Archive of Our Own ^beta

     It’s hard to decide which is colder; the miserable weather or the people moping about their equally miserable camp. Arthur sighs, tucks his head closer to his chest, and tugs his jacket up to block the chilly wind. 

    Nearly a week ago the cold set in. Dutch hasn’t delivered a good speech for a few days, too caught up in trying to plan their escape from this precarious situation. Cold and wet, hungry and broke, and on the run from both the law and O’Driscolls after a stagecoach turned out to be a clever setup. It knocked them off their kilter, left a few men injured, and spirits down. 

     Sticking by Dutch’s side is Hosea. The two commiserate about their next moves from the torn fabric of Dutch’s old tent. Susan’s coming down harder on most everyone around, including Mr Pearson. Speaking of, the mentioned man started whining to Arthur about their lack of food a few days ago, and he hasn’t stopped since. Strauss sits around with no money to count and little resources to stretch. Swanson lingers around their pathetic campfire, shaking and sleeping and waking in those fits of his. The girls are mostly kept busy between tending to themselves and the men laid up; Bill, Mac, and Lenny. Uncle is Uncle, he’s fine, if not annoying, which is nothing out of the ordinary. 

     With little to no reason to leave camp aside from hunting and replenishing in the nearest town, most of them sit around, moping, twiddling their thumbs and trying to keep busy. It’s not the men and women Arthur worries about however. They’ve all experienced hopelessness that rivals this. 

    He peers through the hair which fell on his face, too damn long but nowhere to get it cut and no one around he trusts to do it, not after last time. 

     Little Jack Marston sits in his mother’s lap, bearing a look so listless and sad Arthur has to look away. The boy is too smart for his own good; even if he doesn’t have an understanding of their situation, he’s observed the mood around camp and somehow absorbed it. He’s moping worse than any of them. 

     How much he could’ve remembered from last year Arthur doesn’t know, but the boy looked forward to the colder season only weeks ago. A lot of folks had. With Dutch’s insistence they’d steal a tree, nab a few pieces of decor, and shoot something big and meaty for Pearson, it was hard not to get caught up in the excitement. To be hopeful for a while. 

     “Arthur, you got a second?” A voice steals away his attention.

     If it ain’t the person I want t’see the least. Arthur lifts his head at the call of his name. His horse sniffs and huffs, blowing a visible gust of cold white air in his direction. 

     “Maybe. Depends on what you want.” 

     John bristles, and frowns. For a second Arthur thinks they may fight again. Hell, with the lack of action getting to him Arthur might welcome a fight. At least it’ll give him something to do. Despite his assumptions, John’s frown dissipates. 

     “Look, I know how things is, but I need t’ask you something.” 

      Typical John.  

     “What?” Arthur asks, his voice a little harsher than it needs to be. 

     “It’s,” John pauses, and glances over his shoulder, “it’s the boy,...and Abigail too I guess.” He scratches at his chin and neck, dark and stubbly; he lost his razor and mirror it looks like. 

     Arthur eyes him curiously. Marston’s relationship with his own son is basically nonexistent, but somehow better than his soured relationship with the mother of his child. Yet, here he stands, ready to ask Arthur for his input when he’s ignored so much of it in the past. 

     Arthur swallows his resentment for the time being. “What about them?”

     “Don’t know if you noticed, but folks are…down.” 

     He chuckles. “You think I’m blind? Of course I noticed.”

     “And the boy, he…I mean, he’s a good kid, usually happy. But he ain’t smiled or laughed or nothing for a week.” 

    “And that bothers you?” Arthur asks pointedly, unable to suppress the snark at the end of his question. 

     Again, John frowns but doesn’t address his attitude. “Look, you’re good with him. Ain’t there something you can do?”

     Arthur stands up straighter. Once again John Marston comes to him, asking him to shoulder his burden, to take on his responsibilities. If he weren’t so cold, so tired, and so fed up with their predicament, he might’ve shot the other down then and there. Instead, Arthur sighs. His thoughts on John aside, the boy’s mood is unfortunate. What might rival that misfortune however is Abigail Roberts; her taking it all on her shoulders while her good for nothing husband prances about, trying his utmost to avoid his own family. 

     “Should I wave my hands around, say a few words, try to will our shit circumstances away?”

     “Goddammit Morgan, I’m not askin’ for me. It’s just… you’re good with him, hell, you’re good with everyone. Always takin’ care of folks. I just thought, maybe you could do something?”

