crsberger

[bitegore]

ao3: runs a donation drive

random people on the internet i've never heard of and who definitely do not provide a free service i use regularly: oh my god everyone who donated to ao3 owes me money, I deserve it more than the [libel] [bullshit fearmongering] [misuse of legal term] website!!!! these gross cumbrain fandom losers are taking money away from me personally!

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Forged Through Fire (2/13)

Summary: Amestris. Once democratic, now a military dictatorship. Prohibition is strict; personal freedoms curtailed. All alchemists must be state-licensed or face imprisonment. Foreigners are met with suspicion. It’s a grim place and a grim time, but there are some people able to bring a little light to the world. Behind an innocent-looking bookshop, speakeasy proprietor Chris Mustang has formed an unlikely alliance with unlicensed alchemist Van Hohenheim to provide alcohol to those who want it and medical care to those who need it. When Riza’s newly complete tattoo becomes infected, Roy brings her into this underworld, little knowing the way it will change their lives in the future – uncovering the secrets of the mythical Philosopher’s Stone and the schemes of a Fuhrer hell-bent on achieving immortality, all whilst navigating what they mean to each other.

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Rated: T

[One] [AO3]

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Content warning for this chapter: Discussion of domestic abuse – parent on child; implied self-harm and discussion of self-harm.

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Forged Through Fire

Two

The phone ringing startled Roy out of the doze he hadn’t realised he’d fallen into, and he jumped up out of his chair, massaging the crick in his neck as he went over to the phone on the wall.

“Mustang.”

“Hello Roy. It’s Riza. Riza Hawkeye.”

“Riza.”

For a good long while, Roy had absolutely no idea what to say to her. He hadn’t seen her since the day that he’d finished his training under Berthold and passed his state licence exam, although they’d kept in touch with the occasional letter. It was the first time she’d ever called him since he’d moved out of barracks and got his own apartment with his own phone line, and the novelty of hearing her voice again after all the time that had passed was enough to render him speechless. Finally he regained his tongue.

“It’s good to hear your voice again,” he said.

“Yeah. It’s good to hear yours, too.” She sounded quiet, her voice low and measured as if she’d been crying.

“What’s wrong?”

“My father died.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.” There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “The funeral’s on Friday if you want to come. Please don’t feel obligated. There won’t be all that many people there. He wasn’t exactly a social man.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Thank you.” The relief in her voice was almost palpable, even over the phone. “So… How have you been?”

“All right. Not doing much, we haven’t been shipped out anywhere yet so it’s mainly just paperwork and patrols.” God, this was the inanest conversation ever. He hadn’t spoken to Riza for a year and a half, and this was what he was finding to talk about? “How are you holding up?”

“I don’t know how to feel right now if I’m honest. Everything’s so… weird. It’s not like when Mom died. Everything was easy then. I was sad because she wasn’t there anymore. This time…”

Roy knew exactly why she trailed off. Receiving letters from Riza in the time since he finished with Berthold had always been bittersweet. He knew the situation she was in, and he had no idea how to help her out of it. Now, she was out of it more by luck – if death could be considered luck – than judgement, and he still felt a stab of guilt that he had not been able to do anything for her.

“Yeah. I understand.” Did he really? “Do you need anything?” He didn’t want to think of her in that ramshackle old house all by herself. “Groceries, company, anything?”

“I’m ok. I’ve got everything sorted. I think I just need to know there’ll be a friendly face at the funeral. Thanks.”

“Any time.” He was reminded of the time he took her to the bar after her tattoo got infected. “How’s your back?”

“Sorry?”

“It was a long train of thought. How’s your back doing?”

“It’s fine.” For the first time, he thought that she might be smiling on the other end of the phone. “I’ve not had any problems at all since Trisha and Hohenheim fixed me up.” There was a pause. “Are they still there at Madam Christmas’s?”

“Yep. I don’t think they’ll ever leave.”

Riza laughed. “Well, send my regards next time you see them.”

“I will. I guess I’ll see you on Friday.”

“Till Friday. Thank you, Roy.”

They said their goodbyes, and Roy stayed staring at the phone for a long time after he hung up. It was only now that he realised just how much he had missed Riza in the intervening time. Perhaps it was because they had never completely lost touch with each other that the separation had not seemed as absolute as it did now; she had always still been on the periphery of his world, even if she wasn’t regularly in it like Aunt Chris and his new friends and colleagues within the military. Now he realised just how long it had been.

She hadn’t changed at all, and when he saw her standing in the cemetery on the grey and miserable morning of the funeral, he was almost relieved to see that she was still just the same Riza. Although, that said, not exactly the same. There was something behind her eyes, a little bit haunted. Maybe it was just grief, maybe it was something far more complicated. She gave a wan smile when she saw him, making her excuses to the scant other mourners and coming over to him.

“Hey. It’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise. Are you ok?”

She nodded. “I’m getting there. It’s still all so surreal.” She glanced over towards the grave and the drab preacher getting ready to intone the service. “Shall we go? It shouldn’t take too long, I don’t think. I mean, what is there to say about him?”

Roy would have given her the usual platitudes about Berthold being a good man and a great alchemist, but whilst the latter may have been technically true, neither really rang true to Roy’s ears in regard to Riza. Berthold might have been the one to teach him flame alchemy, but he had also been the one to permanently ink that flame alchemy on Riza’s back and shape the course of her life forever. The words she had spoken to him on that fateful day when she’d shown him the array had always echoed in his mind. What’s done is done. Nothing could change the fact that the tattoo existed, and that Berthold had been the one to put it there. Nothing would ever erase that. Nothing Roy or anyone else could do would ever be able to make that better. Did that mean he didn’t ought to try?

The service was short, just the usual empty words over a plain casket, and Roy hung back as Riza received the well wishes of the few other attendees until she was alone with the headstone again.

Riza sighed. “Is it bad that when everyone says ‘I’m so sorry’, there’s a part of me – a large part – that thinks ‘I’m not’?”

Roy shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. I think given everything, that’s natural.”

“When I looked in on him that morning and found him… I thought I’d feel sad, or that I’d panic, or maybe that I’d just feel numb. But honestly the thing I felt the most was anger. Not because he was dead, that he’d been taken from me in that respect. I wasn’t angry at the world. I wasn’t even really angry at him. I was angry with myself, because I hadn’t done anything, and now he’s dead and I don’t have the chance to call him out for everything he did.”

“It’s not your fault. What could you have done?” He paused. “It’s everyone else who should have been doing something.”

“Hey, don’t blame yourself either. He had just as much of a position of power over you as he did me. In a different way, but I’ve heard cynics say that apprenticing under an alchemist is equivalent to selling your soul to them until you pass your licence.”

“Yeah. But after I passed my licence. Anyway, enough about me. Do you want to come somewhere and talk about it somewhere that’s not a very windy cemetery with rain threatening any moment?”

Riza nodded. “Yeah. I could really use a drink right now.”

Roy smiled. “All right. Come with me.”

It was a quiet and contemplative walk through the city towards the bar, and Roy couldn’t help giving the odd glance sideways over at Riza as they made their way through the damp streets. It had rained earlier, and the clouds were still hanging dark and heavy in the sky. In a way, the weather reflected the entire city – dark, oppressive, unrelenting; constantly hanging over their heads like the Sword of Damocles.

Amestris hadn’t always been like this, according to those who’d seen it in its heyday. Roy was still too young to remember a time before the Fuhrer had come to power and democracy had given way overnight to the grim dictatorship they’d now found themselves living in, but Aunt Chris and Hohenheim remembered it. They’d made the best of things in the best way they knew how – defying the law and doing what was needed anyway.

A part of him wished that they didn’t have to do it, that he could somehow come into a grand inheritance and set them up comfortably for the rest of their days, but he knew them both and he knew they’d still keep doing what they were doing even if money was no object. There were some things that were more important than staying on the right side of the law.

Still, just because they had carved out their own little niche in the new world they lived in didn’t mean that they couldn’t be nostalgic for better times. Aunt Chris wasn’t one for reminiscing, but he’d found her and Hohenheim sharing the good Drachman vodka more than once after last orders had been called.

His thoughts ended up coming full circle round to Berthold and the many arguments they’d got into over Roy’s decision to join the military. Berthold could remember the time before and held no love for the military regime he was now living under. Roy had never known different but knew enough to be well aware that he was becoming part of the problem. With a problem like this, though, with something so well-established and deeply ingrained, it was impossible to effect any sort of change except from within, and when he had first joined the academy, Roy had been naïve enough to think he could be the one to make that change.

Four years later, he was not quite as convinced, but his determination still held fast.

Vanessa was on duty in the bookshop today, and if she seemed surprised to see them coming in at four o’clock in the afternoon then she didn’t show it, simply waving him through without a word. She gave Riza a little more scrutiny, but since she was coming in with him, there wasn’t a lot of point in giving her the third degree. Of everyone who was involved with Madam Christmas’s bar, Roy was the one who was most aware of the need for secrecy. One of the advantages of joining the military and becoming part of the regular city patrols was getting inside knowledge on which premises were about to be raided as suspected liquor hideaways and being able to subtly clear the bookshop from the records. If it was an abuse of power, well, at least it wasn’t hurting anyone like most of the rest of the abuses of power that the military undertook on a regular basis.

Aunt Chris was behind the bar as usual when they got down into it, and she nodded over to a corner table, where Armstrong and Hughes were already sitting with Gracia. Roy turned back to Riza as Hughes waved him over.

“They’re friends and colleagues. We don’t have to join them if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s fine.” Riza smiled. “I think some happy company sounds like a good idea right now.”

“Roy!” Hughes grabbed the coats that had been holding the other chairs at the table. “Is this the girl you were telling us about?”

“This is Riza Hawkeye, yes. She’s Berthold’s daughter. Riza, this is Alex Armstrong and Maes Hughes, and Hughes’ girlfriend Gracia.”

“Actually, Gracia is no longer my girlfriend.”

Roy raised an eyebrow. Considering how giddy Hughes sounded, he highly doubted that there had just been a break-up.

“She’s my fiancée!”

Gracia gave a long-suffering sigh, but the smile in her eyes showed that she still found Hughes’ antics endearing after being with him for a year.

“Congratulations.” Riza took a seat beside Gracia and the two were soon deep in conversation as Roy went over to the bar to get the next round in.

Chris gave him a look.

“I’m glad you’ve turned up. He’s starting to be insufferable. Why did I let you persuade me to allow your friends in?”

“Because you love me.”

“Unfortunately, that’s true.” Chris peered over his shoulder at Riza. “How did it go at the funeral?”

“Much of a muchness, really. What can you say about a man who was a complete recluse dedicated to his research above all else, including his daughter?”

“Roy, you can’t keep beating yourself up about that. And for God’s sake, not now. She’s got enough on her plate; she doesn’t need to prop up your guilt as well. Don’t make her carry more than she has to. If she wants to be mad at you for not rescuing her then that’s her decision and she can do it in her own time.”

She continued to pour the drinks, and Roy leaned back against the bar, watching his friends.

“You’re not subtle,” Chris said behind him. “Who knows? Maybe now that you’re back in touch, you’ll finally ask her out.”

“Madam!”

“I call them how I see them, Roy-Boy. Remember you’ve always got the perfect date location right here.”

“Yeah, with Vanessa and Fiona teasing me every time I go in and out and you watching like a hawk.”

“Freudian slip there?”

“Shut up.”

He grabbed the drinks and brought them back over to the table, where Hughes was now expounding the current barracks rumour mill theory that Tim Marcoh had faked his own death and was now serving as personal physician to the Emperor of Xing. At least Riza was smiling, and although that tired and haunted look behind her eyes had not gone away, he could tell that the smile was genuine.

It was only later, once Armstrong, Hughes and Gracia had left them, that he could recognise the sheer exhaustion and the willpower it was taking her to hold everything together.

“Do you want me to take you home?”

Riza shook her head. “No. Not yet. I don’t think I can face that big empty house knowing that there’s no one else in it and there never will be again. And knowing that I’m going to have to sell it. It’s not the selling it that’s the problem really, I’m not so attached to it. It’s just all the paperwork involved.”

“Well, you don’t have to think about it right now. And I can always stay over if you want.” Riza gave him a sharp look. “I mean on the sofa!” He tried to backtrack. “So that it’s not so big and empty and lonely.”

She laughed. “No, I’ll be ok. I’m just not ready to face it quite yet.” There was a long pause. “Your friends are nice.”

“They can be a bit much, but they mean well.”

“I wasn’t being sarcastic; they really are nice. Although I think Alex’s goodbye hug might have broken all my ribs.”

“Yeah, he’s not good with ‘subtle’.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Riza sat back in her chair, looking up at the ceiling. “The weirdest thing is not knowing what comes next. I’ve never really had any plans. Well, I had plans but they’re not going to work out. I always just thought I’d end up keeping house for my father until… well, until he died. I just hadn’t reckoned on it being so soon. I’ve got my entire life ahead of me and I have no idea what I’m going to do with it. It’s scary, in a way.”

“What were your plans originally?”

Riza shook her head. “It’s stupid.”

“It can’t be that stupid.”

“Fine. I was going to follow in your footsteps. I wanted to join the military and help you do what you’re doing, trying to change the system from within. But then my back happened so that’s out now.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“I’m not really much good for anything else. What other careers require crack shot aiming skills?” Riza snorted. “Looking back I’m honestly surprised he let me near a gun. Maybe he was cocky enough to know I’d never turn it on him.”

Roy wanted to say something, the urge to apologise again bubbling up in the back of his mind, but he squashed it down. Like Chris had said, Riza was dealing with enough conflicted feelings of her own, she didn’t need his guilt as well.

They continued to drink in silence for a while, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Back when he’d first started learning under Berthold, they’d spent quite a lot of time together like this in the kitchen of the Hawkeye home, and it was surprising how easy it was to slip back into that familiarity despite the intervening years.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the drapes along the back wall twitching and Trisha coming out of the clinic. There was a flash of red lightning as Hohenheim transmuted the door into the wall, and then he came out too.

“We’re off,” Trisha said to Chris. “We’re not expecting anyone else tonight, but you know how to get hold of us if there’s an emergency.”

They left the bar hand in hand and Roy watched them go. When he looked back at Riza, her eyes were following them too, with a kind of longing. She had never given voice to anything, at least not in Roy’s earshot, but he’d often had the thought and he knew she must have had it too. Her back meant that she could never be intimate with anyone. Well, at least not without literally trusting them with her life.

“Roy… Would you do me a favour?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t agree yet, you don’t know what it is.”

“Ok. What is it?”

“Will you burn my back?”

“What?”

“I want to get rid of this thing.” Riza wasn’t looking him in the eye, just staring at the dregs in the bottom of her wine glass. “I want it gone so that I can have a normal life and do all the normal things I should be able to do. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of him having control over me even though I just buried him. It doesn’t matter that he’s dead, he’s always going to have this piece of me, and I don’t want it anymore. I just want it to be over.”

“Riza, maybe it would be better if you think on this without three glasses of wine in you.”

The thought of doing it made him feel sick. He was a state alchemist, and he was career military; he knew that he’d be called on to use flame alchemy on people in the future. He knew he would have to use it to kill people. He’d almost made his peace with that pre-emptively, knowing he would hopefully be able to atone for it once he’d worked to make everything better.

Burning Riza though, even at her own request… Hadn’t she already suffered enough at the hands of flame alchemists?

“It’s not a new idea, Roy. I’ve been thinking about it all week.”

“I still think this isn’t the best time to be discussing it. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll come over and we’ll talk about it then. Honestly, Riza, it’s a large area of skin and the damage I’d have to do to destroy it completely, I think it would kill you.”

Riza nodded. “I understand.”

There was a long silence after that, and in the wake of Riza’s request it was an unusually tense one; the uneasiness remaining long after Riza had changed the subject and they were talking freely again. By the time he was walking her back to the Hawkeye house, though, things seemed to have lightened, and Riza seemed to be feeling a little better.

X

Roy had managed to put the conversation to the back of his mind for most of the following day. He’d taken a few days’ leave for the funeral to be there for Riza if she needed him; she had no other relatives to help her out and she’d lived an isolated enough life not to have any real friends either.

It was only when the phone in the bar rang and Chris passed it over to him that he remembered with a jolt what Riza had asked of him, and his heart was in his mouth as he heard her quiet and hitching voice on the other end of the line.

“Roy, I need your help. I’ve made a massive mistake.”

[thompsborn]

ironhusbands and irondad (with harley, preferably) and a christmas tree lighting?

i wanted the ironhusbands to be more prominent but for some reason i couldn’t think of a good way to change the prompt fill so i’m sorry for it being 99% irondad with like 1% ironhusbands but honestly i really like this prompt and might do a part two if anyone might be interested in that?

(read on ao3!)

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Rose Hill has always been small—that’s most of it’s charm, after all; a population of less than six hundred people, tucked away somewhere in Tennessee, lucky to be printed on maps. Someone could walk from one end of town to the other and back in no more than an hour. Harley would know—he’s done it himself.

Because it’s a small town. Always has been.

But, Christ, it’s never felt smaller.

There’s an odd contrast to it, really. His house feels too big whenever he’s in it, no other noise other than whatever he makes, his footsteps echoing down vacant halls and empty rooms. It used to be full of noise, every second of the day, leaving the radio blaring when no one was home just to make sure there was something good to come home to, filling the space with laughter and music and voices and love.

It’s a shell, now. A shell of a home, the bare bones and no more life, no more soul.

The contrast comes when he steps outside the front door and instantly feels suffocated—by the eyes of his neighbors, so piercing and full of a gut twisting kind of pity, faces he’s known since the day he was born suddenly feeling foreign and unfamiliar as they look at him like he’s something breakable, like he’s made of glass and just moments away from shattering.

He can’t decide what’s worse: the expansive hole that consumes him in his own house, or the rib-bruising claustrophobia that makes his hands shake when he’s out and about.

“You’re too young,” Miss Baker says, when he’s getting some milk from the only grocery store in town. “Too young to be all alone.”

Harley ducks his head, grabs the milk and his change. “It’s fine,” he tells her. “I’m fine.”

And he thinks that, considering the circumstances, he’s actually pretty alright. Of course, it still sucks—it hurts, more than anything he has ever felt before, and the small town loneliness he felt prior to this has only tripled now that he really has nobody, but he’s making it work. He’s scrapping up just enough money to pay the bills. He’s making it work.

December comes, though, and...

And maybe he isn’t as alright as he thought

Christmas lights get strung up around town, like they always do, and when Harley sees them, he gets excited. Starts thinking about that special cinnamon hot chocolate his Mama makes and the ratty orange gloves that Belle wears every year even though she’s starting to outgrow them and they’re god awful ugly, thinks about wandering around with their travel mugs filled with this cocoa, looking at all the lights like they always, always, always do.

And then he remembers—an empty house, bills that he has to pay even though he’s seventeen and shouldn’t be left alone like this, but it’s Rose Hill, where everyone knows everyone, and maybe there’s an agreement ‘round town saying that they’ll keep an eye on the Keener kid themselves—no child services are needed.

Maybe Harley should have noticed by now, the fact that it’s been months and not a single social worker has knocked on his door.

He doesn’t notice much, anymore.

But he notices how much more it seems to ache in his chest as it gets colder, how much it burns his lungs when he breathes.

“Too young,” Miss Baker sighs.

Harley doesn’t even respond this time.

Miss Baker isn’t fooled by his silence, though. She slides his change across the counter and asks him, “Are you goin’ to the tree lightin’?”

“Who’d I go with?” Harley responds.

“Come with my granddaughter and I,” Miss Baker says, reaching over to rest her hand on his wrist, eyes genuine and concerned. It makes him think of when she gave him free candy back when his dad left—a seven year old, buying groceries for the house because his Mama was working a double shift to cover the bills that were suddenly all on her and little Annabelle Keener was only a toddler, being watched by the neighbors until Harley got home and could take care of her himself. The reminder makes something within him that was already dead shrivel up and give a resounding ache that makes the pulse point on his wrists throb. He flexes his fingers to see if it’ll help and almost misses it when Miss Baker goes on to say, “Her parents—you know, Carl and Jenny, over past the middle school?—they’re on a trip, won’t be back ‘til mornin’ on Christmas Eve, so it’ll just be the two of us. Could use the company, and I bet that you could, too, right?”

Harley wants to say no, but Miss Baker looks at him with hope, like maybe she can be the one to provide some solace, some relief to him pain, with nothing more than an invitation to attend the christmas tree lighting with her and her eleven year old granddaughter, and Harley, despite everything, has always been a people pleaser, raised to be polite, so he forces a smile and nods his head and says, “Alright, Miss Baker. I’ll go with y’all, if you want me to.”

Miss Baker smiles back, sad and sympathetic. “Oh, dear,” she murmurs. “Of course we want you to. Someone’s always gonna want you.”

He pulls his hands back, lets her comforting gesture of palm pressed to wrist fall to the counter as he collects his change and ducks his head. “Thanks, Miss Baker,” he murmurs.

Before she can do much more than let out a sad puff of a sigh, he’s walking away.

The next weekend, Miss Baker knocks on his door, her granddaughter, Maddison, holding her hand and looking up at Harley with a slight frown when he steps onto the porch. He considered ditching them, quite honestly, but he’ll just see Miss Baker again in a few days time when he’s got to restock on some groceries, and explaining himself then sounds a lot more exhausting than just toughing it out now. Maddison seems apprehensive of him at first, but he sees his sister in her blue eyes and cracks a dumb joke that makes her lips twitch up, just slightly, and by the time they reach the church, where the tree lighting occurs, she’s holding onto Harley’s hand, too, and chatting his ear off about her friends at school.

It hurts, more than anything, but she’s a kid. She’s just a kid, and Harley pushes past the pain, the reminder of the girl who he’ll never get to see grow up, and nods along, encourages her whenever she seems wary of rambling on for too long, listens to every word she says.

Miss Baker looks heartbroken, yet fond.

The tree lighting, in Rose Hill, is always an ordeal. It isn’t sacred by any means, but it’s something that the town likes to make a fun event out of, closing down shops for a few hours the day of just to make sure everyone is able to attend. Harley hasn’t missed a lighting since he was born. He doesn’t think any Rose Hill resident whose lived here their whole lives and haven’t moved out yet has.

What this means is that Harley knows the tree lighting routine. He knows the crowd, too.

He knows when there’s an unfamiliar face.

Or, rather, an extremely familiar face, mingled in an environment that it doesn’t belong in. Harley’s too tired to even question it, really, just lets out a sigh and tells Maddison and Miss Baker, “I think I just—I just saw an old friend, from out of town. I’m gonna... I’ll be back.”

Maddison pouts as he walks away, but she’s an eleven year old girl who barely knows him, no matter how small Rose Hill is, and she doesn’t hesitate to start talking with her Grandmother instead. Miss Baker looks after him, frowning, but gets distracted by Maddison’s excited rambles before he’s fully out of sight.

He winds up by the table set up on the cement path leading towards the entrance to the church, pours himself some hot chocolate and turns around, takes a sip while leaning back against the table. Moments later, that familiar face appears by his side, his own cup in hand, leaning back just like Harley is.

For a long moment, it’s quiet. Then:

“I’m sorry, kid.”

Harley tenses, clenches his jaw, then forces himself to relax with a shrug. “S’alright.”

Tony gives him a side glance, lips in a pursed sort of frown, brows drawn together. “It isn’t,” he says, matter-of-fact in his tone.

Oddly, Harley smiles. “It isn’t,” he amends.

“I wanted to reach out sooner,” Tony tells him. Takes a languid sip of his own cocoa, hums happily at the warmth it provides. Smacks his lips together, too, like this is a normal conversation, not something heavy and horrendously agonizing to talk about. “You know me, though—avoiding confrontation like it’s the plague, especially when there’s emotions involved. Took me a while to realize that, whether you want me to reach out or not, maybe you need me to, either way.”

Harley glances at him, looks away quickly, stares down at his shoes. “I’m fine,” he half heartedly assures. “I don’t—I don’t need...”

When Harley trails off, Tony lets out a soft yet haggard sort of sigh. “You do,” he says, tone gentle. “You need something, even if it isn’t me. Christ, Harley, you’re—you’re seventeen, making ends meet and paying the bills illegally, just to barely scrap by. You can’t keep doing this, and you know it. It’s not good for you.”

“Yeah, well.” Harley tips his head back and gulps the rest of his hot chocolate down in one go, barely wincing when it scolds his tongue, before smiling wryly at Tony and saying, “It’s working so far, isn’t it? I’m doing alright.”

Tony looks at him sadly, features vulnerable in a way that the great Tony Stark never shows. “Kid,” he practically whispers, voice more air than it is sound, yet still providing a sucker punch to Harley’s chest and making his forced smile drop. “It wasn’t your fault, alright? And you shouldn’t punish yourself for it.”

Harley clenches his jaw, tosses his empty cup into the garbage, and shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’m gonna go,” he says gruffly, looking anywhere but at Tony. “Miss Baker’ll be wonderin’ where I am, so I—I shouldn’t—”

Before Harley can finish his half assed excuse for departure, Tony pulls him in, his cup having been set on the table before them, and envelopes him in a hug. At first, Harley goes tense, rigid and unsure, but then Tony begins to rub a circle against the center of his back and he melts into it, forehead dropping to Tony’s shoulder and hands coming up to clench childishly at the winter-thick coat that Tony is wearing. His eyes squeeze shut and his breathing stutters and it hurts. God, it hurts.

“Rhodey’s worried,” Tony murmurs to him, as if Harley isn’t starting to practically hyperventilate in his arms, like Harley isn’t shaking like a leaf and holding onto him like an infant. “We both our, but you know Rhodey—more protective than I am, when it comes to family, anyway. He kept poking and prodding at me to get my head out of my ass and fly out here to see you. You haven’t answered his calls or anything, and, even if he hasn’t admitted it yet, he’s gotten attached to you, kid. Started trying to come up with plans for you to move in with us as soon as we heard about what happened. I tried telling him that we shouldn’t make those plans without talking to you first, but he was so sure you’d want to that he didn’t bother waiting to make sure.”

Harley’s lungs constrict around the near silent gasp that he intakes, and he wants to pull back from the hug and get defensive, wants to insist that he doesn’t want to go anywhere, that he doesn’t need anything, but tears are burning the backs of his eyes and—Christ, he’s a kid.

Belle was a kid, only twelve years old, when the truck lost traction and careened into an oncoming vehicle. Harley hasn’t felt like a kid since David Keener walked out the door, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s only just seventeen and isn’t that a child, too? Isn’t he allowed to want someone to take care of him for a change? Isn’t he allowed to break down?

“Y’mean that?” Harley rasps, barely manages to push the sound through his closing up throat. Tony holds him closer. “Me, stayin’ with you?”

“Of course, bud,” Tony tells him. He chuckles, and it sounds wet, like he’s swallowing back his own tears. “I may be emotionally constipated, but I love you, kid. Rhodey, too. Christ, Rhodey adores you—I think he wanted to adopt you the second he met you, but you were happy here.”

Harley nods, turns his head to tuck himself into Tony’s neck, ducked beneath his jaw. “I was,” he whispers. “I was. But I—I’m not, anymore.”

Tony nods. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know, kid.”

“Okay,” Harley rasps. “I wanna—wanna go. With you, and Rhodey. I don’t wanna be alone.”

“Christ, Harley.” Tony holds him impossibly tighter, buries his nose in Harley’s hair and lets out a long and shaky breath. “You’re not alone, alright? Never. Not if I’ve got a say in it.”

-

Harley looks at the Quinjet with trepidation.

He wants this, he knows—staying in Rose Hill, while the place he’ll always think of when he thinks of his Mama, thinks if Annabelle, is only going to cause him more and more pain. But wanting to leave doesn’t make leaving any easier. It doesn’t do anything to ebb away the sense that he’s abandoning his family.

But then Rhodey steps out, just and warm and gentle in the eyes as Tony has been since showing up at the tree lighting, and Harley feels a sense of safety settle over him.

Rhodey has always cared for him—about him. Ever since Tony introduced them back when Harley was fourteen and spending a week during the summer staying at Stark Tower. They aren’t his Mama, aren’t his sister, aren’t a part of the Keener family, no, but Harley knows them. He trusts them, loves them, even.

When Harley drops his bags by his feet and falls into Rhodey’s awaiting embrace, he feels warm.

Oddly enough, he feels okay.

[searchingwardrobes]

Happy birthday, @welllpthisishappening ! For your special day (I hear it is a big birthday?), I wanted to incorporate things you love into a fic. That includes baseball, and if my ignorant self made any errors, I apologize! Anyway, I hope you enjoy discovering some of your favorite things in this fic. I admire you tremendously as a talented writer and overall wonderful person, and I wish you the very best of birthdays!

Summary: Emma Swan doesn’t do friends with benefits - too many feelings involved. But best friends with a guy she slept with once? Well, that’s completely different. So they get jealous every now and then, that’s not feelings - right? Based on the song by the Gin Blossoms.

Rated T for adult situations and language

Words: Almost 6,000

Also on Ao3 and part of my Fandom Birthday Playlist

Tagging the usuals:@snowbellewells @jennjenn615 @kday426 @let-it-raines @teamhook@kmomof4 @bethacaciakay @profdanglaisstuff @resident-of-storybrooke @thislassishooked @tiganasummertree@whimsicallyenchantedrose @snidgetsafan @delirious-latenight-laughs @winterbaby89 @distant-rose@shireness-says @xhookswenchx @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @branlovestowrite

And you know it might not be that bad, you were the best I ever had. If I hadn’t blown the whole thing years ago, I might not be alone.

What’s the cliche? Something about not wasting time looking in the rearview mirror because that’s not where your headed? Of course, Emma Swan has always been difficult, so to speak, with life maxims. It isn’t that she’s intentionally trying to be cynical, it’s just . . . Is she the only one who ever thinks through these cute sayings? Because, yeah, out the front windshield is your destination, but who doesn’t use their rearview mirrors when driving? What if someone with road rage is kissing your bumper? And don’t people pass slow drivers? Kind of need your rearview mirrors for that.

Of course, there’s probably some saying about not speeding through life or staying in your lane . . . ok, now she’s probably muddling the driving metaphors.

The point is, Emma finds herself looking in her proverbial rearview mirror a lot. They say “what ifs” are pointless, but she’s got plenty of them anyway. Most are painful. What if my parents had kept me? What if Neal and I really had gotten to Tallahassee? What if I had held him, just for a minute?

But others make her grateful. What if Ruth hadn’t taken in an angry, pregnant teen? What if David hadn’t been all “instant big brother”? What if Ruby hadn’t been assigned the office right next to mine?

