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He couldn’t see out of his left eye anymore.
Blood kept running into it, warm and steady, like rain off a roof, and he figured that wasn’t good. Not that anything was good, really. His side was shredded, his shirt long soaked through, and every movement made his boots squelch with something he didn’t care to think too hard about. He kept one hand pressed there, where the bullet had torn through him, fingers cramping from how long he’d been gripping it. The other held the reins, loose and trembling.
He hadn’t known which way he was going, at first, riding blindly off the trail, the world a watery haze that swirled with pain. All he knew is what direction camp was, home was, the word carved into his bones after so much time with it in mind. And that was the direction his horse chose, he realized, too dizzy and hurting to give her a real command. Maybe she knew he couldn't do anything else, couldn't steer or direct or guide, and would simply fall off her back and roll limply into a ditch if she went off-course. She led, and he clung, his thoughts a thready patter and his limbs shaky, skin prickling cold then burning hot in a cycle that reminded him all too well of a nightmare.
Home.
Homehomehome .
He swallowed, trying to speak. There was barely even enough strength left to mumble to his horse, his voice breaking pitifully.
"...Sheila, hey. You... you good girl." A lick of fire across his ribs, sharp, agonizing, made his vision wink out entirely for a second. Arthur jerked against it and grit his teeth, muffling an awful sound behind them. His words came out in a breathless groan. "Oh god... 'm not gonna..."
Home .
Maybe he really did pass out then. Or maybe not. Maybe it was just too damn hard, keeping a hold of himself. He wouldn't have blamed it, frankly. That would have been nice, like drifting off when he was too drunk to stand and closing his eyes after an especially hard day. He missed falling asleep. Sleep. God. He couldn't remember when he'd last managed a whole night.
All he knew was suddenly his horse was slowing, and without the forward momentum he practically tipped off the saddle, arms and legs gone numb.
His next lucid moment came from the feel of grass and twigs beneath him, lying sideways, knees still bent. There was some warmth and pressure around him, familiar. A snuffle of sound. Sheila.
But the world was fuzzy and fading again, black edging in, and a brief, vague panic managed to send his hands skidding outwards as he tried to push up and move and-
"Arthur!"
There was a body moving with him now, strong arms, holding him, rolling him onto his back. And god, that was bad. That hurt, hurt real bad, to the point he arched away from it and snarled wordlessly. A sharp cry clawed out from his mouth when his injuries were forced to twist and move, agony breaking in the blackness like a hurricane. His throat went dry, then closed and squeezed down, leaving him whimpering ragged little breaths instead.
Hands roamed him, taking hold and cradling, and he felt someone lean over. Arthur could barely keep his left eye open, could hardly see past the blur of his tears. There was an indistinct silhouette, dark against a muddied sky, and a man's face peering at him, then another, then a third, a fourth. He was breathing too fast, light headed, but no amount of blinking could help. He tried, but none of them seemed to move, no matter how many times he squeezed his eyelids shut and forced them back open.
He opened his mouth, wet and cracked lips moving, and couldn't quite get a sound out. One of his hands found a coat lapel, clung.
"Dutch?"
The name sounded funny. Garbled. His hearing went to static and a high whine, like being underwater. He kept looking at all of those shadowed, blurred faces, all with long black hair, all with pale skin, all with red lips, but none of them seemed solid enough, right enough to be Dutch. No matter how many times he tried to blink. He said something else, but it came out incoherent, even to his ears.
"D'sh... Sss-"
"Arthur, shh It's going to be alright." Dutch. Definitely Dutch. Hands cupping his cheek. Fingers tight, holding him there. "You're fine. I need you to stay awake, do you understand?"
He gasped and arched and wheezed. "Dutch-"
"I'm here, I'm here. We'll patch you up, it's alright."
"H'rts," he slurred, almost incomprehensibly.
Hosea's stomach clenched from where he was knelt over Arthur. He hadn’t heard him sound like that since he was a boy; broken and breathless and frightened of the dark. Dutch’s hand was still on Arthur’s cheek, steadying him, thumb brushing over a streak of blood. The boy — man, Hosea corrected, bitterly — was burning up and cold at once, shivering and sweating, his fingers curled in Dutch’s lapel like he might fall away if he let go.
"Goddamn it," Hosea swore, quietly. "Help me get him to his tent."
Dutch was already gathering Arthur into his arms and hauling him off the ground, careful of the red stain on his side that Hosea knew only too well.
