Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was black as far as the eye could see; as far as he could see. 

He was surrounded by nothing but black, though, that wasn't it was it? He thought to himself. 

It was less black and more…nothing. He was surrounded by nothing. No sky, no clouds, no grass or dirt or rabbits or birds. There was simply…nothing…except for him. 

He looked around, spinning in place as he tried to find anything to look at. He started walking in the direction his head finally landed on. Walking and walking and walking, aimed to find something but evidently…more nothing. Finally giving up on his search, he crouched down to sit, cross legged on the surface beneath him. He scratched his jaw, feeling a bit perplexed, trying to take in the abundance of nothing around him. Trying to accept this was probably his new life. Instead of getting frustrated, he simply felt defeated. A failure like he'd always been.

Like he'd always been? Is that…right?

He couldn't remember what he was doing before he was…here. Was he talking with someone? Fishing at a quiet lake? Robbing some poor fool off the side of the road? He wasn't sure. He tried to remember something, anything, but realized it wasn't just the events before this he couldn't remember, but everything. He couldn't remember anything. Not his childhood, his parents, his friends; what he liked or didn't. He couldn't remember, not his life at least, but somehow…he did know one thing about himself;

He was dead.

As he sat there thinking and thinking and thinking…he found he could also at least remember how he felt before he was here;

And he was terrified.

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“Kieran Duffy.” 

He whipped around, trying to find the source of a sound that seemed to be coming from all around him. Craning his neck to look past his shoulders. He was terrified at what he'd find, but excited that there was anything to find at all.

“W–who's there?” he asked the nothing.

“Who I am is unimportant. Who you are, however…” the nothing answered, with a voice that boomed in certainty, in absolution. It trailed off…as if in thought.

“I ain’t scared of you! Can't kill a dead man twice!” he howled, filled with a sudden bravado. He whipped around, frantically trying to find who was speaking to him, finally standing up in his frustration.

“No need to be afraid, Kieran Duffy.” the nothing said, closer than it was originally but still echoing from everywhere.

“I told you, I ain’t scared, and why d’you keep callin’ me that?” he spat, giving up his search for the source of the voice. He lowered his head, suddenly feeling dejected, watching his hands as he fidgeted with the sleeve of the shirt he somehow didn't notice he was wearing, or maybe he forgot? Like everything else about himself.

“Your name is Kieran Duffy, and I have a proposition for you.” the nothing said, except this time, the source seemed more finite, more contained.

It was coming from right in front of him.

Kieran froze where he stood, now noting a pair of shoes from his periphery that definitely weren't there a second before. He clenched his jaw, steeling his nerves to finally look up at the owner of the shoes before him.

The man was pristine. He was clean shaven, save for the mustache above his lip. He wore a black suit, vest, top hat, and tie, fine leather shoes, and a dress shirt more white than anything Kierans had ever seen before…he thinks. 

The man was clean in every sense of the word. 

“I ain’t much in the mood for descussin’.” Kieran eyed the man suspiciously, crossing his arms in annoyance. His brows still pinched in concern as he struggled to maintain the intense eye contact the man before him was giving. Something about this man put Kieran on edge.

“The Van Der Linde gang needs your assistance. It has to be you.” the strange man's face was stoic and unchanging. 

The Van Der Linde gang…?

“Am I supposed to know them?” Kieran asked.

“Ah–” the man sighed as if suddenly realizing something obvious. Obvious to who? Not Kieran.

The man leaned forward to stare into Kieran's eyes more intently than he had before, black pools that seemed endless. Kieran watched as pools turned into the stars themselves, then they showed him all he had forgotten.

Kieran could remember now. 

He could remember everything. 

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His parents, who loved him as much as he loved them; watching as sickness took them. His tiny hands scratching at the dirt, trying to dig a hole big enough to fit them. They left him alone, and sometimes, he wished he had made himself a space in the hole with them.

Moving from place to place: the farm job he got fired from, the military position he fled, the gang he watched die; comprised of close friends, who were all outcasts in their own right. Watching his brief found family slaughtered as he was given the choice to die with them, or join their killers. The coward that he was, was too afraid to die. His next years in the O’Driscoll gang were spent beaten, berated, miserable, until finally…he was taken by someone new, to the next place. The last place. The Van Der Linde gang.

After proving his worth, he was treated not with kindness, but not with cruelty. Indifference was his new life. Most he spoke to always seemed irritated, distrustful, always waiting for him to run back to the O’Driscolls. But the few who didn't were the kindest souls; Mary-Beth, who didn’t make fun of his lack of literacy, offering to teach him instead. Abigail Marston, who didn't show it, but Kieran knew she cared and worried for him; her son Jack, who pretended to hate him because that's what he was supposed to do, but as soon as he wanted someone to play with, Kieran would be his first choice. Even if he was too afraid of the boy's father to ever agree. 

Sean, Lenny, Karen, Tilly, Pearson, Swanson, and Hosea; people who were rarely kind, but didn't push him around like the others at camp usually did. They mostly ignored him.

Arthur, who first brought him to camp, who acted the meanest. Who pretended he was the cruelest but ultimately, to Kieran's surprise, was the softest soul.

The more he reflected on his past, the more he started to realize, there were only really a few who were outwardly cruel to him. The rest mostly ignored him, leaving him to care for the horses of camp and his beloved Branwen. God did he miss his horse. He wondered what had happened to him after Kieran's death? 

His death.

He remembered his death.

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After the party celebrating young Jack's rescue, after a long night of drunken songs and words and confessions, he lay on the wooden floor of the gang's most recent abode. Drifting into uninterrupted, peaceful sleep. For the first time since his capture and indoctrination into the Van Der Linde gang, he felt safe. 

He felt safe.

He awoke the next morning screaming, with a hot bubbling pain at his side. Eyes opening blearily, he noticed he was tied to a chair, in a dark room lit only by a single lamp. No windows. One door. O’Driscolls surrounding him, holding various tools, for what he assumed was going to be torture. He looked at his injured side. His wake-up call was a burn to the abdomen, courtesy of a red-hot tong. He also noticed he was stripped of his shirt and pants.

They told him he wasn't there for any information he had or could give. They didn't want anything from him. They just wanted to hurt him.

It was his punishment for leaving them. For joining the enemy.

Even if it was against his own will.

They sliced and carved for hours, days, cutting at bits and pieces of his flesh. Sometimes, they'd cut out a small chunk. Sometimes, they'd peel off a thin layer. After a while, the pain and hot and discomfort he felt was so consistent, he couldn't tell any more. He stopped screaming when they cut, and carved, and peeled. His body had already seemed to accept this as its new normal.

That's why, he assumed, they'd started burning.

Kieran had long since given up hope of any rescue. His body had given up, and now his mind had too. He regretted ever leaving his parents' farm, reflecting on what choices could have led him…here. 

He wished it would end. He wished they would just kill him. One morning, he woke up thinking they finally would. He prayed that they would. 

They didn't, not yet.

First, they took his eyes.

Second, they took his head.

And at last…it was finally over.

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“Are you satisfied?” the strange man asked.

Kieran almost choked as he tried not to cry, as he remembered his tortured final moments— gurgling on his own blood. The pain, the fear, the screaming. The yearning for his life to end, and he wished to never feel it again. That...hopelessness.

People always called him a gentle soul.

“Why would you make me remember that…?” he couldn't help the tears starting to fall down his cheeks. The emotions he felt all at once were too overwhelming to allow him to compose himself.

“You must never forget, Kieran Duffy. The scars of your past will never leave you.” There was a glint in his eye, something that suggested more to his words than Kieran would ever be able to figure out. At least right now.

“But…how am I supposed to help them with…this?” he pleaded, wishing he had never known the pain of knowing.

“You have the knowledge to save those who could not be saved.” the strange man answered.

“Why should I save them?” Kieran spat. He was angry. He was furious.

Why should he? He thought to himself, they probably didn't even notice he was gone…

“They didn't save me! I–I needed them! They didn't save me!” he felt the hot tears stream down his cheeks, and started to hiccup with sorrow and fury. He didn't try to wipe them away, he couldn't really find it in himself to care. These…people, he was supposed to save? They never cared for him, they tormented him. Stripped him down to nothing and still never stopped taking. He never had anything to give, and all he ever tried to do was prove his worth. All he ever did was try to belong somewhere.

Kieran was bitter.

The strange man looked at him, and although his face was as unfeeling as it always looked, Kieran somehow felt as if the man was truly sorry for him. Sorry he ever had to endure, as if he could have stopped it…

“There was a man I met, many years after the gang had long since died. I've taken a liking to him, and wish to alter his end.” the strange man finally answered. “You will help them, Kieran Duffy. You will help them.” he stated, with a certainty so absolute. It was as if he already knew the outcome, and told Kieran only to be polite.

“B–but—!” Kieran tried to argue, but the strange man was suddenly gone. He stared at where the man had once been. He looked to his left, then to his right. Finally, he checked behind himself and almost stumbled back from the shock. 

Everything was white.

Chapter Text

There was white as far as the eye could see; as far as he could see.

He was surrounded by white, except…it wasn't white…it was snow.

He would have started crying if he wasn't already.

He was alive.

He looked around and saw trees, a mountain, clouds, birds, and Branwen. His beloved steed was drinking from the small frozen creek in front of them. Kieran couldn't help but smile at the sight. Taking in his surroundings with more scrutiny, the pine forest behind him, a barely there trail leading up the hill to his right, and an endless stretch of more land and Branwen to his left, the stream in front of his feet, and the mountain in the distance beyond it. 

He reached out his hands, catching snowflakes off the tips of his fingers. He shivered and sighed; he really had no qualms about helping the gang. He wasn't really sure why he was so against it before…maybe the memories of his death were just too raw. Too recent. He was never a spiteful person after all. He didn't blame the gang for his demise…even if it was technically their fault…

He turned towards Branwen, who snorted in response, and started patting his neck whilst fishing for the apple he knew was in his saddle bag. Whilst rummaging for said apple, however, his hand grazed over an unfamiliar leather spine. 

Curious, he thought. 

There was a thundering of hooves on snow approaching behind him. A fleet of men galloping from beyond the hill. 

He felt it all over again, the fear he felt when the Van Der Linde gang found him that first time around. If he was going to help them, he needed to meet them. He needed to prove his worth. Earn their trust, something which he never really got last time, and if he did, he sure as hell didn’t feel like it.

He jumped on his horse and made a break for the trees.

He couldn't do it, not again. What if he couldn’t change the future? What if he couldn’t change his future? He couldn't do it, so he ran away.

Running and running and running until his poor Branwen finally gave out, rearing him off his back and onto the cold snow. The steed pranced about nervously, likely from being pushed too hard but also from Kieran's own nerves. He stood as he tried to soothe the stallion; they couldn't afford to stop. Not if they wanted to live. Not if he wanted to live.

He stood for what felt like hours, but was realistically only a couple of minutes, trying to calm the horse down. Patting Branwen's neck and cooing sweet words into his ear. He was so focused on calming his horse so he could get back on and escape, that he didn't hear someone approaching from behind. Hooves thundering once again in the snow, but this time only belonging to one…and something was wrong. 

They weren't hooves.

Kieran had been around enough horses to know what hooves in snow sounded like, and that was not it. A large four-legged beast was indeed approaching, but not a horse. Before Kieran thought to turn around and check what was approaching him, his horse suddenly reared up, eyes wide and white, and sprinted away. His horse's extreme reaction took him aback. Branwen was trained by Kieran himself after all, and trained well. He was rarely ever spooked, especially to this degree.

He turned around to see the cause of such fear and froze. Not 20 feet in front of him, a grizzly bear was barreling towards him. 

He should have run the moment he saw it, but he didn't. Maybe it was the weight of his new task, the pain of his final days, or just the simple stress he got thinking about the whole thing. Whatever it was, it kept him glued in his spot.

Frozen.

The beast barred its teeth and tackled him. He fell under the weight of the beast, as it sank its teeth into Kieran's throat. He gasped at the sudden pain, as if he had forgotten he would feel it.  It stood above him as he gurgled his last breaths, already feasting on Kieran's organs. He thought death by grizzly would be a little less…well…grizzly. Funny, he thought. 

His gurgled breaths turned into gurgled giggles. 

Of course. Of course, he thought dryly, He was given a second chance at life and he wasted it. 

He closed his eyes and left the beast to its feast, and after a few seconds, he finally, finally, died…again.

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There was white as far as the eye could see; as far as he could see.

He stood in front of a small creek, listening to his horse lap up the water. He felt no pain, like he once did moments before.

He reached under the neckerchief he wore, which bore the signature O’Driscoll green, and ghosted his fingers over the spot where the bear had ripped his throat out. He was surprised when he found a large scar that suggested the wound in question had existed. That it had happened. His hands immediately shot up to feel further around his neck and eyes, but the wounds of his first death were gone, as if they hadn't happened. 

What did this mean? Kieran wondered, but then his thoughts took him to something recently said to him: “The scars of your past will never leave you.”

He sighed, realizing this would inevitably cause him future grief…and lots of questions. Did this mean injuries from his past lives would carry over? At least those after his first death. Either way, he decided he'd have to hide most of his scars, and he's taken up too much of his escape time thinking.

