Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Arthur Morgan was needed but not wanted.

In everything he did, it was because someone needed a job done that they couldn’t – or wouldn’t – do. Take, for example, adding to the camp funds. The ledger was full of line after line, his name marked next to whatever donation, and yet not a word of thanks was sent his way, nor a notion of wanting quality time.

Needed, but not wanted.

Ginger whinnied, breaking Arthur from his thoughts, and he patted her neck with a gloved hand.

“There, there, girl,” he drawled.

The cold bit at Arthur’s cheeks, and snowflakes landed in his eyelashes. He’d long since shrugged his coat on, but even then, the cold seemed to seep into his bones. Every step of the horse forward was a harsh reminder of just how cold and alone Arthur really was.

Leave it to him to find some cook named Theodore Levin and be forced back up in the Colter area; he swore to himself he wouldn’t come back up this way. Too bad he was never one to keep promises to himself should someone ask of his help.

Upwards they trotted, and Arthur hummed to himself in an attempt to break up the silence of wintry weather-smothered woods. Ginger’s hoofbeats were soft thumps on the snow, a steady beat to conform himself to.

The higher they got, the eerier it felt. Arthur scanned the high rock ledges and the bare underbrush, but found nothing – whatever it was, it didn’t want to be found. Or his mind was playing tricks on him.

And yet, Arthur felt as though he was being watched.

He shook the feeling and trotted up the Cairn lake, where this Flaco Hernàndez was supposed to be. He dismounted Ginger, then hitched her to a nearby tree. He pat the thoroughbred’s neck as he pulled out a rifle, then checked his revolver.

“Now you jus’ stay here an’ wait,” he said softly to her, though his voice was still characteristically gruff. Then, he was off towards the camp.

“Flaco Hernàndez?” Arthur called, only to be met with several men pointing their guns at him.

“First the crazy girl, and now this gringo!” One of them shouted.

Crazy girl?

“We don’t want you here!” Another put in. “You had best leave if you know what’s good for you.”

“Now – I jus’ want to talk,” Arthur said, but he already knew where this was going.

Gunshots rang out as he dove behind an old wagon for cover, and he heard Ginger whinny in upset in between the crack of firearms. Alternating between shooting, and ducking for cover, Arthur managed to clear out the area fairly quickly.

Wasn’t Dutch always saying he was the one-man army, or something like that?

Arthur shrugged the thought away, and approached Flaco’s cabin. He knocked once, twice. “Hernàndez? I don’t want any trouble. Jus’ here to speak ‘bout Boy Calloway.”

Which was naturally met with a spontaneous duel, but Arthur being Arthur, he won just fine. Arthur snapped a photo, looted the place, and praised Ginger for a minute before he rode back down the mountain.

“Don’t know why I bother with this, girl,” he grumbled to himself more than Ginger. “Gang needs money, and with them O’Driscolls on our asses...” Arthur huffed.

He passed a rock outcropping that hung high over his head, and the feeling of being watched trickled back in. The hairs on the nape of his neck raised, and Ginger snorted. A cold puff of air left her nose.

Arthur’s eyes stayed transfixed to the rocks, and as he rode downwards, he saw her:

A woman, bundled up in men’s winter clothes. A cloth was pulled up over her nose, but he could see her eyes, though not the color. She was holding a bow and arrow, and she stared at him as he moved along. Silent. Watchful. Piercing. Like the cold itself.

She shifted her position on the rocks such that her arms came more into view. She was hunched over, watching – and waiting, it seemed, too. One sleeve of her coat had been torn off at the elbow, and Arthur saw thick bandaging around her forearm. But if it was to replace the coat, or to cover a wound, he didn’t know. Strands of black hair whipped in the wind, poking out from under her hood.

“Hey, miss,” Arthur called, casual as he could, but he nudged Ginger into a canter. She was scrutinizing him, just as he did her, but something about her was unsettling.

The woman did not reply.

Arthur shook himself and continued down the trail, out of sight. “S’alright, Ginger,” he muttered, though his hand still twitched towards his revolver. Even if he couldn’t see her, he had a feeling she wasn’t gone. And perhaps she was the “crazy girl” the Del Lobos referred to.

Arthur was watched the whole ride home.

“It’s me, dumbass!”

Lenny laughed. “Good to see you, too, Arthur!”

Arthur rolled into camp, dismounted Ginger in one, fluid motion, fed her a treat and sat in his tent.

Chewing on the back of his pencil, he tried to form a solid picture of the woman in his mind’s eye. After a moment, he put graphite to paper, and drew her in all her striking glory. Gray eyes bore into him from the page, and he scrawled out in his neat, loopy handwriting:

Saw a strange woman while looking for Flaco Hernàndez. She was watching me, and I could tell there was a lot going on in her head. I wonder if the Del Lobos knew her, or if she attacked them?

I suspect she was out hunting, what with her bow and all. I just can’t help but wonder why she needed so much bandaging on her forearm.

Anyway, it wasn’t so great, being back up that way. It was so cold. I may be tough, but I ain’t a fan.

“Arthur.” It was Hosea.

“Hey, ‘Sea,” Arthur said as he closed his journal and set it aside.

“Good to have you back. You’ve been out and about for quite some time.”

“Guess so,” Arthur said with a shrug.

“Well, just sayin’ hi.”

With that, Hosea walked away, and Arthur was once again left to his own devices. From across the camp, he heard Javier’s singing, and the noises of horses and chickens.

Sighing, he got up, and went to chop wood. Set the log, bring the axe up, swing it down, throw the finished pieces aside. The simple, monotonous job was a comfort compared to the cold, piercing stare that woman regarded him with.

How’d she get under his skin, anyway?

He wiped his brow of sweat. Repeated his slew of actions for yet another log. Once all that was done he set the axe aside, and admired his handiwork.

“Arthur!” Pearson, this time.

“Yes?” He asked, although he wasn’t entirely eager lest that man start going on about his time in the navy.

“We need more meat, Arthur,” Pearson said. “Mind going hunting for us?”

“Sure, sure. I’ll head out tomorrow.”

“Much obliged, Mister Morgan.”

Arthur simply nodded at the man, then headed to his tent to settle in for the night. He’d need to rest up now if he planned on going hunting tomorrow.

And something in him told him to go back up in the direction of Colter.

Chapter Text

Innocent eyes met the hardened gaze of a killer.

Arthur’s bow was stretched taught, and the deer was caught in his gaze. Any hesitation and it’d run off.

This was the most intense part of the kill: the moment in which time froze, and somehow, in a matter of less than a second, Arthur was left to consider the fact that he was taking an innocent life. All around him, the world was in a hush, trapped beneath the blanket of snow and cold.

The snap of a bow string. The cry of distressed deer. A body hit the ground. The other body stood up.

Arthur whistled to Ginger as he headed towards the deer carcass, and soon enough, the doe was strapped to the horse’s back. It was a perfectly clean kill. Arthur heaved a sigh, mounted, and took off at an easy pace through the quiet woods; rather than turn back from here and go back the way he came, it made more sense to crest the hill, and back down to meet the trail on the opposite end.

Only the imprint of a body in the snow lay in Arthur’s wake.

“Quite the catch, huh, girl?” Arthur mused aloud, patting Ginger’s neck.

As horse and rider rounded the bend of a rock, he was stopped short by the sight of blood staining the snow bright, uncomfortable crimson. The tang of iron was in the air. Arthur swung a leg over, hopped to the ground. He held his sawed-off at the ready once he noted the mix of boot print and wolf print on the ground.

He paced forward, and his own boots crunched in the snow. It was stark against the eerie, cold silence. Especially given the blood. Two more steps around the rock, three, four.

“Oh shit.”

Arthur didn’t notice the curse escape his lips as he took in the scene before him:

The same woman he’d seen, in the same clothes, sprawled on the ground in a pool of her own blood. Next to her, a dead wolf – sleek, black fur rippled in the wind, and fresh snowflakes were on the both of them. A hunting knife was wedged in its neck. Her bow was discarded, and her quiver of arrows had fallen off and was in pieces.

In a flash, he was next to her body, feeling for a pulse: weak, but present. He assessed her damage, and noted her mauled thigh, and the claw marks on her chest – thankfully, the coat was not pierced through. Her skin was even paler than when he first saw her, but the bandaging on the forearm held by the ripped coat was still present. From up close, he could see the faint smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

“Miss?” Arthur asked as he set to wrapping her thigh in bandages. Much to his chagrin, he had to pull her pants down to do so. She did not answer. He sighed, and wrapped the wound as best he could.

He glanced back to the dead wolf, and as he picked her up, he vaguely wondered if animals felt the same way he did when they went for the kill: frozen in time the split-second before death, watching as a life was rendered unto their mercy. Even if it wasn’t likely, Arthur still wondered; he was a killer, the wolf was a predator.

And they both extinguished innocence.

Arthur shook the thought away once he was back with Ginger. A soft groan escaped the woman’s lips; a good sign.

Arthur propped her up on Ginger, then mounted and held her to his chest. One arm around her waist, holding her still, the other on the reins. He was ready to take off when she managed the first words he’d heard from her:

“I’m cold.”

Between the lilt to her voice and the deliriousness of her brain, Arthur could hardly hear her – but even so, that tugged at his heart strings. Her coat was an old, beat-up thing, and probably didn’t hold warmth half as well as it used too. Carefully, he shrugged her coat off and dropped it on the ground next to them. Then, he shifted around to maneuver out of his coat, and he slid it over her.

The bandaging around both of her forearms disproved his theory that it was an attempt to replace the torn sleeve.

“C’mon, Ginger,” Arthur said, spurring the horse on. “Gotta get the poor lady to camp, nearest medical help I can think of. Her thigh’s lookin’ awful dangerous.”

He took it careful, at a painfully slow trot before he reached the trail as he earlier intended. Then, he set off at a hard gallop, still clutching the strange woman to his chest. His only indication of her life was the weak rise and fall of her chest.

Arthur didn’t even bother to offer an obligatory, “S’Arthur, you idiot!” to John as he rode into camp. One leg over Ginger, down on the ground. The woman slumped to the side a little, but he caught her before she could fall.

“S’cold,” she mumbled as he hoisted her up.

By now, everyone in camp was giving Arthur a look of their own – most of all Dutch, whose eyes were narrowed in scrutiny.

“She’s hurt real bad,” Arthur said, and he saw Susan already getting Reverend Swanson. “Found her while I was out huntin’. I been worried she’d die on me just ‘bout any minute whole ride here.”

“Here – Arthur, over there. Got a spare cot set up for her,” Susan said, leading Arthur to the place in question.

Tilly lifted her head from feeding the chickens, curiosity and concern melding her features into an expression that mirrored just about everyone else’s.

Taking great caution, Arthur laid her on the cot, and instantly Susan and Swanson were helping the poor thing out. He let out a soft puff of relief when she absentmindedly waved him off.

“Dutch,” Arthur said as he walked by the man, headed for his own tent. “Deer’s on the back o’ ma horse, Pearson,” he added when the cook in question approached.

“Arthur – wait,” Dutch said, grabbing the younger man’s shoulder. He led him to his tent, and clicked the phonograph off.

Arthur bit back a sigh, and obliged. The tent flap closed behind the two, and he crossed his arms. “What is it, Dutch?”

“Don’t what is it me, boy,” Dutch warned. “Who is that girl you brought in, Arthur? We don’t know her from an O’Driscoll, and you brought her straight into our camp.”

“Not that she was conscious enough to remember where we are,” Arthur grumbled. “Look, she was ‘bout dead, and I ain’t one for leavin’ folk like her behind. Didn’t mean no harm to the gang by it. ‘Sides, once she’s alright, we can blindfold her and ride her out to Valentine or someplace.”

“That’s true,” Dutch said, a little nod to accompany the admission. “That’s fair, Arthur. How’d you find her anyway, out huntin’?” A nod in answer. “Let me guess, mauled by wolves.”

“Just like John,” Arthur confirmed, then smirked. “Only she killed the beast on her own. Looked like it was a loner lookin’ to score a meal. Must’a been real desperate.”

Dutch hummed in thought. “Wonder what she was doing out there.”

“Huntin’, I imagine,” Arthur said with a shrug. “All her clothes look more fit to a man my size, though. Not even Sadie’d situate herself to wear something so oversized, just to prove a point ‘bout men or somethin’.” He realized he was rambling a little, and he snapped his mouth shut.

Between the stress of that woman being half-dead, and trying to maneuver Ginger at a full gallop, Arthur hadn’t much time to think. And now it was spilling out.

“Alright son, you done good,” Dutch said at last. “I’ll have Hosea talk to her when she’s able, maybe we’ll learn a little more about her, hm?”

“Always lookin’ for information,” Arthur said, then bid a quick “later” and was finally free to sit in his tent. He took a couple of minutes to write down what happened in his journal, then got back up and went to pick up the slack with the laundry. No doubt, Tilly and Mary-Beth were fussing over the newcomer.

Sure enough, the two women were with Susan, discussing.

“She alright, Miss Grimshaw?” Arthur called across camp.

“Stable, at least,” Susan supplied, then returned to speaking with the girls.

Arthur shrugged and worked the afternoon away with Karen.

Which, naturally, meant that as soon as he finished Hosea needed something from Arthur. Not that he minded.

“Well, she woke up not too long ago,” Hosea said, walking with Arthur to go sit by a now-lit campfire. Dusk was falling on the camp. “Name’s Neve Cadogan.”

“Neve Cadogan,” Arthur echoed thoughtfully. “Alright. How she holdin’ up?”

“I think she’ll be fine,” Hosea said, but the conviction wasn’t there.

“Hm, well. Good to know at least she didn’t die up there all on her lonesome.”

Hosea nodded. “And if that’s not the truth. Look, Arthur, I know you’ve been awful busy the past two days – and I’m not asking for more – but I wanted to let you know. The O’Driscolls are getting a lot bolder. Bill told me he spotted a couple of them setting up ambushes in the area.”

Arthur’s response was a grunt, followed by, “I’ll keep that in mind, Hosea.”

“Why even bother with Cadogan when them O’Driscolls are about?” Micah interjected, a touch drunk.

“Shut up, Micah, you ain’t impressin’ no one by bein’ an asshole,” Arthur said.

“I’m just sayin’,” he said with a shrug. “She’s dead weight, and takin’ our supplies.”

“We might as well help the poor girl,” Hosea said, a little irate. Micah had that effect on a person.

“We don’t need another coal-cracker in the camp!” Micah shouted, and that earned looks from all the gang members present (save for Uncle and Bill, who could not care less if they tried).

Hosea rolled his eyes. “You don’t need to say such things, Micah.” With that, he got up and left for his tent to turn in for the night.

“So,” Micah said, and his voice was so slimy Arthur could feel the greasiness in his ears from listening to it. “Where’d you find the nina?” This time, that earned an angered look from Sean.

“Can it, Bell,” Arthur grumbled.

“I’m just makin’ conversation,” Micah said, still too loud with drunkenness.

Arthur huffed, and felt a wave of relief wash over him when Javier joined and strummed his guitar. Even more relief when Micah decided against throwing slurs Javier’s way – ever since the fistfight back at their old camp, the grease rat was disinclined from insulting Javier.

“De la Sierra Morena, cielito lindo, vienen bajando,” sang Javier.

Arthur felt the tension from the day – and Micah – leave his muscles, and the offending man in question was scared off by the happiness of the rest of the camp; he retreated into his own cave for the night. By Arthur’s reckoning, that man was allergic to nice things. Not that he was much better, but at least he had the decency to enjoy it.

“Good song, Javier,” Arthur mumbled, not wanting to end the song, but this was one of his favorites. He didn’t understand the words. But that was okay.

“Porque cantando se alegran, cielito lindo, los corazones.”

Chapter Text

“Good girl,” Arthur said, voice low and rough. Ginger nickered at him, and he chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, I brought carrots.”

“Arthur, my boy.”

“Still me,” Arthur snarked, and patted Ginger’s neck. “Whaddya need, ‘Sea? How’s Neve?”

“That’s what we need to speak on,” Hosea said vaguely, and the next thing Arthur knew, the two joined Dutch in his tent.

Arthur folded his arms across his chest, and arched an eyebrow.

“Well, to start,” Hosea said. “Miss Grimshaw says Neve has a fever, but if she can last long enough for it to break, she’ll be fine. But...”

“There’s always a but,” Arthur grumbled in a slow drawl.

“Hush,” Dutch said.

“Well, there isn’t an easy way to say this, and I won’t pretend to understand it, but Neve hurts herself.”

Arthur’s face was a mix of confusion and concern, and he cast a quick glance at Dutch, who must’ve been already in the know with an unphased face like that.

Hosea continued: “Those thick wrappings around her arms are where all the cuts are. Miss Grimshaw can’t imagine it to be anything else; apparently, everything is too uniform and non-lethal to be anything but intentionally self-inflicted.”

“And this is my problem, how? No offense to Neve or nothin’, but I didn’t exactly make her do that,” Arthur said, but the general concern was still there.

“You brought her here,” Dutch pointed out. “Figured you might like to know. Hell, we dunno why someone would do such a thing.”

So naturally, Arthur asked the obvious question: “Did ya ask?”

Hosea shook his head. “She’s still pretty out of it, Arthur. Anytime she says something, it’s either nonsense or that she’s cold and needs another blanket.”

Arthur sighed. “Well, that ain’t good.”

“Nothin’ about this is good,” Dutch said.

“Miss Grimshaw says she expects it’ll take Neve a few months to recover,” Hosea added.

“And the Reverend’s really gonna share his morphine all that time?” Arthur asked, a touch sarcastic.

“Arthur,” Hosea said, exasperated. “We’re not going to have another addict in the camp.”

“Right, right, jus’ havin’ a go,” Arthur relented. “D’you need somethin’ from me?”

Dutch said, “Well, that’s the idea, Arthur. I’m putting you and Hosea on watch over Neve in between Miss Grimshaw tending to her. I want to make sure she doesn’t... hurt herself again.”

“Sure, sure,” Arthur said.

“One other thing: see if she might be useful to the gang.”

“We don’t know her.”

“So get to know her,” Dutch said. “I have a plan, regarding her.”

“Of course you do.”

“Well. Thanks, son,” Dutch said as he dismissed Arthur.

Hosea walked to Neve’s temporary tent, so Arthur took that as his cue to do as he pleased. Tilly was taking care of the chickens, and Charles the horses, so he figured he’d carry feed bags for Pearson.

Which naturally went with an obligatory, “Thanks Morgan,” and nothing behind those words. Needed but not wanted, Arthur thought.

What did break him out of that funk was Mary-Beth’s eager voice: “Arthur! I’ve been meanin’ to talk with you.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled a little. “Hey, Miss Gaskill.”

