"How y'all doin'?"

Abigail sighed. "Hey, Arthur."

"You good?" He lowered himself onto the ground at the entrance of the open tent with a grunt.

"Sure, Arthur."

"Do you and the boy need anything?"

"Not at the moment."

"What's John up to?"

Her eyes narrowed as she finally looked up to Arthur. "What's with the twenty one questions?"

The corner of his mouth peaked into his cheek. "Just askin'."

"Well how about you go just askin' someplace else?"

"Hey, now. What's got you riled up?"

She inhaled sharply and brushed the hay she had been pulling out of the bedding off her dress. She glanced around quickly for Jack: his small stature was at the waterside, talking with Hosea. "Nothing, Arthur."

"Sure didn't sound like nothing."

She looked back at the man, but he was eyeing up the horizon. As Dutch's first adopted son, she knew he felt responsible for everybody in camp; making sure the people were fed, supplies were kept well stocked, and that there were always a few gold coins holed up in at least two of the wagons in case they got jumped and had to leave everything behind. Not that he would ever reveal that fact to Dutch: Dutch worked best believing the line between the group and desolation was his latest plan.

"Have you been out with John recently?" she asked.

"Not since that Gray's business with the horses."

"How did it go?"

Arthur shook his head. "You know how he is. Wasn't bad, wasn't good neither, but at least we got paid at the end of it." His pale eyes narrowed as he noticed the worry etching Abigail's young face. "Y'all ok? Do you and the boy need some more money?"

"We can get by without money, you know that."

He leaned further into the tent, the lines forging deeper between his brows. "Is he treating you right?" he growled quietly. "What's the bastard gone and done now?"

"Nothing, Arthur, nothing. But I guess that's half the problem." She pursed her lips tightly to hold back the tears. "It's always nothing with him."

"Hey! Don't cry, Abigail." He shuffled in closer and lay his hand on her arm. "Just tell me what you need and I'll get it for you."

"We don't need anything. I just…" She looked back out to the shoreline, listening to the boy's young laughter as Cain snatched the piece of half eaten venison out of Hosea's hand. "Of all you boys to knock me up, sometimes I wish it wasn't him."

"C'mon now. Better John than Micah!" She chuckled and leaned into him as he moved up into the canvas to sit next to her. "Or Sean, or Uncle..."

"Only just."

"Naw, you don't know how lucky you got." He squeezed her into his side. "I couldn't imagine we would have kept you here if Jack was half Uncle. The boy would have been weaned straight onto the bourbon!"

"I don't regret Jack! I love the boy to pieces but…" She sighed and burrowed her head into his neck. Her lungs filled with the smell of him; the smell of dried sweat and earth, the musk of tobacco mixed in with charred meat. She could feel his calloused fingers stroking up her back, making her heart judder and her body yearn for more. "Sometimes I can't help but think how much easier everything would be if it had been you. I wouldn't have to fight for him to get time with his father, I wouldn't be worrying about raising him as a single mother, I wouldn't..."

His lips burrowed into her hair, his hot breath making her scalp blossom as he pressed a kiss to her head.

"I'm always going to be here for you," he mumbled, pressing his cheek against the kiss whilst checking nobody was watching them. "Right to the end. Plus they say it takes a village, and I guess this merry band of misfits could pass as one of those." His chuckle rasped through his chest. "The poor bastard would've been handicapped if he had come from me. At least he responds to Hosea's teaching; I'm barely literate after twenty years of the stuff."

"I… I tried to tell myself it was you at first. I mean, after what happened with Eliza... I reckoned it would do you good." His grip tightened briefly around her waist. "I knew if it was you, the boy would have a father, and one worth looking up to."

"You think too well of me, Abigail."

"I think of you as I know of you." She pulled away to meet his gaze. "You said it yourself you're not good, but I've seen the way you look at us, and how you look at Jack... I know you don't care when you're hurting people, Arthur, but that's because you don't know them. When you know them to be good, or of moral worth, you stick your neck out for them, and we both know the bad guys don't do that."

"I'm not a good man, Abigail-"

"And I'm not a good woman, Arthur!" She shook her head, trying to not look at his lips or the short hair growing around it. "You know what I've been doing all these years. Even after Jack, I will tell people what I think of them, and hell, if I need the money, I'll rob and pillage just as the rest of you do. I'm not above that, and I won't pretend otherwise, but that doesn't mean we are beyond redemption."

Arthur's freckled face began to fill with colour, his pale eyes flickering to drink in every detail of her face. "Thank you, Abigail."

"You need to show yourself some kindness," she managed to gasp around palpitations, his full lips filling her gaze. "I'm… I mean… You're a good man, Arthur. A fool sometimes, but..."

He leaned in slowly, carefully, his warm breath making the loose tendrils of her hair dance. "Miss Roberts, I-"

"Arthur Morgan!"

Jolting apart, Abigail frantically straightened her skirt.

"Mr Marston!" Arthur scrambled out of the tent, forcing himself to not look back. Her eyes drifted to the crumpled blanket where he had been,

"Hey, I heard there's a wealthy train coming this way from Valentine and-" The clank of boots stopped. "What were you doing in there?"

"Robbing you blind, Marston. C'mon, what d'you think?"

"Are you sleeping with my woman, Morgan?"

Abigail pushed her way up, holding her breath to stop it coming out in pants. The campfire sparkled off the strong indifferent lines woven into Arthur's face, and in comparison casted John's features further into darkness.

"We both know she stopped doing that a long while back, John. Something about staying honest to her son."

John glared at her. "What was you doing there, Abigail?"

"Having an actual conversation, for once," she retorted, folding her arms to disguise the fluttering of her heart beneath her blouse.

"Is that what you're calling it these days?"

"Listen, Marston-"

"Arthur, leave it, it's fine!"

"No, Morgan, stay!" John stepped forward, holding Abigail's gaze steadily. "Tell me, Arthur, I'm listening."

"Oh yeah?" Arther shoved John's shoulder and put an arm between the couple, breaking the eye contact so he could meet John's stare instead. "We was talking about you, and how after five goddamn years, you're still not stepping up to the plate."

"That's none of your business, Morgan!"

"Oh, but it is my business, Marston. It became my business when Jack was born into this gang after you ran out on them." John jerked himself free and tried to step away, but Arthur followed closely. "We were talking about how you're still trying to live life like they don't exist, and spending it like Jack ain't yours, but truth be told, we were talking about what they need to be looked after."

"Because you're such a great father yourself, Morgan!" he spat. "When was the last time you saw your son? Don't pretend it's because of Blackwater that you stopped going, because the visits dried up before then!"

"John-!"

"My boy is dead, Marston." His blue eyes turned steely, but his voice remained steady. "Him and his mother."

"I'm sorry, I- I didn't know."

"You didn't know, because you never listen!" Abigail rushed forward to shove him in the chest. "You just barge on in and expect everyone to forgive you."

"I'm not asking for forgiveness-"

"Well good, because we ain't offering." Scoffing, Arthur shook his head. "I'll catch you later, Abigail."

"Arthur, wait- John, apologise-! John!" An exasperated sigh was followed by running footsteps. Abigail grabbed his arm, pulling him back. "I'm sorry, Arthur."

"There is nothing to apologise for, Miss Roberts. Your John just needs to recognise how good he has it, same as you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means what it sounds like." He sidestepped her, his gaze focused on the lake beyond the tents as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "At least the boy ain't Uncle's. Try to work it out. It's for the best."