Chapter Text
The chest was empty.
Men coming from every direction, bullets whizzing past his head, and there wasn’t even anything in the damn lockbox.
Arthur should have known it was too good to be true- especially with how poorly his luck tended to be- the intel odd and untrustworthy from the beginning, picked up from some overly cocky rancher in the nearest saloon.
Dutch had warned him against it from the beginning, frown deepening as Arthur spoke, following the older man to where the horses were hitched outside their small camp.
“No.”
“No?” Arthur had stupidly pressed. “Dutch, it’s an easy job.”
“It’s an unguarded stagecoach carrying a chest full of cash,” Dutch said. “That doesn’t seem suspicious to you?”
Arthur flinched at the cold tone, once so foreign and unfamiliar, now seeming to be used more and more the past couple weeks, tension rising no matter how hard he tried to keep the air light.
It had been two weeks. Two weeks of an eerily quiet camp, of sidelong glances to the empty patch of dirt where Hosea’s bedroll was supposed to be.
It wasn’t the first time the three of them had split up. Hosea often took solo jobs, riding off for days or weeks at a time, always returning with a smile and a new story.
It was different this time. It was the first time Arthur wasn’t sure if Hosea was coming back.
He’d left with Bessie, promising, as he always did, to return within a few weeks, to stay safe, insisting he wouldn’t be able to stay away for long.
And Arthur understood. Hosea had, by some miracle, gotten Bessie to stay with him despite everything they’d been through, despite the way he’d decided to live.
He had a taste of a real, normal life. A safe life. Arthur didn’t blame him for wanting to experience what it felt like, even if only temporarily.
He wouldn’t blame Hosea if he ran and never looked back.
“You won’t even know I’m gone,” Hosea had told him. “Keep an eye on old Dutch for me, will you?”
Arthur had tried- over four years had given him more than enough time to see how much Dutch and Hosea needed each other- but Hosea’s absence hit him harder than he’d thought it would.
The missing presence at the campfire, the uncertainty of the older man’s return, all of it had weighed him down, clouded his mind, leaving him useless and quiet.
Dutch had made more than one comment on his apparent laziness, on their dwindling supply of food and cash. With one pair of hands gone, the two of them needed to be working harder than ever.
And when Arthur had finally brought Dutch what he’d asked for, he’d been shot down.
“It ain’t worth the risk,” he said, unhitching his horse. “Find us something else. I’m heading into town for dinner, because apparently you can’t be bothered to go hunting.”
During Hosea’s prolonged absences, Dutch often grew cold and distant, the stress of the other man’s safety adding to the rest of his problems. It wasn’t uncommon, but it had rarely gotten this bad.
“I was--”
“You were out drinking,” Dutch snapped. “And you came back with unreliable information that could get us both killed.”
“I’m...I’m sorry, I--”
“Find us something else, Arthur.” He mounted his horse, turning towards the road. “You need to be pulling your weight.”
He didn’t give Arthur another chance to argue, spurring his horse forward and disappearing through the brush without another word.
Arthur wasn’t sure what had come over him, left alone in the heavy air of the silent camp. Maybe his anger had overpowered his hurt, or maybe a part of him had figured he’d already made so many stupid decisions, there couldn’t be any harm in making one more.
Nobody should ever rob a stagecoach alone, guarded or not. It was one of the first lessons Dutch and Hosea had drilled into him, long before they’d deemed him old enough to accompany them on a real job.
Arthur should have known better by now. Nothing ever went the way he planned, and the universe had always been determined to send him to an early grave.
It had been a set-up. Of course, it had been a set-up. Dutch wouldn’t turn down an opportunity like this without good reason, and he wouldn’t have survived this long if he didn’t know what he was talking about.
Any other time, Arthur might have listened without question. If Dutch had simply taken a moment to explain, if things hadn’t been so tense, if he hadn’t felt so useless.
But he’d gone in anyway, too quick and too cocky. The driver had been heavily armed, firing as soon as he’d scrambled up from the ground, Arthur already taking the reins and tearing across the field.
