Chapter Text
It wasn’t unusual to come back to camp after a hunt or a mission with some scrapes and bruises. Sean tried hunting one time and came back with a black eye after mishandling a gun and receiving the full brunt of the kickback right in his eye socket. John had infamously come back from scouting out the mountains with his face half torn off by wolves. Hosea had returned from picking herbs with a new limp after taking a dip into a rabbit hole concealed by tall grass.
Arthur had a knack for always getting hurt one way or another while out. Hunting? Slipped while gutting the kill and ended up with a gash across his arm. Bank heist? Bullet graze if not a bullet lodged in his arm. Just taking off for a week? Return with a split lip and dislocated knuckles—which Hosea or Susan had to get creative with setting, as Arthur always tensed up and flinched when he thought it was coming.
And lately he’d been coming back with self-done bandages or stitches, refusing any medical help from the people who had been surrogate parents to him.
It was a slow thing, the way Arthur began to shut down and shut people out. He’d always been one to keep to himself and not talk about his feelings, unless those feelings were of anger. The ladies around camp would convince him to sit and talk for a bit, about deeper things, but he’d brushed them all off anymore.
He knew he was getting bad again. There was usually a few years in between his severe bouts of depression, allowing Arthur to feel normal for a while and think maybe it wouldn’t happen again and maybe he’d stay happy this time. He never did.
But the dark thoughts crept back into his head slowly, unnoticed at first. Arthur confirmed it was back when he flipped through his journal and found no positive passages written or fun new sketches of wildlife. It was all failed this, disappointed that, random drawing of a crow or something dead.
One morning he was getting ready to ride off into town and get some medical supplies, something he’d be hiding on himself for when he couldn’t ask Hosea or Susan or anyone in camp for help. He had begun to slip back into old habits, bad habits, and couldn’t risk bringing attention to it.
It was something newer, despite his years of dealing with depression. He didn’t know why it took him so long in his adult life to intentionally hurt himself, but not for a greater good of some sort. It wasn’t like reopening a wound to clean it. He was creating wounds just for the rush it brought.
He experimented with different ways to harm himself. He did little things like biting his lip or cheek, or digging his nails into his skin—he could get away with that in front of people. He’d tried burning himself but didn’t get the same satisfaction as cutting open the skin and watching the blood bead up.
But it was so risky. He relished every cut he snuck onto his arms, loving being able to mark himself so inconspicuously. He knew if he kept appearing with the same cuts he’d get caught. He’d already suffered a lasting look from Dutch, eyes glued to his arms, until he finally walked away.
It was absolute dread thinking Dutch knew, that Dutch could tell what he’d done to himself.
“You okay there, Arthur?”
He jumped, startling his horse and getting an annoyed huff from the beast. Arthur turned around from his saddlebag and saw Charles standing with a bow in hand.
“I’m fine,” he drawled, annoyed at being caught off guard.
Charles’s eyes inspected the older man. “You just don’t seem yourself lately.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “You only been with this gang six months.”
“And you’ve been a completely different person for the past three,” Charles retorted.
Arthur finally mounted his horse, choosing to ignore Charles altogether. He rode off away from the camp, leaving behind an even more concerned Charles.
It was easy getting medical supplies from the local doctor. Bandages, string and needle for stitches, and alcohol for disinfecting. The alcohol would be used preemptively, cleaning off the blade of Arthur’s knife and the surface of his skin before he got to work.
After his trip into town he’d ride around, looking for a safe enough spot to cut himself. He wanted somewhere secluded enough that people wouldn’t come across him and take advantage of his vulnerable position.
It wasn’t long into the ride that Arthur became restless, itching to just roll a sleeve up and make another dangerously obvious cut. In his antsy state he decided to just ride into the trees and stop somewhere random and finally relieve himself of this deep need to break his skin open.
He got off his horse and found a nice tree to lean against. Arthur made quick work of pouring alcohol over his hunting knife and then over his forearm. He briefly analyzed the current state of his skin and debated where a realistic placement might be for whatever bullshit excuse he has to think up.
He brought the knife to his skin, to the fatty upper forearm, and slid it slowly across the area. Arthur held back a hiss as he worked the knife deeper, possibly deep enough to need stitches.
Fuck if it didn’t feel good.
