Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Beecher’s Hope is something out of a dream, Arthur thinks. He’s often struck dumb by it, the ranch and the house. All of those walls and a sturdy roof to keep the rain and snow out. Jack sleeps in a bed, proper-like, with a mattress and things Arthur had only dreamed of at his age. The Marstons have a dinner table and even a fine set of china to put on it, should they choose. There’s so much, in terms of things to own and have, that Arthur cannot quite wrap his head around the idea of owning it all. Not that he judges them for it, not in the least. He knows that living mostly out of his saddlebags, even after eight years, is not a healthy thing. On top of that, he’s been expressly told by a doctor that his health can’t take much more sleeping rough. Arthur finds himself agreeing with the assessment, despite how his pride protests.

So, when Charles had written to John and Abigail asking for a place to stay until he and Arthur figured out their next, more permanent move, Arthur had gone along with minimal grousing. When he and Charles had ridden onto the modest ranch, Arthur had been too choked up to speak. He’d simply sat in the saddle, hands gripping the saddlehorn like he might topple over with the force of his emotions. It was a home, earned and owned the honest way, with livestock and a proper barn. All built with John’s own sweat, grit and determination to provide.

John had approached Arthur’s horse, hands lifted, prepared to help his elder brother dismount. Arthur is still thin and rather frail looking, he’ll never be what he was before the lung trouble. John had watched him, brows furrowed in concern, unsure if he ought to offer help or let Arthur dismount himself, still shocked by the way Arthur trembles in the saddle.

“Arthur? You need– uh, you okay?” John’s voice was small, sounding so much like he had when Dutch and Hosea had first brought him back that Arthur feels his throat constrict.

Arthur had nodded wordlessly and eased himself out of the saddle, stumbling with fatigue he could never quite shake. John had steadied Arthur with a hand on his arm and helped him inside.

It’s been some months now since Charles and Arthur arrived for a ‘temporary’ visit and it’s been made clear to them that they’re not permitted to leave. Abigail has said it plainly enough to both Arthur and Charles on numerous occasions, You’re family, Arthur. Family looks after each other. You can’t look after him yourself, Charles, let us help. John, of course, had hinted and nudged, but never made his feelings clear on the matter, but Arthur understood. He was unwilling to leave them as they were to part with him. And so, Arthur Morgan finds himself living an honest life on a small ranch on the plains of West Elizabeth. Ironically, within shouting distance of Blackwater, the place that had marked the beginning of the end for so many of them.

But, the past is the past and Abigail and John have made attempts to distance Jack from it all and Arthur not only respects this, he also agrees. It’s a stroke of luck that Jack doesn’t seem to recall much and Arthur is content to leave the past where it is. Well, most of it, anyway.

It had started as a way to connect with his nephew, the storytelling from pages of his old journal. Jack is twelve now and thinks himself nearly a man grown; he’s not quite as rowdy and sour as John was at his age, but every now and then he shows teeth that are the same shape as John’s and Arthur can’t help but smirk. Hosea would call it comeuppance, or some such thing. Arthur calls it entertainment, but only to himself. It’s during a tense dinner that Arthur fishes out his journal, flipping through the yellowed pages just slowly enough that Jack can peak at the sketches inside while still feigning adolescent disinterest. When Arthur reaches the entry with the sketch of the giant’s bones, Jack sits up in his chair, stew forgotten.

“What’s that?” His eyes are narrowed in concentration and he still looks just like he did as a four year old, studying bugs and worms in the dirt by his feet.

“Oh, this?” Arthur points at the sketch, pretending at nonchalance, “Just somethin’ I came across some years ago. Up near Mount Shann, I believe it was.” He moves to flip the page and has to bite down on his cheek to keep himself from smiling when Jack stops him.

“But, what is it? It almost looks like…a person? But it’s too big, or looks too big…”

“It was massive, sure enough. I don’t know of any man that’s reached that height, so I think there’s only one thing it could have been…” Arthur is tapping into every storytelling trick he’d picked up from Hosea, though he’s sure that it’s less convincing. He scratches the underside of his chin, smiling at Abigail where she sits in her chair, smiling warmly at her boy.

Jack is watching Arthur, eyes wide, waiting for the answer when Arthur leans in close to him, voice lowered in a dramatic whisper, “A giant.”

“Bullshit!” It’s John who speaks now, his rasping voice seems to jar Jack out of his spell and his face shutters. He glances down at the sketch, jaw clenched.

“Pardon?” Arthur asks, taking care to keep his voice level. Charles is still eating, seated where he is to Arthur’s right side. Uncle is glancing between the two brothers with something close to excitement on his face.

“You heard me. A giant, Arthur? He ain’t five anymore; he don’t believe in that shi–” Abigail levels John with a look and he backtracks, “--stuff anymore.”

Arthur crosses his arms, staring John down, “Ain’t a lie. It’s up there, under a rocky overhang near the top of Mount Shann. Drew that picture there to prove it.”

