Chapter Text
Laura doesn't consider herself to be a patient person. Being raised an outlaw, she learned very early that crime and danger doesn't often reward patience. It rewards action, and initiative, which is probably why she stuck out on her own as a young woman in search of greener pastures. It was never easy for her to leave her family. Especially when each time she returned with money and medicines, they always had new injuries and a new stray they picked up along the way. Her returns were also not always met with celebration, particularly from her cousin.
So, being a restless criminal, on her way to check in on the gang, she quickly left the road both for safety and annoyance at her inability to find the camp.
She finally comes bursting out of the underbrush, hair frazzled and clothes filthy with mud. A grey horse tentatively picks its way through the trees behind her, following diligently.
She cries out, frustrated. "Why on the good Lord's green earth did y'all choose to camp out in the most inaccessible spot in this goddamned country?"
Her footfalls disturb the camp that sits a few yards from her. Two resting men quickly start, grabbing their firearms, but hesitate when they see the woman.
"What a warm welcome." She says snarkily, turning to her horse, affectionately named Mercy, and gently guides it to the grass. "Will someone pay me the kind favour of getting my dearest cousin for me?" She calls out to the men she doesn't recognize. They look hesitant, but another woman rounds a tent to see the commotion.
"Oh, for crying out loud! Boys, put those damn things away before someone gets hurt! Laurie, what have you gotten yourself into?" The older woman draws her blood-red skirt into one hand to rush to Laura's side. The grey knot of hair gathered at the crown of her head is a warmly familiar sight–as is her pungent smell of campfire disguised with floral perfume.
"Mrs. Grimshaw! How wonderful to see a kind face, how are you doing?"
Mrs. Grimshaw throws up her hands. "You nevermind, I'll have someone get Dutch for you. Lenny! Lenny, be a dear and go tell Dutch that Laura just arrived."
"Um, alright, Mrs. Grimshaw." One of the young men responds, seeming unsure, adjusting the hat atop his curly hair.
"Any day now, or I'll have you hauling water and bales until the end of your days!" She barks, and he launches into action, vanishing in the maze of tents and carriages.
The younger woman leans on Mercy to loosen the ties on her boot. She yanks off the shoe and dumps its contents on the ground–some dirt, a rock, and a few sticks.
"You look like you have had quite the adventure." Mrs. Grimshaw proclaims.
"Oh, you wouldn't know it. Where is everybody?"
"Dutch has got quite of the few men off on a job, but I expect the ladies will come to snoop about the commotion at any moment."
Then, a booming voice comes from the camp. A tall man follows it, and his goatee'd face lights up when he sees the pair of women.
"Laura van der Linde!" Like the rest of the camp and the newcomer, his voice lilts with a thick southern accent. However, his voice carries a certain confidence that demands attention.
"Dutch! It seems the law is not the only people you're hiding from! Your family as well?"
"Hush now, Laura." Dutch draws his relative into a firm embrace. "You got here just fine."
"Just fine? Our definitions of just fine are very different." She says incredulously, patting his back. "Oh, I'm alright. I'm past it. I'm just glad to see you, cousin." And at Mrs. Grimshaw's tut, she adds, "And the whole family."
Lenny stands just behind him. Laura peeks at him around Dutch and gives him a wink. He bristles like a scared cat but returns it with a nervous nod. She steps back from her cousin to give a once over to the camp.
"Y'all have been busy, I see. New tents! And decorations!" And as an aside to Susan, "And a few more misfits." Susan consequently smacks Laura on the back of the hand and gives her a warning glare. Laura nods solemnly at the scolding, despite trying not to smile–she certainly missed her surrogate mother's guidance.
"Oh yes, busy. A lot's happened in the past few weeks, Laura." Dutch either doesn't notice their interaction or ignores it.
"Why do you think I'm here?" Laura steps closer to her cousin, reaching to grab his arm. She pauses as Lenny steps around them to take her horse away. "Dutch... I heard about Blackwater. What happened? Can't move an inch without bumpin' into the Pinkertons or seeing your ugly mug up on a wanted poster in that town."
His face hardens, and he frowns at her. "Blackwater's old news. You nevermind Blackwater. The crew should be getting back any minute now."
Like a summoning, the thundering of hooves and a wagon can be heard in the distance. As the sun sets on the camp, a group of men on a wagon led by two great horses rides into the camp. They're in a flurry, leaping off before it's at a stop, calling out and yelling.
"Dutch!"
"Strauss! Someone find Herr Strauss!"
Before Mrs. Grimshaw can yank her away from the excitement, Laura shoves into the fray. She pushes through the people surrounding the wagon and climbs up into the back. She's met with a familiar face before she sees the injured man behind him.
"Laura–?"
"Not now, handsome. What happened?"
