Guess Who Finally Figured Out How To Use Her Editing App⁉️

“Don’t think about him when I’m the one kissing you, darling.” I’M UNWELL

I was giggling and kicking my feet writing that

I’m just a sucker for angst

forgotten promises

pt two of broken promises (I know I'm so creative with names)

bodyguard!logan howlett x fem!runaway reader

a/n: SMUT 18+ MDNI they, like, never use protection (don't be silly, sheathe your willy) but I’d like to make it 100% clear now that she has a magic uterus and there will be absolutely NO baby-making. Just rocking unprotected sex 😎👍 If you’re tagged in this, it does not mean that I am permanently adding you to my taglist. It just means I saw you in my comments/reblogs/inbox asking for a part two and this was the easiest way to let you know I made one. If you would like to be added to the taglist, feel free to ask.  Summary: Life on the road isn't exactly glamorous. Cramped spaces and too many cheap motels have you and Logan at each other's throats. You feel eyes tracking you everywhere you go but you're afraid to tell him, afraid it will be the end of the road for the both of you. One cheap bar and an explosion later and your whole life is flipped upside down.

“What are you doing?”

You glance over Logan’s shoulder at the register. The man behind it isn’t looking at either of you, just disinterestedly scrolling through his phone. 

“Isn’t this what you do?” You ask, motioning to the pack of beef jerky you’re stuffing down your jacket. 

Logan scoffs and shakes his head. “No, kid.” He takes the bag from you and rolls his eyes. 

“Well, then how do you pay for this stuff?”

“Normally, with the money I get from my jobs. But your dad wasn’t too forthcoming with my last paycheck.”

You feel that familiar burning churn of guilt roiling around in your gut. You’ve definitely added another complication to his life and it makes you feel like nothing more than a burden sometimes. “Oh, Logan, I’m sorry.”

Logan glances down at you. He gives you that familiar appeasing look, squeezing you closer, and drags you towards the register. He tosses the snacks and drinks onto the counter. The guy just barely glances up at you both. 

“Will that be all?” He asks in a tone that says he could care less. 

“Yeah,” you answer, eyes drifting towards the magazine rack. Your face is plastered on the cover of a cheap tabloid. 

LOCAL POLITICIANS DAUGHTER STILL MISSING

Exclusive interview with family on PG. 6

Your eyes go wide and you turn your face further into Logan’s chest. He gives you a confused look before his eyes are snagged by the same thing that caught your attention. 

“Why don’t you go wait in the truck?” You nod and slip out of his hold, being mindful to keep your face away from the security camera near the front. 

That keeps happening. You hadn’t thought you would have made news, but your father was making this a part of his campaign. Claiming you’d been taken by a mutant bodyguard and that he’s been praying for your safe return. “Experts” have been claiming that with no ransom demanded you’re being turned into a message for anyone who goes against mutants. 

Now, mutants despise you and everyone else thinks you’re a martyr. In a few years, you’re sure you’ll be turned into some true crime documentary where people you’ve never met before are crying over your disappearance. 

You slide into the truck and let out a deep sigh. You’d thought running away would be freeing. But even a hundred miles from him, you can still feel the cold grip of your father’s hand around your throat. 

“Twenty on pump seven,” Logan tosses the cash on the counter, eyes drifting to you in the truck. It was instinct at this point, always keeping an eye on you. Especially since one of your father’s more fanatic supporters had spotted you in a shitty diner a week ago. They’d called the cops and tried to bar you and Logan from leaving. 

It hadn’t gone over well for him. 

He’d been trying to keep you a little more hidden since then, but it left a sour taste in his mouth. He’d gotten you out of that house to show you what real life was like, to give you a taste of freedom. 

He felt like he was no better than your father, keeping you cooped up and covered constantly. 

When the kid in front of him doesn’t say anything, Logan clears his throat. He gives him a quizzical look but the boy’s eyes are stuck on the door. 

“I swear I know her,” he mutters. Logan’s eyes drift towards the TV behind the counter and he sees an old news story of you. They’re using the footage of the acid attack, claiming you’ve always been the mutant movement’s target. 

“Can I get twenty on pump seven,” Logan repeats, voice firm. The kid finally looks at him and whatever expression Logan is wearing is enough for him to finally start moving. 

The second the receipt is in his hand he’s rushing out the door. He doesn’t know how long it’s going to take that dumbass to piece two and two together but he can’t risk dawdling. 

He fills the tank up, eyes scanning the gas station the entire time. He’s had a cloying sense of paranoia ever since the incident in the diner. He knows that at some point this little run of yours is going to come to an end. 

He doesn’t know if it’ll end with cops finding the two of you. Or if you’re going to realize the real world isn’t all that fun and leave him behind. He knows that a girl like you, one who's used to the finer things, is never going to be satisfied by the life he can offer. 

But he’s hoping that you come to your senses later rather than sooner. He’s enjoying traveling with you a lot more than he wants to admit. 

He gets in the truck, starts it up, and glances over at you. You smile, the smile that makes him feel things he doesn’t like admitting to himself or you. 

“All good?” You ask. 

He nods, driving off without a word because he doesn’t want to tell you the truth. Doesn’t want to admit what you both know to be a fact. The time you have together has an expiration date and he’s worried it’s creeping closer. 

Logan’s inside some shitty roadside motel. Whatever he’s talking about with the owner is clearly getting heated. You can see the way the anger’s growing on his face. His body is tensed up and he looks like he’s five seconds away from leaping over the counter and taking the greasy man leering at him down. 

There’s a final word exchanged between them and then Logan is storming back towards the truck. He slams the door closed so hard you’re surprised the windows don’t shatter. Normally, you sleep in the trailer. It’s not always the warmest or coziest, but you make it work. 

It’s too cold out tonight to do that and Logan doesn’t have a spare tank for the heating. He’d thought he’d had enough for a cheap room for tonight, but clearly, he doesn’t. There’s a tense silence in the truck as you mentally debate saying anything to him. 

His fists are wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel you can hear it creaking. You shift, sitting up straighter in your seat and uncurling your legs. There’s a stiffness to your joints that has you groaning. It’s involuntary, ripped out of you simply because you’ve been sitting for too long. 

It catches Logan’s attention and he glances over at you. There’s a resigned sort of guilt on his face and it makes you feel sick to your stomach. He’s used to this type of lifestyle, and sometimes you think he’s embarrassed to share it with you. 

You’d never judge him for roadside motels or living off cheap gas station meals. You know you were privileged living up with the wealth you did. But there is something infinitely more satisfying about being poor and happy than there ever was being rich and miserable.

“Look, kid,” he lets out a heavy sigh and you mentally prepare yourself for what you’ve been expecting. You were a fun time, a nice ride, but you’re becoming a burden and he can’t deal with it anymore. 

You let your nails dig into the thin skin of your palms so you can attempt to ground yourself. “I need to make some money tonight, so I just need you to bear with me for a while.”

Like there is every time he doesn’t boot you to the curb, a relieved rush of air expels from your chest almost violently.  “Okay,” you say tentatively, the word dragging out while you try and understand his meaning. 

“I just,” he stops and it looks like he’s struggling to find the words to say to you. You wait patiently for him to finish, or try to at least. “There’s a bar nearby. I’ll find some work there,” his words are ominous. They give you nothing and convey so much. 

Clearly, he’s hiding something from you. You can tell that much from the way he’s avoiding eye contact with you. He pulls out of the motel’s parking lot and turns the radio on. You’ve learned that's his way of telling you he doesn’t want to talk without being a dick about it. 

You want to respect his space because you still feel like an imposter. But it’s hard. He’s being oddly cagey about this. 

The drive is short but it feels like you’ve been transported to an entirely different town than the one you were in before. He takes only backroads and middle-class homes turn into shady shops with barbed fences. Caged dogs bark at the truck as it drives by and you get a sinking feeling in your gut. 

Perhaps it’s a little classist of you to automatically assume a few low-end homes equate to a bad neighborhood. But instinctually you know something is off about this place. 

He parks in front of a run-down bar. Even from here, you can hear loud shouts and jeering coming from inside. You don’t know what’s being said but they’re certainly passionate. Logan turns towards you, the expression on his face so serious you feel like you’re about to be scolded. 

“I need you to stay here. I won’t be gone long, just an hour at most. But you need to stay in the truck.”

Your jaw gapes and you scoff at him. “Logan, an hour that’s rid-”

He cuts you off with a stern call of your name. Your mouth snaps shut and you narrow your eyes at him, teeth gritting together to keep your tongue at bay. “Stay here, I mean it. Got it?”

You nod and he repeats your name, sounding aggrieved. “Fine,” you huff. “I got it.” He lingers for a moment. You don’t know if he doesn’t trust you or is just reluctant to leave you alone. You’re reluctant to be left alone, especially in a shady dark parking lot like this. But clearly whatever is going on inside is worse than whatever could happen to you out here. 

“I’ll be back soon,” he makes this whole thing sound so grave. It makes your brows furrow and doubt churn in your gut. What could he be doing in there that’s so awful?

He gets out and you watch his form under the flickering street lamps until you can’t see him anymore. You sit quietly in the truck for at least three minutes before you already feel the boredom set in. 

You’d thought you’d be able to last longer. You used to go for hours dissociating at your father’s galas. This is different, though. You’re a little afraid to let your guard down here. 

You try to listen to music but you feel bad wasting his gas so you just turn the truck off and huddle under a blanket in the trailer. You try and let yourself fall asleep but you don’t last long. 

It’s too cold outside to really get a good rest and you can hear people moving around outside the trailer. After about an hour of rolling around and frozen limbs, you figure enough is enough. 

As much as you don’t want to provoke Logan or give him any reason to get rid of you, you can’t stay in here all night. Besides, Logan said he wouldn’t be long, you can always just lie and say you were worried about him. 

Satisfied with your excuse you leave the comfort of your blanket behind and slip into Logan’s jacket. You tuck the truck keys in your pocket and walk out into the snowy night. It’s less cold outside than it was in the trailer, you can see why he wanted a motel room for the night. 

A few people linger by the cars, smoking and muttering to themselves. You slip past them, ignoring the feeling of their eyes burning into your skin. You’re sure it's because you look like you don’t belong here. 

The noise in the bar gets louder the closer you get and it reminds you of the night Logan had snuck you out of the house. But you’d had him to lean on, right now, until you find him, you’re on your own. For all the noise coming from the building, the bar is surprisingly empty. 

Only a few old men are sitting around, drinking beers in silence. The bartender cleans glasses behind the counter, sparing you an odd look before getting back to work. There’s not very far for you to look before you figure out that Logan isn’t anywhere nearby. 

“Excuse me?” The bartender spares you a fleeting glance before barely grunting in greeting. 

The floor underneath you tremors and you glance down at it in surprise. You can hear something going on underneath. You figure that has to be where all the noises are coming from. “I’m looking for someone. Tall, mean as hell, he’s got this hair,” you swoop your hands up by the sides of your head, trying to mimic the odd fluff of Logan’s hair. 

“Downstairs.” You nod and move around the bar, trying to get to the door behind him. He reaches out, grabbing your bicep and stopping you before you can get far. “It's a forty-dollar entrance fee, sweetheart.”

Your brow furrows in confusion and you frown as you dig around in your jacket pockets. You’ve come too far to be deterred now. Ignoring the moral implications, you slip Logan’s wallet out of his jacket and give the man forty dollars. 

He nods towards the door and you give him a weak thank you as you slip past him. Opening the door is like breaking a seal. The noises bombard you almost immediately, so much clearer than they were before. 

You still can’t understand what they’re screaming but there’s a violent atmosphere slipping around you as you head down the stairs. The heady smell of cigars and cigarettes threatens to suffocate you. Your eyes water at the smoke in the air. 

You’d think you’d have gotten used to secondhand smoking after being around Logan, but he’s less inclined to hotbox the car if you’re beside him. The second your feet hit the floor you’re being jostled to the side violently by the people around you. 

It’s nearly impossible to elbow your way through the crowd, but you’re determined to figure out what’s in the middle of the cage that’s got them all excited. You can hear the people around you screaming out bets and numbers you don’t understand. 

For one nauseating moment, you think this might be a dog fighting ring, that Logan gambles on it to earn his money. It makes you want to turn around, to shield yourself from the truth. But this is something he tried to keep hidden from you and you need to know the truth about whoever you’re traveling with. 

You can hear the announcer, but you can’t get close enough to see anything yet. “Are you gonna let this man walk away with your money?” There’s a resounding NO! from the crowd that makes you jump. 

A booming voice shouts over the throng of voices, “I’ll take him!” 

“Our savior ladies and gentlemen!” You shove through two men, ignoring the way they complain about how their beer sloshes on their sleeves. 

“Hey-” You glance over your shoulder as one of them reaches for you.  You flick your wrist, sending him and his friend tumbling back into the crowd. You roll your eyes and turn back towards the cage. 

Your eyes widen and so do Logan’s as you finally see what exactly is going on. He’s cage fighting, this is what he’d been so secretive about. Honestly, it’s a relief compared to the brutality you were bracing yourself for. 

You can see his lips starting to form the shape of your name but the man from before is barrelling into his side as the bell goes off. You wince, jumping away from the cage as you hear the meaty impact of his fist against Logan’s face. 

The people near you scream, shouting for Logan’s blood. It’s easy to figure out that he’s been beating everyone he’s gone up against based on some bloody faces in the crowd. It’s smart, easy money. He can always heal, and can never really be beaten, not when he’s literally got fists of steel. 

You’re surprised that no one’s ever caught onto this scam of his. You also wonder why he had been so adamant about you not seeing this. Sure, it’s brutal watching blood spray against the mat. But you don’t care. Besides, he’s ridiculously attractive in just his jeans as he pummels into some guy. 

Maybe that’s not a normal line of thinking. 

You shake your head, shelving that for later as the fight dies down. The man is limp on the mat of the cage and Logan is leaning against the wall, smoking a cigar and pointedly not looking at you. 