He tries to escape via the same route. Seven more times. He's determined to learn, and adjust, after each try. A couple times, he tries to sneak past the bear. It doesn't work. Another time, he tries to flee at breakneck speed before Branwen inevitably tires and is eaten alongside him. A few other times he tries to kill the bear, and gets pretty close too…! But he barely had any bullets on him, and his gun was already low. He does little more than injure the beast.

Eventually, his trial and error got him where it always did, where…

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There was white as far as the eye could see; as far as he could see.

He jumps on his steed and runs for the hills, but…not the ones from last time. 

This time, he avoids where he came across the bear altogether. Instead, riding much closer to the edge of the mountain, and for the most part, it's quite uneventful.

That is, until the wolves find him. Tearing him and his sweet Branwen to pieces.

He tries this approach five more times, in various ways, until he grows tired of trying and inevitably…

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There was white as far as the eye could see; as far as he could see.

He stood, once again, in front of the small creek, listening to his horse drink his fill.  

So running was out of the question, he concluded.

His attempts had earned him many more scars painted across his body. Most notably, a long and jagged scar that now covered the small one he already had on his forehead. It started at his temple, near his left brow, and ended below his cheek on the same side. It was very hard to miss; it wasn't as subtle as the scar it replaced was. 

“I'm sorry, boy…” he murmured to the stallion, who thankfully didn't remember like Kieran did…he hoped. It helped his assumption when the horse didn't carry any visible evidence of his past traumas. 

Unlike Kieran.

He resumes his previous thoughts: if he couldn't run, then…what were his options? If he was going to save the gang, he first had to be in the gang, or at least someone they trusted enough to listen to…

And just like that, his next plan was sprung into action. He jumped on his horse and sprinted south-west, in the direction of a familiar mining town.

Once he's within view, he slows to a trot. He looks around at the abandoned shacks, and if he didn't know any better, he'd think the place was empty. 

But he does know better.

“Excuse me?” he called, adjusting his neckerchief to better hide the large scar there. “Is the Van Der Linde gang here…?” he continued, a bit less confident than before, but confidence was never his strong suit. He looked around as he got closer, spotting a man who seemed to be posted on guard.

“Who are you? Why are you here…?” the guard asks, his tone sounding suspicious, confused, on edge, though his face shows no hints of his current emotion. His intentions are hidden.

“I…” Kieran thinks for a moment. Should he tell them his name? Would it even matter? He's honestly surprised he hasn't been shot on the spot already. “My name's Kier–” 

Two loud blasts interrupt from behind him. 

Ah. There it is. Kieran thought to himself, He did feel things were oddly quiet. Oddly peaceful. He should've expected another shoe to drop. 

He falls off his horse with a thud into the cold snow below. His arm flies up to grab his shoulder, where a burning sting is felt, though there is another by his abdomen on the opposite side. He rolls to lie on his back, still putting pressure on his new…bullet? Wound. 

He screams, tears welling up in his eyes from the pain.

“See Arthur? I told you I saw a runaway O’Driscoll earlier. Have a little more faith, son!” a man in the distance calls out. A booming voice laced with hidden malice, Dutch.

A man in blue grumbles in response. 

The guard looked toward the group of men approaching, then down at Kieran, with a solemn expression. His brows were furrowed and his lips tight in a concerned line as Kieran screamed and screamed. He honestly didn't think he'd have it in him anymore, not after what's happened to him. After what he's experienced. 

People started to emerge from the buildings, likely from the racket he was making, and slowly formed a small crowd around him.

Kieran's eyes start to darken, his screams fading into silence…then, once again, into laughter as he watches the men continue to approach, the people he's supposed to be saving. Although it was less like laughter and more...stress-induced giggling. The people around him seemed, understandably, put off by his insane response.

But if they knew? If they knew? They would find it funny too.

The blue-clad man walks up to him, crouching to get a better look, inspecting Kieran's face. Kieran stills, realizing he definitely looks like a lunatic. Hell, after what he's been through? He just might be.

“I ha-have…information. For Dutch...Van Der...Van Der Linde…” Kieran grunts through the pain. His skin is slick with sweat, his vision no longer clear. He can barely see a thing, barely feel a thing. He's only able to make out a blue figure above him.

“Micah…you couldn't’ve tried harder not to kill the poor bastard?” The blue figure turns to address something behind it. 

“What good's an O’Driscoll for anyway? ‘Cept dyin’ of course. No need to get all upset, cowpoke.” a voice from…somewhere…snickered.

“Arthur. Put the poor boy out of his misery.” another voice says with an uncommon authority. 

Kieran doesn't see it. He can't. But he hears it. 

For a single moment, his head burns like it's never burned before. 

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There was white as far as the eye could see; as far as he could see.

He felt around his head until–

There.

He felt a scar on the side of his head, a bit above his ear, a scar that suggested a healed bullet wound. That would be hard to explain.

His mind didn't race. It didn't jump from one thought to the next. He couldn't process it all, so he didn't. He simply blocked it out. He didn't think about it, not the pain, not the failure. He just couldn't really find how it mattered. How any of it did. It wouldn't help his goal; he wasn't sure what would. 

He remembered an unfamiliar leather spine.

His eyes widened, and he reached into the saddle bag by Branwen's side, but not for an apple like before. He rumaged around until he felt it, aged leather, then he carried it out. 

It was a small leather journal, worn from years and years of use.

Arthur's journal.

He leaned against Branwen's side, arms resting on the saddle, as he brushed his fingers against the journal's cover, then briefly over the strap keeping it closed. He remembered times he’d spotted Arthur at camp, hunched over on a chair or stump, scribbling away in this very journal; granted, it looked a lot older now. It felt…wrong to read it. To delve into another person's deepest, most personal thoughts without their knowledge.

But then it occurred to him: I was sent to help. How will I help without knowing the problem?

There wasn't a doubt in his mind that the gang continued their criminal career long after Kieran's death. They didn't stop after Sean's death, and they actually liked that guy. So did Kieran, but not by much. He only felt a little bad about the fact, but people died every day, so he tried not to get attached. 

His fingers brushed against the leather strap once more, this time removing it to expose the contents within. He looked at page after page before he finally realised something, something crucial that he somehow forgot. Something impertinent to his very being.

He was illiterate.

“God damnit…” he mumbled under his breath. How could he have forgotten? What would he do now? The answers to his most pressing issues were most definitely in that journal. They must be. Why else would he have it?

The thundering of hooves breaks his train of thought.

He turns around to see a fleet of five—no, six men appear from over a hill, barely within Kieran's view, where they stop. A man in a big black coat points at Kieran, whilst addressing a man dressed in blue next to him. The man in blue nods whilst the rest of the men ride away. Kieran watches as the man spurs his horse to him, at first in a sprint, before realizing Kieran isn't running. He isn't making any attempt to move at all. Standing by Branwen's side while he watches the stranger approach, hand still clutching the journal.

Once the stranger is within yelling distance, he dismounts from his horse, walking carefully towards Kieran. Kieran hopes his face doesn't portray the fear he feels; he's about to meet Arthur Morgan after all…again. He clutches the journal closer to his chest. The man, Arthur, narrows his eyes, fixed on the journal in Kieran's hands. 

“Where did you get that?” the man points to the journal in Kieran's hands. He looks down at his hands, then back at Arthur, eyes slowly widening as the gears in his brain start turning. Shit.

“Well I–I–” Kieran starts, but Arthur doesn't seem to be having any of it. He lifts his arm, and with a press of his thumb, he clicks the hammer of his cattleman back. He aims square at Kieran's temple. Kieran's eyes go wide. He jerked his head to the side, trying to shield himself with his arms, “W–wait–!” 

BANG!

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There was white as far as the eye could see; as far as he could see.

Kieran didn't appreciate getting jerked around like this, between life and death, and decided enough was enough. This time would be the last time.

He attempts to jump onto Branwen's saddle. Instead, he slips backwards into the snow.

CRACK!

A sharp pain hits the back of his head, a warmth spilling out from under it. It soothes him into a peaceful slumber, promising safety. Comfort. He was so, so very cold before, but now he was warm.

He feels so tired.

He tries to focus on the blurry sky above him, but his eyes won't stop drooping closed.

He let the warmth consume him.

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There was white as far as—

“AAAGH–!” 

He felt around his head for the two new scars he likely had. One was smaller than his palm, but still sizable, on the back of his head. The other was clearly from a bullet wound, and joined the other by his ear. Kieran must've been one lucky fool, because both new scars could easily be hidden under his hair, as it was now at least, and even more so with a hat. 

Kieran has had enough of this. A man can only die so many times before it starts to get to him. And he knows, he knows he hasn't tried all his options, but…he's already died trying. He's just about ready to give up.

He flops onto his back, deciding it's a lovely time for a rest. Branwen snorts at his strange behavior. Perhaps the old Kieran wouldn't act like this…but the new Kieran? The dead, alive, dead, alive, Kieran? He would.

He rests his hands on his stomach, closing his eyes as he listens to the wind and animals…and Branwen. From another's perspective, Kieran muses, he must look like a corpse ready for its casket. The thought makes him chuckle, small and dry and without humor…

Okay, maybe a bit of humor. 

A thundering of hooves interrupts his thought.

He supposes it was around time for Arthur to come get him, but Kieran makes no move to get up. He’s decided to wait.

“I don't remember O'Driscolls bein’ this weird…or lazy.” Arthur scoffs. Kieran cracks one of his eyes open and carefully observes the man in blue, whose brow is raised in question, clearly perplexed by the scene before him, by Kieran. He notes Arthur's hand already hovering over his gun; the man is nothing if not prepared. But so was Kieran…this time.

“I ain’t lazy. Just reckon' I deserved a break is all.” Kieran explains, surprisingly calm. He does deserve a break, what with all the dying and coming back. “Would you like to join me…? It's a nice day out, and I don't much feel like runnin’.” Kieran smiles, opening his other eye to look at Arthur, as the other man huffs an amused breath. 

“‘Preciate the offer, but I got folks waitin’ on me." he looks to the side as if considering his next words, and smirks. "Matter of fact…I'm s’posed to bring you with me. You wouldn't mind makin’ my job easier, would you?” Arthur looks Kieran in the eyes, gesturing for him to stand. Kieran sighs and moves to get up, brushing the snow off his back as he stands.

Kieran starts adjusting his neckerchief, but Arthur, with a snap of his wrist, throws his lasso around him. Kieran falls back into the snow with a cough, getting the wind knocked out of him.

“Shit—! Really!?” he coughs. Arthur shrugs and moves to tie up Kieran's hands and feet. He rummages through Kieran's pockets, collecting a few coins and some lint for his efforts, then carries him to his horse, where Kieran is unceremoniously dumped onto its back.

“What's your name, boy?” Arthur inquired as the horse started to move. Kieran opened his mouth to answer, but soon closed it, mulling over whether to give his real name, or a fake. He ultimately decided a fake name would cause him more grief than he had the energy to deal with. So after a long pause, 

“...Kieran.”

“Kieran what?”

“Duffy. Kieran Duffy.”

“Well, I ain't gonna lie to you…this is a real bad day for you, Kieran Duffy.”

"Don't I know it…” Kieran huffs.

Arthur chuckles.

Kieran felt an odd sense of comfort at the familiar exchange. Sure, it didn't happen exactly like last time, but it was still nice.

He couldn't help feeling annoyed, however, that after being given the chance to change his fate, and all his trial and error, he once again finds himself being tied to the back of Arthur Morgan's horse. 

He supposed this is what Mary-beth meant when she tried to explain irony to him.

Chapter Text

Kieran wasn't pouting, and if anyone told you otherwise, it certainly wasn't true. If you asked him, he'd tell you his face mimicked that of stoicism…

But that's beside the point.

Arthur glanced over his shoulder at his suspiciously silent prisoner, snorting once he saw Kieran's face. 

“Aww, no need for poutin’, O’Driscoll! You’ll meet the others soon.” Arthur teases, turning back around to gaze ahead. Kieran, who is still not pouting, tries to muster up the meanest, most threatening glare he can muster. When Arthur turns back around, his brows shoot up in surprise, and a wide grin spreads across his face. 

“What–what are you doing? What is that!” he manages through laughs, looking at Kieran over his shoulder, seeming taken aback by whatever he saw on Kieran's face. Kieran doesn’t really notice Arthur laughing at him at first; he’s far too occupied thinking of how the sound reminds him of a calm, autumn morning. The sound of the wind rustling the leaves, well, not the sound necessarily, but the feeling he would’ve had, had he been there. Of the calm it would give him.

He thinks briefly to all the times before; previous times he'd heard Arthur laugh at camp, in his first life. Only to realize it was mostly during the parties, whilst everyone, including himself and Arthur, were drunk. Even then, it was usually just a hearty chuckle, or sharp exhale of breath, or a loud bark. Never like…this. This sounded surprisingly light and carefree…especially for someone like Arthur. It was a soft and gentle thing. That, for some reason, resonated with Kieran. The sound made him feel…warm. 

His lips, almost, twitched into a smile. That is, before he realized Arthur was laughing at him, and that...that soured his previously pleasant mood.

