of a smirk on Charles’ lips, and Arthur felt himself wanting to return it.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Give her a peppermint and talk to her like a baby.” The spark in Charles’ eyes warmed Arthur much like the coffee had. He was teasing him, a little friendly ribbing for spoiling his horse and turning her into a brat.

Arthur startled himself by laughing, and Charles’ smile widened in response. 

Hosea didn’t do anything to hide his own beaming grin. “Should’ve named her Princess.”

“I ain’t lookin’ to get mocked at the stables, old man.” He replied, which Hosea accepted with an incline of his head and a chuckle.

“Princess? I’d think Morrígan first; she’s a demon, that one.” Sean snorted. “Morgan and Morrígan, the killer pair!”

Arthur sent him a look. “Thursday’s a fine lady, I’ll thank you kindly.”

“She ain’t any more of a lady than you are, and you’d be a nightmare in a dress.”

“I ain’t gonna ask why you thought of that.” Arthur didn’t know if he could roll his eyes any harder.

“Why did you name her Thursday, anyway?” Javier asked, a bit of cheekiness entering his tone. “Strangest name for a horse I’ve ever heard.”

Arthur scratched his chin. “Was gonna call her Wednesday, but I were a couple hours too late.”

Javier blinked at that, opened his mouth, and then shut it again. He looked at Arthur like he wasn’t sure if he was joking or not, and the Irishman nudged his fellow expat. 

“Oi, keep yer eyes on this lad, if Arthur had brains he’d be dangerous.”

“Real funny comin’ from you, MacGuire. You’re lucky yours ain’t been blown outta your head yet. Don’t think I forgot that train.” He growled, all in good fun, and it sent Sean snickering.

They sat there together as Arthur finished his coffee, and despite his small reserve of energy, liveliness and good humor ran through his blood. He noticed John watching from further away, Lenny and the girls ogling him and whispering amongst themselves, but nobody approached. Despite feeling like he was on display, self-conscious over his looks and the chair, he was grateful that he didn’t have to deal with more people. 

He wasn’t all that sociable at the best of times.

Mostly he listened, not having much to contribute, and as time wore on, the sunlight began to make him drowsy regardless of the caffeine. He put his elbow against the armrest and leaned his cheek on his palm, and only after he’d quite literally nodded off and startled himself awake again did Hosea suggest they go.

But Arthur didn’t want to go back to bed, not for as long as he could help it. It had barely been two hours. “‘M fine, ‘Sea.” He mumbled.

His father looked at him carefully, and could no doubt tell how reluctant Arthur was to return. “Alright, well, we could go say hello to Thursday if you think that won’t be too much.” 

Arthur felt a little odd about the way Hosea said that, a little unsure what seemed... different than how they’d all been talking before, but all he had to do was look over at the herd again, and a want surfaced in his chest that pushed everything else aside. 

He’d not spent any time with his horse since that last desperate ride with Hosea... He’d missed her.

“Sure.”

“Why don’t you have a bite to eat first?” Hosea was already getting him something, and Arthur rolled his eyes at the mothering, but didn’t decline when a small plate was handed to him. He probably should have a little something.

It wasn’t much food, but he still found it hard to finish, though Hosea made sure he ate everything before bidding goodbye to the men around the fire and pushing Arthur towards the horses. Upon seeing him, Thursday immediately pranced over, leaning down and snuffling into Arthur’s hair, brushing her velvety nose against his forehead and perking him back up almost instantly.

“Hey girl, how you been? Y’miss me?” Arthur received a gust of hot breath in his face as he stroked her cheek. She nickered and tried to chew on his shirt, and he pushed her face away to little effect. He wouldn’t admit that his laugh was more boyish than it ought to have been with Hosea right there. 

But when Thursday stepped back and lifted her head to her full height, Arthur had to crane his neck to keep her eye. She was... Tall. At least sixteen hands. All the horses seemed much taller to him now, but a Thoroughbred was not a small breed, and her withers were far above his head.

He felt his good humor shift into something distinctly more bittersweet. Happy memories tinged gray and blue.

“You ain’t gotta stick around, Hosea.” He muttered, watching as Taima snuffled the grass by Boaz’s hooves, Brown Jack laid on the ground like the lazy bastard he was, and Old Belle playfully bumped her head into Ennis’ flank - that horse was a flirt just like her owner.

“You sure?” The older man leaned into his line of sight, sensing the shift in Arthur’s mood. “I don’t mind staying.”

“I jus’ wanna second.” Arthur looked away, and felt Hosea hesitate. 

“Alright,” He answered slowly, “But call for me if you need anything, I’ll be just over there.”

“Mhm.” Arthur was sure he would be.

There was a moment where Arthur thought he’d change his mind, but eventually the older man nodded and left. It wasn’t necessary to keep such a close eye on him, but at this point he was used to being watched - even if he hated how suffocating it felt.

The minutes turned into hours and the sun began to sink, casting shadows and creeping towards evening, and Arthur sat there with the horses. Some had come up to him in search of treats, but when they realized he didn’t have anything, they wandered off again. Thursday came back to get more affection, tried to eat his shirt again, pulled the blanket off his lap and nearly pranced off with it - things that made him laugh and smile, but didn’t touch the melancholy that had firmly lodged inside his heart.

He couldn’t ride anymore; he didn’t see how that would be possible. Sure, he supposed he could direct a horse with the reins, but that would require him getting up there in the first place. Even if he was able to pull himself into the saddle - which he couldn’t right now, with how weak he’d become - he’d have to be standing to reach it. And how would he even stay seated? He’d have to hold the apple with at least one hand at all times, couldn’t use his legs to keep himself steady, and if she bolted or spooked, well, anything more than a walk would send him to the ground.

The changes to his life were so overwhelming, something too big to look at directly for fear of losing his mind, that he’d hidden from it all. He’d been so goddamn angry, but staying in that bed had given him nothing else to think about, enabling a brutal landslide of sorrow that had almost completely buried him. It had taken his own exhaustion with the cycle, and a desperation to feel anything else, for him to confront himself and the world around him.

And now, he just felt... Halved. That was the best way he could describe it. His energy was half, his joy was half, his body was half. And as he watched the horses and felt the air become cool against his skin, bringing a shiver to his arms, he felt longing. The want for something that was completely out of reach, but too important to simply forget about like it had never mattered.

He could never ride a horse again, never swim, or climb, or run. He couldn’t kick in a door, or jump up and down, or dance like a fool after too many drinks. He wanted those things, but they were in the past.

Arthur looked down at his lap, and forced himself to really see. He was there, sitting still while everything else continued on. His life had changed, but... only his. That was how life was though, wasn’t it? It certainly was not the first time he’d felt left behind by the world. So... he could either let this ruin him, or he could cling to what he still had, and while he was so goddamn tired... He wasn’t willing to give up completely.

Goddamn John for being right. He’d never tell him.

He slowly glanced over the sides of his chair to inspect the wheels, reaching down and touching the rungs, and then tried to get a peek at the one in the back. The two on the side were set and stable, but the wheel on the back could swivel, and it hadn’t seemed like it was difficult for Hosea to push.

He grasped the rungs firmly and gave an experimental shift forward, and blinked as the chair moved smoothly by a few inches. He pulled the wheels back with the same ease. Alright, that was pretty simple, but how did he turn?

After a few stalled attempts, Arthur tried pulling forward on one wheel and back on the other, and felt some small amount of satisfaction as the chair angled in place. A little tough, and he needed to pause and readjust his grip, but he was soon facing towards camp again. 

Hosea was watching him like he’d said, but he was smiling when Arthur met his eyes. Seated at the table near the large tree in the center of camp, Hosea rose up and began to walk over.

“Stay there.” Determined, he began to propel himself forward. Hosea paused, somewhat confused, but he did as Arthur said. 

Even if his arms and chest burned after letting them waste away, even if he was breathless and tired after doing so little, it was a feeling similar to pride that took most of Arthur’s attention as he came to a stop in front of his grinning father, giving him a weighted smile in return.

He was still sad, still bitter, but at least he was out of that goddamn bed.

-=-=-=-=-

It took a few days, but eventually Arthur figured out how to get in and out of the chair himself with no assistance, and the newfound independence brought an immense improvement to his mood.

He still hadn’t left camp, and he was by no means always pleasant to be around, but the shouting and cursing had mostly stopped, and when Arthur started to lose his temper or dip into sadness a little too deeply, he could now simply leave, and get some privacy to calm down on his own. 

He could also take himself to the border of camp, scoot to the edge of his chair, and piss wherever he damn well pleased. 

Having the chair allowed him to lean down and grab himself some coffee or stew without worry of losing his balance, and once he’d figured out how to set it in his lap so it wouldn’t tip over, he could move around and find a spot to eat or drink, either alone or with others. Most things were incidentally within his reach, and it didn’t take much reorganizing to make sure that anything Arthur might need was easy for him to grab.

He was a little sour over the fact that the booze was kept up high, but he supposed he didn’t need to add that particular kerosene-soaked log to the fire.

He did encounter a small problem with the chair, but it was easily remedied. The hand ring was made of iron, and would sometimes grow hot if he spent too long in the sun or been near the fire, and he’d gained uncomfortable blisters on his hands by the constant use of pushing and pulling in a way he wasn’t used to. His hands had by no means been soft before, but he hadn’t ever had to grip anything as consistently or as strangely as he did now. 

Hosea had taken a look after he’d finally mentioned it, and after giving him a light scolding for keeping the minor injuries to himself, he’d spread a minty paste on them and wrapped them up, and then suggested the use of gloves. 

It was an incredibly simple solution, and he berated himself for not thinking of it earlier. A pair of rifleman gloves proved to be everything he needed; something that was thick enough to protect his palms, but wouldn’t get in the way of using his fingers. 

And the more he moved himself around, the easier it became. While there was nothing he could do to prevent the atrophy in his legs, the activity had his arms, shoulders, and chest slowly regaining their strength, and he was privately pleased with it. It didn’t lessen the sting of watching his lower half remain useless, but it was bolstering in a separate way.

But his three-wheeled mobility did not solve the problem of how the hell to bathe. Washing with a cloth and a bucket just wasn’t enough, and getting to a hotel for a bath seemed like an exercise in humiliation and futility - what was he supposed to do, crawl up the stairs like a mudpuppy, or try and figure out how to open a door when he couldn’t move out of the way? Never mind the issue of even getting to a town.

And he was not going to be carried around in public, either.

This was usually only a minor annoyance, one that he dealt with for the sake of getting through his day, but his building frustration came to a head one afternoon all because of a spilled bucket. He’d been sitting on his cot unbuttoning his shirt, but he’d been a fool and had set the bucket on an uneven patch of ground. He hadn’t even touched it, and noticed too late when it began to tip, unable to reach out and catch it before it toppled right over.

“Oh, Goddammit!” 

He tossed his shirt away in anger, leaning his face in his hands, seething all by himself until Dutch peeked his head into the flaps of Arthur’s tent. 

“Alright here, son?” He asked, and Arthur peeked through his fingers to glare at him. 

“S’fuckin’ dandy.” He snapped, and Dutch sighed and stepped inside, letting the canvas fall shut behind him. 

“We can get you more water, Arthur. We are on a lake, after all.” His father’s condescending tone set him off the rest of the way before he caught up to himself.

“It ain’t about the fuckin’ water!” Arthur ran his hands over his face, jaw tight. “I’m tired’a this! Can’t even wash my own hair proper! What, I’m s’posed to do this for the rest’a my goddamn life? I’d rather someone jus’ toss me off the damn dock!”

His hair was stringy and greasy, and there was no way to wash it by himself with only a rag. Dutch didn’t understand, because he had the luxury of taking as many baths as he could afford, which was probably plenty.

“Now, Arthur-” Dutch began, but Arthur didn’t want to hear it. 

“I’m talkin’!” He snarled, his face red with the heat of his furious blood. “Least you could do is shut the hell up, cus talkin’s about all I can do! I don’t wanna hear ‘bout calmin’ down, or some bullshit ‘bout your fancy philosophers! Find me one who ain’t got his goddamn legs, then I’ll listen!”

Dutch blanched, his mustache twitching as he fought to hold his tongue, no doubt having had many talks with Hosea about patience.

But Arthur’s patience was far shorter, and he’d reached the end of it around ten minutes ago. “This ain’t workin’, Dutch! For Chrissakes!”

“Well, if you’d stop being so stubborn and let somebody help you-”

“I don’t want nobody’s fuckin’ help!” He snatched up the bucket and flung it against the side of his wagon, giving a wordless growl and putting his face in his hands, curling under the weight of his rage.

At least he hadn’t thrown anything at Dutch.

His father still flinched at the hollow metal bang, and it seemed his temper had finally caught from Arthur’s flame. “Christ, Arthur, control yourself! You’re acting like a goddamn boy, and you need to stop! If you’ve got a problem, I can fix it!”

“Fix it?!” Arthur found his lips peeling back. “Don’t promise me shit you can’t do! How many times’re you gonna do that, huh? I lost count over the years, but I bet the past two months sure take the cake on bullshit!”

