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Chapter Text

It’d only been a few days since the terror that was John Marston had graced the Van Der Linde Gang, and already Arthur was ready to tear his hair out. 

All heart and no brains, John had been an absolute misery in Arthur’s bones, and even Dutch and Hosea had slightly worn themselves out from the boy; Hosea looking disheveled and Dutch damn near going through all the packs of cigarettes they had within the span of the days, a bandage still wrapped around his hand where the little terror had bit him when they’d first found him; hanging from a tree in Chicago.

Despite Arthur’s utter contempt for the boy, John followed him around like a lost puppy, asking him questions, this and that. 

Pleas of “Arthur, where are ya goin’?” or “Arthur, whatcha doin’?” Were met with noncommittal grunts in reply. He just wanted the boy to leave him alone. Or, better yet, be put in an orphanage.

However, upon returning to camp from a particularly long visit to Mary (God, he loved that woman), Arthur was met with commotion, and cries of “Dammit boy, stay still!” from a very disgruntled Susan Grimshaw were heard. 

Arthur groaned as he heard the cries of a yowling cat, which was just John, and hitched his horse near a very amused Hosea, his face stuck in a newspaper.

“What’s goin’ on now, ‘Sea?” Arthur groaned, rubbing his hands over his face, hands tracing over the scar on his chin.

Hosea raised a brow up at him, leaning back slightly in the chair, newspaper in hand. “Well, if you must know, we recently took in a feral cat into camp, it seems,” Hosea replied wryly, earning a chuckle from Arthur. “I can see that,” Arthur replied with a slight wince, glancing over to the wash bin, where an angry Susan was attempting to coax John into the tub.

In Susan’s defense, the boy stank to high heaven, to the point where even Uncle had complained, the drunken old man commenting that John was likely a skunk in a past life.

John eventually fled, managing to duck under Susan’s arm, but tripped, and his flight stopped abruptly by a rock on the ground. As Susan approached, John curled into a ball, beginning to cry. 

“ARTHUR!” The boy near screamed, voice hoarse and terrified, the sound making Arthur pause the nonchalant cleaning of his steed, and caused Hosea to glance up from the newspaper he was reading, eyebrows raised.

“A-Arthur..! I want Arthur..” John whimpered, curling further into himself on the ground, a mess of tears and snot; slapping away Susan’s hands to her frustration and slight concern.

Arthur was content to ignore the boy’s cries, until a withering look from Hosea made him groan and stop brushing his horse, giving the steed a pat before heading over to Susan.

“I.. I’ve never heard him say that, Mr. Morgan..” Susan said softly to herself, flabbergasted; hands folded over her ample bosom.

“I’ll take care of it, Ms.Grimshaw..” Arthur replied with a tired sigh. He was gettin’ too old for this shit.

Begrudgingly, Arthur went over to where John had run off to; his tent. 

Upon seeing his older brother step into the tent, a fed-up expression on his disgruntled face, John leaped into Arthur, grubby little hands grasping at his shirt. “A-Arthur! Miss Grimshaw was tryin’ to make me take a bath, a-an’... I-I... I don’t..” John blubbered, the brat in near hysterics as he cried into the fabric of Arthur’s shirt.

Arthur was rooted to the ground as John cried into his shirt. He’d never been good with words, let alone comfort; hands always too rough, the tone always too harsh, Arthur never considered himself one for comfort, his father having beat the kindness out of him at a young age.

 Arthur’s mind damn near exploded from how hard he was trying to process what to do. Eventually, Arthur settled on awkwardly patting John on the back as he sobbed.

“Dammit, boy... Why you gotta be difficult ‘bout every little thing?” Arthur grumbled, kneeling down to John’s height, the boy unable to meet his eye. 

“It’s just water, John! I mean, come on boy, It ain’t that-” Arthur began to exclaim, pinching the bridge of his nose, about to get up again when John finally blurted out:

“I DON’T LIKE THE WATER!”

That got Arthur to pause. John’s bottom lip quivered, hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt as he averted Arthur’s gaze, greasy hair falling in strands over his face. 

“I... I can’t swim..” He finished with a slight whimper as if the admission pained him.

Arthur would’ve laughed in other circumstances, but seeing John’s face flush with embarrassment, the boy damn near about to cry again, he simply couldn’t.

 Arthur opened his arms for John, and the boy instantly accepted, head buried into Arthur’s neck.

“Here, how ‘bout this, boy,” Arthur began, gently pushing John from the hug a bit to look him in the eye, blue eyes meeting brown. “If y’let me bathe ya, I’ll take ya into town tomorrow and get you a piece of candy, some chocolate, or somethin’. Okay?” 

Arthur finished his offering, raising a brow as John took a moment to respond.

“O..Ok..” John squeaked out in reply, still not wanting to leave Arthur’s embrace. Arthur felt a part of himself tighten in pity for the boy. Had he really been so callous? 