"Everyone! Go to bed! There's nothing to see here!" He barked out sharply at the rest of the camp who had scurried over to offer assistance. There were a few hushed whispers, and even some protests. John and Susan in particular. "I SAID BED!"
Those lingering scrambled off then. He had that effect.
Hosea quickly took Arthur's other side to try to help him along. The boy looked horrible. Absolutely ashen and shaking all over, barely conscious and bleeding through his clothes. It wasn't until he got up close and saw how glossy his eyes were, pupils huge and dazed, that Hosea's throat tightened around itself, threatening to strangle his voice.
"What happened?" Dutch murmured quietly, on the edge of a demand. Arthur's breathing was terrible to hear, wet and thick and choking. "Speak to me, son."
"Gonna-" he whispered, faintly. There were black spots blooming over him, more and more by the second.
"Easy," Dutch breathed, all his attention locked on the task ahead, on getting his boy somewhere quiet where they could fix him up fast. He wasn't alone. No matter what happened. "Stay calm, Arthur. Easy. Just breathe."
"Dutch-"
"It'll be alright, son," Dutch spoke evenly, careful, when it seemed like Arthur was moments away from panicking, fear palpable.
They laid him carefully in his cot, Dutch slipping a pillow beneath him to prop up his torso a touch in hopes of making the breathless wheeze of his voice more manageable, while Hosea immediately dropped to his knees and started undoing all the layers of clothing to get at the damage below.
And it was damage. Not just the amount of blood, nor the actual wound, though neither were good signs, but the sheer mess of everything. His boy was nearly cut apart, flesh shredded down deep in a rough, ribboned gash that left his side a mess, like he'd been slashed after he'd been shot. There were tears that were in no way neat or orderly. Savage. Ugly.
Arthur gave a faint gasp and went tense and trembling.
"S'alright. It's okay," Dutch promised.
There was a half empty bottle of liquor near Arthur's cot and Dutch snagged it, easing himself down beside him and snaking an arm around to support Arthur's upper back a little, helping him upright enough so he didn't choke.
"Drink, son," Dutch instructed and carefully brought the bottle up to Arthur's cracked lips. There was no hesitation in the swallow of liquor that burned down, no gagging, no fight at all. Arthur coughed roughly, turned his head and groaned, and didn't fight when he was coaxed back up and made to have another. Then a third sip. A fourth.
Hosea worked methodically and quickly to open the medkit Arthur kept under his cot and rifle through it to find whatever would make this quick. Needle, thread, bandages, perfect.
Arthur let out a horrible sob, sudden and terrified.
"Sshhh. It's alright. It's not as bad as it looks." Dutch brushed some stray hairs out of Arthur's eyes and sent Hosea a knowing glance. Hosea didn't so much as look up, pouring some alcohol on the needle, expression tightening as he listened to the awful sound of fear Arthur made. "Calm down, Arthur. Easy."
It wasn't enough, clearly. The young man was breathing hard, shallow little breaths that didn't reach deep, and he was trembling and keening, twisting in Dutch's grip when his stomach seemed to cramp suddenly, eyes hazy and unseeing.
"Won't get anything done with him thrashing like a dog." Hosea muttered.
"You think I'm not trying?"
"Try harder."
Dutch growled under his breath and cupped Arthur's cheeks between both hands, shaking him a little. "Focus, Arthur. Calm down. That's an order. Deep breath. That's the way, Arthur, that's it, come on."
"S'too much," Arthur whimpered, blinking hard, sweat beading along the lines of his jaw and dripping. "Hurts real bad... please... please, Dutch-"
"Shh." A finger stroked soothingly over one of the young man's eyebrows, tracing the pattern of one scar there, feeling him arch and draw tighter from the pain, shaking under his hand. "Shh. I'm here, son."
Hosea grabbed the alcohol and poured some liberally directly onto the wound. There was a jerk and a spasm, and an instant howl. Dutch moved immediately, clapping a palm firmly across Arthur's mouth to stifle the worst of it, leaning in close. The shaking increased, the writhing intensified, a flurry of weak thrashing that accomplished nothing but making him hurt worse, but Arthur was blind to that, obviously. Dutch curled an arm around his shoulders to keep his hands pinned when he started slapping at him, fumbling away from the touch of the alcohol.
"Come now, Arthur. Settle down. Breathe through your nose."
Hosea dabbed the worst of it away and wiped the wound clean enough to get a good look inside.
"The bullet's out," he said. "That's a mercy."
Dutch nodded, quieting down and stroking Arthur's sweaty hair away from his forehead, trying to keep him soothed now that the screaming had died down again, tapering off into awful, hitching sobs. Arthur wasn't a man who cried easily. It wasn't like him to. Hosea swallowed heavily.
