Arthur.
Dutch Van der Linde huffed another long sigh, hot vapour streaming from his lips in the freezing air, staring at the two men who knew him most. Hosea Matthews, leant against the mantel of the fireplace, trying to return the warmth to his bones, and Arthur Morgan, sat across from him, his heavy blue duffel coat buttoned up to the neck. The three men shivered in unison, teeth all but chattering in the small cabin they'd claimed as their own, the warped wooden boards that made up its walls no match for the storm howling outside.
"What should we do with the woman?" Hosea asked, cupping his fingers to his lips and blowing on them, as if it'd do anything.
"She might not feel safe in her home, yet," Dutch said, stealing a glance through the window back toward the main building in Colter, where Sadie Adler, a widow they'd just rescued from the clutches of the O'Driscoll gang, was being fed and clothed by the women. Her rescue was yet another unpredicted development in a devastating day; the capstone to the gang's fleeing north in an unseasonable snowstorm, less a good handful of their members after their planned robbery in Blackwater became an unmitigated disaster.
"She were real frightened," Arthur added quietly, his radiant blue-green eyes cast down to the floor. "Can't imagine what Colm and those fellers gone and done to her."
Dutch nodded, saying, "we'll keep her as long as she wants to be kept, I guess" as the door to their shared cabin opened, inviting a rush of wind and a snow-covered figure inside. Tine Nilsen shook snowflakes off the brim of her hat, revealing a head of white-blonde hair, pale blue eyes, a sweet, heart-shaped face.
Arthur knew that her angelic countenance belied the devil's plaything. Tine was brutal and merciless; while the Van der Linde gang had its fair share of killers, she was the only one with a moniker on her wanted poster: "The Butcher of Rio Bravo."
Fortunately to Arthur - or unfortunately, depending on which day he was asked - she was also effective. Out scouting just hours before, she'd found the Adler homestead, and Sadie, too. And he realized it likely that the traumatized widow wouldn't have left with them had Tine not been there.
Now before them, Hosea and Dutch nodding in greeting, Tine removed her overcoat and gloves, just the apples of her cheeks rosy, wisps of her white-blonde hair gilded copper in the firelight. "Damn Norwegian," Dutch guffawed, prompting a smile from Tine. "Real good work today, Miss Nilsen. We need another half dozen like you."
Her smile broadened at the praise as the thought of six more bloodthirsty Tines in the gang curdled Arthur's stomach.
"Mmm," she hummed noncommittally, the smile fading from her face. "Where's John gone?"
"Out scouting, same as you," Dutch replied, the brief humour that had found its way into his deep voice once again absent. "Hope he finds us some food." Dutch's lover, Molly O'Shea, emerged from their shared bedroom, leaning against the doorframe. Dutch stood, scratching at the dark curls that sprung from the nape of his neck. "I'm going to turn in, you three. It's... it's been a day." Dutch's expression said what he couldn't bear to admit twice; that the Blackwater job had been a failure, nearly ruined them.
Molly curled her fingers around his upper arm and led him into the room, his shoulders visibly slumping as the door closed. Hosea mumbled more of the same and left the room, only Arthur and Tine remaining in front of the fire. She moved to Dutch's vacated chair and plunked into it, kicking out her legs, the brass points of her boots occasionally waving back and forth.
For a while, there was only silence, Tine toying with her knife, wood crackling in the fireplace, Arthur's stuttered, shivering exhales from the cigarette he'd lit with fingers trembling from cold.
Arthur broke the quiet, his low, gruff question crawling along the floorboards of the room. "What happened on that boat?"
Tine's eyes canted up to meet his. "Wouldn't you like to know, cowboy," she sneered. Normally, her gaze would have remained steely, fixed on Arthur's until he turned away. But in that small, firelit room, he watched it shift permanently to the window behind him, her pale eyebrows furrowed.
"What's with you?" He asked, his voice still low, still stern.
She chewed her lower lip before replying. "John's not back yet."
Arthur scoffed, throwing the butt of his cigarette into the fireplace. "Maybe you should let Abigail worry about that."
Tine's expression darkened. "Who says I'm worried?" But she'd been stung just the same; pulling her coat back on and storming out, Arthur glad for the tension to have left with her. He knew there was a kernel of something between Tine and John; he was the reason she'd joined them, after all, a souvenir from his year away from the gang.
He was glad to put it out of mind, lighting another cigarette and grateful for the quiet, the warmth. Arthur was dozing, sitting up by the fire when Tine returned, the whoosh of the stormwind preceding her.
"I can't sleep with the women and the baby-" Tine always called Jack "the baby," which the little boy hated "-all in there crying."
Arthur let out an incredulous chuckle, wondering how the same Tine who'd carefully bundled Sadie Adler in a blanket and led her to her horse could be so thoughtless about her fellows in the gang. "Don't you think they might be upset about it all, Miss Nilsen?"