“I told you, s’Mary-Beth,” she chastised, only fond and not annoyed. “Now, it’s about that Neve...”

“Oh boy.”

Mary laughed. “Hush, now. C’mere.” She led Arthur to the campfire area, though with it being midday, it wasn’t lit. She sat him down on the log and said, “Some folks might be a little apprehensive, but I think it’s wonderful.”

Arthur felt a little sick at the idea of Neve being injured and hurting herself as “wonderful,” but he was fully aware that Mary-Beth didn’t know about the latter of the two issues. “How’s that?” He asked.

“Well,” Mary said, “Think about it. Handsome outlaw comes and saves a damsel from the wild. How romantic! Oh, and think of all the time spent helping her recover...”

Arthur smirked. “You sure ‘bout that, Mary-Beth?”

“Of course I am,” she said with a nod.

“I dunno.” He rubbed his chin, and noted the little bit of stubble. “Handsome outlaw don’t sound quite accurate, and it looked like she was used to bein’ up in them mountains.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Oh, Arthur, don’t ruin this! Get to know her, I heard Dutch put you on watch duty.”

“News travels fast,” he grumbled, then sighed in resignation. “Well, Mary-Beth, if it makes you feel any better, I won’t squander the opportun’ty.”

“Atta boy!” Mary-Beth said proudly, got up and joined the other girls, and a chorus of excited whispers ensued.

Arthur heaved another sigh, and his head dipped forward as he thought. Mary-Beth was always trying to get him romantically involved, but after the mess with Mary Linton? He couldn’t bring himself to be liable to get hurt again. Obviously it wouldn’t hurt to be friendly to Neve – if her bad habits were anything to go by, he reckoned she needed it – but he didn’t plan on much beyond that.

It was, admittedly, a little strange that Dutch needed Arthur to be wanted. Or at least, to hope that Neve would want him around to keep an eye on her – probably entertained, too. He’d been confined to the cot on more than one occasion, and was well-accustomed to the boredom that followed.

Regardless, he hoped Neve would get well sooner than later such that she could be ridden out to town, and Mary-Beth wouldn’t be on him to get romantic again.

The first week was a right nightmare.

When Arthur was on Neve-watch, he’d be stuck to sit in that small tent as she slept or ignored him. He didn’t blame her, exactly; she was still sick and no doubt disoriented. At the very least, her fever broke three days after he took her to camp.

But regardless, all it did was drag him into boredom alongside her.

And seeing as it was only day eight, he had a feeling she wasn’t going to be up for much now, either.

“Good luck to you,” Hosea said. “Poor girl seems rather skittish.”

“Thanks,” Arthur said. “Not that I needed the reminder.”

With a slight groan, Arthur sank into the bedside chair. “Miss Cadogan.”

Neve simply sighed, and her eyes were at half-mast, staring unseeing at the tent ceiling.

“Feelin’ bad still?”

Neve turned her head towards him, and searched Arthur’s face, as if to locate some sign of deceit. She did this every time he checked on her.

“It’s hot down here,” she said at last in a quiet tone; the familiar Irish lilt to her voice filling his ears. “Out o’ the mountains.”

Arthur let out a puff of breath in relief. “Good.” The entire time she was sick, she complained about being too cold – it was a nice change of pace, to know she was on her way to healed.

That was generally where the extent of their conversations ended. He’d ask how she was, she’d answer, and they’d fall silent. He didn’t think it was his place to mention the healing cuts on her forearms, and he knew she was fully aware he was the one who picked her up off the mountain.

“I don’t think I can remember the last time I wasn’t cold,” she admitted after several beats of silence. There was a bored look on her face, but something about it wasn’t quite just bored; Arthur couldn’t put his finger on it.

“That so?”

“Mm,” she hummed her agreement.

They lapsed back into silence as Arthur scrambled for words to say. She finally – finally – gave up personal information; he wanted to coax an actual conversation out of her.

“So you been livin’ in them mountains, then?”

“Mhm.” She sat up a little, propping her upper half on her elbows, and her gaze was transfixed on him. Her thigh remained unmoved.

“Somethin’ on your mind?”

Neve stared at him for several long seconds. “I’ve lived alone up there since I was sixteen. Ten years.”

“Ten years?”

“What I said.”

“But you were up by Cairn Lake?” Arthur questioned, then added, “Y’know, Miss Cadogan, there’re Del Lobos up there. Not the friendly sort.”

“I know. They shot my horse. I loved my Kane something fierce, too.”

“Sorry to hear that, Miss.”

“They were more sorry when I jumped ‘em,” she said, and her expression didn’t change. There was no pride in her insinuation, like many of Arthur’s gang members would hold; there was simple, cold fact. “No one tortures my animal.”

Now he was getting somewhere. “You took them on?”

“I got a few arrows off before I had to flee.”

Arthur considered her words. That explained the situation with the Del Lobos and Flaco Hernàndez, and it was damn impressive that she was able to hold her own with a bow and arrow. “Don’t you have a gun or somethin’?”

“I never learned,” she said with a shrug, then laid back down and stretched her arms above her head.

“You stiff?”

“Mm.”

They lapsed back into silence, before Arthur found another thread of conversation: “So... that coat of yers was awful beat up.”

She sighed. “The left sleeve got ripped off the one time, and then the neckline was fraying... And it was beat to hell; lot less warm. I’ve always been cold.”

“That sounds rough,” Arthur commiserated. He felt a small swell of pride when he realized he was able to get her to open up a little. Whether Arthur was introverted or not, Neve was a sad sight when she was silent, injured, and shivering.

“Aye,” she agreed. “The cold’s a tough beast. Ye don’t beat it, just like ye don’t beat death. Ye can only cheat it for so long.”

“Interestin’ philosophy.”

“If a body’s frozen, ye still got a chance of reviving the person,” she continued, voice still quiet. “But once the person’s room temperature they’re dead.”

Arthur arched a disbelieving eyebrow at her. “That so? Don’t sound true. You ever heard of the phrase ‘cold, dead body’ then?”

“‘Course I have. But that doesn’t make it true.”

“Guess so,” Arthur said with a shrug. He didn’t feel like arguing with an injured woman who only just started to open up to him (Hosea and Susan would often complain that she was short with them, despite their best efforts to help).

“That’s not all,” she said after a beat. Arthur was quickly becoming accustomed to her accent; it was similar to Sean’s, but not quite. Perhaps she was from a different area of Ireland?

“What’s that?”

“Once humanity dies out, and all the stars die, it’ll be just cold.”

Arthur stared at her for a long moment.

“S’true,” Neve said. “Nothing but the cold, in the absence of heat.”

“Uh-huh,” Arthur said, but his brain was still trying to keep up with what she was saying.

“You don’t believe me.” She sighed, and fell silent for a moment. “Think o’ it this way: the stars are all heat. They die, heat’s gone. Humanity generates heat, too. Once we die, heat’s gone.”

“We ain’t gon’ die out, we just change,” Arthur said. He didn’t fancy the idea of the end of the world.

“All things die,” she said. “It’s a matter of time. But the cold don’t die – it’s already dead, in a way. It gets under yer skin and into yer bones, and it crushes housing, and it withers plants. We’ll die, and it’ll be all that’s left.”

“Now, I don’t know what bullshit you’ve been readin’, but that’s a load of it,” he snapped, though his tone was still spooked at her implications.

“Suit your incorrect self,” she said, and clamped her mouth shut. She closed her eyes and tried to relax, but it was pretty clear to Arthur that she had no such luck.

Great going, idiot, he thought to himself. He finally got her to open up about her situation – as per Dutch’s request to gather information – and instead he offended her.

The two fell into a much more permanent, familiar silence. And yet, Arthur felt the air a lot more tense now, though he couldn’t tell if it was just him. For all he knew, she simply figured the conversation had ended, and that was it.

Arthur shifted around in his chair, relocating a comfortable spot. Eventually, Hosea came to relieve him of watch duty and he was more than happy to let the older man take over.

“How’s she doing?” Susan asked the moment he left Neve’s tent.

“Well,” Arthur said slowly, considering his words. “She’s still pretty weak, but a lot more talkative. ‘Cept she speaks loads of nonsense.”

“Nonsense?” Susan echoed.

“Somethin’ or other ‘bout the cold, and it bein’ like a wolf or predator or somethin’,” Arthur elaborated.

“Interesting. Well, thank you, Mister Morgan.”

“S’fine,” Arthur said, and with that, went to check on how the camp chores were coming along.

“Well, isn’t that wonderful!”

“Don’t know what ‘bout it’s wonderful, Miss Gaskill,” Arthur said on a heavy sigh. Pearson’s singing sounded from the other campfire in the area.

“You got Neve to talk to you, that’s what. Oh, think of it, troubled girl opens up to equally troubled outlaw.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, in fond bemusement. “She was jus’ on ‘bout the cold. It wadn’t exactly run-of-the-mill, but it ain’t romantic neither.”

“Arthur,” Mary-Beth chastised. “Enjoy the newfound friendship!”

“Alright, alright, I’ll try to be more understandin’. Not that I wasn’t puttin’ an effort in.”

“You are a very thoughtful man, I’m sure you can find a way to have peaceful chats with her.”

“S’pose so.”

“Well, why don’t you come and join Pearson, me, and all the rest for some singin’?”

“Naw, I’m good,” Arthur said, and got up to head to his tent. He wanted to be wanted, but what was the point? He was just their workhorse. He didn’t matter. He scrubbed a hand down his face, and jotted in his journal:

Think things are getting bad again. I ain’t wanting to sing as much, though I never thought I was any good. I draw sadder things more, but I’m trying to keep up on nice scenery.

And it don’t help that I messed things up with Neve. It wasn’t a fight or nothing, but I’m trying to coax her out of her shell; Dutch’s orders, for information or whatever. But to be honest, I think she needs a kind word and maybe a gentle touch. What with her hurting herself.

I’d like to say I can’t fathom why someone would do such a thing, and I still think it to be odd, but it isn’t quite like Swanson’s thing. It feels a lot more... Not worse, necessarily, but relatable.

That’s not a good thought, is it?

“She says she’s useful, Dutch.”

“I take it this is the second time she was willing to speak with you?”

Arthur nodded and said, “Mhm. At long last. Been two weeks in that goddamn tent, I can’t imagine how bored she is.”

“Well, useful how?”

“I imagine huntin’,” he said, then added with a smirk, “or talkin’. Girl could run circles ‘round just ‘bout anyone’s head.”

Dutch hummed in thought. “Wonder if she’s clever enough to pull one over on someone.”

“I dunno,” Arthur said. “Neve’s smart, but don’t seem the type to deceive.”

“Well, we’ll just see once she’s all healed. Susan says she suspects Neve will get back on her feet.”

“Nothin’ like blood loss out in the cold,” Arthur said, nodding his agreement.

The conversation wrapped itself up from there, and Arthur took Ginger out for a ride. It’d been about a week since he went out to stir up trouble for himself.

As his horse trotted out of camp, he settled into the saddle, and sighed in content as he took in the peaceful scenery and pleasant weather. He stopped Ginger short when he spotted a fox sleeping in the sunshine.

Silently, he pulled his journal out, and skimmed through the pages. Broken phrases of it’s cold in Colter and Neve’s words finally sank in flitted past his eyes before he drew the sight before him.

And yet, after he closed his journal, all that remained in Arthur’s mind was Neve and her contagious obsession with the cold.

“That there’s Uncle. He’s more decoration than person, though.”

Neve laughed, quiet and on the verge of awkward, but genuine regardless. Arthur liked the sound. Throwing her head back, long, black hair hung down to her shoulder blades. Her eyes crinkled at the corners and her freckles were stark on her pale skin.

“Shut up, Arthur,” Uncle grumbled. “‘M sleepin’ here.”

“Over there’s Javier – hey, Javier.” Arthur said, ignoring Uncle and leading Neve around the camp. Her thigh had a splint on it to help her walk, but she kept up well enough.

He was most of the way through showing her around camp and giving her introductions; Mary-Beth was arguably the most excited about Neve, but all the girls were fussing over her.

“Hey, amigo!” Javier said, grinning. “Neve. How’s the thigh?” His eyes flitted to the bandaging poking out from under the sleeves of a waistcoat Susan had given her, but only for a moment.

“Fine.”

“I heard from Arthur you have the Del Lobos up there running in fear,” Javier said, and Arthur could tell he was doing his best to be sociable for the girl. “I’m sure the O’Driscolls, too.”

“O’Driscolls?” Neve tilted her head.

“Only the nastiest bunch in the Heartlands.” There was a look of mild confusion on Javier’s face. “You don’t know them?”

“Story for another time,” Arthur interrupted. “Well, that’s Javier. Great singer.” He kept moving things along. He brought Neve around to where Pearson’s food wagon was, but the man wasn’t present. Then he showed her where her tent was (Susan insisted they take down the medic tent and set up a different one, so nothing felt stale).

“Well, that’s ‘bout it,” Arthur said, satisfaction in his tone.

“Everyone has, for the most, been friendly.”

“Jus’ wanted ya to feel at least a little welcomed,” Arthur said. It was probably for the best if he left the part out where Dutch wanted to see if he could get something out of her.

Then, she added, “Do the girls always fuss like that?”

“Naw, you’re jus’ new and interestin’.”

“Mm.”

“S’nice to see you on your feet, y’know,” Arthur said after a beat. “Been a whole situation in camp with the leg an’ the fever an’ all that.”

“It was awful.”

“I can imagine. Well, Dutch’ll want to speak with ya, so we best head back thataways.” Arthur motioned for Neve to follow, and yet again Arthur found himself in a behind-closed-tent-flaps meeting.

“Neve Cadogan,” Dutch said.

“Met ye when I was still in bed,” Neve said. Dutch offered his hand out for a shake, and she hesitated briefly before taking it.

“That I did,” Dutch agreed. “Now, Miss Cadogan, Mister Morgan here says you can prove useful. But I’ve got a better question – now that we know you’re alright, where do you need to be ridden to?”

“Colter,” Neve said with a shrug, but the conviction wasn’t there.

“Really? Back up that way?” Arthur asked. “Awful cold.”

“I have no folks to turn to.”

“Sorry to hear that, Miss,” Dutch said. “That case, do you want to stay?”

Neve blinked. “Stay?”

“Well, sure. We could always use another hunter, and I’m sure with all the grace Arthur told me you have, you could take up pick-pocketing.”

“I’m no use to men such as yerselves.”

“Ah, c’mon,” Arthur said. “‘M sure you’re good at somethin’.”

“Hunting.”

Arthur nodded. “S’what I thought.”

Then, Neve fixed Arthur with that piercing stare he’d been trapped under the first time he saw her. Cold, gray eyes analyzed him.

Dutch saved the moment, however, when after a beat of silence he said, “Now you don’t need to worry about not having a place, Miss. Takes a lot to keep a gang running.”

“I guess I shouldn’t argue there,” Neve said, and glanced between the two men. “You’d really take someone in? Just like that?”

“Well, sure,” Arthur said. “S’not like we’re all related or somethin’. We gotta pick people up ‘long the way. I mean, if Dutch gives the say-so.”

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course, Miss,” Dutch said.

With that, Neve disappeared into her tent. Arthur watched her go, then shrugged. More than likely, she would wind up being another one of Dutch’s strays. With no family to go to, and no comfortable home to speak of, he couldn’t imagine not jumping at the chance.

That night, everyone gathered around the fire to sing songs, and after a little bit of what Arthur expected to be very effective convincing, Mary-Beth brought Neve in tow. She had to work her persuasive magic on Arthur as well; he didn’t much feel like doing much but keep to himself.

The women sat down on the same log as Arthur, with Mary-Beth putting Neve in the middle, pressed right to Arthur’s side on the small log. Naturally. Javier strummed the first chord.

Uncle started the song, “When I was just a lad, you know.”

Everyone around the fire grinned, and Arthur cast a quick glance at Neve. Her lips formed a flat line. Confused.

Arthur gave her shoulder a pat as Uncle led the song, and people joined in on the parts they knew. “It’s just a song,” he said. “Don’t gotta look so lost.”

Neve shifted in her seat, but remained silent and watchful.

“C’mon,” Arthur urged her on. “She let me ride on the ring-dang-do.”

And just like that, the entire gang was singing:

By now Neve was chewing her bottom lip, a mixture of thoughtful and anxious, as her piercing stare regarded each gang member individually. In all honesty, Arthur noticed her discomfort, but he wasn’t one to shove her under the limelight and ask what was up.

Uncle sang on, “She took me down into her cellar.”

Neve took once last glance at Arthur, then stood up, and left. She was silent throughout.

And in her wake, Arthur felt oddly cold.

“Miss Cadogan?”

“Mister Morgan.”

He peered through the tent flap, and saw that Neve was sat on her cot, staring straight at the ground. Either upset, or thinking.

“Thought I’d give ya space, ‘fore I asked if you were alright.”

“It was loud,” Neve said after several beats of thoughtful silence.

“But are you alright?”

“Fine.”

Chapter Text

“I have a plan!”

That had several gang members exchanging looks, while Neve shifted her weight. She stood next to Dutch, and her gaze swept over everyone, whose eyes were on her.

“This fine young woman,” Dutch continued. “Neve Cadogan, has agreed to join the Van der Linde gang! Now, I know we’ve all been new here before, so you best treat her with respect. She can hunt, she’s smart, and I am sure that with a little learning, she’ll be just as much the outlaw as the rest of you.”

Neve’s eyes eventually met Arthur’s, and he gave her a little nod of encouragement. Dutch was one for theatrics, and considering the to-do with the campfire the other night, Arthur hoped she wasn’t too overwhelmed. At the very least, the splint was off and Sadie gave her some spare clothes earlier; it was clear the two women preferred pants to skirts.

“Now we’ve got two fire crotches,” Bill grumbled, and sent a look Micah’s way; no doubt looking for affirmation, which he got when Micah sent a spiteful look Neve’s way.

Neve’s gaze sharpened. “My hair is black,” she said, and the lilt to her voice was pretty clear.

“Now Miss Cadogan,” Dutch said, ignoring the exchange. “I want you to settle into life with us, and Arthur here will help you. This is all part of my plan, boys. We are the kind of men to work and succeed, and Neve here is a welcome addition in our quest for money and a life.”

“You’re the men who claim to moil for gold, but all ye reap is blood,” Neve said, voice flat but not harsh.

There were several beats of awkward silence. Neve blinked, clearly a little confused. She shot a look at Arthur.

Inwardly, he groaned. Outwardly, he said, “Don’t mind her, she’s just had it rough. C’mon, Miss Cadogan, we’ve got some things to help you with.”