“You’re gonna doubt me, Arthur, after all I’ve-”

“Goddamnit, shut up! You don’t never fuckin’ listen to me! So full’a yourself, you think you’re so much fuckin’ better’n me, s’that it?!”

“Excuse me?!”

“Excuse yourself! Only fuckin’ reason I’m even talkin’ to you is ‘cus you came here! You don’t like it? Fuck off!”

Arthur hadn’t expected Dutch to actually fuck off.

His father - white with rage - turned on his heel and left in a flurry of canvas, and Arthur’s guilt pulled him deeper down into the pool of his anger.

“Oh really?! Fine, fuck you then!” 

But of course, Dutch probably wasn’t listening anymore. Had probably gone back to his own tent to blast his stupid phonograph and smoke a cigar like an asshole.

He hadn’t been given his horseshoe back since he’d thrown it at Dutch, and he’d already tossed the bucket and his shirt, so with nothing else for it, he slammed his fist on the bedside table and decided to knock the whole thing over, only to instantly regret it when his mother’s photograph fell into the dirt and the glass cracked right down the middle of her face.

Oh, no.

The canvas opened and he looked up, but his rage had reached a cap and stalled.

Dutch had returned with fresh water.

“I said I don’t want your help!” He bit, but it didn’t seem to matter. Dutch was furious. 

“I don’t care what you want, Arthur, because you need to cool the hell off!” It only took a few steps for him to cross the distance and overturn the bucket. 

Cold water splashed over Arthur’s head, soaking his pants and splattering onto his cot and down into his shoes. His eyes widened and he went still, shoulders stiff and stomach dropping out.

Dutch dropped the bucket and stood there, waiting for Arthur to react. He waited a while. 

At first, Arthur was too stunned to know what to do. And then, after it really sunk in - what he’d done and what Dutch had done - the shock turned into shame. He tucked his chin down, slowly brushed his sopping hair out of his face, and then let his hands fall uselessly into his lap with a wet slap.

God, he was a bastard.

He didn’t even mean to be, it just got away from him sometimes. All too often, really. But it wasn’t fair to anybody, they had all worked so hard and put up with so much, just for him to sit there and rave like a sunnova bitch. 

He knew they didn’t have much money, he knew that the leg braces he still refused to use had cost far too much, and he knew that without him able to run and gun they were losing out on jobs. They were barely scraping by, and here he was, knocking things over and shouting at his father, making a goddamn fool out of himself.

Everything was his fault, he was well aware of that. Even dying couldn’t undo the damage that this illness had done. Their way of life, their prosperity, their future... it was all over because of him, and he didn’t even have the good sense to be grateful.

Dutch seemed to realize his mistake when Arthur didn’t snap or otherwise threaten him, and he cleared his throat, slowly stepping closer. When Arthur remained silent, he sat beside him on the cot and let out a breath.

Neither of them said anything, until,

“... I’m sorry.” Dutch struggled to speak above a whisper, and Arthur picked his head up, not able to recall the last time he’d heard Dutch apologize. But his father wasn’t looking back at him, staring at the overturned table and the cracked photograph, hands steepled in front of his chin.

Arthur gave a heavy, withered sigh, and wiped the water out of his eyes. 

“All I do is sit around.” He shrugged in resignation. “I ain’t got no right to complain, not when y’all’d be better off without me.”

“Don’t say that.” Dutch whispered, eyes closed, and he sounded as if he was the one in pain. His hand reached over and found Arthur’s shoulder, clasping and squeezing tight.

“But it’s true, ain’t it?” He hated how his voice cracked and wavered. “It ain’t jus’ that I can’t work, I need all this extra stuff, an’ I can’t give nothin’ back. The gang’s strugglin’, an’ I’m useless.”

“No, Arthur, you’re not useless. They... Hosea...” Dutch paused, choking on the words, before he spoke even softer than before. “I need you, don’t you know that?” 

He wrung his hands together and shivered, cold now that he was wet and shirtless. “Used to need me.” He muttered.

Shaking his head and letting out another breath, Dutch took his hand. “Dammit, Arthur, this gang never would have worked without you. Your tenacity and... and compassion. You try not to show it, but they know. They all love you, Arthur. We’re family.”

Arthur felt too stunned by what Dutch had said to know how to reply. He rubbed at his face, loosening his shoulders and turning those words over in his head. Dutch meant them, he could tell by the way the bravado and showmanship had dropped from his voice - not playing to an audience or trying to impress, but simply speaking.

He dug his fingers into the sodden fabric of his pants. “... All I ever wanted was to make you proud... an’ that ain’t never gonna happen.”

Dutch gently grasped his chin, tilting his head up, and those dark eyes bored straight into his own. 

“Arthur... It would make me proud to see you fight something other than me. Things are... different, but you ain’t dead, and I know that if any one of us could come back from this, it’s you. I believe in you, son.”

Arthur tried his best to appear unaffected by those words, but it was a pointless endeavor. It hurt to hear in a way that battled between grief and hope, refusal and desperate need. Something he’d wanted to hear, but had trouble convincing himself to believe.

But rather than admit to any more vulnerability, he did what he’d always done, and deflected.

“So, that mean you gonna get me somethin’ other than a dang bucket?”

Dutch huffed and lightly thwapped the back of his head. “I’ll get you a golden bathtub like the emperors of Rome if I have to, big boy.”

Arthur didn’t attempt to hide the smile that twitched over his face at that.

Chapter Text

Dutch had actually been serious. Not about the golden part, but he’d proudly presented Arthur with a gift in his tent one afternoon. 

“Wassis?” Arthur had been dozing until he was interrupted, a normal thing for him by that point, blinking until the blurry image of his father came into focus. 

He was grinning like a Cheshire, one hand on his hip and the other gesturing at his feet. “A bathtub, my boy, what’s it look like?”

Arthur rubbed his eyes and sat up, looking at the large metal tub and then back at Dutch. It took him a little while to kickstart his sleepy brain back into full awareness, but when he did, he was rather... shocked. 

“Wait, you... got one?”

“Of course! You needed something, and what sort of father would I be if I didn’t provide, hm?” He looked so damn pleased with himself, but Arthur didn’t indulge in the snark that lingered on his tongue. Fight something other than Dutch, and all that. Instead he chose to give a genuine response, even if it was somewhat difficult.

“... Thank you.” 

Dutch puffed out his chest in that way he did, but Arthur couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed.

He cleared his throat of grit and looked around his tent. If he scooted his table a little further back and moved his trunk beneath it, there would be room to use the tub while still within the privacy of the canvas. He’d have to be careful not to get everything absolutely soaking wet, but he was pretty sure he could manage it.

“Now,” Dutch cleared his throat, and Arthur looked back at his father. “I think we could boil up some water to make it just like those hotel baths. What do you say to that?”

Arthur couldn’t deny how pleasant that would be, regardless of the fact that he’d just woken up. “Sounds damn fine.”

Dutch was probably more satisfied with his part in doing this than with Arthur’s reception, but it was good to actually make the older man smile. He’d done too much of the opposite lately. 

It didn’t take long to organize the tub and fill it with water warmed by the fire, and when Arthur was left to himself, he used his chair to get himself into the tub, sank down into the water, and groaned. The heat worked into his muscles and eased the pain in a way he hadn’t experienced since it began, and while his legs were a bit cumbersome at first, he managed to get them comfortably submerged.

Jesus, it felt good. He allowed himself to bask for a while, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. He idly recalled the advice Charles had given him, what felt like years ago. A soak in a hot spring... now that would be divine. Too bad he’d probably never get to do it.

He picked his head back up and looked down at himself, distorted through the water but not terribly so. His legs were skinny; thighs slim and knees knobby, and the muscles on his calves had shrunk. They looked better fit for a gangly foal, but the rest of him didn’t, and he felt like a doll with the wrong parts stuck on. Something belonging to another person, another body, not his.

He could feel them when he pinched or pressed, and it... it still didn’t make sense. He’d thought crippled folk couldn’t feel a thing, but that wasn’t the case with him. In fact, the pain was worse than it had been in the beginning, and it was so tiring.

He’d never thought that wasting away would hurt so much.

But there was nothing for it. Swanson wouldn’t give him any morphine - Hosea had outright forbidden it. There was no cream or lotion he could use, and aside from a tea made of willow bark and a smattering of other herbal concoctions Hosea gave him, it was just another thing he had to deal with.

He took a while to bathe, and despite noticing all the ways his body was changing, he allowed himself to enjoy the pleasure of such a simple task. It made him feel normal to wash his hair properly, and God, he’d been growing tired of his own filth.

Getting out was a bit awkward, but he figured out how to climb up into his chair after a few false starts. The wicker bottom let the water drip onto the ground instead of pooling underneath him, and drying off with a towel was easy enough.

As he got dressed - having already figured out how to tug on his pants by himself - he frowned in thought. His legs were stiff and painful to extend, which he assumed was from the atrophy tightening things up, or... however all that worked, he honestly wasn’t sure, but... could he do something about it? The pain was a given, but did the tension have to be? He wasn’t able to simply stretch his legs out, but there was something else that could...

He wasn’t sure it would work, but... They’d gone and spent a fortune on those damn things, and he’d yet to so much as touch them.

Arthur wheeled himself out of his tent, and took a look around. Hosea was sitting at the scout fire up on the small incline, for once not immediately nearby, and Arthur couldn’t get himself up there just yet without being pushed, so he turned and went to Dutch instead. He couldn’t go up the platform either, so he leaned down and knocked on the pallet to get his father’s attention. 

Dutch poked his head out and looked at the sight of Arthur, freshly washed and probably looking more human than he had in a while.

“How’d it go, Arthur?” He asked, coming out and standing before him. 

“Fine.” Arthur tapped his fingers against his wheels and cleared his throat. “Uh... I was wonderin’, though...”

Dutch lifted his eyebrows to compel Arthur along, and the younger man sighed. He was embarrassed after the way he’d reacted, but if he was gonna do this, he had to start somewhere.

“You, uh... still got them braces?”

Dutch blinked, and the moment of shock passed quickly as eagerness bloomed bright over his face. “Yes, of course! Hold right there.” And without another word, he hurried off in a bustle of cigar smoke and gold.

“Not like I got much else to do.” Arthur mumbled to himself, but leaned his cheek on his palm as he waited for Dutch to return. He did a lot of waiting nowadays, and absently snapped his suspenders against his chest as he listened to the sounds of camp going on around him. 

Folk seemed happy at Clemens Point, despite the struggle for money and the heat, and it helped soothe a bit of the guilt over moving. Hosea and Dutch had both said he wasn’t the reason - he didn’t buy it, but he would’ve only felt worse if people had been upset.

The jobs being run were smaller too, almost as if they were actually keeping a low profile for once. Little scams and simple stick-ups, with a few legitimate ventures mixed in. Arthur had heard about it second hand of course, mostly from Sean, and he’d heard that Charles had been selling the pelts gained from all his hunting, and was providing some good money. Not a lot, but with Javier and Lenny robbing a homestead and getting a few hundred dollars, and John doing something with sheep - he didn’t want to know - things were not as dire as they’d been.

When Dutch returned, he’d brought Hosea with him, and both men had hopeful looks on their faces as Dutch held the braces and Hosea carried a set of crutches. 

They looked... confusing. Mechanical. Uncomfortable. His stomach turned and he looked between the two older men, subtly seeking reassurance. Hosea was quicker to pick up on it, as usual.

“Now, I know they’re... unusual, but the orthotist said you’d get used to them pretty quickly with daily use. He wrote out some instructions, but I’ve read them over and have it all memorized.” He supplied, and Arthur almost snorted at that. Of course he did.

“So... what do I do?” He asked, and Dutch pulled a chair from inside his tent to sit beside Arthur, holding up the brace as Hosea explained.

“Well... You’ll put your leg inside and fasten it, see these straps? Those are to tighten it in place, and they should hold you steady. There’s a joint so you can bend your knees if you want to sit, but it should be locked when you’re walking, and you’ll need to use crutches no matter what you’re doing. The leather belt at the top goes around your waist and is meant to keep them from slipping off because of their weight, just like chaps. Make sense?”

Arthur nodded slowly, watching as Dutch opened the device. There were a lot of straps and buckles and things, and they had their own pair of leather shoes attached, probably tall enough to go halfway up his calves. He figured it was to keep his ankle stiff so he didn’t roll it. Arthur wouldn’t know how it was going to feel, though - he hadn’t worn shoes in weeks.

But then a thought struck him, and he glanced over his shoulder at the rest of camp. People were around, and already some had noticed what he was doing. “W-wait, we gonna do this out here in the open?”

Dutch paused, and Hosea seemed a bit uncertain. “Well, you’ll need a bit of room, at least at first, and... your tent can’t fit all three of us and your chair.” 

That... was true. Dammit. He huffed a sigh and nodded again, and Dutch resumed with his permission. The braces were clunky and seemed to weigh a lot, and that also made him nervous. Still, he lifted up his leg with both hands and got it settled into the aide, struggling to fit his foot into the shoe for a moment, paying attention when Dutch began adjusting the straps until they were tight against him. The same happened with the other, and all the while Arthur’s heart was racing and his palms had started to sweat. 