"Alright Arthur, take a deep breath for me, this might hurt."
Another noise, helpless, terrified. Dutch swallowed and caught Arthur's jaw to make sure he wasn't able to bite down and accidentally maim his tongue.
Hosea gritted his teeth and pinched the wound together, holding it shut with deft, thin, fingers before starting to sew. Every single tug, no matter how delicate, no matter how gentle and careful, dragged another helpless, tiny, cry out of Arthur, which were muted to pathetic and wheezing gasps behind Dutch's hand. Each sound made Dutch's expression tighter, less certain. More fearful. Hosea kept his face drawn in focus.
"Just a few more," Hosea reassured, because that's all he could say despite there being far more than a few left to go. He pulled the needle through Arthur's flesh again, ignoring the spasm of the injured muscle. "Just a little while more, boy. Hold on."
"Christ," Dutch bit out when another muffled yell slipped past his fingers and made Arthur's chest heave against the restraint. He eventually swung a knee up over the young man's legs just to keep him pinned there so Hosea could work in peace without having to worry about his boy getting loose and ripping himself open. "Shh. I know. But you've done this before. You've had worse before. I promise, Arthur, you've had worse."
Tears slipped out of the corners of Arthur's eyes, carving rivulets through the streaks of blood on his cheeks as they traveled down and off his chin, dripping past the knuckles clamped over his mouth.
Arthur wailed when Hosea tied the last suture tight and dabbed more whiskey onto the wound to prevent further irritation. The job was sloppy, at best. Less than professional, for certain, but they didn't have the money for a doctor or even the time, and that would simply have to be good enough for now. They needed to dress and bandage it, not torture Arthur any further, because the boy was white as a sheet, and Hosea suspected Dutch was having to bear the brunt of all the strength Arthur was capable of offering.
"You're alright," Dutch said, a little strained from how much effort it was taking to keep the young man held securely without hurting him. He sounded calmer than he looked. "Well done, Arthur. Well done . You're not going to scream now, are you son? Don't want to wake everyone."
Arthur made a soft, unhappy, whimpering sound, eyes too glazed with pain to focus on the fact that Dutch had now taken his hand off.
Hosea set his tools aside and pushed up again, scrubbing a hand over his mouth wearily. "Help me sit him up to wrap it," he said, voice worn. "I think he's earned another drink."
They both managed to get Arthur upright enough, the poor man thankfully too exhausted to scream his throat raw anymore, and the whisky bottle came up to Arthur's mouth again. Hosea cradled his head from behind, keeping it upright, making him drink. And like before, no complaints. In fact, when he lifted his trembling hand and tried to take hold of the bottle himself, Dutch pulled it away and nodded, taking control of it for him to help tip it better into his mouth.
"Here," Dutch murmured softly. "Let me, son."
Each swig made him flinch, and cough, and tremble, but the more he had the slower the shaking became. Eventually his eyes closed, body going heavy against Dutch as he fell lax, swaying unsteadily. Hosea was quick to bandage his side while they had him upright and mostly motionless, pressing the gauze to the wound, wrapping it quickly and securing it. By the end, it was quite the makeshift patch job, and Hosea was left looking weary as hell.
"He's lucky." Hosea murmured.
Lucky wasn't the word that came to mind when Dutch glanced at the pale, exhausted young man collapsed in his arms, practically senseless from the pain, soaked in blood, breathing far too slow.
Lucky was certainly one way to see it.
"'m sorry, sir."
The voice was slurred, exhausted and soft, like an echo drifting on the surface of a lake, warped and slow. It didn't even look like he'd really understood what was coming out of his own mouth, the words garbled and clumsy with the strain of speaking at all.
Hosea blinked and tilted his head. "Don't apologize, boy. Not over this."
Dutch clenched his hands tight on Arthur's shoulder and helped lower him to lay back down. Once there, the young man made a faint, indistinct noise of discomfort and rolled towards him a fraction, face scrunched, squinting into the dark, still unable to focus. He looked... well, lost.
"I'll get a washcloth for his head. It won't need stitches, thank God, but he must have taken a hard hit."
A simple nod was all Dutch could offer. He was still cradling Arthur's jaw with one hand, cupping the nape of his neck in the other, unsure what to do besides stroke his sweaty pale skin with his thumb in long, calming strokes, willing him to relax, willing him to calm. Hosea padded off, quiet, only briefly leaving the canvas to fetch some water and a cloth to get the worst of the gore off the young man.
