#ch. 16

You look away to give him his privacy and grimace something close to sympathy. Whatever it is she’s asking for after all this time, he’ll give it to her - at the very least he’ll go to her.

Poor bastard.

Almost-loves last longer and hurt more than real ones. You ought to know.

He rides off when early morning mist still clings to the lowest parts of the land with dewdrop fingerprints. Abigail watches him go with a pinched look on her face. John watches her watch him with a frown. You pretend not to notice any of it. 

Hosea does the opposite, actually seeking John out. John looks over at you helplessly, and you tip your hat with a faint smile just to watch his eyes widen with betrayal. You listen long enough to hear the beginnings of that wheezing cough you’ve worried over for weeks and a far be it from me interfering in your business before snagging an unmanned rifle and heading off on guard duty. Maybe Hosea will have better luck than you and Dutch and Arthur and Abigail and everyone else knocking some sense into him. 

It’s a pleasant spring day, warm with enough of a cool breeze to keep the worst of the heat and the bugs at bay. You find a spot to stand midway up the path and settle in against the bark of one of the taller maples. Sunlight filters through the canopy of leaves above and leaves everything dappled gold. You breathe in deep and sigh out springtime. Almost summer, now. 

Horseshoe Overlook has been good for the gang. Valentine is just big enough and just used enough to seasonal workers that you pass off fine, even despite Arthur’s determination to fight half the town. Strauss has him collecting debts already, and Dutch has asked that he see about Micah’s predicament over in Strawberry. You can’t say you miss having that one around, but loyalty is loyalty. Dutch would surely ask him to rescue any one of you if the situation were reversed.

In the meantime the girls have been sniffing out leads, and the boys have been robbing just about everyone they come across. For your part, you’ve been scoping out local homesteads and farms looking for anyone who seems to be sitting on decent animals or piles of cash. So far it doesn’t look like you’ll be lucky enough to find both. Guthrie Farms was your destination yesterday, and you think you’ll pay them another visit one of these nights to relieve them of some choice cattle. There’s a buyer up near Three Sisters in the market. 

In the back of your mind the concern about Cornwall and those bonds lingers, but so far it seems he’s been content to live and let live. Hopefully that lasts. You let the thought fade and settle in for a morning of boredom and birdsong. 

—

Your watch is almost up when someone rustles through the brush, approaching at a steady trot. 

“Who goes there?” you call out, and stand a little straighter with your gun. 

“Arthur, you dumbass!”

It’s only just afternoon - somehow you expected he’d be gone for the day at least.

“Such manners,” you mock, but pause once he’s close enough for you to see the look on his face.

He’s been crying, those cornflower eyes even sadder than normal. There’s a resigned stoop to his shoulders. A pinch between his brows. You wonder just what exactly Mary had to say after all this time.

He ducks his head and murmurs a halfhearted sorry.

“S’fine,” you dismiss with as kind a look you can manage. You tilt your head up at him when he lingers, looking like a deer caught out in the open.  

“Do you have a minute to talk, actually?” He can’t quite meet your eyes. 

“‘Course. Let me swap with Karen and I’ll meet you.”

He nods gratefully and rides up to the nearest hitching post while you do just that, a quick handoff with a look that begs her not to ask too many questions. Karen glances over to Arthur, then back to you, about as solemn as she gets. She nods you on your way before making her way into the treeline.

He’s waiting for you on the outskirts of camp, just past the chickens and partially hidden by a copse of half-grown saplings. 

“The hell did that Linton woman do to you?” you ask, hands on your hips. 

Arthur huffs a sarcastic laugh. “More what I did to her. She wanted my help - somethin’ to do with her brother. I told her it’s best we never speak again.”

You puff out a breath. “Damn.”

“Yeah.”

Arthur shifts in place, and you can tell there’s more to it. If he doesn’t know how to say it you doubt you’ll know how to answer, but you guess friends aren’t always for saying the right thing.

“Before I left she gave me back the ring I proposed with. I want, well,” he fumbles, “I been thinkin’ someone ought to do right by Jack and Abigail for a while now. Make sure they’re taken care of, since Marston won’t.”

Of all the things he might’ve said, you can’t decide if you should be more or less shocked that it’s this. Longing looks and stolen dances are one thing, but everyone knows Abigail and John are together, even when they’re not - especially when they’re not. 

“Jesus, is that why you told Mary you won’t see her anymore?”

“No! I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Why are you telling me?” The question is desperate, even to your ears. 

“Dutch an’ Hosea are too close to this, and everyone else is too far off. Guess I was hoping you’d be able to make more sense of it all than me.”

You laugh a terse, bitter laugh. “I ain’t too close? Really? All these years, Arthur, you been like a brother to me, but John— You know this ain’t fair.”

“Most things ain’t.” His eyes are pleading. Sad. Sorry. Damn him. “Just tell me if you think I’m bein’ a fool and I’ll leave it alone.”

And there you have to pause. Because is it really so foolish to want to give Abigail the partner she needs, and Jack the father figure he deserves? The way he looks at them is not lost on you. When he lost that young woman and little boy all those years ago he was inconsolable. In a lot of ways you think he still is, though he hides it everywhere but his eyes. More than anything you want him to be happy. You know that if Abigail will have him, he will be.

But you need John to be happy, too. 

And you feel like the worst person alive, because he isn’t happy with Abigail and he’s not happy without her, either. Mostly he just seems determined to be miserable and make it everyone else’s fault but his own. How the hell are you supposed to help Arthur without hurting John when every choice feels either selfish or spiteful or wrong. The love harbored deep in your bones marks you a traitor.

Because if you were any kind of friend you wouldn't say: “You’re always a fool, Arthur Morgan, but not ‘cause of this.”

But you do.

“Really?” he asks.

“Really.”

He smiles, a little bit of heartbreak and a little bit of hope. 

“After— Well, you know,” he cuts himself off, unable to say their names even after so long. “Feels like it could be a second chance, is all.”

“You believe in those?”

He sighs. “Not really.”

You try to smile, to reassure him, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. He clasps your shoulder in unspoken thanks before leaving you alone on the edge of camp with nothing but your thoughts and a sick feeling in your stomach.

—