     Do something? He goes out to get what little supplies they can afford without being asked, he puts up with Susan and Pearson’s nagging, and endures Dutch and Hosea’s ramblings; and Marston wants him to do more than that? To hell with him!

     “Look, I ain’t in the mood for this just now. If your family needs something then it ought to be you who takes care of it. I can’t do nothing for you.” Arthur looks away. There’s something about John’s pathetic, dark-eyed stare that usually had Arthur giving into his requests like he was dealing with a Goddamn child, instead of a hardened capable man. 

     John says nothing for a second, then he clicks his teeth. “Alright then. Sorry I asked. Don’t know what I was thinking, you got a lot to do. Abigail’s been kicking my ass about the boy, I figured you’d know what to do.” 

     “Your problems are your own.” Arthur digs into his pocket, feeling around for the pack of smokes he’s certain is in there. He finds nothing, then remembers he’d tossed it to Tilly earlier that day. “Best be on your way.” 

     “Right. Well, thanks.” John swivels on his feet, though he lingers for a few seconds. Maybe he’s waiting around, expecting Arthur to give in and agree to save his ass like all the other times.

       It ain’t gonna be like all those other times, not just now. 

     John finally slinks away, leaving Arthur and his horse alone again. His attention shifts to his animal. She sniffs at him, nuzzling her nose against the hand he’s got sitting there. Probably looking for something to eat. 

     “Sorry girl,” he shushes her. “Ain’t nothing I can do for you neither.” 

***

     “Hey Arthur, c’mere for a second.” Abigail beckons him toward her. “Can you please watch him, just long enough I can get something to eat?”

     “Sure.” How can he say no to her? Though it is a curious thing she’s asked him over any of the girls. Or his own damn father. “You uh, asked John?” 

     She huffs. “Dutch needed him for something. Left a while ago. I know you probably have things to do, but everyone’s so caught up and I-” 

     “Hush, I understand. Go take a few minutes, I got the kid.” He tells her. 

     Something in her blue eyes soften, relief overcomes her, “thanks Arthur, I can always count on you.” 

     She leaves him be but for some reason her words stick with him. She can always count on him? What about now? He shakes his head.

     “Hi Jack!” He says with a smile, wondering if the boy can tell a real one from a fake one. Hopefully not.

     “Hi Uncle Arthur.” Jack looks at him, then drops his head. 

     “Where’re your things? I don’t see no toys.”

     Silence then, “I left them at the other camp.”

      Oh. “Well, you can always practice your letters.” 

     Jack looks down, fiddling with his fingers. A blatant display of stress. 

     “You…don’t have your books, do ya’? Let me guess, you left them at the other camp.” Arthur says.

     The boy looks up at him with big shining eyes, craning his neck. “Don’t tell Ma, she’ll be sooo mad.” 

     No wonder the boy’s been so glum, he’s sitting here with nothing. No toys, no books, no one talking to him. Abigail’s been with him, trying her best, but she’s tired and often needed elsewhere. John’s been keeping an eye on him at least, the little good that’s doing. Hosea is busy. Tilly is busy. Dutch is busy. Sure, sometimes Arthur checks on him, but it’s just not enough entertainment for a boy his age. 

     “I won’t tell her nothin’, promise.” 

     That seems to make him smile, just for a second or two. Then it’s back to sulking.

     Arthur sighs, taking a seat on a nearby chair. The boy is usually chatty with him if no one else. Yet he sits there quietly now. 

     “Ain’t heard much out of you. What’s wrong?” 

     Jack seems to contemplate, staring up at the sky as he does. “Hmm, Ma and Pa are busy. And they look sad. So is everyone.” 

     “No Jack, they're not sad, no one is. Folks is… just a little,-”… what can he say to a child that won’t make them worry or ask more questions? “They’re tired, and they’re thinking…about where we’re going next.”

     “It’s cold here.” 

     “I know Jack.”

     “And boring.” 

     “Yeah.” Arthur chuckles.  

     It’s like he figured before. The kid is perceptive even if he doesn’t know it himself. There’s no way to lift Jack’s spirit, no point in trying if everyone else is still down and stressed out. The kid’ll just work himself up again.

     There’s nothing he can do. Nothing at all. 

