#splat-dragon

Hosea had known he wouldn’t live to see the end of it all.

 He’d tried to get them all out - he had. Had sat with Abigail, sat with John. Tried to convince them to leave, to get out, before Jack was old enough to start following in their footsteps, before he could become a thief, an outlaw, a murderer like they all were becoming. Had tried to talk Arthur into leaving but he was too damn loyal and that was his fault, wasn’t it? He’d impressed loyalty into the boy from the moment they’d picked him up out of the dirt, he couldn’t blame Dutch for it all, the man held a lot of fault but Hosea did, too.

 Javier, Bill. They weren’t monsters, they weren’t innocents but even he could see some good in them - Javier, who’d only wanted to do good from the beginning, a revolutionary in Mexico who wanted to keep his family safe now, but Dutch had saved him, had picked him up out of the dirt too, had put food in his stomach and a gun in his hand and he’d looked so unsettled that Hosea had known he was a lost cause, Bill had called him a crazy old man and the women were thinking of it but they were scared, what kind of jobs could they take if they left?

 He’d known he wouldn’t live to see the end of the gang. He was getting old and you don’t live to be old in their line of work, some did but only if they retired and hid away, and even then you still end up dead, shot by a bounty hunter or some upstart, Arthur had come to him all fussed up, talking about Flaco Hernández and Emmet Granger and Billy Midnight and Black Belle, all great gunslingers in their day, all but one he’d shot dead - and it hadn’t surprised Hosea that Black Belle had been the one survivor, he and Susan had known her in her heyday and she was a survivor.

 And he wasn’t anywhere near retirement. He could see that things were crumbling - Dutch was buckling, collapsing under the weight on his shoulders, the cloud behind his eyes growing dark and stormy. Their world was closing in on them, the Pinkertons always one step ahead of them, every con going wrong and there was a rat, he could tell you that and he could tell you who but Dutch wasn’t listening to him anymore, so all he could do was try to get them all out as the rat gnawed at their very foundation.

But then he’d been shot down in the street, looking Dutch in the eye as he died, and then all he could do was watch.

 Watch as Javier was tortured in Guarma, as he became even more enamored by Dutch though Arthur had saved him just as much, as Micah led the Pinkertons (and he’d been right, damn it all) back to Lakay, as Arthur was diagnosed, could only try to run his fingers through his boy’s hair as he fought for breath only for them to go through, could only watch as Dutch s l i p p e d, could only praise his boy as he got them out, helped the women and Pearson and Trelawney escape, as he tried to do good though he’d always been the best of them all.

 Could only pray that Dutch would keep his word as they found the bonds and the storms cleared from his eyes; could only watch as Dutch became unredeemable, screaming and begging ‘Help our boy Dutch!’ as he walked away and the boy died to save theirs, could only scream and beg ‘Help our boy Dutch!’ again as he left John to die though John never did join Hosea, the man kneeling at his side and praising him every time he made an attempt to his feet, coaxing him and promising ‘You can do it son, you can do it,’ until finally he was on his feet and Hosea was slowly, slowly following him back to camp.

Susan joined him, apologizing: she’d failed, she’d failed, she hadn’t saved their boys but it wasn't her fault it was Micah’s and Dutch’s, she faded away and it was just him again. Dutch had a gun pointed at Arthur and Micah - and he was horrified, they’d never hit their boys, never laid a hand on them and here Dutch was aiming a gun at him but he hoped, hoped Dutch would see through Micah finally, but “WHO AMONGST YOU IS WITH ME AND WHO, IS BETRAYING ME?” 

 and ‘Please Dutch, those are our boys!’ as his guns turned on Arthur and John, and John wasn’t even armed, they always gave someone a fighting chance and John was wounded and unarmed and then poor Javier was so confused, even aimed his gun at the sky, his family was falling apart and though he’d been so cruel he can’t hate him as he never did turn his gun on his boys.

 Never had he been glad to see the Pinkertons, but as they interrupted the stand down he could kiss the very dirt they stood on.

Arthur’s dying.

 Their baby boy is dying.

 He’d always thought Arthur would be one of the ones who made it - who started a new life, even took a wife and had kids, have the ranch they always dreamed of, work with horses like he always loved to do.

 But his boy is dying, and Dutch is just staring.

 They never hurt their boys, but Dutch had stepped on his fingers.

 Hosea had heard them break.

 He knows that breathing - that rattling, gasping, gurgling that always precludes death.

 And his baby boy is making it.

 “N...no…” 

 He’s never found himself without words before, but he can’t breathe and his boy can’t breathe either - he doesn’t even need to breathe but his chest feels tight and he needs to say something, to get Dutch’s attention because what is he doing, their baby boy is dying, they’d raised him and promised to never let him get hurt again and Arthur is dying.

 “I…”

  I can’t watch this.

  I can’t do this.

  I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.

  I’m so sorry I didn’t stop this.

  I’m so sorry I can’t do anything.