With the braces locked in place around his legs, somewhat painful with how tight they were, he shifted forward in his chair and let his feet touch the ground. The belt was cinched tight around his waist, given a tug to make sure it wouldn’t slip down, and he slowly pulled his legs straight out in front of him and locked the knee joint on the braces so they wouldn’t bend. 

Then he was handed the crutches. Now he had to stand.

The crutches were made of a dark, polished wood that looked like oak, padded at the top where he would rest his arms, and there was a short bar to grip in the middle. He’d seen folk use them before, but he’d never really paid attention to how it ought to be done. But he had better figure it out.

His parents were watching him, and he felt the pressure of their expectation only increase as the seconds wore on. They wanted to see him succeed, and so did he, but... he didn’t know how to do this. He worried that the very minute he tried to put weight on his legs, they’d buckle underneath him and he’d fall to the ground like an idiot, humiliating and possibly injuring himself, not to mention how disappointing it would be for the two men who’d spent so much money on these damn things.

He realized that the sounds of daily life had paused, and felt the eyes of the camp on his back. Now everyone was watching, and they would all see if he failed.

He swallowed, stomach doing flips and making him feel sick. “H-hold my chair, alright?” He asked, and Dutch nodded, taking that duty for himself as he held the back, making sure it wouldn’t get pushed out from under him.

“You’ve got this.” He encouraged quietly, and Arthur wondered if it was another baseless placation, or something he truly meant. It didn’t matter either way; he’d either get it or not.

He set the tip of the crutches on the ground as firmly as he could, grabbed the middle, and tried to lift his entire body out of the chair with his biceps alone. He barely lifted himself out of the seat before he faltered and fell back.

His cheeks burned at his poor attempt and he didn’t look either man in the eye as he tried it again. He got the same result, and cursed under his breath. 

“You might need some help the first few times, before you get the hang of it.” Hosea’s voice was soft, and Arthur tried his best not to snarl at him. 

“I’ll figure it out.” He grunted, and stopped attempting to let himself think. Trying to stand like he could still use his legs to help him wasn’t going to work, so after a moment, he tried placing the crutches where he had his wheels, instead of directly out in front of him. Maybe if he used a stronger part of his arm, that would work? Weeks in bed hadn’t done him any favors, and while using the chair had returned some of his strength, it hadn’t come back the same. 

But he could manage. He would do it, and he didn’t need anyone’s goddamn help.

Lifting and pulling and stabilizing was immensely taxing, and he grunted and panted, brows furrowed and jaw tight as he moved up a little at a time, making sure he could keep the progress he’d made as he figured out where to adjust his grip. Hosea or Dutch were saying things, but he wasn’t paying attention, didn’t want the distraction. 

It was... it was working.  

He needed to lift himself almost completely up with his arms so he could make sure his legs were properly beneath him when he put his weight down, but when he had both his feet under him for the first time in over a month, his legs straight and his weight supported, he was left reeling. 

Arms shaking, he was breathless with the effort as well as the headrush, spots dancing in his eyes for a good few seconds, and he was momentarily worried he would swoon. 

But he’d done it, he’d fucking done it. He was standing up - standing up - on his own two goddamn legs. He was taller than Hosea, level height with Dutch, and for the past two months they’d seemed so high above him that he’d forgotten he had ever been a tall man, but not anymore. Not ever again.

His fathers were beaming, but he found himself in shock.

“Oi, way to go, English! Up ‘n at ‘em, that’s right!” Sean’s voice erupted, and Arthur could hear Miss Grimshaw shush him, but it had little effect on the cheers of joy that were spreading through his friends and family. 

Arthur’s neck burned, but it wasn’t bad - just a lot.

But that was only the first bit done, now he had to take a step. That was the part he was more concerned about. 

He was nervous to move the crutches in case he lost his tenuous balance and fell, but Hosea and Dutch moved to stand on either side of him, acting as bookends to prevent him from pitching over. He was fine with their help now, since he had no damn idea how to do this on his own.

“Um,” He swallowed, and Hosea set his hand gently on his back.

“You’re doing great, Arthur. Now, go slow, don’t move the crutches too far. Just put them out in front of you and pull yourself forward. ”

“How am I s’posed to do that?” He asked, voice shaking and quiet. Holding himself up was harder than he’d thought it would be, and he already felt the strain in his wrists. 

“Make small movements and, ah, use your upper body. Put your weight on your legs when they’re beneath you again. Don’t worry,” He added at Arthur’s look. “That’s what the braces are for, and we’re right here, you won’t fall.”

Dutch had remained mostly quiet through it all, and maybe he was simply biting his tongue to let Arthur focus. Or perhaps he and Hosea had discussed who would do the talking amongst them, like this was a con they were pulling, with roles and strategies preplanned. 

Didn’t matter.

Arthur held back his pessimism and tried to do as he was told. The braces had a metal loop, like a stirrup, that rested underneath the shoe, keeping his foot stable and taking some of the pressure off his wrists. But it also hurt, and he hissed at the sharp throb he felt centering in his knees.

“What’s wrong?” Hosea asked, quick and nervous, but Arthur shook his head. 

“S’jus’ my legs, feels... I dunno.” He grimaced, breathing heavily. “My knees hurt.”

“The orthotist said that could happen, if the joints had... warped. This is why he said it was important to use them often.” Hosea replied, giving a glance at Dutch, who moved to grab hold of the leather belt around the back of Arthur’s waist. 

Arthur didn’t want to think too deeply about what Hosea said, that his legs were bent or bowed. It brought back the sensation that they weren’t really his legs, and that wasn’t helpful while he was trying to use them.

Taking a breath, he gathered his resolve and moved the crutches forward. Almost immediately he began to list to the side, but Dutch had a hold on him, and Hosea moved his hand to his chest. With the two of them keeping him stable, he pulled the crutches back and regained his balance.

He took another deep breath, slower this time, and flexed his hands on the crutches. He could do this.

He bent his waist just a bit, and tried to make his center of balance higher up before he moved the crutches a few inches out in front of him. He stayed standing, and then slowly, almost hopping, he tugged his legs forward and took a step.

“That’s it.” Dutch marveled, his voice quiet. “There you go, son.”

It was hard, and not just physically; figuring out where to place the crutches so he could have both balance and leverage took work, but true to Dutch and Hosea’s promise, they did not let him fall. 

‘Keep going, keep going.’ Step after shaking step, the braces made a soft metallic click when he moved, and after each successful shuffle, he’d pause to readjust his grip before he’d move again. 

When he reached the tree in the center of camp, about ten feet from where he’d started, his shirt collar was damp and his body was trembling. Dutch was practically holding him up by the belt, but... he’d goddamn done it.

“F-fuck.” He heaved air into his lungs, struggling to catch his breath, leaning his shoulder on the thick trunk and closing his eyes. He was exhausted. But even breathless and sweaty, his chest was full of some sensational emotion.

“That’s my boy!” Dutch sounded like he was bragging, or maybe he was just... proud. As inconceivable as it seemed, perhaps Dutch was actually proud of him. His father ruffled his hair as he released him, once he was certain that Arthur was stable against the tree. “I’ve always said he’s a fighter, haven’t I, Hosea?”

The elder man was grinning wide, and Arthur couldn’t help but give a somewhat wheezing laugh. Now that he wasn’t so focused on his task, he also noticed that the entire camp was brimming with congratulations. 

“I knew you could do it, Arthur!” Lenny called, and Mary-Beth was practically in tears, hugging Tilly and bouncing up and down with her in excitement.

“What’d I tell you?” John nudged Swanson, while Sean and Uncle declared that this was cause for a drink, which Karen and Pearson vocally agreed with.

But despite all this happiness and joy, Arthur wasn’t sure how he felt. He could hardly move, and he felt more than a little exposed and overwhelmed with what had just happened. 

He’d walked.

His eyes blurred and his smile faltered, and it was like euphoria and despair were forming into one hard lump in his throat. 

He’d walked, but all he’d done was walk. It was something he’d thought completely beyond him, but it was also something that everyone else could easily do, a thing that he’d been able to do only a short time ago.

It mattered so goddamn much, more than he had words for, but that very fact was... painful.

“Dutch, I-I...” Arthur managed to croak, tone soft and rough. “Need my... my chair.”

“Of course, right.” Dutch was clearly very pleased, but Hosea was the one to get it, since Dutch was still hovering in case he collapsed. Quickly retrieving his chair and bringing it over, Arthur accepted the help in easing himself down. 

“Christ...” He fell gracelessly into the seat, and groaned as the weight was taken off his legs, letting his head fall back as the pain flared bright. He let the crutches drop, and Hosea took it upon himself to unlock the hinge and set Arthur’s feet back into the rests on the chair. That hurt too, and he rubbed at his joints, mouth set tight.

“You alright?” The old man asked, voice low for privacy, and Arthur just nodded. He was, wasn’t he? He was fine. Good. Fantastic. 

He was just tired.

Taking that answer for whatever it was, Hosea pushed Arthur’s chair back to his tent. As they entered the darkened space, he noticed that the bathtub had been drained and moved to the side - probably by Miss Grimshaw. He really ought to thank her. For a lot.

Hosea helped him into bed, and it took the last of his strength to remove the braces so he could pull his legs up. He laid down and closed his eyes, running his hands down his face, letting out a heavy breath.

“I didn’t doubt you for a second.” His father said, taking a moment to sit by his side. 

Arthur lifted a brow without opening his eyes, too tired to put much spice into his words. “S’that so?”

“Dutch is right; you’re a fighter.” 

That brought a small twitch from Arthur’s mouth. It was soft, and Hosea seemed to know there was something blue that he was trying to hide, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he fussed around for a moment, settling his blanket up to his chest, before bidding him a soft goodbye and leaving to let him rest.

But despite being completely worn through, sleep didn’t come right away. His mind was whirling and his thoughts were bouncing between elation and bitterness as he listened to the sounds of camp making merry on his behalf. Truthfully, they would take any excuse to drink, and he didn’t fault them for that, but... over walking?  

He moved his head and cracked an eye to look at the steel and leather cages that held his legs and let him stand. He couldn’t recall anything being as physically demanding as that, not in recent memory anyway, and the thought of doing that every day for the rest of his life... 

Would it get any easier?

... Using the chair had, so... he reckoned it might. 

But he’d been unable to do it himself, needing Dutch to hold him up, and he’d barely gone ten feet. He hadn’t even put them on by himself, requiring help for that like he’d needed help for everything lately.

And yet, the chair had expanded his world after his legs had quite literally been knocked out from under him, and the braces could do even more. He’d already decided that staying in bed forever was a road to nowhere. He couldn't take it, and he’d been steadily losing his mind like that. And though wheels let him move around, there were still places in camp he couldn’t go, and leaving was out of the question. If he could walk, maybe he’d stop feeling so... trapped?

His body wouldn’t change, though. Even with practice, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be anything other than uncoordinated and awkward. People would stare at him everywhere he went - hell, they’d been staring at him here. He’d be a joke, and did he really want to subject himself to that sort of ridicule? 

... He’d been a bit of a joke when he’d first shot a gun, if he was honest - missed the target by miles. Dutch had gotten a good laugh out of it when the recoil had sent him sprawling to the ground, but then he’d picked him back up and taught him the proper way. Riding, too, had taken time. He’d been bucked and bitten and left in the dust more times than he could count, and his first experience with saddle sores had been so embarrassing he’d refused to tell Hosea what was wrong for days. 

Those things had taken practice, and he’d failed a whole helluva lot before reaching anything resembling competency. All things considered, no matter how trivial it felt... It was monumental. He’d walked. It had taken a few tries to get up on his feet, but he’d done that by himself. He’d needed help with the actual walking, but Dutch and Hosea had always been there to help him. He’d accepted it as a kid because he didn’t know what he was doing, and he’d trusted them. This was just another lesson, and Arthur didn’t hold such a high opinion of himself to think he could be perfect at everything right away.

It took time to get good at things, and he had that in spades.

-=-=-=-=-

The next morning he affixed the braces on himself, and after a few frustrating attempts, struggled upright. Remembering the directions from yesterday, he set his jaw and moved a few inches forward. 

And fell. 

“Shit!” He cursed harshly, more embarrassed than injured. But thankfully, he was hidden in his tent, and nobody had seen or heard. He pushed and crawled back to the edge of his bed, hauled himself up, and then took the crutches and tried again. He got back to his feet, made sure he had a good grip, and slowly moved forward. He stayed up that time.

It took a while, moving a small distance in the time he once would have walked back and forth across camp at least thrice, and he had to rest against everything he passed. Posts and boxes and wagons momentarily took his weight as he caught his breath, and put all his focus on every movement. He got to his goal eventually, all on his own, and sat clumsily on a log by the fire with a grunt and a tired sigh.

Hosea had been ecstatic at first, and then scolded him. “You should have asked for help, Arthur. What if you’d fallen?”