Why did John still want him? Why did John still like him? Nonetheless, Arthur didn’t want to waste this chance to hopefully change his attitude, and lifted John up effortlessly, carrying the gangly boy over to the washbin.

He really was getting too old for this shit. But maybe John wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe.

Chapter Text

Dutch and Hosea had been scheming, lying, and swindling unsuspecting folk of their goods for a while now; ever since they reached Chicago.

And with Chicago, came the sweltering heat, working girls, drunken folks with too much money to spare; and a very bitey, feral 12-year-old child by the name of John Marston.

Even with the two weeks he’d been in with the gang, Arthur couldn’t stand the little brat. Always rifling through his things, kicking him in the shin or wherever the little brat could reach, stealing from Pearson’s wagon, running from Susan when asked to do chores, climbing and falling out of trees; low ones, fortunately.

Despite all that, John only wanted Arthur. Especially after his little water incident. 

Now John stuck to Arthur like glue, hugging him by the waist and refusing to let go; going into near hysterics when any of the grownups tried coming near him as if he were about to be chucked into the washbin again, whimpering and sobbing against Arthur in fear. Yet despite Arthur’s grumbling and complaints, he never had the heart to push John away despite how much the boy’s current antics displeased him.

 Even if they were.. Odd, considering the brat’s feral, angry behavior towards everyone, especially him, not even a week prior.

“John, for the love of christ boy, m’tryin’ to shave here..” Arthur grumbled, nearly nicking himself with the razor when the boy suddenly tightened his hold, looking up at Arthur through greasy locks, expression in a sour pout.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

“So?” He spat, face pressed into the fabric of Arthur’s new shirt, looking more like a feral raccoon than the scrawny, gangly mess of limbs he really was.

“So,” Arthur began, slightly irritated, putting the razor down to glance down at the boy. “Can you please give me some space? Ask Pearson if we need any food, or read with Hosea. I don’t know boy, just do somethin’ other than invadin’ m’personal space!”

Arthur finished his small rant, face slightly flushed from the pent-up frustration over the past few days.

“No! What’re you even gon’ do today that you don’t need me for!” John grumped, finally letting go of Arthur, opting to pout on his bedroll; small mercies. 

Arthur took a deep breath from his nose, looking up at the sky as if the clouds could rain down any patience, or if god could finally have some mercy on him.

“None o’your business, boy,” Came Arthur’s simple grunt, bending down to pick up his worn hat, at the end of his rope in patience.

Now that got John angry. If anybody didn’t tell the little brat what they were doing, or where they were going, he’d be all claws and teeth.

Thankfully, being broad as an oak and twice as strong, Arthur effortlessly pushed John aside, the fool falling on his ass from his failed attempt to stop Arthur again via clamping onto the older man.

“Are you gonna see Mary again?” Came the soft, sad-sounding question of John as Arthur bounded towards his steed; a Tennessee Walker with a gray coat and white spots that dappled her flank.

Shit. Of course, the brat knew. 

Had it be from the girls in camp gossiping about it, or Dutch mouthing off about it on accident about his displeasure towards the woman. (Arthur needed to remind himself to never trust Dutch with secrets again, he’ll just stick with Hosea from now on).

With a dramatic sigh, Arthur relented.

 “Yes, boy, I am. What d'ya care anyway, don’t you got a tree to climb and fall out of?” He grumbled, loading his guns onto his horse in case an incident happened on the way to the Gillis Manor, Mary’s residence.

Of course, that didn’t deter John. If anything, it made the brat more upset.

“Well, I don’t like her!” The boy damn near shouted, stomping his foot as his apple-cheeked face got redder and redder with his frustration. 

Once again; all heart, no brains.

That took Arthur by surprise. While John was certainly known for his temper tantrums, he’d never been like this. And John had never even met Mary before so that just left Arthur with more questions than answers.

“..And why is that?” Arthur raised a brow at John, the boy looking down almost immediately - still unable to withstand the older man’s scrutiny.

John’s lip quivered, and with tears stinging at his eyes, he finally exploded, the dam of emotion he’d been hiding for the past few days finally let free;

“S-She.. She always takes you away from me!” John yelled, feet stomping in frustration, cheeks puffed in an almost comical manner - despite the situation. “You always leave ‘fore i can even do anythin’ with you, a-and.. I heard Dutch ‘an Hosea say stuff ‘bout you wantin’ to marry her!” The boy picked up a rock and threw it behind Arthur in his anger; huffing, and puffing.

Throughout all this, Arthur merely watched with a raised brow, the older man slightly surprised but still nonplussed by John’s temper.

“John, I don’t much care ‘bout how ya feel for Mary, she’s my girl,” Arthur said with a small sigh, arms outstretched in exasperation. “And ‘sides, you don’t even like me anyway, so what’s it to you-”

Arthur had seen a lot of faces from John. 

A majority of them he despised, like the one where he stuck out his tongue; Arthur swore to cut it off one of these days.

But never had Arthur seen this expression; John’s eyes filled with tears, bloodshot and filled to the brim with sadness and rage.

