Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There’s no time for pretending, Dutch harshly reminds himself when the soft orange glow of camp is visible on the horizon. Though the entirety of his heart waits for him there, it’s no kind of home, he can’t think of it as that anyways, it only makes it that much harder to move, no matter how many months they’ve spent between the trees. Gunsmoke still lingers in his lungs, the taste of the powder still on his tongue, adrenaline making him unsteady on the Count, and his finger still tight on the trigger, ready to whip around and fire at anyone who dare follow them.

The thundering of their horses’ hooves as they approach the camp is enough to bring everyone to an abrupt attention. They all look to their leader for news of the so-called grand ferry heist. He dismounts and lets them gather, lets them shower him with questions and worrisome queries when they notice absent members and potentially fatal wounds on others. Dutch doesn’t hear a single one. He lets the noise wash over him like great oceanic waves until they’re quiet enough he can calmly issue commands like the robbery wasn’t an entire shit show.

“Mrs. Grimshaw,” he addresses his closest friend first, the sole person he trusts with the care of everyone who saw him as their leader, “Get this camp packed up, we need to leave before sunrise. Sooner if possible. Spare one of the girls if you can to tend to these boys’ wounds,” She nods dutifully. Of course he could trust her, he had no doubt of that.

“Dad-,” a softer voice among the chaos.

“Not now son,” He’s quick to quiet, not seeking out its source, he can’t let himself just yet, not until he’s sure everything will be fine again. His composure is only a show, he’s shut down completely as to remain the ever strong rock his people look to him to be.

“Pearson,” their camp cook comes forth as he calls for him next, “Head to town, grab only the things we need, and come back within the hour. Keep your head down, things are bad there.” In his minds’ eye he can still see the fire and Jenny’s blood pooling on the ground where she had once stood.

“The rest of you?” He begins to count heads, “Do as Mrs. Grimshaw says. The sooner we can leave the better.” They don’t need to be told twice. They can’t see his fear but can hear the urgency in his voice as he commands them.

Dutch turns towards the largest tent in the bunch, even he isn’t exempt from packing, despite how his chest feels like it burns and there’s cramps beginning in his fingers from how tightly he held his guns. He wants nothing more than to fall into the bed and lay next to his dear Hosea until he forgets the sounds of the gunfire as it echoed up and down the city streets and the way John had shouted in pain when he was shot.

He doesn’t make it five steps towards the tent when there’s a slight tug at his waistcoat, stopping him immediately. “Dad,” the voice nags at him again, how dare it be so innocent and make his heart melt so, “What can I do?”

He’s just begun to turn around to face him, still not ready to admit to himself that he’s nearly put him in danger again, it’s not fair to someone so young who didn’t ask for the life they’ve given him, yet he still follows them so trustfully and lovingly and it’s even harder to remember he’d be long dead if they hadn’t found him all those years ago. Dutch can’t even get a word in before Hosea strides up behind the boy.

“Absolutely nothing,” He puts his hand on Arthur’s shoulder to stop him from running off on them to help before he’s told further otherwise, “You’ll go sit by the fire and drink that water I told you to earlier.” Hosea’s instructions are firm, leaving almost no room for argument. But leave it to their boy to at least try.

“But Pa-,” He starts to counter, a weak whine to his voice and it brings to Dutch’s attention just how pale he’s gotten since he left that evening, even in the growing darkness his skin looks unnatural.

Hosea cuts him off quick, “Don’t,” he’s sharp and stern but Dutch knows it comes from concern and unmatched parental love, “You’ll wait over there until one of us comes for you and that’s the end of it.”

“You better listen to him,” Dutch adds when Arthur attempts to turn a pleading gaze at him, as if somehow he would go against what Hosea had said no matter how right it was. Arthur was sick, and though it so far had seemed to be no more than a simple fever, it concerned his partner enough to stay behind on the robbery and take care of him. Dutch wasn’t about to jeopardize his health more than it might already be, even if he doesn’t like thinking it a possibility.