He’d dismounted to check the lock box as soon as the clearing had quieted, frustration fading in favor of confusion when he’d found the chest unlocked and empty.
And then he’d heard horses, shouts and threats echoing through the air, Arthur’s heart sinking when he caught a glimpse of four men riding towards him, crashing through the trees.
He clambered back onto the carriage, fumbling with the reins in suddenly unsteady hands, pushing the terrified horses forward just as gunfire broke out.
“You know what happens to thieves, boy?” someone screamed from behind him.
More gunshots rang out before another man called, “Come quietly and nobody has to die!”
Nobody would die until they hanged him. It had been a trap set by the law, a fake stagecoach to attract any thief stupid enough to try robbing it, and Arthur had played his role perfectly.
Yanking his gun from its holster, Arthur risked turning around to fire twice at the approaching lawmen, only managing to down one before being forced to turn back around and focus on the road ahead.
He wouldn’t be able to outrun them, and he couldn’t keep dodging bullets forever. One of the men would hit their target eventually, and one lucky shot was all it took to take him down.
His own horse was nowhere in sight, the animal having bolted the moment it heard gunshots. Jumping from the wagon to his saddle was destined to get him shot, but it had been his only chance at veering into the trees and losing his pursuers.
And even before he’d shot down one of their men, surrendering had been out of the question.
The shooting never stopped, and Arthur hadn’t even begun to fully process how truly fucked he really was, when the ground suddenly dipped beneath him, the horses screaming in terror as the stagecoach tipped forward.
He heard the splitting of wood and the breaking of bones as the horses fell over themselves, struggling and thrashing in the dirt while the carriage was knocked over on its side, sending Arthur flying into the dirt.
Pain tore through his bones, leaving him breathless and gasping, spots dancing in front of his eyes as he fought to clear his head.
He dug his nails into the ground, dragging himself forward, silently willing one of the horses to stand up again.
Neither of them were given the chance. Two hollow gunshots pierced through the air, each of the horses letting out one last pained scream, kicking out against the pain as they bled into the dirt, gradually stilling as their heads sank to the floor.
Arthur heard boots hit the ground, men dismounting, talking around him, voices coming closer and closer.
All reason drowned out by panic, he started to pull himself forward, only managing to make it a few inches before something slammed against his back, the heel of a boot digging painfully into his spine.
“Where do you think you’re going, cowboy?”
Hands clamped around his ankles, yanking as the boot finally lifted, pulling and dragging him through the dirt until someone grabbed the back of his jacket, throwing him forward, leaving him to lay on the side of the road.
“Get on your knees.”
Arthur did as he was told, ignoring the pain and keeping his eyes on the ground as he pushed himself up, a steady hand on his shoulder keeping him from finding his footing.
His gun was ripped from his belt before he could even come up with a way to reach for it in time, as was his hunting knife, leaving him defenseless and trembling against his will.
“Show him what he did.”
Refusing to look up, Arthur could only listen as the men moved around him, grumbling under their breaths as something heavy was dropped in front of him.
“Look at him, boy.” Someone grabbed a handful of his hair, forcing him to raise his head and stare at the dead body placed before him, two bullet holes lodged deep in his chest.
Arthur took a breath, adrenaline the only thing granting him the courage to speak. “I think he’s dead, mister.”
The hand released its hold, the man moving to stand in front of the body, meeting Arthur’s defiant gaze with cold, steely eyes.
“That was my brother you shot.”
“Oh.” Arthur hated the words before they even left his mouth, but it was the only weapon he had against his own fear. “Well, I’m sure you’ll see him again soon.”
The man gave him no warning before he kicked out, boot slamming into Arthur’s jaw, sending him crashing back to the dirt with a groan he couldn’t control.
“Get up,” the man spat, like Arthur had fallen on his own accord. “Someone get him back up.”
Another man hooked his arms under Arthur’s shoulders, roughly shoving him back to his knees, ignoring the way he hissed in pain, hunched and waiting for another blow.
He forced himself to meet the man’s eyes, ignoring the blood sliding from his lip, the deep ache settling in his jaw. The man’s eyes were traveling over his body, stopping as they locked onto his side.
