Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jack Marston had seen a lot of bullshit in his thirty-three years of life.

Handled worse for sure, but sometimes he has to wonder if the powers that be are having a laugh at his expense.

He could handle waking up in a field that used to be his home with nothing but a too-young body and clothes that were no longer his. He could handle waking up 28 years in the past and remaking himself in a flash. He could handle killing the man who ruined his life again, this time before he ever got the chance to hurt his family.

But his own four year old self, dressed in some stupid fancy get up, looking around in wonder as he doesn’t realize he’s been kidnapped, is something else entirely.

Jack clamps down on anything he may be feeling at the moment, a skill he'd mastered long ago. Face sitting carefully, painfully blank.

“—well, young man, Mr. Marlo here will take good care of you,” Bronte’s voice is light and kind to young Jack in a way that kneecaps old Jack with a sense of deja vu. 

Bronte turns to the older Jack, or James Marlo as he is now, and the lightness is gone. His eyes are all black steel and promised violence.

“I’m entrusting his safety to you, don’t disappoint me.”

Jack manages to unstick his brain for long enough to choke out a smooth and easy: “Of course, Signore”

Junior is, in fact, a handful and a half.

“Old Jack” and “Young Jack” were a state of affairs that was temporary at best.

One of them was going to have to change; it’s not like either of them is really fit to be “John”.

(No one really can be; shoes far too big for anyone other than the man himself.)

Seeing as they are both John Marston Jr.: one of them four, the other nineteen going on thirty-three, the options were limited. Jack has decided to pull rank and be Jack, seeing as he's been “Jack” a lot longer than Jack has.

Young Jack is, therefore, Junior.

Regardless, a handful.

Jack suspects this is some sort of belated hazing ritual, wherein he, the youngest associate in the immediate vicinity who is the least likely to be a dick to a kid, is put on babysitting duty rather than anything interesting. Honestly, fine; Jack was well aware this was a temporary arrangement. It's not like he was itching to go back to Chicago and sit on his hands until he could do something useful again.

His resume isn’t stellar at the moment considering he is, by all rights, four.

“Mr. Marlo! Mr. Marlo! Look at my tower!!”

Speak of the devil.

“Wow, Jack! That’s so tall!”

Junior has constructed some sort of elaborate block tower from one of the million toys Bronte has provided him. Honestly, Jack isn’t even lying. It's pretty impressive how the kid managed to stack them a whole half a head taller than his own tiny body.

Junior has also constructed some elaborate story for the tower, and what monster will come to knock it down. It's all very detailed that Jack gets lost in it a little, but attempts to sound invested.

Of all of his skills, childcare is not among them. It's not difficult to treat Junior as an adult who is small and is laser-focused on strange beasts. It helps that many of the facts that Junior rattles off are things Jack knows or knows more about, so he can chime in with extra tidbits, to Junior's extreme delight.

Playing with the kid is so easy that it makes him angrier at his father.

The anger he held as a teenager had quickly curdled into grief when he died and Ma followed him. He let the anger at Pa redirect into the fucking Pinkertons and the government that bought them.

It didn't mean he wasn't still angry at his father. It just meant he missed him more than he resented him.

If his recollection of his childhood and Uncle Arthur's journal is correct, John figured some things out after his younger self was kidnapped. That, and things are about to get worse. Still, at least Pa was/will be there, and at least he wanted/will want Jack.

It's going to get a lot, lot worse, he thinks, looking down at Junior stacking another colossus.

There's a lot he doesn't remember, but he remembers the fear. That palpable uncertainty that everyone, even Uncle Arthur —even Uncle Charles— exuded from their pores.

The three act structure was useful in a lot of ways to describe stories, create breaks to section off where the problems are happening into neat little parts. If this were a story, he could subvert Act 2 here, before the top of the rising action, and send them all into the "happily ever after" part at Beecher's Hope.

Issue with real life, Jack finds, is that, unlike stories, you never get that fade to black. You are left to persist in the world you have created, for good or for ill.

That or perhaps Jack's life has just been a series of stories, with no escape from the ever-present audience.

"All the world's a stage" is all well and good, but Jack would like to consider the possibility of a happily ever after.

Jack has never wanted children. Never wanted the whole wife, house in the countryside, kids, and a dog. His lifestyle has never been conducive to the idea, it wasn't his happy ending.

He still, as of yet, hadn't quite figured it out. Part of him wants to lean down to Junior here and tell him: "They're lying, they're all lying to you. Not a single adult knows what they're doing ever; they're making it up, okay? It's pretend."

Apparently, some German crackpots had been dickin' around with the idea of a "divine child" or "inner child" or something.

"Do you want a lift up to get higher?" Jack asks Junior instead of any of the manic things he wants to say in its place.

"Yeah!"

Maybe the eggheads were onto something.

As he hoists Junior up, Jack can't help but think about the after. Their after. How this kid is going to lose so many of the aunties and uncles that he'd grown up with, how he'll slowly forget their faces and eventually their names.

Jack is not a good man, long quit pretending to be, but—

"Need those purple blocks," Junior says seriously. Jack lets him back down to grab his next weapons of creativity.

Junior's just a kid.

And Jack's just been given a one in a lifetime chance to heal his inner outer child.

Jack has a plan.

There's a lot riding on said plan: the safety of both Jacks for one and the safety of his family for the other. Angelo Bronte is not an insignificant player here. Jack didn't get to where he was in life and in crime by underestimating people.

Did get pretty far with people underestimating him, however.

Of his many actions as both a teenage delinquent and professional criminal, Jack's organized a kidnapping in his time. It will, however, be the first real-fake kidnapping he's had the pleasure of participating in.

Working for nearly a decade in a family much better organized and a lot more brutal than Bronte’s means that this is not Jack's first rodeo in faking a scene. In fact, he made a name for himself on it.

Junior is, unfortunately, his biggest obstacle in all of this. Jack’s been glued to the kid since Bronte gave his word, only losing sight of Junior for his nightly baths and the occasional meal with the big man himself.

It's not a long time, all things considered, but Jack has done a lot more with a lot less. Never let it be said that Jack Marston isn't ready for a challenge.

Pigs' blood would be easy enough to get in a town like Saint Denis, but butchers, in Jack's experience, are almost always in the pocket of the mafia. Any possibility that word gets back to Bronte is a no-go. So he has to get a little creative in his sourcing.

The rumors of a vampire in this town are greatly exaggerated.

Now Junior.

“Hey, Jack," he asks a few days later. "I know this one spot that has the best frogs, want to go on an adventure?”

“YES!” Junior yells so loud that Jack’s ears ring.

“Okay, but,” Jack whispers and leans into Junior conspiratorially. “I didn’t ask for permission so we’re gonna have to sneak out.”

“Ohhh,” Junior responds, whispering as well. Kids love feeling like they’re in on a secret, it makes them feel grown up.

"How does tonight sound?"

The kid is practically vibrating in excitement.

Jesus, had he really ever been this cute?

"Let's do it!" Junior can be quiet in his excitement it seems. Maybe they got that from their Ma.

"Great," Jack says. Then whispers even lower: "Pack a bag with anything you think is important okay? We'll be gone for a while."

"Okay!"

Jack leaves Junior to the servants for the evening, which gives him plenty of time to put the finishing touches on everything. He can't trust a single person in this town, so he does it himself.

He's never really believed in a higher power, but he does thank several that they graced him with his nineteen year old self. You never know how nice fresh knees are until they're gone.

Night falls quite over Bronte's manor.

The man of the house is out for a night on the town.

Jack's out of the house, too, standing in the carriage house counting out his personal armory. The stable boy is out cold at his feet, in a chloroform enforced nap. The kid's barely seventeen, and maybe Jack really is going soft, but he's not killing a kid just for convenience when he has other methods.

Eight throwing knives dipped in oleander slipped into his bandoleer, his father's hunting knife, and revolver at his hip. Satchel heavy with odds and ends and a coil of rope. It's as good as it's going to get.

Jack pulls his mask up over his nose, and steps out the south door.

With a silent heel turn to the left, he moves with practiced fluidity. The handkerchief, still slightly damp from the swiftly evaporating chloroform, wraps around his left hand, and the hunting knife is a comforting weight in his right.

Jack had learned stealth while wearing spurs, and like a cat wearing a bell, it only made him better.

It's nothing to clamp a hand over Danny's mouth and draw steel through his carotid and trachea. Danny was thirty-one, son of immigrants, and joined up with Bronte after being rejected from every college he applied to. He chokes on his own blood before Jack lowers him to the ground.

He pulls out a second, emerald-colored handkerchief to wipe Danny's blood off. Jack drops it on a bush, subtly unsubtle.

Left again, through a beautiful walkway, carefully designed to make sure the houses' occupants couldn't see the help coming from the carriage house to the manor. The rich were morons, leaving such obvious pathways for miscreants like Jack.

No men walked the grounds here, but Jack knew he faced a three-man shaped problem between himself and the house. Jerry stood to the side of the servant's entrance, smoking alone. Tony and Dave sat in chairs on the porch, a bottle of rye between them.

The alcohol will help both the plan and these two gentlemen's inevitable deaths.

He creeps along the north wall past Jerry before doubling back.

Waits a beat, two, while Jerry takes a long drag.

The smoke billowing around his face keeps Jerry from seeing Jack dart the distance between them, slamming his head back with one hand. Twenty-six, he was planning on proposing to his girl, saved up enough money for their own place and everything. The sharp tip of his hunting knife poked a good quarter inch out the left side of Jerry's neck.

Jack twisted his wrist a fraction on the withdrawal, hearing the scrape of metal against bone mix with the rushing squelch of blood.

Jack controls Jerry's fall to avoid the sound. It seems that the slam of Jerry's skull against the masonry wasn't enough to alert the other two.

Jack didn't get a moment to see how much of that bottle was empty, but the lack of response told him everything he needed to know.

Many, many ways he could play this. Jack remembers one time in New Austin, firing his first round into the air before putting three into the eyes that turned to look. That's a no go for so many reasons, not least of all it would wake Junior.

Jack walks back to the north wall to get a view on the pair. Plan decided, he wipes Jerry's blood off on his pants, and the hunting knife slides back into its sheath.

A pair of throwing knives are pulled from their sheaths, one to each palm. Jack's vision slows and sharpens. His heartbeat thrums against the rush of wind like it's counting down.

(Counting down to what, he tries not to think about)

X marks the spot.