With that, everyone dispersed and Neve walked side-by-side with Arthur; Hosea joined them once they reached the horses. The two men in question mounted, and she hesitated, before grabbing Arthur’s outstretched hand and sitting on his horse with him.

Setting off in an easy trot, the trio were headed into Valentine.

“Dutch figured you’d need a gun, and a horse,” Arthur said on the way. “And since yours was shot...”

“We’re headed to Valentine,” Hosea put in.

“And old Johnny’s got a gun he don’t use no more; once he gets back from frolicking out in town we’ll have ‘im hand it over.”

Neve nodded, but there was still confusion on her face.

“What’s wrong, my dear?” Hosea asked.

“You’re helping someone who didn’t yet do a thing for ye.”

“We may be bad men, but we ain’t animals,” Arthur said. “We taken in people ‘fore, like Sadie. ‘Sides, Dutch seems to like you, so you must have somethin’ up your sleeves. Now come on.” He nudged Ginger into a canter.

“It must’ve been quite the feat to live up in Colter – alone – for several years,” Hosea said after a beat.

Arthur added, “Yeah, ‘bout that. Why didn’t ya jus’ come down and go into town or someplace?”

Neve shifted her weight, and seemed to need a moment to think it over. “Discipline produces a harvest of righteousness,” she said at last, as if that was any kind of answer.

By now, Arthur knew better than to ask; what went on in that head of hers was her business.

“Story for another time,” she elaborated.

Once in Valentine, a particular mare caught Neve’s eye instantly. Arthur and Hosea were busy meddling with what new tack to buy, or to give their horse the full stable treatment; even so, the two men watched her quiet excitement.

“Hey girl,” Neve said, patting the neck of a blue roan Ardennes. “Ain’t you pretty? Amn’t I lucky to find a horse like you?” She smiled softly when the horse whickered.

“Might pretty horse,” Arthur agreed; he didn’t see any new tack of interest.

Neve gave the animal a once-over, and gently brushed her hand down the cannon bone of the front left leg. “Poor dear,” she tutted softly. “You’ve got some scars here.”

“Mhm. I think her past owner would lash her legs when she didn’t do somethin’ right,” the stable owner said.

Neve’s expression remained neutral as she said, “The owner was the one to break her.”

He nodded.

“Bad business.”

“She usually gets persnickety ‘bout someone messing with her, but she seems to like you.”

Neve stood back up and patted the horse’s neck once more. “I’ll take her. She’s beautiful, and looks healthy.”

“Hosea, money,” Arthur said; the horse was bought and paid for, and an old saddle Arthur had sitting in the stable was given to Neve.

She softly praised her horse while she saddled up, then turned to Arthur. “I still don’t understand.”

“What? The help? Don’tchu go an’ get uppity ‘bout this, I don’t much feel like readin’ into it.”

“What Arthur’s trying to say is,” Hosea said, casting the man a pointed look, “Don’t overthink someone helping you get back on your feet.”

“Yeah, that.”

Hosea sighed, shook his head, and Arthur heard him mutter, “kids.”

“I’m goin’ for a drink,” Arthur said to himself, and Neve followed close behind while Hosea mentioned something about looking for leads on future jobs.

In the saloon, Arthur threw back two shots, while Neve watched in silence. She studied the other patrons, then glanced back his way.

“You need somethin’?”

“No.”

“Then what’s with the starin’?” His hand made a vague gesture at her.

Her eyes were wide. “I’ve never seen this many people.”

“Now, Miss,” he said, and set his shot glass down with a clack. “Whachu mean? Valentine’s a small place, ain’t no one here.”

“It was always me, my father, and my kid brother.”

“But you said you was, for a time, not on that mountain.”

“Right.”

Arthur sighed and shook his head. “Whatever you say, Miss Cadogan.”

“I need air. It’s hot in here,” Neve said, then left Arthur to his own devices.

It was another half hour before he left the saloon; she was sitting on the porch of the general store, and her horse was hitched in front of it. Hosea was making his way down the street towards them.

“Looks like s’time to head back,” Arthur said, and mounted his horse. He looked expectantly at Neve.

She mounted her Ardennes, and patted the horse’s neck.

“You name her yet?” Hosea asked as he joined the duo.

“No. Gotta give it time first.”

With that, they rode back to camp in silence, where Neve was almost instantly met with one John Marston, back from his trip.

“And here I thought you ditched us again,” Arthur snarked, his voice a slow drawl as always.

John simply ignored him as he walked by, and handed Neve his otherwise abandoned gun. “C96,” he said. “Adjustable sights, should you need it, but I got them most of the way to perfect.”

“Ah... Thanks,” Neve said, and accepted the weapon in inexperienced hands.

“Jus’ don’t shoot one of us,” John added, and meandered away.

Neve heaved a long sigh, and ducked into her tent. Sitting on the edge of her cot, she bent her head down, and covered her ears with her hands. Deep breath in, back out. So what there were suddenly too many people in her life, yet all that time in her past there weren’t enough? Noise was like the cold: you would eventually numb to it.

How was it, exactly, that Arthur allowed himself – allowed Neve to wind up at the campfire that night? And who taught Mary-Beth and Tilly to be so persuasive anyway?

At the very least, he made a point of giving her more sitting space (much to Mary-Beth’s silent chagrin), but close enough that none of the other gang members thought the log had enough room for another.

Tonight, most everyone sat in comfortable quiet, with the occasional idle conversation to break up the sounds of the night. Even so, Arthur watched as Neve carefully studied those around her; watching, waiting. It reminded him of a prey animal, though he’d never say that aloud lest someone think that was how he saw women. It wasn’t.

She just looked so alert.

Eventually, Karen tugged Neve over to the girls’ area. Arthur smirked as she walked away; he’d been subjected to the grilling before, it was quite the thing to keep up with.

Tilly sat Neve down with them, and everyone launched into their questions: How was Valentine? What was it like being alone in Colter – oh, speaking of, how’s the leg? You got a beautiful horse. Has Micah still been nasty to you? Oh, dear, he bullies everyone.

And, of course, from Mary-Beth: “How are you and Arthur getting along?”

Neve attempted to keep up, but soon found herself bombarded, and she shut down. Her speech descended from stilted and unpracticed to not at all.

And the roar that only the state of overwhelm could bring filled her ears.

Neve drew in a couple slow breaths, but it did nothing for the uncomfortably weightless feeling as the girls’ voices seemed further away. Her wrists itched. Her heart palpitated.

“Neve, you okay?” Tilly asked, and the gentle, slow tone finally broke through the haze. “Lookin’ a little pale there.”

“There is a roar,” Neve said, then got up and practically ran towards her tent.

“Well, ain’t she an odd duck,” Tilly said, and everyone nodded their agreement.

Arthur noticed Neve’s near-panicked escape, but decided against asking her about it; it wasn’t his place, and quite frankly, he hadn’t the foggiest idea what to say.

What he could do, though, was check on her as he did the last time. She was in the same defensive position, shivering.

Wordlessly, Arthur threw a blanket over Neve’s shoulders, bid her a quick “sing out if somethin’s up” and went away for the night.

It was clear that something was up. The self-harm, the obsession with the cold, the awkward conversations – it all told Arthur a story.

What the actual narrative was, he had no idea.

“Now, I ain’t gonna pretend to have any poetic, philosophical view on how to use a gun,” Arthur said as he gave Neve’s weapon a once-over. “You point, you shoot, and you practice.”

“A bow is the extension of self,” Neve said. “Why not metal and gunpowder?”

“Jus’ give it a whirl,” he grumbled, and handed the weapon back over. “Now, wait – you want to check to see if it’s loaded ‘fore you do anything with it.”

Neve obeyed.

“And regardless of it bein’ loaded, you don’t go an’ point it at somethin’ you don’t want dead, you understand me?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, jus’... I don’t know, watch for a minute.” Arthur drew his own cattleman, and pointed at the fence. The farmer who owned the place didn’t need to know about their little bottle target set-up.

He aimed, watched the sights, and fired. The emptied Kentucky Bourbon exploded in a shower of glass.

Neve then copied his stance, and she took a moment to work out the aim as he did, but she missed the jar by just so; it shuddered a little in the wake of the bullet. She lowered the gun, and regarded it.

“Miss Cadogan, if I may?” He reached a hand out, and guided Neve’s arm to better shooting form. “Now – keep both eyes open. Most folks say it feels odd, but it works well. Best to learn right. There.”

Neve tried again, and this time hit the fence directly under her target. Arthur could tell she was worrying the inside of her cheek.

“I don’t mean to nitpick, but try breathin’ like this.” Arthur aimed his gun once again, and drew in a deep breath. He let out half of it as he aimed, then held it when he pulled the trigger. “Helps keep things steady. Jus’ don’t mean to overwhelm ya.”

Neve tried again, and this time, she hit the bottle. It too went up in a spray of glass and shredded paper labeling. A small smile tugged her lips.

“Good,” Arthur said with a nod. “It won’t always be quite so easy, though. ‘Tween movin’ targets and if you wind up in a shoot-out.”

“A gun is the extension of self,” Neve concluded.

Arthur held back a sigh of exasperation. There was no reason to make her feel judged when she just started learning, but it’d be nice if she would focus more on the here and the now.

“You do a lot of thinkin’, don’t ya?”

“You do too.”

Arthur shrugged. “Okay, Miss Cadogan, I ain’t exactly a great teacher, n’ I ain’t exactly smart neither. But I guess... Why don’t you try to hit all them jars and bottles at different ranges? I’ll set it up.”

“Sure.”

Arthur placed a few bottles on the second fence, further away from their shooting spot, and dispersed a few to Neve’s left and right.

Which she subsequently struggled with hitting multiple targets in a go, and the longer range gave her trouble.

Arthur, for his part, wasn’t bothered by ineptitude; he started out terrible himself. He was sure Neve would wind up a fine shooter, if she put her mind to it. He watched in mute patience as she struggled, and he noted the way her breathing picked up the more she failed.

He decided enough was enough when her hand shook in frustration.

“Alright, s’nough for today,” he said gently, and Neve’s hands fell to her sides. “Go ahead and holster it,” he added, and she did. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, give it some time. You’ll get good.”

“I’m better with a bow.”

“You miss the point,” Arthur said, but didn’t push it. Instead, gathered up the bottles, then went over to the horses and mounted his thoroughbred. “Hey, Ginger,” he said affectionately.

Neve soon mounted her horse. “I’ve decided.”

“On what?” Arthur asked as the two trotted back to Horseshoe Overlook.

“Her name. Abria.”

“S’nice name,” he agreed.

“Celtic. Strong, powerful.”

“I take it that’s ‘cause she’s a war horse.”

“Mm. That, and the person who broke her didn’t ruin her. Poor girl.” Neve reached a hand into her satchel, and fed Abria the last half of her apple.

“Bastard didn’t even name her,” Arthur said, though he eyed the bandaging on her forearms. It was odd, knowing what she did, but never speaking a word. Only he, Hosea, Dutch, and Susan knew, but the other gang members still shot her funny looks.

Neve straightened back up and rolled her shoulders. “I amn’t too used to short-sleeved shirts,” she said.

“I can imagine.” He could imagine all right – for more reasons than just the cold.

Neve had habits.

Bad habits. Filthy habits. Habits of shame and disrespect. Habits that had bandaging around her forearms and questioning looks sent her way.

Even so, those habits she needed. Months spent in the Van der Linde gang camp, and now that she’d spent a few weeks on her feet, the itch to hurt had become a burn.

It was simple, really. Grab the medical supplies, a clean knife, and shove everything in her pockets. Walk through camp, and halfway across, stop to do a chore. Observe the others.

Were they looking? Questioning?

No. Good.

There was sanctity in punishment.

Neve cast one last glance at the camp before disappearing into the woods, and her hands were already tugging at the bandaging. Hosea and Susan, bless them, tried to talk to her. But she knew they wouldn’t understand, and that was fine.

No one understood the roar in her ears, or the necessity of the cold. Why would they understand the desire to hurt? There was no understanding. None.

Arthur, though – Arthur might be willing to listen. He was kind to those who were kind to him, and he took her and her idiosyncrasies in stride. Neve knew that. And yet.

There was shame in woman’s pain.

There was the guilt, too. Hosea and Susan were genuinely worried for her. Dutch sent her knowing looks. The others, they had no idea, but she could feel the cold stares.

All that to say, it was a relief to find alone time with her and her knife in the woods.

Arthur watched as Neve disappeared into the treeline, and her expression was – as usual – unreadable.

But the knife and slow unravel of bandaging said enough.

He sighed, and stopped halfway through carrying the hay to the horses. It wasn’t healthy, he knew that much – but beyond that? Nada. And more than likely, it wasn’t some grizzled outlaw’s place to meddle in the affairs of a damaged woman.

But the familiar sense of duty washed over him. He shook himself, wrapped up the hay chore, and pulled Hosea out of earshot of everyone else. It’d be hell for Neve if the whole camp knew.

“She’s doin’ it, Hosea,” Arthur said in a hush. “Didn’t realize, y’know, this was an active habit of hers.”

“What, hurting herself?” Hosea’s brows were knitted in confusion and concern. “Susan and I spoke with her on it; she avoided it, but I hadn’t seen her do anything...”

“Well, she is now, Hosea,” Arthur snapped. “And I know it ain’t my place, and I don’t wanna make it worse, but I gotta do somethin’.”

“I hear you, my boy.”

Arthur barreled on, “I won’t pretend to get it. I won’t. I get self-hatred just fine, but this?” He gestured at his own knife, in his own sheath. “This ain’t... I don’t get it, ‘Sea.”

“Neither do I, Arthur,” Hosea said on a sigh. “I’m afraid she won’t open up about it. I’ll be honest, Arthur, I worry it may become something deadlier than cuts and scrapes.”

Arthur went a little pale in the face. “Nah, c’mon...” He shook his head. “You’re right. Jesus. And hell, I shoulda noticed. The way she digs her nails to her palms. How she bites her lip raw.”

“This isn’t on you.” Hosea set his hands on Arthur’s shoulders. “You hear me, boy? Not on you. Now, if you want to help...”

Arthur nodded.

“I’d suggest you find a way to speak on it gently. And – well, Susan and I tried to tell her outright to stop. That didn’t work, clearly.”

“Should I go talk to her now...?”

Hosea shook his head. “It’d be upsetting to the both of you if you walked in on the act. Find a private time. I guess... I don’t know, Arthur. Say something nice to her, or tell her there are other ways to deal with whatever it is that keeps her up at night.”

Arthur took a deep breath, and nodded. “Right, right. I- I ain’t sure ‘bout any of this, Hosea. But thanks.”

“Of course, my boy,” Hosea said, accompanied by a pat to the back. “Why don’t you take a friend out to town and have a few drinks, take the edge off?”

“Sure.”

Arthur could not help the prolonged look at Neve when she returned. Fresh wrappings were on her forearms, and she was a little paler than normal.

If there was a way to help, he’d find it; she was a member of the Van der Linde gang, and honestly, not too far off from an actual friend.

Three days.

Three days, countless opportunities: nothing. That was all that was on Arthur’s mind as he wrote that day’s journal entry, next to a drawing of Neve tending to Abria.

I don’t know how to approach Neve. I been trying to figure that out, but I just don’t know. I realize I said her habit is relatable, but it ain’t as in actually doing it – as in, I can tell she hates herself. Or at least, I think that’s it.

Anyway, she’s settling in decent enough. She still says odd stuff and usually don’t spend much time in our little get-togethers – that one I get in full. It’s a lot. But she’s coming along nicely with that gun John gave her, and I reckon she’ll be fit for a job soon enough. Sadie’s happy to have another girl in pants around.

Neve definitely don’t like laundry, or dishes, or any of the other “women’s” work, but she gets it done all the same. I don’t think it matters much who does it. Work is work. Which is why I'm glad that at least one other person around her will pitch in whereever.

All for now, other than the fact that I got to figure how to help her. Truth be told, I see her as a friend. She speaks with me the most out of all the gang. I’d say second is Javier, or maybe Tilly.

He closed his journal, looked up, and there was Neve:

Striking grey eyes stared at him: watchful, patient. In her hand was a bag of seed for the chickens, and the birds were pecking near her feet. She didn’t blink as she watched him.

“Uh... Miss Cadogan?”

“There’s power in word, ye know.” She shifted her weight, but didn’t move anywhere else.

“You mean my journal?”

A nod.

“C’mere a minute,” Arthur said. Now was as good a time as ever, he supposed.

Neve sat crisscross on the grass in front of him, and looked up in expectancy at where he sat on his cot. “Where did ye learn?”

“Huh?”

“To read. Write.”

“Oh, ah... I dunno. I jus’ picked up on it, I s’pose.” He shrugged, and stared down at his closed journal.

“Ye could show me how, like ye did with the gun.”

“Now, I ain’t no teacher,” Arthur reminded, and he set the book aside. “I ain’t even great with English myself.”

“One is infinitely more than zero.”

It took a moment for him to get her meaning, but then he nodded. “Right, I... Sure, why not?” He said, more to himself than her. Needed, but not wanted. Not to mention that she successfully derailed where he wanted this conversation to go, and didn’t even know.

“It’s odd,” Neve said after a beat. “Bein’ a woman in pants who can’t read.”

“How’s that?”

“Dadaí said I shouldn’t. Girl. Kid. Servant. None of those things read.”

It made Arthur uncomfortable that she listed womanhood under being a thing, but he didn’t know how to start dealing with that can of worms. So instead, the godawful words that came out his mouth were, “Now that’s bullshit.”

Neve didn’t flinch, but the upset was clear. “I didn’t choose what’s ‘tween me legs.”

“It ain’t ‘bout that,” Arthur said. “S’bout that load of bull on readin’ and bein’ a girl.”

Neve’s eyes flicked from Arthur, to his journal, and back to him.

And then she was gone.

“Great goin’, you sack of shit,” Arthur muttered at himself. Now he’d have to work the hard-won trust back up, and he doubted that would be easy at all. Maybe gun training would help smooth things over. He knew he messed up – but exactly how, he couldn’t say.

Which naturally meant that John came in tow, stopping in front of his tent with a look on his face.

“Don’t suit you, Marston, lookin’ thoughtful.”

John didn’t respond to that one. “You ever notice how odd Neve is?”

“You don’t think I know? What’s wich you, boy? I spent just ‘bout every day with that girl, huntin’ or what have you.”

“Can you stop being an asshole for one minute?” John snapped. “If it makes you feel better, this ain’t about my well-being.”

That one stung. “Right, I... Fine, John.”