    “Arthur!” Abigail joins them again. He gets up from the chair, beckoning her to take the seat. She does, smoothing her skirt and tugging her jacket up a bit more. “Thank you for that.” 

     He nods at her, wondering briefly if he should mention anything about Jack, but the kid’s sitting right there, and he promised he wouldn’t after all. 

     “It’s no problem. I’ll catch you later.” 

     Arthur leaves them be, reflecting, pondering. Jack won’t cheer up so long as the camp is all gloomy. Mood around camp won’t get better unless they get out of here; or unless they’ve got something to bring their spirits up. Though what could do the job? 

     Just then he hears laughter. Loud and annoying and clearly coming from Sean Maguire. Javier jerks awake from where he sat at a table slumped over, knocking a bottle over and cussing. Following that is the sound of Pearson calling out. “Food’s ready!” 

   Food. Booze. Sean. A series of ideas smack him in the face and suddenly, Arthur Morgan has a plan.

***

     With a rifle slung over his shoulders John makes his way to guard duty, or rather, he was until he notices the small crowd in the middle of camp. 

     He peeks over everyone’s shoulder and frowns, his mouth falling open slightly. What the hell?

     Past the crowd of people standing shoulder to shoulder, he first spots Sean Maguire with a hand on Jack’s shoulder. The young man is in the middle of telling a tale, his movement exaggerated and his voice loud.

     “…And some say he’ll visit the do-gooders while they sleep, leaving them gifts of all kinds. Toys for the little boys, dresses for the girls, maybe coins for their parents! Tell me that don’t sound magical, eh kid?” Sean’s got Jack captivated in a tale he’s clearly weaving on the spot, but dammit, the kid is more lively than he has been in quite a time.

     John’s eyes fall to the big old circular table sitting in the middle of the commotion. His eyes go wide. 

     Their odd mismatched plates and bowls sat neatly in their respective piles, along with their mugs and tin cups. A few brand new bottles sit next to them. John recognizes all but one, whose label is shining and clean. Oddly enough he spots pieces of paper with names on them, fixed to each bottle with twine. Gifts? 

     Nevermind the booze. There’s the beginnings of a feast, or the closest to one that he’s seen in a while. Potatoes, carrots, peas and corn, things he knows have to have come from a can; he’s lived off canned food his whole life, he recognizes it instantly. In the middle of the plates sits a few good looking hunks of meat, those ain’t seen a can for certain. 

     Susan stands beside a pile of chocolate bars, also tied up with twine and paper on them. She calls out folks’ names and hands them out. More gifts? 

     The table itself is oddly decorated with pinecones and branches with dried red berries. Individually wrapped hard candy is strewn about another plate next to some coffee, this one only holding biscuits. Most are cracked in half and clearly from a tin, but still certainly put there with care. Twine ties a few pieces of greenery to each table leg. John isn’t much for style and presentation, but he has to admit it’s a pretty sight. 

     “What is all this?” Dutch takes him by the shoulder, not unkind, just caught off guard. 

     “I…have no idea.” 

     “Oh look! He’s left something for you.” Sean’s voice steals their attention. 

     “Really?” Jack pipes up with enthusiasm only a child could have. 

     “Says your name on it after all!” Sean kneels down, grabbing a wrapped box from beneath the table, giving it to the boy. 

     Jack lights up, forgoing his manners and tearing newspaper and twine until he gets it open. Then, he stares down with a wide smile overtaking his round face. “Look! Ma!”

     Abigail comes into view, her face also a clear look of disbelief, but she’s smiling as she looks down at the boy. “What’cha got there?”

     The kid holds up two new books, one in each hand. A few folks give him an exaggerated whoop, a few clap; mostly, John notices they’re happy to see the boy’s blatant display of innocent joy. It’s a welcome change for sure. 

     “I bet your Pa can help you read those,” Abigail looks up, singling him out in the crowd. 

     John opens his mouth but someone else speaks up from behind him and claps him on the back.

     “Yeah, he’ll do that.” Arthur. “Won’t you?”

     John looks at him, then Abigail, then the boy. His wide eyes and happiness, Abigail’s hopefulness, Arthur’s threatening form looming near him; “of course.” 

     “Yay! Thanks Pa!” The boy doesn’t wait for any other prompting, he dives right back into the box half his size. 

