red dead redemption 2 • pref. and imagines

if you died°

Requested by Jane_Leslie_Frye

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They would be in pieces. To think that you, the light of their lives, were snuffed like a candle, it was hell on earth. They would all cry, whether in private, or openly.

Dutch would hear it. See it, even. He'd have to hold it in. Cradling your lifeless body, he'd hold the emotion in, then return to camp with your dead body behind. The soul he lost was like nothing before. When closing the flap on his tent, he'd let no one in but Hosea, and cry for hours. Cry over your picture, over your bloody jacket, over the map where you'd planned your future, over the promise of family, the list of child names. He wouldn't emerge for weeks. Only to wash, get food. He would be utterly inconsolable. But after realising what you'd have wanted, helping the gang, he appeared, apologised, and dedicated his every move toward you.

Arthur would kneel beside you. Dead. Gone. Not quite cold, but not lively. He would let himself take you close, beg for your life back, beg that the reaper took him instead, but to no avail. You'd die in his arms, the light would go, and from him too. No one would be able to get a pleasant word out of him, apart from Hosea. That man could talk a pig into a slaughterhouse. He would cry, over stew, over whisky, over the poker table, in bed, in his sleep. All because the light was gone. His light had gone. Then he'd throw himself into work, never take another woman, realise what you'd have wanted, and get back to his normal self with you by his side, always.

Javier would abandon the gang for a while. Bury you where you wanted to stay with him one day, he'd play the guitar beside your grave, he'd cry, stain the wood with tears, carve your name into the previously untouched material. He'd pick flowers from the meadows for the grave, only to be found by one of the gang members after days of tracking. Javier would have been gone for a month, month and a half, something odd. They'd miss him, and he'd come back then, only because they'd ask. Every other night, though, he'd return to the grave, sing your favourite song, replace the flowers. He missed you. So, so much.

Charles would not... Not breathe. He'd stop living just as you did. His heart would break, shatter, not be repaired, and he'd give you a burial himself. Take you up into the mountains where you loved, openly sob and yell to you, let tears run down your cold cheeks out of anguish, sorrow. He wouldn't return to camp for weeks and a member would have to track him down every now and then. After discovering the letter you wrote for your death, he realised he was letting the other important people down and returned to camp, with thoughts of you and prayers from the others.

Sean would sob. He'd scream and cry and rock, just over you, in the middle of the battlefield. He was sure if the situation was reversed, you'd do the same. The gang would try and pry him away, touch him, comfort him, but he was a ticking bomb, ready to kill without thought, ready to die with you. He'd have to sit a while in someone else's company, perhaps in an embrace, or a blanket, tucked away in the darkness of his tent. He'd watch Bill bury you, and the pair of them would have a drink together. After a few weeks, Sean would be back working again. But he'd never forget.

Lenny had only just become an adult, and even though he'd had a less than childhood, he'd still be destroyed. With no thought, he'd do crimes, kill people who looked at him wrong, come up to your grave every night and have a drink with you. He thinks the talking helped him get over your death a little more. He was still shattered, and still cries some nights at the picture by his bedside, but he'd be back at work after a short week. He'd fight for you.

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