I'm so sorry this took for fucking ever again. Ugh. I'm the worst! Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter, really kept me going :)

CHAPTER TWENTY: THE UGLY TRUTH

Driving through the roadwork
Oh the work they took forever on
The road cones blur like memories
Of the miles we shared between

Dutch Van Der Linde had a plan to move the gang yet again to a place south of Horseshoe Overlook. After the stunt pulled in Valentine by Arya and Arthur, they should have left a few days after, but they'd stayed to lick their wounds. And now, after Arthur and Arya had come face to face with the law, there were no more doubts. The gang had to move again.

Grimshaw had given every single member a chore to do, except John, who was under strict orders not to use his hand for anything but his therapy. Mary-Beth and Tilly were in charge of packing and storing all the clothes. Karen and Pearson oversaw packing the food and the wagons. Arya and Sadie had packed their own things and had also closed the doctor's tent and boxed every medical instrument. Bill had boxed the ammunition and weapons. Hosea took care of the books. Charles had cleaned and groomed every horse for the short travel.

Arthur, as usual, was spared of any work. He'd packed his own clothes and photographs he kept in his tent. When his fingers skimmed along the framed picture of Mary – his Mary – the breath in his throat caught. The black and white face of his past love stared up at him, heart-shaped lips in a corner smile, the way she always did whenever he was with her. Her midnight hair was swept up in a chignon, strands curling beside her cheeks. She had been and was still a beauty.

"All them years ago," Arthur groaned, sitting onto his cot with the picture still in his hands. The morning was fresh, but the sun was hiding behind thick grey clouds. Yet the minimum amount of light seeping through was enough to illuminate the features of a woman who slipped between his fingers.

There were many memories swimming to the surface of Arthur's mind. And yet none were enough to remind him of the feelings he'd once had. He knew they'd been there. He knew he'd felt so strongly about her that he'd been ready to marry and potentially leave the gang for her. And now, sitting on his cot, alone, he could not summon those feelings anymore.

He'd let her slip away. Was he ready to let another woman leave him alone?

His eyes slid up from the picture to where Arya was crouched beside her tent, packing a chest with her clothing. She was deep in thought, caramel colored hair in a loose braid down her back, leaving stray hairs curling along her cheeks. Her ink black eyes were focused on her chore, and in that second, Arthur was sure his heart was burning.

The outlaw shook his head, placing the picture of Mary back onto the ground, deciding to leave it there for the animals to do with it what they will. He would not turn Arya into another Eliza.

Arthur climbed onto his horse. Javier and Lenny had rode out early in the morning to keep watch at Clemens Point, their new home. The caravan was ready to leave, and with Dutch climbing into the front, they rode out of Horseshoe Overlook. Arthur glanced back, watching the sway of his horse, looking at the dead and smoking fire where Pearson's stew used to be. Arthur's eyes caught the caramel-haired woman on her horse, the backdrop of the Heartlands mountain painted at her back. She looked at him, cocking her head like a bird.

They rode out from the trees, heading swiftly south under the grey clouds. Rain was heavy in the air, humidity making Arthur's neck slick with sweat. His black union shirt was soaked by the time Dutch called the halfway point.

Charles rode up next to Arthur, who'd taken the lead because he was tired of hearing Karen and Bill arguing.

"Arthur," the man said. "Have you heard a word of Micah?"

Arthur groaned, shaking his head. "I ain't heard a word of that mongrel since I rescued his ass from Strawberry," he answered. "And if he were in Saint-Denis, you'd have found him, right?"

"Yes," Charles agreed. "I really did search just about everywhere for him."

"I believe you."

"Is everyone informed of the plan?" Charles whispered.

Arthur looked at the man sideways. "Yeah."

Abigail was informed to keep an eye and ear out for any suspicious activity. John and Sean were trigger ready. Sadie was informed about their departure in a week's time. They just had to figure out perfect excuses.

"What do we do if we find him?" Charles asked, holding onto the reins of his horse tightly.

Arthur sighed. "We kill him." He didn't want to go against Dutch's orders, or to kill any of his "sons", but Micah was dangerous. He leaked darkness and treason, and Arthur was willing to go behind Dutch's back to eliminate Micah. Afterall, Dutch was beginning to lose his grip.

Clemens Point was beautiful even in the grey morning. Mist coated the even ground and crawled slowly up to the riverbank. Trees had been cleared long ago, but the remaining tree line would provide enough cover for the gang to settle in unnoticed. Arthur was glad for the river lurking and glinting a few feet from the camp. He could go bathe or fish in peace, instead of riding to town for a simple bath.

Grimshaw helped him set up his tent. She hauled in the chest with the few items he'd kept ever since Blackwater. He put up the few pictures of his family that he had and put the tent flaps down to keep the humidity from creeping into his bedroll.

