Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Arthur’s body twists, searching for relief. His hand claws at the edge of the bed, reaching out for the empty nightstand. The other cradles the hole in his shoulder as another hacking cough wracks him.

“Arthur, let the pain go.” Hosea catches Arthur’s hand in both of his, feeling the heat of fever and infection to his bones. “You got out, you’re home. Rest.”

Hosea’s voice strains with the effort of keeping himself calm.

“Hhhnnn.”   Arthur bares his teeth, a groan turning into a ragged, desperate gasp.

Despite his weakened state, Hosea winces when Arthur’s larger hand tightens around his. He frees a hand to run it down Arthur’s forearm to his uninjured shoulder, attempting to use firm pressure to bring Arthur out of the pain he’s lost in.

“My dear boy, go ahead and give in. It’s over.” Hosea pushes away the hair sticking to Arthur’s forehead next, running his thumb over Arthur’s burning forehead. Careful to avoid the nasty old bruise at his temple.

“I— I… I ain’t…” Arthur’s voice is faint and raw, catching in his throat with every breath.

“I know, I know.” Hosea soothes. Dutch already told him what little Arthur had managed to get out. He returns to massaging Arthur’s palm to keep the anger at bay. Right now he has to be here for his boy.

“...‘Sea...”

“Focus on me, Arthur.” Hosea gently stretches out stiff and bruised fingers. They’re not broken. Not like his ribs. If they weren’t scrambling to find a doctor, Dutch would be storming over to Colm’s to burn them all to hell.

As if that could do any possible good.

Arthur moves like he's trying to curl over his stomach, ignoring the gashes and punctures from the birdshot that pepper the back of his legs. If they had the medicine for it, Hosea would already be cleaning out every wound before stitching his boy together.

"Hurts."  

Hosea presses Arthur's scraped up knuckles to his lips, bowing his head over their clasped hands.

"I know it does, my darling. We're getting you a doctor as fast as we can." Hosea whispers, watching Arthur continue to shift on the raised cot. They didn't have anything strong enough to keep Arthur knocked out. The damn boy is as strong as an ox— he needs enough laudanum as one.

Charles is sporting a swollen face from trying to keep Arthur pinned down when they started to dig pellets out of him. Convincing Dutch they needed a real doctor to keep Arthur from tearing himself in two was easy. Arthur had reared up like a corpse reanimated, screaming and squirming when they attempted to patch him up.

Hosea had a wrenched elbow from the boy's sudden fight. Where Arthur found that strength… well, it had gotten him out of whatever Colm had him. But any more exertion, Hosea feared Arthur would fight to his death instead of recovering. The wild look in Arthur’s glazed eyes had yet to be tamed.

He does not want to linger on why Arthur is hellbent on fighting off anyone who tries to keep him down, why he snarls and snaps like a feral dog when anyone approaches him. The little laudanum they gave him, Arthur burnt through it within the hour, fighting the sedative effects the whole while.

Groaning, Arthur shifts around on the cot again, refusing to leave the gunshot wound in his shoulder unguarded. It had been crudely treated and cauterized recently. Hardened wax had melted into the cloth around the nasty wound. The chances of infection are high, as indicated by Arthur’s fever. Despite his hot skin, Arthur shivers and clutches at the blanket covering him, skin pale and shiny with sweat.

“I made some tea, Hosea.” Mary-Beth’s sweet voice shakes like her hands when she walks in with a steaming kettle in one hand and clay mugs balanced in the other. “Like you do when we’re sick.”

Her attention darts to Arthur when he lets out a wordless groan at her appearance, eyes half-open to peer out at the tent’s entrance. 

Hosea jerks his head. “Bring it here, please.”

She sets down the tea on the nightstand, hands hovering over the mugs before she pours two, only spilling a little bit at Arthur’s sudden coughing. The shallow, wet coughs are filled with pain as each one jostles Arthur’s broken ribs.

“Can I help with anything?” Despite Mary-Beth’s clear horror, determination steels her tone. Hosea glances up and sees that she’s made up her mind.

“I’ll lift his head, see if you can get him to drink some.” Hosea keeps his voice steady as he eases his hand and then his arm under Arthur’s neck.

Arthur jerks away with a rasping cry, shielding his left shoulder. It allows Hosea to get Arthur’s head off the bed just enough to pull Arthur’s good side against his chest. Mary-Beth shuffles around the bed.

“No—” Hosea curses himself as both Mary-Beth and Arthur flinch from his too-sharp correction. He continues with a whisper-soft tone. “This side, my dear. He won’t let you lean over that injury he’s got.”

The only word that comes to mind for the harsh rumble that punches through Arthur’s labored breathing is a growl. Arthur growls in the back of his throat, body tensing against Hosea’s, and tucks his chin down and away.

“Arthur, my boy, please try to drink something.” Hosea runs his fingers through the hair at the base of Arthur’s head, ignoring the twinges in his joints at the awkward position and Arthur’s weight pushing on him.

When Mary-Beth moves in with her hands wrapped around the mug of tea, Arthur’s hand comes up to ward her off. Hosea moves it down with a firm push, adjusting to try and coax Arthur to not face away from him.

“Arthur, it’s tea. I made it myself.” Mary-Beth inches forward again, her knees bumping into Hosea’s in the tight space at Arthur’s side. Hosea feels Arthur work to swallow and clear his throat.

“Just a sip, tell me how it tastes?” Mary-Beth, bless her, is trying to entice Arthur into compliance. Even as adults, neither Arthur nor John let Hosea force his ‘sick tea’ on them easily. After the fight Arthur put up earlier, Hosea doesn’t want to risk someone getting scalded from hot tea.

To his surprise, after the steam hits Arthur’s face, Arthur turns his head back to look up at them. Mary-Beth stops easing the half-filled mug towards him, tense. They wait as Arthur visibly struggles to get his fever-clouded brain to focus.

“Hmm… ‘Sea?” Arthur gets out behind gritted teeth, lifting his head a sliver to catch the bitter scent of the herbal tea. “H-Hosea?”

“Yes, you stubborn boy. Drink the tea,” Hosea says, unable to bring himself to even pretend to be harsh about it. “Mary-Beth’s sweetened it for you.”

At Hosea’s encouraging nod, Mary-Beth brings the edge of the mug to Arthur’s cracked lips. His nose wrinkles at the strong smell, but with little more than a grumble, Arthur lets Mary-Beth tip the mug so he can take a sip.

Hosea would be the first to admit this specific blend is less than enticing, but Arthur doesn’t seem to notice the taste. It cannot all be attributed to the thick sweet smell of honey Hosea picked out with his sharp sense of smell.

“It’s not terrible, I hope,” Mary-Beth says with a watery lopsided smile. 

“You need to drink more than that, Arthur, if you wanna break this fever.” Hosea adjusts his hold on Arthur, minding the tender shoulder Arthur keeps away from them. The smell clinging to Arthur is rancid— days of sweat and illness without a change of clothes.

Arthur obliges and takes another drink. It is slow going, like trying to water a bird with dewdrops. Only a portion of the tea gets consumed before Arthur chokes on a cough and rears up, sloshing some of the tea onto the blanket and Hosea’s knee.

Mary-Beth jumps back. Hosea helps Arthur lean forward— 

Arthur stiffens, pushing back so he’s flat on the bed, right hand pressed against his chest as his left forever hovers over the bullet wound. Hosea doesn’t fight him, paralyzed when he realizes that Arthur isn’t really choking on anything but air.

His lungs are too battered to breathe deeply, coughs rattling out of his throat. It reduces Arthur to shredded cries of pain he can hardly vocalize as tears run from clenched eyes. Hosea recognizes the strain in Arthur’s face and chest, other muscles attempting to force his lungs to fill with air.

“Shallow breaths, Arthur, you have to stop fighting.” Hosea places a hand on Arthur’s sternum, imagining he can feel the creaking of his boy’s ribs like thin trees in the wind. Arthur’s heartbeat is weak and fast under his palm.

“Hosea—”

“Where is that damn doctor?” Hosea snarls, cutting off Mary-Beth’s concern.

“Will your medicine help?” Mary-Beth pushes through his outburst, hands twisted in her dress.

“His ribs are broken, his lungs are damaged. Punctured— hell if I know.” Hosea stares down at Arthur’s body shaking and shuddering as he fights the coughing. “My asthma medicine won’t do shit. We don’t have anything to give him?”

“No, he’s already gotten it. Didn’t have much of anything left, not after—”

“Fuck!”

Mary-Beth flees the tent. Hosea watches, consumed with helplessness as Arthur’s lungs wear him out until the coughs are reduced to short and quick exhales. Hosea’s hands are shaking so much, he can hardly tell what is him and what part is Arthur struggling to breathe.

“Take it easy, Arthur, slow and steady.” Hosea tries to calm him. “Hold on, my dear boy, a doctor will be here soon enough to patch you up.”

Eyes darting under closed eyelids, Arthur pins Hosea’s hand on his chest with his own, holding onto it as if he’ll drown without it. His legs stop moving under the blanket as the coughing ends after too long. The flush brought to Arthur’s face disappears quickly, leaving little color besides the bruises across his cheek and mouth.

“I’m staying here, Arthur. Go ahead and rest.”

Hosea sinks down until he can rest his head and arm on the edge of the mattress. It moves with every wordless sound of pain Arthur makes and every labored gasp of air. Cold sweat seeps through the fabric of Arthur’s union suit to Hosea’s hand resting on his chest. At odds with the heat radiating from Arthur’s skin.

He watches Arthur’s chest rise and fall in jerking uneven patterns. Until John’s rasping voice cuts through the fear suffocating this tent.

“Doc’s about here.”

A sweep of John’s arm sends everything flying off the small table in Hosea’s tent. John drags it out to make room, grabs another lantern from outside to illuminate Arthur writhing on the cot. He is more gentle with the abandoned tea kettle and mugs, placing them outside.

With more room to move, John shoves over one of Hosea’s chests over to the other side opposite of the nightstand. Someone reaches past Hosea and places a stack of clean cloths and a bottle of moonshine on the now-bare table.

Not long after noise rises at the edge of camp with the rattle of harnesses and shoed hooves pawing the ground, voices billow ahead, tearing Hosea’s eyes off Arthur.

Dutch is removing the blindfold from a man’s eyes, slipping his bag into his hand with parting words. The doctor, an older man with white hair and a well-groomed beard blinks his eyes and fishes a pair of glasses out of his pocket.

“Evening, gentlemen.” He straightens out his clothes, looking rushed but not roughed up as he catches Hosea’s flat gaze before focusing on Arthur’s form. Lenny and Charles stand behind him, Dutch already out of sight.

“Edmond Delany, at your service. Let’s see what we got here, hm?” Delany nods to Hosea with respect before approaching Arthur’s feet. His aged face wrinkles when he frowns, zeroing in on the bullet wound.

“Hold this, will you?” Delany asks no man in particular, letting Charles step forward to take the lantern and hold it in the desired location. He steps around Arthur, leaning over him and tutting under his breath as he inspects the wound.

“That’s a hell of an injury. Hunting accident, I was told.” By the doctor’s tone, he doesn’t believe a word of it. When no one answers him, he places his bag on the table and starts to pull out instruments.

“I’m not in the business of selling out my patients, no matter who they may be.” Delaney preps a syringe as he talks, glancing over his shoulder at Hosea when the other two remain silent, looking to Hosea for guidance.

“If you tell me what really happened, you’ll save me a lot of time.”

Hosea studies the man as he prepares a small dose of morphine to inject. With another look to the dark hole in Arthur’s left arm, Delaney moves to Hosea’s side to administer it.

“Torture. Days of it.” The words leave Hosea in a hoarse whisper.

The doctor stiffens in a moment of surprise but collects himself as the morphine runs through Arthur’s veins and eases his pain. Arthur relaxes fully, sighing in relief as all his limbs loosen and his hand slips down to his side again. Seeing the pain erased from his boy’s face, Hosea breathes an audible sigh of his own, moving his hand to hold Arthur’s once more.

“That shoulder wound is my first priority, sirs, but not the only injury I’ll need to treat.” Delany exchanges the syringe for alcohol-soaked rags.

The doctor treats Arthur's shoulder with methodical attention. They had to peel the union suit away to bare Arthur's torso and arms. As the blood and grime are wiped away from the bullet wound, a dark halo of bruises is revealed, peppered with black specks.

Delany's mouth twists. "That's gunpowder embedded in skin. Only happens when a man is shot inches from the end of a barrel." His finger lightly circles the pattern burned into Arthur's chest. He slides a hand under Arthur, feeling for damage on his shoulder blade.

"Miracle it didn't punch through him." He mutters, gently moving Arthur's arm and shoulder with his free hand. Head cocked above the hole like he's listening for something.

"This gentleman here is built very solid. Probably saved his life, really. The bullet didn't have enough energy to go through him after all this muscle." The doctor returns to inspecting Arthur's front, squinting. "Was the bullet whole when you removed it?"

Hosea shakes his head, forcing his dry mouth to work. "Arth— he must have removed it himself. I have no idea."

Delany hums and touches the edges. "Did he cauterize it himself?"

Hosea shrugs. "Got himself out of there on his own. Couldn't get any details out of him, sorry."

The doctor hisses out air between his teeth, looking half impressed. "That's a hell of an injury to be walking around with. Still, it means he's got a fighting chance if he was that healthy and hale prior to all this."

Charles makes a wordless noise of affirmation in his throat, moving to let the doctor get a better look inside the injury.

"I need to check all the fragments are out," Delany says with a tone like he's discussing the weather as he presses a finger down into Arthur's chest.

Despite the morphine, Arthur's breath hitches. His expression tightens the more the doctor feels around— Hosea forces himself to remain seated, tightening his grip on Arthur's hand as his boy starts to breathe heavy again.

"Almost done, almost done."

Hosea isn't sure if the doctor's words are meant for Arthur or himself.

Delany shifts his stance, needing to push on Arthur's chest to reach deeper. Blood bubbles up and out, dark and thick mixed with fresher bleeding. Hosea turns his head away, closing his eyes as a quiet moan starts to form in Arthur's throat.

"No bullet fragments It clipped the outside of his ribs and put a good-sized depression in the underside of his scapula, but somehow nothing shattered." Delany wipes his hands with more alcohol. "I'll clean it out and pack it. We cannot let the skin close around a still-healing injury, lest it trap in disease."

Despite Arthur unsuccessfully trying to wake up under the haze of the morphine with weak twitches, Delaney makes efficient work of cleaning out the wound of blood, debris, and puss. It smells awful until it suddenly doesn't, bright red blood finally coming up when the cloth is withdrawn from the area.

The entire hole is doused with a liberal amount of alcohol before Delany separates out a second bowl to mix a few things together with clean water. Arthur’s breathing returns to normal even as the doctor packs the wound.

Delany’s gaze drifts down to the large discolored bruises spread over Arthur’s ribs and stomach. He feels along each rib and prods at the organs under the bruises. He pulls out a stethoscope to listen to Arthur’s lungs. He lingers over the left side, eyes closed in concentration.

“I think he’s got air escaping his lungs— just a little bit, his lung hasn’t collapsed.” Delany talks faster when Hosea jerks upright. “I’ll take the air out right now and ease that pressure.”

They watch in grim silence as the doctor pulls out a large needle and after picking a spot on Arthur’s side to stain with iodine, pushes it in. When he pulls back on the plunger, a few pink bubbles fill the syringe.

“If that lung was going to collapse, it would have done so already,” Delany says with a tight-lipped smile of reassurance. “If your man here was walking around and exerting himself just before I arrived. You’ll need to get someone to monitor this area but it shouldn’t fill up with air again.”

The doctor decides he’s pulled enough air and pulls the needle back out. Hosea cannot notice a change in Arthur’s breathing, not with a fuckin’ hole through his chest, but Delany seems content with the change.

“How’s his balance?” Delany grips Arthur’s chin and gingerly tilts his head to the side.

Hosea frowns, looking to Charles and Lenny.

“He rode in on his horse. Slipped off of it. I don’t think he was capable of walking, Mr. Delaney.” Charles says after a moment when it is clear Lenny doesn’t know, either.

Delany hums, looking at the dried blood matting the side of Arthur’s head and then back to the bullet wound.

“I don’t think his eardrum was ruptured if he was able to stay on a horse for any length of time, much less one that was moving. Still, I cannot rule out a concussion. The blast from a gun at that range can do enough damage alone, without considering these blows here.” Delany gestures to the harsh marks on Arthur’s cheek and the side of his head.

After cleaning up Arthur’s head and torso to the best of their abilities, Delany has them strip Arthur down to the nude to see his legs. Arthur shivers at the night air cooling the sweat off his skin.

There is more evidence of hits, black and purple and red. A few cuts but nothing deeper needing more than a few stitches. It is the back of Arthur’s right leg that is torn through with birdshot. Digging out each individual pellet, searching through tortured skin and muscle to find all of them leaves the doctor bloody and sore from bending over for so long. Hosea keeps the blanket on top of Arthur’s back and other leg, making sure Arthur is still unconscious throughout the process.

Hosea knows what a usual spread should look like. His teeth ache from his jaw clenching so hard. Someone shot at Arthur’s back less than twenty yards out. A pellet skimmed past Arthur’s right hip, leaving a furrow on the outside of his pelvis. After confirming every entry wound had a lead pellet accounted for, Delany cleans out these wounds and packs them with the help of an instrument, the quarter-inch sized holes too wide to risk them closing up skin first.

“I think that’s the worst of it, gentlemen.” Delany stands up with an audible crack. “Topical treatment with antiseptic should keep the rest of these injuries under control. Mix this antipyretic with water and give it to him to break his fever. Some laudanum for the pain.” He places two small vials down on the nightstand once his hands are no longer stained red.

“It would be best if I could visit him again tomorrow, but if I cannot, be sure to change out the wound dressings once a day. Don’t let the internal bandages dry out the area, keep them treated with this mixture here.” A small paper envelope is placed next to the vial.

“Keep a sharp eye out for infection, try to keep his fever down as much as you can.” Delany packs up his things, looking around at the three of them before looking down at Arthur covered up again.

He sighs. “I cannot say how this will take its course, but this gentleman here seems like a strong man. If you can keep infection from taking hold and keep his strength up, he should have a chance.”

Hosea nods, already thinking about the dried herbs he has stored away and how much more he’ll need to gather before Arthur is out of danger. He makes himself thank the doctor, unable to lift his eyes off Arthur as he is escorted out.

John returns not a minute after the doctor leaves. He brings with him a pail of water and clean rags thrown over his shoulder. He waits to catch Hosea’s gaze before he speaks.

“You need anything?”

“No, my boy. I’ll stay with him for a while.” Hosea feels his exhaustion catch up with him as the stress threatens to burst from his shaking hands. He reaches for the water. Instead, John places the bucket near Hosea’s feet and dips a cloth in it, loosely wringing it out before handing it to him.