The first knife is thrown through the air in a graceful arc; the second flips laterally from left hand to right as Jack sprints forward with it.

Tony only has a second of wide-eyed surprise at the knife from Dave's throat before one finds his own.

A husband and father, a man finding love in the shadows, equals as meat.

A hush falls over the garden.

Chapter Text

It's not quiet—it's never quiet in a city—but the music dies down, and the rush in Jack's ears slows and stops. He takes a deep breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth.

He steps over Jerry on his way back into the house, a pity to be sure, his girl will have to find the ring amongst his belongings. Jack hopes for her sake, that she never really loved him, that she pawns the ring and moves on.

Jack can't stay in the city, not after the stunt he's pulling here, not with Junior in the balance. It makes him a little homesick. He'd have chatted Jerry's girl (Ann?) up at the bar she goes to drown her woes in. Let her sob into his shoulder knowing fully well he put her here.

He was alone with his grief; in the after, he tries not to replicate it with his own work. Jack's always been the kind of guy to care about the people he leaves behind if not the person he kills. Some men kill because they see people as animals, some kill because they can, because no one can stop them. Everything Jack tries not to be. A man like that joins the government and takes out his lack of control over his life on those who he can.

Since his father died, Jack has known intimately that he doesn't control any part of his life. Even in the moments where he is himself, he is always watched, always observed. It's enough to drive some men mad, but it's just his life, so he lives it.

He lives his life and he takes others. Jack tries to stay away from senseless violence, it's just not who he is.

Every kill has a purpose, every death a meaning, every bullet a promise.

The house is a graveyard (and no, not because of the corpses). The maids and cook are gone for the day, so there is no one to oppose Jack climbing the stairs to Junior's room.

It's lavish, like everything else in the house, bordering on gaudy if Jack cared enough to judge. The room faces the southwest and heats up like a crab boil in the evening.

Junior is sleeping on one of the twin beds in the room for now, but it won't last long if he isn't quiet. In the meantime, Jack gets to play pretend a little bit.

He pulls out the supplies he procured in the days leading up to this, stashed away the too fancy wardrobe.

When all is said and done, the room is a right mess.

Not quite a murder scene, but not not a murder scene. Bronte is smart and very well connected, which means Jack really puts his all into this one.

“Jack,” he whispers as he shakes the kid awake. “Hey, it's time for that adventure.”

Junior makes a disgruntled noise, amusing Jack to no end. They’re both like their mom in that way, waking more like bears out of hibernation than people.

He speaks eventually, after blinking himself awake for a while: “Okay Uncle Jay.”

Jack’s cold dead black heart doesn’t squeeze or make any sort of aborted gesture towards emotion in the slightest bit.

“Is that your bag?” Jack asks, gesturing over to the small pack leaned against the wall near the window.

“Mhm,” Junior replies, still dead to the world. That’s good, will make this easier if he doesn’t fully realize what Jack’s doing.

“Okay, real quiet now,” Jack says, gently, hoisting Junior out of the bed. He rests most of the kid's weight against his hip, which he mentally apologizes for, the bullets cannot be comfortable. Junior doesn't seem to mind, however, content to fall back asleep on Jack's shoulder.

He tries to remember if any of the men at camp, with their gun belts and bandoliers, ever carried him like this, but he comes up empty. If he had to wager a guess, he would say Uncle Arthur, lord knows his father didn't.

The house is still and quiet, and Jack stays on high alert. This is the hard part.

The last thing he wants to do is get into a shootout holding Junior. (A very immature version of himself snorts at that.)

The courtyard is still empty, save for the slowly cooling corpses, the sticky night heat doesn't even let the dead breathe.

Jack presses Junior's face harder into his shoulder, much to the kid's disgruntlement. The last thing that Jack wants is for Junior to see the bodies.

There will be a time that Junior will see a corpse, Jack would rather it not be tonight.

It's bad enough that they both have to breathe through the choke of iron and death. The little man's breath is warm and even, and Jack realizes it's been a while since he's carried someone breathing. Longer still since he carried someone without intentions to harm them.

He doesn't rightly know how he feels about all that.

Jack, at the ripe old age of nineteen, isn't a very physically imposing man. Tall sure, and the kind of shoulders that suggest he could fill out, but his youth avoiding physical activity certainly showed. Half of the trouble of waking up in this body was the change in size, the lack of strength he had carefully cultivated.

(The other half was the facial hair, which met an extremely swift end at the blade of his hunting knife.)

As they draw closer to the boat dock, Jack notices that Junior's breaths aren't just even, they're carefully even. The kid is good at hiding for sure, but hasn't yet mastered feigning sleep.

Jack shifts Junior's weight on his hip a bit so he can swing the gate open.

"We're going on a boat?" Junior asks quietly as they walk down the dock.

"Yes, just out of the city."

"Okay," Junior sounds much more awake than before. Jack wonders how long the kid has been awake, and he just didn't notice. That or Junior decided when to let him know he was awake. Jack's experience with kids was virtually non-existent outside of this last week or so; he isn't always sure how conniving he should expect them to be.

"I'm going to set you down now, okay?"

Junior nods against his shoulder, and Jack adjusts his grip to put Junior firmly onto the dock. The kid rubs his eyes a little as he takes a look around; he'd likely not been allowed out here.

"That one?" Junior asks, pointing to the canoe Jack had procured.

"Yeah, let me hold it still and you can climb in," he responded.

On his signal, Junior gingerly climbed into the boat and accepted the bag that Jack handed him.

"Okay, hold the sides while I get in."

Junior did as he was instructed, successfully bracing himself against the rock of the boat as it settled under Jack's weight.

When they both got situated, Jack picked up the paddle and pushed them off the dock.

Jack watched the lights of Saint Denis reflecting on Junior's face get dimmer and dimmer the further they went, and felt some tense part of him loosen for the first time since he got to this strange/familiar time.

Once they're out on the water, Junior speaks up, staring morosely into the water: "We aren't really going to see any frogs, are we?"

Fun new kid fact, Jack thinks, they're way more observant than adults credit them for.

"Well, we can see frogs on the way," Jack says, hoping that placates him. He isn't very hopeful, but it's more than nothing.

"Where are we going?"

Time for the truth, it seems.

"Back to your Ma and Pa," Jack replies easily.

"Oh," is all Junior says. He goes quiet for a while. The water splashes against the boat, and the sounds of the night in the bayou fill the emptiness. Eventually, Junior speaks: "Were those men bad?"

"Which men?"

"The ones you hurt?"

Jack doesn't bother to explain that the follow up question does not narrow down the list in any way.

"That's complicated Jack," he finally says.

"Make it less complicated," Junior demands.

Jack laughs a little into the night air.

If only it were that easy. If only you could boil the moral quandaries of the world down to something a four year old could understand—a rather intelligent four year old, but a four year old nonetheless.

He keeps rowing as he chews on the thought.

"They took you from your Ma didn't they?"

"Doesn't Ma know where I am?"

Of course, Jack thinks, of course Junior doesn't know he was kidnapped, how could he? He fights the urge to laugh again because he knows it will spill out of his mouth, sounding hysterical, and he doesn't need to scare the kid. He takes a breath to pull himself together and not turn this boat around and splatter the streets of Saint Denis with the blood of Angelo Bronte. Junior is looking at him, patiently but expectantly.

"No Jack, she doesn't."

"Is she worried then?" Junior asks, looking ashamed that he would cause his mother to worry over him. Jack knows the look, he knows the thought.

Ma already worries about Pa enough, she doesn't need to worry about me too.

It's one of those things that it takes being an adult to see the problem.

"Of course Jack," he paused for a beat, Junior is stiller and quieter than any four year old should be. It aches something fierce. "You know they'd tear apart the world for you, right?"

Junior doesn't look up, his hands fidget in his lap.

"Even pa?"

This kid, Jack swears his going to punch John Marston. He is going to hit John Martson's stupid face for ever making him this kid feel unloved. He paused rowing, letting them drift for a moment.

Jack looks at Junior with such a serious expression one might be forgiven for thinking he was planning a murder.

"Especially Pa," and Jack means it with all he is. He remembers 1911, a year branded into his soul for better and for worse.

Junior shifts in his seat, rocking ever so slightly back and forth.

"But he doesn't want me."

It's impossible to forget they are one in the same. It's impossible to forget every time he's thought the same. Every time he thought that his father didn't want him or his father wanted him to be different or that he was just a mis—

It hurts. Shot, stabbed, burned, froze, it aches with more pain than anything.

He forgot what it was like, having a family that loved and hurt in equal measure. Back when he was last nineteen he would have given anything for Pa to yell at him again, or for whatever chore that day that passed as "building character". He's older now, sometime ago making the conscious choice to remember the good memories more than the bad. It's a choice he has to make, or he'll drown in the grief.

Eventually, he finds his voice enough to speak, like he finds the oar to row.

"Sometimes," he starts, and pauses. He doesn't know how to say all these things, he doesn't know how to comfort a child, comfort himself, but he has to try. If not him, who? "Sometimes the people we love, don't know how to love us back."

"Does your Pa love you back?" Junior asked, staring blankly up at him. He swings his feet a bit on the bench before adding, "I'm hungry."

Jack snorts a little, putting the oar down to pull an apple out of his bag.

"More than anything," Jack says. He expects that thought to stop there, but he surprises himself by continuing. "He wasn't very good at showing it, and I— I wasn't very good at letting him."

He goes to dip the oar back into the water, to keep rowing, to get them out of this cursed place, but Junior puts a hand on his knee. Jack stops to look at his younger self. A small outstretched hand holds a sad, squished looking hard candy, covered in lint and some sort of viscous substance.

"Thanks," he tries to say as he takes it but it sounds more like a question to his ears. It's unpleasantly sticky and he has no idea where the kid even got this from. He tries not to think about it too much. It grates on him that this child is trying to comfort him, an adult. Jack wonders if he was like that, trying to keep the emotional state of the adults level enough that maybe they could get through this. He knows how many times his mom cried on his shoulder when he wanted nothing more than to join her.

Jack puts the candy in his pocket and tries not to think about it too much. Tries to focus on getting them out of there.

"Your Pa will figure it out Jack," he says diplomatically. Jack wonders again why he is making excuses for John fucking Marston. "It just takes time."

The kid's face twists in that characteristic Marston rage.

"That's not fair!" he shouts, practically at the top of his little lungs. Jack rows faster.

