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Arthur hears it, but he absolutely refuses to acknowledge it, let alone accept it.
“I can’t kill all of them silently, so…when they chase me, you go the other way.”
It’s a simple enough plan, one that’s ten times better than Micah’s bright idea of ‘shoot the motherfuckers and book it.’ Hell, even Dutch agrees to it, and that’s saying a lot because he’s normally the one cooking up a way to escape a potential shootout. (Or, in this case, a quick way to the Devil downstairs.) When Dutch approves of a scheme, it can only mean one of two things:
- It’s in his favor.
- He doesn’t have anything better.
And, considering how there are four heavily armed Pinkerton’s and only four of their men are in fighting shape—Hosea and Lenny are practically bleeding to death on Bill and Javier, Arthur’s surprised those dirty pigs haven’t picked up on the obvious trail of blood leading to their pile of crates—this is the best they got.
So, when Arthur thinks about it afterward, when his panic brain has calmed and he’s not acting on desperation, that’s probably why Dutch had to lock an arm around his middle so he wouldn’t fling himself in Charles’ face and explain why this plan is fucking stupid. He fights, dear God, does he fight against him. He thrashes, sends a kick backward in hopes that it connects with Dutch’s knee, throws an elbow to the side of his head, but he doesn’t give way, that sorry sack of bones. Javier tells Arthur to shut up lest he gives them away, but fuck that because Arthur would rather get arrested with him than let Charles be hunted so they can bag. Dutch tightens his arm around Arthur’s chest, tries to cover his mouth so he doesn’t scream why sacrificing yourself is, again, fucking stupid, but what barrels up his throat and trips out of his mouth like a sputtering gun spitting out a rusty bullet is a choked plea.
“You can’t—please—”
But Charles—strong, kind, stupidly brave Charles who wouldn’t put himself at risk for anything other than what he believes in, and god dammit if Arthur doesn’t love him a little more now than ever—is as sturdy as a bison when he cuts Arthur off.
“It’s your best bet to escape, don’t fight me on this.”
Arthur wishes Charles would tack his name onto the end of that demand, giving him some idea that he’s saying it more to him than their band of outlaws who wouldn’t be as destroyed as Arthur would be if Charles gets hurt in this dumb fuck plan. He’s lost almost everyone he’s ever cared for, and he’s not about to add his best friend to that growing list.
(Arthur’s also not about to pay any mind to how his chest constricts at the mere thought of lobbying Charles in anything less than the person who holds his heart, but his brain is too busy flagging down the ice-cold dread spider-crawling across his skin and tampering his adrenaline to something worse than fear.)
Fleetingly, Dutch’s arm around Arthur loosens, going from python-strength to barely firm enough to withstand the force of Arthur ripping past him, nearly flying him backward into a loaded crate with how hard he pushes him away. Maybe Dutch can feel the violent tremors cascading down his back, or maybe Dutch’s age is finally catching up to him and he can’t suppress a grown man dead set on not carving out another gravestone for his beloved, Arthur doesn’t know, nor is he concerned about it because in two quick strides, he’s crowding against Charles’ person, clutching his coat in an iron grip.
Passionate, gentle, beautiful Charles, who’s even prettier in the moonlight than Arthur’s ever seen, left cheek decorated with a splatter of blood—that’s not his, thank God—and hair in all sorts of array, looks at him like he can’t believe Arthur’s trying to stop him. As if Arthur wouldn’t follow him into a crossfire it means their final moments are together.
Arthur’s about to protest, offer up whatever ludicrous idea first comes to mind so that Charles can flee with them, but that rat bastard Micah decides to put in his two cents.
“I say let the man go. He’d be doing us a noble cause, letting us go.”
Arthur growls, and even Charles is a little taken aback. “No one fuckin’ asked you, Bell.”
“Well, Morgan, you got any other ideas? It’s not like we got the law on our dicks and our friends bleedin’ out, but, sure. Hold up the line. That bullet in the boy’s guts ain’t going anywhere until we do.” Micah chuckles a dry, humorless laugh that, normally, would’ve had him getting real intimate with the end of Arthur’s gun. Only now, it’s making the shake in Arthur’s hands turn into a full tremble.