     John takes a step back, turning to face the other man. Arthur’s standing tall, an innocuous look on his face, but John’s known him for a long time. Something is off. His eyes are ringed and dark beneath, and they droop. His shoulders aren’t so straight. His back is hunched. He’s tired. They all are, but him more than usual. Realization dawns on him.

     “Huh, wonder what else is in that box.” 

     Arthur shrugs. “How should I know?”

     John’s eyes narrow. “When’d you have the time to do all this?” He asks quietly. 

     “Do what?” 

     “Don’t bullshit me Morgan.” John turns back around at the sound of laughter from Jack, who’s feeding Hosea a piece of chocolate with his already messy hands. Abigail’s musing over him, while most other folks have settled around and began picking at the goods. 

     When he turns back to Arthur, to press him further, he pauses. Arthur’s suppressing a yawn, rubbing his eyes, blinking a few times. Lord, he’s beat. 

     “How?” John asks gentler than before.

     Arthur sighs. “I had help, so don’t go thinkin’ I did this on my own. Woke Pearson up an hour earlier, had to promise him the best bottle. Ha! Susan was already up, I had her and Tilly help me.” 

    “Just where’d you get all this?” John asks.

     “Uh, in town?” Arthur answers like it's obvious.

     “You went yesterday?” 

     “I went last night.” Arthur scratches his beard. 

     “Last night? And no one asked you where you were headed?” 

     Arthur sighs again. “Believe it or not, Sean can keep quiet when he wants to. Certainly not now though, I think he’s still yapping away.” 

     A glimpse over his shoulder confirms that. 

     “He was happy to keep quiet last night, even gave me some suggestions.” Arthur yawns. “Now, I got’ta go get some shut eye, you have anymore questions need answering, or am I free to go?” 

     John’s just got the one. 

     “Where’d you get the money for all that?” 

     Arthur visibly sags. “You remember the stagecoach we did a few months back?”

     “Yeah.” John’s not sure where this is going. Arthur couldn’t’ve had money remaining from that. Could he? 

     “Well I splurged a little. Bought a few nice things. A pistol, got a set of buckles, a good watch.” 

     Meaning dawns on John. “Oh, Arthur, really? You sold ‘em? Those were…yours.” 

     Arthur gives him an irritated look, shifting on his feet and looking away. “Weren’t nothing.” 

      Weren’t nothing? Just how selfless could he be? Just as John gets ready to retort, Jack calls him.

      “Pa! Come see this!” 

     When he turns back around Arthur gives him a hard look. “Go be with your family. Oh, and I picked you up a razor and a mirror. S’in your tent.” 

     He’s off before John can say another thing to him.

***

     Finally, finally they managed to leave that sorry excuse for a camp. Dutch finally pulled his head out of his ass, and with Hosea’s direction he led them onward and outward toward someplace better. No longer than a few days, and now the gang is good and settled someplace better than they’ve been in a long while. The weather warmed enough to travel in comfort, enough to lift the spirit of folks around him. It’s a real miracle if he’s ever seen one. 

     It’s not just the folks whose spirits have lifted. The animals are doing much better too. Boadicea returned to her regular self, much to Arthur’s pleasure. 

     “Hey Arthur, can I steal you for a minute?” 

     He peers up at Marson’s freshly shaved face. “What now?” He mumbles with a blessedly dry cigarette hanging from his lips. 

     “Just get up and follow me.” John leaves no room for argument as he walks away. Arthur’s got half a mind to let the fool trott on by himself, but for some reason, he follows the other man. 

     “You steering me toward trouble now Marston?” 

     John honest to God laughs at that. “Nah, I reckon you’ll like this.” 

     Arthur’s scowl deepens. God help Marston if he decided to try some nonsense today. After everything he’s done he needs a break. A day, a few hours, a single hour; is that too much to ask around here? 

     John leads him toward the horses, where a few other folks are standing around. Then, he stops and clears his throat. 

     It’s like he blew a whistle for some call to action. Folks turn around. Abigail, Tilly, Marybeth, Karen, Sean; they’re all here. Arthur lifts a brow. 

     “What’s going on?” 

     Karen and Marybeth share a look, Tilly spots a guilty smile.

     “Arthur,” Abigail starts. “What you did for Jack, well, that was real good of you. Lifted most of our spirits too.” 

     “I agree, and you certainly enlisted the best accomplice,” Sean snickers. 

     John steps past Abigail, stooping down lowly before standing upright with a large box in his arms. “Ain’t much, but a few of us thought you should have this.” 

