so apparently doesn't have strikethroughs? so I'm using bolding in its place. I am so sorry. If you want to see it with the proper formatting it's on AO3 under the name of 'You don't know what happened to the kid you raised'
Dutch hadn't written in his journal in a long time.
He had tried in Lagras, when he'd desperately been trying to make a plan, been desperately trying to get them to safety. But nothing had come to him, and so the last written in pages had been back in Shady Belle, only a few jotted down lines after the Duffy boy had ridden back into camp, tied to a horse and holding his head in his hands.
Wearing all white: Stands out, Pinkertons and lawmen see him, don't shoot him?
He frowned, furrowing his brow. No, no, it hadn't been Arthur. Dutch was certain someone was dressed all in white, though, it stood out starkly in his memory. He didn't remember much these days, his memories were jumbled and unreliable, but every time he looked back on that robbery, tried to figure out what had gone wrong, the person dressed in white was consistent, was always there.
But who had it been?
Not Arthur, no, not Arthur.
Wearing all white: Stands out, Pinkertons and lawmen see him, don't shoot him?
He scratched out the line, scowling. His head was beginning to throb, a sharp, stabbing pain where he had bashed his head, and he shook it, trying to distract himself.
Dutch thought back on the robbery, desperately trying to recall who it had been. Not Lenny or Charles, the person's skin had not been dark enough, and Lenny had been shot dead in the end. But… maybe his memory was tricking him? The white outfit was always there, but maybe he was remembering it wrong? Maybe he was so distracted by the clothing that he was missing something so important, such a small detail?
Charles?
He jotted down. The man hadn't been with them long, and had morals that, Dutch thought, were far too good for an outlaw. Perhaps he had lost his nerve, had decided that he couldn't stand being an outlaw anymore? He had led the lawmen away from the boat, after all, and lived.
But the skin color… it was consistent as well. Every time he remembered it, he saw tanned skin along with the white clothing. And it stood out so starkly to him…
Charles?
Dutch put his head in his hands, squinting against the throbbing headache. Tanned skin… white clothing? A familiar, white hat. Where had he seen that hat? Blond hair... Blond facial hair?
Reaching for his pen, with a shaking hand, he managed in barely legible handwriting,
Micah.
Everything pointed to Micah. It was a member of his Gang, it had to be. The lawmen wore uniforms, and they had been shooting at the lawmen as well, so it couldn't be a Pinkerton. And Micah was the only one who had come with them that had blond hair, that mustache. But… but Micah?
Micah would never do that. He was the most loyal member of their family, had slotted in like he had always been there, like he was meant to be with them. He'd been with them for years months. He would never betray them, would never set them up, would never get them killed, or hurt, or arrested.
Micah.
Dutch had been losing time.
He'd be doing one thing, and the next thing he knew he was doing something wholly different.
Sometimes he'd lose hours, other times only minutes. He feared the moment it would happen during a firefight, though he'd been lucky enough that it had only happened when he was secluded away in camp so far.
So he wasn't too surprised when he blinked, finding himself no longer staring at his journal, instead staring at the gleam of his pocket watch as he polished it. He flicked it open, frowning—it'd been over four hours since his fight with Arthur, and his anger was long gone.
Dutch owed Arthur an apology.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. 'Shit.' The things he'd said to him! He and Arthur weren't seeing eye to eye anymore, but he didn't mean most of the things he'd said. Besides, the camp was surely tense after their rather public fight, and he wasn't blind enough to miss the undercurrent of tension that always seemed to be running through the gang these days. Showing that he was willing to admit that he was wrong might help, even if just a bit.
So he stood, clipping the pocket watch to his vest with rare, steady hands. That low, thrumming thread of rage was absent, and he intended to take full advantage of it. He needed to talk to Arthur, to have a heart to heart. Arthur had made some good points, but Arthur needed to apologize for some things, too, as he did.
Dutch wasn't good at apologies, never had been. He wasn't good at admitting fault, at admitting that he was wrong. So as he walked out of the tent, the few conversations of the camp going quiet, looking around to see if he could find Arthur, he was already trying to plan out what he would say, words bouncing around in his skull, sentences tangling and knotting and getting lost.