Hosea presses it to Arthur’s forehead, fussing with it as Arthur’s brow furrows some and a soft sound parts his lips. Hosea feels John hover over him moments before a solid hand grips his shoulder and squeezes. Filled with all the worry and fear John won’t dare to speak otherwise.

“Don’t work yourself to need bed rest, old man.” John’s usual dry humor is wielded like a shield this time. Hosea reaches up to rest his hand on John’s.

“What’s Dutch doing?” Hosea asks instead. 

John’s disgusted snarl is answer enough. Hosea lets him pull away from a brief second of comfort to stalk off.

Blinking his gritty eyes and giving himself a little shake, Hosea returns his focus to Arthur’s slack form. He’s got enough to worry about at the moment, one serious problem to fix before he starts another.

Chapter Text

Hosea picks through the dinner someone brought him in between cycling out cold wet rags off Arthur's skin to the pail of water and back again. And taking moments to coax Arthur to drink bitter tea.

Arthur doesn't do much but shiver and twist his mouth when the pain overwhelms the laudanum. Thank all that is holy Arthur remains mostly unconscious. Hosea cannot say the same about his fever.

Arthur has had days of fever already in Colm's hands. Hosea doubts they had cared to stay on top of it. Leaving Arthur in a weakened state was easier for them.

A fever that has run rampant has to be treated with aggressive medication and intense care. It is why Hosea has three cloths cooling Arthur down at once: on his forehead, under his neck, and one wedged between his uninjured arm and his armpit. Not to include the many times Hosea wipes him down with even more water.

Even with the antipyretic medicine, it takes well into the night for Arthur's fever to drop to a less-serious temperature. Arthur's shivering starts to worsen. Hosea takes away all but the cloth on Arthur's head and makes sure the thick blanket is tucked around him properly.

It buys Arthur some relief. Hosea coaxes more tea into him before Arthur slips into uneasy rest. Hosea leans back in his chair and eats cold food until his plate is empty. Stiff joints creak and pop when Hosea picks up the water pail and rags.

"I'll take that, Hosea." Charles catches Hosea not even three strides from his tent, trading the pail for a blanket. One of Arthur's winter ones, striped dyed wool.

Hosea returns to Arthur's side with it wrapped around him, running the tasseled edges through his fingers in slow passes. Watching the irregular rise and fall of Arthur’s chest as he pants and groans through the infection and pain. Charles returns with a fresh pail of water and more clean cloth. He lingers over Arthur, his arm twitches as if he wants to reach out before he catches himself.

Unlike Dutch, the emotion in Charles’ eyes is not rage. His face is still swollen from Arthur’s heel catching him in the cheek, but his expression is soft with concern. Feeling the weight of Hosea’s gaze, Charles looks him over after a long few minutes of observing Arthur together.

“Miss. Grimshaw told me to tell you she’s ready to take over when you tire.” Charles collects the dishes from Hosea’s dinner. “Get some sleep, too, Hosea.”

“Hm,” Hosea replies, non-committal. He needs to know when Arthur’s condition changes, for the better or worst. With the water returned to him, he switches out the compress on Arthur’s forehead for a fresh one.

Charles remains. After coming to some sort of private decision, Charles inclines his head in acquiescence. As the tent flap closes behind him, Hosea catches the glow of a single lantern still lit in Dutch’s tent.

An hour before dawn, Arthur begins to stir. His breathing rate becomes shallow and ragged at the edges of each inhale. After tending to Arthur’s illnesses and injuries for over two decades, Hosea has never seen him this restless. His right hand starts scratching and searching the cot through the blanket. Soon after, Arthur starts to shift his legs, too.

Stroking his hair or whispering to him does not calm Arthur’s movements. Hosea keeps glancing at Arthur’s face, expecting to see Arthur open his eyes a crack. Nothing, only rapid movement behind dark eyelids.

His fever hasn’t worsened. Hosea checks the heat around the bullet wound with his palm lightly pressing around the thickest part of the dressing. It hasn’t changed. When Hosea slips his hand into Arthur’s to comfort him, the aimless wandering of his fingers stops. Instead, Arthur’s thumb pushes up and down the back of Hosea’s hand, keeping a tight hold on him.

Physical contact doesn’t ease Arthur’s pinched expression but he does settle a little. Enough that Hosea doesn’t think he has to give Arthur another dose of laudanum just yet. Even with a replenished supply at hand, that much opium isn’t safe. Arthur can have more when it is daylight at the earliest.

Hosea wraps the blanket tighter around himself the best he can with one hand and inches his chair even closer to the bed until his knees are pressed into the side. The pain in his back flares, shooting through his limbs and sticks above his left eyebrow. Hosea grits his teeth and ignores it.

He will regret pushing himself to remain seated in a chair for all night soon enough. After Arthur has gotten through ‘til morning.

Susan Grimshaw appears just after daybreak, wielding coffee and a book like weapons to chase Hosea out. She snaps at him for staying up all night before becoming distracted by the mess of papers scattered across the floor, tactfully ignoring the suppressed growls and swears Hosea lets out instead of painful gasps as he tries to get his body to move with him.

Growing old does not serve him well.

“He’s due for some more laudanum, Miss. Grimshaw.” Hosea gets out, using the back of the chair to painfully straighten his spine. “That there is for the fever, the treatment for the internal bandages—”

“Mr. Matthews, this is not the first nor the last gunshot wound I will treat in my lifetime.” Susan interrupts him with a cold glare. “Go get some food in you and some rest before I see you back here.”

She sends him out with a hot mug of coffee and Arthur’s striped blanket still over his shoulders. Her coarse bedside manner hides a woman unfazed by all manner of blood and injury. Hosea trusts her to know if… if Arthur takes a turn for the worst.

Physically shaking that kind of thinking from his head, Hosea manages a few steps before he gives up and stands where he is to drink his coffee. If it is terrible, he cannot taste it. By the time he finishes his coffee— forced to take it slow to not scald his mouth, Hosea finds he can make it to his usual spot at the table without much of a wobble to his legs.

The morning air is crisp enough to tickle his lungs. Hosea forces himself to take a breath and coughs into his sleeve. His chest isn’t too tight yet, but he should stay ahead of it before it’s him hacking next to Arthur. Stress isn’t helping his fickle lungs.

“Here you are, Hosea.” Mary-Beth slides a full plate of steaming breakfast in front of him before sitting across from him. Based on the unusually nice meal before him, Pearson is still feeling guilty. There is bread, salted pork, beans, and even some dried fruit.

She watches him eat it all without a word. Her cheerful demeanor slips at times before she puts her mask back on.

“Arthur’s got your bed, so I guess you can use his in the meantime. Until y’all are ready to switch back.” Mary-Beth breaks the silence as Hosea finishes up. Camp activity this morning is subdued and grey like the morning fog rolling in.

Arthur’s tent is of good quality but the man acts like it’s a crime to sleep inside. The front portion of the tent is rolled far back to permanently keep Arthur from feeling separated from the outside world. If he could get away without invoking Miss Grimshaw’s wrath, Hosea knows Arthur would have his horse grazing at the entrance.

Hosea sees that someone has pulled it down to provide some privacy for him.

“I’ll bring by some tea in a little bit, I don’t imagine that chair was kind to you last night.” Mary-Beth envelops Hosea’s hands in her soft warm ones, smiling at him until Hosea relents and lets the corners of his mouth twitch in thanks.

“Someone has to take care of you, too.”

Hosea doesn’t bother with words, giving Mary-Beth a brief kiss on the top of her head as he limps to Arthur’s tent.

He takes stock of who is still in camp right now, relieved to see The Count’s albino coat among the horses. Taima is absent, as is Maggie and Bob. Sadie is the vengeful type, but she and Arthur ain’t close. Kieran is already elbow-deep in work, shoulders square as he moves between the horses with more confidence than he displays among people.

Arthur’s horse dozes with her head dipped down, blood no longer darkening her shoulders from dark bay to black. Hosea hadn’t seen Arthur come back to camp but he had seen the Andalusian wild-eyed and in poor condition as everyone but Kieran focused on Arthur.

Red has a clean shiny coat this morning, hair untangled and brushed without her tack stuck to her back from old sweat. Kieran is a good kid; he’ll earn the gang’s trust soon enough if he stops spending more time with horses than people.

When Hosea steps into Arthur’s tent, he trips over the saddle left on the floor. Hosea swears and catches his balance with a protest from his aching body. Damn kid. Too skittish to put up Arthur’s saddle properly. At least it is clean, too. Hosea gives up on moving it after considering the idea for less than a second.

He is toeing off his boots when he hears Mary-Beth rustling outside.

“Mind your step,” he warns as her hand draws back the tent flap.

“Hm?— Oh, goodness!” She almost trips over the saddle, too, but recovers her balance with no effort while delivering tea as she promised.

“Who put that there?” Mary-Beth picks up the saddle with some awkwardness, glancing around Arthur’s tent before plopping it down over a chest. It certainly wasn’t Arthur who did it, even if he was capable of walking. Arthur keeps his saddle near Red at all times, always ready to ride out at a word.

“Kieran, no doubt.”

Mary-Beth’s scowl softens in an instant. Hosea takes note of it for a better time.

“It’s real strong,” Mary-Beth says, brushing off her hands on her apron. “But I thought it would be better to let it steam the air and maybe help your asthma that way, too, while you’re sleepin’.”

“You’re a sweetheart, my dear.”

“Just returnin’ the favor, Hosea.” She calls over her shoulder, leaving him to unloosen his bandana and lay both his vest and it off to the side. 

Arthur's tent is sparsely decorated. A personal weapons locker is at the foot of the low bed. His camping things are bundled up and placed near the entrance. An unstrung hunting bow leans against the tent wall. The few sentimental items Arthur keeps are on display next to the bed on top of a reused ammo box.

The tea Mary-Beth brought is very strong. Hosea thinks better of drinking it, not wanting to consume more than a few doses of medicinal herbs in one go. The blend is correct, however, and having it diffuse into the air will be a clever trick if it works.

Pouring out a generous cup before moving both cup and kettle to the floor next to where his head is going to be, Hosea lies down in Arthur's bed. There is a large dip in the center where the mattress has settled to accommodate a much larger, heavier frame. Hosea finds the middle of it easily, smelling the same soap Arthur uses for his horses and himself. He's always been particular about that, even bathing Cooper with the same bar.

Hosea identifies gun oil and gunpowder mixed with the sharper scents of common medicinal herbs and the wildflower and brush of the area on the sheets as he bundles himself up. Some leather oil and tobacco, a little hay and sweat, too. Evidence of Arthur's wild days like the multitude of scars and tans he earns.

It cannot fully chase away the sick, sour smell of Arthur in Hosea's tent. Reeking of pain and infection. Beaten to hell and kept locked away in a damn cellar or stall somewhere after being shot twice. Who besides an O'driscoll thinks they can shoot a man twice and have him survive torture long enough to be of use?

Who survives two gunshots, broken ribs, and an infection left untreated for days?

Hosea flips over to face the wall. Needing to sleep before he relieves Susan.

"Mr. Matthews.”

Hosea rolls out of bed and shoves his feet into his boots before he is fully awake. Susan stands outside Arthur’s tent, waiting as Hosea pulls on his vest.

“Mr. Morgan is doing as expected. Fever won’t go away, but it isn’t any higher. I changed the bandages out for new ones. Shouldn’t need any more medicine, either.” She walks with him back to Arthur’s side.

“Has he woken up yet?” Hosea ducks into his tent. Arthur doesn’t look like his condition has changed, or that he has moved an inch since Hosea saw him this morning.

“No, not on all this medicine he won’t.”

A knitted blanket is draped over the chair and a better lantern sits on the nightstand. Susan repurposed one of Hosea’s small crates so she doesn’t have to bend over the water to keep Arthur’s fever down.

“Thank you, Miss Grimshaw.” Hosea eases himself into the chair, still not awake enough to really feel the pain in his joints. The cloth on Arthur’s forehead is newly damp and cool to the touch.

"I'll make sure someone gets your share of dinner to you. And something for Mr. Morgan, too." Susan tucks her book under her arm, striding away to manage the camp once again.

Hosea scrubs away the exhaustion on his face and smooths out his hair. He is still wearing yesterday's clothes. After checking Arthur's temperature again, he decides he can risk a quick change.

There is almost no color to Arthur's cheeks besides a fever-red flush. The skin around his closed eyes is swollen and dark, giving him the appearance not unlike a skull in this lighting.

Arthur breathes shallow and slow, but he doesn't appear to be struggling to get in air. How much of that is the laudanum keeping Arthur from feeling the pain?

Hosea returns to the chair to roll up his sleeves past his elbows. He considered getting one of his books but he knows he won't be able to focus on it for longer than a few pages. Not until Arthur is more stable. Arthur is fine right now, but Hosea has seen too many infected wounds turn deadly in only a few hours without vigilant care.

He trusts Susan's judgment— but he has to see for himself. Hosea folds back the blanket keeping Arthur decent to inspect the numerous wounds. The one on Arthur's shoulder is tightly bound and covered with fresh dressing. Hosea does not try to peek under it, only checks around the area. Going so far as to lean over and sniff for the tell-tale smell of sepsis.

There is a sour smell under the medicine but it is not as strong as last night when the doctor drained the bullet wound. The tunnels made by the buckshot are irritated and hot to the touch, but Susan changed out those bandages, too.

Arthur's heartbeat beats faster than it should while sleeping, but it isn't unexpected in the slightest. The worst of Hosea's fears disproved, he takes some time for himself to ease the stiffness in his body.

He has come to accept the days he wakes up with aching joints, having learned years ago how to manage it to keep himself productive and out of his bed most of the time. Daily exercise and stretches when he wakes up and before he expects to stay in one position for more than half an hour. Medicine and herbs with anti-inflammatory qualities to prevent the worst of his flares.

Stress overturns the careful balance of health Hosea manages every day. It starts in his hands and knees. With Arthur like this… Hosea can only do so much to curb his own fears to keep his arthritis from getting in the way.

He will have to ask for someone to make him a pot of tea so he can treat his own pain. While opium will certainly take away the deep ache, Hosea won't dare to take it for anything less than a flare leaving him unable to get up from his bed in tears. He developed it young. If he took opium every time he felt a little pain, Hosea would be an addict worse than the reverend.

The opium they keep in camp— hidden away from the reverend— is for serious cases like Arthur's.

Torture.

Hosea feels anger and hatred rise in the back of his throat like bile, poisonous as lead. Both directed at Colm and himself. He knew it wasn’t like Arthur to bail on the parley like that! Damn Dutch’s false confidence. Arthur was gone from camp so much because he was one of the only men working hard to keep them afloat with food and money— and doing his best to not get himself in more trouble with the law unless it was a sanctioned job.

Arthur didn’t do much in camp besides sleep and eat, completing chores in the early hours of the morning, and purchasing goods and materials that they needed from town in between hunting and doing legal jobs. Hosea was trying to get Arthur to take care of himself, too. Arthur was growing thin faster than the rest of them— before Colm starved him.

If it was a miracle or unbeatable Morgan stubbornness that allowed Arthur to escape, Hosea can not comprehend his relief Arthur made it back to them.

They can only hope Arthur still has the strength to recover.

Chapter Text

Arthur's fever started rising midday the following day.

It followed a mostly peaceful night of getting Arthur to drink broth and medicine. Hosea changed the rust-colored bandages as he wiped Arthur down in place of a bath. Cleaning Arthur's wounds meant Hosea had to look at the horrific evidence of Colm's torture.

If Arthur recovered with all functionality in his arm, it would be because of some higher power. The bullet missed the bundle of arteries located under the collar bone by less than an inch. Exposed bone from where metal carved against Arthur's rib was, as the doctor said, not splintered. Damaged, certainly. Hosea cleaned out the gaping hole without looking at Arthur's face. He didn't want to see the pain he caused Arthur.

The bruises covering Arthur bloomed from purple and red to blue, inching across skin until Arthur looked like a rotting fruit dropped on a road. Swelling followed, filling out Arthur's stomach and distorting the shape of his lower legs and feet.

After Hosea dealt with the bullet wounds, he got to work on grinding up a paste to soothe the abrasions and bruises. He added anti-inflammatory herbs to be absorbed through the skin to Arthur's internal organs. The batch Hosea had in mind was a lot but he still doubled it. Arthur needed so much. 

Hosea covered Arthur's ribs and stomach with it after dabbing a little on his cheek and puffy eyelids. It cooled as the water portion of the base evaporated. Arthur was too far under the laudanum to give any feedback, but the ache in Hosea's hands lessened despite the work. He was extra generous with Arthur's ankles and feet, praying that they weren't broken. Testing their mobility only proved how much the swelling was locking the joints up.

Hosea tamed Arthur's beard and cleaned it up. All through Hosea's care, Arthur did little more than let out a weak cough. Having Arthur lucid would relieve much of Hosea's anxious worrying— but he was not selfish enough to allow Arthur to feel the pain he is in. As much as Hosea wanted to see Arthur awake. 

Better to let him rest.

Camp activity was far beyond Hosea's concerns. He heard people walking around and occasional raised voices. No real arguments or hysterics. No horses galloping into camp. No shouting.

Of all the people that poked their heads in to check on Arthur and Hosea, none of them were Dutch. At times, Hosea could swear he heard Dutch talking. Not at the volume he used to preach at and persuade the masses, a lower tone for private conversations.

Hosea would still be angry if Dutch got over himself and visited Arthur. He let Dutch avoid the consequences of his actions. Arthur needed every bit of energy Hosea could spare to take care of him.

Not that Hosea gave anyone time to talk between tending to Arthur and sleeping when Susan dragged him off. No one dared to intercept his stubborn limping to and from Arthur's tent.

Sometimes it was Mary-Beth who brought him food, sometimes it was Susan. Charles did the heavy lifting whenever Hosea needed it. John brooded around like a villain in a two-bit story before heading out of camp to work.

Arthur wasn't doing any worse the second day. Hosea headed to bed as the sun was rising, Arthur starting to stir in time for food, tea, and more medicine to be consumed in that order with Susan at his bedside.

They had plenty of medicine and enough confidence that they didn't need a doctor to visit today.

Arthur shakes in their hands as they ease him into a partially filled tub. Despite constant care all day, Arthur's fever keeps rising. Medicine, baths, nothing works.

Susan ignores the foul words Hosea growls as he forces himself to kneel and pour water down Arthur's back. His own hands are shaking from little sleep and arthritis pain. Arthur groans and curls in further on himself. Susan keeps a hand on his forehead to keep water out of his eyes and nose as Hosea douses Arthur's head.

"C-c-cold." A rasping protest leaves chattering teeth as Arthur struggles to get a hold of the edge of the tub.

"I'm sorry, my boy. You're burning up." Hosea murmurs with a calm tone he doesn't recognize. He dips a cloth into the cool water and drapes it across Arthur's shoulders.