Arthur had just given him a look. “Don’t seem like I needed your help, old man.” He drawled breathlessly, and Hosea rolled his eyes. 

He wasn’t going to mention that he had fallen.

Arthur drank coffee as he teased Sean for his hangover, letting Hosea get him some breakfast, which he did his best to eat. He still had a hard time finishing it, but if he was going to be putting this much work into simply moving around, he’d need the energy. 

He stayed there for a long time, battling the nerves that he would have another mishap where everyone could see, but he pushed it down and pulled himself up, slowly returning to his tent. He was utterly worn out, but he didn’t want to shorten his day by going back to sleep. Sitting in his chair but leaving his braces on, he decided to bother Tilly for some dominos. 

She absolutely swept the floor with him. At least some things would never change.

-=-=-=-=-

A week on, and Arthur was walking every morning. He couldn’t manage to keep it up for the entire day, always drained by noon, but it was worth it. He hadn’t figured out how to do anything useful yet, but he could smoke a cigarette with Charles while he kept watch, drink coffee with Abigail as she stood by the horses, go along the shore of the lake where the sand would have caught up in his wheels, and he’d been working on how to hold a rifle, but so far he hadn’t been able to properly aim the thing. He’d gone back to basics with his entire life, it seemed, but he was trying. Hosea was never far whenever he ventured around camp like that, and while it was somewhat irritating, he understood the reason why.

He’d fallen a few more times, and he did sometimes need help to get off the ground. He’d had to try and subtly call Charles over once when he’d fallen in the woods, and Javier had seen him lose his balance while walking along the shore. Uncle had been witness to a rather embarrassing moment with the chickens, but thankfully - and oddly in Uncle’s case - none of them made a big deal out of it. He’d gotten a few bruises on his legs and arms, but that had never bothered him before, and it didn’t now.

But during all his practice, he wasn’t the only one who’d been occupied. Karen had done a rather impressive and elaborate scam with Mary-Beth and Swanson, John was joining Charles to ease the workload and double the pelts they could carry, and the treasure map that Arthur had ‘found’ in New Hanover and then jokingly given Lenny had taken an unexpected turn when he’d come back with a small fortune in gold. It had done wonders for morale - and their pockets - and had given them the boost they’d needed to finally climb out of their rut.

Now that had been a party, and the first one solely in Lenny’s honor since he’d joined up. His bashfully radiant face had made a brotherly fondness warm Arthur’s chest, and he’d utterly refused to take any of the credit when the young man had tried. 

“This was all you, kid.” He’d nudged him and clinked his beer against Lenny’s, sharing a drink like they hadn’t done since Valentine. It wasn’t any less rowdy, but at least this time Arthur hadn’t been the one to start it. He’d still joined in though, before Jack had come to sit in his lap and enjoy the festivities from that perch.

The boy had even presented him with a very special drawing, and Arthur had held it up with wide eyes. It was him, big-headed and unproportionate as expected, but standing up with little hashes on his legs and wobbly little lines attached to his arms. He had a hat, a beard, and his smile took up half his face. Two other figures that were clearly Hosea and Dutch stood on either side of him, arms up in a cheer.

“I drew your big day!” Jack explained, and Arthur found his eyes watering with the sentimental ache it brought - a good ache. Christ, what a fantastic kid.

“Sure did. S’real good, Jack, thank you.” He ruffled his hair and held him close to his chest, hiding his emotion from the boy by resting his chin on top of his head. 

“I love you, Uncle Arthur.” Jack’s arms came around his sides, and he had to clear his throat a few times before he could reply. 

“I, uh, l-love you too, kid.”

He caught John looking at him, but for once he couldn’t detect any of that usual jealousy whenever Arthur spent time or showed kindness to the boy. He looked... Arthur wasn’t sure, his vision too blurred with tears and alcohol for fine details at the moment. John raised his beer after a second of staring, and Arthur nodded back at him.

That was good, then.

After only two beers and a whiskey, Arthur had gotten a little more drunk than he’d thought he would, and Abigail had come to collect her son. She playfully chastised him for getting so easily intoxicated, but the mood was vibrant and bright, and he shared one last drink with Charles before wheeling off to bed, hammered and happy. One benefit of the chair, at least, was that he didn’t have to worry about being so drunk he walked into things or fell over.

He’d ended up sleeping through nearly half the next day, and he had a killer headache when he finally roused himself, but damn, had it been worth it.

And now that they had money, Pearson could finally make a much needed run to the general store in Rhodes to replenish and buffer their supplies. It took a little longer than Arthur would have thought, but then again, there was probably a lot to replace, and it would be nice to have sugar in his coffee again.

When the camp cook returned, he had quite a lot of supplies, and even more to say - he’d been approached by O’Driscolls. 

While that would normally have been a death sentence for a man like him, they hadn’t been looking for a fight, instead they’d offered to parley. Micah Bell, of all people, appeared to take that at face value.

Idiot.

“Have you two lost your goddamn minds?” Dutch had glowered at them from his tent, making his opinion immediately apparent.

“You’re always tellin’ us, Dutch.” Micah wheedled. “Do what has to be done, but don’t fight wars that ain’t worth fightin’.”

“They wanna parley?” Hosea snorted, barely looking up from his paper as he sat around the table with Arthur, his voice turning singsong. “It’s a trap.”

Micah turned to him, and his appeasing grin faltered into something a little less pleasant. “Well of course, it’s... probably a trap...” He allowed, “But what’ve we got to lose findin’ out?”

“Get shot.” Arthur piped up sourly. Micah’s eyes slid to him, and any pleasantry he’d had was now surely gone, but instead of the sharp eyes and wicked tongue that Arthur expected, the blond paused, and said nothing.

He kept doing that, and Arthur wasn’t sure what to make of it. He thought that Micah would have at least tried to make his life a living hell, but aside from that single incident of overhearing him talk shit, the man hadn’t directly accosted Arthur once. No jokes or jabs, no pointed remarks. He never spoke to him at all anymore, which was honestly preferable, but Arthur knew he was nearly always watching.

And the look in his eyes now... it made him feel like he was being ogled by a vulture.

“No... We ain’t gettin’ shot, because you’ll be protectin’ us.” He smiled, such a slimy and vulgar tone in those words that Arthur almost recoiled. Almost. 

Instead, he froze. That was perhaps the cruelest thing Micah could have said.

Protect them. Arthur - he would protect them? He was being mocked, and he wondered why Micah had chosen now to do it. It certainly gave him nothing other than a sick satisfaction, and... Well, he supposed that’s all Micah would want. There probably wasn’t anything to it, he couldn’t actually mean to drag him into something he wasn’t capable of doing.

But Arthur was not the only one who’d taken offense to the statement. 

“Excuse me?” Hosea set his paper down and zeroed in on the other man. 

“If it’s a trap, he shoots the lot of ‘em. If it ain’t a trap, that slim chance...” Micah turned back to appeal to Dutch, but his brows had drawn down and his scowl had deepened. He pushed past Micah to stand by Hosea’s side.

“I don’t see the point in any of this.” He puffed irritably on his cigar, shaking his head. “What are you even suggesting?”

Micah followed, hands up to ease his way closer. “He’s still an outlaw, ain’t he? Sure, he’s... well, all we gotta do is put him on the back of a horse and bring him along, he makes sure none of us get bushwhacked, and then we can figure out what Colm wants.”

... He was actually serious?

“Absolutely not.” Hosea glared fully now, looking between Dutch and Micah. 

The blonde ignored him and kept talking. “It’s a chance we gotta take.”

Shaking his head, Dutch looked away, but something had come across his face that Arthur knew all too well. He paused, letting his words marinate on his tongue before he shared them. “I killed Colm’s brother, long time ago... then he killed... a woman I loved dear.”

A smart man would have known that Annabelle was not a memory to tread upon, but Micah was not a smart man.

“As you say, it’s a long time ago, Dutch.”

And strangely, he seemed to be considering it. Bizarrely, he was no longer telling Micah how crazy that sounded, how completely reckless and moronic.

“I said no.” Hosea smacked his newspaper and stood, jaw firmly set. “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Dutch glanced at his partner. “He might be onto something, Hosea...”

“He damn well isn’t! You really think the O’Driscolls want peace after all that’s happened? You’re smarter than this, or so I thought. If they don't want to meet up to kill you, they’re going to follow you back and kill the rest of us!”

“Colm may try that, but like Micah said, Arthur could-”

“I could do what?” He spoke up, voice quiet and eyes hard. All three men looked down at him, almost as if they’d forgotten he was there, but Arthur kept his eyes on Dutch.

“You’ll sit pretty in the saddle, cowpoke, and find some perch while we do the real work.” Micah leaned down to speak closer to his face, and Arthur wished he hadn’t. “Should be easy for you.”

He turned his face away and sneered.

Hosea scoffed, still looking at Dutch and ignoring Micah entirely. “What if something goes wrong? You want O’Driscolls knowing that our best gun is crippled?”

That shot through Arthur like a bullet in the heart. 

‘Our best gun is crippled’ 

That was what he was and he knew it, had known it since he’d visited that doctor in Saint Denis, but that didn’t mean he liked to hear folk say it. That didn’t mean he wanted to have it thrown out so carelessly, by someone he didn’t think would ever call him that. Even if it was the only word which could be used to describe him... he hated it.

“Colm won’t even notice.” Dutch countered, the argument continuing on despite Arthur’s sudden aching pain, and the spiral it had ruthlessly sent him into.

“You can’t be that naïve, can you? Are you trying to tell me that Colm O’Driscoll wouldn’t notice Arthur wearing leg braces?” Hosea was surely only agitated to still be fighting about this, but it bled into the way he spoke, and Arthur couldn’t help but feel that Hosea was irritated with him.

Not who he was, but what.

It was a dumb plan, and Arthur wouldn’t have wanted to go along with it even if he could have, but... by the mere fact of being crippled, he was sticking a wrench in things, and starting a fight between the two men who’d raised him. 

His inability to perform hadn’t felt so viscerally absent in a long time, and that wounded part of his soul was already writhing inside his chest as if it had never stopped. If they needed him, he had to step up. 

“I’ll go, if you-” He began, speaking quietly. But before Hosea or Dutch could react, Micah gave a sharp grin, slapping a hand on Arthur’s back hard enough to make him flinch. 

“That’s the spirit, cowpoke! All you’d have to do is hold the rifle steady! You still know how to do that, don’t you?”

“Arthur, don’t be ridiculous.” Hosea looked at him sharply, his eyes narrowed. “I’m not going to let you get hurt, this is way too dangerous for you. You’re still learning to walk, you can’t ride a horse. What if you fell, what if you got shot? You couldn’t ride with Dutch, I doubt The Count would take you, and how would you get down? He’d have to lift you off, and Colm would certainly see that.”

It was like a ton of bricks had just been dumped on his head. All the reasons why he was useless. It was ridiculous, was it? It was dangerous and foolish, since he was so helpless, and clearly he was something they wanted to hide.

“But-”

“I see your point.” Dutch sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, and Arthur looked up at him with wide eyes. Him too? “Colm would eat him alive, and avoiding O’Driscolls is why we kept away from Big Valley.”

... What?

“And it’s a trap.” Hosea reiterated. 

“... And it’s a trap.” Dutch repeated.

“Good. Now, we’ve got some discussing to do if there are O’Driscolls in Rhodes.” Hosea huffed, walking with Dutch to his tent. It was over just like that. Arthur’s inability to put himself on the front line had killed the plan before it had even begun... and it told him that they had been lying; they weren’t proud of him at all. They were hiding him, they didn’t want him to leave camp because they were ashamed of him.

And all the reassurances they’d given him about moving, that he’d known were lies, had just been proven. They’d come down to the heat of the south completely for his benefit, there was no other reason. Clearly, if Dutch had his choice, he would have gone elsewhere. How many other folk felt the same, and just hadn’t told him?

Micah hovered, his hand on Arthur’s shoulder tightening, but Arthur felt numb. Leaning down, the rat started speaking so softly Arthur could barely hear him. 

“Aw, guess daddy ain’t gonna let you play with the big boys, huh? He’s right though, you’d probably just get in the way, what with all your extra needs.” He dug his nails in, and Arthur said nothing.

Hosea chose that moment to look over, and quickly returned, scowling at the way Micah was holding Arthur so tightly. While he hadn’t heard those words, his own dislike was reason enough to send the bastard away. 

“Let go of him, and go make yourself useful.”

Micah scoffed at the old man, but stood up straight regardless, giving a short wave over his shoulder as he walked away. “Least I still can. See you around, cowpoke.” 

The place he’d grabbed itched like a bug bite, and Arthur rubbed the skin through his shirt, head down in silence. Hosea no doubt saw the expression on his face, whatever it was, and sighed. 

“I’m sorry, Arthur. I know you’re used to going on jobs, but you can’t anymore.” He said it gently, but Arthur almost wished he’d say it vicious like Micah had. It would make it easier to know if he was being insulted, or merely patronized.

“I know.” He mumbled, hands in his lap. “You don’t gotta tell me.”

