Work Text:
Boadicea, gentle and patient mare that she is, doesn’t make one noise of protest when Jack starts tugging at her mane.
It’s an impressive accomplishment as Arthur knows for a fact that Jack can pull hard. The kid’s just shy of turning three but he already feels all too grown up, crawling around and pulling at things and running away faster than either Arthur or Abigail can keep up with him. Arthur tends to keep his hair long and his beard decently thick, but Jack gained a habit of pulling on both of these when his hands were restless – which was always.
As a result, Arthur gets a haircut and shaves closer than he’s used to, and smiles with the thankful glances Abigail gives him.
On Boadicea’s back, Jack reaches for her mane and pulls it gleefully, giggling all the while. The mare doesn’t lash out but she is giving Arthur a glance out the corner of his eye; he’s kept her long enough to recognise she has limits, even if she is endlessly kind and patient.
“C’mere, Jack,” he says, pulling the boy down from Boadicea and into his arms. Behind him, he can hear Abigail puttering around and setting up the picnic blanket. Jack steals his attention before he can turn around, pudgy fingers grasping at his jaw and gasping at the rough texture. “Hey – fingers to yourself, you got that, you little demon? I still have that bald patch you gave me a couple months ago.”
Behind him, he hears Abigail scoff and knows without looking that she’s rolling her eyes. In reality, Jack had just pulled out one or two hairs but he had played it up dramatically. It was mostly to make the new kid, some youngster named Summers that Dutch picked up a few months ago, laugh, but it soon became an inside joke between him and Abigail.
Abigail is going to get grey hairs, Arthur is going to get bald patches, and Jack is going to grin endearingly all the while.
As if to prove Arthur’s point, Jack lets out a giggle and rams his fists into Arthur’s chest. His hands are no stronger than some wind-blown paper, so Arthur just gathers them up and waits until the kid settles down. Jack eventually tires out and looks around them in wonder: it’s quite a view.
The sky is bright, which is uncommon this far west, but it’s not searingly hot like it usually is. Instead, the nearby lake provides enough coolness for Arthur to take ten steps without sweating down his back – long as Jack isn’t wreaking havoc, of course. Abigail’s got one of Miss Grimshaw’s blankets set out on the ground, spreading the contents of the basket she had spent the morning making. There’s canned beans and peaches, not exactly a delicacy, but Hosea had gone out to hunt some rabbits and prepared it for their trip before they left.
Arthur pats Boadicea one last time before walking over to the blanket, Jack on his hip. “Food’s lookin’ good,” he tells Abigail, who hums in agreement.
She holds up a mug of coffee and clutches it reverently. “Nothin’ better than a good cup of coffee. Drink’s about the only reason I can stay awake these days with this little monster running around.” She reaches out for Jack, places a kiss on his cheek as he settles on her lap; an old memory flickers through Arthur’s mind, a woman who looked just like Abigail holding a boy just like Jack, but he shakes it away quickly. Abigail offers Arthur the cup and says, “feel free to have some for yourself, Mr. Morgan, of course.”
“Oh, uh – thanks, but I’m good,” Arthur says, doing his best not to wince.
Abigail narrows her eyes and frowns playfully. “And what does that mean, Mr. Morgan?”
“Nothin’, nothin’ at all! Just – not been likin’ coffee lately, that’s all.”
Abigail stares at him for a moment, then laughs. “As if! That’s the worst lie you could have come up with, Arthur, even I know that. Don’t think I’ve seen you survive one day without drinkin’ a cup of black first thing in the mornin’.”
Arthur only hums – over the years of dealing with Bessie, Annabelle, Susan and the various female new-comers to the gang, he’s learned that it’s better to let things go with women when they give you an out. So he nods and reaches for a piece of bread instead of Abigail’s coffee (he can’t guarantee Abigail didn’t make it, so he’s staying far away).
Around them, the plains are peaceful. Birds fly overhead and twit amongst themselves, and in the distance Arthur thinks he sees a fox sniff idly between some bushes before spotting them and running away. In front of them, the lake laps slowly and peacefully, ripples on its surface that tell of fish ready for catching. He briefly thinks that he should have brought his pole with him, just so they could bring something back so Pearson didn’t nag at them – but then he remembers that this is supposed to be time away from camp, away from all the chaos and noise and business.