“I could say I found fairies in Big Valley, don’t make it true. And just ‘cause you drew somethin’ don’t make it real, either,” John scoffs, “How the hell would you get up there, anyway?”

“Rode.”

John throws his hands up, face twisting in something too close to mockery for Arthur’s liking, though he might be a touch sensitive on account of his current…state, “You rode? You gotta be kiddin’ me. Ain’t no way you just rode a horse all the way up that mountain, I seen it. It’s too steep, for one thing–”

“Just ‘cause you couldn’t don’t mean no one else can. Some of us actually know what we’re doin’ in a saddle, Marston.”

A third voice cuts in before the conversation truly devolves into an argument, stopping John up short. “I saw them too,” Charles says, easy and calm as anything and Arthur could kiss him right then and there.

Jack looks up from the journal at that, face brightening, “Really, Uncle Charles?”

“Sure. Just like Arthur said, under a cliff on Mount Shann. Huge; bigger than anything either of us has seen before or since.” Charles scoops the last of his stew into his mouth, calm as still water.

From that point, despite John’s protests and assertions that Arthur is full of shit, Jack asks for an adventure story from the journal once a night. Most nights, Arthur is more than happy to oblige, but there are some nights, nights when his hands shake when he tries to eat, when he sags in the chair, that his mother tells him to let Uncle Arthur rest. If Abigail believes them or not, Arthur cannot say. Uncle, for his part, just seems happy for the chatter and happiness that fills the house in the evening, content to sip his booze near the fire until he falls asleep. John huffs and puffs like an angry boar, but Arthur notices him listening while he pretends to read the paper.

It’s on nights like these that Arthur feels the ache of loss the most keenly. But, as he slips into bed beside Charles, walls and a roof around them to keep the weather out, Arthur feels a profound sense of luck and gratitude for the slice of heaven they’ve all been granted.

Chapter Text

Arthur is dozing on the front porch, fading in and out of sleep, warmed by the sun and soothed by the lowing of cows and the clucking chickens. The peace of this life is something he has to ease himself into, like one would a hot bath, inch by inch. There are mornings that Arthur jolts awake confused as to where he is, why he’s surrounded by walls and not under his old tent. Why he’s sleeping on a mattress and not a creaky cot that threatens to buckle every time he turns over. It’s those mornings that lead to days in which Arthur wanders in something like a daze touching the books, the chairs and sofa to be sure that they’re real. Those mornings lead to nights of Arthur watching the property line, hands itching for his gun, even a knife to brandish at the threats he swears he can feel in his aching bones. But today is not one of those days; the ghosts that haunt all of them are far off, slumbering soundly.

The tranquility of the morning is shattered by shouting coming from somewhere near the barn, if Arthur’s guess is correct.

“I said I’ll do it when I finish with my book!” Jack’s voice cracks when he shouts and Arthur has to stop himself from flinching at the sound of raised voices.

John, to his credit, isn’t quite bellowing at Jack, but Arthur can tell that he has his back up. He sounds strained, like he hadn’t slept well the previous night, “And I told you to muck the stalls. If I tell you to do something, you do it. You understand?”

John is trying his damned best to be a good father to his son, Arthur knows this. He sees it in the way that John tries his best not to shout at him, in the way that John never raises a hand to his boy, no matter how cross or drunk he might be. Arthur knows that John’s best example of a father figure was Hosea, but Dutch had taken John under his wing shortly after he had arrived at camp and proved himself to be a gifted marksman, even at the age of 12. Whatever John learned of fathering, of raising a boy into a man, a decent amount of it was from Dutch Van Der Linde. And those sorts of lessons were intended to shape John into a tool, much as Arthur had been. Turning a child into a tool to be used and bringing up a child were about as different as two things could be. But, John continued to press forward, awkward as it was.

Jack’s reply is lost, too soft for Arthur to pick up from his chair on the porch, but the kid comes stomping out of the barn, book tucked under one arm. His expression is a near twin to the one Arthur remembers a young John wearing whenever Susan would order him to feed the horses or gather water for the washing. Arthur knows enough about a young man’s dignity and ego to bite the inside of his cheek so Jack doesn’t see him smirk. Arthur simply rocks slowly in the chair, letting Jack know that he’s there. Arthur, in the grand tradition of all uncles before him, has become something of a confidant for his nephew; Jack will find him and rant and rave about how unfair his Ma and Pa are. He’ll pace and lament about sheering sheep and milking cows when there are so many other things he could be doing, though he doesn’t know what. He’s becoming restless in that way all young men do and Arthur commiserates with him. Arthur remembers what it felt like to feel stifled in camp, suffocating under a pile of chores and busy-work intended to keep him out of trouble. In Jack’s case, though, the work puts food on the table and in their bellies and so has a purpose. But, Jack doesn’t see that quite yet. He seems to have forgotten the terrible, hollow ache of hunger pains and Arthur is grateful for that. Jack believes the food will be there, one way or another, whether he milks cows and shovels shit or not.

