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Open Jaws and Closed Hearts

Summary:

Arthur don’t talk about it, but the O’Driscolls did more than beat him.

Arthur has to come to terms with the darkness inside him since the O'Driscolls took him hostage. Recovering from the trauma is one thing, but Arthur is then thrust into a world he had never thought existed, and has to find his place in it, if there even is a place for him. But his old life still calls him home, and Arthur may have to choose between a new life and the old and deal with the consequences.

Playing loosely with timelines, Arthur never got TB but something else instead. Got captured by O'Driscolls earlier in the story and he wasn't just beaten. Rape/non con at start and the trauma and recovery that then needs throughout the rest of the story. Supernatural elements, monsters and darkness oh my! But also Romance. Because Arthur deserves some love dammit. Arthur/ OC

Notes:

WARNING: Rape/noncon here boys and girls, ye be warned. Rating Explicit because of this and for later chapters which will have gore and steamy scenes. I have no control.

I'm playing loosely with the timeline, the gang are at Clements Point still, but Arthur was captured by the O'Driscolls like in canon, just...earlier. Then it very quickly diverges from canon for Arthur, and won't be following everything to a T.

I haven't written much for a while but wanted to put this out to encourage me to stick with it. Let me know if you like it!

Chapter Text


 

Arthur don’t talk about it, but the O’Driscolls did more than beat him.

Eventually the sport of beating a man too injured to fight back got too dull. Arthur’s skin was black and blue, the cobblestone floor and walls slick with splattered blood that looked black in the lantern light. One of the men slipped a grimy finger into Arthur’s mouth, crooked like a hook inside his cheek. Arthur tried to bite and got a slap to the face that made him see stars behind his swollen eyelids.

“Got a mouth on ‘im this one,” one of them had tittered, and they closed ranks, wolf hungry eyes set on a new prize. Nights on the plains were long and lonely, and these weren’t good men. “Can think of a better use for that.”

He wish he could say he made it hard for them. That he fought them like the blazes and it were enough to put them off, to drive them away from the damp cellar and leave him well enough alone. But that were a lie, and Arthur were many things, but he weren’t a liar.

A week. A week he rotted away in that damn cell, expecting the gang to descend on Colm O’Driscoll like a pack of avenging angels. If anyone would ride to Arthur’s rescue, it’d be Dutch, hellbent on rescuing a brother. Hosiah wouldn’t let Arthur suffer, not at the hands of Colm. Hell, even Micah owed him one, after Strawberry. They wouldn’t leave him. They wouldn’t.

But the only one who came was Colm O’Driscoll himself, that son of a bitch. Slunk down into the cellar like a dog smelling blood, toothy grin wide enough to split his ugly face in two. He didn’t touch, not Arthur at least, just watched.  Slurred filth into the stifling air as much as Arthur tried to block him out.

You take that good, boy, Colm would grin as hands pulled at Arthur’s hair, bruises dug deep into Arthur’s hips. The air hot and stifling, grunts spilling into the void around Arthur as he bit through his lip to hold back a scream that rattled uselessly in his throat. You like that, don’t you Morgan? We’ll make a whore outta you yet.

But he weren’t laughing now. No, Colm O’Driscoll had stopped laughing pretty quick at the end. Funny how death did that to a person.

‘Cause Arthur weren’t right.

Hadn’t been, for a while. He couldn’t put it into words right when he tried, even when Mary Beth had offered to listen. The words came out as jumbled and jagged as they felt in his chest, sharp crooked sentences that made Mary Beth wince and him feel a fool. Like something bubbling under his skin, dark and vicious. The O’Driscolls had clawed it loose from his ribcage and now it slithered in his veins, demanding it’s pound of flesh.

When Arthur got back to camp, only getting that far by the grace of his mare, Valkyrie, he’d looked half dead. Dutch had blustered about vengeance, promises of pain returned and the anguish of having lost him. Arthur didn’t feel it much, the words hollow in the space his heart should have been. Something worse squatted there now, corrupt and cold, and it laughed as Dutch rode out to Colm’s with Javier and Micah promising revenge.

They came back pale faced and jittery, refusing to talk about it, and didn’t look Arthur’s way. It panicked the others, made them murmur under their breath where they thought Arthur couldn’t hear.

‘Cause Arthur weren’t right.

There was a camp full of dead O’Driscolls to prove that. Colm O’Driscoll ripped open throat to balls, ribs snapped like toothpicks and flesh picked clean. Crows left pecking the oozing cavities where his eyes should have been.

 


 

Sometimes, it was almost like normal. With the majority of the O’Driscolls gone, the only thing the gang had to worry about was Pinkertons, and they hadn’t seen hide or hair of them for weeks. Dutch was riding high on the prestige that came from getting chummy with the local Grey Sheriff, and for once it was almost an honest living.