His lip trembled and his cheeks puffed up, looking like the definition of frustration.

“W-What does it mean to me?” John began, voice wavering and cracking. John’s voice had always sounded like the boy gargled rocks every morning, but this sounded... heartbreaking.

“What does it mean to me?!” John stomped forward as he snarled this, tears running down his cheeks, looking like he could explode any second and -

“I LOVE YOU!”

It wasn’t a statement or simple sentence from John. It was a scream. A plea.

 It was as if the entire forest that surrounded the gang’s camp went silent. The whole world had stopped for that plea. 

Dutch had paused his smoking, cigar raised and expression surprised.

Susan had her hands on her hips, in the middle of lecturing a drunken Uncle.

 Hosea’s eyes were filled with concern as he raised his head from the newspaper he was reading.

John seemed rooted to the ground, taking in heaving, choking breaths; eyes wide and tears pooling from them.

“I don’t like it when you go! I don’t like it when I’m alone!” John rasped, hiccuping in between choking out his words, hands covering his face as if to hide the embarrassment and shame he felt. “I just want my brother..” He choked out.

Arthur could hear Hosea’s concerned questions and Susan’s pestering.

 None of that mattered as he kneeled down and gently picked up John, carrying the gangly boy bridal-style to his horse. He didn't know when they reached a small clearing a way down from camp, but he did remember bringing John down from his horse; saying nothing as he held him and let the boy cry into his shoulder.

"Y-You.. p-please don't leave me.. I-I don't.." John blubbered, grasping desperately at Arthur's shirt, as if his brother would disappear right in front of him.

If John was trying to destroy Arthur's heart, then the brat was doing a damn good job at it. Why did he have to be like this? Arthur Morgan, the big bad enforcer of the Van der Linde Gang, was reduced to mush by the sight of his little brother crying.

Because right then, Arthur made a decision. Lord, did he love Mary, and just damn near everything about her. But seeing John's tears, the boy begging him over and over not to go, not to leave him, Arthur decided.

He would stay. If not for the gang, then for John.

"John.. Johnny, look at me," Arthur said, tone soothing; the very same one he used for his horse whenever she got spooked, and his heart just broke when John looked up at him, brown eyes big and slick with tears that had yet to fall. "I ain't leavin'.." He finished, brushing greasy strands of hair from the boy's face.

"Y-You won't? You'll stay?" John whimpered, clutching tighter to Arthur, head buried in his neck.

"No.. I'll never leave, Johnny boy.." Arthur replied, chuckling slightly. "I'll protect ya'.."

I will. 'Till my last breath.

Chapter Text

“Christ alive!” Were the exclamation of one Arthur Morgan as the sound of a table being flipped from Dutch’s tent and what sounded like arguing woke him from a deep slumber. Of course, not even 6 in the morning and the camp already had some commotion.

Arthur had been sleeping off last night’s job. And a rather intense hangover from breaking off the engagement with Mary for John, her words of anger and utter contempt still ringing true in his head, no matter how much he tried drinking it away the night prior. (Damn her and damn it all-)

It was a stagecoach robbery in Dutch and Hosea schemed about it for days, Dutch chortling when Arthur expressed his doubts about it. “Nonsense, son! We’ll be right as rain! Just a simple robbery, all y’gotta do is your part!” Dutch had chuckled, clapping Arthur on the back, cigar in one hand.

However, the robbery went decently well, besides getting shot in the shoulder.

(Miss Grimshaw had given him an earful while patching him up for that. Reminder to never talk back to that woman. His head still hurt from how hard she'd smacked him.)

And when Arthur finally climbed out of his bedroll, looking more like a lumbering bear than anything, he walked out of his tent to see a flippant Dutch and a very angry Johnny Marston.

“Dutch, did he just flip the table?!” Oh boy, that was Hosea, and he was not very happy.

Dutch turned to Hosea, still irate over John as the boy angrily scampered off somewhere.

“Well, if you must know Hosea, It seems that our new member doesn’t exactly take well to reading!” Dutch shouted back, arms crossed and a cigar butt in his mouth. 

“Dutch,” Hosea began, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh; too old and tired for his partner’s antics. “You were reading him Miller. He can barely conjure up letters from the alphabet, yet you give him that?! Hell, we gave Arthur easier books to start with!”

As the two squabbled, the argument reaching near shouting, Arthur managed to sneak past his two fathers despite his hulking form being as obvious as a tree in an empty field.

“Know where the boy went, Ms. Grimshaw?” Arthur asked a bemused Susan, who was busy washing and ironing the gang’s clothes near her tent.

Face hard and mouth set in a line, Susan huffed. “He went in your tent again, Mr. Morgan. I swear that boy drives us all up the wall sometimes!” She remarked, chuffing and resuming her duties.

“I don’t doubt it.” Came Arthur’s amused response, eventually glancing back to his tent where the brat had gone. Again. Why John always chose Arthur's tent to run into whenever he threw a fit, Arthur would likely never know the answer.

