Chapter Text
1877
It was like traveling with a ghost.
He followed them like a shadow, always within view but never within reach.
Even after months of traversing the countryside together, months of Dutch trying to bring him just a step closer, trying to coax some iota of trust from the kid, they had made no progress. Every morning they would wake thinking he had gone, taken off during the night, only for him to reappear once breakfast was cooked. They’d leave him to pick at the leftovers, as he kid staunchly refused any plate handed his way. Hosea had started cooking extra, to ensure there was enough. To Dutch, it felt as though they were leaving scraps behind for a mangy dog.
He was a skimpy little thing. More bone than skin; rank and filthy. Dutch had tried to give him better clothes once; the boy was still wrapped in ratty, grimy garb he had taken off the street, occasionally interspersed with an old shirt Hosea had quite literally forced upon him. His offer was quietly declined, the clothes left wrapped in paper from the shop. In fact the only reaction he got— the only reaction he ever got— was violent and loud, the moment he reached to pull the worn hat from his head. Dutch had meant it as a playful gesture; the kid had seen it differently, scrambling back as though Dutch were going to burn him. His reaction was volatile enough to startle Dutch into keeping his distance for days after.
Dutch tried. He failed. He wasn't sure why, but he wanted nothing more than to connect with him. There was something in his eyes, a sort of spark he couldn't ignore— a pain he wanted to heal, or at least lessen if he could. Talking did nothing— the boy wouldn't respond. Or couldn't. That was always a possibility. He hadn’t quite worked out which. The most he’d heard since they’d taken him in was the odd string of curses hissed at anyone who came too close. Lord only knows where he had been, the things he’d seen, the things he’d done.
His life before them was something awful, if those nightmares the kid suffered were any indication. More than once Dutch had been woken in the night to his cries. He was stuck watching from a distance, unable to help. Dutch was wholly unsure of how he could help, seeing as he still had no name to call to soothe the boy’s panic. He had settled on 'kid'.
Hosea put up with it, but that was about all. He might not have patience for the kid, but Dutch felt something pull in his chest. Something that refused to let him go. There was something about this kid that sat funny with him; he didn’t recognize it until he brought the boy his dinner and found himself at the business end of one of Hosea’s old revolvers; he must’ve snuck it from his saddlebags when they weren't watching.
Dutch stared at the barrel of the revolver; the gun shook terribly in the boy’s grasp. His chest heaved and shuddered as tears rolled down his cheeks.
“What you want from me?” he hissed, trying his damndest to look menacing despite his slight stature. It was almost cute. Dutch was more taken aback by the fact that these were the first words the boy had spoken, and by far the closest he had come to either of them in weeks.
“You planning to use that thing, kid?” Dutch asked, voice steady, “Or is it just for show?”
“T-thought you was j-just stupid, thought I could… thought I could… I was gonna rob you. But you- why you being nice?”
Nice? That was one accusation Dutch had never faced in his life. If this— if leaving him scraps and avoiding him otherwise, if offering the bare minimum of respect and decency— was nice, if this is what they boy considered kind, he’d hate to see what the boy thought was cruel.
“You can either pull that trigger or put the gun down.”
He sucked in a shuddering breath, voice hitched and small, “Y-you killed him.”
“... Killed a lot of folk.”
“My pa,” his teeth were grit together tight, “Y-you killed my pa, I seen it, I- I-”
And suddenly, Dutch realized why the boy’s hat looked so hauntingly familiar.
“... Your pa was an awful man,” He chose his words carefully, as one tended to do when staring down the barrel of a gun, “If you’re fixing to kill me for doin the world a favor and ridding it of that scum, I suggest you do it quick. But I’ll tell you what, you put that gun down and I won’t say nothin’ about it. We can pretend none of this happened.”
The barrel wavered yet again in the boy’s grasp. In the next moment it clattered to the dirt, and he collapsed hard into himself, sobbing and wailing. Dutch gathered the boy up in his arms, holding him tight. The kid melted into him, hands buried into his shirt, face tucked into the crook of his neck.
“It’s okay, kid…” Dutch murmured into his hair, “You’re okay.”
Between sobs, a broken mumble, a single word that Dutch had been waiting for for these long months, “A-Arthur…”
Arthur, then. Arthur Morgan.