Chapter Text
The camp erupted the moment Arthur, Javier, and Charles freed Sean from the bounty hunters. John felt the relief wash over him. That man finally had an excuse to get drunk; anything to escape another night on watch duty, squinting into the darkness for threats that may or may not come. He was with Javier and the other fellers, obviously drinking, while Javier struck up a tune, John felt something ease in his chest, or maybe it was just being with Javier– he supposed it was because he’s a man who’d grown up alongside him in this.. Strange family. Without thinking, he sang along to whatever Javier was playing, rough and off-key but honest. He’d never admit it out loud, but moments like these reminded him why he’d come back. He’d swallowed his pride after that year away and returned to camp with his tail between his legs. Everyone had noticed the change in him– hell, a blind man could see he wasn’t the same. But sitting here now, singing… badly and drinking worse, none of that seemed to matter.
His gaze drifted across the camp to where the women had gathered, celebrating in their own quieter way.. But John found himself staring. Why? Because Abigail stood among them. Despite knowing he shouldn’t, the man kept staring. Abigail was never a drinker in the first place– he could still picture her after that first sip years ago, the way she’d screwed up her features in disgust. The memory made him smile into the bottle. She was beautiful. Had always been beautiful, from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. Perhaps that’s what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. When she got pregnant… When she’d told him about the baby, he fought tooth and nail, denying it with every fibre of his being. Not because he didn’t love her– God knew he did–but because he’d prayed it wasn’t his responsibility to bear.
He was a coward.
Jack was nowhere to be seen, probably tucked away in his bedroll already. Just as well. John sighed, conflicted by his thoughts. All he could think of was Abigail. Especially the way she looked in her nightgown that evening. Her dark brown hair had been woven into a long braid, with wayward strands framing her face in the flamelight. He ran his hands through his hair, frustrated with himself. This wasn’t right. The way the thin cotton fabric had moved as she walked, the soft sound of her bare feet against the cold grass, the gentle curve of her neck as she’d tilted her head to listen to the conversation from the women– it all replayed in his thoughts like a melody he couldn’t shake. This is going to be a long night, he thought, taking a swig of his beer. Tomorrow, as always, Abigail will talk to him. Nag him about Jack.
John couldn’t bring himself to be a father to Jack. Every time he looked at the boy– with his wide, trusting eyes and that innocent smile– guilt twisted in his gut like a knife. The child deserved so much better than a man who refused to be his father. All while pretending his heart didn’t race when she looked at him, when Abigail would catch his eye across the camp, and sometimes she’d offer that knowing smile that made his chest tighten with longing he had no right to feel.
It was all stupid– he felt like some lovesick teenager, not a grown man who’d seen his share of violence and hardship. The way his pulse quickened when she laughed at something Hosea said around the campfire, or how he found excuses to walk past her tent just to catch a glimpse of her mending clothes or braiding her hair. The very air seemed charged whenever they were in the same space together. The weight of his desire pressed down on him like a physical thing, heavier than any pack he’d ever carried across state lines. It settled in his shoulders, making his movements stiff and unnatural around the others. He wondered how long he could carry this burden before it consumed him entirely, before someone– Dutch, Arthur, hell, even Micah– noticed the way he watched her when he thought no one was looking.
John stood up abruptly from the log where he’d been nursing the same bottle of whiskey for the better part of an hour, barely touching it to his lips. The amber liquid had grown warm in the night air, and somehow it had lost its appeal entirely. He brushed the dust from his worn jeans and said goodbye to the gang, his voice rougher than usual. He was surprised that he didn’t want to stay and drink more, didn’t feel the familiar pull to lose himself in the bottom of a bottle until the world grew fuzzy around the edges. Maybe he didn’t feel like drinking or interacting with them anymore.
“Hey! Where d’you think you’re going? Ain’t like you to walk away from fun, Marston!” Javier called out, his words slightly slurred as he waved his bottle in John’s direction. The Mexican was quite drunk, his usually precise movements loose and uncoordinated as he leaned heavily against Arthur’s shoulder for support. “Night’s still young, amino! Got a whole bottle of good stuff here that Dutch picked up in Valentine.”
