One afternoon as Arthur walked across camp with his sights set on a ladleful of water to quench his thirst, he felt a crook in his neck and let his head sag to the right a bit to crane and stretch the tense muscles there. He involuntarily released the quietest sigh. The action had relieved the ache so, he let his head roll around once as if on a hinge to prolong the relief.

It was only then that he noticed a tight pinch in his shoulder, which led to the realization of an all but locked ligament in his arm running down to the heel of his hand.

"Hey, Arthur. C'mere a minute," he heard.

He sighed, louder this time, without looking over. He'd inched too close to her gravity.

He finally relented and walked over to where she sat on her calves in Jack's little lean-to. "What is it?"

Abigail slowly rose to her feet, landing there with an almost imperceptible bounce and an all-too-sweet smile. "Can I ask you a favor?"

He glanced down, mumbling, "Probably not..."

"Very funny."

Goddamn it.

The next moment saw the two of them simultaneously sliding their gazes away and almost snapping their necks with as quickly as they turned out a step—Arthur facing his body the opposite direction and swinging his arms, and Abigail planting her hands on her hips.

He promptly walked off towards a nearby boulder, a measurable distance away. And as he sat, hunching over and resting his forearms on his knees, she followed him, walking around and looking down at him to try to recapture his attention.

"Would you do somethin' with Jack?" she said. "He seems kinda down. All this upheaval can't a' been easy on the poor kid."

He promptly stood at that. No way should he be the one. Not when there were so many others to take it on. Others with parenting in their nature. Hosea. Hell, Susan. Others who could spare the time away from their responsibilities. Tilly or Mary-Beth. Hell—his goddamn actual father!

Abigail had a husband; she shouldn't so easily assume Arthur would any longer be at her beck and call. There were countless reasons it shouldn't be him to cheer and bond with her son. Not the least of which was one he'd never voice aloud—certainly not to her: that it'd once again be rubbing his nose deep in what he'd lost. By now, his nose should be dripping—gushing with lifeblood.

He spun towards her, letting his brows briefly come together and grumbling gruffly, "Why? 'Cause I'm your...preferred nursemaid?" He wanted the very sound of the words, the sheer thought, to seep with ridiculousness—a last-ditch effort to avoid it all, an afternoon he knew well enough would send him headfirst into a deep ocean of painful memories.

But she wasn't deterred, replying with a small nod, "'Cause you do what you say."

He sighed through his nose, long and resigned. It was a simple reason. He could only imagine her implication by it to be that it was a quality only too scarce in the boy's life. She longed for a stable presence for him. She wouldn't be asking him if she felt she had other options.

And as his eyes traveled over her face ever so slightly, he saw plainly the rigid concern etched there, the fatigue mingled with hope, and the deep love for her son in her eyes. It was an expression he'd seen in only one other person. But he knew it well.

He glanced away, opting to relinquish a sheepish mumble of, "Okay," rather than an indignant 'Fine.'

"Thank you," she said sincerely as she walked away.

He again sighed as he proceeded to slowly walk over to where Jack sat poking at the grass and dirt with a stick.

Arthur looked down at him. "Whatchyou up to?"

"Playing," the boy sang.

He smirked. He remembered four being a fun age, one full of imagination and short answers, still packed with meaning to the answerer. "Anythin' fun?" he sang with a squirrelly tone in response.

"I guess."

Arthur swallowed. It was code for, 'As a young man of four years living in a small circle with questionable adults and no other kids around, I'm tryin' my best, but no. Not really, Uncle Arthur, not really.'

Arthur took a short breath. There was only one activity he could think of that would suit such a young boy—it was both benign and featured opportunities for learning. But he couldn't be sure this boy would jump at the thought. "You wanna come fishin' with me?" he asked in a light tone, as if peddling used wares.

"Fishing?"

"Sure…" he drawled in a high, springy tone. "You're—" he lifted a hand in an ambling gesture as he all but choked on the words old enough. "It's about time you started to earn your keep," he finally said in a buttery tone.

He almost rolled his eyes at himself. Four years old, and he was talking to him like he was fourteen. It had tumbled out of his mouth, the least sentimental excuse for a fishing trip with his uncle that he could come up with.

"Okay."

"Good. Let's go get yer pole then." Then he added low in a very mock-serious tone, with brows lifted high. "Now, y-you do have a fishin' pole, don'tchya?"