“I’m not trying to upset you, but the doctor said-”

“I know what the fuckin’ doctor said!” He snapped, unable to look at him or anyone else. He pulled his wheels away from the table, and headed back to his tent, pushing past the canvas and entering the darkness, letting it seep into his eyes and muffle the world outside.

He felt hollow, that familiar pulling sensation in his chest all at once returning to him. He was a goddamn fool, an idiot to think that he could ever rise back up to the man he’d been before. He was a useless invalid, a lame horse, and it was only through pity that he hadn’t been taken out and shot. Any other gang, and he’d have been left by the side of the road a long time ago.

He pulled himself into bed and rolled onto his side, and hoped that he could forget all this in his dreams. He wasn’t sure he wanted to wake up.

-=-=-=-=-

“Look who it is.” 

Arthur was minding his own damn business, sitting in his chair on the dock and smoking a cigarette as he watched the moonlight play off the lake, when Micah had to come by and spoil his mood. 

“What’chu want?” He grumbled, flicking ash out over the water.

He’d stopped ignoring Arthur ever since that idea with the O’Driscolls had fallen through, and though Arthur did his best to ignore all the comments and jeers, he was affected no matter how hard he tried to remain strong.

“Want in on this job, Morgan? Oh, sorry, daddy wouldn’t approve, would he?”

“You still sittin’ around? Ain’t you ever gonna pull your weight?”

“Christ, Arthur, can’t you do anything on your own?”

Things he said when no one else was around, but Arthur wasn’t sure anyone would have disagreed with him. Dutch and Hosea hadn’t intended to, but their opinions had been made very clear.

But it wasn’t just words. Micah had taken to finding Arthur when he’d attempt to get some privacy - like he was now - and tormenting him. Getting his chair stuck on things, tossing his hat where he couldn’t get it, and accidentally knocking into Arthur’s crutches to send him crashing to the ground. 

One time had been a particularly nasty fall, something he hadn’t even seen coming, and something in Arthur had tensed to nearly the point of snapping. His chin had been scratched up and his elbows had bled, and the wind had been knocked right out of him, leaving him wheezing on the ground. His nerves had gone a bit haywire, his pupils dilating and his skin prickling, and his only thought was to get himself up and away.

Micah had quickly grabbed him by the belt of his braces like a dog collar, putting a stop to his escape, and hollered for Hosea.

“Matthews, come quick! Poor Arthur here took quite a tumble, good thing I passed by. A delicate feller like him oughta be watched better, don’t you think? I mean look, he’s all banged up. Maybe Abigail should mind him and her boy at the same time.”

Everyone had turned to look at him then, and Hosea had frantically mothered him in front of them all. The entire experience had been humiliating, but Arthur hadn’t said a word about what had happened - he didn’t want to give Micah the satisfaction of knowing how... involuntarily afraid he’d been, so he’d endured it all utterly mute, fury coming to redden his cheeks and replace his fear.

And now Micah stood beside him, lowering his voice just like all the other times, and Arthur had no guess as to why he was there. Any foolish hope that he’d become bored by this game left as soon as he could smell the whiskey on Micah’s breath, and Arthur felt his heart quicken. 

“You’re awful close to the edge here, you ain’t about to throw yourself in, are you?”

His lips pulled back into a sneer, but he said nothing. He didn’t want to engage with this, and if he’d considered what Micah had suggested when he’d come to watch the water, it was no one’s business but his own. 

“I ain’t saying you should, I’d never. I only meant... Well, you’ve been a real sad sack lately, real goddamn sorry to see.”

Arthur’s stomach curdled, he didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t know if he could stand it, and staying silent wouldn’t work. “Leave me alone.”

“Aw, you sayin’ you don’t like me? I’m hurt. But I ain’t about to leave you out here by your lonesome, it’d be real awful if somethin’ happened to Hosea’s delicate little boy, huh? Thought I’d come by to see if you needed some help.”

“I don’t need your help with nothin’.” Arthur growled, and Micah just laughed, not frightened or intimidated in the least. 

“Sure you do, everyone’s gotta take care of you now... So long as you ain’t pissed yourself again.” He laughed, low and nasty. “Don’t expect me to help with that.”

Arthur’s face burned sickly hot with shame, his jaw clicked with how hard he was clenching his teeth, and he wished more than anything that he had a gun.

“Fuck you, Micah.” He snarled, and the blonde only laughed harder, holding his hands up. 

“Hey now, I’m only bein’ honest!” His humor vanished in a flash, and his tone turned venomous. “An’ I ain’t gonna take that from the likes’a you.”

He put his foot on Arthur’s back wheel and kicked, lurching the chair in a sudden forward jolt towards the edge of the dock. 

“Don’t!” Arthur’s heart leapt from his chest and his eyes went wide, the front wheels almost going over, and he scrambled to grip the rungs and stop himself from plunging into the dark water. He sat there, breathing rough, heart pounding inside his ribs. He would have gone over if he hadn’t caught himself in time. Micah had almost... 

The man cackled from behind him, and the wooden dock creaked as he stepped. Arthur shakingly pulled his wheels away from the edge and turned so Micah wouldn’t be at his back, and saw that the blonde was grinning like a jackal, eyes sharp like daggers. “It’d be real easy, Morgan. Just one little push, and you’d go over. Can you swim without your legs? Hell, maybe you’d float out to sea.”

Arthur quickly seethed at how Micah Bell, of all people, kept making him feel so helpless and scared. “You sunnova fuckin’ bitch! Utter goddamn slime, I oughta-”

Micah leaned in and spat directly in his face. 

Arthur recoiled with a shout, hands going up to his cheek to touch the thick glob of saliva. Disgust churned his stomach, and he quickly wiped it off, shocked at the complete audacity. When he brought his hands back down, Micah had already walked off, leaving Arthur alone with a brewing sense of humiliation he wasn’t sure he’d ever truly felt before. His face burned and his eyes stung, and he grit his teeth as he turned back towards the water - furious, mortified, and revolted with himself. 

Goddamn him. Goddamn all of this. Maybe he should roll over the edge. Maybe he could pretend it was an accident. Maybe it wouldn’t matter either way.

Chapter Text

He didn’t much feel like using the braces after what had happened on the dock. What would be the point? It was hard and painful and exhausting, and it wouldn’t give him what he really wanted. He’d never be himself again.

The dark cloud that had haunted him those first few weeks was back like a roiling storm, and he rarely had the energy for anything. He lost what was left of his appetite, had no desire for conversation, and couldn’t bear to be near the horses anymore. He couldn’t ride them, could hardly care for them, and all it did was add salt to the wound.

He’d been so dragged out over what had happened to him, grieving it like a death, that when he’d seen a light at the end of the tunnel he’d been desperate to go towards it. But nobody had ever really believed he’d be useful again, they’d all just smiled and cheered him on like he was a child taking their first steps - no one would even think to ask Jack for anything, and Arthur was no different. 

It was meant as kindness, but he’d realized that their treatment had steadily become patronizing, only made more apparent as his mood turned. He hadn’t noticed when he’d been putting everything he had into getting back on his feet, and he’d foolishly thought that as he improved and showed he could be capable of something, as his fractured heart slowly healed, they’d ease up on the coddling and start letting him take things on - taking watch, at least.

But they hadn’t, and they weren’t going to, and it broke his heart all over again to know it.

Any time Arthur ventured out of his tent, someone was always conveniently there, asking if there was anything they could do for him; get him some dinner, grab a coffee, push his chair anywhere. He didn’t want them to, but they didn’t listen when he refused, assuring him it wasn’t a bother. When he’d get frustrated, they’d simply wring their hands or look away, and he was losing his temper more often than not. It wasn’t everyone, but it was enough of them - Grimshaw and Mary-Beth and Hosea, Tilly and Swanson and Abigail, Pearson and Lenny - all people he knew didn’t mean to hurt him, but his temper would get the better of him, and he’d end up raising his voice or saying something nasty. He would have felt bad for scaring folk, but...

There was nothing frightening about him anymore.

Those members of the gang that didn’t trail after him with offers of assistance oftentimes seemed to forget he was there. Bill clearly had no idea what to say to him anymore, and when he got drunk, Arthur found that his voice carried too well. Talking with the other men about jobs and scores, complaining of small takes and overly cautious work, loudly asking why they weren’t going after bigger and better things.

Asking what was holding them back.  

Arthur knew that he was the reason, and yet nobody would mention his name, as if they were too ashamed to admit the truth.

Even if he knew it wouldn’t make matters better, he found it hard to get out of bed.

There was also the issue of Micah. 

Arthur couldn’t face him, not after what he’d done. It was more than just knocking him over or pushing him around; Micah had almost killed him, and it had hardly taken any effort. It made him feel defenseless, and he couldn’t take the thought of running to Dutch or Hosea for protection - it would only worsen their already stifling behavior. But the anxiety crept in, the worry over what might happen the next time he found himself cornered and alone. Would it be another simple shove, or would he try and find a different way to end Arthur’s life? And what could he really even do to stop him? If he could have had his guns back... but there was no way Hosea would let him, not with him acting like this. 

Refusing to admit he was afraid, but knowing that the feeling that tightened his chest and dampened his palms could be nothing other than fear, Arthur hated himself all the more for hiding away like a coward.

It was just too much.

The few times he did leave his bed, the only ones who didn’t treat him like he was infantile and stupid were Charles, John, and surprisingly, Sean. 

His brother acted like he always had - hot-headed and awkward, with a sense of rivalry like the man somehow believed there was any way Arthur could compete with him. It was absurd - Arthur was the lowest rung in the ladder, and everyone but John seemed to be aware of that.

And Charles... Arthur wasn’t sure how to explain what he was doing. Normalcy wasn’t normal anymore, but Charles didn’t avoid him or constantly offer aid. There was a balance to the attention he gave that felt... almost the same as it had before.

Sean was still just... Sean, and that was nice too.

One evening around the fire, most of the men were out on a job, and those who weren’t had taken a single look at Arthur’s face and left him to his shadowed mood. Ignored, as was becoming overwhelmingly common when he wasn’t being smothered. 

He was lost in his dark thoughts, and hardly noticed when someone sat down beside him. 

“Hey.” Charles said casually, a bundle of half-made arrows and supplies set down to the side. 

He picked his head up, looking at the large man for a moment before he turned his eyes away.

“What’chu talkin’ to me for?” Arthur asked, and Charles paused, hands stilling from the work he’d only just started.

“What do you mean?”

Arthur tapped his fingers on his leg, hurt bubbling beneath the surface. “You sure you wouldn’t rather pretend I don’t exist?”

Charles’ shoulders tensed, and he looked at Arthur with a suddenly severe expression. “What?”

“Don’t kid me, Charles.” He scoffed. “I know I’m a disgrace.”

“Arthur,” Charles’ brows were pulled down, and he leaned forward, lowering his voice. “You shouldn’t listen to Micah.”

“You think he needs to say somethin’?” He wanted to get angry, he felt that ember burning, but there was nothing to ignite. He was too watery inside, not that he would let that show. “The way people act, I ain’t worth nothin’ no more. An’ if you’ve all been hearin’ him say them things, why ain’t nobody clocked him? S’cus you all agree, ain’t it?”

“That’s not...” Charles didn’t finish his thought, but Arthur could assume what he might have said. That’s not true. It was. That’s not fair. It wasn’t.

“Maybe it’s my own damn fault for gettin’ my hopes up.” He muttered, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Figured I’d... I dunno. Be somethin’ again. Should’a known better.”

“That’s no reason to give up.” Charles muttered, and Arthur wanted to laugh - but just like his anger, he didn’t have the energy for that either. John had said the same thing, but what did they know? It wasn’t their legs that had turned limp, they didn’t have goddamn polio.

No, they’d both been forced to work harder because of Arthur’s illness. Everyone had.

“There ain’t no cure, Charles. All’a this... The braces, the chair... what’re they for?”

“They’re for you,” Charles sounded so resolute, and yet it felt hollow to Arthur.

“Me, huh? An’ what’s that mean?” He narrowed his eyes, and when Charles opened his mouth, the outlaw shook his head. “No, really, what’s it mean for me to get all this? What am I to anyone anymore?”

The younger man seemed to understand, and he ran his hand over his mouth as he dropped his gaze. Thoughtful, actually considering the answer he would give, and for whatever reason, Arthur felt his breath stutter in his chest. 

He’d always admired Charles, but lately he’d been jealous of him too. There had been a time when the two of them might have been evenly matched, though perhaps that was only wishful thinking on Arthur’s part. But it remained a fact that Charles was strong, and he’d been responsible for a lot of the lifting and carrying Arthur had needed before he’d started to figure things out. He didn’t blame him for anything, but all the help he’d given, all the anger he’d withstood and the violence he’d forgiven... Charles should hate him - he had more reason than anyone else. Arthur didn’t know if he actually felt that way, but he did know he wouldn’t be able to handle hearing it if he did.

He almost told him to forget it, but then Charles began speaking, and Arthur was locked in place.