The creaking of Arthur’s chair draws Jack’s attention and he stomps up the porch steps and plops down on the top step, thin arms crossed. Arthur waits in silence, tapping the toe of his boot slowly against the wood. Far off in the distance, a bison bellows, deep and long. Arthur feels goosebumps rise on his arms and he wonders, idly, where Charles has gotten off to.

“I don’t know why he has to get on me all the time,” Jack grumbles from where he’s seated.

“He’s just doin’ his job, Jack. Tryin’ to teach you somethin’, is all.” Arthur speaks softly, like he would to an agitated horse. Jack responds to raised voices like John does - rising to meet it. The only difference seems to be that Jack’s temper burns out faster than John’s. A brilliant flash and then nothing but swirling smoke, like a firework.

“What could I possibly learn from shoveling cow shit every day? That it stinks? I know that already.”

Arthur chuckles and pushes the blanket down off of his chest so it pools on his lap. He’s not hot, but something close to it, though he knows he ought to be sweating through his shirt like Jack is. “Responsibility. The value of hard work and the feelin’ of pride that can come from it.”

“Pride?” Jack asks, incredulously.

“Sure. Work like that, it shows you that life’s problems got solutions. That you can figure them problems out.”

“It’s cow shit, Uncle Arthur, I don’t think it’s that…deep. Besides, this is Pa we’re talking about,” the statement has a touch of cruelty to it when Jack mentions John. The boy knows his Pa isn’t as sharp as he is and there are moments that he uses that knowledge as a weapon to hurt.

Arthur sits up and leans forward, his elbows on his knees and speaks, voice quiet and serious “Jack, you look at me.”

Jack meets his eyes with something like defiance, but it flickers out when he sees the set of Arthur’s jaw.

“Your Pa may not be the most intelligent man and you might be smarter than him, but that don’t mean that you got nothin’ to learn from him. He’s…seen and done a whole hell of a lot more than folks who’ve been alive twice as long as he has.”

“I am smarter than him and he knows it! It eats at him; he can’t stand it, I can tell!” Jack is gesturing toward the barn, chin raised slightly while he speaks.

“You’re wrong. He’s proud of it, damn proud. There weren’t many things he were afraid of when you were born, but one of ‘em was that you’d get his brains. Seein’ how clever you are, that don’t bother him a bit. He wants you to be smarter than him, Jack. To do better and be better than he ever could and it’s his job, as your Pa, to make sure you do just that. Not a lot of fathers want their sons to be better men than they were; you’re lucky,” Arthur has to ease himself back against the chair to steady his breathing. His heart is starting to pound with the emotion he’s struggling to contain and it’s making his lungs feel tight.

Jack must hear the quiet wheeze when he inhales, because his angry expression melts into one of worry mixed with guilt. He kneels near the arm of the chair and presses the back of his hand to Arthur’s forehead, checking for a fever like his Ma taught him to do years ago.

“M’fine, Jack. Jus’...gettin’ worked up is all,” Arthur murmurs, letting his eyes slip closed when that long-familiar weariness starts to tug at him again.

“I’ll go find Uncle Charles; it’s probably time for some more medicine and tea,” Jack might be prickly and surly as a porcupine most days, but that inherent kindness he was born with still runs deep. Arthur thinks that the kid spends entirely too much time fussing over him, but he’s learned to accept it with as good grace as he can muster. It’s certainly better than John having to help him stand to piss or the shame of Charles having to bathe him when he was too ill to wash himself.

Arthur must doze off, because the next thing he’s aware of is the feeling of Charles’ hand cupping the side of his face and the soft sound of the other man’s voice pulling up out of sleep, “Arthur? Are you alright?”

Arthur sighs and leans into the touch and the warmth of Charles’ hand, “Jus’ fine, darlin’. Was talking with Jack and I got a little…well, breathless, I guess. Ain’t nothin’ major.”

Charles’ brows furrow in concern and Arthur wants to soothe the worry away. Wants to pull Charles close to kiss him until the worries melt away. All of the time other folks have spent worrying over him and he still hasn’t learned how to cope with that look. The open concern where there used to be…well, if not respect, something near to it. He was a man who got things taken care of, a man that others depended on to solve a problem. And now? Arthur isn’t sure what his use is around the farm, much as John insists that just having him around and alive is enough.

Charles must read these thoughts like their words on a page, given the way he sighs and presses a tender kiss to Arthur’s forehead, “You’re thinkin’ too much. That never did you any good. I think we oughta lay off the stories for tonight. John is…wound a bit tightly, today.”

Arthur hums and rocks slowly in the chair. It’s wise. Arthur’s well past the age in which poking at his brother is entertaining, mostly. Now, it does nothing but cause fights that Arthur no longer has the interest in or energy for.

“Was thinkin’ of maybe tellin’ about the giant and the tiny magician tonight, but we’ll save it. What’s eatin’ John?”

