Chapter Text
John Marston woke from an empty sleep to the unmistakable feeling of dread. Years ago, in a different life, he might’ve sprung to his feet and snatched his cattleman from the nightstand, teeth bared and eyes desperately searching for whatever danger might be lurking in the inky darkness- but that was a long time ago. Now, he simply groaned, feeling twice as old as he looked. The sun wasn’t up yet; he didn’t expect it to be. He knew that if he didn’t set out soon, he'd surely add another day or two to an already lengthy trip, and then there wouldn’t be much point to going at all. At least, going right now, he assured himself. He'd go eventually, if not today. Maybe next year, or the year after. Later, he bargained with nobody in particular, he just couldn't do it today.
He forced his feet to the floor, almost wishing he was still sleep-drunk and numb enough that his only thoughts were about the ungodly hour. He wasn’t. His thoughts swirled around one definitive feeling: he didn’t want to go. For a thousand and one reasons, each sounding better than the last, he didn’t want to go. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to stay.
Abigail clutched at his hand tight before he left. The thick darkness of Beecher’s Hope hid her face as well as it did his own, but a stifling melancholy sat between them. Anxiety roiled in his stomach and Abigail, bless her, seemed to feel it too.
“You don’t have to,” she whispered, ever a pillar of compassion that he didn't deserve, “... It’s okay, really.”
John placed his other hand atop hers, carefully peeling away her grip. “If I don’t go now,” he offered, uselessly, cursing himself as he did, “I won’t ever.”
She nodded, biting at her bottom lip. He almost wished she had kicked up more of a fuss, demanded he stay and finish his chores, go get supplies, fix the fence, watch his son, or any of the endless things she’d usually chide him for. John tossed his leg over Rachel and set off, the brim of his hat pulled low against the red rising sun.
There was an awful taste in his mouth, like iron and vinegar, that he couldn't swallow back. He stopped through Valentine at the end of the first day, just as the sun started to dip below the horizon. For what its worth, he’d always liked Valentine. It was simple; a hell of a lot simpler than Blackwater. The people were rough but straightforward, for the most part. If a man tried to rob you in Valentine, you’d know about it. It wasn't like that in Blackwater. In a different life, under different circumstances, he might have liked to live here. Maybe have a ranch near Cumberland Forest, someplace shady rather than the unfettered heat of Beecher's Hope. John spent that night in the hotel, gritting his teeth through a bath and trying his damndest to sleep, trying to drown himself in fantasies. He couldn’t.
The trip itself took two days with no breaks besides his stopover in Valentine; two days to bring an end to something close to twenty years. Every turn, every long stretch of road, only worsened the icy heft of dread, though the bitterness in his stomach was easily distracted by the passing scenery. If he took the long way around, well, could anyone really blame him? If he skirted through New Hanover, drinking in the sights and relishing the fresh, cool air— cleaner and sweeter than what he could get back home, especially this late in June— was that really so bad? It was all vaguely familiar, in an uncomfortable way, bringing forth feelings from memories he couldn't really recall anymore. He did pause, for just a moment, to admire Bacchus Bridge. There was a slight swell of pride that rose in his chest but it was just as quickly chased off by the needling of a sadness he hadn’t felt so potently in nearly eight years.
John Marston pulled Rachel into a slow trot, pacing back and forth on the dusty road, swallowing back the fear that bubbled in his throat. Charles had marked a very careful ‘A’ on the paper, tucking a note with more specific directions into the folds when he handed John the map with that quiet, almost pitying look. Not pitying John, but pitying nonetheless. And now here he was, standing at the edge of the road, the sun once again sinking low in the sky, mere steps from the mark Charles had left him, his bones leaden and limbs useless.
He vaguely hoped someone might emerge from that strange house buried in the hillside and shoot him dead on the spot. He held his breath for a brief moment. Instead, when nothing happened, he hitched Rachel to a low branch. Hands trembling, and god damn it he wished they weren't, he took that hat and satchel from her saddlebags, leaving his own behind. He wouldn’t need them. His chest ached; to hold those things in his hands, his things, again, after leaving them stowed out of sight for so long was… well, John Marston was far from a wordsmith. It was shitty.He walked, numbly scaling the slight incline, each step heavier and harder.
He saw the flowers first. Bright orange bursts against green slender leaves, a welcome reprieve from the rocky terrain. They crowded around the base of the cross Charles had painstakingly carved and put together. It looked damn nice, John could admit that, but seeing those words, that name, after so long made his blood run cold. “Arthur Morgan” it read, adorned with the quote Charles found appropriate: “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness”.