A violent twitch from Arthur sends it sliding off. The sound Arthur makes is scarily close to a whimper.

"After we cool you down I'll get you some tea," Hosea promises. He picks up a small cup and starts pouring water from the bath back over Arthur's trembling legs. Susan partially wrings out a cloth and positions it on top of Arthur's head to drip water down his neck.

Hosea presses a hand to Arthur's good shoulder, using his thumb to run back and forth as Arthur fails to gather his strength and legs to stand.

His eyes are open but shiny with fever and pain. His skin is red and hot to the touch as sweat pours off him. Arthur was soaked before Hosea got help to get him into a bath.

"Mr. Morgan, you're hotter than a kettle set to boil. Stop squirming so we can get your fever down." Susan's sharp order flows over Arthur like the water— and about as useful. Arthur ignores her to lean forward and grab at Hosea's hands.

When Hosea lifts another cupful of water out of the tub, Arthur's red face contorts into a hideous expression of blind rage.

"My boy—" Hosea starts, placating.

Arthur lashes out with surprising speed, sending the tin cup back into the tub and the water sloshing out.

"Mr. Morgan!" Susan recoils. 

Whatever anger Arthur meant to snarl at them dissolves into rough coughing. He gasps, an arm wrapped around his ribs to brace them against the violent coughs punching air from his lungs.

Hosea moves his hand to rest on Arthur's back, feeling the agonizing strain tearing through Arthur as he tries to stop coughing. The edges of some of them are wet when Arthur isn't wheezing and gasping. 

Susan hears the same thing Hosea does, recognizing the wet cough has worsened into something worse than battered lungs as Arthur spits up thick bloody phlegm.

"I'll have Dutch send for the doctor." She dries off her hands as she stands, rushing out.

Her sharp voice rises into a commanding shout outside, hardly audible over Arthur’s wretched coughing. Helpless anger rises in Hosea’s chest as he is unable to do anything to ease Arthur’s pain or his fever. Arthur’s face turns dark red before the attack lessens, allowing him to draw in a shaking inhale.

“Relax as much as you can, my boy.” Hosea wrings out the cloth Susan left hanging off the side of the tub and gently rubs down Arthur’s twitching back, mindful of the more painful spots with broken ribs.

Arthur sucks in a little air, mouth open like a horse forced to the point of collapse. Hosea feels the rough motion through Arthur’s whole body. With light pressure, Hosea traces circles across Arthur’s back, suspecting it won’t do shit to help Arthur clear his lungs. But he cannot slap Arthur’s back, not with all those broken ribs.

The coughs do not fully go away. Arthur, no longer fighting Hosea, leans into him for support. He is burning up.

Hosea presses his forehead against Arthur’s, murmuring nonsense in repetition as he continues to fight the fever.

Susan returns after sending off the boys after that doctor with both Tilly and Mary-Beth in tow. Between the four of them, they get Arthur back on the bed in only some underpants to keep him decent. Arthur moans and rolls around, searching for a blanket they deny him.

The pain in Arthur’s voice is gutting. He doesn’t have the strength to speak— coughing and clearing his throat so he can breathe even a little. All four of them work to get Arthur’s fever back under control, frantic and quiet with fear, watching Arthur’s body slip into uncontrollable shivering as his eyes dart around after something only he can see in his delirium.

Susan wrestled a bottle of stupid strong moonshine from someone. She carefully applies small bits at a time to Arthur’s skin to cool him off fast. It takes Hosea and Mary-Beth far too long to get more medicine down Arthur’s throat between his confusion and coughing.

Out of the bath, Arthur’s skin dries out quickly. He stopped sweating— something Susan and Hosea fear— and seeks out warmth by attempting to burrow deep into the center of Hosea’s bed.

Nothing Hosea or any of the girls say affects Arthur’s constant fidgeting. He is spending energy he cannot spare. Hosea sits on one edge of the bed, providing physical contact in the desperate thought that it will bring Arthur comfort.

It is as if none of them are here.

Arthur’s head lolls around and his gaze floats around the tent, expression shifting from pain to confusion to anger and fear without cause. Each breath catches in his throat or stutters and struggles to fill his exhausted, damaged lungs.

Another dose of laudanum is fed to Arthur in sips so he doesn’t choke. Susan sees the cramp in Arthur’s swollen abdomen, the way the corners of his mouth tighten a second before Arthur’s stomach expels its contents. She turns his head to the side— 

The first retch spatters on Arthur’s shoulder and the bed. Hosea helps her push Arthur upright and over the now repurposed water bucket. Tilly swoops in with a cloth to clean up the mess on the bed. Mary-Beth runs off for more clean supplies.

It is an impossible battle for Arthur, trying to breathe while he’s coughing up phlegm and vomiting and crying out from the pain it causes him to sit on his injuries. He doesn’t have much to clear— only liquids, and not nearly enough as Hosea wanted in him. But Arthur must have aspirated some bile— his face and fingers turn blue and he sways above the bucket despite the firm grip Hosea and Susan have on him.

“Move him back more, fold him over his middle.” Hosea guides Arthur to lean over his shaking legs, chest pressed to his thighs like a child with the edge of his bed pressed behind Arthur’s knees.

“Mr. Morgan is about to pass out.” Susan has a careful hold on Arthur’s hair and chin, keeping his head centered in the small gap between his knees while splatters of blood and the remnants of bile are coughed out.

Arthur is limp in their grip, the only tension his body wound tight around his core where his agony originates. The coughing and vomiting trail off quickly as Arthur’s consciousness fades. Susan and Hosea keep Arthur there, wedged between them as his body continues to sort itself out.

Harsh wheezing and rasping pants are broken up by Arthur’s throat working out more bloody phlegm. He shivers in violent bursts, so hard Hosea fears the next one will be a convulsion.

Tilly works without a break to wipe down Arthur’s exposed back and tucks a wet cloth around his neck, murmuring apologies as water drips over Hosea and Susan in the close quarters. Mary-Beth runs buckets of water in and out, her usually cheerful face set into a grim frown.

If it weren’t for the searing heat from Arthur’s skin, Hosea would think he’s dying of hypothermia with how hard he quakes. Goosebumps appear all over his skin. Arthur struggles back to consciousness with a pained cry no stronger than a whine like a dog. But the vomiting doesn’t return. Arthur is still breathless, straining for every ragged breath.

Arthur is eased back onto the bed, mindful of as many injuries as they can avoid jostling trying to get him to relax. It does little for Arthur’s fevered state.

This time, Delany bursts into the tent with little decorum, his bag stuffed full and a severe frown narrowing his eyes as he takes in Arthur’s form in the dim light. A deliberate sniff in the air directs the doctor’s attention to the bile in the abandoned bucket.

“He’s not keeping anything down?” Delany asks as he slides his stethoscope from his bag, a hand pressing to Arthur’s forehead and cheeks before checking the pulse in his wrist.

“He was until just now. Not able to get much in him.” Hosea runs his fingers through Arthur’s drenched hair, brushing it back and smoothing it down. Arthur heaves for air and shifts around aimlessly, half-close eyes tracing unseen patterns in the air. 

Delany listens to Arthur’s heart and lungs, eyes closed for a moment before he checks Arthur’s heartbeats against his watch.

“Pneumonia, no doubt.” Delany opens his eyes, speaking the dreaded words Hosea expected. “Maybe another infection— this is quite an extreme change from last time.”

Susan takes offense to that. “We’ve been caring for Mr. Morgan’s injuries quite religiously—”

“It’s got nothing to do with you, ma’am, and everything to do with that hellish gunshot in his shoulder.” Delany deflects Susan’s defensive pride with practiced ease. He rolls up his sleeves, sends out the girls, and puts Susan and Hosea to work with him.

Hosea may be old but he is not decrepit, not yet. He keeps Arthur still enough for the doctor to check him over as Susan battles the fever. Arthur’s restlessness wanes as grating, guttural coughs drag air from his chest, leaving him weak and grey with crimson on his lips and chin.

Another venous dose of morphine, far stronger than the laudanum Delany left with them, banishes the worst of the coughs as Arthur’s body loosens as the pain eases. Bending over Arthur for this long has sapped most of Hosea’s physical strength— Susan has him sit in the chair next to Arthur to attempt the impossible task of getting medicine in Arthur once again.

Delany’s expression remains stuck in serious concern as he makes quick work of the bandages protecting Arthur’s shoulder. It looks as terrible as ever with cauterized edges sticking up from the mess of a hole blasted deep into Arthur’s flesh. Much of Arthur is hot to the touch, but the swelling of the bullet wound is distorting the mostly-round path the slug dug.

The bandages pulled out of the wound were stained red and rust with clotted blood. It didn’t smell like anything sour. But Hosea is no doctor, for he wouldn’t have thought that the problem was deeper. After glancing up at Hosea, Delany uses his fingers to gently prod the edges of the wound, moving slow as he searches further in— 

Arthur howls.  

Jerks off the bed and screams like the doctor is gutting him, the agony slicing through the opium like it is nothing more than water. Susan and the doctor rear back in surprise; Hosea leans forward, catches Arthur before he twists off the bed in a desperate attempt to protect his shoulder, guiding him back down.

“Christ Almighty!” Hosea breathes, hands shaking as he strokes Arthur’s cheeks, his head, the side of his neck to settle them both.

Delany grimaces as he prepares another half-dose of morphine, quickly injected into Arthur once he’s still enough for it to be administered.

“Infection. A large abscess, probably formed around foreign material. It’ll be a mess and then some, but if I can get everything out…”

Getting Arthur prepared for surgery is oddly simple. Delany cleans away the wound and his tools and sets out large clean cloths to catch the mess under and on top of Arthur. Once he has two more bright kerosene lanterns in their proper positions for the best lighting, Delany gets to work.

It isn’t what Hosea would classify as surgery. There is nothing surgical about it. Nothing to stitch together like a knife wound or uneven gashes to close. The edges of Arthur’s wound are too far apart. Delany digs around in Arthur’s shoulder, searching for anything that doesn’t belong. The abscesses lead the way to some of the larger things— dissolving clumps of hard dirt turned to mud, bits of rock and grass irritating the already painful area.

The stench is awful. Now that the abscesses are ruptured, the tell-tale smell of infection is strong enough to cause all of them to reel with nausea. Delany produced drops of peppermint oil for this purpose, applied under his nose on his mustache before he dives back in.

Noises of pain slip out of Arthur throughout the ordeal, faint and pleading. Delany uses long tweezers and a thin instrument with a small mirror on it to search the inner topography of Arthur’s shoulder. There is not any cutting or sewing— but damn, does that look painful. Hosea’s stomach shrinks to the size of a pea, unable to look away as the doctor teases out gravel and bits of cloth and at some points, a few wood splinters.

No bone shards, no bullet fragments, thank god. The slug was soft and heavy.

Eventually, the sharp smell of alcohol washes away the blood and pus. Delany coats Arthur’s shoulder liberally, letting some splash inside the bullet wound before taking tender care to wipe out the areas he was digging around with an alcohol-soaked square of bandage pinched at the end of his tweezers.

“I know this will bring little comfort, but everything in there looks to be bleeding a good bright red.” Delany breaks the silence, wiping off his face with an exhausted sigh. “It’s still healthy, living tissue. Everything I could see.”

He cleans up the pieces he picked out of Arthur, having Susan show him how she packs and wraps the wound so he can ensure her technique is right. It is.

“The infection,” Hosea croaks, his throat sore as if he was yelling all throughout and not sitting silent in fear.

“I’ve done what I can.” Delany’s voice lowers and slows, meeting Hosea’s gaze for long, painful moments before looking in Susan’s eyes for a long stretch.

“Mr. Morgan needs liquids; tea, water, broth. Medicine, too. Keep that shoulder clean and don’t let anything else become infected… but if you cannot get that fever down…” He spreads his hands, palms up and empty.

“I pray I’m wrong, but… he’s in a bad way, and it’s going to get worse before he gets better. If everything goes right, maybe… maybe he’s got a chance.” Delany lowers his head and turns back to his bag, packing things up with slow, tired movements.

“I’ll leave you this, to keep him comfortable through the worst of it.” He clears his throat. “And in the end, if it comes to that.”

A syringe and a bottle of morphine are laid down on the table next to Susan. Hosea avoids her gaze, lifting Arthur’s hand and presses their intertwined fingers to his forehead. Arthur’s grip remains slack.

“I’m sorry, I’ve done all I can. But if you need me… well, I’ll be at home.” With a last look around, Delany dips his head and walks out, hat held to his chest.

When Susan stands up, she reaches for Hosea, not Arthur, and digs her fingers into his shoulder until Hosea stops holding in the fear and grief bubbling up in his throat. It leaves him in a choked sob. She pulls his head against her chest, cradling him as Hosea clutches at her arms as his tears run hot and fast.

Susan sits on the edge of the bed next to Arthur and rocks Hosea back and forth until the crying gives way to his own ragged wheezing and dry coughing.

Chapter Text

“— so that he may bear this illness in union with your Son’s obedient suffering. Restore him to health, and lead him to glory. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Hosea tucks his chin into his arm to avoid coughing on Reverend Swanson. They move around each other, Swanson anointing Arthur with oil as Hosea douses more rags in water to cover Arthur. A particularly nasty crack from Hosea’s elbow draws a wince from Swanson.

“I don’t want to be praying for your health next, my friend,” Swanson murmurs, pressing a hand to Hosea’s shoulder. After allowing the contact for a moment, Hosea pulls away. 

The tent is dimly-lit and stifling with the overwhelming heat radiating off Arthur. Old mugs of tea and broth sit hardly touched on the crate repurposed into a nightstand. Gleaming in the lamplight, the syringe and vial of morphine sit tucked against Arthur’s side after another dose to keep him as comfortable as they can.

“Thank you, Reverend.” Hosea’s voice rasps with exhaustion as he repeats the same phrase he told Swanson every other time he’s come to pray for Arthur or prepare him for his last rites. 

He wonders what Arthur would think of all this, being blessed and anointed by a Protestant on his death-bed. The boy was never religious— neither were Hosea or Dutch, really,  but Arthur took disinterest in faith and cynical views of the world to new heights. Arthur would probably laugh at the reverend for trying to absolve his sins and say something biting about the life he’s lived stacked against his own salvation.

None of them are good men; no one in camp can lay claim to any moral high-ground, Dutch included. Since Blackwater, however, Hosea has found himself filled with a strange sense of loss watching Arthur change. Arthur wasn’t even on that damn ferry— he was with Hosea, working on their own lead.

He couldn’t fathom why it was Arthur who seemed to walk out of that mess with the hardest edges. Why Arthur moved like he carried the bulk of the problems plaguing the gang over the Grizzlies. Why Arthur worked as if he could single-handedly bring them back from the brink of destruction.

A path Dutch walks with ever-increasing boldness.

Too tired for anger, too empty for more grief, Hosea returns to the motions. Cooling off grey-tinged skin with water, checking each open wound for inflammation. Attempting to rouse Arthur to get at least a few sips of broth into him. Ignoring the shaking of the liquid in the cup as Hosea picks it up when Arthur grimaces, eyelids fluttering.

“Arthur, my boy, please,” Hosea begs like he has been for hours now. Pleading for Arthur to summon the strength to drink. Internally appealing to the void within where a better man than Hosea could believe in God to save his son.

Dry cracked lips part in a congested exhale. Arthur’s eyes, glazed and unfocused, slide over Hosea and the cup without recognition. To see those usually sharp eyes lacking Arthur’s usual strength and cleverness hidden in their depths… it is one the worst things from the damn infection.

Reaching forward slowly, Hosea gently brushes his fingers over Arthur’s cheek. Arthur’s eyes open further, revealing the illusion of the blue in his eyes. The boy’s eyes seemed to be an impossible color; hard grey in the shadows of his hat, the yellow surrounding the black of his pupil changing the overall color to a blue or green depending on the time of day. Unless someone could be as close to Arthur as Hosea is in this moment, the color appears uniform blue most of the time.

“Drink, please, my dear son.” Hosea whispers, careful to mind the tremble of his hands as he tips the edge closer to Arthur. He pays attention to where he puts his elbows when he braces his unsteady arms on the bed against Arthur’s side.

Arthur’s eyes are dark in the tent, overshadowed by pain and medicine. Hosea isn’t sure if Arthur finally focused on him before he closes his eyes again.

“Arthur.”

In a rare moment of acknowledgment, Arthur clears his throat with a weak, unproductive cough that does not turn into a bout of coughing, thank god. It seems to be too much for Arthur to keep his eyes open more than dark slits surrounded by bad bruising.

Hosea takes it slow, then slower still as Arthur refuses to lift his head. But he drinks the watery broth in small sips, breathing hard and noisy in between with wetness in his lungs. The instant Arthur pulls back, hardly more than half an inch, Hosea relents.

It is more broth than Arthur has drunk in one sitting than he has in far too long.

Hosea nudges the bucket next to the chair with a foot, wanting it to be close in case Arthur’s stomach rejects food again like it has every other time anyone has tried.

Other than an audible swallow, Arthur stays quiet and still. As quiet as a man can be with a hole in him. If there was anything more Hosea could do, he'd work himself to his grave. For any of his boys.

If it was possible to fight this infection for Arthur— well, it isn't. The most any of them can do is help Arthur's body heal in every way they can. On that front, they are sorely lacking.

Arthur's fever refuses to release its restless hold. It has broken a few times before; in rigors that have Arthur near convulsions with their intensity, only to creep back to dangerous temperatures in a handful of hours. The fever sucks endless amounts of energy from both Arthur and all of them caring for him. They have so little to show for the lengths gone to keep Arthur's brain from cooking itself.

If there isn't damage done already.

Arthur has spent a handful of minutes conscious in the past day, dragged under by fever-induced delirium, opium, or plain exhaustion. The most anyone gets out of him now are fragments of mumbled words or sounds expressing his pain. There isn't enough to go on to get a sense of anything other than Arthur is in immense agony and experiences periods of fear.

As Arthur fights the memories of what Colm did to him, Hosea does his best to comfort him with light touches, wary of aggravating injuries or accidentally mimicking restrictive holds. The tightness of Arthur's dehydrated skin gives the impression it would rip like paper. Never before has Arthur looked fragile. Not even when he was just a kid trying to steal enough to eat.

If Hosea cries while he tends to his boy, well, it isn't as if Arthur has the sense of mind to realize.

Sons shouldn't die before their fathers.

If Arthur doesn't survive this… Hosea does not think he can, either.

It takes Susan and a handful of people to bodily remove Hosea from Arthur's bedside. Hosea knows he can hardly move, hardly close his hands around another rag to wage war on the fever. But if he leaves— Arthur is dying. The endless struggle to breathe is growing. Arthur's chest remains still in the long pauses between ragged, wheezing gasps. The rigors… the last one must have been a seizure.

