Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was something very humble about how utterly uninteresting it was. The breeze that belonged only to Armadillo swept through in full pasture, whispering its succulent goodbyes and hellos teasingly, gone before it could ever be caught. It carried the faint smell of dust and desert wildflowers, a scent that clung to the place like an old, forgotten story. The tall, weathered doors loomed before John, a familiar sight that felt both truthful and gentle—an unfortunate foil of hypocrisy against the otherwise gruff enchantments carved into the wood. They were adorned and worn down by years of lazy care, poor weather, and general negligence, each scar and line a testament to the passage of time. The two facing entryways bore their own stories, their grooves and cracks catching the sun’s last rays. Gaps between the pieces of wood allowed only the smallest gushes of wind to escape, making them creak like they had a secret to tell.

A simple, chaste kiss and a gentle spank on the rear of their newly bought mare was the only sliver of goodbye between the trinity. While generally a bad omen, goodbye was the only thing deemed appropriate. Abigail had warned him to take care of himself, her voice quiet but firm, echoing in the back of his mind. Yet the mere thought of escape, or even struggle, was futile. His fate lay in a pretty trail ahead—a barefaced truth and a destined path, with no ability to stray or be whisked away by fight.

Death was certainly a racking, increasingly dangerous topic in the sea of his thoughts, yet merely a dip at the other side compared to the array of convictions that raved in his mind. The life he’d led, his son, his wife. Dutch, Hosea, Arthur.

Arthur. A heavy, metallic name on the tongue, lingering behind a feeling far too familiar. Something yearning, cruel, and utterly sad. Why thoughts of that man resurfaced, John didn’t know. He was sure he’d become the devil’s laughing stock, and perhaps he’d be spared the mercy of embarrassment when he finally reached those fiery gates.

It’d been decades, and John hadn’t paid him much mind since. That plaguing, itching life he’d led was supposed to be a reflection of the past, now stuck in the forefront of his mind. Like a barrier, tall and unyielding.

“Run, don’t look back.” Those were Arthur’s words on the mountaintop, weren’t they? His voice now rang against John’s ears, loud and empty, clear as day, mighty as the night sky. John wondered if Arthur would look at him with something resembling shame or pity, no matter how fruitfully beside him. Yet there he stood, fresh as paint in his memory, nothing short of the cold, harsh morning sun—or perhaps the clear, pretty, evening star. The details were a blur, everything was. His actions had caught up to him, and he’d deal with the consequences.

So why was he plaguing his thoughts?

Revenge. A fool’s game, that’s what he called it. Back then, back on those god forsaken mountains, when the man’s face was bruised black and blue. A few years later, same situation, with a different man, a different outcome, a different fate.

Suppose the cards weren’t in his favor, then.

When John’s eyes parted; he'd felt many things, bearing cold, confusion, indescribable pain.

But mostly cold.

He found ice nipping away at his skin, the breeze of the treacherous mountain dawning on him. Had the fiery pits of what lay below been replaced with biting, freezing cold? No, it didn’t make a fragment of sense. The scar clawed onto John’s face still stung, as fresh as it did years ago. The indentation sank into his flesh, the wound too vivid for it to be Hell. The blood still trickled down his hollowed cheeks, deepening into shades of mahogany, fiery orange, and something else he couldn’t quite place. Even while he lay with his eyes restlessly closed, the red pooled into the scars carved by such an animal. The hungry, lonely whistle of wind swayed by, causing John’s teeth to chatter. He was almost sure they’d fall out if they continued.

Something so vivid couldn’t possibly be a dream. Something so horribly real couldn’t be his imagination playing tricks on him. Then again, Jack, that foolish, lovable boy, had spoken of the mind replaying memories as its shell sucked in yearning breaths. Jack called it something similar to ‘psychologically beautiful.’ John called it a lie. But the air that hit his skin so harshly couldn’t be his god-awful mind playing itself; there was something about this particular moment. Something about how his voice strained against his throat, and the distant sound of horse hooves growing louder that couldn’t just be imagination. This was life helping him change the cards he was dealt.