 Arthur’s begging Dutch, trying to out Micah who’s right there with his final words and he can’t breathe he should be saving his breath because maybe, maybe someone will come back for him and if he saves his strength he can hold on ‘til then, and Dutch is just staring,

 and Hosea’s reaching for Arthur though he knows there’s nothing he can do, can’t pick him up and hold him close, can’t doctor his wounds or comfort him, can’t even let him know he’s here, “Arthur, I…”

  I’m here.

  I know.

  I believe you.

  I’ve always believed you.

 Dutch takes a step back, a quiet, “I…” and Hosea snaps to him, meets his gaze and how could Dutch leave their boy on the ground? Leave him to Micah’s mercies? Micah is still standing there, huffing and panting for breath but still stronger than Arthur, still on his feet,

 “Dutch!” the sound startles even him, tearing from his throat in a way that would hurt if he could feel pain, shrill and panicked, “Help him!” but Dutch doesn’t respond, takes another step back, and Dutch has always been queasy, has always been the one to take watch-duty while the boys were sick because seeing people sick made him sick, but this is something wholly different, the clouds are gone from his eyes, Hosea can see that he’s seeing for the first time in a while but he’s not acting and

 “You…” he hadn’t known he could cry, in all this time he’s never cried but tears that dissolve before they hit the ground are trickling down his face, “You better help our boy!”

 but Dutch, of course, can’t hear him, and as Dutch staggers away he wonders if, even if he could hear him, he would help Arthur.

  “Dutch!” his feet move without him willing them, planting him between Arthur and Micah though the latter is screaming his rage and Arthur is laughing, a horrible rattling sound, but Dutch staggers over the hill and away and maybe it’s Hosea’s desperate, wishful thinking, or his own tears clouding his eyes though even when he blinks he sees, but he thinks there are tears in Dutch’s eyes but damn him he doesn’t get to cry when he’s abandoning their boy to die alone.

 And he’s never seen a sight so awful as Arthur, gasping and fighting for breath, dragging himself to the cliff’s edge so he can watch the sunrise and he remembers, clear as day, Arthur laughing what feels like a lifetime ago but is only a few months, if that, when they’d been talking about how they’d wanted to be buried - and hadn’t they been buried as they wanted? He’d been buried with Lenny, he’d heard Sadie say,

  “When I go, I hope they cover my grave with roses.”

  “When I die, I just want to be buried with friends,”

  “Me too. With friends, or with family. I don’t think it matters more than that.”

  “What about you, Arthur?”

  “Me? Aaah, I don’t care about that nonsense.”

  “Come on!”

  “Face me to the west, so I can watch the settin’ sun, remember all the fine times we had that way.”

  “See Tilly! I told ya Arthur had a soul!” 

 and he sits with Arthur as he passes, wishing nothing more that Arthur could know he was there, that he wasn’t alone, trying to run his fingers through his hair only for them to fall through, his tears dissolving before they land on Arthur or darken the ground.

It was one of those days.

Those days where the sun itself seemed out to get you, shining straight overhead no matter how hard and how fast you rode your horse. The ground baked, cracking beneath poor Boadicea’s hooves. The mare’s sides heaved, bay coat gleaming with sweat, shoulders flecked with white spittle.

Arthur was slumped low over the mare’s lowered neck, shoulders curled and chin tucked against his chest, hat pulled low on his head to cast as much shade on himself as he could. Only fools would be out in such horrible heat, and so he allowed Boadicea to have her head, the mare knowing the way back to camp. His shotgun was slung over his lap, in case of the off-chance that there were some particularly stupid O'Driscolls or Bounty Hunters about.

A young buck was strapped down across Boadicea’s flanks, blood from the wound that put it down mixing with the mare’s sweat. The buck, too, was covered in sweat, having worked up a good lather in a rather short chase. Its pelt wasn’t in the best condition - it wasn’t mangy or anything, but it wasn’t golden and gleaming like he wanted. It was a completely average animal, but it would feed and clothe them.

A clod of dirt crumpled beneath the mare’s hoof, and she shied with a disgruntled snort. Arthur stretched forward to pat her neck, a soothing murmur rumbling in his chest. The mare’s flesh twitched beneath his hands, but she settled, twitching her ears at the sound of his familiar voice. With a squeeze of his thighs, the mare began to move again, striding forward reluctantly. As the outlaw straightened up, he unlatched a canteen from its place on her saddle, swishing it around. The water inside slashed hollowly and, he began to drink, tasted of metal. But his mouth was as dry as the soil beneath the horse’s hooves, and so any water was welcome.

Lowering the empty canteen, he swallowed and closed his mouth, hissing as his jaw protested the movement. The man reached up to massage the flesh, already able to feel a bruise beginning to bloom. He would be the first to admit that he deserved the blow - he owed Javier an apology. Several apologies, if he was being honest. Owed everyone in the camp an apology.

He had been out of sorts for over a week, to tell the truth. Had sent Jack crying to Abigail when he wouldn’t wear the flower crown the child had made (he had a chocolate bar in his pocket for the boy, though it had probably melted). Had told Pearson what he thought of his cooking - what everyone thought of it, though they were kind enough to hold their tongues. But last night Javier had been playing his guitar and singing while Arthur had been reading through one of his old journals. Perhaps he would have held his temper any other night, had he been reading any other journal. But it had been a year to the day that John had left, and he had found the journal he had had when John joined up. He had been reading through it when Javier began to sing, and the distraction had thrown him into an uncharacteristic rage.