“You’re my friend. You’re a brother, an uncle, and a son. You’re clever and kind, creative and thoughtful, and you care about people in a way that most men don’t bother. What’s happened to you... It doesn’t change any of those things. Hunting and chores weren't what made me like and respect you, it was the reason why you did those things in the first place. Even if you liked to gripe and complain the whole time, you put yourself in a position to help others. A man who does the right thing for the wrong reason spoils the good deed. You don’t pretend to be anything other than what you are, and while it’s not always good, it’s always honest. I didn’t become your friend because you did things for me, Arthur, I became your friend because of the type of person you are underneath everything else you pretended to be. You’re a good man.”

Arthur couldn’t help but stare at him, all his breath locked up in his chest, his widened eyes quickly becoming too blurred to see. When Charles didn’t retract anything, when he continued to look right at him, Arthur turned away, swallowing thickly and taking a slow, deep breath, pretending to scratch his forehead as he hurriedly wiped away his tears before they could fall. 

“That’s... y-you really...” His voice was rough, and he cleared his throat to try and speak through the abrupt landslide of emotion. He gave a shaking little laugh. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak so much, Charles.”

“It bears saying.” Charles wasn’t lying to him. He truly did think those things, and... He should have guessed, really. He was too good to ever say anything cruel, but also too blunt to lie for the sake of pleasing someone. Then again, the things Hosea had said weren’t meant to be cruel either, and he loved Arthur...

Arthur picked at his jeans and chewed his lip. He didn’t want to get worked up, he was so exhausted from it all, but that fatigue left him barely able to hold himself together. “I punched you in the jaw.”

“That hurt like hell, just so you know.” Charles replied smoothly. Arthur almost laughed again, but for a different reason this time.

A moment passed between them, something vulnerable. “... You seen me in states I ain’t never wanted no one to see, things I’m... s-so goddamn ashamed of. How can you not think I’m beneath you?”

Charles straightened his back and let out a slow sigh from his nose. “I’ve never been above you, and I’m not now. I joined you all because Dutch said everyone was equal here, and if there was any truth in that back then, there still is.”

Arthur clenched his eyes shut and felt a sharp pain in his chest, like something was being gently cut open and pulled apart. Tender and brutal all at once, a cyst that had started to fester now opened to the clean air. 

“We ain’t equals.” He whispered, voice nearly covered by the snap of the fire.

“Just because we’re not the same doesn’t mean we aren’t equals, Arthur.” Charles lowered his voice in turn, shifting ever so slightly closer. “Did you ever consider me beneath you because of the way I look, or who my parents are?”

“N-no, course not.” Arthur choked, turning to look at Charles and finding himself pinned to the spot by those serious brown eyes.

“How about when I hurt my hand and couldn’t shoot a gun when everyone was starving, was I beneath you then?”

“No, but-”

“When John was attacked by wolves, did he deserve to get left behind? Did we only take in Mrs. Adler because she would be useful? Did you rescue Sean from those bounty hunters because you wanted him to pay you back?”

Arthur knew the answer to all those questions, and despite the sarcastic comments he’d made during some of those things... he never would have abandoned any of them. Sure, he’d been irritated by one thing or another, but so much had been going on that the pressure had gotten to him. And yet... he’d still have done it, no matter what. 

Why did Charles have to throw his own good deeds back at him, as if it was proof that he was worthy of something? And why was it so... horribly comforting?

“You get my point.” Charles sighed, and his expression relaxed, becoming softer. “You asked me why you should use the braces? I think you already know. Some things... they’re always going to be different, you’re right, and that does include the way people treat you. But that doesn’t mean you have to treat yourself worse.”

Arthur had given up the battle on his tears halfway through those words. There was hardly a reason to hide that from a man who’d seen him piss himself, but he still couldn’t look him in the eye. He watched the fire, focusing on breathing and managing the thundering ache inside himself. It felt like something was pushing through the cracks, a blooming cactus flower in his heart, a sharp and vibrant burst of color in a dry sepia haze. 

He was open and he couldn’t stop himself. “I’m... I’m a coward. I’m afraid.”

Admitting it was close to the worst thing he’d ever done, and he coughed as his lungs spasmed on a sob, refusing to completely shatter. It just hurt so bad to hear himself say it, and yet part of him knew Charles could grant him a balm. Part of him was seeking that.

“Being afraid doesn’t make you a coward, Arthur. Letting the fear keep you hidden does.”

Sometimes, the most healing balms also stung the worst.

He bought himself time to calm down, lit a cigarette and steadied his breathing, and Charles didn’t bother him to say anything more. He went back to the arrows he’d brought over, methodical as he wrapped arrowheads to shafts with thin leather strips. It was a motion that was almost hypnotizing, and as Arthur watched his hands, the agony ebbed into something a little closer to numbness, but less ravaging. 

He tossed his cigarette into the fire when the ember neared his fingers, and cleared his throat.

“Can... Can you show me how to do that?” He asked, and was glad that his voice remained even. Charles glanced up, a small pull at the corner of his mouth, and nodded. 

-=-=-=-=-

Arthur started to try again. Dipping his toes back into the water after he’d been scalded was difficult, especially because folk hadn’t changed how they were treating him; like he had lost the use of all his limbs and his brain, not just his legs. As if being in a chair had made him simple. Any time he tried a task, no matter how easy, someone would swoop in and take it right out of his hands. He didn’t want their help and he didn’t need it, but they completely misheard him when he said so.

“Don’t worry about it, Arthur.”

“Lemme take care of that for you, son.”

“I’ll do it, don’t hurt yourself.” 

They said they didn’t mind, but that wasn’t the point. Just because they didn’t mind, didn’t mean that he didn’t. But his friend had been right - other people were going to treat him however they were going to treat him, and if the only thing he could control was his own opinion of himself, then that’s what he had to do.

He stuck with Charles for the most part, when he was around, since he was perfectly happy to share the busy work needed to keep up with all the hunting. Arrows could be made, the bowstring could be waxed, and weapons needed to be cleaned. Charles showed him how to do what he didn’t already know, and even thanked him for his efforts. Sometimes they would sit in silence when Arthur wasn’t in the mood for talking or didn’t have the energy, and other times they’d chat about things in a way that made him feel like they were just two normal people. Charles was a better man than him, and while Arthur was still slightly jealous, it didn’t impact how grateful he was to have him as a confidant. 

If only Micah was as easily brushed aside as everyone else.

He degraded him relentlessly, and while he’d stopped doing it quite as often - after Charles had thrown him to the ground for a threatening ‘joke’ at Arthur’s expense - it didn’t stop him entirely. Even with Charles’ advice in his head, it was... difficult to endure. Physical pain was one thing, and he’d mostly come to terms with the constant ache, but when he was treated like scum over and over, it rubbed the same raw spot until he could hardly bear it.

Arthur knew he had to do something, but had no idea what. Killing him in his sleep sounded very appealing, but that would be harder than it seemed, and probably wouldn’t go over all that well. It would have been... nice if other people saw fit to step in. Not that he wanted folk to come running to his aid whenever Micah so much as showed his face, but... Folk were all too willing to coddle him, but when he wanted someone to have his back? No, why would anyone do that?

He’d fumed about it to Charles during one of their late night talks, as he was taught how to crush some herbs into a paste that he could use on his joints, the motion of the mortar and pestle a surprisingly helpful outlet for his anger. 

A few nights later, with Charles gone and Arthur sleepless from discomfort, his father found him on the dock, slowly easing down to sit side by side. 

“I... heard about the things Micah’s been saying. I’m sorry, Arthur.” He said softly, and when Arthur scoffed, his brows furrowed. “What’s that for? I am.”

Arthur shook his head, legs dangling over the edge of the jetty. He’d climbed down from his chair, and he’d have thought his feet would have dipped into the water, but they didn’t. The aching in his knees was a sign, proof; his refusal to wear the braces for so long had caused his joints to bend. 

He found he didn’t mind as much as he would have before. It didn’t make him any worse off.

But Hosea seemed not to understand why Arthur didn’t accept those words, and so he had to tell him. “Sorry ain’t gonna do nothin’.”

His father sighed, hands in his lap. “Trust me, I don’t like that bastard anymore than you, but getting rid of him isn’t my call. I spoke with Dutch about it.”

“Course you did. So what’s the plan?” At Hosea’s confused look, he narrowed his eyes. “Dutch should’a cut Micah loose after he shot up a whole town, but he didn’t do it then, so why would he do it now? ‘Specially cus you two don’t feel much different ‘bout me than Micah does.”

His father straightened his spine, looking at him sharply, completely taken aback. “What? Arthur, that’s not-”

“Stop.” Arthur found himself getting angry, but he didn’t want to be, and took some time to rein himself back in. He shrugged after a while, watching the stars, breathing. “Y’all don’t let me do nothin’, an’ when you ain’t gettin’ in my hair, you walk around like I ain’t even here. You can say what you want, but the way you act says enough. You think I’m pitiful.”

“Arthur...” Hosea’s voice sounded somewhat stricken. “It’s not like that, I don’t think you’re...” His voice trailed off.

“Can’t even say it, can you?” He was tired of this already, and they’d barely started talking. “You tell me, ‘can’t do this, can’t do that, don’t worry Arthur, you’re jus’ a cripple’. Ain’t the same words, but it sure feels the same. A-an’ it... it ain’t up to you to decide how I feel.”

Hosea took a slow breath in, and a moment passed where Arthur was sure he would deny it, but instead, “And... how do you feel?”

Arthur kept his voice steady, knew he had to if he was going to get through this. “S’hard to feel like there’s much point in anythin’, seein’ as you’ll never let me have my own life ever again. I’m jus’... around, and I ain’t... I ain’t happy.”

His father became silent beside him, and Arthur hoped it meant he’d actually, finally heard him. The lapping of the water against the dock was a soft and gentle sound, and he closed his eyes and breathed with the rhythm. Even if he refused to accept it, Arthur couldn’t let it stop him.

He just hoped... really hoped, that he would listen.

When Hosea spoke up, his voice was a near whisper. “I’m... I’m not trying to take things away from you, but it’s dangerous-”

“Hosea, please.” He turned to look at his father, seeing his white knuckles and pained brows. “All them gunfights, robberies, an’ stick-ups weren’t dangerous? I been shot, stabbed, an’ beat to hell, I’ve nearly died for this gang a hundred times or more, but now you wanna act like I’m breakable? You ain’t never worried like this. I ain’t dumb, so if that ain’t a clear example of what you think’a me, I don’t know what is.”

The older man wrung his hands together and dropped his head, and Arthur felt guilty for being so callous, but it had to be said. Being treated so wildly different was as much of a spit in the face as what Micah had done, only more subtle, coated with care and all the more infuriating for it.

Hosea took a deep breath, nodded to himself, and then opened his eyes and looked at his son. “No, you’re... you’re right. I didn’t mean to smother you or treat you like that, and I’m... I’m sorry, Arthur.”

“Already said sorry don’t mean much. It’s gotta be somethin’ more’n that.” He had to hold his ground, he couldn’t give up on this, not with how important it was.

And yet his father looked so pained. “But the doctor said working could make this worse, that if we weren’t careful, the polio could affect your lungs, and... I don’t want you to get hurt. I can’t lose you.” Hosea muttered, struggling to release his death grip.

Running fingers through his hair, Arthur kept his breathing calm. He’d learned how to be patient, and he needed to get a handle on his temper. When he was sure he wouldn’t raise his voice, he set his hands in his lap.

“You’re so scared I’ll get hurt, but this hurts. I need to do somethin’, Hosea, you gotta let me. I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout the types of things I done before, I... I’m talkin’ about anythin’.”  

His outlaw days were over, but... he hadn’t really wanted to be on the run forever, that had never been Dutch’s promise. He’d even tried to leave the life behind once, back when he was young, stupid, and in love. And now he was old, stupid, and heartbroken, and the life had left him.

Hosea was so overwhelmingly worried that he wanted to deny Arthur’s wish and keep him wrapped up in padding like some priceless vase. It wasn’t fair, but neither was Arthur getting sick in the first place, and yet he’d been so angry and felt so betrayed that he hadn’t stopped to think about why Hosea might be going to such great lengths to protect him. Once he took the time to do that, he’d felt like a cold-hearted bastard for having forgotten. 

Bessie had died from a similar thing; a weakness that worsened, with no cure known. It hadn’t been polio, that much Arthur knew, but he didn’t think she’d ever been diagnosed with anything. Just ill, and then just dead.

Of course Hosea was terrified. 

But that didn’t mean what he was doing was right, and it didn’t mean Arthur could handle it any longer. He ran a hand over his face, lowering his voice and hunching his shoulders.

“Pa, I’m beggin’ you. What’s a long life worth if it’s so goddamn empty? Jus’ lemme figure out where I fit, please.”

Hosea looked like he’d just been jabbed in the ribs with a needle, his eyes squeezing shut, folding slightly and sniffling suddenly against his sleeve. “Oh, Arthur, I... Please, don’t be reckless, please. Start slow, don’t push yourself too much, and... and for God’s sake, let me know if something is wrong.”

Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. “You mean it? You ain’t lyin’ to me again?”

