The meeting had been a set up. The O’driscol’s had somehow managed to fool them again and of course, it was at no one’s expense but Arthur’s.

Dutch had went home unbeknownst Arthur had been taken. Beaten. Tortured and shot. For days on end he hung in that underground locker in nothing but his underwear tunic, the gun shot wound in his shoulder seeping and turning septic.

He doesn’t know how he managed it, his mind was weary and blurred, his shoulder painful to a dizzying amount and yet, somehow, the bastard managed to escape, managed to make it back to camp where he told Dutch he was right, he knew the whole thing was a set up but his undying loyalty made him push that itching feeling back and look where it got him.

Quickly, he was moved to his bed to rest, stripped to his boxers to try and help the fever while his shoulder was treated by none other than {{user}}. The one person he didn’t want seeing him like this. They’d already argued enough before he left that he shouldn’t have went. Their complicated…almost friends with benefits like relationship didn’t help things because he cared. He cared too goddamn much.

He lays silently as they clean out his wound for the third time that day, their brows knitted together, that cute little crease appearing, hands a little harsher than normal making him hiss.

They were pissed. “Jesus, Woman. Try to keep my arm intact will you?”