Hosea's protests are broken by his own coughing, sharp and dry. His body is stiff and weak and painful. No match for Susan and John manhandling him unto Arthur's bed. Layering blankets on top to trap him in comfort.

Despite the fear, Hosea cannot fight biology. Not his own, not Arthur's. He isn't a spring chicken anymore, and he hasn't been taking care of himself since Arthur came back. Asthma weakens him, interrupts his words and his thoughts until he is lightheaded with darkness creeping in on the edges of his eyes.

So many voices promise they'll watch Arthur while he rests, promising to get him if Arthur reaches the end. They know what to look for when a man is approaching death's door.

John stays.

Sitting against the base of Arthur's bed against the weapons trunk, whittling a piece of wood with his knife. The edge of the blade and the new scars on John's cheek catch the last rays of dusk. Marks leftover from the last time Hosea almost lost a son to bad decisions.

Hosea does not want to sleep, but his body has been demanding a collapse for too long now.

John is putting boots on Hosea's feet, motions quick and rough. One scarred hand is tangled in Hosea's shirt to keep him upright. A confused approximation of a question is all Hosea can manage, quite convinced he is leaving all his mind on the pillow where the rest of him should be.

"Come on, Hosea, Arthur needs you," John speaks to Hosea's knees, only looking up to shrug out of his jacket and sling it around Hosea's cold shoulders.

Arthur.

The painful spike of fear through Hosea's stomach does not help his mobility. John heaves him to his feet, hissing an apology when Hosea groans. His whole body is one big ache, worsening when he puts weight on his joints. Useless fingers fumble for a hold on John's arms— strong and steady arms that brace Hosea and keep him upright until he has enough sense to think through the pain.

The first step is a stumble. The next few are no better. John uses his shoulder and own momentum to get Hosea shuffling forward. Urgency guides Hosea through the haze of an ill-timed yet thoroughly deserved flare. John does not gentle his guiding shoves to keep Hosea on track.

Abigail's stress-weathered face softens as she reaches to assist Hosea, emerging from the warm glow inside the tent.

"You two are quite the pair, askin' after one another." Her breathless laugh is relieved. Abigail's hold on his aching body is kinder, a counter to John's demanding pace. 

The cold pit in Hosea's chest where his heart pounds warms a hair. Not dead yet, then.

Jaw clenched in pain and fear, Hosea limps forward with help to see Arthur.

First thing; Arthur is awake, his blue eyes nearly black in the tent's shadows, pupils blown out from medicine. Rolling with fear, still glassy with sickness.

Second; Arthur has a crushing grip on Susan and the reverend, using them to prop himself up. Wild-eyed, flushed with fever and shiny with sweat. A blanket puddles around his middle, dark with moisture like the sheet under Arthur and the dent in the pillow.

"Look, Mr. Morgan, he is right here." Susan's voice wavers as she gestures for Hosea and his support to come quick.

Arthur's gaze darts around, searching without seeing. 

Hosea staggers forward, not heeding the pace Abigail is trying to set for his rebelling body. John gives him a helpful push to reach Arthur's bedside. 

"Just fine, as I said," Susan says— which Hosea ignores, captured in the unexplained, all-consuming fear trapped in his son's eyes.

"Hosea!" Arthur's voice is gravely and breaks as it causes him pain to speak.

Susan, Swanson, and John catch Hosea when Arthur surges forward, a punishing grip latching on Hosea's wrist. Arthur almost pulls Hosea down to the bed.

"Arthur, my boy—"

"Hosea, Hosea! No, god, please!" Arthur groans, his good hand following his gaze darting frantically over Hosea's shaking and bent form.

"Be careful, Mr. Morgan!" Swanson warns when Hosea heaves out a forceful breath as Arthur's uncoordinated hand presses hard on his ribs.

"My dear boy, you're alright—"

"No, no," Arthur cries, fingers rising up to dig into Hosea's chest. "D-don't leave me!" 

Hosea's wince draws a wave of tears out of Arthur— which, in turn, causes some of Hosea's own to spring to his eyes. A glance at Susan reveals her own confusion.

Abigail's hand appears armed with a cloth to press against Arthur's forehead.

"You ain't fit to be doin' all this hollerin', Arthur. Lay down." She scolds, determined to keep the cloth on hot skin as Arthur tries to shake her off.

As Arthur raises his left hand, baring his teeth in a horrible snarl of pain, Hosea pushes forward to rest on the bed frame. His arm shakes as he reaches out to catch Arthur's chin—

Arthur presses into the contact, leaning his cheek into Hosea's touch with a painful, wheezing sob.

"It's alright, my dear boy. It will be okay." Hosea comforts, unable to keep his voice steady in the wake of pure grief and fear contorting Arthur's already beaten face. His own physical pain is nothing to him now.

"No! I cannot bear it. Hosea, please, stay with me. Stay, stay!" Arthur tries to pull Hosea onto him, startling everyone with his strength. Hosea catches himself with a hand on the bed, the other pressed on Arthur's good shoulder.

"S-stop the bleedin'— oh, oh g-god!" 

A clammy palm presses into Hosea, right over his racing heart. He doesn't pull away, instead shifting until he can cover Arthur's hand with his own.

"I'm okay, my boy. I'm fine."

It clicks for all of them what delusions are plaguing Arthur. The poor boy is convinced Hosea is the one dying.

"I— I don't wanna watch you die again," Arthur croaks. "It killed us— losing you killed us."

His raving is broken by coughing. Hosea searches for a more comfortable position with John prepared to catch him if Arthur knocks him off.

"I'm right here, Arthur. It's not me who is at risk of dying.' Hosea twists his mouth into a mockery of a smile, failing to hide his own distress at Arthur's confused mental state. 

"I can't bear it—" Arthur keeps trying to talk between coughs that almost fold him over, endlessly reaching out for Hosea even though he already has a death-grip on him.

Susan bustles around, adjusting furniture and shuffling those present around. Her hands rest on Hosea's back when his own defective lungs spasm. 

Arthur's eyes widen in fright.

"No-no-no—" Arthur wheezes, frantic, as Hosea stifles his milder, dryer cough into his shoulder. 

"Stop, my boy." Hosea manages, talking over Arthur's failed attempts to speak through his body trying to clear infection from his lungs. 

"We both need to shut up and rest, hm?" Hosea squeezes Arthur's hand pressed to his chest hard. 

Switching to a new tactic doesn't fully win over Arthur's delusional mind, not yet. But Arthur halts his uncoordinated attempts to pull Hosea down to his level. He blinks up at Hosea, confused and heartbroken as if he is looking at a ghost.

"We're safe now, Arthur. You got out. Thank you, my dear boy." Hosea continues, trying to smooth out his ragged voice as he draws on Arthur's protective nature. "It is time to rest and heal. I'll be okay."

When Hosea reaches out and strokes Arthur's cheek, as light as he can to avoid the worst of the bruising, a ragged exhale shudders out of Arthur. With it goes some tension in Arthur's shoulders. Another pass, a caress from temple to chin prompts tears to leak from Arthur's clenched eyes.

"Please… stay…Stay with me, 'Sea."

Arthur asks for so little, Hosea cannot deny him. Not when he is nearly dead and convinced it is Hosea who is halfway through death's door.

"Always," Hosea whispers.

His lungs clench with a flare of pain. Hands steady him when Hosea wavers from the strength of the coughing, gulping in air as he tries to straighten his posture enough to breathe through the attack that is bearing down on him. He cannot pick out the instructions Susan barks over his own pounding head, harsh wheezing, and Arthur's gunfire-like hacking.

What a pair they are.

Ever the miracle worker, Susan gets Hosea flat on his back on an unfamiliar cot pulled up to Arthur's bedside. Maybe it was Abigail who found Hosea's tin and smeared a good amount of medicinal rub on his chest to help open his lungs. The sharp, ice-cold herbal blend clears the haze of an asthmatic attack from Hosea's mind. It leaves him boneless, eyes watering, as his body fights itself to bring air back into unruly lungs.

As much as Arthur struggles and cries out in pain when he isn't fighting to draw in every breath, Hosea finds he doesn't have the strength in him to help. Not with Abigail keeping him down with a firm press to his shoulder and blankets layered on him. Not when his body is too far gone to overcome the weakness and pain with stubbornness alone.

Susan tends to Arthur. How long it takes Arthur to fall into uneasy rest, Hosea does not know. He was drifting in and out, allowing his lungs a chance to recover from the attack. If only Arthur's damn cough would give the poor boy a break. He already has to breathe with broken ribs— weak whines filter through Arthur's gritted teeth, reaching Hosea when he's half-awake.

At some point in the night, Arthur manages to get a loose but persistent grip on Hosea’s upper arm. Somehow able to sleep on his side without causing himself too much pain— or seeking out comfort despite it. Hosea’s arms are too stiff, joints too swollen and aggravated to return the physical contact. Instead, he whispers calming phrases to Arthur, not entirely aware of what he says this close to falling asleep to catch up on owed hours.

The activity in the tent is subdued and quiet. Reverend Swanson isn’t hovering over Arthur praying— or over Hosea for that matter— so his son must be doing well enough. 

Stubborn man.

Chapter Text

Hosea's flare ebbs after a terrible few days of bedrest next to Arthur suffering the aftermath of torture and infection. It is a small mercy that his own condition, while painful, is easy to manage. Sleep, rest, warm clothes, and hot tea keep Hosea comfortable as he shivers and grumbles about the bone-deep, throbbing ache all throughout his body. The space where his ribs meet his breastbone swell into tactile bumps as they did in the mountains. As crippling as it is, arthritis is an old fiend. Its tricks are well countered— by Hosea, usually, but Susan steps in to assist him this time.

Between the cold compresses for Arthur and the hot ones blanketing stiff joins for Hosea, they keep their caretakers busy. Susan helps Hosea bundle up in his softest blanket so he can have a chance at sleeping without feeling like the fabric of his clothes are sandpaper on raw skin. His cough lingers from the asthma attack— but it is nothing compared to Arthur's nasty hacking. Pneumonia has a brutal hold on Arthur's lungs.

Arthur's fight isn't over, but the worst of his thrashing and raving quiets. The persistent fever drops out of dangerous temperatures and lingers. Reverend Swanson stops making an appearance out of religious duty and starts to keep Hosea company as a friend. A flare like this ruins all of Hosea's skills in conversation; a change Swanson must notice but never acknowledges.

Sometimes Hosea hears the reverend speaking with Arthur, trying to soothe strange fears and detailed delusions Arthur voices when he's got air in his lungs. Conversations like that are meant to be private, Hosea knows, but it's his damn joints that have given up on him, not his hearing.

Arthur repeats cryptic warnings about a buck and a coyote ad nauseam. His buck. Some buck that seems to haunt him in his dreams and in this tent at times, too. It is something Arthur wants, attempting to speak with it or reach out or plead with them to let it be. Despite the constant visions, Arthur greets it with mostly positive emotions; relief most common of them all.

The coyote, in contrast, is about as welcome in Arthur's delusions as a real one would be in camp. Arthur snarls at corners and shadows like he's an animal himself, doing his best to banish it. Until, on a dime, Arthur's ire is directed inwards at himself. If Hosea had the time to recover from Arthur's near death, his heart would have broken from the cruel things his son reveals that is trapped in his mind.

It is certainly a lot for the reverend. But bless the man, he tries to guide Arthur's muddled mind the best he can.

Hosea lies on his back, motionless, with tears leaking from his eyes. He spends most of his energy keeping his breathing steady. As soon as he gets over this flare he can return to caring for Arthur.

Right now, Hosea listens to every word of guidance Swanson offers Arthur, knowing he is hopelessly lost in a conversation Arthur hasn't really committed to having yet. The poor boy hasn't got a single rational moment to ground himself in… perhaps not even since Colm had him.

It is a relief for everyone when Arthur's unnatural compulsion to talk ends one morning for good. He coughs, he sleeps, he cries out in pain and from nightmares, he drinks tea and medicine whenever there is someone to help him. Hosea is a stiffer, grumpier invalid. He growls at the world for pestering him and interrupting his mostly working plan to sleep away the pain. Susan doesn't take his lip and gets some bland warm food in him three times a day. Just enough to keep him from starving; she knows he is unable to stomach more than that.

When Hosea's internal storm clears and he is capable of sitting upright in bed as a conscious member of society, Arthur has graduated from venous injections of painkillers back to oral doses. The bowl Susan places down for Arthur actually has soup in it instead of weak broth. Someone did Arthur a favor and removed the terrible beard that had taken up residence on his face. It reveals the swollen bruises from old hits and irritated scabs closing cuts and gashes across his face. They are mild compared to most of Arthur’s body.

God knows what Colm did to his boy.

If Arthur had been well enough to not need such care, Hosea would have been the first to ride down Colm’s gang for vengeful slaughter. No matter how long and how hard Hosea works to keep that part of him buried… the meaner, crueler part of him is always going to be in his blood looking for the next chance to lash out in the guise of deserved retaliation. It is why he’s been so loathe to face Dutch, knowing it’s easier to push away the sensible part of him when Dutch’s anger burns bright.

The only reason Dutch hasn’t hunted down Colm is that they don’t know where the man is hiding. As soon as Dutch has that information, he’d be out for blood. It may be the only reason Dutch hasn’t come in to see Arthur— knowing he wouldn’t be able to help himself from trying to press Arthur for information. Any slight against Dutch is reason enough for war, no matter the situation. No matter how foolish or dire... Dutch isn’t a forgiving man.

It is damning them.

Another day of bed rest gets Hosea functional enough to dress on his own. He shuffles out of the tent, leaving Mary-Beth watching over Arthur, and squints at the bright morning sun. The atmosphere inside is so different from camp; the girls are tending to their usual chores, most of the boys are out either searching for work or actively working. The deadweight around camp is lounging around, as usual.

The Count is not with the rest of the horses. Neither is Baylock nor Taima. Hosea considers the possibilities of Charles joining those two alone. He wouldn’t be Dutch’s or Micah’s first, second, or even third pick for almost anything. Charles keeps to himself but stands up to stupid decisions and half-backed plans often enough to irritate the more impulsive men. He is a good man. Impressively reliable and hard-working, matching Arthur’s work ethic in more solitary activities.

“Hey, old man.” Javier walks by, adjusting his holster and hat after giving Hosea a respectful nod. “Good to see you.”

“What’s been going on?” Hosea asks as Javier swings up onto his horse in one easy motion, already tacked up and ready to go.

“More business with the Grays for me. Dutch had something to handle with the sheriff. Been missing you working over that Braithewite crone.” With a click of his tongue, Javier pulls away.

Hosea inclines his head, relieved. Micah’s not cool-headed enough to join Dutch at the sheriff’s— and Charles is certainly not a welcome sight among these racist families controlling the town.

Fetching food is easy enough once Hosea waves through Pearson’s bumbling apologies about the whole mess— a lighter fare than usual, but Hosea isn’t sure where his stomach stands on a whole meal just yet. Coffee, though, is happily accepted. One cup isn’t enough so he helps himself to another. Halfway through that one, Hosea fetches a spare one before meandering over to the horses.

Kieran is bent over Maggie’s front leg, both the boy and the horse inspecting her hoof together. The mustang’s light coat shines like gold and her white hair is spotless. Lenny takes good care of his horse, but Kieran is something else. 

After Kieran pats Maggie’s shoulder and lets her have her leg back, he shies back when he catches sight of Hosea standing in front of him. 

“M-Mr. Matthews!”

Kieran is certainly something. Scared, mostly. Hosea offers him a small smile, raising the extra coffee as a gift. He places it on the fence post.

“Do you happen to know where Charles went?” Hosea waits for Kieran to wipe off his hands on his pants and carefully take the coffee like he’s not sure it is meant for him. 

“Huntin’, I t-think. He left real early, Mr. Matthews.” Kieran inches away with his coffee even though there is a fence between him and Hosea.

Partially for Kieran’s nerves but mostly for himself, Hosea sits back on the hitching post. His legs are not killing him but he isn’t one to push them so soon after a flare. Too many stubborn moments in the past in this same situation come back to bite him fast and painfully.

Maggie nickers at Kieran almost as if to give the terrified boy an excuse to fuss over her. Kieran gulps down his coffee and starts to brush her coat. No wonder the horses are so pampered; the boy hasn’t gotten anything else to do with his anxious energy.

“What’s been happening around camp?”

Hosea’s question catches Kieran off-guard. His head swings around, eyes huge as if Hosea’s about to accuse him of something. Or is testing him.

“Come on, son, I know you hear plenty even from over here.”

Kieran’s hands worry at the brush, eyes darting around. Hosea hides a frown behind the edge of his cup, sipping his coffee until he is sure his irritation won’t bleed into his voice. Damn kid is a nervous mess.

Was he always like this, before Colm?

The sudden thought is sickening— Hosea rolls the tin cup in his hands, focusing on the warmth. Some people are just jumpy. Born skittish like deer. Don’t mean nothing.

“I’ve been stuck in a tent for the better part of a week. Any fights? Anyone die?” Hosea tries to keep his tone light-hearted yet dry.

“N-no no, not-nothing like that. Everyone was worried about Arth— Mr. M-m-morgan, and then you. Lots of tense days waiting around.” Kieran manages to push through his stuttering after an encouraging nod. “I think you were there for most of the activity, Mr. Matthews.”

“Hmm.”

“Is… um… how’s… how is he doing?” Kieran has his face next to Maggie’s neck, muffling his words almost to incomprehension.

“Still living, though only God knows how,” Hosea mutters, finishing off his coffee.

Despite not seeing Kieran’s face, Hosea can tell he winces. It shouldn’t be surprising to anyone after the doctor visits, the coughing, the constant gasps and cries of pain. The atmosphere in camp must have been grim.

“... and how are you, Mr. Matthews?”

The question surprises Hosea. He clears his throat to recover from Kieran’s boldness.

“Oh, I’ll be fine. This isn’t the first time I’ve suffered a flare like that.” He waves away the boy’s concern, forgetting Kieran doesn’t know anything about him. Which is why another question follows.

“I heard you coughin’. R-real bad. I mean, I’ve heard you cough before but that was a lot and it was both of you an’ I didn’t know what was goin’ on—”

“Just asthma, son.” Hosea interrupts Kieran’s frantic explanations, trying to be gentle about it. “Had it since I was a boy. Got arthritis young, too. Both of them acting up at the same time keeps me in bed for a few days.”

This eases some of the tension in Kieran’s back. He is skinny. His clothes are of poor quality, too. Colm isn’t a kind man… but Hosea wonders if they’re not doing right by Kieran, either. The gang doesn’t understand a person like Kieran— eager to please, easily scared, more accustomed to giving up and giving in than fighting for something he deserves.

What does Kieran think of them all?

