A/N: I always found this plot point really interesting, and wish they went a bit more in-depth with it. I tried my best to explore the idea. Hope you enjoy!
John gaped at Abigail, stubbly jaw thoroughly unhinged.
"I— W-would you run that by me again?"
"We're pregnant," Abigail repeated, eyes firm, but teary.
John paused, eyes blown wide and features utterly frozen.
Abigail twisted her hands together in nervous anticipation. She had absolutely no idea as to how the man would react, but she hoped to high heaven it wasn't anger.
Slowly, carefully, as if made of melting ice, John regained movement. "Huh."
Abigail bit her lip. Of all the reactions she could have gotten, this one concerned her the most. The lack of immediate emotion was alarming.
"Are— Are you okay, John?" she pried tentatively, tilting her head to try and make eye contact with him, but to no avail.
"Why wouldn't I be?" John interjected. His voice was oddly chipper.
"W-well, this is just... rather a lot to take in, I know. It's alright if you need time to think it over," she reassured quickly.
John finally turned to meet her eyes, an odd, befuddled, and faintly amused expression on his face.
"Why would I think it over? I don't need to think it over," he replied quickly.
"O-oh? Why would that be?" Abigail could scarcely breathe at this point. Damn John Marston and his emotional constipation.
"Because," John replied softly, putting his leather gloved hand firmly, but gently, on her stiff shoulder.
Abigail looked up at him from beneath her lashes, face still turned bashfully towards the ground. "Yes?" She breathed hopefully.
"The kid is not my son."
Abigail blinked. Then she blinked again.
Then she nearly leapt out of her skin. Loud, thunderous bass notes roared through the forest, shaking their camp where it stood and sending a cacophony through the local wildlife.
In one swift motion, John reached up to grab the brim of his hat, propelling his weight forward onto the toes of his boots and gracefully, swiftly casting his gloved hand out to the side, just at his hip, for balance.
A shrill, throaty exclamation escaped his lips. "Hee-hee!" John crowed.
Then, to Abigail's utter astonishment, he began walking backwards, feet never lifting fully from the ground and each stride perfectly in time with the earth-shaking beat.
He passed through the entire camp in this fashion, never once pausing to address the utterly flabbergasted faces of his fellow campmates.
They stared after him for a long time, even after the distant bass-boosted music faded from earshot.
Arthur was the first to speak.
"What in the hell was that?"
It had been one year without John, and Abigail was utterly heartbroken.
She clutched tightly at the small, soft bundle in her arms, careful not to squash it. Whenever she missed him, she would hold her boy a little closer to her bosom, near the fragments of her heart that John had left behind.
Their boy.
A small tear slid down Abigail's cheek, landing delicately on her son's cherubic little nose. He wrinkled it in his sleep, sensing the disturbance, but not bothered enough by it to make a fuss.
Bags weighed down heavily on her eyes, standing out starkly against her pale white skin. She was blanched more than usual, worn with the exhaustion of motherhood and the pain of heartbreak.
"Mind if I come in?"
Abigail sniffled, and quickly wiped away at the single tear track marring her round face.
"Y-yes; of course, Arthur."
The tall man entered silently, his broad frame silhouetted against the moonlight.
She scooted over wordlessly, making room for Arthur to sit beside her on the cot that had once belonged to John.
They sat there in companionable, yet morose silence for what seemed like an age, disturbed only by the faint crackling of the campfires and a few muttered curses—likely from Bill, who happened to be on guard duty that evening, despite his very loud protests earlier that day.
Arthur decided to be the one to break the silence.
"How are you holdin' up?"
Abigail sighed, a wry smile twisting at her lips, unbidden.
"As well as I can, I suppose," she answered quietly. She turned her gaze away from the orange glow seeping through the canvas of the tent flap and towards the peaceful face of her sleeping son. Gingerly, she stroked his cheek, smiling sadly as a faint gurgle of contentment escaped his little mouth.
"He reminds me so much of him," she whispered sadly.
"I know," Arthur agreed gruffly, looking quietly upon the sleeping face of his honorary nephew.
A faint whistle blew past the infant's tiny nostrils.
Arthur chuckled quietly. "Snores like him, too, it seems."
Abigail let out a choked, wet laugh. "Lord, I hope not."
The levity did not last long. As soon as the heavy, silent sadness settled upon their shoulders yet again, Arthur sighed.
"Listen, Abigail. You are a fine woman. A fine mother. Marston is a fool for running off and leaving a lady like you behind."
Abigail looked at Arthur, a look of surprise on her face and a faint flush of pride on her cheeks. "Arthur—"
A loud blast of noise startled them both, halting their heart-to-heart in its tracks. Jack was startled into wakefulness, a shrill wail wrenched from his lips upon his awakening.
"Oh, no, honey... Shh, shh; it's okay, baby, I've got you," Abigail soothed softly—as best she could under the booming noise that now surrounded them.
"Aw, no," Arthur groaned. He leaned backwards, throwing himself over the side of the bed. He pulled his hat down firmly over his eyes. "Not this again."
Bill hated guard duty. Absolutely, completely hated it. Just waiting, out in the open, for any manner of enemy to march right up and kill him. Just wasting away the days he could have been proving himself to Dutch, sweltering under the Southern sun, and cursing the army, the South, the Indians—anyone who came to mind—for his plight.
His mind had long since learned to settle into a state of angry, stifled boredom, disturbed only by a constant stream of complaints.
He had taken to staring blankly at the tree in front of him, imagining it was his old general, and that his eyes were bullets. It helped to soothe him, somewhat, but not by much.
Many times, he'd found himself drifting off into a restless doze, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot and growling at any splinters that had decided to stab his back from the tree he had propped himself up against.