 Sighing, Arthur headed over to the tent, giving Copper, who was lazing about by the tent, a scratch behind the ears before entering.

“John? Johnny boy, y’in here?” Arthur called for the boy, eventually finding him hiding behind his clothes chest, greasy locks barely covering the tears rolling down his face.

John said nothing, only jumping slightly when he was found, hands reaching up desperately at Arthur; a child simply wanting comfort.

And Arthur was not one to deny his little brother.

“D-Dutch got so mad when I couldn’t do my letters right.. I-I.. I just wanted to make ‘em happy..”

And if that didn’t tear a hole in Arthur’s heart. (Oh, he was going to have some words with Dutch later, consequences be damned). Arthur knew his mentor had little patience; had seen it firsthand when he himself was learning how to read. 

Dutch was content on shoving Miller and Emerson titles down his throat until Hosea, bless him, took over Arthur’s reading lessons and showed him more... Easy titles to begin with.

“I know Johnny boy, I know..” Came his soothing reply, gently bending down and picking up John and sitting with the gangly-limbed boy on his cot. “Tell me ‘bout it, then. What happened, hm?” Arthur murmured, rubbing soothing circles along John’s back as the boy hiccuped, trying to find his breath through the sobs that wracked his skinny frame.

"The books we's started with were so hard.." John sniffled, shaking against Arthur's bigger frame. "I-It had all these really big words, I couldn't even read 'em.. I-I told Dutch I wanted an easy book, an' he got really mad and, a-and-" Oh, he was hyperventilating now. A panic attack.

Acting fast, Arthur quickly laid John on his back, propping up a pillow behind the boy's head, greasy locks spreading throughout the pillow. "Just breathe.. M'here, boy." Arthur said, conjuring up whatever patience he had left for the brat to comfort him, however abysmal he was at it.

Brushing strands of black hair from John's face, Arthur's heart threatened to damn near melt when the gangly boy let out a small whimper when Arthur tried pulling his hand away, grabbing it, and desperately pressing his face against it.

Why did the brat have to be this way?

Why did John have a vice in Arthur's heart? Was it the scared looks, the ones he knew to have donned often with his father growing up; one step away from a beating? Was it something else? Arthur didn't know. But he'd probably never understand, either way.

"How 'bout this, boy," Arthur began softly, picking out a book from a small collection he'd gathered in his satchel. "I'll show ya, readin' ain't so bad. It's just, uh.." Arthur grimaced. "Dutch ain't exactly a person who reads easy books.."

"Why do I gotta learn anyway?" John asked softly, pouting behind the greasy mop he called hair.

"Because it's important. 'Sides, Hosea will have my hide if I don't teach ya at least somethin'.." He replied with a soft chuckle. Opening the book, John looked at it with mild curiosity.

"Now, let's start. Pay attention.."

Chapter Text

July 2nd, 1889

Little Johnny Marston weren't so little now. Today, he was 16. July 2nd. Didn't make the brat any less annoying, at least in Arthur's eyes. While John yes, was taller, had a voice that sounded like broken glass, and even had some facial hair going on -- He still, in Arthur's eyes, was just Little Johnny Marston. And John's behavior did make him seem more little.

Prone to temper tantrums, John was still bratty in a lot of aspects; didn't give a hoot about consequences, and disobeyed Dutch constantly. (Not Hosea, even John had learned to never disobey that man). Susan also had a lot of trouble with the boy, despite him now being a teenager, Pearson had trouble with 'em, too. Baths were still a no-go, the boy-turned-teen still reduced to a blubbering, hysterical mess anytime Susan even gestured towards the washbin, and the idiot usually ended up going to his 'happy place'.

Said happy place being in Arthur's tent. Hosea often cracked a lot of jokes of John being a raccoon due to how much he liked to hide and scamper around, and now Arthur could see why.

Thankfully, a lot of John's more annoying traits and mannerisms went away with his 16th birthday.

His attachment to Arthur did not.

"Arthur!" And of course, speak of the devil. Can't even get a moment to write in his journal. Even better, he also had to cram in a visit to Eliza and Isaac in-between the shenanigans that were the brat's birthday parties. He probably wouldn't be able to see 'em. Boy, he had a lot to explain to that woman when he'd see her next.

"What you want, boy?" Arthur grunted, glancing up from his journal to see John, who was bouncing on the balls of his feet, a stupid grin on his face. "Guess what?" John asked, giggling, Arthur inwardly groaning. Of course, every birthday John had, the same question was asked.

"What?"

"Y'gotta guess!"

"Marston, for the love of-"

"C'mon, guess!"

"John-"

"Please.."

And there goes the pouty face that John always made, the innocent expression that always melted Arthur's heart despite the older outlaw fruitlessly denying it. (Hosea teased him to no end about it, he'd have to find a way to get the old man back). With a dramatic sigh, Arthur closed his journal with a snap, icy blue eyes meeting John's chocolate brown.