“What?” Arthur demanded, tensing when the man stepped forward. “Are you arresting me or not?”
The man reached forward, using the barrel of his gun to peel back Arthur’s jacket, smirking when cloth clung to his skin. Arthur’s eyes flickered down, stomach dropping when he saw his shirt was stained a deep red.
The pain hit all at once, sharp and piercing, dragging out a panicked, agonized cry, almost able to feel the bullet sinking deeper and deeper, killing him slowly.
“Looks like you’ll be seeing him sooner than I will,” the man mused, pulling his gun away and letting the jacket once again cover up the wound. “Better luck next time.”
A second man moved up to stand beside the first, regarding Arthur like a decomposing animal found on the side of the road.
“You sure this is the right one?” The second man’s hand was on his face, squeezing tight enough to bruise. Arthur tried to pull away, freezing when he heard the click of a pistol, raising his hands to let the man turn and study his face. “Ain’t even a man yet. Just some...some kid.”
“It’s him,” the first man assured, his friend finally pulling away. “Ain’t that right, Arthur Morgan?”
Arthur froze, pain momentarily forgotten. These weren’t lawmen, these were bounty hunters. The trap had been meant for him since the beginning.
“How old are you?” The man asked, frowning when Arthur stayed quiet. “Answer me, boy.”
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen.” The man sighed, slowly dropping to a crouch. “Look, kid, I don’t know what lies you’ve been fed, but Van der Linde’s the one we’re after. Tell us where he is, and I’ll see what I can do about getting you to a doctor.”
Arthur didn’t even give himself a second to consider. “Fuck you.”
“Van der Linde ain’t a good man,” he argued. “And he ain’t your damn father. He’ll throw you to the dirt the minute he’s done with you. Or he’ll kill you himself. Tell me where he is and--”
“I said fuck you.”
The man sighed again, running a hand over his face, nodding slowly as he rose to his feet. He looked to his remaining men, then back to Arthur.
“Alright, then. Hold him down.”
Arthur wasn’t given a chance to protest, hands grabbing him from every direction, wrestling him onto the ground, keeping him on his back. He couldn’t fight back without worsening the screaming pain in his side, crying out when someone pushed up against the bleeding wound.
Something cold and metallic pressed against his skin and Arthur’s eyes widened, breathing growing quick and panicked. Figures loomed above him, blocking his view of the sky, blinding him of everything but the gun held to his forehead.
There was a shot, loud and piercing, but there was no additional pain, no wave of darkness rushing to approach him, no release of death.
There was only the feel of the gun leaving his skin, quickly followed by the men’s hold, Arthur wincing as shouts rose up around him, followed immediately by more gunfire.
When it was finally quiet again, the bounty hunters were sprawled across the ground, weapons strewn through the dirt, and Arthur, breathing out a shaky sigh of relief, looked up to see Dutch dismounting on the other side of the road.
“Arthur!”
The relief vanished in an instant, hearing the anger in Dutch’s voice, remembering all at once what had gotten him into this mess in the first place.
“Dutch--”
“What in the hell is wrong with you?” He was stalking forward, pausing a few feet away. “Are you hurt?”
Arthur swallowed, still working on sitting up, clenching his teeth against the pain in his side. But his jacket was keeping it hidden, and he knew the wound would only add to Dutch’s stress.
He shook his head, resolving to patch himself up when they were back at camp. If it was deeper than he thought, he could ask Dutch for help when the man was in a better mood.
“What did I say?” Dutch challenged, taking another step forward as Arthur worked on standing. “What did I goddamn say?”
Arthur pulled himself to his feet, struggling not to cry out as he straightened. “That we weren’t robbing the stagecoach.”
“And?”
“And we didn’t. I did.”
“You certainly did,” Dutch agreed. “How’d that go?”
Arthur pulled his gaze away to glance at the dead men around him, looking over his shoulder to the destroyed carriage, trying not to grimace at the thought of the bullet in his side.
“It was a trap.”
“Of course it was a trap!” He snapped. “I told you it wasn’t right, and you chose to ignore me. Even if it wasn’t a trap, why the hell would you think I would let you go alone?”