"No," he agrees. "No it isn't."

They lapse into silence as finally the horse Jack stashed comes into view. Junior's face is still pinched, but he's at least mollified by an adult's agreement that this is all stupid.

With some final strokes, Jack beaches the canoe.

"How about this," he says, as he starts to lift himself up and out. "I'll talk to your Pa. He'll have to listen to me after I took such good care of you."

Privately, Jack thinks nothing could get through John Marston's thick fucking skull, but if anyone could, it's probably him. No one else could match him one for one on bullheadedness.

Junior looks skeptical, but has a spark of hope. Jack's seen that look in his mother's eyes before, it looks the same on them it seems.

"Yeah?"

Jack laughs a little, reaching over to help Junior out of the canoe.

"For you Jacky-boy? Anything."

Junior wrinkles his nose at the nickname, and yeah, he never liked it either.

"I'm not Jacky, I'm Jack!"

"You sure are!" and so am I, he doesn't say.

Jack checks his pocket watch, 3:42 am. They'll make it to Rhodes before sunrise, even going at the slower pace necessary to keep Junior comfortable.

It doesn't take him very long to get the bags packed onto the Appaloosa he procured for this task. She's a gentle girl, too bad about her owner.

She doesn't mind when he puts Junior up on the saddle, nor when Jack swings up after him.

"All ready?"

"Yeah!"

"Okay," Jack says, scanning the treeline and the waterline one last time. "Lets go."

Sounds of the night swallow them up as they ride, the lights of Saint Denis don't fade as much as they're punched out by the lush trees of the Bayou Nwa.

Come morning Bronte will stumble into his beautiful home to find the place ransacked and call every Tom, Dick, and Harry they hire for a police force in that town. Maybe Jack will be a suspect, maybe he won't.

By that point, they'll be long gone.

Chapter Text

The sun is just starting to poke over the horizon when the fancy southern buildings of Rhodes comes into view.

Jack swings them north around the town, not really wanting to catch any of the attention of that family that brought Junior to Bronte. They pass the time in companionable chatter, watching birds around an area Jack's map declares as "Southfield Flats"

Due to being nearly three decades past these events, Jack can't remember where the gang's camp is at this time. From what he can surmise, it's on Flat Iron Lake west of Rhodes. That's about it.

Not a lot, but again, he's dealt with worse.

They hit the lake to the northwest of Rhodes, not so far north as to cross into New Hanover, but far enough that the shore peaks out along the burning fog. Nothing for it, he turns the horse and heads south.

Jack hopes they run into camp soon, and he gets a chance to talk before bullets start flying.

The scenery is beautiful, even as the humidity of mid-morning causes Jack's clothes to stick. The trees along the waterline holding back the clay soil and erosion with shear bulk and will.

They continue along the shore, some islands popping out of the lake to the west, a small meadow opens up with an aging dock.

Circles of stones, leftover cans, hitching posts; there was a camp here.

Curious, Jack turns the horse inland, to take a look around. There might be something good left behind, if nothing else.

A man steps out of the trees, and Jack curses in the privacy of his own mind. He'll kick himself later for his negligence, but right now—

It's then that he notices the badge the man is wearing.

Jack can feel himself tense bodily, gripping Junior a little tighter than can be comfortable. Junior, for his part, doesn't make any noise to complain, just shifts a little in place.

"This area's under investigation, state your business," the Pinkerton calls, as he approaches them.

A double-barrel shotgun sits in his hands, a clear threat. Jack shifts his grip on Junior, ready to throw the boy from the saddle if the Pinkerton decides that being a child is not enough of an excuse to avoid capital punishment.

"I'm just taking my kid brother here down to the lake for a bit of fishing. "

He needs to calm down. At the rate Jack's going, he's going to shoot this guy in front of Junior.

The Pinkerton looks them up and down with a critical eye.

"I'm seeing a lot of packs, son, and not a lot of fishing gear," he says accusingly.

Breath Marston.

"Camping, sir," Jack replies, motioning to the packs. "And the rods are collapsible."

He goes to reach into the saddlebag to pull it out, when the Pinkerton startles. In a flash, there are two barrels pointing at him.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," the Pinkerton bellows. Jack slowly pulls his hand away from the bag, back to holding Junior, shielding him from the Pinkerton.

"Am I under arrest, sir?" Jack asks, doing his best to keep the boiling rage out of his voice.

It's the same voice he used to tell Ross that he knew Jack's father.

The Pinkerton lowers his weapon with a sigh.

"There's been some outlaw activity around here," the Pinkerton says, sounding almost apologetic without apologizing for pointing a weapon at a toddler. "Can't be too careful."

"Of course, sir," Jack replies.

"You boys have a good trip now," he says, waving them off.

Jack doesn't wait for the Pinkerton to change his mind; he squeezes his knees against the horse and turns them down the shoreline.

"That man wasn't very nice," Junior mutters.

"No," Jack agrees. Three crosses loom large in the back of his mind, their shadows coloring his thoughts and choking up his throat. "Sorry for squishing you like that."

"You should have hurt him," Junior says, like it's easy, like it's simple, just another day another body. Jack can't contain the noise of suprise as he blinks down at the crown of Junior's head.

"Come again?"

"He was a bad man, you hurt bad men, you should have hurt him."

Well when the kid says it like that it all sounds so easy. Was he always this blood thirsty? Did he just forget it all under the weight of age? Or worse, was he corrupting this young impressionable version of himself?

"I don't want to hurt people where you can see," Jack explains.

"Why not?"

Why not indeed.

"When I hurt people, they die," Jack says.

"Like uncle Davey?"

Who the fuck is Uncle Davey?

"Yeah, just like that," —fuck fuck fuck fuck what the hell was he supposed to say here— "Dead people are really scary, I don't want to upset you."

"I'm brave! Uncle Arthur says so!" Junior defends.

"I'm sure Uncle Arthur is right," Jack says placatingly. "But having to be brave is like pouring cups into a bucket, when you're big you can handle more scary things than when you're small."

Junior thinks on that for a moment.

"Is that why Uncle Arthur is so brave? Because he's so big?"

"That's exactly right."

"Wow! You must not be that brave then!"

This fucking kid.

"I'm bigger than your Pa!"

"Nuh uh, my Pa could beat you up," Junior says confidently. Jack think about how large his father looms in his memories and, well, no denying that Junior is right.

"Yeah well my Pa could beat he hell out of your Pa," Jack says petulantly. "I bet he could even beat Uncle Arthur!"

"Your Pa's like a million! Uncle Arthur can beat anyone!" Junior shouts.

Not anything.

"My Pa fought all of Mexico once, and won!"

"My Pa fought a hundred wolves!"

"But he didn't win," Jack says smugly, like this is a game he wants to win, against a four year old. It's pathetic that this is the most fun he's had since blockade running back in '23. "Uncle Arthur had to save him."

"Uncle Arthur won though."

"Hmm, well then maybe your Uncle Arthur could beat my Pa," Jack concedes.

"He could!"

"I said maybe."

"He could!"

"Maybe!"

"No maybe, he could!"

"Alright, alright, you got me, he probably could."

Junior cheers triumphantly as Jack pulls them up in a spot far enough away that they can pretend to fish for a while.

"I don't like fishing," Junior decides as Jack sets up his rod. "There's always bad men."

Jack doesn't really know what to say to that. He casts an empty hook, no bait, no lure. He's not really trying to catch any fish; he just wants to look like he is. Fishing was something he ended up liking by association, it being the backdrop of some of his few good memories with his father.

"You've seen those men before?"

"Mhm," Junior replies absently. "With Uncle Arthur."

Who those agents could have been, Jack has no idea. Ross and Milton have been cold in the ground for months.

"Did they threaten Uncle Arthur?"

"Uhh, I don't know," Junior answers. "Everyone was unhappy…. and mean."

"That makes sense," Jack says. Kids could handle the truth, right? All Jack ever wanted as a kid was for someone to tell it to him straight. "Those men are hunting your family, Jack."

Junior blinks at him, processing that: "But why?"

"They don't—" Jack pauses to try and figure out his words. "They don't agree with how your family lives."

Junior gasps a little.

"In tents?" Junior asks incredulously. "Is that why Mama wants a house so bad? So the bad men stop following us?"

Oh, the logic of a child, Jack thinks as he swallows his laughter.

"Not, it's not really about the tents, Jack, more about the moving all the time."

Junior looks even more confused.

"But why do we move all the time, then?"

"Because," Jack begins before he really has much say in the matter. "Your Uncle Dutch goes and stirs up trouble, and then you have to leave."

"Why does he do that?" Junior asks, like Dutch has created a personal affront to him. Which, Jack supposes, isn't wrong. "Uncle Dutch is so nice?"

Not what he thought he would be explaining to a child when he stuck his foot into this conversational ant hill, but here he was.

"Well, Jack, not all nice people are good people, and not all good people are nice."

"Ohh," Junior says, then scrunches his face in concentration. "Like Pa?"

Jack splutters for a moment, not sure whether to laugh or scream.

"Yeah, like Pa," Jack agrees.

"Does that mean Uncle Arthur isn't good? He's really nice!"

"No, some people are nice and good, like your ma," Jack explains.

Junior lights up like a skyline at night.

"And Uncle Charles! And Aunt Tilly! And and and you!" Junior smiles at him with the huge gap in his teeth, looking the proudest he's ever been.

Jack beat a woman to death for the crime of being desperate enough to rob him. Skinned someone alive on the word of a man he'd known for a week. Put down not just the man who killed his father, but his brother, and his widow in the ground with him.

Three corpses for three crosses, blood traded for blood.

"Thank you Jack," he says softly to the beaming visage of his four year old self, who's greatest hardships are family and the places his life has dragged him.

He lets the conversation end like water falling through his hands, focuses instead on not catching any fish, and listens intently to Junior's lecture on paleontology.

Kid will be ecstatic in a couple of years when they discover the tar pits on the West Coast, Jack sure was.

Eventually, Junior decides that Jack's input is no longer necessary and goes about systematically digging for his own fossils with nothing more than a stick.

This leaves Jack time to puzzle out where the hell their parents would have gone. The shock of the year made it stick out more than most of his childhood, but the memories still have the hazy quality of a child's recollection.

Junior mutters something while continuing to manically stab the red earth with his stick.

A hazy memory of jumping off muddy ground to grab at the bell of a cannon, a massive old plantation house the backdrop.