You feel that familiar twisting feeling in your stomach and wonder if this was a horrible idea. You should have just stayed in the car like he asked. You’re sure it would have only been another hour of tirelessly rolling around before he came back. But you couldn’t help yourself. 

He tells you so little about himself. If you get a chance to learn more, you’re going to pounce on the opportunity. Maybe it was a violation of his trust. You sincerely doubt that he would ever willingly have revealed this sort of lifestyle to you, though. 

He seems to be under the same misguided intention that you need to be sheltered. It reminds you a little of your father. That might be a cruel comparison but it’s the same suffocating feeling of being kept in the dark to suit their needs. 

The guilt you’d been holding unfurls and blossoms into anger. You find yourself retreating away from the cage and rushing back up the stairs of the bar. You don’t want to watch him fight any longer. You don’t want to look at him. 

You just want him to treat you like an equal. Not like some little girl who’s going to run at the first sign of things getting hard. 

You burst through the door of the bar, ignoring the cold laughter of the bartender behind you. He clearly seemed to think you couldn’t handle a little blood. He wasn’t the only one. 

You’re only a couple of feet from the truck when you hear footsteps loudly stomping through the snow behind you. “What the hell were you doing?” You scoff, unbelieving that he would have the gall to shout at you. 

You whirl around on him and it catches him off guard. His right foot slides against the slush as he tries to stop himself from ramming into you. “I’m not a little girl, Logan! You don’t need to hide stuff like that from me.”

He crosses his arms and glares down at you. “I wasn’t hiding anything,” he insists. But the tone of his voice gives him away. He doesn’t like that he was caught. “I don’t need to tell you jackshit about what I do for money.”

You can’t believe how he sounds right now. Why is he getting so defensive about this? “I don’t care what you do for money, alright. I just don’t get why you felt like I couldn’t know about this.” You hate the way the hurt is audible in your voice. You wear your heart on your sleeve, even when you try and cover it. 

In the same way, he’s masking his feelings with anger, so are you. Just with less success. Something draws across his face, some emotion you can’t discern. His voice goes cold and quiet as he shoves an envelope full of cash into your hands. 

“Go back to the motel. Get a room.”

He storms past you and walks towards the trailer. You follow after him, slightly dumbfounded by how he’s behaving. He rips his motorcycle out from the back and rolls it into a parking spot. You watch him do all this with your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth. 

It’s only when he starts to head back towards the bar that you realize he’s not coming with you. “Logan!” You call out, trailing after him slightly. He barely turns back to face you. “Are you,” the words die on your tongue and you can’t find it in yourself to finish. 

Are you angry?

Are you leaving?

Are you going to ditch me at the next bus stop?

Instead of asking any of your ridiculously pining questions, you turn on your heel and storm towards the truck. You rip the door open with more force than necessary and drive off without looking back at him. But you know he watches, know he keeps an eye on you until he can’t see you anymore. 

Your rides with him are normally silent, but this one feels painfully so. 

You nearly get a room with two beds. But you feel like if you do it will be a horrendous mistake. Reluctantly, you give the man behind the counter enough for a room with one bed large enough for the both of you. 

You’re not exactly excited about sharing a bed with him, not after how he behaved tonight. You grumble to yourself as you drag your bag inside and toss it on the ground. You picture putting up a wall of pillows between the two of you, just to be petty. 

It’s as you’re showering that you realize you might not even have to. He might not come to join you tonight. He won’t know what room you’re in. And he’d made it pretty clear how pissed he was at you for sneaking into the bar. 

Maybe you’ve finally pushed him too far. You’ve been toying with the boundaries of his patience for a while. Little tests to determine whether he truly wants you around simply to have a warm body ready beside him. Or if he wants you because he genuinely cares for you. 

You suppose tonight, whether you want it or not, you’ll finally have the truth. 

The thought keeps you awake. You toss and you turn for hours, fighting with yourself. You should be happy, finally figuring out what’s been haunting you. But you’re not. You’re petrified. You’d rather keep living a lie than finally accept that he truly doesn’t want you. 

You throw the covers off, the scratchy material only further adding to your irritation. You stomp into the bathroom, slamming the door closed behind you. You turn on the sink splashing some cool water over your face to try and rid yourself of the warmth lingering under your skin. You don’t know if this feeling of being uncomfortable in your own body is from pent-up anger or anxiety. 

You don’t care. You just want to sleep this night away and pretend it never happened. But, of course, the universe has other plans. The motel door creaks open as you’re hovering over the sink, debating whether or not you’re nauseous enough to throw up. 

You tilt your head slightly towards the sound. Growing up in your house, filtering through rooms like an unheard ghost, allowed you to get good at recognizing footsteps. Logan has finally decided to grace you with his presence. 

You listen to him as he creeps silently across the room, landing on the squeaky bed. You press your ear against the door and can hear the way the sheets rustle and he cusses under his breath. There’s worry staining his voice and you figure you shouldn’t drag this on much longer. 

You open the bathroom door and flip the switch, turning the lamps on like a disappointed mother waiting up for her teenager. You cross your arms mutely and lean against the doorframe as he winces under the sudden light. 

He jumps, just slightly, and glares over at you. “Thought you weren’t here,” he accuses. He tries sounding angry, but you have a sudden rush of clarity in that moment. Where you would normally focus only on him being upset with you, you can see the truth of his concern.

Same as you, he doesn’t know where he stands in this whole situation. You doubt he had a clear plan when he rescued you from your tower like some ridiculous storybook knight. He most likely thought that you left, the same way you thought he would. 

You remain silent, though, still a little too flustered to speak coherently. Instead, you examine him. There are cuts and blood all over his shirt. Splatters of it on his face. Though, you know if you looked there would be no physical evidence of him ever being hurt. 

His brows furrow the longer you stare, a wall building between the two of you. “Kid?” He questions, equal parts worried and defensive. Does he really think you actually give a fuck about him fighting?

You shake your head and walk back into the bathroom. You rustle around in the cabinet underneath the sink until you find a washcloth. Wetting it, you bring it back out to him. You station yourself between his spread legs, holding the cloth between you like a peace offering. 

He looks doubtful as he glances between you and it. Finally, he lets out a rough sigh and simply nods his head. But when he reaches for it you snatch it back, much to his chagrin. You offer him a small smile and tilt his chin up towards you, gently wiping some of the dried blood off his cheeks. 

He doesn’t flinch or hiss away from the less-than-gentle fabric. He stares at you unblinkingly, like if he closes his eyes for a moment he’ll wake up and this will all have been a dream. “You don’t have to do this, kid.”

You roll your eyes and crane your neck to get a better look at him. “Would you shut up?” You whisper teasingly. 

His lips quirk slightly and you can see his shoulder slump in relief at the sound of your voice. “So, she can talk.” You can’t help the little laugh that comes out of you. He grins fully at that and his hands come up to rest on your hips. 

His thumbs rub soothing circles along the sides of your waist as his hands dip a little lower. “What are you doing?” Your hand drifts down to his neck to wipe some blood off there as well. 

He shakes his head and shrugs, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You lift your gaze to his and your lips fall flat, “Logan-”

He cuts you off before you can finish. In one smooth motion, his hands drop to wrap around your thighs. He lifts you slightly and drops you onto his lap. He grins at the slight huff of surprise that rushes out of you. 

His arms go back to your waist, pulling you closer to him and grinding you a little against him. You bite your lip to stop any noises from escaping. As much as you wouldn’t mind what he’s thinking, you need to talk. 

“Logan,” you scold. 

He smirks and tilts his head patronizingly, “Something wrong, sweetheart?”

“It’s not happening,” you tell him firmly, hand still working on cleaning him. 

He sighs and one of his arms drops away from you. He cups your hand in his, stilling your movements and forcing you to meet his gaze. Gently, he takes the cloth from you and tosses it somewhere you can’t see. “I’m fine,” he whispers, eyes searching yours. 

It’s hard meeting his gaze. The worry and anxiety from the night still weigh heavily on your shoulders. He repeats himself, fingers tilting your chin up to face him. “Alright?”

“I don’t care,” the words come rushing out of you before you can stop them. His brows raise in shock and he gives a slight chuckle of amusement. A lump grows in your throat and your eyes grow wide. “Wait, I don’t mean-”

You cut yourself off and rub your hands over your face, trying to get your head on right. Logan’s patient, rubbing your back and clearly trying not to laugh at you. You finally take in a deep breath and face him again. 

“I don’t care about the fighting,” you can see his shoulders tense slightly like he doesn’t believe you. “I don’t care, Logan. You do what you have to survive and I’m not gonna judge you for that.”

“What if I enjoy it?” He cuts you off, tone harsh as he glares down at you. There's experience in how quickly he doubts you, how quickly he tries to get you to change your mind about him.

You wonder how many times he’s been rejected just for being a mutant. You’ve only ever been rejected by one person because only he ever knew. Your father. And that hurt enough for one lifetime. 

You can’t imagine going for as long as he has and constantly being called a monster for something he can’t control. Your brows furrow and you lean into him until your lips are brushing. He remains stiff beneath you but you don’t let it deter you. 

“I don’t care,” you tell him, pressing your lips to his before slowly pulling back. You wait for him to respond, physically or verbally, but he’s still looking at you with that cold unfamiliar gaze. 

You wonder if maybe it was a mistake, to bring it up at all. But just as the thought comes he’s surging forward. His lips catch yours, his hands digging so desperately into your shirt you know it rips. 

Your arms go to his neck, holding onto him so you don’t slip off his lap. You haven't been this close for a few days. You think it might have made you both feel on edge. There’s a relief that comes from not just having sex with him, but also just being intimate and close to one another. 

It’s a reminder that you’re not alone, that there’s someone here beside you to be a partner and a pillar of stability. You’ve never had that before. Someone that you can rely on and trust fully. You don’t think he has either. 

He craves you the same way you do him. Each kiss, every shared breath, is treated like it will be your last. You don’t know when your father will finally catch up to the two of you. You don’t know when the police might finally recognize Logan. 

There’s no definitive future for either of you. It’s a real possibility that this could be your last night together. And neither of you wants to be upset with each other. Because you were never truly mad. You were always just worried. 

Your hands drop to his shirt, dipping to find the holes in it from his fight and ripping at the flimsy fabric until you can just yank it off. He smiles against your lips at the eager way you move atop him. But he can’t tease you, he’s already annoyed with the buttons on your shirt. 

He pulls back, glaring down at the fabric like it's insulting him. Without another word, he slices through it, leaving it in tatters on your shoulder. You grin, shrugging the rest of it off. “That was yours.”

He grips your hips tightly and leaves marks where his fingers are as a reminder that he was here. He flips you over, leaves you breathless as he hovers over you. “I really don’t give a fuck, sweetheart.”

You’re addicted to his voice. How breathy and desperate it is when he’s with you. It’s a level of vulnerability you rarely get to see from him. He can’t hide himself when he’s with you like this. He wants you just as badly as you do him. 

It gives you a confidence rush like no other, makes your ego grow ten times its size. If you can make a man like this fall to his knees from nothing more than a kiss, then you’re capable of a lot more than you give yourself credit for. 

But you don’t want that tonight. You reach for him before he can go much further, grabbing him by his hair and tugging until you know it stings. He nearly fucking moans at your rough touch, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. The green of them has been wholly consumed by his desire for you and it makes you ache for him. 

“Not tonight,” you tell him. There’s no room for argument in your tone. As much as he might want to taste you, devour you, all you want is to be as close to him as possible. You want to be covered and filled by him in every way you can be. 

His head falls against your thigh, a rough groan tumbling from his throat at your words. You drag him towards you, pulling him up your body until you’re face to face. You smile softly up at him, lifting your head so you can meet his lips again. 

You’ll never get enough of kissing him, of tasting him. Sometimes you have to stop yourself from reaching across the seats and kissing him while he drives. You’ve nearly made him wreck a few times and forced him to pull over so you could both have some fun in the back. 

Addiction isn’t the right word for what you feel for him. It brings along its own negative connotations. The taint of dependency and toxicity. With addiction, it’s a parasitic relationship, hurts you but makes you feel good. 

This is just goodness. This is a kind touch for the first time in your life and finally feeling safe in someone elses arms. This is opening yourself up to him fully and not once feeling like you need to mold yourself into something else to make him happy. It’s accepting him as he is, a broken dog who likes to fight to punish himself. You don’t want to change him or make him “better.” You just want him to be happy. 

You use your powers to help yourself, flipping him over and straddling his hips. You drag his jeans down his legs and flick your wrist, sending them flying somewhere across the room. He watches you with eyes filled with awe, hands drifting over your curves like something to be worshipped. 

You know he’s waiting for it, for you to sink yourself down on him and finally be filled. But you wait, hover over him even as the muscles of your thighs tremor. “You don’t hide things from me anymore,” you warn him. You’re not asking, for once, you’re demanding what you want. 

He doesn’t look angry like you’d been expecting. Instead, it only seems to turn him on more. “Ya know,” his hands drift to your hips, dragging you down and over his cock until it’s wet with your want. Your nails dig into his chest until there’s blood beading under them and you’re trying not to let your noises slip out. 

“I kinda like it when you’re all bossy like this.” 

“Logan,” you grit his name out. It takes everything in you not to look as affected by him as you feel. “No more hiding shit.”

He leans up on his elbows. His hand drifts to the nape of your neck and drags you down until your lips are nearly touching his. “Yeah, I got it, sweetheart.”

Like a taut rope being cut, you sink into him, your hips finally drop and he guides you down every inch of him until you feel like you’re so full you can’t breathe. He lets you linger for a moment, and get used to this feeling while he steals the very air from your lungs. 

He’s greedy with the way he touches you. His hands always moving like he’ll never fully be satisfied with how much of you he can feel. He’s always reaching for you like he needs to make sure you’re actually real and not just something he’s dreamt up. 

Even with how impatient he is, you’re always the one that moves first. You roll your hips over him, moaning at how he feels inside you. It’s like he’s perfectly molded you around him. He always manages to brush against the spots that make your eyes roll into the back of your head. 