He chances a glance at Lenny, takes in his blood-soaked front and the way he’s almost deadweight, slung haphazardly across Javier’s shoulders. His breathing is getting shallow, his eyes barely open. Hosea isn’t doing much better but at least the shot went clean through, he only has to worry about a few stitches. Lenny, on the other hand…
Charles plants a placating hand on Arthur’s shoulder, the other circling his wrist in the same way he did when he was teaching Arthur how to shoot an arrow, gentle and commanding at the same time, and the world stops on its axis, if just for a moment. The gang falls away, the Pinkertons disappear, every thought that’s ever occupied Arthur’s mind up until the moment Charles touches him, his thumb a soothing little thing on the gooseflesh of Arthur’s neck, pulse fluttering as much as his in the tips of his fingers, melts into a puddle and drips into the waves lapping at the dock’s edge.
“I’ll be fine,” Charles says with such assurance that Arthur is damn near convinced right there. But still, the crazed need to voice the words hammering behind his teeth overcomes him instantaneously.
“It’s a fuckin’ stupid plan.”
Charles grins, a soft, barely there upturn of his mouth that could be mistaken as just a twitch of his lips if Arthur didn’t know him any better. But he does. He knows how Charles wakes up in the morning, eyes groggy and with just enough energy to piss before grabbing his first cup of coffee. Arthur knows how Charles’ hands feel in his, rough and calloused from the reins of his horse, the ax back at camp, how such big and strong hands can craft the most delicate of arrows, string the tiniest bead into his hair. And Arthur knows that once Charles makes up his mind, there’s no going back. There’s no use fighting him on it, no matter how badly he wants to fight. It’s what Arthur’s good at, arguing, butting heads , but Charles , with all the ways he so easily lassoed Arthur’s heart and hitched it to his person, his stubbornness towards never backing down was the first spark against Arthur’s flint as to why he loves this unyielding, honorable, stupid man.
One of the Pinkertons tilts his head in their direction, squints real tight to see beyond the glow of the shack’s light. “Y’all see something over there?”
No one answers, but the guy is still staring in their direction, and Dutch is getting real restless by just standing around with two guys knocking on death’s door and bags filled to the top with cash. He tells Charles to get on with it or else they’re sitting ducks, and Arthur has half a mind to say fuck it and throw Dutch to the hounds instead. But before Arthur can take action, tell Dutch to fuck off and let Arthur think, Charles is grabbing Arthur by the handkerchief around his neck and he kind of forgets everything else besides the way Charles’ chocolate brown eyes dance in the flicker of the overhead lamps—how the scar on his cheek and the plump of his lips has Arthur wanting to pitch forward and find out if Charles’ mouth is as soft as it looks.
‘Not the time to get rejected, cowboy.’ Arthur swallows. He allows himself a few seconds to get his fill before Charles runs off because he’s a stingy prick when it comes to him, wants Charles all to himself if he could have him, but instead, Charles is gearing up to host the worst game of tag Arthur’s ever played. He huffs, beyond annoyed. ‘This is a stupid fucking plan.’
“I know it’s a stupid fucking plan,” Charles agrees, because who else would he be if he also wasn’t smart like that, if he couldn’t read Arthur’s thoughts as easily as Arthur can think them. Maybe that’s another reason why Arthur’s in love with him.
And because it’s a stupid plan, maybe that’s why Charles kisses him too.
It’s the shortest, roughest kiss Arthur’s ever had. It’s all force and no finesse, no time to get a good enough feel for each other, and their teeth clicked on first impact, but by God is he gonna think about it for the rest of his life. He doesn’t care that the guys are watching and that Bill is flinging all kinds of insults because he’s a bitch who can’t let Arthur live. Hell, the Pinkertons could open fire on them now and Arthur wouldn’t bat an eye, too focused on the way their bodies naturally slot together, on the hand over Charles’ rapid heart and how their fingers fit in the divots of their palms so easily. As long as his last conscious thought is Charles’ lips on his and Charles’ other hand moving to cradle his jaw and Charles Charles Charles. Arthur doesn’t give a flying fuck.
It’s over before it can get started, and Arthur is left a little lightheaded from the shock of it all. He’s not shaking anymore, the hand twisted in Charles’ dress shirt isn’t trembling, only pulling him closer because Arthur is selfish and he wants the full line of Charles’ everything pressed against him, but Charles pushes him away and breaks their kiss with a breathless gasp.
“I’ll find you after,” he promises, eyes doing that thing to Arthur’s insides he’s only recently come to realize is just the overall effect Charles has on him. “I swear.”
He’s off after that, and Arthur is left standing there, a little off-kilter, his center of gravity lost somewhere between his fluttering stomach and the giddy, fervent explosion of a supernova expanding in his chest. He’s also madder than a wet panther that their first kiss wasn’t under the stars near a glowing campfire like how he’d envisioned it.