“I thought--”
“No you didn’t,” Dutch said. “You didn’t think, Arthur. You never think.”
It was like a punch to the gut, chest aching at the pointlessly cruel words, legs threatening to give out beneath him. It might have simply been the blood loss.
“They knew who I was,” Arthur said, flinching at the fury in Dutch’s eyes. “They were...they were looking for you, Dutch.”
Dutch was staring at him, wordlessly raising his brow, and Arthur’s eyes widened when he recognized the silent question.
“I didn’t tell them anything,” he promised, pain flaring as he stepped closer. “I wouldn’t Dutch, I swear I didn’t--”
“I know you wouldn’t,” Dutch snarled, somehow more angry than before. “But it doesn’t matter. They found you. That’s all they need to track me down whether you talk or not.”
“I--”
“What did you get out of this?” Dutch asked. “Was there anything in the fake stagecoach you were so insistent on stealing?”
Arthur kept his eyes on the ground, breathing growing too quick and shallow, swallowing around the lump forming in his throat. “There’s nothing in the--”
“Nothing,” Dutch repeated, loud enough to attract every lawman in the state. “They were going to kill you, Arthur. For nothing.”
Arthur didn’t move, didn’t speak. He wasn’t even sure he could if he wanted to.
“There was a gun to your fucking head! One second...if I had taken just one more damn second they would have...you’d be--you…”
He finally stopped, breaking off with a hand pressed to his mouth, turning away to watch the thankfully silent road.
Arthur watched him, tense and waiting for more, his trembling having only worsened since his rescue. He’d seen Dutch angry, but never anything like this. Not at him.
“Sometimes I think you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”
Arthur froze, suddenly forgetting how to breathe, throat closing up in his terror, taking a cautious step towards the other man.
“Dutch, I’m--”
“Get out of here, Arthur.” Dutch’s voice had quieted, but he was still visibly furious, threatening. “Go on. Before someone sees you.”
Arthur’s head was spinning, dread sinking deeper, fear somehow worse than when he’d had a gun to his head. Of course, he’d expected anger. He’d deliberately disobeyed and had nothing to show for it, his arrogance nearly leading to Dutch’s capture, Arthur too weak to fight back and stop the men.
But this? It had been a mistake. One stupid, nearly fatal mistake, but he’d never thought Dutch would…
The bounty hunters words came back to him in a flash, echoing in his ears, cold and cruel. He’ll throw you to the dirt the minute he’s done with you.
Arthur found his gaze traveling down to where Dutch still held his gun at his side, icy fear coating his heart. Or he’ll kill you himself.
Arthur shook his head, refusing to believe it, refusing to believe he’d just been some street urchin Dutch had picked up off the street, that the man had never really cared, that he’d only fed Arthur the kind words and promises he’d wanted to hear, never meaning any of it.
And now that Arthur had stopped being useful, now that he was nothing but trouble, no longer worth Dutch’s time, he was being thrown away, cast aside like an old horse grown too sick to ride.
Hosea was gone, so maybe Dutch had simply decided he’d be better off on his own. Or maybe Arthur was the reason Hosea had left in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” he tried, taking another step, voice rendered to nothing more than a weak whisper. “Dutch, I’m sorry. I didn’t--”
“I didn’t ask if you were sorry.” Dutch whirled back around to face him, grabbing Arthur’s arm in a crushing grip, stopping the younger man from reaching out. “I told you to leave. Now.”
Arthur swallowed, struggling to form words around the sickening terror, to focus on anything other than his heart fighting to break through his chest.
“I don’t...where am I supposed to--”
“I don’t care.” He hadn’t even realized Dutch had shoved him until he was stumbling back through the dirt, gasping against the new burst of pain, fighting to keep from hunching over or dropping to his knees. “But until you can...what’s wrong with you?”
Arthur shook his head, moving his arms to cover his sides, squeezing his eyes shut when the small movement only made the pain worse, agonizing fire burning through his veins.
“Arthur?”