Those words, cleanly drawn into the wood, burned into his mind in all the wrong ways. They were fitting, he guessed, or Charles wouldn’t have picked them. John never was a religious man, and couldn’t guess what exactly it meant. Hosea would have known. Dutch would’ve pretended to. And Arthur— well, who knows. The man was ripe with secrets and strange thoughts, thoughts that Dutch liked to call "above his station"— another thing John never quite understood. Nevertheless, it wouldn’t surprise him in the least to hear he’d been well versed in the Bible.
For a second- and nothing more beyond a brief, cloying thought- he considered that perhaps those words were written specifically to be carved into Arthur’s grave. Because that word— righteousness— used to mean something. Something beyond law and justice, and beyond vengeance and comeuppance. It was a word Dutch had thrown at them a thousand times without ever once explaining why, and yet Arthur made sense of it. He lived it. John hadn’t seen it until the very end, but Arthur, for all his faults, faultlessly acted on righteousness. Folks getting what they deserved, in one way or another, even long after Dutch had forgotten what exactly that meant. It was such an inborn thing, a sixth sense that he doubted the man even had to try to do what was righteous. And John hadn’t noticed until Arthur was gone. Nobody had, perhaps by design. He doubted Arthur knew it himself, the man was always so unsure of his own actions, so insecure in his own thoughts. But now, now that he had known of the life Arthur lived— the Arthur in the pages of that journal, a far cry from the grouchy, ornery man always ready to kill those as need killing— now that he could see the end of the what Arthur began, it was blatantly obvious exactly how different their lives had been. But John tried. He tried to leave that life behind and live, at least a little, like Arthur. He tried to help people these days, which was a lot harder than it seemed.
That life left him littered with deep scars, with more surfacing each day, but hell if he wasn’t healing. Hell if he wasn’t trying. The most damning tell that he had left behind those years— that he had become an entirely different man in these slowly passing years— was that he noticed the grave first and the man second. Clad in dusty black, cast in shadow, sitting slightly off to the side, as lost in his thoughts as John had been in his own; if he realized John had approached, he didn’t react in the slightest, his head still hung low, his shoulders dipped and breath slow. The man’s stillness was bordering on eerie; what’s worse, if John listened hard enough he could barely make out low, gravelly mutterings.
A cold sweat set into John’s skin, surprise and adrenaline and fear running through him... and yet, he couldn’t will himself to draw his gun.
The wind kicked up, a soft caress that curled through his bones and shook him from his reverie.
“... Dutch?” he whispered, as though speaking any louder might break the illusion.
Dutch startled, almost imperceptibly. If John hadn’t spent most of his life with the man, watching his every move and hanging on each word until he was old enough to know better, he might not have noticed— but he did notice, and in noticing felt what must surely be an emotion unknown to mankind, something sad, angry, and guilty all at once. For the first time in a long while, he could see the cracks in that once painfully flawless facade; cracks that Dutch used to hide now laid bare. Something in him urged him to look away, but he didn’t.
It was barely Dutch. Dutch in only the most literal way. Dutch, stripped of everything John had ascribed to the man, everything that built him up and made him Dutch. He had no carefully slicked ringlets, no slimy Cheshire grin. No jangling gold around his fingers or hanging from his vest. No boisterous speeches; no demands of faith. No thoughtfully constructed facade of confidence and cunning. Had John not known any better, he’d’ve thought this was just a man. A man broken down to his barest essentials, drowning in that same emotion John couldn’t place. A man knelt at the grave of his son, burying his hands into the tangles of flowers carpeting the overlook, murmuring empty prayers and regrets into the dirt. But John knew better. He was barely Dutch— still Dutch, just not in any way that mattered; Dutch in all the worst ways. The beard he’d grown through those long years had been cut back, but his cheeks were still unkempt in a way John knew the man had always hated. With rounded shoulders and gaunt cheeks— he must’ve lost weight, now no longer the sturdy man he knew. Now he was something more fragile. The sight of him was almost unbearable. Almost.
Dutch turned slowly, eyes refusing to meet John’s.
“John," Dutch gaped, fruitlessly trying to hide the surprise that bled into his tone. His features tugged into a steady frown, weighed upon by his own thoughts. His voice was a gnarled whisper, broken down and raw in ways John hadn’t heard in a long time, “… didn’t know you’d be here.”
Thinking.
Dutch was always thinking. A trained eye could see it on his face, the way his features stilled and breath held. He was constantly calculating each and every move, every outcome. The way he’d open his mouth only to close it again, his words derailed by another train of thought. One after the other. Each idea climbing, desperate, grasping for something, anything, that got Dutch one step closer to whatever he wanted. He hated that look, the thoughts, that had gotten them into all this shit to begin with. That look got Arthur killed. That want drove them all to early graves.