The second your hips begin to roll, he’s wrapping his heavy arms around you, grinding you down into him. He keeps you trapped in place, using you like a toy as he bounces you on his lap. Your mind is fuzzy, every bad thought and feeling shoved out while he makes you go dumb on his dick.

You love how boneless you go. You don’t have to think now, don’t have to worry. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, shifting yourself further on top of him until you're practically burying yourself under his skin. 

Not thinking always comes with its own consequences, though. Your powers slip a little out of your grasp. The walls trembling and the drawers and cabinets opening and closing. The both of you have gotten used to the noise, know how to drown it out, and just focus on each other. 

One of these days, you’ll need to figure out a way to have sex with him without bringing the room down around you. That’s a problem for later though. His whispered praises and grunts of your name filter through your mind until there’s nothing left inside you but him. 

“Fuck,” he hisses in your ear, “you’re so fucking tight around me. You close?” He grunts, hand drifting down to rub tight circles on your clit. You dig your nails into his shoulders, nodding your head frantically against his neck. “Words, sweetheart.”

“Shit,” you can barely think of your own damn name. Let alone what you want from him. “Fuck off,” you hiss. He chuckles at the attitude and you almost expect him to stop, just to be a dick because you were a brat. 

But he’s just as close as you are and he’s too selfish to tease. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes down on you as your body shakes against his. He follows quickly after you, warmth shooting up inside you and almost leaking down your thighs. You feel stuffed, like your body’s been pushed to the limit and further. 

You both sit together in silence for a while. You ignore the way your skin sticks to his uncomfortably, instead reveling in the warmth he provides you. Anyone else, and you’d be rushing to get away from them. 

You’re always extra sensitive after sex, every little thing setting you off. But there’s a comfort to the way his hairy ass chest brushes against your breasts and his arms squeeze around you. It’s a nice grounding feeling. 

The tips of your fingers drift over his arms, following the path of his veins and brushing against his fingers lazily. He flips his palm over, encasing your hand in his own wordlessly. Little things like that ease your worries. Makes you feel like something more than just a quick fuck. 

He breaks the silence first, which is rare for him. “I’m sorry about tonight.”

You frown and peer up at him. “I told you, I don’t care about the fighting.”

He sighs and shakes his head, “Not that. I shouldn’t have gotten so fucking mad at you. You didn’t do anything wrong.” You want to interrupt him, assure him that you both acted pretty childishly. 

But you understand it’s difficult for him to express himself verbally. He usually prefers silent acts of apologies and expression, you don’t want to mess him up before he can get out what he wants to say. 

“I don’t want to be like your father.” Your face screws up a little and you shift uncomfortably on his lap. He loosens his grip, giving you room to leave if you want to, but you stay put. “I’m trying not to coddle you, sweetheart, or hide you away from the world. But I don’t like you seeing that shit.”

“You’re not my dad, Logan. He wouldn’t give me a choice,” you try and joke but it just seems to make him more irritated. Sighing you straighten up, bracing yourself on his chest and staring down at him. 

Your head tilts to the side in contemplation and he almost looks uncomfortable under the attention. “I’m not so fragile or sheltered that I’m going to shatter at the first taste of the real world, Logan. I mean, for god’s sake, I’ve had acid thrown at me and bodyguards since I could walk. I know how dangerous it is. Whatever you want to hide from me, I’ve seen worse.”

You let your words sink in for a moment and he looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. You know that it’s odd for him, to comprehend a girl who was afraid to go into a bar swallowing down an illegal fighting ring like it’s nothing. But you’re not lying. Everyday little things are what you’re unused to. But you’ve lived alongside violence your whole life. 

“Look, fighting, sleeping in shitty motels, and your truck, that doesn't bother me. But I don’t like when you hide things and I don’t,” you take in a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself for the worst. This is what you’ve been trying to tell him for weeks. 

A few little words have your tongue tied and make you desperate to cover yourself up again. He can see the shift in your expression, and feel how tense you get. He sits up a little more, thumb rubbing soothing circles over the back of your hand. 

“I don’t want to just be someone to fuck you, Logan. I didn’t come with you so you’d have easy access pussy,” he looks thoroughly amused at your crude words, but there’s something else lingering in his expression. Something like hurt. 

“Is that what you think?” He asks, tone distant. You can’t find the words so you simply nod. He sighs and shakes his head. He eases you off his lap and you worry you’ve truly fucked this up somehow. 

He goes into the bathroom, returns with a wet washcloth. He still doesn’t speak and you’re on edge the entire time he cleans the both of you up. You can see he’s thinking, biting his tongue, and trying to figure out what it is that he wants to say to you. 

You’re impatient, five seconds away from just demanding a response from him. He tosses the cloth and drops into bed beside you. You draw the sheets up to your chest, glaring down at him while he rubs his hands over his face with a tired sigh. 

When he opens his eyes again he laughs at how close you are. “Jesus,” he wraps an arm around your waist, dragging you down into his chest even though you fight him. It must be easier for him to speak when you’re not staring at him. 

“I didn’t go back for you so I could fuck you, kid. I… care about you,” there’s a long pause before he says the word care. You think it’s funny, that he can’t bring himself to admit what he actually feels. But you’ll take it, you’ll give him the time he needs to come to terms with the truth. 

For now, you let yourself fall asleep, feeling just a little bit better about the road ahead. 

Things get easier between the two of you. And somehow harder at the same time. You don’t walk on eggshells around each other, no longer afraid of scaring the other off now. Which also means that you find it easier to bicker with him about little things. Like, not just tossing his trash everywhere in the truck. You’re practically living out of the trailer, the least he could do is help you keep it tidy. 

You know it’s weird for him. Suddenly having someone nag at him not to be a slob or to take breaks in between driving so he doesn’t wear himself out. It’s an adjustment you see him struggle with sometimes. 

You try not to be too pushy, but there’s only so many times you can flick crumbs from his burgers off your seat before you lose it. “Logan!” You snap, glaring at him as you stand up only to find chip crumbs squished into the fabric of your leggings. 

He glances over at you and shrugs, “What?” 

You glance between the crumbs and him with a glare but he doesn’t seem to be connecting the dots. “Fucks sake,” you grumble, passive-aggressively wiping the truck seat off before you slam the door and storm towards the diner. 

You’re sick of being cramped in the truck. You’re sick of the greasy food. You’ve begun to crave salads lately. Which is beyond weird. But the novelty of shitty food and milkshakes wore off a hundred miles ago. 

Logan catches up to you, huffing with irritation as he swings the door open for you. You take a seat in the booth near the corner, snatching up the menu and pointedly staring at it and not him. “Really?” He demands. When you don’t answer he tips the menu down, forcing you to meet his gaze. “What is your problem?” He hisses, trying not to draw attention to you both. 

You lean in, voice a harsh whisper. “How hard is it to just not make a mess? We live out of that damn truck, the least you could do is keep your crumbs on your side.”

He rolls his eyes and leans back in the booth. You’re both sick of having the same fight. But there’s really nothing else to do anymore. When you’re stuck together for so long, it’s the small things that get to you. 

You’re going to say more but the waitress pops in front of you out of nowhere. “Hi!” She beams and gives you her name, the bows in her hair trembling at how hyper she is. “What can I get you both today?”

You and Logan place your orders, and he shoots you an odd look when you only order the salad. “We’ve got a couple more hours ahead of us, you’re gonna get hungry.”

You cross your arms and shrug, “No, I won’t.”

He licks his lips, sucking on his teeth and leaning against the table. “Yes, you will,” he argues with a stern voice. 

You narrow your eyes at him and give him a bitter smile. “Kiss. My. Ass.”

Your stomach grumbles for the third time and you know that Logan can hear it. You’re pointedly not making eye contact with him. It feels like it's louder than the music at this point and you really don’t want to prove him right. 

Without a word, he begins to dig around in the center console. You glance towards him, confused, “What’re you doing?”

He doesn’t say anything, just tosses whatever he’s grabbed onto your lap. You glance down at it and frown. It’s somehow cold as you unwrap it. You pull the parchment paper away and let out a relieved sigh. 

He ordered you a wrap from the diner without you realizing. You take a bite, your hunger steadily easing away. “I’m sorry,” you mutter, pointedly looking out the window. 

He glances over at you and scoffs. “What was that? Couldn’t hear ya, kid.” 

You roll your eyes and turn to glare at him. He’s already looking at you, a teasing tilt to his lips. “I said I’m sorry,” you snap. “I shouldn’t have been a bitch.”

He shakes his head and waves you off. “I haven’t exactly been pleasant myself. I’ll,” he huffs lowly and forces the words out, “clean up more.”  

“I think we’ve just been stuck on the road too long. We’re gonna end up driving each other insane.”

His eyes glance along the signs on the highway. There’s a notice for food and shopping at the next exit and he nods towards it. “We’ll stop at a motel for a few nights. Take a break.” You want to ask him if he’s sure that’s smart. 

It seems risky, to slow down for so long. But you need to walk around, breathe fresh air, and stretch your legs. You’re too selfish to tell him not to stop and keep going. Instead, you nod and smile at him. “That sounds really nice.”

He gives you a slight smile that’s gone as quickly as it came, reaching over and resting his hand on your thigh. You move closer to him and he turns the radio up. You wonder why he doesn’t want to talk anymore but you don’t push it. You’re too excited to finally get out of the truck again. 

The town is nice enough. It’s small, with only a few shops where you buy some new shirts to replace one’s that Logan has torn up. The motel you’re staying at doesn’t have a washing machine so you have to use the laundromat to wash your clothes. 

Logan says he’s going to see if he can find a quick job nearby. You wonder if that means a real job or a more bloody one. You decide not to ask questions, instead taking the little change you have and figuring you’ll try to get the smell of grease out of all your clothes. 

As you load the machine up and put your quarters in you can’t escape the feeling of someone watching you. You’ve been on high alert ever since Logan stole you away from the house. But this is different. 

You’ve gotten used to your own paranoia, you know when it’s real or not. You walk away from the machine, glancing out at the glass walls near the front and trying to see if there’s someone out there. This, oddly enough, doesn’t feel like a police stakeout where they’re going to track you back to the motel and bust Logan. 

This is something different. There is a deep-seated primal fear in you that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Your heart races as your eyes search the dark street outside. What little glow comes from the streetlights isn’t enough for you to clearly make anything out. 

But you feel them, tracking your every move. They’re somewhere nearby, you can’t see them but they see you. You feel sick to your stomach. You glance at the door before racing towards it. You turn the lock, slowly backing away and keeping your eyes trained on the street. 

You look into the shadows and find shapes and movements where there are none. Your eyes spin as your brain crafts a horrible image of some monster waiting outside for you. When the timer for the washer goes off you let out a sharp scream, spinning around and clutching your chest as you glare at it. 

“Fuck’s sake,” you mutter, angrily running your hand over your face and trying to catch your breath. You put the clothes in the dryer and by the time you're done, the feeling is gone. You don’t know if they were never there to begin with, or if they got bored and left. 

You’d told Logan that you didn’t need a ride, you’d just walk the short distance back to the motel. Now, you use the phone on the front counter and call him, telling him you’ve changed your mind after all. 

By the time he picks you up, he looks incredibly concerned. You know you sounded panicked when you called him. You still feel upset about the whole thing. But when he asks what’s wrong you just tell him you got a little scared walking back in the dark. 

You don’t tell him someone was watching you because you know he’ll make you pack up and leave again. You want some stability. Even if it's just for a week. So, as stupid as it is, you lie to him and say everything’s fine. 

When you try to go to sleep that night you feel like you’re being watched again. Even with the curtains closed their eyes burn into you. You toss and turn under the heavy weight of the sheets, struggling to get comfortable. 

There’s a low grumble behind you before Logan throws his arm over your waist and tugs you back into his chest. “Stop movin’ around,” he demands, his voice barely audible. You smile a little at how tired he sounds before forcing yourself to settle down. 

He doesn’t give you much choice, using his body as a weight to keep you pinned. You still feel their gaze, even more now, but his proximity brings you enough comfort to get a little bit of restless sleep. 

Logan’s up before you, he always is. He comes in with cheap coffee and free breakfast from the lounge. You push the sheets off your legs, your shirt sticking to your back from the cold sweat of your nervous sleeping. You feel a little more at ease this morning. 

You wonder if you’re developing some late-in-life fear of the dark. You don’t know why you were so upset last night, you feel perfectly fine now. It’s almost like it was all one bad dream. Logan walks over, handing you the coffee wordlessly and rustling around in your bag for something. 

He pulls out the envelope of cash you keep stashed away and frowns at the contents. “Found a job,” he mutters, stuffing the envelope away and turning back towards you. He leans against the desk, face pensive. 

You rub your eyes, trying to wake yourself up a bit more so you sound coherent. “What is it?” You take a sip of the coffee and your face screws up at the aftertaste. 

“Fighting,” his tone is clipped and you wonder what’s got him up in arms. He walks past you, heading into the bathroom, and closing the door behind him. You tilt your head, gaze following him curiously. He doesn’t normally close the door, he usually likes to invite you to join him. 

Something happened and you wonder if he’s hiding the same thing you are. You close your eyes, taking in a deep breath and closing your mind off to the fear from last night. 

By the time Logan is done in the bathroom, you’re feeling more awake. You can’t just dismiss what happened last night. You’ve never gotten scared like that before. You refuse to ignore your instincts, but you’re also not going to let whoever that was terrify you into going back on the road. 

You don’t want things between you and Logan to grow more tense than they already are. The time away from each other yesterday helped a lot. You no longer want to strangle him when you hear him breathe. You’ll just stick closer to him today and see if you feel the eyes on you again tonight. 

“So,” you start, testing the waters to see if he’s still in a bad mood. He glances over at you, eyebrows quirked in curiosity but you’re tongue-tied as you stare at him. However many weeks you’ve been with him and you’re never gonna get used to seeing him straight out of the shower. 

The towel is draped low on his hips, giving you a taunting look at what lies underneath the white cloth. Droplets drip down his abs and you’ve never wanted to be water more than you do right now. It’s unfair, just how attractive he is. 