Another problem for another day. Hosea rubs a hand over his stubble, taking a moment to try and sort out his plans for the day. Arthur will probably ask for him as soon as he’s conscious. No way Hosea will leave him alone for longer than an hour, not until his boy is well out of the woods.

His gaze strays to Arthur’s mare, Red. She looks much better than she did. If horses could look murderous, though, and of course Arthur’s could, she might be two seconds from clearing the make-shift fence.

Kieran follows his line of sight to Red pawing at the ground and picking up her feet repeatedly. She isn’t stomping at them, not yet.

“She’s been pretty unhappy about staying here, I don’t think she’s used to being stuck in one place for this long.” Kieran’s insight into horse behavior isn’t shocking anymore, but still impressive.

Arthur is much the same.

“Why don’t you take her for a short ride, just around the area.”

At the suggestion, Kieran whips around, his expression a mix of horrified and surprised.

“I-I don’ want folk to think— to think I’m tryin’ leave!” 

Not the reaction Hosea was hoping for. Poor kid. He sighs.

“Kieran, I’m giving you permission. If anyone gives you a hard time, you tell them I told you to do it. We cannot have Arthur’s horse kicking down fence posts or starting fights with the other horses.”

Red bobs her head when Kieran gets over his fear, shaking out her body from nose to tail. She’s a demon when Arthur asks her to be, but otherwise she’s quite gentle. It takes less than a minute for Kieran to slip a simple rope halter over the Andalusian’s roman nose and adjust it to fit. She stands politely for Kieran as he delays mounting her by brushing off her back and running his fingers through her short mane.

Sensing her rider’s nervousness, Red keeps her excitement contained as Kieran eases on to her back. Her neck arches when Kieran picks up the reins and shifts his weight until he is comfortably positioned on her for bareback riding. Kieran’s Tennessee Walker has long legs and a refined head that sits higher than Red’s, but the Andalusian is built powerful and elegant in the beautiful curve of her neck and deep chest.

“Don’t let her bully you,” Hosea warns. Arthur always picks the strong-willed and high-spirited horses.

Kieran no longer looks petrified perched upon such a graceful and dangerous horse Red is bred to be for her riders. He musters up a weak smile, guiding Red into a tight half-turn with the lightest touch of the rope against her neck and the slightest pressure with his thigh. Arthur’s mare picks her feet up high, tossing her head and not collecting herself properly.

She is certainly testing the boy.

“Hey now,” Kieran admonishes with a guiding squeeze into the direction Red was pushing, only to use it to ease her back to the way out of camp. It works for only a few paces— Red’s eagerness manifests into a prance, her tail raised as her head dips down into another arch.

Kieran gets her back to a proper gait before her prance turns into the beginnings of a crow hop. Hosea bids him a farewell by raising his empty cup at Kieran when he looks over his shoulder.

She better not throw him.

Silver Dollar is more accustomed to days without much activity. The gelding nuzzles at Hosea’s shoulders and lips at his hair. Hosea sits on a box, petting Silver Dollar’s forehead and rubbing his nose. The gelding happily lowers his head into his hands for attention. He huffs warm air into Hosea’s face.

“You’re getting fat, dear.” Hosea pats the side of Silver Dollar’s neck, admiring the sheen Kieran has brought to his coat. The gelding allows the attention, careful not to lean any weight into Hosea as he arches into the contact.

Then, as if to poke at Hosea’s own appearance, Silver Dollar rubs his cheek against Hosea as if the stubble there makes a good scratching post. His lungs ache at the end of the chuckle it draws out of him but it is mild enough.

“Keep an eye on that Kieran boy, will you?” Hosea murmurs as Silver Dollar bumps the front of his face into Hosea’s chest, ever gentle, encouraging Hosea to squeeze his ears from base to the tips.

“I’ll be better about it, too. There is… more than enough to worry about right now.”

Susan bustles around camp, herding Karen and Tilly around to focus on the day's priority chores. She must have hounded Bill since he is chopping wood for the first time in forever. Instead of making a comment about it, Hosea gives him a clap on the shoulder with a sincere 'thank you'. Bill is another man who is eager to please— although he would deny it vehemently with violence. With more work and less drink, Hosea is sure Bill could make something good out of himself. Not great, but someone steady and strong. If Bill believed he was more than the jokes often made about him.

Mrs. Adler is sitting next to the chickens with her shirt sleeves rolled up past her elbows and a rifle across her lap. She stares at the birds without watching. She does not react to Hosea's soft greeting, which he doesn't take personally. God knows how little Hosea spent with the world after Bessie died, and she was not so cruelly taken as Jake Adler.

Her finger is braced across the trigger guard and her lips are thinned out in a severe frown. When there isn't grief in her eyes, it's the damning fire of vengeance. The day of her reckoning creeps ever closer, looming over her, waiting for an unknown factor to pull the trigger.

Mrs. Adler has to sort herself out on her own. Hosea prays she has the strength to keep her head above water and her wits about her.

On Hosea's slow circle back to his tent to stretch out his aching legs, Lenny returns to the camp's inner circle. The boy's smile is wide and bright as he all but bounds over to Hosea for a massive hug.

Hosea clutches him back, savoring the strength and warmth he feels through Lenny's shirt. He isn't broad and muscular like Arthur or wiry and brutal like John. Lenny is built like a gentleman with the best head on his shoulders of Hosea's sons.

"Lenny, there ain't ever gonna be a time when you're allowed to scare me like the other two rascals, you hear?"

Hosea meant for that to be a joke— but his throat is tight and his voice wavers when his eyes sting. In response, Lenny wraps an arm further around Hosea's shoulders with enough tenderness to avoid causing pain.

"I know better than that, Hosea. Got two older brothers to show me what all not to do." Lenny's laugh catches in his throat, a hint of all the emotional pain he hides behind a cheerful, relieved smile when Hosea eventually lets him go.

Lenny is missing his usual bright orange bandana and fine coat to compensate for the awful heat. He hardly has any scars visible on his bare forearms or the bit of his chest and neck peeking through the undone collar of his shirt. Nothing wrinkling his smile or tearing across skin. As Hosea studies Lenny, the boy returns the gesture, lingering on the still red and swollen joints of Hosea's knuckles and his neglected stubble trying to make it into a beard.

"You're growing into a refined, sensible young man," Hosea says, hit with a sudden urge to ensure Lenny knows how much the boy means to him. "Bless your daddy for all the good raisin' he did— God knows it wasn't me and Dutch. Look at the demons we turned out."

Lenny laughs.

"Hey now. You and Dutch are the nicest, most wonderful devils I've ever known." Lenny slings an arm over Hosea, walking with him to Hosea's usual spot at the table.

 "I think a few wild ones out of the bunch isn't too bad. The girls are alright, so is Sean, sometimes. And you got me balancing out the rest." Lenny continues, escorting Hosea's old bones to the chair before sitting down himself.

Hosea snorts. "You'd think age would give those two fools a lick of sense."

"Naw. Arthur's more stubborn than a herd of mules and John's got enough pride to choke a buffalo."

After a mix of chuckling from Lenny and coughing from himself, Hosea clears his throat into his collar. He glances up in time to catch a frozen expression of sorrow on Lenny's young face. It disappears before Hosea can say anything about it.

"They learned a fair bit of that from you, Hosea. Take care of yourself, too. And be kind. If not for yourself, for us?" Lenny's tone drops to plain worry, eyes searching Hosea's.

With a sharp intake of breath to refill his lungs, Hosea stretches out to pat Lenny's arm. His rueful smile draws a small one from the boy.

"I'll try to be better. Arthur… with him, I was so scared…" Hosea takes another breath. "I didn't think he was going to—"

"I know, Hosea. I know." Lenny cuts him off, his weak voice paired with watery eyes. "I'm sorry I wasn't there— I couldn't bear to see him like that, not if that was the last time—"

Hosea edges around the table, sitting on it so he can pull Lenny's head against his chest.

"You don't apologize for that. If we needed you, I would have gotten you. Nothing you could have done about it." Hosea runs his fingers through Lenny's short hair, across the tiny curls that make up the texture of his hair. "Arthur was getting all we got, all we had."

Lenny snuggles his face in closer, tucking in under Hosea's chin like a young child. A habit he has yet to fully outgrow, which Hosea does not mind at all.

"Is it going to be enough?"

Lenny's whisper is hoarse and fragile, revealing the fear he must have carried since Arthur's return. Hosea cups the back of his boy's head, lightly scratching Lenny's scalp through his hair.

"I think so, my dear boy." Hosea murmurs, closing his eyes. He feels Lenny worrying at his rolled-up shirt cuffs, twisting them and fiddling with the lonesome buttons.

"It'll be enough. The worst has passed." Hosea reassures, allowing Lenny to pull back when he is ready. The dry eyes and cheeks could probably fool most of them in camp. The small damp spot on Hosea's shirt is evidence to counter Lenny's attempt at stoicism.

Three familiar dimple-like wrinkles furrow Lenny's forehead, centered between his eyebrows. Hosea sticks out a thumb— he hasn't done this in a few years— and presses the pad of his finger to cover the wrinkles.

Allowing it with a huff of weak amusement, Lenny goes cross-eyed trying to look past Hosea's hand to his face as Hosea waits a few seconds longer than usual. To pull a laugh out of Lenny when Hosea slides his thumb quickly down the bride of the boy's nose and taps his chin. A reliable teasing ritual Hosea started to keep a younger, sadder Lenny out of his clever head digging bottomless trenches for the tragedies and inequities of the world.

The smile it draws out is small but there.  

"Stop worryin' so hard. Leave that to your elders." Hosea pretends to scold, resting a hand on Lenny's shoulder. He feels the tension leave when Lenny takes a deep breath and sighs.

"Maybe I need to stop worrying about Arthur and start worrying about you."

Despite Lenny's teasing tone, Hosea sees real concern in the boy's dark brown eyes. Standing up and stretching out his back and legs with a groan, Hosea shakes his head.

"No, no. I've got enough fine ladies pestering me already. I'm on the mend already, my dear boy." Hosea ruffles the top of Lenny’s head.  Young Jack darts around tents, beelining for them with his mother, frayed and tired, trailing behind.

“Mr. Hosea! Uncle Lenny!” Jack does not slow down as he leaps towards them.

Lenny catches the kid in mid-air, swinging him up to sit next to Hosea on the table. Jack laughs and swings his legs, wiggling his bare feet in the air. Lenny brushes dirt off the kid’s knees as Hosea lifts an arm so Jack can lean into his side.

“I haven’t seen you in ages!” Jack complains, peering up at Hosea with large eyes.

“I’ve been sick.” 

Abigail sits at the table, appearing to need more than just her son’s energy to fully wake up. The dark smudges under her eyes are more pronounced than usual due to her shifts caring for their two camp invalids. Without speaking, she reaches out and pats Hosea’s hand with her own.

“Everyone is getting sick!” Jack swings his legs with even more vigor. “When can Uncle Arthur take me fishing?”

Abigail props her head upon her palm. “I thought you didn’t like fishing.”

“I don’t!” Jack exclaims with a grin. “Uncle Arthur lets me draw in his book or play during the boring parts. Sometimes I help.”

Bless that man. He would make a good father. The familiar pang of sympathy and shared grief aches in Hosea’s chest thinking about Eliza and Isaac. So many missed opportunities and ruined plans over the years.

A family would have been good for Arthur. John doesn’t yet know what his is worth to him yet.

“Once Uncle Arthur is feeling better, I am sure he’ll take you fishing,” Abigail says with her eyes closed. She has been missing sleep because of the two of them.

“Can I see him?”

“I’m sorry, Jack. He’s pretty sick right now. We will let you know when you can.” Hosea replies, the corner of his mouth twitching at Jack’s exaggerated pout. Before the kid can get out an impressive whine, Lenny scoops him up and places him on his feet.

“Have you had breakfast yet, mister?” 

“No. Ma’s been sleepin’!”

Lenny laughs but sends a sympathetic glance to Abigail, who is ready to nap sitting upright despite the early hour of the morning.

“I’ll read you a story while you eat. We can go sit on the bank’s edge just over there and enjoy ourselves. How’s that sound, Jack?”

Jack seizes Lenny’s offered hand, prior desire to go fishing immediately forgotten. Hosea watches the two of them head off to get Jack food on a precariously balanced plate that Lenny wisely takes from him after a few seconds of imminent peril.

“I know I complain often about this lifestyle for Jack, but I don’t think I could raise him on my own.” Abigail’s sleepy admission prompts Hosea to turn around. She is looking up at him, eyes filled with fondness. “You got some good ones here, Hosea.”

It is Hosea’s turn to slide off the table and return his weight to his legs, with much more care and slowness than young Jack. A careful stretch tests his joints and proves them to be functional, so he stands next to Abigail. Both of them watch Jack hop around in the grass with Lenny following behind, a plate in one hand and a book tucked under his arm.

“Children ought to bring out the best in us all.” Hosea’s attention strays to his tent, the flaps closed and obscuring the occupants within. He clears his throat.

“All the good it brings out in me, however… I would do anything to keep them safe.” 

Abigail hums in agreement, cracking open an eye once more to catch the simmering anger in Hosea’s expression.

“Ain’t no one doubting that, Hosea.”

Hosea cannot hide the disgusted curl of his lip. “I’ve been too complacent. I’ve had enough— we’ve all been pushed far past our limits.”

Silent yet more awake, Abigail considers him for a long pause. She looks him over, her gaze critical and searching. Hosea doesn’t know what she sees in him. Then, Abigail nods once. A small jerk of her chin.

“More than just me agrees with you.”

Hosea shakes his head, suddenly worried about the anger he’s allowed space to grow and fester. He takes a step back, smoothing out his expression into something kinder.

“Ah, don’t listen to a grumpy old man like me, my dear.” Hosea’s wry smile falls flat in the piercing stare Abigail pins him with. Her maternal instincts carry a protective streak a mile wide.

When did they all start acting like caged animals?

“Take care, Hosea,” Abigail says, voice soft and low. “We need you.”

Chapter Text

Arthur is exhausted, stubbornly clinging to consciousness when Hosea returns to his side. His coughing is wet and strained, overpowering whatever words he meant to get out instead. It only takes a few minutes of comfort for Arthur to fall back into uneasy rest. Hosea is not far behind.

Mary-Beth whispers commentary about her current novel propped up against Arthur's thigh, reading as she mends clothes. It appears it has been her ritual with Arthur during these long, lonely hours. She is a witty romantic. Her choice of literature is certainly not up to Dutch's standards, but Mary-Beth finds enjoyment in it.

Some of her comments draw amused smiles from Hosea. Until he surrenders to the rest his body needs, a hand resting on Arthur's, his boy's labored breathing mostly rhythmic. 

Hosea stirs around noon to give himself light exercise by scouring the camp for Dutch. There is no sign of him yet. 

Arthritis flares suck the energy out of him like nothing else. As bad as his asthma attacks robbing his lungs of air. The stifling heat does him no favors, weighing down on him every moment he isn't protected by shade.

Not all the tightness in Hosea’s chest can be attributed to his chronic ailments. He hardly has the energy to search for Dutch. Another nap is necessary, weighing him down with exhaustion he didn’t think was possible before developing the conditions plaguing his body.

Arthur produces all sorts of noises in his sleep. From grumbles and hitched gasps of pain, to hissed breaths behind clenched teeth and short whines, sharp and pleading. Guttural groans and weak snarls in the back of his throat. When he's not putting all his effort into breathing when pneumonia and broken ribs allow him to get air in his lungs.

It is a miracle Hosea sleeps at all next to him.

It is Charles who is keeping watch over them when the evening activity wakes Hosea up. Charles remains silent, pausing in his arrow making to give Hosea a respectful nod after Hosea has grumbled his way to his feet. Surely Dutch has returned by now. He doesn’t sleep rough anymore unless it is absolutely necessary.

Getting his appearance in order takes significant effort, but one Hosea feels he needs to expend. If he walks up to Dutch looking like a rumpled mess, he won’t have a chance. He doesn’t need Dutch’s concern to become displaced. Or used as a way to deflect Hosea’s words. 

There is no hiding the tolls of days of stress and constant illness has taken on him, but at least he is somewhat presentable. Considering the circumstances, he looks fine. As much as he can judge in his small cracked mirror. 

The weight of his gun belt feels greater when Hosea sits on the edge of his— now Arthur’s— bed to buckle it on and guide his feet into his boots. Charles cuts the thread he’s using with his teeth, finishing up the fletching on another arrow.

Arthur is still and limp under the blanket keeping him warm. Muscles in his neck and jaw are tight and tense from trying to ease the effort it takes him to keep breathing. But the breaths he draws are mostly consistent, if shallow and ragged. Better than it was at the worst point.

“I’m off to talk to Dutch, it may be a while.” Hosea straightens up slowly, easing upright to not jostle his sore back or lungs any more than necessary. 

“Are you up for it?”

When Hosea turns at Charles’ serious soft question, he meets an unwavering stare. The man isn’t concerned; his face is hard. Before Hosea allows himself time to puzzle out Charles’ behavior, he turns back around.

“Yes.”

Hosea clears his throat, not intending to have replied with a growl-like sound.

There will be plenty of time to get riled up soon enough.

“— understand— oh, good evening Hosea.”

Hosea was not expecting Dutch to have company— and certainly not expecting to look into Micah’s face. They are sitting down at a small table, drinks in hand, smoking, deep into conversation. The idea of them sitting here alone raises Hosea’s hackles.

“Evenin’, Dutch. Mind if I have a word?” Hosea steps fully into Dutch’s tent, letting the canvas fall behind him. The remnants of their dinner sit stacked off to the side, plates hiding away instead of being returned to be cleaned. The air is thick with smoke, itching at Hosea’s lungs.

“No mind, no mind, Hosea,” Micah says— Hosea prevents himself from sending the man a harsh look. Acting as if Hosea needs his permission to have a private conversation with Dutch.

“I needed a private moment, anyway.” Micha inches his chair back and takes a long drag on his cigar. One of Dutch’s cigars. 

“Hosea, it’s good to see you,” Dutch says, warm and slow. As comfortable as can be, lounging back with a cigar in hand. The kerosine lamps light the tent’s interior in a soft orange glow. 

Micah makes a show of stretching as he gets up, leaving his drink behind.

“It’ll be longer than a moment, Mr. Bell, don’t want your drink to sit that long.” Hosea, as smooth as Micah’s emboldened pride, offers the man his glass. Hosea keeps pushing it towards Micah’s chest until the man takes his drink back, eyes narrowed.

“Have a good night, Mr. Bell.” Hosea dismisses him, barely waiting until Micah retrieves his hat before sitting down in the now vacant spot before Dutch. Micah says something in a drawling tone— Hosea ignores him as Micah steps out of the tent, letting a bit of the clear evening air in now that one of the smokers has left.