"I sure do," he chimed proudly. "Uncle Hosea made me one."

"Good. Well let's go get it then," he swung his arm with a smile, quickly adding in a growled rasp as he scrunched his nose, "And go catch us some fish!"

"Yeah!" the little guy laughed as he got up.

Arthur walked over to his horse, gripped the horn, and climbed into the saddle while Jack retrieved his fishing pole, returning and handing it to him. Arthur promptly tucked it into his scabbard behind him.

When he turned, he dropped his shoulder to wrap his forearm around Jack's belly and lift him up into his lap. And as they both settled there in the saddle, like a flash, he was back at the cabin, late one night, with young Isaac—not yet two—in his lap astride Boadicea.

He'd been giving his mother trouble that night; she wasn't far—just there, standing beside Bo, in the periphery of Arthur's vision. Arthur had had an idea to get him soothed; and Bo's smooth, slow rhythm as they strode in circles around the cabin had been just exactly the thing to ultimately get the job done.

Isaac had rested his pudgy little hand on the horn and craned his blonde head to look up at him with a bright, silent smile.

Arthur's big, protective hand had naturally come to rest on Isaac's belly, as it did now with Jack. Isaac's hand had naturally draped over his father's, as Jack's mitten-covered hand did now with his uncle's.

And they still had a whole damn fishing trip to go.

Arthur hung his head and swallowed, working to say in an easy tone, "All right, hold on tight."

And off they went at a little trot.

"So where are we going?"

"Just down to the river near here. We shouldn't go too far from camp."

"Oh, okay."

Arthur felt Jack hesitate a split moment, then rest his back against his chest. "You feelin' better? I know you was a little sick."

"Oh, I'm fine."

"You're a brave kid," he said warmly, with genuine admiration.

"So, just like you."

"Well," Arthur had to release an airy chuckle.

I need someone to look up to, and I love you, so it might as well be you, Uncle Arthur. Don't you want me to be like you?

He swallowed. "I don't know about brave... I ain't much of a kid no more. Though your mama might disagree," he said in a pinched tone. Then he added with a mumble through the corner of his mouth, "Her and a few other women, I guess..."

"What do you mean?"

"Ah-aww… I'm just talkin' silly. It's been a tough few weeks up in that snow," he said lightly, managing to successfully play off his stupid comment.

"I liked the snow."

"Yes, but not like that," he drawled.

"When are we going back to the other camp?"

"The one near Blackwater?"

"Yeah."

"Well... We're not," he squinted an eye as he said it, almost flinching at the thought of the level to which Jack's life really was unstable.

I long for some semblance of a normal, stable, harmonious life, Uncle Arthur. And every time we stop somewhere for a little while, I guess I can't help but hope that that's it.

"This is our spot," he finally said. "For now, anyway. Why?"

"I forgot a storybook there. We left so quick." I didn't like that.

"Well, I'm sure someone can get you another storybook," he said, trying to cheer and reassure him as they arrived near the river. By 'someone', he'd meant no one but himself. He'd make sure to find him one. "All right, this looks as good a spot as any."

With one arm, Arthur carefully lowered Jack to the ground and reached back to retrieve his fishing pole for him.

"Where should we stand, Uncle Arthur?" Jack asked, looking out at the water as his afternoon caretaker dismounted.

"Down by the shore. C'mon, follow me," he said gently as he walked towards the riverbank, and Jack followed.

"You show me where, Uncle Arthur."

He smiled at the sound. Don't worry, I'munna pay real close attention and learn from your every tiny move. That way, I do great, 'cause I bet you're great at this.

When they finally arrived side by side at the riverbank, Arthur went into his satchel. "First we need some bait. I'munna use some cheese."

"Cheese?" Jack said with a wrinkle on his nose.

"Smellier, the better," he said as he handed him a morsel, then prepared his own hook. He watched as Jack carefully repeated what he'd seen, wary of the hook's point near his skin. He had to smirk when Jack licked his fingertips before returning his little hand to the base of the pole.

"Now, to cast your line, swing your rod back over your shoulder, and bring it forward in a smooth motion," Arthur said as he did it himself, effortless and fluid. "Use your wrist, not your elbow."

He glanced to his right just in time to see Jack's frozen, contorted brows as the sun shone through his lashes. You make it look too easy.

Finally, Jack remembered he had to try it himself. And he did, with a cast that was more than fine for a first time. "Like that?"