A photograph captured by a modern-day camera flashed in the forefront of his mind. Blinding white before shifting into shadows of black and highlights of oak, or something resembling dark brown, with the smallest inkling of a pretty, softened yellow in the far corner. Coffee tables lined beside one another, picturing him at a tilted angle, with playing cards in his untrained hands. The cards looked particularly small compared to the grubby fingers—opposing players and a hardened dealer at the other end, judgmental, harsh, and vindictive, with a lifeless air about him. The dealer watched the game without a hint of emotion, as if he already knew the outcome.

In John’s fingers lay an unfortunate hand, something pitiful and laughable, like the butt of a joke in a cartoon where suffering and pain were the humor. His gaze lingered over the coarse green felt of the table before drifting back to his cards. It was a scrupulous, funny thing.

Joker: nothing changes; everything remains the same. He dies the cruel fate he’d meant to.

Six Of Hearts: he isn’t a stubborn, stupid man. He shows Abigail he cares sooner than he had. Maybe she’ll be generous enough to love him a year or two earlier. Maybe she’d wisen up and leave him sooner.

Six Of Diamonds: he stays devoted to Dutch. Maybe he dies earlier, slow and painful, sparing his family the embarrassment.

Or, perhaps, the lifeless dealer senses his utter demise, calls for another round, and collects the cards like a mean debtor, shuffling them with great creed.

He’d dealt a rather lucky hand. A Royal Flush.

Ace Of Spades: he doesn't live a fool, but rather an honest, diligent man. He doesn't chase after a rush when pride is all he'd need.

King Of Spades: Arthur accepts him quicker, Earns his trust truthfully. If he can't save him, might as well let him die proud.

Queen Of Spades: Abigail, he's patient rather than an idiot, understands she only wants the best for them.

Jack Of Spades: he, at the very least, tries with the boy quicker. If he'll change one thing, he might as well change his boy’s fate.

Ten Of Spades: Dutch doesn't lose Hosea. Doesn’t become a fool as quickly as he did. Maybe, he lives to believe they could fight, If not against nature, then for themselves.

Just as quickly as the memory formed, it was lost. Crumpled and torn, thrown away into a darkened cloud, far and distant, he found himself once again deep into the depths of the terrain. A shy sun not yet risen in the distance of a horizon. Blankets of undisturbed, cotton-white snow continued further into a dusk he couldn’t quite see.

“A fool’s game…” he muttered to himself, the words echoing in the empty, biting air, as if trying to hold onto something solid. Perhaps the words would keep him sane a while longer. Perhaps he’d wake up and realize he was just where he belonged. Down under. “Revenge…” The younger, reckless shell of himself was nothing short of alien. Maybe he was a little thinner back then, or more reckless. Yet, a nagging feeling itched away at him, that those played but a minor role in how foreign he felt.

A 38-year-old man trapped in his 26-year-old self. John didn’t think anything could be more foreign.

Perhaps, he was dead wrong.

Chapter Text

Straightening against the cold walls of misery, John felt his half-frozen bones rattle as if they might crack beneath the strain. The cold seeped through his skin, a brutal reminder of the bitter truth that winter was still lord of the land, despite the occasional teasing warmth of spring. The ice clung to every surface, captured by the swiftness of seasons shifting, as if winter’s arms had refused to let go. No matter the man-made layers upon layers of clothing sealing his limbs together, the hail nipped away at his very core. Snow was a rather vicious predator—never grazing its victims’ bones with fangs, rather with shards. Not once baring its gleaming teeth, rather clawing away with sharpened blades, cold and relentless.

A constant ticking of a clock’s hands rung against his ears, echoing with a precision that felt almost taunting, as if marking every second he was losing to the creeping frost. The gentle hum of the winter wind whistled softly, carrying with it the distant murmur of nature’s desolation. Horses’ hooves clopped rhythmically, their cadence lost somewhere between the crunch of snow and the quiet, manageable hum of men’s voices. If he focused, he could just make out the gruffness of a living man—a man he’d grown to call his brother. Overwhelming, everything was so overwhelming. Rest would do him well. Maybe, John’d shut his eyes for a moment. Yet, deep down, he knew that if he did, he wasn’t all too confident he’d open them once more.