Dutch sits unmoved, a small unreadable expression giving a slight tilt to his lips. His eyes are dark and depthless as he meets Hosea’s gaze through the haze of sweet smoke between them. With the flickering of a lamp, Dutch’s tent feels intimate, isolated from the rest of camp. Without the shadow of his hat, Dutch cannot hide the tightness of stress around his eyes.

“How have you been, old girl?” Dutch asks, easy like nothing is happening. Casual, relaxed without his vest, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. 

Hosea leans forward with a wordless growl, hands pressed to the table’s surface. “Don’t you ‘old girl’ me, Dutch—.”

“This flare has really kept you down, Hosea. I’ve hardly seen you, I’ve been worried.” Dutch interrupts, trying to temper Hosea’s mood.

Hosea isn’t letting Dutch placate him. He pulls his aching hands away when Dutch reaches out, jostling Dutch’s amber drink in his glass.

“I’ve hardly seen you, Dutch,” Hosea snaps, voice rough with the hint of a cough. “While I’ve been sitting vigil over Arthur, praying to god he isn’t gonna die in front of me.”

Dutch’s expression shifts for a moment, unreadable even after all these years. “He’s not gonna die, dear—”

“You say now! After the worst of it, which you didn’t see!” Hosea’s voice rises, careless of who overhears.

In less than a heartbeat, Dutch has his cigar stubbed in the ashtray to cradle Hosea’s face in large, warm hands. Leaning over the small table between them, pulling Hosea towards him.

Hosea fights his reaction to give in, despite his desire to maintain his distance. Conflicted, he remains in Dutch’s hands, not reacting in favor or against the physical contact. 

“I know, Hosea, I know.” Dutch murmurs, soft and fragile as he presses his lips to Hosea’s forehead, breathing out a shaking sigh that ruffles Hosea’s hair. “I couldn’t— I couldn’t bear to watch…”

Hosea’s hostility crumbles with Dutch’s affection, unable to hide the terror Hosea has been fighting to bury for days. 

“He needed you; I needed you, Dutch.” Hosea tries to keep his voice from breaking.  “You never came to see him—”

“I can’t be here all the time, dear, you know that. I’ve got a camp to keep running.”

“He was dyin’, Dutch. Our son was dying in agony, and you left me alone.” Hosea’s throat constricts. He stops before anything else leaves his mouth. 

“You weren’t alone, Hosea. I made sure of that,” Dutch soothes, thumbs stroking over Hosea’s cheeks.

Hosea casts his gaze down, away from Dutch’s. He blinks hard, knowing Dutch can see the unshed tears forming that he refuses to let fall.

Hosea pushes through, not knowing if he will have another chance to say what he’s thinking.

“All because of that damn parley! I told you it wasn’t right. Arthur even questioned it—”

“This is the fault of Colm and Colm alone,” Dutch spits.

Hosea attempts to draw back to argue, but Dutch’s hold resists him.

After a low growl, Dutch gets control of his disgust. He gentles his touch again. 

Dutch takes a breath, a shaky one. It reveals a crack in the emotional mask Dutch maintains even in private.

Hosea places a hand over Dutch’s, pressing his cheek into Dutch’s palm in wordless comfort that Dutch could never ask for himself. 

“I was trying to end this violence, Hosea,  have one less enemy on our backs,” Dutch explains, pleading. “I can’t keep an eye on a grown man like that, you know I can’t do that,” His dark eyes dart over Hosea’s face, seeking understanding.

“They almost killed him, Dutch. May still… god, he’s a mess. Our poor boy is almost in pieces from torture…” Hosea is losing the fight to keep himself from crying. He closes his eyes, not wanting to see his pain reflected in Dutch’s dark eyes.  

Dutch exhales, his voice rough and raw. “He’ll recover, Hosea, he will. Arthur’s stronger than you think, he’ll be running down O’driscolls before you know it—”

“Enough of this feud, Dutch, it’s not worth it. Never was, not now. We’ve got Pinkertons and everyone else—”

“I’m taking care of it, old girl. I’m taking care of it, trust me. It’s you I’m worried about, you’re pushing yourself to an early grave acting like this.”

Hosea doesn’t want the attention, he doesn’t need it.

“I’m fine, Dutch—”

“Look at you, you’ve been bedridden for almost a week. You’re no use to anyone like this. Who is gonna take care of you if you’re not doing it?” Dutch’s scolding has no bite to it, not when he pulls one of Hosea’s hands to the table to get a better look at the swollen red joints. 

“It’s been so exhausting,” Hosea sighs, swallowing down his frustration, knowing he isn’t up for an argument now but wanting to press the issue just a little. “Everything has been, Dutch, since Blackwater—”

Dutch’s expression closes off into a blank stare downwards, holding Hosea’s hands like they’re glass.

“I cannot afford to lose you, Hosea. Please, rest. Trust me to lead us through, hm?” 

“It’s a mess—”

“That I’m working on,” Dutch promises, attentive to the practiced pressure he applies to test how stiff Hosea’s fingers are. “The gang’s working on it. This year has been tough on all of us, but especially you. You’re no young buck anymore.” 

“We’re not young bucks, you mean,” Hosea corrects, catching the hint of a smile at the end of Dutch’s comment. 

“I’m not old yet, old girl,” Dutch says, an amused rumble deepening his voice. As fast as it appeared, the good-natured humor fades away, leaving concern behind in the silence between them.

Hosea watches Dutch’s hands work on his, hands that are warmer and studier than his, even before he grew older faster than Dutch. Hands that he’s seen in a thousand different contexts, a visual memory of Dutch’s life with scars to match. The freshest scars are thin cracks on Dutch’s knuckles from the Grizzly’s dry, freezing air. If it weren’t for the sun darkening Dutch’s exposed skin, they would be invisible next to the distraction of Dutch’s rings. 

Despite Dutch’s care, he finds the nasty spot in the base of Hosea’s thumb where his arthritis has been the most active.

“Sorry, dear,” Dutch murmurs as soon as Hosea flinches, releasing his hold so Hosea can pull away.

Hosea refuses and instead presses his hands back into Dutch’s palms. It is a gesture that Hosea has done dozens upon dozens of times in his life when Hosea has the sense to ask for relief when it has been offered.

As always, Dutch softens. The tightness around his mouth and eyes eases, just a little bit.

“Here,” Dutch nudges his drink to Hosea’s side of the table and pulls Hosea’s right hand towards him. “Let me…”

It is something they never speak to, but it cannot be anything but a kind of love. It started decades ago, undescribed for other reasons, until it became as constant and warm as a campfire. Always behind closed doors, even after the shame went away.

Hosea cannot help himself; he feels himself melting, muscles relaxing as he ends up resting on the table, watching Dutch massage and stretch out his old joints. The bourbon hits harder than it usually does, as it tends to do after a period of illness.

Dutch’s hands are wonderfully hot. He balances firmness and gentleness as he works over every joint in Hosea’s hand. This ritual takes time and attentiveness, something Dutch commits to as soon as he realizes what an impact it is making.

“You’re purring, dear,” Dutch’s low rumble brings Hosea back, and wakes him up from the unintentional doze he was slipping into.

“Hmm,” Hosea straightens up, not by much. 

Dutch’s expression is fond. “Come stretch out on the bed, you’re not going to make it much longer.”

“It’s alright, Dutch, I should go back.” Hosea tries to look lively, not knowing how long he’s been here. Every moment he’s here he isn’t with Arthur.

“Hosea, you need this.” Dutch stands up faster than Hosea does and catches Hosea’s elbow to guide him away from the tent’s exit. “Everything is going to be okay, let me handle this.”

Hosea tries to walk away, not surprised Dutch stops him. Hosea doesn’t mean it, not really. He was the one who decided Arthur was healthy enough to talk to Dutch.

“Hosea, dear, come to bed.” Dutch insists, nudging Hosea’s chin to catch his distracted gaze. 

“I’ll make sure someone’s caring for Arthur as soon as you get comfortable, but you need to be cared for, too.” Dutch insists, and Hosea can’t deny him.

Sensing Hosea’s failing resistance, Dutch kisses Hosea’s forehead, then leans in to press his lips to Hosea’s. He tastes of smoke and bourbon. 

“I will need to go back sometime tonight, I can’t leave him…” Hosea says, drawing back after meeting Dutch’s kiss for a moment.

“Of course, but you need a break. Let me take care of it, dear.” Dutch ushers Hosea ahead of him with a firm hand on Hosea’s lower back, mindful of how little strength it would take to cause Hosea pain anywhere else.

For all of Dutch’s gentleness, that act of sitting on the bed is painful. Dutch’s grimace of sympathy mirrors Hosea’s wince. Almost all of Hosea’s joints are stiff and painful, even the ones in his spine. 

“There’s no rush, old girl, let me help.” Dutch takes Hosea’s gun belt from him and lays it over the back of his chair. 

Hosea lets Dutch take over helping him get undressed. His vest is eased over his shoulders, his handkerchief is folded carefully on the small nightstand. Dutch reaches past Hosea to adjust his pillow to accommodate Hosea’s taller frame.

“Dutch,” Hosea says as Dutch kneels to take off Hosea’s boots.

“Allow me.” Dutch looks up at Hosea, through dark lashes, and Hosea stops making a fuss over Dutch’s attentiveness. 

Once the shoes are removed, Dutch straightens up. Before he can start to stand, Hosea kisses him. This time, he can feel Dutch’s small smile when it ends. Both of them are reminded of other times like this.

When Dutch pulls out another blanket and his thick winter coat to add extra padding to his bed for Hosea’s aching back, Hosea sinks into the bedding with a sigh. The way Dutch tugs up another blanket to cover Hosea is something he’s picked up from Hosea’s own mothering. 

Satisfied, Dutch pauses, still leaning over Hosea, and kisses him again. Still gentle, but for longer this time. Hosea cannot help the shuddering exhale he makes after. The fondness in Dutch’s eyes grows into something warmer. Dutch studies at Hosea for a moment before standing upright.

“Have you eaten anything tonight?” Dutch asks, returning to the table with his empty glass and dishes. He glances towards Hosea, catching the tired shake of his head.

“I’ll see if I can find something appealing after I check on Arthur,” Dutch says, materializing a bottle of red wine. He pours it into his glass and takes a sip before handing it to Hosea.

Hosea finishes the alcohol without a second thought. He reaches out to put the glass on the nearest surface.

Dutch takes it from him. “Should I pour you another?”

“No, it’s enough.” Hosea shifts to get more comfortable on the bed. 

“I don’t want you to be in pain, dear, I know you haven’t taken anything for this.”

Dutch is right; Hosea does not take pain-relieving medication if he can help it. 

Hosea shakes his head. “Not tonight.”

“Alright, dear.” Dutch pours more wine into the glass and puts it on the nightstand. He leans down to kiss Hosea’s forehead; Hosea tilts his head back and is kissed on his nose.

“I’ll be back in a moment.” Picking up the dirty dishes, Dutch casts another look back to Hosea before exiting.

Tired, warm, and a bit tipsy on an empty stomach, Hosea closes his eyes for a moment. Maybe a bit longer, because Dutch is back so soon. Blinking awake, Hosea sees the kerosene lamp has been dimmed, leaving a handful of flickering candles to light the tent.

Dutch puts out all the candles on his desk before tying his tent flap closed. The dim light is soft and soothing, dark enough for Hosea to sleep and light enough for Dutch to read at the card table.

“Susan is with Arthur tonight, and Abigail will be there in the morning.” Dutch reaches Hosea’s bedside after slipping out of his boots. 

“How is Arthur’s fever? Are his lungs sounding better?” Hosea starts to sit up— and has to stop with a hiss of pain.

Dutch closes the space between them as soon as he hears Hosea’s sharp expression of discomfort.

“The deal was I checked on Arthur, and you rest.” Dutch scolds, softening his tone into a murmur.

“Arthur is doing okay, he’s sleeping. Like you should be doing,” Dutch adds, withdrawing his hand from Hosea’s shoulder when he is sure Hosea isn’t going to try getting out of bed.

Hosea sighs but knows Dutch is right.

“I found some decent crackers, too, not any of that hardtack nonsense Pearson likes to make.” 

Dutch’s comment makes Hosea chuckle.

“I’d leave if you thought that feeding me hardtack was going to make me feel better.”

Dutch’s smile is back. Hosea wants to see it last, so he takes hold of Dutch’s collar and pulls him close. Dutch goes easily, not allowing Hosea to put any pressure on his arthritic joints. They kiss, languid and soft, sharing the air between them. Dutch’s larger hand covers Hosea’s, fingers wrapping around Hosea’s swollen ones.

It lasts until Hosea tries to deepen the kiss and a muscle in his back twinges. This close together, Dutch can feel the twitch in Hosea’s cheek.

“Dear, why don’t you lie down,” Dutch says, separating himself by a few inches.

Hosea’s impulse is to bristle, but when he opens his eyes he sees honest concern, not condescension, in Dutch’s gaze. And color in Dutch’s cheeks, more than there was a minute ago.

“On your stomach, dear, if you’d like a massage.”

Hosea isn’t elegant about flipping over, pushing the pillow out of his way so he can rest his chin on his crossed arms. He leaves some room on the close side of the bed for Dutch to sit.

Dutch drinks half of the glass of wine, waiting for Hosea to get comfortable. Once Hosea is still, he slides his rings off his fingers and puts them next to the glass.

With eyes half-closed, Hosea watches the muscles in Dutch’s forearms work as he unbuttons his cuffs and rolls up his sleeves. 

Dutch catches Hosea looking at him. A corner of his mouth lifts up.

“Stop getting distracted, Hosea. Put your head down.”

“It ain’t hurtin’ me none,” Hosea grumbles but obeys.

The mattress sinks as Dutch sits on the edge.

“I was gonna ask what is hurting the most, but I think I’ll just assume I’ll have to work on all of you.”

Hosea raises his eyebrows, even though Dutch can’t see him.

“All of me?” He repeats, coy.

Dutch sighs, sounding put-upon even though Hosea can tell otherwise. “Shush, or I’m not gonna do this.”

Before Hosea can come up with another quip, Dutch’s hand lands on the back of his neck. A shiver runs down Hosea’s spine, reacting to the heat and pressure.

“How you can get cold in this miserable climate, I’ll never understand,” Dutch says, still teasing.

Hosea doesn’t care to respond because Dutch starts working on the tension in his neck and that’s too wonderful to interrupt for anything. It takes a minute of Dutch warming up the tight muscles before he starts putting more strength into his massaging.

Dutch starts slow, preferring to gradually coax Hosea’s body to stretch and relax in the direction he is manipulating. Hosea won’t make himself stop ‘purring’, as Dutch calls it; a wordless rumble in his throat, not loud enough to be a groan.

As Dutch’s thumbs dig into the muscles running parallel down Hosea’s cervical spine, he guides Hosea’s chin up a little. The gentle roll burns just right—

Hosea takes a deep, hitching breath and breathes out with a rush.

“Good?”

“Very,” Hosea rasps.

Dutch’s calloused hands glide down Hosea’s back, mapping the landmarks of bone before he continues further down between Hosea’s shoulder blades. Leaning more of his weight into him, Dutch pushes the heels of his palms into tense muscles.

It starts with pain, not enough for Hosea to react to other than a faint grimace. Dutch knows what he’s doing— the next pass burns, and the one after is blissful. Hosea wants to resist Dutch’s weight, push back to demand more out of every moment, but the best thing is to lie limp and relaxed, let Dutch work it out.

It is a haze of fading pain, the buzz of alcohol, and the steady, grounding pressure of Dutch’s hands on him. Hosea melts into the bed with closed eyes.

He lingers on the edge of sleep, aware of very little.

There is pressure on the center of his back, Dutch’s voice whispering to him.

“Mmm?” Hosea manages to form somewhat of a question.

“I’m getting your belt off, your lower back is tender.”

“Sure,” Hosea agrees, already on his way to falling back into a trance-like doze. Far too distracted by the ball of tension and pain in his back to appreciate Dutch reaching under him, skillfully unbuckling his belt with one hand. He untucks Hosea’s shirt and slides it up a few inches to bare Hosea’s lower back. 

Dutch must be straddling him, carefully balanced to keep his weight off Hosea. A whisper of fabric across fabric as Dutch’s pants brush along Hosea’s. The bed shifts when Dutch leans to put Hosea’s belt off to the side.

Hosea sighs, closes his eyes again. Trying to focus on something other than the throbbing pain in his back. Soon enough, Dutch returns to trying to work out the pain. It gives something for Hosea to think about, as Dutch inches down Hosea’s pants after unbuttoning them.

It is far past improper if they were just friends, but Dutch has never shied away from intimacy when they’re hidden away. Hosea groans, wanting nothing else but Dutch’s attentive hands working the tightness in his back.

Better than alcohol, better than opium, Dutch’s skin on Hosea’s soothes the worst of the pain. How Dutch can trap heat in his body is something Hosea has grown more envious of with every passing, aching year.

He sinks further into the pillow, breathing out the tension until he is a puddle of old limbs.

Hosea’s awareness shrinks down to Dutch and his touch, thoughts fading away. 

Hosea couldn’t recall exactly how it happened, but here he lays under Dutch’s warm and heavy form, both of them acting like their younger reckless selves. They haven’t slept together like this in years— it’s been occasional, more sensual in the past, never quite together but never drifting apart, either.

Dutch erases Hosea’s exhaustion as if this is what his body needed all along; his lover’s hot breath on his skin, rough hands silk soft as Dutch gives every inch of him searing attention. After months of hardly receiving more than a glance, a hand on the shoulder, Hosea cannot possibly keep up with Dutch’s intensity.

Breathless and quiet— always nearly silent, after a lifetime of stolen moments, Hosea knows he is as melted as his mind, surrounded by warmth and affection. Little can make it past the fog of desire— Dutch’s voice rumbles deep in his chest, Hosea can feel it against his back. Dutch overwhelms Hosea’s lingering discomfort, causing a delightful burn from the press of teeth and blunt nails.

Hosea reaches up when Dutch settles against him, burying aching fingers into dark curls. Searching for an anchor point, stability to keep himself sane. Never has Hosea felt anything more than bliss and love— in his heart and mind and soul, this between them has always been right.

Legs tangled together, arms around one another, lean limbs pinned by hot, heavy ones. Dutch has always burned like fire— in his voice, his eyes, as if a furnace fuels his very core. He has always been bold, made of dark handsome lines compared to Hosea’s thinner frame. A miracle a man such as he could see love in someone like him.

Hosea would rather Dutch crush him close than let go.

Chapter Text

Hosea wants to be frustrated with Dutch after he finishes waking up far past dawn, still tucked into Dutch’s sheets that smell like them both. Despite Dutch’s promise to get Hosea back by Arthur’s side, it seems Dutch made the decision against Hosea’s wishes. For Hosea’s better health, that is sure. Nothing to be done about it now.