Maybe I'm ill, Kieran thought, what else would explain the fluttering feeling in the pit of his stomach? He didn't remember having any ailment in his first life, but then again, there was a lot he couldn't remember. Nothing major, mind you, just little things; what color the boat at Clemens Point was, how many barrels there were lying around at Horseshoe Overlook, or how many wrinkles were on Hosea's wise face. Minor things, things he never really paid attention to, though…he should really start, shouldn't he? A problem for later, he decides.

Kieran jolts with an “Oof—” as Arthur’s horse sharply swerves. It seems he was too distracted laughing at Kieran to notice he was slowly swerving off the path.

“Sure you know how to drive horses, Ar–mister?” Kieran, so absorbed in his own thoughts, almost called Arthur by his name. Which wouldn't have been a problem, if he wasn't supposed to know it yet. Just the thought alone of trying to explain a slip-up like that made Kieran's head ache. That, or the jostling of the horse beneath him.

Arthur grunted, seeming not to want conversation. Kieran was fine with that; he didn't much want to talk either. He did, however, note a curious red blush on the back of Arthur’s neck, which sharply contrasted the white of their brisk environment and the bright blue of his coat..

Likely from embarrassment, Kieran mused. To embarrass Arthur, "I will break every bone in your body," Morgan was quite the feat. At least to Kieran, who felt an odd pride in it.

After a few, content, minutes of silence, they finally arrived at Colter. They'd stopped in front of one of the larger, more intact buildings. The shacks, Kieran notes, look just as he remembered them: broken and dying, but still hiding life within. You could see it in the windows, fires inside warming hidden bodies.

“You found the little shit, did you?” a man wearing a thick, black coat asked from the doorway of the shack.

“...Yep,” Arthur responded, carrying Kieran off his horse, and cutting him loose as he lay in the snow. “I got him. Dumb bastard didn't even try to run.” he chuckled, hauling Kieran up by his arms to stand.

Dutch peered down at Kieran, who shriveled under Dutch's gaze. He wasn't scared of Dutch per se; he had no trouble speaking his mind to Colm, and he was the leader of his own gang. No, the issue was that unlike the O’Driscolls, Kieran wasn't one of Dutch's men. He knew Dutch wouldn't hesitate to kill him if he saw him as a threat. So Kieran did his best not to appear as such; he was good at it after all, and made himself small.

“Welcome to your new home,” he said dryly, clearly pleased with Kieran’s reaction and smirking as he continued, “Hope you’re real happy here.” He turned to Arthur and started talking about Kieran as if he weren't there listening. Perhaps that was the point, though, to either rile him up or scare him into talking. letting his mind wander. Or, trying to get a sense of how Kieran was. Who he was. Right now, Kieran couldn't really give a shit. He knew where this ended and just wanted to be done with it. To be alone and finally be able to sleep, He was so busy dying he hadn't gotten a wink of it.

Two men appeared at Kieran's side, Uncle and Bill, and each grabbed an arm.

“I got a saying, my friend…we shoot fellers—” Dutch started to taunt, but Kieran stopped listening, drowning out the noise with his own thoughts. His first course of action would be gaining the trust of the gang, then he'd have to learn how fucking to read. Great. Easy. 

After Dutch had finished attempting to intimidate, the two men holding Kieran carried him further down the path, towards a small barn. Kieran glanced past his shoulder, catching sight of Arthur's back as he hopped on his horse. Maybe he felt Kieran staring, because he glanced back as well. For a moment, the two watched each other. 

“Keep movin’, O’Driscoll.” Bill sneered. Kieran jolted, realizing he'd been staring. He had stopped walking to stare at Arthur. His face flushed with embarrassment. He hoped no one took notice besides the four of them. Uncle seemed to find the exchange slightly amusing, giving a quiet chuckle. Bill seemed more annoyed than anything; just wanting to get the task over with, but Arthur seemed…well, Kieran wasn't quite sure. He'd always had trouble reading the man, and had no doubt he always would.

“R–right…” he nodded, turning back around to keep walking. The sight of the barn confused Kieran. The sight of the familiar place he'd spent days in gave him a sense of comfort, but the actual purpose of his stay…didn't. Within this building, he was strung up and starved, and he had no doubt he would be again. “Dangit…”

________________________________

Hours had passed, and if the absence of light through the windows or the drop in temperature told Kieran anything, it was that it was now the dead of night.

He was tied by his wrists to a post within the stables, his wrists holding his full weight whenever his legs got too tired to hold him and gave out. He forgot how sore his arms would feel. How, after a while, the rope around his wrists started to burn as it dug and dug and dug into his skin. He was sure it would leave scars; he knew it would. It did last time. Subtle, but still there, from so many weeks rubbing his wrists raw trying to pull them loose, but eventually giving up because where would he go anyway? He could go back to Colm, but he'd kill him; he did kill him. Kieran still couldn't read or write, so any job that required as such would be unattainable. He was only really good at taking care of horses, fishing, and the occasional shootout. That last skill, Kieran assumed, was the reason he was spared over the others from his original gang. His first gang.

He heard a creaking, lifting his head to find the source of the noise, discovering it was the hinges of one of the barn doors ahead of him. Someone was trying to come in. 

“I ain't in the mood for company…” he mumbled, letting his head sag back down. He would much rather be struggling to sleep through the cold than entertain whoever sought him out in the dead of night.

He heard someone huff in response, a familiar huff. Kieran narrowed his eyes to better see who it was approaching him in the dark. The figure slowly opened the doors to allow a large gap next to them, which allowed a large beast to walk inside. The beast gently pulled the rope hanging from its mouth into the man's hand. The man let go in response, letting the beast walk freely. The beast clopped toward Kieran as the other man watched from the wall next to the door. The figures were cast in shadow, the only light now being from a lantern the man carried. From what little light there was, Kieran started to recognize the man as Arthur, and the beast…was Branwen.

Kieran couldn't help the smile that spread on his face, pure joy consuming him. He'd somehow completely forgotten that his loyal steed spent the whole of Colter by his side, keeping him warm in the cold nights of the barn.

Branwen plodded up to Kieran, finally stopping once he was within distance to nudge Kieran in the chest.

“Hello boy…” Kieran cooed, enjoying the stallion's warmth as he nuzzled him. He leaned his head to the side, looking past the horse to address Arthur, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed against his chest. The lantern he once held was now on the floor beside him, admitting a flickering orange glow. “He wasn't any trouble, I hope?”

Arthur was watching Kieran intently. “No, no trouble. Wouldn't stop nippin’ at my pockets, though.” he chuckled, scratching his jaw and looking away. His hat covered most of his face, but Kieran could still see his smirk.

Kieran's brows shot up, embarrassment flushing him at his stallion's learned behavior. He turned his attention back to his horse. “Yeah he–he was probably lookin’ for treats…I always keep some in my pockets for him.”

Arther snorted, “You must really love that horse.” 

The comment made Kieran think for a moment. He did love Branwen. He loved him like family, because Branwen was his family. “After my Mammy and Pappy died—“ he paused, looking up at Arthur, and wetting his lips as the words came to him, “Colera. I worked at a stable for a short while, owner was a right bag of shit.” he chuckled to himself at the memory, and looked back at Branwen, frowning. “Never liked ‘im, but he paid well enough. Was payin’ me extra to train Branwen too, said he bought him for a pretty penny at some auction.” He rolled his eyes at the last word. He went to continue, but his mouth froze open. He flicked his eyes to Arthur, then back to Branwen, before he closed it. He wondered if it was too much. 

It probably seems strange, he thought, to tell his life story to someone who saw him as a stranger. But Arthur wasn’t a stranger, not to Kieran, and he never got the chance to tell him this story. 

He looked back up to Arthur, who was now sitting in a chair, leaning on his knees with his forearms. He had a serious expression on his face, but looked to be listening with rapt attention, so Kieran decided he’d finish his tale. “Branwen never listened to him. And when he came to me. Wine–ing about it. I told him ‘he listens to me just fine’.” he smiled. “He didn't like that very much though, said I was stealin’ his money. So he laid me off, the bastard. When I left, I took Branwen with me, prob’ly would've been put down if I didn't." He looked at Branwen solemnly, “No one wants a disobedient horse.” Branwen nudged him, bringing a smile back to his face.

Arthur hummed in agreement, and for a split second, Kieran could've sworn he saw a smile. Arthur started to fidget, while Kieran let Branwen snuggle against him. It was only then did he notice his neckerchief was just loose enough to make the large scar across his neck visible. 

Arthur had to have seen it, Kieran worried; he really didn't want to explain how a wound severe enough to cover almost half his lower neck hadn't killed him. Explain how he had even survived it at all. He didn't think he could come up with a story believable enough for, at the very least, Arthur. The man was as suspicious as they came, but so was everyone else in the gang. He supposed that was part of the territory, running from the law and all that.

The horse had, by this point, lain against Kieran, inadvertently holding up a lot of his weight. Kieran realized if Arthur had any intention of bringing up Kieran's scars, he would have. But he didn't, and he wasn't the kind of man to dance around information he wanted. They sat in silence, a little awkward, but also a little comfortable. Arthur was the first to break it.

“You uh…you journal?” Arthur asked awkwardly. This confused Kieran until he remembered the journal, Arthur's journal, still in his saddle bag. Then, he realized, they definitely went through his things, he was their prisoner after all! His mind then went to the last time Arthur found him with his journal. How he killed him for it.

“It’s–I–” Kieran stammered, trying to figure out how to explain why he had Arthur's journal of all things.

“Relax. I didn't look through it, almost did, though. It looks just like mine, but it's too old to be mine. Looked weirdly similar though…” He smirked and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms like before.

“It's…not mine…” Kieran mumbled. Arthur snorted.

“Could’ve guessed that, O’Driscoll. The thing looks older’n you!” he chuckled.

Kieran huffed, “‘m not an O’Driscoll. Never liked ‘im. Colm killed my last gang, told me I could join him…or them. “ Kieran frowned. He barely remembered his first gang. They've long since become faded ghosts of memories, much like his parents. Kieran sighed at the thought. “Wasn’t much of a choice if you ask me…was mostly just their stable boy anyway…” This seemed to put Arthur in thought.

“...I didn't tell no one about the journal…wouldn't keep you alive if I did…” Arthur mumbled. Kieran supposed if Arthur did show them the journal, they'd assume it was Kieran’s. They'd have to reason to keep him alive for information, if they seemingly had all his information in a book. “Not sure why I didn't though…” Arthur said under his breath, though it was so quiet, Kieran almost didn't hear. He didn't think he was supposed to. 

“Well, thank you, mister. I ‘preciate it.” Kieran smiled at him. He wasn't expecting such a kind gesture so soon. It was strange, though…but he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, not now. He would press his luck, however, ”Could you…Could you sneak me some food? I'm sorry, it's just…if I told them anything now, they wouldn't believe me.” Kieran looked away, working his jaw to try and find the right words. “I just…don't see a sense in starvin’ for information I’d have gladly told you anyways.” he looked back at Arthur, trying to gauge any hint as to what he was thinking. He seemed to be…considering? Kieran's point.

“I guess that makes sense. Don't see much point in that, neither.” Arthur sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked at Branwen.

“Thank you, mister.” Kieran smiled. Arthur hummed in response. He took this as a sign they had nothing else to talk about, at least not at this moment. Arthur tipped his hat and stood up, grabbing his lantern as he left. A brisk cold breeze snuck through the barn doors as they opened. Kieran shivered. He was grateful to have Branwen by his side, a constant presence that offered constant warmth and comfort.

He felt a prick in his eyes, and his cheeks started to feel wet. His brows involuntarily furrowed, and that clued Kieran into the fact that he was crying. 

Why? He wondered, but then he realized it made sense for this to be happening, and for it to be happening now. For the first time since his resurrection, Kieran had a moment to breathe. There was no threat of being shot, or gored, or maimed. All he had to do, all he could do…was wait. All his thoughts and worries that he'd ignored because he just couldn't afford to think about them…resurfaced. He suddenly had the time to experience all he had prevented himself from experiencing; the pain, the anguish, the sorrow, the defeat, the failure and failure and failure. Again and again and again and again. Over and over, the frustration of repeating and repeating and repeating. It all hit him like a punch in the gut, and he could finally let himself feel it. Process it.

He cried like the useless child he'd felt like all those years ago when he lost his parents. He was alone and afraid and useless. He couldn't do anything, not then.

Maybe he could now? He wanted to do something now. Anything. He wanted to save them, and wasn't that a terrifying thought?

The tears fell and fell until he struggled to breathe, but even then, they didn't stop. He couldn't. He needed to be free of it.

It was a while until he hiccuped from a struggled breath. It was a while until his sobs had started to wind down, had finally started to quiet. He had no doubt he made quite the racket with his wailing. He wasn't trying to be quiet, after all. But…he felt better. The recent events and emotions he felt during them all felt…processed. He felt better. He was better.

For the first time since his…resurrection, he felt hopeful. 

He felt capable.

He felt ready.

Chapter Text

He leaned against the edge of the chuck wagon, watching as smiling faces illuminated by campfire glow turned into those of laughter. 