"What happened to you, boy?" Dutch murmured, his voice rawer than he'd intended.
"Made... a bad choice," Arthur croaked, sounding oddly surprised as though the realization had only just occurred to him.
Dutch shifted closer and dug his knuckles tenderly beneath his chin, pressing it up ever so gently to look into those dazed and murky blue eyes that were darting left and right and occasionally losing focus on his.
"Why are you always making bad choices, son?"
Something wet, fragile, and pitiful crinkled at the corners of Arthur's eyes as he tipped his head back, damp eyelashes blinking up and clumping together with unshed tears. "I... 'm sorry, pa."
Dutch felt himself freeze, utterly blindsided, the air seizing and locking inside his lungs, burning cold. For a brief and painful moment he saw a scared, hollow eyed teenager staring up at him through all the years gone by, missing half his teeth, hissing curses and pain at them both, begging them not to throw him away. He remembered holding him once, sick and feverish, hardly lucid at all. Rocking and smoothing his hair and telling him, through all the delirium and mumbling, that no one was abandoning him anywhere. That he wasn't alone.
Somehow it hadn't occurred to him that despite how the young boy had grown up into such a strong, stubborn, proud man, beneath it he was still the frightened little boy Dutch had met all those years ago.
"Pa?" Arthur rasped, confusion twisting his tired features, hands clawing at Dutch's coat weakly. His breathing hitched, and something panicked slid into his features. "D-Dutch?"
A shiver rippled over the older man and Dutch hugged him tighter without hesitation.
"Right here, son. Not going anywhere."
A sigh brushed Arthur's lips, the barest tremor running through his frame like it would shatter into pieces, and that soft, hurt, breath of air would be all it took to send him sprawling.
Hosea padded close and hesitated at the threshold for a moment before coming forward, kneeling in the dirt on the other side of Arthur and lifting the damp cloth to start cleaning him up. Arthur startled and jolted. His right arm swept wide to get the stranger beside him out of range. It was Dutch's quick reflexes that saved Hosea from being slapped in the face.
"It's alright, it's just Hosea."
A strange expression of pure confusion passed Arthur by, followed by the realization, then finally a soft and relieved breath, slumping slightly into the older man, limp and exhausted.
"'sea?"
"That's right," Hosea smiled, pressing his lips tight as if in silent apology. He lifted the cloth and began again. Arthur twitched, eyes falling half shut as Hosea started wiping the crusted blood away.
"Ngh... 'Mm hurt."
"I know," Hosea murmured. He tugged some of Arthur's shirt open to try and get the worst of the filth and grime away from where it had pooled on his chest and belly. "You had a close one. You scared us."
A faint murmur, dazed. "Sorry, Hosey."
Just like Dutch, Hosea felt that painful shiver rock him down to his bones, the nickname slamming through him like the swing of a bat and sending every tense and tensely held emotion cracking and scattering all at once. That was a name he hadn't heard in years , one Arthur had used often as a young teenager, and every time he'd say it it never ceased to break Hosea's resolve and reduce him to cooing and giggles like a fool. Anytime he was able to make the stoic, usually well spoken, unflappable man beside him burst into bright laughter was a rare achievement and a feat in itself.
To hear it then... Christ, it was too much.
Hosea ran his free hand through Arthur's hair in long, soothing strokes, carding it gently away from his sticky, clammy forehead.
"Shh," he chided, barely audible, glancing at Dutch. "Don't worry about that now."
Another one of those sounds that tore at his heart, piteous, trembling.
"Wh'm I gonna do, pa?" the young man slurred, barely understandable. There was such helplessness and such hopelessness in those few words that it made Hosea's stomach knot, and a quick glance up found Dutch's features drawn tightly, gaze fixed firmly on his young companion, brows knit and hard and thoughtful.
"Nothing, son," Dutch assured, grip shifting so he could grip the boy's chin between forefinger and thumb and urge his unfocused gaze up. "You've done your bit. Now, you just lay down and be a good boy and rest. You hear?"
Those dull, lost, blue eyes of his blinked, slow, and almost drifted off for a second.
"Don- don't go."
"We're not going anywhere," Hosea offered when Dutch looked like he couldn't muster a response. It felt like everything was slowly melting back through time, the three of them together like this. Every ounce of distrust between them dissipated in an instant, leaving behind just the wounded and vulnerable parts that refused to let go no matter how much they might fight it. "It's alright, Arthur, rest. We'll stay here."