The anger flickered in the back of his mind, threatening to ignite again. If Arthur hadn't argued with him, he wouldn't have had to do this. He wouldn't have had to try and work out an apology. He wouldn't have his words failing on him.
His whole life, he had been able to rely on his words. His whole life, they were his only constant. Everything, everyone, left him. His father, his mother, Colm, back when they ran together. And now his words—he'd written them out, before, they'd never been the spontaneous speeches people thought they were, but now he couldn't even string his thoughts together long enough to put them to paper.
But no, it wasn't Arthur's fault.
He'd never been good at apologizing, and he could see this blowing up into another argument.
He wished Hosea was here—Hosea would know what to do. Hosea had always been the one to soothe ruffled feathers, to put a stop to fights, had always stopped them before they could even begin.
But Hosea wasn't there.
Would never be there again.
Because he was gone.
And it was Arthur's Charles' Micah's his fault.
He was well aware of eyes on him as he approached Arthur's tent, wondering if he was intending on starting another fight, if this would be it, if someone was going to be thrown out, if he would be punished in front of everyone.
But when he pushed aside the tent flap that, while once so rarely closed, was more and more often tied shut, he found the tent empty. While some of his clothes and guns and other such things sat bundled on the bed, Arthur was nowhere to be found. So he frowned, turned on his heel and walked back out, barking at John "Where the hell is Arthur!"
If he wasn't so scattered, he would have found it deeply wrong-wrong-wrong that Arthur had left his journal behind—he never went anywhere without it.
John looked up at him, scowling from where he'd been sitting with Abigail and Jack, but answered him still, "Dunno, he rode out after you walked off. Didn't say where he was going."
And that was enough to piss him off. Arthur left camp without telling him often, and it made him question—where was he going? Who was he seeing? He brought back funds, and food, and supplies, but still, he didn't tell him, and got testy when he asked.
So he went back to his tent or, at least, began to.
Because, scattered as he was, even he could recognize that something was wrong when he saw Arthur's beloved mare, standing amongst the other horses, while Arthur wasn't in camp.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and his blood chilled. He may have been questioning Arthur, had stopped viewing him as his son some time ago. But still he was a member of his Gang, was still a Van Der Linde, and something was deeply wrong—Arthur's horse was at their campsite, yet Arthur was not.
Before, he would have yelled for Hosea and they would have bolted for their horses and flown for Arthur. Would have grabbed Charles, too, to track him. It would have been selfless, would have been purely to make sure Arthur was safe.
This time, though, Dutch's actions were purely selfish.
The Gang, even he could see, was fracturing. Splitting into two sides. The side that was following Micah him, and the side that was questioning him. And what would be more reassuring than to see him ride out, going alone to look for Arthur, the man he once called Son, for no spoken reason other than to make sure he was safe?
"Micah!" he called, and the blond man strutted over, an easy grin on his lips, "I'm riding out, keep an eye on the camp."
The way the man's watery eyes bugged out was almost comical. "Riding-riding out? Boss, we have to plan! We don't have time!"
Dutch gave him a look, making sure to raise his voice enough to be heard without making it obvious, "Arthur's horse is here, but he is not. I want to make sure he's alright."
And he was well aware of the Gang's eyes on them, then, and fought down a grin.
Micah, though, looked fit to spit. "Boss, I'm sure he's fine! He probably got another horse!"
"Micah, this isn't up for discussion." and Micah went a color of red that bordered on purple, but settled for stomping away to his two friends, he'd heard their names dozens of times but Dutch couldn't recall, and moved to tack up The Count.
"What are you doing?" he asked, seeing Charles approach.
The man frowned, looking at him as though he thought him the fool, "I can help. Arthur's my friend, I can go instead."
Dutch shook his head, feeling a throb start up again, fighting the urge to snap, "Arthur is my Son," and the look on Charles' face had his jaw clenching, "I'll find him, go… hunt, or something."
And how far Dutch had fallen.
It was a decent ride.