"Is it your birthday?" Arthur groaned, hands rubbing his face. He needed to shave later. Then again, John probably wouldn't leave him alone long enough to do so. Little leech. "Yeah!" John cheered, hugging Arthur and nuzzling his face against the older man's chest, a habit that Arthur secretly found adorable. (He would never tell anyone though, obviously). "Y'gonna get me a gift?" John asked excitedly, once again jumping up and down, looking up at Arthur with shining eyes still full of so much innocence despite the many robberies he was now allowed to partake in.

"No, boy," Arthur replied gruffly, dusting off his hat and putting it back on his head. "Y'can afford yer own gifts now, right? 'Sides, Dutch 'an Hosea spoil ya rotten, why you need anythin' from me?" Arthur inquired, raising a brow at the scruffy boy.

Arthur regretted the comment as soon as it left his lips. John's eyes lost their sparkle, eyes brimming with tears, and his bottom lip trembled. Nonetheless, Arthur steeled himself and pushed past the boy, walking across camp to the hitching posts; ready to mount his horse as jealousy brewed within. Why did John need anything from him? The boy was doted upon constantly by Dutch and Hosea despite his behavior, given new guns and even a goddamn horse that one time on his 14th birthday, both things that Arthur never recieved from his two mentors.

"Arthur!" Hosea called, walking over with a mug of coffee in his hand. "Y'aint gonna stay for John's birthday? We got the presents an' everything all lined up!" Arthur fidgeted under Hosea's gaze, feeling torn, and unable to lie to the older man.

"I, uh.." Arthur cleared his throat. "I was jus' gonna go see 'Liza and Isaac. See if they need anythin'.." Arthur mumbled, leaning down and giving his steed a pat.

Hosea opened his mouth to say something else until the sound of pots and pans being thrown caught their attention. John's face was pinched, eyes filled with tears as he was aggressively chopping potatoes to help Pearson cook, the man in question giving John a rather scared look that was almost comical. Hosea turned to Arthur, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Arthur.." Hosea began, tone calm but Arthur felt himself deflate at the disappointment in his father's tone. "What did you do?"

"John, you don't have to help me-" Pearson began from nearby, the former navy man nervous as John continued aggressively cutting potatoes, tossing the knife aside. "I'm fine!" John snarled, voice wavering with unshed tears as he continued chopping.

Oh, Arthur knew Hosea and Dutch were going to have his hide. Alas, he relented, sighing as he got off his horse. Looks like he was staying for John's birthday after all. and it also looked like he was going to get a hell of a lecture from Dutch, seeing as the man walked over with that fiery look in his dark eyes, cigar in hand.

John didn't even want to open his presents. He spent the majority of the birthday party for himself sulking and pouting, not even touching his cake, instead giving it Copper, the coonhound happily scarfing it down. Bessie and Susan, bless them, tried cheering the boy up, but to no avail. "You ain't gon' eat your cake, sweetie?" Bessie cooed gently, cupping John's face, the boy only silently shaking his head in reply, still pouting.

And watching this all happen from his tent, Arthur felt shame bubble in his gut. Of course. He messed up John's birthday, again. And for what? So he could be a selfish asshole like usual?

Dammit, Morgan. Goddamn idiot. Why you gotta ruin it for the boy? He'll only be 16 once! Arthur's thoughts chastised him, and he had to give in, not wanting to deal with the everlasting guilt. Walking over casually with a cigarette in his mouth, Arthur clapped a hand on John's shoulder, the boy's eyes glaring up at him with shine from unshed tears, bottom lip still quivering.

"Hey, Johnny boy," Arthur began gently, reaching into his satchel. "I got somethin' for ya.." As soon as that left Arthur's mouth, John's expression lit up, eyes shining and happy, his sad pout now a goofy grin once more. "Y'do?!" John asked excitedly, jumping up from his chair, cake abandoned as he began bouncing on the balls of his feet in childish impatience. "What is it? Whatisitwhatisit-" John asked rapidly, much to Arthur's, and by extent, everyone else's amusement.

"Calm down, boy, be patient!" Arthur chastised, but that did little to hide the smile on his face. Arthur fished out a brand new leather journal from his satchel, John's eyes wide and incredulous as the older man bent down slightly to hand it to him. "Happy birthday, Johnny boy.." Arthur said softly, ruffling the boy's hair.

Dutch and Hosea shared a knowing look, Susan shaking her head in amusement.

For a moment, John was silent, looking the journal up and down in awe as he fondled it in his hands. Then, a wide smile broke out in his face, and suddenly Arthur was on the ground via tackle-hugging.

"Thank you!" John cried, tears of happiness rolling down the boy's face as he buried his head into Arthur's chest, arms snaked around his older brother's waist like a death grip. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" John's cries turned into sobs, but not from sadness, as Arthur laughed and ruffled the boy's hair, Copper joining in to lick both of them with a goofy expression.

Dutch and Hosea had a look of fond exasperation as their two sons shared a moment together.

Little Johnny Marston may not be so little now, but no matter how old he got, he'd always love his big brother. Birthdays, from now on, were something John cherished even more. 