Oh, Jack thinks.

With a flick of the wrist, he reels in his line, no fish, just as expected. Before he loses the thought, he rushes to pull out his map. South of Rhodes, between the massive plantations of those two stupid families, Bolgers Glade. Massive Civil War battle, many cannons, close but not near the water. Directly to the west, dark lines of another structure, right along the Kamassa delta.

The gang will be starting their activities in Saint Denis.

The thought sends a bolt of panic through Jack. He's running out of time.

He needs to get his family out of the South before the South eats them whole.

Not for the first time— nor he expects, the last— he misses his Ma. She'd know what to say to get Pa moving. He doesn't know enough about what's going to happen, nor enough to not sound like a raving lunatic if he marched into camp right this moment.

There are, however, other ways to motivate people to listen.

Junior mutters something again around the sporadic flinging of dirt.

Jack Marston never claimed to be a good man.

Chapter Text

They ride back into Rhodes when the sun starts to crest the sky. While Jack had never come down this way as an adult, nor as a kid, he did know now he didn't want to come back. Something about the town just set his teeth on edge.

Not wanting to stay long, Jack wheeled the horse to the hitching post alongside the general store. The list was short, but the budget wasn't infinite. Jack could, of course, procure some more funds if need be, but both the option to hide it from Junior or send him away were more than off limits.

Less than half a week ago he was scrambling for a moment alone and now the thought sunk a pit of dread so hard into his stomach that he might be sick with it.

Huh, maybe that's how his father is feeling right around now.

Good.

Jack helps Junior down onto the red soil of Rhodes before following him down. With quick, practiced motions, he ties her to the post, and they set off with a quick pat.

The door jingles as Jack holds it open for Junior to walk through. Unsurprisingly, the kid is immediately drawn to the candy display set in the center of the room.

"Hello, take a look around and let me know if you need something, I might just have it in the back."

"Thanks, mister," Jack quickly scans the shelves around the room. "Say you got stationary?"

"Yeah, I got some letter writing supplies in the back," the shopkeeper says, jutting a finger towards the back. "Kids keep messing up the display so I pulled 'em."

"Oh, believe me, sir, I understand."

With the store now unoccupied save for Junior, Jack takes a moment to slip a few more needed provisions into his satchel.

Junior is still looking glassy-eyed at the penny candy. You'd think after over a week with Bronte the kid would be sick of sweets.

"You wanna get some?" Jack asks.

"Can we?"

"Sure, why not?"

The budget can stretch enough for penny candy.

"Yay! These ones!" Junior points to some brightly colored drops wrapped in wax paper.

"Hold the bag for me, will you?"

"Okay!" Junior takes the brown paper bag offered with all the grace of a track-drifting locomotive, and it's a miracle the bag doesn't rip. Carefully, Jack takes a scoopful of the drops and deposits them into the bag's open mouth.

By the time they're finished and Jack leads Junior up to the counter, the shopkeeper is back, with a spread of paper and pens splayed across the countertop.

"Did you find something young man?" the shopkeep asks as Jack makes his way to pick out his letter writing materials.

"Yeah!" Junior says, placing his treasure up on the counter.

"Very good!"

Jack places his picks next to Junior's candy, fishing out his coin purse to pay the man.

"You're good with him," the shopkeeper says as he takes Jack's offered coins. "He yours?"

"Oh ah, no, he's my little brother," Jack says, awkwardly.

"You two look just alike, that's all," the shopkeeper says with a grin around his large mustache.

"Ha, thanks, we take after our dad," Jack replies, lacking anything else to say. He hadn't really thought they looked terribly alike, not like he took to long bouts out staring at himself in the mirror.

Outside the shop, Junior asks the million dollar question: "Are we brothers?"

"Hm?" Jack says, more to give himself time than to ask anything.

"You do kinda look like my Pa," Junior says contemplatively.

Damn kid is observant and smart. Every piece of "common wisdom" Jack picked up against his will over the years says kids are just like sentient furniture. As he tries to figure out how to answer Junior, he also considers writing a book with the skins of so called "experts".

"Well, Jack, we have the same mother and the same father." Jack doesn't like to lie to the kid, but selective truths will serve the purpose. "What does that make us?"

"Brothers!" Junior declares immediately.

"Then I suppose we are," Jack says, letting the kid decide for him. He untethers the horse, waking her along down the road.

"Why don't you live with us?"

Jack sighs.

"I was taken away from Ma and Pa when I was younger," another partial truth.

"That's sad!"

"I was very sad, that's how I ended up working for those bad men," and another.

"Now we can find Ma and Pa and you can be happy," Junior looks so earnest up at him he would never have the heart to say what he's thinking.

No, my parents are long dead… but I'll borrow yours for a while.

"We can indeed," he says instead. "I'm going to send them a letter okay, and then we're going to go to a safe place and they'll find us alright?"

"Why can't we just go to them?"

"I don't know where they are," for sure, he doesn't say. "So I'm going to tell them where to find us instead."

"Hm okay," Junior agrees, but he doesn't sound enthused about the idea.

"You have your book right?"

"Yeah,"

"Okay, let's go sit over there for a bit," he motions to a bit of shaded fencing near the train station.

He ties and untacks the horse, brushing her out and hanging the saddle and blanket next to her tether to dry. Junior sits leaned against a fence post with one of the new books he got from Bronte open, several pages already devoured. When all is said and done, Jack sits right next to him and tries to write a letter.

Jack avoids writing to his father by trying to remember who he's supposed to be sending this letter to.

When he was a Junior, the gang used a pseudonym for mail forwarding. It was something stupid and pretentious and definitely a choice Dutch made, if his memory of the man's mannerism was in any way accurate.

"Jack," he asks, couldn't hurt to try. "Do you know what name your family uses to send letters?"

"Uhh, no," Junior says. "Uncle Arthur is always getting mail though."

Huh, maybe he sends two then, and maybe someone will see it.

The prospect of sending a letter to "Arthur Morgan" is a lot more dicey than a letter to "John Marston". With what Junior said, he's clearly being watched closely by the Pinkertons.

But if Arthur could get mail…

Jack puts down his half baked letter idea to his father, opting instead to stretch a muscle he hadn't in a long long time.

He couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of him when all was said and done. Elbowing Junior, he turned the page around to show him the drawing.

"Is that Pa?" Junior asked.

"Yeah," Jack replied.

"You're really good at that."

"Why thank you little man."

It was another hour before Jack finally finished signing and stamping, the shade of the tree above them their only barrier from the hot Lemoyne mid-afternoon.

"Hey Jack, I'm going to go take these to the postman, would you come with me?"

"Mhm," Junior agrees, handing Jack his book to be put back in the saddlebags.

"Then we can get out of here," he says with no small amount of relief.

Since they won't be staying, Jack takes it upon himself to tack the horse back up. He's been reticent this far to give her a name, but he's beginning to think maybe he should. She's no Gringalet, but she will do.

They walk the short distance up to the station. It's a beautiful day, if you squint… and drink to forget you're in the armpit of the country.

Seeing as Jack is sober, and remembers exactly where he is, it's not pleasant.

"Hello, haven't seen you around," the station master calls when they enter.

"Hey, just passing through," Jack replies smoothly, sliding three envelops across the counter. "I'd like to post these."

"No problem at all," he says. "Anything else I can help you with?"

"That's it for me," Jack says. "You have a nice day sir."

"Take care now."

Jack fervently prays to every god he doesn't believe in to make sure that ends up in his parents hands. If the fucking Pinkertons intercept it he'll—

Ah well, it wouldn't be pretty to be sure.

He turns to Junior as they walk out of the station and back to their horse.

"Jack, Ma and Pa don't—" he stops for a moment, both unsure how to phrase this and to pull himself into the saddle "They don't remember me okay, so let me break it to them."

"A secret?" Junior asks, looking up at him.

"Not quite, but sure."

Junior holds up his right pinky, looking very earnest. Smiling at the kid, Jack takes his pinky with his own.

"Thank you Jack," he says after he pulls Jack up to join him. "That means a lot."

A huge smile stretches across Junior's face to match Jack's.

There's an ache in his cheeks by the time he sets the horse into a walk. When was the last time he smiled so freely?

Who was supposed to be fixing what here?

Chapter Text

Jack has been gone for almost two weeks now.

The spiral of self loathing John's been living in is a great and terrible beast. Occasionally, it pauses for long enough for him to offer some half-assed semblance of comfort to Abigail.

Abigail....

This was the closest they had been since Jack was born. Something she didn't hesitate to point out in her moments of white hot rage. Her anger came more than her tears now. John accepted both. He'd earned it all and more.

Holding her while she broke down was nothing less than a privilege. In the last several eternities between having Jack and not having Jack, John thinks (hopes) he has realized some things.

The fear of messing up was nothing at all next to this yawning emptiness.

Jack should be here, sandwiched between them, warm and safe.

Well, John thinks as he looks through some of the rotting holes in the walls, as warm and safe as they could be.

That's the other thing: the outline of Abigail's dream is taking shape in John's mind. A sturdy bed and sturdier walls of solid wood.

No running, no hiding, just them.

A life where the worries are the same, save that the noose isn't among them.

John squeezes Abigail closer like they could just fall through the world into that better life. A life he doesn't deserve, but if she's bound and determined to have him in it, might as well make the best of it.

She makes a grumbling noise that he would classify as adorable in another time. It covers the first hints of heavy steps and spurs.

Arthur Morgan appears in the holes and then the doorway, looking haggard and worn but still stronger than anything. He'd been running between hither and yon, chasing leads and hunting food and money to keep everyone afloat in the in-between time.

I was the prize pony, now I'm the workhorse.

Ain't that the truth.

"Mail for you," Arthur says after a beat.

"Come in," Abigail mutters for them both, only turning her head enough to get an eyeball on the interloper.

John raises a hand to accept whatever Arthur's brought. Arthur, the bastard, just huffs a laugh.

"Nuh uh, not for you," with that, he offers the sealed envelope to Abigail.

Both of them stare at him, Arthur isn't even phased, just looks calmly at Abigail.

"Who the hell is writing me letters," she asks, incredulous. "Give it to John."

John snatches it from Arthur the second it's offered to him. He reads the address line and stops.

Abigail Marston, Saint Denis, LE

The sharp breath he takes in catches in his throat, choking a cough out of him. Arthur has the audacity to laugh.