You always forget what you’re going to say. You can’t think when he has a shirt off, it’s infuriating. Scoffing, you turn away from him and shake your head. You hear him chuckle, you know he knows what you’re thinking about. 

“What’s wrong?” He creeps up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist and tugging you back into his chest. 

“Logan, dammit,” water soaks into the back of your shirt uncomfortably and you tilt your head to glare at him. 

He smirks down at you, “Cat got your tongue, kid?”

You roll your eyes and push away from him. “I can’t even remember what I was going to say.” You snatch a shirt from the dresser and shove it into his hands. “Put this on.”

He scoffs and gives you a disbelieving look. “Are you serious?” You wait for him, gaze expectant. You’re not gonna be able to think when he looks like this. Sighing, he acquieses and tugs the shirt on. His lips fall into a sarcastic line, “Happy?”

Like a switch being flipped you finally remember what you were going to ask him. “The job you told me about. Where is it?”

You can see on his face how little he wants to divulge that information to you. But you know he’s going to tell you. You two made a deal not to hide things, although, you might be breaking your side of that right now. 

“Some shitty bar a few miles from here. Listen-”

You’re not gonna like it. 

I don’t want you tagging along. 

You should just stay here and read or some shit.

You wonder which one he’ll pick today. “You wouldn’t like it, it’s just a shitty little place where I can make some quick cash.” Look at that, it’s rarely ever your first pick excuse. You must be getting better at reading him. 

“I’ll come with you,” you tell him because you’re not asking. You’re not staying by yourself tonight and you both need the money. You grin at him even as his face falls in disappointment. “Maybe I’ll fight.”

He doesn’t even say anything and you immediately regret what you said. The look he’s giving you would put you six feet under if it could. “It was just a joke,” you mutter.

“Wasn’t funny, kid,” he tells you, tone clipped as he moves around you to grab his jeans. “I don’t even want you in those places, let alone fuckin’ fighting.”

You purse your lips and take a seat on the bed, handing him his jacket when he begins looking for it. “I have abilities too, you know. Maybe I could win a fight.”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “I win because I can take the hits people deal me. You can’t,” you don’t bother arguing with him that you heal too. You understand what he means. You might be able to recover physically, but there’s a mental aspect to being knocked on the ground. There’s humiliation and fear in cage fights, you probably wouldn’t be able to handle that side of it. 

He waits for you to say anything else but when he realizes you’ve dropped the subject he lets out a relieved sigh. “You’ll stay in the truck,” he tries. 

You give him a deadpan look, slipping the keys out of your purse and handing them to him. “No way in hell, but I’ll stay by the bar if it makes you feel better.” He stays silent and nods but you know he’ll try and convince you otherwise when you actually get to the place. Tough luck, though, you don’t think it’s safe for either of you to be apart tonight. Even if it’s just staying in the truck. 

The setup of these places is always the same. Though, this bar seems to be particularly disgusting in comparison to other ones you’ve been to. You position yourself near the corner, your back to the wall so you’re less likely to be noticed in the crowd. 

The fights never last more than a few minutes. And that’s if Logan is feeling generous. Most of the time you only need to be here an hour before people get pissed off and go home. Someone bumps into you and you hear a small, “I’m sorry,” before they rush to claim a stool. 

The crowd’s already begun to die out. Most leave while they still have a little money left in their pockets. You duck your head down, catching the eye of the girl who’d bumped into you. She looks young and incredibly skittish. Her eyes keep darting to the tip jar near the bartender. 

She quietly asks for water but the bartender just shakes his head, tugging the jar closer to him. You don’t know why you’re drawn to her, maybe it’s because she looks like one of those sad pound puppies, but you take a seat beside her. 

“Water,” you order, slipping him some change. When he gives it to you, you pass it off to her, spotting the greedy way she eyes it. You know a runaway when you see one, she clearly needs a little help. But Logan’s got enough on his shoulders, you’re not gonna bug him with adding another person to the mix. 

“Thank you,” she gulps it down like she hasn’t drunk anything in days. You feel your stomach twist with empathy. What little cash you have in your wallet, you slip into her bag as you pass by her. Logan will have made enough for it to be spared and it's the least you can do. 

Not everyone is as lucky as you to have someone help them navigate a new life. 

Logan grabs his jacket, wiping blood off from under his nose and heading towards you. You know he’ll want a drink before you go, he always does. Before he can say anything someone’s shouting the name he uses in the cage. “Hey, Wolverine! I want my fucking money back.”

The big man he’d knocked down earlier takes a step towards him. His friend tries to hold him back, but there’s no stopping him. He’s already had his ass kicked once, what makes him think this is going to be any different?

“Not your money anymore, bub.” Logan scoffs and turns back towards you. You just want to leave now. You don’t want to stay for a drink or go get something to eat. You feel the eyes on you again, but when you turn to find them there’s no one there but the girl. 

And she’s not looking at you. Her eyes are wide and staring at something else. “Behind you!” She screeches, and both you and Logan whirl around to find the man barreling towards him with a knife outstretched. 

Logan moves so quickly that you stumble back slightly. He grabs the guy's arm, twisting his wrist until the knife drops to the ground. He shoves him back against the wall, claws out and pinning him there.

“Shit,” you whisper, glancing around as the few patrons of the bar stare in horror at Logan. The people counting his money stop and tuck it back into the cash box. You clench your eyes shut in irritation, he’s not gonna be getting paid tonight, that’s for sure. 

There’s a strange noise behind you, like someone cocking a gun. You turn around slowly, gasping when you see the bartender pointing the barrel of his shotgun at your chest. He’s not aiming it at Logan, he’s aiming it at you. Like he somehow knows that’s the only way to get him to back off. 

It’s not like he was going to kill the guy, besides, he came at him with a knife first. What’s the difference if Logan’s a mutant? He’s defending himself. Why does no one understand that?

“Get out of my bar,” the old man warns lowly, taking a step closer to you. Logan turns around and finally spots what’s going on. 

“Pay me and I’ll be on my way.” You know you’d be able to heal from the shotgun blast, but you don’t exactly want to go through it. 

The old man laughs and shakes his head. “You’re not getting paid, buddy. Get the fuck out of my bar before I put a hole in your little girlfriend.”

Your eyes narrow in disbelief. You debate with yourself for a moment, if this is smart or not. But the guy’s being a prick and you’re sick of people treating mutants like they’re less than nothing. You flick your wrist and the shotgun goes flying out of his hand. 

You glance over at the cashbox and it comes floating towards you, landing easily in your outstretched palm. “Be thankful I’m not blowing a hole in you,” you warn, glaring at the cowering man. You walk forward and he stumbles back and you try not to focus on the sick feeling of satisfaction it brings you. You grab the tip jar and shove it towards the girl at the end of the bar. “Good luck, kid.”

Logan releases the man from the before, taking a step towards you. You feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and rush towards the exit of the bar. You need to just get the fuck out of this town as quickly as possible, you’re not safe here anymore. 

Logan seems to agree with you. He gets into the truck and doesn’t turn back to the motel. Instead, he turns onto the highway while you keep your eyes peeled on the trees outside your window. There’s someone out there, still following you. 

“Something’s wrong with the suspension,” you glance up from where you’d been working on breaking open the cashbox and frown. Logan’s glaring down at the steering wheel, it seems like he’s struggling to get it to turn properly. 

“What?”

He scoffs and glares at you, “How should I know?” He pulls over to the side of the road, opens his door, and lets in a rush of cool air and snow. You toss the cashbox to the back of the trailer and follow after him. 

He goes to where he’s pulling his motorcycle and you feel like you notice an extra bump under the tarp. “What’s that?” You take a step towards it just as Logan pulls it back. You have to bite back a laugh when you see the girl from last night curled up next to his motorcycle. 

She gives you both guilty looks and slowly sits up. “I’m sorry,” Logan offers her a hand and she gets out of the trailer. He grabs her bag and drops it at her feet. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Find a different ride,” he growls, already heading back to the truck. You open your mouth, prepared to argue, but you can’t force her on him. As much as you might want to help her. She’s better off away from the two of you.

“You’re just gonna leave me here?” She snaps at him, a little attitude finally showing through. 

“Yep!” He gets in the truck and you know he wants to drive off immediately but he has to wait for you. You shoot her an apologetic look as you follow after him, slipping into the seat beside him. He starts the engine, driving off slowly, eyes drifting towards the rearview mirror. 

You bite your tongue, trying not to point out how cruel he is leaving her on a snowy highway in the middle of nowhere. He glances over at you, “What?” He snaps. 

You shake your head and shrug. “Nothing.” You’ve barely finished speaking before he’s slamming on his brakes. 

“God dammit,” he mutters, running a hand over the stubble on his jaw. You can’t help the grin on your face, reaching over to open your door. It doesn’t take long for the girl to catch on, scooping up her bag and chasing after you. 

“You’re such a softie,” you tease him. 

“Shut the hell up.”

Rogue is nice, if not a little odd. She claims to be a mutant too but doesn’t want to give specifics on her abilities. You don’t want to push her but you are curious about the gloves she wears. “What kind of name is Wolverine?” She asks, spotting Logan’s tags. 

He glances over at her and smiles slightly, “What kind of a name is Rogue?”

She goes to say something but you throw your arm out, holding her back as you shout, “Logan, watch out!” He tries to hit his brakes in time but the tree’s already coming down. The truck slams into it and it’s like time slows down, only for a moment. 

You can feel the impact of your body against the windshield, the glass dragging along your scalp and skin. It’s like a million razors each slicing into you. And then, you’re flying through the air, head snapping so hard against the ground you can’t see anything. 

You hear something happening around you, a roar that doesn’t sound human echoing through the air. There’s the sound of metal crunching and someone is screaming in the distance but you can’t see. It’s not like a total void of darkness, there’s just nothing. 

You feel the blood slowly leaking down the back of your skull and something lands harshly against your head. You don’t think much time has passed. When your eyes finally open, however, you’re not lying on the pavement. 

The world around you is foreign. It smells like a hospital but it’s not like any you’ve ever seen. X-rays are hanging on the wall and paperwork is scattered on a desk near the bed you’re lying on. 

Your mind is blank for a moment. Slowly turning back on while you process the sudden change of scenery. You don’t even remember closing your eyes, you don’t know when your vision came back to you or how long you’ve been here. 

The terror sets in quickly. You throw the blankets off your legs, staring down at the pajamas you wear in disgust. Someone had changed you. They’d run tests and done X-rays on you and you don’t remember a second of it. 

You rip the needle out of your arm, tossing it to the floor and running towards the door. Your feet slip on the metal floors as you run but you’re afraid to stop. Everything around you looks more and more like a lab. 

Did someone from the bar call some government agency? You’ve heard horror stories from your father about the tests the military has run on mutants. You’re starting to worry that’s what's happening to you. 

But you doubt the military would make it so easy for you to escape. This has to be something else. You’d heard other voices when you’d been lying on the ground. People who had been trying to help. Could that be who took you?

“You caught on quicker than your friend.” You nearly fall flat on your face, flipping around to see who spoke. But no one’s there. You’re completely alone. “I’m just grateful you didn’t choke out one of my associates.” it’s coming from beside you now. 

It’s all around you, the voice floating through the walls until you think he might be in your mind. “Much faster than your friend,” he sounds gleeful and it makes you even more anxious. “I’m a telepath, darling, nothing to fear. If you’d just take that elevator and come up to meet me.”

You’d have to be an idiot to actually listen to the voices in your head. But you don’t see another way out of here. So, reluctantly, you follow the floating voice’s instructions and slip inside the elevator. 

When the door opens up again you don’t have a chance to step inside before someone’s pushing you back. Logan stands in front of you, hands clamped tightly around your shoulders while he looks you over. 

You sink into his arms, hugging him tightly to you. You’d been terrified you were all alone here. It’s more than a relief to see him again. “You’re okay?” He asks, pulling back to look at you one last time. 

You nod, throat too dry to try and form a coherent sentence. You glance over his shoulders brows furrowed at the people awkwardly watching you reunite. There’s a man in a wheelchair smiling at you, “Ah, glad you could make it.” The floating voice, of course. “Logan here was quite worried about you.”

Logan turns to glare at the man and you offer a slight smile. There is something comforting about him. You’re not exactly threatened by an old guy in a wheelchair. The redhead behind him, however, is bugging you. Something about the way she’s looking at Logan doesn’t sit right with you. 

“Welcome to my school for the exceptionally gifted,” something about the way he says that makes you tilt your head in confusion. You don’t know what he means until there’s a puff of smoke behind him and some kid is walking by with their hair on fire like it’s nothing. 

Mutants. It’s an entire school for mutants. You think you could pass out again. 

“It’s the best place we could have ended up, Logan. This is amazing.” You’ve been going back and forth for an hour. He won’t see reason. He keeps saying you need to leave. That you don’t know these people and it could all be one big trap. 

You don’t understand him, why he’s so desperate to get away from people like the both of you.  You’re rejected in every other corner of society. You could have something real here. 

It hits you at once. That’s the problem. He’s not ready for something real. He’s not used to it because he’s never had it before. At least you could pretend at a sense of normalcy living at home. It’s an entirely new concept to him, sticking to one place for so long. 

“We don’t know these people,” he hisses, leaning over the bed to argue with you. You narrow your eyes but your conversation is cut off by a knock on the door. You sigh, walking away from him and swinging the door open. 

Jean is on the other side, a surprised look on her face when she sees you. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was trying to drop these off to Logan.” You glance down at the towels in your hand and give her a strained smile. That’s a flimsy excuse if you’ve ever seen one. “I must have the wrong room.”

You step to the side, opening the door wider so she can see him. He doesn’t even look at her, too busy angrily unmaking the bed. “No, you have the right one.” You hold your hands out expectantly, “I can just take those for you.”

The look on her face is priceless and finally causes a real smile to grow on your lips. She wordlessly hands you the towels, looking disappointed. You don’t know if it's because of what she was trying to do, or because she couldn’t do it. 