The one that plagues her the most, however, is What if I had never slept with Killian Jones? Not that the night itself wasn’t great - it was. Not that Killian didn’t graciously ignore the constant elephant in the room - he did. Not that they weren’t best friends despite it all - they were.

She just wondered sometimes . . . she wasn’t even sure, she just . . . wondered. Her sexual partners all fit into three categories: Neal (relationship), one night stands, and Killian, who was . . . what exactly? Her best friend she slept with that one time? The one night stand who became her best friend? Her best friend who just so happened to be a little drunk and sort of lonely at the exact same time she was a little drunk and sort of lonely?

None of their (mutual) friends knew about what happened between the maid of honor and the best man at David and Mary Margaret’s wedding. After all, she and Killian had never met until that weekend. It should have been a perfect one night stand situation - he lived in Seattle. As in, on the complete opposite side of the country. Then his college best friend had to go and get him a job at Storybook Biz.

Thanks a lot, David.

And just like that, her one night stand was across the hall every day at work. It should have been awkward.

Only it wasn’t. And now Emma’s constantly pondering that damn rearview mirror . . .

Tell me do you think it’d be alright if I could just crash here tonight? You see I’m in no shape for driving, and anyway, I’ve got no place to go.

Killian knocking at Emma’s door at a quarter to midnight wasn’t necessarily an oddity. But Killian knocking on her door at a quarter to midnight when he was supposed to be on a date? That wasn’t exactly common.

“Are you drunk?”

He stumbled past her, running his fingers through his already disheveled hair. “Only slightly.”

“I take it the date didn’t go well,” she muttered as she closed the door.

Killian kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto her couch without preamble. “I suppose it depends upon your point of view.” He flung his arm over his face wearily. Emma sat at the opposite end of the couch and propped his feet in her lap.

“Okay, Obi-Wan, enlighten me.”

His voice was muffled beneath his forearm. “Before the appetizers even arrived I knew everything I never wanted to know about Aladdin.”

“Which one, the cartoon or the new one with Will Smith?”

Killian chuckled as he caught her eye, his arm sliding up to rest on his forehead. “Jasmine’s ex.”

Emma’s eyebrows flew to her hairline. “Your date’s name was Jasmine, and her ex is Aladdin? Seriously?”

“I couldn’t make this up if I tried, love. Anyway, I suppose the evening ended well for them since I basically assisted in getting them back together. She raced out of the restaurant to meet him, leaving me with a platter of wontons.”

“Are you trying to date or run some sort of relationship rehab?” Emma asked as she propped a throw pillow on his feet and hugged it to her chest.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Emma shrugged. “This was your first date since Ariel, and you were only helping her make Eric jealous.”

“Which also worked, I’d like to point out.” He grabbed a fistful of his hair as a light seemed to dawn in his eyes. “You know, Swan, you may be onto a new career for me.”

Emma rolled her eyes and then smacked him in the stomach with the pillow. “Shut up. You better not abandon me to Scarlett. There would be bloodshed in the office.”

Killian grabbed the pillow, holding it just out of her reach as she tried to snatch it back. “Are you trying to say that I’m the most brilliant cover designer at SB?”

“No,” Emma huffed, lunging across Killian’s torso to finally get hold of the pillow, “I’m saying you’re much less of a dick than Scarlett.”

Though Killian was the best cover designer they had on staff, and everyone knew it. Including Killian.

“I’d also reconsider your dating choices,” Emma continued, shifting so she was wedged between him and the couch.

“Swan,” Killian groaned, “not this again. You haven’t liked anyone I’ve dated.”

“That’s not true!”

“You didn’t like Ursula.”

“She was too old for you.”

“Belle.”

“She was actually into Scarlett the whole time, and really, how many women can you say that about?”

“Zelena.”

“You didn’t like Zelena! You found an excuse to bail before the menus arrived.”

“Okay, she was scary. But what about Tink? You despised Tink.”

“Well of course. She calls herself Tink for God’s sake.”

He arched one brow at her, then tickled her feet until she kicked him lightly in the ribs. “Okay, I’ll concede, Tink was a little on the eccentric side.”

“You know, I see a pattern here. Jasmine, Ariel, Belle. Should I start calling you Prince Charming?”

Killian gave her his trademark grin, the one that was lopsided and slightly cocky. “I dated a woman named Tink, love, maybe you should call me Captain Hook.”

Emma barked a laugh and dug her toes into his collar bone. “With a perm and a waxed moustache?”

“I could pull it off.”

He probably could, the bastard. Emma swung her feet around and stood up with a grunt.

“I should probably get you some water and an aspirin.”

Killian took the throw pillow she’d discarded and placed it behind his head. “I didn’t have all that much to drink, honestly. Just thought I’d play it safe and crash here? The restaurant was only a block away.”

He gave her his best puppy dog face, and Emma rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

“And I didn’t have anything else to eat after the wontons.”

“I’ll make you a grilled cheese.” She was grumbling as she headed for the kitchen, but in truth she was glad he’d stopped by.

She was always glad when he stopped by. It had nothing to do with his bad date with Jasmine. Nothing at all.

“Only thing is,” Killian sighed as she pulled the frying pan out of her kitchen cabinet, “now I don’t have a date to the charity ball.”

“Oh,” Emma muttered as she got out the bread and cheese. She turned to get the plates, and smiled to see Killian already there, handing them to her. They moved about the kitchen with practiced ease until the sandwiches were ready. Killian grabbed some sodas from the fridge, and they headed back to the sofa.

“What about you, Swan?”

“What about me?” Emma asked, licking a drop of cheese off her finger.

Killian’s eyes darted to her lips, then he gave his head a slight shake. “Um, about the charity event next weekend.”

Several firms in the publishing industry were holding the event. The kickoff was the ball on Friday night, but there was also a charity baseball tournament on Saturday, and a carnival on Sunday. All of it was to raise money for a childhood literacy foundation. It was a pretty big deal for Storybook Biz to be involved. They were the only company participating that provided services to self-publishers, and exclusively in children’s and YA lit at that. It could put their relatively small company in the limelight, something that Regina was reminding them of on a constant basis. Complete participation was required.

“Well, believe it or not, Walsh agreed to go.”

Emma could see Killian’s adam’s apple as he swallowed, his eyes widening slightly.

“A third date, huh?”

Emma set her plate down with a thud on the coffee table. “What’s that tone?”

“There was no tone.”

“Yes there was.”

Killian sighed. “I just . . . think you could do better.”

You mean like you? The words were on the tip of her tongue before she swallowed them back. No need to shine a spotlight on that damn elephant.

“He’s a nice guy!”

“He looks like a monkey.”

“He does not. That’s ridiculous.” Emma shoved her sandwich in her mouth and chewed furiously. Walsh did have sort of a weird smile that when you thought about it . . . She suddenly found her Charlie’s Angels thrift store plate absurdly fascinating. She cringed when Killian practically crowed with laughter.

“You see it too, admit it! It’s the ears -”

“Now that’s the pot calling the kettle black, wouldn’t you say?” Emma teased, reaching over to tug on Killian’s elf shaped ears. They were adorable, actually, but she wasn’t about to tell him that.

The ear tugging escalated into a tickling/wresting match that involved pillows, Emma’s set of Jonas Brothers coasters, and using her Charlie’s Angels plates as frisbees. By the time they ended up in a heap on the couch, talk of dates was forgotten as they decided to binge watch Parks & Rec.

She absolutely did not care who he was taking to the charity ball anyway.

The past is gone but something might be found to take its place . . . Hey, jealousy.

When Walsh rang her apartment, Emma had to lift the skirts of her massive ball gown just to walk to the door. She was going to grumble and complain to her friends about the theme of this ball - An Enchanted Fairy Tale Evening - but secretly, she sort of liked this whole formal wear cosplay thing.

Except for what this corset was doing to her spleen.

“Walsh, what the hell?”

The man was standing there in the hallway wearing a black tux. He even had a corsage in a little plastic box like he was taking her to the prom.

He looked her up and down incredulously in a way that no woman wants to be looked at by a man taking her to a ball. His look was equivalent to the way a baby boomer rolled their eyes at a Potterhead dressed up for Dragon Con.

“I didn’t think you were serious about the themed thing.”

“Yes I was serious! Now we’re going to look ridiculous!”

“We will look ridiculous?”

His laugh died under Emma’s withering scowl. She grabbed her clutch and practically slammed her door behind her. “Let’s go.”

He never even told her she looked nice.

************************************************************

“Swan. You look . . . “

Emma gave Killian a quirk of her brow and a teasing smile as she curtsied somewhat awkwardly. “I know.”

“I mean . . . “ Killian walked around her (quite a feat, actually, the skirt was massive) admiring her at every angle, “you cut quite the figure in that dress, love, and red has always been my favorite color on you.”

Emma glanced at a scowling Walsh as Killian bent to kiss her hand. Well, it served him right. He should have gushed over her long before they arrived. Killian’s eyes met hers, and he winked.

“Okay, that’s enough pawing my date,” Walsh grumbled, giving Killian a slight shove. He flashed the other man a tight yet friendly smile to temper his words, but Walsh was clearly marking his territory. Emma crossed her arms over her chest before Walsh could tuck her hand into the crook of his arm. His jealousy was far from cute.

“Did Emma not tell you there was a theme?”

Walsh tilted his chin. “I’m a little past playing dress up.”

Emma’s jaw dropped, but Killian just chuckled. “Well, mate, looks like you’re the only one.”

He slapped Walsh on the shoulder just a tad harder than necessary and gave Emma another wink as he rejoined his date for the night. It was just Anna, who was practically his sister since Elsa married Liam, and the only reason she came with Killian tonight was because Kristoff came down with the flu.

Not that Emma cared who his date was, of course. However, she couldn’t deny how incredibly handsome he looked in a long, brown brocade coat with gold buttons and blue leather breeches. The white linen shirt beneath had just enough buttons undone to give him a rakish look, and she remembered their conversation about Prince Charming and Captain Hook. The man even had a gold sword at his hip.

“Could you, uh, get me a drink?” Emma asked Walsh, her throat dry.

The minute he was gone, there was a voice at Emma’s ear.

“If you stare at Killian any harder, he’s gonna burst into flames.”

Emma jumped, her heart giving a little lurch. “Shit, Rubes, don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Not that I blame you,” Ruby continued with a smirk, “he makes a great prince, doesn’t he?”

Emma shook her head, but couldn’t help smiling at her friend. Ruby’s dress was your standard Renaissance festival garb, but what made her stand out was the crimson cape she’d draped over it. She also carried a little basket in lieu of a clutch.

“Little Red Riding Hood?”

Ruby’s bright red lips quirked in a flirty grin. “It’s a fairy tale.”

“So who’s your big bad wolf?”

Ruby rolled her eyes. “I came with Victor.”

“Rubes!”

“I’m between relationships, and I knew he would say yes.”

Emma shook her head, but before she could warn her friend any further regarding her on again, off again ex, Walsh was at her side with a flute of champagne.

“Thanks,” she told him, taking a sip.

“Hey, Walsh,” Ruby said, “I heard you were playing in the game tomorrow.”

Emma almost choked on her champagne. “You are?”

“Well, yeah,” he said with a shrug, “I’ve done some CPA work for Macmillan, and they were short a man. I was going to tell you.”

“Macmillan?” David asked as he walked up with Mary Margaret on his arm. They were dressed as Snow White and Prince Charming.

Naturally.

“SB is playing Macmillan in the first game.”

“Oh, well, be prepared for my girl to cheer against you.”

Emma gritted her teeth as Walsh planted a wet kiss to her cheek.

“She’s no one’s girl.” Killian’s eyes were laser focused on her as he joined the group, his jaw tight. Emma couldn’t decide if it was sweet or embarrassing. Walsh rocked back on his heels, chuckling nervously.

“Right, right, woman. I meant woman.”

“Woman,” Killian bit out sarcastically, his gaze still on Emma, “I don’t think your date understood the full meaning of my criticism, love.”

Emma stepped out of Walsh’s half-embrace before his fingers could dig any further into her waist. She stepped between him and Killian in what she hoped was a casual move.

“Why don’t we dance?” She widened her eyes slightly, hoping Killian would pick up on her silently begging him not to make a scene.

“He doesn’t get the first dance, I do!” Walsh’s voice rose slightly, indignant, as he grasped her by the elbow.

Emma saw Killian’s eyes flash, and she bit back a groan.

“Don’t grab her like that, mate.”

Emma was probably the only one who noticed the way he bit out that final word, and she was probably the only one who knew that his steely calm was way more dangerous than raising his voice would have been. She smoothly yanked her arm out of Walsh’s grasp and laid her hand gently on Killian’s shoulder.

“I can handle this,” she whispered.

“Hey!” Walsh snapped, his voice rising another octave. He knocked Emma’s hand off Killian’s shoulder, and that was the proverbial last straw. How had she not seen what an epic jerk this guy was until three dates in? She turned, fully prepared to slap Walsh across the face for daring to touch her yet again like he owned her.

Killian, however, beat her to it.

Faster than anyone could process it, Killian’s fist had connected with Walsh’s jaw, and the latter stumbled backwards before losing his balance and hitting the floor.

“Killian! What the hell?” Emma shouted, more because she’d missed her opportunity to hit Walsh herself than concern for her date. Then she noticed the hush fall over the room and saw the gaze of most of the party goers directed at them. She turned towards Killian then, her face burning with humiliation.

He was no longer looking at her, though, instead towering over Walsh with both fists clenched.

“You’re insane!” Walsh shouted at him, rubbing at his jaw. “She said you were her best friend, but clearly you’re fucking her too.”

Killian surely would have kicked the shit out of Walsh then, based on the fire in his eyes, but Regina chose that moment to step in. With the same terrifying grace she wielded so well in the office, she grasped both Emma and Killian by the upper arm with surprising strength.

“If I may have a word,” she hissed as she pulled them towards the ballroom entrance. Once in the hallway, she shoved them into the coatroom, slamming the door behind her. She turned to them then, leaning her back against the door and crossing her arms over her chest. She was dressed in a skin tight red velvet dress with a long train that pooled around her feet. Her blood red lipstick and blood red nails only added to the overall effect.

“I see you decided to go with Evil Queen instead of princess,” Killian quipped, “perfect choice, your majesty.”

“Shut it, Jones,” she snapped. If looks could kill, Emma was pretty sure she and Killian would have dropped dead right then. “Do you have any idea the groveling I had to do to get our company invited to this event? The last thing we need is you two causing a scene. Now either go back out there and be professional, or - “ Regina paused and smirked at the two of them, “fuck already and put us all out of our misery.”

She left then, leaving Emma red-faced with her jaw on the floor. Her hands fisted in her taffeta skirt, and she refused to even look at Killian. When he spoke, the teasing tone in his voice only made her angry.

“Little does she know -”

“Don’t. Even. Say it.”

Emma leveled him with a murderous glare of her own before stomping over to the door of the coat room. She tripped over her skirt in the process, which sort of ruined the whole tone she was going for, but she stubbornly squared her shoulders and reached for the doorknob. She threw a few more words at him over her shoulder, once again avoiding eye contact.

“Don’t follow me. Wait ten minutes and give me time to get Walsh out of here before you two go swinging your dicks around again.”

As she yanked the door open, Killian replied softly behind her, “As you wish.”

Cause all I really want is to be with you, feeling like I matter too. If I hadn’t blown the whole thing years ago, I might be here with you.

The only bright side to leaving the ball early with Walsh was that she actually got a good night’s sleep and didn’t have to worry about a hangover the next day.

And dumping Walsh - that was a bright side too.

A good night’s sleep with no hangover was definitely a positive when sitting in the bleachers in the blazing hot sun on a Saturday afternoon. She really couldn’t believe she was required to be here. At least the concession stand had decent onion rings.

“Emma!” Mary Margaret called out as she navigated the bleachers with a container of chili cheese fries in her hands.

“MM, thank God! I was starting to think I was the only one at SB who wasn’t in the game.”

“Well, to be honest,” Mary Margaret admitted as she took a seat next to Emma, “I would prefer to be out there. David is being a bit too overprotective right now.”

“Overprotective? Why?”

Mary Margaret beamed, a twinkle in her eye as she subtly rested her hand on her abdomen. Emma gasped.

“Are you serious?”

“You mean do I seriously have a Nolan bun in the oven? Yes, yes I do.”

Emma hugged her friend. “I’m so happy for you! I can’t believe David let you tell me.”

MM shrugged. “I told him if he was going to be this ridiculou, he better let me tell you the real reason I’m not in the game.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Sounds like David. You’re not even showing, what could happen?”

“Please don’t ask your brother that question. He’ll give you a dozen scenarios, each one more ridiculous than the last. When I imagined him trailing behind me on the diamond like I might break, I decided to humor him rather than be humiliated. Besides, this morning sickness clearly isn’t fond of the heat. No one wants to see me puke all over the dugout.”

“Yet you’re eating chili cheese fries.” Emma arched both brows as she glanced from the greasy food, to her sister-in-law, and back again.

“There’s no rhyme or reason to morning sickness, Emma. This was the only thing on the menu that didn’t make me want to hurl. Oh, and fyi, I’d keep those onion rings downwind.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Emma quipped, moving her favorite junk food to her other side.

Mary Margaret waved to her husband, and David waved back. “That man looks so good in a baseball jersey.”

“Ew, sister here.”

Mary Margaret laughed around a cheesy fry. “Okay then, how do you think Killian looks in a baseball jersey?”

“I’m mad at him, if you haven’t noticed.”

“That has no bearing on how he looks in the damn uniform, Emma.”

The inning had just ended, and the SB players were returning to the dugout. Killian’s eyes fell on Emma’s, and he gave her a tentative smile and a small wave. Emma, her eyes safely hidden behind a large pair of sunglasses, ignored him. His way too expressive face made it clear that she may as well have shouted obscenities at him. She sighed.

“Can you just admit the man is madly in love with you?” MM groaned.

Emma had never been so thankful for sunglasses in her life. “Would everyone just stop? We’re close. Best friends. That’s it.”

“Right.”

“And not friends with benefits, despite what Rubes says. I don’t do that.”

“Oh, I know it,” MM deadpanned, “but don’t think everyone in the office hasn’t noticed the yearning looks and doey eyes.”

“I don’t yearn,” Emma muttered before shoving an onion ring in her mouth.

“Maybe, but he does.” Emma chanced a glance at MM. She was regarding her with a tender, almost pitying look on her face. She laid a hand on Emma’s arm. “And I think you’re just better at hiding it.”

“I don’t see any evidence that Killian is . . . is . . . “

“In love with you? God, you can’t even spit out the word!” MM gave a wry chuckle. “And no evidence? Are you insane? Every time there’s donuts in the break room, he makes sure to deliver a bear claw to your desk. With a note, I might add.”

“They’re just inside jokes, not love letters.” Emma snorted through her nose, but it came out somewhat pathetic.

“And last Valentine’s day,” MM continued, undeterred, “how many bags of conversation hearts did he go through to pick out every single one that said best friend?”

Emma couldn’t help smiling at the memory. “Ok, but it’s not like he picked out the ones that said True Love or Soulmate or something.”

“God, you are grasping at straws. You have to admit that -”

The crack of the bat resounded through the ball field, and Emma and MM abandoned their snacks and surged to their feet as Killian tossed the bat aside and ran towards first. They shouted and cheered as the MacMillan outfield ran to retrieve the ball and Killian rounded second.

“Oh no,” Emma whispered.

There, crowding third base, was Walsh.

“Is he allowed to do that?” MM asked.

Emma’s stomach protested all those onion rings as she saw the determined look on Killian’s face and Walsh’s stubborn stance. This was clearly not about baseball, but personal. A sickening feeling washed over her as Walsh leaned one shoulder forward just as Killian reached the base. Walsh drove his entire body into Killian, sending him sprawling to the dirt.

“What does he think this is, football?” MM screeched.

The blood drained from Emma’s face when Killian didn’t get up. She shoved her way down the bleachers, running full tilt out onto the field. The umpire was already heading that way, and play had ceased.

“What the hell, Walsh!” she screamed as she skid to her knees at Killian’s side. “This isn’t the fucking World Series!”

Part of her wanted to fling herself at the man and beat the crap out of him, but her desire to know that Killian was okay won out. She leaned over him, just as his eyes blinked open, squinting at the bright sun overhead.

“Hey, beautiful!” he said to her, his voice slurred, his eyes unfocused.

“Call 911!” Emma yelled at the players gathered around.

“Come on, Emma,” Will retorted, “it’s just a concussion.”

“Don’t argue with me, Scarlett, I swear to God! Just make the damn call!”

Killian started murmuring again, groping with his hand as if trying to find her. “I knew you cared - I mean, really cared. You love me, don’t you?”

Emma took his hand to still it’s frantic movements and held it tight. “Of course I do.”

“No,” he slurred, “I mean looooove.”

“911!” Emma barked, at who she didn’t care. Killian’s eyes were rolling back in his head, and why the hell did nobody but her care?

“Ems,” David said gently, “seriously, we’ll take him to the ER. No need for an ambulance.”

He and Robin each took Killian by the arm and helped him to his feet. Killian swayed and his head lolled. His eyes started to close, and Robin slapped his cheek a few times.

“Stay with me, mate.”

“Robin!” Killian crowed. “Did you know I love Emma?”

“Yes, Kil, I heard that.”

Emma glared at Ruby when she let out a snort. “Don’t even, Rubes!”

“What? I didn’t say a thing!”

Emma followed closely behind the men as they half walked, half dragged Killian across the baseball diamond and out to the parking lot. Mary Margaret was there, hovering around Killian like a mother bird.

“Watch his head!” she warned as they slid him into the back seat of her and David’s car. “Emma, stay back here with him.”

And just like that, Emma was in the back seat with Killian’s head in her lap. She kept having to slap his cheek to keep him awake. Without conscious thought, her fingers carded through his hair. Every time she patted his cheek, he mumbled more sappy, romantic nonsense. Thankfully, it was all G rated with no reference to the weekend they met. No need to tempt David to skip the hospital altogether.

“You know,” MM said with exaggerated thoughtfulness, “they say in moments like this, a person’s inhibitions are gone, enabling them to speak their truth.”

“Not the time, MM,” Emma told her through clenched teeth.

Mary Margaret just gave her a self-satisfied grin.

And you can trust me not to think, and not to sleep around. If you don’t expect too much from me, you might not be let down.

Emma sat in one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs made of molded plastic, shifting in a vain attempt to get comfortable. She kept clasping and unclasping her hands nervously. The look on Liam Jones’s face before going back to see his brother was worse than any look David had ever leveled at the men she had dated. It clearly said this is all your fault, Emma.

“Ignore Liam,” Elsa told her, putting a slender hand to her shoulder. “His overprotectiveness borders on insanity. How in the world could a concussion from a charity baseball game be your fault?”

Emma deflated, resting her head on Elsa’s shoulder. “No, in this case he’s right. It is my fault. If I had seen what a douchebag Walsh was earlier, Killian would have never punched him at the ball, and then Walsh would have never sent him crashing to the dirt.”

“Or,” Elsa amended, “you could have stopped pretending to be clueless and just accepted your feelings for Killian. Then you’d both quit making stupid decisions.”

Emma lifted her head from Elsa’s shoulder. “What is this? Can’t everyone cut me some slack?”

“We just all want you to be happy.”

“Who says dating Killian will make me happy? It could all blow up in our faces and then we don’t even have a friendship anymore.”

“Emma,” Elsa said gently, tucking a strand of hair behind her friend’s ear, “the deepest kind of love starts with friendship.”

Emma covered her face with both hands. Elsa didn’t know how it all started - no one did. When Killian had shown up at Storybook Biz with a cardboard box resting at his hip, Emma had played it cool. He probably thought she hated the night they’d spent together, or at the very least assumed it meant nothing to her. Now they were firmly stuck in the friend zone and she had no idea what to do about it.

Or maybe this concussion was a blessing in disguise? She groaned. For one, that was incredibly selfish of her, and for another, he most likely remembered nothing that he’d said to her.

“He’s asking for you.”

Emma rose quickly at the sound of Liam’s voice, then swayed at her sudden dizziness. She blinked to clear the spots in her vision. She suddenly realized she’d had no water since leaving the baseball field. Great, she was dehydrated and emotionally drained. Perfect.

“Take this and drink all of it,” Elsa commanded, pressing a water bottle into her hand. No wonder Elsa and MM had been blessed with husbands and babies. Taking care of people was embedded in their DNA.

Emma took a swig of the water as she headed down the hallway to Killian’s room. They had done an MRI already, confirming that it was a concussion, and a pretty severe one at that. He had been admitted to a room to stay overnight for observation. It made Emma sway again just thinking about it, and she took another sip of water to steady herself.

When she entered the room, Killian turned to her with a smile on his face. He looked odd in the hospital gown, his normal bravado toned down by the washed out, institutional garment. There was an IV in his hand, and sensors taped to his chest, and machines beeped. All of it combined to make tears spring to Emma’s eyes.

“Hey,” he told her, reaching out to take her hand as she neared the bed, “I’m fine.”

“No you’re not,” she choked out.

“Ok,” he conceded, “but I will be.”

She couldn’t speak, so she just squeezed his hand. He reached up with his free hand and scratched behind his ear.

“So about the stuff I said when I was . . . out of it.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Emma assured him quickly, waving her hand as if swatting away so many flies. “You didn’t know what you were saying.”

Killian frowned as if her words hurt him. “Everything since I hit the ground is patchy, Emma, I’ll admit, but there’s one thing I do know. I was blabbering on about my feelings for you, all of which I definitely meant.”

Emma felt a sudden urge to run, but Killian tightened his grip on her hand, threading his fingers with hers. He held her hand a lot, but she gazed at their interlaced fingers as if she’d never seen them that way before.

“Now that those words are out, Emma, I refuse to take them back. I know that night at the wedding didn’t mean to you what it did to me, and I’m well aware that you deserve far better than the likes of me, but -”

“Excuse me?”

Killian blinked rapidly, his shock at her harsh tone clearly evident on his face. “Um . . . what?”

She pulled her hand away and crossed her arms over her chest. “Did you seriously just say that I deserve better than you?”

Killian’s gaze darted to the open door, as if hoping Liam would arrive and rescue him. “Uh . . . yes?”

“And did you also just say that the night we spent together meant nothing to me?”

Killian swallowed nervously, and Emma bit the inside of her cheek to keep the scowl on her face.

“I . . . yes, I said that, too.”

Emma propped her hands on her hips and tilted her chin. “I’ll have you know, Killian Jones, that I’ve replayed that night in my mind on numerous occasions.”

A half-smile quirked his lips. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

He licked his bottom lip and arched one brow. “And why, may I ask, do you replay it so often?”

Emma gave him a half-smile of her own. “Because it was pretty damn good.”

Both of Killian’s brows rose. “Pretty good? Because I have to say, Emma Swan, that you’re the best I’ve ever had.”

Emma couldn’t stop the huge grin that split her face at that, and despite the IV and the narrow bed and all the beeping machinery, she launched herself at him. He caught her, successfully maneuvering all of the cords out of her way. She slanted her mouth over his, awkward and slightly sloppy. They both laughed, and Emma dug her fingers into his shoulders, resisting the urge to grab the back of his head. Damn concussion. She really loved his hair.

“You’re the best I’ve ever had, too,” Emma whispered against his collar bone. The hospital gown didn’t fit very well, and her lips met warm skin.

Killian reached up and buried his fingers in her hair. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

And when she said it, she didn’t hide against his chest or look away. She sat up, grasped his face with both hands and held his gaze. She let the words sink in, and then she pressed her lips to his again.

The past is gone, but something might be found to take its place.

[hysterialevi]

When the Devil Cries - Final Part

Fanfic summary: (NO SPOILERS IN THIS STORY) After arriving in Saint Denis, Arthur ends up falling in love with a seemingly innocent pianist, only to find himself in a battle with one of the most notorious outlaws to ever emerge from America. Now, between working for Dutch and robbing money for the gang, Arthur has to also protect the man he loves as the two of them try to find their freedom.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan/Male OC

Previous chapter

This story is also on AO3

Author’s note: Welp, this is it guys! The final chapter. Thank you so much to those of you who stuck with me during this whole story. I seriously appreciate the support you’ve given me ever since I started this fanfic, and it means the world to me to see how much you’ve enjoyed it. I’m definitely gonna miss writing about Arthur and Eddie, but I also can’t wait to show you what else I have planned in the future. Stay awesome :)

From Arthur’s POV

ONE WEEK LATER

THE BASTILLE, SAINT DENIS

“Dear, John...” I murmured to myself, readin’ my awfully-written letter out loud, “...it’s Tacitus. I hope this letter finds you on the off-chance that you’re still alive, but truth be told...I wouldn’t even know where to start looking. Last time we saw each other, we was both trying to make our way out of that god-awful shit storm, and I regret that I never got the chance to see if you survived.”

“If you’re still out there somewhere, I wish you luck. You saved my ass when hell finally broke loose, and I won’t forget it. As for me -- my partner and I have managed to stay out of trouble for a while, and we’re planning to start a new life someplace else. For your safety and mine, I cannot say where, but just know that we’re doing okay. Things ain’t easy, but we got each other. And if these following years go according to plan, who knows? Perhaps we might be able to rejoin you someday.”

“If you’re not alive though, then...I will certainly miss you. That’s for sure. We ain’t related by blood, I know, but you was always like a brother to me. We grew up together since the very beginning, and I’ll never forget the times when you used to annoy me so much that I wanted to tear my hair out. Who’d have thought I’d eventually miss those days?”

“But...as much as I’d like to keep this going, I’m afraid there’s a ship I need to catch pretty soon. It’s gonna carry me off to a civilized world where I am to live as a civilized man. I ain’t exactly ready for a life like that, but it’s where I’ve ended up. I suppose we shall see how that goes.”

“Farewell for now, John. You’ll always be in my thoughts.

Your friend and brother,

--Tacitus Kilgore.”

Placin’ the letter down on a table, I leaned back in my chair and reread some of the sentences to myself as a worn-out breath escaped me, probably because of how long I spent thinkin’ about how to word all this.

If I was bein’ honest, I didn’t even know if trying to contact John was a good idea. I mean, we was both still wanted men. Even with Agent Milton gone, the rest of the Pinkertons were still searching for us. If they knew that either of us were alive, I had no doubts that they’d do everything within their power to try and stop us from escaping...and that was a risk I couldn’t take.

I let out a frustrated sigh and balled up the piece of paper in my hands, tossin’ it into the nearby fireplace.