Arthur seems to relent, letting his shoulders sag and allowing himself to be steered towards the main campfire. Dutch watches Hosea fuss over him, putting a blanket around his shoulders and shove a cup in his hands, not leaving to help the others pack until Arthur takes a few sips from it. Dutch feels exhaustion creep onto him and all but forces himself towards his tent. If he rests any longer, if he watches his family for just one more second, he might never get himself to do it. He’d be too lost in the dreamy ideas of settling in some homestead somewhere as they should have long ago when he and Hosea decided to raise a son together.

Dutch has the bulk of his and Hosea’s things stacked neatly into crates; books, furniture, clothing, and the various decorations he’d held onto over the years, and close to being able to take down the material structure when he hears the sound of someone trying to stifle a cough. His attention is immediately drawn to Arthur who is attempting to make himself look smaller and less noticeable as he loads boxes into a wagon.

“Arthur!” He calls, hoping the cough was only due to dust or dirt or stray saw dust from newly built crates, “What did Pa say?” At the mere mention of his name, Hosea could be seen on the other side of the rapidly decreasing camp coming to attention and fixing their boy with a pointed glare. Arthur lets out the most dramatic sigh with a roll of his eyes before getting shooed off by Mrs. Grimshaw and sulking towards his tent.

When Dutch gets swept away to help lift larger furniture pieces into the wagons, he makes a mental note to go over there and help Arthur who was undoubtedly packing his own things despite being told not to, using the privacy the material offered to hide what he was up to.

And sure enough, once Dutch has managed to peel himself away from helping the others, already seconds away from leaving the little clearing in Tall Trees they had all called home the last few months, everything inside Arthur’s tent is packed away save for the bed. On top, Arthur is curled up underneath the blanket Hosea had put around him earlier. Dutch sighs as he lifts him, the boy barely stirring just enough to get comfortable in his fathers’ arms, and about runs right into Hosea as he carries him out.

Dutch desperately hopes he’s hearing things, seeing things even, when the faint sound of hooves on the dirt and the unmistakable glow of lanterns as they come over the hill. Panic rises in his chest and with his son in his arms he feels so much more vulnerable. It’s not something he wants to feel for long. The others have noticed too, almost like a herd of deer who picked up on the snap of a twig warning them of a hunter nearby. After a moment’s pause everyone is scrambling to grab as much as they can before hopping into wagons and mounting horses.

He’s never moved faster, rushing to the back of the nearest wagon, leaving Arthur with young Abigail who cares for her own infant son and equally young Tilly who tends to the injured Callandar boy. His pause is too long as he wonders just when their little gang had accumulated so many young people. Whether it was a statement of how they looked to him for safety or how fatherhood had made him sensitive to other youth, he wasn’t sure.

What he was sure of was that the sound of thundering hooves were definitely getting closer. He didn’t want to know how the law had found them so fast. He was so sure they had been well hidden. That wasn’t the case anymore.

“We’re out of time! Leave everything else, we need to move out. Now!” He shouts, rounding the wagon and hopping onto the bench, grabbing hold of the reins for the horses as he goes. Dutch barely waits for Hosea to finish gathering what Arthur had left behind before giving the leather a snap to usher the horses onward, leaving the other man to jog to catch up, having to jump just to slide into the seat adjacent to him.

Dutch didn’t know where they would go, just that they needed to be as far away from here as possible. North seemed like a good idea. At least until they could figure out how to get back West, until they had a moment to grieve their lost and regroup after such an ordeal. He makes a silent promise to him as they leave what they couldn’t pack behind and as he leads his people to an uncertain future, that they wouldn’t flee with the feeling of so much fear again. Whatever it took, no matter what, he’d make sure the law would never be that close on their heels again.

Even if Dutch has a habit of making promises he can’t keep.

Chapter Text

“How’s he doing back there?” Dutch calls over his shoulder to the back of the wagon, shuddering as the wind seems to impossibly pick up even more. It’s maybe the forth or fifth time he’s asked since they stopped at the boarder of Amberino and West Elizabeth for precious moments to bundle up in coats so they wouldn’t freeze to death in the late winter.