“Not sure. He’s just on edge, like he’s waiting for something. You know how it is sometimes; you just…get that feeling and you can’t quite shake it,” Charles sounds tired in a way he rarely shows to anyone other than Arthur. Eight years after the end of the only life that Arthur had ever understood and thought possible for himself and he still feels a tiredness that extends beyond the physical. It’s the draining ache of loss and the fact that none of them can quite fill the holes that are left inside themselves.

“Maybe Abigail can get around to him. He and Jack are snappin’ at each other again. The boy needs to get out, go huntin’, or ridin’ or somethin’. Burn some of that energy off,” Arthur has to beat back the fresh wave of guilt as he says it. If he were strong again, healthy again, he could take Jack out into the wilderness and teach him the lessons that are taken better from an uncle than a father. As it is, Arthur can’t even mount a horse without Charles helping him into the saddle. As for riding? He’s up to three passes in the paddock, at a walk, before he stoops over the saddle horn, sweating and winded.

Charles hums in agreement, scratching at the scar on his cheek. They try their best not to overstep and Charles generally fairs better in that regard than Arthur does. Jack brings out the long-dormant instincts brought to life by Isaac. Ignoring them is a continual exercise in strength and self-control.

“You’d have made a good Pa, Charles,” what prompts Arthur to say it, he hasn’t the foggiest idea, but in the moment, he realizes it’s true. Charles would be a fine father and there’s a part of Arthur that feels guilty that he can’t provide Charles with a child of his own, in one way or another.

Charles snorts, “I think you’ve been sunbathing too long, Arthur. Your brains are poached. I better get back; tack needs to be oiled. Be good.” Another, lingering kiss on the forehead and Charles ambles off toward the barn.

The peace only lasts a moment longer before Uncle appears, chattering a mile a minute about something Arthur does not attempt to follow. Uncle doesn’t appear to need real answers, just grunts and nods at the right times before he heads off to the barn, complaining about the work Arthur would give damn near anything to be able to do.

“Strange twists, Pa,” Arthur whispers, mind turning to Hosea, as it often does these days. “Finally got the life you wanted, but I can’t help with none of it. I wonder sometimes, if…well, don’t matter now. I sure do miss you, more an’ more every day.”
Far off in the distance, a fox calls, the familiar yip brings a sad smile to Arthur’s face.

Chapter Text

JOHN

Summer and its searing heat brought dry, brittle grass. But somehow, through John and Charles’ dogged efforts, they didn’t lose a single head of livestock. The river fell, but the pump gave water after a few extra pumps and a prayer. The relentless sun and the dray air made just about everyone miserable, but if there was one good thing to say about it, it was that it seemed to do Arthur good. He wheezed some when the dust kicked up, but his bone-deep weariness seemed to ease. His color came back and John earnestly hoped never to see that gray, sickly tinge to his brother’s skin again.

But then, summer ended, as seasons always do. Fall in West Elizabeth was gray and damp. The dirt turned to mud mixed with shit and Abigail spent more time scrubbing the floors of the house than anything else. She spent so much time with her hands in a bucket of soap that her skin cracked and bled. John wrapped her hands with a salve Hosea had taught him to make. Each and every night he did it, saying nothing. Susan Grimshaw had had her flaws, but she’d be right about one thing: dirt spread sickness. And they would do whatever they could to keep Arthur well, especially as the terrible specter of winter drew closer.

It’s during one dark and dismal morning when John is yanking his boot out of the muck for what feels like the third time in as many minutes, that he hears a cough behind him. John looks over his shoulder and feels worry squeeze tight in his chest at the sight: Arthur out in the cold, with nothing but a ratty, second-hand coat and a moth-eaten scarf to keep him warm. On anyone else, it would be fine. Arthur as he had been - unbreakable, unstoppable, superhuman - wouldn’t have noticed the drizzle of cold rain or the pinch of cold air on his cheeks. He would have done all the chores before the sun had fullen risen and set about teasing John for being a layabout. It’s not something John had ever expected to miss, but God damn if he doesn’t.

“What the hell are you doin’? If Abigail catches you out in this, she’ll kill us both,” John grouses, letting annoyance mask his worry. One brother needling another allows for preservation of dignity. Or, whatever dignity Arthur has left after John has helped wash and dress him, that is…

“Gotta get out of the house for a minute is all,” Arthur mutters, as if it’s all the reason he needs. Gone are the days of Arthur saddling up and vanishing for days, with no one doubting he’d come back in one piece. Now, his every step or activity is carefully supervised by Abigail, Jack or Charles. Just the thought of such careful handling sets John’s own teeth on edge, so he sympathizes. All the same, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s necessary.

“It’s rainin’, Arthur. You’re gonna catch a–”

“A what? A cough? My death? Got news for you John, I already caught it,” Arthur’s mouth is twisted in a dark smile, all sharp points like a broken glass bottle. If John were sensible, he’d leave well enough alone, but no one ever described him as a man of sense.