“...Goddammit.” I whispered to myself, solemnly watchin’ as the letter burned.

Was that the right thing to do? I wanted to see John again, of course, but...maybe it was better this way.

We both had people to take care of, after all. He had Abigail and Jack, and I had Eddie.

The less we knew about each other, the safer we’d be. We had to worry about more than just ourselves in this case, and -- with the law constantly up our ass -- perhaps it was best for everyone if John thought I was dead. Then, he’d have nothin’ to give to the Pinkertons. At least, not when it came to me.

Still though, part of me wished I could at least say goodbye to him before hightailing it to England. Out of all the people I grew up with, John was the only one left who was alive and trustworthy.

And on top of that, there was no guarantee I’d ever return to America. Apart from sentimentality, this country had nothin’ else for me. All that remained of the Van der Linde gang was a long trail of blood that civilization was already in the process of forgetting, and I certainly didn’t plan on lingering around with my wanted posters still flappin’ in the wind.

I was finally ready to be the man I aspired to be, and not the man Dutch created.

My life in the United States may have been over...but my life as a free man was just beginning.

Interrupting my thoughts, the door suddenly swung open when Eddie came wanderin’ in with a briefcase in his hand, all ready to go. He was usin’ the same cane that Hamish gave to him back at O’Creagh’s Run, and the more I saw him limpin’ around the room with a sway in his step, the more I worried about the true condition of his leg.

The pianist insisted he was fine whenever I asked him, but -- despite bein’ the dolt that I was -- I was still smart enough to assume that climbing a huge rock formation not too long after getting shot in the leg probably wasn’t the best idea.

I supposed all that commotion with Atticus finally did a number on Eddie’s injuries. He looked alright during all that drama, but with everything else that was goin’ on, I only hoped that we wouldn’t need the doctor’s services before departing for England. Things was stressful enough as is.

“Arthur,” Eddie greeted, settin’ his briefcase down on the bed for a moment. “You ready to go? The ship’s leaving in half an hour.”

“Yep. I got everything I need. What about you?”

Eddie took a seat across from me. “Me too. Just...preparing myself for the long journey now, is all. It’s been ages since I last set foot in England. I wonder what it’s like nowadays.”

“Hopefully, better than here.”

A chuckle escaped him. “Oh, I dunno about that, but at least we won’t have to worry about the Pinkertons there. I’m sick of constantly checking over my shoulder for them.”

I nodded in agreement. “I know the feeling. Milton may be dead and gone, but I doubt that the rest of them clowns will give up so easily. Perhaps, it’ll even motivate ‘em to work harder. I just hope Agent Ross doesn’t find John. That man has a family to look after.”

“Have you heard from him ever since Beaver Hollow?”

“No. I was actually plannin’ to send him a letter, but...I got rid of it just before you walked in here. Figured it’d be better if he didn’t know I was alive.”

Eddie tilted his head in an inquisitive manner. “Why? Don’t you want to see him again?”

“’Course I do. But think about it -- if John believes I’m dead, then the Pinkertons will have no reason to pester him. They might still go after him for the bounty on his own head, but interrogatin’ him for information about me would be pointless.”

The pianist glanced downwards. “Hmm. I guess so. Still, it’d be nice to thank him in person. John was always friendly to me back at camp, and he saved our lives at Beaver Hollow too. Without him, neither of us would’ve gotten away.”

“Now, ain’t that the truth.”

Eddie changed the subject. “And what of Dutch? Have you heard any news about him?”

I shook my head. “Nope. Nothing. There’s no word in the papers, no rumors circulating about him --  it’s as if he’s vanished entirely. That man could be on his way to Tahiti for all I know.”

The other man glowered. “...Or running off with Micah.”

“...That, too.” I sighed in disapproval. “Goddamn it...what the hell happened to that man? Dutch used to be so different. So full of life. So...human. But now, he’s nothin’ short of a madman. Just a tyrant who goes trigger-happy when he doesn’t get his way. I keep wonderin’ to myself where it all went wrong. Where things started to fall apart.”

The pianist frowned out of sympathy. “Well, perhaps he was always a madman. It was you who finally opened your eyes and changed.”

I rubbed my chin in thought. “...Maybe. I don’t know. Hosea used to say the same thing about himself, but to be honest...I’m not sure I care anymore. All I care about is us. You’re what matters to me now, Eddie. Not them.”

Eddie beamed warmly at the comment and gazed lovingly at me for a second, seemingly gettin’ lost in his thoughts before bringing up another topic.

“You know what...” he recalled, “that actually reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to tell you ever since we arrived in Saint Denis.”

I quirked a brow. “Oh yeah? And what would that be?”

The pianist gave me a sincere look, suddenly changing his overall demeanor. “...I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

I flicked my eyes around in confusion. “Sorry? For what?”

“For not taking your advice,” he answered. “Ever since the beginning, you warned me that vengeance was an idiot’s game. And like the idiot I was, I refused to listen to you. I was just...”

Eddie let out a conflicted sigh, shifting in his seat. “I was so consumed with this insatiable desire for revenge. No matter how much I tried to forgive him, I just couldn’t let Atticus go. There was too much anger inside me. Too much grief. I thought that killing Atticus would provide a sense of justice, or a fresh beginning, but in the end...his death only made me feel...”

The man trailed off, unable to find the right words.

“...Empty?” I finished.

The pianist nodded in response.

“Yes. Empty. But not only that. When I saw the life disappear from Atticus’ eyes, part of me even...regretted killing him so soon. I guess I had hoped there would be some sort of closure to the conflict between us, but instead...it felt like reading a story that was one chapter short. There was no resolution. No way down from the peak of the mountain. It was just...a cliff. And you know the worst part of it?”

Eddie’s expression sank with melancholy. “...I still can’t let Atticus go.”

Strugglin’ to set his thoughts in order, Eddie lowered his head in a distraught manner and stared aimlessly at the floor, causin’ me to reach across the table and lay a hand on top of his own in an attempt to comfort him.

“Hey...” I whispered softly, tryin’ to catch the disheartened man’s attention. “You made a mistake, but it ain’t the end of the world. You can still learn from this. You’re strong. Much stronger than you realize. And...if I may offer some advice...”

I scooted my chair closer to his, grippin’ his hand more firmly now. “Based on everything you’ve said to me since we first met, it sounds like that Atticus ain’t the one you can’t let go. ...I think it’s Nathaniel that you don’t want to forget.”

Takin’ my words to heart, Eddie paused at my observation and lifted his head slightly, starin’ in a way that told me I just hit the nail on the head.

I could tell from the expression plastered on his face that he ain’t never thought about it that way before, and I almost felt kinda bad for the emotional conflict that I was clearly puttin’ this poor boy through.

He blinked away some of the tears that were startin’ to gather in his eyes and gripped my hand affectionately, trying to hide how much his voice was truly trembling.

“...He is, isn’t he?”

Eddie let out a shaky breath, thinkin’ back to the day Nathaniel died.

“You know, I always blamed myself for not being able to save Nathaniel. I understand that, realistically, there was nothing I could’ve done for him, but still. The thought eats me up all the time. Even now. I just...can’t move on. I can’t sleep at night because I know that if he was alive today, he’d probably never forgive me for abandoning him.

“Nonsense,” I replied, quick to come to his defense. “If Nathaniel knew that you managed to survive that day -- that you actually made it all the way to America, started a new life for yourself, became a pianist, and killed Atticus Rose after months of fightin’ for your life as an outlaw only to become a free man -- why...” I chuckled in awe, “...he’d be so, goddamned proud of you.”

The other man gazed at me with teary eyes, not quite convinced yet. “How do you know?”

I smiled brightly at Eddie. “...Because I know I am.”

Evidently somewhat overwhelmed by my praise, the sorrow disappeared from Eddie’s face as he cracked a small grin and leaned forward, showerin’ me with his own storm of compliments.

“Thank you, Arthur, but it’s not as if I did it all by myself. You did your fair share of work too. In fact, I never would’ve made it this far if you hadn’t found me that day. Your first interaction with me was an act of kindness, and yet you still speak ill of yourself constantly. You truly are a marvel, Arthur...but I don’t think you see it.”

I sighed remorsefully, wishin’ I could say Eddie was entirely right.

“That’s ‘cause I done some real bad things in my life, Eddie. Horrible things. Before I met you, I used to rob people who didn’t deserve it, kill folks who did nothin’ except get in the way of Dutch’s plans, and I did all of it while living under some twisted sense of honor to help me sleep at night. But now...”

I looked the pianist in eye, still holdin’ on to his hand, “I wanna change, Eddie. For real this time. I don’t wanna just be some thief who happens to be kinder than the rest. I wanna be a better man. A better partner. No more crimes, no more violence...just redemption. That’s all I want.”

Eddie gently brought his hands up to my face and pulled me closer, caressing my cheek in a loving manner.

“...Then let’s do it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

TWENTY MINUTES LATER

SAINT DENIS HARBOR

Sittin’ in the stagecoach as it gently rolled over the brick roads, Eddie and I eagerly gazed outta the small windows with a newfound wonder in our hearts as we passed by the whole city, somewhat unable to comprehend that we was actually leavin’ this country.

I had to admit -- it was strange, seeing Saint Denis like this again. Over the course of the last few months, Eddie and I spent every damn day fightin’ for our lives, just trying to survive. We fought against the O’Driscolls, the Pinkertons, Atticus, and even good ol’ Dutch himself.

We had been to Hell and back while still finding the time to plant the seeds of what was now an unbreakable bond between us, and yet...Saint Denis hadn’t changed one bit.

In fact, this city looked exactly the same as when I first met Eddie. People were breezin’ through the streets without a care for the beggars on the sidewalks, activists and politicians rallied people to their campaigns, children played games in the open gardens, and everywhere, people lined up in front of all sorts of establishments, waitin’ to be entertained.

The gears of civilization kept turnin’ with not a single thought for those left behind, and somehow, it still managed to look like it hadn’t gone anywhere at all.

It was one of the many wonders of the new world, but also one of the things that made me fear it. How was it that a city could progress so much without actually changin’ anything? Or maybe it was just my nerves actin’ up? I didn’t know anymore.

Everything was just so confusing now. Instead of runnin’ away from civilized life like I normally did, I was headin’ straight towards it.

I was getting ready to do the one thing that Dutch always insisted was impossible, and to make matters even more astonishing, I had a man who loved me standin’ at my side.

All them years of wondering why I could never be good enough for Mary, or strong enough to protect Eliza...and I finally had someone who accepted me as I was, but also encouraged me to be better. It took a good three decades, but my life had finally picked itself up even though I sure as hell didn’t deserve it.

I was on the opposite side of the spectrum for the first time, but -- contrary to what I expected -- I was happy. I was ready to change. And I welcomed it.

Finally arrivin’ at the harbor, the stagecoach slowed down to a steady halt as it stopped beside the entrance, prompting me and Eddie to leave. There were already a few other stagecoaches lined up in front of us, spittin’ out passengers just the same, and without even looking, I could tell it was gonna be crowded as hell outside just based on the noise.

I picked up my briefcase, takin’ hold of the door’s handle.

“You ready?” I asked Eddie, earning a nod from him.

“Ready as ever.”

Lightly pushing the door open, the two of us were instantly greeted by a cool breeze as the sound of seagulls cryin’ and people chatting reached our ears, followed by the distinct scent of saltwater.

All around me, I could see men, women, and children pacin’ their way across the harbor as they hurried to find their ship, or simply waited for their loved ones to arrive.

There were multiple paperboys stationed throughout the place, merchants displaying their trinkets to newcomers as they came fresh off the boats, fishermen luggin’ heavy nets around, and a number of street performers offerin’ a lively mood to the otherwise mundane atmosphere of the harbor.

It was a surprisingly busy day in this part of town, and...if I was bein’ honest...I felt a tad nervous jumping into the heart of it all. There were just so many people; so many civilized folks who were unlike me that...I felt incredibly outta place here.

But I supposed I’d have to get used to it sooner or later. This was the beginning of my new life, after all...and I was old enough to know that nothin’ worthwhile ever came easy.

“Here,” I said, offering Eddie a hand as he stepped out of the stagecoach. “Lemme help.”

The pianist gave me a humorous grin. “Such a gentleman.”

I chuckled, duckin’ my head as I followed him out. “What can I say? Civilization’s gettin’ to me.”

Swiftly makin’ our way outta the confines of the stagecoach’s limited space, Eddie and I set out for our ship as we slithered through the bustling streets of the harbor, doin’ our absolute best not to crash into other people.

Unlike the serene nature of the countryside, this place was pretty much filled to the brim with commotion. Folks were movin’ around so fast that they practically made the signposts twirl, and sometimes, there’d be nothing but a tornado of leaves whirling in their wake.

It was like people couldn’t even spare two seconds to take a breath. They were just completely focused on the here and now, and didn’t even bother to take in their surroundings. It was...kinda sad to witness, in a way. Though, I guessed that was just the nature of civilization.

There was no time for the present. Only for the future.

Stickin’ to the sides of the pavements, the two of us made haste for a ship at the very end of the harbor called “The Pytheas.” It was a gargantuan thing stacked with so many massive crates and strange-lookin’ machines that it made you wonder how the hell it managed to stay afloat.

There were all sorts of people gatherin’ on the pier as well. Even from here, I could see groups of businessmen discussing deals in many different languages, professors pondering what awaited them on the other side of the sea, artists sketchin’ down the vast landscape to combat their boredom, and immigrants huddling up with their families. It was like seein’ a miniature version of the entire world stuffed onto one strip of land.

And then...there was me and Eddie.

Just a musician and an outlaw.

A pianist and a gunslinger.

Two lost souls who were once crippled by their own fears, but learned to become whole after they found each other.

We was nothin’ but a pair of ordinary men in the eyes of these people. Just two regular guys goin’ about their business on a regular day. But if they were to look a bit more closely -- I guaranteed they’d be able to see the convoluted stories hiding inside.

They were written in the lines on our faces, in the depths of our eyes, in the steps we took. It was a silent journey that spoke for itself, and I doubted that either of us would ever forget it, despite leavin’ that entire ordeal behind.

We had a plethora of memories lingering in the west, after all. Simply by gazin’ at the wilderness hiding behind the city’s skyline, I was practically able to relive every moment of my past.

From the day Dutch and Hosea found me, to our endless adventures riding across the open deserts, to the times I wasted fallin’ in love with Mary, to the many years I spent mourning Isaac and Eliza...

All the friends that I buried along the way, the anger and grief I experienced, the enemies we gunned down, the nights we spent sharin’ stories around the campfire, the days where I wondered if I’d live long enough to see the next sunrise...

It all flooded my head at once. Within the span of a few seconds, I watched my whole life unfold in front of me like a person rapidly flipping through the pages of a book, and for the first time in years, I could sense genuine tears welling up in my eyes from all the emotions that were racin’ through me.

It was just...surreal to think about how far I had come. How much I’d grown. How much things had changed.

Not too many years ago, I was nothin’ but a sad, lost, and lonely man who thought he’d die long before the age of gunslingers withered away -- but now... there was an entirely new world waitin’ for me on the other side of the ocean. As well as a new home.

And so -- with one last glance over my shoulder -- I turned around and savored the reminiscent view standin’ behind me as it slowly disappeared in the distance, waving goodbye like an old friend bidding me farewell.

I had no idea if I’d ever return to this country, or if I’d ever get the closure I desired with John and Dutch...but one thing I did know was that America would always be home to me.

No matter the amount of pain or heartache that lingered in the shadows of our gang’s actions, there was just some sort of connection between me and this place that nothing could sever.

For the sake of buildin’ a peaceful home with Eddie, I would comply and live in a civilized world away from crime, but deep down -- I knew damn well that I’d always be an outlaw for life.

It was just who I was, and it was the thing that turned me into this man today.

I was Arthur Morgan, and this was the end of my story in the Wild West.

“...Goodbye, Dutch.” I whispered softly to myself, turnin’ on my heel to follow Eddie to the ship.

There were only a few minutes left until departure now, and part of me grew weary just thinkin’ about the lengthy journey ahead -- but regardless of how long it took for us to reach England, or how tiring the trip would be, I was at peace knowing that we had finally achieved the dream we fought so long to reach.

Eddie and I were officially free men from this day forward...and we had acquired the one treasure Dutch never found. The only luxury that no amount of money could buy.

The one thing that only ever truly mattered to me.

Redemption.

[ariadnelives]

Chapter 16 -- The Trade-off

[Missed earlier chapters? Go catch up here! Otherwise, welcome back! Oh, and make sure to join our discord server! Chapter can also be found @ ao3”]

Back in the infirmary, Prescott was pitching an absolute hissy fit about his treatment aboard, as though he had high expectations for the level of comfort that was generally afforded to those taken prisoner by pirates.

He was, of course, actually being treated pretty well by those standards. He was in a relatively comfortable hospital bed and had been left in complete control of its inclination. His captors provided him with adequate food, he was given prompt and free medical attention, and his bed was facing a small hologram crystal playing a marathon of Deimos, P.I. reruns.

This is, of course, not to say that he should have been grateful. Far from it, in fact, he was being held captive and had every right to be incredibly angry, and he exercised that right to its fullest. It was, however, somewhat ridiculous for someone in his position to be making outlandish demands of Cookie, like “a glass of sparkling water every hour on the hour, with fresh-cut limes and a bowl of cucumbers on the side.”

Without fail, Cookie brought him the same bowl of plain oatmeal and glass of non-sparkling tap water, devoid of limes, in response to every request. She was a consummate professional, but she had her limits, and after the third or fourth time he asked for an array of bagel chips and berry-infused cream cheese spreads, Cookie began responding by putting a little more tap water in his oatmeal. This wouldn’t diminish the amount of food he got, but would effectively ruin its texture, which is about the only thing plain oatmeal has going for it.

This was, in Cookie’s mind, a shame. His requests were things she’d actually love to try her hand at, but she, like most people on the station after only a few days, absolutely could not stand Prescott, who was this insufferable even when he was not being held against his will. She had no interest in giving him anything he wanted, or interacting with him beyond her captain’s orders.

“Keep him alive, he knows something about that cult and we’re gonna need all the information we can get to save those girls.”

On this particular day, Cookie was overwhelmingly relieved to hear that she could have the afternoon off from Prescott Duty, since Ariadne would be bringing him his lunch personally.

Ariadne entered the room quietly, placed his tray on the table next to him, loosed his restraints, and muted the Val Deimos marathon.

She was dressed down, barefoot in a pair of stylish denim shorts and a loose-fitting black t-shirt. Her mechanical legs were nowhere to be seen and her spider-like goggles were replaced with the rectangular wireframe glasses she wore when she wasn’t working.

Prescott was dressed in a hospital gown, which is how he’d been dressed since he’d been staying there, and looked rather greasy, which is how he usually looked anyway.

“What is this?” He asked after a beat.

“I’ve been hearing a lot about you from my good friend Mingxia,” Ariadne explained. “You’re a good liar, I’m told, and you always act in your own self-interest.”

Prescott didn’t have much of a response to this, but he still opened his mouth in the hopes that one would come out anyway. It did not.

“I want you to know that it’s in your best interest not to lie to me. See, I decided a few days ago that we should let you go. It wasn’t a popular decision, see, Spacebreather and Sweettalk both want you dead, and I should stress that this is the first thing I’ve ever known them to agree on. We tried to keep word of your past, shall we say, missteps from spreading to the crew, but we’re on a ship full of teenagers and you know how rumors spread. Now, they’re all dying to get a piece of you. So, at the end of this conversation, I’m going to give you your freedom, I want you to understand that. If you tell me what I want to hear, you and I can walk to telepad together and we’ll send you on your way, wherever you want. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll be forced to let you walk to the telepad by yourself, and I should warn you, I can’t make promises about how my crew will treat you when I’m not there to protect you.”

Prescott scoffed, “you really expect me to cooperate with that? Talk or my crew kills you?”

“Oh, they won’t kill you,” Ariadne replied calmly. “But, if I’m with you, I can order our physician to waive your medical debt.”

“Debt?” Prescott asked, “You expect me to pay her for reattaching my fingers after you kidnapped me?”

“Oh, no, nothing so complex as money,” Ariadne laughed. “But, Sasha gave you three fingers, which you didn’t have when she found you. The price for that is any useful information you have on the Red God cult. Give us that, and you’ll walk out of here without a scratch. Otherwise, my first mate has been authorized to repossess the medical services you’ve rendered during your stay here.”

“Repossess— you’re going to cut off my fingers again if I don’t tell you what I know?!”

“Of course not!” Ariadne chuckled. “Spacebreather’s going to cut off your fingers again if you don’t tell me what you know. And, with interest, plus the cost of oatmeal… well, let’s just say you won’t have to worry about losing extremities to frostbite anymore.”

“This is insane,” Prescott snapped, “this is a shake-down.”

“Brilliant observation,” Ariadne said. “Start talking.”

“I’m not going to go along with this just because you’re trying to intimidate me.”

“Yes, you are. You know full well that you deserve every shitty thing that’s happened to you in the past week, and more importantly, you’re a coward and you don’t want to risk anything bad happening to you.”

Prescott considered this for a moment. He was a coward and even he had the self-awareness to know he could not truthfully say that he hadn’t done at least one thing to earn every misfortune of the past week.

“I’ve got something that might be helpful,” he started, “but there’s something I want in return.”

“We already established what you get in return, suge, you’re not much in a position to be making demands.”

“No, you’ve gotta understand— I was their security provider. I didn’t do a great job, granted, but you can’t exactly hire someone to guard your secrets without letting that person in on a few of them. What I’m trying to say is, I know something big about the Zealot. A silver bullet secret, one that can take down the whole cult in the right hands.”

“And why should I believe you?”

“You ever wonder why everyone who visits those life centers converts to their religion? I know how he’s doing it and how to reverse it. You ever wonder why he disappeared a few years back? I know where he went. Got any clue why he’s got three little girls with mind control chips in their heads? I do! Get me what I want and it’s all yours.”

This was not a compelling case for why Ariadne should believe him. He did sound sure of himself, however, he had also been a confidence trickster for most of his life. “Give me some hard evidence what you’re telling me is true and we can talk about what you want.”

“A lot of people know the Zealot was a scientist before all of this started. That’s part of how his crazy movement got so much credibility in the first place. He liked to keep his true name under wraps, though. Didn’t want anyone looking into the subject of his research. His old name still showed up on the security invoices, though, even though he made me sign some bullshit non-disclosure agreement. Of course, people didn’t really need to know who he was or what he’d been authoring papers about to trust that he knew what he was talking about. He said he was a scientist, and people are sheep. It reminds me of an old test called the Milgram—”

“If you don’t get to the point I may actually cut you.”

Prescott looked genuinely hurt. “It’s an interesting experiment…” he muttered, then continued. “Anyway, only a select few people actually know his name from back before he was the Zealot. I trust you’ve heard of Dr. C. Alexander Simon?”

“I feel like you know I haven’t.”

“Why don’t you use that antique hologram to look him up? See what he’s supposed to be up to today? Put that thing to some good use instead of just streaming Cop Dramas all day.”

“Fine,” Ariadne shrugged, and turned to pull up information on Dr. Simon on the holoscreen, “also, Val Deimos isn’t a cop, she’s a former cop who quit the force and became a P.I. because of corruption in the…” Ariadne trailed off as the information loaded. The photograph of Dr. Simon was unmistakably the same person as the photo La Pesadilla had given them.

“Yeah, because Santa Helena is a hotbed of corruption and not a quaint suburb. This show is ridiculous.”

“No, shut up, I’m reading.” Ariadne hushed him and furrowed her eyebrows as she struggled to comprehend what she was reading. “This doesn’t make sense, according to this he’s supposed to be—”

“Yeah, look up what he’s famous for, should be the section marked ‘Controversy and Disgrace.’”

“Oh my g—” Ariadne’s eyes widened in shock. “Did he actually do it?”

“I suspect he’s very close.”

“This is all very enlightening,” Ariadne responded, “but I still don’t see how this is a silver bullet that’s going to destroy the cult and break whatever spell he’s got over his followers.”

“You get that after I get what I want.”

Ariadne huffed in annoyance. “And what do you want?”

Prescott gritted his teeth. “I want my money back.”

Five minutes later, Ariadne and a now fully-dressed-but-still-handcuffed Prescott entered the war room where Sasha and Sweettalk were intently playing a game of chess, and Spacebreather was equally intently playing a game of darts.

So they could all hear, Ariadne announced, “Meet me in the briefing room in 20 minutes, we’re going to help Prescott rob a casino.”

“What?!” Sweettalk practically spat in reply.

[redeadepression]

Shattering - John Marston/Abigail Roberts Marston

Reflections Series:  Part 6 of a series exploring John’s seemingly tense relationship with Abigail.

Characters/Relationships:  John Marston/Abigail Roberts Marston , John Marston|OC, Arthur Morgan, Karen Jones.

Summery: John continues to struggle with the fact that Abigail’s feelings surrounding him are unknown. At the same time he finds that the type of honest woman he has always dreamed of gives him the type of affection he’s always hoped for from Abigail.

Also Arthur is like, really judgey lmao.

Words: 23999 God that’s so upsetting. You think I could just add a word

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17955461

Warnings: Explicit, Emotional Cheating, Domestic fights, Alcohol 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John breathed heavily in the mid-morning sun. Wiping beaded sweat off his brow with the back of his hand he blinked lazily at the back of Arthur’s head as they pushed onward through the dusty desert back towards their hidden campsite.

It had been a gruelling three day job but it had paid off handsomely. With just himself and Arthur to work it, he had been excited to get a split share between only two people.

It had been his tip they were working on and if he was honest, he was scared it would turn out to be bullshit. But the coach had rolled through right on time that first day, just as he had been told and they had easily held it up.

What they hadn’t anticipated was the lawmen that just happened to be riding out towards Blackwater to investigate something unrelated. They had happened upon the pair of outlaws just as they were finishing loading up their horses and a chase had ensued.

As a result they had spent an extra two days hiding out inside a small cavern on the cliff side, waiting for suspicion to die down. Arthur had been well prepared for something to go wrong, even if he hadn’t expected it. John however had been woefully unprepared and suffered, sleeping on the cold, hard ground as punishment.

Once upon a time Arthur would have taken pity on him, letting him share his bedroll. But ever since that business where John had ran away from the gang, their relationship hadn’t been the same.

Arthur was still pissed at him a year later. He could tell in the way he spoke to him. He really hadn’t wanted to ask Arthur for help on this job. He wasn’t sure he would be able to stand the ribbing on the trip their and back.

But as it turned out Arthur had been relatively kind. Even when John had fucked up and got them noticed. He hadn’t really mentioned it and John wondered briefly if maybe he had finally been forgiven or if Arthur had simply given up on berating him. Finally running out of creative ways to call him stupid.

John hoped deep down he had been forgiven. Because really, he thought to himself bitterly. Arthur was pretty much the only true friend he had.

Arthur broke the silence between them as they rode slowly passed a road sign pointing down a path to a small town they could just see in the distance. It was the closest town to their camp, but having only been set up in that specific spot for a few days, neither of them had had the chance to check it out yet.

Arthur had suggested they go for a look on their way out of camp, but they hadn’t had time.

“Come on.” He said, pointing towards the sign. “Lets go and get a bite to eat before we head back.” He grumbled, spurring his horse forward but pulling up on the reigns when he realised John wasn’t following. “What?” He asked, looking back at the other man who shrugged hesitantly.

“I… I shouldn’t.” He said weakly, his stomach growling at the thought. Arthur frowned at him, bringing Boadicea around to come up beside John once more.

“Come on Marston we made a killin’ on that job. You can afford a damn meal.” He laughed half-heartedly. John stared at Old Boy’s mane, running his fingers through it as a means of distraction while he weighed his options. Arthur tilted his head in question, edging Bo closer to John and lifting his foot from the stirrup to nudge at John’s calf.

“I guess…” John answered quietly, barely audible over the soft yet impatient pounding of Old Boy’s hoof against the dirt.

“What’s goin’ on with you?” Arthur asked, irritated by the other party’s disinterest.

John looked up, surprised by the question.

“Nothin’…” He answered too quickly, shrugging once more and making Arthur sigh. “Come on.” John said softly, nodding in the direction of town. The older man nodded in agreement, clicking his tongue and urging Bo forwards.

John wasn’t sure how to go about telling Arthur that he really couldn’t afford a meal. The money they had just made was due in the box for camp funds. It had been a long time since he had been able to donate any cash and Dutch was making it increasingly clear that hunting and general chores weren’t cutting it anymore. He was expected to pull his weight financially which he understood was fair. But he alone was providing for three people and the share he was expected to donate from his takings was always a lot larger than the other camp member’s.

Nearly all of his money this month was to go to camp funds and what was left over was to go to Abigail for new clothes for herself and Jack. If he stopped to eat he wouldn’t have as much left over as she was expecting and he was bound to hear about it later.

Arthur side eyed the younger man as they made their way towards the saloon and stopped in front of the hitching posts. He watched the way the brunette slid off the saddle and landed shakily. He paused momentarily, almost as if to steady his balance and catch his breath, before hitching Old Boy to the post and starting towards the front steps of the building. Arthur watched him go, completely oblivious to the fact that he was not following.

Eventually John turned, giving a questioning look to the older man as he casually slipped from his own saddle, giving Bo a pat on the rump as he walked away.

“Aren’t you gonna hitch him?” John asked, pointing to the post in demonstration as Arthur laughed energetically.

“Nah.” He said casually, keeping on with his pace as he reached John and started up the stairs. “Better to leave him untied. He ain’t goin’ nowhere and if there’s trouble I don’t want him tied to a bloody post.” He explained as John jogged up the stairs after him.

“You think there’ll be trouble?” He asked, anxiety clear in his tone. Arthur turned to study him once more, stopping completely and folding his arms across his chest. John stopped in inch away from the older man, taking a backstep in surprise as he reached the top of the stairs and realised he had halted.

“You sure you’re okay Marston?” Arthur asked, making John frown.

“I said I’m fine!” He said defensively, raising his voice in annoyance.

“Since when do you care if there’s trouble?” Arthur asked sceptically.

John leaned forwards.

“Since I got money I can’t afford to lose.” He growled.

A momentary silence consumed them as John crossed his own arms over his chest to show he wasn’t intimidated by the older man’s stature. Arthur’s lip quirked in amusement. John always had been one to mimic him even without realising it.

“Well calm the hell down. There won’t be no trouble.” Arthur said finally, turning to push his way through the large double doors. John followed, sighing in relief that Arthur deemed the conversation over.