And Arthur wouldn't have it any other way.

Chapter Text

Hosea had been drowning in whiskey since Bessie's death -- That'd have been no surprise, but it was utterly eerie how quiet the man was about it. Hosea never screamed or cried; damning the world that took his one love away - he simply quietly broke into pieces, neat and tucked away. That's simply who Hosea was. Hosea was not the kind to show emotion if it would detriment others.

And somehow, that thought hurt Arthur more than anything else.

Because he did the exact same thing. Maybe he got too many habits from Hosea, and not the good ones.

Arthur had known grief, or at least, in some way, seen it. Was sure as shit seeing it now with the way Hosea was crumbling in front of everyone's eyes. And the only person who could ever bring him out of the neverending hole the man had dug for himself was buried under the tree she oh so loved to knit and sip tea under; watching the sunrise and the sunset.

"Dutch, we.. well," Arthur had said worriedly to his mentor over the campfire while Hosea was passed out blind drunk in his tent, John and Copper fast asleep beside him, the brat too worried to leave him alone. "We can't just let 'em drown in whiskey, Dutch, we.. we got to do something!" Dutch had a cigar twirled between his fingers, dark eyes flickered between it and his son - While going through more liquor than usual, and going through women even more than that, Dutch remained mostly himself; a pillar of strength, albeit as worried as Arthur was about Hosea. Like a storm, so unlike Hosea's neat and kempt grief, Dutch's emotions, and voice were booming as he only chortled under his breath, eyes twinkling with mirth.

"Because takin' the damn bottle away from 'em is just gonna make 'em more miserable.." Dutch had replied, sighing softly, a moment of vulnerability in the charismatic man, a stubble on his face. "'Sides, son, we need to keep 'em in camp anyway, the damn fool will probably go look for more drink if we run out." Dutch's comment was an attempt at a joke, but they both couldn't find the energy or happiness to laugh at it.

But still, Arthur hoped to god that Dutch was right.

"Y'wanna come fishin' with me, 'Sea?" Were Arthur's offer to a still-drunk Hosea; not even 7 in the morning, and the man was already back in the bottle. Arthur preferred him drunk over sober in these instances, because he'd rather have Hosea numb and drunk than crying and sober. Somehow, forcing Hosea to stay sober sounded worse than letting him drink his life away -- seemed inhumane.

Hosea hummed softly, eyes glassy from both tears and alcohol. "G'way, Arthur.. Just.. later, son.." Came Hosea's reply, taking another rough swig of booze.

What hurt Arthur wasn't Hosea's reply, it was just how tired he sounded. The lines and wrinkles on Hosea's seemed to be more brought out by the alcohol, build gaunt and his limbs now gangly, Hosea looked just as horrible as Bessie did before she- No. Arthur quickly blinked that thought away before the tears could take hold. He needed to be strong. For Hosea. For everyone.

"You uh," Arthur began awkwardly, shifting his stance. He was never one for words. "You sure? 'Cause it's real good weather.." He offered once again, this time softer.

Hosea only gave a drunken grumble in reply, as he dropped the booze and held his head in his hands, beginning to once again cry. And just like that, Arthur's heart was in shambles.

However, he inwardly groaned when a small hand was tugging on his own. Of course, it was John, and he had an excited grin on his face, a ray of all-too-needed sunshine in the metaphorical storm clouds that surrounded the camp nowadays. "Arthur, i got somethin' t'show you!" John said in a 'quiet' voice (Dutch and Hosea had tried teaching the boy how to use his 'inside voice', but John could never speak lower than a shout or a yell. Brat).

Arthur groaned again, but relented, as he followed the gangly boy to their shared tent. Once again, another reminder to Arthur that he was twenty-three and stuck with little Johnny Marston for a roommate. It sure beat having to bunk with Uncle, considering the old man snored like a goddamn foghorn.

"Look, look!" John was gesturing to the little table next to his bedroll - and next to some crudely made coloring pencils and a stick with some flint as a makeshift pencil, was a drawing of Hosea and Bessie. They were in a bright, poorly-colored green field in the drawing, their features barely recognizable, the sun shining all around them. While childlike and quite frankly horrible, Arthur's heart both melted and constricted at the sight of it.

"I-I tried rememberin' how you draw and stuff, a-and I colored inside the lines too!" John stammered nervously, face blushing in embarrassment as his gaze tilted to the floor, greasy hair now hiding his face. "Is it bad?" The boy squeaked out, and goddamn it, Arthur's heart was melting again.

"No, Johnny boy, In fact," Arthur began, a smile growing on his face, kneeling down and taking off his hat, securing it on John's. "I think ya earned this, boy. Go on, show it to 'Sea.." Arthur encouraged the teen, who's eyes practically had stars of happiness in them with Arthur's hat on his head. With newfound happiness and courage, John scampered over to Hosea, who was still slumped over the table in camp, booze loosely in his hand.