"Upset isn't going to make the money come back."
"Or Mac?" He corrected, feeling his voice rise and forcing it back down to an angry whisper. "Or Sean?"
"Or John?" She jeered back, and Arthur rolled his eyes.
"John's fine," he stressed, "ain't worried about him one lick." Arthur leaned forward in his chair, gesturing a broad hand out to Tine. "He's probably gone and found some family by now whose fed him a three-course dinner, and dessert, besides."
Something quirked in Tine's face, an arching of an eyebrow or curve of a lip, something only his keen eye could track. "Don't tell me Arthur Morgan misses his pudding?" She reached forward and patted his stomach, and he grabbed at her intruding hand, squeezing her fingers held together as if to crush them, for the briefest moment.
"Don't do that again," his voice was a low warning, but to his fury she only smiled at him, her face lighting up, gleaming teeth bared. He threw her hand away from his with a huff, stalking up and out of the cabin.
With nowhere to go, Arthur slunk into the bunkhouse inhabited by Bill, Charles, Javier, and Lenny; their hammocks crisscrossed over one another's. He laid out a bedroll in the only drafty corner of the room that remained, furious that he'd surrendered his warm, private room to Tine.
Unbidden, he imagined her curling up in the quilt Susan Grimshaw had found for him, for him, the gang's most hardworking, stolen away. In his treacherous mind's eye it was instead wrapped around Tine, her light hair fanned out on the pillow, the puckishness from her face vanished in a sleeping peace he seldom saw. The imagined Tine tossed and turned on the mattress Arthur knew to be lumpy, the quilt sliding down her body, which was bare, dimly illuminated by the fire, and infuriatingly perfect.
Damn Norwegian, indeed, he thought, his own mind against him. Arthur groaned as he loosed himself from his pants, hoping Bill's snores would conceal the desperate noises he'd begun to make. Remembering her warm fingers in his brief grasp, he imagined them in the place of his own around his cock and allowed himself a slow, luxurious stroke.
Allowing his eyes to slide closed, Arthur drew careful breaths, pumping his fist and picturing Tine knelt in front of him, eyes as they'd been in the cabin, her pale irises reflecting the firelight.
But then, the same smile she'd cracked moments before broke upon her face in his vision, and the satisfaction even a make-believe Tine had at his coming undone before her frustrated him into softening, the moment passed. He let a low growl rumble from his throat and tucked himself away, shivering into his bedroll.
After a bad night's sleep, Arthur's frustration had reached a fevered pitch the following morning, when he entered the main building of the tiny mining town of Colter, only to be confronted with Abigail Roberts, wringing her hands over John. Beyond her, Hosea played with her son, Jack, walking a wooden horse toy along the floor.
"You think you can go out lookin' for him, Arthur?" She all but pleaded, rushing him as he entered.
"Ask Tine to find him," he said, nonchalantly, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "She was askin' after him last night."
"Tine," Abigail repeated, her face blanching.
"I'll go, Abigail," Javier Escuella piped up, setting his cup down and pulling on a pair of leather gloves. Tine walked in, then, nodding at Javier as he made to exit the building.
"Where's he going?" She asked, cocking her thumb over her shoulder to Javier's retreating form. Arthur noticed how well-rested she looked, sunlit hair gently framing her face under the brim of her hat, and he was rankled anew.
"'S your lucky day, Miss Nilsen," he said, raising his cup in a mocking toast. "Scouting party for John."
Abigail looked between Tine and Arthur before settling on him, her tone frantic. "Couldn't you go instead?"
Arthur shook his head, grinned menacingly into his cup. "Tine'll have better luck," he said, "you know how drawn to each other they are." It was unkind, and he knew it, witnessing Abigail's face grow crestfallen.
"Arthur," Hosea said lowly, a warning chime, just as he had when Arthur was a misbehaving boy. But he refused to be swayed.
"No need for more than two; Javier and Tine'll be fine. I'll help elsewhere." Refusing to be under Hosea's judgement and witness to Abigail's distress any further, Arthur abandoned his half-finished coffee and swept from the room.
He spent the morning chopping wood for the fires that needed constant attention until his hands grew chapped and numb, realizing belatedly that Javier would have been much more pliant than Tine to ask about the Blackwater job; looking for John the perfect excuse to speak about it away from the rest of the gang.
But, no matter. He stacked yet another bundle of firewood as Charles strode by, his hand still bandaged but otherwise unscathed. "Hey, Arthur," he greeted. "Feel like feeding those that need feeding?"
Arthur barked a single laugh. "What're you thinking?"
"Might be the day I teach you how to use a bow, if you're up for it. Saw some deer out on the fringe of town."
"Sure," Arthur nodded, swinging the axe down a final time to embed it in its stump, and made after Charles, glad to be free of the gang for a few moments.