Before she leaves you call out a quick, “Tell Scott I said thank you again. Wouldn’t be here without him, after all.” Her shoulders tense and she rushes back down the hall. Whatever little crush or interest she has with Logan is going to need to be dealt with on her own. 

You’ve got enough shit going on without having to worry about her too. You shake your head and slam the door shut, tossing the towels on the desk. Logan sits on the bed, watching you with an odd look. 

“What was that about?”

“She’s into you,” you tell him bluntly, waiting for his reaction. He doesn’t even blink, just glances between the towels and you before shrugging. 

“Not interested.” You don’t want to admit that you feel any relief. There was never any real doubt. But it’s still nice to be reassured. 

You slip into bed beside him, taking his hand and forcing him to meet your gaze. “I know that this isn’t what either of us was expecting, but this is good, Logan. We don’t have to worry about pretending we’re something we’re not. We don’t have to worry about my dad or anyone finding us.”

He doesn’t look entirely convinced. But he lets out a heavy sigh and drags you closer to him. He tucks your head under his chin, placing a brief kiss against your forehead. “If you want to stay, we’ll stay. But I’m not putting on that fucking costume.”

You laugh a little, peering up at him with a grin, “Deal.” 

There’s a place for you here, even if there isn’t in the rest of the world. You can be safe here, you don’t have to worry anymore. You don’t have to fear the eyes on the back of your head because they can’t get you here. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

General Taglist: @evasmlp ♡ 

Logan Taglist:  @nonamevenus @smexy-bucky-waifu @wh1sp @peony-always @corvusmorte  

@mrs-ephemeral @wolviesgirl @allilium @insomniachox  ♡ 

Asked for part two: @enchantedbutterflies @strawberrylore @ittoscumdump @enananawoah @wotcherboo

@cali0101 @fluffy-b33z @pcrushinnerd @izbelross @saltwaterburns

@likeficsinthewnd ♡ 

Part five posted!

Hi! It's my first ask ever, I usually don't go further in interactions than just like and reblog, but oh god your "I don't know why I bite" fic touched some parts of my soul and my brain so deeply. The way you describe the relationship and interaction between reader and Wolverine, the thoughts and analysis of the nature of their relationship, and how you portray that they actually benefit from distancing - all that is a literal breath of fresh air! It's a literal pleasure to read the healthy dynamic between characters, written so wonderfully by you Thank you so much for sharing your works with us, I wish you happiness and luck in your life!

I hope I won't scare you with my feelings but I'm just so grateful for this fic 😭

I'm honored to be your first ask, it makes me feel like I actually had an impact with the fic I wrote and that's a wonderful feeling. You're not scaring me with your feelings at all, I love having readers in my inbox even if it's just to tell me how much they liked a certain fic.

Honestly, I was a little worried about posting this one because this was more therapy for me than it was fanfiction lol. I've been on both sides of the situation, one where it's a silent toxicity and other times when it's a volatile hurt.

I was sick of seeing readers in fics like this being painted the victim and the character groveling towards them because I know how it is on both sides of the situation. There's a certain toxicity to forcing your help onto someone who just needs space to breathe and find who they are. And then there's also just being a dick to those around you.

Idk, this was more me venting and exploring how I've felt on both sides of the situation. I'm glad you liked it and it seems to be resonating with people. I think it's fun to explore those darker aspects of characters.

Usually it’s video games instead of music but this is pretty much accurate hehe

I HAVE RETURNED !!!

My vacation is over, and Harry Potter World has been left behind. (😭😭😭) I also have the urge to finish the 100k fanfic for Fred Weasley I started in middle school, but that's another day's problem.

I'm going to be working on responding to comments and messages that I've gotten over the past week. I have a few good ideas for some long Logan fics- so, stay tuned!!

I might not be posting anything for the next two weeks or so, possibly shorter. I've been dealing with a lot of life stuff and some mental health problems that I need to start making my priority.

The current series I'm working on will be finished, just not right now.

I usually bounce back fast, so fingers crossed I won't need much longer than a week. I think I just need to rediscover my love for writing.

I loved your Bucky fic so much!!!

The concept was so interesting, it reminded me a lot of the movie paranormal activity. I was wondering if you take requests for him or know other good Bucky blogs?

Aw, thank you so much! I honestly didn’t think I would ever write for him on this blog but that idea got in my head and just stuck with me. It is actually based on that movie, mainly because I watched it a week before the idea came to me lol, good catch. Yes, I do take request for him.

@kinanabinks is my go to recommendation for Bucky fics. She’s what got me hooked on tumblr and the fandom, her writing is absolutely amazing and she’s one of my favorites.

HELLO!!!

I’m going to be more interactive on my blog again, requests have been reopened. I haven’t gotten through all the Logan requests yet (I’ll get to them don’t worry.) But they’re not sparking the inspiration I need right now.

Please send in you requests- I’d love if they were even a little spooky too for Halloween.

I have a vacation at the end of October, so I’m not going to be very active then. Whatever you want me to write, send it in now so I can see it sooner.

💗💗💗💗

𝚂𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝙳𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: Tensions rise as you continue to pull against Dutch's taut leash. You seem to be the only one who sees him for the trickster he is. Infuriatingly, that means you and Arthur butting heads about the man. But you don't expect your latest fight to end with him coming back to you nearly dead.

As much as you’d love to bask in the newness of whatever this is that you have with Arthur, the law has other plans. While the gang has grown comfortable, fat in their complacency, the Pinkertons have gotten closer. You are beginning to realize just how rare these moments of peace are in the life of an outlaw.

“I’m gonna sell her, I swear,” you tell Arthur angrily as you try and get a stubborn Lady to obey your commands. You finally feel comfortable enough to head back into Valentine, you know the woman he’d been with is gone, Arthur told you as much. You doubt he’d have any reason to lie about something as silly as that.  

Arthur laughs and leans down, smoothing over Diablo’s mane. “No, you ain’t, you like her too damn much.”

“You’re right,” you acquiesce. “I’ll sell her to a glue factory, instead,” Lady lets out a stubborn noise, flicking her head back and forth. “Unless you start to listen, you insolent little bastard.” Arthur brings Diablo to a slow trot while you relentlessly tug on Lady’s reins to no effect.

He watches you struggle, laughing as he hitches up Diablo. When Lady comes to a sudden stop in the middle of the road, he lets out an amused sigh and comes forward to take her reins from you. You hand them over easily, nudging the horse with your spur in retaliation.

He hitches her next to Diablo and rounds her to stand at your side, holding his hand out for you. You take it in your own, relishing his touch as he helps you down from your saddle. Your movements are still clumsy but you’re starting to get a little bit better at riding her. Even if she still refuses to listen to you. 

“If you stopped insultin’ her, I’m sure you’d get along better.” Arthur leads you towards the general store and you glare up at him. 

“Whose side are you on, Mr. Morgan?” He chuckles and leans down, pressing a brief kiss to your cheek. It’s chaste and near prudish, but you still find yourself flushing. 

“Not on anyone’s side, sweetheart. But if you want to start getting along with her, you’ll just have to learn to trust her.” You nod, not listening to anything he’s saying, too busy admiring how handsome he looks. 

He seems to realize what you’re doing, rolling his eyes and pushing you forward. A man’s voice booms through the air, interrupting the both of you. “Well, isn’t this a pretty picture?” You pause, turning to face the man watching you from the porch of the hotel. Men with large guns move around the side of the store and come to stand in front of him.

Your brows furrow, eyes roving across the street, suddenly noticing the stark lack of people out and about. You’d been so distracted by Lady that you hadn’t realized just how dead Valentine was. Something glints in the sunlight on the roof beside the hotel. You narrow your eyes, peering through the glare and seeing a man with his rifle pointed at you and Arthur. 

“I’m sorry,” the man calls out, sounding wholly unapologetic. Arthur’s hand tightens around yours and he drags you slightly behind himself. “I should introduce myself,” the man drawls. 

You take note of his finely tailored clothes, and the way he’s not fully leaning against the wall because he doesn’t want to dirty his suit. The pocket watch attached to his vest is real gold, something you haven’t seen a whole lot of in Valentine. He’s too prim and proper for a low-down town like this. He could easily have been one of the men from the city you grew up in, upper-class and elite. He’s not from around here and he seems to, at least, vaguely recognize Arthur. You don’t see this going any way but bad. 

“Leviticus Cornwall, I believe you’ve heard my name before.”

“God dammit,” Arthur curses under his breath, he nudges you further back in the direction of the horses. Your foot freezes in the air as you hear the familiar click of a rifle being loaded right by your ear. Swallowing hard, you risk the slightest glance back and see another black-suited man with the tip of his rifle pointed squarely between your eyes. 

Arthur sees him in his peripheral, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Cornwall. “I know what you want,” Arthur calls out, one hand raised in surrender, the other still holding yours. “But leave her out of it, she’s got nothin’ to do with any of this.” 

Leviticus laughs and tilts his head patronizingly. “If she’s with your ridiculous little gang, then she’s got something to do with what happened to my train.” Your eyes flutter shut, dread filling every crevice of your body as the realization finally sinks in. In your last days in the mountains, the men had gone off to rob a train. 

They’d mentioned the same name a few times but you’d never cared to pay attention to it. It comes back to you now. Leviticus Cornwall. He was here to collect what they’d stolen.  

“I know you are your master’s favorite little lapdog, so why don’t you go fetch Dutch for me and I won’t have my men splatter your lady’s brains against your boots.” Your nails dig into Arthur’s palms, body tensing with fear as you lean further into him. 

Arthur gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, keeping you firmly tucked into him. “I’m afraid neither of those things is gonna happen, Mr. Cornwall,” Arthur calls out to him. He leans slightly towards you, voice lowered so even the man behind you can’t hear, “When I tell you, make a run for the horses.” 

You so desperately want to look towards where you know Lady and Diablo are hitched by the saloon, but it would only give your plan away. Instead, you force yourself to focus on the man with the rifle pointed at you. You maintain eye contact with the barrel of his gun, refusing to look away. 

You try and force your heart to be silent and still, hoping you’ll be able to hear Arthur’s order over the rushing force of your blood. Arthur keeps a tight grip on your hand as the men begin to close in. 

“I’ll only say this once, Mr. Morgan. This will be your only chance to escape my wrath, alive.”

“Right,” Arthur moves you in front of him and you suck in a shuddering breath when you see just how many men surround you now. They’re everywhere, on the roofs of buildings, on horseback pacing the streets, and the worst of them have their guns trained right on you. “Well, I’ll say this,” he rips his hands out of yours and practically tosses you to the side. “Run!”

You don’t think, just blindly follow his orders and take off towards the horses. The shots start going off instantly, mud flying up around you as bullets narrowly miss you. You run in a wild pattern, trying not to be such an easy target. 

“The times of outlaws is over, Mr. Morgan!” Leviticus calls from behind you, voice tainted with wrath as it penetrates the air. “There’s no place for you anymore!”

You’re running with the instinct of a prey trying to outwit a predator who's actively snapping their maw. It feels futile, though, when you’re so wholly surrounded. Arthur comes up behind you, hand snatching up the back of your shirt and dragging you faster behind him. 

Your feet scramble to keep up with his pace as you make for the horses. The men seem to catch onto your plan faster than you’d hoped. One of them jumps in front of you but his body topples to the ground before he can say a word. When you turn, Arthur’s got his revolver out and the end of it is smoking. 

You’d barely even had time to process the threat before Arthur had shot him. You’d never seen what a quick draw he was in person before. If you weren’t feeling the breeze of bullets whistling past you, you’d have time to be impressed. 

You reach Lady and she’s already stomping and kicking her legs out, terrified by all the noise. You grab her reins, hands shaking as you try and keep yourself steady. You don’t have time to let Arthur help you up. You place your foot in the stirrup and jump, you’re barely seated before she goes flying. 

You lean forward, holding on tight as she moves like fire’s licking at her heels. “Come on, Lady!” You shout, not once looking back to see how many of them are after you. The sounds are getting closer and you swallow bile down as you risk a look over your shoulder. 

Arthur’s just behind you, turned in his saddle, and shooting at as many of them as he can. Lady lets out an odd squeal and your brows furrow, glancing back at her. You see a streak of red across her side and feel your blood rush to your head. 

They’d shot her. They’d shot your damn horse. You don’t even like her all that much, but right now she’s the only thing between you and a bullet through your head. Forcing yourself up, you slip the revolver out of your holster and turn like you watched Arthur do. It’s disorienting, feeling your hips rocking forward while you try and keep a steady aim behind yourself. 

There’s no way for you to know which of them actually managed to knick her. But if they can hit your horse, they’re not far off from hitting you. You don’t have time to take in deep breaths and settle yourself, you can only start wildly shooting and hope you hit one of them. You don’t care to spare your bullets, firing off without any real aim and spotting a few drop from their saddles. You don’t know if it's you or Arthur that claims the kills but they eventually start to slow down and the space between you all grows wider. 

Arthur tucks his gun away and rides up closer. “We need to get back to camp,” he shouts. You nod your head and follow along the path behind him. Your gaze drifts towards the wound across Lady’s side and you run your fingers through her mane as she races back home. 

You brush out Lady’s coat as you wait for Arthur to finish up with Dutch. Hosea had promised that Lady would be fine, horses were sturdy but she’d have to make it through a lot worse if she wanted to stay with the gang. You understood what he meant but you didn’t appreciate it. 

It’s only as you finish up with her that you realize what happened on the way back. You’d seen and, possibly, contributed to more killing and you hadn’t felt a thing about it. Not only that, Arthur had seen you shooting at men with no remorse. 

Your heart flips itself into a knot in your chest as you look over to where he’s speaking with Dutch. He was quiet on the ride back and you’d assumed it was because he was worried more people would show up. What if it was because you ruined your image for him? The only former lover of his you know about was a lady like you. But, now, he sees you as someone who’s perfectly fine riding around and shooting at men without question. What if he doesn’t want you now?

You swallow down the lump in your throat and try to get your fingers to still. You’d been shaking from the adrenaline for the last few minutes. Your blood is still rushing so fast you’re getting dizzy standing still. You try to convince yourself that it’s just the nerves of the day getting to you, but you’re not so sure. 