The man didn’t remember most of the things he had said. It was as though he had been possessed, had watched himself loom over Javier, screaming so loud the untethered horses had had to be rounded up. He remembered, though, telling Javier that no one wanted to hear him sing - that he had a horrible voice. That his guitar was horribly out of tune and made his ears bleed.

Arthur groaned, rubbing his face.

He had continued on along that vein until Charles, no longer able to stand the look on Javier’s face, had walked up, grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around and decked him. His eyes had rolled, and everything had gone blurry until he had been dropped at Dutch’s feet.

And Dutch had been so disappointed. He would have preferred anything to Dutch being disappointed. He’d rather Dutch hit him, strike him, shoot him, yell at him. There was nothing worse than having Dutch say “I’m disappointed in you, Arthur.” The man had sent him away from the camp, telling him not to come back until he had cooled his head and had something to show for his time - whether that was an animal to butcher or money from a robbery, it didn’t matter. It had been rather cool last night, and he knew that, if it had been half as hot as it was come the morning, Dutch would have never sent him out to suffer.

“I miss him, too.” the man had said, patting his shoulder, a knowing look in his eye. All the fight had left Arthur, leaving him full of shame as he slunk out of Dutch’s tent, heading out to tack up his mare. Everyone gave him a wide berth, having seen the earlier confrontation.

Boadicea came to a stand-still, and Arthur was drawn from his thoughts, raising his head. The air was a margin cooler, he realized, and he found himself in the shaded pathway that led to their camp. Something curdled, low and uneasy, in his stomach - someone should have met him long before he made it to this point. Had something happened while he was gone? But - no, the other horses were grazing in their places, even those that were untethered. If anything had happened, the horses would have scattered.

Oh, if whoever had been assigned watch had lazed off, Dutch would be furious. And so would he, he would not stand by and allow someone to potentially be hurt because their guard decided to take a break.

The man slid down from Boadicea’s saddle with a groan, stretching and feeling his bones pop. His pants were soaked with horse-sweat, and clung to his skin - he reached down to peel them loose. Patting the mare’s side, he undid the ropes that held the buck in place, slinging it to the ground, taking the time to remove the mare’s tack. He didn’t intend on leaving the camp for the rest of the day, already dreaming of the bath he wanted to draw, needing to get the coarse horse hair off of his skin - it itched!

Arthur took a moment to scratch that hard-to-reach spot behind Boadicea’s ear, the mare shaking herself as she lowered her head to graze, grateful to have been relieved of all the extra weight. He murmured his thanks, intending on coming back to groom her later, get all the caked-in filth out. But for now, he stooped down to sling the buck over his shoulder, making his way into camp.

Pearson’s wagon had been set up near the entrance so that those who brought back carcasses to be butchered would not have to carry them far. Arthur dropped the carcass on the table, noticing for the first time how quiet it was. He frowned - a stew had been abandoned while cooking, the fire beneath it almost out. Albeit, that might have been a blessing.

The man looked around, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. There seemed to be a commotion, he realized, near the back of the camp, and so he began to follow it, one hand dropping to the pistol on his hip. Although it didn’t sound like that kind of commotion, but the happy kind of commotion, the one where everyone would end up drunk as skunks later and miserable tomorrow. The kind with loud, excited, lilting voices, falling over each-other and speaking so rapidly that he couldn’t make out the words.

He had to step over a bedroll - it was Jack’s, he realized, the boy must have dragged it out from the lean-to like tent. It was far too large for a boy of his age, made with dark-colored wolf fur. It had been John’s, before the man had left, and there was an agonizing pang in Arthur’s chest. Before John had left, Jack had had to share his bedroll with Abigail, as there was no point in making him a bedroll he would make filthy and out-grow so quickly. But with John gone, they had an extra bedroll they didn’t need, one that was threadbare and worn with much of the fur shed, and so it had been bequeathed to the boy.

The man took a deep breath, looking to the side. He could see John as though the man were right in front of him, grumbling as he was given the bedroll by Hosea, complaining about the fleas he was sure to get. But it was impossible to miss the soft, pleased expression on his face. It had been given to John not long after he had earned his place in the family, when the boy was only eighteen or so.

Arthur walked passed the campfire, where the logs had been circled around it so they could sit and stay warm on cooler days and chilly nights, listen to Javier play his guitar and sing. Wincing, he looked away from the log that the man had been sitting on when he had lost his temper the night before. John had loved to sit around the fire, hands dangling between spread legs, head low and eyes half-lidded as he allowed himself to relax, basking in the warmth and humming along to whatever bawdy song was being sung. But the man blinked, and little Johnny Marston was gone.