“I’ll get us a table. You get the waitress.” Arthur ordered, gesturing first towards a few empty tables to the right and then left towards the bar. “Pretty sure they do table service here. Order me a coffee if they don’t.” He instructed as he sauntered off towards the seating area.

John watched him go, irritated that he was still being ordered around despite the job being over.

He made his way to the bar, silently stewing as he looked for a sign explaining the order process.

He leaned on the bar, looking to his left the barmaid caught his attention. Her long golden hair was pulled together in a messy braid and her voluptuous frame was held up delectably with a shiny silver corset and skirt combo that complimented her hair and sparkling blue eyes.

“Miss.” He said simply, nodding his head in her direction as he leaned on the bar and waited for her to finish with her current patron. She nodded back, indicating she had seen him as she poured a shot of whiskey for a large bearded man that looked as though he really needed it.

John stared at the bar, moving a finger to push a small crumb towards an erratic ant that immediately scooped it up and started off towards the end of the bar. He smiled to himself before wincing painfully as a large hand came down hard on the insect. A relief filled exhale leaving the man that had just downed his shot and slammed in back on the bar. John pursed his lips, rubbing his hand over his face and sighing inwardly. It was just an ant. But he felt it was the perfect metaphor for any time he ever tried to do good in his life.

“What can I get you?” The barmaid asked, jerking him out of his contemplation with a wide smile and cheery voice.

“Oh… um.. two coffees please?” He asked hesitantly. It took him a moment to remember Arthur’s instruction and he cursed himself for being so dumb.

In retrospect this was probably why he was never in charge.

The woman nodded, and set about pouring the steamy liquid in to two mugs before taking his money and entering it in the register. John looked back at Arthur, grinding his teeth together as he thought.

“Do ya’ll do table service for food?” He asked, turning back to the woman and watching as she shook her head softly. “No sir, I’m sorry.” She answered, placing a hand on her cocked hip and brushing golden strands from her face. John nodded in understanding.

“Alright.” He replied placing each hand on a cup of coffee and looking back to her. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

The woman watched as he picked up the mugs and tilted her head in question.

“I can take your order here.” She smiled.

“It’s alright. My friend…” He lifted a finger from one of the cups and pointed to Arthur across the room. “He thought you might do table service.” He explained. “I just gotta find out what he wants.”

The woman nodded in understanding, glancing over at Arthur and then back to John as a sly smile spread across her features.

“Well we don’t usually do table service…” She said slowly, leaning forwards on the bar and resting her chest on her folded arms. John couldn’t help but glance towards her breasts, the way they bulged lusciously from the top of her corset catching his attention. He flicked his eyes back to hers quickly and realised he had been caught staring. A warm flush covered his cheeks as he cleared his throat in embarrassment. The barmaid smiled cheekily. “But for you I might make an exception.” She grinned, raising a brow in a suggestive manner and making John’s breath hitch.

“Uh… thank you…” He said softly, voice hoarse.

“Not from around here?” She asked, giving him a once over and grinning at his flush.

“Uh no… West.” He answered simply, suddenly feeling as though all words had escaped him.

“Oh I hear it’s hot out there.” She replied conversationally. John nodded, not trusting his voice as he tried in vain to keep the smile off his face. He inexplicably wanted the conversation to keep going. He tried to think of something else to say but the burning from the hot coffee in his hands began to take priority over his social needs.

The woman chuckled to herself. extending her arms and pushing off the bar before reaching out to touch his hand lightly with hers.

“You go on over and sit. I’ll be there to take your order in a minute.” She said kindly, turning away from him and rummaging through some papers on the other side of the counter.

John smiled to himself, averting his eyes as the blush spreading across his cheeks deepened. His chest feeling warm and fuzzy for the first time in months. He made his way back to the table where Arthur was scribbling in his journal. He was leant back in his chair, legs extended out straight and crossed over one another.

John placed a coffee down in front of him and took the opposite seat. He sipped at his own drink before sitting it down in front of himself.

He stole a quick glance towards the woman behind the bar, looking away when he realised she was still watching him. The sheepish smile he’d acquired at the bar stayed with him as he busied himself drinking his coffee as to not seem so obvious.

He felt a pang of guilt settle in his gut as he thought of Abigail back at camp. The barmaid was such a stark contrast from her. Light hair, fair skin and most appealingly, warm and welcoming. He had felt as though she was actually interested in what he had to say.

In fact he felt he could even go so far as to say she was interested in him in general. The way her eyes had sparked when she had caught him leering.

He chastised himself mentally. Shaking his head as he reminded himself he was fundamentally unlovable. Even his own wife wasn’t interested in his advances. What were the odds of him happening to stumble across another person way out here in the east; so deeply damaged that they would find him of interest.

Basically nil. He rationalised, face falling involuntarily as the smile he had managed to hold on to for longer than usual slipped away from him.

He frowned in to his coffee, unable to stop himself from getting lost in his thoughts.

Abigail hadn’t touched him in a long time. Her attentions were almost a foreign concept at this point. He wasn’t sure he would know how to handle it if she did suddenly decide he was worth her time. When the subject was broached by him she liked to remind him that she didn’t owe him anything regardless of their marital status. He wasn’t exactly sure how that worked. He understood that she had the right to deny him her body. Being her husband did not mean he was entitled to her sexual attention. But being married also meant he wasn’t allowed to seek it from others.

He had no intention of doing so. But he was a man with needs. Not all of them sexual. Most fell in to the category of general affection. She refused him even the most basic warmth, but then forbade him from searching for it else ware. This left him starved for affection and sexually frustrated.

He sometimes wondered if that was her plan all along. Some sort of sick punishment for getting her pregnant and making her unable to work or live by her own means. Or perhaps it was his punishment for leaving.

She liked to remind him of the fact he had run off on her and how much she had been hurt by it. Never mind the reason he had left or his own pain forever mulling inside at the site of her.

He quietly suspected that contrary to what she preached, him running off was the best thing he had ever done for her. She was able to get him to do just about anything at the drop of a hat, simply by mentioning it. The threat of reminding everyone what a deadbeat he was, always fresh on her tongue ready to be used against him at a moment’s notice.

He was sure no one had really forgotten what he had done. In fact, others frequently made it known that they remembered and it tore at him painfully. Every time he was reminded it forced him to close himself off a little bit more to those that used it against him.

He liked to think sometimes that they didn’t know the full story. That if they did, they might not be so quick to hurt him with the assault of memories that came from their nasty words. But then he remembered the fact that most, if not all of his friends and makeshift family had been privy to Abigail’s infidelity and had chosen to keep it quiet for their own benefit.

He spent more time than he cared to admit, wondering why it was okay in their eyes for her to hurt him so deeply. But the thought of him hurting her had everyone ready to throw hands.

Perhaps it was Jack and the fact that he found it so hard to bond with the boy. Others didn’t seem to have the issues he did with Fatherly affection and his own shortcoming shone brightly next to someone like Arthur that stepped in to the Fatherly role with ease and made him look the fool.

Regardless of if Jack was biologically his son, he loved the boy. He knew logically it was his responsibility to be his Father and deep down he felt that was something he wanted. But he wasn’t sure exactly how to go about it. Fathering didn’t come naturally to him.

John was pulled from his thoughts as Arthur nudged his arm non-too gently. He looked up, apologizing to both Arthur and the pretty barmaid that was waiting to take his order. He stuttered as he spoke, feeling as though he had been speaking aloud.  He ordered the beef stew. Jumbled worlds earning himself a raised brow from his counterpart as the woman giggled, nodding and leaving them with a smile.

John’s eyes followed her, trailing briefly on her ass before turning back to his coffee.

Arthur shook his head, looking away from John and pursing his lips as he focused his attention else ware.

“What?” John asked finally, annoyed by the other man’s obvious disapproval. He felt scolded and he hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Nothin’.” Arthur answered simply, his tone flat. John frowned, staring down at his coffee as he thought.

“Good well you just keep your opinions to yourself then.” He grumbled, ignoring the vicious side-eye this afforded him.

“Dammit Marston. You’re a married man.” Arthur hissed, his fisted hand slamming down on the table gently considering the venom in his voice.

“So what?” John asked, exasperated. “Bein’ married don’t mean I stop noticin’ when someone is good lookin’.” He said blatantly, shoulders shrugging as Arthur shook his head again.

“It should.” He said simply, his judgement making John’s cheeks burn despite his resolve that he wasn’t in the wrong. He thought the waitress was pretty. He never intended to act on those feelings. He loved Abigail.

“I ain’t mean anything by it.” John said softly, voice small as he picked at the dirt under his nails.

“You think Abigail would be okay with the way you was lookin’ at that woman if she was here?” Arthur asked, gaze steely as he eyed the other man. John shrugged, not having a response for the older man. He honestly wasn’t sure how Abigail would feel about it. He thought that maybe he knew deep down she wouldn’t care. But he kept that locked away, filed under things he couldn’t deal with in his fragile state.

Their meals were delivered relatively quickly and the barmaid joked with them about how she would have to start delivering all the meals as others had seen her do it for them. They thanked her profusely as she left them be, telling them not for the first time that it really was her pleasure.

John kept his eyes to himself under Arthur’s watchful gaze.

He ate his meal in silence. Stewing silently over the way Arthur had reacted to his momentary happiness. It had been a long time since he had felt anything other than desolation. He tried not to show it lest the others think he was weak but he knew sometimes it seeped out in the way he acted or spoke.

He felt Arthur of all people should understand his situation. Possibly even feel empathy towards him considering his own troubled past with Mary Gillis.

But no, John lamented as he took another bite of his lunch. Arthur was more concerned with Abigail’s wellbeing than his own. As long as he was providing for her and the boy, his own happiness was a null point.

He shook away those thoughts, trying to enjoy his food but it tasted bitter and burnt like his feelings.

He ate it anyway, sighing in relief as the rumbling in his stomach finally stopped. He hadn’t really eaten properly in several days. The few berry’s he had been able to scavenge from around their hiding spot inside the cavern did nothing to sate his hunger after the one can of vegetables he had brought with him had been eaten on their first night out of camp.

Dutch had seen him take it from the camp kitchen and he had felt the strong sting of disappointment course through the other man as he had shaken his head slowly in his direction.

He hadn’t taken any more than that. Watching bitterly as Arthur stocked up his pack in case they got stuck away from home. He had become increasingly aware of Dutch’s resent towards him the longer he went without donating to the camp funds.

Arthur hadn’t noticed when John skipped meal times. Offering instead to do the first watch so Arthur could eat and sleep and then falling straight in to bed when it was his turn. He supposed the older man had assumed he had eaten during his watch.

The stockpile of food, weapons, bullets, blankets and medical supplies were all free for the taking for any member of the gang. But this wasn’t the first time Dutch had put a ban on someone for not paying their share. This was just the first time it had happened to John. It hurt more than he cared to admit. He had been a member of the gang for half his life and he thought of them as family. He worked his ass off for them. He was always the first to jump in to the line of fire for the sake of the gang and he couldn’t help how little money the gang as a whole had been making lately.

He wanted to confront Dutch. To ask why the hell he deserved to starve when he contributed just as many physical goods to the gang as any other member. But he already knew what the answer would be and he knew there was no point.

“It’s only fair son.” Dutch would say in a practised tone that made him sound empathetic. “You can take out what you put in and you ain’t been puttin’ in any money or food.”

John would remind him that he can’t bring in more money if he isn’t sent out on more jobs.

Dutch would suggest he hunts for the gang instead.

John would ask how the hell he was supposed to hunt when he wasn’t allowed to take any bullets from the stockpile.

Dutch would suggest fishing instead. It was inexpensive and he was welcome to eat whatever meal Pearson could make out of his catch.

John would remind him that he’s allergic to fish and Dutch would shrug before patting him on the shoulder and sending him on his way.

John would continue not to fish out of spite.

He clenched his fists under the table.

‘No point.’ He thought irritably, glaring at his empty plate.

“You done?” Arthur asked, an amused smile on his lips as he watched John scowl at his plate. “You seem angry you ain’t got any food left.” He sniggered, stopping abruptly as John turned his sour face on him.

“Very funny.” He spat sarcastically, pushing himself away from the table and standing abruptly. Arthur followed suit, keeping a wary distance behind his brother as he stalked towards the bar.

John put his hands out to catch himself as he practically threw himself against the wooden countertop and stared at his feet until the barmaid came over to speak with him.

“You know table service usually means I bring you a bill.” She laughed, keeping up the friendly banter from earlier. Her smile dropped, face becoming serious as she took in his sour features. John reprimanded himself mentally, forcing a smile to on this face and hoping it leant more towards friendly than menacing.

“Ah… Sorry…” He laughed awkwardly. “We just… we have to go.” He said with a shrug, pulling money from his satchel and turning to take Arthur’s from him. The woman smiled weakly and John let out a small sigh. He had let his violent exterior show and she was frightened. He should have known better.

“It’s a shame you have to leave.” She said softly, leaning over the counter to take the money from his hand and counting it quickly. John perked up somewhat, daring to hope she meant it was a shame to see him go rather than it was a shame he wasn’t spending more money in the establishment.

“There’s a party on here tonight.” She paused. “Well every Friday night.” She explained, turning back to them after depositing the money in the register and leaning on the bar with one hand. “Lots of drinkin’, dancin’…” She trailed off, leaning slightly to the right to look behind John and catch Arthur’s eye as well. “Workin’ women.” She jested. “If you’re in to that sort of thing.”

John cleared his throat, opening his mouth to reply when he felt Arthur’s heavy hand on his shoulder.

“We’re not.” He answered for John, earning himself a frown from both parties. “Thanks for your hospitality ma’am.” He said softly, a warning in his tone directed at John as he tipped his hat and turned towards the exit.

John looked at her apologetically, shrugging as he turned to follow Arthur.

“It was nice talking to you Miss…. Miss…” He trailed off, realising he hadn’t gotten her name. She laughed, answering his unasked question with a bright smile.

“Miss Maggie.” She said cheerily. “Maggie Macfarlane.” She elaborated. John smiled at her, of course she had a pretty name to go with her gorgeous appearance.

“I’m John.” He said, pointing to himself. “John Marston.”

Arthur grunted from somewhere near the door and John rolled his eyes. He knew he was going to get reamed later for using his real name.

“Nice to meet you John Marston.” She said softly, her eyes flicking between himself and Arthur. John nodded at her, turning back to Arthur and starting towards him. “Hope to see ya’ll here tonight.” Maggie called, walking along the bar with him and pressing herself against the end of it as he kept walking.

Arthur was paused in the doorway, shaking his head disapprovingly as he waited for John to catch up.

John glowered at him, discreetly shooting him the finger as he walked through the open door Arthur was holding.

 ~

 “I don’t think she’d care.” John said softly. So quiet, Arthur wasn’t sure he’d actually heard it.

“What?” He asked, turning back to the other man with a confused expression on his face.

“Abigail.” John clarified, pausing to think. “I don’t think she’d care.” He repeated.

Arthur frowned, confused for a second before remembering their earlier conversation in the saloon. He has posed the question and John hadn’t answered.

“O’ course she’d care.” He said, exasperated. “That was my whole point.”

“I know it was. But you’re wrong.” John said sadly. “She don’t care about me. How many times in all these years do I gotta say it before you believe me?” He asked, spurring Old Boy in to a trot to catch up to Bo.

“You ain’t said it enough times yet. She loves you John. She was heartbroken while you was gone.” Arthur replied, staring forward as the younger man rode up beside him.

“Funny she recovered right quick when I got back.” John spat, anger consuming him. “You think if she’d spent so much time pinin’ that she woulda’ at least been nice to me when I came back.” He griped. “Been happy to see me in the least.”

“She was nice to ya! Nicer than you deserved.” Arthur growled. “She took you back!” He argued. “She let you move back in to her tent.”

“It was my tent.” John grumbled. He had left it behind when he ran away and Abigail had claimed it as her own. He hadn’t fought her for it when he came back as he was just so sorry he had left and desperately wanted her forgiveness.

“My argument still stands.” Arthur sighed. “You ain’t deserve neither of those things after you run off.” He finished, turning to look at his brother.

“You told me it was okay to leave her!” John snapped, addressing the advice he was given for the first time since his return. He had been surprised when Arthur had told him it was okay to leave all those years earlier. But after having such a long time to think about it, he honestly wondered if it was a selfish decision on Arthur’s part. He wondered if Arthur hoped he would leave her so he could have his shot with Abigail.

“I didn’t mean run off for a fucking year. Leave the gang and all!” Arthur shouted back, pulling his horse up to a stop.

“It don’t matter!” John yelled back, pulling Old Boy up next to Boadicea. “You told me it was okay and then all you done since is judge without knowin’ what you’re talkin’ about.” He said flatly, a hard glare meeting Arthur’s eyes.

“I know if I had a woman like Abigail I wouldn’t let her go.” Arthur said simply, not biting John’s bait and asking what he meant by saying he didn’t know what he was talking about. John swallowed audibly, feeling betrayal bubble in his gut as his suspicions were confirmed.

“Well you marry her then!” He said cried, temper rising as his eyes burned and he struggled to keep his emotions at bay. “You want her so bad you take her. She sure as shit wouldn’t mind.” He finished, clicking Old Boy’s reins and turning him back in the other direction.

Arthur watched him go, infuriated and how naive John was being.

“John…” He said softly, voice growing in to a shout by the end of the word. “Get your ass back here!”

John ignored him, walking his horse slowly back towards town as he wrestled with keeping everything he wanted to say inside his mouth. He wanted to scream at Arthur for giving him the advice that fucked everything up. He wanted to tear in to Dutch and tell him he deserved food as much as the next gang member. He wanted to cry to Abigail and ask her why the hell she didn’t love him. To beg her to let him go if she would never truly want him.

Arthur rode up beside John, leaning over and grabbing a hold of Old Boy’s reins and giving them a tug to make him stop. John let him do it, staring down at the horse’s white mane in silence. Not daring to open his mouth in case incessant word vomit poured out of him and gave way to his fragile emotions.

“Come on.” Arthur said softly, regret settling in his stomach at the look on his brother’s face. He could tell he was in pain. He just wasn’t truly sure why. “Stop this. Let’s just get home.” He said gently, pulling John’s horse with him as he turned Bo back around towards camp.

 ~

 The return to camp was long and tedious without the boys speaking. At some point Arthur had let go of Old Boy’s reins, confident John wasn’t running off anywhere and the horse had simply continued on behind him slowly.

“That party might be a good place to scope out work.” John said, begrudgingly breaking the long standing silence and refusing to look at Arthur as the older man turned to him in surprise.

“It might…” Arthur agreed, narrowing his eyes at the other man. “But we ain’t goin’.” He said definitively, making John gawk.

“Why not?” He asked, irritated with the matter-of-fact manner in which Arthur had just shot him down.

“You ain’t goin’ back to see that woman John.” Arthur sighed, frustration in his tone as he looked the younger man up and down. He thought they had moved passed this.

“It ain’t to see her.” John replied defensively. He was annoyed he had said anything at all. He had actually meant it. He really needed the money and if he was lucky enough to speak with the right person he could potentially earn himself a job that he could pull off without too many others. Another like the one they had just finished that was just himself and Arthur to make him some quick cash to help catch up on his debts.

“Look…” Arthur started, a large sigh caught in his chest as he tried to decide which way to play this.

“Forget it.” John snapped, pushing his position ahead of Arthur and glowering at the path in front of him. He didn’t want to go alone.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea with that woman sniffen’ around you.” Arthur shouted at John’s back, earning himself silence in response. He shook his head, watching the other man increase his distance between them in an act of rebellion.

John would do whatever he wanted anyway. He wasn’t sure why he bothered.

As they approached the thick woodland that hid their camp from sight Arthur answered the shout of one of the guards asking who was riding in. John stayed silent, lost in his own thought as they pushed through the scrub hiding the small trail leading in to camp.

They had only been gone for a few days but as usual most of the camp gathered excitedly as they hitched their horses. The women were eager to hear about the hold up and ease the boredom that always fell over the camp when the men were out working. The men always wanted to talk shop. How many were killed? How much money was made? Did the law find them? Those sorts of things.

Arthur answered the rapid-fire questions as best he could as John began unpacking the horses. He stayed back, as the Arthur was escorted back to camp by many enthusiastic ears. He watched bitterly as Dutch congratulated the older man on a job well done. He thumbed the cash in his coat pocket as he watched Arthur drop his in the box.

“How’d it go?” Abigail asked, jolting him back to reality as she touched him on the upper arm and looked at him with barely concealed anticipation. She had been complaining about Jack growing too fast for the last few weeks. Casually pointing out the fact that the hem of his pants sat half way up his calves instead of at the ankle. She had also been harping on for some time about her own clothes. Explaining to him in agonizing detail that due to the type of fabric they wouldn’t be able to be stitched again if she reopened the last few holes she had repaired.

He knew it was a ploy to bore him to death in the hopes he would throw money at the problem to make it go away. It would have worked had he had any money to throw at her. Instead he listened carefully to the unnecessarily long explanation of how the fabric of her shirt could not be stitched if it was too thin and nodded at the appropriate times to show his feigned interest.

“It went well.” He said slowly, watching as her eyes lit up at his words. He knew she was just here for the money. He found himself wishing she would talk to him. Really talk to him without any motive or objective. Ask him how the job went for real. Because she loved him and was worried for his safety.

“That’s great!” She exclaimed excitedly, the hand on his arm squeezing briefly before coming to rest on her hip.

John swallowed, waiting.

“So how much did you make?” She asked when he stayed silent. If she saw the hurt flash through his eyes she pretended not to, holding out her hand as he pulled the crumpled stack of cash from his pocket.

A small part of him had dared to hope he was wrong and she wasn’t just there for the money.

“Fifty.” He answered softly, counting out forty and putting it back in his pocket. She watched him, her face falling as he handed her the last five.

“Five dollars?” She asked incredulously, taking it from him and waving it in his face. He nodded, unsure what she was expecting him to say. It was all he could spare. “Five isn’t enough to buy the things we need John!” She exclaimed, voice already so close to shouting.

“What do you want from me woman?” He asked irritably, crossing his arms. “It’s all I got, the rest goes in the box…” He explained, tone as even as he could keep it.

“You said you made fifty!” Abigail shouted, making him flinch. “I just saw you count forty. The gang don’t need forty dollars John, we do!” She said blatantly. “Never mind where that last five went, I don’t even wanna know what you did with that.” She stated in a way that told him she did very much want to know what he did with it.

“The gang does need forty Abigail! I ain’t put anything in the box in weeks and Dutch is startin’ to notice. I gotta make up for that.” He said hurriedly, urging her to understand and let it go.

“The extra five?” She asked, stuffing the bill he had given her in the corset under her shirt and putting her hands on her hips as she waited for an explanation.

“Well…” He hesitated. It wasn’t any of her business. But he didn’t want her thinking he had gone and done something sordid like hiring a whore or paying for a deluxe bath. “Excuse me for wantin’ a hot meal after a three day job.” He grumbled, his resolve to stand up for himself crumbling as he spoke.

“Oh!” Abigail cried sarcastically. “A hot meal. O’ course! Because Jack and I would know what one of them tasted like!” She yelled. John rolled his eyes in exasperation. She certainly would know what a hot meal tasted like. Jack would also. He hadn’t inherited his Father’s fish allergy. They had been eating better than him for weeks.

“I’m done with this Abigail.” He said tiredly, picking up his pack and walking away from her towards their tent. She followed behind him closely, berating him loudly about how selfish he was.

He ignored her along with the stares he was receiving from other gang members as they passed. He stopped at the box outside Dutch’s tent, making eye contact with the older man as he counted out and dropped the last of his money in there and signed his name on the ledger.

“-Because you don’t think, that’s why!” Abigail continued as he tuned back in to her rambling for a second. He inhaled slowly and turned away from her once more, lighting his last cigarette and walking towards the edge of camp to sit on a fallen log as he tried to enjoy it.

At some point before the end, Abigail gave up her assault. Realising he really wasn’t listening and storming off no doubt to whine about him to one of the other women.

He exhaled shakily, staring at the burning paper between his fingers and wondering what he had done to deserve his lot in life.

He knew deep down he could chalk it up to all the people he’s killed during his time. But he hadn’t exactly had it fair before he had been brought in to the gang either.

He dropped the butt of his cigarette and stomped it in to the dirt with his boot. Resting his arms on his thighs and then after a while his head in his hands. It felt heavy, full of shattered hopes and dreams that would never come to fruition.

He rolled his hand in to a fist, resting it under his cheek and watching the goings on of the camp for a while before his eyes settled on Abigail. She watched him as well from her perch underneath a lean-to. Her hands paused the work of sewing one of her skirts as she looked at him with contempt. He smiled weakly, feeling that he may cry if he didn’t.

He was just doing his best.

 ~

 Abigail seethed quietly well in to the afternoon, her disdain for John apparent in every word she spoke towards him.

She had felt bad for him momentarily. When she had asked him how much money he had made she was sure she saw something flash through his eyes. His face twitching in a way that told her she had hurt him.

She wasn’t sure exactly how she had managed that. As far as she was concerned she was supportive of him and his way of life. Her excitement over his return was genuine. She supposed she could have shown it more before she dove right in to asking about the money.

But it had been hard to hide her anger at the fact he had only brought back enough money to cloth the boy and not herself as well. She tried not to think about the fact that John had been wearing the same three outfits since he stopped growing. When she looked at her own ratty skirt and compared herself to the other women of the camp she found it was easy to ignore. She was a woman used to working for herself. Making her own money and buying her own things. It was extremely frustrating to sit back and wait for John to bring in the cash.

Then when he did bring in money, she had to wait until there was enough of it for the things she wanted. Back before she fell pregnant with Jack she could afford new things when she wanted them. She had sacrificed so much to be his Mother.

She had briefly gone back to her old profession after Jack was born to try and bring in some extra cash. She had been very successful at doing so. The downside was having to hide it from John.

When he had found out, he had run off, leaving her alone for an entire year before crawling back and asking for her forgiveness. She often found it ironic that in the end he was the one begging for her to take him back when she was the one that had wronged him.

But she never mentioned it. Choosing instead to lament the fact that he had agreed to take care of her and the boy once he returned on the condition she remained faithful to him.

She sometimes felt as though she had made a huge mistake.

She knew some of the other women were jealous of her. She often heard whispers of how she lived a life of luxury. Basic chores got her fed and clothed. She didn’t have to service the men and she often found herself with nothing left to do. She chose to spend this time reading or playing with Jack.

But in her eyes her life was far from luxurious. She was bored.

She watched John walk in to their tent and sighed as she felt a pang of guilt. He was doing his best for her and she supposed she should be grateful.

She set down her sewing, standing and brushing herself off as she made a bee-line for their tent.

She pushed aside the door flap and squinted as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. John turned to look at her, hands buttoning his vest as he stared at her in question. She moved inside, letting the flap fall back and shrouding them both in darkness as John sat on his cot and pulled his boots towards him.

Abigail frowned as she watched him dress. Something about him felt different but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

She watched as he pulled on the first boot and rested its heel on the bed to buckle his spur.

“Did you bathe?” She asked finally, taking in his full appearance and noting the absence of dirt and grime along his arms. His tanned skin contrasted gorgeously with the white dress shirt he was wearing rolled at the elbow and the mustard vest went well with his dark hair.

“Mhmm.” John hummed in reply, lifting his other foot and fiddling with the fastenings as Abigail realised he had also made an effort to wash and brush his unruly hair.

She smiled to herself, taking in the full sight of him and licking her lips as she really took the time to appreciate just how gorgeous he could be.

“Why?” She asked with a chuckle, not able to keep from poking fun at him even while desperately wanting to reinforce his behaviour. “You tryin’ to impress me?” She asked teasingly.

“I’m goin’ out.” John replied shortly, not looking up as he spoke. Abigail’s face fell, an uneasy feeling settling in her gut as she considered the circumstances. There was no way he was heading out on a job looking so primped. Not without lots of planning that she most certainly would have heard spoken of before now.

“Where you goin?” She asked carefully, crossing her arms.

“Out.” John answered, still not looking up.

“Out?” She repeated in exasperation. “Just out?” She asked, hands flying to her hips as she leaned toward him intimidatingly.

“Yeah.” John said simply, finishing his fastening and standing at his full height. “Out.” He repeated, staring her down. She faltered slightly, his steely eyes catching her off guard along with the venom in his voice.

John had never spoken to her like that before. He was always so sweet, almost childlike in his affection for her even when she didn’t deserve it.

She swallowed audibly, glaring angrily when his lips quirked at the sound and he realised his stance has frightened her.

He pushed passed her, holding the tent flap just long enough for himself to walk through before letting it go and holding back a smile as he heard her huff in annoyance and knew it had hit her as she tried to follow.

He stopped walking, turning to look at her and letting his face fall as he studied her for a moment. She was angry and he knew she had a right to be. But somehow he still held out hope she would stop him.

His vague answers should have been enough to let her know he was fed up. He never spoke to her in that manner. Always jumping to answer any question she threw at him. Even when he deserved to keep some things secret. Like his meal earlier. He felt the impulsive need to tell her so she wouldn’t worry.

She stayed silent as they stared one another down. Abigail waiting for an explanation that wasn’t coming and John badly hoping she would ask him not to go.

After another moment of silence John exhaled slowly, blinking a few times before heading for his horse. Letting the crunch of his boots conceal his uneven breathing as he unhitched Old Boy.

He jumped up in to the saddle and turned to Abigail once more, giving her one last look. One last chance to say something, anything that might make him feel as though she wanted him around before he left.

She just stood, arms folded and eyes glaring as he sighed to himself and clicked his tongue to urge the horse forwards. Trying in vain to pretend it didn’t hurt like hell.

 ~

  John hovered nervously outside the saloon. His chest felt heavy and he could feel his heartbeat in his throat. He tried to swallow it down to no avail.

He took a deep breath, pushing through the large double doors and raising a brow at how well they had masked the noise from inside.

Loud piano music played prominently through the excited chatter of the patrons and loud singing of some of the more intoxicated customers.

John slipped inside, leaning against the back wall and watching the crowd for a moment as he took in the atmosphere.

In the dim lights he could make out three or four men dancing on a table at the back, stomping their feet and singing along to the music.

He smiled as the table over balanced, sending them all crashing to the ground and the piano music came to an abrupt halt. Silence fell on the room, no one speaking for a few moments before one of the men that had fallen scrambled to his feet and held up his beer.

“Didn’t spill a drop!” He exclaimed as the saloon erupted in a loud cheer and the music started anew.

John smirked. Maybe finding people willing to talk wouldn’t be as hard as he imagined.