Now was one of those times.
Bill closed his eyes under the scorching gaze of the sun. It had glared at him, and he had tried glaring right back at it. He was ashamed to admit that he had lost that particular battle of willpower.
Grumbling, he leaned his head back in annoyance. It smacked rather uncomfortably against the bark of the tree behind him. He stifled a yelp, rubbing furiously at his tender skull.
"Damn tree," Bill hissed, adding it to his lengthy list of things to curse.
Pursing his lips in anger, he leaned back against it, gently this time. He shifted until he found a comfortable position. Now settled, he shut his eyes yet again, pulling his hat down slightly over them to shield them further.
He dreamed of battle, of being honored as a war hero, of being awarded all the titles they could grant. He received the most honorable of discharges, a handsome ma— woman —at his side. He smiled.
"This is the life."
Bill was startled from his reverie by the roar of a distant bass track.
"What the hell?" he yelped, clutching irritably at his rifle. It took him a moment to realize that, in his surprise, he had jumped, and thus, hit his head hard against the branch just above him.
"Shit!" he groaned, reaching up to caress his head through his hat.
Despite the noise, Bill was somehow able to hear the nearby crack of a twig.
"Who's there?" he snapped, dropping his hand immediately back down to his rifle. He readied his aim, swinging his weapon about furiously as he scanned the immediate area.
"What the— Marston?" Bill exclaimed.
He could not see the face of the man before him, but judging by his lanky figure, scruffy, greasy hair and awkward gait, there was no doubt in Bill's mind that the man in question was indeed John Marston.
Bill shifted his stance, feet aching in his boots from supporting his weight all day.
"Hello?"
Marston gave him no reply.
"Answer me, dammit!" Bill demanded.
Still nothing.
Growling, nostrils flared, Bill began to march towards the man, prepared to give him a piece of his mind—which was very effective indeed, thank you very much.
He opened his mouth to send a few verbal barbs Marston's way, but stopped. He stared, as if mesmerized, by the smooth strides of the man's booted feet.
"What the hell?" Bill breathed, awestruck.
"Hee-hee," John answered in a friendly falsetto.
"Y-yeah, okay," Bill mumbled, mind miles behind his mouth. "Go on in."
He had, conveniently, in this very moment, forgotten that he was meant to escort John directly to Dutch to be reprimanded for his sudden departure instead of allowing him entry as per usual.
"Oops."
"John! I'm asking where the hell you've been! I don't give a damn about whatever a "Billie Jean" is, or any of that nonsense! Now stop flailing your limbs about like a drowning chicken and answer me like a man!" Dutch roared.
He was the end of his rope. Marston had been doing this for the past thirty minutes, and still had yet to say anything other than something about a "Billie Jean" or some other such nonsense and the occasional, joyous little "hee-hee".
"I swear to God, Marston, if you don't quit singing and start talking, I'll throw you into the goddamn lake!" Arthur challenged.
Still nothing.
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose so tightly he absently worried it might crack. He had a feeling this would only worsen his headache in the long run, but it was too late for him to do anything about it now.
"You broke a lady's heart, and the most you can do is laugh like some tipsy high society lush?" Arthur ground out. "It ain't right, John!"
Still no response.
Arthur threw his hands up in exasperation.
"That's it, I'm leaving the gang. Good luck dealing with this one on your own, Dutch; I'm out."
And Arthur stormed off, never to be seen again.
"W-wait; Arthur!" Abigail, Hosea, and Dutch cried out collectively, each reaching towards the man. He silently shook his head, hands thrown up in a gesture of defeat. They watched helplessly as he disappeared into the shrubbery.
"Damn you, Marston!" Dutch growled, whipping around to face his only remaining son.
John said nothing, only moving to strike yet another pose. He balanced precariously on the toes of his boots yet again, throwing his balance forward and tugging at the brim of his hat just as he had the last time Abigail had seen him, only this time, he grabbed at the belt just above his crotch rather suggestively, instead of throwing his hand out for balance.
"What on earth has gotten into you?" Dutch wondered wearily, the fire behind his words quickly dying out.
Abigail, who had been quietly pensive this entire time, noticed that John only wore one riding glove, instead of the usual two.
"This really ain't like him," she spoke up concernedly.
"No shit," Hosea snorted dryly.
"What do we do?" Mary-Beth asked worriedly.
"Oh, I don't know, give him a health tonic?! How the hell should I know! Have you ever had someone randomly decide to do… whatever the hell this is?" Dutch barked.
Mary-Beth shrunk into herself, hiding her red face behind the pages of her book. Tilly put a comforting hand on her back, shaking her head quietly. Miss Grimshaw sent him a venomous glare. She opened her mouth, likely to say something just as fierce, but was cut off by a loud gasp.
"Wait; everyone, be quiet! I think Jack is trying to say his first word!" Abigail cried out excitedly.
"Mm… M-ma…"
"Yes, dear? Go on, you can do it!" Abigail encouraged, a wide smile on her face and a glimmer of pride in her eyes.
"Mm… Mm..."
Everyone leaned in closer, breaths bated in anticipation. (Reverend Swanson forgot how to breathe entirely, and collapsed to the ground, blue in the face.)
"Ooh, this is so exciting!" Mary-Beth cooed.
"Shut it!" Susan hissed, lightly smacking her on the arm.
"Mm..." (John did a backflip.)
"Mm...
...Michael!" Jack cooed excitedly. He reached out eagerly towards his father's flailing form, almost falling from Abigail's grasp.
Abigail stared at him blankly.
"What the fuck."
~The End, Because I'm Tired~
A/N: hee-hee! happy april 1st, boahs! i apologize for this unholy creation. blame my sister.