Arthur Morgan blinks at her before he clears his throat. "Charles got caught in the crossfire. Looks like just a graze to me, but there's awful lotta blood." He tells her.
"Let's have a look shall we?" Laura squeezes by him to get at the man lying in the floor of the wagon, moaning in pain.
She kneels at his side, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Hello, Charles? I don't think we've had the pleasure of meeting." She glances back at Arthur and gestures for fabric, who immediately starts at the direction.
Charles forces a chuckle and squeezes his eyes shut, arching his back against the pain. "Ah... no. I think I'd–I think I'd remember a face like yours."
With a strip of fabric in hand, Laura smiles down at her new patient. "Aren't you a charmer? My name is Laura. It's lovely to meet you, although I might wish it were under better circumstances." With her last word, she tightens the makeshift tourniquet around his upper thigh. Charles cries out.
"Knife, Arthur," Laura commands, and within seconds a handle is in her palm. As she slices through the fabric of Charles' pant leg to remove it, Charles sends a wildly confused look to Arthur. Arthur, still in shock at her arrival, nods to reassure him. "What is this, moonshine?" Laura kicks a cream white bottle near her feet and it rattles.
"Yeah," Arthur replies after a moment of hesitation.
"Oh, Charles. You seem like such a nice young man. I really do hate what I'm about to do to you. For what it's worth, I really am sorry." Laura laments to the man writhing on the floor of the wagon.
"W-what? What are you doing?" He says, eyes widening with quickly onsetting panic.
"Wait, Laura–" Arthur begins, but he's not fast enough. In one fluid motion, she grabs the bottle she kicked, pops the cork off, and dumps the contents onto his bloody leg. The blood and grime is briefly washed away to reveal a tear nearly the length of her forearm running just above his knee. She's more than a little relieved when it doesn't seem too deep, but fresh blood obscures it before Laura can glean more information.
He screams in pain at the drastic cleaning method. The group around the wagon voice their disapproval, shouting and yelling. The noise is white and irrelevant to Laura, and she doesn't register any specifics they're crying.
Laura uses the knife to cut more fabric from the bottom of her dress. "Instead of yellin' at me, why don't y'all do something useful and get me your goddamned doctor?" She shouts right back at the crowd.
"Strauss!" Arthur hollers.
Finally, a man appears at the back of the wagon, holding bottles and jars, while Laura presses her dress to the wound.
"Ah yes, the female Dutch. Lovely to see your training in action, as always, Laura." Herr Strauss greets her and passes the items to Arthur who holds them dumbly, waiting for instruction.
"Hello, Strauss. What do you have for me?'
"Whatever you need."
"God have mercy on us if you have mace."
"Have another go."
"Tell me you at least have yarrow, or milkweed for goodness sake, Strauss." She is easily exasperated by the unfazed man.
"I'm glad you're a little more realistic." He nods at Arthur, who examines the bottles and packages he's been given.
Laura impatiently rifles through them and finds what she needs. She gently pours a health cure between Charles' lips, then presses a paste to his wound before covering it back up again.
"Charles, my friend, what you really need is Pearson's stew and a few days of rest. Oh, but darling, you'll be just fine."
"Maybe we can meet again under better circumstances." He says, his voice light and sleepy, eased with the medicine.
Laura lays a hand on his cheek. "Of course, Charles." As he falls asleep, both from exhaustion and pain, her hand moves up to his forehead. She turns to Arthur. "He's a little warm, but that's to be expected. You get him to his bed kindly now, and the women will know how to care for him."
"Right." He nods stiffly, avoiding her gaze. She hesitates for a moment, examining him, then jumps out of the wagon.
Dutch immediately has her by the shoulders and brings her away from the scene. "Ladies shouldn't be involved in such things."
"Dutch!" Laura rips her arms away from him. "I am no longer your kid cousin. I'm a medic, and a thief, just as you, and I have been taking care of myself all on my own, no thanks to you. Dutch, you have no right to call and heel me like I am one of your boys. You've made it perfectly clear that I am not. So I will do as I please."
He glares at her for a moment. Then he sniffs and looks out over the lake where he's brought her to the beach.
"You're welcome for fixing your man." She huffs.
Dutch turns to her sharply. "I don't disrespect you in front of the others." He opens an arm toward the camp. "If you ever get involved in matters that don't pertain to you ever again, then we will be having quite the conversation, Laurie."
Her nickname has only ever bothered her when it came from Dutch.
"This is my family, Dutch. All your matters are my matters." Laura argues.
"We're getting along here just fine."
Sighing heavily, she can already predict the tails they'll chase if they keep going. "I'll find my own place to sleep. I'm... tired from my trip. Good night, Dutch."