Arthur just made himself scarce. Did his share of course, brought in money he earned from selling pelts and meat he hunted, catching mustangs and bringing in the odd bounty. They didn’t ask him to join no heists, and he didn’t ask. Probably better that way. Could be he just didn’t have a taste for it no more- too many folks killed over the years and for what? More running from trouble and some cash that was spent faster than it took to get it in the first place.

Strawberry still festered in him. A town of folk just trying to get by, half their menfolk gunned down all ‘cause Micah couldn’t keep his ugly trap shut. Often Arthur chose his hunting grounds up that way, selling back meat and skins to the local butcher at a much lower price he’d get elsewhere. Trying to do something to keep the town going. Penance, or whatever the Reverend liked to call it in his more lucid moments.

Arthur did the same in Valentine, careful not to cause any trouble and warning any of the others to keep away. The town had seen enough of them, and folks treated Arthur kind enough. Even said things like Mornin’ and How you doin’? like he was an honest man.

They didn’t look at him like they knew.

You ‘aint worth nothin’, Colm still laughed in his head, phantom hands pressing cruel fingers around his throat. Less than nothin’, and ‘aint nobody gives a damn what happens to you.

Arthur never stayed long in the towns.

 


 

More and more Arthur found himself slipping away from camp to roam the forests on Valkyrie, spending nights away, camping out in the wilds where things made more sense and he couldn’t hurt no-one. ‘Cause some nights, when the moon was bright and high, it was like he just…blacked out. Would come to in the morning, naked as a jaybird in some bush or another, blood smeared all over his face, teeth aching and jaw sore. He had a disease, a madness in his brain he couldn’t cure with all the prayer in the world. He never seemed to hurt his mare though, and eventually he’d find her, back at a camp he could never remember setting up, tethered and grazing happily.

Sometimes he’d be out there so long someone would be sent to haul him back, usually Charles or Lenny. They may fear him, but they needed him. Dutch needed him. A foreman always needed his best tools to get the job done.

This time they brought him back for a job, the first they’d included him on in weeks. Was a quick in and out stagecoach robbery, but it still left a stale taste in his mouth. Someone said something, or moved too fast, and there it was, another woman left with a lonely bed, her man never to come home. He’d been brought along to look scary, and scary he was.

All you’re good for.

“Jesus, Arthur, you brood any harder, your face is gonna stick that way.”

Lenny pulled Maggie up beside Arthur, the Mustang snorting as she tossed her head. Arthur straightened in the saddle, gripping the reins. His own mare Valkyrie was an Appaloosa, a strong legged horse that could handle Arthur’s weight. She had a silver dappled coat with darker spots on her rump. She’d belonged to a Lemoyne Raider, and once Arthur introduced him to the business end of his rifle, seemed a shame to sell the mare on or turn her loose. Couldn’t leave somethin’ so pretty to feed the wolves, or be worked to death in a field.

She were loyal, and fierce, and a braver horse Arthur hadn’t come across yet. But she could be stubborn, and she didn’t take kindly to others, pulling her head up high as the Mustang pulled up beside her.

Arthur shifted in the saddle, patting Valkyrie’s neck fondly as she huffed and puffed. “Might be an improvement.”

Lenny chuckled. “Maybe so, but I can’t remember the last time I saw you look anythin’ but…well. Like that.”

Arthur scowled, fingers squeezing the worn leather reins in his hands. Valkyrie’s ears flicked back in warning as Maggie came too close, and wisely the Mustang veered away, giving the larger horse space.

“You want somethin’?” It sounded harsh, even to Arthur, but he didn’t have it in him to try and curb his tone. His gums itched, he wanted to bite something.

Lenny held his hands up in a peace gesture. “Easy big man. Just….you haven’t said much lately. Wanted to see if you’re okay.”

Arthur sighed. Lenny meant well, and he were a friend. He didn’t deserve Arthur growling and snapping at him.

It had been four of them, him, Lenny, Bill and Javier. They’d split just outside Rhodes, Bill and Javier going right while Arthur and Lenny went left. Arthur slowed Valkyrie to a gentle walk and Maggie fell alongside. Only a few wagons were on the dusty road, wheels loudly creaking and out of habit Arthur dutifully tipped his hat to each. The trail sloped down, angling into the forest and towards camp.

“’M fine.”

“See, you say that, but I don’t believe it. That job went a bit sideways huh? Shame it came to blows.”

The jobs always went sideways. Every goddamn time, someone ended up dead.

“Yeah. Shame.” A jackrabbit shot into the brush, startling several birds in a burst of noise. Valkyrie tossed her head but didn’t shy. She never did.

