AN: This work's title comes from the song "I Never Asked to Be Your Mountain" by Tim Buckley.

The instant John Marston arrived at the perimeter of camp, the feel of the air told him that he'd missed a major occurrence. After a late-night excursion, he usually returned to voices around the campfire, the strum of Javier's guitar, and perhaps an intense poker match. But tonight a focused tension seemed to hang over the camp, sapping its usual vigor. Have we been attacked? The camp still appeared to be intact, but as John drew closer, he picked up the sound of pained moaning. Frantically John scrambled off his horse, Ivy, and hurried towards its source.

SHIT! I can't leave this place for an hour without trouble finding us…

A figure emerging from the shadows halted John in his tracks. Javier's voice rang out. "John! You're back just in time."

"What?" John started forward, frantically scanning his surroundings. Now that he'd gotten closer, he noticed that the regulars were in fact gathered around the fire, but the persistent moans pervaded the atmosphere. He was about to demand to know what had happened, when it dawned on him that the sound was coming from the women's shared tent. His heart began to race.

"Abigail, she's-"

"She's fine." There was no hint in Javier's eyes that he was offering a mere platitude, but that wasn't comforting, given his general stoicism. "The baby's on the way."

A bolt shot through John. The baby. Jesus, he'd had nine months to get used to it but somehow he hadn't really believed… surely one day he'd wake up to find it was all a joke, and Abigail was pregnant by some other poor sap, or that she'd never been pregnant at all…

But now, a baby was about to be born, a little flesh-and-blood creation that Abigail claimed was his. Well, partially his. Well… strictly speaking, it's all hers…

John hardly felt Javier's hand on his shoulder as he pushed past him, blindly heading towards the women's tent. He had no idea what he was expected to do in this situation, but he couldn't just stand there helplessly… even though a large part of his being was aching to jump back on Ivy and ride away, far away.

He was almost relieved when a hand clapped down on his back, but the deep voice that boomed out twisted him up inside even more. "Just where do you think you're going?"

John spun around to meet Arthur's sullen glower. Defensiveness spiked. "I wasn't leaving, I swear…"

"Relax. No one said you were." Arthur rocked back on his heels and folded his arms over his chest. Since his back blotted out the campfire, his face was shrouded in shadow, but John still sensed a distinct lack of amusement in his eyes. Good. That makes two of us.

"Just remember, Marston. You made a promise to Abigail. Try to bail on us now, and that promise ain't all that's gonna be broken."

John attempted a laugh to show how little he thought of Arthur's threat, but it came out as a harsh bark instead. As if the grief I get from HER ain't bad enough. "You want me to see her, is that it?"

"No," said Arthur. "Miss Grimshaw's got her hands full. The last thing she needs is some panicky little nitwit getting under her feet."

Normally Arthur's words wouldn't have rankled John, but now his fists clenched. "Okay, so what am I supposed to do?"

Arthur gave a miniscule shrug. "I don't care what you do so long as it's in camp. Grimshaw 'll send for ya when she's ready."

With that, Arthur stalked off, leaving John rooted to the spot. God dammit. What was he expected to do here at camp? All he could focus on was the terrible sound of Abigail in labor. At least Arthur was right to keep him away from the women's tent. If John showed his face, he expected he'd do Abigail more harm than good.

A sour feeling stole over John. Goddamn Arthur acting like he was some kind of expert because he'd been a father before. Not that John would dare to mention that little fact in front of him. The last time anyone had said a word in camp about Eliza, Arthur had responded with a look strong enough to kill had his eyes been daggers.

Sliding his hands into his pockets, John began to walk in the opposite direction of the women's tent, heading back to Ivy. In his rush to find out what had happened, he'd forgotten about the kills he'd brought back from his hunting trip. He half-expected Arthur to materialize out of nowhere and reign him back in, but fortunately he seemed to be occupied elsewhere in camp. Good. Pearson was sitting over by the campfire, but he'd still appreciate John's donation when he had the chance. And it gave John something useful to do, anyway…

As John dropped off the game he'd hunted, a round of singing started up by the fire. "There is a house in St. Denis they call the Rising Sun. It's been the ruin of many a poor boy, and lord knows I've been one…" With only three voices, the song sounded lonely and sparse, and for a second John was inclined to join them. But he knew that sitting there wasn't worth the comments he'd already heard a thousand times from Bill. "Little Johnny's not such a kid anymore! Guess our fun with Abigail is over…" Just the thought of them made John grit his teeth. No, singing and socializing was definitely out of the question. He wasn't remotely in the mood. At least the sad little tune helped drown out Abigail's moans, though John figured it wouldn't be long before Arthur or maybe Hosea came around and told them to shut up. He felt sure that Dutch wouldn't bother.

