Chapter Text
Things haven't been the save since the boys came back from Guarma, haven't been the same for some time before that, too. No matter how much you try to reassure yourself that that's just how it goes sometimes, you can't help but feel that the whole world is changing. And? Not necessarily in a way good for you and those you love. You can see it in everyone's eyes, too. The times for outlaws and gunslingers--your times--are over. Unless you do something about it (and, if you're being frank, that needs to happen soon), you'll die bloody. You know this. Abigail and John know it. Arthur knows it.
You're relaxing by the fire, absently tracing circles in the mud with a stick. Beaver Hollow isn't your favorite camp, but you suppose it's not as bad as it could be. Abigail sits next to you, watching Jack read a storybook. Neither one of you try to start a conversation. You both know there isn't really much to say. Briefly, though, you consider asking her how she and John are getting along, especially after everything that happened in Saint Denis, but you think better of it. That's not the type of talk to have in front of Jack. The kid's been picking up on things lately, things you don't believe a child should know. The road's been a tough one for that family. Somehow, you know it'll continue to be that way.
Arthur and John went hunting some time ago. Truth is, you think that's horseshit. They probably just wanted some time away from Dutch and his master plans, plans you're fairly certain don't exist at all. You don't dare voice your opinion around anyone but Arthur, though. Dutch is always saying there's no room for doubt anymore, and, as much as you hate to admit it, he's been scaring you as of late. Besides: you don't want to end up like Molly. Bad business, that was. And, although Miss Grimshaw pulled the trigger, you know in your heart it was Dutch's fault. Just like most of everything else nowadays.
"What're you thinking about?" Abigail suddenly asks, startling you out of your thoughts.
You think to lie, to tell her you're just wondering what Arthur and John'll bring back to camp for supper, but one sharp look from her dashes that idea.
"Can't be anythin' good from that look on your face," she says when you remain silent. "What's wrong, Y/N?"
And you want to tell her the truth, tell her everything. You want to tell her what you've been thinking about for quite some time now, ever since the boys came back from Guarma, maybe even before then. But instead, you flick your eyes over to Dutch and Micah, who are busy making plans for another brilliant heist (yeah; it'll be brilliant alright), then back to Abigail. She understands almost immediately, chin dipping ever so slightly. You can see it in her eyes: she's been thinking the same thing. Maybe just as much as you, maybe more, you don't know. But it's some comfort that you're not alone.
Arthur and John return about an hour later, two wild turkeys between the pair of them. They give them to Pearson, who sets about making supper. You've long since stopped caring about whether it's good or not. Lately, everything you eat tastes as bland as a desert. You don't put much thought into it, don't really care about it at all. You've been so focused on survival that everything else falls just short of important. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you get the feeling that it's situational, and if you were a more introspective person, you might say it could only be cured by changing things up. But, as time has often proven, you're not too introspective. Not anymore, at least.
Later still, after you've eaten, Arthur finds you sitting beneath a tree, reading a book by the light of a dim lantern. He sits next to you and says nothing, just stares toward the caves. Everyone else has long since gone to bed, even Dutch, who rarely seems to sleep these days. You figure it's as good a time as any to have a much needed conversation. And, judging by Arthur's pensive expression, he feels the same way.
"How was hunting?" You ask. You hate small talk, but at the moment, it seems better than the alternative. "You and John get along okay?"
Arthur nods, still looking at the caves. "Just fine."
The two of you sit there in silence for a moment. You can practically feel the unease and discontent flowing from him in waves, and you want nothing more than to soothe him, to tell him everything will be alright, but you know there's no comfort to be had in this situation. Not anymore.
"Arthur."
You say his name softly, voice hardly more than a whisper. He finally turns to look at you. There's a hint of something in his eyes you hate seeing, and you recognize it for what it is: defeat. It kills you to think he's all but given up, though you know he hasn't. Not completely, for that matter. But you also know that unless something happens (and something good, at that), he will.
"Folk can't keep goin' like this, Y/N," he murmurs, leaning back against the tree. "You know it, an' I know it."
And you do know it--more than anything. You want everyone to be safe, to live out their lives in the way that's best for them, but with how everything's been going, that seems like a pipe dream. A beautiful, desirable pipe dream.
"It's Dutch," you find yourself responding. "Micah, too. They're leading us into the ground and there's nothing anybody can do to stop them."
Briefly, you wonder if you've said too much, if Arthur will take offense. You shift until you're looking straight at him, only to find that he's watching you with what you recognize as understanding.
"I know." He gently wraps his arm around your shoulders. "I know. I've been thinking the same thing for some time now. We'll find a way, Y/N. We always do."
You sigh and lean into him, resting your head against his chest. "Well... there's something I've been meaning to run by you. An idea. A..." You swallow, gathering your courage. "A way out."
He doesn't say anything, and you look up at him, look deep into his eyes, knowing that's your silent cue to continue.
"Run away with me," you say, voice sounding too small for your liking, too pleading. But you quickly realize you don't care, that, in essence, you are pleading with him. You need him to say yes. You need him to say it more than anything. Because, if you're being completely honest, you can't keep going like this. You can't keep running, sleeping with one eye open, wondering if each night will be your last. You're tired--beyond tired, and you know that it's time to go.
"Run away with me," you repeat, shifting until you're sitting up. "We can do it, Arthur. I know we can."
You watch as he thinks on it, as his expression goes from confused to pensive. Your heart beats so loud, you're sure he can hear it, but he doesn't say as much. Instead, he tells you:
"We'll need a place to lie low. And some supplies." He smiles softly, a smile you know is reserved specifically for you. "Money, too."
It hits you--quickly, at that--what he's saying: yes. He's saying yes. And suddenly, you don't care about the danger that's sure to follow. You don't care about Dutch or Micah or, hell, even the Pinkerton's. Because they don't matter anymore. All that matters is Arthur. And he's saying yes.
"You know something?" You manage to say around a tight throat. "Abigail was telling me a while ago... she might know where Dutch's been keeping all our cash." You smile, a full and slightly mischievous one. "And I might know of a place or two where we can hole up. Just until the heat blows over."
Arthur returns your smile before pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Well, darlin'? You talk to Abigail, make sure she's certain, then tell her to come talk to me." He pulls you closer, wrapping both of his arms around you. "We'll see what we can do."
You lean into the embrace, head against his chest again, listening to the steady thrum of his heart. It's going to be difficult, that much you know for sure, but for the moment? It's enough that Arthur's willing to go through it with you.