He was on the outskirts, in more ways than one. He thought back on his comment about the Van Der Lindes being the same as the O’Driscolls, and oh, how wrong he was. He recognized now that the Van Der Linde gang were nothing like Colm’s boys. Colm’s men were a group of savages. They wanted nothing but to pillage and destroy. Dutch's men weren't like that. They were a family, albeit strange, he saw that now. He understood, and more than anything, he wanted to be one of them. He wanted a family again. To belong somewhere. To have people he could call his people.

He wanted and wanted and wanted, until it ached deep inside him. Until it turned his insides sour. Acidic.

He took a long swig of the beer in his hand, watching the figures by the fire. Karan was somewhere next to him, talking about something, he wasn't sure what. He stopped listening a while ago, but still managed to respond now and again, when something managed to make it through to his ears. He could tell she was as miserable as he was; maybe that's why she insisted he drank with her? Perhaps she could tell he was as miserable as her, too. He supposed it was nice. To be miserable together instead of alone.

After a while, she walked away, joining her family by the fire. Her family. Not his. It would never be his. They made that clear. 

Another hour passed before Arthur stumbled to stand by Kieran's side, leaning on the wagon next to him.

'Y’know, Mister…joining this outfit was the best thing I ever did…' Kieran slurred, watching with a sorrowful frown as the gang started singing around the fire. They looked happy, and looking was enough for him. He could make peace with never being a part of it, as long as they'd still let him tag along. 

Arthur grunted in response. He clearly wasn't as drunk as Kieran, that or he could hold his liquor better than him. He turned to look Arthur in the eyes, eyes which he could count on his fingers how many times he saw, given how Arthur's hat was always hiding them. Eyes that he wished to see now, which he couldn't give a good reason as to why, just that on the few occasions he did see them, they were beautiful. And when he saw them, his heart would do a little flutter, and he would feel…better.

He just wanted to feel better. 

He leaned down to peer under Arthur's hat, a hat which he’d never not seen atop the other man's head. Arthur furrowed his brow, cautious yet curious. Kieran looked under the hat, looked into Arthur's eyes, eyes which reflected himself back at him. 

They're blue, he thought, just as he’d remembered. A pretty blue, a sharp blue with a thin green scattered in the middle and reaching out. It was a blue which hinted at more beneath the surface, a hidden, deep sorrow. 

While he had seen Arthur kill men with less than a glance, he had also seen him after, and he had always looked so…sad. He could tell with every life Arthur ruined, a tiny piece of him was ruined, too. Kieran could see it in his eyes. He knew the man would never leave the gang; they were his family, but his orders were slowly breaking him.

Kieran mourned the day the great Arthur Morgan would finally shatter.

'You’ve got pr—etty eyes, Arthur…' Kieran slurred. Arthur, who was taking a sip of his own beer, proceeded to choke, taken aback. Kieran ignored him, '...always thought you did.' He stared for a moment before leaning back, resting his weight on the chuck wagon again. He returned his gaze to the group at the fire, this time, smiling as he watched.

Minutes passed in silence. He glanced at Arthur once more, noting a bright red flush covering him. It started from the tips of his ears and stretched beneath the collar of his shirt. 

The liquor, he concluded, must've finally gotten to Arthur.

He wished to lean over and get a look at those pretty blue eyes again, but…once was already probably pushing his luck. Instead, he tried to remember what he saw only minutes ago. 

His eyes, he thought to himself, held a broken gentleness in them. They reminded him of something…but he couldn’t remember what it was. They were like…something. Maybe he read it in a book somewhere? No, that can’t be right. For obvious reasons. 

Arthur’s eyes reminded him of something…but what? Kieran wracked his brain until a memory finally unfolded itself from the depths of his past.

Kieran was young; he must have been, because he was sitting on his father's lap, whilst the older man was sitting in a rocking chair by a fireplace. He was looking at the pictures in a book, while his father read the words to him. It was a book on creatures of myth, a kind of book in which his father owned many; the man loved his fairy tales. 

The page they were on depicted a unicorn. 

Of all the creatures within all his father's books, the unicorn was his favorite, and the only one he deemed real. In every book, the creature was depicted as a horse white as snow, with hair more golden than gold itself, a long tail often ending in gentle feathering, and the most prominent feature: a strong horn protruding from its forehead. 

He'd always thought it was the most beautiful creature, but in every picture, it also had the saddest eyes. He asked his father once why this was, why the unicorns were always so sad, and he told him ‘It’s because they are always used, taken advantage of. They have magic, and people don’t, so they hunt the creatures down for it and use them.’ 

Kieran remembers frowning when he heard this, vowing to his father that he would protect all the unicorns. His father only chuckled at the proclamation, though.

That’s what it was, Kieran realized, he had the sad eyes of a unicorn.

He wondered, then, where his father said the creatures roamed. He cursed his young self for never actually listening; he very much wished to see a unicorn at least once in his life. He'd only really been around New Hanover and Amberino, but he assumed if he’d traveled as much as Arthur, he’d have probably seen one by now.

Arthur.

If anyone’s seen a unicorn, Kieran would bet Arthur has. He’d overheard the tales Arthur shared about his many travels, the oddities and strangeness he’d found, but also the beauty. 

He turned, intending to ask Arthur if he’s ever seen any unicorns, and if he has, where? And could he take him there?

The spot by the wagon where he’d been expecting to find Arthur…was empty.

'Oh…' 

Arthur had left…and Kieran hadn’t noticed.

He turned his attention back to the fire, but the drunkards around it were gone, too. The camp had gone quiet, still, save for the occasional crackle of the fire which still burned. The camp was empty. 

Everybody had turned in for the night, and left Kieran all alone.

He was alone.

Like he always had been.

Like he always would be.

________________________________

Kieran woke up cold. 

Sometime during the night, Branwen had moved to sleep in one of the stalls. Kieran sagged against his restraints, having just woken up, and no strength at the moment to hold himself up. He felt a little sad that his stallion had left, but didn't blame him for preferring the more comfortable sleeping arrangement found in a bed of hay.

He realized there was light flooding the room, and not from a lantern. 

It was morning.

Then, he remembered how he'd cried himself to sleep, and the consequences of such would be clear on his face. He wasn't really in any position to feel embarrassed, though. 

He could hear people outside chattering about this and that, mostly about going hunting. Seems they're running low on food, Kieran remembers that from last time, too. For some reason, he thought it would be different, though he isn't quite sure why, seeing as how he hasn't really changed anything yet. 

Someone cleared their throat. 

Kieran’s head shot up, and if he weren't tied up and stripped of his weapons, he would’ve had his cattleman at the ready. But he didn't, so all he did was stare. Eyes wide from the surprise, back straightened against the pole. His surprise visitor was a brunette woman with stunningly curled hair, and a curiosity about her.

Mary-beth.

He always did like her, and they might have even been friends. He never really got the chance to find out.

“Mornin’, miss.” Kieran made a motion as if to tip his hat, but since his hands were still tied, he ended up tipping his head in an awkward sort of bow. Mary-beth gave a confused giggle at the failed motion, and a small wave.

Kieran wanted to be her friend last time, and hoped she could be this time. He had fancied her once, it's why he approached her in the first place; her kindness was something uncommon to him, and he wanted more. Perhaps that was selfish of him. But then, during one of their hangouts, she offhandedly mentioned she was courting Tilly. The moment the words left her mouth, she looked mortified. She begged Kieran not to tell a soul, but when he just stared at her, not saying anything because he was shocked to silence, she threatened to cut off his privates, and didn't that snap him out of it. 

He assured her he wouldn't tell a soul, because he would never want to hurt her or Tilly, and it wasn't like he was in any place to judge about that kind of thing anyways. It was because of those two reasons, and those two reasons alone; if there were a secret third reason, well, neither of them mentioned it. 

She seemed pleased with his response and untold confession, and they continued the lunchtime talks they occasionally had. Something between them had shifted that day, something small and kind and familiar. They had a newfound kinship, whether they said so or not. 

Kieran wanted that again; he quite enjoyed their talks. There was an odd childlike wiseness about Mary-Beth, which always confused Kieran. He would ask her thoughts on something, and the answer she gave was always one that seemed obvious, but for some reason had always eluded Kieran. She just always seemed to know things as they were, not what they were trying to be. 

He missed her, their talks, her advice, and he decided he was going to do something stupid. How stupid? Revealing you know something you shouldn't, stupid.

“Yer’ like me miss…I can tell.” He smiled at her. She seemed confused. 

“How would I be like you? You're an O’Driscoll.” She furrowed her brow, trying to figure out Kieran's angle. Kieran frowned a little.

“You love people you can’t…or– you can, but society wouldn't much like it.” Mary-beth tilted her head, confused, though Kieran doubted she was; she was always smarter than she let on. No, he suspected she understood, but wanted to be sure first, before she confessed to something that could have her swung. “Yer preferences in a partner, miss. I'm like you.” Her eyes sparked as her suspicions were confirmed.

“Really? I–” she paused, her excitement quickly drowned with a look of apprehension, her bright smile falling. “I…I shouldn't be talkin’ to you…” she looked around nervously, as if at any second someone could burst through the barndoors, which, granted, they could.

“It's alright, miss. We can talk later, when I'm not in ropes.” Kieran extended the fingers of his tied-up hands to emphasise his point, doing tiny restrained jazz hands. “And I ain't an O’Driscoll, I hate those lot.” he smiled at her. She stared at him for a moment, looking for something. When she didn't see what it was she was looking for, or maybe she did? She smiled back, nodding as she snuck to exit through the back doors of the barn, behind Kieran. 

He listened as her boots softly clunked against the old wood, then the careful creaking of a door, and finally the crunch of thick snow as she walked away. If he listened closely, he could even hear her getting scolded by Ms. Grimshaw, defending herself by claiming she saw the biggest buck there ever was, a mighty majestic creature to see. 

She always did have a knack for storytelling. 

He sighed. He'd been so excited seeing Mary-beth that he forgot he wouldn't see anyone else until whatever time Arthur came to feed him. Which could be later. But could also be never. Arthur never actually said he would sneak in and secretly feed Kieran against Dutch's wishes…

He hoped he did.

He was starting to feel a little peckish. 

________________________________

Kieran groaned.

It was definitely past dinner time, and God was he starving…he forgot his last meal would be whatever he’d had before Arthur had captured him. Knowing Colm, that was probably days ago, possibly even a week. He was so busy trying not to die, he didn't even notice how hungry he was. He could feel his insides eating his other insides.

He forgot how terrible the starvation was…he really didn't want to go through that again…

A creaking door was all it took to flood him with relief, and it was clear in his voice, “Arthur, you actually came!” Kieran tried to whisper, but couldn't help the excitement of food raise his voice involuntarily. He was grinning from ear to ear.

“Shh! You want me to feed you or not? Quiet down before you get us both in trouble.” he scolded. He closed the door carefully, so as to not alert anyone that there was anyone within the barn besides the horses, and Kieran. Kieran watched hopefully as Arthur walked until he was about a foot in front of him, then reached down to pull a can from his satchel, and a knife from his sheath. He stabbed into the lid of the can, a small steam escaping from the opening, which exposed it to be filled with beans. Kieran's stomach flipped as he watched Arthur lick the knife clean of bean, before putting it back in its sheath. He reached back into his satchel, revealing a spoon, and scooped a small spoonful of the most delicious beans Kieran had ever laid eyes on. Arthur reached over, spoonful almost touching Kieran's mouth, before his hand froze in place, just out of reach. After a moment, Arthur finally asked, “You don't got nothin’, do you? This is my spoon, and I don't wanna catch nothin’ from you.”

Kieran looked at him in disbelief, then he scowled. Arthur only stood there, spoon still painfully out of reach, with a questioning brow raised and a soft frown. Kieran huffed.

Unbelievable. 

“No! No, I don't got nothin’! Now feed me!” he whined. He wanted the food. He wanted it now. Yesterday.

He waited for Arthur to move before he opened his mouth for the spoon. The food hit his tongue, and he moaned in delight. He swallowed eagerly as the delicious, downright scrumptious mush made its way down his throat. Arthur's face turned pink at the ungodly noises Kieran was making.

“You–” his voice cracked, he cleared his throat. “You gotta quiet down, someone's gonna hear.” Arthur withheld the next spoonful. Kieran stared intently at the spoon.

“Please, mister! I'll be quiet, promise!” he pleaded, and gave Arthur the most sad puppy-dog stare.

“Alright, alright, calm down. Was Colm not feedin’ you boys or somethin’?” Arthur chuckled, the color of his face having returned to a normal hue. Kieran knew Arthur was only joking, but he couldn't help wanting to confess to the truth of it.

“Yeah…can't remember the last time I ate. Must’ve been some days ago, but I've been given’ most’a my food to Branwen.” Kieran chuckled back, trying to add some levity to the now glum atmosphere. 

“Oh…I'm sorry ‘bout that…” 

After a beat of silence, Arthur brought another spoonful to Kieran's mouth, then another and another. Kieran was quiet while he ate, the initial excitement of that first bite having washed away into a soft contentment. He was enjoying his time, standing in silence, getting spoonfed by Arthur. It was a small happiness, and he knew it wouldn’t last, but he was grateful for it regardless. Arthur was surprisingly careful when feeding Kieran, blowing on each bite before giving it to him, making sure he didn't knock Kieran's teeth on the spoon, wiping away any juice that spilled from his lips with a cloth. It was a kindness Kieran wasn't expecting. 