“You came!” Maggie exclaimed excitedly, catching him completely off guard. Her hand clasping his arm as she seemingly came out of nowhere and dominated his attention. He gaped at her, looking between her hand on his arm and her stunning eyes.

“Uh…yeah…” He exhaled, looking away from her intense gaze and swallowing thickly as he pretended to be interested in the rest of the room. To pretend as though he hadn’t been hoping she would be around and recognise him.

“Rowdy bunch.” He commented, gesturing towards the table of men that had righted themselves and continued on as if nothing had happened.

“I told you it’d be fun.” She chuckled, turning to rest her own back against the wall next to him and hooking their arms at the elbows. John looked down at their locked limbs once again and felt his heartbeat speed up. His eyes trailed from her nails lightly grasping his shirt, up to her shoulder and down the graceful slope of her neck to her breasts. Then back up over the profile of her face.

She was wearing more make up than earlier in the day. Her cheeks flushed artificially with pink powder and her lips glinting a ruby red in the dim light.

She was gorgeous.

“They’re the Lester Brothers.” She continued, not noticing his stare. “Too much money not enough sense.” She joked, turning to look up at him and grinning at his nervous smile.

“Your friend didn’t come?” She asked, looking around quickly as John shook his head.

“No… He wasn’t interested.” John explained, leaving out the part where he didn’t actually tell Arthur he was leaving.

“That’s a shame. But I gotta say he didn’t seem the type.” She chuckled, shrugging. John nodded in agreement, words stuck in his throat as he gazed down at her. “Come on!” She urged suddenly, pulling him forwards by the arm. “Let’s get something to drink.” She exclaimed excitedly as she weaved them through the crowd towards the bar.

John halted, his stop making her lurch as she tried to walk forwards with him but was pulled backwards slightly. He apologised as she turned to him with a questioning look.

“I… don’t have any cash.” He admitted, cheeks flushing crimson as he realised his mistake. How the hell did he think he was going to get anyone to talk tonight without liquor to loosen their tongue.

He silently cursed himself for putting all of his money in the box.

Maggie laughed heartily, patting his hand comfortingly as she began to pull him along once more. He followed her, not really understanding what was so funny.

“I work here dumbie.” She giggled as she reached the bar and held up two fingers. The barmaid nodded, giving John a once over before raising a brow at her friend and depositing two shots of whiskey in front of her. Maggie grabbed them both, offering him one before raising the other to her lips. “Booze is free.” She declared with a wink, making him smile sheepishly. She really was stunning.

John took his shot, feeling the burn run all the way down the back of his throat and settle warmly in his stomach. He sighed contently, already feeling a little fuzzy after only one drink. He supposed not eating for several days at a time would do that to a person.

He looked up from his empty glass as Maggie nudged another shot in to his free hand, smiling and laughing at his appreciation as he took the second drink.

He had never in his life drank alcohol he didn’t have to pay for in some capacity.

“You sure are cute.” Maggie chuckled as he grinned dumbly at his two empty shot glasses.

This was going to be an interesting night.

 ~

 John felt as though maybe he had, had a little too much to drink.

He first started to suspect that might be the case when he hadn’t objected to being dragged in to the middle of a conga line.

Or maybe, he had agreed because feeling the firm curve of Maggie’s hips under his hands was intoxicating on a completely different level. Seeing the way her ass moved as the line shimmied around the room and being able to stare with unabashed blatancy because she could not see him from her position in front. Perfectly fine, unadulterated fun, as they were just sharing a harmless dance with several other people.

He tried not to think too much in to it. Letting himself just enjoy the night for once without latent feelings of guilt trying to bubble to the surface.

He let himself be lead around the room. Meeting new people and chatting with them for as long as Maggie wanted before she lead him off to introduce him to someone else.

Despite his alcohol raddled brain, he did catalogue a lot of information for work purposes. He couldn’t exactly write it all down with pen and paper, so he would have to make do with his memory.

He often used mnemonic devices as a way of remembering things. As dumb as everyone joked he was, he had his own ways of being smarter than each of them.

Even while intoxicated he could use this way of logging information to help him remember what to tell the other’s in the morning.

‘Lester…’

He said to himself mentally, leaning on the table in front of him and staring at the three men staggering about as Maggie explained them to him. More money than they knew what to do with. They had inherited their Dad’s company when he died and used some of the small fortune they had acquired to hire someone to run it for them so they could spend the rest of their time drinking day and night.

They frequented this particular bar on a very regular basis and were basically in a perpetual state of intoxication due to their wealth.

Easily anticipated, drunk and swimming in cash.

Easy to rob, John concluded.

‘Lester…’ John thought again, trying not to squint as he racked his brain for a rhyme. ‘Sounds like pester…’ He continued. ‘Hosea yelled at me to stop pesterin’ him as a kid.’ He added, brain ticking over as he clicked the pieces together. ‘He made Arthur take me fishin’… and the Lester boys own a company that makes fishin’ rods.’ He grinned, proud of himself.

“What are you grinnin’ about?” Maggie asked, her voice sloppy and slurred as she beamed back.

“Oh, nothin’.” John said shyly. “Just figured somethin’ out is all.” He smiled. Maggie raised her brows, biting at her bottom lip as she dipped her head towards him and spoke close to his ear.

“You are one strange man John Marston…” She slurred, the end of her sentence devolving in to laughter that John felt was contagious. He started laughing as well, suddenly feeling euphoric as he really took in his situation. He was chatting with a gorgeous woman that actually found him interesting. He had just gotten a tip that could make him the money he needed to get out of his debt and best of all, the drinks were free.

He stood from his chair and held out his hand. Maggie took it, looking him up and down sceptically as he chuckled wildly. He dragged her with him, pulling her in to the middle of all the dancing couples and twirling her around clumsily. She cackled as they whirled around one another, nothing about what they were doing able to be called dancing.

But John was trying and he was hilariously cute. He pulled her back to him and she curled in to his arms, her back pressing against his front and they both paused momentarily. She could feel John’s heavy breathing against her neck and her hairs stood on end. Her cheeks flushed as a wave of arousal coursed through her.

She turned to him, pulling him away from the middle of the dance floor in to a dark corner of the room. John opened his mouth to question her but she turned suddenly, backing herself against a wall and pulling him towards her sharply.

He stumbled, catching himself on the wall with his arms outstretched and her between them. His breath hitched as he looked down at her, their bodies only inches apart. She stared up at him, lips quirking in to a smile as she snaked her hands around his waist and pulled him flush against her.

His hands instinctively fell to her hips and he breathed heavily as he pressed his forehead against hers. They stared at one another for a long while, eyes so close they were both a bit out of focus. John swallowed, holding his breath as she shifted slightly and he felt his pulsing erection brush against her abdomen. He closed his eyes, biting his lip as she giggled and he knew she had felt it too. He was filled with shame.

She raised a hand to his cheek, running it lightly over his stubble and slowly pulling his face down in line with hers. She hesitated momentarily, their lips only half an inch apart, before pressing toward him. He turned his head, letting her kiss land on his cheek, the very edge of her lips catching the edge of his as he exhaled slowly.

She pulled away, her back pressed hard against the wall as she struggled to put distance between them. He looked down at her remorsefully, her gaze questioning.

“I…” He paused, unsure what to say. “I think you’ve had too much to drink.” He lied, his voice a soft chuckle. “Don’t want to take advantage of you.” He whispered, feeling guilt stab at him for acting the gentleman when he was anything but.

“I can handle my liquor Mr Marston…” She laughed, feeling relief as she realised she hadn’t done anything wrong. She leaned forwards again, trying in vain to catch his lips but he pulled away, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry…” He whispered, an explanation stuck on his tongue. He wanted so badly to let her kiss him. To feel her warmth as he ground against her eagerly. He was extremely aroused and finding it hard to keep pulling away. But he couldn’t stop thinking of Abigail. The look she had given him when he had spoken harshly to her earlier in the afternoon. He loved her so completely and it wasn’t fair to drag this poor woman in to the middle of that. He needed to get back to camp. To talk to her and find out if there was ever any hope of their relationship actually working out.

Maggie watched him in the dim light. The dark circles under his eyes seemed to have deepened since he entered the bar earlier. He was caught in a moment of deep contemplation and she wondered sadly which demons he was currently battling.

“It’s alright…” She replied, startling him back to reality. She smiled at him kindly, taking his hand in hers and squeezing it reassuringly. They shared a look filled with excitement and promise before John took another step back, letting go of her hand and smiling apologetically.

“I have to get back…” He said softly, not offering any further clarification. She nodded in understanding, smiling back despite the twinge of hurt.

“Just make sure you come back and see me at some point…” She said with barely concealed hope. He nodded in agreement.

“Thanks for the drinks…” He said softly, raising his hand in a small wave and slipping away in to the crowd and back out side to find his horse.

He had meant it. He would be back one way or another. He knew it wasn’t right to leave her hanging and hoping he would return only to never hear from him again.

 ~

 The ride back to camp was long and uncomfortable. John’s erection pressed against his stomach for the entire journey. Every small bump in the road making it slide tantalizingly against his belt and eliciting a small moan from him.

He shifted uncomfortably as he approached the entrance to camp. A familiar tingling in his belly had every hair on his body standing to attention. He was desperate to slip in to the woods and afford himself the very few strokes he would need to finish himself off. He had been essentially edging himself all the way back to camp and he was ready for it to end. He had never been one for orgasm denial.

The shout of the guard made him jump and he answered them with a shaky voice, letting them know it was just him returning. He ignored the raised the brow of question as he passed them, kicking Old Boy in to a trot to make his journey to the hitching post quicker.

He slipped off the horse, readjusting himself to hide his issue before heading towards his tent. He knew he really should take care of himself before returning to his bed but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He knew if he did he would be thinking of her… Not of his gorgeous wife asleep a few metres away. His gut churned. He didn’t want to be that person. He hadn’t kissed her at the bar and he sure as hell wasn’t going to touch himself to her image.

He pushed in to the tent quietly, his eyes not used to the darkness that shrouded him. He was careful with his footing, never knowing where Jack was going to move his bedroll from one night to another. The last thing he needed right now was to step on the kid.

“John?” Abigail asked softly, catching him off guard. He hadn’t expected her to be awake. Perhaps he had awoken her with his heavy, drunken footsteps.

“Yeah… It’s me…” He answered, unsure what to say to her as he felt around for his bed. He wasn’t sure if she was still mad at him.

“Wasn’t sure you were comin’ home…” She said softly her whisper carrying in the silence of the night. John squinted, making out her shape in the darkness. She was lying on her side on her cot, propped up on her arm. He felt a pang of guilt stab at him as he realised she had been waiting up for him.

“I always come home…” He whispered back in to the darkness, sitting down on his cot and fumbling with the lantern sitting on the upturned packing crate he used as a bedside table. He lit it, letting it completely light up the room briefly before turning it down to the dimmest setting. He turned back to Abigail, gasping as he took in the sight of her.

She was completely naked, one leg draped over the other seductively and her free arm resting against the curve of her hip. Her hair fell down over her shoulders and framed her exposed breasts. She smiled at his shock, bringing her hand to her face and licking two of her fingers slowly.

She parted her legs. His eyes following as she moved. One leg lay against the mattress while the other was upright, bent at the knee with her foot bracing herself against the cot as she tilted her hips forward slightly. Her slicked fingers coming to rest in her curls as she pressed them against her clit. She began to move them in small circles, a moan escaping her as she bit her lip in an effort to stifle it.

“Wha…” John breathed, he couldn’t form a coherent word, let alone a full sentence. “Where… Where is…” He tried again, cutting himself off as Abigail moaned again, louder this time.

“Jack is havin’ a sleep over with some of the other women.” She answered his unasked question, sliding her hand down between her folds and pressing them in to herself seductively slow. John nodded, not taking his eyes off her hand as she moved her digits in and out, her breathing becoming laboured as she pulled herself closer to climax. His eyes on her exciting her more than she had anticipated.

It had been a long time since she had put on a show for anyone. John swallowed audibly, shifting his hips uncomfortably as his hard length throbbed painfully against his clothing.

“Aren’t you gonna join me?” Abigail asked finally, pulling her hand away from herself and resting it on her hip. John opened his mouth, unsure how to reply and she giggled at the fact he somehow managed to look even more shocked than before.

“Really?” He asked hopefully, the tone of his voice letting her know it was a serious question. She frowned slightly before pulling her happy facade back in place. Did he really think he wasn’t invited to join this party? Had it truly been so long that he would question whether or not he was allowed to touch her when she was putting on such a blatant display.

“Really…” She answered back softly, holding out her hand for him to take. He reached for her shakily, clasping her soft hand in his large calloused hold and letting her pull him across the tent to sit on the edge of her cot.

He quickly undid the fastenings on his boots, kicking them off and pushing them under his bed with his feet.

Abigail let go of him, hand coming up to stroke lightly down his broad chest over the mustard yellow vest that somehow managed to accentuate his dark eyes. He followed her hand with those eyes, glancing up at her a few times as she began working on the buttons. As if he couldn’t believe this was real.

She sat up, leaning on her hip with her legs to the side as she used both her hands to push the vest down off his shoulders. He dipped them one at a time to help her and she felt his hands ghost ever so lightly over her sides. As if he was afraid to touch her.

She encouraged him with a small nod, dipping her head to catch his eyes. He stared at her, licking his lips unconsciously as his hands came to rest on her hips. He squeezed gently and she let out a satisfied noise that had his cock straining impossibly hard against his fly.

She let her hands fall on his pecks, feeling the firm muscles underneath the fabric and frowning to herself when she moved further down and realised she could feel his ribs. He was thinner than the last time she had touched him. She wondered absently if it was her fault somehow.

He leaned forwards, resting his forehead on her shoulder and closing his eyes against the spinning of the room. He was still intoxicated and he knew she could smell it on his breath. He was overwhelmed by his night so far and needed to take a second to think.

This was so out of character for Abigail. He squeezed her hips again gently as she began unbuttoning his shirt. He wondered if she knew.

She pushed against his bare chest lightly and he sat up, letting go of her to allow her to remove his shirt fully. He swallowed noticeably in the silence of the tent, feeling the familiar niggle of self-consciousness hone in on him as she sat back and looked him over.

“You’re so handsome.” She whispered, making him flush. He averted his eyes, hands in his lap as he waited for her to give him instruction. He was beyond grateful that he hadn’t relieved himself on the way back to camp. He was so close to letting himself get in to it. Grinding in his saddle and painting the inside of his trousers with cum.

He wasn’t sure how he would have explained that to her.

Abigail slipped her legs off the side of the bed. Standing and surprising him as she walked around the cot and pushed him back so he had a good steady seat and wasn’t resting on the edge anymore. When she was satisfied he was anchored she straddled him, gorgeous legs either side of his thighs as she rested her wet heat against his fly. Her arms hooked around his neck and she leaned in to kiss him hard. Her tongue pressing insistently against his lips until he parted them and let her delve deeply. He groaned loudly once as she began to move her hips.

She ground against him, making him whine in to the kiss as his hips jutted up to meet her. She could feel how hard he was, smiling in to the kiss as he struggled to contain the groans repeatedly catching in his throat.

She reached in between them, pausing her movements to release him from his pants. He was ridiculously wet for such a short amount of foreplay. Although this didn’t register as weird to her considering how long it had been since she had touched him.

She pushed his chest back, encouraging him to rest on his elbows as she worked the wetness around his cock, slicking it for what she had planned next.

John held his breath as she moved. Expecting her to sheath him inside herself but blinking in question as she sat herself on top of his straining dick and pressing it against his belly with her folds.

She began to move, letting him glide gloriously along her lips and clit as she thrust towards him in a grinding motion. He mewled softly, lip trembling as she pulled back, his dick rising against her as she put pressure on the base. She pressed forwards again, moaning open mouthed as she crushed him against his stomach. She pushed back as she reached the tip, letting it fall against her entrance and holding it there for a second or two before ever so slightly pushing against him. He moaned loudly as she engulfed his head briefly, pulling back and letting in fall out of her as fast as it had happened. He whined at the loss of contact and she sushed him with a hand over his mouth as she began to keen against him once more.

John watched as his cock slipped in and out of view, her folds rubbing deliciously against the large vein on his underside and making his thighs shake. He was so close already. The second she had touched him a fire had ignited in his belly. All of the heat from before he had returned to camp coming back to him full force and pushing him embarrassingly close to climax.

Abigail wasn’t aware that John’s erection lingered from other activities earlier in the night. But she knew her husband and one thing she could be certain of was that he was a quick draw. She rubbed against him harder, faster, moaning his name noisily as she pushed him closer to orgasm. She knew he was close, the way his stomach clenched under her, the feeling of his trembling lip against her hand. His eyes were on her breasts as they bounced along with her. He was gasping and groaning, still entirely too loud for where they were situated. But she let him continue, knowing he wouldn’t be able to hold off much longer and then the real fun could begin.

She leaned forwards, moving her hand away from his mouth and bracing herself on his shoulders as she kissed him hard. She spread her legs further apart so she was still pressing against him and ceased her movements, letting him control the pace as he ground up against her. His eyes were screwed shut and his breathing laboured as she moaned in to the kiss. He thrust up powerfully, hard and jutting as the thread he had been dangling from snapped and a rush of pleasure spread through his loins and outwards, consuming his entire body. A strangled groan left him as he came, hard. Cum shooting across his stomach as he breathed raggedly against her mouth.

As his orgasm subsided he began to feel sheepish, shame bubbling inside him as he opened his eyes to look in to hers. He had never been any good at holding back. He was embarrassingly easy to get off and it was something he had always been ashamed of.

But Abigail knew this. She liked this fact and despite her intimidating exterior majority of the time she always made sure to let him know it was okay. She always made sure he came once before sex if she was expecting it to last.

It was by way of apology for her comment all those years ago that had hurt him so deeply.

John looked up at her guiltily, the flush on his cheeks deepening the longer she stared at him. He cleared his throat awkwardly, sitting up and catching her with his hands on her back before she could fall.

“Thanks…” He said quietly, avoiding her gaze as he waited for her to move off of him. They sat like that for a while before he finally looked up, questioning her without speaking and desperately asking for her to clarify what the hell was happening.

Abigail sighed at the sight of him. His dark eyes were full of sadness despite the fun they had just had. She lifted a hand to his face, stroking lightly over his cheek and leaning down to kiss him softly. He kissed back hungrily, frantically.

She ran her hands through his clean hair, finger pads pressing against his scalp in a massaging motion as she tried to reassure him everything was okay.

“Come here.” She ordered, pulling away and moving off him. She laid back on the cot and encouraged him to follow, holding out her arm and motioning for him to rest his head there. He did as instructed, lying next to her so they were facing one another with his head pillowed on her arm. She pulled him close, wrapping her arms around him and holding him to her breast as her hands ran lightly over his back. He sighed contently, face pressing against her chest as his own arm slid over her waist.

They laid still for a long time. John struggled not to dose off. He hadn’t felt so warm and safe in years.

Abigail tilted his chin upwards when she felt him begin to go slack. He blinked opening his eyes and observing her from under heavy lids. She leaned in and kissed him leisurely, sensually. His hand tightened against her back as she moved their lips together in a long slow kiss laced with love. He moaned so softly she felt it rather than heard it. His cock beginning to liven against her hip as they continued to kiss, both breathing through their noses and not parting for several minutes.

John went with the flow, his sleep addled brain barely able to comprehend the situation as her hand made its way in between them to stroke him gently. His mind was fuzzy and his chest warm. It was like a pleasant dream he didn’t want to wake from.

Abigail slowly moved one of her legs to rest atop his hip, tilting her hips and positioning him at her entrance. She wiped at his stomach, using his cum as lube to slick him before delving downwards and letting herself take him fully. John gasped, moving his hand to her hip and holding her in place as he pressed forward experimentally. She felt amazing, her wetness milking him as he slowly pulled back and pressed forward again. He rested his face against her breast where it had been previously and began thrusting in a slow, steady rhythm that would have them lasting hours. Abigail moaned as his head brushed against her sweet spot and John’s breath hitched at the sound. He moved his hand from her hip, feeling down her stomach and to her mound. His thumb came to nestle gently in her curls as he pressed it against her clit. He moved in small circles as he had seen her do earlier and she cried out in response, bucking towards him and making him shake.

He kept his eyes closed, too scared that if he opened them this would all be a dream. He continued to work her clit tantalizingly slow as he thrust in to her at a similar pace. They stayed like this for some time, both of them very slowly edging towards climax. It was the opposite of a race. Both of them content to slowly fuck forever. Both holding back. Both desperately trying to not be the first to topple over the edge.

Abigail felt the heat in her abdomen begin to spread and she whined lazily. John felt it in her chest against his forehead. He reluctantly picked up the face of his thumb, his overwhelming need to please her outweighing his own want for this to never end.

He pressed his palm against her bladder as he changed the angle of his hips and increased the rhythm of his thrusts so he was hitting against her exactly right with each movement. Abigail began to moan loudly, her breathing erratic as her thighs began to shake. Her nails raked deep lines in to his back and he felt rather than heard himself groan as she bucked against him, meeting everyone one of his thrusts. She cried out, his name leaving her as she came hard against his hand. Head thrown back and spine arching as pleasure shot through her in a way she hadn’t felt in months.

“Fuck… John…” She breathed as she began to come down from her high, her own thrusts ceasing as he continued on in search of his own release. “Fuck…” She whispered. “I love you…”

John cried out through gritted teeth, his eyes screwed shut against her breast as he came for the second time. Thrusting in to her hard and pausing as he spilled himself deep inside her.

He was trembling all over, his body spent and his mind cloudy as he replayed her words over and over. He slowed his breathing involuntarily, sleep threatening to over take him any second as he pulled away from her to catch some fresh air, head lolling heavily backwards. She placed one of her hands on the back of his head, pushing him back against her after he had taken a few deep breaths and running her hands through his hair soothingly. She let him lie there, still inside her as sleep took him surprisingly fast.

She pat him lightly, feeling content with a job well done as he began to snore softly and she knew he was out to the world.

 ~

 John awoke feeling surprisingly sore. He couldn’t put his finger on why as he slowly blinked the dark green canvas of his tent roof in to his view.

He looked around him leisurely, frowning as he realised he was alone and trying hard to remember what the fuck had happened the night before.

He suddenly opened his eyes wide. Flashes of himself pressed against Maggie making his stomach churn as he scrambled to get his bearings. He was definitely in his tent at camp and  he knew he never would have brought her here no matter how much he had to drink.

He relaxed slightly, letting himself fall back against the pillow and thinking hard on what had happened after that. He remembered now, telling her he had to go. The disappointment on her face had been plain to see and he felt guilty just remembering.

He pressed onwards, cheeks flushing as he remembered softly grinding against his own belt on the ride back to camp. He looked down, suddenly realising he was still wearing his pants. He gasped softly as he noticed the dried cum on his stomach and looked around him once again to make sure he was definitely alone.

He must have relieved himself when he got back to camp. He groaned, rubbing his hand against his face as shame filled every inch of him. He knew he was loud when touched himself and there was no way in hell his drunken self didn’t wake Abigail as he shamelessly fucked his own hand.

‘Abigail…’

He thought suddenly, looking to the cot next to him and realising it was made neatly. Perhaps she hadn’t been here when he came back. Or perhaps she had and she was so livid with his blatant behaviour that she had finally packed up and left him.

He stared at the bed for a while, something not feeling quite right about it before he admonished himself for not realising earlier. It was his own bed he was staring at, not Abigail’s.

Suddenly, like a bolt of lightening he was assaulted with an onslaught of memories that would make even the cheapest whore blush. He sat upright, clambering to find his shirt and shoving it over his shoulders roughly. He stood, making sure his morning wood was tucked away as he pushed passed the doorway of the tent and in to the bright sunlight of the mid morning. He haphazardly buttoned his shirt as he walked, eyes squinting in the brightness of the morning, searching desperately for any sign of her.

He spotted her by the opposite side of camp, kneeling down and speaking to Jack in a way that told John the boy was in trouble. He pushed forwards, ignoring the murmurs of other gang members as they took in his dishevelled appearance. They leaned towards one another, whispering conspiratorially and giggling aloud as he passed.

He knew then that he definitely was loud the night before.

“Abigail.” He said hurriedly as he approached her, making her look up from Jack. He frowned as she barely contained a smile. He was quite the sight. Hair everywhere, messed up and out at all angles on one side of his head and his shirt buttoned wrong. One sleeve was rolled while the other was left to hang loosely around his wrist.

“Run along Jack.” She said softly, petting the boy on the shoulder and standing to meet John as he reached her. “Good mornin’.” She said mirthfully, crossing her arms as he stopped right in front of her. He was so close.

‘Too close really.’ She thought to herself as he gazed down at her with hopefully eyes. She looked up at him, raising her brows in question as he stared, not able to speak.

“You okay John?” She asked after a while, smiling awkwardly and tilting her head to try and encourage him to spit out whatever he wanted to say.

“You love me?” He asked softly, barely a sound as he whispered his question. He swallowed, wondering if she had even heard him. Part of him hoping she hadn’t because then if she didn’t answer he could chalk it up to miscommunication. Abigail frowned again, looking him up and down, not noticing how his hands trembled by his side as he waited for her answer.

“O’ course…” She replied finally, shaking her head as he closed the last inches of distance between them and wrapped his arms around her. His hands fisted in her coat and he rested his face in her hair as a deep sense of relief filled him. Warmth spreading from his chest to the rest of his body as he calmed his ragged breathing and buckled down hard to swallow his emotions as they threatened to bubble to the surface.

“I love you…” He said in to her hair as she wrapped her own arms around his back.

“I know…” She replied slowly, a flush spreading across her cheeks as she registered how many other members of the gang were unashamedly staring in their direction.

She pushed him away quickly, hand coming to rest on his bicep and squeezing reassuringly as he made a sound in protest, eyes flashing with hurt at how fast she had shoved him.

“Just… Go get yourself cleaned up. You look a sorry sight.” She explained quietly, making him blush. He nodded, turning away from her and heading back towards their tent to freshen up.

She was right. He definitely needed to straighten himself up. Besides, he needed to head in to town soon anyway.

 ~

 John had only made it half way to Old Boy before Arthur had come up on him and asked him where the hell he was going. John had tried to fob him off, wanting to go in to town alone and take care of his business. But Arthur had had other plans.

They rode in silence. John stewing on the fact that the other man was treating him like a kid that needed a chaperone and Arthur lamenting the fact that John had somehow snuck out of camp the night before without him noticing.

John pushed aside the small part of himself that conceded he had indeed acted like a child the night before. Choosing instead to let Arthur’s presence bruise his ego and ignore the fact he had been galivanting around town with a woman that wasn’t his wife.

“You’re goin’ to see her aren’t you?” Arthur asked as they approached the outskirts of town. John didn’t answer, digging his heels harder in to Old Boy’s side and speeding up to get away from Arthur’s condescending stare.

He heard Arthur sigh behind him and knew without looking he was shaking his head in disapproval.

“Look John…” He began, trailing off and rethinking his words before speaking again. “Just… do the right thing okay?” He asked, watching as the younger man’s shoulder’s tensed at the statement.

“I am.” John replied defensively, staring straight ahead as he rode onwards towards the saloon.

Arthur veered off, as they reached the main street, telling John he was going to the gunsmith and letting the younger man have his privacy. John was grateful although part of him did wish that just this once Arthur would follow him so he could see him do the right thing and know how hard he was trying to be a better man.

He entered the saloon and felt a chill at the eerie silence that followed him. The liveliness of the night before was completely absent, with just the whistle of the wind outside and the clinking of classes as ambiance.

He approached the bar slowly, hands fisting by his side as he stood next to the wooden slab and waited for Maggie to notice him. Her hair was down today, golden locks cascading down her back in light curls as she busied herself washing glasses from the night before. Her corset top was a deep red that faded in to black as it reached her skirt. He wet his lips, taking in the full sight of her and wondering for the last time if he was sure he wanted to give her up.

He thought back to the night before and how much fun he had had with her. The laughter, the dancing. In retrospect he supposed that was why he was so sore. He laughed softly, looking down at his boots as he remembered their drunken stumbling.

His huff caught her attention and she turned in surprise, her face breaking out in to an excited grin as she realised it was him. He looked up at her, the smile on his own face fading slightly as he realised how hard he was about to hurt her.

He thought back to Abigail. The sounds of her languid moans making blood rush to his cock as he remembered the way she had cried out that she loved him.

He needed to do this. It was what was best for everyone involved.

“Hi…” He said shyly. “Mind if we talk?” He asked, gesturing with his head to the doors he had just entered through. She nodded eagerly, drying her hands on a cloth and shouting out to someone in the back room that she would be gone for a moment.

She walked around the bar and John groaned inwardly as he looked over her pretty legs. She had her long skirt tied at the front so it lifted just above her knees and her heeled black boots rode up her entire calf. She looked magnificent.

He held out his arm, feeling guilty for acting as though things were fine as she hooked her arm around his and he lead her outside.

She jumped him the second the doors had closed. Her arms hooking around his neck and lips on his before he could stop it. He kept his arms by his side, standing stock still as she kissed him softly. He didn’t kiss back. It took the entirety of his self control.

She pulled away, frowning in question and pursing her lips when he looked down at her with sad eyes.

“What’s wrong?” She asked after a moment, her own eyes flashing with hurt as she stared up at him with barely concealed hope and admiration.

He sighed, leaning forwards and resting his forehead against hers as he had done the night before. His hands came to her waist and he squeezed lightly. He closed his eyes, trying to think of how to say his part. He had never had to do this before. It was usually him on the receiving end of rejection. He knew how much it was going to hurt and part of him wanted to just not say anything. To pretend he had just been deep in thought and kiss her back with a passion he wasn’t sure he actually possessed.

“I… I’m married…” He whispered, keeping his eyes shut to block out the pain he knew he would see on her face.

She took a step back, arms falling away from him as she looked up at him in shock.

“What…?” She asked, voice soft but tone begging him to clarify.

“I’m married.” He repeated, opening his eyes when he felt her move away. He stared down at her with glassy eyes full of regret. “I’m sorry.” He whispered, licking his lips as he watched the beginnings of tears form in the corners of her eyes.

“So… what?” She asked incredulously. “This was a con?” She asked, voice laced with hurt as she crossed her arms defensively. “You take me out, let me fill you with free drinks…” She said angrily. “Show me a good time and get all the information you want before lettin’ me know you can’t continue on with this…” She cried, inhaling in small huffs as she willed away her tears.