So, for now, John would have to do with overwhelming.

So, for now, he would have to fight against every instinct, every half-dead fiber in his body, to keep his eyes open. To resist the eternal embrace of life’s immortal slumber. No matter how tempting it was to surrender to the cold and let it take him.

He would have to focus. Focus on the sheets of ice trailing the mountains, the ticking of clocks he couldn’t quite place the location of, the muffled voices of his brothers, and the rhythmic, almost hypnotic clatter of horses’ hooves.

Memories started creeping in, slipping past his resolve like a thief in the night. Images, words, sensations—things he’d tried to forget but that always seemed to find their way back to him. He began to remember faces, voices, places. One, in particular, stood out, his own—etched with scars, the harsh lines newly clawed into his skin. They seemed to have been engraved deep into his bone, not just his flesh. The snowflakes chipped past the scar tissue wantingly, making him seethe, hiss with each sway of the winter wind. Granted, within the many years that had passed, those scars had healed into mere bruises, trophies of mistakes he’d made. Back then, he thought they’d fade, but they healed into patches of rough, bumpy skin, different from the rest. And now, they were reminders, not of truth, but of his own stubborn refusal to learn from his past. Oh, how he’d taken that for granted.

The soundscape around him felt like a lifeline. Horses’ hooves clattering, that goddamned ticking clock, voices—one after the other, like a haunting melody. A routine he could cling to, something that kept him tethered to reality just long enough. Had he stayed in his foggy thoughts much longer, John wasn’t quite sure that sanity would have lasted.

Two men’s faces came into view, and he blinked, unsure how long he’d been lost in his own world. How long had he been drowning in the fog of his own mind, caught somewhere between the past and the present? To his left, Javier. The man he’d once seen as a brother, then as a traitor, pitifully ratting out his own blood to spare himself. He looked different now, more polished. His raggedy, tattered clothes were replaced with neat attire, long dark hair tied back into a ponytail. His eyes were sharp as a knife, cutting through the chill with a focus John had once admired. Wrinkles hadn’t yet creased his face, but they were creeping close, inching toward him like the inevitable passage of time.

Beside Javier stood another man—one John could barely recognize. Oh, how strange it was to see him this way. Healthy. Strong. Glassy, feverish eyes replaced with clear, narrowed ones. A disease-riddled body exchanged for a fuller, sturdier frame. Shallow, gasping breaths swapped for steady, deliberate inhalations. The man before him was Arthur Morgan. The same man he’d watched waste away, the man he’d grieved over even before his death. But now, here he was—alive, authentic, breathing. The sight was almost too much to bear, a cruel illusion, a trick of time.

He’d tried, really, to capture Arthur’s likeness in that foolish journal of his. To immortalize him in ink, as if that would keep him alive somehow. But no drawing, no matter how detailed, could ever do him justice. There was something about Arthur that ink just couldn’t capture—the profound, deep-set eyes, the strong jaw, the way his cheeks had once been hollow but now had life in them. His hair could never be quite right, sometimes depicted as straw, other times a wild mane. Every attempt to replicate him had fallen short, a pathetic failure. Each portrait, every stroke of his pen, was just another reminder that some things couldn’t be preserved. They had to be lived.

John thought he felt something other than blood pooling in his eyes, something warmer, something much less respectable and cold. Tears. The salted sea rested dangerously on his lashes, daring to fall and rob him of any last shred of pride. Arthur must have noticed. Maybe it was the way John was staring, or maybe it was just the pitiful expression etched into his face. Before John could process much of what was happening, he found himself clinging to the man’s back, desperate for something solid, something real. He could’ve sworn Arthur said something, but in his current state, it was hard to catch any of it.

Inside each fleeting memory, Arthur’s voice shifted, changing like the deep blue sea. Once warm, twice cold, a multitude of times disappointed. There was nothing left but to follow along in sheer shock. How long had passed since he’d heard that voice again? How many tricks had time played since then? There was so much John needed to say, so much he wanted to say, but the words seemed to get away from him, slipping through his grasp like the snowflakes falling around them.