“I could say the same,” John barked back. Anger began blooming inside him. John was grateful for the change; nothing exhausted a man quite as quickly as the heavy blanket of grief, and he’d been stuck beneath it for days now. Fitting that, even when it seems the man was decaying into a shell of his former self, those nasty wiles would remain.
“... It’s his birthday,” Dutch said simply, turning his back on John once more, “I couldn’t— I didn’t think he’d want to spend it alone.”
It’s only now that John sees the book in Dutch’s hand and the flowers on Arthur’s grave. It’s only now, as John draws closer to the man, that he spots the open bottle of whiskey, Arthur’s favorite, and the picture of Hosea leaned against the wooden cross. John set his jaw, old scars throbbing anew.
He said nothing. He honestly couldn’t have found anything to say, even if he’d tried. He didn’t try though. He didn’t want to.
John removed Arthur’s hat from his head and hung it on the cross, followed by Arthur’s satchel. Both were worse for wear these days; John just never felt right about polishing them and couldn’t bring himself to pry open still-healing wounds by putting them to use. He sat. Not next to Dutch, not even within arm’s reach, but near enough to hear the older man’s breathing catch as he settled in. The sight of those things, Arthur’s things, looking so worn and dull in the sunlight, brought a pang of shame.
But today he wouldn’t worry about that. Today, he would ignore the tight, bitter look on Dutch’s face.
Today, they were going to hurt.
“I don’t know if you ever knew this...” Dutch said quietly, breaking the silence that had settled between them, “... but he loved his birthday. Strange to think it of him, but it’s true.”
“That so?“ John hissed, reluctantly casting away any hope for the silent, if tear-filled, vigil he’d expected. The way he figured, Arthur would’ve spent these last eight years in silence. He’d probably appreciate a good conversation; John certainly would, if it was him.
“Weren’t always like that. The first year we had him, he didn’t make mention of it at all, til Hosea asked him about it. He—“ Dutch swallowed thickly, face twisted with something sour, undoubtedly awash in memories. “After his momma died, weren’t much celebrating to be had. ‘Course, Hosea and I, that didn’t sit well with us. Mind you, we was just two broke young bucks, barely twenty dollars between us at the time, but we did our best to give that boy a good birthday. 15, I think it was. We went out fishing, ate like kings... I let him have his first drink of the real good stuff. Hosea gave him a pocket watch we stole from some lawman a week before. I gave him a journal and a few pencils. Really it— looking back, it sure weren’t much. He deserved so much more but—"
Dutch stopped, pressing his lips into a tight line. His gaze fixed onto Arthur’s grave, lost for a moment in whatever memory had overtaken his thoughts.
“Anyhow, it was the first time we saw that boy smile. So then every year on his birthday, Hosea and I’d take him fishing and we’d all drink ourselves silly,” Dutch smiled fondly, absently at the thought.
“Every year?” John furrowed his brows, “How come I never went along?”
“We tried bringing you along once or twice, but you’d throw such a fit, never wanted to sit still, hated the water… Fishin just weren’t your forte, and Arthur well... Arthur always did prefer it as just the three of us. Never really liked people all too much.”
At this, Dutch chuckled, low and hoarse. The sound makes John’s heart ache in an awful way.
“Never really liked me all too much,” John murmured with an easy grin.
“Not for a long while, no.”
The wind howled gently, warm and sweet, as the sun burned ever lower. Dutch took a long draw from the bottle of whiskey, already a third empty, and passed it to John.
“I visit just about every year,” Dutch admitted, exhaustion creeping into his words, “I try, at least. I wish I could come more often but… At least, today, I can… I- I'm sure he and Hosea are doing the fishing, so I may as well come and do the drinking. I just— the thought of him being alone on his birthday is—"
John’s face fell into a thoughtful frown. He drew in a deep breath.
“If— If it helps, I don’t think he’s... here. I mean, sometimes, I swear he’s—" John paused, searching Dutch’s face, unsure if he should continue, “—like, I got this little blue jay, just showed up one day and no matter how close I got to it, it just didn’t go. Wasn’t sure if it was sick, or hurt, or what, but it just sort of... stuck around. Kept an eye on things and sometimes I swear it’d be lookin and me and it- it were just like lookin at him. At Arthur. Little thing hung around just long enough to see things settled before setting off again, but he’ll still come by and I... I think he’s keepin watch. If-If that makes any kind of sense....”