“No!” John exclaimed, taking a step forwards and closing the distance between them once more. He placed his hands on her biceps and held her in place as she tried to move away. He looked in to her eyes, willing her to understand. “It weren’t nothin’ like that.” He said earnestly. “Not at all… It’s just…”

“Just… you love your wife is all?” She asked crossly, pulling out of his grip and turning away. John stayed silent, he didn’t have an argument. Her statement was exactly correct.

“You didn’t seem to love her much last night.” She spat when he didn’t reply. John swallowed, taking a deep breath and trying to console her.

“I think you’re amazin’…” He whispered, hands running nervously along his thighs as he spoke. “I truly do…”

“But… Your wife… The one you ain’t normally care about. She’s more amazin’?” Maggie asked sarcastically.

“But…” John continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “If there’s a chance for me and my wife. I gotta take it…” He explained, grief seeping in to his tone.

He didn’t want to her hurt. Part of him also didn’t want to let her go. But Abigail had said those words. Those three glorious words she had only uttered to him once before. The words he had been waiting over a year to hear her say again and he felt this time she truly meant them.

He needed to do right by her. He needed to end this before it went any further. Before she found out and took it all back.

He couldn’t sit around wondering what he had done to deserve his lot in life openly knowing he had been the one to fuck it all up.

Maggie squinted her eyes, looking him over. He felt exposed as she judged him freely.

“Why?” She finally asked, wiping at her eyes smudging her eye make up across her cheek without realising. “Why did you wait until now to decide you loved her? Why not last night, before…” She trailed off. They hadn’t really done anything scandalous. He had moved away from her kiss. But she had certainly felt his arousal through his clothes. He couldn’t pretend there was nothing between them.

John took a deep breath.

“I’ve always loved her…” He said softly, earning himself a raised brow. He supposed it was fair of her to be sceptical. He hadn’t exactly acted like a man that loved his wife the night before. “She… She ain’t always loved me though.” He tried to explain, making her shake her head. He never was good with words. He couldn’t tell her their entire history in one conversation. It was too long and exhausting. He would have to settle with that, hoping she could find it in her heart to forgive him one day.

“So what makes you think she loves you now?” Maggie asked, catching him off guard as he was prepared for her to walk away. He stuttered in reply, unsure really how to answer.

“She… She told me.” He said finally, shrugging slightly as she chuckled and shook her head. “What?” He asked after a moment of listening to her laughter. He couldn’t figure out what was funny.

“Ahh…” She exhaled a loud sigh, smiling as she continued to shake her head at him. “Nothin’…” She sniffed. “Nothin’… Just enjoy your life John Marston.” She spat. “Your wife is a lucky woman.” She said sarcastically.

“She may not be a lucky woman but I’m a lucky man.” John replied, annoyance in his tone. He didn’t much like being laughed at even if he did deserve it.

“You say your friends all think you the dumbest of the lot?” She asked as she turned to walk away. John bristled, he wasn’t being dumb. For once in his life he was doing the right thing. He ignored her question and she sighed, continuing when he didn’t answer. “This woman that ain’t loved you ‘til now…” She began. “How do you think it would be proper for her to act after you come home smellin’ of whisky and another woman?” She asked, making John balk.

“I ain’t never come home smellin’ like another woman.” John said softly, hands falling on his gun belt as he glared at her.

“Oh but you did John.” She laughed, waving her hand over herself in a gesture that suggested she was talking about herself. “Last night. Right before that wife of yours told you she loved you.” She enlightened.

“It were unrelated.” John growled. “She was already waitin’ for me when I got back.”

Maggie nodded, sniffing to herself as she held back a proper chuckle.

“You believe that for as long as you’re able.” She said in reply. Softer, kinder. She turned fully, walking back inside the saloon and letting the door slam shut behind her. He watched her go, a frown on his face as he tried to understand what the hell had just happened.

 ~

 “She loves me.” John said softly, so softly Arthur wasn’t sure he’d actually heard it.

“What?” He asked, turning back to look at John as they’re horses hooves padded softly across the path back to camp.

“She loves me.” John smiled sheepishly, a blush spreading steadily across his cheeks as he stared down at Old Boy’s mane. “Abigail.” He clarified, looking up.

“O’ course she does.” Arthur replied, feeling a weird sense of deja’ vu sweep over him as their conversation echoed the one they had had the morning before on their way home.

He wasn’t sure what it was about this road that made John want to share his feelings. But he would listen without making a big deal out of them as long as the younger man felt safe in talking to him.

“No but I mean she said it.” John explained, in a way that told Arthur this was a huge deal to him.

“Don’t she always say it?” Arthur asked after a moments contemplation. He watched John’s face fall slightly and decided to rephrase his question. “I mean… When did she say it?” He asked.

“Last night. When I got back to camp.” John answered, confused by Arthur’s weird moment of indecisiveness. “Why?” He asked after a second. Feeling like maybe he had misunderstood something.

“No reason. You’re the one tellin’ the story.” Arthur replied, annoyed. “I guess I just don’t see the fuss over your wife tellin’ you she loves you.” He said laughed, turning back to the other man and feeling a weird sense of sadness wash over him as he took in John’s expression.

John shifted uncomfortably under Arthur’s gaze, looking away. Arthur frowned again, watching the younger man’s posture change and thinking back on his own experience from the night before.

“But she’s said it to you before?” Arthur asked, his tone more urgent than John felt was needed in this situation. The younger man shrugged, still not looking up. “Once. Bought a year ago.” He said so quietly Arthur had to strain to hear over the snort of the horses. “That day that…” John trailed off, clearing his throat. “That day… At the river.” He said softly, leaving everything else unsaid. They hadn’t spoken about that day since.

Arthur nodded, feeling dread settle in his gut as he started to put pieces together that John couldn’t see.

Abigail had been distraught the night before after John had rode out of camp. Arthur had, in a moment of drunken weakness, blurted out that John was probably headed to the local tavern. He had laughed through his explanation of what had happened earlier in the day. Painting the picture of John stroking his own ego over a woman that was not interested in him and leaving out the important detail that from where Arthur was standing he could tell she was very much interested.

He had assured Abigail that John was probably just going back to the saloon to scope out tips for work but he hadn’t been entirely sure himself and he had regretted opening his stupid mouth at all. Abigail hadn’t seemed satisfied with that but she had bid him goodnight none the less and he had promptly forgotten about the interaction until this morning.

John had been scoping out tips at the saloon the night before. He was excited to tell Arthur about the Lester Boys and their piles of cash bigger than their common sense. Arthur had been relatively proud of the younger man momentarily. Until he had seen him on his way to saddle up Old Boy not half an hour later and he knew from the antsy way he glanced around him as he walked that he was on his way to do something stupid.

Arthur looked over to John who had been studying him during his silence. He smiled meekly as he realised what must have happened the night before. Abigail had told John she loved him in a feeble attempt to keep him around. If it was anyone else but Marston it may not have worked. But that kid had been starved of love from the moment they found him hanging from his neck at the age of 12.

Starved of affection and dumb as a post. He also for the most part, saw the good in people. He looked passed their transgressions, their peculiarities, their profession and saw the person inside for what they were worth despite everything else. As Hosea had put it:

“John is exactly the type to fall in love with a whore.”

Arthur heard Hosea’s voice echoing in his head as he thought.

“Shit.” He muttered.

 ~

 It had been an hour or two since their return to camp and John was feeling good about his decision. He wondered somewhere deep inside if he should tell Abigail about what had transpired. But he pushed it away to the back of his mind. He was scared of the repercussions.

He hadn’t really done anything wrong. He justified as he thought back on the night before. He had turned away from her kiss and the only reason she had caught him this morning was because his mind was else ware. He would hate to have Abigail question his fidelity and he wasn’t sure he could handle being called a hypocrite over a chaste peck when it was being compared to outright adultery on Abigail’s part.

That was how he justified his silence on the matter anyway. Maybe one day he would tell her and they could laugh about it together. But right now their bond was too fresh and he wasn’t prepared to lose it over a kiss.

He slammed the axe he was holding down in to the cut off stump hard enough for it to sit on it’s blade and stood back to take a breather. He had been chopping wood for what felt like hours at this point. He may have finally paid his share in to the camp box but that didn’t absolve him of his chores.

He wiped at his brow with the back of his hand, feeling beaded sweat slip away from his warm forehead. He gathered the wood he had chopped and deposited it by Pearson’s cart. The older man thanked him, pointing across the way to some large sacks of corn and asking if he could please use his spry young legs to bring them over for him. John agreed with a polite smile; letting it fall as he turned is back and headed towards the corn.

The woodpile had been the last of his chores. He was sore and achy and just wanted to lie down after the rollercoaster of a day he had experienced. Not to mention the ever-present migraine and mild nausea that came as a free prize with every night of drinking.

He hauled one of the sacks on to his shoulder, stumbling slightly under the weight of it. He was strong for his size. But his size was lacking compared to some of the other men in the camp. Although he never let that stop him from doing all of the same things. He had been hauling bags of corn since he was a kid. Eager to prove he could do anything and everything Arthur could.

The older man had of course let him and John had been proud of his contribution. Until he reached adulthood and realised with a tinge of embarrassment that Arthur had just been patronizing John so he would do his chores for him.

He dumped the corn sack on the ground next to the cart and nodded at Pearson as he tried to leave. The older man pointed back towards where John had just come from and explained he would need the second bag.

John supressed a sigh, heading back over to the edge of camp and leaning down to pick up the second bag.

He paused at the sound of his name, muffled by the brush covering the tree line. He squinted, holding a hand over his brow to shade his vision.

He realised he could Abigail standing against a tree in the forest. She had her back to him, one side of her exposed as she leant lazily against the trunk. Karen stood on the other side, also leaning against the tree with one side of her body exposed. They looked to be enjoying a smoke together and having a friendly chat.

John frowned. Abigail often complained about the other women in the camp and how she didn’t really get along with any of them. It was weird to see her being chummy with one of the working girls.

He abandoned his chore, sneaking closer to the edge of the woods and leaning against his own tree once he thought he was close enough to hear their conversation. They were only a metre or so inside the forest. Abigail had probably hidden there to smoke out of Jack’s view.

John heard his name again and strained to hear what was being said. He took a few more steps forward out in to the open, still several metres away from the beginnings of the forest but now able to hear them clearly.

“So what did you do?” Karen laughed, shoulders shaking as she grinned against the paper of her smoke. “How you gonna keep him around?” She asked with a sneer.

Abigail chuckled in return, her own shoulder shaking at the question.

“Oh I don’t got to worry about that.” She sniggered, shaking her head. “He ain’t goin’ no where.”

“How you so sure?” Karen asked, mirth in her tone as she looked the other woman over in disbelief. She knew Abigail had been a working girl at some point in her life. But she had never seen this side of her before. She was starting to think maybe she could really like her.

“I took care of that when he came back to camp.” Abigail explained, raising her arms above her head and stretching languidly.

“Oh yeah?” Karen asked.

“Yeah…” Abigail replied softly. “I fucked him. Told him I love him.” She smirked, the word love, long and exaggerated in a mocking manner. “He was weak in the knees.” She continued with a laugh. “Ain’t thought about that other girl since I bet.” She chuckled, taking a long drag of her cigarette.

John swallowed thickly, a sick feeling rising in his throat as he listened to her speaking. She had no idea he was there, that much was clear.

“John?” Arthur asked from a few feet away, catching his attention briefly. He had spent the better part of the afternoon stewing on what John had told him and finally come to the conclusion he needed to speak with him about what he had said to Abigail the night before.

John looked over at Arthur as the other man made his way to him and then quickly back to Abigail as he heard Karen ask the question John had wanted an answer to for too many years now.

“But you do love him don’t you?” She asked casually, taking a drag on her own cigarette and letting it out in a long slow breath.

John’s world slowed down as he watched Abigail for a response. She was still for far too long. Two seconds felt like hours in his world as he watched and waited, everything inside him pulled taught as if everything he had ever lived through had come down to this one moment in time.

“John?” Arthur asked as he reached him, touching the other man’s arm fleetingly.

John’s head snapped away from Abigail involuntarily at the touch. He looked at Arthur for the briefest moment before snapping his attention back to his wife in time to see her shrug. She hadn’t spoken. Not that he had heard.

He felt something inside himself snap. He watched her with frown on his face and a feeling in his chest he had never felt before. He couldn’t describe it if he tried.

When he thought back on it. The closest he could come to was somewhere between grief and betrayal. The kind of desperate despair that drowned you if you didn’t have someone to pull you back out of the darkness.

He stood dumbly, overly aware of his gangly limbs and thin frame as he unconsciously rang his hands together while he thought. He’d never felt quite so self-conscious in all his life. He felt so damn stupid. He felt like the fool everyone always said he was. He pursed his lips in an effort to keep them from trembling as he stared at Abigail’s back.

“John?” Arthur repeated for the third time, looking the other man up and down.

John looked up at him with misty eyes, face broken, unable to really show any emotion in the midst of this foreign feeling.

Arthur frowned, lifting an arm and intending to take hold of the younger’s shoulder but he shrugged away right as fingers brushed his coat. John took a step back, hand coming up to grasp where Arthur had touched him as though he had been burned. He stared at his brother, eyes pleading for him to understand.

Just once.

But there was no recognition in the blonde’s expression. No hint of realization that would allow John the freedom to not feel the way he felt in that moment.

Alone...

He realized, with a stuttered inhale. The one person in his life that was supposed to love him above all else, til death do they part; had admitted that they did not. The rest of the world didn’t understand or care and if they did it was only long enough to damn his existence and shackle him to her with their judgement and the reminder that he Fathered her child.

He looked at Arthur, sadness clouding his dark eyes as he began to back away. Even if he could form the words to try and tell him, he couldn’t hear the response right now. He couldn’t be told he had misheard. He misunderstood. He was being stupid. He didn’t have the emotional strength to be told it was his fault somehow.

“Sorry...” He managed. It was strangled and full of emotion but it was a word. An apology for his strange behaviour and the fact that he knew deep down Arthur didn’t understand it.

Arthur looked towards the trees where John kept glancing and realised he could see one side of Abigail’s back sticking out from behind one of the trunks. He could hear her talking in hushed tones with Karen. Their voices not quite quiet enough to completely hide what they were speaking about from the people around them.

“Well at least he’s cute.” Karen was saying, an air of humour to her tone. Abigail laughed at that, throwing her head back before nodding in agreement.

“I guess.” She smiled, dropping the butt of her cig on the ground and stopping it out with her boot. Arthur looked back to John and realised he had left. He looked around him quickly for his brother’s retreating back but it was nowhere in sight.

“Shit.” He mumbled to himself again.

 ~

 Abigail thanked Karen for the light conversation and excused herself to go and see how Jack was coming along with his reading lessons.

She didn’t often talk to the other women of the camp and there was a good reason for it. She didn’t feel herself when she spoke with them. She felt as though she had to be someone else. The woman she was before Jack. Before John.

She couldn’t relate to the working women anymore. They lived free of the burden of a husband and child. They laughed together about their clients, sharing secrets of bizarre fetishes and fawning over the men that took the time to make them cum.

She couldn’t join in to those conversations as a married woman. It wouldn’t be fair to John to expose him like that. She felt she couldn’t be herself. She couldn’t talk about her financial worries. Or how Jack had finally stopped having accidents at night and how proud she was. The fact that John had been sweet enough to bring her home flowers from one of his jobs. None of those things registered as interesting to the other girls.

She had to be someone else entirely. Someone devoid of loving emotion and full of resentment towards her lot in life.

She didn’t care for it. She wasn’t a nasty person. But she acted like it when she spoke to the women and she couldn’t help herself. She was a strong independent woman before she fell pregnant. She couldn’t stand the thought of them thinking she was weak.

When Karen had casually joined her on her secret smoke break she hadn’t really had anything to talk to her about. They chatted about mundane things and Abigail felt she could physically feel Karen losing interest with the conversation. Until the other woman had coolly remarked that she noticed Jack had slept in Tilly’s tent the night before and Abigail honestly felt herself flush for the first time in a long while.

Karen had been extremely interested when Abigail appeared to be flustered. Assuming as most would that the heated cheeks were spurred on by memories of her erotic night time activities.

She was partly right. Abigail supposed as she tucked her book of matches in to one of her pockets and straightened her shirt. She had really enjoyed her night with John. But despite that, she couldn’t seem to keep herself from mentioning to Karen what Arthur had told her by the fire.

She didn’t know why she always acted that way. Why she couldn’t just admit her love to John without it being a huge ordeal. Why she felt the need to tell Karen the entire sordid tale instead of just accepting the fact that she had fucked John because she wanted to and with no huge ulterior motive.

She supposed all her years as a working girl had in a way, caused her to have issues with commitment.

Perhaps not commitment in and of itself. But forced commitment to someone she had never intended to wed. She didn’t have a bond with him before they were forced in to their current relationship and she hadn’t chosen him because she was attracted to him. She had chosen him out of necessity.

She had never been in such a relationship before and at times she really struggled with the fact that she would be in this one for the rest of her life.

She often wondered what she was missing out on.

She knew it was her own fault. She only had herself to blame for her being tied to John and she felt guilt bubble in her chest every time she thought about how unfair it was of her to point out his own commitment issues when she struggled with them daily as well.

She had come to love him in the time they had been together. But for a long time there was no rush when she looked at him. No instant chemistry that had her wet with anticipation.

She guessed this was why she couldn’t just admit her feelings. They were new to her and completely foreign from any thing she had ever experienced.

Love to her was all steamy kisses and hot sex that had her salivating at the memory. She likened the two different feelings to the temperature of water. The love that she had previously felt was like a steaming hot bath that immediately felt like ecstasy as you slid in to it. But after a while the water had you over heating and the contented sensation you felt turned to uncomfortable urges to depart.

Her love for John however was like a lukewarm hot spring you felt you could float in forever.

Comfortable and safe.

She always wondered in the back of her mind if what she felt for John was real love and that’s why it was so different. The kind of love that made you want to stay up all night talking or take care of them when they’re sick. Instead of just jumping their bones every time you were near them.

Regardless of what she personally felt she knew that John himself was hopeless she infatuated with her.

This was what prevented her from saying the words she knew he was so desperate to hear. She knew once she said them there was no going back. Not without completely destroying him in the process and he was such a kind soul. He didn’t deserve to be ruined for every other woman over the likes of her.

She honestly wasn’t all that worried about the other woman Arthur had told her about. John was so sweet on her she couldn’t imagine him ever straying. But just to be safe she wanted to make her mark when he arrived home late last night smelling of too much whiskey.

She found a way around her commitment and communication issues by fucking him stupid and allowing herself a moment of freedom and truth as she came undone under his hands. Crying out that she loved him and letting him hear those words she knew she urgently needed to say for his sake. But also able to play it off as a moment of weakness due to her lust clouded mind; so she didn’t have to feel so stupid for just saying it out loud.

She felt she could take it back if she decided she wanted to and maybe he wouldn’t take it as badly because she hadn’t looked him in the eyes and declared her undying desire.

Although she never intended to take it back. She felt she needed that escape plan locked and loaded in case one day it all became too much.

She headed towards Hosea’s tent, intending to stop briefly in her own to pick up her coat as is was getting cooler. She pushed through the entrance, catching sight of John sitting on his cot as the day light flashed through the door.

‘Speak of the devil.’ She thought to herself as she dropped the tarp and covered them both in darkness.

The afternoon sunlight shone through the small gaps in the canvas, giving her just enough light to see her surroundings. She squinted, brows furrowing as she focused on her husband. He was sitting, knees pulled up against his chest and arms resting on top of them. His head hung low, forehead resting on his arms as he wept with abandon.

Abigail stood still, shocked in to inaction as she watched his shaking shoulders and wondered if he had heard her enter the tent.

“John…” She said softly, taking a step towards him with her hand out stretched. He ignored her, breath stuttering and hitching as he struggled with the sobs wracking his chest.

She just stood, watching him cry for a minute or two. She hoped he would react to her. Taper off or try to talk but he continued to ignore her. His body convulsing with each stammering breath he took in. Unable to stop the loud expulsion of air that came out in cries muffled against his own knees.

Abigail stepped closer, pressing a hand against his shoulder and flinching as he shrugged it off. She felt a flash of anger as he rejected her comfort, her hand balling in to a fist momentarily before she took a moment to compose herself and let her lose palm fall back by her side.

She moved to sit down on the edge of his cot. She tried to speak to him, whispering soft questions that went unanswered.

She had only seen him cry once before and nothing like this. He seemed absolutely consumed with grief and it shook her to her core. She wanted to understand him. To have him tell her what the hell was going on. But he ignored her, continuing to wallow in his own self-pity as if she weren’t present until eventually the helpless feeling inside her began to turn sour and she decided with a hint of spite that there really was nothing more she could do for him.

She glared at his frame in the darkness, thoughts of pretty barmaids and shady affairs flittering through the forefront of her vision as she started to wonder if perhaps there was more to his night than she had grasped.

He had just returned from town an hour or two earlier and she hadn’t seen him since.

She wondered if maybe he had gotten his heart broken and was surprised to feel a stab of pain inside her own heart.

She shook it off, remembering how hard she had worked the night before to remind him exactly where he belonged when he had returned home and how grateful he had been when he’d awoken this morning.

She stood, grabbing her coat from beside her own cot and watched him from the corner of her eye as he failed to react to her imminent departure. It was frustrating to be ignored when she knew wholeheartedly how badly he typically wanted her attentions.

She sighed, shaking her head as she tried one last time to get through to him. He continued to ignore her. Continued to cry. She huffed in indignation.

He wanted so badly to keep her for himself but couldn’t open up to her in his apparent time of need. It didn’t make sense.

She backed out of the tent. Letting the tarp fall closed behind her and standing for a minute to compose herself before throwing her jacket over her shoulders and continuing on to check up on Jack.

She resolved to try again with John after making sure her boy was fed. He didn’t deserve her to snub him completely even if she was hurt by his disregard. She understood he probably just needed a while to process whatever he was going through before he could talk.

John held his breath momentarily, lifting his head a smidge to peak over his arms, bottom lip trembling as he watched her walk away through the crack where the canvas door didn’t completely close.

He placed his head back down unable to stop the onslaught of tears. His heart was broken. He mourned the loss of not only his relationship with Abigail but the fleeting happiness he had let consume him from the moment she said those three words.

He had taken her at face value and truly believed her when she said she loved him. But his world had shattered in a matter of seconds. One shrug destroying everything he had been working for, for years now. Maggie was right. Abigail’s ‘love’ was just a desperate last-ditch attempt to keep him around so he would continue providing for her.

He couldn’t speak to her. Not now. Maybe not for a while. He had been burned harder than he had expected. Hotter and brighter than when he had realised she had gone back to whoring. More intense than every small slight she had afforded him over the last year put together.

He couldn’t even look at her.

He didn’t understand why she insisted on torturing him. If she didn’t want to be with him romantically, she didn’t have to be. He was a good person at heart. He would at least continue to provide for Jack and she could go back to the life she loved so much from before they began their sorry excuse for a marriage. She could be that strong, independent woman she used to be. Live the life she pined so deeply for. At least that way Jack would be both fed and clothed instead of just one or the other and John himself could try his hand at happiness with another person.

He didn’t want another person. Not deep down. He wanted her, he always had. But Maggie had been a nice distraction from the bullshit and he felt that given the chance, he could love her as much as he loved Abigail.

But that chance was gone now. Well and truly stomped in to the dust just like his heart at this current time.

His chest stung painfully as he sobbed allowed. He had burned his bridges with her for Abigail’s sake. He had honestly really liked her. But more than that, he like that she liked him. At this point in his life he was feeling so desperate for affection he would truthfully take what he could get in ways of a lover. It was a huge bonus to him that Maggie was not only gorgeous, but hilarious, fun and impulsive.

He supposed, really when he thought about it. Even if he hadn’t burnt his bridges with her, he would be too heartbroken over Abigail to continue whatever he had with her anyway. He would have ended it for her sake. It wasn’t fair to ask her to stick around as he pined after another woman.

He wondered briefly if she would even want to. If maybe… He was worth waiting for?

Stopping those thoughts before they could go any further he scolded himself, rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands as he tried to calm himself down.

He was hardly worth the wait.

 ~

 John found that once the tears started he couldn’t stop them. The outlaw life had kept him so closed off from his emotions for so long. He had suppressed more than his fair share of sadness since he was a child. It seemed only fit that once he let go of that dam he had been barely holding together, the water would continue to flow until it was completely gone.

Empty.

The way he felt right at this moment. He stared blankly at the canvas above his head, hands wringing together slowly as he thought. The tears had finally dried, if only momentarily and he was left with a sense of emptiness and desolation he had never felt before.

His chest felt hollow and his throat was raw. His eyes stung and burned and his head pounded in a way he hadn’t felt since the grief of losing his Father nearly twenty years before.

He knew he looked a mess and he couldn’t bring himself to care. His face was red and blotchy, eyes swollen and hair a messy nest of knots.

He swallowed hoarsely, sniffing as he inhaled and exhaling again shakily.

He really needed a cigarette.

He sat up on his cot, feeling around in his pockets and clenching his fists in annoyance as he remembered he had smoked his last one the day before.

He growled angrily, an irritated cry of frustration leaving him as he threw his head in his hands and rubbed at his eyes roughly.

He refused to cry over a god damn smoke.

He pulled himself together somewhat, flipping his legs over the edge of the cot and looking to Abigail’s side of the tent with hungry eyes.

He glanced to his side, swaying his body as needed to get a good look out of the crack in the tent door. He saw Abigail across the camp, sitting at the fire with Jack and Tilly. He licked his lips, jumping up and moving to her side to rummage through her things.

He shuffled through some clothes, moving dresses, shirts and boots out of the way and realising how many more items of clothing she had than him. He huffed in annoyance, hands gripping a little too tight on a pair of leather boots that looked to be brand new and damn expensive. Not a scuff on them. He ignored the fact that she wouldn’t really have a chance to scuff up her boots as he did in his line of work. He ignored it on purpose, letting anger at the purchase consume him as he threw them across the tent. They hit the opposite wall with a satisfying thud and he felt a sense of gratification sweep over him.

It felt good.

He looked down at the dress in his other hand and his lip twitched as he felt the soft fabric in between his fingers and thumbs. He tugged at it experimentally. There was no give in the starchy fabric. He moved erratically, pulling his arms in separate directions and ripping it easily in two before he could rationally think of the consequences.

He took a deep breath, feeling guilt simmer in his chest ahead of his other emotions. He closed his eyes as if not looking at what he had done would make the feeling lessen.

He placed the dress down on top of her other things and sat back on his heels. Hands hanging loosely by his sides as he scanned her belongings for any sign of her cigarettes. He figured she must have them with her.

He sighed, pushing himself up on his arms and making to stand. He stopped, sitting back down as a glint of metal caught his eye. He pushed aside the ruined dress and grunted as he laid eyes on several hoarded cans of fruit.

“She eats like a fucking queen.” He muttered to himself, anger sparkling in him as he thought back on the last few days and how little he had eaten. How she had berated him for spending some of the money he had earned on a meal for himself when he had been half starved for a week and unknowingly sleeping next to food unguarded by Dutch’s watchful eye.

He trembled with rage. His hands shaking uncontrollably as he gathered her things in his arms.

If she didn’t want to share her bed, her food, her heart. Then she couldn’t share his tent. He decided in a moment of rashness. He stood with the things he had already rummaged through, moving to the front of the tent and literally throwing them out the door.

He tied the door flap back and returned to her side, grabbing other items at random and tossing them over his shoulder towards the exit.

He felt liberated with his decision, frustrating seeping out of every pore as he violently wrenched the sheets off her cot and threw them outside.

He glanced outside briefly as he threw it, catching a glimpse of all the eyes looking in his direction. He felt a sense of embarrassment as he realised he was causing a commotion. He pushed it down, returning to his task and adding Abigail’s hair accessories and make up to the pile.

He left Jack’s belongings untouched. He was just a kid. He had done nothing wrong.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Abigail whisper shouted as she came storming through the entrance to the tent. Her hands were on her hips and her face was red with anger or embarrassment, John couldn’t tell.

He turned to her, puffing his chest in a feeble attempt at seeming dominant. He lowered his voice to a growl as he answered.

“You ain’t wanna love me.” He hissed, eyes narrowed. “You ain’t wanna be kind to me. Be thankful to me. For all I done for you.” He gestured towards her many belongings strewn on the ground outside the tent. Most of which he had purchased. “Then you ain’t get to live with me neither.” He spat, picking up one of the cans of fruit and throwing it passed her, narrowly missing her head. He had missed on purpose of course, but she didn’t know that. It made her flinch, eyes fearful for a split second before returning to their previous state of hateful scowling.  

He could feel her hatred for him radiating off her in this moment. It ate at him internally, but he kept those feelings at bay by letting his anger run rampant. He deserved her hatred for what he had done to her dress. But he couldn’t rationalise that in this moment.

“What the hell you mean I don’t love you?” Abigail snapped, confusion obvious as she took a few more steps towards him.

“I heard you!” John shouted, gesturing behind himself. “It the woods, talkin’ to Karen. You ain’t love me!” He cried, feeling tears burning at the edges of his eyes but refusing to let them fall.

“I ain’t never said I don’t love you John Marston!” Abigail replied angrily. “You eaves droppin’ on my conversations with other women you’re bound to get yourself hurt.” She stated bluntly, crossing her arms. She did feel bad that he had heard her, but she wasn’t the crying sort. This was a tantrum he was throwing. Acting like a child and she wasn’t about to give in to it. If she didn’t give in to Jack at the age of four she wasn’t about to give in to her twenty six year old husband.

“You… You did!” John doubled down, pointing as if the direction in which she had been standing with Karen mattered heavily. “Karen asked you and you said it…” He trailed off, suddenly realising that he hadn’t actually heard her say the words. But she had implied it. With her long, drawn out, exaggeration of the word love. As if he was a fool for wanting it. For expecting it. He swallowed, going silent as she raised a brow.

“I… Ain’t never said… I don’t love you, John.” Abigail repeated, slower. “Never.” She added for emphasis.

There was a long silence between them as they both contemplated their standing in this argument. Abigail screamed at herself internally. She shouted at her goddamn brain to just tell him. Just confirm what he wanted to hear. Let him know he was loved and all of this would stop.

But she wasn’t able. Something was preventing her from saying it. Literally the best could do was tell him that she had never said she didn’t.

She knew deep down it wasn’t enough. She could see on his face it wasn’t enough. But still she kept her mouth shut, breathing heavily as she let anger at his actions consume her instead.

She glanced sideways, meeting the eyes of some of the other gang members that had crept closer for a better vantage point.