“It’s not wise to mess with fate,” someone had once told him. Maybe it had been Arthur, maybe it had been someone else. But the phrase stuck. Every moment was nothing but fate, every shift of a leaf, every flap of a butterfly’s wings. And before you knew it, you’d already placed the wrong card down, already lost the game. For now, just this once, he’d play it safe. He’d focus on those decade-old memories, and not be foolish enough to try and bend the flow of life’s stream.

Javier’s arms felt solid around him, anchoring him as the world swayed and shifted. Time seemed to move quicker than he remembered, slipping through his fingers as he was hoisted onto Javier’s horse. He was stuck in that fog, reminiscing about things he’d tried so hard to forget. Grunting, every movement was a harsh reminder of reality, a reminder that change wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped.

Right. Now, what was next? First, he’d been hitched onto Javier’s horse. Then, there’d be wolves—impudent, feral wolves. Or, more accurately, Arthur would fend them off while John tried not to lose consciousness.

Every bump, every crackle of sheeted snow was a conflicting sight. Everything felt much too real and yet like a dream. Something blurred John’s vision—something golden, red. Horses’ hooves clashed against the sheets of ice. Was he this aware the first time he’d experienced this?

“Morgan…” John began, not quite certain where the statement was going. “I thought… hell was supposed to be hot. So why’s it so goddamn cold?”

Arthur didn’t reply for a moment, and John wondered if he’d imagined saying it at all. Finally, Arthur sighed, his breath fogging in the cold air, riding beside Javier as they made their way back.

“Now, what the hell you goin’ on about, Marston?”

“Cold must’ve frozen what’s left of his brain—he’s delirious,” Javier quipped, defending the man with a touch of irony. A hypocritical gesture, but a familiar one.

“Ignore him, we got company!” Arthur’s voice shifted, a sharp edge cutting through the chill. He cocked back the gun’s hammer, pressing the trigger rapidly with a practiced ease, a lifetime’s worth of skill guiding his hands. They rode past the wolves, Arthur dispatching the ones that dared too close with precision.

John wasn’t sure how much time passed after that. He could’ve sworn he’d closed his eyes for less than a moment, but when he opened them, they were back at the depressing campsite. Folks looked thinner than he remembered, their eyes hollow and desperate, hungry enough to feed off their own bones by now.

“Come on! Someone help John off this horse!”

John grumbled as he was helped down, clinging to his leg, feeling the blood pooling around the frozen wound. Every nerve felt ablaze, like fire snaking its way up his leg, biting into his flesh and tearing at his resolve. The pain was intense, but it kept him conscious, a twisted blessing that forced him to stay tethered to the present. Arthur and Javier’s hands guided him, firm and unyielding, and he felt himself being half-dragged, half-carried through the camp.

Somewhere nearby, Bill was cursing under his breath, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. Pearson glanced up from his makeshift kitchen, wiping his hands on a rag, his expression a blend of surprise and concern.

“Damn, Marston. Thought we’d lost you for good this time,” he muttered, but there was a hint of relief beneath his gruff tone, as if he was genuinely glad to see the man still breathing.

John’s head lolled, his vision blurry, but he managed a crooked, lopsided smile. “Not that easy to get rid of me, Pearson,” he slurred, his voice barely above a whisper. “You still owe me a drink.”

Pearson chuckled, shaking his head. “Damn fool,” he said softly, though there was a warmth there, a fondness that hadn’t been entirely snuffed out by the harshness of their lives. “Get him inside. Let’s see if we can patch him up.”

“Inside” wasn’t much—a small, cramped tent with barely enough room to breathe, let alone rest comfortably. But it was shelter, and for now, that was enough. Javier and Arthur guided him to a cot, easing him down gently, as if afraid he’d shatter into pieces. The tent smelled like damp canvas and old tobacco, with a hint of something sharp and metallic underneath. Blood. His own blood, mixing with the scent of the earth.