The knife raised up and he admired the small river of blood running down the side of his arm. He could get away with another cut, right? Nothing too suspicious about two little cuts.
Arthur returned to camp with a deer he had tracked and hunted down, wanting to still be productive if he was going to treat himself to a few cuts across his arms. He’d gone a little overboard, so overwhelmed by the rivets of blood and the rush of relief. Instead of two inconspicuous cuts on one arm, he had multiple cuts scattered over both arms.
He knew he’d get the same pitiful look if Hosea saw. Arthur had only taken up intentional self-harm in the past couple cycles of his depression, though he had mindlessly done it before as a way to focus himself. It started as pinching himself to stay awake and became… this. But he always had the sinking suspicion that Hosea knew, and that Hosea let it go as long as it didn’t happen often.
But it was getting harder to stop himself.
Arthur quickly made his way through camp to drop off his deer to Pearson. He then made his way to his tent, ready to take a nap and have a valid excuse to not talk to the other people in camp.
And he knew that his self-isolation wouldn’t go unnoticed, but he hoped dearly no one would say anything or ask what’s wrong. He just didn’t have the energy to fake normalcy for the gang.
Arthur was sitting on his cot and slipping his boots off, ready to hide under his blanket and sleep the day away. He wasn’t pleased to see Charles stroll in, and he became painfully aware of how exposed his arms were, sleeves pulled up and nothing but bandages to hide what he’d just done to himself.
“What’chu want?” Arthur asked, recoiling at how brash he’d sounded.
Charles sighed and dropped his head, his gaze flittering over Arthur’s arms. “I’m here to talk.”
“No shit.”
“What’s going on with you lately?” Charles asked, standing by the tent entrance, not wanting to come too close and spook Arthur.
“Nothing,” Arthur lied, crossing his arms to hide the mess he’d made of them. “S’how I am.”
Charles rolled his eyes. “Did something happen?”
“No,” Arthur rolled his eyes. “Now git, I’m trying to take a nap, if you don’t mind.”
There was a finality to Arthur’s tone and he raised his legs onto the cot. Charles walked away from the tent defeated. If Arthur would have been receptive to talking, he would have brought up how often Arthur seemed to come back to camp cut up and bandaged.
He’d have asked Arthur if he was in need of company to wait out the crippling loneliness he must have been feeling. He’d ask why he avoided everyone anymore, why he stopped getting help for his scrapes and abrasions. Ask why he was so clearly withdrawing into himself.
It reminded Charles of how his father retreated into himself after his mother was taken away. But Arthur hadn’t lost anyone, had he? The only major thing to happen to them recently was the Blackwater massacre, and Arthur wasn’t even part of the incident.
He’d already known Arthur’s parents were long dead and his son had passed years before Charles were to ever meet the gang. Outside of the gang, Arthur didn’t have anyone left to lose. Was he that badly effected by the deaths of Jenny, Mac, and Davey?
It didn’t make sense. Charles just needed a few more pieces of the puzzle to understand. He wanted to help Arthur but the man didn’t make it easy.
He felt like a snitch when he entered Hosea’s tent and asked to speak privately.
“I’m worried about Arthur,” he said bluntly. “He’s not… himself.”
Hosea drew in a breath and motioned for Charles to sit down. “What have you noticed?”
Charles thought back on the slow decline of Arthur. “I’ve noticed how much he avoids people now, everyone. I wasn’t concerned until I started seeing how frequently he’d find himself hurt.”
“Oh?” Hosea took an interest in Charles’s words. “Has he been getting banged up more?”
Charles nodded. “It’s usually on his arms, I think. I haven’t noticed a variety of injuries. He seems clumsy with that knife of his.”
Hosea paled a shade and looked away, deep in thought.
“When he’s not ignoring me he’ll tell me it’s from a knife fight with an O’Driscoll on the road, or from branches catching him in the woods. I believed it at first, but when he always comes back to camp with something new wrong, I just… have my doubts.”
Hosea nodded. “Have you noticed anything else?”
“Just that he’s withdrawn and doesn’t seem to have the patience for questions.”
“Thank you, Mister Smith, for telling me this,” Hosea finally said after a moment of silence. “I’ve also noticed the change in his personality, but to be honest he’s always been too fast to get to his tent for me to see the frequency of his injuries.”
“Has… Arthur been like this before? I can’t think of why he’s become like this.”