“Still warm, even in this cold,” He tries not to think too much about how hopeless Abigail’s tone sounds when she answers him. Hosea turns in the seat to look in the back, eyes clouded over and Dutch could tell the gears were turning in his head as he thought so hard about something, “Davey ain’t much better. I don’t think he’s gonna make it,” she adds. Arthur’s dying and Davey is- no, that wasn’t right, Davey was dying, Arthur would be fine. So long as they found somewhere for shelter.

“We need to get them out of this weather,” an obvious statement from Hosea. Dutch puts his hand on his partner’s shoulder to get his attention before handing him the reins so he has something to do other than worry about their boy. He seems reluctant but takes them anyway, shaking off a chill as it comes to him.

Seems like only yesterday they were celebrating the warm weathers arrival. Now it hardly seemed like May. Felt more like December on the Canadian boarder.

“I sent John ahead to look for a place,” He tells him, rubbing his hands together furiously in attempt to knock out the cold. The boy hadn’t been to worse for wear once the girls had tended to his bullet wound and could be spared for such a task. No sooner are the words out of his mouth, however, does he spy a soft glow of a lantern in the heavy storm quickly approaching. Dutch briefly lets his hopes get up as John comes into view. Hopefully he had found somewhere for them to shelter.

He should be happy. He should be elated, ecstatic, over the moon with joy that his son hadn’t passed during the harshest parts of the late winter in the mountains. He should be outside in the snow with him instead of brooding in the cabin that falls down around him a little more each second. The faint laughter that drifts in through the cracks in the aged wood are an extremely stark contrast to what the previous few weeks had looked like. Outside the people were beginning to open up again, like flowers in the spring, despite it still being so very cold, they seemed to have hope again. And yet Dutch sat by the slowly dying fire, just as unchanged as he had been since the night they so hurriedly fled Tall Trees.

He can still hear the terrified screams of horses as they panicked from the sound of gunfire, could still smell that distinct copper scent of blood, still remembered how his heart had pounded in his chest when he nearly missed being shot by a furious Pinkerton. What if he hadn’t made it back to his people? His son ? He couldn’t let that happen.

It’s dark though morning is on it’s way and he’s exhausted, trying not to think about po or dead Davey, the widow they’ve just taken in, and how horribly close O’Driscolls already were. He hates to think the law might not be far behind. Dutch fumbles with the door to the shabby cabin, stepping inside to at least some warmth. Despite how inviting the lit fireplace seems, he isn’t interested.

He doesn’t stop to remove his coat, doesn’t stop to even stomp the snow off his boots. Instead, he swiftly crosses the floor of the main room and to the bedroom on the right where lamp light streams out setting the ambience to be just that much more somber. It almost feels like a funeral.

“Any...” he trails off, afraid to ask as he enters the room, the look on Hosea’s face is enough to draw conclusions, but they’re not ones he wants drawn. Dutch clears his throat, forcing himself to continue as he stands behind where Hosea sits by the small bed and buries any rising emotion that’s not necessary, not yet, “Any improvement?”

His heart sinks, or it stops, or tightens, or something that’s uncomfortable when the other man shakes his head, reaching out to place his hand on Arthur’s sweat soaked forehead. Then he shakes his head again.

In the moments of silence that pass between the two of them, Dutch counts every rise and fall of his son’s chest as he breathes ever so slowly and deeply. Never once has he slept so still. Not even when he had a bad cold one August and had gotten them both sick because they had yet to break him of the habit of crawling into bed with him and Hosea. He doesn’t even look real. He’s not the sweet summer child with a wild side that he usually was. There was no life to him and that terrified Dutch.

“We can’t lose him, Dutch,” Hosea whispers, despair in his voice, “I won’t know what to do with myself if he goes,”

“Don’t say that,” Dutch snaps, cold as the winter weather outside, unloving and unable to look away from the sight of the boy before him.

