Chapter Text
John woke uneasily the night before everything fell apart. Sleep had always been difficult to come by for the man, but it seemed to have gotten worse as of late.
The first thing he noticed upon waking was that Abigail was no longer in his cot. The two had been sharing ever since he’d gotten back from Sisika — it was a bit of an awkward fit, but he preferred it that way. It was nice, too, though, being able to hold Abigail in his arms and feel her warmth against his body.
“It’s just… it’s warmer like this,” Abigail had defended (quietly so as to not wake Jack), curled up to his side.
“Seems to me like you jus’ can’t stand bein’ apart from me,” He’d teased in reply, earning himself a playful swat on the chest.
“You be quiet, or else Jack’ll want to climb in, too.”
The second thing John noticed was that in lieu of Abigail in bed with him, Jack was occupying the space that she once had been in, his breath even and indicative that he was sleeping soundly. He couldn’t blame the boy, considering how chilly it was getting day by day. It was November, after all.
But if Jack had A) stolen Abigail’s spot and B) had been there long enough to fall asleep, how long had Abigail been gone?
He elected to give her a few more minutes before he checked on her.
Or, at least, he tried to. His restless mind wouldn’t let him relax, and he anxiously needed to make sure Abigail was alright.
He shifted his weight, testing to see how much he could move without Jack noticing. After swinging half of his body off the cot, Jack had barely moved.
John wondered if Jack inherited being a heavy sleeper from him (or rather, a heavy sleeper before life had happened to him, before the bad things had happened).
He managed to get out of bed without waking Jack.
The little boy’s nose wrinkled, his features scrunching for a moment at the disruption. After a few terse seconds, he cuddled the pillow closer, his face relaxing. John fixed the blanket on top of the boy, making sure he was tucked in safely.
Such a parental action came to him strangely naturally, he realized.
He groped around in the dark tent for his jeans, eventually finding them after a few moments of fumbling. As silently as he could manage (which was quite silent; he had managed to learn when he was young how to move and shadow people without making so much as a peep), he put them on, followed by his boots, and stumbled outside.
The soundscape was familiar, and yet it wasn’t at the same time. He could hear Arthur wheeze rather than snore in his sleep, and he saw figures at the campfire (talking about God knows what , maybe mutiny or killing folk for sport, or some other kind of dumbassery) but they weren’t family, instead foes. It wasn’t exactly what he was used to, but nothing seemed particularly out of place for this new normal.
Like a lightbulb being lit, he realized where Abigail likely was; the slope southwest from his tent. She had often slipped there in more tense moments.
He skulked along the darkest edge of the camp, remaining unseen by all until he reached the unlit scout campfire.
Sure enough, there Abigail was. Away from the warmth and light of the campfire, far from anyone’s prying eyes or ears.
Upon closer inspection, he realized she was shivering.
“You alright? You didn’t come back and I was…” he trailed off. He was worried, he realized. Worried about all of this shit; worried that one day, Micah, or even Dutch, would snap and get them all killed.
John was worried, he realized, because he loved her.
“I needed to clear my head. I’m… I’m scared, John. I’m real scared.” She looked so young, so different like this — hair cascading down her back, wide-eyed, shivering. She looked vulnerable.
John wanted to take that fear from her — but how could he? He felt so helpless. It felt like he was lying in wait for them all to get killed.
What the hell was he waiting for? So many people had already cut and run; Uncle, Karen, Trelawny, Mary-Beth, and Swanson had all disappeared as the days went on. Pearson had left earlier that day whilst John was on guard duty.
“You leavin’, Pearson?” he’d asked, seeing how Pearson’s horse was carrying much more than one would take on a simple trip.
“I… ah, yeah. Just needed to clear my head.” Pearson replied, not looking John in the eye.
“You ain’t comin’ back, are you,” John replied, stating it as more of a fact than a question. Frankly, he couldn’t blame the man. If he was in his shoes, he would be leaving, too. After all, Pearson could slip away much easier than John could hope to.