He also remembers a little boy begging to learn how to fish just like his daddy, a woman’s laughter fond and indulgent as she gave them permission to go. But that memory is too old, too painful – it has no place in a day as bright as today.
Arthur doesn’t deserve a memory like that.
He shakes his head before he gets too lost inside his own mind. When he looks up he meets Abigail’s eyes, melodic and thoughtful and far smarter than they have any right to be. Abigail has always been smarter than folk have expected of her, Arthur including – she’s probably smarter than half of the camp combined, if he’s honest. Smarter than him, that’s for sure.
“Boadicea’s a good horse,” Abigail says suddenly. Arthur blinks and realises he retreated into his head again – his cheeks burn and he pulls his hat over his eyes on instinct, notices Abigail’s smirk only after he’s done it. “How long have you had her?”
Arthur smiles at the grazing mare, clicks his tongue so she looks over and gives him that slow blink he knows as well as the back of his hand. The feeling of her belly under his legs, her gentle teeth at his fingers and her tough hide under his hands brings him a kind of comfort he seldom gets anywhere else: his father’s hat, his mother’s flower, his picture of Copper. He knows her well enough to recognise the slow blink she gives him, the one that means he has only a few seconds to give her a treat or she’ll go right back to grazing and forget he’s there entirely.
“Couple years now,” Arthur tells Abigail. “She’s a full mare now, and she definitely acts like it. Picked her up at a stables up north ages ago, her and Old—”
He stops then, the words dying on his tongue. Beside him, he feels Abigail tense up.
A moment goes past, then the woman heaves a sigh. “I ain’t fragile, you know, Mr. Morgan,” Abigail says. “I won’t go breakin’ just because you mention him or somethin’ to do with him. God knows I’m still angry at the bastard, have half a mind to strangle the idiot if I ever see him again, but you don’t got to treat me like I’m fine cutlery. I won’t break,” she says meaningfully.
Arthur nods, fills in the words himself: I won’t break anymore.
It had been a rough couple of months, after John left. Jack was still young and needy, depended on a thousand hands waiting on him – it was tough enough with the son of a bitch around, and even more so after he’d left. A note, to add salt to the wound. Not even a proper goodbye. A quick letter, a scrambled excuse, and they hadn’t seen hire nor hair of him since.
Abigail had been a wreck the first week. Not that anyone could blame her – when she wasn’t crying the baby was crying, demanding attention and food and play and everything in between and outside of that. Arthur, Miss Grimshaw and Hosea had done what they could to help, but when Abigail wasn’t exhausted from taking care of a one-year-old who didn’t know how to survive by himself yet, she was exhausted from having her heart broken by John Marston not for the first time.
She had gathered herself up soon enough, far quicker than Arthur thought was possible, frankly. She had wiped her tears and tapped at her eye bags. She did her best by Jack, running around to get him everything he could possibly need and glaring down anyone who dared to get in her way. That had been the summer Sean learned the true meaning of ‘mama bear’ – to this day, he’s half-terrified of Abigail.
But no matter how good things are now, no matter how much Jack laughs these days and how well Abigail sleeps… nothing makes up for the fact that John Marston walked out on his family and never looked back.
Not just the gang, not just Dutch and Hosea who raised him like he was their own flesh and blood, but Abigail and Jack too. Folk who had been caught in the shit storm just as much as he had, but just didn’t have the option of running away and escaping all hardship.
If Arthur ever sees John’s face again, he’s going to punch that man so hard he’ll be sent back in time before he can make the dumbass decision to leave.
A small voice in the back of Arthur’s head says he hates John almost as much as he hates himself, and wonders why.
He tells that voice to go fuck itself and digs himself out of his head.
“I know you won’t,” he tells Abigail. “You’re strong, Miss Roberts, no doubt about that. Don’t meant I like to talk about the man, though.”
Abigail sighs, nothing else, and turns to the picnic.
Jack has crawled to the other side of the blanket, tugging at its edges fruitlessly in an attempt to… honestly, Arthur has no idea. Over half of what the kid does these days goes over his head – he just smiles and nods and makes sure his hair is out of pulling range, which it usually isn’t.
He and Abigail share an amused glance and leave the boy to it. They instead talk about anything and everything – sharing camp gossip, complaining about Miss Grimshaw’s iron fist, betting on how soon Dutch’s schemes fall apart and he has to ask Hosea to salvage them, then betting on how long Hosea’s smug attitude will last before Dutch finds another half-baked scheme to ruin.