“Forgive me for thinking I could share my fears with my partner,” Hosea is bitter, standing suddenly and casting an angry glare at Dutch yet there’s still so much pain behind his eyes. Dutch wants nothing more than for it all to go away. He just wishes he could rest. Wishes he could lay next to him pretending their troubles didn’t exist as they counted the precious seconds before they would be ultimately interrupted by their little one who wasn’t quite so little anymore and still seemed impossible he’d ever sleep on his own.

But he’s angered him, he knows that. It’s obvious. He had been mean about him being vulnerable in a time that was certainly called for it. So Dutch does what he does best, he tries to cover his own ass, “Don’t put those kind of thoughts out there. I’ve just got too much to worry about right now. It’s the last thing I need.”

“You goddamned bastard,” Hosea huffs, bites on his bottom lip and looks everywhere in the room but at him, he’s only made it worse. He doesn’t need to say anything else, Dutch knows he’s lost, that he’s hurt him. Then he drives in the final dagger, “You’re more loyal to all those people than to you’re own son. All because they, they what? Fuel your fantasy of some free life without laws? You need to wake up and realize all that’s over now.”

“I’m trying to do both. Can’t you see that?” Dutch attempts to keep his voice down, afraid they might wake Arthur or alert someone else nearby, he didn’t want to have to explain himself.

“Except you can’t. You can’t be their leader and his father. You can do both all you want but one of these days you’re going to have to pick one.” Hosea sits back down, takes a moment to calm himself, still doesn’t look at him.

They’re both quiet and too prideful to walk away. He’s not going to apologize, not yet. But he can still do something right. “Go,” he mutters, “I’ll stay up with him,” even though he’s tired. He’s not the only one, though, Hosea still needs sleep.

“No, I’m already here,” Hosea slumps in the seat, crossing his arms stubbornly until Dutch just about has to pull him away. He leaves reluctantly but pointedly, making sure Dutch new just how pissed he was with him. Dutch didn’t care anymore. It would blow over soon enough and they would be okay again, they were both just exhausted and needed rest. It wasn’t much different than the sleepless nights they had shared when Arthur was a baby.

They’d be okay again.

Dutch still hadn’t apologized, even if it had been a week since then. Beyond a few shared concerns for the gang and about the weather, he hadn’t spoken much to Hosea at all. Even when Arthur’s fever wore off and he was up and about like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t scared his parents half to death. There was no shared relief between them, no moments together where they sat alone in silence glad they hadn’t lost their son. 

Instead they were just as cold as the snow outside. There were few nights they had even shared a bed. If they did, one of them was gone before they ever had a chance to speak.

Hosea was waiting on an apology, Dutch knew that much. But he couldn’t give him one, not yet at least. His partner’s words had struck a nerve with him and he knew he was right, he couldn’t be a father and a leader, not with who he was now. He needed to figure out how he could do both, because he was determined to do as such, and until he could prove that to Hosea there was no reason to apologize. 

The door to the raggedy cabin opens suddenly and a rush of brisk cold air enters, not even the warmth from the fire could combat its icy chill, snow flurries from the ground and the light weather as it picks up in the early afternoon flit in and land on the wood floor, barely even melting. 

“Dad!” Arthur stumbles in, breathless from running about and panting between his laughter. His coat is too big and it hangs off of him awkwardly, tied at his waist with a spare belt so at least he didn’t freeze in the thing. He nearly trips on it as he hangs off the door knob, leaving the door open and letting far too much cold air in, “Dad you have to hear this joke Javier just told me.” He beams from ear to ear, looking far too excited to share this joke. 

Dutch barely turns to him, wishing he would just close the damn door, pick whether he wanted to be inside or outside. “Not now Arthur,” He dismisses, he’s too busy thinking over his next move, he doesn’t need the distraction. He’d go outside later maybe before fetching some of the crew for a job and then he’d hear it. Just not now. 

Yet despite being calmly told off, his boy continues, “He said it’s a lot funnier in spanish and he tried to tell it to me like that too but I didn’t get it and it’s still funny in english, so-.” 