“Can we get some privacy here?” She shouted, suddenly turning on them all with her full wrath. They balked, some of them jumping in to action and pretending to be working as others stood still staring in opposite directions and making out as though they hadn’t been listening.

“God dammit.” Abigail hissed, moving to the door and untying the tarp as if closing the door would make any difference to whether or not people could hear them. “Don’t you touch my shit Williamson!” She yelled in warning, pointing towards Bill who had been inching closer to her clothes. “I’ll know if you touched my delicates.” She growled, letting go of the door and shrouding them from view. “Sick bastard.” She whispered, turning back to John and waiting for a response to her earlier statement.

John stayed silent, unsure where to go from here. He hadn’t technically heard her say it. But his point still stood. She had been talking shit about him and gotten herself caught. Now instead of apologising she was defending her own actions. He felt in all honesty she should be grovelling. But that just wasn’t who she was.

“You ain’t welcome here no more.” He said softly, sad eyes looking her over as he decided to stick to his resolve. He didn’t really want her to go but he couldn’t keep up the charade anymore. Pretending like he was happy with what they had. Hurting so hard on the inside and never allowed to show it on the outside.

It would break him to let her go. But broken people can be healed. It would eventually kill him to keep her around.

‘You can’t fix death.’ He thought to himself bitterly as she gaped at him.

“Seriously?” She asked, tone disbelieving but laced with unbridled anger. “After all I done for you?” She snarled. John laughed out loud at her statement, actually genuinely finding it humorous.

“I’m sorry. What exactly have you done for me?” He asked, chuckling at his own question.

“I been so good to you John. Even after all that business with you runnin’ off!” Abigail answered softly. John screwed up his nose, nostrils flaring as he barely contained his anger at her reply.

“I ran off…” He growled dangerously. “Because you… was out… whorin’!” John screamed the last word of his sentence a genuine bellow that almost shook their small tent. Abigail jumped backwards, eyes wide and stunned in to silence. John had never really, properly, addressed what she had done. They had spoken about it briefly that day after the river. But never again. He had also never screamed at her. Throughout the entirety of their relationship he had never so much as raised his voice at her no matter how loudly she shouted at him.

Another silence descended on them, the only sound being John’s heavy breathing as he struggled to stay as calm as possible. He couldn’t believe she was bringing up the fact that he had run off, again. He knew in that moment he was right with his earlier assumption. She brought up the one thing he had done wrong in all these years and threw it in his face every time she needed to worm her way out of any wrong doing. Reminding him what a goddamn piece of shit he was so he would step down off his high horse and apologise for inconveniencing her with his hurt.

“What about the boy?” Abigail asked quietly, her tone flat as she stared at the small pile of Jack’s belongings John had left untouched.

“What about him?” John asked back, arms folded.

“You gonna make him sleep in the cold too?” Abigail asked, folding her own arms as John closed his eyes for a moment.

“He can sleep here. If he wants.” He said finally, making Abigail scoff.

“Away from his Mumma?” She asked incredulously.  

“Yes.” John answered simply. He wasn’t about to give in to her, let her stay in his tent for Jack’s sake.

“He can’t be away from his Mumma John. So really you makin’ a choice for him ain’t you?” She spat, looking at him with distain.

“If that’s the way you wanna look at it.” John replied, tone flat. Abigail roared angrily, a moment of frustration bubbling over as he screwed her hands in to fists and turned away from him lest she actually physically attack him.

“I can’t believe you’re makin’ your boy sleep in the cold.” She tried again, shaking her head. She felt something akin to guilt trying to escape her chest but kept pushing it down forcefully. John wasn’t budging and she was rapidly losing this battle. She was about to be sleeping on her ass outside and she wasn’t having it. Using Jack as a pawn to tug on John’s heartstrings really was her only chance at getting what she wanted.

She turned back, surprised to see John red faced and quivering. He shook his head, pursing his lips as he exhaled forcefully.

“He ain’t my boy.” He growled, so softly she barely heard it. He winced against that pain, feeling guilt flash through him as he spoke. He loved Jack, he always had. But he knew deep down he was not his child. It just wasn’t possible. The timelines never lined up and he had been ignoring it for years out of love for her. But it was something that quietly ate at him almost constantly. Nipping at the edges of his thoughts in his darkest hours or fleeting moments of happiness.

“How could you say that?” Abigail asked quietly, her voice venomous as she looked him up and down with disgust.

“We both know he ain’t my boy Abigail.” John repeated, feeling rather than hearing his voice wavering as he spoke. “Besides.” He said confidently, shoving aside the hurt. “No use in me tryin’ to learn how to Father him when his Mumma don’t even want to know me.” He spat, his voice more dangerous than she had ever heard it before.

“Well if that’s the way you feel—” She began.

“It weren’t the way I felt!” John shouted. “You knew that! But it sure as hell was the way you felt and I can’t help that.” He yelled, fuming. “I… I can’t help that.” He choked, voice breaking. “I’ve done everythin’ in my power to make you love me Abigail but it still ain’t enough.” He inhaled, breath stuttering. “I work for you. I pay for you. I go without eatin’ for you.” He said, pointing to his fingers as he listed things. “I love you…” He said softly, heart aching as he finally let the tears he had been holding back slip down his cheeks.

He trailed off once more. Feeling there was literally nothing left to say to her. He had finally expressed himself in a way he probably should have much sooner than this.

Abigail stared at him, feeling tears sting the corners of her own eyes but managing to hold them back much better than he could. She wasn’t suffering from the same mental and physical exhaustion he was and therefore was a lot more stable in her own emotions.

She nodded, refusing to pander to his tantrum and repeat her loving words from the night before.

John watched as she moved past him. Momentarily thinking she was coming in for a hug and feeling disappointment stab at his heart as she leant down to gather Jack’s things.

She took a deep breath as she stood back to her full height. She exhaled slowly, meeting his gaze and licking her lips as she took in the dark circles under his red ringed eyes. The lines on his young face that aged him dramatically. The way his pupils dilated when he looked at her.

She looked away, moving to the entrance of the tent and slipping through it without another word. John watched her go, his heart breaking all over again as he realised what an idiot he had been. How far he had pushed things in a manner of minutes by letting his anger take control of him.

His chest was heavy with regret and sorrow. He let himself fall back on to her empty cot. Placing his face in his hands and rubbing at his eyes irately.

He really was such a fool.

End.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author’s notes:

I really hope I did an okay job at making Abigail the villain in John’s mind but also conveying the fact that she’s not actually the villain he thinks she is. A LOT of the issues in their relationship are due to poor communication and misunderstandings. Abigail isn’t good with her feelings and John is someone that needs to be told he’s loved. So their relationship was kind of doomed from the start. UNLESS they both magically realise their shortcomings and own up to them. They need to have a huge talk about what they both expect from one another and what’s going to make each of them happy.

In case anyone was wondering YES Maggie is Bonnie’s sister. But no I don’t think John ever does work that out.

The next story takes place through out the story of RDR2! Starting with Colter/Horseshoe. Hopefully I can offer some behind the scenes views on some of the camp interactions we’re all witnessing. Hopefully this story explains well why John is sleeping in a tent by himself for early game and also why he’s so damn distant towards Abigail and Jack during the game despite his love for her earlier in my series.

If you enjoyed this please let me know! Also check out the other works in the series!

Prequel - Taking Part 1 - Falling Part 2 - Leaving Part 3 - Pining Part 4: - Hurting

[shireness-says]

Scrooges and Setups

Summary:  Emma doesn't want to work Storybrooke's yearly winter carnival. She especially doesn't want to work the kissing booth. And she really really doesn't want Mary Margaret to turn this into a setup. ~5.5K. Also on AO3.

A/N: Another pre-tumblr one, transferred over for the Fandom Crescendo! This is another really fun one. I particularly enjoyed writing Wildly Inappropriate Ruby - hopefully I can revisit that soon... Still unbeta’d. Rated T because my basic vocabulary includes a lot of swear words. Enjoy, and let me know what you think! 

Emma’s neighbor, Mary Margaret, is a witch. Or a demon. A witch or a demon very focused on the holiday spirit and community service. She must be. It’s the only explanation for how Emma Swan – full time bartender, part-time hermit, and slight Scrooge – has been roped into volunteering at the Storybrooke Winter Carnival.

(Well, that and the fact that M’s said all the proceeds went to help out the local children’s home – a cause that could melt even Emma’s cold heart.

But still. Probably witchcraft too.)

Emma has volunteered – been volunteered? The technicalities are still a bit of a blur to her – but that doesn’t mean she has to be happy about it. She’ll be there, just not with rings on her fingers or bells on her toes, or whatever the kids say. She certainly won’t be wearing a Santa hat or a Christmas sweater or any of that nonsense. Mary Margaret will just have to deal.

It’s not that Emma hates Christmas, per se. She really has nothing against the holiday, it’s just not something she celebrates. Growing up in the system, she was lucky to get a new pair of shoes for Christmas. Maybe a dollar store craft set or some school supplies. As an adult, she’s never really had anyone to celebrate with. But she moved to Storybrooke back in March – just needed a change in pace, had sporadically kept in touch with Jeff after they both aged out of the system, and finally caved to his begging for her to move closer – and discovered very quickly that holidays here were a Very Big Deal. Especially when you lived next door to Mary Margaret Blanchard, local princess and holiday enthusiast.

Technically, she has the whole day off. When she asked Jeff for a few hours off from the Rabbit Hole, he had gotten very excited – “Of course Emma! It’s so great to see you getting involved! Grace and I will see you there!” – and given her much more time than she had requested. She could get to the town square early, like a respectful professional. But she doesn’t. Emma doesn’t want to go at all, so she shows up as late as she thinks she can get away with without being yelled at by the petite, pixie-d brunette.

Even Emma has to admit, the square looks great. Mary Margaret has clearly gone all out, stringing lights everywhere, all the booths decked out in candy stripes, garlands and snowflakes everything. Unfortunately, Emma barely has a moment to admire the scene before the woman herself comes rushing over. In an elf costume. Of course.

“You barely made it on time, Emma!” she scolds. Emma’s not entirely sure why – she was on time, right? As Emma contemplates this, Mary Margaret has clearly moved past her pseudo-disappointment, ushering Emma across the grass towards God-knows-where. “That’s alright, the person you’re working with is late too, it will be fine. You’ll be working right over here.”

And then M’s stops right in front of the kissing booth.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

No, no, it’s not enough just to think that thought. “Mary Margaret, are you kidding me? What the hell?”

At least Mary Margaret has the grace to look chastened. “Well, you see, almost everyone else has a significant other… I just thought, you’re so pretty, you could pull a lot of traffic and make a lot of money for – “ and oh God, Emma does not want to hear about the kind of traffic she’ll pull.

“I need you to stop right there, Mary Margaret, before this sounds even more like you’re prostituting me out than it already feels.”

At least she has the decency to look slightly ashamed.

Looking around the room, Emma sees a crowd of people with better jobs than her. David is at the arcade games, taking tickets; Regina is manning the silent auction table; Robin is making a valiant effort at the cotton candy stand. Ruby and Belle even get to work together, selling pie – both the ones made by Granny and the more questionable products of Belle’s recent cookbook explorations. Meanwhile, she’s stuck here. At the kissing booth. Where she has to kiss people.

“It won’t be that bad,” Mary Margaret tries to reason. “You won’t even have to kiss everyone! We set it up on a wheel, and only half the options it lands on are for a kiss! The rest are for, like, Granny’s coupons and free arcade tickets. And there’s another person too! So, you know, that’s not so bad, right?”

Emma wants to scream, wants to cuss Mary Margaret out, but the fact of the matter is that she can’t say no to the sweet teacher’s cherub face. So she’s left weakly nodding, as Mary Margaret beams.

“Wonderful! Thank you so much for doing this, Emma, you won’t regret it! Now, you can take two 15 minute breaks as long as your booth partner is still here, it’s a dollar per spin, and doors open in fifteen minutes. Great? Great!”

Mary Margaret is officially a whirlwind of enthusiasm and Emma has no idea how she’s gotten pulled in. Again, probably witchcraft. She thinks the worst is over, she hears M’s pipe up one more time.

“Oh! Here’s your booth partner now! Killian, over here!”

And when Emma thought things couldn’t get worse, she was wrong, because M’s looks far too innocent and yet, at the same time, smug, to not be up to something.

A man – Killian, must be – veers in their direction, and Emma realizes in a horrible moment of clarity that today isn’t just forced merriment and community service, isn’t just being roped into working a kissing booth. No. This is a damned setup.

Emma could kill her neighbor. She really could.

“Killian, it’s so good to see you! This is Emma, she’ll tell you all about how this works. I think David needs something, I’ll see you both later!”

And then she bolts. The witch.

To his credit, this Killian does look a little confused. Emma almost feels bad for him. “I take it she didn’t tell you where you’d be working, either?”

He scratches behind his ear – somewhat adorably, at that.

(No, not adorably. She resents Mary Margaret’s efforts to meddle. She will not be charmed by this man who’s been shoved in her direction.)

“Er… not as much, no. I actually figured I’d be working with my brother.”

She’s not particularly interested, but this whole situation is bad enough as it is. There’s no need to add an awkward silence to make things worse. So instead, she asks the obvious question. “Your brother?”

He practically beams, and Emma hopes she hasn’t encouraged him too much. “Yeah, my brother, Liam. He and his fiancé are over working the snow cone station.”

Sure enough, glancing over, she sees a tall, curly-headed man with Killian’s eyes handling the cash box as a slender blonde works the ice shaver with gusto. As she turns a skeptical eye back to Killian, he shrugs.

“I know, it looks awfully unchivalrous, but would you believe me if I said she insisted? Says it’s a good place to work out her stress. Elsa’s actually got arms of steel under that fleece.”

Emma can only hum in return. She’s fine, now to let things fall into silence, but her new booth partner jumps back in. “I’m Killian Jones, by the way. Work down at the docks. And you are…?”

“Emma. Swan. Bartender.” She quickly remembers the instructions M’s tasked her with. “I guess it’s a buck to spin the wheel, and we get two fifteen minute breaks, whenever you want, as long as I’m here to be in charge.”

He nods. “Simple enough.” But suddenly – maybe it’s because she put him at ease, letting talk about his brother – she can just see him put on an attitude. “What do you say, love? Want to practice kissing before the crowds get here?”

And ugh, she remembers why she doesn’t do set ups.

This is going to suck.

------

It becomes quickly obvious that Emma and Jones have very different strategies for the day.

Emma’s plan was to sit slouched in one of the provided chairs, generally looking unenthusiastic and discouraging any traffic. Killian, on the other hand, has taken up the role of a carnival barker, bringing in a steady stream of traffic.

“Having fun yet, Swan?” he offers after the first half hour. Emma can only glare.

------

She was right. This fucking sucks.

Ok, not all of it is bad. A troop of Mary Margaret’s second graders came through, and it was very cute how the little boys blushed when she planted one on their cheeks. And it was hilarious seeing one particularly bold little girl pull Killian down to plant one on him, instead of the other way around.

However, with the good, comes the bad. The very, very bad, in the form of Leroy.

Emma doesn’t normally have issues with Leroy – he’s a bit cantankerous, sure, but so is Emma, and he tips decently whenever he’s at the Rabbit Hole. Which is often.

But today, he seems bound and determined to test Emma’s patience. In the two and a half hours the carnival’s been running, he’s come by the booth three times, and is now approaching for a fourth. And, of course, he’s landed the wheel on a kiss every time. Bastard. If he lands on kiss a fourth time, he’s not getting a smooch – he’s getting a knee to the balls.

The universe truly must have it out for her today, because he does land on a kiss again. Of fucking course. She watches, practically in slow motion, as Leroy leans in, and with a feeling of dread, Emma just knows that he’s going for the lips this time. She braces herself, ready to punch him or knee him or something else violent… when Killian swoops in and pecks him on the cheek.

“There you go, Leroy, a nice smooch. You enjoy the rest of your afternoon!”

Leroy sputters, but stalks off as Emma just looks at Killian with confusion – and wonder.

“Uh… thanks. I think. I could have taken care of that, but thanks.”

He chuckles. “Oh, I’m perfectly aware of that, darling, I just thought I’d spare you the trouble and scraped knuckles. Let’s just hope that nuisance doesn’t come back.”

(And when Leroy does start making his way over, another fifteen minutes later, Emma happily takes Killian up on his suggestion that she take advantage of one of her breaks.)

------

Emma takes the opportunity during her break to go talk to Ruby and Belle. Not only can Ruby catch her up on any gossip there might be about Jones (because mark her words, that man is a mystery), but she can probably weasel some pie out of them to boot. She needs food, after all.

As she approaches the ladies, it’s a struggle not to laugh at Belle’s forlorn look – seemingly over her poor culinary attempts.

“Of course they taste fine, babe!” she overhears Ruby placate as she approaches. “They just… well, they’re not the prettiest. But so tasty, and isn’t that what matters?”

Emma has to admit, Belle’s pies do look a little bit of a mess next to Granny’s masterpieces, what with their deflating meringues and messy, torn up crusts and lattices. Emma takes pity on the poor woman and orders a hefty piece of the Boston crème pie. (It is actually pretty good, looks aside.)

Newly distracted by Emma’s presence, Ruby turns to her with a wolfish grin and a waggle of the eyebrows. “So, I see Mary Margaret walked you right into a set up again. At least he’s good looking.”

Belle has a more concerned look on her face. Really, some days it’s a wonder how her and Ruby’s relationship works so well. “You be nice to him, Emma. He’s a lovely man, more sensitive than he lets on.”

That perks Emma’s attention. “You know him, then? What can you tell me?”

Ruby smirks. “Oh, we know him alright. Comes into the diner for coffee every weekday morning, volunteers at the library Saturday afternoons. He’s the harbormaster, I think, whatever the hell that means.”

It’s nice to hear the information that Ruby has, but these kinds of details are a little useless to Emma. She could follow him around for week if she wanted his schedule. “C’mon, Ruby, what’s the gossip? What’s he like? I can’t get a proper read on this guy. “

Ruby pauses to think for a moment before delivering her information with almost business-like efficiency. “He’s… careful, I guess. Does everything with purpose, like he’s thought it through. Likes to fancy himself a gentleman, even when he’s playing up that cocky flirty thing, and for the most part it’s true. Positively devoted to his brother, nearly to the point of hero worship. Rumor is he was engaged a few years back, before he and his brother showed up in Storybrooke, but it’s anyone’s guess what happened there.”

Belle takes the opportunity to cut in. “I mean it, Emma, be careful with him. He’s a really good guy, and even if he doesn’t want to admit it, he deserves a lot more than your usual one and done.”

It’s a lot to process. But her break is almost over, her pie is long since gone, and Emma has to work her way back to her own personal hell – the damned kissing booth.

------

Jones looks disturbingly smug as she walks back over, making Emma more nervous than she’d like to admit. “What are you smirking at?” she grumbles, sliding back into her seat.

If anything, that only makes the smirk grow. “Oh, nothing. Just observing you ladies talking about me.”

It’s infuriating, really, how he’s able to read her like that. All the same, she has a near compulsive need to not let on how right he is. “How do you know that’s what we were talking about? For all you know, we were talking about pie. Some of Belle’s efforts are real shockers.”

He scoffs. “Please, I saw all the glances cast my way. It’s quite alright, darling, I don’t mind. Though it would have been much simpler just to ask me your questions. So, what did they tell you?”

She should just keep her mouth shut, but Emma is fully entrenched in her defensive stance. “Who says I learned anything?”

“Please, Swan, don’t insult my intelligence. Anyways, don’t I have the right to know?”

She sighs. Jeez, the man can wear her down. “You know, just the basic. You volunteer at the library, love your brother, have some fancy job at the docks. That kind of thing. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“Ah, the basics,” he replies in a mock-serious tone with a lift of his eyebrows. “And did you get all the answers you wanted?”

Emma shrugs, for lack of a better answer. Unfortunately, Jones seems to take that as encouragement.

“Well, as I’m sure you’ve learned, I hold the very official-sounding job of harbormaster, which usually means I’d be in charge of monitoring incoming shipments, but since this is Storybrooke, it mostly means I collect the monthly docking fees and try to pay attention to whether everyone makes it back safely at night. I do have a brother, who is an absolutely insufferable git but who I love anyways, and who I have a minor hero complex towards. I’m working on it. I am also working on various insecurity and self-confidence issues, as well as a former over-dependence on alcohol to ignore my problems. In my spare time, I read far too many murder mysteries, dream about purchasing my own ship, and am desperately trying to keep a houseplant alive long enough to be comfortable adopting a dog. Does that about cover things?”

She nods mutely. Really, it’s the most thorough introduction she could have hoped for.

“Excellent.”

They work in silence for a few more minutes, collecting a few more dollars and distributing a few more kisses, before Emma interrupts their pattern.

“Ruby said you used to be engaged?”

It’s like a sudden, icy wall crashes down over his expression. “Yes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time I took one of my breaks.”

And he stalks off in the direction of the snow cone stand, leaving Emma wondering just what the hell she’s done.

------

It’s a little fascinating, watching the brothers Jones interact. There’s so clearly an older sibling/younger sibling dynamic between the two, the way Liam puts on a look of patient exasperation while Killian rants, and then Killian looks chastened while Liam calmly replies. Eventually, the younger just slumps and collapses in on himself as the elder rubs his back comfortingly. Emma doesn’t have a sibling – the closest thing she has is Jeff, thanks to three years of being in the same group home and then the same school, where he looked after her in his own eccentric way. It’s truly interesting to her, watching the way these two interact, seeing what a sibling relationship can be like and should be like. It’s almost enough to ignore the frequent glances thrown in her direction.

Inevitably, she gets distracted by the carnival-goers, and by the time she can turn her attention elsewhere again, Jones is wandering back to the booth, visibly less tense. Whatever Liam had to say must have been damn effective. As he approaches, his hand raises to scratch behind his ear, like some kind of nervous habit.

“I trust that Leroy didn’t bother you in my absence?”

Emma shrugs in return. “Nah, he stayed away. Think he discovered Sister Astrid at the hand-dipped candle booth, poor thing.”

“Good, good.” He shifts on his feet, looking uncomfortable, like he’s trying to find some difficult words. “Look, I’m sorry I reacted the way I did, and then ran off and left you to the wolves. Bad form, that. It’s just… I don’t talk about Milah particularly often. It’s difficult, and I’m not particularly keen on it.”

Immediately, Emma understands where she went wrong, and feels distinctly uncomfortable. God, she really stuck her foot in her mouth this time, didn’t she? “You don’t have to if you don’t want to – forget I asked.”

“No, no, as Liam reminded me, you didn’t mean badly. And since you’ve rather been forced into this set up – “

“I swear, M’s must have pulled this from a damned Hallmark movie – “

“ – forced into this setup, it’s only right that you know who you’ve been shoved into company with.” He takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself for what he’s about to say, and God, Emma feels like the shittiest human alive. “I was engaged. To the most wonderful woman. But then she died, right in my arms – an undiagnosed heart condition, they said. And I haven’t really put myself out there since. Something Liam likes to remind me, actually. Milah was just… she was my entire life. My world centered on making her happy. It’s hard to bounce back from that. That was one of the reason I moved here, actually –I needed to escape all the memories in Boston, and Liam already lived here. It was a natural choice. But I don’t talk about my Milah very often, because it makes me upset, and I desperately need to move on with my life. So I’m sorry that I stormed off on you earlier, Swan. It truly wasn’t something personal. I’m just… out of practice, talking about this.”

There’s probably a lot of things she should say, try to comfort him and whatnot. Any number of things would have been appropriate. But Emma’s not good with feelings – her own or others’. So instead, she blurts out a “How do you know Mary Margaret?” It’s a non sequitur, sure, but it’s the best she can do. Show that she doesn’t care or that his outburst doesn’t change anything or that she’s not judging him or… whatever.

He blinks a few times, clearly thrown, before grinning. Lucky for her, he apparently understands Emma’s sloppy attempts at connecting. “It’s a little bit of a stretch actually. Liam is a deputy at the police station with David, Mary Margaret’s husband. And I’m sure you know how she tries to take care of everyone. You’re the neighbor, right?”

“For better or worse. Today, it’s worse, I think.”

Jones – Killian laughs. He’s got a nice laugh, really. “I take it, based on the grumbling, this is one of the ‘worse’ days?”

“You bet your ass it is,” she mutters as another townsperson walks over. Thankfully, they just win a Granny’s coupon – no kiss – and actually seem to be pretty happy about that. “Mary Margaret has been great to me, but she’s just… so much. I’m not really big on Christmas, and definitely not big on setups.”

Interestingly, he focuses on her first point rather than her second. Emma is choosing to believe that means he agrees with her on the matchmaking front. “You’re not big on Christmas, Swan? Don’t tell me you’re some kind of Grinch.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “I don’t actively hate it, like a Grinch, I just… never really had a reason to go all out celebrating.” She pauses. After his deep, heartfelt story of lost love, she feels like he might deserve a little glimpse of herself. Quid pro quo or whatnot. “Growing up in the system, very few families actually made a big deal about the holiday for the kids in their care. Those few who did, I always kinda felt like an outsider, like the holiday wasn’t for me, somehow. Then ever since I aged out, it’s just been me, by myself. Hard to make a big deal of the holiday for yourself.”

Killian looks vaguely scandalized. Appalled, even. “Well, that simply won’t stand! You have to come to Liam and I’s yearly bash next week.”

“I don’t know…” she tries to start, but he’s butting back in.

“Ruby and Belle will be there, and so will Mary Margaret and David  – not to mention, my handsome self – so you can’t say you won’t know anyone. Plus…” He goes for the ear scratch again. God, that really is a nervous habit with him, isn’t it? “Plus, our first annual party was right after I moved to town, so I could meet everyone. Seems only right to pass it on.”

Emma has to admit, it is oddly poetic. She finds herself nodding an affirmative, almost without conscious thought. It’s worth it though, to see the way his face lights up when he realizes she’s accepted his invite.

“Excellent! I promise, Swan, you’ll have a hell of a time. Now, if I can recommend getting really back to work and attracting more people? I know our cash pull has been impressive, but I think we can rustle up even more. I must say, we make quite the team.”

She groans, dreading more kissing wheel contestants, but he does have a point – when it comes to this awful holiday tradition, at least, they make quite the team.

------

The rest of the afternoon goes a lot more smoothly. After all their talk of the personal, conversation comes a lot easier between the two, and she actually finds herself enjoying his company. Beneath that cocky exterior really is a sweet man, she’s shocked and relieved to learn.

Most of their time is spent betting on who each approaching townsperson is looking to buy a kiss from. He’s pretty good at it, actually – guessing who is motivated by a crush, who is motivated by getting a laugh, and who just wants to pick whoever seems less scary (those always go his way – somehow, they prefer his charming smile to her scowl). The one exception to this is when Jefferson and Gracie swing by. Killian had seen the excitable seven-year-old and had automatically assumed his good looks would be more of a draw to a young girl. It’s gratifying, in some sort of hilarious way, to see the confusion on his face when Emma gives the little girl an enthusiastic smooch, and receives one in return. As the two stand together, cackling at Killian’s confused face, it finally dawns on him that he’s been had.

“Oh, that’s cheating, Swan, not telling me you knew the lass. Bad form, that.”

He is, however, able to overlook that small deception when he takes his second break (and is it really a deception, if he just made assumptions without full information that she didn’t bother to correct?) and brings her back a hot dog and onion rings from Granny’s booth when he returns, on the logic that “the lines are bloody awful, love, I’m just saving you the hassle.”

It’s weird. She didn’t want to like Killian, when Mary Margaret so clumsily threw him into her path, but she does. He’s got a good sense of humor and a competitive streak that rivals her own and fancies himself a gentleman, like he’s straight out of some ridiculous Regency romance or something.

Emma could overanalyze that, if she wanted to. Probably will when she gets home. But for now, she gratefully accepts the snack and moves to enjoy her own break.

------

“So, when you gonna jump that hot piece of ass?”

Ruby, ever the picture of subtlety.

Belle, at least, has the decency to look shocked by her girlfriend’s actions. “Ruby!”

Unfortunately, Ruby will not be contained. “I’m, just saying, they’re getting pretty cozy now that they’re over whatever that spat was earlier. She could do a lot worse, you know.”

They both focus their attention on Emma at that moment, almost like they’ve been cued. “Well?” Ruby asks impatiently.

“He’s… not what I expected.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” God, somebody really needs to sign Ruby up for etiquette lessons.

Emma narrowly avoids rolling her eyes. “I don’t know, he’s just… he likes to act like he’s so cocky, you know? And he really isn’t. I totally thought he was going to be a dick, but…”

“But now you might get the dick?”

“Ruby!” Belle hisses, clearly mortified, even if her partner isn’t. Turning to Emma in a clear attempt to move on from Ruby’s antics, she asks “So do you think you’ll go out with him sometime? Oh, Emma, I think you two could have such a lovely time together.” She quickly holds up a stern finger at the sight of Ruby’s smirk. “Do not say ‘in bed’ or so help me God.”

Emma just shrugs. “I don’t know. I might go to his Christmas party, see what happens from there.”

And true, she still has a few more minutes and doesn’t strictly have to leave right that second, but Emma still chooses to make her excuses and head back to her own booth. There’s only so many quips she can take from Ruby before she snaps.

------

Before she knows it, the day is over, and she and Killian are gathering their things to leave. She’s almost sad – Emma may have been dreading this day for weeks, but Killian really made it almost bearable.

For some inconceivable reason, he almost looks nervous, scratching behind his ear yet again. “So… I know I mentioned our little holiday party earlier, but do you think you would like to come? I mean, you don’t have to but it’s a good time and there will be drinks if nothing else and –“

Emma quickly nods before his sentence can ramble any further.

His face lights up for a moment, before he devolves back into stuttering. “Ok! Yes. Good. Ok. Ok, well, I guess I’ll have Liam give an invite to David to give to you?”

“Yeah, that’ll work.”

There’s an awkward silence, their first in long while. Emma feels like they should be marking the end of this day somehow special, but she’s coming up with nothing. “So…” she finally breaks in. “I’ll see you around, then?”

He looks a little disappointed, but nods all the same. “Of course, Swan.” And then, the bastard, he lifts her hand to press a kiss to its back. “It’s been a pleasure, Emma.”

She barely manages to nod dumbly and mumble out a “You too” before she turns and leaves. Well, flees more like. But for once, it’s not out of some great fear of commitment or being left behind and disappointed. This time, it’s purely so she doesn’t say anything else that would make her look like a damn fool.

Her reaction probably isn’t ideal, but she’s standing behind it.