Pearson’s avoidant gaze finally landed on John. “…Maybe. Probably not. No. I think it’s about time to cut and run,”
“Ain’t that the truth,” John muttered more to himself than directly to Pearson. “You take care of yourself, Mister Pearson.”
“You too, John.” Pearson glanced worriedly behind him, then to John. “You should get Abigail and your boy out of here. Save yourselves,” he added, speaking a little quieter.
“I will,”
“Well. I hope everything works out, Mister Marston. I’ll be seeing you,”
John said nothing else, waving him off.
The plan was ‘Get Out When The Time Comes’ — but when? What if it happened too late? What if they all died trying? What if he got Arthur killed — weak as the man was rapidly becoming?
He huffed out a breath, the cold air making it visible for the briefest of moments. Wrapped an arm around her waist, half expecting her to bat him away or give him a look.
But she didn’t. Instead, she leaned into his touch.
“I am too,” he admitted. “I’m gonna get us outta here.” he wondered if his words sounded as empty to her as they did to him. Getting out was the plan — but beyond that…?
He was a fucking idiot. And Abigail knew it, too, so why she didn’t take Jack and run was beyond him.
“We ain’t exactly got a lot of time left, John. The government is comin’ down on us fast.” She shifted closer to him, likely seeking the warmth that he brought. The skin of her bare arms was cool to the touch. “I don’t want Jack to be made an orphan.” She added softly, shaking her head as if willing the thought away.
“He won’t be, Abigail. We ain’t lettin’ anythin’ happen to that boy.” He left the word again unsaid. Because he’d failed almost as spectacularly as his own father, only realizing how much he’d cared for Jack after the boy was (briefly) kidnapped. Though he hadn’t been harmed, those few days will haunt John for the rest of his life.
“Micah… that— that slime, that scum.” Abigail started, her voice trembling with anger. “He’s been… talkin’ to Jack. Sayin’ odd things, tellin’ him he’d take him fishing. I told the boy t’stay away from him, but if that scum does anything to Jack, I…”
“He won’t, Abigail. I won’t let him, long as I live.”
“I almost lost you once, John Marston. Weren’t for Arthur, you’d be six feet under by now.” She retorted. She sighed and turned to face him, her features softening. She was quiet for a moment, brow knit as her hand went to his scarred cheek. It was rare for her to touch him; rarer for her to initiate it, so he simply stayed still. “I can’t lose you for real this time,”
The air around them stilled, no sounds to be heard except their own synchronized breathing and the far-off hooting of a distant owl.
The forest was eerily beautiful at this time of night.
“You ain’t gotta worry about that.”
“I mean it, John. You’re my… I…” she was interrupted by disruptive yelling coming from camp — a common occurrence as of late.
“I should go see what that is,” he stated, partially because with every passing day, he wondered if some sort of Mexican standoff was bound to erupt.
She slipped her hand in his, another unexpected move. “I’ll go with you,”
He gave her hand a little squeeze. This was different, too. Rarely did they hold hands, or have much physical contact in general, really. Abigail had never been a physical type of person, and John simply didn’t have opportunities to seek it out.
It was nice, having her close.
“—How nice of you to join us, John! I’m sure he’ll give us his wise input now!” Micah spat, circling the campfire like a predator stalking its prey. He had a smug expression on his face. Meanwhile, Bill, Javier, Joe, and Cleet were eyeing the couple dangerously.
“The hell’s goin’ on?” John asked, trying to channel in that intimidating energy that Arthur usually had.
“We was jus’ havin’ a lively conversation, Scarface. ‘S all.” Micah chuckled, shaking his head. He had his arms outstretched affably. “Why don’t you and your… well, we’ll call her a lady — I suppose that’s the polite term, sit down by the fire with us?” Micah’s little comment earned raucous laughter from Bill and more sensible laughter from Cleet and Joe. Javier, meanwhile, was staring at the fire, expression hard to read.