Sean whistled as they neared camp. Lenny echoed it, and Arthur nudged his mare forward at a quicker pace, breaking through the tree line to the clearing beyond. It was just past midday and the camp was busy, Pearson bent over the cooking pot and grumbling as he stirred the steaming mess. Arthur concentrated on getting his mare seen to- unstrapping her tack and getting her brushed down before he sent her off to the other horses. She nudged him with her flank, nearly sending him over and trotted off with a nicker.

The stew was gamey but satisfying, and Arthur settled at the rickety wooden table, hunched over and slurping. Uncle was on another rant, Mrs. Grimshaw clucking at him like a disapproving hen at the coop cockerel. Jack was poking something in the dirt, Cain the camp mongrel hovering worriedly. Arthur watched the boy for a while until the spoon hit the bottom of the bowl with a clatter. Weren’t his place o’ course, but it weren’t no life for a child. Was still surprised Dutch encouraged it, but weren’t like Abigail had much choice. Hell at one point Arthur thought about proposing, just to give her and Jack a better life somewhere but then John had surprised them all and come back. For better or worse, he couldn’t say.

Speaking of which.

John had approached, leaning one hip awkwardly against the table as he crossed his arms, looking anywhere but at Arthur directly.

“Alright?”

Arthur grunted, setting the bowl aside and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What you want Marsten?”

Usually John would cuss him out, still just a proud kid trying to measure up. John’s brow furrowed, but he bit back his temper, shrugging stiffly instead.

“Nothin’. Thought I’d sit a spell.”

Arthur eyed him suspiciously. “You ‘aint sittin’.”

John huffed, kicking the bench aside to step in and sit down, spreading his hands. “Now I am.”

“You can sit wherever you damn well please,” Arthur muttered. “I don’t care.”

Silence then. John shuffled, fingers tapping a restless tune against the wood. “I uh…I just…”

Lord he didn’t have the energy to deal with John. He never did honestly, the two of them butting heads more than the mountain rams Arthur sometimes hunted in the mountains. Too alike, too different, he could never figure why John rubbed him so raw.

“’M sorry.” John finally blurted.

Silence between them, only the murmurs of the others as they went about their business. As John should be doing.

Arthur blinked slowly, willing his itching gums to settle. The wounds on John’s face had healed but left long jagged scars of tooth and claws. Arthur had the irrational urge to see if his fingers matched the lines, if his teeth would perfectly fit the juncture between John’s neck and shoulder where he could see a pulse faintly beat.

The fuck was wrong with him.

“What?”

“We shoulda done more,” John said. “Looked harder. Dutch said was too dangerous, that you’d be alright. We all just…believed it. And you are, but you also ‘aint.”

There was a faint buzzing in Arthur’s ears, his throat tight. The itching in his gums intensified, and he ground his teeth together until he could feel them creak with the pressure. Pain then, a dull throb from his jaw but he barely felt it.

“’M fine.”

John was never one for pity, but there was something in his dark eyes that made Arthur want to scream, anger pulsing hotly in his belly. John shook his head.

“Like hell you are.”

You ‘aint a beast, Arthur tried to calm himself, temper the fire that bubbled up into his throat, threatening to spew out his mouth like damnation. You ‘aint.

“You don’t come to camp much no more,” John barreled on. “We didn’t see you for close on a month, Arthur. If Charles didn’t bring you back, you woulda been out there longer. Jesus Arthur, what the hell happened with Colm?”

Concern, Arthur realized in John’s expression. God if he didn’t look like the ratty kid Arthur once knew, long before heists and babies. Made Arthur’s heart ache something fierce for lost days, but he weren’t that man no more.

He weren’t sure what he was.

“I killed ‘im,” Arthur growled. “What more do you want? The bastard is dead and we can go back to livin’ this shit thing we call life without worryin’ bout O’Driscolls.”

“Yeah but-“

“No buts about it,” Arthur stood abruptly, hands braced on the table and teeth bared. “The hell you want, Marsten? You wanna braid our hair and talk ‘bout our feelin’s? Best look to your woman for that, I ‘aint in no mood for your stupidity.”

John flushed, still so easy to anger. “You don’t gotta be an asshole about it.”

Arthur barked a laugh. The sound drew glances from the others, and Arthur snorted, grabbing his empty bowl. “I’m always an asshole.”

“Didn’t use to be. You’ve changed, Arthur. And it ‘aint a good change.”

He left John there before he gave into temptation and just punched him. Arthur dumped his bowl into the barrel behind Pearson’s wagon, snarling at Molly who happened to be in his path. With a shocked I never, she was gone in a swirl of green velvet, hurrying back to the safety of Dutch’s tent. Wisely no-one else looked his way, scurrying to avoid being in his path as he stomped back towards his tent.