"If you did—"

"Weren't me," Arthur says, throwing up his hands. "Was expecting your name on there."

He fishes through his satchel for a moment before producing a folded letter and handing it to John: "This was for me."

John unfolds the paper.

A detailed drawing of a wolf stares back at him, turned in a dynamic run. The artist clearly has real talent in John's untrained eye. A letter is clenched between snapping jaws, with a comical seal to drive the point home. Then the details slam into him.

The side of the muzzle turned towards the viewer has a set of awfully familiar scars.

Sure, they weren't perfect, they're pulled wide the way old scars do, not the fresh healing marks on John's own face. But they're placed with such thought to how the scars would translate to an inhuman face, John is left reeling with the idea that whoever drew this knows him well.

Very well.

Too well.

Flipping the page, he catches a glance at the address line.

Arthur Morgan, Saint Denis, LE

In that same neat handwriting as Abigail's letter. It cuts through the grief haze with a white hot knife of panic.

It's addressed to Arthur.

Arthur, not Tacitus.

John looks up at Arthur, who seems to have had the same train of thought as John.

He shoves the wolf drawing at Abigail in his haste to get to the first letter.

The beginning of the letter is a mess of slashes.

John Marston,

If you ever want to see your son again you

Then he begins to read aloud:

Abigail,

Writing this to John has become a chore I simply can't force myself though. I beg your forgiveness, as I know by writing this to you, inevitably I write this to John. I hope you will at least enjoy my characture of him in my previous letter.

If you hadn't yet known, your son was taken by Angelo Bronte. He is a very powerful man in Saint Denis, having the law and crime in his back pocket.

I will not pretend to be a good man, Mrs. Marston, but to trade a child is not something I can abide by. To that end, I have taken the liberty of removing your son from Mr. Bronte's care.

Herein lies the problem. I have made mention to the state of Bronte's reach of influence, taking your son has no doubt created quite the mess in Saint Denis. Should this reach back to Bronte there will be implications on my own life, and the lives of your little outfit.

I cannot stay in Lemoyne, nor can I keep your son there. You shoul- I wouldn't recommend you stay there either, but I realize that may not be within your hands.

In the meantime, young Jack and I have been enjoying ourselves.

This country truly is beautiful outside of that accursed swamp. We have taken time to watch the buffalo dance and the foxes play. Even the slow encroachment of the iron road can't spoil our mood, the sisters watch our sleep. There are strange cousins here, but up so high we can see all danger. The hike may be hard on little feet, but it's well worth the view.

May the moon watch us and the fire take us,

JM

"What the fuck," is all John says after he finishes reading them the letter. Abigail is trembling slightly against him, but she has flint and steel in her eyes.

"That last bits a code right?" she says, motioning towards the end of the letter. "He's telling us where he is."

"They're headed north," Arthur says after a while.

"North?" John asks, he knows Arthur's a lot smarter than he lets on, but John would really like to be brought into the loop and quickly.

"Yeah, uh—" Arthur starts digging in that fancy new satchel he had Pearson make for him two camps ago. He pulls out a well worn map and unfolds it carefully. There are dozens of sketches and notes scattered across the pages. It's so like Arthur that John almost laughs at him. "The buffalo, the foxes? That's the Heartlands."

Abigail pokes John to move over. With the new space, Arthur flattens the map on the bedspread, and John smooths the letter down next to it. They're not quiet flat nor smooth on the lumpy bed, but it does the trick for a war room in a pinch.

A big finger traces east from the Heartlands overflow to a rail line that Arthur has sketched upwards, labeled "Central Union Railroad".

Abigail abruptly uncurls from the corner where she stashed herself. She traces a finger west opposite the way Arthur had gone, then puts a finger on the Heartland's Overflow and the end of the railroad, moving north up the map till they meet.

John immediately catches her meaning: "The sisters, The Three Sisters?"

"It would seem so," Arthur agrees. "Actually—"

He picks up where Abigail stopped, running a finger directly to the north.

"That is one of the higher points in the East Grizzlies," he points to a spot simply labeled as "The Loft" in Arthur's neat script.

"Is that a building?" John asks, squinting down at the little rectangle sketched on the map.

"It's an abandoned firewatch tower, can see clear across Ambarino."

"When do we leave?" Abigail asks, and John whips his head up to look at her. She has the look on her face that has the refusal dying on his tongue.

Instead, he looks at Arthur. Arthur looks between them and sighs to himself.

"First light," he says after a beat of thinking. "We won't be able to get out of the swamp before nightfall."

John glances towards the window and finds the sun nearly set, he didn't even notice where the time went.

"Alright," Abigail agrees, and John nods his head next to her.

"You both need to eat something," Arthur says sternly. "I know you ain't left this room all day."

"Yes mother," John says sarcastically. His brother cuffs him upside the head but its worth it for Abigail's snicker.

It's the first time he's heard her laugh since Jack was taken.

And now, letter in hand, there's a hope. A small one, but a hope nonetheless.

John can't help the smile that crosses his lips, small and hesitant like the ones he wore when they first met. Abigail's eyes are soft when she meets his gaze, the bags under her eyes are deep and wide, but she's so beautiful it hurts.

"If you two are going to be gross I'm leaving," Arthur says like the asshole he is, shattering the moment. He packs up his map and stomps towards the door. "I will see you at dinner."

It's John's turn to snicker at his brother's retreating back, serves him right.

Chapter Text

"I want to go with," Duffy says in a rush, ambushing John at the scout fire.

"No," John says immediately.

Normally, that tone would be enough to send the O'Driscoll running for the hills, but it seems some power in the universe is conspiring against John because he doesn't, and so the conversation continues on.

" Mr. Marston—"

"You seem to be under the impression that this is up for discussion, O'Driscoll boy."

Duffy puffs a little, clearly biting back "I ain't an O'Driscoll" to get to what he actually wants to say.

"Sir, they took Jack right in front of me, and I didn't even get a chance to fight back."

"Orrr, you let him get taken and want to finish the job," John glares at him. He was really, really hoping to get out of this. "You see how this looks, right?"

"You think after everything that I would just—" Duffy is practically shouting, several other people around camp are starting to stare at the rare outburst from the resident whipping boy. John kinda wonders if Duffy will try to hit him, now that would really get people talking. "— if you think I could hurt a child much less—"

Just like that Duffy loses steam, he looks exhausted, the way John has felt for the last forever since Jack was taken. It's almost enough to make John take pity on the guy. He's clearly had a hell of a couple months.

Duffy opens his mouth to continue, but Arthur materializes from the darkness like a specter and cuts him off.

"Alright ladies that's enough," he says loudly enough that both John and Duffy turn to glare at him.

"He's not coming with," John says again into his nightcap. Arthur doesn't seem to hear what he said much as what he implied, because the dumbass turns to look at Duffy with a considering look.

"You want to come with?" Arthur asks Duffy, completely ignoring John's noise of whiskey protest.

"Yes, I want to— no," Duffy gathers himself up. "I need to make sure Jack is safe."

"And he will be, without you coming," John reiterates.

Arthur whirls on John and ugh now he's going to be agreeing with the bastard before the night is out but he'll be damned if he goes down easy.

"It'd be nice to have someone watching the horses," Arthur tries.

"Well my horse is well trained," John bites back. Arthur raises an eyebrow at the implication. "Old Boy can handle himself."

"Abigail doesn't ride often enough for that, and she could use someone watching her back."

"If you think I'm going to leave Abigail with an O'Driscoll—" "I ain't an" "— then you got another thing coming."

"That ain't a choice you get to make," Abigail's voice calls over the furious scuffle of skirts. John looks around Arthur's big ass to watch her stalk towards them, someone must have called in the calvery.

She marches right up to them, catches Duffy by the arm, and marches him off south.

John and Arthur share a look, an understanding passes between them that now this well and truly out of their hands.

"Well, 'spose that's a moot point now that Kieran's about to be alligator feed," Arthur says after a beat. John snorts a little, the only admission he will give that Arthur is at all funny and not a bastard.

"When he become Kieran an not 'O'Driscoll' anyway?" The question had been bothering him ever since Arthur marched up. He's gone soft on their prisoner-not-a -prisoner it seems.

Arthur sits heavy on one of the pelts spread out around the fire, draws in on himself a little in a way that is familiar to John but could never quite place what the big man's thinking.

"Eh, he's not bad," Arthur says eventually. Which, in Arthur speak, was practically a ringing endorsement.

Strange creature, Arthur Morgan. Never did much in the way of half-assing anything and couldn't fake worth a shit. Hosea, Dutch, hell Karen and Abigail to some degree, they could all spin five layers of bullshit and you'd eat it out of hand. The most Arthur could ever hide was under a candy shell of porcupine spines.

If he hated you, you knew it, if he liked you, you knew it (even if he was a prickly bastard about it).

John's gotten better at understanding the difference in recent years. He thought Arthur hated him as a kid, but now—

Now John knows better.

Knows what Arthur's ire really feels like, and it's like that first burning mouthful of coffee next to a wildfire.

If you had never seen a wildfire before, that is.

Listen, this metaphor was kinda running away from him. This is why John didn't like to be alone for too long: too much thinking and nowhere to go.

Arthur spares him and John's burgeoning literary hobby with a small huff before he speaks again: "Fun to watch 'em squirm though."

On that, they could agree.

"Yeah," John says easily enough. But still—"Something just don't feel right."

"Course it ain't, your boy's missing," Arthur replies. He makes a thinking noise somewhere in the back of his throat. "He's good with Jack, that Kieran."

"I ain't seen it."

Arthur hits him with such a scathing eyebrow raise that says everything Arthur thinks about John's lacking fatherhood.

The damn O'Driscoll spends more time with your son than you do.

"Just," Arthur starts, drawing himself in again, glancing around a little. "I'm understanding that helpless feeling more acutely as of late."

Oh.

Oh, John gets it now.

This ain't about Jack and Kieran at all, maybe it never was.

"Don't let your guilt get in the way of Jack," John snaps.

Arthur growls at him, head snapping up to bore into John. The fire reflects in his eyes, and his posture uncurls like he's going to leap across the flames and strangle John.

"Big words," Arthur drawls venomously, and John knows he fucked up. "From a man who wanted nothing to do with the kid two weeks ago."

"I—" John tries to defend himself, say anything at all really, but Arthur bullrushes right through him.

"If you don't mind, I'll be takin advice from a man who's changed a napkin before."