Having exhausted all his options, John trudged back to his tent and lit up a cigarette. Solitude was easy to handle, and often unexpectedly comfortable. Guess I'll wait here until I'm sent for. Assuming they need me at all. The breeze stirred up, wafting away John's cigarette smoke and carrying snatches of conversation from Dutch's tent to his ears. He recognized the cadence of Hosea's voice, following Dutch's unmistakable timbre. The sound was too indistinct to make out proper words, but John supposed that was for the better. What else would they be talking about, but me and Abigail? The mix of conversation and tobacco lulled John into a peaceful state, though anxiety pulsed deep in the back of his mind.

Please let her be safe… He wasn't sure if his thoughts were directed towards a higher power, or if he had enough faith in a higher power to justify them. But an uncaring, merciless God was surely better than having no God at all.

The sudden absence of voices snapped John from his drowsy state. Was I asleep? It seemed likely- his back and neck felt stiff from sitting in place for so long. The campfire singing had stopped, as had Dutch and Hosea's conversation. And more worryingly, he heard nothing from the women's tent. ABIGAIL! John jumped to his feet and rushed out, all senses on alert.

He halted in his tracks when he caught sight of Dutch standing at the tent's entrance, discussing matters with a figure half-hidden by the tent flaps. When Dutch stepped aside, John saw that it was Miss Grimshaw, her face gleaming with sweat and several wisps of hair escaping her coif. She looked exhausted, as if she'd given birth herself.

"John!" Dutch strode towards John, an absurdly jovial expression dominating his face. "Congratulations, my boy! Congratulations."

"She's okay?" John breathed.

"They both are." Dutch clapped John's shoulder, beaming proudly as if the baby's existence was somehow his doing. A horrifying thought emerged- what if it IS? Quickly John forced the notion away.

"Go see for yourself, if you'd like."

Before John could do just that, the tent flaps parted to make room for Arthur. Acute surprise crackled through John. What was HE doing in there?

"Well, he looks like a Marston to me," Arthur announced as he came over to join John and Dutch. "All screwy and clueless. Definitely cuter, though."

John would have summoned a "shut up, Morgan," but his mind caught on one word. "He?"

"Yeah." Arthur's gaze traveled from John to Dutch and back again. "You got yourself a bouncing baby boy."

A boy. It's a boy… The words spun around in John's head. Blindly he started to move towards the tent, dying to catch a glimpse of the child, but Miss Grimshaw cleared her throat.

"Not so fast, Mr. Marston. Your Abigail has had quite a night. She'll be ready to see you in the morning." A pointed note lay in Grimshaw's voice- that is, if you're still willing to see her by then. John wanted to groan. He knew he hadn't been very helpful to Abigail when she was pregnant, but he surely didn't deserve to be constantly doubted.

"Thank you, Miss Grimshaw," Dutch announced, when it became clear that John was lost for words. He turned to John, warmth coursing through his voice. "Come on, son. She ain't going anywhere. Why don't we grab something to drink?" Jubilantly, Dutch spread his arms. "Tonight is a night for celebration! For unto us is born a child!"

Drinks sounded tempting- lord knows I'll need it tomorrow- but John shrugged away Dutch's offer. "I'm okay." Though he knew it was pointless, he couldn't help but keep glancing towards Abigail's tent, trying and failing to picture the new soul that lay just beyond it.

"Suit yourself," said Dutch. "Arthur?"

"Yeah, sure." Arthur wasn't looking at John anymore, which John wasn't sure was an improvement.

"Go ahead. You deserve it." Miss Grimshaw waved her hands. "Thank you for assisting me tonight, Mr. Morgan. You've been most helpful." Her eyes twinkled. "Most men wouldn't have been able to stomach it."

So that's what- John whirled, prepared to confront Arthur, but Arthur only nodded in Grimshaw's direction. "Whenever you need me, Miss Grimshaw." With that, he ambled off behind Dutch. With a sigh, Miss Grimshaw straightened her hair and turned back to Abigail's tent, leaving John standing alone and feeling oddly helpless.

The clink of bottles traveled from the campfire to John's ears, and John grimaced. Reluctantly, he headed back to his tent. The mere conversation had tired him, but he wasn't sure he'd get a wink of sleep that night.