“Watch what you say about my wife,” He’s not sure why exactly he called her his wife, but it felt right. Maybe in a different life, they’d be married for real.
Neither of them had ever really cared about marriage; despite that, they were generally viewed as a married couple, even if neither of them had ever confirmed it aloud.
Still, wife had an extra oomph to it that seemed to get his point across well. Abigail seemed a bit surprised by his statement but said nothing to dispute it.
“Oh! Suddenly she’s your wife now. Marston’s gone soft, ain’t it?” Micah taunted.
Bill — the fucking idiot he was — was still laughing obnoxiously. “I get it! Cause he wifed up a whore!”
Whatever John was about to retort died on his tongue with the interruption of Arthur. His hands were on his hips, making him seem a little bigger and a little less sickly. “The hell you boys screamin’ for? It’s three in the damn morning. You tryin’ to wake the whole goddamn camp?” His words were punctuated with a particularly wet-sounding cough. Abigail looked at John worriedly.
Micah smirked. “You’re right, Blacklung. You need your beauty rest. Maybe we should turn in for the night, huh, boys?” he asked tauntingly.
Arthur coughed yet again, the action wracking his degraded frame. “Shut the—“ Another cough. “—hell up. Don’t disturb the entire camp with your nonsense.”
“Easy now, cowpoke. Don’t exert yourself yellin’ at little ol’ me. We’re quieting down, ain’t we, fellers?” In response, Micah earned some unenthusiastic, mumbled replies.
John swallowed hard. He wanted to do nothing more than curl up next to Abigail, pull her close, wrap himself around her until morning arrived.
But that would have to wait until later.
With one last disdainful glare at Micah, Arthur turned his heel and headed back towards his tent, sighing angrily.
“I need to say something to Arthur,” John said in a hushed tone. He left details unsaid, knowing there were prying ears nearby.
Her eyes lit up with understanding. She nodded. “Night,” Abigail whispered. Her fingertips ghosted over his skin one last time.
“Night,” he replied, leaning down to brush a kiss against her forehead. It was yet another uncommon gesture for him; hell, he half expected Abigail to dodge it.
But she didn’t. Instead, she gave him an unreadable expression before walking off.
He made sure she got back to his tent before walking off the trees behind Arthur’s lean-to, where he knew the elder man would be.
“I’m fine,” Arthur spoke before John even had a chance to open his mouth. He flicked his cigarette on the ground, stubbing it out with his boot.
“Don’t lie. You look terrible, Arthur.” He leaned against the tree next to him. “…I hate seein’ you like this.”
Silence greeted that comment. He hated that Arthur refused to tell him what was wrong with him beyond his vague answer of being sick (and even that had taken much poking and prodding). Hated that Arthur wouldn’t allow anyone else to help him.
It hurt, watching him suffer. It made John feel helpless, useless, angry. All those emotions swirled together in his gut, churning with each other
When Arthur finally broke the silence, he sounded exhausted. “I’m gonna make sure you get outta here. That’s what I’m worried about.”
His voice cracked, and John hated that, too.
John glanced at Arthur, whose shoulders heaved, fighting a coughing fit.
Yet another silence grew between them, broken only by the chirping of crickets. The moonlight shone softly, casting shadows onto Arthur’s weary figure.
“Listen. If somethin’ happens, I know a safe place.” Arthur said carefully. He put his hand on John’s shoulder, a once-familiar gesture. When they had grown apart following his year of absence, that brotherly familiarity had stopped.
The distance and resentment that had grown between the two had only been an insult to injury following John’s return.
But while Arthur had merely been cold to him, Dutch’s welcome was… different.
“John, son, can I talk to you for a moment?” Dutch had asked, his voice sounding as jubilant as ever. Without waiting for a reply, he had wrapped an arm around John’s shoulder, bringing the younger man uncomfortably close as he led him away from the campfire.