He hazarded a look at Dutch’s expression, watching it fall from surprise into something painfully warm and tender. Dutch grinned, his voice heavy despite his light, hearty laughter, “That boy could never stay put, could he? Always so busy… I doubt he stayed around here long.”
John nodded, eyes tracing over the grave again, slowly. “He never did learn how to take a damn break.”
“No, he didn’t.”
The pair sat in that comfortable silence, staring at the words carved deep into the wood of the cross. They weren’t enough, John decided. The entire damn bible wouldn’t be enough.
“Son,” Dutch began, “I am... sorry. About how things turned out. And I just- I hope one day you might find it in you to forgive me.”
John drew in a quick breath, unsure if Dutch was speaking to him or to Arthur. In that moment, perhaps it didn’t matter, because Arthur wasn’t there to feel the flare of indignation at those words. If Dutch was good for anything, it was meticulously worded apologies that came far too late and, without fail, would subtly shift the blame off of him. Half the time, John questioned whether it was intentional or not. He supposed it didn’t matter because yet again the man had spun him some pretty-sounding horseshit that didn’t mean a goddamned thing. John grit his teeth. ‘Sorry for the way things turned out’, as though he weren’t the one who blindly demanded it. ‘Forgive me’, so ready to take from John what isn't his to offer. It wasn't John who died, painfully and alone, on top of that goddamned mountain. It wasn't John who suffered Dutch's rage the most, who watched the man pry away everything he'd ever had. Dutch didn't kill John; he killed Arthur, and now he's asking for forgiveness as if John had any right to give it?
“Dutch,” John said, pushing past the smoldering rage lit in his gut as it spread into his fingers, because he knew that if Arthur were here— and strangely, John was almost certain he wasn’t. He couldn’t quite place it, but that grave felt particularly empty— he’d certainly have words to say on the matter. John was as certain as anyone could be that those words would sound like this:
“Aint no forgivin to be done. I—I don’t hate you... for the way things went. Not anymore at least. And Arthur didn’t neither. In his journal, the things he wrote... I ain’t even sure he blamed you, even at the end. He didn’t seem angry, just... worried. Resigned, at the end... sad. He gave every damn thing to that gang, and I know he’d happily do it again,” John’s face twitched as he recalled those final words carved into paper, the last, and perhaps most important, things Arthur had left him, “But Dutch, I ain’t your son no more and- and neither is he. Way I see it, those days died in Beaver Hollow. Hell, maybe even before then. That time has passed. We ain’t family. We- we ain’t nothin.”
John couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact. Weirdly, he felt lighter than he had in years, despite the leaden weight of anxiety resting in his gut. Dutch sat in those words, turning them over in his head, nodding gently.
“You know,” John recoiled at the sheer sorrow that had so thoroughly soaked Dutch’s voice, the pain that laced each breath, how hollow and haunted Dutch’s face became as he pieced together every thought, “... now that I think about it, this isn’t... it’s not his actual birthday...”
“Pardon?”
“He couldn’t remember, it’d been so long since anyone had told him and we... I gave him a new one. It was the day we found him and...” how heavy Dutch’s face had become, how potent the aching in his chest. It was contagious, it seemed, as John began choking on it as well, “... we all forgot. Something as simple as his birthday and there weren’t one single person who knew. All this time, and it wasn’t even his birthday. That’s just—" Dutch drowned in the thousand words that flooded into his mouth in that moment, finally settling on, “— unjust.”
John sucked in a stuttered breath, forcing back the burning in his eyes and the tightness in his throat, “He loved us, Dutch. All of us, right to the end.”
A pause. Dutch grew still, somehow stiller than before.
“You really did grow up fine, John”.
Dutch kept his eyes on Arthur’s grave as he stood, momentarily resting a hand atop Arthur’s hat. He turned, wordlessly. For a second, Dutch paused, as though he were about to speak, casting one lingering glance at the scene behind him. John ached with the faintest ghost of disappointment as he watched Dutch go. He wondered if, perhaps, this might be the last time he ever saw the man. If maybe he should’ve had more poignant parting words; if he should’ve begged and pleaded for Dutch to change his ways one final time.
He put those thoughts to rest as a strange sense of calm washed over him. None of it mattered anyways; what’s done is done. That man was barely Dutch; more of a ghost than the man he’d idolized for so long. How strange that a man who proudly owned every room he walked into could leave so quietly— if John didn’t know better, and the half-whiskey hadn’t been in his hand, and the picture of Hosea weren’t still leaned against the weathered wood of Arthur’s grave, he might’ve doubted that Dutch had been there at all.