When he was tying the last string of his tent to the wooden post, he glanced sideways to where Sadie and Arya were setting up their tent. The latter's face was stoic, unreadable, as if she'd put up a wall. Maybe it was to keep him out, or maybe it was to keep others from finding out their plan against Micah. Arthur didn't know how long he could live with that face of hers: like hard rocks. They had a week to spend before they rode out to Emerald Ranch. Arthur would have to occupy his mind elsewhere.

By mid-afternoon, the entire camp was set up. Pearson was cooking the next stew. The doctor's tent was open for anyone needing some medical attention. The campfire was roaring near the riverbank, where Sean and Sadie sat. Dutch's white monster of a tent was closed with only him left inside on his own. Molly was helping Grimshaw and the ladies with some chores.

Arthur cleared his throat by Dutch's tent, hands on his belt, a nervous habit of his. "Dutch," he grumbled, leaning his ear against the tent flaps. There was stumbling inside, a groan, and then the tent flap ripped sideways to reveal a red-eyed Dutch.

"Oh, Arthur," he said surprisingly. "It's you."

"Can we have a word?" Arthur asked. There was a lump growing in his throat as he looked over his friend. Tousled hair, red eyes, blurry look on his face, as if he'd been far, far away.

Dutch stepped back and motioned for Arthur to step in. The inside of the tent smelled of Molly's perfume and a hint of liquor.

"A fine place we've found," Dutch said, sitting onto his bed with a groan.

"Not finer than that place up in the west you promised us," Arthur groaned back, uneasily fidgeting from one foot to the other.

Dutch grunted, "Really?" Then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I have a plan, Arthur. Just have faith."

Arthur hummed. "Any word from Micah?"

Dutch shook his head. "Not since I sent him to Saint-Denis to find out where Colm was."

"Why did you send Micah to do them things?" Arthur asked. "Why not Charles or me?"

"Because," Dutch sighed, "Micah has connections. He's got some boys who know things. I needed that."

"Are you getting desperate?" Arthur asked in a hushed tone, afraid to insult his longest friend.

Dutch looked up into the eyes of the cowboy before him, eyeing him so intensely, that Arthur thought he might start crying. "I have a plan, Arthur," he repeated. "It's just the chase tirin' me out. And Molly."

"Molly?"

"Well," Dutch groaned. "She's no Annabelle."

Arthur groaned. He knew what it was to be absolutely taken by one woman for the entirety of his life. Even when he lay beside his lanky Eliza, with her head on his chest, he couldn't get Mary out of his mind. Even when Eliza would make love to him, and his mind was reeling to be in the moment, he would be taken back to the first time he'd felt Mary's flesh under his fingertips.

"Just take it easy, Dutch," Arthur sighed. "And keep workin' on that plan of yours. Get us outta here."

Arthur came out of the tent feeling heavy and disoriented. It was the first time in a long time where he needed to find his footing again. The last time was when he decided to leave Mary behind once and for all. He'd never seen Dutch like this, ever since the loss of Annabelle. If the gang saw their leader as devastated as he was then, they would lose their faith.

Arthur's hands became sweaty, tingling crawling up his spine.

"Hey!"

He turned, and immediately the tingling went from his spine to his belly as he faced Arya. She wore one of Sadie's yellow blouses, black trousers, and suspenders. She stared up at him with a stoic expression, inky eyes full of wonder.

"Hello."

The young woman jutted her chin to the tent. "Is he alright in there?"

"As good as can be."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Strauss wants us to go back to Downes."

Arthur frowned. "Downes?"

"Yes," the girl said. "Thomas Downes. You know, the guy who was sick?"

"The farmer?"

"Yeah."

"God," Arthur sighed. "Strauss wants us to go get his money again? After last time?"

Arya shrugged. "We don't have to force it out of him," she said. "He's a poor man with tuberculosis. For all we know, he could be dead by now."

"Dead?" Arthur asked, genuinely interested. He started to walk towards his horse. If they were to head out, might as well do it now.

Arya followed. "Tuberculosis is a progressive illness."

"Progressive?"

"It starts slowly and then all of sudden," she said, "you're coughing blood and mucus."

"You sure know your damn share of diseases," he grumbled, patting the neck of his horse.

Arya looked at him for a long time, this far away look in her eyes that made Arthur's skin crawl. As if she knew something he didn't.

"We should head out right now," he drawled, looking her over. He couldn't think about spending another long trip with her, not after he'd promised himself he'd keep his distances. But he felt so good with her. Whenever she stood near him, he felt invincible and breakable all at once. It was inexplicable the way she made him feel.