It is a guilty pleasure that has Hosea stretching in Dutch’s bed, savoring the sore ache that gives him something else to feel instead of his miserable joints. Any activity would have done the job, yes, but there is nothing else that affects him like Dutch. As nice as it would have been to wake up together, Hosea is not an insecure lover. He isn't lovesick, either. A bit melancholy, perhaps, but of the two of them, Hosea was always the heavy anchor.

His clothes are neatly folded on Dutch’s chest at the foot of his bed. Hosea gets dressed, taking his time, pulling on pants that he knows spent the night discarded on the floor. Dutch forgot to be discreet; there is a bruise on Hosea's neck above his right collarbone in Dutch’s small mirror. He adjusts his collar and does up his tie to hide it better. Not that he minds, but the gang has grown a lot in the past few years. He does not want to acknowledge what happens between himself and Dutch with anything obvious. Dutch has always been wary of revealing too much to the wrong folk. 

Hosea stretches more when he finishes getting dressed to get a better sense of his state. His joints pop and crack, but the worst of the pain and stiffness is gone. A mild headache throbs behind his eyes due to the alcohol; it was stupid to accept so much last night. Hosea shakes his head at the wine still left out, something that he would have appreciated more in other circumstances. He leaves the half-empty glass there but takes the crackers Dutch dutifully brought him last night. Sweeping his disheveled hair back in something resembling decency, Hosea pulls on the knot keeping the front of the tent tied and rejoins the camp.

He looks at the sun more than halfway to the day’s peak and grumbles. He knew it was later than he wanted but damn Dutch, it’s closer to noon than dawn. Arthur’s been struggling with pneumonia and everything else, not just a simple cold—

“Hosea!” Abigail calls out to him, spotting him from across the clearing. His tent is open , the flap folded back shows Arthur propped up on pillows and blankets. Arthur's battered face turns to follow Abigail as she jumps up from the chair at his side. 

Pocketing the crackers, Hosea heads her way. He is surprised and pleased with the absent ache in his knees. It settles the anxious buzz in his heart to see Arthur oriented to his surroundings. Abigail rounds the cot, tossing the sock she was in the middle of darning onto the blanket covering Arthur’s legs. Arthur’s mouth opens. A sharp tug closes the tent behind her, keeping anything Arthur would have said within.

Abigail doesn’t wait for Hosea to reach the tent. She meets him halfway, shaded by the ancient oak at the center of camp. The shadows aren’t kind to the darkness under her eyes. A frown is creating thin wrinkles around the corners of her mouth and across the bridge of her freckled nose.

Hosea smiles at her. “Abigail, how're—”

“He's well enough.” Abigail cuts him off. “I’m tired of watchin’ over him, you can mind him.” 

Hosea offers up a sheepish smile.  “Actually, I was asking about—” 

“He’s had some laudanum about a quarter hour ago. I was about to give him more just so he’d shut his mouth,” she says, without the lightness to be teasing. Abigail won't look at his face, searching for something— anything else, it seems— to find an excuse to leave quicker. She doesn’t sound panicked at all, just empty of patience and prickly with irritation.  

“Abigail, dear, thank you.” Hosea catches her arm before she can stalk past him. Despite not using any strength to stop her if she wanted to leave them both— Hosea wouldn’t blame her, neither he or Arthur are pleasant invalids to doctor— and not talk to Hosea for the rest of the day, Abigail allows Hosea to turn her back to him.

 Her lip curls, not in a smile. “I thought John was a pain having to babysit; I’ve had it with him, Hosea, I can’t—”

“Thank you, Abigail, truly,” Hosea repeats, soft and earnest. “I mean it with all of this old heart.”

He rubs his thumb over her rolled up sleeve, waits a heartbeat to see if she’ll draw away as she often does, not one for physical comfort when she’s mad. Abigail’s mood doesn’t improve but it doesn’t worsen, either. Hosea rests his hand on her shoulders, sliding over them, trying to smooth away the angry tension drawing them up like hackles. She stays, which is silent permission all on its own for her, lets her head tilt a little to give in to the pressure.

“I’m sorry I overslept, you’ve been a proper saint taking care of us—”

“Ain’t you, Hosea,” Abigail huffs. “Arthur’s fever is making talk nonstop and I’m sick of listening to him.”

Hosea winces at the news of Arthur’s fever still sticking around, but that’ll be something to deal with in a moment. A few days aren’t long enough to get Arthur out of its grip, not with the seriousness of his injury and illness. 

“Take a break, you’ve more than earned it, my dear,” he says, knowing that a lot has been put on her. She has been at Arthur’s side every time she has been asked. It’s not a nice place to be. It has drained them all.

Abigail sighs, finally looking Hosea in the eye. Her shoulders relax an inch, but her blue eyes are still squinting with lingering ire. “Everyone needs a break, and we both know that’s not happening anytime soon.”

Hosea feels a muscle in his cheek jump from the flash of guilt in his chest. “I know, I’ll talk to Dutch—”

“Lotta good that’ll do,” she snaps and shakes his hands off her, riled up again within a second. “I’ve seen how those talks go.”

That guilt burns into a dangerous ember. Hosea lets her pull away but she doesn’t go far despite her bristling temper. She takes a restless, directionless step, rocking on her heel as if she could find her words among the flattened grass underfoot.

“Abigail, I know,” Hosea repeats, low, keeping himself from adding an edge of warning to stop her from speaking her piece. He does not want to pull rank when her concerns are true, matching the same kinds of thoughts that have been growing in his head of late. 

“Do a little more than knowing, then.” Her gaze flashes with anger. It is the same protective anger she has cultivated in herself from Hosea and the rest, modeled after the gang’s fierce ties to one another. 

“I know, Abigail, I do,” Hosea presses, hardening his voice into something firm and serious, offering some emotion for her to grab onto when her own tone turns acrid, accusatory. They can’t talk like this, not in the middle of everything. Especially not to him.

“We can’t keep going on like this, Hosea. It’s a goddamn miracle we haven’t lost anyone since Davey!” Abigail hisses, but thankfully lowers her volume to match Hosea. She allows him to guide her back to Arthur’s tent for privacy sake. She gestures to Arthur on the other side of the tent flap with a stab of her finger. “And not for lack of trying.” 

Hosea stops himself from revealing more of his anger and prevents her from pulling back the tent flap. Arthur can wait a moment. If Arthur is clear-headed enough to be aware, he doesn’t need to get involved in this, either as a participant or as a point to be made. 

“That’s not a conversation for this moment, my dear. I know, but hold onto that for a little while longer, Abigail, please. I can’t deal with this right now, not when Arthur’s—” Hosea cuts himself off, sending her a painful look, not comfortable with the guilt she’s stirring up when she crosses her arms at his continued distraction, the easy excuses. “I’m sorry— I’m worried sick about him, Abigail, but I promise I’m listening. I hear you.”

Her jaw tightens but she stays quiet, willing to hear him out, to trust him. 

“I need to think,” Hosea says and then grimaces to hear and taste Dutch’s placating words in his mouth. “Let me sit with Arthur a while, figure out what’s been going on since I’ve been down and out with that flare, and we can talk. Tonight, if you want, but not any sooner.”

“This can’t wait forever,” Abigail warns. It belies a break in her anger than Hosea has wormed through. He isn’t sure he has properly earned her backing down over any real convincing, but he appreciates that she is allowing herself to be satiated. For now, just on Hosea’s word.

“No, but it can wait a little longer. You, Abigail,” Hosea says with a pained smile, “are right, as you often are. You’ve been stuck with two grumpy fools far too often this past week; it’s not good for your health.”

She snorts. That lightens Hosea’s heart, just a little. As much as John likes to flaunt his temper, Abigail’s got one that can dwarf his. She often has better sense behind hers, making her moods a beast to counter.

“Go on, I’ll make sure Susan doesn’t bother you for the rest of today.” Hosea says, insisting she take some time to herself.

“I don’t mind working, ‘Sea, but I would appreciate someone entertaining Jack.” She looks over to where Jack is playing. 

Jack is crouched near the main campfire with Cain, scratching lines into the dirt as the dog sniffs around the coals for scraps. The girls are all at the nearby table, laughing and talking, a large sheet of canvas spilling over the table and into their laps. By the way they all keep glancing at Jack, they have been roped into keeping an eye on him. They’ll try to pass him back to Abigail as soon as they realize she isn’t at Arthur’s bedside.

Hosea looks over those still in camp, someone who is decent enough to take care of Jack. He skips over Bill, estimating that Uncle is a bit too drunk based on the loud way he is talking to Pearson. Maggie’s golden coat is among the rest of the horses, but Lenny isn’t around, he might be on guard duty. Hosea won’t endear himself to Susan if he removes Abigail from the day’s work and gives her charge of Jack all in one fell swoop. Neither if he distracts Karen, Tilly, or Mary-Beth when she has them all working together on patching up holes in one of the wagon’s canvas covers.

John is at another table, his rifle in parts to clean and oil, head tilted in their direction, not shy about trying to eavesdrop despite the distance. Hosea prepares himself for another argument when he motions for John to come. Abigail rolls her eyes, but she steps close to John as they trade places. She accepts him touching her lower back in a silent question that she shakes her head at.

“What’d ya need?” John asks, gaze lingering on Abigail as she walks away, jumping to Arthur obscured in Hosea’s tent before he focuses on Hosea.

“John, please take Jack out and do something fun with him. Abigail’s been taking care of Arthur but she’s about ready to strangle him. And little Jack doesn’t deserve to irritate his Ma over no fault of his own.” As Hosea speaks, he watches John for that impulsive recoil from his fatherly responsibilities, ready to press harder.

John, though, surprises him. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Hosea repeats, pleased. John jolts a little when Hosea claps his left shoulder.

John sighs a bit and runs his hand through his hair after taking off his hat. He is not overjoyed about the thought but his reaction is far more good-natured than anything Hosea was expecting.

“I can, I just… what should I do with him?” 

“Well, you could ask him, but you could also take him out to pick flowers for Abigail— or, what will likely happen, is that he’ll catch a bunch of bugs, so maybe bring a jar,” Hosea offers with a little laugh. “I’ve also heard from the original source that he does like to fish but only because someone lets him doodle in his journal ‘during the boring parts’.”

“I’d rather not do that,” John huffs, but Hosea knows it’s all to cover up any hint, every smidge of fondness that John tries too damn hard to bury.

“If you’re clever about it, maybe you can convince Jack and Cain to wear each other out,” Hosea says, not at all afraid to come up with a dozen different ideas for John. Raising kids is hard whether he knows what he’s doing or not. “Do you remember Nickel, that little runt of a dog Arthur picked up after Dutch and I found you?”

“I remember Arthur teaching Nickel to chase and bite me,” John says, his scarred cheek twitching. 

“Don’t do that,” Hosea cuts off that line of thinking as soon as a gleam sparks in John’s eyes.

John’s smirk grows into a half-smile, his scars pulling at his cheek. It is good to see him smile, it’s been too long. Hosea doesn’t know what takes most of the blame, the dire situation the gang has been in since Blackwater or the gashes that the wolves left across his face. The wounds no longer require stitches, but the skin around them is still red, as is John’s left eye.

“I meant something more along the lines of you boys teaching that dog some tricks. I know you had a hand in some of that dog’s training,” Hosea continues, ignoring the thought that Arthur has a while before his face heals, too.

That pulls a chuckle from John. He looks down as if he could hide the amusement dancing in his eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hosea. I hated that dog,” John says, rare warmth in his voice.

John flinches when Hosea moves to cuff the back of his head. Hosea gentles his touch just a little, still swatting him, knowing it’ll piss John off if he acknowledges anything that makes John uncomfortable. It’d be a shame to turn John’s mood when he’s agreed to spend time with Jack.

“Please don’t turn that dog into a menace. Teach it something practical, or at the very least something benign,” Hosea says, trying to reason with John so he won’t make Hosea regret bringing up that little hellhound Nickel.

John shrugs, tamping down another smile, already planning something that Hosea is going to dislike.

“Ain’t gonna teach that dog nothin’, ‘Sea,” John replies, lying through his teeth to the same man who taught him how. John turns away before Hosea can finish telling him off from causing too much trouble.

“Hey, Jack! C’m here! And bring Cain with you, Uncle Hosea had a good idea—”

“John,” Hosea warns, schooling his expression into something stern.

“See you later, Hosea,” John says, dodging Hosea’s impulse to grab his ear.  “Don’t go telling Arthur now, you’ll ruin the surprise—”

“John!” He has to raise his voice as John ignores him.

John laughs at him and tips his hat, backing away. Jack looks up from his scribblings in the dirt, reflexively smiling, matching the mood around him. Abigail has joined the table fixing the canvas and based on their expressions, all of them are enjoying the mess Hosea has created for himself.

“Not a word,” Hosea says, which makes all the girls laugh.

“What surprise?” Jack asks, innocent and eager, jumping up when John beckons him over after putting his rifle back together. 

“No, no surprises!” Hosea says, but he makes sure Jack knows he doesn’t mean it with an exaggerated groan. “Don’t listen to a word your father says, Jack—”

“I’m gonna show you all the fun things Cain can do,” John tells him, catching Abigail’s smile and matching it. “Thanks, by the way!” He waves the packet of crackers Hosea had put in his pocket while he was talking to Abigail. John hands one to Jack and tosses one to Cain before taking one for himself. All of them stuff a cracker into their mouths at the same time.  

“Thief!” Hosea squawks, exaggerating the undignified noise to another round of laughter. He shakes a fist at John’s back. “I take it back. You can’t play with Jack, you’ll turn that sweet boy into a little terror!”

Jack squeals and starts to run. Cain jumps after him, barking. John follows, giving Hosea a wave. Hosea shakes his head, putting his hands on his hips. He glances at Abigail, who is hiding her mouth behind a very needed cup of coffee.

“I’m sorry, Abigail, I may have just created a monster,” Hosea says.

“I won’t ever forgive you,” she replies, light and easy, already softening from not being trapped with Arthur’s depressing company.

“The things those two taught that dog…” Hosea trails off, shaking his head again. “God save us— and pray that it was Arthur who was the mastermind behind it all.”

“You have to tell us that story, Hosea!” Tilly begs. 

“Later, my dear, it’s my turn to sit with Arthur,” Hosea says. Bringing up Arthur sours everyone’s mood which is not what Hosea wants.

“We’ll have to include Dutch, I think he’s still sore from all the trouble that dog caused,” Hosea adds to give them a little bit to capture their imaginations until he can tell the story properly. “Somewhere when John won’t hear. He doesn’t need to be reminded of that time when Nickel stole—”

“Are you talking about that damn thief of a dog?” Susan demands, approaching with a basket of clothes. She shifts the basket to her hip and waves a warning finger in Hosea’s direction. “Don’t you be giving anyone any ideas, Hosea. I was a happy woman when that dog died—”

“Too late! John and Jack’re out with Cain,” Karen crows, waving her sewing needle in the direction they headed out of camp. 

“Hosea!” Susan tosses the clothes onto the table, turning with him with real fear in her eyes. “You didn’t—!”

“I told him not to, Ms. Grimshaw— and I’m sitting with Arthur now, you can't yell at me and disturb his rest!” Hosea speeds up his own retreat, chuckling when Susan balls up a sock to throw at him. He has to step around Javier, who has a camp repeater over his shoulder. 

“What’s this about?” Javier asks, raising his eyebrows.

“No! No more stories about that dog!” Susan cries.

Chuckling, Hosea ducks into his tent, avoiding whatever else Susan seems fit to throw his way. She will give him hell if Cain turns into even a quarter of a menace that Nickel was, but it will be worth it. It will be worth whatever trouble Cain ends up getting into if it’s John and Jack responsible, the two of them together.

Chapter Text

Arthur coughs, the sound crashing through the muffled laughter outside. He peers up at Hosea, taking a moment to find his face. Arthur breathes out, shaky and shallow, but keeps his gaze focused, attentive to the world around him.

“...’Sea,” he rasps. 

“Good morning, son,” Hosea murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead, mood sobering in an instant. Heat burns under Hosea's lips. “How are you doing?”

“...bad.”

“Yeah?” Hosea prompts him, taking a seat without taking eyes off Arthur. He places his hand over one of Arthur’s resting on his stomach. The bruises across Arthur’s hand are starting to grow green edges like the ones littering his face. It gives a sickening cast to Arthur’s pale and fragile-looking skin, but it is a sign they are starting to heal.

“Mmhmm…” Arthur hums in his throat, coughs a little more. He closes his eyes when Hosea checks his temperature properly. Arthur leans into Hosea’s palm. It must feel good and cool against the fever’s flush. Arthur’s fever isn’t too bad, nothing like it was, but it still has its claws dug in, refusing to be shaken off. 

“What’s the worst?” Hosea asks. He sits back in the chair and scans over Arthur’s entire body. He isn’t sweaty or restless and his breathing is somewhat better. Not as noisy. Air isn’t wheezing out of Arthur’s lungs with the desperate attempt to catch his breath.

“M’ arm,” is the immediate response, Arthur’s answer truncated even more than is his usual habit. 

“Yes, well… You were shot, my dear,” Hosea says, as quiet and gentle as his teasing gets. 

“Hmm,” Arthur agrees. He doesn’t say anything more, just swallows hard and shifts around to get more comfortable. He hasn’t reopened his eyes since Hosea checked his temperature. 

Hosea picks up the folded envelope of medicine the doctor provided. There is little left of the antipyretic powder and the glass bottle of laudanum on the nightstand is only a fifth full. Underneath the envelope is a folded piece of scratch paper with a charcoal pencil. It lists out rough estimates of the medicine dosages and treatments given to Arthur over the past few days, filled out with Susan’s elegant penmanship and Abigail’s more practical scrawl. On the flip side is a small note revealing where the morphine is hidden— behind a stack of Hosea’s books on his small desk between some of his folded clothes.

“Do you want some fresh air? There is a nice breeze out.” Hosea says to wake Arthur up a little. Arthur should eat or drink something before he falls asleep again. He has continued to lose weight even after he got home.

Arthur grumbles. He throws his arm over his face, either to anticipate any daylight or to tell Hosea off from pestering him. Hosea smiles a little.

“Only for a little while, then.” Hosea compromises. Abigail had the tent open earlier; the stench of sickness hasn’t had time yet to build up again. It is melancholy inside with just a single oil lamp. It is not the kind of atmosphere that’s good for anyone’s health, not just Arthur’s.

Arthur turns his head further away when Hosea rolls back the tent flap. It is a nice day. There is a breeze blowing over the lake through camp, rustling the huge branches of the oaks that the gang pitched their tents around. Large white and cream clouds pile high in the sky, filtering out the sun’s strong rays into a day pretending to still belong to spring. Hosea goes to the other side of the tent to pin up a section on this side, too, to let the breeze blow through.