"Oh like you—"

"Yes," Arthur barks. "I did, because someone had to help the scared first time mother and it weren't like the father was around."

John blinked at Arthur dumbly. He hadn't known that, what else doesn't he know? They never fucking talked after John came back because Arthur was too pissed to even look at him.

"You and Kieran are comin' for the exact same reason, so don't act all high 'n mighty," Arthur says, wagging a finger that would be planted bruisingly into John's chest were they any closer.

John opens his mouth to say something, anything. Arthur's glare across the fire sharpens, a warning, and the last one he's going to get.

His teeth close with a click.

Because Arthur, as much as he hates it and as much as he won't say it out loud, is right.

Kieran feels guilty for not stopping the Braithwaites, John feels guilty for not caring until the moment the option was taken away.

John is left to stew in his own guilt, and Arthur just watches him. He almost has the same expression he wore teaching John to quick draw, but his eyes are harder. The lesson he's trying to teach this time is harder, too.

John wishes Arthur just tossed him into the lake, at least then the floundering and panic had a definitive end point.

Instead, they sit in silence so tense it could be cut and served with coffee.

It is longer than John would like before the sounds of the Bayou are joined once more by skirts rustling.

"You two done?" Abigail asks as she approaches.

"Yes, ma'am," Arthur says. John isn't ready to find his voice again, just nodding into the fire. "Didn't break him too bad, I see."

"Can't say the same for you," Abigail retorts.

"Ah, well," Arthur rubs the back of his neck, knocking his hat askew. "Make a show-pony out of him yet."

"Shut up," John mutters, but the venom drained out of him. Abigail laughs, though, and even if she's laughing at him, he loves the sound.

"Great, glad that's over with," she says, clapping her hands together. "First light, gentlemen."

"Have a nice night Ms. Roberts," Arthur calls after her.

Mrs. Marston that letter had called her.

She should be Mrs. Marston, John thinks to himself.

Maybe in a world where he wasn't such a fool.

If such things existed.

Chapter Text

"You sure you got enough?" John hears Sadie's rough voice from by the weapon stocks in the weak blue light of morning.

"Got me looking like an armory, Sadie," Abigail's voice follows, sounding light and playful in a way that makes John ache something fierce. He finds himself pausing around the corner, not wanting to intrude but unable to walk away.

"Can never be too careful," Sadie replies. She pauses just a beat. "You sure you don't want me on?"

"Got enough hands as it is. With Sean—" Abigail sighs. "The camp needs all the guns it can get."

"Yeah, yeah," Sadie says. "I just—"

"Worry, I know," Abigail intercepts. From knowing Sadie, she wouldn't outright say it, and Abigail is always a fan of cutting to the chase.

"Nothing, not ever," Sadie states, like this is some adage, some conversation they've had a million times. Something else that John just hadn't noticed.

"And we ain't, not without a fight."

"Yeah," Sadie huffs a laugh. Then, in a voice so low John has to strain to hear it: "I know."

It's then that John manages to unstick himself.

The ladies fall silent as he approaches. Abigail does look like she's taking an armory with her, bandolier of shells across her chest, a pump action across her back, and a sawn-off on her hip. She's even wearing a loose set of riding pants that John thinks might belong to Karen.

It's hard not to stare. She's always beautiful, but sometimes it feels like they live in two different worlds.

Seeing her like this, with leather and iron, just brings it all into stark relief. They live like this, running and stealing and fighting and killing. Abigail isn't outside of it all she's right in the middle.

Something about that twists John's stomach.

"Ladies," he says politely, as he approaches to make sure he has enough rounds for the trip.

"Marston," Sadie nods.

"Hi John."

"Joining Mrs. Adler Abigail? Gonna run with us?" John tries to joke.

Abigail snorts.

"Remind me again who pulled your ass out of that failed bank robbery in Billings?"

"That was one time!" John says, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice. Hope did funny things to a man.

"Homestead in Colorado," Sadie pipes up from where she's leaned against the wagon.

"You told her that?" John asks, mock offense in his voice.

"Of course I did," Abigail smirked at him. "That dress you put Arthur in was one of your worst ideas to date."

"I happen to think I looked right handsome," Arthur says from behind John, who just about jumps out of his skin.

"Bell," John mutters. "I'm getting you a bell."

"He's already wearing spurs hows about you get ears first," Sadie says, laughing at him.

"Oh his ears work fine," Arthur, the bastard, says, grabbing a couple tubes of gun oil. "It's his brain that don't."

John groans, attacked on all sides by those he trusted most.

"Don't worry, John. You can be a real outlaw one day." Sadie's smile grows meaner by the second, and John feels the distinct urge to run. "Provided you can stop mooning over Ms. Roberts here."

"I don't have to take this from the likes of you," he grumbles, ducking his head to hide the burning of his face. He grabs a box of rounds and stalks (he's not running, Arthur) away.

He eats up the ground in long strides, only to find Old Boy tacked and ready to go. Branwen stands next to him, Duffy putting the final cinching into his saddle.

John swallows his thoughts and goes to check his saddlebags.

Duffy throws him a nervous look but says nothing as well, thank goodness.

Two other horses stand against the next hitching post, looking like a matching set with their black coats. Two of Arthur's horses: The Black Knight (yes, Arthur insists on "The") and Chernobog. The Knight stands a whole foot taller than the (not insignificant) Standardbred, Chernobog.

How Arthur managed to ride the massive Shire around was a mystery to all. Apparently, Hosea "acquired" the beast, and Arthur fell in love too much to sell him. He took The Knight everywhere, except when he switched him out for one of his ever-growing herd of race horses.

"Mr. Morgan asked me to saddle Chernobog for Ms. Roberts," Duffy says, apparently getting over the comfortable silence and instead deciding to inflict conversation on John. "He's real gentle, she'll be in good hands."

John grunts his acknowledgement. He didn't need Duffy to tell him that Arthur's judgment about horses was sound. It's Arthur.

Speaking of the man in question, he was off huddled by the shadowed form of Charles, rifle in hand. Coming or going from a guard rotation was anyone's guess. John may put the schedule together, but Charles had a terrible habit of just picking up more work when no one's watching.

Peas in a pod, those two.

John can't see Arthur's face, but he assumes the man's talking. They do that a lot, talking, that is. Well, no, it's Arthur and Charles, not so much talking as existing in each other's orbit.

They used to do that too, John and Arthur, in the before time. Sit and do their own thing, or they'd talk about something dumb; it didn't really seem to matter then.

He missed a lot of things he had before he left.

If anything were to come of this terrible situation, it would at least be that John had stopped digging himself further into their ire.

And presuming he played his cards right, there was nowhere to go but up.

There's a deliberate crunch of leaves behind him, and he turns to see Sadie there, smoke in her mouth, box in her hand.

"What?" he asks, when she doesn't say anything right away.

"Figured you'd want bullets that actually go in your gun," she says, offering the box of .45s.

"Did I—"

"Yes," Sadie confirms, smiling that smile of hers that lets you know just how happy she is that you are miserable. "Yes, you did."

"Damn it," he breathes.

"This is my mercy, Marston. I didn't hand these to Abigail."

Neither of them would be a mercy, it's like the choice of wearing a steak dress in front of a lion or a bear and still hoping to get out of it alive.

"Is this blackmail?"

"You make yourself plenty the fool already, hardly need me to point and laugh."

"Thanks, Sadie," John says, completely deadpan. "I can always count on you."

"Alright, that's quite enough." Sadie says, laughter in her rough voice. She waves her hand at him as if to make him shut up. "Bring Jack back and keep yourself in one piece."

"Yes ma'am," John says obediently. He's joking, of course, but Sadie and formalities go together like oil and water.

"And quit that."

Chapter Text

Jack wonders if he should be allowed to call Mr. Marlo big brother yet.

By rights he should be able to. Even if it's a secret from Ma and Pa, they aren't here, so nothing is stopping Jack. But adults are weird sometimes, so he's left to wonder

The first morning at their new tower camp (tower! camp! they're like real knights!) Mr Marlo takes them on a walk in the mountains. Mr. Marlo has a long gun over his back in addition to the one at his hip. He really looks like Pa like this, and Jack tells him so.

"You gone hunting with Pa, Jack?"

Jack shakes his head, he's only gone fishing with Uncle Arthur and Grandpa Hosea. Jack usually lost interest pretty quickly, though, and wandered off while the adults fished.

"Hm," Mr. Marlo looks contemplative. "Then I need you to do something very important for me."

Mr. Marlo sounds very serious, it must be very important indeed.

"Okay, what?"

"I need you to find some good sticks," Mr. Marlo says. "They need to be at least as long as your arm and as straight as you can find. Can you do that?"

Can he?! He's a stick expert! No one could find sticks like Jack Marston!

"YEAH!" he shouts, excited.

He was going to find so many perfect sticks!

"Just stay where you can see me, alright, Jack?"

"Okay, Mr Marlo."

Say the nice thing to the adult, get them to go away, find sticks!!!

Mr. Marlo makes some kind of noise as Jack runs off for the trees, but Jack is already gone.

The trees here are very different than the trees at the lake. Grandpa Hosea says that snow in the mountains makes tree branches curve, which makes Jack's quest for straight branches pretty difficult. But Jack is the best for a reason!

It takes him a while, but he has a selection of six sticks that he deems to fit Mr. Marlo's standards. He hopes this is enough sticks. The haul is large and unwieldy and Jack trips on his own feet a couple times but he's determined to make it back to Mr. Marlo.

Who is, as it turns out, walking back towards Jack, a string of rope held over his shoulder.

"Was your hunt successful?" Mr. Marlo asks.

"Yes," Jack replies around his armful.

"Those do look like very good sticks, good job," Mr. Marlo says warmly.

Jack beams up at him, it makes him feel all warm to know Mr. Marlo thinks he did a good job.

"What did you get?" Jack asks, people like it when you ask about their interests and hobbies and stuff.

"Dinner," he replies, motioning back the way they came with an: "After you."

Jack walks around Mr. Marlo, who keeps his front to Jack the whole time. He wonders why but figures it's just another weird adult thing.

When he's started out towards the edge of the trees, he sees something that almost makes him drop his precious cargo.

"ROAARR," says the bear.

"Oh shit," says Mr. Marlo.

And suddenly Jack is yanked behind him and out of the way of the charging mass of fur.

My sticks! Jack thinks forlornly as they fall out of his hands, but he's distracted from despair by a flash of silver.