“Look. You two seem chummy. What’s up with the cuts that don’t ever heal – that none of us ever sees? Karen told me not long ago that yer skin’s gotta breathe or somethin’ if you put bandages on it. And she’s always wandering off with nothin’ but a knife, and then comes back havin’ done nothing. I’d prefer she stir up trouble like you do.”

Arthur was on his feet in an instant. His voice was a harsh whisper, lest he let on to the camp about their conversation. “You mean to tell me you seen her do this ‘fore those few days ago?”

“Arthur, what is goin’ on?”

“Can’t say.”

“So you dunno either. Great.” John huffed. “Hell, I don’t know why I bother.”

Arthur watched dejectedly as John tromped away. Things were definitely getting bad again. Hosea always described him as quick to give lip – but he didn’t mean to push others away. It just happened.

Worse still, it made him less wanted, but not any less needed. In a word, it was terrible.

“Doin’ well, wit’ that gun of yers,” Arthur said. He and Neve were at an easy walk towards Valentine; they needed more supplies for themselves, and it made sense to do that errand after training.

The real fun part, at least to Arthur, was finding a new farm or fence area such that they weren’t caught in the same spot twice.

“Thanks.”

“Ah... ‘bout yesterday, didn’ mean ta snap.”

“I know.”

“Alright.”

Neve worried her bottom lip, and sent a few appraising looks Arthur way. Many a person have described feeling the heat of someone’s gaze, but when it came to Neve, it was chilling. Not unlike how Dutch had looked at her when they first rode in, come to think of it.

"There is no thing as loud as a man who tries to be quiet," she said at last, and Arthur just stared at her. Then, she said, “I heard Sean and Karen last night."

Arthur chuckled. “Yeah, well, I ain’t gon’ judge the lovebirds.”

Neve made a face. “It’s indecent.”

The smile was wiped from Arthur’s expression. “It’s human. What’s whichu ‘bout this? You ain’t a prude, are ya?”

Her gaze fell to the ground the horses walked over.

“Now I know that face, don’t go bein’ all cryptic and riddle-like on me, I’m a dumb man. You best give it to me straight.”

That must’ve set Neve’s train of thought back, because she took longer than normal to come up with an answer. “Amn’t too used other folk.”

“I can tell,” Arthur said dryly.

“What I’m saying is, ye haven’t been in a fam’ly like mine.”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“Girl. Kid. Servant,” she said, and gave him a pointed look.

“Yeah, I remember that conversation.” He regarded Neve for a moment before suddenly getting it. “You was in a real religious household.”

Neve nodded. “Christ before man, and man before woman.”

“Now that’s a load of it,” Arthur said with a scowl. “Reverend Swanson may not be the most holy man, but he at least ain’t like that.”

“I wasn’t allowed others. Apostates. Reprobates. To see ‘em.”

“Uh-huh.”

Neve lapsed back into silence, as did Arthur. What was there to say to that? Her hurt must’ve run deep, he knew. But the question begged itself to be asked.

“You break out o’ most of those kinds of thought, there, Miss Cadogan. How come you’re squeamish ‘bout sex n’ whatnot?”

She shifted in the saddle. “But she who gives herself to wanton pleasure is dead even while she lives.”

“You ain’t got no reason to be ashamed of feelin’ good. And you ain’t got no right to shame others for it.”

“I kept my thoughts on Sean and Karen to meself, ‘till now. Only ‘cause you can listen.”

Arthur appreciated the sentiment. “Sounds like it’s less believin’ and more feelin’ that you struggle with.”

“Mm.”

“Tell ya what,” Arthur said, and tried to think of what Hosea would say in this situation. The man talked Arthur through plenty of his issues before, he must’ve picked something up by now. “You jus’ give yourself time, and in the meanwhile, leave others to it. Maybe accidentally hearin’ ‘em was good for you, in the long run.”

“Maybe. But that’s been said of punishment. You do not think suffering to be holy.”

“And you do?”

“No.”

Arthur had his arms crossed over his chest, and a proud look on his face. He stood next to Neve while she held her gun at the ready. He set up a few targets in the woods around camp, and had Dutch as well as a few others watch.

“You’ll do fine,” Arthur said. “Then you’ll be all set to go, join us on a job or somethin’.”

He wouldn’t say it for Neve’s sake, but the spiteful (and oddly hopeful?) look Micah sent her way didn’t give him the best feeling.

Neve fired off two consecutive shots, and missed both. Wood chips from trees she hit instead showered down to the forest floor.

“The hell?” She gave her weapon a quick once over. She sighed, tired again, and failed again.

“Arthur, you have all the time in the world to teach her,” Dutch said. “Tahiti will still be there.”

“Or maybe a woman ain’t fit for a gun,” Micah said.

“Go pick that fight with Sadie,” Arthur shot back.

“No – I can fire. I’m good with a bow, I’m good with a gun.” And yet, Neve still slipped up, but this time she was closer on target.

“Lemme see that gun,” Arthur said, and took it off her hands. His brow furrowed. “John, get yer ass over here, what the hell’s wrong wich your gun?”

Grumbling, John took the weapon off Arthur, and it was a second or two before he noticed the issue. “Someone changed the sights.”

Micah. Had to be, by Arthur’s reckoning. The girls liked Neve, Javier had a bit of a soft spot for her, Charles was, well, Charles. He was accepting of most, but didn’t have two cents to put in. And John seemed genuinely concerned for her the other day.

“You sure, John?” Dutch asked.

He nodded. “I’m gonna throat chop the bastard. It took me forever to perfect those sights.”

Arthur sighed. “Dutch, it ain’t Neve’s fault. You gotta trust me, she’s good.”

“I trust you, Arthur,” Dutch said with a nod. “Well, I guess John can fix the sights or Neve can find a new gun.”

With that, everyone dispersed, save for Arthur who stuck around to speak with Dutch. He watched as Neve wandered into the woods, but she didn’t have a knife in hand, so he refrained from comment.

“I think Micah’s picked her as his new target to bully,” Arthur eventually said.

“Now Arthur, Micah may be rough around the edges, but he wouldn’t sabotage his own gang.”

“Unless he don’t see her as one of us.”

“You think Micah changed the sights on her gun. Think twice.”

Arthur sighed. “It’s just a thought. He calls her all sorts of things, though. Every opportunity he gets. The hell does ‘nina’ even mean?”

“Arthur, don’t you go sayin’ that too!” Sean shouted from across camp.

“I’m not!” He called back. “Jus’ don’t quite get it.”

“I’ll keep an eye on it,” Dutch said. “How would he even get to her gun anyway?”

“Her tent. Neve leaves it there more often n’ not.”

“Alright, well... I still trust you. Why don’t you go with her, Karen, and Javier to town tomorrow. Buy her a new gun.”

“And I need a whole posse for that why?”

“I want you to show her how we get jobs done.”

Chapter Text

Alcohol mixed with smoke mixed with the vice that was man itself.

Arthur threw back a shot of whiskey, and watched carefully as Neve worked her word magic. There was something so mesmerizing about listening to her unprompted rambling.

It was just some half-drunk bastard: the perfect target for pick-pocketing. He was leering at her as she rambled on, and Arthur kept a close eye on the situation as he thought about their earlier conversation:

“Jus’... I don’t know, say somethin’ interestin’. You’re good at that.”

“I amn’t exactly good with people, Morgan,” was Neve’s protest.

“C’mon now, it ain’t like that. You’ll be fine. ‘Sides, that little bit of practice I had you do on Bill was perfect!”

Neve laughed; quiet, awkward, and admittedly one of Arthur’s favorite responses from her. It was a hard thing to coax out of her. “If you call taking a money clip from a drunk impressive.”

“That’s all you’ve got to do at a saloon,” Javier said, followed by Karen’s word’s of support, “you’re pretty and smart, sweetie,” and that seemed to be enough.

Arthur decided that Neve could handle herself in this situation – like many others – just fine; the drunk wasn’t making a move to force her into something, anyway.

“Ye’ve never felt lonely, ‘til you grew up in a house and not a home,” Neve said, and she was doing oh-so-well at distracting the man as she grabbed a few belongings off him.

Yet, her words hurt to hear. Arthur narrowed his eyes a little. Neve whipped out that awkward little laugh of hers, and her left hand brushed against the drunkard’s shoulder.

“She’s good, huh?” Javier said, followed by a slow sip of beer. He must’ve sidled next to Arthur at some point.

“Mhm.”

“Odd one, though. Swords make polite people? I know she meant us, but...”

“She speaks like she’s some kinda Bible-adjacent book, I know,” Arthur supplied with a little smirk at his description.

“Yeah. That.”

It was another ten minutes of conversation before Neve returned to the men. She nodded at Arthur’s questioning look.

“Good job,” he said, and Javier nodded his agreement. “We’ll jus’ wait for Karen to get done and we’ll be back to camp.”

Neve nodded, and her eyes narrowed a little as she watched Arthur wait for her to speak. “I need to be clean.”

“Hotel n’ bath’s ‘cross the street.”

“And ye’ll be here when I get back?”

“Yes,” Arthur emphasized.

“She always like that?” Javier asked as Neve left the saloon and made her way to the hotel.

“Mhm. S’like she thinks I’ll up and disappear one day. Odd thing.”

Just then, Karen approached the two. “Mister Morgan. Mister Escuella. I’m all done for today.”

“Waitin’ on Neve, then.”

“I heard you men talking about her worries?”

Javier and Arthur nodded in unison.

Karen sat down at the table with them, and sighed. “I think she gets overwhelmed by everyone but you, Arthur.”

“Okay?”

“My point is, she’d feel even less like she belongs if you’re not around. Just the other day, she was goin’ on about being alone in a crowd.”

Javier smirked, and bumped his shoulder into Arthur. “I think someone is sweet on you.”

“Naw, girl’s just lonely and hurt.” Arthur didn’t need to elaborate on what little he did know regarding that hurt, and to be honest, he didn’t much want to think about it. “She don’t want me, jus’ like most folks don’t want me.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Arthur,” Karen said with a shake of her head.

There were watchers, and there were doers.

Neve watched.

A breeze flowed freely, and on the wind it carried voices. She listened. Waited. Years of living alone – years of living at her house – had taught her well. One must look for the predator among the bushes. For the weakness that would allow the cold in.

Agitated voices sounded from the saloon. She stopped, watched through the window. Studied.

Arthur, Javier, and Karen were confronted with two scraggly men. Irish accents: one Dublin, one northern.

Most of what they said was useless information; to be discarded and ignored. There was no predator in the empty back-and-forth. However, there was one line that raised the hairs on the nape of her neck:

“We could make ye our bitch, ye Van der Linde scum.”

Bushes: insults. Predator: gang rivalry.

“You damn O’Driscolls’re only bold when yer alone,” Arthur said, and the rage in his voice had Neve on edge; she was used to patience and social ineptitude from both parties. But friends were only friends when it suited them.

“We got our eyes on ye,” the other man – the other O’Driscoll – added, then they exited the saloon. No doubt due to the public around them, and the intimidation that was Arthur and Javier.

Neve joined the trio once the rival gang members were out of sight and earshot, and she eyed the sheer amount of alcohol the three were consuming.

Arthur was glad to see Neve back, freshened up, and not having been part of the confrontation. Not that she’d lose her cool – he was sure she’d do just fine. It was more to do with what Karen said: people tended to have Neve overwhelmed.

“Have a nice bath?” Karen asked, and her voice was gentle, as though speaking to a spooked animal. Neve had that alert look about her all the time – it stressed Arthur out just seeing it.

“Cleansed in body but not mind,” Neve said, and she sat straight back against the chair, hands in her lap. Then, “O’Driscolls confronted ye.”

“Nasty bunch,” Javier said, and the other two nodded their agreement. “Dutch doesn’t like them; not after what Colm did.”

“Colm O’Driscoll is a predator,” Neve said. Phrased as a question, delivered as a statement.

“Bad business,” Arthur agreed. “We’ll tell you on the way back to camp. C’mon.”

After a recap of the bad blood between the Van der Lindes and the O’Driscolls, Arthur waited as Neve formulated her thoughts on the matter. Javier and Karen were a few paces behind, talking amongst themselves.

At last, Neve said, “Colm O’Driscoll is a man who claims to moil for gold.”

“Ain’t that whachu said ‘bout us? That we just get blood?” Arthur asked. She was right, but that's besides the point. “We ain’t O’Driscolls.”

“But he is a bad man, too.”

Arthur huffed a laugh out, more incredulous than humorous. “And we ain’t, huh? Miss Cadogan, you just robbed a drunk. Don’t be throwin’ stones, or however that story of Swanson’s goes.”

“Good man, bad situation. That’s what you are,” Neve said. “Thought about it a lot.”

“I can tell.”

“I don’t see things black and white,” Neve continued. “I’m just conflicted. I... Hold a lot of guilt.”

“I know,” Arthur said softly, and he was glad that nowadays she was slowly becoming more comfortable sharing her feelings – not just her thoughts. “You had that not-so-sex-positive education, n’ whatever else harmful religious teachin’s, and it’s damn obvious you’ve yet to move on.”

“Aye,” she agreed as she looked away from him, and patted Abria’s neck. “And ye don’t need to say religion’s bad.”

“S’the harm it did that I don’t like,” Arthur said sharply. “But I don’t care what someone chooses to do. You didn’t choose to be told your body’s disgusting.”

Neve remained silent. Processing. Arthur sighed, and tried to come up with a gentler way of making his point.

“The body is a temple to care for,” Neve said.

He gave her a sympathetic look. “But you’ve got a lot of shame, I know.”

Neve sighed and nodded, followed by her nimble fingers messing with Abria’s mane.

“She been treatin’ you fine?” Arthur said after a beat.

“Mm.”

“Good. She an’ Ginger get on well, too.” Neve had a soft smile on her face, and her head was tilted a little as she regarded Arthur. He smirked a little as he continued: “Y’know, when I was younger – not long after Dutch’n’Hosea took me in – we had these two mares that would fight somethin’ fierce with one ‘nother.”

From there, he recounted the various antics that ensued, and Neve seemed pretty interested – much to his quiet delight.

If Arthur had to choose just one thing he hated, it’d be people who don’t respect others, be it sex, race, or religion. It got his blood boiling every single time – who gave them the right, anyway?

And Micah was the prime example.

“Hey, look – the nina made some money!” Micah said as Neve dropped her money into the camp funds, but didn’t mess with the ledger (Arthur made a note to himself to at least teach Neve to write her name). She sighed at Micah’s comment.

“Good job, Miss Cadogan,” Dutch said, then made his way to Arthur, who was tending to the horses.

“Dutch.”

“How’d it go?”

“Pretty good. Got confronted by a couple o’ O’Driscolls” – at that, Micah turned his head and Arthur could damn well tell he was eavesdropping – “But we made some quick cash. Drunk bastard never even knew what was happenin’, what with Neve’s whole speech she gave ‘im.”

“Job well done,” Dutch said with a nod. “Arthur, I think things are looking up.”

“I hope so.” Then, Arthur lowered his voice so no one else would overhear. “I won’t pretend I ain’t biased, but Micah’s been bullyin’ Neve somethin’ fierce. Sure, he’s been bad to just ‘bout everyone – he throws all sorts of words at Lenny’n’Tilly, Charles, Javier, too. Sean, come to think of it.”

“Arthur, I still don’t think the incident with Neve’s sights was on Micah.”

“Now I ain’t sayin’ that no more neither,” Arthur said. He still believed it, but now wasn't the time. “My point is, she’s doin’ jus’ fine, but he’s bein’ an ass ‘cause she’s new, and she’s like Sadie.”

“A woman in pants?”

“Mhm. I don’t mind it. Hell, most folks in this camp are just fine. But Micah ain’t most folks.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Arthur shrugged. “I dunno, to be honest. ‘Sides from lettin’ her knock his teeth out.” He sighed. “Look, Dutch, I don’t mean to coddle no one. She’s a grown woman, but... She’s got issues. It don’t sit right with me, lettin’ Micah make it worse. Not to mention, John’s gettin’ suspicious regarding them cuts on her arms.”

“I’ll speak with Micah,” Dutch relented at last. “But tensions can run high in a small camp. You know that, Arthur.”

“I know, Dutch.” With that, Arthur retired to his tent for the night, but not without overhearing Neve and Sadie nearby:

“Now don’t you worry yer pretty little head ‘bout Micah.” It was Sadie. “He’s intimidated by women, and he’s picking on you ‘cause you’re new.”

“He is a man given to anger,” Neve returned, then walked away.

If that wasn’t the truth, Arthur thought as he reached for his drawing supplies.

And the next thing he knew, Neve was sitting on the ground, under the flap of his tent. “Morgan,” she greeted.

“What d’you need?” Arthur said dryly, and spared a glance up at her from his journal.

“A matter of want.”

That caught Arthur’s attention. He closed the book in his hands, then went to set it down, but stopped short when Neve’s eyes tracked it. “Yes?”

“You’re a writer, and artist,” she said, and gave him a significant look. “I amn’t. And I don’t know what’s in your journal.”

“Jus’... y’know, day-to-day stuff. What I think, sometimes I draw what I see. My eyes only.”

Neve’s face fell. “I understand.”

“Why, d’you need somethin’ from it?”

“Want,” she insisted. “Matter o’ want. I would like ye to read to me.”

“Mary-Beth’s got more poetical books than the half-baked thoughts of an ugly bastard,” Arthur said. “Why don’t you go speak with her?”

“Bushes: deflection. Predator: self-hate.”

Arthur sighed. “Neve, answer the question.”

Her eyes snapped back to meet his blues at the sound of her first name. At first, Arthur was worried he’d crossed a line, but cast the thought aside when he noted the searching, near-giddy look in her eyes.

At last, she said, “I want to know what you think.”

Neve didn’t need him specifically to read to her, but she wanted that. It felt nice, knowing such a thing. “Uh...” Arthur trailed off. “Y’know what, sure. But don’t you go blabbing to everyone ‘bout what I’ve got say, alright?”

Neve nodded, then stared expectantly at his journal.

Arthur sighed, and flipped through the pages to find the most presentable entry he could come up with, all the while he felt pinned under her cold stare.

At last, “We got off the mountain, and rode east into some pretty enough country called the Heartlands. Ain’t been this far east in many a year. Dutch seems a little better. His eyes are sparkling more and I can see he’s thinking a little clearer. I think we all feel a little happier, spite of Blackwater and that whole mess. It, ah, it ain’t much, I know.”

“There is power in pen,” Neve said, and she scooched a little closer. “And in word.”

“Well, I’m glad you liked it.”

“Will you read another? I amn’t too busy with something else, only a lot o’ time thinking.”

“Sure I can,” Arthur agreed, and flipped through a few more.