He approached the table where he, Hosea and John often sat, playing Poker and Dominoes. On the wind, he could hear John moaning on and on about women, how they would tear you apart mercilessly, nag at you and mold you into someone wholly different. Even now, he could hear the man’s words become jaded and bitter, snarling and snapping like a cornered wolf as he swore that little Jack Marston wasn’t his - wasn’t his blood, wasn’t of his flesh. Arthur flinched, looking away from the table, hearing his own voice join in the ribbing. Maybe if he hadn’t said anything, maybe if he had told the others to lay off, they wouldn’t have woken to find Marston gone. Maybe if he had… maybe if he hadn’t… Maybe if he did… Maybe if he didn’t… Maybe…

When he found the source of the commotion, he thought for sure he was seeing another ghost. Because there was no reason for John Marston to be standing in the center of their family, looking hale and healthy, eyes bright and happy, hands moving rapidly through the air as he spoke. But there was no denying it - not unless he was hallucinating the way that Dutch was standing there, nodding along. The way Hosea was smiling in that way of his, one hand on Dutch’s shoulder, just like Dutch’s was on John’s. The way that everyone was watching John as though he were some hero returning from a brush with death, not a mangy cur that had fled with its tail between its legs at the first sign of disagreement.

His heart rushed in his ears, and Arthur’s fist clenched on his pistol. For a moment, nothing sounded like a better idea than drawing the gun and putting a bullet between the man’s eyes, watching him drop like the worthless dog he was. But then movement caught the corner of his eye, and he turned to see Abigail moving away from the gathering, towards her tent, hurrying Jack ahead of her. Her movements were sharp and harsh, and the snarl of rage on her face was a mirror of his own.

Looking back at Marston, he sneered - the man had begun to pass out gifts. Who was he now, Father Christmas? Did he think he could gather back their favor with things? But it looked to be working. Karen seemed to be quite happy with the crate of various alcohols he had pulled from the wagon hitched behind a horse Arthur had never seen before - some dark brown thing, with a wild white mane that covered its eyes - and Javier was speechless as he ran his fingers over the neck of a beautifully crafted guitar. Dutch was quickly given several fountain pens, and Arthur idly wondered how many people John had to kill to get all of these gifts, eyeing the many things still in the back of the wagon.

Arthur shook his head, turning on his heel to walk away. Pearson was distracted by a new set of cooking utensils, and so he intended on butchering the deer before it could go bad in the heat. But a call of “Morgan!” and the sound of approaching footsteps made him still, turning to see who had come up to him.

John Marston stood before him, weight resting on his rightmost foot in a habit that he had picked up from Arthur. And for a moment, Arthur could see little Johnny, the young boy who had mimicked everything he had done; until the boy - the man - opened his mouth. “You didn’t think I forgot you, did you?” he chuckled, pressing something into Arthur’s hands.

Morgan looked down, finding himself holding a journal. Ghosting his fingers over the cover, he found it to be black leather, of extremely high quality. In gold, the letters AM were carved into the bottom right corner of the cover, and when he opened the journal the spine cracked. The pages were smooth and white, still neatly bound and unwritten in. In the back of his head, Arthur knew that Marston had to have bought this himself, had to have spent a great deal of money on it. There was no way he could have had the luck to steal a brand new journal engraved with his initials on it.

Heat bubbled in his chest, and he flashed his teeth, flung the journal at Marston’s feet, feeling a grim satisfaction as it landed face down, pages crumpling and pure white becoming coated in filth. Whirling about on his heel, he began to stalk away, grinding his teeth. His eyes landed on Hosea, the older man bouncing Jack on his knee, trying to distract the boy. “People don’t forget, John.” His use of the man’s first name made him startle, raising his head from where he had been staring at the ruined journal, turning it over in his hands. Arthur saw, then, Abigail sitting on her bedroll, head in her heads, shoulders shaking, and then he knew why Hosea was playing with Jack. Arthur growled, clenching his fist as he fought the urge to spin around and lay the man out - he had walked out, been gone for a year, thrown his family into chaos and left them missing one of their own. Jack had lost a father, Dutch and Hosea a son; Abigail a… husband, if he could be called that, and Arthur his brother, as reluctant as he was to admit it. And then he waltzed in, passing out stolen gifts, expecting to be welcomed in with open arms. Some of them may have fallen for it, those who weren’t too close to him were happy to accept a gift in return for forgiving him, but his family would not.

“What do you wish for, for Christmas?”

 A man's deep, rumbling purr of a voice broke the comfortable silence that cloaked the spacious penthouse. At a glance, the penthouse was obviously owned by someone of considerable wealth. Real wood and expensive looking appliances and furniture overran it. Two people, a man and a woman, rested atop a soft-looking pure white couch. The man was dressed in a tailored, three-piece suit, clearly fresh from the office. His raven-black hair was stylishly tousled, his bangs covering the corner of a silver eye. He sat with one leg stretched out, resting on a wood and glass coffee table, the other crossed over his knee.

 In his lap the girl rested her head, eyes closed. Her skin was as pale as milk, a light dusting of freckles highlighting high cheekbones. She wore a simple white blouse, tucked loosely into a pair of black trousers. The man's long fingers carded through her elbow-length brown hair.

 A pair of emerald eyes were revealed when she slowly opened them, blinking up at him owlishly. “What?” she slurred sleepily, nuzzling into him.