"That's it, good," Arthur said brightly.

And there they two were, closer than chums, thick as thieves. Lines in the water and feet set in place beside each other. Enjoying the sunshiny weather, enjoying each other. It was a love that came so easily, a way of loving that was so thoroughly natural. He couldn't understand why his father found it so difficult. He really had no idea at all how lucky he was.

"All we do now, Jack, is…wait for a fish to take the bait." The sound of his own voice was like a low-swinging hammock on a warm summer day; and he couldn't have forced it to be any stronger than as gently as it'd arisen. He enjoyed calling Jack by his name.

"How do I know when I've got a bite?"

It was an excellent question. It was the question. "Well, if you feel the tip of your fishin' rod just...twitchin'? Don't yank it yet—that just means one's nibblin'," Arthur whispered in a hushed tone, full of wonder. "But if you feel a hard tug, that's a fish goin' for the bait, so yank hard to hook it," he added with an excited flair to the rasp of his voice.

Even at his age, it was still the toughest part of fishing—knowing the difference between the two and what they felt like individually. To let a wise fish sit nibbling meant you'd wasted your bait and your time; but to yank before the fish'd bitten meant you'd spooked it away. Recognizing what was happening at the end of your line and responding to it properly and in a timely manner took lots of practice.

He remembered being a young boy and being so frustrated with himself when he yanked too soon, and his prey wiggled away. Or being disappointed when he reeled in to find he'd given his bait away as a free meal to some lucky fish. Or daydreaming for a split second too long at just the wrong moment, and when the fish took a bite, it felt the hook and had time to get away before he'd yanked and set it in its lip.

You had to think like a fish in more ways than one—considering the time of day, the weather, the current, the depth of the body of water, the type of fish and bait. Now that he thought about it, there was a lot of nuance to it. Maybe too much for a kiddo Jack's age. Then again, it was best to start learning early.

Suddenly he felt a sharp tug on his pole and saw its tip bending and bowing towards the water.

"I think you've got a bite, look!" Jack shouted as Arthur yanked back and quickly started to reel.

"Think I got one!"

"I see, I see!"

"See him fightin' there, Jack? That's when you gotta be careful, or you'll break the line," he said, easing up on the reel a moment. "Best to wear him out first before you try an' reel him in."

When the fish finally tuckered itself out, Arthur continued reeling; and it seemed no more than a moment passed before it was all the way up out of the water and hanging over dry land.

"Look, Jack, it's a bluegill! It's almost as small as you!" he chuckled. Truth was a bluegill was one of the worst things to catch, but he knew Jack would be just as interested to see whatever it was he'd caught. Thankfully, the small specimen hadn't swallowed the hook; it just had a little war wound in its lip. "We should…really throw these smaller ones back," he released a sigh as he looked it over and uncoiled the hook, "give 'em a chance to grow up a bit."

He tossed it back into the water without regret, glad for the rare chance to teach Jack to show grace and compassion.

He re-baited his hook and cast his line again; and in a matter of minutes, he had another bite, this one a decent-sized smallmouth bass.

"This is a great fishing spot!" Jack exclaimed.

Arthur wheezed a chuckle under his breath as he tucked the fish away and drawled, "Don't jinx it, kid."

He hoped Jack would catch one himself, get the chance to feel his heart flutter for a few beats with the trills of excitement that came with it. He'd seen firsthand, there was nothing quite the same for a young boy as catching his first fish.

As he looked back out at the river water, Arthur took a deep breath full of clean, crisp air and let it out. Listened to the soft trickle. Felt the contentment of having a young, sweet, innocent life standing beside him. Looking up to him, even if his eyes were looking out at the water.

He did love Jack, for being Jack. Not for being anyone else.

Right now, the world was simple to him: he trusted easily, longed for love, and didn't yet know much of life's hardships, toils, and complexities. Now that Arthur was in the moment with him, he realized he was more than glad to slow his life for a little while and partake in Jack's easily trusting and bountifully loving nature.

Jack'd grow and long forget these moments, forget him. Arthur was certain. But at least he'd grow. As sure as he stood there, he knew: this son will bury his father, instead of the other way around. This son will outlive his.

He'd make sure of it. Whatever he needed to do, he would.

With a blink, he was there once more, looking down at Isaac and laughing with him as they stood with their lines in the creek. And with the next blink, he was gone.