While she was off packing some of her things, Arthur made sure every single weapon he owned was slung from the saddle of his horse. On the back, he rolled up a tent and a few items of clothing in the bags. He made sure to take a small whiff at himself, intent on being as presentable to the Downes as he could be to Arya.

His heart fluttered like birds in the cage of his ribs, heat and pain spreading across his body like butter in a pan; slow and slick. Arya's eyes were like waiting pools of black as she gave him a half smile from atop her horse. Hair in the wind. Cheeks rosy from the morning dew still clinging to her. Yellow blouse open to expose the small intricate beauty marks on her chest.

Arthur longed to graze his fingers across her skin, discovering every mark and blemish and bump of her body, like all the maps he'd poured over in his youth; in search of treasures.

The outlaw – the dangerous and wanted gunslinger – had to shake himself before he swung onto his mount. This was business. This was money lending and other sins. He was a man, and he should – and ought – to have restraint.

They set off from Clemens Point just as the sky was clearing. Rays of sunshine fell on the desert ground like pools of light leading their way. Wildlife had awaken and scattered at the hooves of their horses, titter tattering in the echoing valleys of New Hanover.

There was something wild in the poised look of the young woman beside him. Even though she was calm and sat straighter than a rod, the look in her eyes suggested otherwise. There was ferocity in the inky blackness; a tentative yet vivid wildness. It made him afraid to look her way, instead stealing glances here and there, stealing images, brief moments. Her hair. Her lips. The delicate bone structure of her jaw. The length of her neck. The color of her cheeks. The curling tips of her caramel hair.

Arthur wondered what it would feel like to hold her close to him again. Like he'd done in Saint-Denis, all those weeks ago. He remembered vividly then as she took the lead before him the feel of her body pressed firmly against his like two magnets. The texture of her hair, soft and thick, intertwined between his fingers like water. The softness of her lips, full and wet, against his mouth, sweet as honey. The tingling at the bottom of his spine, climbing up onto his body with greedy fingers, demanding more and more.

He gulped, gripping the reins, unable to keep his mind from reeling.

"We should be back by tomorrow afternoon, yes?" Arya demanded from in front of him.

Arthur had to rip himself from his thoughts, feeling as if he'd emerged from a fog as he looked onto the swaying figure of Arya.

"We should, yeah."

"Then Sadie and I will leave for Emerald Ranch," Arya said. "You'll follow a day later."

"That's the plan, isn't it?" he asked mockingly, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. He couldn't tell if she was smiling, but he sure hoped he could see the smile he was robbed of for so long. He still remembered the way his body crumbled the first time he saw her smile. He'd never forget such a sensation coursing through his veins like a speeding train.

"Tell me," Arthur began, mostly to get the nagging thoughts from consuming him. "Why is catching Micah so important for you."

The silence that followed was pregnant with unspoken words that were as heavy as if they'd been uttered. Arya's shoulders tensed, the swaying of her body going from undulating to stiff.

"He may lead us to Colm," she answered in a coarse tone.

Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. The desert around him shifted from hot lands to cooler territory. He recognized these parts. They were getting near to their encampment for the night. Just a few more hours.

"Ah," Arthur groaned. "Ole Mister O'Driscoll."

"You don't know him like I do," she answered rapidly, shooting a glance sideways, giving Arthur a perfect cut out of her profile.

"I know he done killed Dutch's woman," Arthur answered. "And Dutch ain't been the same ever since."

"Dutch isn't a whitewashed man either," the girl shot back. "He killed Heidi McCourt, didn't he? A pregnant woman. With a gunshot to the head."

Arthur's blood ran cold. Anger and fear broke from their trap and swam through his veins as cold as the dead. "And just how in the hell do you know that?" he demanded.

Arya's shoulders went rigid and she spurred her mount onwards. Something wasn't right. Arthur's stomach stirred with familiar caution; the same he'd had the very first time he'd lain eyes on her, sitting hogtied to a chair, candlelight illuminating her girlish features. Features that were ferocious and vicious, sending warning bells chiming in his head.

"Arya!" he called.

"I hear things, Arthur!" she shouted back.

He caught up to her, matching paces with her mount easily. "Dammit, woman," he growled, reaching over the rip the reins from her hands. "How do you know that?!"

She sighed heavily, their horses coming to a sloppy stop in the middle of the dusty route. She turned to him a heavy yet empty black stare.

"I just…" she trailed off, boring on him black eyes drinking up the midday sun. She looked as if she was about to tell him something, like it hung from the air, beyond his grasp, out of his reach. She was pressed onward in her saddle, mouth ajar, eyes open to the possibility of telling him whatever she was about to. But then her black eyes fell to the ground and a cloud blocked the sun, casting shadows across her face like a haunted, ghost-ridden town casting long black shadows against the ground. "People talk, Arthur."