 “Christmas is only a few weeks away, MC, and I don't know what to gift you. What would you like? I'll get you anything.” He moved one of his hands to lightly caress her cheek lovingly.

 “Jumin,” she laughed, a sound like tinkling bells, “I have everything I could ever want. All I want for Christmas is to spend time with you.”

 Jumin frowned slightly, furrowing his brow. “MC,” the way he said her name was more serious than before. “Of course I will take off so I can spend the holidays with you. But it's our first Christmas together. I will give you the world if you ask it.” His tone made it obvious he wouldn't accept a no.

 MC snorted, and shook her head, allowing her eyes to drift shut as she rested her head on his lap. He gently shook her shoulder before she could drift off once more, and when she opened them her eyes were dark with irritation. “A pony, then,” she grumbled sarcastically, “if you insist on this, I want a pony for Christmas.”

 Having said that, she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, completely unaware of her husband, whom had a thoughtful look on his face. As she lost consciousness, he grabbed his phone from the side table and began to type.

  That Christmas morning was a cold one. Temperature gauges dropped well below freezing, and the wind cut right through anyone fool enough to step outside. A sprinkling of snow dusted the ground, just enough to make everything glitter as though covered in innumerable tiny crystals. Even the sky seemed to shine, despite being a clean celeste slate.

 MC had already given Jumin his gift (a beautifully made watch with Elizabeth carved into the face), and they'd sat down together to drink hot chocolate and share various treats. She couldn't help but to be curious, however, as he continually checked his phone. It couldn't be the RFA, she knew, as they'd all come to an agreement to not use the chatroom on Christmas and, instead, they would discuss everything Christmas-related on the day after. This way they could enjoy their time together with their significant others and/or each other, in the case of Zen and Jaehee, as the cafe owner still had yet to gather the courage to confess but had offered him a free meal to eat together.

 At fifteen until two, his phone vibrated audibly. Jumin flicked on the phone, darted through the message, and leaped to his feet. He stepped forward, extracting the scalding hot hot chocolate from her hands and gently tugged on her wrist.

 MC stood from the couch, watching him in bewilderment. “Jumin-?”

 In quick strides that she struggled to match, he hurried to the coat rack and slipped hers on her shoulders. He quickly followed with her ruby mittens, and then a matching scarf, wrapping it snugly around her neck. He urged her to step into her boots as well, taking the time it took her to button them up to dress himself in his emerald winter-wear.

 “Jumin, where are we going?”

 He ignored the question, taking her by the hand once more and leading her out the door. The executive director tugged her down the hall, and into the elevator. There she attempted to question him again, only to receive more silence.

 If she was honest, he looked... excited, almost. A youthful glee softened his features; the corner of his lips curled up in a barely-contained smile, his steely eyes had softened into something more like mercury, and he was even rocking slightly on his heels.

 The metallic doors slid open, and he quickly pulled her outside. Driver Kim stood at the curb, reclining slightly against the door of the limo. Seeing them, he straightened, bowing low and opening their door.

 Before Jumin could pull her in, MC tugged away. “Jumin Han! I am not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on!” She scowled, and he was briefly reminded of an indignant kitten, puffed up and angry, with her hands on her hips.

 The emerald-clad man smiled at her fondly, catching her about the hips and tugging her to him, kissing her forehead. “MC,” he purred, hiding his smile against her pale skin, “I have a surprise for you. Please, just play along.”

 MC eyed him warily, furrowing her brow, but in the end shook her head exasperatedly, clambering into the spacious limousine. 'I tell him not to get me anything, but does he listen? No.' His large hands suddenly closed around her wrists, pulling her so that she was leaning against him, half in his lap. He wrapped his arm around her head in a way such that his forearm blocked her vision. “Jumin?”

 He chuckled quietly, the soft gust of his breath against the sensitive shell of her outer ear making her jump. “I told you, it's a surprise. If you could see where we were going, you'd know what it is. Although, you should know already.”

  'How can I know already? I told him I didn't want anything.'

 It was a long drive, perhaps three quarters of an hour, with many twists and turns. However, the smoothness that told her that they were still on the well-maintained tarmac suddenly turned into a fairly bumpy drive that had Jumin adjusting his hold on her several times.

  'We must be miles out from the city if they don't maintain the roads; where are we going?'

 Not long after, the limousine stopped and she heard Driver Kim's door swing open and click shut, followed by his oddly-muffled footsteps. The door next to her opened, and he helped Jumin get her out without allowing her to see where they had stopped.

 “Only a little longer, Princess.” Jumin murmured in her ear, and placed his other hand at the small of her back. “The path is a bit uneven, so allow me to guide you.”

 As they walked forward, she took several deep breaths to try and discern where they might be. The air seemed to lack any of the pollution of the city, no gasoline fumes choking her breath. Faintly she could smell flowers and... was that hay?

 He tucked her into himself further, preventing her from hearing by pushing her ears into his coat and the crook of his elbow. They were close enough that the noises would spoil the surprise.