Once the last of the beans were gone, Arthur wiped the spoon on his pant leg and put it, alongside the cloth, back in his satchel. “Thank you, mister.” Kieran said with a clear gratitude in his voice. Arthur grunted in response. “Same time tomorrow?” 

Arthur hummed in agreement and left, sneaking out the back as Mary-beth had done earlier.

Kieran was once again left all by his lonesome. 

He was antsy. Itching to do something. There was a reason he always got up at the crack of dawn; it wasn't just because of his trouble sleeping. Kieran always had trouble sitting still. He couldn't understand how others could just do that. He always had to be doing something, cleaning the tables, brushing the horses, fidgeting with his hands. It didn't matter what, just that he had to be doing. 

The horses around him huffed, and some started stomping on the ground. Suddenly, men started flooding into the barn, all leading their respective horses away. There was yelling outside, and from the windows, Kieran could see people running around, excitedly getting the horses prepared. Eventually, the men left, leaving a worrisome, uncharacteristic silence around the camp.

Oh, Kieran thought, it's time for the heist.

Chapter Text

It was well into the next day before the fleet of men returned from their failed heist, and several weeks before the gang prepared to move.

Kieran spent his time alone as he had before, doing nothing. Honestly, what was he to do? Anything to do with his hands was out of the question; they were tied. At some point, he found a tiny rock and was kicking it between his feet. This would have gone on for as long as he wanted, but of course, he accidentally kicked it to the far corner of the barn, well out of his reach. He pouted for an hour after that, still pissed about his only sense of entertainment, since Mary-beth and Arthur's nightly visits, now being gone. He was still pouting when a new visitor entered the barn.

The visitor, a tall, dark, stoic man, didn't say anything, but then again, Charles rarely talked unnecessarily. He walked over to Kieran and stared from a few feet away. Every now and then, he would glance back at the door, usually when the yelling outside got noticeably louder.

“We'll be moving soon.” He suddenly stated.

“O-oh…okay.” Kieran mumbled, not sure why he was being given this information in the first place.

“Somewhere warm, I heard.”

That would be nice, Kieran thought, to finally be out of the biting cold. But also out of the freezing barn.

“Okay, I ‘preciate you telling me.” he smiled at the other man, whose expression hadn’t left its stone-cold origin. But at Kieran's words, there was a small, almost inconceivable twitch to the corners of Charles’s mouth. A smile.

Charles nodded in acknowledgment, then went to stand by the wall next to the door.

He liked Charles; he was nice. He was honestly one of the most respectable men Kieran had ever met. He hoped Charles had left the gang after Kieran's death and lived an honest life. It seemed like something he'd always wanted, though he never said it. Kieran wished for that life too at some point, but eventually, he accepted he would never have it. 

Folks like him never did.

The doors swung open, and in entered Dutch. 

He whispered something to Charles, but Kieran was too far, the wind outside was too loud, and it was said too quietly for him to hear. The entire interaction, from Charles’ appearance to Dutch’s entrance, was new, and Kieran’s curiosity was killing him. Even after he tried to lean as close as he could against his restraints, he still couldn’t hear.

He stopped trying, however, when his arms started to protest against the strain. 

Dutch side-eyed him as he left. 

Charles walked over to Kieran, cutting him free of the post he was tied to, only to rebind his hands with a different rope. He brought him outside, and for a moment, Kieran was blinded by all the white light reflected off every inch of snow. 

After blinking the vision back into his eyes, he looked around. People were out and about, fussing with this and that, trying to decide what was worth packing and what was not. He spotted Mary-Beth arguing with Ms. Grimshaw about how many books she was allowed to bring. He also saw Tilly, sitting on a bench behind the two, silently observing the exchange. He suspected she would intervene if need be, but doubted it would come to that. 

Charles laid him in the wagon he would drive, surrounding Kieran with boxes of things, though he wasn't sure of what. He spent a good minute trying to sit himself up, and once he did, he looked back out at Colter as Uncle took a seat next to him.

He definitely would not miss this place, and the prospect of being closer to freedom made him excited. He smiled.

Unbeknownst to Kieran, Arthur glanced his way, smiling at the sight of him.

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Kieran was happy.

His feet were left untied, so he let them dangle off the back of the wagon, kicking them every so often. 

Everything is coming together, he thought.

He watched as the sharp white wasteland turned into soft, snowy trees turned into a lively, yet quiet forest. He forgot how beautiful New Austin was; he really did love the state. He couldn't help but feel giddy at the thought that soon he'd be back to his usual chores. He was surprised to find he actually missed the mundanity of the tasks, but not by much.

The repetition, the reliability, that he’d do the same thing every day was oddly…comforting. He was looking forward to doing it all again.

He watched the wagon behind his; Arthur and Hosea were in that one. He watched the men, observing their attire mostly. Hosea was still bundled up in his greenish-grey coat, much like Kieran was in his, but Arthur had opted to unbutton his coat, letting it open for the wind to blow freely.

Kieran’s eyes drifted south, toward the wheels of the wagon. One of said wheels was wobbling…rather concerningly. It looked…loose.

A memory resurfaced, a broken wheel plaguing his mind.

He should warn them, shouldn't he? It would be the nice thing to do, but then again…

CRACK–!

THUMP.

“Goddammit!”

Kieran ducked his head, hoping it would hide his smirk as he snickered. The first time this happened, he was too starved and frightened to notice the humor in it; he wasn't now.

His wagon slowed to a stop as the others surveyed the damage.

“ –broke the goddamned wheel…” he heard Arthur yell; the man sounded unusually embarrassed. He watched as Charles stopped and jumped down from his wagon to help fix Arthur’s, and Arthur took off his coat, rolling up his sleeves as he assessed the damage. As Kieran watched, he also happened to notice how Arthur's arms moved and flexed as he lifted the wheel, then slammed his weight into it to secure it. Sweat was dripping from his brow, and he huffed at the exertion. He unbuttoned a few more buttons on his shirt, sweat dripping down his collar. 

Kieran’s mouth suddenly felt much too dry. 

Seeing as the wheel was fixed, Arthur turned to the driver's seat of the wagon, but not before catching Kieran's still lingering gaze. 

Arthur glared at him. 

Kieran blushed, feeling rather embarrassed for having been caught staring. 

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It was a few days into the move, and Kieran was watching as everyone ate their share of Pearson's stew. The smells of fire, cooked rabbit, and carrot waft to his new post. He remembered the stew tasting…bad, but it at least smelled delicious. The taste was by no means awful, but it definitely wasn't good, yet Kieran still found himself missing the taste and drooling all the while. 

It was probably because someone hadn't been feeding him.

He glanced around at the faces by the fire until he found Arthur's. Surprisingly, he was actually at camp, and Kieran made a point to glare at the man who hadn't fed him in days. Arthur, seeming to have felt someone staring, looked up from his portion of stew. He was mid-bite when his searching gaze finally landed on Kieran between the wagons, and he smirked. 

The evil bastard smirked! Kieran couldn't believe it! Was his being upset, starving, really that funny?

He huffed and dropped his head in defeat; he wasn't getting fed tonight either. He suddenly found the dirt beneath him much more interesting.

There was a quiet shuffling, then quiet stomping. Before Kieran could lift his head, he heard, and just barely saw, someone spit at him. It landed right on one of his boots. He lifted his head to find he was face-to-face with a rather angry-looking Sadie Adler.

Ms. Adler was a terrifying woman, or at least, she was to Kieran. She held such an unapologetic, personal hatred for Kieran that she couldn't ever seem to get past. He really wanted her to, but she wouldn't. The only thing that seemed to ruin any relationship they could've had was the fact that he was an O’Driscoll, and what the O’Driscolls did to her, took from her, was unforgivable. Unforgettable. 

He didn't blame her, though; he understood, if only in a different way, what it was like to have your body violated in ways you never wished. To have things you'd never seen in your worst nightmares done to you. 

He had wished it never happened to her, or any of the others unfortunate enough to stumble across the O’Driscolls, but it did. Now there was nothing left to do but move past it, or at least try. He knew it would be hard, one of the hardest things she might ever do, but he's glad she did it before. He's glad Ms. Adler was accepted so easily into the gang; he's glad they helped her. They seemed to genuinely enjoy her company, and her them, they seemed to give her a new purpose after her farm. He's glad that at least she could be accepted into their family, could receive some support.

“I’m sorry, miss, for what them O’Driscolls’ done to you…” Kieran knew her wounds were recent and she’d yet to heal, but on some level, he did understand her pain. He wanted to help her, to be there for her, but he wanted her to help him, too.

“You shut your mouth. You don't get to speak to me, O’Driscoll.” she hissed.

“I'm sorry, miss– I really am! I–It's just…I know what it's like to be hurt by them…” he stuttered, not wanting to upset her more, but needing her to know. To know that he knew, if only a little; that he understood.

There was a pregnant pause before she let out a soft, almost unheard, whimper. “What could you know…?” she asked, disbelieving his words.

He thought for a moment. What did he know? Her pain wasn't like his. 

It was different, he knew that much. But they were both used, that much he knew, too. Their captors took pleasure in their pain, in their screams, in their begs of “please stop”. He remembered the hurt eventually being too much to bear until he didn't want to anymore. Until he wished to die. He had thought that maybe, maybe she had felt that way, too. Maybe she blamed herself for even having the thought, for having even been in that situation at all, for being too weak to fight back anymore, for wanting to end it all. He still felt guilty for thinking those things himself. He knew it wasn't his fault, he wasn't responsible for the actions of others…and he hoped Ms. Adler knew that, too.

“I know…it wasn't your fault. And if you gave up fighting after a while, that wasn't your fault, neither." he sighed as she glared. “If you wanted to die so it would be over, so it would stop, I wouldn't blame you for that. I would've felt the same– had felt the same. I understand, but it does get better.” He looked up to meet her narrowed eyes, to further convey the truth behind his words.

She stared back, scrutinizing every single one of his features, trying to find the lie in every detail of his skin, but there wasn't one, so she didn't find any. The corners of her eyes pricked with unshed tears, yet wide in understanding. “They…you too?” 

Kieran knew what she was asking, and although it would be a lie, he thought it better to let her believe otherwise. She needed a friend, a confidant, and he didn't think it would matter if the relationship was built on the misunderstanding. It wasn't like either of them was talking about their trauma anytime soon. At least he hoped not. 

A single nod was all it took to confirm her false suspicions. 

She nodded back, and they were both silent for a while. That is, until she dared ask a question she needed the answer to.

“Will I ever stop…feeling like this?”

“No,” he frowned. His answer was immediate. “But the feeling gets smaller, and most times you'll forget it's there.” He wasn't sure if it was true, but he hoped it was; he'd heard it was. 

It's been only weeks' worth of time since his torture, and sometimes he still felt its marks, but he wasn't there anymore, and he was grateful for it.

Ms. Adler smiled, a tiny, fragile thing, and walked away.

She was the scariest, most courageous woman Kieran had ever met, but even the most capable need help every now and then. He didn't doubt Ms. Adler would keep her pain to herself, but she shouldn't. Kieran would be her friend, someone she could confide in, besides Abigail or Arthur; she needed more people on her side than just them. Kieran didn't care if all that entailed was occasionally keeping her company during dinner or waving hello in the mornings; if that's all she ended up needing, then he'd give that to her. They didn't need to talk or hang out, not unless she wanted it.

He would do it because she needed it, and because he needed it, too.

They both needed someone there. Not necessarily to talk to, just to be there. Someone they knew knew, someone who understood without them having to talk about it, someone they could trust.

Happy with his results, he drifted to sleep, dreaming of plans for tomorrow.

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Some days have passed, and Kieran has decided he’d let Dutch wait long enough. Today was the day he'd finally “crack” and spill all his dirty little O’Driscoll secrets…and by “all” he really just meant Six Point Cabin.

It was rather early in the morning, about the time he would have usually woken up for his chores, so the only people he saw up and about were Hosea and a rather grumpy Arthur. 

A rather brilliant idea came to Kieran's head: since there was no one awake, there would be no one to catch Arthur feeding their prisoner… except maybe Hosea, of course. 

He watched as Arthur weaved between the many sleeping folk, eventually making it to the horses. He bent over one of the fences, about to pick up a saddle, likely his own, and Kieran considered it the perfect opportunity. 

“Hey…! Mister Morgan!” Kieran tried to whisper as loudly as he could. Arthur stopped, froze. He slowly unbent his back, returned his arms to his sides, then looked around. His brows were knitted in confusion, which made sense, seeing as how he and Hosea were the only ones awake, and the old man in question was currently sitting at one of the tables reading a crime novel. Arthur stood with one hand on his waist and the other scratching his jaw, trying to find whoever had requested his attention…that is, until his eyes landed on Kieran, then he scowled. Arthur sighed, then made his way over.

“What.” He asked bluntly, now directly in front of Kieran. 

“Ah–well, I just thought I'd tell y'all what I know. Reckon it’ll be more believable now.” Arthur raised a questioning brow at Kieran, seeming to know there was more he wanted to say. Which he did, “...and I'm rather peckish, too.” It was nothing to be embarrassed about; he hadn't eaten in days after all. But if the slight redness of his cheeks was anything to go by, he definitely was embarrassed. He shifted uncomfortably in his restraints; he could somehow feel the utter annoyance in Arthur's stare. He hated it.