Arthur couldn't hear their conversation, but he did see a small, wry smile on Hosea's sobering face as John showed him the drawing, the hyperactive teen pointing out all the details of what he drew like some kind of theater play or attraction. Then, Arthur's day got a whole lot better when Hosea's eyes met his, for once without the grieving, drunken glaze that fogged them over. Hosea was truly back.

"You still up for that fishing trip, Arthur?" Hosea asked, still not quite sober, but a hell of a lot happier than he'd been in a while, an ecstatic John was next to him, excited to join.

"Sure, old man," Arthur chuckled, grabbing his and John's poles from their tent. "You still strong enough to even fish?" He joked as the older man grabbed his pole. Arthur's comment earned him a roll of Hosea's eyes and a booming laugh from Dutch.

Seems things were getting back to normal. Slowly but surely.

All thanks to one Little Johnny Marston.

Chapter Text

Hosea and Arthur had to go on another supply run. Because of course, Uncle had to drink half the gang's stock in alcohol in one goddamn day. (Arthur had seen Susan giving the old man an earful about that. A highlight of his day in his opinion). And of course, they also have to move camp the day before, because their newest gang member, an ex-army cavalryman named Bill Williamson, got overly drunk at a bar in Chicago, and may or may not have caused a fight there.

Arthur would have to make sure to give the bastard a cuff upside the head for that. While Chicago wasn't the best, it was better than where they were moving to. Some place called Alton, a city neighboring Chicago. While not as big and spacious as Chicago, Arthur appreciated a distinct lessening presence of law and a rather enormous abundance of wealthy folk. Which was perfect for Dutch and Hosea to begin their schemes.

"You've been quiet there," Hosea remarked as they rode, the city's lights on the distant horizon. Hosea of course always knew Arthur best. He swore the old man had mind-reading abilities or something. Then again, Hosea was often better with Arthur than Dutch (no offense to Dutch of course) and was often Arthur's go-to when he needed to let his emotions out.

"Yeah, jus'.." Arthur sighed. God, he was terrible with words, which was astounding considering he was raised by two conmen. "Lot on my mind." That remark earned a hum from Hosea, the older man running a hand over his face, looking as exhausted as Arthur was. The time it took to get everything packed and moved was a misery in Arthur's bones. Plus, John wouldn't stop yapping the whole way. Dutch had nearly put a gag on John from how incessant he was being, thankfully Hosea stopped him. Although, inwardly Arthur wished he didn't.

"Don't blame you.." Hosea murmured. They'd been on the run for a while now, but they'd never have to move this fast. "I do have to agree with your earlier sentiments about Bill, though.." The older man added with a hoarse chuckle, Arthur letting out an amused murmur in return. "Yeah. Bastard drinks as much as Uncle, and is surprisingly more stupid." Arthur added dryly, sending them both into roaring laughter as they neared the city.

"Here, how about I uh, go get our supplies," Hosea began as they hitched up their horses near the town's general store, the man stretching his back with a few pops. "And you, my boy, go see what you can drum up in the saloon."

"You too old for connin', old man?" Arthur asked with a mocking raised brow, earning an amused smack upside the head from the older man, who went inside the general store shortly after. Sighing, Arthur turned to the saloon. It was surprisingly upscale, and of course, had the usual when he went inside through the hinging doors. There was a lot of bustling in the saloon due to it being the end of the week, and drunken men, working girls who lifted up their skirts, and uproarious drunken laughter were rife.

However, what Arthur also noticed were two little working girls near a set of stairs by the piano player, trying to lure a not-so-sober man into their line of.. well, Arthur didn't exactly want to call it a line of work, but it was what it was. But they were young. Real young. One of them was shorter than the other, with freckled cheeks and pale skin that bounced beautifully off the walls lighting, and blue eyes that sparkled innocently. The taller girl had more tan skin, dark brown hair in a little bun, more of a.. voluptuous form, and chocolatey brown eyes that had a fire in them.

While Arthur was content to leave them alone, it wasn't until after the girls took the man upstairs did he hear shouting and lots of commotion. Instantly, his mind went on auto-pilot as he dashed upstairs to the vacant room. Kicking the door open roughly after fruitlessly trying to open it, he found the two girls on the floor, each with their set of cuts and bruises with the man standing over them.

"Ey! What're y'doing in here, buddy, I paid!" The drunken man yelled, turning to Arthur with a snarl. "Ain't paid to hit 'em, y'goddamn animal!" Arthur shouted back, smoke practically billowing from his nose. "C'mere!"

Arthur didn't remember what happened after that, but once his mind came back, the man was a bloody, bruised heap on the floor, the two girls looking at him with both fear and awe. Panting and brushing himself off, Arthur turned to them, gently helping both to their feet.

"You two alright?" He asked them, slightly amused at the brown-haired girl, who was crossing her arms with a huff. "We was, 'till he started puttin' his hands where they shouldn't!" She chuffed, sighing. "Are you gonna hurt us too, mister?" The blonde-haired girl asked softly, her innocent, velvety voice making Arthur's heart melt (Goddamn it, why did he have to be such a soft bastard sometimes..) and his chest tighten.