And though his breath was hitching, tears in the corner of his eyes, Hosea nodded. “I’m not lying, I promise. I... I’ll talk with Dutch and... and the others, and make sure they know to back off. I’m so sorry I’ve made you feel like this...”

The air in Arthur’s lungs released in a rush, and he felt gratitude nearly come bubbling out of his mouth. But he was still stubborn, and didn’t want to thank Hosea for something he should have had all along. 

But he wasn’t heartless either, and he knew how hard this was for the older man. Pulling him into a hug, Arthur felt his father’s arms wrap around his shoulders immediately, gnarled fingers running through his hair as he sniffled into Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur’s own eyes were wet, but more than anything, he was relieved. 

For the first time since he’d walked in the braces, he’d moved forward.

Even after they parted, Hosea kept his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, rubbing up and down his back, afraid to let him go. But eventually, it became so late it was early, and Hosea slowly got up on stiff and aching knees, bidding his son a soft goodnight, and left.

Arthur stayed on the dock even after the sun began to rise, turning over everything he could remember about interests he’d had, or things he’d been curious about, occupations or passions that could put something meaningful back to his life, and tried to find the place where he could pick up and start again.

-=-=-=-=-

With a renewed determination to use the braces, Arthur worked to keep his mobility as high as possible; if he wanted his options open, he had to make sure he was able to keep up with his ambition. He’d slid back in terms of progress, but kept at it even when he fell, and soon got to the point where keeping his balance was second nature. On days when the pain wasn’t that bad, he would even carry Jack around on his back - something the little boy enjoyed immensely. Arthur wasn’t graceful, but he’d never been.

And soon enough, his efforts bore fruit; Arthur’s upper body filled out again, regaining the bulk and muscle it had before, maybe even a bit more in some places. His energy would come and go, and there was nothing he could do about that other than rest when he needed, and make sure he was eating enough. 

But all his effort was working, and the difficulty of using the braces had begun to ease just as he’d hoped. He was getting strong.

Inevitably it happened again, but the next time Micah cornered him and spewed filth in his direction, Arthur didn’t take it lying down. 

He was just getting up from the table, most folk off doing their own thing, when he noticed the blonde approaching. His eyes narrowed and his pulse picked up, but Arthur got to his feet and leaned against the table, refusing to run off with his tail between his legs.

“Big surprise to find you here, cowpoke.” Micah’s smile was all teeth, and he stepped up far too close for Arthur’s tastes. He lowered his voice once he got into his space, that wicked glee already entering his eyes. “Havin’ a nice time sittin’ ‘round on your ass, are you? I think I’ve got somethin’ you’d be perfect for, if you wanna make yourself useful. You ever play at bein’ road kill before?”

“Go stick your pistol up your ass, Bell.” Arthur didn’t bother to lower his voice, and of the few that were close enough to hear, Charles was one of them. He felt some amount of comfort, just in case this didn’t go to plan, but... no, he was not going to let Micah get away with this.

The blonde rose his eyebrows, his grin turning nasty. “The fuck you say to me, you goddamn crip-”

Clearly the rat hadn’t been expecting any sort of retaliation, because Arthur had never given any before. The element of surprise was a nice thing to have. 

With the stability of the table behind him, Arthur released one of his crutches, reeled his fist back, and knocked Micah Bell dead in the face. It was a solid hit, completely unblocked, and without any time to defend or react, Micah toppled over like a rotten tree and hit the ground with a thud, unconscious from a single blow.

Charles gave a loud bark of laughter from where he’d been watching, and apparently Tilly had seen too, because she slapped her laundry down and let out a satisfied,

“Finally!” 

To say it was a massive boost to Arthur’s confidence was an understatement. And he didn’t even get in trouble for it.

It was as if that single instance reminded folk who he was, legs or not. He was stubborn and fiery, and he didn’t want to be treated with pity. Due to that, and no doubt Hosea easing up on his smothering, they became a bit more comfortable with Arthur doing things on his own. 

In his chair, he could carry two or three sacks of grain in his lap and do the whole thing at once, and the same went for bales of hay. It wasn’t that much work, and he understood Hosea’s worry about pushing his limits, but he also reminded his father that he was the only person who knew what those limits were. If it hurt too much to put pressure on his legs, he stopped and did something else - which hadn’t been an easy thing at first, but... he owed it to the people who’d given him so much care, not to undo all their work. And, he supposed, he owed it to himself.

When he wore the braces, he was a bit more limited in what he could do, but he still had options. He could hold his crutches under his arms and do tasks that didn’t require him to move much, like helping Pearson cook. He also had to admit, after a few attempts, that trying to take watch was just too difficult. Something he’d seen as easy actually wasn’t, on account of the necessity to patrol back and forth for hours on end, and Arthur couldn’t do that and hold a rifle at the same time. He could’ve done it in his chair, but the chair couldn’t go through the woods very easily, and... accepting the fact that he wasn’t able to do that to his satisfaction was hard, but it made him think about something else. 

Being in camp was limited, but not everything the gang required could be done there. If he could find a way to get out and about...

He asked Charles to help him try something, just a test, and not to tell anyone in case it didn’t work. The man was amenable, as usual, and seemed very pleased to help Arthur with what he’d asked. They met later in the evening, over by the horses, where hopefully nobody would see.

“How do you wanna do this?”

“However you think is best.”

“Do you want me to get behind you?”

“Yeah, should work for now, but we might have to try a few different positions.”

“I’m fine with that. Where should I put my hands?”

“Well, lemme try an’ brace myself a bit, but I think if you held me here...”

“Got it, how’s this?”

“Little tighter. Yeah, that’s good. Don’t do nothin’, jus’ hold.”

“Let me know when you’re ready.”

“Gotta get a good grip... okay, ready.”

With Charles holding him by the waist to keep him steady, Arthur was proven right. As long as someone gave him a hand, he could pull himself up into a wagon with his arms alone - the front seat.

Learning that was incredibly exciting. 

The first trip he took out of camp, both Hosea and Dutch had gone with him, but he’d been adamant that he wanted to drive. He couldn’t describe the feeling once he broke through the trees hiding their camp, something like anxiety and freedom and peace, an urgency to get there, and a desire to take his sweet ass time. He saw fields again, buildings, people. Rhodes was dusty and dry, but Arthur could have called it Eden for how lively and big it seemed to him. He also wasn’t known there, and so long as he didn’t try to get down, none of the townsfolk knew he couldn’t walk, and nobody gave him a second glance.

There was even a feller by the general store, an old army vet with a missing leg, and once he saw Arthur’s crutches beneath the wagon bench and noticed the metal on his legs, he struck up a conversation. Arthur was eager to speak to him, not just because he understood even a fraction of what it was like, but because he was a stranger, a novel conversation partner. Arthur started joining the trips to town every time they were made, and the old man was usually in the same place. As one talk led into another, he learned something incredible from his new friend - he could ride a horse again. All it would take was a specially made saddle.

He’d hardly been able to believe his ears, and he may have startled the poor man with the wild rush of questions he’d erupted into. Dutch had most certainly not appreciated the way Arthur had smacked him on the shoulder and shaken him, but Hosea had found it amusing enough.

Nobody in Rhodes could make one, but there was a trapper in Saint Denis - the same one Charles had been selling pelts to - who made custom order saddles all the time, and would surely be willing to make one for Arthur once he was given the materials and payment.

Arthur may not have had many ways to make money, but one thing that didn’t require him to move around was fishing, and they had a lake right at their literal doorstep. He hadn’t had the patience for it before, but he’d learned through circumstance to wait for things, and if he took breaks from fishing to sketch or write, he could haul in several dozen pounds every few days; more than they could ever eat, which meant that John could take the extras into town to sell.

Arthur’s upper body strength more than compensated for the task, and he rarely tired from it no matter how long he kept it up. Maybe this was one of the new things that he could do? It wasn’t all that fun, but he was getting better with practice. Javier, Hosea, and even Kieran would join in sometimes, and having it be an experience that they shared, rather than one they took away from him... it meant a lot.

When Lenny and Sean had returned from a job that hadn’t gone very well, Arthur figured he’d do everyone a favor and teach them how to shoot proper. They couldn’t go too far from camp if he was on foot, but setting Kieran, Sean, and Lenny up in the woods with a few bottles for targets had proven easy enough. He would smoke and lean against a tree with his crutches under his arms, and instruct them on form and technique. 

Sean was truly a bit abysmal, but Lenny had promise, and together they managed to make a fair amount of progress towards prolonging their lives. Kieran surprised him by not being utter shit right out of the gate, but then again the bar was low for him. After a few sessions, Tilly, Karen, and Mary-Beth started to come along as well, and he found the woods outside Clemens Point had turned into a right little schoolhouse - only without the walls.

Was that another option? While teaching hadn’t been something he’d ever thought about, he certainly knew his stuff when it came to firearms, and he could probably shoot half those targets with his eyes closed. Having someone succeed under his tutelage also came with a little bit of pride, and the first time Sean hit all six bottles, he had grinned at the boisterous young man and ruffled his hair, allowing him to boast to his heart’s content for nearly three whole minutes before shutting him up and making him set up more targets.

As he gained more skill with the braces, he decided to tackle something he’d been avoiding; the horses. He had to be careful around them, as an overexcited Thursday had nearly knocked him over before, and Brown Jack was a clumsy brute - being stepped on would not be good. But if he could get them tethered, he could reach everything he needed to, and brushing them down didn’t take much figuring. 

He couldn’t pick their hooves, but he didn’t really want to do that either, and shared that part of the work with Kieran, who didn’t seem to mind having his usual chore disrupted.

It made him feel a whole lot more normal, and though Arthur wasn’t trying to scare him, it did make him feel a bit better when the former O’Driscoll scampered off whenever he so much as slightly raised his voice, like he was still worth being afraid of. Or maybe Kieran was just afraid of being gelded.

That was mean, though, so he tried not to tease him too often.

But being able to lean against Thursday and rest his cheek upon her neck, get the strong scent of horse and dust and sweat in his nose... it was something he’d needed, but he’d denied himself because it had simply hurt too much. But now he could stand next to her, and soon... he’d be able to ride her. He’d get to sit up there and feel her power, gallop through fields at speeds he’d thought lost to him, go places that wagons weren’t fit for, and get the hell away from everyone for a while.

Having something concrete and tangible to focus on, being able to put real effort into, was rewarding on its own, so when he’d absently counted his earnings one morning he’d been dumbfounded to find that he had enough. Down to the very last cent, it was all there. No one had died for this, no one had been hurt, and no one had done it for him - he’d made it through his work.

Charles had already gotten the materials the trapper would need, and he’d given Arthur a bracing pat on the shoulder as he’d taken the money and the hides and gone off to make the order. He returned with news that it would be ready in a week, and Arthur had barely been able to contain himself. For the first time in so damn long, he was energetic.

He couldn’t help but mark each day in his journal, and it was all he could talk about. Where he’d go, what he’d do, the places he’d visit again and the ones he’d see for the first time. A big destination on his nearly endless list of places were the hot springs up north. He’d heard a lot about how they could help with the pain and stiffness from polio, and he was eager to try. He even invited Charles along, whenever he made the trip, for being the one to first suggest it.

Not a day past schedule, Charles returned from hunting with an extra bundle on Taima’s rump, covered and wrapped in a thick canvas tarp to keep it protected from trail dust. It was his saddle, it was here. He’d nearly tripped over himself in his haste to get to the hitching posts, and Hosea had come to join him, his father obviously sharing in his excitement.

Taking it down and unwrapping it, he saw it wasn’t that different from a normal saddle. It had a high cantle, with a thick leather belt meant to go around his waist to prevent him from sliding off or getting thrown. The horn was extra wide to help him keep his grip on it, the fenders were thicker so his braces didn’t rub against Thursday’s barrel and irritate her skin, and there was a place like a rifle mount to store his crutches and take them along wherever he went.

He couldn’t tack her up himself, but Hosea was all too happy to do that part for him, and Arthur impatiently stood to the side as he waited. Thursday hadn’t been saddled in a long time, and she was just as fidgety as Arthur felt, so he did his part and soothed his girl while Hosea got it all set up.

Getting up on Thursday’s back seemed a little daunting, with he and Hosea discussing various methods, before Kieran shyly stepped up and revealed that he’d been working on a little trick. With an apple in hand, he showed them that he’d taught the Thoroughbred to kneel, and suddenly, she was the perfect height for Arthur to get himself into the saddle without any help at all. 

He’d crushed Duffy in a hug, smothering his squeak, before letting him go and punching him good naturedly in the shoulder. Kieran had flinched and rubbed his arm, a bit ruffled, but smiling wide along with Arthur.

When it was finally time for him to get in the saddle, everyone but Hosea and Dutch left to give him some privacy. They offered to help, but Arthur didn’t need it, having already figured out how to do it. Plopping down side saddle, he made sure he was steady before he picked up his left leg and tugged it over the side. He hooked the belt around his waist, set his crutches in their place, and then gave a gentle tug on the reins. 

She stood up smoothly, and just like that, he was a thousand feet tall.