As they propped him up, John’s gaze flitted to the faces around him. Javier’s was stern, his brow furrowed in concentration as he knelt by John’s side, inspecting the wound with the detached, clinical air of a man who’d seen far too many of them. Arthur’s face was harder to read—there was something there, beneath the surface, but it was buried deep, hidden behind a mask of stoic calm.

John wanted to say something, to thank them, or perhaps apologize. But the words felt heavy on his tongue, too thick to form. He could only watch as Arthur leaned over, pressing a cloth to the wound, his hands steady and sure, as if he’d done this a thousand times before.

“This ain’t good, Marston,” Arthur said, his voice low, almost gentle. “Bullet’s still in there. Gonna have to dig it out.”

John grimaced, trying to muster some semblance of humor. “Well, hell, Morgan. Always said you were good at takin’ things apart.”

Arthur’s lips twitched, just the barest hint of a smile, but his eyes remained solemn. “Try to stay still, alright? Gonna hurt like hell.”

John barely had time to nod before Arthur set to work, and the pain hit him like a freight train. It was sharp and searing, a white-hot agony that spread through his leg and up his spine, threatening to swallow him whole. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, hard enough to draw blood, trying to keep from screaming.

The minutes stretched into what felt like hours, each second a battle to stay conscious, to keep from slipping into the dark. He could hear voices around him, murmurings that drifted in and out of focus, like whispers carried on the wind. Arthur’s voice was there, steady and reassuring, a lifeline he clung to even as everything else blurred and faded.

John’s vision swam, and he could barely make out the shape of Arthur’s face, but he focused on the sound of his voice, the calm, familiar cadence. It grounded him, kept him from drifting too far into the abyss.

When it was finally over, he felt like he’d been wrung out, every last ounce of strength drained from his body. Arthur’s hands were slick with blood, but the bullet was out, a small, ugly piece of metal held between his fingers. He dropped it into a tin with a soft, metallic clink, wiping his hands on a rag as he glanced down at John.

“Rest,” A man said quietly, John assumed it was Arthur, although he couldn’t tell. For once,  however, it didn’t sound like a suggestion. “You need it.”

John wanted to argue, to protest that there was still work to be done, but he didn’t have the energy. His eyelids felt heavy, and despite the lingering pain, the exhaustion was overwhelming, pulling him down like a lead weight.

“Hey,” Arthur’s voice cut through the haze, and John forced his eyes open, just a crack. “Don’t go diein’ on us yet, you ain’t half-bad.”

It was something simple, but there was something in the way Arthur said it, something that made John believe it, if only for a moment. He let out a shaky breath, his lips curling into a faint, tired smile.

“Yeah,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a rasp. “Guess I’m stuck with you a little while longer, huh?”

Arthur chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Reckon so, Marston. Reckon so.”

As John’s eyes finally slid shut, he felt a strange sense of peace, like he was floating, drifting on the edge of sleep. He could still hear the voices, distant now, fading into the background. The cold was still there, biting at his skin, but it didn’t seem to matter as much. Not anymore.

He’d made it through one more day. Maybe, just maybe, he’d make it through the next.

Chapter Text

Awoken with a jolt, sharp and electric venom threaded through John’s veins like lighting . One moment, restless, fractured sleep. The next, a sudden, unforgiving clarity—his eyes cracked open, lashes fluttering against the muted glow of morning. The sun, half-hearted, peered through a reluctant window, casting pale light onto the splintered floorboards.

His hand moved on instinct. Fingers brushed over the wound carved into his skull, a miserable, impotent mark now etched into his biology.

Metallic red clung to his finger,

The sickly tang of blood.

Right. Still here.

Still in this hellish fever dream.

God, how is it still so damn cold?

It was a marvel he’d survived the first time around. But now, here he was again—knocking on Death’s door, waiting for an answer that never came. Colter was still the same half-rotten corpse of a town, a forgotten splinter of the world hanging on despite the cold. A wonder the place still stood at all.