“There’s one ‘bout you, if you’d like to hear it. Uhh... Here: Saw a strange woman while looking for Flaco Hernàndez. She was watching me, and I could tell there was a lot going on in her head. I wonder if the Del Lobos knew her, or if she attacked them? I suspect she was out hunting, what with her bow and all. I just can’t help but wonder-” Arthur cut himself short when he saw the rest of the line:

... why she needed so much bandaging on her forearms.

Neve tilted her head at him. Confused.

Arthur cleared his throat and said, “wonder why it had to be so cold. I may be tough, but I ain’t a fan.”

“It’d be nice to be able to do that,” Neve said softly, and Arthur could see the mixture of shame and inadequacy in her eyes.

“Hey now, just ‘bout anyone could learn – hell, Micah can read, and he ain’t half as smart as you are.” When she remained silent, he added: “Here, I made a drawin’ of ya. If you’d like to see.”

Neve nodded. He handed his journal over to her – something he hadn’t imagined doing for anyone in a million years – and she took a solid minute to study the drawing in silence. It was quite the sight to see her stare cold and piercing at an image of herself doing the same thing.

“This is wonderful,” she said at last. “Ye’re really skilled.”

“Well thank you, Neve.”

“Mm.”

“I best go help ‘round camp, but maybe I can find somethin’ else for you to hear. What’d you’d like me to read?”

Neve took several moments to think it over. Then, “What you have to say.” With that, she got up and headed to join Tilly with hanging the laundry out to dry.

Arthur smiled as Jack laughed hysterically. “I gotchu now, boy!” He said, grinning down at his nephew.

“Uncle Arthur, no fair!” Jack shouted, but he was grinning back. “You said I’d get a minute to hide!”

“And you did!”

Jack groaned. “Okay, okay, you win." He huffed a little, and Arthur smirked.

“S’lunch time, I reckon. You best go see your mom and pa, have them serve you up, you hear? Growin’ boy’s gotta eat.”

Jack laughed. “Okay, Uncle Arthur. Promise to play tomorrow?”

“Sure, if I’m around.”

Arthur smiled fondly as his nephew bounded towards his parents. Then his gaze swept over the camp, but stopped when his eyes met Neve’s. She was staring intently at him. He was used to it, for the most, but the intensity behind those gray eyes was too much.

“You alright?” He asked.

“There are fathers, and there are dads.”

And then she disappeared into her tent.

Arthur heaved a long sigh. This woman was going to be the death of him. He shook his head, then went to join the gang on the logs. No one sang any songs, and instead listened to one of Hosea’s many stories.

By the time his old man wrapped it up, Arthur figured it to be late afternoon, and he went to go check on the horses when he was stopped by Tilly.

“You seen Neve?” She asked.

“Couple hours ago, in her tent. Why?”

Tilly shrugged. “No reason in particular, but y’know, I worry about her. And she wasn’t there when I checked.”

“Alright, I’ll go look if it makes you feel better.”

Arthur had a sneaking suspicion she was out of camp, but it didn’t hurt to check nearby first. He figured it’d be fine, but the sinking feeling in his gut said otherwise.

“Lenny, my boy,” Arthur said. “You seen Neve?”

“‘Course, Arthur. Saw her go out into the woods an hour or so ago, had a knife on her. Why?” He pointed in the direction she went as he said it.

“Oh boy,” Arthur said, and brushed past Lenny.

“What is it?”

“None ya.” He swung by his tent to grab medical supplies. An hour out there, all to herself, with those habits of hers? No way did he feel good about this.

“Arthur?” Hosea this time.

“S’Neve,” was all Arthur had to explain.

“Arthur – wait, it’ll only upset her if you walk in on it.”

“It’s been an hour, ‘Sea!” Arthur snapped, and with that, was off into the woods.

Neve was one slippery fish, he realized after ten minutes of searching fruitlessly for her. He spent another several minutes finding the freshest trace of boot print he could, but in a camp inhabited by a dozen or so people, that wasn’t exactly easy.

What was more, that girl could hide.

Arthur sighed, and kept at it, until he finally found her hidden up against the roots of a fallen tree. Her back was pressed to the flat root mound, and it was far off the beaten path.

“Neve?” Arthur said softly, and knelt down in front of her. A bloodied knife lay next to her, and there was a pile of discarded wrappings. And her arms...

Oh, her arms. Littered with a mixture of cuts and scars, and moist too-soft skin that had been wrapped up for far too long.

Wide, scared eyes met his gaze, and she pressed up against the pile of dirt and dead tree. She sucked in a harsh gasp. She was pressing her arm to her chest, as if to hide what she’d done. Her eyes glistened.

“Hey now, let’s take a look at those,” he said, as placating as he could.

“There are things men should not see.”

“Yeah, well, this ain’t one of ‘em.” He reached a tentative hand out, and folded it around her wrist, gentle as he could. He watched her face for a sign of objection as he coaxed her to stretch her arms out enough so he could see the damage.

Arthur felt another stab of sympathy at the sight. “S’alright,” he soothed, and grabbed some alcohol and rags from his satchel. He wet them down, then warned, “It’ll sting,” as he swiped it over her arms.

Neve didn’t even flinch. She simply watched with a cold stare.

He blew gently on the wounds, hoping to alleviate some of the pain, then bandaged them up. The cuts were precise in their shallowness, and he made a mental note to himself to get her to take the wrappings off sooner than later.

Then, he let go of her, and she wrapped her arms back around herself. He shifted around to sit next to her, but still a foot away – at the very least, he could listen to Hosea on the point of not cornering her too much.

“We ain’t gotta go back to camp just yet,” Arthur said.

Neve drew her knees to her chest, and rested her head on them. “You saw.”

“S’okay, you don’t gotta talk ‘bout it. I’m just happy to know you’ll be alright.”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice shook, and his heart broke for his friend.

“No, no, don’t be sayin’ that. Ain’t nothin’ to apologize for.” He patted her shoulder. “I won’t pretend that I know exactly what all this is, but I know you’re hurting. Everyone in camp’s worried for ya. You’ve got people who care.”

Neve’s head snapped up, and she whipped her gaze to look at him. “Those not Hosea and Susan know.”

“No, don’t worry ‘bout that neither. Jus’ me, them two, n’ Dutch. Alright? Just that all the others watch sometimes, and they too notice you’ve got some stuff goin’ on. But the whole camp ain’t in the know.”

“Mm.” Neve hummed her acknowledgement, then sucked in a breath, and once again rested her forehead on her knees. “There is a reason,” she said at last.

“How d’you mean?” Maybe if Arthur got her to work up to a conversation, he might learn more about what was going on – and how to help.

“I get so cold, I need the heat o’ blood to know I’m still warm.”

Arthur shifted his hand to splay across her back, and he rubbed it up and down in soothing circles. He stared at her in several beats of silence. He mulled her words in his head, turning them over and inspecting every syllable in an attempt to understand what she meant. At last:

“Neve, listen. You ain’t gotta be cold, or what have you. You’re off that damn mountain.”

“I’m more of an echo than anything.”

“An echo?”

“Generations of trauma and cold hearts wrapped up in a girl left to freeze to death.”

“Why d’you care so much ‘bout the cold?” Arthur asked, in the same low, gentle voice he might use on Ginger. It wasn’t intentional, but it was all he knew.

Neve’s shoulders shook. “‘Tis a force. A calling. That I had to answer.”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s goin’ on, then?”

“To understand is to be. Ye aren’t.”

“I know I ain’t you, Neve. But that don’t mean I don’t care, alright? So jus’ go ahead. Please. What’s goin’ on?”

Neve heaved a sigh, and she stared intently at her knees as she said, “We moved to America when I was fourteen. Dadaí couldn’t find work for us, and he hated any non-Irish folk - was real upset when we learned English in our homeland - so he set us up all by our lonesome. He and I... we didn’t get along. Things got worse when we started going hungry.”

Arthur’s uneasiness returned at the statement, but he listened in silence as at long last she shared her hurt with him.

“When I were sixteen, he did what the people far up north do: let me out alone, in the cold, to freeze.”

Arthur stared at her, dumbfounded, for several seconds. “He... tried to kill you?”

“I deserve to be cold.”

That had even more alarm bells going off in his head. “You don’t deserve nothin’, you hear? Your daddy couldn’t treat you right, and that is not on you. You understand?”

“Ye don’t understand!” Neve snapped. “Predators among bushes. The roar in me ears. You don’t get it. My whole life: cold.”

“C’mon now-”

“No. I couldn’t ever work correct. Ye don’t earn funny looks from others, and the lot o’ ya talk about how I speak nonsense. I told ye, it’s in me nature. Dadaí could see it. He made me cold.”

“Neve, stop. I- I understand. To want to hurt.” Saying the words aloud had his mouth tasting like vile medicine, but perhaps that was part of his own healing. Brushing the thought away, Arthur tentatively laid his arm across her shoulders, but without any tightness behind it in case she wanted to move away.

“It’s all so loud,” Neve whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, and he made a point to keep quiet for her. “But I want to help. So does Hosea, Dutch, all the gang, really. Hell, John’s a little shit, but he’s noticed you need some help, too. We all like ya, Neve.”

She let out a dry laugh that was even more awkward than normal. “Micah. Bill.”

“Ah, don’t let a couple of sexist, racist, drunk bastards get to you.” He was back to rubbing her back. “S’gonna be alright, but we need you to talk to us.”

Neve spared a sorrowful glance his way, then looked back. The duo sat in silence for several minutes.

“It was an accident. The first time. I’d... been alone for a couple o’ weeks. Was cleaning a kill, and I was sad something fierce. I nicked my finger with my knife.”

Arthur didn’t need her to say anything more for him to understand, but he wasn’t sure what to say to reassure her.

“I don’t know.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Don’t know what?”

“Anything.”

“Nah, c’mon, Neve, that ain’t true. You’ve got all kinds of ideas, n’ you run circles even ‘round Hosea’s head.”

She sighed. “Shame for my body. Shame for how I think. Predator father. Religion.”

“Thought you were one of them atheists.”

“Yes. But ye said it, I amn't there.”

“Oh.” Now he got it. “Look, I ain’t no expert on anything but killin’, but I at least know this: you give yourself some time, you’ll be alright. Push through it, s’what I always do. And... I ain’t the sort to tell others what they can and can’t do, but I’d like you to stop with all this.”

“I would, too. I amn’t strong.”

“If it’d help, ya can always come to me. I don’t really know how to help, but you just say the word.” Arthur stilled his hand, and let it rest on her back. He was half-tempted to hug the poor woman.

“You understand.”

“I guess.” Arthur’s cheeks burned a little pink, in the embarrassment he felt in admitting aloud the idea of self-inflicted pain wasn’t terrible. Not tempting per se, but considering things were getting bad, it might get to that point.

He cast a quick glance to Neve, and with a stab of sympathy, noted her watery eyes. He inched a little closer to her.

“I just...” Arthur trailed off, then sighed. He tried again: “I’ve had bad spots myself, if it’s any comfort to ya. Y’know, singin’ less, sleepin’ more, feelin’...”

“Cold.”

“Sure.”

Neve hid her face from him when he went to turn her to look at him. A low whine welled in her throat. “It’s all so much, Arthur.”

“I know,” he said softly. “D’you... need a hug? I- I don’t wanna overwhelm you n’ make this worse.”

Her answer was to press up against his side, and in turn he folded his arms around her. “There ya go. S’alright now. We’ll get through whatever’s goin’ on in that smart little head of yers.”

“It’s all so loud,” she insisted yet again.

“How do you mean? Mighty quiet out right now.” He glanced up, through the tree canopies, and hadn’t realized how long he was out here: evening was setting in.

“In my head. People talk. Horses whicker.” She sniffled. “The texture of paper. Being cold. It’s a lot.”

“You get overwhelmed that easy?”

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“Hey – no, don’t say that. It’s alright, I promise.” He gave her a gentle squeeze. “Neve, I mean it. We’re friends, we’re gang members. I want to know how to help.”

“There is strength in numbers.”

“That there is. Now please, how d’you want me to help?”

“Just be there.”

Arthur nodded, and let her shift around, so she was more or less in his lap, face pressed to his shoulder. “I can do that.”

“Tell me how you cope.”

“I work,” he said with a slight shrug. “And I wait for it to pass. N’ this is an awful habit of mine, avoidin’ folks, but lettin’ people care helps, too.”

“I was alone for ten years.”

“I know,” he assured. “I know.”

Neve’s fists clenched and unclenched over the fabric of Arthur’s shirt. He didn’t mind. “I’m so sorry, Arthur. You don’t deserve this. Ye amn’t a bad person.”

“Naw, that ain’t true, alright? But I’m loyal to those I care about. That includes you.”

She sucked in a shaky breath, and slowly relaxed in his grip, until half-lidded eyes stared unseeing to the forest around them. He shushed her gently when she whimpered. His legs were cramping a little after having sat in the same position for so long, but he didn’t dare say anything about it.

“Arthur.”

“Yeah, Neve?”

“I’d like to just talk.”

“Go head, I’m listenin’. We got all the time in the world.” He smirked. “Like Dutch said, Tahiti will still be there.”

Neve exhaled out of her nose at the comment, but was still deeply upset. “Dadaí would hit me. Yell. When I don’t make sense.”

“‘M sorry. I didn’t have a great old man myself, y’know. I get what you mean.”

“The worst part was when he’d look at me like he didn’t know who I was.”

What little of Arthur’s heart was left absolutely crumbled at the statement. One hand brought itself up to her sleek black hair, and he ran it down the length.

“He’s why I get overwhelmed. Don’t trust others.”

“I figured,” Arthur said dryly. “But, y’know, Tilly and Mary-Beth and all the girls love you. Javier’s got a soft spot for ya, didn’t know if you noticed. Hosea thinks you’re great. Dutch is awful happy to have you ‘round. And hell, I’m glad to have you around. You’ve got people to trust, Neve. N’ if you need someone to shut up, or you need alone time, so you feel okay – I’ll be the first to enforce it.”

“Thank you.”

“Sure thing, girl. I ain’t in the habit of leavin’ friends out to dry.”

“I’d like help cleaning the cuts tomorrow.”

“'Course,” Arthur said with a nod. “I can do that. You sure you’re comfortable with that? Looked awful scared when I first got here.”

“Yes. I’m tempted when I’m alone and I see them.”

Oh. “I understand. I- I want ya ta know, Neve, when I realized you were out here all ‘lone for an hour with that knife...”

“I’m alive.”

“I know. Good thing, too.” Arthur and Neve lapsed back into silence. His brow was knit in concentration, but other than that, he was relaxed as he tried to find something to get through to her, in her words.

“Neve, hey?”

“Mm.”

“I’ll keep ya warm.” She nodded into his shoulder, and he gave her a gentle little squeeze. “We’re just gonna sit here for however long you need, then we’ll go back to camp. I won’t let no one bother ya.”

True to his word, Arthur walked Neve back into camp, and shielded her from John, Lenny, and Hosea’s collective stares. Once they were at her tent, he shut the flap behind them.

“You need anythin’ ‘fore I go?”

Neve shook her head.

“Alright. You, uh...” He cleared his throat. “‘Bout them arms....”

“They’ll go unharmed.”

Arthur nodded. “You tell someone if you need help, got it?”

Neve stared at him for a long moment, searching his face for deceit, before she said, “Thank you.”

“Sure. Night, Neve.” He waived her goodbye, then left her tent and let it close behind him. He let out a long sigh as he trudged to his tent, and he rested his forehead in his hands as he sat down on his cot. “What a fuckin’ day.”

“Well, Tilly, you was right: you’re best damn domino player in this whole gang.” Arthur wasn’t one to allow defeat, but it’d be more embarrassing if he didn’t admit to it.

Tilly smiled at him. “Haven’t tried Neve’s skills yet.”

“I don’t think she’d be all that interested, if I’m bein’ honest.”

“Well, if I’m being honest, the both of you need to get out more.”

Arthur sighed. “Maybe so,” he drawled. “But I’m headin’ to my tent. See ya.”

With that, he hid away from the rest of the gang and scrawled a short entry in his journal:

Been trying to take the advice I gave Neve, to let others in. But it’s hard. I just played four round of domino with Tilly, and I’m exhausted. It’s embarrassing. And I don’t know how to feel better.

“Arthur.”

He looked up from his journal. “Hey, Neve. You doin’ okay?”

She meddled with the long sleeve shirt of hers. Her cuts were shallow and scabbed over when he checked her wounds that morning, and he insisted she leave the bandaging off, so her skin could air out.

“I gave him all I had.”

“Who?” Arthur asked as he patted the cot he sat on, just next to him.

Neve stared for a moment before she understood the invitation, and she sat down next to him. “Dadaí. I tried so hard.”

Arthur’s heart sank. “I’m sure you did,” he said softly, and the two lapsed into companionable quiet as they watched the midday happenings of camp.

“You try so hard,” Neve eventually said. She was still watching Tilly feed the chickens – her pride and joy, those birds were.

He grunted. “Sure I do.”

“Chores. Jobs. Fights.”

“Right, I s’pose so,” Arthur said. “But it’s my responsibility to serve the gang. Us Van der Lindes, Neve, we’re all we got.”

“Your loyalty eats ye from the inside out.”

“It’s the only thing of worth in this world.”

“How do you feel?” Neve asked, sudden and abrupt as always. Arthur had long since gotten used to it.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I feel I don’t know nothin’ no more.”

“What did you know?”

Arthur looked down at his hands, which were clasped in his lap. “Dutch and Hosea, bein’ my dads. Boadicea. My kid brother, John.” He swallowed. “Killin’, robbin’...”

She sighed. “You fight hard.”

“I ain’t no soldier.”

Neve didn’t have an answer for that one, as she fell back into silence. Awkwardly, she reached a hand out, and patted his shoulder twice. The nervous energy was palpable, but he liked the sentiment anyway.

“My wrists itch.”

Arthur felt a spike of unease, but he remained outwardly calm. “Like normal itchin’, or the other kind?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on.” Arthur left his tent for a moment, but quickly returned with a bottle of apple cider vinegar and a rag. He wet it down, then nodded towards her arms.

Neve offered her wrists out, and he gently swiped the cloth over it. She was unresponsive in this, like the last two times he attended to the cuts, but then said, “Thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

“This will kill you,” Neve said softly, and there was so much shame in her eyes Arthur couldn’t bear to look for more than a moment.

“What will, Neve?”

“Ye’re taking care o’ me. My cuts. You blame yourself for everythin’, my habits included. And I amn’t strong enough to stop on my own.”

“No. Stop that right now,” Arthur said as he rolled her sleeves back down. “You shut up with that. I ain’t in your exact situation, but I get what that guilt’s like, alright? S’okay to need help from me. I don’t mind none.”