The rest of the gang looked up from their various conversations and card games, curious about John’s early departure. Uncle paused mid-story, his weathered hands still gesturing wildly, while Pearson looked up from where he was cleaning his rifle by the dying fire. Even Hosea glanced over from his book, those sharp old eyes missing nothing as they studied John’s tense posture.
John did not look back and respond to Javier; instead, he waved his arm dismissively as he made his way to his tent, his boots scrunching softly against the dried leaves and twigs scattered across the overlook. Behind him, he could hear the distant sound of laughter and the clink of bottles, the gang’s revelry continuing without him. The familiar sounds of camp life– all seemed muffled now, as if he were moving through water.
He even walked past the women’s area without so much as a glance in their direction, though every fibre of his being screamed at him to steal just one more look at Abigail. He could hear her voice mixing with those of the other women– Mary-beth’s gentle giggle, Ms Grimshaw’s storytelling, Karen’s raucous commentary on whatever tale was being shared. But he didn’t dare look at Abigail this time, didn’t trust himself to maintain the careful mask of indifference he’d been wearing all evening. His peripheral vision caught a flash of her nightgown, the same one she’d been wearing every night. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry as dust, and clenched his fist so tightly that his knuckles went white. The memory of her touch lingered like a brand, though it happened many years ago, and he cursed himself for being such a damn fool. She deserved better– had always deserved better– and here he was, acting like some pathetic teenage boy with his first crush.
The man opened his tent flap with more force than necessary, the canvas rustling loudly in the quiet night air, and closed it behind him with a sharp tug that made the whole structure shudder. He let out a shaky breath that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest, the sound unnaturally loud in the confined space. The tent felt smaller tonight, more suffocating, as if the walls were closing in on him.
He sat down heavily on his makeshift bed– nothing more than a thin bedroll thrown over a pile of old blankets– and immediately buried his face in his hands. The rough calluses on his palms scraped against his stubble as he pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off the headache that was building behind his eyes like a gathering storm.
Abigail was going to be the death of him. The thought came unbidden, stark and brutal in its honesty. Not the law, not rival gangs, not even Dutch’s erratic plans– but a woman with kind eyes and a smile that could light up the darkest corners of his soul.
An hour had passed, maybe more– John had lost track of time in the suffocating confines of his tent. Sleep eluded him completely, no matter how many times he shifted positions on the uncomfortable bedroll or squeezed his eyes shut in frustrated determination. He’d tried counting backwards from a hundred, focusing on his breathing, even reciting the names of every horse he’d ever owned, but nothing worked. His mind refused to be quiet, refused to grant him the mercy of unconsciousness. Thankfully, the little celebration the gang had been having finally began to die down around the campfire. The raucous laughter had faded to occasional chuckles, and the conversations had dissolved into sleepy murmurs. Most of the bottles had been emptied, and one by one, he’d heard the familiar sounds of his companions stumbling off to their tents and bedrolls. But even in the relative quiet, he could still hear Javier strumming a slow, melancholy tune on his guitar– something soft and Spanish that drifted through the night air like smoke. The melody was beautiful and haunting, but it only served to make John’s restlessness worse, each note seeming to echo the longing that gnawed at his chest. He rolled onto his back and stared at the canvas ceiling of his tent, barely visible in the darkness. A sliver of moonlight filtered through a small gap in the fabric, casting strange shadows that danced whenever the wind stirred the trees overhead. The night sounds of the wilderness surrounded him– the distant hoot of an owl, the rustle of small creatures moving through the underbush, the gentle creak of swaying branches– but they couldn’t drown out the chaos in his head.
He was a fuckhead.
He sighed deeply, the sound heavy with resignation and self-loathing. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get Abigail off his mind. Her hair, the way it caught the firelight when she let it down from its usual practical arrangement. Her eyes, warm and expressive, are capable of conveying so much with just a glance. Her mouth, the way her lips curved when she smiled at something amusing, or how they pressed together in concentration (or hum a tune) when she was mending clothes. And her body… the graceful way (me when I lie LMFAOOO) she moved around camp, the gentle sway of her hips when she walked, the soft curves that her dresses couldn’t quite hide.
God, he was so screwed. The thought hit him like a physical blow, and he pressed the heels of his palms against his closed eyes until he saw stars. This couldn’t continue– this obsession, this hunger that threatened to consume everything decent left in him.