“That ain’t funny.”
“Weren’t tryin’ to make you laugh. I’ll stick close. I can milk a damn cow; you do that sittin’ down”. Arthur is making slow progress in the mud and trying manfully to hid that he’s shivering already. The barn is a bit warmer, what, with the cows inside, but it’s not much better. John considers it for a moment and decides to let it go - - Arthur has a point, he can milk a cow, if he can do it sitting down. His work around Beecher’s Hope is invariably something that can be done from a chair, the sofa or even propped up in bed. Mending socks, untangling yarn, counting eggs for the crates and so on. Tasks that Jack used to do but has since gotten too big and too old for and it must rankle Arthur something fierce.

John pushes ahead so he can hold the door open for the other man, saying nothing of the way Arthur huffs with the effort of crossing a muddy yard to the barn. The cows bellow, udders no doubt full and painful, ready for their breakfast. John sets about dumping flakes of hay into the stalls while Arthur fetches the milking stool and pail. Where there would have been arguing and heckling, there’s only silence. It’s not uncomfortable, at least not for John. There’s work to get done and the gripes and problems of the past have been left exactly there. Neither brother is keen to waste valuable time or energy hashing out old problems or opening old wounds. Especially not when fresher ones still take so long to heal, or refuse to do so all together.

The numb and shock of Beaver Hollow had given way to a terrible, savage ache. It chewed it’s way deep into John’s heart and followed him into sleep. In the shadow of dreams, Arthur, exhausted, half-dead with whatever he was sick with, spoke those words over and over again. Both of us ain’t gonna make it. Some nights, blood would bubble from his lips and he would die in John’s arms. John would watch, powerless to help or ease his brother’s suffering while he choked and convulsed before going still. On those nights, Abigail would have to shake him awake while Jack watched, eyes wide with fear. A time or two, maybe a year after they’d gotten over the border, John had woken so backwards in his thinking that he’d ranted and raved about going to find Arthur. He’d nearly gotten their wagon horse saddled when he’d remembered and the force of that remembering had brought him to his knees in the snow and ice.

Years had done precious little to ease the sharp pain of that loss, though the others that fell hurt plenty too. None of them cut to the bone like Arthur had, none of them had haunted John like Arthur had. So, when Charles had appeared, leading a patient mule, a sick, older and impossibly alive Arthur on its back, John had nearly wept. Now, even after all the time that’s passed, John will stop in the middle of a chore or task and seek Arthur out, just to look at him and assure himself that his brother is still alive. That it wasn’t another dream he’s yet to wake from.

John is having one such moment as he feeds the second cow her breakfast. Peeking out from under his old hat, John watches as Arthur speaks softly to the cow he’s milking, voice gruff but gentle in the way all animals seem to love. The cow munches on her breakfast happily, as if Arthur is the one who milks her, rather than John or Jack. The sound of milk hitting the pale in rhythmic squirts is soothing as John sets to mucking stalls. He ought to get Jack to do it, but that’s a fight John doesn’t have the energy for. Arthur must read John’s mind, because it’s the first thing Arthur asks about when he breaks the silence, still stooped on the milking stool.

“Ain’t gonna get Jack to help with that?” It’s innocent enough; hell, it even sounds cautious. As if Arthur is worried he might be overstepping. It’s a consideration John appreciates. He’d been worried after Abigail had explained who Uncle Charles and Uncle Arthur were to them, that the boy would bond more to Arthur than John himself. Not that it would be difficult to do, seeing as John and Jack could scarcely say more than a dozen words to each other at any given time before one or the other of them got tongue-tied.

’He’s just like you, that’s why you can’t talk to him. That had been Abigail’s only comment on the issue and John had been left more confused than ever. Arthur, though…Arthur seemed to know just what to say and how to say it. Arthur himself had simply shrugged it off when John, after a few too many beers, had remarked on it late one night. ’Just practice is all it is. And Arthur had left it at that, the ghost of his own child lingering between them. Since then, John has tried to get his own practice in, though it often leads to shouting and flared tempers.

“Nah. Plenty other things he can dig in his heels about,” John decides not to mention that he’s enjoying his private time with Arthur, such as it is.

“Wonder where he gets that from,” Arthur mutters, voice thick with sarcasm. He’s finished milking one cow and has set the pails outside the stall for John to carry and is moving to the next. A quick glance at his face and John has to look away, what with how proud he looks after doing something John considers so simple.

“Don’t know what you mean, Morgan,” John grunts, dumping a shovel full of manure into the barrow.

“‘Course not. Ain’t like he’s you in miniature or nothin’,” Arthur says, clearly enjoying the gentle teasing.

John smiles at the happiness in the other man’s voice and moves into the stall Arthur has vacated, gently touching the cow’s back so she doesn’t get spooked and kick. “He’s got Abigail’s brains, anyway.”

“For which I thank the Lord. Daily.”