“Too kind to say no.”

“No. I want to help you.”

Once again, her eyes searched his, like there was always something she could see that not another soul could. It felt like being stripped bare, pinned down while she worked out if he was a predator among bushes, if he was warm or cold. And each time, it seemed, she came up with a preferable answer.

“I seen the ocean once ‘fore, and I feel I see it again in your eyes. I could drown in them,” she said at last, just above a whisper. She retracted her arms and let them rest lax at her sides.

“Now that’s mighty poetic,” Arthur said with a nod and blush on his cheeks.

“It’s terrifying.”

He gave her a lost look. What could he say to that? He never meant to scare her.

“The ocean is blue-gray and cold. Endlessly deep. It could swallow you whole and you’d be forgotten.”

“And this has exactly what to do with me?”

Neve was back to staring for a moment. Then, “Just me thoughts.”

“Well, they sure are interestin’.”

Her head snapped back to looking at the camp, and tracked Micah as he sauntered around camp, and meddled with the camp funds. Arthur wasn’t sure if he should stay, or go ahead and find some help to do.

“No Irish Need Apply,” she eventually said. “Nina.”

“Oh,” was all Arthur could manage. It was some kind of upsetting to know the only “real” job offered to Irishmen was the world’s dirty work - the mines – otherwise, ‘No Irish Need Apply.’

“Micah is a bad man.”

“You can say that again.”

Neve sighed and meddled with her shirt fabric. “He makes me nervous. Threatens me with the O’Driscolls.”

“I can promise ya, ain’t no one in this camp gonna let him hurt you, alright?”

Before either could continue, a panicked Lenny rode into camp, with Javier unconscious and thrown over the back of his horse.

“O’Driscolls!” He shouted - speak of the Devil - and Charles was already helping Lenny get Javier to the gang’s medic tent.

Arthur and Neve were on their feet second, and gathered with the rest of the crowd to see what happened.

Lenny was a touch out of breath: “We was riding back home, four of them jumped us. They got Javier in the shoulder, he been bleeding for a while.”

“Well shit,” Arthur said, and exchanged looks with Dutch.

“Colm is not taking away a single Van der Linde from us,” he said. “Not a one.”

“They seek war,” Neve murmured, and she watched as Susan and Swanson started to tend to Javier.

Micah was sleazing about nearby, and he slowly twirled his knife in hand. That man spelled nothing but trouble – for everyone, by Arthur’s reckoning. He didn’t like the calculating look in Micah’s eyes.

“You ain’t impressin’ no one,” Arthur said to Micah, then had Susan pull him aside to say he needed to ride out into town and buy more morphine soon. “Leave it to the Reverend to run us dry,” he grumbled.

Soon enough, Tilly and Mary-Beth gently pulled Neve away from the sight of a wounded Javier, over to the girls’ area of the camp. Arthur was glad to see he wasn’t the only one looking out for her.

Not long thereafter, Susan announced that Javier would be fine, much to everyone’s relief.

“Dutch,” Arthur said, waving his adoptive father over. “I’m headin’ into town tomorrow for some morphine, Miss Grimshaw’s request.”

“Be careful, Arthur. With those O’Driscolls around...” He shook his head. “I couldn’t bear to lose you, son.”

“I know. I’ll be careful, Dutch. Always am.”

“Good, good.”

With that, Arthur went to the girls’ area. “Hey, Neve?”

“Mm?” She was sitting with Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Karen near their wagon.

“Jus’ wanted to tell ya, I’ll be out tomorrow. You best keep busy, n’ if you need somethin’” – he let the word hang in the air, so she could catch his meaning – “Hosea would be happy to help.”

Mary-Beth shot him a look, but at least had the decency not to say anything.

Chapter Text

Neve Cadogan

Arthur Morgan

The ledger was filled with row after row of those two names, Arthur noticed, as he dropped in yet another donation to the camp funds. One month worth of time, boiled down to names and items in a book, yet it was a fairly accurate depiction of how things were in the gang.

“Hey, Arthur,” Mary-Beth chimed, leaning over to watch as he finished depositing a handful of jewelry.

Arthur grunted in response. “Yes?”

“How’re things with Neve?”

He chuckled. “Jus’ fine, Miss Gaskill, just fine indeed.”

“She seems awful comfortable around you now.”

“Yeah, well, that’s how s’been for most of the folks. It’s nice, y’know, seein’ her more sociable. Javier’s been givin’ her guitar lessons.” Arthur smiled fondly at the thought, which was met with one of Mary-Beth’s signature looks.

“You know, Arthur,” she said thoughtfully. “Keiran and I might need to take you an’ Neve on a couples’ night out.”

Arthur flushed red. “Now Mary-Beth, listen to me when I say this, that ain’t how it is. I- I don’t think Neve’s even in the state of mind. There’s a lot you don’t know ‘bout her, n’ that ain’t on you, but that don’t change it.”

She sighed. “Uh-huh. Well, let me know when you finally admit your feelings. You two are so cute together – don’t act like the gang don’t notice you two spend time together.”

“Yeah, yeah. You keep teasin’ me all you want, Gaskill, ain’t gonna happen.”

Arthur then made his way back to his tent, and caught site of Neve peacefully sitting in the sunshine, mending some clothing. He gave her a friendly wave, and she stared at him for a moment, then cracked a smile.

Arthur’s own look of easy content was gone when he saw the letter.

A. Morgan.

He sighed at the name that followed.

M. Linton.

He read it three times, before anything sank in, and even so his world was in a blur as he rode to Chadwick Farm. He promised himself he’d not mess with women, let alone those who needed him but never wanted him.

Too bad he couldn’t keep promises to himself.

“I need to talk.”

Arthur bit back a sigh, and ran his hand down his face. “Ain’t a good time, Neve.”

“The letter. You’re tired. What is it?”

He looked up at her though half-closed, bleary eyes. Most everyone else had gone to bed by the time he rode back in from saving Mary’s kid brother from some crazed turtle cult.

“Just some woman,” Arthur grumbled. “Ya don’t wanna hear it, trust me. How you been anyway?”

“This isn’t a concern for me.”

This time, he let the sigh out. “Neve, listen. I do my best to be nice to ya, I do, but I ain’t the mood, and you don’t deserve to be snapped at.”

Her gaze softened, and some of the cold calculation melted away. “Arthur,” she said, and put on her best attempt at a gentle tone. “Ye can get mad and I’d live.”

“Not the point.”

Neve sat crisscross on the patch of grass next to his cot, and gazed up at him. “Did she hurt you?” She asked softly.

“I think I hurt her, actually.”

Neve tilted her head. “You amn’t a woman-hater.”

“Well, no.” Arthur shook his head. “But I’m still a bad man.”

“You did something.”

“Well, ah – look, Neve, I was gonna marry someone, okay? And it was called off ‘cause of my outlawin’, not that I can blame her.” He hung his head low. “Truth is, I ain’t never been enough. My work, my money – me.”

“You are.”

“Are what?” He drawled, and a faint scowl crossed his features.

“Enough.”

He sucked in a breath. “Lyin’ is a sin, y’know,” the words slipped out before he could think, and he was sure this was the moment she’d run away from him.

Only Neve stayed rooted to the spot.

Arthur cleared his throat, and tried to make amends: “Ah, I mean. Thank you, Neve.”

“Tell me what she wrote.”

Arthur glanced to the table beside his cot, then back to Neve. “Aw hell, why not?” He grabbed a match, struck it alight, and lit his lantern. “Okay,” he said on a sigh.

It was when he got to the line, I know I said a lot of things and I meant them, I suppose, at the time, but I am not so proud as to not speak to people who care for me, or cared for me, that Neve interrupted.

“She is a bad woman.”

Arthur stopped short, mouth agape. He blinked. Stared.

“You are enough. She’s not. And I amn’t one to soothe and say otherwise.”

“You ain’t got any kinda right talkin’ ‘bout Mary like that.”

“She didn’t apologize. Ye don’t deserve that, Arthur. Ye deserve kindness.” Neve’s gray eyes were blown wide as she tacked on, “Money or work is null. You’re all.”

Arthur buried his face in his hands. “I jus’ don’t get it.”

Neve stood up and wrapped her arms around his hunched back, bending a little herself to do so. Her nose rested on the top of his head, her arms stiff and her hands splayed on his back. It was awkward, and unpracticed, and nothing like Mary-Beth’s romance novels, but it was everything.

“I don’t understand what’s wrong with my head, either.”

“Heh, thanks...” Arthur trailed off for a moment. “Aw hell, Mary-Beth won’t let me live this one down.”

“You need a break.”

“I got responsibilities’n’such to take care of, Neve.”

“I want another book for you to read.”

Her persuasion attempt was not lost on Arthur, but at the very least, it was something he was planning on getting done anyway. “Okay,” he said with a light chuckle. “We’ll go on out to Valentine tomorrow, see if that General store feller don’t have somethin’ to read.”

“Ye’re a kind cowboy,” Neve said, then walked away.

And in her wake was Micah sitting on a log, damn him, and Arthur hadn’t realized the rat was still awake.

“How much you payin’ her?” Micah drawled.

“Shut your mouth,” Arthur spat, and threw his tent flap shut.

“Have fun in Valentine!” Micah chimed in a mock sing-song voice. “I’m sure them hotel rooms are real lovely!”

Arthur heaved a sigh, but ignored him. He tossed and turned in his cot for several minutes, then got comfortable.

Sleep didn’t elude him for long.

Neve thumbed through the pages of a novel she picked out, and Arthur watched fondly as she took in the words. She couldn’t read, he knew, but he reckoned she liked looking at the words anyway.

It was just some secondhand book someone sold to the General store; apparently, it was rather dreadful in tone and a bad read, but the lines Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, had her enamored. And Arthur was happy to oblige the woman. It was a collection of sorts – Edgar Allen Poe? Yeah, he was fairly sure that was the poet’s name.

“Empty space can be filled,” Neve said as she handed him the volume to stuff in his satchel. “Mind putting drawings in me book?”

“Sure I can,” Arthur said with a nod, then a wave to the clerk as they stepped into the streets of Valentine. Some O’Driscoll was yelling on the street corner, so Arthur steered Neve away to greener pastures.

He took a few glances over at her; she was wearing a shirt and pants, like usual, and her sleeves were rolled up. The pride he felt when she first did that was indescribable. Did it earn looks from some of the gang members? Sure. But everyone had the decency to keep quiet about it, and Neve was clearly doing much better.

Thin, slightly raised, white scars littered her forearms, but she hadn’t done anything to herself the past two or so weeks, so Arthur chalked them up to reminders of strength, like any other scar. He smiled gently at her.

“You been doin’ real good, y’know that?”

“Mm.” Neve stretched her arms above her head. “Less shame for clothes, just pleasure.”

“Well, s’progress at least,” Arthur encouraged.

“How do ye feel?”

“Okay, far as it goes.” He sighed, looked down, and kicked a stray pebble as they walked towards their horses. “Still don’t feel too good ‘bout the Mary-Linton thing. Or the Blackwater mess. Or any of this shit, really. An’ I just... I dunno, Neve, it’s been a long road to tow.”

“Mhm.”

“How’d you manage up there for ten years all on your lonesome?”

“I didn’t.”

Arthur took that as his cue to drop the subject, but those two words rattled around his head. That girl must’ve been through hell; it had frozen over just for her.

“Don’t be an angry man, Arthur.”

Arthur sighed. “Now how’d you know that I been bad?”

“Ye roll back into camp with empty in your eyes.”

“I guess,” he said with a shrug. “I- I just get awful angry, Neve, at everythin’. Well, most things. N’ sometimes I kill for the hell of it – though, don’t tell Charles I said that.”

Neve hummed in thought. Her fingers drummed on her thigh as she considered what to say. “A predator survives, a killer has fun doing it. Which are ye, Arthur?”

“Most days, I don’t know.”

“Trick question. Ye’re neither.” Before Arthur could protest or ask what the hell she was getting at, she tacked on, “You’re just you. I think that’s good.”

“That’s mighty kind of you.”

“I get it, y’know. Being angry – s’why I did the things I did to my arms. Your subject of anger is others. But at the end o’ the day, it’s the same thing.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I look out over the horizon. Mountains. Trees. It may be gone one day, but for now, it’s here. And it’s calm. So I breathe, and remind meself that I amn’t a lost cause, that I can look forward. Dreams are the stuff of uselessness, yes, but dreamers aren’t the only ones who can move on from the past. Look out, chin up, at the horizon. A new day.”

“That... That actually helps.” Arthur was a little dumbfounded, but he covered it up with the clear of his throat. “Tell ya what, how ‘bout we go for a good ride on the way back to camp? S’been a while since Ginger or Abria went at full gallop.”

Neve tilted her head at him, but one of those awkward little smiles of hers graced her features. “Okay.”

“Hya!” Arthur shouted, and snapped Ginger’s reins. Right now, he was out ahead of Neve and Abria, but he didn’t plan on riding out of sight. He tossed a glance at her from over his shoulder, and she was riding just as hard as he was.

Wind whistled past their ears, punctuated by the hoofbeats of their respective horses. Crystalline sky stretched out above them forever. Grass and trees sat atop rolling hills. Wildlife went about its day. Deep breath in, out: the air was fresh.

They were free.

Arthur rounded a bend on the trail, crossing the open plains of West Elizabeth to a small grove of trees; he knew of a stream nearby that would be nice to wade their legs in. Another look to check that Neve was following - she was.

He slowed Ginger to a trot as he ran through the trees, and her hoofbeats were a steady thrum over the small wooden bridge he crossed. Neve was close behind as she brought up the rear.

It all happened at once.

The agitated voices of three O’Driscolls flanked Arthur, and Ginger whinnied in upset as five more of the rival gang jumped out of the trees in front of him, all guns trained on him. Neve let out a sharp cry as she jerked the reins to pull Abria to a stop.

“Yer money or yer woman, pick!” One of them shouted.

Arthur whipped his head in Neve’s direction, eyes blowing wide when he saw her unholster her newly-bought Cattleman.

“Neve, no!” He shouted, and kicked Ginger into a run. Arthur had no doubt Neve could aim, but he did doubt the likelihood of survival in an ambush such as this. He trampled one man, and soon bullets were flying as he led them in the opposite direction of camp.

Her eyes flitted between everyone involved, then she spurred Abria to follow but was stopped quickly as a bullet grazed her left shoulder. It was, thankfully, only a flesh wound on her non-dominant arm, but the pain stabbed through right to her brain loud and clear.

The genuine fear in Arthur’s eyes was more overwhelming than anything else around them.

“Woman, run!” He screamed, then was knocked off his horse by two other O’Driscolls, and Neve peeled away from the scene. She stole a glance behind her.

Arthur was being hogtied.

Neve ignored the shouts of O’Driscolls and the crackle of gunfire as she rode blind and fast away; across half of New Hanover, back into Valentine, then a long detour back to camp lest someone know the way.

It was agonizing, knowing Arthur’s situation.

Neve’s shoulder shrieked in pain and Abria’s nose made harsh sounds as she panted. Leave it to her. Quick draw was not quick enough. Blood seeped down the sleeves of her rolled shirt, and stained her forearm as it dribbled further.

What she’d give to rid herself of temptation.

At last, Neve rode into camp and practically fell off Abria in her haste. The whole of the camp snapped their heads in her direction, eyes roaming over her injury. She drew in a harsh gasp, then:

“Arthur’s been kidnapped!”

Chapter Text

Dutch was the first on his feet.

Neve’s arms hung at her sides, and all pain had faded to the background. She was good at that. Then the other men were gathering while Dutch barked out orders and Neve’s ears started to roar.

Miss Grimshaw’s hand connected with her good shoulder, and she startled.

“Let’s get this patched up,” the woman said in her usual curt tone, though her eyes held genuine concern.

Instead Neve walked over to where the men were and interrupted what nonsense they were saying with, “I’ll lead you there. Charles will track.” The rest of the men agreed with her statement, though Neve was distracted as her grey eyes met Micah’s blues.

She found deceit there.

This ride around, Neve led Abria on the shortest route to that stream she could think of, and let Charles take it from there. The pace slowed as he did so and Neve’s hands twitched towards her cattleman.

“Your shoulder okay?” Dutch’s brow was knitted in concern, and he nudged The Count a couple steps faster.

“It will heal,” Neve said simply. “And it can wait.”

Dutch opened his mouth to protest - more than likely to send Neve home - but Javier cut him off. “Don’t bother, she won’t budge.”

Neve, Dutch, Charles, John, and Javier all followed their resident hunter and tracker’s lead through the woods, then to a clearing, until they found themselves at the crest of a hill. Below, two houses, and two dozen O’Driscolls.

“Charles, Javier, John,” Dutch said in a harsh whisper, “You two sneak around to flank them on the far side. Neve, you’re with me.”

Neve nodded.

“Everyone open fire when I do,” he added.

“I can sneak in and search the cabins,” Neve said. “I amn’t a killer, but I can find.”

“You’ll need to be able to shoot if it’s you or them,” Charles said.

“I will.”

Neve watched silently and analitically as the three men circled the O’Driscoll camp, until they all took cover behind trees and rocks on the other side. Dutch sent Neve one last, concerned look.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

Neve could tell the question was twofold: her ability (or presumed inability) to kill, and her shoulder.

She simply said, “Arthur needs help.”

That was answer enough.

Neve descended the steep slope as gunfire and men’s screams rang out, and she crept along the side of the closest cabin. She was silent and swift, just like hypothermia, when it came to sticking a knife in the throats of the men who stole her friend.

Then she broke into the cabin once she found the backdoor, and the O’Driscoll had never seen her coming.

He left the weak point unattended, and the cold was let in.

Neve’s eyes swept over the place. Old, used food tins, cigarette butts, and alcohol bottles littered the tables – most likely left by folks before the rival gang. The floor was gritty. Cobwebs hung in corners.

This place had not been lived in long. Otherwise it’d be kept proper. That meant they moved in recently.

The sounds of battle outside faded as Neve’s head roared with its own sound of overwhelm: she wasn’t sure which cabin Arthur was likely to be held captive in, and she knew how drastically the survival rate of kidnappings dwindled the longer a person waited. She was still hunched over as her hands fisted the hem of her shirt, and she crept throughout the first floor, looking for something that may lead to her Arthur.

In the back corner, under one of the windows, a cellar door.

Arthur wanted to die.

The O’Driscoll was back.

His hands were bound above his head and the rope burned his wrists. His throat was turned to sandpaper from all his screaming. His naked body hurt all over.

Arthur had his eyes squeezed shut when a rough, calloused hand grabbed his face again.

“Open yer pretty blues,” the man snapped. “Or this’ll get worse.”