"You know," he cleared his throat, "this reminds me… I taught another boy to fish once. Long time ago." It was like spurts and lazily flinging lashes of a smoldering fire in his chest; in such company, they couldn't be contained. Who was Jack going to tell? He doubted he'd even put the pieces together.

"You mean Lenny?"

A smile broke out across his face, and he let out a genuine laugh. He hadn't realized it, but Jack was absolutely right—Lenny was the very next youngest 'boy' in camp. "No, no…" Just as he'd suspected, Jack couldn't begin to imagine whom he could be referring to. He shook his head, the smile lingering in the squished tone of his voice. "Nah, this was long before I met Lenny. Long before you was even born!"

Arthur glanced over at Jack to his right. His brows were gathered for a mere moment in thought, and just like that, he let the thought go.

Isaac would easily befriend Jack. He'd had a kind, tender heart. Just like his mama. Without a doubt, he'd wrap his arm around Jack's shoulder. Even now, Arthur could easily imagine their self-important mumbling as they'd walk off together, getting into dirt and mild trouble, the taller boy taking it upon himself to teach the shorter boy different little things. And he had to smile.

Jack would like Isaac. 'Course, he'd be about ten now, eleven at the most. If he hadn't… If he hadn't been… Mm.

There was the onset of the familiar pain in his chest, the ache in his throat, the involuntary tensing of his jaw.

It was a peculiar kind of grief—thinking about Isaac in a moment like this. A living grief, and a breathing sorrow. Almost as if Isaac himself were standing there, beside him. Smiling up at him. And from his bank of lived memories, Arthur could still so clearly and vividly see that smile. Bright and unburdened and full of adoration as it had been. Still see those twinkling doe eyes. Still hear that symphony of a laugh. As if they'd fished together...just that morning.

And in that way, the grief was mingled inextricably with a light, air-like, almost giddy love. It was the reason he could sometimes laugh and smile so warmly. Despite the balled lump in his throat and the sharp, stinging, pricking pain in his chest. Or rather, right along with the pain.

"Can I take a break from fishing?" Jack's small voice suddenly woke him from his daydream. "I wanna make something."

He hesitated a moment. "Okay."

Jack promptly reeled in his line. "I'm gonna pick some of those red flowers. I'll be right back!" he said as he walked off somewhere to the right.

Arthur reeled in his line and turned to see where he was going. He watched him pick a bundle of wildflowers and walk a few feet to sit crisscross with them. Once he was content he had sufficient tabs on him, he cast his line again, keeping him in his periphery.

A few minutes passed in the quiet.

"You gotta stick at things, Jack."

"I know…" he grumbled low. Mama and Uncle Hosea always tell me that.

"What're you makin' there?"

"You'll see. It's a surprise."

Arthur could hear the somehow innocently mischievous grin in his voice.

When Arthur felt another tug on his pole, he set the hook. "Fish on the line!" he said as he quickly began reeling it in. "Another smallmouth bass." Bigger than the last one. "Not bad."

He heard a short breath and sigh from Jack. "Fishing sure is boring, Uncle Arthur."

"Y- I know, borin' as hell," he conceded as he tucked his new catch away. He knew he couldn't have thought much of it since he hadn't seen any action on his own line. "But then...somethin' happens. And you can get food for days."

"Really?"

"If you're lucky," he said lightly. He squinted as he smiled at the glint of sunshine on the water's rippled surface, listening to a bird's faint call. "Until then, you just...sit, and wait, and...try not to worry," he added calmly. "It's good for you."

"It's good for you?"

His top lip caught into a wobbly half-frown as he winked one eye at himself and rubbed the back of his neck. He'd always been piss-poor at fatherly advice and words of wisdom. Probably shouldn't even be presuming to teach him anything a parent ought to. "I guess..." he garbled.

Jack simply cocked his head at Arthur's metaphysical knowledge. "Hm." And went back to his self-appointed craft. "Hey, look at this," he called.

"At what?" Arthur said, reeling in his line and resting his pole against his shoulder as he slowly walked his way.

"This necklace I made," Jack said, proudly and gently holding it up.

"Necklace?" Arthur said as he crouched before him, his knees quietly popping a bit as he did. He could already imagine whom it was meant for.

"For Mama."

"Sure..." he drawled with a smile. But suddenly hearing rustling behind him, he quickly turned and stood.