"I, uh," Arthur coughed, adjusting the brim of his hat, awkwardly. Of course, a bumbling idiot once again. "No kiddo, I ain't.. what's your name?" He asked, his heart threatening to damn near explode when the blonde-haired girl shyly reached out and held his hand. "Karen.." She mumbled timidly, golden locks hiding her sparkling eyes. "Karen Jones.. a-and she's Abigail.." The girl, now known as Karen, gestured to the brown-haired girl, whom Arthur now knew as Abigail.

Then, Arthur got an idea. An idea that Hosea and Dutch just might agree with.

"You girls wanna come with me? I got a place that's safe.." Arthur offered both of them, hands open to show he wasn't a threat. The brown-haired girl eyed Arthur up and down, as if assessing and analyzing the man with a raised brow. Arthur shivered slightly. She's got a fire, that girl. Kinda terrifying.. He thought nervously. The Big Bad Arthur Morgan was scared by two little girls. How humiliating.

"Fine! Y'Better not try no funny business though!" Abigail said feistily after a moment, reluctantly taking Arthur's hand, Karen following suit.

Oh, he was going to have a lot to explain to Dutch and Hosea. And judging by the older man's flabbergasted expression of comical surprise when he met up with Arthur outside the general store, he was probably right.

"So you're tellin' me, y'found these two gettin' beat up by their client?" Dutch asked with a booming laugh, clapping Arthur on the back once they were in camp, Hosea having Susan help the girls down from his horse. Arthur scratched the back of his head nervously. "Well, uh.. yeah. Just heard the commotion.."

"Well, ain't you a sweetheart!" Annabelle came up from behind Arthur, the freckle-dappled woman gently cupping Arthur's cheek with a smile so warm it made Arthur's face red. "I bet these two would've just minded their business.." She added with a snort, gesturing to Dutch and Hosea, who both had equally offended expressions, earning a chuckle from Arthur. "Good on you though, son," Dutch added happily. "Especially how young they are. Karen, the blonde one I think, is 9 or 10, and Abigail is 14.."

However, their conversation was interrupted when a disgruntled Susan came over, looking haggard. "Mr. Morgan, can I please, for the love of god have some assistance? Ain't neither of those girls wanted to bathe! Said they wanted you there!" She huffed out, sighing.

Arthur's eyebrows raised. They wanted him. It was like John all over again. But why?! Why always him? He wasn't kind or earnest like Hosea, wasn't good with words like Dutch, wasn't loving and gentle like Annabelle, he wasn't anything. Just some idiot. But yet they still wanted him. Nodding silently, Arthur headed over to where the washbins were, finding Abigail and Karen both sitting together, looking like tiny ducks as their heads barely peeked out of the water.

"A-Arthur!" Karen whimpered, wet hands clutching the older man's shirt with tear-stained cheeks. "That old lady is mean! S-She was yellin' and stuff and I don't like her!" Abigail seemed to share Karen's dislike of Susan, albeit without the tears, as she only looked up at Arthur with shy vulnerability. "Why can't y'just get Hosea to do this or-" Arthur began, confused.

"NO!" Karen blubbered, the little girl clutching Arthur's shirt tighter, gasping sobs escaping her petite frame as the washbin shook with the force of her movements. "Don't leave! I don't feel safe without you!"

Oh god. Arthur's heart was threatening to explode once more from that irresistible look on Karen's face, and the silent pleading on Abigail's. Looks like he wasn't getting out of this one.

After a rather long bathing session, and some inexperienced hair brushing and curling (God, Arthur never knew it took so much time to curl hair), he was finally done tending to the girls. And Abigail seemed to already be getting along with everyone in camp, especially with John, who was currently talking her ear off by the campfire, Uncle with a bemused expression across from them, whiskey in hand. Arthur figured it was best. He needed the brat to be away from him for a while.

Who didn't choose to be away from Arthur was Karen, the little girl shyly sitting in his tent with him while he wrote in his journal. "What's wrong, kiddo?" Arthur asked, eyebrows furrowed with confusion as he saw Karen squeak in surprise at the sound of his voice, her little face meeting his as she flushed with embarrassment, biting her lip as if she had something to say, but wasn't sure how to put it. "Can I sleep with you? I-I don't wanna be alone.."

Arthur smiled, his rough face and hard lines now had a rare softness to them as he bent down to Karen's height, gently ruffling her hair. "Sure, sweetheart." Lifting the little girl up onto his cot, Arthur tucked her in and brushed some hair out of her face, opting to sleep on the floor, as he grabbed the spare bedroll once reserved for John (the brat had his own tent now). And he felt a warmth inside of him as the dying candlelight in his tent gave him a small view of the campfire outside, the gang hooting with laughter at John's antics, Hosea and Dutch singing offkey late into the night.

Perhaps Karen and Abigail would fit right in after all.