He could feel it, a festering in his chest, something black and pulsing behind his ribs. He rubbed the spot absently through his grimy shirt, digging his fingers into skin hard as if he could pluck it out. On the rickety table beside his cot was his journal, and he stared at it as he rubbed, digging blunt nails into his breast bone.

He hadn’t so much as drawn a line or written a word in it since he’d been captured. What would he even put in it?

Fucked by O’Driscolls. Didn’t like that one bit.

Colm laughed at him, and the anger spiraled behind Arthur’s eyes, bubbling up in his throat until it poured into his mouth, acidic and vile. You weren’t worth savin’. Never was, never will be.

Worthless.

Useless.

Abandoned.

“Arthur? Arthur!”

The pounding heat subsided, Arthur blinking as the world came back into focus. Hosiah stood outside his tent, peering inside worriedly but maintaining a distance.

“Son, what are you doing?”

Arthur blinked again, brow furrowing as he looked down at his hands. Pages fluttered around his tent, scraps caught on the gentle breeze. His journal was ruined, the leather cover torn down the middle and pages torn into pieces that fluttered weakly around him.

Arthur stared dumbly at the carnage, the months of work he had destroyed in seconds.

Hosiah stepped closer.

Don’t.”

The words didn’t even sound like his, voice raw and growling. Hosiah froze, and Arthur recognized the emotion that flickered in his face, one he hadn’t expected to see in the expression of the man he looked up to like a father.

He’s afraid of me.

Arthur tossed the remains of the journal away from him, fingers aching from the force he’d ripped and torn. He hadn’t unpacked his pack he’d unloaded off Valkyrie earlier, and he grabbed the worn strap, heaving it over his shoulder. “I’m headin’ out.”

Hosiah frowned, but stepped away from him as Arthur ducked out of the tent. “But you only just got back. Surely-“

“I’m goin’.”

Valkyrie came when he whistled, patiently allowing him to saddle her back up again and secure his pack. He could hear low voices beyond the camp fire but no-one moved to stop him, or ask him to stay.

He got the last buckle cinched, and hoisted himself into the saddle, settling back into the worn seat. A whisper of grass against clothing and a few steps away, Sadie stood, arms crossed and watching him silently. She looked good, in her shirt and man's trousers. Healing from the loss of her husband.

Healing. Wasn't sure he knew the meaning of the word.

“Mrs. Adler.”

“Arthur.”

Something in her voice made him pause, heels poised to nudge Valkyrie into motion. Sadie’s shoulders slumped, and she moved closer. She looked tired, her eyes dark and mouth set in a grim line. She were a hell of a woman, and she were kind to him, in her own way. She didn't have to be.

Sadie patted Valkyrie’s neck and the horse nosed her fondly, allowing her to comb her fingers through Valkyrie’s white mane.

“I know that look,” Sadie said quietly, rubbing strands of horsehair between her fingers. “It’s one I wear myself.”

Arthur snorted. “Should hope not, you’re a darn sight prettier than me.”

She didn’t smile. “You know how much those O’Driscoll bastards took from me. They took somethin’ from you too, didn’t they?”

Arthur fought to keep his belly from churning. “Not the first time I’ve been beaten. Doubt it’s the last.”

Sadie’s hand fell away from Valkyrie’s neck. “O’Driscoll’s do more than beat, we both know that.”

Sweat prickled down his back, the reins in his hands creaking. Sadie took a step back, wrapping her arms back around herself.

“You killed them, Arthur. And I know you killed 'em slow. I wish I got to see it, but I know you did it good. But don't let that bastard haunt you, he don't deserve it. You're better than him.”

Something skittered in his chest, running cold claws down the inside of his lungs. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ bout.”

“Arthur-“

“I’ll see you round, Mrs. Adler.” Arthur tugged the reins and Valkyrie broke into a trot, taking him away from Sadie’s too knowing eyes, her sadness and pity.

“Arthur!”

He spurred his mare on, Valkyrie’s long legs snapping out and carrying him away from camp into the forest. He let her run, carrying him further and further, across plains, fields and rivers. Maybe if they ran far enough they'd just plunge off the edge of the world and none of it would matter anymore.

You don't matter, Colm reminded him, chuckling darkly in his bones. Never did. Never will.

Arthur rode until Valkyrie's sides were heaving with exertion, until mare and rider alike were clammy with sweat and the horizon danced like a mirage before tired eyes.

You're mine, Colm laughed, and it didn't matter how hard Arthur rode, how far he went. He was still in that cell, Colm spitting down at him, hands fisted in Arthur's hair. You'll never forget it.