The first time round, he hadn’t been in any state to observe. He’d been too busy dying. But now, with the fever fog lifting, the details stood out—splintered bark, creaking floorboards, dim, buzzing lights that barely held on. A hundred little things that made up the ragged corners of this place. And yet, no stitches. No answers.

Maybe it wasn’t all that bad. Sure, his skin felt like it was suffocating him just for existing, hands clammy with sweat. He’d somehow reached that hypocritical state where his body couldn’t decide if it was freezing or burning, shivering against the winter air while heat pooled under the layers of fabric draped over him. Just a few blinks away from melting into the cot and becoming part of it.

Yet.

Somewhere outside, a bird let out a sharp, singular call, breaking the silence. Something about it grounded him. Reminded him that no matter how surreal this all felt, the world was still moving. The cold shouldn’t distract him from the opportunity thrown into his lap—no matter how strange.

…But goddamn, the air’s fuzzy down here.

John stayed there a few minutes more, the cold creeping in through every gap in the walls, threading itself into his bones. The cot beneath him was a joke—offering no real warmth, no real comfort. And yet, that wasn’t what unsettled him. It was something else, something heavier than the cold, hanging thick as fog. A dread, a knowing.

Dutch and his damned plans. Even thinking about it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

The weight of it all pressed down on him—the knowledge that he was stuck in this twisted dance through time and fate, that he had to do something. He couldn’t sit back and let history repeat itself. He couldn’t.

But where the hell was he supposed to start?

With a rough sigh, John forced himself upright, every muscle screaming in protest after days of stillness. He groaned through clenched teeth, rolling his shoulders, willing the stiffness away.

He had to do something. He had to stop this before it began.

But how the hell do you talk a man like Dutch out of his reckless ambitions? How do you change the course of things without revealing the truth? Without sounding like a lunatic?

Hell, maybe he was a lunatic.

This whole thing was madness.

Leaning back against the cot, John glanced around, brow furrowing. The room was empty. No Abigail. No women. No Reverend slumped in his usual chair. The ragtag band of misery that usually haunted this place was nowhere to be seen.

Strange.

Hadn’t the place been full the first time?

It’s awfully quiet. The kind of quiet that reminded him of his ranch.

John barely noticed the sound of light footsteps approaching the cot, lost in the tangles of his thoughts. Any noise beyond his own had blurred into a distant hum, filtered out as background nonsense. It wasn’t until Dutch’s looming frame filled the doorway that John snapped back to reality, his breath hitching at the sight of the man who held all their fates in his hands.

Grip like iron. Voice like honey.

“Morning, John.” Dutch’s greeting was smooth, confident—too confident. That same effortless charm that belied the chaos always smoldering just beneath. “I trust you’re feeling better, my boy?”

The door swung shut with a slow, deliberate creak. The walls seemed to close in.

John felt cornered. Trapped.

Strange, to feel like prey in the presence of the man who had once saved him from predators.

Dutch was nothing if not confident—nothing if not ambition, leadership, and charm wrapped in a fine maroon vest. A man whose name could strike fear into foes and inspire devotion in friends.

John wondered if that was all it had ever been. A carefully crafted illusion. A facade.

Had Dutch always aimed for fear rather than loyalty?

John pushed those thoughts aside, masking the turmoil gnawing at his insides with a neutral expression, one carefully constructed, slightly pained. “Relatively so,” he rasped, voice rough but even.

Dutch’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of calculation dancing behind them. He could smell uncertainty, could feel it ripple through the air. But instead of pressing further, his gaze drifted toward the window, toward the distant horizon. A glint of something sharp sparked in his expression.

“I’ve been doing some thinking, John,” he murmured, low and conspiratorial.

John’s stomach twisted. Christ. When does that ever end well?

Dutch clasped his hands behind his back, that preacher’s cadence slipping into his tone. “And I believe it’s time we took matters into our own hands. Folks starving in front of me is somethin’ I simply choose not to ignore.”

John barely suppressed a flinch. Right. That was how he did it. That was how Dutch wrapped men around his finger—making them feel like to stand against him was to stand against the very idea of goodness itself.