Arthur huffed, relenting. “I got some peaches, and I got some rabbit. Pick.” He crossed his arms, staring at Kieran expectantly. 

Pick? He was supposed to…pick one? A choice for his meal…

He really wasn't expecting to be given a choice, options. He had always loved sweet things, but he knew the rabbit would be more filling, and he still needed to bulk up from his O’Driscoll days and his recent surprise fasting.

“Rabbit.” Kieran smiled, feeling rather happy with his decision. Arthur nodded; he wasn’t smiling, but he still looked pleased. He reached into his satchel, taking out a cloth bundle. Within the bundle were five small chunks of cooked meat, rabbit. He held the unfolded bundle in one hand and used the other to grab his knife. He stabbed into one of the chunks, then brought it to Kieran's mouth.

“Careful, don't wanna have to explain to Dutch why you got cuts in yer’ mouth,” he smirked. Kieran squinted at him, unimpressed. He leaned over until he could bite the chunk of meat off the knife. As he chewed, he noticed an unfamiliar flavor. The flavor itself wasn't weird; what was weird was that he was tasting it in meat.

“Is…is that…mint?” he asked between chews. Arthur paused. He was in the middle of stabbing another chunk, and his eyes widened slightly as he looked back at Kieran. He seemed surprised, but whether it was because Kieran mentioned the mint, or because he'd said anything about the food at all, he wasn't quite sure. 

“What? Is it bad?” Arthur asked defensively, his face dropping into a scowl.

“No, it's just…different. Wasn't expecting it s’all.” Kieran opened his mouth, having swallowed the previous chunk, and was waiting for the next. Arthur huffed, sounding a little…relieved? No, that couldn't be right. Kieran would have to get his ears checked next time he was in town. 

The next bite was slightly minty as well, so Kieran tried to savor it. He couldn’t remember ever having mint with his meat before, though he rarely added herbs or spices to his food to begin with.

“So, what was it you wanted to say? ‘Bout the O’Driscolls?” he asked, eyes focused on his task, though glancing briefly at Kieran as he spoke. Kieran swallowed before he answered, not wanting to choke on what little food he was offered.

“Oh. Well, they’re hold up in a place north-east of Valentine, called it Six Point Cabin.” Kieran opened his mouth for the third chunk, but Arthur didn’t make a move; instead, he seemed to be studying Kieran, eyes squinted in focus. Kieran closed his mouth when it became clear he wasn't getting more meat yet. Perhaps he would have to sweeten the deal…“Colm’ll be there.” he blurted, in a definitely non-suspicious manner. 

Arthur’s eyes widened slightly before returning to their scrutinizing squint. “Bull—shit.” he accused, which was fair; it did seem like a lie and, granted, Kieran knew Colm wasn’t actually there, so technically it was. It didn't matter, though, as long as they went there and Kieran weaseled his way into the gang yet again. It was a means to an end; Arthur just had to believe him. Trust him.

“I'm just telling you what I heard, not sayin’ it’s true.” Kieran tried to shrug, but his arms were bent in an angle that wouldn't allow it. He was slightly annoyed at the distrust, but it’s not like he’d built up the reputation he’d previously had with the man, as fragile as it was before. Arthur leaned closer, almost to an uncomfortable degree, and looked him in the eye. Kieran wanted to shrivel under the stare, but he didn’t, or at least he tried his hardest not to. It was a test, Kieran thought, one he wasn’t going to fail. They stayed like that for…longer than was comfortable.

Arthur leaned back, leaving Kieran’s space, and sighed at the floor. Kieran exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, relieved to have his space back. 

Arthur looked back at him, uncertainty written on his face. “Alright…I'll go tell Dutch then.” he gave Kieran one last chunk of minty rabbit before putting it all away, then walked to Dutch’s tent.

He stopped at the flaps, looking concerned. Hesitating. After a moment, he seemed to have built up the courage and entered the tent.

The camp was nearly silent now, save for the occasional horse huff or page turn. The silence made it easier to eavesdrop, Kieran discovered. It was faint, but if he strained his ears, he could just make out what they were saying. 

“Got the O’Driscoll to talk.” Arthur said, sounding rather meek, uncharacteristically so.

“Is that so? And how did you manage that, son?” There was an accusation hidden in his tone.

Then a moment of silence. 

“We've been starving him weeks for this, haven’t we? Was only a matter of time ‘fore he talked.” Kieran let out a sigh of relief; he didn’t think they’d have to make up a lie about why he had talked.

There was another pause in the conversation, and if Kieran had to wager a guess, it would be that Dutch was thinking about it. He was surprised, really; Arthur was Dutch’s right-hand man, or at least Kieran thought so. He would have thought Dutch would jump at any opportunity to gut Colm, especially if it came from Arthur. But he didn’t. Instead, he was suspicious. 

It meant something, Kieran knew, but he wasn’t sure what yet.

While he was stuck in his own thoughts, Arthur and Dutch must have finished their conversation, because they were both leaving the tent and walking towards Kieran.

Arthur branched off, heading towards the other tents, presumably to gather a posse for the trip. Dutch continued his stride towards Kieran until he was a few feet to the left of him.

Kieran swallowed, a nervous lump having formed in his throat. He really didn’t want them to try and geld him again.

“Arthur tells me you know where Colm O’Driscoll is?”

“Yes’m, sir.” he averts his eyes, he can't be caught in a lie. 

Dutch lets out an unimpressed 'humf', then his head snaps to something left of him.

Kieran peers around the Chuck wagon to see Arthur jogging into view, followed by John and…Javier? Not Bill?

It seems Kieran’s few actions have already changed things; he just hopes the rest of today won’t be a headache. 

He suspects it will.

Chapter Text

Arthur cuts the ropes restraining Kieran. 

While he walks to his horse, Kieran absent-mindedly rubs his sensitive wrists. It had been a while since he was free of his restraints. The last time would have been during Jack's party, before the O’Driscolls grabbed him, and he wasn't counting his struggle in the snow as being “free”; so a month, though possibly several. He's not quite sure how much time had passed as he repeatedly died in the snow. 

An involuntary shiver ran through him at the thought. 

He made his way to John’s horse, because surely that wouldn’t change, too?

“Hey, Arthur,” Javier called. Arthur stood by his horse, a hand resting on his saddle, as Javier jogged over. Kieran hovered by John’s horse while he waited.

“Here,” Javier handed over a small leather pouch. Arthur unwrapped it to find eight throwing knives inside. “Dutch told me to give ‘em to you.” 

Arthur smiled. “Thanks, Javier.” He tucked the pouch into his saddle bag.

“No problem, Arthur.” he smirked, then looked at John, who was carrying his saddle to his horse. “You ready to go?” John nodded while he secured the saddle straps.

“You better be. You're carrying the O’Driscoll.” Arthur ordered. He eyed Kieran wearily, seeming to contemplate his next words. “Any nonsense…kill ‘im.”

Kieran was a bit hurt by the comment, but he understood. It didn't matter if Arthur had been feeding him and listening to his tales of woe; he was still an unknown. He was untrustworthy. 

He'd make sure to change that soon.

John huffed in annoyance, rolling his eyes. “Sure, Morgan.”

The four mounted up on their respective steeds. Kieran looked longingly at Branwen before he hopped onto Old Boy. He was thankful no one brought attention to John having to help him up; he wasn't used to mounting a horse this big. He glanced at Arthur’s horse, a bulky black shire who was much larger than any other at camp, and Kieran couldn't even begin to imagine how he'd get on that monster. Shires were already among the biggest horses, but Kieran wouldn't be surprised if Arthur’s was above average in size; it looked rather large even by shire standards. He wondered what the big beast's name was, and made a note to ask once they got back to camp…if he remembered.

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They were halfway there, and it was an unusually quiet ride. They rode side by side, the silence broken up occasionally by Kieran's directions, but nothing else. He remembered the conversations throughout the trip in his first life; was it so quiet this time because Bill was there before, and now he wasn't? 

Arthur didn't seem interested in talking, eyes focused solely on the path ahead. Javier looked like he wanted to say something, but now apparently wasn't the time, so he instead kept briefly glancing Arthur’s way. John, however, was growing restless, Kieran could tell. From the muscles under Kieran's hands tensing, to the impatient tapping of John's finger against the lead in his grip. The man was going to say something; it was just a matter of time. 

That time was apparently soon.

“So…he's taking us to Colm?” John finally blurted. 

Kieran found himself surprised again at the changes. John originally asked this at the beginning of the trip, but this time it was halfway through. Since it was always him who started the conversation, it couldn't have been because of Bill not being present. There must have been something about Javier being here that ushered silence. At least in John.

Arthur sighed, seeming annoyed at the, frankly, weird silence having been broken. “That's what he says…” his eyes flicked to John, then Kieran, then back at the land ahead.

This time, John was the one who sighed. “Can’t believe I'm sharing saddle with an O’Driscoll…” he grumbled. 

“I ain't an O’Driscoll.” Kieran said, allowing a little annoyance to leak into his voice. He pointed over a hill to his left. “Go left ‘round here.” Javier looked at him with an unknown expression, though something in it unsettled Kieran.

John looked over his shoulder, “You sure look like one, and–” he turned, slightly sideways in his saddle, and sniffed. He made a face as he did so, as if to make a point. “You smell like– goddamn. You smell like one, too.”

Kieran heard Javier snicker quietly. 

“I smell like horse shit.” he said bluntly, trying to resist the smile tugging at his lips. Javier let out a surprised snort, while Arthur smirked. 

The air around the men felt lighter, less tense, less weird, and Kieran was grateful for it. It gave him a new sense of courage to right old wrongs, to correct past statements.

“Y’know, y’all are nothin’ like the O’Driscolls,” Kieran said. He knew the truth now, and if he got on their good side while stating it, he'd consider it an added bonus.

“Is that so?” Arthur raised a questioning brow.

Kieran hummed. “Y’all are like a family. You care for each other, you worry for each other, you fight for each other. O’Driscolls ain't like that, they're out for themselves, die for themselves…” he trailed off near the end, losing his prior conviction, but his words still seemed to get the point across. The three men turned to look at him, each giving their own sign of approval at his words: John grunted, Javier nodded, and Arthur smiled. The three then turned back to the path. 

There was a puff of smoke poking out from the tops of the trees ahead. Six Point Cabin was just beyond them.

Kieran's freedom was only a few trees away.

He tells the three to leave their horses here, because the cabin and all the O’Driscolls it inhabits are just over the hill ahead. He couldn't bear an innocent horse being caught in the crossfire, and although those words went unspoken on his lips, his face must've been telling; Arthur nodded and gave him an understanding smile. Kieran couldn't help his mood brightening, if only a smidgen.

The four of them crept up the hill, stopping just at the edge to keep hidden. After deciding on a plan, Arthur and Javier moved. They weaved between what was and wasn't, taking down three guards silently with their knives. 

The only sound to be heard was distant laughter and bodies quietly landing on grass.

The fourth body landed with a loud thud, crinkling on leaves underneath.

The clearing erupted into chaos.

Heads whipped around to face the intruders.

“We got company!” A man, an O’Driscoll, said as he dived behind a crate. The sound, the voice, broke something in Kieran. There was a carefully locked door, one he would never open, one that rarely rattled. One that he ignored.

The lock was broken, and the door was now slowly creaking open.

Kieran's breath picked up, his adrenaline firing, though there was nowhere for it to go because he was stuck standing there. 

His nerves burned.

John was standing with his back to a tree, leaning out only to shoot. 

Three bodies fell.

Javier was behind a barrel doing the same. 

Two bodies fell.

Arthur was in the thick of it, firing as he ran, sliding behind a wooden board and shooting all the while. 

Four bodies fell.

There was a crunch of foliage behind Kieran. He was at the top of the hill, still hiding, and what he thought was away from the danger. He was too far for any of his captors to come help him, but it's not like they would even if he called. 

They weren't going to save him.

“Well, looky ‘ere!” Kieran whipped around at the snarl heard behind him; it had a distinct Irish inflection to it. 

A sharp, dread-filled cold inched its way into the edge of Kieran's being. He fell backwards, peering up at the figure now above him. His breathing getting faster and faster and faster.

Suddenly, he wasn't in a forest anymore.

He was in a room. 

A pitch black room. 

No windows. 

One door. 

There was a lamp that flickered, but only when they were there. Only when they were going to hurt him, when they wanted to peel skin from muscle, and muscle from bone, and watch as the blood pooled and pooled before finally spilling out. They were Irish, like all O’Driscolls, they always were. He could hear the accent in every denial they gave when Kieran asked for food or water or a break.

‘No more, please.’

He heard it in their cackles that seemed to stab his skin without ever having to touch him at all, because sometimes that's all they needed to do to hurt him.

‘I can't anymore.’

He didn't want to be here anymore; he thought he was done, he thought he had escaped it. Was it a dream? He hadn't died; he was still here. A gift his mind gave him so he wouldn't be here?