“I’m ok.” He tried to move away as Dutch stepped closer, knowing an injury on top of everything else would just make it all worse. “I’m ok, I’m--”
It worsened in a nauseating flash, feeling like someone was twisting a knife into his skin, and he couldn’t stop himself from crying out, the shame and guilt now suffocating.
He couldn’t keep himself standing anymore, the pain shoving him down, wobbling legs finally collapsing, the ground rushing up to greet him as he fell.
But there were hands waiting, rushing forward to catch him, Arthur gasping again at the new pressure against his side, Dutch tensing as he did his best to slow Arthur’s descent.
“What’s wrong? What is it?”
He was still angry. Arthur could hear it, could hear the disappointment and resentment, the tone only adding to his hurt.
He wrapped his arms tighter around himself, refusing to let Dutch see the blood, to see just how badly he’d messed up, desperate not to give the man another reason to want him gone.
But Dutch was stronger, grabbing at Arthur’s wrists and easily prying them apart. His eyes widened when he saw the inside of Arthur’s jacket, the red stain spreading across his shirt.
“Jesus, Arthur, Jesus.” He released his hold to peel back the cloth, assessing the damage, Arthur no longer able to meet Dutch’s eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Arthur’s breath hitched in his throat, terror and pain overwhelming, wanting nothing more to sink into the ground and vanish forever. Maybe now, Dutch would finally put him out of his misery.
Lip quivering and eyes stinging, he breathed in shaky, frantic gasps, struggling to form words. “I-I’m...I’m sorry, Dutch, I’m sorry, I'm sorry…”
It was the only thing he could think to say, desperate for Dutch to give him another chance, to not give up on him just yet. There was nowhere else for him to go, no one else to believe in him.
If he lost his family, he might as well just let the bullet kill him here and now.
Dutch was pushing him down, slow and gentle, letting him lay back against the dirt. Arthur craned his neck to watch the other man, hoping to see him reconsider, for the anger to fade.
“You stupid, stupid boy.”
The words hurt worse than the bullet, and Arthur couldn’t hold back the ragged sob tugging at his chest, turning away to avoid facing the animosity of Dutch’s glare.
“No, no, no.” There was pressure against the wound, the pain blinding. A hand moved to cup his face, the gesture familiar and grounding, but Arthur hardly felt it. “Stay awake, Arthur. You’re alright, it’s ok.”
Dutch still sounded on edge, still angry, and the shame only worsened when Arthur knew he’d have to disappoint him once again. All motivation to keep fighting had disappeared, leaving him weak and drained, sinking into the ground, just like he’d wanted.
“No, Arthur, look at me.” Dutch pushed harder against the wound, making Arthur groan. “Look at me, son!”
Arthur did his best to obey, still desperate for the forgiveness so far from his reach, barely able to make out anything anymore, the world hazy and gray.
“S-sorry,” he mumbled, tongue suddenly numb and heavy. “Don’t...don’t make me--”
“Stop trying to talk. Just stay awake, Arthur. Keep your eyes on me.”
“Can’t…” He took in another shaky breath, squinting to try and make out just how irritated Dutch was. “Don’t...Dutch, don’t make me leave, I...I-I don't have anywhere else.”
It was so quiet, if Dutch hadn’t been sitting as close as he was, Arthur wasn’t sure would have been able to hear it. The pathetic plead was almost lost to his own ears.
“What?” He sounded angry again, and if Arthur had the strength he would have flinched. “No one’s...no, Arthur I just meant--Arthur?”
His eyes were closing, and Arthur could do nothing to stop it. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to.
He wondered if Dutch would care if Arthur never opened his eyes again, if he’d even tell Hosea, if either of them would mourn.
Arthur’s death would be a relief to them both, an easy way to get rid of him without running the risk of him talking to the law.
Not that he would have ratted them out, no matter how betrayed he felt. They were still his family, the only one he’d ever had.
It was ruined because of him. Dutch and Hosea owed him nothing, but Arthur owed the two men everything. And he’d failed. He wasn’t worth the trouble anymore.
“Arthur!”
It was just one more order to disobey, another way to disappoint Dutch, to fail the man that had been nothing but kind to him, finally letting the darkness win.