John laughs, muttering a curse under his breath, which earns him a chuckle from Arthur in return. The silence between them is easy after that and John is almost sorry when Arthur finishes the milking. As he steps out of the barn to head back to the main house, John calls out to him before he can think too hard about what he’s about to ask.

“Hey, Arthur? Why don’t you…uh–the boy he. Well, them stories you tell, he uh…”

Arthur catches his meaning in the way only a brother can and he nods, a hoarse, “Sure” tossed over his shoulder as he heads out into the now-pouring rain.

~

ARTHUR
Arthur is banished to bed after his escape to milk cows, but he finds he doesn’t mind so much. Jack finds him after a while and reads to him a book he’d ordered in the catalog - - a compendium of animals, not unlike what Arthur used to carry in his satchel all that time ago. The boy’s curiosity has only grown with age; it’s sharpened and honed into a focused tool and Arthur hopes he’ll use it well. Abigail has hopes of Jack going into the law, but Arthur is waiting to see what Jack himself decides on. At any rate, the boy has options open to him, the likes of which none of the adults at Beecher’s Hope ever had and that’s enough.

Jack is pouring over this book while Arthur picks out the stitching he’s messed up, cursing all the while. Jack chortles at his uncle’s foul mouth, no doubt feeling grown and just a bit wicked for hearing it. It’s similar to the expression Jack wears when John lets him sneak a sip of beer when Abigail isn’t looking. Arthur pulls out the final bad stitch and gets back to work, nearly dropping the sock he’s darning when Jack speaks, voice cracking with excitement.

“Dinosaurs! This book says they used to live here, a long time ago. You think that’s true, Uncle Arthur?”

The memories are strangely clear. A formidable woman with spectacles and a tiny brush, Of course they’re real! And everywhere!

Arthur scoops up his work, pretending to mull it over, as if he thinks it’s all hogwash. Jack enjoys a discussion or debate, Arthur has learned, even if there really isn’t a point to be argued at all. Charles often jokes that Jack is at an age in which a young man will argue the sky is orange, simply for the sake of something to fight about.

“Hmm, might be. Ain’t like we was the only thing to ever live here, after all. Who’s to say what was here before us?” There’s a scrape of the the chair legs on the wooden floor as Jack moves closer to Arthur’s bed. Got him hooked now, Arthur thinks.

“But, look at the drawings!” Jack holds up the book, a little too close at first and Arthur has to ease the volume back a few inches until the blurry picture is clear again. The sketches are accurate enough to what he recalls seeing for himself. Arthur wonders if that professor had managed to get her findings taken seriously or not. “If they were even half as big as what the book says, then…I mean, that can’t be possible.”

“Just about as possible as a giant, I suppose,” Arthur muses, passing the needle through the wool fabric with a smooth motion. “Suppose I was to tell you I seen one, what then?”
Arthur doesn’t have to look at Jack’s face to see the expression there, it’s in his words, thick as molasses, “...A dinosaur, Uncle Arthur? Really…”

“Not a livin’ one, no. ‘Course not,” Arthur sets his mending down and looks Jack in the eye before he continues, “Just the bones.”

“The…” Arthur can see the wheels turning in Jack’s sharp mind as he works out the possibility of it being true. Fortunately, the boy has retained a crumb of a child’s capacity for wonder, despite his rough life thus far. Arthur seizes his moment and presses forward.

“Sure, the bones. Not all together, mind, but scattered, like leaves in the wind. Some was in the prairies of the Heartlands, some was on steep mountain slopes, half covered with stone.”

Jack stares, all rapt attention and awe and Arthur chuckles and gestures to the small desk, where his old journal is kept. Jack jumps up so quickly to retrieve it that he knocks the chair over with a clatter.

“Arthur?! Arthur are you alright?” Abigail’s voice is tight with worry and Arthur and Jack exchange guilty looks. She pushes into the room, taking in Jack standing next to the tipped over chair with the journal in hand and frowns.

“Jack Marston, how many times have I told you not to bother your Uncle Arthur?” Abigail’s building to a full scold when Arthur clears his throat and pipes up.

“He weren’t botherin’ me, Abigail. He was askin’ about somethin’ he read in a book and I’d told him I’d seen it, once. I was gonna show him the sketches and uh, he stumbled, was all. You know how it is, young boys never know where their legs are,” Jack flushes a bit at being referred to as a boy, but wisely says nothing.

Abigail turns her critical gaze to Arthur, as if she’s trying to work out what the two of them might be trying to pull on her. “What was it?”

“Dinosaurs,” Arthur answers simply, biting his cheek to keep his expression in check when Abigail’s brows furrow in confusion.

“I ain’t gonna ask. I gotta get supper on. I don’t want you stayin’ too long, Jack. Uncle Arthur’s gotta rest before we eat, you understand?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Jack mutters, eyes turned respectfully to the floor, where they stay until his Ma shuts the door behind her as she goes.