They eat the food and Abigail drinks the coffee and Arthur even finds a quiet moment to pull his journal out. He manages a rough sketch of the picnic, of Abigail’s hair atop her head and the grin Jack keeps sporting. He sets time aside to finish it all later – Dutch has him running around doing jobs left and right, it’s honestly a miracle he had time to arrange this trip. Undoubtedly Hosea had something do to with it.
They watch Jack run up to the lake, splashing his bare feet in the water and giggling when he sees fish in the distant blue. Some seaweed catches his toe and there’s a brief meltdown, but after it’s dealt with he’s right back to laughing and grinning and having the time of his life.
“Looks like you got a fine fisherman in the works there,” he jokes to Abigail. “Or one of ‘em folks who study fish, scientists or – biologists, or however they’re called.”
“Better than bein’ an outlaw,” Abigail says, and Arthur nods.
A gang is no place to raise a kid. Jack’s young and vulnerable, with no kids for friends around and adults who barely give him rushed looks in the morning. Hosea makes him enough toys out of wood, and Dutch buys him clothes and blankets with the gang money, but it’s nothing like how normal kids grow up.
Jack deserves a better life, he knows that, so does Abigail – but an ugly, selfish part of Arthur wants to keep them and stop them from ever taking a step away from him.
Don’t waste your second chance, a voice inside his head says, and for once Arthur doesn’t immediately want to throw it out of his head.
“Thank you for this,” Abigail says. He looks over to her and she smiles at him, squeezes his hand. “For takin’ us out. You didn’t have to do this, none of it, but I really appreciate it. Jack’s smilin’ more than I’ve seen him do in ages, and my Grimshaw-induced headache has finally left.”
Arthur snorts, runs his finger along the brim of his hat and pulls it down. “Yeah, well – you deserve it, Miss Roberts. I know the past few years have been tough for you, last few months especially,” he says, not bothering to mention the exact reason for the sudden hardship – they both know what he’s talking about. “But you’ve pulled through, like you always do. I… I really admire that, Miss Roberts. Especially – especially since, you know, Marston don’t seem to be comin’ back any time soon.”
His breath stalls for a moment.
The weather is quiet and peaceful, the wildlife deciding to keep at bay. At their side, Boadicea calmly munches on grass and enjoys her respite from her usual tack. In front of them, Jack splashes through the lake and makes his own unique brand of curious noises, noises which Arthur has come to know as well as his father’s hat, his mother’s flower and his picture of Copper.
He thinks about shoving his hands in his pockets, but there’s nothing in there. He hadn’t bothered to get a ring, didn’t think Abigail would appreciate it when he could spend that money on things for Jack. Besides, Dutch and Annabelle hadn’t been legally married despite calling themselves spouses. It’s not so unusual, he thinks.
He looks back up, words ready at the tip of his tongue, and finds Abigail already watching him.
Abigail takes one look at the expression on his face, looks him right in the eye, and says, “Mr. Morgan, I like you plenty. But I got this feelin’ that whenever you look at me, you’re seein’ someone else.”
And that… shatters Arthur.
For a moment, the lake seems unbearably loud and he panics that it’s somehow overflown and reached them. But a moment later he recognises the loud, blunt thump as his racing heartbeat – unable to still, not now that it has been flayed out violently.
Abigail is still watching him, her eyes large and dark and full of something… regret. Sorrow. Pity. By God, Arthur hopes it’s not pity.
“You’ve been so helpful these past months, more than I can say. Both Jack and I appreciate it. But… Arthur. I know what it looks like when a man isn’t really focusing on what’s in front of him. When he’s replaying a memory, or writing a fantasy. I don’t know which it is for you, but know I’m not her, okay?” She frowns at him. “And I never will be.”
Arthur blinks, and in the crease of her brow he thinks that she looks a lot like Eliza.
The worst part, he thinks, is that he’s not upset over it. He’s not heart-broken over Abigail, he’s not betrayed at her rejection. The only pain he feels is from being seen through so viciously, from being ripped apart without his permission and left to dry in the rain.
He thinks back to playing with Jack, bouncing the boy on his hip and rocking him to sleep whenever he can. Thinks of doing the same with Isaac, young hands holding a baby with terror, the original sparks of wonder as Isaac fell asleep in his arms. He thinks back to talking with Abigail, laughing about jokes and talking about Jack like… like he was theirs. It seemed like that to him, too. But it had been like that with Eliza too – he smiled at Isaac and laughed at Isaac and held Isaac as much as he wanted, but at the end of every trip was the stark reminder that this wasn’t his to have.