“Leviticus Cornwall has grown fat off the backs of hardworking folk for far too long,” Dutch continued, his voice like a slow-moving current, pulling John under, deeper and deeper. “It’s time he learned the art of sharing.”

John’s heart sank at the name.

Cornwall.

Memories surfaced unbidden, thick as tar. He knew what Dutch was suggesting, knew exactly how this would spiral. He could see it—each step, each bullet, each consequence.

And yet, when he met Dutch’s gaze, unwavering and certain, John knew there was no turning back.

Whatever lay ahead, he’d see it through to the bitter end.

Act I: the ace ♤

Dutch ain’t sick yet, John.

Remember that.

His throat dried, tight as a noose. He swallowed against it. “I ain’t all too sure, Dutch. What’d Hosea say?”

Test the waters, John. Don’t throw your deck down just yet.

Dutch’s expression shifted, a glint of something unreadable passing through his eyes. A squint, questioning. Interrogative. And yet—knowing. Like he could see every shift in John’s posture, every minute hesitation.

“We need money, John.” Dutch’s voice was firm, patient, like a schoolteacher humoring a slow student. “And if Hosea and I don’t see eye to eye on that? Then I suppose I must take matters into my own hands.”

John clenched his jaw. The words echoed in his skull like a fragmented prayer, hammering home the sheer weight of it all. He knew what Dutch was saying. Knew what this meant.

And yet—

As he glanced around the room, taking in the state of things—the empty chairs, the half-rotten walls, the exhaustion clinging to every ragged blanket—he couldn’t ignore the gnawing sense of desperation clawing at his ribs. They were running out of options. Running out of time.

John sighed, heavy and resigned. “I hear you, Dutch,” he said slowly.

“But I fear I must insist.”

Damn it, John. You utter fool.

Dutch’s stare cut through him, sharp as a blade. Cold. Colder than those wolves had been.

They didn’t compare.

A slow, dragged-out breath left Dutch, mist curling in the frigid air. His eyes narrowed, the glint in them shifting from inquisitive to something dangerous.

“Insist, dear boy?”

Damn it to hell. Ain’t no one ever taught you to shut your trap?

The warmth in the room drained, smothered by something thick and heavy. John felt it settle over him, unwelcome and suffocating. He struggled to find the right words, to claw his way out of the pit he’d just dug himself into.

No use persuading Dutch. He was determined. Hard-headed. No—more than that. Narcissistic. Overzealous.

John exhaled slowly, choosing his next words with caution. “…I’m just sayin’, Dutch. Other trains to be robbed, different bonds to be sold.” His voice was measured, calm. Not too challenging. Just enough to shift the conversation.

He had to play his part. He was his pea-brained, younger self, wasn’t he? Best start acting like it.

“Somethin’ about this train don’t feel right. Ain’t worth it.”

The excuse was weak, rushed. But it was the best he had.

Silence stretched between them, taut and brittle. Cold seeped in, sharper than before, biting at his skin.

Dutch didn’t respond at first. Just stared.

A glare so sharp, so utterly cutting, John swore he could feel it carve into him like a blade.

Like a wolf sizing up a meal.

Weighing.

Deciding.

And then, at last, Dutch spoke.

“We need money, John.” His voice was slow, even. Deceptively patient. “I don’t know what’s gotten into that thick head of yours, but we need it bad.”

Don’t we always?

Why John went through such lengths, why he’d been convicted with a stubborn mind and a fools heart; he hadn’t known. He’d always found himself guilty of theatrics and other forms of scrutiny. He’d suppose this time weren’t any different. 

The years passed, indifferent to circumstance. Time shifted, power tilted—nothing stayed still long enough to hold. The world had changed. Corrupted, twisted in all its lovely little ways. John had been lucky enough to watch it unfold with a string of creek jealousy. A spectator to slow, creeping ruin. But he was no Nile. No gentle current, swaying in tune with the world’s rhythm. He was a stagnant thing. Watching. Waiting. He could not stop a wolf’s teeth from sinking into a rabbit’s throat. Could not keep the blood from staining the snow. But he could witness it. Maybe that was worse.