Arthur shook his head. He wouldn’t do it.

And then there was the sound of a gunshot.

His eyes flew open, and the sight before him unsettled his very being:

The O’Driscoll stared unseeing at the cellar ceiling, and blood leaked from a neat little hole right between his eyes. His hand twitched.

There was Neve.

Her cattleman was still held out from her body, and her hand did not shake. She had the perfect gunslinger stance, just as he taught her, and she slowly reholstered her weapon as her eyes remained on the man she’d just killed.

The look in her eyes was frostbite: so cold it burned.

It was definitely something Arthur did not want to be on the receiving end of, but he’d never betray her trust in him or his loyalty to her.

Then Neve’s gaze flicked up to Arthur, bound and bruised, and all that harsh, biting cold melted away. She knelt down with him and the sound of gunfire from above was beginning to dwindle.

Arthur could’ve cried in relief, if he had any more tears to give.

Neve’s hands brushed over his cheeks, and he squirmed. Then she looked up again at his wrists, and undid the rope. She held his hands in hers and rubbed soothing circles on the irritated skin.

“Arthur,” she cooed.

A choked little sob, a pathetic and embarrassing thing, slipped from his sore throat, and he squirmed again. Her hand moved to brush over his arms. Oddly gentle eyes studied the bruises on his neck.

“Arthur.”

The man in question was still beyond words. He wrapped his arms around Neve and buried his face in her neck. A mountain of a man rendered to a mole hill, terrified but thankfully no longer alone.

“It hurts,” he finally whined, and shifted so less of his weight was on his ass.

Neve’s eyes went wide as soon as she saw that.

She understood.

Carefully, she handled him to lay on his side, grabbed his shirt that had been flung to the other side of the room, and laid it over his otherwise indecent body. She was used to the sight; it had her unphased.

“I will keep the other Van der Lindes from entering until ye’re ready,” she said, and emphasized her point with more gentle thumbing on his cheek.

Finally, he croaked out, “Hurt me.”

“I know.”

“Hurts back there,” he said, and his voice cracked on the last word.

Neve sighed and laid down next to him on the cold dirt floor. The body next to them was turning pale.

“We need to leave.”

Arthur sucked in a harsh gasp and whined. “Can’t move.”

“You won’t have to. I’ll get Charles and John.”

He simply nodded, and watched, heartbroken, as Neve got up and left. He knew she’d be back but goddamn he wanted her here now.

At the very least, he appreciated her observative nature. John was his kid brother; he’d care unconditionally and wouldn’t judge Arthur. And Charles was a strong, consistent, soothing presence to everyone in the gang. The two perfect picks.

Then Neve reentered the cellar, with the two men by her side, and uncharacteristically kind hands sat him upright and helped him get his shirt on and buttoned. His pants were missing. Then, his gang mates hoisted him up and carried Arthur upstairs. Sunlight hit his face, and the gentle apricity was soothing. Then he was set on the back of Neve’s horse, positioned such that his legs wouldn’t have to spread.

The ride home was silent.

Arthur sat on his ass, which screamed to be soothed, and hardly registered Neve’s hand reaching back to him. She patted his knee, and his legs dangled useless and without strength off Abria’s backside behind the saddle.

Next to him, John, Javier, and Charles on their respective horses - worry etched itself all over their faces. Ahead, Dutch’s back.

Arthur swallowed past the dryness in his throat. Near-subconsciously, his right hand brought itself over his left wrist and he scratched the burning skin. It was almost soothing.

The trees were a blur; every rock looked the same. Arthur’s mind was floating, aimless and worthless, above his battered body. In the background, his bruises ached; his cuts throbbed. His head hurt, and it was swimming alone and exhausted in his thoughts.

He’d promised himself that, since that bastard Lyle, no one would lay a hand on him again.

“Can’t keep no damn promises,” Arthur rasped to himself, then coughed. He wasn’t sure if he would ever gain the energy to scream again.

Neve’s hand squeezed his knee this time.

Soon the monotony of tree bark and leaf litter thinned out to dry grass. No doubt itchy to sit on. The sky was the color of the tears Arthur had long since ran out of, though he missed the catharsis. The sound of hoofbeats did nothing to disperse the tension that crackled in the air.

John’s eyes were fixed on his brother, and he opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it when Arthur hid his face away. Instead, he just grit his jaw.

John and Charles helped Arthur off Abria and to his tent, and Neve trailed not far behind. When the other men left and Miss Grimshaw entered, she stayed put. Arthur laid on his cot and his face flamed red with embarrassment and shame.

“Go on now, Cadogan,” Miss Grimshaw instructed. “I need to give Arthur a once-over and he needs privacy.”

“No.”

The older woman pinched the bridge of her nose. “Neve, I am not gonna say it again. I’m tired of being patient; you had best go.”

“I said no.”

Neve’s icy glare was set on Miss Grimshaw as she took a seat on the grass next to Arthur’s cot. She reached a hand upwards and tapped his temple.

“You want me to stay or go?”

“Stay,” the word shot out of his mouth and he felt the blush intensify.

So she did; Neve carded her fingers through Arthur’s hair while Miss Grimshaw poked and prodded. His whole body tensed and jolted when the woman inspected the bruises on his hips left by harsh, uncaring finger pads. Neve noticed this so she thumbed Arthur’s cheek (and selfishly liked the feel of his light scruff).

Arthur’s chest ached with pain that no amount of morphine or bandaging could fix, and he wanted so badly to have the energy to scream it out, but he couldn’t. Instead it festered inside, black and rotting and ugly.

Eventually, Miss Grimshaw deemed Arthur battered but not severely injured, and she left the two in one another’s company.

Arthur didn’t miss the look of mute pity on her face.

Neve brushed a few strands of hair from his eyes, and Arthur just about melted at the tender care with which she did so.

“Kept grabbin’ my hips,” Arthur said hoarsely. There was a lot he wanted to say. Some of it he should, such as, Neve, I’m scared and hurt and I need a shoulder to lean on. Some of it he shouldn’t say, such as, I want to fall asleep and never wake up. But all that came out was a weak plea for help masked as a recounting of the experience.

Neve’s hand trailed down and traced his parted lips. It was endearing in the way that all of her socially oblivious ways were, but more importantly, the gentle touch was overwhelmingly soothing.

“Kept… Kept praisin’ me for my screams.”

Neve’s eyes were cold, though not directed at him. “Evil corrupts all that is good.”

His brows drew tighter together, and he sucked in a shaky breath. He felt corrupted enough as it was.

“Though it does not always succeed.”

“Think it did long time ‘go, Neve.”

She sighed and leveled her eyes with his; his head was on the pillow, half his face buried away, in the safe warm dark. “Ye’re not alone in this.”

Arthur was about to protest that he didn’t feel safe, that he was alone, but the words stuck in his throat like the stick of the O’Driscoll’s hands on his body. Therefore, what wonders it did that Neve already understood.

“I amn’t gonna sleep, such that you can.”

Given that she turned into a ruthless killer for Arthur’s sake back at the cabin, he reckoned he’d be safe here with her and the rest of the gang to keep eyes out. He just had to have faith, as Dutch would say.

There really was a difference between knowing a thing and feeling it.

Neve’s hand moved from his lips to trace along his hairline, and her brows were drawn together. There was a crease on her forehead; Arthur reached his hand out in return and brushed a thumb over it, aching to pacify her worry.

“S’alright. ‘M alright,” he lied.

Neve shook her head once, twice. She looked so sad. “Ye’re allowed to be upset, Arthur. I was too.”

There was a quiet understanding between the two. Arthur simply nodded and finally managed to relax his body into his cot. Noting this, Neve grabbed a blanket that had been rumpled up and discarded on the ground, and splayed it over her friend. She smoothed it out, then returned one hand to tracing the figure of his face. She tilted her head and studied him. She always did.

Arthur wasn’t quite sure what she was thinking about, but judging by the fond look on her face, it probably had something to do with him. It was nice, he thought, to be given such gentle understanding without the pity.

“Ye’re still Arthur,” she said, voice low and soothing.

Then there was a comfortable silence between the two: Arthur gazed blanky at the tent ceiling, while Neve looked intently into space.

Both were unseeing.

Slowly, exhaustion won out over fear, and Arthur slipped into an unrestful sleep. He fidgeted and couldn’t fall into deep sleep, but it was a reprieve regardless.

And as promised, Neve sat vigil for him.

Arthur remained curled up in on his cot, feeling raw, for the next handful of days. Neve helped to keep him company when she could (mostly between the chores Grimshaw nagged her into doing).

Although, right now, she was out with Javier - she’d gotten it into her head to return the guitar lessons favor by teaching the man how to use a bow.

So instead of having Neve to babysit him, Arthur was with Hosea and Dutch.

“Have you tried walking yet, son?” Dutch asked gently.

Arthur wasn’t in physical pain anymore. Last night he actually managed uninterrupted sleep.

But he doubted he’d ever have the strength to walk again.

Hosea shot Dutch a warning look, but his voice was calm as well. “Arthur, my boy, talk to us. You’ve been silent.”

“I don’t feel like doin’ nothing,” Arthur spat, tone more bitter than black coffee.

Both of his fathers sighed at that. Then, Hosea’s hand came up to Arthur’s head and brushed gently at his honey blonde hair. Despite himself, he leaned into the gentle touch.

“Arthur, we all need you,” Dutch started, and looked to Hosea for confirmation that this was the right thing to say.

“Stop it,” Arthur ground out. “None of you care.”

There was silence, followed by Hosea’s voice, urgent in his need to convey his message. “Arthur, boy, listen. We both know how bad you’ve been hurt, but you aren’t alone. We care about you. Understood?”

Arthur didn’t say anything for a moment, before he got it into his head to ask, “Who’s gonna get the chores done?”

“The rest of us, you fool,” Hosea chastised. “You need rest. We all know it.”

“What I was going to say is, we all care about you, son. And Hosea and I are gonna make sure you’re well taken care of. You’ve always been special.”

The kind, attentive words brought tears to Arthur’s eyes and Dutch was wiping them away before he could do it himself.

“We just want to see you okay, kiddo. Chores come later.” Hosea was smiling kindly at him.

Arthur let out a shaky sigh and nodded. He swallowed past the growing lump in his throat.

And he cried.

Hosea and Dutch murmured gentle assurances, while he hid his face away in the palm of his hand. His breathing hitched and his eyes stung with the tears.

There were two types of catharsis:

The first, and more obvious – the harsh, uncontrollable, violent sobbing that followed any truly upsetting event, or mental break down. These always left a person feeling hollowed out.

The second, and more pleasant, tears of relief. The kind that lifted a weight off someone’s shoulders, while the salty water washed away emotional turmoil like ocean water over seashells on a beach.

And for once in Arthur’s life, it was the second.

Arthur woke sometime later to the sounds of pencil on paper.

He no doubt cried himself to exhaustion, then sleep; Hosea and Dutch were no longer in his tent, also no doubt to give him privacy.

Pity that Neve had no idea what that meant, as she was splayed on the grass next to his cot. Her stomach pressed to the ground, legs bent upwards at the knee, crossed at the ankles. She propped her upper half on her elbows while shaky, unpracticed hands made a sketch that vaguely resembled a bird. Perhaps a raven?

“Neve.”

“Hello, Arthur.” She set the pencil down, then looked up at him. “Feeling?”

“Good as it gets,” Arthur grumbled. She sighed and reached a hand up to stroke his hair. He expected that, but what he didn’t expect was her to start scratching his scalp (almost certainly picked that up from Mary-Beth, by his reckoning). Either way, that elicited a sound not unlike a purr from deep in his chest.

A fond smile tugged the left corner of Neve’s lips. Arthur always liked the sight.

“Ye need to get out.”

It was his turn to heave a sigh, this time. “Don’t know if I can.”

“I’ll be there.”

“I know ya will.”

“Tilly has dominoes. Lenny has five-finger fillet. Hosea has crime novels. Javier has a fishing rod,” she listed out all the possible things to do with near militaristic precision in her cadence.

“I dunno if I’m up for all that, Neve.”

Her gaze hardened. “Up.”

He rolled his eyes. “C’mon, woman, I ain’t in the mood. Can’t you see that?”

“Up,” she said again, and stood. She shoved her book in his face – that collection of poems. It was open to The Raven; in one of the open spaces, Arthur had obliged Neve and drew a pair of the birds on a tree limb. Below, Neve scrawled out a messy copy of the one on the left. “You must draw.”

Arthur weighed his options, but as usual, gave into her insistence. “Alright, alright, I’m up.”

His back and joints popped when he finally moved his body, his muscles, for the first time in days. He stood at full height and stretched. The morning sun provided gentle apricity in the cool air. He scratched idly at an itch on his chest, and blinked a few times.

Neve grabbed his wrist – never his hand, never his fingers – and led him to the stew pot. Wordlessly, she served up two bowls. There was gentle mischief in her eyes when she said, “First to finish, Morgan.”

“You’re on, girl,” he said, and found himself almost smiling.

He won. Easily so, too. But Neve was smiling at him; awkward and unpracticed – he reckoned it might always be like that, no matter how much practice she got at the simple act. The poor woman had grown up with nothing to smile for.

“Arthur, amigo!” It was Javier’s eager voice. “You’re up!”

“That I am,” he drawled.

His friend was smiling. “I’m glad. You come to any of us if you need something; the girls keep telling me they’re gonna speak with you.”

“I believe it.”

Javier gave Arthur a knowing look when he noted the eager way Neve hung around her favorite gang member, then waived at the two and bid a quick, “We’ll catch up later.”

“Alright, Neve. What’d you want me to draw?”

She grabbed his wrist again and led him to the horses – Ginger and Abria, already saddled up, indicating she had a plan. Arthur mounted and tried to ignore the twinge of phantom pain in his ass. Neve mercifully refrained from comment and boarded her mount.

They set off in an easy trot, and Arthur knew better than to try to interrogate her about where they were going. The gentle forest sounds were the only thing to break up the comfortable silence between them, and things almost felt okay.

She stopped in an open plain, far from forests or streams, and dismounted. Then she grabbed Ginger’s reins once Arthur was off his mare, and she took the liberty of leading the two horses and hitching them to an old fence post, though there weren’t any other fence parts left.

Neve walked over to Arthur and studied him for a moment. It was clear she was working out how to go about doing something.

“You need somethin’?”

She remained silent for a moment, before she poked his chest. “Mad girl.”

“Huh?”

Neve’s little smile graced her lips again. No matter how often he’d coax it out of her, Arthur didn’t ever believe he’d get used to the pain of seeing how unsure she was of herself and her ability to smile, or the happiness that overwhelmed it when he realized he was the reason she could finally do so.

“I’m a mad girl.”

“Now, I don’t believe that’s true, miss.” He shook his head as he said it.

She poked him again. “Mad girl. Talks funny, thinks funny. Studies funny. But it’s not ha-ha funny.”

“What’re you gettin’ at?”

“You’re ha-ha funny. Can make a mad girl laugh.”

He smirked. “Uh-huh.”

Neve gave him a gentle shove. She grabbed his hand, and rested it on her shoulder. “Go on.”

“What are you doing?” He asked on a laugh.

“Shove me.”

“Neve, I am not a woman beater. And I have no clue why you’d want me to hurt ya, unless it’s some kinda weird sex thing...”

She stamped her foot and he snapped back to attention from his thoughts. “Go on.”

Arthur sighed and gave her shoulder a light nothing of a push.

And the next thing he knew, the duo were locked in a gentle wrestling match. Dirt and grass stains became readily apparent on their clothes. Neve was laughing, high-pitched and hitching, as Arthur tickled her. Music to his ears and he’d kill anyone who would call it ugly.

Neve wriggled out from underneath him, and Arthur flipped over on his back, then grabbed her wrist and tugged her back to the dirt. He laughed when she fell with an unceremonious thump.

He moved to tickle her again, and she grappled with his arms, until she saw an opening and poked his stomach. He wheezed in mock-injury. Then, side by side as they wrestled, Neve curled her feet up and pushed his hips away as her hands defended from his.

Discomfort and fear washed over Arthur when his hips were touched. But Neve seemed to pick up on that, and she readjusted, careful to avoid his hips. In the lapse off offense on her part, he was back to tickling her. There was an impish grin on his face.

By the time Neve admitted defeat, they were panting and both had a thin sheen of sweat on their foreheads, but each outlaw was grinning.

“I can make that drawin’ for ya, now,” Arthur said after a beat. He was still smirking at her, with that crooked smile of his. “I done found my inspiration.”

Neve nodded and waited patiently, as Arthur grabbed his journal, then set to work. It was ten minutes later that he presented it to her:

A drawing of her laughing, face contorted, no doubt from being tickled. Her hair was splayed out all around her face, as it had been on the ground, and grass brushed against her cheek.

“Perfect,” Neve said, and her finger ghosted over the paper, careful not to touch – and therefore smudge – the drawing. Then, she made grabby hands at his journal, and he shook his head.

“You want ta draw? I’ll getchu a journal. How’s that sound?”

Her face lit up. “Yes.”

“Alright, then. C’mon, let’s go buy you a journal. I can finally get a bath.” Maybe it would also do him some good to head into town, get out more, like everyone had been insisting.

Neve held a light tan leather-bound journal in her hands reverently. Together, she and Arthur were observing some sheep that were to be put up for auction later that day. She’d taken a particular interest in a lamb that eagerly paced the fence line, nosing passersby through the gaps.

Arthur’s skin stung and was tinged red from the vigorous scrubbing he did, and even then, he still felt he hadn’t gotten all of the dirt off. But he kept that to himself lest he ruin Neve’s moment; he’d go to her about it, or maybe to Hosea, later.

It was as she was closing the journal, now christened with its first drawing, that Arthur heard it.

“The lot o’ ya better watch out, or we’ll get Colm himself!”

His stomach flipped; it wasn't even directed at him. He grabbed Neve’s wrist – never her hand – and dragged her to the horses.

“We’re goin’ home.”

Neve sighed and tapped his shoulder, stopping him mid-mount on Ginger. He glared at her.

“What?”

“Deep breaths.”

He rolled his eyes. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Neve mounted Abria, and when Arthur took off out of Valentine at a breakneck pace, she trotted easily behind. He was halfway to Horseshoe Overlook when he noticed she was far behind and, with a groan, he turned Ginger around and ran towards his friend.

She was still at an easy pace, and when Arthur pulled into sight, she offered him what looked like an attempt at a comforting smile.

“Let’s sit.”

Neve dismounted in tandem with Arthur, and tugged him to sit in the open fields with her. His eyes were wide and scared, hands still shaking. Neve pulled his journal from his satchel, set it in his lap, then grabbed her journal and opened it.