Arthur holds a hand out for the journal and shifts over on the mattress to make room as Jack presses close, all the better to examine the drawings. Arthur keeps the pages close until he finds the entry detailing his meeting with the professor. He tells the tale both as he had recorded it all that time ago and with some added details mixed in. The blue of the sky, the twisted, sound of the crows flying overhead and the wide open, rolling grasses blowing in the wind. Jack stares at the faded pencil sketch of the bone on the page like a pious man might study the Bible.

“She called me a nincompoop, you know. Waved her little brush at me when I reached out to touch it and all,” Arthur whispers, smiling fondly at the moxy and spirit all crammed into one woman. He’d found her amusing, as well as being too shocked by the sheer size of the remains to take offense at her brash way of speaking.

“What did you do?” Jack asks, his face so close to Arthur’s that Arthur can see the freckles dusted across his nose, the very same once he’d had since he was a babe in arms.

“Oh, nothin’. A woman who spends her life surrounded by menfolk, well, they get mightly prickly. Figure you gotta, if you’re gonna make men take notice of you at all.”

Jack nods sagely, “Like Aunt Sadie.”

At that, Arthur barks out a laugh, doubling over as he struggles to keep it from turning into a coughing fit. “Don’t…” Arthur wheezes, trying to catch his breath and he continues laughing, a hand pressed to his side where his lung aches the most, “Don’t let her catch you sayin’ that. On second thought, go ahead. She likes you, she might let you see another day.”

Jack laughs, in his small, soft way, before he turns back to the journal, tracing a finger over the lines of that old sketch.

Chapter Text

UNCLE

Life is a thing of beauty. Beauty and no small amount of confusion, with some pain and loss tossed in so a feller could better appreciate his blessings. Beecher’s Hope is one such blessing and it is made all the sweeter by the pain and hardships that passed before to bring it all to pass.

Packing his belongings and dashing off into the cold mist of the Hollow is not one of Uncle’s prouder moments, but it is a choice that allowed him to keep breathing until he bumped headlong into John Marston on the sidewalk of Blackwater. Uncle had been certain it was a ghost he was seeing; a shade wandering the street corners where it all started to go so badly for their family. But sure enough, it was John chaining himself to a debt he could never truly hope to pay in a fit of blind, near-desperate hope that put Uncle in mind of a young, bright-eyed Dutch Van Der Linde. Not that Uncle related that bit, of course; he didn’t live to see his gray hairs by being careless, after all.

After that chance meeting, well, there was a purpose yet again. One surviving member of the group he had called home and one living man was a fine change from the ghosts that followed them all. Sean had been a mouthy kid, more passion and lip than brains, but Uncle had found his youth and penchant for trouble-making something of an elixir of life. Lenny, well, he could have - and should have, perhaps - gone far in life, but the folly of the Lemonye National Bank had put paid to that. It’s funny, Uncle thinks, how easily the choices a man makes can be divided into folly or genius, given the gift of both time and distance. And his choice to stay on and see the Marston home built and John reunited with his wife and boy, well, every day proves that to be a stroke of pure genius.

The warm comfort of home, the stability of nights spent under the same stars had exploded into a bright, if blinding and…damned impossible burst of joy when Charles had ridden up. And Uncle had never been happier to hear that gruff drawl, cracking and weak as it was. I jus’ can’t get clear of you can I, Uncle?

Arthur Morgan had tried his level best to pull Dutch back from the precipice, only for himself to get dragged clear over the cliff instead. Dutch had somehow escaped, at least according to the papers, but Uncle had spent a solid day and a night nursing bottles when he laid eyes on the print detailing Arthur Morgan’s supposed demise. Too young to be so sour by far, too young for the heartbreak that weighed him down. And Uncle knew heartbreak when he saw it, no mistake. A kid doesn’t bury his folks and scrape by in a city of monsters and soulless beasts dressed as men without getting more than his fair share. Arthur never let on about what cut him in two, but Uncle had suspected it was more than just a beautiful, soft-eyed woman in a photo that done it. No two wounds look the same, after all and Uncle had his heart broken often enough to recognize that whatever chased the joy out of that young man’s life was far, far worse than a lost lover. But that secret had stayed buried, for all that Arthur wore his sorrow like a hair shirt and chains. As though he deserved each smart and sharp jab of agony and well…that hadn’t changed a damn bit.

It’s a warm summer night on the ranch and Uncle doesn’t feel quite like bringing the day to an end just yet. Bottle in hand, he ambled out to the porch to pass a few hours in pleasant silence, only to find none other than Arthur Morgan on the top porch step. He isn’t sitting up so much as he’s curled in on himself, like an injured animal and Uncle sighs, wondering if he ought to fetch Charles. Arthur took his…frailty as best as he could manage, but it was a hard thing for a man who was used to going for days on end with little rest. Age had cooled his temper some, what, with Arthur the better way through his 40s, but it still smarted. Before Uncle can decide to beat a retreat back inside, Arthur shifts where he sits.