 Jumin quickly opened a gate when they approached it, herding her inside. The metal gate clanged against the wooden fence as he closed and latched it once more. Turning her to face the large building in front of them, he removed his arm from her ear, careful to keep her eyes covered.

 “I am going to go inside to get your present, Princess. I want you to keep your eyes closed, alright?” Saying so, he slowly removed his arm from around her.

 “Yes Jumin,” MC nodded, clapping her hands over her eyes as he removed his limb. She could hear him walking away, and then the sound of a heavy door. The urge to look was strong, but she didn't want to break his trust or disappoint him.

 “NEIGH!”

 “What?!” His wife yelped, jumping slightly. No, no way, no how, she did not just hear a horse. Jumin surely wasn't that crazy... was he?

 “Surprise! You can open your eyes!” Her husband's voice boomed from in front of her, and she jumped again. MC jerked her hands away, only to return them to rub the harsh sunlight from her eyes. Slower this time, she opened them.

 And stared.

  'Yup. That's a horse.'

 Well, horse wasn't really the right word. He looked to be full grown, but was just shy of her shoulder. So, a pony.

  'What. The. Fuck.'

 It stood perhaps fifty-and-some-change inches tall, looking ridiculously short next to her giant of a husband. It was a mount worthy of a princess, with gleaming white fur and what she assumed to be a fine build. It wore a gleaming red halter and lead rope, held carefully in Jumin's hand.

 As time went on and her eyes only got bigger and her jaw dropped wider, Jumin's wide grin began to fade. “Do... do you like it, Princess?”

 MC looked at him for a moment. She desperately wanted to say: 'Have you lost your mind?' or perhaps 'How many times were you dropped on your head as a child?' Or even 'What the hell is wrong with you?!' But, looking at his proud grin and puffed up chest, she couldn't find the heart to. Instead she forced a wide smile onto her lips, and said: “I love it, Jumin!”

 Jumin cracked a wide grin, stepped forward to offer her the lead. She took it in a limp-wristed hand, still boggling at the beast.

 “His name is Sir Maximillian the Eighth.”

 At the sound of the familiar voice, trembling with mirth, MC's head snapped up, meeting V's gaze. The photographer had a purse-lipped smile, and amusement was written all over his features. She glared at him balefully, and he coughed to cover up a laugh.

 “Merry Christmas, MC. Jumin asked if I wouldn't mind taking some photographs of.. this.” He waved at the two of them. “Now, Jumin, step out of the way so I can get them both in the shot.”

 The tall man strode to stand by his childhood friend's side, watching proudly as V commanded her to look into the pony's eyes. She tugged on the halter, pulling his head up to meet her gaze. Intelligent brown eyes seemed to say: “You've married an idiot.”

Sadie hadn't heard from the Marstons in ages.

 That wasn't concerning, on its own. Letters often got lost on their way from Blackwater to South America, especially since the revolution had broken out in Mexico. And she'd been working on a particularly challenging Bounty for the last month and a half—a letter from Tilly was waiting for her when she finally made it back to civilization.

 She'd kept in contact with most of the surviving Van Der Linde's. In her wandering, as she'd hunted bounties through the states before moving south, she'd come across them. Tilly, in Saint Denis. Mary-Beth and the Reverend in New York, Pearson in Rhodes. She didn't talk to Pearson, much, and she'd exchanged a letter or two with Karen before the drink got her, but they'd never been particularly close. But she'd always stayed in contact with the Marstons and with Charles although Charles, up in Canada, was very hard to reach.

 When a month passed, then two, and she didn't receive a letter and her letters went unanswered, a worry began to set into the back of her mind. Of course, they could have been lost, destroyed in a wagon raid in Mexico—mail wagons were popular targets, after all, as they were often full of money and supplies. But all her letters? All their letters? And she'd gotten a letter from Charles by then, two from Tilly and sent one to Mary-Beth.

So she saddled up Ares (she'd lost Hera a few years back, the mare had begun to grow old and unsound and so she'd sold her off to a farm), and began the long, long ride to Beecher's Hope. And it was a long ride--through Venezuela and Colombia, Panama Costa Rica, Nicaragua and the Honduras, up through the war ridden Mexico before, finally, crossing up into West Elizabeth.

 It took her, of course, a very long time. Long enough that she decided to purchase another horse, a gelding she called Mars, so that she could switch between them to keep them fresh and ride more of the day. Ares had begun to struggle to keep the pace she had set; long enough that she'd sent, and received, several more letters from Charles, all the way up in Canada, and the others—

 and none from the Marstons.

 Not for lack of trying on her part. She wrote letter after letter, sent several from every post office she passed. Even requested they be staggered, so that if one were lost, or one's wagon was destroyed, the whole of them wouldn't be lost. And she'd even found a few of them in destroyed wagons, when she'd stopped to dig through the debris for anything useful, stamped into the dirt, paper torn or burned.

She stayed for the night in an awful little town by the name of Tumbleweed that she used to avoid like the plague, would have ridden up to Armadillo but the last time she'd been there it had been ridden with Cholera and she had no way of knowing that the plague was long gone, didn't want to waste time riding up to check only to have to turn around and ride right back, or ride through cougar country at night to reach Beecher's Hope and hope she wasn't shot for coming to the door exhausted and unannounced.