“My Lord.” He gasped, eyes wide, but he had no fear. Nothing even resembling anxiety. The energy that filled his body to the brim was pure goddamn euphoria. “L-look. Look, look, I...” He turned to glance down at his parents, and saw that out of the two of them, it was Dutch who had tears in his eyes, arm tight around Hosea’s shoulders. 

“Oh, I’m looking.” Hosea beamed, a hand on his heart. Dutch must have been too proud to speak, no doubt knowing his tears would be audible in his voice, and he only nodded. He’d made Dutch speechless! That was surely something for the record books.

“Well?” Arthur asked, his voice a burst of laughter. “What’re you waitin’ for? Let’s go!”

That was all it took to send them into motion, and they quickly joined him on The Count and Silver Dollar, though Arthur was so raring to go he could hardly wait the five minutes.

“C’mon, I’m gonna be as old as you two by the time we’re ready!” He grinned, testing the reins to get Thursday to shift side to side, back and forth. Had Kieran done more training with her? She’d been a good horse before, but now it was as though he barely had to think to get a response out of her.

Well that sold him; Duffy was definitively not an O’Driscoll.

Hosea and Dutch let him take the lead as they left Clemens Point, allowed him to pick the direction and choose the speed, and once he’d gotten comfortable and was sure he could stay seated, of course he chose a gallop. He raced down the red dirt road, heading north out of Lemoyne, hearing Dutch guffaw behind him before spurring The Count to follow with a Hyah!  

The little white stallion was quick, but he was no match for his Thursday.

Wind in his hair, the sun warm on his face, he felt elated and joyous and free, and naturally the only appropriate thing to do was holler.

“Yeehaw! C’mon you old bastards, catch up!” He turned over his shoulder and saw them, looking young and energized as he left them in the dust.

Thundering down the road, Arthur didn’t stop until he’d reached the Overflow, where he let a puffing Thursday drink her fill from the shallow waters. It was barely a minute until his parents arrived, Hosea breathless and Dutch’s face coated in a thin layer of iron-tinted dirt.

“J-Jesus, Arthur.” The older man coughed a bit, but he was grinning and couldn’t hide it. “Guess we ain’t gotta worry you’ve forgotten how to ride.”

“What, you thought I’d go easy on you on account’a your age?” Arthur chuckled, leaning forward on the saddle horn as much as the strap on his waist would allow. He ran his fingers through his hair, tangled from the wind, and smiled. “Should know me better’n that, old timer.”

Dutch’s deep laugh boomed from his chest. “Christ, it’s like you’re fifteen again. Little scoundrel.”

“Too bad you ain’t any younger.” Arthur shot back, whip-quick, and it was Hosea’s turn to burst out laughing.

They dismounted, Arthur managing to get Thursday to kneel again, grabbing his crutches to find a nice spot to sit while the horses took their rest. Hosea had brought a bit to eat, and Dutch, predictably, had a bottle of fine brandy to split. Hours passed as they sat, drinking and smoking and remembering bygone days. Good times only, and with an atmosphere of lighthearted nostalgia. Their first bank robbery, the incident with the bass that he’d never live down, and eventually, the day he’d met them.

Picking apart a blade of grass between his fingers, Arthur smiled at the memory and ducked his head. “Y’know I... I think I got real lucky.” He muttered, and Dutch gently nudged him. 

“Oh, you were more than lucky, son. You’d tried to rob anyone else that poorly, you’d have wound up on the end of a rope.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, and took a moment to clear his throat. “Naw, I mean, um... lucky that you took me along. Kept me, I mean. I, uh... dunno what I’d’ve done if... well, don’t think I would’a had a life like this, an’, uh, considerin’ what happened...” Ah, dammit, he was getting choked up. Dutch put a hand on his head and Hosea grasped his shoulder.

“I think we’re the ones who got lucky, Arthur.” The older man said softly. “Without you, well, we’d just be two fools trying to outrun our own mistakes.”

“Speak for yourself.” Dutch postured, adjusting his vest and straightening his back.

Hosea gave him a flat look. “Need I remind you of Baltimore?”

Dutch’s bravado shriveled in an instant. “There’s no need for that.”

“What about Denver?”

“Hosea.”

“Or I could talk about Rhode Island.”

“Please, Old Girl, I didn’t know you to be so cruel.”

Unable to stop himself, Arthur’s snickering turned into full on knee-slapping, and Dutch didn’t help matters when he had the audacity to seem offended. 

“What’s so funny?” He asked, but there was a smirk on his face. 

“Y’all’re dumb as hell!” Arthur managed between breaths, a hand over his eyes. “Pair’a right clowns, s’a goddamn mystery how anybody finds you respectable.”

“I’ve never claimed to be respectable, but I am a very good clown. Though, Dutch looks better in make-up.” Hosea retorted smoothly, and Dutch’s spluttering sent Arthur into outright hysterics, falling back into the grass and holding his stomach as his eyes watered. It might’ve been the slight buzz he had going, or the fact that his heart was still swelling with delight, but he couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt like this.

Just him, his parents, and not a care in the goddamn world.

When the sun started to set and Arthur began to shiver, they helped him off the ground and mounted back up to begin their ride home, slower and more sedate. Arthur took the time to watch the world around him, spotting animals and plants he itched to draw. A fox half-hidden in the bushes, stalking a rabbit not ten feet away, until both were startled by the sound of their horses. They passed a few folk on the road, and while Hosea and Dutch moved closer to him, he didn’t mind. The strangers, for what it was worth, didn’t pay him a passing glance, and he wondered if anybody would notice the saddle or his braces out here like this.

He reckoned they wouldn’t.

By the time they got back, the sky was deep purple and the warmth of Lemoyne was much appreciated. His legs ached, his hips especially so, but that was nothing new. Thursday knelt and he allowed Dutch to help him from the saddle, on account of his joints being disagreeable, and together they sat around the fire and shared a hearty dinner. It wasn’t often that Dutch ate with everyone else, and the gang seemed to gravitate towards the three of them like moths to a beacon. 

Or, perhaps it was better to say, like family.

Going to bed that night with a warm stomach and a warm heart, Arthur relived the day and smiled to himself in the darkness, drifting off to his contentment like counting sheep.

The next day, and every day after, Arthur rode out. It felt like how it used to, like he was untethered and free to roam, drifting where his fancy took him. Hosea usually came with him, Charles joined him at the hot springs - and wasn’t that a fine time - but after two weeks he started to go out on his own. He didn’t go far at first, just in case, but he finally got his guns back. A rifle was a bit hard to hold, but a six-shooter felt right at home in his hand.

When he’d come across a man who challenged him to a marksmanship contest, the stranger had almost rescinded his offer when Arthur’s horse had laid down and he’d gotten out of the saddle on crutches. 

“Got a problem, partner?”

“Ah, well, I’m lookin’ for a fair match.”

“Double it, then, unless you’re yellow.” 

The feller had been too stunned to argue. But he’d been right after all - it wasn’t fair, and he’d had a real funny look on his face after Arthur had thrashed him at his game, and the rematch too.

“Damn, mister, were you a gunslinger before?”

“Nah, not really. Thanks for the practice.”

Wealthier in cash and confidence, he’d continued on his meandering way, humming under his breath. The world felt so much wider than it had the past few months, the sky so much larger, and even the hills looked more vibrant. 

It was never something he’d taken for granted, but now it seemed as though it was a whole new experience entirely. The appreciation he felt was wondrous, and if he had to bet, it was how a child would look upon the world. New and interesting and important, purely because it was there. Like a balm to his soul, it soothed the bitter burning rage and the horrible, gaping sorrow. Not gone, but not so bad as it had been. 

He still missed his old life, and while he’d never get it back, that was just the way it was. No use destroying what was left to fruitlessly hold on to something that didn’t exist anymore. He was still alive, after all, and he was neither helpless nor useless. Things were just different.

The midday sun was bright, and he found a nicely shaded pond to rest for a while. He got down and let Thursday wander, though she didn’t go far, and took his fishing rod from his satchel, setting himself up on the shore and lazily casting. He didn’t realize he’d dozed off until a rustle in the bushes woke him up, and he sat up straight, blinking the sleep from his eyes. 

He already had a hand on his gun when John’s face came through the bushes, and he looked just as surprised to see Arthur as Arthur was to see him.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Arthur asked, and then he actually got a look at his brother. He was filthy, covered head to toe in mud, and he couldn’t help but snort. “You take a bath in the bayou?”

“Aw, shut up, Arthur.” John groused, scowl set on his face as he walked over to the pond and started to take off his shirt. “What’re you doin’ out here?”

“What’s it look like, dumbass? Fishin’.” Arthur jerked his pole for emphasis, and John rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t fib, you was sleepin’.”

“Same thing.”

“Whatever. Reel that thing in, I don’t want no hooks in my dick.” He proceeded to strip and dump his clothes on the shore, and Arthur didn’t give a hoot about the lack of modesty - at this point, there really wasn’t a reason for it.

“Fine, no point in fishin’ anyway, they’d take one look at’chu an’ scatter.” And it was no matter, he hadn’t caught a thing. He brought his line back in and set his fishing rod to the side, leaning back against his tree and shutting his eyes again. 

He heard John splash into the water, grumbling to himself as he no doubt washed his body and clothing at the same time. Efficient.

“So what happened?” He asked airily. 

John didn’t answer right away, and Arthur didn’t press. He heard more splashing, and John spit water out of his mouth. “Old Boy got spooked by a gator outside Saint Denis.”

He smirked. “Heh, so I was right ‘bout the bayou.”

“Wouldn’t take a genius to know that.”

“Lucky, cus you sure ain’t a genius.”

“Fuck off.”

Arthur chuckled a bit, but left John to his ill-tempered bathing for a while. But a thought entered his head, and he turned it over briefly before he opened his mouth again.

“I never thanked you.” He said softly, cracking an eye open and watching as John’s head whipped over to him. His eyes were wide, almost like he expected a joke to follow. But when it didn’t come, he turned away and scratched at the scars on his face. 

“What for?” He deflected, and Arthur snorted.

“What’chu think?” He pulled a cigarette out of his bag and struck a match against the tree bark behind him. Taking a deep drag, he let smoke fill his lungs and filter out through his nose. “You been on my side this whole time, even when I weren’t. Talked some sense into me when I thought I was a goner, an’... you got me the chair. I owe you a lot.” It felt alright to say these things, even when before he had resented the very idea of John having helped with anything.

John observed his reflection in the shallow pool, a fair bit cleaner now than when he’d entered. He took a while to reply, but that was what it was like with the two of them - fights went fast and hot, igniting in an instant and burning out in a flash. But softer talk always took time. “You saved my life, Arthur, more times than I can probably count. You don’t owe me nothin’, it just makes us even.”

“A life for a life, huh?” Arthur laughed to himself, shaking his head. “I mean it though, y’know?”

“I know.” Slowly, John left the water and grabbed his clothes, setting them on a rock to dry as he took a seat beside his brother. Though he was clearly unsure of his footing, his lips twitched up into a small smile. “It’s what brothers are for.”

“Aw, don’t get too sentimental on me now, Marston.” But Arthur was pleased, his eyes gleaming.

“You started it.”

“Didn’t.”

“Did too.”

Arthur punched him in the arm, and John yelped, grabbing his bicep and scowling at him. “Ow! That fuckin’ hurt, you asshole!”

“Oh c’mon, I ain’t even hit you that hard.” He smirked at the look on his brother’s face, and John’s glower turned exasperated.

“Just my luck you got stronger since you got crippled.” He huffed, and then his eyes widened at what he’d said, looking at Arthur with true trepidation on his face. “I-I mean, I, uh...”

Arthur took a second before he reacted, just to make his little brother sweat, before he broke into a grin and punched him in the ribs.

“Shit!” John coughed and scrambled a few feet away, and Arthur burst into laughter. 

“You should’a seen your dumb face, Marston!” He teased, “Naked as a jay bird an’ lookin’ like a fool, ain’t the first time that’s happened, huh?”

John got over his shock pretty quickly, and threw a stick at his brother’s head. He missed. “You’re a bastard!” He shot back, but his raspy tone vibrated with humor.

“Better’n a moron!” He threw his cigarette butt at him in return, and John shouted and jumped to his feet. 

“Dammit, Arthur, you tryin’a burn a hole in my balls?”

“I’d be doin’ you a favor.” He jeered. “Go take a dip, Marston, you still got mud on your ass. But not too deep, I can’t go in after you this time.”

John flipped the bird, and Arthur bared his teeth in a lupine grin. 

Now this was normal, exactly how things had been before his legs, before Blackwater, before John had gone and run off. When they’d been brothers, back to back against the world. Arthur hadn’t thought it could ever be this way again, and though he’d never forget that bitterly jealous hurt, it seemed so inconsequential now. 

He’d lost a whole helluva lot, things he’d never get back, but somehow it had pulled every other important thing that much closer. His family was stronger than it had been in years, and he was content to let bygones be bygones for the sake of the future. Ironic, really, that it had taken something like this to make him realize what really mattered.