Work Text:
Dutch sat stationed on his cot. Nowadays he never really laid down to rest, if there was ever a time he even did rest. No, whenever he attempted to sleep, he sat stiffly on his bed, his head instinctively bobbing and briefly waking him. Fog gently hung above the grounds at Beaver Hollow, and somehow poked through his personal tent. It was on nights like these that he cursed every blunder they made, letting themselves be pushed further and further East. His back tensed up, his forehead aching tremendously, as his recent sleeplessness left him only able to reflect on every single thing that had happened since May. He sputtered out at a realization he seemed to have anew every single night: his own gang hadn’t listened a damn thing he said. It had been months, perhaps even years, since they had respected him and his judgement. For right now, however, he could only grit his teeth and withstand the sensation of his lungs being sat on.
He hoped that nothing disturbed this dreadful state. Any disturbance would bring pain he couldn’t blame on his body’s failures.
He slouched and cuffed his hands in his face, the soft light of the oil lamp leaking between his fingers. It made him feel protected, in a way. The pressure made his head and chest feel ready to burst. His eyes suddenly became irritated, the damning light blurring as an odd material touched the palm of his hands.
Here he was, now a whimpering child. And yet, for an unguarded minute, he didn’t care. The tears became heavier, his mouth sputtering out quiet cries.
The smoldering hell that was Guarma devilishly distracted him. So did the travel to and from Bayou Nwa, and the efforts to tip-toe around Annesburg as Pinkertons sought to choke the gang out. They had survived. He had survived.
But what stopped Pinkertons and the law from killing them in their sleep, in this wonderful place of civilization? Memories of Saint Denis, that filthy shithole city, flashed before his teary eyes.
Paved streets, putrid odors, cough-inducing air, miles of soulless buildings and soulless people.
A well-dressed, silver-haired man faced down and without movement, warm blood traveling to the street’s gutters. A man. Just a man. Was that what he thought now? He numbly asked himself. Perhaps he hoped so. It was his only defense against the pain. The stray thought, however, was all that was needed to crack his shield.
He now couldn’t stop himself. He was balling on the hard wooden floor boards, muffling his repeated cries of “Hosea”.
Dutch van der Linde wasn’t entirely sure if he even could cry since he was a boy. He cried for days when he finally realized his father had left to fight for the Union, and why he would never come back. He didn’t shed a tear upon learning of his mother’s death.
Did he cry for his dear Annabelle? He no longer remembered.
But Hosea.
See what a night of being left alone with these toxic thoughts did?
Out of all who had entered and exited Dutch’s varied and colorful life, he had remained steadfast as its most present character. He loved that man to death, he knew he loved him too. Each day from his passing, and Dutch more and more believed he was the only person he would ever fully trust his life with.
And Hosea unceremoniously lay dead on a shit-filled street, Dutch having failed the older man one final time. But.. he hadn’t failed him.
Hosea insisted on taking the Lemoyne National Bank. Not him. He knew better. Hosea did not.
He didn’t know whether it grief or anger that had taken hold of his already poor state.
Angry at what?
Angry at who?
He revealed his wet and ruddy face to the lamp, and began punching the wooden floor boards. The blur of his eyes stinging from tears had not subsided, and in fact he continued to cry as he pounded his hands harder and harder into the boards. His hands were soon made bloody and numb, but that was nothing compared to the return of the constant aching all in his upper body.
All the weeping hadn’t even helped with that. How dare he try to trade strength for solace?
He wondered if something else might help, if only a little bit. He was willing to try, though the desire had long been absent.
He repositioned himself on the floor of his tent and rest against his cot. He unbuttoned his trousers, soon exposing himself to the chilly environment. He quickly spit on his right hand, and started rubbing. His movements became progressively faster, and he was surprised to at last feel the sensation of blood quickly traveling to that region of his body. Lewd thoughts appeared as his head and back grew less tense. He bent his head back against the cot with each new shock to his body, and lightly moaning and now stroking furiously.
His body was at the point of ecstasy.
“Dutch, is everything alr-”, the high raspy voice shut off Susan fully realized the scene illuminated by the oil lamp.
Miss Grimshaw’s presence about gave him a heart attack, but his body stubbornly continued. Pleasure melted into embarrassment and wrath.
“WHEN THE HELL DID I SAY YOU COULD COME IN?” Dutch’s voice cracked with any emotional pronouncement. Miss Grimshaw shot back.
“Dutch! I heard bangin’ and cryi-”
“LEAVE.”
Miss Grimshaw quickly threw up her hands before turning to exit the tent, shaking her head.
Dutch made a grunt, seeing the mess he’d made of his pants as he buttoned back up. He sighed deeply, as his body was now back to being at war with itself. He thought of the only thing that could bring a longer lasting sense of relief.
He reached for the long brown body and opened it with his molars. He poured the whiskey down his throat, leaving a burning sensation in his mouth. A few moments later, and the alcohol had its desired effect.
They would find a way out of this, even if some doubters in his group were hell-bent on undermining them all.