“I said not now Arthur,” He didn’t wanna snap at him, had tried not to the first time. But he’s getting irritated fast and Arthur isn’t helping. It hurts Dutch’s pride when he notices how Arthur looks, still standing in the doorway almost shocked then both defeated and broken hearted to have been yelled at when all he wanted to do was just share a joke. He doesn’t say anything else, leaves without a word and makes sure the door is shut tight behind him.

And that’s the end of it. At least Dutch thought it was before Hosea stormed in, slamming the door so hard he momentarily thought the old wood would splinter and break apart on the hinges. 

“What the hell did you say to him?” Hosea hisses, venom in his voice like a snake who’s coiled and ready to bite. Arthur must have gone back outside pouting and with how over protective Hosea was he obviously took notice. Of course, he’d come to chew Dutch out about it. Anything to remind him just how lackluster of a father he’s been lately. 

When Dutch doesn’t immediately answer him, doesn’t even look at him, Hosea makes sure to put himself in his view so that he’s all but forced to face him and the repercussions of snapping at their child. 

“I simply told him I didn’t have the time,” He doesn’t meet his eye, staring pointedly at the fire instead, unmoving and uncaring of the situation. He wasn’t in the mood to listen to him point out his character flaws at the moment, not when he had other things to worry about. 

“So you didn’t have time for him,” 

“I don’t have time for this ,” Dutch growls, stopping him before he can chastise any further. He stands up from his seat, pushes past Hosea, and walks out the door, yanking it open and slamming it shut to make a point of not wanting to hear what he had to say any longer. 

He squints his eyes against the sunlight, bright as it reflects off the snow. Arthur isn’t near, he considers himself lucky in that aspect, the boy is at the edge of the old town seemingly building some sort of fort with Charles. He would perhaps deal with him once he’s calmed down. 

“Micah, Lenny, Bill,” Dutch addresses the small group smoking outside one of the other little cabins, “With me. There’s O’Driscolls about that need to be dealt with.” Some good old fashioned would be just what he needed to work out his current frustrations. 

-- -- -- 

Between putting down O’Driscolls and a very successful train robbery on top of it, not to mention finally getting off the mountain, Dutch was in a very good mood. He still hadn’t apologized to Hosea, however, and Arthur occasionally shied away from him, but he didn’t intend for it to stay that way. 

Despite how he had been towards him the past week and a half, Arthur too seemed excited to get out of the cold and onto the promise of better for everyone. He had even smiled when Dutch invited him to help drive one of the wagons. It felt good, seeing his boy back to normal and especially now that he was in a mood in which he could properly appreciate it. 

His first in making things right would be by making things right with Arthur. Hosea would be harder but they had been through worse before, he had faith things would be alright again, he just needed to take that step and amend things.

They had just made it down the mountain where there wasn’t even an inch of snow on the ground and grass stood tall and proud among the trees that lined the road. Arthur sat next to him and gazed at the unfamiliar scenery as it passed him, ignited with wonder at all the new things he saw. 

Dutch clears his throat to get his attention, “What was this joke you wanted to tell me the other day?” And he watches him out of the corner of his eye, grinning as he slowly realizes what he’s said and becomes excited, wiggling around in the seat as if it would help him tell it better. 

“Oh right! I almost forgot,” Arthur sits a moment thinking as he tries to recall it... then, “So, a man goes to a circus to look for a job,” He pauses looking to Dutch to ensure he was listening. With a nod from his father he continues, “The ringmaster asks him ‘What do you know how to do?’ and the man tells him ‘I imitate birds’ but the ringmaster tells him they’re not interested in that. And then the man flies away!” Arthur can barely get the last line out before he’s thrown himself into a fit of giggles, still so amused with the joke. Dutch chuckles more at him than the joke, yet it was still amusing. 

“That was very funny Arthur,” He praises, patting him on the shoulder. 

“Isn’t it? Javier told me he’d teach me spanish so it would be even funnier.”

“Well let me know how that goes, alright?”

“Promise.”