Arthur finally turns away from Dutch and heads back towards you. You give him a shaky smile but he doesn’t return it. Instead, his brows are set with anger and he’s glowering at you. 

You feel your stomach drop as you scramble for a way to explain why shooting at those men was so easy for you. “Arthur, I’m sorry-”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He demands. Your face falls flat and you feel like you might throw up. Has he somehow found out about your husband? “I didn’t realize they’d hit you,” he reaches forward and you frown with confusion. His thumb brushes against your upper arm and you hiss. 

Off instinct, you swat his hand away, fingers stinging at the force. You glance down and notice blood soaking the sleeve of your shirt. One of the bullets had done a little bit more than graze you, leaving a deep gouge in your arm. “So you touch it?” You ask him, only now starting to feel the pain of the wound. 

He stutters over a defense before rolling his eyes. “Come on,” he sighs and places a light hand over your back. He presses you forward, herding you towards his tent. “Let’s clean it up.” He sets you down on his cot and begins rummaging through the chest he keeps next to it with all his supplies. Glancing up at you, he asks “What were you apologisin’ for?” 

“Oh, um,” you feel a bit silly now. You almost don’t want to say it but that doesn’t feel fair to lie straight to his face. “I feel sick that you saw me shoot at those men.”

His brows furrow and he pauses his rummaging. He glances around like he’s waiting for you to finish but you just shrug. “Oh,” realization dawns on his face and he looks a little stunned. “That’s it?”

“Well,” you stutter and stumble over your words as he walks over to you with a cloth and some alcohol. “Yes,” you finally land on.

He tips the bottle over, soaking the cloth in the liquor. “Darlin’, I’ve seen death more times than I can count to. I don’t care about a little shoot-out. I only care about you bein’ alive.”

He presses the cloth to your wound and you jerk back, hissing in pain. He mutters small reassurances to you, soothing you like a bucking horse. “You mean that?” You ask through gritted teeth. 

He laughs a little, kneeling and smiling at you. “Kill as many men as you like, sweetheart, just don’t point that gun at me.” Despite the aching pain in your arm, you find yourself smiling back at him. 

The new spot for camp isn’t awful. The town nearby isn’t much to write home about. Two families have been feuding here since before the war. They haven’t seemed to fully accept this new society you live in. And you’re sure that their crops thrive on Braithwaite and Gray blood rather than water.

You weren’t allowed to go into town with Arthur and the others. None of the ladies were. Dutch had said that the people here wouldn’t react well to so many unmarried women. Especially not women like Karen. She hadn’t appreciated the dig, but she hadn’t argued with him. 

You found it difficult to follow along blindly to Dutch’s whims. Sometimes it feels like you just traded one master for another. Your father, then your husband, and now you can’t do anything without Arthur constantly running to Dutch to get his approval. As much as you’d like to pretend you have a newfound freedom, you know that Arthur will never leave the gang behind. Dutch has practically brainwashed him into a loyal soldier. So long as you love Arthur, you’re stuck under Dutch’s thumb- and he knows it. 

“I said go and get another slab. How hard is that?” Pearson’s voice carries through camp, his tone tight and irritated. Your brows furrow and you turn in your seat to see what he’s fussing about now. 

“It would be a lot easier if I wasn’t havin’ to fight with a goddamn fool the whole time!” Sadie picks up a slab of deer meat and hurls it at the man. He throws his hands up, just barely managing to catch it in time. 

You stifle a laugh, figuring you should have known what was causing him so much grief. Sadie’s been having to follow his every order ever since Dutch changed her over from Mrs. Grimshaw to Pearson. You know it’s driving her mad, same as you, to do nothing but cook and clean all day. 

Even when she was married she had gone out hunting and fishing with Jake. They’d always taken care of your land, they were never house servants. She only knows how to cook because she’d had a husband to take care of, not an entire camp. 

You place your book down on the table before you and get to your feet. You figure you should step in before this gets nasty. Again. You’re worried Sadie might actually stab the man. You can see them both considering it as you approach. Neither of them are happy with the arrangement. Pearson thought he was getting a quiet assistant and Sadie just plain hates him. 

“Mr. Pearson!” You call out before they can say anything else. You lift your hand in greeting and he grunts noncommittally. “If you wouldn’t mind, I need Sadie’s help with a task.”

Sadie’s lip curls up at him and he crosses his arms, leaning back like he has any power to hold over you. “Oh, yeah? What would that be?”

You glance away, eyes down like you’re flustered. Your hand hovers over your stomach and you grimace, “I’m afraid it may be more feminine in nature.” His face blanches and he turns back to the slab of meat before him. 

“Get.” He waves Sadie away and refuses to look at either of you. 

You grin at her, holding your arm out and nodding towards the trees around camp. She chuckles slightly, looping her arm through your own and following alongside you. With Dutch and most other men out of camp today, you can afford to explore a little further than you might normally be allowed. 

“Has he been giving you much grief?”

Sadie rolls her eyes with a scoff and sets you with a deadpan look. “What the hell do you think?” She doesn’t actually give you a chance to answer and continues with an angered tone. “He seems to be of the belief that women are of better use quiet and obedient.”

“Well,” you tilt your head in consideration and nod. “Most men think that. We haven’t yet reached a point in society where women hold much power, Sadie. Do you expect a group of outlaws to be fighting for our rights?”

“I don’t want none of them fightin’ for me. I just want to be able to take a ride, go huntin’,” she throws her hands up and sighs, “somethin’.”

You realize you do have a slight bit more freedom than she does. Arthur often takes you into towns with him or, at the very least, on some rides for space away from everyone. She’s been holed up with all these strange people since they first rescued you. You purse your lips and give her a sympathetic look. 

You lead her further towards the grove of trees and hope some new scenery will help her calm down. 

Arthur’s white button-down shirt lay across your lap. Needle in hand, you check it over to make sure you didn't miss any holes or tears. Satisfied with your efforts, you get to your feet and walk towards Arthur’s tent. 

You don’t sew or fix anything up for the others unless they’re willing to pay. You find yourself doing this naturally for Arthur, without telling him. You're not sure if it’s because your finishing school teacher had ingrained into you the good qualities of a wife, or it’s simply because you want to. 

Part of you will always resent the fact that you can’t recognize your own actions versus your training. You try to keep those thoughts at bay most days, but sometimes, when you do something like this, it’s a little more difficult. 

Orange light glares into your eyes and you lift a hand to block it. Peering through one eye, you watch as the sinking sun sets against the horizon. Orange, red, and pink swirl and dance around each other to create a scene so perfect it almost doesn’t feel real. 

It makes you think of Arthur, of how he would draw it. He’s incredibly gifted with art, even if he won’t admit it. Even with a piece of charcoal, he manages to capture the life of the animals he sees or the people around him. 

After working a few odd jobs in camp, writing a letter for someone or doing some tailoring, you have some meager savings. You’ve been considering buying Arthur a proper drawing kit. You’re sure it would be foolish to spend it all on him, but you’d think he’d like it. 

The people in camp only think he’s good for shooting and providing muscle. As much as they care about him, they don’t see the value in some of his finer skills. And you know it affects him. Anytime you catch a glimpse of one of his drawings he immediately starts tearing his work apart, always calling it trash and a waste of time. You wish that he could see the beauty of his creativity like you do. But a skill like that isn’t rewarded around here and you know he’ll never truly understand just how much more he’s capable of than what he’s been told. 

Your gaze moves from the setting sun to the table in his tent. His journal rests on the edge and you frown. He doesn’t normally leave it behind. Reaching forward, you snag it off the edge and tuck it under his pillow. There are a lot of nosy people in camp, you doubt he’d want anyone getting their hands on it. While you fuss with that, you notice the picture on his table. Or lack thereof. 

It’s been a while since you’ve paid attention to the interior of his tent. Most of the time you’re here, you’re focused on him. But you can’t help and snoop, just a little. The picture of his mother is still there, along with a folded-up one of the gang. But the picture he used to keep of his former lover is gone. 

Curious, you take the shirt and turn towards the chest at the end of his cot. You bend over slightly, undoing the buckles and propping the edge up. 

You lay the shirt flat, straightening out any wrinkles, and your hand accidentally slips toward the turned-over picture frames beside his clothes. You lift the first one and find another one of his mother. Pursing your lips, you debate if you should dig any further. Glancing over your shoulder, you don’t notice anyone watching you or coming close. You bend over a little more and rifle through another frame. 

There it is- the picture of the woman buried beneath the rest. You don’t blame him for keeping it. You know how much she meant to him. You’re just curious as to why he went so far as to bury it below the rest. 

Someone clears their throat behind you and you let out a squeak, slamming the lid of the chest shut. You whip around and find Arthur leaning against the post of his tent. “Arthur,” you're breathless as you clutch at your chest, not having even expected him back in camp yet. “I didn’t hear you come up.”

“No,” he lets out an amused huff, “I don’t imagine you did.” He nods towards his chest and you flush with guilt. “What’re you doin’ in there?”

You tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear and shrug innocently. “Just putting away a shirt I fixed up for you.” He moves away from the post and takes a slow step towards you. 

“And that’s all?” He looks completely serious, as though he’s about to start interrogating you, but you can hear the slight tease lingering at the end of his words. 

“Yes,” you lie, “that’s all.”

“Alright,” he stops in front of you and chuckles a little. “I’ll pretend to believe that. How ‘bout next time you want somethin’, you just come to me?” You nod your head and he steps around you. He takes his hat off and places it on the table, running his hands through his hair. 

“Actually,” you grin at him as he turns around, “there is somethin- wait, what is that?” You demand, pointing to the deputy’s badge on his shirt. 

He glances down with a sigh and rolls his eyes. “Bill went and got us deputized. Don’t know how, but Dutch seems to think it’s best if we want to stay here.” You try not to sigh at the mention of Dutch. He’s been getting stricter ever since the incident in Valentine and Arthur’s obeying him like a leashed dog. It’s beyond frustrating. 

“I can’t believe they gave you all badges,” you can’t help but laugh. The sheriff has got to be touched in the head to have looked at those men and thought they were anything but outlaws. 

“Buncha fools,” Arthur grumbles. He sees the look on your face, the way you bite your lip to keep any more laughter from escaping, and sighs. “Quit laughin’ at me, woman. What was I supposed to do? Say no?” You shake your head mutely and he rolls his eyes. “What did you want?”

“Right,” you clear your throat and let out one last huff of laughter before straightening up. “I need you to do a favor for me. Sadie’s been itching to get away from camp, especially from that old bastard Pearson. Could you take her out for me, tomorrow, or sometime soon? I’m worried she’s going to drive a knife through his skull if we don’t deal with this.

Arthur doesn’t look convinced, eyes narrowed and head tilted in a way that makes you think he’s going to say no. You risk a step forward, taking his hand in your own and pulling him close. “Oh, please, Arthur. It would mean the world to me.”

His eyes meet yours, and you widen them, giving him your best pleading look. He holds out for a minute longer than you thought he would before letting out a rough sigh. “Alright, alright, fine. But she better not cause any damn trouble, she’s got a worse temper than Bill.”

You can’t promise she won’t, so you just lean up and press a kiss to his cheek in thanks. He rolls his eyes and takes your chin between his fingers. He tilts your face up towards his, narrowing his eyes at you, “Come on, give me a real kiss,” you smile slightly and wind your arms around his neck, pulling him down to meet you halfway. You suppose there are worse ways to have to pay him back. 

Arthur and Sadie were both out on a supply run before you even woke up. By the time you’re properly dressed and cleaned, you can see the wagon cresting over the hill. Your eyes widen with alarm when you see Sadie with the reins, driving the horses even worse than you do. 

You know she’s driven a wagon before. You think she might just be trying to give Arthur a heart attack. You can hear them shouting at each other from where you stand and you snicker. You wonder if those two were separated at birth or something, they get along about as bad as most siblings you know. 

You go over to Arthur’s tent and rifle through his bullets until you find a few extra for the revolver in your holster. Eventually, you’ll have to start buying your own supplies. But he doesn’t seem to mind much. Either that or he hasn’t caught on yet.

You load the bandolier on your hip and walk out to meet them as they return. Sadie doesn’t quite park the wagon in time, nearly taking out Bill’s tent as she drives them back into camp. “Enough!” Arthur barks, ripping the reins out of her hands. “I am never lettin’ you drive again.”

“Didn’t know you were such a coward, Arthur,” she taunts, hopping out of the wagon. You find yourself grinning when you see the clothes she’s sporting. Pants, a new hat, and some fresh boots. You’re sure Dutch won’t appreciate her use of camp funds but you applaud her latest show of rebellion. 

You round the horses to greet Arthur as he gives Sadie a bewildered look. She hauls a sack of flour out of the back and tosses it at Pearson’s feet. “Have fun?” You ask airily as you greet him. 

He whirls around on you and points an accusing finger towards you. “I said no trouble.”

“She couldn’t have been that bad,” you admonish, swatting his hand away. 

He purses his lips in irritation and crosses his arms. “She nearly killed me drivin’ back. Women can’t drive!” You gape at him as he hops out of the wagon and begins storming towards his tent. “They can’t!” He shouts and you gasp, face twisted in a bewildered smile. 

“Arthur!” You admonish, chasing after him. He shakes his head, not looking at you. 

He scoffs and shakes his head, looking for all the world like a madman. “Think I don’t remember how you drove when we came down from the mountains?”

“You broke the wheel,” you throw back at him. With his shoulders nearly up to his ears, he continues his stubborn march towards his tent. “Oh, Arthur, come on.” You catch up with him and dart in front of him so he can’t get around you.  

“How about a ride to calm you down?” He looks to Sadie and then back at the wagon with a sickened look and you laugh. “On the horses,” you laugh and grab his arm, dragging him to Diablo and Lady. “Sadie ain’t the only one feeling cooped up,” you tell him. 

His low sigh sounds a little apologetic but you hadn’t meant anything against him. It was Dutch keeping you under lock and key. “I know, and I’m sorry about that. But we can’t risk too many of us bein’ seen.”

