Work Text:
“ Dress like you’ve made something of yourself in the world, even if you haven’t. ”
Pale rays of an early morning sun filter through the drawn back canvas of his tent, kiss tanned skin. Last diamond drops of a fortunate bath still cling to broad shoulders, dip between the valleys of his back in curious paths ere they disappear beneath the hem of his drawers. A stray lock of wet, ebon hair falls into his eye, escaping from the combed back style he prefers as he tilts his head just so. Dark eyes gaze unerringly upon his own reflection in the small mirror, powerful hands bare of their usual decoration guiding the straight razor with steady ease. Clothes make the man, do they not?
Dutch van der Linde knows that better than most and while hardship leaves even the leader of this gang of misfits looking rugged, he takes pride in his appearance. It is a polished façade he wears not without reason, not just for vanity’s sake. No, he clothes himself with care to turn heads, to command attention. Always just that bit better than best man in his posse, family, a strong front of ideals that doesn’t only want to be backed in words and actions, but every other aspect as well. Drawing his thumb across the freshly shaved line of his jaw, Dutch finds himself smiling. A subtle quirk of rich lips as he studies his reflection. There isn’t often time for indulgence, no matter how small or menial. But this very morning is quiet, lazy. Balm for his soul and all the worries he shoulders, takes upon him so that his family must not carry them.
Pulling forth the beat-up, oaken chest from beneath his cot, Dutch surveys it’s contents with satisfaction. All of it taken from people who had plenty to spare and in a way it has almost been biblical, predestined, in how well each item fit him. Seating himself upon the fur laden bed, the aged outlaw reaches for the first article of clothing. Soft cashmere glides through rough palms and he rubs the material between his fingers, taking stock of the several times they have been patched up. He is loathe to part with them despite their sorry state, their airy texture like nothing else he could compare it to. Sock suspenders are next, their leather worn and soft from use. Strapping them around strong calves, he reaches for the slender knife beneath his pillow and slips it into it’s predestined sheath, a nifty little last resort.
Standing from his perch, Dutch reaches for his favorite pair of black dress pants. Barathea wool, both durable and comfortable to wear in most weathers. Nimble fingers button up the fly, smooth out any soft wrinkles. A white pull-over shirt next, the linen cool against his skin. Tugging the tail ends away, he rolls his shoulders to ensure a comfortable fit before he clips his suspenders to his pants. Cotton, unassuming in an off-white and fairly new. Reaching for his bedside drawer, Dutch opens a little wooden box, retrieving a cigar and a cutter. It’s old, a keepsake from his daddy. For a moment he forgets just where he is, thumb gently brushing over the stylized etchings which have not lost their beauty despite the tarnished metal. Cutting off the end, he places the cigar between his teeth, finds a matchbook in the pocket of his pants. It’s a simple pleasure, one of the few indulgences Dutch allows himself.
Carefully he retrieves his favored item, mindful as to not get any ash on the midnight black vest. Thumbs brush almost reverently across the silvery embroidery. A piece just for him, stolen from nobody. It had been paid with stolen money, but the idea had been his own. Only as he slips on the heavy item does he feel complete, watching in the small mirror as he closes it across his chest, button after button. Hooks the golden vest chain into the third before he continues his path. Another piece for which he holds no small amount of love, fingers brushing over the etched lion’s head on the backside of the embedded ruby. It is a reminder to be noble, to be fierce. An image that is mirrored upon one of the rings he wears, expression lost in thought as he slips both upon the fingers of his right hand.
Picking up the comb from the small table upon which he keeps his shaving kit as well as a pinch, Dutch tames the dark curls which have started forming as his hair dried. Another critical look into the mirror and he is satisfied, pushes his hat to sit just so before he steps into his boots and picks up the worn gun belt from the foot of his bed. Clothes make the man, and they do make Dutch van der Linde.