The edges were fuzzy, but there was a man kneeling before him, above him, dressed in O'Driscoll green. Kieran's eye flicked to the knife held over the man’s head, preparing to stab.

He was going to carve into him, and all he could do was watch and take it. It's all he could ever do. He couldn't ever do anything because his hands were tied and–

His hands weren't tied.

With all the force he could muster, he hurled his fist into the man’s jaw and scambled backwards. The man stumbled to the side, having to brace himself against the dirt for balance, momentarily stunned. He clutched his jaw with his hand as Kieran tried to collect himself.

The light that shone around the man's blurred edges wasn't from a lantern in the corner of a room; it was the sun, and Kieran was outside. He was surrounded by trees and flowers and sky. He took in a deep breath, as much as his lungs seemed to protest, and smelled. To his relief, he didn't smell blood, or piss, or rot; he smelled earth and grass and life. He could feel the leather on his feet, the cloth on his back, the skin still on his bones.

He wasn't in a dark room.

He was in a forest.

He was at Six Point Cabin.

Arthur was going to need him.

Kieran's focus, although momentarily lost to him, snapped to the man in front of him. He needed to focus. He needed to live. The man ahead was slowly stalking closer with no concern in his eyes. He must've seen that Kieran was unarmed. 

Kieran stumbled backwards, trying to stand. “I don't want no trouble.” He searched for something, anything, he could use as a weapon. The horses were long since gone, and a twig wouldn't do. He peered over his shoulder, and a relieving sight caught his eye. Behind him, further down the hill, was an abandoned firearm. 

A gun.

Kieran was too far to see what kind of gun it was, but he needed a weapon now and couldn't afford to be picky. 

The looming threat was ever-present, stalking towards him. “Sure you don't. Now com’ere boy.” The drawling voice made Kieran flinch, but he didn't freeze. He couldn't. His body wanted to, it didn't want to move, but it also wanted to run; it wanted to escape but it was too afraid to. 

He breathed in…and out…in…out.

He stopped, spinning on his heel, and made a mad dash down the hill to the gun. It wasn't a far sprint, but there was still an active shootout, and he couldn't get caught with a bullet in his arm. Not after he's started to make progress.

The body was near, nestled between two crates. Kieran dove, grabbing the gun out of the corpse's hand and scrambling behind one of the crates. The man with the knife was running at him.

He had time for one shot. One shot before the man gutted him.

He breathed in, bringing the sight of the gun, a revolver, to his eye. 

He steadied his shaking hands, training his aim on the man, pulling back the hammer. 

The gunfire around him muffled into silence as he focused.

He breathed out.

BANG–!

A single body fell.

Blood pooled around the hole in its head, muscle and skin fraying at the edges. 

Kieran sighed in relief. He peeked over the crate at the firefight behind him, though it was a sorry excuse for one. Near the right side, John and Javier were stuck behind some planks, shooting at the only two O’Driscollls left. They wouldn't need help, especially not his. Kieran turned his attention to the cabin. Arthur was about to open the door.

Kieran leapt up to his feet, sprinting to the cabin. A man burst through the door, shoving Arthur to the ground. Kieran lifted his revolver and aimed. The man lifted his own weapon in turn at the man beneath him.

BANG–!

A single body fell…on top of Arthur.

“You alright there?” Kieran looked down at the man on the floor, offering him a hand up. Arthur stared for a moment before reaching up tentatively to grab Kieran's hand. His brows were knit in confusion, but his eyes were wide in shock. Kieran wasn't supposed to be here, with a gun, or alive.

He pulled him up, his hand firmly gripped on Arthur’s, their grasp lingering longer than it probably should have. The other man's hand felt warm in Kieran's, and he almost didn't want to let go, but eventually, he did. Kieran smiled at Arthur as he grumbled a ‘sure…thanks’. 

Kieran walked around him and entered the cabin, carefully stepping over the body blocking the doorway. “What–?” Arthur questioned, likely about where the hell Kieran thought he was going. He made a move to grab him, but Kieran was already well within the cabin before he could.

“There's a stash in the chimney.” Kieran answered, walking around a table and ignoring the bills strewn about. Arthur grabbed his hat off the floor, where it had been knocked off, and followed.

Arthur peered into the cabin, noticing a rather distinct lack of Colm O’Driscoll inside. “Colm ain’t here. You said he’d be here.” he sneered, accusation laced in his tone. “You set us up?” he sneered at Kieran, moving across the room to quickly close the distance between them.

Kieran scoffed, turning and raising his hands in mock surrender. “I never said he’d be here, just that I heard some talk.” he thought about earlier, scowling at Arthur and lowering his arms. “And I saved your life!” he snapped, annoyed, and walked towards the fireplace.

Arthur stood close behind Kieran as he picked up the shotgun displayed on the mantle and turned back to him. Arthur’s hand flinched near his holster at the movement. “Here, reckon you’re better with it than I am. ” Kieran offered, holding the gun out to the other man by the barrel.

Arthur looked at Kieran, then at the gun, and took it with a mumbled “Thanks.”

Kieran shrugged, “prefer rifles anyway,” he added, then turned and reached up and into the chimney.

“Arthur?” someone called from outside.

“In the cabin!” Arthur yelled back. 

Javier peeked into the doorway, followed by John.

“Hey, the O'Driscolls miss–” Javier cut himself off, letting out an ‘oh’ after noticing Kieran arm deep in the fireplace. Kieran shifted, feeling around the inside of the chimney's walls at a different angle.

“...What's he doin’?” John smirked. Kieran paused, intending to answer, but closed his mouth once he noticed Arthur was going to. Arthur opened his mouth to answer, but John interrupted before he even had a chance to speak a word. “Looks like he’s reaching up a poor woman’s skirt.” he snickered, as Javier quietly chuckled. Arthur only looked at them, an unimpressed brow raised.

“Shut up, Marston." He huffed, though there was no real heat behind it. From the corner of his eye, Kieran could see a mischievous smirk starting to form on Arthur's lips. “Not like you've been under a lady's skirt before.” he sniggered.

“I–” John baulked, while Javier started cackling. A surprised snicker escaped Kieran as he watched the scene unfold.

“He–he's got you there, John! Your only pr–proof is that boy you keep saying isn't yours!” Javier struggled between fits of laughter, his weight partially supported by a hand on the table, the other clutching his side. John only huffed in annoyance. Arthur remained smirking, having won this tiny battle, Kieran supposes. 

Kieran went back to the task at hand, feeling the edges of stone until they turned into edges of paper. “Ah! Got it!” Kieran ripped his hand down giddily and started counting the bills. Javier and John made their way around the table to see what was in Kieran's hands, while he proudly presented the bills before them. Arthur let out a whistle.

“Good job, O’Driscoll.” Arthur gave an approving clap on Kieran’s shoulder, and Kieran couldn’t help the warmth spreading to his cheeks at the act, smiling widely at the man who caused it. Arthur nodded and turned away, handing the other men their cuts of the found cash.

They exited the cabin, each whistling for their own horses. Arthur turned to Kieran as the others mounted up.

He opened his mouth, no doubt to tell Kierran to scram, and that wouldn't do, so Kieran spoke before he could.

“I'm one of you now. If you leave me out here, it’s just as good as killin’ me.” he interjected. He looked past Arthur's shoulder to John and Javier, hoping they'd agree with him, knowing John hadn’t exactly disagreed last time. “I saved your life, Arthur Morgan,” he jabbed a finger to Arthur's chest, “You owe me.” Arthur scowled, and Kieran retreated the offending hand to cross his arms. 

He unhunched his back to stand at his full height and lifted his chin, trying to show his conviction. Trying to make it clear he wasn't backing down. Arthur had to look slightly up to reach Kieran’s eyes now, scowling intensifying as he did. Kieran often forgot that he was actually taller than Arthur by a few inches, but it was hard to remember with the man being the intimidating figure that he was, and Kieran always subconsciously slouching.

“He's right, Morgan.” John added reluctantly. Javier only watched, though he scowled at Kieran. Arthur sighed in annoyance, pinching the bridge of his nose as he looked down at the dirt. 

“Fine.” Arthur finally grumbled. Kieran nodded, trying not to show the relief on his face. 

He jumped back onto Old Boy, and the four started to make their way back to camp.

________________________________

They had just passed Valentine when Kieran finally decided to get a look at the gun that had saved both his and Arthur’s lives. He wasn’t sure what happened to him at Six Point Cabin, but he knew he didn’t want it happening ever again. For a moment, he was there again, in that room with no light. He felt the fear and the desperation, and he couldn’t feel that again. He couldn’t afford it happening again, especially not when lives were on the line. He couldn’t afford it. He won't let it happen again. He won’t be the reason someone dies.

He held the gun carefully in his palms as he examined it. It was a Schofield revolver; the metal was a dark silver, with flowers engraved in blackened steel, and a grip made of ebony. It was a rather pretty, and no doubt expensive, gun. He hummed in appreciation. He'd have to get a second holster somewhere so he could carry his new revolver around, as well as his own, which the gang had taken away when they captured him. 

“Watch where you're pointing that thing, O’Driscoll.” Javier sniggered. Arthur turned to see what he was talking about, his eyes squinting in focus as he examined the revolver from afar. 

"Now, where did you get that?” he asked, amused, before turning to look at the road ahead. It was a fair question; Kieran wasn’t supposed to have a gun, they’d made sure of that.

He shrugged, eyes not leaving the revolver. “Grabbed it off one of the dead ’ns.” He idly traced a finger over one of the engraved flowers, following the curves of a stem. It really was quite a pretty gun. 

Arthur scoffed, but gave a friendly smile. “It’s a nice gun. Schofield?”

Kieran hummed in approval. “It’s too fancy to leave behind, so I'll just keep it. Could sell it off later.” He looked at Arthur with a playful grin. “That is if y’all let me. When are you gonna give me back my cattleman, anyways?”

Arthur shook his head, an amused breath escaping him. “D’you even have a holster for a second gun?” Kieran looked at him with a raised brow.

“Don’t you know the answer to that already? Y’all searched me head to toe when you took me.” he smirked as Arthur glanced over his shoulder for a brief look.

Arthur looked skyward, hiding his grin, and hummed. “I guess so.”

Chapter Text

Kieran landed on the ground with a grunt, dust sent flying from beneath his boots.

He took a deep breath, trying to push the nauseous pang back down his gut.

He felt like shit.

He had almost escaped the guilt that always overcame him after killing someone, but of course, he had to go and think about it. He had missed that sweet spot, that point between during and after, where he could push away that feeling before it latched on, but he didn't, so now he felt guilty.

He had killed a man, two men. They had families, and if not, someone who would surely miss them, and Kieran had killed them. He hated killing people; it always left him with a disgusting feeling deep in his throat. 

He hated it.

In the moment, he could push it down, ignore it, pretend it wasn't there…but after?

After always left him feeling sick.

He knew it was either him or them, and they were terrible men who didn't deserve life, but neither argument made him feel any better; they never did. Not even after all the years spent trying to convince himself it was enough, because it would never be enough. What could possibly be enough for another's life? 

This was why he fled the army, because he couldn’t stand the endless killing. Those were the worst few years of his life.

He felt like shit and needed a reason not to.

While Arthur, Javier, and John untacked their horses behind him, he surveyed the camp from where he stood. Hosea was still reading at the table, and Kieran idly wondered if the man had moved at all since this morning. Abigail was watching Jack play in the dirt near the main campfire, and Uncle was taking a nap against a log. 

Kieran looked around until he finally saw who he was looking for: Mary-Beth. She was sitting at her usual spot by the girls' wagon, writing in her journal. Tilly and Karen were sitting and talking to her left, likely gossiping or complaining about Ms. Grimshaw's latest scolding.

He started towards the girls' wagon, but was yanked back by the collar before he could take more than two steps.

“Where d’you think you’re goin’?” Kieran turned to see that Arthur was the one who had grabbed him; his neck felt warm where his fingers grazed him. He wiggled around as the man in blue spoke, “We still gotta see Dutch about your more permanent stay.”

Kieran stopped trying to writhe out of Arthur's grip once he realized he wasn't getting out of it unless Arthur wanted him to. 

He huffed an annoyed breath as Arthur let go, but still followed him to Dutch's tent. 

Arthur pushed the tent flaps aside, allowing the four to enter. Dutch was at his desk; important, or at least what Kieran assumed were important, papers strewn about. Dutch turned at the sound of visitors, looking each of them over before asking, “Well?” With a questioning brow raised. 

Suddenly, Kieran remembered why his initial statement about the Van Der Linde gang was the way it was. Yes, Dutch's gang was a family, where Colm’s was a group of savages, but there was one important similarity. Both gangs were led by men with a strong personality; a man whose honeyed words are just what you'd want to hear, making you ignore any faults or flaws or mistakes, and doing as you’re told. 

Failure is never theirs, always yours, and they never let you forget it. 

You only regret it. 

Fear it.

Arthur cleared his throat.

“Colm wasn't there, but the O’Driscoll wants t’stay.” Arthur avoided Dutch's eyes, hiding them beneath the brim of his hat. He looked uncomfortable, likely because the trip was a partial failure, even if they did return with lots of cash. He notices John also seems uncomfortable, tapping his fingers against his pant leg where they rest by his side. Javier only stood behind the two with a scowl.