There was a time when things were different. Simpler. A time when the future’s uncertainty wasn’t something to fear—when it was exhilarating. Back then, they wanted the unpredictable. They thrived on it. Back when John still believed in the promise of a new beginning, as if he’d ever really had one to begin with. Back when laughter and singing and the clink of cheap beer bottles drowned out the sound of gunfire. Back when Dutch could still lead them.

Perhaps, he still could.

Perhaps, he could still be helped.

John remembers a time when he looked up to Dutch gleefully. Back then— when his throat was still sore from the promise of a knotted rope, his hair wet and mangled, tangled and untamed. His clothes even more so, short and weighing no more than seventy pounds. Dutch made a promise to them back then. Looking back, it was probably from one of those books of his. Something about Man being restricted by his mind, by scripture, only truly free  when he had no restraints… being everything and much more.

John wonders if Dutch remembers that.

It was just a conversation, he’d reminded himself lazily. Just that. An exchange of words— ideas, plans. Not to be thought of so heavily, not to be speculated upon in such high regard, never-mind it’s potential weight on his shoulders, on the future. 

It’s just that. A conversation.

Maybe if he repeats those words in his head enough, he’ll believe it.

Dutch’s eyes locked onto his. That same, unreadable stare. Pupils blown slightly out of proportion, gaze glassy, hard—like shotgun metal catching the light.

His eyes had been brown once. Warm. Now they were something else. Dark, small, gleaming like polished onyx. Anger? Resentment? Something simmered beneath them, something too muddled to name. Too dangerous to ignore.

John had seen this look before.

He’d seen it on the mountain.

And now, he saw it again.

The man ahead of him—this… Dutch—was a sworn opposite of the one John had seen on that mountain. This one looked alive. Healthy. Pomade still clung to his hair, edges curling where it hadn’t set. Lines of age perched on his face, prominent, but not unkind. There was something in his eyes, something that almost—almost—looked promising.

And yet, John had to look away.

Whatever haze had settled over him, whatever ghost he’d been staring at—it was gone now. He glanced down, fixing his gaze on the creaky, sodden floorboards, tracing each warped line of wood, each mark of time carved into dark bronze. A whistle of wind slipped through the gaps in the walls. Cold air curled against his skin. He clenched the layered blankets between his fingers, gripping them like they might anchor him.

A voice cut through the stillness.

“John?”

Dutch’s voice—low, uncertain. Woven with something that felt just a little unlike him. Concern, maybe. Worry. His brows furrowed, his eyes narrowed slightly in something close to affliction. The sharpness in his features had softened, edges dulled by time and trouble. Brown as fresh soil, John thought distantly, studying the color. A richer shade than before. In the light, amber peeked through, fractured in places, worn in others. Something whole and broken and—

He cut the thought off.

The room pressed in. The air turned thick, like vines creeping up a ruined wall. Shadows pooled at the edges of his vision, unmoving. Inescapable. A lump built in his throat, rough against the back of his tongue, pressing against the words he wanted to say. Wanted, but didn’t.

Instead, silence stretched between them.

Then, without thinking—without meaning to—John spoke.

“Do what… seems right, Dutch.”

The words came suddenly, splitting through the stillness like a blade through fabric. But as soon as they left him, he turned away, avoiding Dutch’s stare. Some other thought had tried to slip out with it, something heavier, but John held it back. Swallowed it down. Kept it locked in his chest, where it could sit in silence.

Dutch moved. The floorboards creaked beneath him. Slow, hesitant steps toward the door. The sound of heavy wool shifting, of boots scraping against wood, filled the small space between them. John didn’t look up.

Dutch’s hand hesitated at the doorframe. Fingers ringed and scarred, lingering on the knob. He didn’t turn back, didn’t speak. But there was hesitation in his stance. A crease between his brows. His eyes stayed on the floor, unreadable.

A sigh, quiet, slipped through the weight of their silence.

“Just feels like you’re leading us down a path we can’t escape no more.” 

John’s voice was quieter this time, hoarse. “A slippery slope with no… out.”

Dutch stood there. A moment passed.

Dutch left.