I’m not raising a baby in a gang, Eliza had told him. I want better than that for our child. I’m staying here, I’m not moving, and you can’t make me. Me and the baby, we’ll be right here. Where you’ll be… well, that’s for you to decide, Arthur. What will you choose?
And Arthur had chosen.
And four years later, he walked up to a house and found two graves.
Two months, a neighbour had told him. They broke in two months ago.
And Arthur had spent those two months running around with Dutch and Hosea, blind to the family he had lost, deaf to the lives he had failed to protect.
Wryly, he thinks it was good of him not to get a ring. He laughs to himself, quiet and hollow. That makes for two times a woman rejected his proposal. That makes for three times he’s lost a woman he thought he might be content to start a family with.
The guilt in his body in unbearable – it’s draining him, drowning him, everywhere he dares look and breathe into and inescapable in all its violence.
First Mary, who he had been too poor for, too bad for – who had always been better and more deserving than him.
Then Eliza, who he thought of only in second thoughts, whenever he had the spare time, and who ended up being killed for no reason other than the Lord’s twisted, twisted sense of humour.
Then Abigail, who he had been using as a second chance, as a replacement, without even realising. Who he looked at and saw nothing but memories.
The ride back to camp is quiet.
They tack up Boadicea with scarcely a word between them. Jack gets picked up by Arthur, who immediately feels a glare of pain and guilt and horror, but Abigail doesn’t demand to take him away, doesn’t force him to give the boy up. She should, Arthur thinks. She should. But she doesn’t. And Arthur holds Jack a little closer, a little tighter, not yet willing to let go of the fantasy he’s built in his head.
As they continue to ride, Abigail sat behind him and keeping an eye on Jack, he realises that she’s not treating him much differently. They’re quiet, but that’s more on him – he doesn’t bother to start any conversation, halts any of Abigail’s attempts. Abigail still looks at him the same, still touches him the same, still says his name the same.
She must have already known for a while.
He wonders what she was waiting for. He wonders what might have happened if he had never come up with the damned proposal – if Abigail would have never brought it up, if he would have kept living the lie he fed himself.
If he would have seen Jack as Isaac even after he outgrew him.
When they get to camp, people wave and say hello but nobody really stops. Abigail jumps off Boadicea and takes Jack into her arms, bounces the boy until his eyes droop and he starts drooling on her shoulder.
“Thank you for the picnic,” she says again when he starts to untack Boadicea. Any other day, he would have left the task to one of the new recruits and went with Abigail to put Jack to sleep. He can’t bring himself to do that now. “Like I said, Mr. Morgan, I really did appreciate it.”
Arthur undoes Boadicea’s girth, slides the saddle off of her. Abigail doesn’t leave until he turns around and nods. “Of course, Miss Roberts.”
Abigail watches him for a moment longer, then nods. She hitches Jack higher in her hands, hesitates, then presses a kiss to Arthur’s cheek. “I might not be her, but I’m still your friend, Arthur,” she says. “And you’re still mine.”
Jack yawns against her chest, quiet and soft. Arthur’s chest aches at the sound for more than one reason. He squeezes Abigail’s hand then turns back to Boadicea, finishes untacking her as he listens to Abigail walk off towards her tent.
He finds his way to his own cot, eventually. Sits in the dark, unwilling to turn on the oil lamp for the longest time. After minutes have gone by and Miss Grimshaw steps past, frowning at him in concern, he lights up the lamp and pulls out his journal.
It’s on one of the first pages, old and withered and browning at the edges: a rough sketch of a woman in an armchair, her hands wrapped around a baby. Her hair falls over her shoulder and her expression is mock serious, an attempt at those professional photographs you saw in the papers. The baby is small and round, nestled against her neck soundly.
Arthur falls asleep with that page still open, held in front of him so it’s the first thing he sees when he wakes up.
He feels bitter that he ever thought he could replace Eliza and Isaac.
He feels dirty that he ever thought he could treat Abigail and Jack like they were different people.
He feels so, so damn jealous of John Marston, the man whose family is alive and well and waiting for him.
Daylight comes, but Arthur doesn’t get out of bed. He decides to stay in for the day.