Hosea hummed. “Every few years it seems, he gets into this state. Usually doesn’t last more than six months to maybe a year. Ever since we picked him up as a kid, he’d just… get kind of sad and anti-social. When he was younger I’d hear him crying when he thought everyone was asleep. Now he seems to just run off and start bar fights.”
“Do… do you think he’s doing it to himself? Starting fights or… slipping with his hunting knife?”
A sadness overtook Hosea’s face. “Unfortunately, yes.” He sighed deeply. “I thought he’d stopped.”
Arthur startled awake when he felt hands on his arms. Panic immediately overtook him and he blindly backed up, trying to keep his arms firm against his chest.
“It’s just me, boy,” Hosea’s voice was firm but low. “Let me look at these.”
Arthur’s throat tightened and he kept his arms pressed to himself. “It’s fine.”
“No, it’s really not,” Hosea’s voice nearly broke, the sadness weighing it down.
He knew. Hosea knew. He knew before and he knows now and he knows everything hidden under those bandages were done on purpose.
“Breathe, son, you’re okay.”
The panic overwhelmed him and quickly morphed into dissociation as Arthur’s body slowly drained of feeling. He felt like he was out of his body, a spectator to this scene before him. His head was light and he felt like he was weightless.
Hosea had a comforting hand on Arthur’s cheek. “That’s it, Arthur, just keep breathing. You’re okay.”
He had missed the distant look in Arthur’s eyes, encouraging the dissociation happening. They sat there in relative silence as Arthur regained his breathing, though his mind floated miles above his body. He could barely hear Hosea when the older man began speaking again.
“You’re really worrying us,” he said.
Arthur stared forward, un-answering, until Hosea waved a hand in front of his face. “Sorry.”
“What on earth is going on with you? Are you even listening to me?”
Arthur looked past Hosea’s face, unable to meet the man’s gaze. The floating feeling was starting to fade, the blissful numbness fading with it, replaced by guilt and dread.
“Just a rough patch.” It was the most honest he’d been about his situation. Severely understated, but finally a grain of truth was out there.
“Rough patch,” Hosea muttered back to himself. “Arthur, if I ask you something, will you tell the truth? Even if the truth is uncomfortable?”
He knew what the question was. He already knew he wouldn’t fess up to anything. “You think I’m a liar now?”
Hosea sighed. “I think you’re hiding something you really shouldn’t.”
“Well I think you need to mind your own business sometimes.”
“I raised you, you are my business.”
The atmosphere in the tent was painfully awkward for Arthur and he wanted this moment just to be over already. He missed the numbness he had felt earlier. He craved to carve another line into his skin. He wanted to run off to the woods and just vomit up all the anxiety whirring around his mind.
Hosea definitely knew, Dutch might suspect something, and Charles is onto him. He’d have to be a hell of a lot more careful.
“I just want to go to sleep,” Arthur said out loud, now getting frustrated from being startled out of his nap. “Can I at least have that much?”
He hadn’t meant the words to come out so tired and broken, mirroring Hosea’s tone. He just wanted to take a fucking nap and stop feeling for a few hours.
Hosea gave a weak smile and rubbed a comforting hand up Arthur’s back before standing to leave. “Get some rest, son. Feel better.”
Arthur nearly cried with relief when he was left alone, falling back into sleep in minutes.
The day dragged on and Hosea was done arguing with himself about going to Dutch. They’d both raised Arthur and took on fatherly roles, and he felt like he was betraying Dutch to not alert him of the state of their son.
Dutch had been sitting against a tree, reading some Evelyn Miller novel. Hosea limped his way over, hoping to persuade Dutch to speak with him in a more private setting.
“Dutch, a word? Maybe in your tent?”
Dutch raised his eyes from the book and analyzed Hosea’s face to determine if this was truly important. The look in Hosea’s eyes had him bookmarking the novel and up on his feet in seconds. They quickly made their way to the tent and Dutch pulled the flaps down to give them maximum privacy.
“What’s wrong?”
Hosea motioned for Dutch to sit on the cot as he took a vacant chair. “I’m worried about Arthur.”
“Why?” Dutch asked, voice giving him away. He was worried too.
Hosea thought hard about what he was going to say, which fears he was going to voice first. “Arthur’s back in one of his funks and… I’m afraid this time he’s going to kill himself.”