The sidearm clears leather and with a deafening crack:

Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang.

Mr. Marlo empties the entire revolver into the bear's head, fanning the hammer just like Uncle Arthur showed him one time.

Inertia is, unfortunately, a property of matter.

The giant furry mass slams into Mr. Marlo, who falls like a domino into Jack. Jack is sent skidding into a tree, covered with his prized sticks.

A sudden stillness comes over the trees, with both brothers panting slightly in the warm afternoon air.

Mr. Marlo is lying out in the leaf litter, grizzly in his lap, half covered in bear brains. Suddenly, he laughs, high and free.

Jack—

Jack can't stop staring.

His body is shaking like he's cold, like he's back in the snow. His stomach roils, but it's not like it was back there, when his stomach was so empty it hurt, this is—

It's like it's too full that it might just explode.

"—ush hu —ack," Mr. Marlo says, but it is garbled, and far away. Like— like that time Uncle Lenny made a telephone from tin cans.

But— but Jack could understand everyone then, and he wasn't so—

Air catches in his throat, his lungs must be shaking too, too hard to do any work. Jack gets it, he doesn't think he could do any work right now either.

He gasps and everything is wet, his face is wet, his throat is wet, the world is wet.

Mr. Marlo is a lot closer suddenly, his blurry face is blotched with red, and Jack is crying even harder.

"—ck?" Mr. Marlo says through the water. He should be careful talking underwater, you can drown that way.

Hands grasp at his shoulders, and Jack slumps forward into James's chest.

Jack hasn't cried in a long time, he scraped his knee a couple camps ago and it hurt so bad.

He's not even hurt.

He doesn't understand

He— he just got knocked over a little bit.

He's okay.

(He thinks.)

He sobs into Jay's chest.

For Jack it feels like an eternity.

He comes to realize things about their surroundings in bits and pieces. Jay is rubbing large circles on Jack's back, and humming tunelessly in his chest.

Jack's face is sticky and wet, and something smells funny. He tries to look up at Jay to ask what that is.

For a brief moment, his brother's face twists in a panic so intense and sudden, like a thunderclap over the plains.

"Oh shit," Jay says. He fishes around in his coat for a moment to get a handkerchief. "I got you all messed up little man."

Jay wipes at Jack's face for a bit before showing him, the cloth is stained with bear blood, just like Jay's shirt.

"Ew," Jack says.

Jay laughs a little.

"I think we're going to need a bath," he says.

Jay looks back at the dead bear, Jack looks at the dead bear.

Then Jay is looking contemplatively back at him.

"Does the blood bother you?" Jay asks after a few moments.

The bear is more like a big lump than an animal, even still, Jack is kind of worried it might just get back up again. The red splattered all over is just kinda gross, not scary or anything, just icky.

"Nuh uh," he decides.

"Huh," Jay says, sounding surprised. "Yeah, I suppose that makes sense."

Jack wasn't sure it did, but he supposed he gave the correct answer.

"Can we go back now?"

"Let me pull some of the useful bits off this big guy first, okay?"

Jack hums a little; he wants to groan and kick the way Pa does, but Ma always says it's inappropriate. He's just so tired, so while he waits for Jay to be done with the terrible noises he's making, Jack collects up his sticks and sits down.

He misses Mama. Jay says that Pa will be here soon, but Jack doesn't know how long soon is.

Jay tells him more than most adults, even tells Jack when he doesn't know something, but there is still a limit to what can be known.

They're both waiting, Jack can tell. Although Jay seems to be waiting for more than just Pa.

Jack's really tired, it's probably alright if he closes his eyes for a moment, yeah?

Yeah.

Jay shakes him awake, and the light is darker than the last time Jack remembered it being.

"Sorry kid, 'm not Pa," Jay says. "Can't carry you and this bear."

He motions to the big roll of bearflesh bound in rope sitting on the ground. Jack has seen enough of Uncle Arthur and Uncle Charles bringing in dinner to know what it is.

Jack rubs at his eyes, he's still tired, but he feels a little better now.

"Need help up?" Jay asks.

"No," Jack replies, groggily. He doesn't, carrying all his sticks, he stands up from the tree. "Now can we go back?"

"Yeah kid," Jay smiles at him.

It's a nice smile, Jack thinks, but it looks rusty. Like when he tries to catch frogs after a long time of not catching frogs. Out of practice.

"Let's go home."

Hm, home.

Not quite yet.

Jay hefts the roll of bear up onto his shoulder after Jack stands up, and this time, he leads the way.

Not quite yet, but soon.

Jack doesn't know how long soon is.

But soon.

Chapter Text

With nothing left for it, they head out.

Arthur leads them north, then east, with John at the rear, glaring daggers at Duffy's hat.

Eventually, he scared the man enough, or Duffy just got fed up with him and decided sitting around wasn't for him.

Duffy barely squeezes Branwen's sides before he's riding up next to Abigail. They talk for a moment, Abigail glares at him, a typical scene from John's fucked up life.

John sighs a little before spurring Old Boy faster when they reach a curve in the road. Old Boy's massive stride eating up the distance between himself and the equally massive Shire in the lead.

Arthur barely glances at him as he matches Old Boy's pace with the Knight's. They ride in semi-tense silence for a while. Beginning to pass Caliga Hall on their left.

"So what's the plan?" John asks eventually.

"Yer asking me?" Arthur snorts, the asshole. "I thought you were the plan guy now?"

John groans a little, mostly to himself, but he knows Arthur hears it loud and clear.

"Can I have one normal conversation," he doesn't whine, because John Marston doesn't whine, but he does complain, and that was complaining.

Arthur laughs, asshole.

"Not as long as I breathe Johnny boy," the old nickname rolling from his mouth like it never left. John really needed to get a handle on shit making him sad, or he's going to dig into a pit of despair and never emerge.

Speaking of which—

"We need to get Jack," he starts.

"Don't hurt yourself there," Arthur says, cutting him off.

"Shut it," John says, shaking the loose loop of reins in his hands at his tormentor. "I don't even know the terrain or anything about where we're going."

"It's a terrible spot to try and ambush, I can say that much," Arthur scratches at his short beard."That tower can see for miles in any direction, save north."

"Not north?"

"Yeah, backs up right into the Grizzlies, no pass or path far as I know."

"So in the front door?"

"Don't really see much choice, either that or hope we aren't watched."

"You think we will be?"

"We only know of this 'JM', but there's always the possibility of more men," Arthur's brow furrows.

"If Bronte's as scary as he sounds, it would be real difficult to steal Jack solo," John reasons.

"Stealing a kids easy, stealing a kid unharmed is hard," Arthur replies. John's head snaps up to look at Arthur.

"You don't think Jack's hurt?!?"

"Pipe down Marston," Arthur says, rolling his eyes. John knows he's full of shit with this whole toughguy thing, he could see how tense his brother's shoulders are. "Quit drawin' conclusions with no basis."

"Arthur, if Jack I—"

"Yeah, yeah, you'll lose it, I know," Arthur says, nodding along like he could hear John's riotous inner monologue. "We're headed up to Saint Denis, pick up the train there and head to Annesburg, from there to the Loft."

"We have money for the train? Duffy sure don't," John says.

"Don't worry 'bout that," Arthur says smoothly, which only makes him more suspicious.

"Keepin' money from the gang? Tsk Tsk," John teases.

"It's not that I—," Arthur stops. "I'm contributing, more than anyone, you know that."

"I do," John says, and he does. Arthur and Charles, Charles and Arthur, men of the same cloth, those two. "I wasn't accusing you of withholding serious funds from the gang, Arthur."

"Well—" Arthur looks around them, back at Abigail and Duffy, who are chatting about… something. "Got about six thousand in cash right about now and probably another two thousand in valuables."

"EIGH— OW," John yells in surprise then pain as Arthur's foot makes contact with his shin.

"Quiet down!" Arthur yells back.

"Eight thousand??" John whisper-yells, his voice cracking on his damaged windpipe. "Did you rob another bank?"

"What? No, you would have heard about that," Arthur says, in his normal volume.

"Then where—"

"Look, it's not important," Arthur claims, like a lair. "It ain't for me."

"The hell you mean it ain't for you?"

Arthur looks back at Abigail and Duffy then, who are more than looking back after John's little outburst. Then his eyes are back on John, almost his whole upper body turned in the saddle, to convey the gravity of the situation.

"It's for you," Arthur says, dead serious.

For a moment, John feels like Old Boy just threw him, his stomach drops out and he's free-falling.

"What?"

"It's for you," Arthur reiterates, like it makes any sense.

Only one word in John's whole mind right now.

"Why?"

"Listen, Hosea's right, you need out John," Arthur is a big man, an intimidating man, and yet he speaks so softly sometimes. His hearts so big and he cares so much John has to wonder where that scary man lives when he isn't in use. "You have a woman, a boy, you could have a life out of all this."

"And if I don't want out?"

Anger so raw and sharp flashes across Arthur's face before he takes a deep breath and smooths it out.

"Then you better learn," he says, his voice still betraying that carefully controlled rage. "It ain't about you, it's about them."

And that's it isn't it, the lesson Arthur tried to teach over the campfire last night. Tried to teach when he came back. A lesson John wasn't ready to hear then, he thinks— he thinks that maybe he could be ready for it now.

The other thing John thinks is a dark, ugly, twisting thought. An image of a man cut out in relief, of a man who didn't learn, who didn't get out, and hurts every day for it.

"What about you?" John asks before he can stop himself.

"I'm too old to stop now," Arthur says in that self deprecating manner that never failed to piss John off. "I'd just get in the way."

"Ain't about you," John replies, looking back placidly. Arthur is starting to get angry again, probably at John throwing his words back, but John stands his ground. "You half raised Jack, I can't take you away from him now."

Arthur looks conflicted. It's so rare that John gets to one-up Arthur, but he's not wasting this opportunity for his own gloating.

"Abigail and I rely on you, we can't just accept your help and throw you out."

"Yes, you can," Arthur presses. "I'll just paint a target on you all."

"And I won't? Brother, our bounties ain't too different, seeing as we keep adding to em and all."

"I'm working on paying yours down."

John blinks at him, and the buildings of the Saint Denis waterfront are coming into view.

"What?"

"Yeah, the only one I haven't been able to get to is the Blackwater one, got a story about that later."

"No, hold on," John doesn't care about Blackwater, what the fuck. He wants to scream, but Saint Denis residents are around them now, and they're trying to keep a low profile. "That's not how bounties work."