Laura turns and leaves him at the shore. She waves off the ladies and some of the men that know her well and stalks to her horse. She calms her mind by focusing on her tack and gathering her things. Silently, a broad-shouldered man with a very quiet, gentle but powerful demeanor, rounds Mercy's side and begins to undo the buckles of the saddle. He drags the tack off and hangs it on a fence. Then he begins to run a brush over the horse's pale coat.
Laura throws her bedroll to the ground and with a heave, sits on it. She throws her–now substantially shorter skirt than she arrived with–out around her. "Have a look at me, eh? Not been here for two minutes and I've ruined my dress, made a man squeal in pain until he passed out, and I've had a row with my cousin. All that and I haven't even said hello."
It earns her a low, short chuckle. He walks around the mare to her, tossing the brush onto the rest of her things. "Hello, Laura."
She looks up at him, shrouded in the moonlight. He stands above her for a moment before joining her on the ground.
"Hello, handsome." She bumps him with her shoulder. His hat covers his face when he bows his head. They're quiet for a moment. Laura spectates the camp before her turning down for the evening after all the commotion. Low conversations drift on the humid air. The fire in the middle of the camp has burnt down to bright coals. She can smell him - dirt and sweat, but also the oil he uses for his leather, and the minty wax he uses for his beard. He's grown it out since she last saw him. She thinks, with a smile, that it suits him well.
It's like he can hear her thoughts, and he tilts his head to the side to look at her. She starts and turns back to the camp, feeling like she's been caught stealing sweets. But he doesn't say anything.
She breathes in through her nose. "So. What did you do to poor Charles?"
He grunts. "Jus' what I told you already. The job was fine otherwise. Poor luck."
"Alright, if you don't want to tell me, fine. I'm sure Charles would be more than happy to tell me all about it when he feels a little bit better."
"Don't you go takin' advantage of that poor boy. He don't know you. He won't know any better."
"Arthur! I am just so offended you would even say such a thing. I would never, ever, think of it." She dramatically clutches at her chest. He smirks at the over-acted sight.
She sniffs innocently. "It's not my fault you men are stupid and naïve. It would be stupid of me to not take advantage of that."
"You're just like your cousin."
She strikes him, smacking his chest with the back of her hand. He chuckles.
"Don't you ever say that, mister. I'd die before I ever resembled that man."
"M'talkin' to a ghost then? Some kinda apparition."
"Why did you come over here if you were just gonna insult me?" She questions, appearing to no longer be in the joking mood.
"Just joking with you," Arthur says quietly.
She sighs. "I know, I know. He just gets on my nerves. For all his genius, Dutch is a dumb, stupid... dumb man." She angrily flicks her skirt out again.
He nods in understanding, reaching out to gently lift her skirt off his leg where it had landed. "Sorry about your dress. It..." he uncomfortably knits his fingers together. "Was pretty. Looked nice."
She tries - not very hard - to stop her smile. She feels an awful lot like a girl with a schoolyard crush. He'd always managed to make her feel like that. "Thank you, Arthur."
Then he clears his throat and gets to his feet. He offers his hand. "You can take my tent."
"What? No, Arthur, absolutely not." She shakes her head, but still takes his hand. He helps her up, but only holds her hand tighter.
"I have to take care of something. I won't be back ‘til morn." He says gruffly, putting an end to her protests.
She furrows her brow at him, but smiles. "Fine. If that's the case, then I should not reject Arthur Morgan's generosity. It's basically law."
She nearly misses the upturn of the corner of his mouth. And when he begins to turn away, it's her turn to clutch at his hand.
"Be safe. Alright? Make smart choices. Don't do anything I'd do." She says.
He pulls her hand up. His lips brush her knuckles, his breath blowing across the back of her hand. "G'night, Laura."
Then he turns, releasing her, and pulls himself up onto a tall horse, some kind of warmblood, she recognizes dimly. With a tilt of his hat, he clicks at his mount and pulls at the reins to lead it out of the camp. Laura watches until she can't see his silhouette anymore, and then she listens until she can't hear the hooves anymore.
With a huff, she ties her horse and then gathers her things. She quietly picks her way through the camp until she finds the munitions wagon, in a far corner. Attached is an overhang covering a cot, a table with a chair, and a chest. She stifles a yawn, cataloguing the few items. The few announcements to the world about who Arthur Morgan is, what kind of man he is. His beard wax, a framed picture of his mother, a few letters. Pinned to the wagon, above his cot, is a newspaper clipping of his first bank robbery, and a smattering of other photos, including one of a very small Arthur Morgan and his parents. She smiles to herself and gets ready for bed.
Then she lays down in Arthur's bed and blankets, surrounded by his smell and his things. She wonders how long she can stand being in this camp, this family, so near to a man who turns her world upside down.