That seemed to finally placate him, or perhaps he was simply too spent to care about arguing with the two of them any longer. Whatever it was, Arthur went a fraction more loose, easing further and further back from the edge of panic he had been teetering upon, and the entire line of his body shuddered and relaxed into the bedroll. His hands never stopped clawing feebly at Dutch's sleeves though, even as his vision blurred completely into a fog.
"Think he'll sleep?" Hosea asked.
"I certainly hope so," Dutch answered, stiffly, shifting just enough to lean his back into the rough wooden side of the wagon while Hosea leant against the solid crate on the other side of Arthur's cot. Arthur shivered as a gentle and insistent breeze blew through the small, poorly-kept, shelter, brushing the hairs on the back of his neck to standing, but Dutch merely shrugged off his big overcoat and tucked it carefully over him, arranging it in an effort to keep him warm. The younger man's hands grasped at him even harder in the midst of shifting the fabric over his shoulder, but settled immediately afterward, snatching a fistful of fabric and dragging it closer to his face, inhaling deeply like a drowning man gulping for air.
The warmth was a comfort for all three, and after a while Hosea felt a worn and comfortable familiarity settle over him, reminded of old and distant nights around the campfires and the way that sometimes Arthur would push and prod until he managed to burrow his way between him and Dutch, unwilling to settle down unless the two of them were either next to him, or somewhere nearby.
The kid had come a long way since then, grown up and changed a great deal, and sometimes Hosea forgot the fierce loyalty still lay there under the surface of that guarded veneer Arthur kept up. Somewhere beyond his strength and grit there was a heart desperate for connection, even if Arthur wasn't going to admit it to himself.
That desperate heart lay exposed just then, cracked open and laid bare between all three of them. It was a sacred thing, a silent and patient beast in the eye of the storm waiting for the winds to die down before it finally calmed.
Arthur's ragged, uneven breathing didn't fully level out, but they could tell he'd finally slipped into sleep when his restless pawing at Dutch's clothing gradually fell lax and ceased. Dutch lifted a careful hand and slid the damp strands of mousy brown from his forehead, pushing them back gently so they didn't brush his brow or his eyelids. There was a sweet softness that stole over Dutch's features as he stared down at Arthur, something vulnerable and gentle, an affection and a care so natural and deep, one that Hosea often missed seeing these days.
It hasn't been easy, these past months. But tonight was the first real night Hosea had felt, truly and honestly, that things were starting to thaw between all of them again. He only wished it hadn't taken Arthur nearly dying to bring that change about.
The minutes stretched on into an hour or more. At some point, Dutch eased an arm over Arthur and rested it atop his stomach, inviting Hosea to take his smooth, finely manicured hand and lace their fingers together, tangling and squeezing. Hosea traced Dutch's knuckles, noticing every scrape and bruise from their various exploits in recent days. One caught his attention, a narrow pink mark that was healing nicely. He stroked it curiously. Dutch looked at their hands a moment before shrugging.
"Broken bottle."
Hosea didn't need him to elaborate any further. He pressed the softest kiss over that spot on the back of his lover's hand, then met those warm dark eyes and lingered there, sharing that gentle silence. Dutch lifted Hosea's wrist and copied the motion, meeting Hosea's skin in the same spot, his moustache tickling his skin. It was sweet, and playful, and made Hosea's heart warm for the first time that night. He sighed in fond exasperation and shook his head.
"Sentimental fool." he said, voice hushed.
"Pfft. If I remember, you didn't used to mind me being a fool."
"Oh I minded, believe me," he countered, still in a whisper. "But I learned to love it."
It was Dutch's turn to sigh now, the gentle affection in those words landing softly and tugging a smile from him. "Careful, old man."
"Careful yourself, Van der Linde."
"Sleep. Come on, it's late."
Hosea snorted and settled, head falling on top of Arthur's cot, the poor young man dozing peacefully beside him. "We're all gonna be pretty sore come morning."
"Most likely. Now rest."
Their hands gave a final squeeze before letting go of each other and wrapping protectively over Arthur instead. Neither of them minded sleeping uncomfortably for a single night; Arthur was far more important than their sore joints. They could last an evening holding watch together, ensuring Arthur was safe, and warm, and protected.
They would gladly weather anything if it meant Arthur got to rest easy.
Breath by breath, the silence deepened. The wind tugged gently at the canvas flaps. Somewhere nearby, a horse snorted.
Dutch’s head dipped first. Hosea’s followed soon after.
Sleep took them slowly, in the hush of a hard-won peace, three bodies huddled close beneath the cold.