It takes Charles mere seconds to walk in front of the men and pique suspicion, then he breaks out into a run and the Pinkertons immediately chase after him. Amid Arthur watching the whole thing go down like a prisoner in chains, Dutch turns to him, expression as sympathetic as it’ll ever get.
“That is one of the most beautiful acts I’ve ever saw.” He shoots the boys a look, checks for the clear, then motions for them to follow. “Come on.”
They make it a total of five steps forward before Arthur swivels towards the lot of them, gun cocked and voice steely when he says, “Not a fuckin’ word.”
Javier snorts, hefts Lenny a little higher on his person. “How about five, compadre? Karen owes me twenty bucks.”
Arthur growls, aims his pistol at Micah and Bill, clicks in the next round because they need to know that he’s not fucking around. “I don’t wanna hear anythin’ from either of you. If you say some vile shit about me and Charles—”
“Don’t get your granny panties in a twist, Morgan,” Bill heaves, moving Hosea so he’s not being completely dragged. “We have more pressing matters to deal with than who you swap spit with.”
“I’ll bitch about it later,” Micah says, which tears a rough ‘fuck you’ out of Arthur’s throat, “as for now, that boat’s calling my name and those lawmen,” he points over his shoulder to the flashlights inching dangerously closer, “are on our dicks! Let’s fucking go!”
No matter how much he wants to shoot both of them because they’re not going to let this little moment go and they will be total assholes when they get back to camp, Arthur can’t argue because the flashlights are closing in and Dutch is nearly out of his sight.
They make it to the boat without a hitch and tiptoe their way below deck to an empty medbay. Dutch goes to find the captain with a little gold in hand, ‘financial persuasion,’ he called it, while Arthur and Javier get to work on Lenny and Hosea. It’s a grueling task, digging out the broken fragments of a bullet from Lenny’s insides, but they manage it without having him take more damage, and Bill only had to knock him out twice to keep the screaming down. By the time the two of them are all patched up and sleeping in the bunks, Micah’s drunk on some stolen booze and passed out spread-eagle on the floor. Javier isn’t too far behind him, followed by Bill, and then it’s only Arthur.
With nothing better to do, Arthur goes to the open window facing the retreating glowing lights of Saint Denis. They departed somewhere around the first time Lenny woke up swinging, and now the city is just a faint line on the horizon. Without a hanging on their tail, Arthur’s mind aimlessly drifts to the camp, wondering if the Pinkertons found Shady Bell in the same time it took Dutch to get as far away from it. He thinks about John and Abigail, worried if either of them is alive, scared that Arthur may return home to find Jack without his parents.
And like how Arthur’s been doing for the past six months, maybe even before he realized his heart wasn’t just his anymore, most likely as early as their first hunting trip, he thinks about Charles. Something in him tells him Charles gave those bastards the slip and he’s safe somewhere, probably lost in the bustle of gossiping men and women demanding to know who could’ve robbed the Lemoyne National Bank and got away with it.
It sinks in, then, like a bolt from the blue striking Arthur so ferociously the wind is sucked out of his lungs. The robbery, the chase. The bags of gold stashed under the floorboards.
They pulled their last heist. The money’s theirs.
Arthur lets out a disbelieving laugh that soon into a full, belly-clutching bellow of sheer joy. No more scams and schemes, no more running. He can get some land and settle down, be it in Tahiti or otherwise, Arthur doesn’t have the slightest clue. Nor does he care.
What he does know, however, is that when he returns, he’ll find Charles and they can have a proper first kiss, one without blood and guns and life or death situations. He’ll probably ask Charles to go hunting with him, spend the day shooting game and exchanging tender looks that can last longer than the few seconds Arthur always gave himself. They’ll pitch a tent somewhere in the wild, their bed rolls a little closer than before, sharing a meal with a bottle passed between them.
Then, as Charles describes the different constellations and explains what the stars and the gods mean to his people, bellies and hearts full, hands touching, thumbs caressing over scarred knuckles, Arthur’ll stop him mid-sentence because he’s selfish and he can’t help himself now that he’s gotten a taste. He’ll kiss Charles like he means it, words never said but always felt exchanged between their mouths. Hands and lips softer than what Arthur could ever deserve because he’s only lived the life of an outlaw, only ever knew how to shoot and survive.
But now, with cash in his pockets and a new dream in mind, one where he’s not just free from the life of a gang, but maybe a farmer, or a horse rancher—a husband. Yeah. That sounds nice.
Arthur thinks he can be a little selfish if just this once.