“Hope you got a bottle with you, old man,” he sounds plum worn out, but in a way that leaves Uncle feeling cold to his bones. It calls to mind mist of the Hollow, concerned looks traded over a flickering fire while Arthur coughed and wheezed on his cot. Uncle makes his way to the chair Abigail leaves near the steps for Arthur to take the air on a fine day and eases himself into the seat.

“Well, of course. Who do you think I am, Arthur Morgan?” A moment is all it takes to uncork the whisky and Uncle passes it down to Arthur without another word. Drink isn’t the best for his ailments, but Arthur has admitted, once or twice and only to Uncle, that a few belts eased the pain in his back something considerable. Uncle had made the mistake of asking what had happened to his back and Arthur had shuttered up tight, face an unnerving mix of sorrow and rage.

There’s a cough, but just one and the bottle is passed back up. Uncle studies the stars and takes a generous pull from the bottle. He needs his own liquid courage for nights like these and between both of those boys, well, he finds himself needing more ‘courage’ than ever before.

“It ain’t your fault, you know.” It’s a worn opening, but truthfully, this conversation never really ends. It gets put off for a week or a month, but sooner or later, Arthur gets dragged down by his misplaced guilt like they’re stones in his pockets. Susan, Sean, Lenny….Hosea, those ghosts never give him a moment’s peace, even after all of this time. Arthur doesn’t reply, so Uncle presses on, turning the bottle in his hands. “Dutch was too far gone to see reason, not from you, not from anyone. It was like a sickness for him, in the end. It’s that way for some men; pride and fear mixin’ together to create something that poisons them from the inside out.”

“It’s that simple, is it?” Arthur mutters, voice dark, sharp like so many thorns in a bush.

“Maybe not. I can’t say. But I do know…I know that he– he loved you, both of you boys. Whatever else he loved besides, well…” Uncle feels Arthur stiffen at the mention of Dutch’s love and all that turned out to be worth. In the end, after all those years, all the pretty speeches and promises, that love hadn’t amounted to more than a knife dug into both Arthur and John’s hearts, the blade of which wielded by the one man they trusted never to do them harm. What Uncle hadn’t been there to witness of what Dutch done to John he’s learned from nights when John wakes up screaming.

Dutch! Du– don’t leave me!

The particulars of Dutch’s final betrayal of Arthur are something that even Charles might not know. John had related the tale to Uncle one night while they had been putting the framing of the main house up. Arthur slipping his satchel over John’s shoulders, settling the worn hat on his brother’s head before telling him to go, to run, that Arthur would hold the agents back. John’s mad scramble down the stony slopes and picking his way carefully through the night to where Abigail, Jack, Tilly and Sadie were hidden. Even Tilly, sweet young Tilly, asking John where Arthur was, when Arthur would be along and John, with nothing to say but a certainty, a feeling in his gut that told him Arthur was no more. Whatever end Arthur had met, he had done so alone, as far as any of them knew, but Dutch had been in the Hollow when the agents had descended on them all. John had thought he’d heard Dutch tearing through the dark woods on horseback a time or two in his dash to get to his wife and child, but he hadn’t been sure, as terrified as he had been.

Arthur takes a shuddering breath as deeply as his ravaged lungs will allow, “I see it all. All them things we done…things I done that coulda been different. It won’t…it won’t let up.”

Uncle hums, feeling his own heart aching for the young man next to him, “Weren’t nothing anyone could have done to stop the path Dutch was on. Lord knows you tried, you and…and Hosea. He wouldn’t have it; he had to be the one that got the final word, struck the final blow against some enemy he never had no hope of killing.”

“But maybe–”

“No, think about it, Arthur. He had his chance to put it all to rest and live the way he swore he wanted to, all that time. Ain’t that so? The land deal? He undid that, no one else did. He never had any intention of getting out and livin’ decently. Once he killed that deal, well, I reckon that was that.” Uncle has had time to consider these things in the dark of night and it had come to him once that, while Blackwater had hastened the end of the Van Der Linde Gang, it was the breaking of the land sale that set them on a path with only one possible end. The hopes and dreams, sweat and blood and hard work of dozens of people dashed in a moment of paranoia and delusion.

Arthur doesn’t say another word, only curls forward and holds his head in his hands, fingers knotting in his graying hair. The breath he takes is a shuddering one and a nasty cough follows on its heels. Uncle sets the bottle down and leans forward to slap his palm flat against the space between Arthur’s shoulder blades. After a few smacks, there’s a wet hack and Uncle rubs his hand up and down Arthur’s back. It seems to help get the phlegm moving, as well as ease the mysterious ache that’s settled deep in his muscles.

“You should be–”

“Don’t say it. Just pass me that bottle,” Arthur whispers and Uncle can’t rightly tell if his voice is hoarse from the strain of coughing, or from the emotions he’s struggling to keep in check.
“You’re one sour man, Arthur Morgan,” Uncle mutters, pretending at being put out. It earns him a tired chuckle and he counts that as a victory. Overhead, the stars continue to twinkle.