Arthur groans, hiding more of his face, but Hosea is reasonably confident he’s just complaining to complain. The wetness in his cough isn’t exaggerated, though. In better lighting, the light cast across Arthur’s face doesn’t harshen the marks Colm left. They are looking better, at least. Arthur is healing, however slowly.

Hosea’s knees pop and creak when he crouches down in front of the small chest where he keeps his dried herbs. He frowns at what is left of his personal apothecary. His stocks were all but wiped out at Colter from John and everyone else fighting off colds and needing fortifying teas when there wasn’t enough food to share. Horseshoe Overlook provided plenty of ginseng, yarrow, and mint, but Hosea hasn’t had as much as he’d like to get everything else replenished. And now, with Arthur…

He picks out the bundle of dried feverfew. Arthur doesn’t respond as well to it as other herbs, but it will be enough for now. It will be expensive but they’ll need that doctor to come back. To make sure Arthur is healing right and there aren’t any more surprises lurking. Hosea checks the paper again, looking for any indication of when Arthur’s bandages were last changed. Not finding anything, Hosea goes to Arthur’s side to slide the union suit off of Arthur’s bandaged shoulder. Arthur wakes up with a grunt, flinching away, expression contorting from peaceful dozing into dread. He jerks his upper body away, a cough interrupting his hiss of pain.

“Sorry,” Hosea says, letting Arthur draw back from his touch on his upper back.

Arthur leans on his right elbow and continues to cough. Hosea gives him space, listening to Arthur’s lungs fighting. He passes Arthur a rag to use. Arthur bares his teeth as he spits into it, sliding back down to the bed when the small attack ends. 

 “Hosea,” Arthur says when Hosea reaches out again. “Don't.”

“It has to be done, my dear boy,” Hosea counters, full of pity. “I'll give you something for it before I start, I just want to see it first.”

“Abigail did already,” Arthur says.

Hosea stops, thankful that it is not something he has to do right away. Arthur does not look relieved, still tense and uneasy. He clenches the rag in his right hand, not able to fully close his hand due to the swelling in his knuckles. Hosea wants it to be because Arthur got a few good licks on someone, but it is more likely wishful thinking. The urge to learn about how Arthur got out isn’t something Hosea will ask for until Arthur is well and ready and strong again. When perhaps Arthur can take some pride in his unbeatable stubbornness and ferocity with some distance from the incident. 

Hosea returns to running his fingers through Arthur’s hair. Arthur resists for a few seconds before tilting his head into Hosea’s hand. That’s the hardest thing about all of Hosea’s children growing up, especially the boys; they almost never let Hosea comfort them without the pretense of not liking it. Being able to indulge Arthur and himself is not something Hosea will admit to loving out loud, but he’ll be damned if it is something he won’t still enjoy— even after days like this. Despite the circumstances, Hosea will take every moment like this to squirrel away in his heart. 

“Do you feel up to eating something?” Hosea asks. 

Arthur’s gaze darts to Hosea, taking a second to study his face. Deciding that this is something he can do, Arthur nods. Arthur shifts again, but this time sitting up a little more.

“I guess.” Any interest is leagues better than what Hosea has seen from him since Colm got his hands on Arthur.

Hosea smiles. “I’ll make you some tea, too, something for your fever.”

The bed underneath Arthur creaks as he settles again, eyes-half closed. With another touch lingering over Arthur’s chest, resting for a second, feeling the turbulent air within as Arthur takes breath, Hosea heads back out with the bundle of feverfew tucked into his shirt pocket.

“We’ve got plenty of clean bandages for Mr. Morgan. Let me know when you’re gonna need help to change them out,” Susan says as Hosea emerges, heading towards the small campfire with the kettle hanging near it. She has drawn up a crate with the rest of the girls, all of them making good work of the clothes piled up on the table between them all. 

Hosea pauses. “Abigail, have you already done that today?”

With a nod of her head, Abigail does not take the needle out from between her lips.  She returns to squinting at a pair of Jack’s pants, picking at the line of stitches over a patch half-sown into the knee.

“Thank you, Abigail. He won't be due then until tomorrow,” Hosea says, not looking forward to when it is his turn. They’ll all be glad for the day when that gunshot heals enough to not need such extensive, painful treatment.

"He said he's feeling up to eating something," Hosea says, offering better news when no one says anything.

Susan nods. “He’s been losing too much weight. Pearson should have some soup or stew for him; he’s been keeping that down pretty well.”

It is Karen’s turn to grimace. “Please give him something light, I’m tired of washing out vomit.”

Susan smacks her elbow. “Mr. Morgan is very sick.”

“Yeah, a lot—” Karen yelps when Susan stabs at her with the needle in her hand but Karen is too fast to get poked. She casts herself backwards away from her sowing. “Damn!”

“Karen, do you mind fetching me some water?” Hosea lifts the kettle the moment he realizes he is too tired to listen to an argument sparking up over nothing.

She jumps at the escape, sending Susan a withering glare over her shoulder as she snatches the kettle from Hosea’s hands.

“I can get Arthur some soup, too,” she says, making a point to stare at the back of Susan’s head. Susan throws a few stitches into one of Bill’s shirts without looking at her or Hosea.

“Thank you, dear.” Hosea says instead. “If you would, put it at his bedside and tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes, too.”

He cocks his hip against the table in Karen’s empty spot. Javier is drinking water from the jug, chatting with Strauss. Uncle has sprawled out under one of the trees at the edge of camp, far enough out of  way to be currently out of the way and mostly unseen. Brown Jack, Baylock, Taima, The Count, and Ennis are all absent from the gang’s paddock. Kieran is scooping horse poop into a bucket with Red nibbling at the back of his head. His body posture is as open and confident as Hosea ever sees from him as he turns and playfully pushes her head away. 

Karen chats a little with Javier, her laugh always loud and bright. He pours water into the kettle for her and Karen thanks him with a curtsy. She stops by Pearson to get a bowl of something for Arthur. From the looks of it, she tries to talk to Mrs. Adler, too, but gets nothing more than a dull word or two in response. Hosea knows how emptying her pain is— maybe he should try to talk to her more. He cannot imagine Sadie’s loneliness; she is surrounded by people she hadn’t known before her husband’s murder. Hosea had the gang even when his whole world shattered into nothing but dreams and the gutting desire to drag himself into Bessie’s grave right alongside her.

“What’s wrong, Hosea?” Tilly asks, breaking him out of his morose thoughts.

Hosea schools his expression back into something more pleasant. “Just thinking too hard, I’d reckon.”

Her dark brown eyes study him. She lowers the sock she was darning into her lap to give him more of her attention. “Is Arthur doing better?”

“Of course he is,” Susan replies in his stead. “He is on the mend.”

Barely, but Hosea does not disagree. After the state Arthur was in a few nights ago, anything is better than that. He smiles, though, to make sure Tilly knows that Susan is right. Tilly copies his smile with a mild one, but appears satisfied.

“I’ll be with Arthur if anyone needs me,” Hosea says as he straightens up again. Karen returns to the table after dropping off the bowl at Arthur’s side and putting the kettle over the fire to boil. She grabs her sowing and moves her chair closer to Mary-Beth, away from Susan.

Karen fetched a tin for the tea, too, which means it only takes a few minutes for Hosea to get things prepared. It will be a little while before the water will be boiling, so Hosea returns to Arthur’s side. Arthur is trying to sit up without enough support behind him to help his weak body not shake as much. Hosea steps in to adjust his pillows, mindful of not accidentally knocking over the bowl of stew off the nightstand.

Arthur breathes hard for a few breaths, clearing his throat, but his lungs don’t spasm with coughs this time. He keeps his left arm folded over his stomach, tight against himself as Hosea fixes the blankets for him, too.

“I can do it,” Arthur protests when Hosea picks up the bowl and a spoon. Hosea raises an eyebrow at him.

“Don’t need a spoon,” Arthur grumbles, reaching out his right hand for the bowl. His arm trembles a little but the set of Arthur’s jaw is stubborn— far more expressive than Arthur has been in days.

“I guess I can overlook your horrible manners this one time,” Hosea says, sighing for dramatics. Arthur’s eyes crinkle around the corners just a tiny bit and that is enough for Hosea to forgive anything.

Despite Arthur’s seemingly willingness to eat, it seems he is doing it more for Hosea than out of any real hunger. He sips at the stew in short intervals, lowering the bowl back to his lap before his hand can shake too much and spill anything over the sides. Hosea watches only for a minute before he determines that yes, Arthur is capable of doing this without help. He busies himself with tidying up the contents of his tent, moving slowly because he, too, is minding the limitations of his body.

It does not take very long for Arthur’s breathing to become heavier than it was. Hosea makes sure to keep his expression neutral, not reacting to evidence at how weak Arthur has become. This is still better than he was even yesterday, Hosea reminds himself. Which is better than two days ago. Hosea can’t say it is a god-given miracle that Arthur survived— because God surely does not approve of them, certainly not the past few years. It isn’t even a Dutch-born miracle; Arthur did it on his own. By some infernal power within him, keeping him alive when everything else wants him deader than the devil.

As quickly as Hosea loses steam due to his own health issues, so does Arthur. How concerning it is, to hear Arthur get worn out from sitting up to eat. The last time Arthur was this sick— actually sick, not injured due to some schemes or another that went wrong— it must have been the flu back when Arthur was in his twenties. It is the same odd sensation, seeing a man of Arthur’s health and strength laid out by nothing anyone could do much against. Nothing meaningful.

While Hosea made a dent in the mess of his tent, Arthur hasn’t made the same progress with his bowl of food. But Hosea doesn’t say anything other than to ask if Arthur is done, seeing it carefully abandoned in his lap. Arthur’s eyes, still glazed with the remnants of a fever, dart up when Hosea reaches for the bowl.

“I tried,” Arthur starts, anticipating a scolding.

“I know,” Hosea says. He has to shuffle some things around to put the bowl down on the nightstand, and covers it with a spare handkerchief to keep the bugs out. As beautiful as it can be down here, the damn bugs are incessant. Between that and the so-called southern charm of the town— and that god awful humidity, Hosea thinks he’d rather prefer something colder. At least a little colder. More temperate, at the very least.

Arthur, shifting around, grimaces and stops moving mid-attempt to get comfortable.

“What?” Hosea asks.

Arthur’s mouth thins. “Don’t think that agreed with me.”

Hosea smiles. He takes the low hanging fruit instead of the obvious, rational reason as to why Arthur has none of his usual appetite. “It’s Pearson’s cooking. I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”

Some of the tension around Arthur’s eyes changes from discomfort to amusement. “You can’t? You know how to cook. Haven’t done it in a while.”

Hosea hums. “Is that what you want? For me to make something for you?”

Arthur perks up a little. “... yeah? Maybe—” he clears his throat. “Maybe… tomorrow?”

In a heartbeat, if that is what gets Arthur to get his strength back. Hosea smiles. “Any requests?”

“Nah. Just… whatever you think is best.”

Hosea makes his smile grow. “Oh, don’t say that. What is best for you right now is lots of soup— and tea.”

Arthur doesn’t groan like he almost always does when Hosea walks him into a trap. His eye roll isn’t a proper one, only half-committed to it, but it’s still there. Under the bruising and the swelling and the frankly far-overstayed misery and malaise.

“I’ll see what we got, maybe send Charles out for something.” Hosea just checked his own wallet where he has less bills than he would like, but still plenty for this. “I’ll chase Pearson out of the kitchen tomorrow as long as you promise to eat what I give you.”

“As much as I can, I swear,” Arthur says, his voice getting hoarse. He clears his throat again.

“Then that’s a deal,” Hosea says. And because he cannot stifle the urge, he touches Arthur’s forehead again. He knows, rationally, that he can’t detect a slight change in temperature like that, but his gut is telling him that the fever is coming back, that Arthur is only this energetic because it’s about to fold him over again like a cheap hit to the gut.

“You got room for some tea?” Hosea asks, not really asking. 

Arthur considers this, actually thinking about it. “I guess.”

“I think your fever is coming back.”

“Don’t think it left,” Arthur says.

Hosea frowns, but nods. “I think you’re right. Still, it’s gotten better.”

“Don’t feel like I’m burning alive today,” Arthur says, words turning thick before he can get a weak cough out. He flinches in pain, expression compressing from it. “Or freezin’.”

“I’m still going to have that doctor come back,” Hosea says. They cannot risk it— they can’t. They have already used up so much luck and stubbornness; Arthur has already used up his allotment— maybe for the rest of his life, maybe borrowing against the next, if that kind of thing is real. “I want to make sure you’re healing right.”

Arthur punctuates that sentiment with another cough that makes both of them wince. “Don’t know how ‘right’ I can get, ‘Sea.”

Startled, Hosea’s gaze sharpens, darting back to Arthur’s. To bruised-purple skin puffy around exhausted blue eyes.

“You’ll be okay, son, you just need—”

“Arm’s real bad, ‘Sea,” Arthur says, voice rasping low for a reason other than everything Hosea already knows about. “Don’t know… don’t know how I’m gonna do after this one.”

Hosea cannot put together the right words in time to say anything otherwise. Because he doesn’t know— he does, really. He knows damn well— as soon as he saw that hole in Arthur’s shoulder, when Arthur was sprawled in the foot-tramped grass at the outskirts of camp, gasping and choking on pain as he tried to talk to Dutch— that this was the kind of injury that killed folks. Easily. If Arthur can squeak out from death’s clutches as he did Colm’s… there has yet to be anything said about how useful his arm is going to be, with his shoulder that ruined.

“That’s a thought for the future, son. Not now,” Hosea says after he can swallow and get his voice to be as firm as it should be, as it needs to be. “No use in worrying about that when we’ve got more pressing matters at hand.”

The grimace Arthur makes is severe. “Been hearin’ that a lot, recently.”

Hosea pauses. He reaches out again, fixes some of Arthur’s hair that was ruffled.

“More than just recently,” Hosea says, quietly. As if anyone is close— or if anyone cares. Other than him. "But I am serious. That is something that isn't coming any quicker; you still have lots of healing to do."

Arthur makes a noise, too low to be decipherable, and turns his head away before closing his eyes. Disagreeing, but not thinking it is worth pushing— or not seeing the use of it.

"I'll get your tea," Hosea says, softening his voice even further. He does not think Arthur is faking this level of exhaustion, but even if he was, it isn't something that really matters. Hosea gets up, knees still eager to go stiff and achy from any immobility, and goes out to fetch the tea.

The water in the kettle is at a rolling boiling. Susan and the girls are still mending, this time all of them talking, good moods restored. But as Hosea pours the tea, Arthur coughs. Loudly. Deep, as he has been, and it sounds still far too wet for Hosea's liking. Not that the tent offers that much privacy, but having the tent flaps pulled back the way they are means there is nothing to muffle the sound. Hosea does not react, but he watches Susan's back get stiff before the short burst of coughing ends.

Susan finishes with mending the shirt in her hands as Hosea finishes with the tea. "I'll check on Mr. Morgan," she says to the table.

When she turns around and sees Hosea standing at the small campfire, her sharp, quick movement slows. Hosea offers her a smile of reassurance.

"I think I wore him out," Hosea says. "He did eat, and some tea should do him some good."

Susan glances at Arthur and her frown goes straight back into a severe twist. "He should be sitting up. That will help his lungs."

Hosea looks, too. Arthur shuffled further down and it looks like he has used a blanket that used to prop him up to cover his face. "He should be."

Susan beats him to Arthur's side to prod him into a better position to help his breathing. Hosea cannot hear Arthur's words, but he doesn't need to hear specifics to know Arthur is grumbling based on the tone of Susan's scolding.

"— too bright, Ms Grimshaw—"

"I've seen you sleep in the middle of an open field in full sun, Mr. Morgan, don't pretend like a little sun is going to—"

"Got a mighty bad headache," Arthur argues as Hosea approaches with the steaming cup of tea. Both of them disengage as Hosea ducks inside, which says more about Susan knowing Arthur doesn't have the energy to spare on arguing.

"You need to sit up to drink," Hosea says when Arthur looks to him as if he is going to disagree with Susan's advice.

The glower Arthur gives him says that Hosea is not subtle, but it is not about subtlety. It's about what is best for Arthur, not what is necessarily best for his mood. Arthur knows this, though, because Hosea does not have to say anything to remind Arthur he should drink the tea and that is absolutely not a suggestion.

Susan has to help Hosea help Arthur to get propped up again, which is Susan doing most of the work and Hosea and Arthur trying not to get in the way. Arthur's body shakes when he curls forward from a mix of weakness and pain, based on the twisted, gasping grunt he makes.

Hosea starts. "Don't—"

"I got it," Susan says, and she does. Arthur, sitting back up, relaxing again once he clears his throat, and is handed his tea. Arthur sips with great suspicion, to be met with more honey than usual. Anything to get him to drink it at this point. Arthur does not smile, but the glance he sends to Hosea is plenty to acknowledge it.

In this heat, drinking hot tea is not as comforting as it could be. Even less comforting, Arthur needs help almost immediately. Susan steps in to steady the tin. It turns into Arthur giving up on helping himself in any capacity. Because Hosea knows he hovers and has been hovering, he goes back to poking at his things, pretending like there is something meaningful to do other than to listen to Arthur's breathing get heavy, heavier, and coughs sneak out.

As much effort as it takes Hosea to not give in to the urge to fuss— what could would it do right now?— it takes Arthur multitudes more to finish the tea. His coughing is stronger than he is right now.

"That's probably enough," Susan says, quieter than her normal.

Arthur's gasping breaths try to settle out into a steadier rhythm. It doesn’t work. His lungs still sound bad, the coughing is still wet and deep in his chest— it strains Arthur’s injuries, and all semblance of control over his breathing turns into fight for air against the agony of his wound and his ribs.

“I’m sorry, my boy,” Hosea tells him, coming back to his side. He runs his fingers through Arthur’s hair again as he is helpless to help Arthur in any capacity. Arthur’s skin is growing shiny with sweat as he continues to cough and cough.

“I’ll talk to Dutch about getting that doctor to come back,” Susan says, frowning when she presses the back of her hand to Arthur’s cheeks and forehead to do her own check. “We are low on medicine for him.”

“I had hoped that his cough would be better by now,” Hosea says, listening to the air wheezing out of Arthur’s lungs. Exhausted and breathless, Arthur’s coughs grow weaker, less frequent. Hosea dabs away the spit gathering at the corners of Arthur’s mouth after Arthur stays limp with his eyes still closed. 

Susan does not look at him. “It has improved a little.”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“It has,” she replies, and rests a hand over Arthur’s heaving chest. “He has been healing; Arthur is strong.”

“Strong and stubborn,” Hosea agrees. Susan smiles a little and touches Hosea’s shoulder.

“He will be okay,” she says. “It will just take time.”

Something they never seem to have enough of— an even more scarce resource than all this damn money Dutch thinks they have to get before he is comfortable making changes. But Hosea does not voice that. Not to jinx it, especially not above Arthur who rarely takes any time for himself.