------

She tries to focus all week. She really does. But the bar is shockingly slow for this time of year (hey, if she had a family, she’d probably be trying to escape them at the bar too) and TV is all reruns and Emma just can’t stop thinking about blue eyes and a kiss to the hand and the way that she really, really wants to see him again.

She’ll never admit it out loud, of course. When Ruby or Mary Margaret mention the party, she grumbles like always (not looking forward to the party is accurate, at least – she’d rather be with him in her own empty apartment for more private celebrations, seasonal or otherwise, than at some ridiculous themed party). But she really wants to see him again. Which is weird, because Emma hates setups on principle. And the idea of Mary Margaret being all smug about the whole thing… ugh. So when she finally gives into the inevitability of thinking about Killian, she uses the time to prepare herself emotionally for the God awful sappy, smug, or downright inappropriate reactions she’s sure she’ll receive from everyone in her life.

------

Saturday comes sooner than expected, despite the fact that the rest of the week seems to drag, and Emma finds herself prepping for a party. If Ruby was here, Emma is sure she would have been squeezed into some kind of skin-tight dress and stilettos, but Emma’s been left to her own sartorial devices, so a white sweater with boots it is. Hey, she’s going to wear her red leather jacket, that’s Christmasy enough.

For all of her confidence during the week, her determination to actually make a damn move, she can feel her boldness draining away the closer her Bug gets to Liam and Elsa’s little seaside cottage. By the time she reaches their door, holding a bottle of whiskey like some kind of armor (and let’s face it, she’ll probably need drinks to get through this night), Emma is about ready to turn tail and run. Before she can talk herself out of it, she rings the doorbell, hoping someone hears her over the din she can already hear through the door.

And of course, all her fears are put to rest the moment the door opens, because Killian looks positively thrilled to see her.

“Swan! You made it!”

“Yep, I’m here. Grinch spirit and all.” Before she can well and truly lose her nerve, she jerks a thumb back into the darkness. “Hey, can I talk to you for a moment?”

Killian looks a little confused, but apparently is willing anyways. “Sure, I suppose I can step away for a moment.”

They find a spot around the side of the house where it’s finally quiet enough for her to talk freely.

“Is anything the matter, love? I know you’re not big on Christmas but I promise there’s no more than two stupid games in there and there’s a few people you know and I really think –“

“Did you have fun the other day? At the booth? With me?” And oh, that’s certainly smooth, well done Emma.

“Well, yes, surprisingly, I had a lovely time with you. Ridiculous games aside.”

“Do you want to have fun again?”

“Do I want to have fun again?”

“Yes. Fun. With me. In a setting that doesn’t involve a kissing wheel.”

His grin starts slow, but grows to stretch from ear to ear. “Emma, are you trying to ask me on a date?”

Part of Emma wants to protest, because she typically Does Not Do Dating. But she sucks it up, raises her chin, and answers a definitive “Yes. If you want.”

He scoffs. “If I want? Emma, I would have suggested our own version of the kissing wheel at the carnival if I didn’t think it would end poorly. I’d love to go on a date with you.”

Finally, the universe is working in her favor, because after a moment smiling goofily at one another, they move together simultaneously to share a kiss. A good kiss. A really, really great kiss that she’d be up for repeating every day of the week and extra on Sundays.

As they finally break apart to walk back inside the house hand and hand, Emma suddenly has perhaps the weirdest, craziest thought yet.

Maybe she could get into this Christmas thing after all.

[mousedetective]

The Prince Next Door (3/?)

And here is Bones’ introduction!

The Prince Next Door - There’s something about the Vulcan who lives in apartment 2B, something Jim doesn’t find out until the Vulcan is attacked: he’s Prince S’chn T’gai, trying to hide from the planetary troubles on his home planet. But the man, who tells him to call him Spock, ends up becoming more important to him and in his world than he ever realized.

Read Chapter 1 @ AO3 | Read Chapter 3 @ AO3 | Buy Me A Coffee? | Send Me A Prompt

Bones' bar was a hole in the wall type place. It had its normal crowd of regulars, a few people who wandered in by accident, and then people who heard about the place from word of mouth. That was really the only way most people heard about the place; there were no flashy signs advertising it outside, there were no neon lit signs in the windows for the different brands of beers or liquor his place served, and the bouncers sat inside the door so you actually had to step inside to have your identification checked.

It was just the way Bones liked it: low-key, low trouble, low hassle.

So Jim knew he was going to get an earful for bringing the half-human/half-Vulcan prince who was on the run from assassins to the bar to be kept safe and hidden and then bring his human mom along too for good measure. But there really wasn’t any other option; the complex wasn’t a safe place for Spock now and since he knew the truth he felt obligated to help. And Bones was the only person he knew who could do anything.

They’d gathered up what they needed most, which for Spock had been surprisingly little, and gotten a cab to the bar. Kirk had the feeling leaving his bike at the complex meant he probably wouldn’t see it again, but he supposed it was a sacrifice he was willing to make. He could get another one later, rebuild one, something like that. It seemed to take longer getting to the bar in a cab than it did on his bike, and when they got there Kirk motioned for Spock to go towards the alley entrance instead of the main entrance.

“Are we not permitted to use the main entrance?” Spock asked curiously.

“Around this time of day, Bones is making some hellish combination of southern food for his breakfast in his apartment. The people in the bar are the regulars who want to get shitfaced before noon. Bones won’t be tending bar to them. Nyota will be there because the regulars want the pretty face first thing in the morning.” Kirk nodded his head towards a set of stairs. “We go up the stairs, that’s where the living space is. There are four bedrooms, but Bones usually rents out three of them. Not that he needs to. He makes a pretty decent amount of money with the bar, even if it’s just a hole in the wall. The regulars pay a ton of money for peace and quiet and no hassle.”

“And you help provide that service?” Spock asked as they made their way to the stairs on the side of the building.

Kirk nodded. “I’ve had my share of arguments to break up, but I usually get out of most of them without blood being shed. At least inside the bar. Outside...that’s a different matter.” He got to the base of the stairs and then climbed them two at a time, almost bounding up them. When he got to the top he knocked on the door hard. “Bones! Need some rooms from you!”

It took a few minutes but by the time Spock joined him the door had swung open and a man in a blue button-down shirt with dark hair and a glare on his face was staring at them both. “Jesus, Jim, I’m going to burn my grits.”

“Look, I’ve got a situation,” Jim said.

Bones rolled his eyes. “Find out the last girl you slept with had a boyfriend?” he asked.

“Think interplanetary,” Jim said, pointing to Spock. “Meet my next door neighbor, the hidden prince of Vulcan.”

Bones looked from Jim to Spock and then sighed. “Shit.”

“Exactly. He was attacked because his guards turned on him, so he needs to hide somewhere else, and--”

“Hold it,” Bones said, holding up a hand. “You got yourself involved in an interplanetary dispute? Good God, Jim, can’t you get into normal trouble like a normal person?”

“You know me, Bones,” Jim said with a smirk. “Go big or go home.”

“Go home is right,” Bones muttered. “I should boot you both on a transport back to Iowa.” Then he shook his head and moved out of the way. “I am going to regret this, but come on in.”

“Thanks, Bones,” Jim said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Oh, and one more favor?”

“What, hide the King, too?” he asked in a sarcastic tone.

“Close. Queen,” Jim said.

“Of course,” Bones said. He looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. “Jim, if this all goes to Hell, I am personally taking it out of your hide. Got it?”

“Got it,” Jim said. He turned to Spock. “Let’s go grab rooms and then let’s figure out if your mom is okay and how to get her here.”

Spock nodded. “Very well.” He turned to Bones and nodded his head towards him. “You have my deepest thanks.” Bones grunted and shut the door behind them, heading back to the kitchen. Spock then turned to Jim, looking confused. “Have I offended him?”

“He’s just an old grump. I mean, not that old, but just...extra grumpy,” Jim said. “You get used to it.” He nodded towards the rooms. “Come on. We have plans to make.”

[justlookfrightened]

Chapter 5: Dec. 24-26, Christmas: Montréal/Madison/Providence

Read it on AO3

Or read chapter 1, 2, 3, or 4

Jack wedged the last of his gifts for his parents behind the tree and then sat back on his heels to look at the effect.

His first thought was that there way too many presents for having only three people in the house.

His second thought was that at least a quarter of the gifts were for Eric.

His third thought was, how was he supposed to get those all home?

Oh, well. He couldn’t really complain that his parents liked his boyfriend too much, could he? Besides, he could insist that his parents ship anything that didn’t fit in his suitcase. That way, they wouldn’t upstage him when he and Eric exchanged gifts on Boxing Day.

“I know it makes me sound like a child, but I think my favorite part of Christmas is looking at all the presents piled up under the tree,” his mother said from behind him.

Jack turned to see her looking at the tree with a mug of something, tea probably, a book under her arm.

“That’s why we always wrap so many things for Christmas,” she said. “So I apologize in advance for when you open the socks. At least you’re not getting toilet paper this year.”

“Toilet paper?” Jack said.

His mother indicated a large package with his dad’s name on it.

“Twenty rolls,” she said.

“Toilet paper.”

“He’ll think it’s funny,” Alicia said. “It will remind him of the year you were two and we bought you your very own box of Kleenex and you opened it and sat there and pulled out all the tissues one by one. And when we’re through laughing, I’ll put the toilet paper away in the cupboard and we won’t have to buy more for months.”

Jack could see the humor in that, and, more importantly, knew his dad would too.

“It’s partly, ‘What do you get for the man who had everything?’” Alicia said. “I do buy him clothes, sometimes even at holidays, but that’s more just to make him look presentable. He has everything he needs. So I try to get him one or two serious gifts, things I see that remind me of him, or things I think he’ll enjoy, and then I wrap up things we would need anyway for fun. It’s not like he needs another pen, and he doesn’t wear jewelry.”

“How do you find gifts year after year?” Jack asked.

“It’s not as hard as you might think,” she said. “Your dad’s a busy guy, he has hobbies and interests. Actually, this year I asked Eric for help.”

“Eric?”

“Since your dad started baking more, I asked Eric what would be good,” she said. “That one’s a KitchenAid stand mixer, which Eric was horrified to see we didn’t have when he was here at Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah, Eric has one of those,” Jack said. “I think he bought it with his graduation money. High school graduation.”

“In his little apartment?”

“It might have moved into my kitchen,” Jack said. “Months ago.”

“See, I knew your relationship was serious.”

“It was maybe a couple of months after I gave him the key?” Jack said. “When we had our West Coast road trip. He said it was a pain going back and forth when he wanted to use the mixer, and there was plenty of room in my cabinets, so if I minded he was happy to take it back, but he really found it convenient to have it there.”

“I was thinking I’d ask you if you had any plans to ask Eric to move in,” his mother said. “But if his mixer is in your kitchen, well, I think maybe he has.”

Jack felt himself blush.

“He just really appreciates a bigger kitchen than what he has,” he said.

“And I’m sure he likes the view, too,” she said.

“Well, you can see the river from my apartment, and I have more windows,” Jack said.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Maman! Please,” Jack said. “I do want to ask him if we can … rearrange … a bit. I don’t think he wants to give up his apartment, because he likes to have his own space sometimes, but maybe he could move more of his clothes and things over, and stay in our apartment. His unit could be like our study or something. Like a guest suite. I don’t know.”

“How do you think he’ll react?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. Sometimes I think he wants to move in, but he’ll never bring it up because he still hesitates to ask to sleep over, even though I’ve told him over and over that he’s always welcome, whether I’m home or not,” Jack said. “But if he doesn’t want to, I don’t want to put any pressure on him.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” his mother said. “Just trust him to tell you what he wants, or what he doesn’t want.”

****************************

Eric sipped his coffee and ate his traditional Christmas breakfast of his mother’s cinnamon bread, contemplating the Christmas tree. With Christmas falling on a Sunday, he had flown down yesterday, after finishing his shift, but he was taking Dec. 26 and 27 off as well.

The bakery was closed on Dec. 26 -- Eric had convinced Matthew that would make more sense than closing Christmas Eve, when people would want to pick up orders for Christmas -- and Dex had volunteered to take charge the next day.

Then he had made the executive decision to close at 2 p.m. on Christmas Eve, leaving Dex and Nurse to finish up after he left at noon. That allowed him to make sure all the holiday orders were done, and most of them picked up, before leaving for the airport, and it got him to Madison in time for the Christmas Eve service.

But he hadn’t been home to help his mother decorate the tree for the first time this year. Last year, she waited until two days before Christmas, but this year he came too late.

It looked like she put all the ornaments on -- the elegant ones that his parents had bought for themselves or received as gifts, the jokey ones that they had exchanged over the years, the ones he had made in Sunday school and in kindergarten. It must have taken her hours to do it by herself, he thought, and he wouldn’t have blamed her if she left some of the ornaments off, maybe tried to make it look like some of the trees they saw on Pinterest.

His eyes picked out six different ice skate ornaments -- mostly figure skates but some hockey skates too -- and a dozen or more pies, tarts and rolling pins.

“Big job, decorating that tree,” his father said from his seat in the recliner. “Took your mother and I the best part of last Saturday.”

“You helped?” Eric supposed he should have kept the surprise out of his voice.

“It seemed like it would be a good idea,” Coach said. “If I wanted dinner that night.”

Eric nodded. Of course his father hadn’t joined in to stop his mother from being lonely or sad that Eric wasn’t there.

“Don’t think I did as good of a job as you. She kept moving ornaments after I put them on.”

Eric looked at Coach and looked at the tree again. Really, it looked like all the ornaments had been thrown at it with no rhyme or reason.

“She always did that to me too,” Eric said.

“You have a tree up in Providence?”

“Not in my apartment,” Eric said. “A little one in Jack’s apartment. One of those fake ones that come with lights already on.”

“You have ornaments?” Coach said. “‘Cause you could probably take some of these.”

“Just because you don’t want to get stuck taking them down --” Eric started. Then he thought better of it. “Maybe a couple. There’s nothing really personal on our tree, because Jack always goes to his parents in Montreal and I’m always here for Christmas. Jack said he got the tree because he said it felt weird to not have any decorations, but I get my fill of decorating at the bakery.”

And Eric realized a moment after he spoke that he had called it “our tree” and not “Jack’s tree.” It didn’t seem Coach had noticed.

Eric put his feet on the floor and got ready to stand up and go help his mother get dinner going. If nothing else, he could start the dough for the rolls and see what she had planned for dessert. Family would be there a few hours.

“Wait, Junior,” Coach said. “Before you go, you know that you’re always welcome here. Jack, too, if you both want to come for Christmas.”

“Thanks, Coach,” Eric said. “He’s always spent the Christmas break with his parents, though.”

“It’s also OK if you want to go with him, or if you and he decide to have Christmas in Providence,” Coach said. “Your mother and I will survive. Although she probably wouldn’t turn down an invitation to join you.”

“I’ve never been anywhere else for Christmas.” Of course, his father knew that.

“But you will be, eventually, and that’s OK,” Coach said. “Things change. Kids grow up, get their own lives, their own families. Parents get older, maybe get to enjoy being guests sometimes.”

He paused.

“Anyway, I wanted you to know that you should do what’s right for you, not worry about us,” Coach said. “Your mother will understand. You should know we couldn’t be more proud of you, and she’s really looking forward to seeing your bakery next month.”

“What about you?” Eric asked. “Me too,” Coach said. “But I also can’t wait for the hockey game. I’ve never been to an NHL game.”

Eric smiled. The gift he and Jack had put together for his parents -- Falconers hats and T-shirts, and tickets for a game over the MLK holiday -- had been a hit. His father wanted to pay Jack back for the airfare, also included, but Eric had a feeling Jack would prevail after Eric suggested Coach Google Jack’s salary.

“Fine,” his father had said, “But I’m taking the two of you out to dinner while I’m there.”

It was strange, letting Jack pay for so much, but Eric had come to the conclusion that sometimes it was best to let Jack do what he wanted. Plus, Jack had agreed that the gift to Eric’s parents would also serve as his gift to Eric. There was no point to refusing and having everyone unhappy when everyone could be happy, he thought.

***********************

Jack put his sunglasses on and tugged his Habs cap down on his forehead as soon as he exited the plane, and found the nearest arrivals board to see which gate Eric’s flight would arrive at.

On time. Eric should be on the ground in 20 minutes.

Jack mentally thanked the travel gods that he had pre-cleared U.S. customs and immigration at Trudeau so he could remain inside the security perimeter and meet Eric at his gate. And that it worked out for them to fly into Logan within a half-hour of each other. If nothing else, Eric knew where he had parked when he drove Jack’s car to the airport on Saturday.

He took a seat in the area by Eric’s gate and pulled his phone out. Sure enough, there was a text from Eric as soon as the plane was at the gate.

On the ground. See you soon!

Jack waited as people trickled out of the jetway, probably the ones in business class first, but it was impossible to tell.

Finally, he saw Eric, not by himself, but with a young woman, carrying a baby seat and pushing a stroller. The girl was carrying a fussing infant and looked exhausted, even though it was only 11:30 a.m.

As soon as they got out of the jetway, Eric stepped to the side.

“That just snaps on top,” the woman was saying.

Eric figured it out and attached the baby seat to the stroller, giving it a tug to make sure it was secure..

“There you go,” Eric said. “Come on, sweetheart.”

And Eric actually took the baby. Damn, Eric looked natural with a baby in his arms. Probably all those little cousins.

He set it (her? him?) in the seat and pulled the straps over the baby’s shoulders while the baby’s mother (she had to be the baby’s mother, right?) set down the bag she had strapped to her back and rolled her shoulders.

“Thank you so much, Eric,” she said. “She’s gotten so heavy.”

“Please, it was no trouble at all,” Eric said. “Do you have those gingerbread cookies I gave you?”

“Of course you travel with cookies,” Jack said, approaching them.

“You know it,” Eric said, giving Jack a brief hug. “How was your flight?”

“Fine,” Jack said. “But I’m ready to get home.”

He turned to the young woman and said, “Hi, I’m Jack.”

“Sarah,” she said. “Can I just say how lucky you are? Eric is a treasure. I was so nervous to fly on my own with Izzy, and then she started crying when we took off, and I was afraid I’d have an angry seat-mate on my hands. Instead, he did his best to entertain her. He’s going to make a great daddy one day.”

Jack looked to Eric, whose eyebrows had risen. So Eric probably hadn’t said anything about Jack being his boyfriend, or about wanting kids. Did Eric want kids? They hadn’t really talked about it. On the boyfriend front … Were they that obvious? Well, yes, probably. And this was the advantage of having been outed, right?

So Jack put his arm around Eric’s shoulders and pulled him in so he could kiss Eric’s cheek. He said, “I know. He’s great.”

Now Eric was pink -- a good look on him, Jack thought, but then most looks were good on Eric -- and he was saying, “I was just glad I could help with the peanut. You have someone meeting you?”

“Yes,” Sarah said. “My husband should be here. We just went home for Christmas because he had to work, and my parents really wanted to see her. But I’ll text you. We should really get that coffee.”

Jack let her walk away before pulling Eric into a longer hug.

“There you go, winning hearts right and left.”

“Hush, you,” Eric said. “She just needed a friendly face on that plane.”

“Well, you’ve certainly won my heart.”

****************************

Eric still felt nervous driving Jack’s car, even more with Jack in it.

Which was strange, because Jack’s small SUV -- OK, small compared to ones with names that evoked whole fleets of ships; who names a car “the Armada”? -- was not a challenge to maneuver compared to the oversized pickup trucks Eric had learned on, and it drove like a dream. A dream with heated seats, no less.

After the second or third time Eric had demurred at the idea of using Jack’s car while he was away -- “What if I get pulled over? What if there’s an accident?” -- Jack had added Eric as a regular driver to his car insurance policy.

“Now no one can question if you have permission to use the car,” Jack said. “And if there is an accident, they can’t deny coverage. So please, take the car. Especially if you’re going somewhere at night, or by yourself.”

Once they had retrieved Jack’s suitcase from the carousel, Jack had said to Eric “Lead the way.”

When they arrived at the car, Jack threw his bags in the back and himself into the passenger seat.

“I’m so glad we don’t have a game tomorrow,” he said. “I want to spend the day with you.”

So Eric climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car, wondering how this became his life.

Once they arrived at their building, Eric headed to his apartment to drop off his overnight bag and pick up Jack’s gifts.

He really hoped Jack would like them. He’d spent more than he should -- he had swallowed his pride and asked his parents for money for Christmas, and asked if he could have it two weeks early -- but he wanted to get something Jack wouldn’t think of getting for himself, something he would enjoy.

So he gathered the box and the padded envelope and headed back to Jack’s apartment.

Jack was heating two servings of Eric’s lasagna in the oven and cutting vegetables for a salad when Eric came in and looked at the tree. There were packages all around it -- at least half a dozen, from almost square to very long and thin.

“Are those all for me?” Eric asked. “It’s too much. You said the tickets for my parents were my gift.”

“One of your gifts,” Jack said. “And these are all kind of part of one gift.”

“That’s good, I guess, because I only got you one thing,” Eric said. “Well, two, really, but only one real gift.”

“I should warn you: there’s also an envelope of printed out pictures of gifts from my parents,” Jack said. “It’s all stuff they ordered for you. They had the pictures all wrapped up in boxes and they made me open them. If you want, you can go through those while we eat.”

“They shouldn’t have,” Eric said. “I mean, my parents only sent you a card.”

“It’s fine, Eric.” Jack said. “My parents are like that. They practically adopted Kent.”

Eric’s head snapped up.

“Kent? As in, your ex, Kent Parson?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jack said. “But it’s been so long I don’t really think of him like that. Now he’s a friend, I guess, someone who’s known me forever. But when we were kids, he was around a lot, even before we … we were friends and teammates first, and the physical part got added to that. And he was kind of lost, and they took him under their wing. They’re still close to him. But in the beginning, they were always buying him stuff. To the point I got a little jealous.”

“I’m sorry,” Eric said. “Does it bother you now?”

“Not at all,” Jack said. “And it really shouldn’t have bothered me then. I just wasn’t in a good frame of mind to see things accurately. Anyway, trust me, they like to give gifts, especially my mother, and they’re thrilled to have someone new to buy gifts for.”

“OK,” Eric said.

“And a lot of it isn’t expensive stuff,” Jack said. “You seem to be in family territory already, getting things that you’d probably have to buy anyway. I can tell you she didn’t buy you toilet paper -- my dad got 20 rolls.”

“Well, now I have to look,” Eric said, sitting at the table with his plate.

There were two sweaters -- one a dark red, almost a Samwell-red, and one a deep blue -- a cookbook of Quebecois specialties, a mortar and pestle and several jars of whole spices, and four rolls of baking parchment.

“There is one actual present from them in my suitcase,” Jack said. “I’ll get it.”

“I’ll bring the tea over to the tree,” Eric said.

Jack brought a soft package to Eric, who unwrapped it to find a replica of Bob’s Habs jersey.

Eric put it on immediately and took a selfie, posting it with the caption, Who’s my favorite Zimmermann?

Jack tried to pretend he was pouting, but Eric wasn’t fooled. He just kissed Jack’s lower lip and said, “You know it’s you.”

Jack pulled him closer and kissed him again, longer and deeper, just to make sure, and when Eric pulled back, he was pink. “I think I like jealous Jack. Or at least pretending-to-be-jealous Jack.”

“Here, open this one next,” Jack said. He handed Eric a square box, almost the same size as the box Eric had for him.

Inside was a new hockey helmet, in Falconers’ blue.

“I didn’t have them put a visor on, in case you wanted to use your facemask,” Jack said. “But last time we played, I noticed that your helmet was out of date.”

“Thanks, Jack. I guess I never thought about replacing it because I wasn’t on a team anymore.”

The rest of the boxes turned out to include a full set of pads and gloves and a new stick, with the last box holding two pictures similar to those his mother had sent.

Jack shrugged. “I learned from the best.”

The pictures showed two pairs of skates, one for hockey and one for figure skates.

“I didn’t want to choose the model and wrap them because different brands fit differently, and you need to get what;s good for you. But Dominic at the skate shop knows that I’m buying them for you, so you can go pick them out whenever you want.”

“But Jack, it’s too much. I know you know how much good skates cost,” Eric said.

“So I’ll know if you don’t get good ones,” Jack said. “I’ve seen your skates. They’re good, but they’re what, three or four years old? For as much as you skate, they should have been replaced at least a year ago, maybe longer.”

“It’s still too much,” Eric said. “With all the other stuff too?”

“But I like to play with you,” Jack said. “When it’s just us, or when we get the other guys to come too. It’s important that you have good equipment.”

“And the figure skates?”

“I wanted you to know that I value that too,” Jack said. “Otherwise it would feel like I was trying to make you prioritize hockey. And I know you love it.”

Eric couldn’t help his smile. It was too much -- far too much, and made the gift Eric scrimped to buy for Jack pale in comparison -- but it also reflected so much of what Eric loved about Jack: his enthusiasm, the way he paid attention to what Eric loved, just that he wanted to spend time with him.

“OK, mine’s nowhere near as big,” Eric said. “But I thought you’d like it.”

Jack opened the gift, a Nikon D5500, which the clerk at the camera store assured him was an excellent choice for a beginner.

Jack not only unwrapped it, he opened the box and pulled the camera body out, cradling it in his large hands while he looked at it from every angle.

“The lady at the store said it would be good for someone to learn on, because you can make it automatic but you can also play with the settings,” Eric said. “There’s a lens in there, but you can get others. If you want advice, I tucked in the lady’s card. She said she’d be happy to help.”

The words tumbled out of Eric, who was desperate to fill the silence.

“Eric, I love it,” Jack said. “When I was in high school, I wanted to take a photography class, but it didn’t fit with my schedule, what with hockey and all. But I’ve always liked it.”

“I got the idea with how much care you take with pictures for Instagram,” Eric said. “Even if they’re just phone pictures, you make things look amazing.”

“Thanks, Eric,” Jack said. “It’s great.”

“There’s one more thing,” Eric said, handing Jack the padded envelope. He opened it to find a key, one he recognized.

“Is this the key to your apartment?” Jack asked.

“Um, yeah,” Eric said. “I don’t really expect you to spend any time there, because everything you need is here. But it felt wrong that I’ve had your key so long, and you didn’t have mine. So if you ever want to stop over, whether I’m there or not, feel free. If you need to find an obscure recipe from an old cookbook, or borrow a springform pan or --”

“Wrap myself in your blankets and hug Senor Bun if I need to feel close to you but you aren’t here?” Jack said.

“Well, sure. Or that.”

****************************

After lunch and their gifts were cleaned up, Eric suggested going for a run, since Lardo wasn’t around and Meehan would be closed.

“We can go to the practice facility if you want,” Jack said. “You’ll have to wear your old skates, but you can break in the new pads. See if I got everything the right size.”

“Will there be anyone there today?” Eric asked. “I wouldn’t want to put anyone out by making them come in on their day off.”

“I don’t know if Rick’s there, but we’re not on the ice until 10 tomorrow,” Jack said. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll find out if he was planning to be in earlier than that so he can cut the ice. And don’t worry -- security will be there. I won’t be able to ravish you on the ice or anything.”

Eric arched an eyebrow at him.

“Ravish me?” he asked. “What have you been reading?”

He sounded amused, so Jack counted it as a win.

“Did you want to figure skate first, like you usually do?” Jack said.

“I don’t know,” Eric said. “If I’m going to get all geared up, maybe just play around with a puck? I can use my old stick -- I haven’t got any tape for this one.”

Jack blinked.

“We’re going to an NHL practice facility,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I can find tape. I’ll even tape your stick for you if you want. But I was hoping you’d figure skate for at least a little while so I can try out the camera.”

“Lord,” Eric said. “I didn’t get that for you so you could take pictures of me. Don’t you want to try it out by taking pictures of the Christmas tree, or an artfully posed hockey stick, or the geese on the river or something?”

“I took pictures of the Christmas tree already, as soon as the battery was charged,” Jack said. “Please? I want to see how I do with action shots.”

“Fine,” Eric said. “But just for you, not for Insta.”

Eric dressed in his usual (snug, body-hugging, thank-God-for-Lycra) black workout clothes to skate. He started with his usual routine: step sequences, spins and a few jumps, then skated over to where Jack was standing at the boards, frowning down at the little monitor on the back of the camera. The camera was great -- every shot was in focus -- but Jack found that it was harder than he thought to keep a moving target where he wanted in the frame. The best ones were of Eric spinning, if only because he wasn’t moving across the ice. This was going to take some practice.

“Want me to do an actual program?” he asked. “Something that has some flow to it?”

“Sure,” Jack said. “I’m not sure how well you’ll like these pictures. I’m going to have to work at this.”

“First, I don’t ever need to see the pictures, unless you want to show me, so don’t worry about that,” Eric said. “Second, can I just say how much I love that you sound excited about having to spend time learning something?”

Eric leaned across the boards to kiss him.

“Um, could you skate to ‘Halo,’ the way you did the first time we came here together?” Jack asked. “I really liked that routine.”

He liked it so much he had thought about for weeks afterwards, wondering what it would be like if Eric actually meant all the sentiments in the song for him. Now he could watch it and know Eric loved him.

“Sure thing, sweet pea,” Eric said. “My phone and a speaker are in my bag right there. Get them out and I’ll set it up.”

That evening, after cleaning up and going for a walk along the river, stopping for take-out on the way home, Jack flicked through the pictures he had taken. Eric had skated to “Halo” twice, and by the second time, Jack was better at leading him with the camera, so he was skating into the frame instead of out of it. Jack had even managed a few close-ups, of Eric’s radiant smile when he finished, of his skate-blades flashing as he completed an intricate series of steps.

Jack’s favorite was a shot he got of Eric spinning in the air like a top, arms wrapped close around him, legs crossed at the ankle, the light glinting off his hair. It was amazing.

Later, there were pictures of Eric dressed for hockey, with his new blue helmet -- Eric had let Jack send that one to his parents -- and, yes, the geese on the river. But Jack kept coming back to the picture of Eric caught in mid-air, like his feet never needed to touch the ground.

“Eric,” Jack said. “Look at this one.”

Eric came out of the bathroom where he was getting ready for bed, and looked over Jack’s shoulder.

“That is a good shot,” he said. “Although Katya would probably crucify me for my form.”

“Can I post this one?’ Jack asked. “I won’t tag you if you don’t want. But I want everyone to see how amazing you are.”

“I think people who follow you know who I am anyway,” Eric said. “Go ahead, if you want. I just hope Katya has no idea who you are.”

Jack used the wifi feature on the camera to send the image to his phone, then posted it with the caption #myboyfriendisbrilliant