     Arthur stares at the box, then at John, then to the rest of them. “What’s this?” 

     “It’s a gift, from all of us.” Tilly says. “A few others chipped in too.”  

     “Javier, Hosea, even a few cents from Uncle.” says Marybeth. 

     “Course’ we had to pick it from his pockets,” adds Karen. “You can thank Abigail for that.”

     Abigail laughs. “Weren’t nothing. Now take it.” 

     John hands him the box. Arthur takes it, his eyes widening. 

     “It’s heavy! I thought you said it weren’t nothing much?” 

     Another round of guilty looks from the small crowd. 

     “Look, I think the words yer’ lookin’ for is ‘thank you’, ain’t that right?” Sean says. 

     If he wasn’t so surprised Arthur might have smacked him over the head, or at least threatened to do so. He swallows hard, unsure of what to say. “Thank you. All a’you. This is…it weren’t necessary.” 

     John snorts, “don’t even know what’s inside yet.” 

     “Open it!” Says Marybeth. “Please!” 

     The box is crudely wrapped in newspaper, the sides tucked in messily and a few spots are stained and torn. It tears away easily. Arthur takes off the lid. 

     He pauses, then chuckles. 

     “Okay, this is…,” he chuckles again, shaking his head. 

     He pulls a small pouch out. From the gaps in the cloth he sees strands of hay sticking out. There’s another, and from it he can smell the peppermint candies. There’s a few perishable things; a pear, an apple, a few carrots with dirt still on them. There’s also a small hard bristled brush, and a few tonics, all sitting atop a new saddle blanket; they really pitched in to get things not for him, but for his horse? It’s…kind of funny, but practical. Needed.

     Arthur looks up. “This is real thoughtful, thank you, all of you.” 

     “Arthur,” Abigail says, “there’s more things.” 

     More? Arthur rummages around, frowning as he looks under the blanket. Then, he finds it. A book? A brand new leather bound journal and a good pen. A belt buckle, no, two of them? A bottle, a big one at that, a good bottle of dark whiskey. A pack of premium smokes. Just when he thinks that’s all, his fingers touch the edges of something square, no, something rectangular. Arthur slips a hand inside and feels for that one last thing. 

     Seconds later, he pulls it out and blinks. Words die in his throat. He stares down at a picture of his dear Ma, fitted and framed carefully. Perfectly in fact. 

     “I…how?” He looks up at the rest of them. 

     “Took a little bit of effort and snooping to get that picture.” Tilly tells him. 

     “Who?” That picture was pressed in the back of his old journal, an old thing falling apart at the spine, hidden away at the bottom of his trunk of things. Arthur looks to Abigail. She’s always been a good thief. Was it her? 

     Abigail shakes her head. “Ain’t me.” She tilts her head to the side, to where Marston stands with his hands behind his back causally. A hint. A confirmation. 

     “Really? John?” Arthur says in disbelief.

     John shrugs. “It weren’t hard. I just, waited for you to be busy. I knew where to look.” 

     He should be mad at the thought of John invading his space like that. Any other day he would be. He looks down at the framed picture. His Ma is smiling faintly. It’s an image he’s seen a hundred times, the only image of her he has left in fact; but seeing it like this, cared for, treated so nicely. Well, Arthur Morgan might think himself a hard man, but this is enough to melt his heart. 

     “I don’t know what to say.” 

     “You don’t have to say anything. Just, take the gift and take the thanks.” John tells him. 

     “Just don’t turn around and break it,” Karen says. 

     “Never,” Arthur replies. He means it. “I’ll take good care of this, thank you lot. It’s…this is…thank you.” 

     Sean breaks away first, prompting others to join him. Karen follows, Marybeth and Tilly return to their spots. Abigail goes too. Only he and John are left standing there. 

     “Was I right? Do you like it?” John’s grin is sheepish. For a moment, Arthur forgets to be annoyed or mad at him. 

     “I love it, really. I wasn’t expecting that from…anyone.” 

     “Yeah well, m’sure everyone’s glad to see you happy for a change. Enjoy it.” John says, then quickly adds. “Dutch thinks I’m on guard duty, I have to go.” 

     Arthur bids him a goodbye, and soon he’s standing alone. He’s still clutching that picture of his Ma, still looking down at it when his horse whinnies. 

     Arthur chuckles. “Yeah girl, there’s plenty in here for you too.”