He followed the mare's hoofprints, leading out of camp and then winding and ambling, seeming without a destination, although the more he rode the more he realized that Arthur, it seemed, had known where he was going. There were some spots where, it seemed, he had stopped, as though deliberating, before kicking her into a ground eating gallop that he had struggled to track, the strides too wide to easily find, and where before Dutch had planned to apologize or, at the least, talk it out, he fully intended on dressing Arthur down, asking why, exactly, he had stormed off like a child throwing a tantrum.
The dirt path turned into a deer trail, and before long he had to dismount his horse and lead The Count, peering into the grass to find where Arthur's mare had tamped it down, finding himself walking up a hill. He could hear a stream burbling nearby, and hares bolted from his path.
It was the sort of place Hosea would have taken him to when he needed a break.
"Arthur!"
The boy had made him track him several miles, and when he found him he was resting.
That familiar rage bubbled in his chest, boiled over, and he burned red hot, head throbbing, seeing double. "Do you know how long I've been looking for you, Son?!"
Arthur didn't respond, and though he still burned, unease set somewhere deep in his stomach. The man was lying, stretched out, on the very crest of the hill, propped up by the trunk of a fallen tree. The sun, having begun to set, silhouetted him in orange and yellow and burning gold, and as he stepped forward with a call of "Dammit, Arthur! Don't ignore me!" that was more unease than rage he caught sight of a buck, standing not far from Arthur. It raised its head from where it grazed and looked at him, blinked slow, oddly unbothered at the sight of a human so nearby. He stilled, as though locked under a spell, and then it was broken as it bounded off into the forest.
And still, Arthur didn't move, despite the stag's hooves landing next to his head.
"Arthur, don't. Ignore. Me. We need to talk." his voice dropped into that rattling growl that was becoming more and more common these days, and he hesitated, burning rage flooding away to be replaced by cold dread.
Arthur, despite how angry he was, had never been one to ignore him. In twenty years, he could never recall, once, Arthur ignoring him. Even as a teenager, first skittish with fear, then burning and angry, and then drunk and sulking and hurting, he had never, once, ignored him.
Something was wrong.
"Arthur, son. Look at me." and this was more plea than demand.
He realized, as he stepped forward, that not all of the silhouetting was from the sun.
A pool of red blood had soaked into the trunk of the tree, silhouetting his head like some demented sort of halo. That orange wasn't orange, but a burnished brown, his beloved duster he'd had since he was nineteen or so, a gift from Hosea if he was remembering right (and while he wasn't remembering things well, those things were recent, things that had happened long ago were still cement, strong and solid and there) soaked through with long-dried blood.
"Arthur…?"
His head… his head was wrong.
A horrific halo crowned a shattered head. He looked almost like he'd been scalped, and frantically he thought he'd been caught by that horrible Murfree Brood. But what he'd taken for a scalping he realized, staggering forward, was a cratering, his visible skull shattered, the edges jagged as though… as though something had shot from inside, and some of the sun that had crowned his head wasn't sun at all but splattered brain, and oh god he couldn't breathe.
"Arthur, Arthur son this isn't funny," and how this could be a joke he didn't know, and Arthur had never been the joking sort but he hoped, he prayed, that this was some horrible, monstrous, cruel joke he was playing to get back at him, for everything that he had done, and if Arthur would just get up he wouldn't even be mad, he'd just be relieved and laugh and cry and apologize, would do anything he asked if he would just get up, even get rid of Micah as he'd been wanting for so long if it meant that Arthur would just get up.
But it wasn't a joke.
He staggered closer, his legs feeling so, so weak, giving out as he collapsed at the boy's (but he wasn't a boy any more, he hadn't been in a long time, wasn't he?) the man's (he wasn't just any man, though, despite how Dutch had been treating him and how dare he how dare he how dare he Arthur had deserved so much better why hadn't he realized before now?) his Son's side, staring at his chest, so impossibly still, willing it to move, as impossible as it would be with his brains splattered across the sun soaked hill, and then he saw the gun held in his limp hand and this was his fault and he couldn't deny it and someone was screaming, an awful animal keening sound and he wanted to tell them to shut up, that his son deserved peace and silence, not that horrible sound, but his throat was burning and oh that was him and oh he couldn't stop and oh he couldn't breathe and
Arthur can't leave me too.