He knew that wasn't the truth. He could see it running across her face as plain as day.

"You're a lot of things, Arya Reed," he growled, looking at her from under the rim of his hat. "But you ain't no liar." With that, he spurred on his horse and set off at a gallop, listening to the following hooves of Arya's mount.

"I'm telling you!" she shouted over to roaring of their horses' hooves on the dirt and dry ground.

Arthur grunted under his breath, hating the way his stomach twisted. He wanted to know. The truth teased him as badly as his own feelings for the girl riding beside him.

"You're hidin' somethin'!" he shouted. "And I'm tired of bein' given half-assed answers to my questions!"

"Arthur! Slow down please!"

Against his own reason, he reduced his speed and looked at her; rosy cheeks and endearing eyebrows turned upwards in agony. He hated himself then. He hated himself always.

"There is somethin' wrong with you," he grunted. "And I ain't able to put my finger on it. Sometimes, I tell myself – ah – it's no big deal. And then you say some shit like what you was sayin' back then, knowin' all them things about Dutch! I can't explain it, God knows I can't. But I tell you, I get this feeling like you… like you don't belong here."

He saw the hurt in her eyes before he could register what he was saying. It crossed her features like a dark storm racking the countryside; tumultuous and wrecking.

"I – I didn't mean it like that, I – well, just meant – "

"I know," she said softly, her voice carrying none of the hurt that had crossed her face as rapidly as a fleeing deer. "I know what you mean." She was white knuckling her reins, mouth pulled into a tight line.

"Arya, I meant no offense."

She looked at him harshly, eyes now harboring a hardness he knew was protection. "I've never really belonged here." And there it was again, the truth hanging before him like a treat to a cat, a bone to a dog, reeling him in as slowly as can be. The way her eyes searched him, almost begging him to go digging, opened up a well of questions in his mind.

There was nothing else to add. In Arthur's mind, he would have continued to pry, but he was never one to put his nose where it didn't belong. He wouldn't make more of a mess of their friendship – or whatever this was.

They rode in silence as the earth went from mud to dry dirt to patches of grass. The sun sloped over them in an arch, setting on the horizon in a deep orange and soft pink. Their breaths were coming out frigid from their mouths by the time Arthur found an empty, secluded spot for camp to be set up.

Arthur found kindle for the fire and set it up right away, casting a glow of orange and shadows across their encampment. Arya brought out their cots and provisions for the night, while Arthur quickly set up their tent. By the time the night was a blanket of stars and a bright white moon, Arya was sitting quietly by the fire, twiddling with her can of beans. Arthur was leaning against the tent's pole, hat on the ground, finishing up his meal of offal and salted meat.

"You said I was a lot of things," Arya said, her voice breaking through the sounds of wildlife and nighttime travelers.

Arthur looked up from his fingers, finding it hard to pretend he didn't feel the warmth – the paining warmth – spreading in his belly. "What?"

"Before," she insisted, staring at the fire, "you said I was a lot of things but not a liar."

"Yeah."

"Well, I am a liar."

Arthur sighed, crossing his ankles. "There's a difference between bein' a downright liar and hidin' things," he drawled, voice cracked from the way his heart was racing. "You're just hidin' things is all."

She licked her lips, cocking her head ever the slightest. "I don't wanna be a liar, you know."

"I know."

"I saw what lyin' did to my brother," she whispered. "How it tore at him. Tore us apart, too."

"I never got to tell you," Arthur said slowly, "but I am sorry for what them O'Driscolls did to your brother."

Arya shrugged. "It's nothing he didn't have coming for him, I guess." Then she looked at the ground, puckering her lips. "We weren't supposed to be here. We weren't supposed to live our lives like this."

Then she turned to him, eyes wide, black drinking in the flames like a parched man gulping on water. Something stirred in Arthur's mind, jolting him from spine to ears.

She opened her mouth, lips bright and red, the truth about to spool from her tongue.

And yet Arthur didn't want to hear it. He felt that if the truth were laid bare before him like a newborn, he wouldn't be able to find the same Arya as he had now. The truth, or more the hiding of said truth, was like a blanket cover over an ugliness he felt unable to look dead on.

He rushed onto his knees, feeling the pebbles and dirt digging into his flesh. His hands reached out for her easily, grasping at her delicate neck.

There was no caution. There was no alarm bells or hatred or restraint. There was no apology. Arthur didn't think about what he'd promised himself only days before. All he cared about was keeping that ugliness away. All he wanted was to seal the lock over the truth and keep the Arya he knew.

There was nothing but protection and want as he reached out and grabbed the back of her neck, bringing her mouth flat against his.

WOO! Is Arthur finally throwing caution out the window and going for what he wants? Hopefully.