“Dutch can’t risk it, you mean,” you grab onto the saddle’s horn and swing up, glancing down at him. 

He frowns, mounting Diablo with more grace than you can manage. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You bat your lashes and shrug, leading Lady towards the edge of camp. “Nothing really, just that it seems to be Dutch forcing us all to lay low.” You take the lead through the trees, ducking underneath a few low-hanging branches. “No one else seems to be as worried, or even know what’s going on out here.”

Arthur slows down and you’re forced to match his gait if you want to hear what he says. You turn back in your saddle and give him a questioning look. He’s looking at you in a way you’ve never seen before. It’s distant like he’s gazing at someone closer to a stranger than a lover. 

“You’re doubtin’ Dutch?” His voice is low, tone giving nothing away to you. 

“Well,” Lady shifts restlessly underneath you, seemingly sensing the change in your mood. “Not doubting per se. I just don’t think things are as dangerous as he makes them out to be. It just seems to be-”

“Do I need to remind you how you got that scar on your arm?” Arthur snaps, pointing towards the slight bullet wound left behind by Cornwall’s men. You blanch as he nudges Diablo forward, quickly surpassing you. 

“No Arthur, I think I remember getting shot at pretty damn well.” You’re getting angry now too, you really hadn’t meant much by the comment. But he had to realize how out of proportion Dutch was making everything feel. The “threats” surrounding you, the grand plan of escape, it was all too magnificent. 

“Look, you can’t be questionin’ Dutch like that. If we stop trustin’ each other or start turnin’ on each other, it’s all gonna fall apart faster than you can blink.” He slows slightly so you can catch up with him but it doesn’t seem as natural as it normally does. 

“That’s not what I was trying to imply Arthur. I’ve been in camp for too long. The world outside seems so distant to me. It’s just hard to believe we’re in any real danger.” You try to downplay what you said. Pretend you hadn't been suggesting exactly what he’s accusing you of. Playing the ditzy little lady used to get you out of trouble in the past, but now, he sees right through you. 

“Well, we are,” he snaps, “and you’d do your best to remember that. Just because you can’t see it, don’t mean it’s not real.” There’s a sense of finality to his words that tells you the conversation’s over. Whatever hope you’d had of a peaceful ride is gone. 

It’s a difficult pill to swallow, knowing no matter how much you care for Arthur, he’ll always pick Dutch over you. And worse, he’ll pick Dutch over saving himself. He’ll never understand just how much he’s worth, or how much he means to everyone around him. He’s a martyr through and through. Always prepared to make a sacrifice, even when it’s not needed.  

You tighten your grip around Lady’s reigns, eyes cast down as you follow along silently beside him. He leads you onto the path towards town and you wonder if you should just head back. You could lie, say you’re feeling sick, and be done with him for now. 

You’re already upset by how the day’s turned, no point in prolonging either of your misery. “Arthur,” you call out. He hums, turning slightly, just barely facing you. “I’m going to go back to camp.” 

He pulls on Diablo’s reins, turning him around so he can properly face you. “I thought you wanted to get out?” He asks, sounding on edge and a little snappy. 

You shrug dismissively, not bothering with an excuse. “Changed my mind-”

“Told you it’d be worth a pretty penny,” your brows furrow as a strong Irish accent starts talking a little further up the path. It sounds startlingly familiar.

“Those wagons are always worth the trouble,” Arthur’s quick to ride up beside you. He doesn’t hesitate as he takes Lady’s reins out of your hand and leads you both off the path. You’re silent as you follow him off the safety of the trail. He tucks you both behind some trees. You have just enough coverage that they can’t see you but you can still see them. 

There’s a sharp pain slicing up and down your back the closer the Irishmen get. You hiss through your teeth, shifting uncomfortably as they continue to talk. Arthur keeps his head low, hat tilted down and you follow suit. They pass by without much fuss and Arthur picks his head back up to watch them go. 

“O’Driscolls,” he curses and the painful familiarity suddenly makes sense. “We need to tell Dutch,” he says, already making his way back to camp. You follow him without much argument, as eager to get back as he is. 

Your heart sinks to your stomach, toiling in hurt the whole way. You know Dutch has instilled a paternal familiarity into Arthur but it hurts knowing the man you chose will always choose someone else. 

Pearson’s ambling back into camp just as you and Arthur arrive. You’re tempted to just go back to your tent but you follow Arthur, knowing he’ll probably need someone else to back up what he saw. “Dutch!” He calls out, interrupting whatever scheming conversation he’d been having with Micah. 

Dutch walks towards you both, Micah following slightly behind, coughing into the crook of his elbow. You grimace at the wet, choking noise. He’s been looking worse and worse everyday. The circles under his eyes are so dark he looks like he’s been knocked across the face.

“Something the matter, Arthur?” Dutch asks, eyes briefly darting to you before looking back at Arthur. 

“Saw somethin’ out on the road.” You cross your arms, mind drifting as you wait to be called into the conversation. You’re roughly jarred out of your reverie as a strong, clammy hand lands on your shoulder so suddenly you’re nearly dragged to the ground. 

The smell of sweat and moonshine sours your nose and nearly makes you gag as Pearson leans against you. “Gost ‘ome news,” he slurs, eyes barely open as he gestures vaguely towards Dutch. 

You struggle under his weight, doing your damndest not to fall into the mud. Arthur frowns and knocks Pearson’s arm off your shoulder. “Get off ‘er, you damn fool,” he grabs him by the bicep, roughly jerking him straight and relying on his strength to keep them both upright. 

“Now, Mr. Pearson, Mr. Morgan, I believe you both have news to share. Seeing as Mr. Pearson is close to toppling over into the mud, he can go first.” Arthur’s lips purse in irritation but he says nothing, only shakes Pearson to wake him back up. 

“Met ‘ome fine mens in the bar. O’durshels, wanna purl.” You narrow your eyes at him and your face twists with confusion. You’re not the only one, the other men around you already look tired of having to deal with Pearson’s inebriated state. 

Sadly, years spent married to a drunkard means you’ve learned the language of liquor quite well. “He met some O’Driscolls in a bar, they want to parley,” you translate, looking to Dutch. 

His brows set with something you don’t recognize and Arthur scoffs. “It’s a damn trap.”

“‘Course it is,” Micah snaps. “Don’t mean we can’t use it to our advantage.”

Arthur drops Pearson’s arm and the man goes tumbling face-first into the mud. He takes a menacing step towards Micah who only grins up at him. “We’d be a bunch of fools to go anywhere near this.”

“Arthur,” Dutch barks his name out like an order and Arthur pauses, still leering over Micah. “I believe Mr. Bell might be right.”

“Oh,” you glare at him, smiling with disbelief. “You’re kidding, aren’t you? Those men are bastards,” you spit the word out with venom you didn’t know you possessed and step towards Dutch. Micah darts forward, protecting him like you’d actually try something. 

“Arthur,” Dutch warns lowly, intense stare set on you. Your skin crawls with the weight of his gaze. You feel like he’s pulling you to pieces, digging around to see which parts of you are weakest. He doesn’t have to say anything more, Arthur walks forward. He’s gentle as he grabs your arm, but he leaves no room for argument as he leads you away from Dutch. 

“Arthur,” you admonish. “You can’t be thinking about this.”

“I’m not,” he mutters, glancing over his shoulder at Dutch. “But I ain’t got a choice.”

You laugh in disbelief and shake your head at him as he parks you beside his tent. “Of course you do. You’ve got the same choice as any of us. Just say no.” You’re praying that he sees sense, that he doesn’t go along with what is a clear trap. 

He only shakes his head and turns back towards Dutch. You should have known. Even if he knows there’s danger, he’ll ride in headfirst so long as someone else doesn’t get hurt. You feel something like disgust twisting you up and irritating the anger already present. 

You look towards Dutch and he’s already got his eyes on you. He doesn’t wear it plainly, but you see the satisfaction on his face as Arthur comes to stand beside him and leaves you. As if you were ever a threat to his authority. 

You turn away from them all, unwilling to watch them ride off as you storm back toward your tent. If they want to go be a bunch of fools, so be it. It’s not your business what mistakes men make with their freedom. 

It’s Sadie that wakes you, her hand on your shoulder, shoving you insistently. Your eyes are slow to flutter open, your mind racing to remember where you are and who you’re with. “What?” You slur, one eye open as you try to orient yourself. 

“They’re back,” she hisses, tossing away the blanket and getting to her feet. You sit up slowly, hands landing in your lap as you let your head sink between your shoulders. You listen to Sadie’s rushed footsteps as she runs away from the tent. 

You’re moving slowly as you rub your eyes, trying to force yourself awake. Whose back?

You try to remember the events of the day and then the realization hits you like ice. Your heart palpitates as you scramble to get up. You chase after Sadie, feet bare in the mud as you run to the entrance of the camp. You’re not looking to give Arthur a happy welcome back, you just want to make sure he’s okay. 

You see The Count’s white head parting through the trees first, then Baylock. You come up behind Sadie, peering around her to see if you can spot Diablo through the trees. You know it’ll be hard with his striking black coat, but you figure you’ll manage some hint of him, even through the dark. 

Dutch and Micah are slow as they amble up to you. Your brows furrow and there’s an intuitive gnawing feeling in the back of your mind. John comes out of his tent at the sound of hooves, moving to stand beside you. A few others join the welcoming party but you’re not paying any attention to them.

You move away from Sadie and take a step closer to the men now broaching the perimeter of camp. Your hand balls into the fabric of your night dress and you suck in a sharp breath when you realize they’re riding back alone. 

Red-hot anger hits you like a hammer knocking a blade into place. You run towards Dutch, not even waiting for him to be fully off his saddle before you start hollering at him. “Where is he? Did he have to stay behind? What’s going on?” 

Dutch holds his hands up, lips curled back in irritation as he skirts around you. “There were some complications,” Micah snipes as he jumps down from his horse. His lips are twisted up, humor coating his rotten voice. 

Your chest heaves with panic, heart tapping an odd pitter-patter as you try and process what the hell that means. 

“Complications!” You shout, uncaring for the way the others are staring at you. “Where the hell is Arthur?” Dutch tries to walk away from you, giving you a bewildered sort of look. He’s looking at you like you’re some sort of ranting madman wandering in from the woods. You may be ankle-deep in mud, wearing nothing but a nightgown, but you are not crazy. And you will not let him treat you like you are. 

You shoot forward and shove at the back of his shoulder. You catch him off guard and he stumbles slightly. You reach for him but Micah rushes forward, snatching up your left wrist before you can try again. You don’t see anything but red as you whip around and snap your hand as hard as you can against his cheek. 

You hear the sound your skin makes against his, see the bright burning mark on his face, but you feel no sting. You rip your wrist out of his hold and turn back towards Dutch. “You wicked little-”

“You left him, didn’t you?” You interrupt Micah’s low-brow insult and wait for Dutch to answer. He’s got a surprised look on his face as he takes you in. As if he hadn’t expected you to do anything but sit back and obey. 

His silence is the only answer you need as he tries to turn away from you again. “After everything he’s done for you! You just leave him!” You sound more heartbroken than he looks and it’s devastating. He left him to the mercies of O’Driscolls and he doesn’t seem to care at all. 

“We didn’t leave him!” Dutch shouts, voice cracking slightly. He snatches up your arm, dragging you away from Micah and trying to isolate you from the others. He’s pulling you to his tent, trying to keep you silent so you don’t cause a big scene in front of the rest of camp. You won’t let him do this, you refuse to let him keep his perfect mask of the unfaltering leader. 

You dig your feet into the ground and feel the cold wet rush of mud filtering around your legs as he tries to drag you forward. “This is childish,” he snaps, glaring at you and letting your arm go. You know there’ll be a nasty purple bruise where he’d held you but you could care less right now. 

“You didn’t leave him? What the hell do you call this?” You gesture around wildly, not fully comprehending that this isn’t just one bad dream. “You don’t understand the cruelty of those men. What you just left him to-”

“Excuse me?” Dutch’s voice is low now, no longer is he shouting. Instead, he stalks towards you in two easy steps. 

“Easy,” John warns, coming up behind you both. 

Neither of you pay him any mind. You take a step closer, nearly nose to nose with Dutch, refusing to be intimidated by him. “This isn’t your fight, Mrs. Rowe. These aren’t your people, how dare you-”

“Arthur is my people,” you interrupt, voice a deadly whisper. “How dare you leave him. Fearsome Dutch Van der Linde,” you taunt and his nostrils flair at your impudence, “can’t even keep his people safe. Tell me, if you’re such a great leader, a man who’s always got a plan- what is it? What is your great plan? How are you going to get my Arthur back from this?”

Dutch’s face blanches and it’s the first time you’ve ever seen anything genuine appear. He almost looks concerned. And not for himself or his image, but for Arthur. It makes you hesitate for a moment, startling a step back from him with a furrow between your brows. 

“I’ve got a plan,” he whispers, eyes wide like he’s trying to convince himself. He turns and looks at the rest of the gang, most of them having woken up while you’d been shouting. “I have got a plan!” He yells, turning back towards his tent and storming off. 

Micah follows behind him, shoulder slamming into yours as he passes. You grunt, tripping forward and glaring at his back. You wouldn’t mind putting a bullet between that bastard’s eyes. 

Your mind races with everything the O’Drsicolls had put you and Sadie through. Your skin crawls with the way their hands and weapons had felt against you. You swallow the bile in your throat and turn towards the horses. 

John is right behind you, having been lurking at the edges of your and Dutch’s fight. “Where’re you goin’?” He asks with a tired sigh. 

“Where do you think?” You snap, reaching for Lady. 

Charles calls out your name and you turn to see him standing behind John with Hosea. Out of everyone in camp, you’d think these would be the three men joining you, not trying to stop you like they clearly are. 

You scoff in disbelief, a sardonic smile on your face. “That's it?” you demand, a disgusted glare directed at each of them. “You’re just going to abandon him too?”