 Mars and Ares were boarded for the night in the stable with a pasture full of horses that all looked painfully familiar, groomed and bedded down, and she almost thought to stay an extra night to let them recover after such a long trip. But such a long time without any correspondence from the Marstons was so abnormal it put a sour taste in her mouth and so she decided that she'd let them have all the rest they needed while she visited—either at the steading or in the Blackwater stables; she didn't want to overstay her welcome but John had all-but insisted that she stay, and stay, and stay even longer last she had visited.

 So she left early the next morning, wanting to ride straight through to Beecher's Hope, not wanting to have to set up a camp for the night, especially not in Hennigan's Stead, infamous for its bursting cougar population.

 She rode passed Armadillo (which, from the looks of it, was apparently well recovered from the Cholera outbreak), around a bustling horse ranch, stayed on edge as she rode through Thieves Landing, knowing hers was a well known face but that was several years past, so she kept her gun hand at the ready, careful to keep her wariness hidden. But she made it through unaccosted, and then was in the rippling grasses of the Great Plains.

It hadn’t changed, much. The same phone lines loomed overhead, and she hadn't missed them. Rabbits fled from her horses' hooves, coyotes yipped off in the distance. But there wasn't a pronghorn to be seen, and no matter how hard she looked, she couldn't spot hide nor hair of the once endless oceans of bison.

 A car rattled towards her, and Mars went wild eyed, crow hopping before digging in his hooves, unable to move far with his reins attached to Ares' bridle. She guided the two of them off the road, cutting towards the Hope, the house that John and Charles had worked to put together (pre-built, how ridiculous was that? Such a civilized concept, and her mouth twitched at the thought of how Dutch would react to such a thing) coming into view. Sadie stopped to let Mars watch the car drive out of sight, so he could learn it wasn't any danger; if she did end up keeping him, he'd have to learn that cars wouldn't hurt him. More and more of her bounties were using cars, she'd found.

Beecher's Hope was quiet.

 No roosters called, no chickens clucked. No cows lowed, no horses nickered. Rufus didn't bark at the sound of her approach. If she didn't know any better, she'd think she was riding through one of those abandoned farms that were so prolific in New Austin. But, no, that was the house that John and Charles had built, that she had convalesced in, and there was the barn, its doors wide open, that Rachel and Hera and Falmouth had been stabled in. The doghouse that John had written to her about building with Jack, and the silo that she'd never seen the purpose of, considering that they couldn't grow anything but rocks on their land.

 The paddock outside of the barn was empty, no horses or cattle grazing, the grass overgrown. The small chicken pen was vacant, the door hanging off its hinges, feed bins overturned. And up there, on the hill, she could just make out a wooden grave-marker that must belong to their daughter. John had written her almost constantly when they'd had her, from the moment Abigail had revealed she was in the family way until, after an abrupt, long period of no communication, a short letter informing Sadie of her death.

She frowned, that worry sprouting from a seed into a plant, roots constricting her chest, as she swung down from Ares' saddle, thumping up the steps of the patio, the wood creaking, rotting and threatening to give way beneath her feet. The plants that Abigail had been growing were long dead in their planters, the furniture overturned and destroyed.

 Sadie knocked, the door creaking open, and she called out "John?" as she poked her head inside, not quite fancying being shot for wandering in. But there was no response, no calls of "Sadie?" "Aunt Sadie!" or even Rufus' barking, so she walked inside, finding the house in desolate condition.

 The walls were covered in cobwebs, and rats scurried into hiding at the sound of her voice, shredding webs and sending spiders flying. She picked up a photograph—one of Arthur and John, John not any older than Jack had been when they'd hunted down Micah, running her finger over the glass and wrinkling her nose when it left a streak an inch deep in the dust.

 She poked through the house, finding a building of rats and moth eaten fabric, dust covered furniture and photographs. Jack's room wasn't as bad, but only just barely.

The simplest answer was that they had moved out, left and moved on. But when had things with John Marston ever been simple? 

 Besides, they wouldn't have left without telling her. Without telling someone. She'd asked everyone—Tilly and Mary-Beth and Charles, had even written to Pearson and the Reverend, and none of them had received a letter since her last.

 So she walked back outside, moved to mount up Aries, intended on poking around Blackwater to see if she could figure out what the hell had happened; after all, a family abruptly up and leaving their ranch would surely cause some sort of gossip. And, if no one there knew, she remembered John mentioning a Bonnie MacFarlane in his letters, and she could ask her.

 Sadie was many things, and determined was definitely one of them. John was one of her friends, and like hell was she going to let him just abandon her like that.

Aries grunted when she reached for his saddle horn to mount up, tired after so much hard riding, and she paused, reaching to grab a treat out of his saddlebag, hoping to encourage him on for that last ride into Blackwater.

If she hadn't, she would have missed it.

 The setting sun cast a light on their daughter's grave-marker, but it didn't look quite right. It caught her attention out of the corner of her eye, something she didn't consciously notice but couldn't ignore, looking away from the horse's spotted hide to look up at the carved wood.