Dutch hums as he glares at Kieran. “And why should he stay?”

“He…” Arthur's eyes flicked briefly to Kieran, “he saved my life when he could’ve easily run off,” he says wearily. Kieran winced at the reminder of his latest shame; he didn't regret saving Arthur's life, he regretted it having to cost another theirs.

Javier huffs. 

“He did. That means something,” he added reluctantly, which surprised Kieran; Javier wasn't one to easily trust, and to vouch for Kieran? It was even more of a shock. 

Dutch turns to Kieran with calculating eyes, looking him up and down, lingering on the revolver still in his holster. His stern expression suddenly turned into a jovial grin, though it didn't meet his eyes. It sent a shiver down Kieran's spine.

“Well! We could always use more guns, and I'm sure Mr. Duffy, here, would make a fine addition to our family!” he clapped his hands once and stood to walk over to the four. He patted Kieran on the shoulder, then turned to face Arthur. “I sent Charles and Bill out near Blackwater, Trelawny told me he saw Sean there. I want you to go and help them,” he said, smile never wavering.

Arthur nodded, leaving the tent to prepare for his travels. 

John and Javier also left, but when Kieran tried to follow, he was stopped by a firm hand on his wrist.

What was it with men grabbing him today?

“You're one of us now, don't forget that.” 

Kieran nodded, a bit quicker than intended, and gave his head a brief, tiny ache from the jostling. “Yes’m Mr. Van Der Linde.” Dutch let go of his wrist and returned to his desk, waving his hand in a gesture of dismissal. Kieran turned on his heel and exited the tent.

He looked around, seeing Arthur had already packed up and left, and turned to make his way over to the girls' wagon

As he approached, Tilly and Karen stopped their conversation and both gave him a confused look, but it didn’t hold any animosity. He ignored it and gave them a placating smile before continuing his stride. 

He stood in front of Mary-Beth, the cloth awning above shading her from the evening sun. He heard Karen and Tilly murmuring next to him, wondering what Kieran could possibly want from Mary-Beth.

“Excuse me, Mary-Beth?” 

She snapped her book shut in surprise, causing Kieran to jump from the sudden motion and sound. She looked up at him with what could only be described as glee. “It's you! I didn’t think they’d let you go, let alone live!” She smiled brightly at him and patted the spot next to herself in invitation. He smiled back, taking the offered seat and sitting crisscrossed, holding his ankles with his hands.

“What’re you readin’?” he pointed to the book, and her smile widened.

“Oh– it’s actually something I've been writing myself! It's about a woman who lost her husband to a duel, but once she catches up to his killer, she–“ Mary-Beth cuts herself off, seeming to consider something. “Well…I don't want to spoil it for you. Would you want to read it after I'm done with it?” she asked, eyes looking at him intently. 

Kieran stifled a laugh.

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to, miss.” he lowered his gaze and started picking at the grass by his feet, suddenly feeling rather embarrassed. 

Mary-Beth let out a ‘hmmf’.

"I could teach you if you want…?” she asked uncertainly. 

Kieran remembered the journal he had, how it must hold secrets of the future, secrets he needed to know. He might not need it now, but…what if he missed something? Something crucial. Something that happened in the beginning, that led to only more and more deaths? Knowing he could have had the knowledge to save someone, but didn't because he just couldn't be bothered to learn how to read, well, it was definitely a motivating reason to learn.

“Yes, please.” he tried not to let the desperation be heard in his words, but he must’ve failed if the brief pitying look from Mary-Beth said anything. She nodded, then reached behind into her pile of books, supposedly looking for one meant to teach literacy. She turned back around, holding what must have been the aforementioned book.

They spent the rest of the day going over the letters of the alphabet and how to spell each other's names. He felt a bit embarrassed to be learning how to read so late in life, but somehow, Mary-Beth made his pride in learning outshine the shame of not knowing.

He was glad to have her to talk to again.

________________________________

Kieran spent the next two days doing his usual chores, only now he had the additional task of reading with Mary-Beth; though, it didn't feel like much of a task, seeing as how he enjoyed it very much. They read whenever she could spare the time, which, luckily for him, was most of the day.

“She raged. Yet, even in her anger, she felt something welling up inside her. A pain even worse than grief–” Mary-Beth read aloud from the page in her personal journal, it was one of the stories she had written herself. She held Kieran's hand, guiding it to each word as she spoke it. His eyes were glued to the page as he started putting letters to words to sounds. “–a reality that has punished women since the dawn of time. Love. She was in love with a murderer.” She stopped reading, though still held his hand at the word they had left off on, and turned to face him. “You try now, starting here.”

Kieran looked up from the page at her with worry. “I-I’m not so sure about that. I don't…” think I can do it, is what he wants to say. He doesn't think he's ready, and he doesn't want to disappoint Mary-Beth. 

Almost as if hearing his thoughts, she gives him a reassuring smile and nudges the book closer. 

He sighs, looking down at the word his finger rests on.

“H–er hu…” Well shit, Kieran thought morosely, he's already struggling. What was that, one word? He'd managed to read one word before hitting a wall.

His brows furrowed in concentration, trying, and unfortunately failing, to figure out what the god awful string of letters before him read.

He knew, he knew, learning to read was a terrible idea. He knew he would only disappoint Mary-Beth with his inevitable show of stupidity, but did he listen to his own doubts? Of course not. Why would he ever bother with such a thing?

At his prolonged silence, Mary-Beth glanced up at him. “Having trouble?” she asked, as if it weren't the most devastating thing Kieran had experienced today.

He gave a small nod, his cheeks pink from embarrassment. “I'm sorry, Mary-Beth. I'm a fool, a stupid, stupid fool,” he sighed.

Mary-Beth did not degrade him, not for his failure, not for his stupidity; she only took her journal, flipped to an empty page, and started writing. Kieran lifted his eyes where they had been glued to the too-long word, and looked now at the newly written three letters.

“You’re not stupid, you just had a little…bump in the road.” She gave him a small smile. “Everyone has trouble sometimes.”

Kieran snorted.

“Miss, I have trouble all the time,” he said with a sad smile.

She sighed, shaking her head with a frown.

“Well, I don't rightly care, Kieran Duffy. So what if you fail?” When he only gives her an incredulous look, she adds, “You’re a smart man, truly. Just because you have trouble with some things other folk don't, it doesn't mean you’re less smart, and it doesn't make you stupid.” She stared at him intently, searching for his acceptance in her statement. He didn't, because why would what she said be true? She continued, “Kieran, do you think people are just born knowing things? ‘Cause they're not. Everyone has to learn everything. Me and Arthur and Hosea and Everyone. Learning doesn't make you stupid, or a fool; I'd say it makes you smarter than most, ‘cause at least you’re trying, and trying takes a lot more smarts than not.”

Kieran mulled over her words in his head. He supposed it was a little silly. He had to learn how to take care of horses, too. Before he had his current knowledge, he would always get frustrated at the seemingly sporadic behavior of the creatures. He knew, now, that there was almost always a sign of irritance before action; he only knew that because he kept hanging around the horses, trying to figure them out, learn. Eventually, he did, though it did cost him a couple bruises, and he supposed reading could be like that, too…minus the bruises.

“Alright,” he said quietly, accepting.

Mary-Beth nodded.

“Failure isn't a bad thing, just leads to bad things, but there's always a chance to fix things after,” she assures, and holds his pointed hand to the three large letters she’d written on the otherwise empty page. “Sound this out,” and he did, making a ‘hus’ sound. “Good. now…” she placed her pencil on the page again, writing four more letters on the page next to it and directing Kieran's hand. “Do this one.” 

“B–an–d.”

“Yes, good. Now put the two words together.”

“Hus–band. Husband.”

“Yes! You can do this with other large words, too. Break them apart and figure them out separately, before putting them together again. They're just a couple of smaller words or sounds. Eventually, you won't need to do this anymore, and they'll be just as easy to read as the small words.” She beamed at him, and he couldn't help but join her in her joy. “You're a quick learner.”

A quick learner.

She had called him smart and a quick learner, and he swelled with pride at the praise. It gave him a strange giddiness to hear someone talk about him in a positive light.

Mary-Beth never spoke to him condescendingly, never rushed him, never made him feel bad for struggling. She only praised him for his successes, reassured him of his struggles, took things slow, and Kieran was grateful for it. He would have to repay her one day, though he wasn't sure yet how he could repay something so meaningful to him. 

He wouldn't worry about it yet, however. Now, he'd just sit with her and read. He would read with her until he was as good at this as he was with horses, because he believed he could, because she believed he could.

He was a quick learner after all.

________________________________

It was noon when Arthur finally returned from his mission to rescue Sean, looking glum and disheartened.

He rode into camp with a bleeding body slumped on his back. 

Bill looked like a kicked dog, and Sean, riding on top of Taima, looked no better.

The three entered camp smelling of blood and defeat.

Ms. Grimshaw, the girls, and Swanson rushed to Arthur’s side. They helped carry the body, whom Kieran now identified as Charles, to Arthur’s cot. 

Thankfully, Charles was alive. 

He'd been shot in the shoulder, and the wound was bad. If Ms. Grimshaw had any say, which she very much did, Charles would spend the next week at least, resting and healing in bed. 

Bill grabbed a bear and sat by the fire, Sean drudged over to Dutch’s tent to bear the news, and Arthur quietly made his way to the scouts' fire, which Kieran was already sitting at.

Arthur looked tired, sad, as he sat against a rock next to the one Kieran was currently seated on.

Kieran wanted to make him feel better, but he didn’t know how. He didn't really know Arthur all that well, besides the fact that he liked horses as much as him, and drinking…possibly shooting as well, though that was more of a theory which seemed disproven by those sad eyes of his.

The other man took out his journal with a sigh and started scribbling away. Kieran wondered what he was writing, but thought it was most likely about the events of his absence.

What did happen?

He wanted to ask, but the words died on his tongue, so instead he sat in silence and went back to cleaning the saddle.

It wasn't a bad silence, not awkward in the least, just a bit…morose.

It must’ve been hours before Arthur finally put his journal away, slouching against the large rock and tipping his hat, shading his eyes from the sun. 

Kieran had already finished cleaning the previous saddle, having put it away, and was now working on his second. He listened to Arthur’s quiet snoring, a sound he found oddly comforting, but he won't dwell on why.

Something small and hard bounced off Kieran's forehead. 

He looked at the dirt below him to find a pebble at his boot. Looking back up, he found Jack standing across from him by the fire, holding a tiny pile of pebbles in his tiny hands.

He throws another pebble.

“Could you stop that?”

“No.” Jack throws another pebble.

“Why are you throwing rocks at me?” he sighs.

“You're an O’Driscoll, and Uncle Arthur says O’Driscolls are bad,” he says mid-throw. The pebble lands on the saddle in Kieran’s lap. The rocks didn't hurt, given that they were small and being thrown by a little boy, it was just rather annoying, and Kieran was trying to work.

“Well, that is true, O’Driscolls are bad, but I'm not an O’Driscoll,” he chuckles. Jack looks at him like he’s the filthiest liar he’s ever seen, and throws another pebble. “If I'm an O’Driscoll, then why would Arthur trust me enough to sleep next to me? Wouldn’t he be worried about me hurtin’ him while he's so defenseless?” There's a quiet, humored snort next to him, but he ignores it. 

Jack seems to contemplate this, looking at Arthur, who is indeed sleeping next to Kieran as he stated, and accepts the argument easily. He drops the pebbles, grabs a stick, and sits on the dirt between Kieran and Arthur’s rocks, though he sat noticeably closer to Arthur. 

Kieran blinks, a bit surprised, but goes back to his work.

He thinks back to the party, the one in celebration of Jack's return. How, before the boy's rescue, John was running around, worried sick. It seemed like he’d only realized what he could’ve had once he’d lost it: a son. During the party, Kieran had overheard him actually try to be a part of the boy's life, or at least said as much to Abigail.

“Y’know, your pap– dad loves you. He's just too scared of losing you to try showin’ it,” he says, wiping a wetted cloth down the surface of the saddle, exposing its sheen beneath the grime. 

Jack's digging his stick into the dirt, drawing an image unknown to anyone but him.

“Really?” Jack looks at him expectantly, eyes wide and sparkling with hope, but still lingering with an expected disappointment.

“Yep.” Kieran responds, his mouth popping the ‘p’. “You should go find your mom, she’s prob’ly wondering where you are, worried sick I bet.” he smiles down at the boy, who looks excitedly at him before scampering off. Kieran watches as he weaves around the wagons and tables and legs, finally reaching Abigail at the other end of camp and jumping into her arms in a fierce hug. 

Kieran chuckles.

“You really think that? Think John’ll step up?” Arthur lifts his hat to look Kieran in the eyes. Kieran is momentarily distracted by blue before he says something.

He hummed. “I can see it, I just don’t know if John does.” he smiles at Arthur, whose lips are drawn in a contemplative line. 

Arthur nods, pulling his hat back down to cover his eyes, hiding them. Kieran finds himself missing those eyes, though he’s not quite sure why, can't seem to remember…

He returns his attention to the saddle, hoping he won’t be distracted again before finishing his task. He hums an unknown tune as he works and feels oddly happy, content in the moment.