Chapter Text
Arthur slapped the buzzing mosquito that had landed on the back of his neck; they didn’t half bite around here. The further south they got, the hungrier they got, it seemed. And the gang were a lot further south than he’d ever expected them to be, long were the days of the wild west. That they’d known and loved, now life was running, always running, whilst they were being pulled from place to place.
With the never-ending fight to keep the law of their tail, it felt like there was no place for them to truly settle anymore.
Like the world was moving on, and the time for people like them was over. Being part of the infamous Dutch van der Linde gang wasn’t an easy life anymore; it admittedly never had been easy, but at least they’d been able to fall into the shadows at one time.
Not now though, now they were known everywhere, and not for good reasons, a long list of crimes, death and upset followed them with a scent of blood that never seemed to really leave.
The man had been out doing small jobs all day, a little bit of bounty hunting, and some actual hunting, just a distraction from the strange circumstance the gang seemed to currently have found themselves in. The deputy badge feeling heavy on his waistcoat, deputised by some drunk asshole, with delusions of the past respect his family once held, still trying his hardest to stay relevant.
God damn greys, god damn Braithwaite’s, and a goddamn age-old blood feud they had found themselves caught in.
The outlaw had needed to get out of it for a few hours. But as always, he had returned to his family; they were his home after all. No matter where they pitched their tents, the people in the gang would always be his home. As he saw the entrance to their current camp, he let out a sigh, patting his horse, a beautiful, dappled grey ardennais, that he felt a great amount of comfort riding.
The minute he’d laid eyes on the large horse, he knew their bond would be instant, and it was, with the patience and underlying authority that the horse held. But underneath it all, he was like a coiled spring, always ready to speed away whenever asked by his rider.
Thoughts were broken when he heard a call from Bill, “Who goes there?” The southern drawl carried through the humid night air. “It’s Arthur, dumbass,” He quipped back, but he couldn’t miss that there was no response, just a nod from the older man.
That wasn’t the usual, but then the strange air of the camp hit him straight away, tense, anxious, almost as if everyone was poised to fight or run at a moment's notice.
His mind straight away went to so many things, had the law caught up? Had they lost someone? What could have happened to remove the normal bustle and activity that brought such a familiar feeling, climbing of Valour, he gave him a strong pat on the side of his neck.
Before he turned and scanned the scene, everyone seemed to be huddled at their own tent or near a new one that had been placed. That had been set up next to his own, green blue eyes scanned, picking up that there was also a new horse at the hitching post, a black American quarter horse. Whose was that? Who was that in the new tent, that even from here he could see Susan Grimshaw mother henning with whoever lay in it.
Moving further into the camp, he noticed Charles sat by the edge, methodically sharpening his throwing knives. He always had a quiet nature, more of a watcher than a talker, but even he seemed quieter than normal.
Brow raised and he walked towards his good friend, stride confident, but with that normal poise of if things had gone to shit, he was ready to defend every single soul in the camp.
“Arthur,” Charles nodded at him, his face calm, but the underlying tension was evident. “What’s happened Charles?” He had never been one to beat around the bush, and the other man knew that. Charles sighed, placing down his knife.
“I dunno, I was coming back from a hunting trip, and found an O’drisscoll camp.” That name instantly got Arthur’s hackles raised, the war between those two gangs wasn’t unknown, and the hatred ran deep within all of their veins.
Crossing his arms, he gave the other man the chance to continue. “They were close enough to camp that I had to clear it, there weren’t that many. But damn Arthur.” He’s frowning, as if he’d seen something that unsettled him. “There was a woman there, and she weren’t in a good way, at all. Like barely hanging on kinda thing.” He'd leaned forward, his words finished, but it was clear he had more to say.
Arthur didn’t push him though; they both knew that if Charles had something to say, he’d say it.
“I brought her back, couldn’t exactly leave her there, but it was weird Arthur, it was like Dutch and Hosea knew her, like most people knew her. Like hell I’ve never seen Dutch look so rattled.” Knew her? And somebody rattled Dutch? The outlaw was pretty sure he could count on one hand how many times he’d seen his mentor rattled the whole time he knew him.
And that had never been a thing before when it came to someone new in the camp, usually even in the face of anything danger, death, the end of the damn world, Dutch would still keep his cool. So what the hell could have happened to have affected him like that? He’s ready to leave before glancing at the other man once more.
“Spit it out Charles.” He didn’t mean to snap, but there was obviously something else on the tip of his tongue. Dark eyes focused on him, “She asked where you were Arthur, even in a haze, the minute the woman saw the two of them. She asked where you were.” Those words made his frown even more deeply set.
Who the hell would ask where he was? “I’ll be right back.” Turning on his heel to head over to the commotion.
Racking his brain as he walked, who could it have been, more than anything, who knew him and the gang like that? He had to figure this out, making his way to Dutch’s tent, his eyes widened, there was a look on the man's face that he was concerned about. He looked…well, he looked scared, and Hosea? Damn, the older man looked like he’d seen a ghost.
They hadn’t stopped staring at whatever was happening in that new tent, only pulled out of it when Arthur cleared his throat.
“Son,” The greeting surprised Arthur, yes, the older man called him that often, but never as a greeting. “What the hell is happening Dutch?” He’s keeping his arms crossed almost seemingly guarding himself, however he had an air of being ready to attack if needed.
His eyes scanned over to the body that lay next to Susan, but then they narrowed, and something hit him like a punch in the gut. The hand that he could see, the one that wasn’t blocked by Susan, held that scar. He knew that scar, ugly, raised, no matter how many years had gone by, it still hadn’t changed. One that he had pulled the skin together one night when they were drunk. Using a thread that was too big for the injury and the stitches had been an absolute disaster.
He knew those hands. He’d seen them hold a gun, knock people out, but he’d also felt them softly cradle his face, nails that had nipped into his back as sinful sounds left lips of young love.
Aquamarine orbs flickered back to his two mentors the realisation settled in his eyes. “Arthur don’t” An almost warning tone left Dutch, firm hand being placed on his shoulder “Is that?” He didn’t even finish; instead, he’s pushing past the man, even though he heard a shout behind him.
It couldn’t be, it couldn’t be, he’d felt that hand slip through his fingers, he’d watched as it had disappeared under the water. But the minute he’d stormed over to the scene, he saw it.
She didn’t look any different, and yet she also did, her face was swollen, but it was unmissable. Those freckles, the pale skin, the high cheekbones, the slight bump on her nose brought back a memory of a stupid fist fight with a man so much bigger than her. Who’d made a pass on her when they’d been out matching drinks all night after a successful robbery.
Those full lips he had felt on every part of him, that pouted when she wanted something and set into a fine line when she was experiencing a harsh emotion
There was now a scar just by her eyebrow, and there were small wrinkles by her eyes. Raven hair knotted and blood-stained, so different from the way it used to tumble loosely down her back, move widely in the wind as they rode side by side, that he had wrapped in his fingers as he elicited soft sounds from those pouted lips.
But it was her, and that left his heart hammering; he felt a sheen of sweat along his brow, spreading across his whole body, his feet rooted to the ground, as his voice seemed to escape him. He felt like he was in a dream; he’d mourned her, he’d cried and sworn at god, he’d fallen apart again and again. Yet half-conscious, her chest moving weakly but still breathing, she was here, she was alive.
His mouth was dry as he finally spoke, “Be..Belle?” He didn’t even recognise his own voice, but it was, and before he could say anything more, he’d turned, swayed, and vomited, right there and then. Could people really come back from the dead?