 She'd never met the girl, had only known of her through John's letters. But she had been loved, for what time she had been with them. John had adored her from the moment she was born, had wanted great things for her, and even where she stood, she could see it in the care that had been taken in the carving of the headstone.

 It looked, she realized suddenly, almost like Arthur's, golden light shining through a ring of wood attached to a cross. It had been years since she thought of him ("Look… I can talk about him… It just hurts, is all," she'd heard John say to Abigail, when they'd thought she was asleep, and she agreed with him wholeheartedly), shoved to the back of her mind with Jake and the rest of the Van Der Linde's after putting an end to the Micah business, the parts of her past that she didn't need for bounty hunting. But she decided, then and there, she'd finally pay a visit to his grave—she'd seen it, once, silhouetted by the sun as she rode passed while hunting for Joe and Cleet, but hadn't been able to find the heart to go and pay him her respects.

 So, too, she could take a moment to give the girl her respects. The girl had been born with all the opportunities to have a better life than any of them, the daughter of a pair of ranchers, not outlaws, with an older brother that loved her, and a world that was slowly changing, in which she was seeing women slowly, very slowly, gain more and more freedoms. And then she'd died before she'd had the chance to take advantage of them; she'd been better than any of them, yet she'd died where they had lived.

The troughs at the hitching posts were bone empty, and half rotted besides, so she left their reins looped around their saddle horns instead so they wouldn't trip themselves and gave them both apples to tide them over until they could be stabled, before making her way up the hill, the near silence having her keeping her gun hand at the ready.

 She didn't reach the top of the hill.

 The worry rotted away, the roots clenching tight in her chest, leaving her gasping desperately for air, the world spinning around her. Her eyes burned suspiciously, and she hurt in a way she hadn't since Arthur had died, before him her poor, poor Jake, and as her knees hit the ground she could feel that massive, shoddily stitched wound tear open, bleeding as she found herself unable to look away from the three graves that sat beneath that massive tree that she had dozed beneath so many times before. 

Two sat close together, one looking somewhat older than the other, the wood more aged, a few feet away from the little girl's grave. 'John Marston', the oldest one read, and she couldn't breathe, 

  '1873 - 1911

Loving Husband and Father

Blessed are the

Peacemakers' 

 Abigail had been illiterate, still, she remembered, though she'd had the opportunity to learn for years. So young Jack, only sixteen years old, would have had to carve his pa's epitaph.

 She'd never been able to bury her Jake, and she didn't think she ever could have been able to do such. It had always been one of her biggest regrets, and suddenly she wondered if, had she been able to, she would have been able to.

 And then, within touching distance and much newer, a simpler grave, a square of wood on a cross, 

  'Abigail Marston

1877 - 1914

Always in our hearts'

 Abigail… Abigail was dead, too.

 The people Arthur had given his life to save, gone like that. How? What had happened? For a moment, her mind went to Dutch. Had he come back, gone after John? To get rid of the last of his past, of his original 'family', of his 'sons'? But no, she couldn't see him doing that. He had spared John, back on that mountain, had looked him in the eye and walked away. She didn't know Dutch well, had only known him for a small amount of time when he'd saved her before his decline, but some part of her knew he wouldn't go after John unless John went after him, first.

Sadie didn't want to look at the last grave, sitting further away from the two eldest Marstons but still within spitting distance. Didn't want to see little Jack Marston's grave, didn't want to see that Arthur's sacrifice had been in vain, that almost all of those people she would call family were dead.

 But she had to, had to see with her own two eyes, looked over and fought down a hysterical laugh.

 The grave marker simply read:

  'Uncle' 

 And nothing else.

 It was older, looked about as old as John's.

 Jack… Jack wasn't dead. Uncle lay rotting, six feet below that grave marker, not the little boy she'd watch run after a dog, call her Aunt Sadie, chase crickets and frogs, not the boy she'd watched learn to ride a horse and struggle to herd cattle.

 But he was orphaned.

 Both of his parents were dead, rotting six feet beneath the ground, and he was only nineteen years old. He'd had to bury them, been left alone. Didn't have any family left, his aunts and uncles, none of them blood, dead or scattered to the winds.

 It hurt, it still hurt. John had been the closest thing she'd had to a brother, aside from Arthur, and one of her dearest friends, and she'd liked Abigail a great deal. She'd have to write the others, tell them that they'd lost another member of their family, that John had joined Davey and Mac, Jenny and Sean, Lenny and Hosea and Kieran and Susan and Arthur, though she hadn't known half of them well enough to mourn them, they'd been family in all but blood to those she still remained in contact with, and it was not the sort of news she enjoyed delivering.

 But it was something that needed to be done, and something that needed to be done in person.

She looked over the grave markers again.

 The baby girl.

 John.

 Abigail.

 Uncle.

 Four more people she'd lost.

 But Jack Marston still lived.

 So she stood, brushed off her knees and wiped off her face. Returned to Mars and mounted up, intending on resting for the night in Blackwater before heading out.