“Listen, Dutch, I’m sorr—”
Dutch’s eyes darkened. “I know you are, boy.” any trace of geniality in the elder man’s voice was gone. “Don’t you ever dare to do that to me again.” his grip had turned into iron; it was a warning sign.
“I won’t, I pr—”
“I mean it, John. I won’t put up with it.”
And for the first time in his life, John had truly feared Dutch for a moment.
The cold look in Dutch’s eyes was gone within a flash. He gave John a winning smile, smoothing the latter’s vest where it had wrinkled under his grip. “Now. Shall we get back to the celebration? We’ve all missed you so much.”
John swallowed past the lump in his throat. God, he needed a cigarette. He let himself slide down, union suit briefly catching and snagging on the rough bark. The ground was cold and likely a little muddy beneath him, but he found himself not quite caring. “Where’s the safe place?”
“Copperhead Landing, northeast of the marsh. It ain’t much— just a dilapidated shack, but ain’t nobody goes out there. If things go south sometime soon, I’ll meet you there, you hear?”
“Okay,” John whispered, his mind going a mile a minute.
Arthur coughed yet again, the action making his whole body shake.
(Every time Arthur coughed, John felt his sense of dread increase a little more.)
“When the time comes, John…” Arthur started, then trailed off as yet another coughing fit started.
“I know,” he responded, barely audible over the former’s coughs. He felt as though he was hardly absorbing the information, too many thoughts concurrently buzzing in his head.
How was he supposed to do this? It was clearly time to get out, but he didn’t know how or what to do on his own. He had to provide for Abigail and Jack and keep them safe and alive and out of danger and what if Dutch came to find them, would he have to kill Dutch to save his family? Would Dutch try to kill them? —
A cigarette was what he needed. It’d clear his mind. The more the thought lingered, the more he craved the sweet relaxation it would give him.
He patted his pockets down anxiously, the rhythmic, repeating motion quickening with every second. Where the fuck were they? He just had them in his jeans pocket earlier.
Arthur was coughing again, the sound echoing in his head like a ticking time bomb — because Arthur was, frankly, a ticking time bomb. God, where the fuck were his cigarettes? They weren’t in his pockets.
“Do you have— have a— a smoke? I need, fuck, I just—” He was still palming uselessly at his jeans pockets because he needed a fucking smoke and he didn’t have one and why didn't he have one yet?
Whatever Arthur might’ve responded with went unheard because John couldn’t hear him over the ringing in his ears and his own layered, panicked thoughts.
Time was running out, the law was getting closer, and every minute he spent in this Hell-on-Earth, their so-called camp was just a stinging reminder to John that his family, Abigail and Arthur and Jack and Tilly and Grimshaw and everyone else was all going to die and it would be entirely his fault.
He needed a fucking cigarette.
Hosea had already died. Lenny and Mac and Davey and Jenny and Sean and Kieran—
“John,” Arthur said firmly, shaking him on the shoulder and saving him from drowning amongst the sea of his own terrible thoughts. He was holding a pack of cigarettes in his free hand. John grabbed them like a lifeline, relief already flooding his veins just at the sight.
He exhaled (and his head spun— had he been holding his breath by accident?). “You, uh— you got a match?”
Said matches were tossed on the ground in front of John, falling with a thwap. His hands scrambled to grab them.
“You alright?” Arthur asked uneasily, the effect compounded by his voice tinged with illness. They mostly didn’t talk about when John would get like this, because it was just easier to not.
There were a lot of things they didn’t talk about.
John’s hands shook as he tried to light the match once, twice, three times. “I’m fine,” he said with the unlit cigarette between his lips. Finally, the match lit.
“You ain’t,”
“...I ain’t,” John agreed. He took that first inhale of his cigarette, a slow, easy drag. It felt like heaven. “But neither are you,”
Arthur said nothing in reply.