“We’re not abandoning him,” Hosea objects, taking a step closer. You flinch away from him and he frowns. “You don’t know these men-”

“The hell I don’t! I’ve got the scars from what they did to me. I barely survived it.” Hosea winces away from your words. 

“Dutch has a plan,” he tells you, but it doesn’t even sound like he believes himself. “We just need to wait.”

“What’re you going to do?” Charles adds, and it feels remarkably like they’re circling you, herding you away from your horse. “You don’t even have a gun and you’re just going to ride into an O’Driscoll camp.”

“I will,” you tell him, all the sincerity in the world backing you up. 

“And you’ll get yourself killed,” John snaps. “I want them dead just as bad, but you are only going to get yourself hurt or caught. We only need some time, we’re not abandoning him. But we can’t just go in guns blazin’.”

“When has that ever stopped any of you?” You snap. You feel all your anger, all your determination, slip right out through the bottom of your bare feet. You know from their faces there’s going to be no arguing with them. They’re just as bad as Arthur, just as blind. 

They truly believe that Dutch has any clue what he’s doing. How could you possibly be the only one to see the truth of what he is? He’s a conman, decorated as a friend, father, brother, leader. He takes whatever form he wants and he knows how to use it against those around him. There’s no plan, there’s no grand escape to some tropical paradise. 

“You’re not leaving tonight,” Charles tells you and you wish you had the energy to cry. You want to weep for Arthur. Here stood the people he would sacrifice himself for, and they aren’t going to kill a few O’Driscolls to save him. 

You let them lead you back to your tent and look toward the horizon. You’re not going to be allowed to leave this camp. And even if there was a plan to rescue Arthur, you’d never be told of it. All you can do is wait. 

You stay up all night, sitting by the fire and forcing yourself to tolerate the feeling of Charles watching you the whole time. You don’t know what it is that makes you look away from the flames and towards the trees, but something pulls at you. 

As the sun crests the horizon, you place your cup of coffee down and turn. Over your shoulder, barely visible, a horse struggles along the path. You squint, head tilting this way and that so you might be able to better make out what it is. You get to your feet and hear Charles follow you. 

“Oh, god,” you gasp, making a run for the horse just as the rising sun illuminates it. Arthur is slumped over Diablo’s head, blood soaked through his shirt. You don’t make it to him before he slips off the saddle and lands in the mud. Diablo stands over him, nosing at his neck and cheek. 

Charles races behind you as you slide into the mud, hands roving over Arthur’s chest until you find the burned-over wound on his shoulder. You press your fingers to his throat, holding your breath while you pray to feel the beat of life within him still. 

“Oh, thank god,” you whisper when you feel the faintest thud against the tip of your fingers. Charles kneels beside you and you both throw an arm over your shoulders, lifting Arthur to his feet. “Susan!” You scream the old lady's name until you see her stumble out of her tent. 

A few of the other’s still awake all stand, Dutch included. “He needs help!” You shout, Charles helping you drag him towards her. 

“Bring him over here!” She shouts, clearing off Arthur’s cot and motioning for you to lay him down. You stumble under Arthur’s weight, ankle rolling the wrong way as you struggle to keep up his limp body. Charles helps as much as he can but you can barely stay standing. Dutch runs over to you, you share a brief look before he slips Arthur’s arm off your shoulder and carries him the rest of the way to Mrs. Grimshaw. 

You turn towards the tent of women and by now they’re all up, watching everything with wide horrified eyes. “Tilly, help me,” you demand, rushing towards the water boiling for Pearson’s stew. She snaps into action, racing behind you and passing you a cloth to lift the scalding pot off the fire. You both carry it over to Mrs. Grimshaw and she barely spares you a glance, too focused on Arthur. 

You can’t look at him for too long, can’t bear to face the way his eyes stare up at nothing. He looks too much like the corpses you’ve seen. But you know you felt life inside him. You couldn’t have made something like that up. 

Mrs. Grimshaw slices through his shirt and hisses at what she sees. You move past Dutch and peer over her shoulder with Tilly. “Oh, you fool,” she mutters. You shake your head when you see what he’s done to his shoulder. You know he did the best with what he had, but gunpowder is a risky move to close up a bullet hole. 

If you’re not careful with how you treat his wound, it’s more than likely to get infected. Besides the gunshot, judging from the bruises on his body, you can tell he was beaten to within an inch of his life. He’d barely been there a day and they’d nearly killed him. If what they’d done to you wasn’t reason enough to want the O’Drsicolls dead, this was. 

“Susan,” Dutch whispers and he sounds so disappointed, “sit by him. Take care of him. Keep him alive.” You refuse to look at Dutch, dipping a cloth into the purified water and wringing it out. You pass it to Susan who only nods her head. 

Tilly draws the tent flaps closed, pushing Dutch the rest of the way out. Susan presses the cloth gently to the area around Arthur’s wound and his shoulder jerks slightly. “He’s burned himself up,” Tilly mutters, rooting through his supply trunk and ripping up some of his clean shirts for extra cloth. 

“Closed up the wound,” Susan mutters, “but we’ll need to watch for infection.” Her hand drifts down his chest, pressing down on one of the purple and yellow splotches along his ribs. His eyes shoot open for a moment, a pained groan coming from his cracked lips. 

“Broken rib?” You ask, rooting around in his table for some of the ointment Hosea had made for him. She hums an affirmative and you hear Tilly rip up some more cloth for binding. 

“It’s gonna be a long night, you best listen to every damn thing I tell you,” Susan snaps, not taking her eyes off of Arthur. You nod your head silently, pulling out the tin of salve and presenting it to her. Your eyes drift towards Arthur and you let out a shuddering breath, not willing to look at his broken form for more than a few moments. 

Susan helped the most the first night Arthur was back. It was because of her that he made it. Tilly and you assisted her the best you could. But she had the knowledge only a doctor should as she staved the infection away from his wound. 

She wasn’t capable of a miracle, but this seemed damn close. Still, even with all the work you’d put in, someone had to stay by his side at night, make sure he didn’t slip away quietly. You volunteered yourself, opting to let them watch him during the day while you slept. 

His recovery was a slow one. You have to make sure his ribs are wrapped tight enough to encourage them to heal again. You need to ensure he doesn’t flip around in his sleep and do any more damage to himself. More importantly, you have to do everything you can to keep his fever down. 

Despite the heat of the day, it seems worse at night. Sweat soaks through his clothes and blankets, he’s constantly twitching with shivers. You try and make sure the cloth along his brow stays cool, but he seems to heat them up like a fire. 

There’s no puckering green skin around his wound, none of you can figure out where the infection is stemming from. You don’t have the medicine he needs to fight it, only sheer will and prayer. 

You lean forward in your chair, pressing the back of your chilled fingers to his cheek. Same as the night before, it’s hot to the touch. You’re surprised your skin doesn’t sizzle as it touches his. His breaths come in short pants as you slip the cloth off his head and dip it into the bucket of water beside you. You wring it out and place it gently along his brow again. 

Standing, you perch yourself on the edge of his cot and peel back the bandages on his shoulder. It sticks slightly to the skin, yellowed and bloody as the skin works to heal itself. He’d done the best he could with the gunpowder, but all it had done was stop you from getting below the surface and healing what needed it. 

Your eyes are fighting to stay open after being awake all night. You know the sun will rise soon, that you’ll have an opportunity for rest. But you haven’t been able to sleep well, not since he was brought back. You nearly drift off and then you think of him dying while you’re dozing away. 

He might have made it through the first night, but there are no promises with things like this. Your hand slips into his and you let out a heavy sigh. You take in his sallow face, the gauntness of his cheeks, the circles under his eyes. His beard has grown longer than you’ve ever seen it, his hair nearly reaches his shoulders. You don’t recognize this beaten man below you. This isn’t the Arthur you know. 

You squeeze his rough hand in yours, “You better not stop fighting, you stubborn bastard.”  You feel a familiar burn in the back of your throat and look away from him, choking down your tears. You can’t cry over him again. You’ve done it so often your eyes have run dry. 

Just as you’re about to get up to leave, his hand twitches ever so slightly in yours. Your brows furrow and you glance down at his hold on you. It was nearly imperceptible, a barely there movement. You watch his arm carefully, seeing if anything else happens. When he doesn’t move again you dismiss it as your mind playing tricks on you. 

Again, almost as if he knows you’re going to leave him, his hand twitches. This time, you can’t dismiss it as a reflex or simply something your addled brain has conjured up. The movement is deliberate, purposeful, as if he’s trying to hold on to you in every way he can. His fingers squeeze your palm weakly, and a sharp gasp escapes your lips.

“Arthur?” you breathe, voice trembling as your heart skips a beat. You turn back to his face, ragged and pale, the shadow of the man he once was. But there’s something in the faint wrinkle of his brow and the uneven parting of his lips. It’s the most life you’ve seen in him in days.

You’re practically shaking as you move further up the cot. You stick yourself as close to his side as you can. “Oh, Arthur?” you plead, leaning closer, searching desperately for any sign that he’s still fighting. A low mutter slips from his cracked lips, the sound so faint it’s almost lost in the silence. You freeze, straining to hear, your breath caught in your throat.

You’re so close you can feel the shallow rise and fall of his chest against yours. His lips move again, his ribs quaking with effort. It’s a whisper, barely audible, but you hear a cracked version of your name slip through his lips. 

This is the most you’ve gotten from him in days. There had been moments where, as hard as it was to accept, you’d begun to realize he could be dying. His lips move again and if you weren’t watching him so intently, you might have missed it.

Your heart shatters and mends all at once. “Arthur,” you choke, nearly crying with relief. Your body slumps over his with the relief that he’s not been lost to you yet. You clutch your hand in his as though sheer will can keep him with you. For a moment, the unbearable weight of your fear is lifted.

Tears spill down your cheeks, hot and unrelenting, as you press your forehead against his. “You’re still here,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “Just keep fighting for me.”

He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t have the strength, but his fingers twitch again, his grip just a little firmer. It’s enough for you. You hold on to him like he’s your lifeline, and in a way, he is. You can’t let him go, not now. “I’m here, Arthur,” you promise, voice shaking but just steady enough for him to understand you. “I’m not going anywhere. Just, don’t leave me. Please.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, there’s a flicker of hope in the darkness. It’s fragile, so fragile, but it’s there.

It doesn’t take long for Arthur to start coming back around. Most nights, he’s still groggy and spends more time asleep than awake, but the fever has broken, and that’s enough for you.

You no longer go to sleep every night worrying he won’t be there in the morning. Now, when you check on his tent, you find him waiting for you, even if it’s with little more than a tired glance and a hoarse word or two. Tonight is one of those nights. He doesn’t have much energy for anything beyond picking at some stew and lying down, but you don’t mind.

You stay by his side, fussing over him as you fluff the pillows behind his head. He’d teased you the other day, comparing your fretting to Mrs. Grimshaw. You’d laughed, too relieved he felt well enough to joke to take offense. The memory makes you smile as you smooth the blankets over him.

“Quit,” he mutters weakly, swatting at your hands.

“Oh, hush,” you retort, tone light as you sit back down in the chair by his cot.

His hand catches your wrist before you can settle. When you glance down, you find him peeking up at you through one half-lidded eye, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Come on,” he mumbles, tugging gently.

“Arthur, I’m fine right here,” you reply, hesitating. His cot isn’t exactly spacious, and you’re worried about jostling him or hurting his still-healing ribs.

He doesn’t answer, just tugs again with what little strength he has.

“Oh, alright.” You laugh slightly and shake your head. “You’re so stubborn,” you grumble, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. Carefully, you climb onto the cot, curling into the space he makes for you on his good side. His head tucks into the crook of your neck, his arm settling around your waist like it belongs there.

You comb your fingers through his hair absentmindedly, thinking that maybe you’ll cut it for him when he’s stronger. His breathing slows against you, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He’s nearly asleep when he rasps out a question, voice muffled against your shoulder.

“Why didn’t they come?” He rasps against your shoulder, nearly asleep as he asks.

Your hands still in his hair, and the quiet around you feels suddenly heavy. His arm tightens around your waist, as though he senses your hesitation. You close your eyes and draw in a shaky breath.

How are you supposed to answer that?

You could tell him the same tired promises Dutch fed you, that there was a plan, that he was never really abandoned. But you’ve been here, tending to him alone for days. You’ve watched Dutch only appear when Arthur’s too far gone to notice, his visits perfunctory and brief. And you know, deep down, what Arthur would never admit, if he keeps believing Dutch’s lies, it’ll kill him.

You swallow hard and take his hand, threading your fingers through his. “Arthur,” you whisper, voice trembling but firm enough to hold his attention. “You’ve given Dutch everything, and he left you there. He left you to die.”

You hear him exhale, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. His grip on your hand loosens just slightly, but he doesn’t pull away.

“I’m not saying this to hurt you,” you continue, leaning closer so your words sink in. “I just- I need you to know the truth. He’s not the man you think he is. He never was. Please, Arthur, when you’re strong enough, tell me we’ll get away. We’ll leave this all behind before it’s too late.”

You fall silent, letting your words settle in the quiet. He doesn’t respond, his breaths deepening as sleep overtakes him again.

You tighten your hold on his hand and rest your forehead against his temple. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice breaking. “You deserve better.”

You doubt he’ll remember this when he wakes, and maybe that’s best. But you had to say something, you had to try. It feels wrong, though, to try and twist Arthur’s loyalty. You’ve barely had a chance to know either of them the way they know each other. 

Still, you can’t shake what you’ve seen. Dutch’s words, his cleverly painted lies, they turn into nooses, and he’s got a rope around everyone in camp. You know his kind, once he sinks his claws into someone, there’s no letting go. 

You glance down at Arthur’s face, softened and unguarded in sleep, and your chest tightens. He deserves to be free of Dutch. At the very least, he deserves to see the truth and to live for himself instead of chasing someone else’s dreams. 

Doubt still creeps alongside you. Did you have a place to say anything at all? 

You brush a hand through Arthur’s hair one more time, listening to his breaths as they even out. Curling closer around him, you drift to sleep with your heart heavy, praying he sees the truth when he wakes. 

Next Part

end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

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