Arthur rubbed at his eyes, in an aching attempt to chase the tears away, and then a gentle hand was on his shoulder. Neve thumbed over the group of muscles.

“Draw something.”

“Neve, I-”

“Please.”

He heaved a long, heavy sigh, and looked despondently at his journal. Ever since the O’Driscolls, he didn’t have the energy to put anything new in it. But Neve was insistent, and he was weak.

“Fine.”

Arthur glanced up, and gazed at the Heartlands. Everything looked the same; what was one blade of grass when there were a million others? And who cared about the big rocks of mountains in the distance?

His earlier journal entries would beg to differ, but that was besides the point.

Eventually, Arthur threw down a quick sketch of a herd of horses in the distance. Meanwhile, Neve was making an admittedly lopsided drawing of Arthur, but that pulled a crooked smile from him.

“Hey, I don’t look half bad.”

“You never look bad.”

Arthur shook his head. “Aw shucks, Neve, now that ain’t true.” He patted her back. “Now c’mon, we best get back to camp.”

Neve’s eyes followed his weary gaze, set on the trail that led back to Valentine, and she nodded her understanding.

Been a few since my last entry. The sky don’t seem as blue, Neve’s eyes as bright, or Javier’s music as nice. But she had me sit down and draw with her after I got spooked about some damn O’Driscoll. It helped, oddly enough.

I also spoke with Hosea about my obsessive washing. I don’t know why I do it. It stings and it leaves my skin raw – took a bath today and it went from washing my hands to the point of bleeding to my entire body. He said that I myself am not dirty, that no one touched me.

It has been a long road to tow, but I do believe that perhaps the others DO want to help, DO want me as myself, though it is still hard to tell at times.

Perhaps I’ll find motivation to journal tomorrow. At the very least, I’ll have Neve; the woman is almost like my shadow, but in a good way, if that makes any lick of sense. And of course the rest of the gang though I have yet to be as comfortable with them; they have given me a proper rest from camp duties, however much I may argue that I must pull my weight.

It’s nice to have a reprieve from being needed.

Chapter Text

Arthur woke up crying, and he did not know why.

He groaned and sat up, wiping the tears away. Yesterday he had a good time. Neve got him out of bed for the first time in a week, Neve challenged him to a friendly wrestling match, Neve went drawing with him.

Arthur liked Neve’s touch. He liked the firm feel of her hand around his wrist, or when she scratched his scalp, or when she tickled him. It was sweet and innocent and kind and consensual.

He was supposed to be better now. The gang’s enforcer was always supposed to be just fine.

From outside the tent, he heard Grimshaw’s voice, harsh as ever: “Neve, you crazy woman, you went around all day with your bad shoulder and worked on it?!”

Arthur cringed away from the harsh tone. He missed that week he spent lying alone in his tent all day, because at least then he felt numb, and little things didn’t scare him. He was the big, bad outlaw. And that was supposed to be that.

“Arthur needed gentle touch,” Neve said. His heart broke for her. He was not a man worth being yelled at for, on his behalf.

“If you ripped it back open…” She warned.

“It was Arthur’s day. Not mine.”

“Honey, why don’t ya leave the girl alone?” It was Sadie, and all of Arthur cringed at the word honey. Stupid O’Driscoll ruined such a nice word.

“Ganging up on me,” the elder muttered and soon the conversation faded to quiet.

Neve poked her head in Arthur’s tent. “Wanna talk?”

“No,” he grumbled, and pushed to get up. He’d been so utterly dependent on his fathers, on Neve, on the whole gang for an entire week. And what chores or jobs did he get done? None. “How’s ya shoulder?”

“Pained but will be fine.”

Neve watched Arthur leave his tent, and the familiar cold dread settled into her stomach. Arthur did not look well.

Like jackals circled a wounded animal, Neve circled camp and her Arthur that was depressed and closed off within it. He did not eat all day. He did not speak all day. He did chores and he jumped at every touch sent his way.

Neve did not understand how or why emotions were so fickle. But she understood the feeling: to want gentle touch though the unexpected contact sent a person back to the trauma itself.

Meanwhile, all Arthur wanted was to curl up in a ball and have someone to hold onto. Someone without that man’s yellow teeth or grimy fingernails or beady eyes.

“Arthur, honey, Neve’s been lookin’ like a lost puppy all day,” Sadie started, and he cringed at the word again - and this time, she noticed the grimace on his face. “Hey, y’okay? I- I know they wasn’t good to you, them O’Driscolls…”

“Fine,” Arthur said through gritted teeth.

“Honey, y’gotta talk to us.” Sadie reached a tentative hand out to his shoulder and he tensed, so she backed off in tandem with Arthur’s retreating footsteps.

“Sadie, I got work t’do.”

The woman regarded him for a long, tense moment. Then, “Arthur,” she said, voice low lest anyone else (Micah) hear. “I had the same thing happen to me, okay? You can’t just… do this.” She waved vaguely in his direction.

“I’m fine.”

“Go talk to Neve, that girl’s good at loosenin’ your tongue.”

Arthur scrubbed a hand down his face. “That woman has issues. I ain’t needin’ to make it worse for her.”

“Arthur, she’s your friend - I’m your friend, too. You gotta talk ‘bout it, honey.”

Arthur swallowed past the dryness in his throat and just mumbled, “Don’t say that!”

“What’d I say?”

“Stop!” He shouted and that earned a concerned look from Javier. No, he couldn’t be looked at. He didn’t want to be looked at. He didn’t want to be interrogated. He couldn’t answer. He had to calm down.

“Arthur, talk to me.”

“Whatever,” he said and threw a dismissive wave at her, then stomped off until somehow, someway, he was running through the forest that bordered the gang’s camp.

Arthur’s feet faltered and he crashed against a stump, breathing ragged and hands clawing at his hair. What was wrong with him? He had his week off. He had a nice day, minus the O’Driscoll, but that was a given for everyone.

Honey shouldn’t set him off like this.

He took gasp after gasp but the forest was closing in on him and his scalp hurt why did it hurt and the ground was too hard and it felt like that godawful cellar wait he was in that basement and the O’Driscoll was still touching him and since when did he leave Horseshoe Overlook he had gotten rescued but those grimy hands were still grabbing his hips and his ass hurt and now his cheeks were wet too and what was happening.

“Shhh.”

Gentle thumbs, clean thumbs were on his face. The voice and touch registered as none other than Neve. She traced his cheeks and hushed him again.

“Hey,” she said gently.

Arthur was still beyond words but he at least managed to open his eyes. And the sight looked like her, too.

Sounded like Neve, felt like Neve, looked like Neve - not an O’Driscoll. Not harsh hands and blurred faces that didn’t care about him.

“I want ‘em to stop touchin’ me,” he croaked hoarsely. Neve was retaming his tousled hair when he said so, and she retracted her hands instantly.

“No - no, not you,” Arthur corrected. “I- I jus’ want that goddamn O’Driscoll’s hands off.”

Her hands returned to soothing his scalp. He glanced to see the self-harm marks; they were all fully healed over and were just little white scars. And guilt mixed in with his shame: she had it worse. Way worse.

“They’ll wash off in time,” she said simply. Like it was just as true as the earnesty in her gray eyes with which she always looked at him.

Arthur leaned into her touch, and her free hand came to rest on his chest. That was what made him aware of the fact that it was still heaving, so he took a long, deep breath in and let it out slowly.

“Ye need time. As all things do. Growth and decay and pain and joy.”

He sighed and the comfort of her hands and riddles was enough to make him settle fully. He was okay now. He was just outside of camp, with Neve, and that was that.

“How do I feel better?” He whispered, and for some reason his voice sounded hoarse from screaming.

Neve sighed and settled down herself, so she could sit with him. “I don’t know,” she said after a moment. “But… try to find a new day. That is all I know.”

“Thanks, I s’pose.”

“Talk with Sadie. She has turned pained energy into fight.”

Arthur barked out a sardonic laugh. “Sadie is a great friend, but she is just ‘bout as angry and broken as the rest of us.”

“I am angry, too.”

“S’what I said.”

Neve turned her head and offered him a little smile, somewhere between cautiously hopeful and an attempt at comforting. “Just live life and do things that build, not break.” She only needed to glance at her marred wrists for him to get her meaning. “I promise, it will be okay. Even if it hurts it is okay. Because life is the way it is and there is nothing ye can do for it, but look it in the eyes, and live anyway.”

“Y’sure you’re twenty-six? ‘Cause you’re wiser than Hosea,” Arthur joked, snarky but sincere. Neve’s smile widened. He sighed and looked back down at his lap. “I mean, thank you. For everythin’. You are a great friend, Neve, and I just... I need kindess without pity, I think. Even if I myself am not kind and can’t even give pity to others.”

“Ye amn’t a bad man, and it wasn’t your fault,” she said gently. “That’s just how our world is: cold and harsh and ye can either get hypothermia and go numb, or learn to bundle up and carry on.”

Arthur took a moment to digest her words, then said, “Let’s go on back to camp. I’m... I’m settled now.” He wiped his eyes and nose. “I... guess I should jus’ do like ya say, and take all this one step at a time.”

Neve nodded her agreement. “Give it time. Now come. I’m hoping Javier will sing for us tonight.”

“Ha, yeah. I like that feller’s music.”

“And his friendship.”

“And his friendship,” Arthur agreed.

A cut versus a bullet wound versus trauma had a nasty little habit of healing at different rates.

Arthur’s wrists, once raw and bleeding from the cruel grip of a rope, were gone within a week.

Neve’s shoulder was healed within the month.

And yet.

Arthur often woke up in a cold sweat with the faint feel of O’Driscoll’s on him and in him. Neve fought the itching, burning desire to hurt that emanated from her wrists.

But things in general had a pleasant habit of going on regardless.

Currently, Arthur was out fishing with Neve.

“It was a set-up,” she said at last. She’d been oddly quiet that morning, ever since one of Micah’s threats about giving the Irishman to the O’Driscolls.

“What now?” He asked, and recast his line.

“I figured it out. Micah hear ye saying you were gonna head into Valentine. Bill and Javier had run-ins with local O’Driscolls.”

“So you’re sayin’ that you think he, what, had a bunch of them placed all over the Heartlands on the way back to camp?”

“Mhm.”

“Micah is a bully, sure, but I doubt he’s smart enough to figure that.”

“Their cabins were recently moved-into. Dust layers and old trash,” she argued. “Micah wanted to hurt you. Or me. Or both.”

Arthur sighed. “Maybe so. Maybe not.”

“Tell Dutch.”

“Ha!” He barked out a sardonic laugh. “That little grease rat is herpes on Dutch’s ass.”

“Then what do we do?”

“I dunno, Neve. But I don’t necessarily think you got any kinda enough evidence for that accusation.” He paused in thought, before adding, “Besides, the gang is what matters. I don’t wanna get in the way by causin’ more trouble while we’re just this side of caught by the law and hanged.”

She sighed and contented herself to trusting his judgement. “Does it still hurt?”

Arthur knew what she meant. He wasn’t sure where along the way he started to understand her, but he was happy he was good at it now. “Back there? Not usually. Things are...” He took a steadying breath. “A little more okay now, I think.”

Neve nodded in the knowing way she always did. “I didn’t stop having nightmares until a year after.”

He gave her a sympathetic look. “Y’wanna talk ‘bout it?”

“T’was just a man in the mountains,” she said.

“Your daddy’s an awful man for leavin’ you out there.”

“I am cold. Left to freeze, yes, but indifferent, too.” Neve started to fold her rod up as she cast a glance at Arthur. “He deserves none of me time.”

“No, he does not.”

“He preached love and forgiveness.”

“Let’s go back to camp, Neve.”

Once their rods, bait, and two basses were packed away, Neve grabbed Arthur’s wrist in the way she always did, and they set back to Horseshoe Overlook together.

“You are a man who truly moils for gold, Arthur.”

He huffed a laugh out of his nose. “Neve, silly thing, I’m poor.”

“A good man.”

The crows feet at the corners of Arthur’s eyes wrinkled as he flashed her a genuine smile. “That is very kind of you, though not true.”

“In time, you’ll see,” she said as she squeezed his wrist.

Together, the duo swung by the ledger and dropped a few jewelry items into it. Line after line, Neve Cadogan and Arthur Morgan. They had pretty quickly become the two workhorses of the camp – though Neve with less dangerously violent things and instead sticking with hunting and pick-pocketing.

Then they were at the stewpot. Arthur served up food for the both of them, and they settled in her tent as she flipped her collection of Edgar Allen Poe’s works open.

“Arthur, honey?” It was Sadie.

Arthur froze at the pet name. Don’t remember. He didn’t need to remember.

It had been a relatively good month with a lot of pain, yes, but he was letting people in. He played dominoes with Tilly more, he went fishing with his friends more, he opened up to not just the women of the camp but the more tolerable men, too. He was starting to feel better. He just wanted it to stay that way.

“Hey, yeah, I was hopin’ you could help out over with some of the horses. The Count’s actin’ up again.”

Neve glanced between the two. She knew that since the O’Driscolls there were things that were off. He didn’t like it when his hips were touched. He didn’t like being called honey. Neve knew it, she understood it, but poor Sadie called everyone honey.

“Uh – s-sure, Sadie,” Arthur said and offered a weak smile.

“Thanks honey,” Sadie said, then was out of Neve’s tent.

“Ye don’t have to let her call you that,” Neve said once it was just her and Arthur again.

“S’just how Sadie is, I shouldn’t ask her to stop it ‘cause of some damn O’Driscoll.”

Neve sighed and scooted closer to him. “When it happened to me. I thought the same way. But Sadie’s your friend. She cares more about your well-being.”

“You thought the same way, how?”

“That I had to face all bad things head-on with no shelter.”

Arthur resigned himself to listening. “Alright, Neve. I’ll–I’ll talk to Sadie, ask her not to say that.”

“Good. Otherwise ye could wind up panicking.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Even the small things leave big impacts.”

Arthur groaned as he stood up. “I’ll got speak wit’ her, then.”

Sadie was speaking with Charles, and if Arthur had to guess, it was to do with his specialty arrows.

“Uh – hey, Sadie,” Arthur said and took his hat off, to worry between his hands.

“Hey,” she greeted.

Arthur glanced between the two and took a calming breath. Everyone already knew what happened, and Charles and Sadie both were always kind to him. It was okay.

“Please, uh, don’t call me honey,” he said at last. “It- it hurts, Sadie.”

There was a pause before Arthur could practically see understanding click in her brain, reflected in her eyes. Charles, too.

“Oh – oh, Arthur, I am so sorry,” Sadie said instantly. Arthur held back a snarky comment about her going soft. It wouldn’t help anyone if he pushed his friends away, and it’d only serve to make his recovery harder. “I’ll stop.”

“Thanks,” he murmured, and turned to leave when Charles added:

“You can talk to any one of us men anytime, too,” he said gently. “Me, Javier, your brother, Lenny, Sean, your fathers – it’s nice to see you let us back in.”

“Thanks,” he said again, at a loss for other words.

What wonders it did for his mind to allow others in his life to treat him well.

Arthur was beaming, openly and freely, as Neve finally joined everyone for campfire songs. Scars out, voice loud, and a glimmer from the fire in her eyes.

“I dunno the chords, o’ ‘course,” she said to Javier, who took the liberty of strumming the guitar (though in his humble opinion, she was becoming a good player, as well).

“That’s alright,” he assured. Everyone around camp were giving her assuring looks – the girls, the more amiable men in the camp, and of course Arthur. “Sing a line or two and I’ll work it out.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “It’s, uh, a song I knew from Ireland. I’ll do me best with the English version.” She took a slow breath in. Then:

“Away, away, to the mountain’s brow.” She started out a little timid, but the delighted look on Sean’s face spurred her on. Louder and more confident: “Where the trees are gently waving – Away, away, to the mountain’s brow, while the stream is gently laving.”

Javier got a good idea for what chords to use, and he strummed quietly, so Neve could sing easily over the guitar. She stopped after the first verse and said, “There’s a word I don’t know in English coming up.”

“Go on, s’alright,” Arthur encouraged.

“I sing in Spanish, anyway,” Javier added.

That boosted her confidence even more and she was merrily singing along when she got to the aforementioned part: “Like the rose as it opes to the day; While the leoithne that breathes thro’ the flow’ry dell, shakes the sparkling dew drops away.”

“Away, away to the mountain’s brow...”

The night carried on with Javier’s typical round of songs, Pearson jumped in with The Old Scout’s Lament, and everyone finished off with, of course, The Ring-Dang-Do.

Neve was grinning foolishly and her cheeks were tinged pink with mild tipsiness (though Arthur made sure she didn’t accidentally get wasted). Arthur was laughing and clapping by the end of the song.

When it was time to turn it in for the night, Lenny gave Arthur a clasp on the back as the rest of the gang dispersed.

“I’m glad to have ya back, Arthur. I mean, with us, not just here.”

Arthur grinned back. “Yeah, Lenny my boy, me too. Things are... difficult, but gettin’ better, I reckon.”

“That they will,” the younger agreed. “Night, Arthur!”

Warmth bloomed in Arthur’s chest.

The next day, Arthur and Neve were drawing together. He tried an idea of Hosea’s, to draw his feelings, which he didn’t understand at first. But now as he drew a series of faded handprints on a depiction of himself, he got the reasoning behind it. It was cathartic.

He was right next to Neve on one of the logs, and he stole a glance at her journal. She was halfway through a drawing of Mary-Beth.

Speaking of, the sweet woman in question gave him a gentle wave, and a cheeky grin.

Oh lordy, she was going to tease him for all eternity for spending so much tender time with Neve. Not that he’d have it any other way.

Once Neve finished, she shut her journal and leaned on Arthur while he worked on the last touches of his drawing. He spent the time he worked on his drawing to also reflect.

Arthur had missed journaling during the time that he didn’t have the energy for it, but it was nice to allow himself a break. Moreover, he liked having a break from life while his gangmates were just happy to take care of him.

Things were hard. As Neve said – that was the way it was. But he had a family, and he had time to heal, and he had Neve and her cute quirks and her riddles that he just seemed to understand, and she had her own trauma.

But like him, she could recover, given time. Scarred but not gone, much like her arms.

He glanced down at her once he closed his own journal.

And she glanced right back up at him with a smile that came blessedly easy and naturally to her.

“S’nice to feel wanted,” he said softly, with an even softer smile.

“I feel warm.”

Chapter Text

Hello! For anyone subbed to this fic who wanted the sequel, I have (finally 😅) started uploading it as a separate fic. This work is now part of a series and you can check out Work #2. Hope y'all enjoy! I will be taking this announcement back down in a few days as I don't want to leave an announcement chapter of all things as part of my original work.