"Course it does," Arthur says confidently. "The price on your head is how much you're worth, so you pay that cost and the government don't care."

"I— no— you know what why don't you just pay off your own?"

"I can't get into Blackwater."

"Fuck Blackwater! Million other places that aren't Blackwater," John says, almost hysterical.

What the fuck.

"Alright, alright, shut your gob, that's the station."

It was, in fact, the station.

For all the cities' front of grandeur, the Saint Denis train station wasn't much to look at. But, truth be told, John wasn't much impressed by the city on the whole, and couldn't really be a good judge.

After the horses are hitched, he looks for Abigail. Arthur wandering off to do Arthur things.

When John finally gets eyes on her, Abigail is wearing a completely different outfit from the one she was just wearing on the horse. Gone is the iron and leather replaced with a blue skirt.

She catches him staring with a wry smirk. His face heats, and he knows he must be blushing to the ears.

Pretty girl makes fun of him, and he's 16 again; same as it ever was.

Abigail pinches the cloth of her skirt, pulling it taut on her opposite side. The curve of a holster sits innocuously under all that pretty fabric.

Skirts are kind of awesome, John decides.

"Neat trick," he tells Abigail as he approaches.

"There are some good things about wearin' this much fabric all the time," she replies. "Extra space to hide all sorts of things."

"It ain't heavy?"

"Nah," she shrugs. "Sits on the waist so your legs carry it all. Strongest part of ya."

"Don't I know it, darlin'," he jokes with a faux lewd smirk.

Abigail snickers: "Yeah, you would, handsome."

"Oh, I'm handsome now?" John says with a smile.

"Only when you're a gentleman," she snarks back, eyebrow raised.

"So I'm the ugliest man you ever did see."

"No one uglier," Abigail says, playful light in her eyes.

"Doubt a hundred miles of that pretty fabric could save me."

"Well, don't know about that," she smiles back at him, sharp and bright. "Work alright for Arthur didn't it?"

"You know what," John says. "It sure did."

Arthur fuckin' Morgan.

Arthur has gone missing, probably inside the station to get their tickets.

Eight thousand dollars.

Eight thousand.

For him, for them.

Arthur Morgan, what have you gone and done?

Chapter Text

Abigail sighs as she sits down heavily next to John on the train bench seat. He tries to hide his surprise at her willingness to sit with him, secretly please despite himself.

"Don't know how much longer I can keep doin' this," she says eventually, when they've pulled out of Saint Denis.

"Which part?"

"The runnin'," she looks down at her hands, worn with years of use, despite her relative youth.

"We're—" he pauses, aware that they're in public. "—seasonal workers Abigail, the movin' comes with the territory."

"Think I don't know that?" her eyes are sharp on him, always so sharp. He misses their softness, misses a lot of things. "Moving was fine we was fine but the running is different. I don't know how I'm supposed to raise a boy with the devil on our heel."

"I mean," he swallows, voice weak. "You got me?"

Abigail snorts and John winces at the sound. Yeah, he deserves that.

"Now, sure, I got you now."

John fiddles with his hands for a beat, gathering his courage to meet her gaze.

"I don't think I will ever finish apologizing for that."

"No. You won't," she confirms. If she were Arthur, there would be a smug little turn of her mouth. But she's not Arthur, she doesn't revel in John's squirming attempts at redemption. She's too far to kind to fools.

They laps into silence for a while. It's not a tense as the silence has any right to be, the gentle rocking of the great mechanical beast, soft murmurs of conversations from around the car.

Arthur's sitting ahead of them, hat pulled down over his face, napping probably. Man's ability to sleep anywhere is still a mystery to all. Duffy is somewhere behind them, not making himself known, the way John likes it.

It's a halfway decent team. Hell just him and Arthur would probably have been sufficient, but stopping Abigail from doing anything is not something he's ever been very good at. Nor is comforting her, but Lord knows he tries.

"He's gonna be alright," John says, breaking the spell of quiet.

"You'd better hope that John—" she bites down on saying his last name. Their last name, John thinks, forlornly. John is beginning to think maybe he's lost it. Since that letter he can't let go of that mad hope, that maybe she'd say yes.

And maybe it's because he's crazy now, maybe because hope is choking him, who knows, he still asks:

"If we could be anywhere else, do anything else, what would it be?"

Abigail looks at him with shock, he gets it, he's shocked himself.

He knows the basics, they used to talk about this stuff, before John went and messed it all up. John wants to know if they've changed and— and if he's still allowed in them.

"Its silly but—"

"Nothing you say is silly," John interrupts, because he can't stand it when Abigail talks down about herself. She raises an eyebrow at him, but gifts him with a small smile.

"Not sure that's the compliment I think you meant it as, John."

"Yeah, well."

"Growing up, I'd hear stories about homesteaders out west, getting a plot of land and working it, the kind of stability I could only dream of, I just wanted— want a place that's mine," she pauses and looks up at John, shyly but determined. "Ours."

John couldn't breathe. It had been so long but when she looked at him like that… It was like the world had narrowed. The only thing that mattered was the brown eyes and beautiful smile he'd fallen for.

"What I want more than anything, is roots," Abigail says simply. "Something we can grow our son on."

John snorts a little at her phrasing which Abigail smacks his arm for.

"Listen I ain't all that good with words alright," she says, a small flush dusts her cheeks like fresh snowfall. "You try and pour your heart out on a public train."

Oh Lord, pouring out his heart at all was a monumental task at the best of times. Here?

But for Abigail?

Anything.

"Well I—" he swallows down a lump in his throat. "I can if you want."

"What?"

"Pour my heart out on a public train."

Abigail's face swings between surprise and anger, like she doesn't believe him. And well, John doesn't really believe himself either.

"John if yo—"

"No! No. I mean it."

"I—" and there she pauses, swallowing down whatever else she was going to say. "Alright, but just because there's people don't mean I won't tan your hide."

John smiles to himself. Abigail buries her feelings in threats, guards her heart with a prickly exterior, he loves it about her. If she didn't care she wouldn't bother with him. Sometimes he'd hold her threats and insults close to his chest because at least he knew she cared enough to yell at him. A dark hat catches at the corner of his vision, another bleeding heart with a hard candy shell.

"I know, I know I just—" here John pauses. Abigail is still looking at him with those dark eyes. He swallows again, nervous. Heart beating faster, she's still looking at him, waiting for an answer, oh Lord he has to answer. Eyes looking into him and through him and found wanting and he just— "I— I want you to ma— move into my room."

Fuck damn it that is not what he wanted to say. He meant to ask— well… Abigail's curious look has soured to less than impressed.

"How generous," she deadpans.

"Well ah— just, it would be easier to keep an eye on— on Jack if you and—"

"If this is your idea of opening up John M—" she bites down on the name again like she could chew it and spit it back out. "I'm going to crack you like a tin can."

Belatedly, John realizes he's backed himself into a corner, if he asks her what he so desperately wants to ask she'll think he's trying to placate her. It makes him want to cry. How badly the will you marry me scratches at his throat, like the noose all over again. How if he lets it out, it will dig him even further into a hole.

Abigail huffs a sharp and bitter laugh then, pulling him out of his realization.

"I don't know what I was expecting," her voice is cold and distant.

She doesn't give him the courtesy of a comeback, with a grace John doesn't think should be possible, given the amount of iron hidden in her skirts, she stands.

"Have a good journey, John."

With that she stalks the length of the car to where Arthur has been napping. There's a small clang where Abigail's concealed weaponry smacks into the seat frame, jolting Arthur awake. He calms when he sees that its her, and without waiting for an invitation, she sits in a huff.

John watches her, of course he does, he always does. Almost as soon as she's seated Arthur's burning gaze is on him, and John sinks a little into his seat.

There's a even toned female voice from the seat behind him: "That could have gone better."

John glances back, a well dressed woman in green has a single dark eyebrow raised in his direction. She's pretty, he supposes.

He huffs ruefully.

"You're telling me, friend," he says.

"Not to uh, get involved with marital business," she says. Except it wasn't, because they weren't, which was the problem. "My brother's a realtor."

John raises an eyebrow at her.

"Trying to enrich yourself on my misery ma'am?"

She laughs, it sounds pleasant enough.

"No offense good sir, but you don't seem like the type that could make a dent in my family's finances, no just—" the lady huffs a little as well. Clearly she's not the salesman of the family. She roots around in her purse for a moment, producing a business card. "Take this, there's land going for real cheap out west of the Grizzlies."

"Thanks? I think?"

"It's the urban age sir, people are moving to cities. The countryside is going out of fashion. No one's left except to the stubborn and restless."

"Ain't that the truth."

"Which one are you? Stubborn or restless?"

"I think both, that's the problem."

"If you're in the mood to be takin' advice sir," she pauses, purses her lips a little. "You need to get over yourself. For her, sure, but for yourself."

"I—"

"Listen, I don't mean any offense," she waves her hand in the air as if to dispel negativity. "But you menfolk would be a lot happier if you were honest with yourselves."

"You may have a point there," John admitted. It was so much easier to talk to a stranger who didn't know a thing about his life, or the ways he's messed up. She'd be gone like river water in a couple of hours. "Some… events came up. Put things in perspective you know?"

"Quit waiting to be under the gun before you improve things," she says, her eyes are hard and distant. He knows the look. "Are you living your life or are you just a passenger?"

"You a philosopher or somethin'?" John jokes to break the mood a little. She smiles, a little knife sharp quirk of the lips.

"No," she says simply. "Just someone who waited too long and lost."

"I'm sorry ma'am."

"No need, it was a long time ago," she pauses for a moment. "I write now, novels and such, sometimes getting into your head is good for the plot."

"Yeah? I got a friend who writes some."

"Oh? What's he published under," she asks.

"She's uh— not published yet," John replies awkwardly. He knows Mary-Beth has talked about it some, but never went through with it.

"A woman? Delightful!" she exclaims, lighting up. Out of the corner of John's eye he sees Duffy's hat tilt and he has no doubt in his mind that he's being watched. There is another piece of card stock waved in the direction of his face. "Here here you must give her my agent's card, it can be a ruthless world out there."

"I can imagine so," John says. He takes the card, heck who knows, Mary-Beth might appreciate it. "Thank you for your kindness, stranger."

She laughs a little.

"Well whatever is life for, if not to be kind to strangers."