"What a fine young man...and in such complex circumstances." It wasn't one man but two, dismounting their horses and coming closer.

Arthur wasted no time stepping in front of Jack, putting his body between him and the weaselly-looking, pockmark-faced man who'd addressed them and was slinking towards them.

"Arthur, isn't it? Arthur Morgan?"

Arthur warily glared him down, knowing by the look of him, the way he'd chosen to walk up behind him, the tone of his voice...his presence couldn't mean anything good. And then, the second man cocked his gun.

"Who're you?" Arthur said low and quiet, feeling Jack's curiosity rise. He glanced to his side and stepped further in front of him to make sure he wasn't getting too close.

He'd gone most of his life knowing never to volunteer his name if he didn't have to. He wasn't about to slip up now.

"Yes, Arthur Morgan..." the man secured all the same as the second man stood beside him with his hefty, cocked rifle resting against his shoulder. "Van der Linde's most trusted associate. You've read the files, typical case..." he vaguely gestured to the other man, "orphaned street kid seduced by that maniac's silver tongue, and matures into a degenerate murderer. Agent Milton. Agent Ross," he added tersely, hardly an introduction after such a flatly disgusted tone. "Pinkerton Detective Agency, seconded to the United States government."

As they slowly strode closer, Arthur's shoulders tensed, his veins grew icy, his grip around his fishing pole involuntarily tightened. Several things flashed through his head all at once—Jack's growing nerves and fear, the imperative task of protecting him at all costs, the risk of his irrevocably witnessing two bloody bodies falling to the ground. The fact that Isaac and Eliza had been killed by two miscreants.

His pulse quickened in his neck.

"Nice to finally meet," Milton said, his voice much too slithery for his liking.

Arthur had to struggle to keep from dislocating his eyeballs with how hard he wanted to roll them. There was always some fascination these idiots had with their prey—more thrill of the catch than he and Jack had had just moments ago.

"We know a lot about you."

"Do ya?" he said without moving a muscle, glaring at him from the corner of his eye. However infamous he may be to these cronies, they couldn't know remotely all there was to know. Certainly not the important things. After today, even Jack knew more about him than they could.

"You're a wanted man, Mr. Morgan," Milton said as he grabbed his gun belt. As if he didn't know. "There's five thousand dollars for your head alone."

His brows flattened, then rose. "Five thousand dollars?" It was the highest it'd ever been. "For me?" he tipped his head, feigning cavalierism as he turned a bit, omitting the 'lil ol' and the shrug. He looked back at him with a latent, dead ringer of a smirk and a steeled voice. "Can I turn myself in?"

"We want Van der Linde."

"Ol' Dutch?" It wasn't surprising. "I haven't seen him for months," he shook his head.

"That so? Because I heard..." Milton removed his bowler, revealing a nasty black bristle cut as he wiped his forehead with his sleeve, "a guy fitting his description robbed a train..." he replaced his hat, "belonging to Leviticus Cornwall up near Granite Pass."

"Oh, ain't that a little..." Arthur chuckled, glancing down as he fiddled with his pole, "old-fashioned nowadays?"

"Apparently not," Milton simply lifted his brows. "Listen..." he opened his hands in mock surrender and strode forward, "this is my offer, Mr. Morgan: bring in Van der Linde, and you have my word," he pointed to him, as if his word meant anything, "you won't swing."

Keeping his glare on him, he turned his face in contrariety. "Oh, I ain't gonna swing anyways, Agent, um..."

"Milton."

"You see, I haven't done anything wrong." It flew in the face of what he knew very well to be true. But he wasn't about to lay down. Not here, not now. Not to him, not when Isaac's—Jack's life was at risk. "Aside from not play the games to your rules."

He limply wagged his head and rolled his eyes, his tone putrid. "Spare me the philosophy lesson. I've already heard it—from Mac Callander."

Arthur shifted his stance and trained his gaze on him. "Mac Callander?"

"He was pretty shot up by the time I got to him...so really it was more of a...mercy killing."

Imagining what tortures they must've inflicted on the boy, the pathetic end he met with... He was quickly filling with wrath. That was his family.

"Slow…but merciful."

Arthur closed his eyes and ground his teeth, his jaw set on full tilt. He finally threw the pole down hard with a clatter, and Agent Ross simultaneously pointed his firearm at him. He could hear Jack's little gasp behind him.

He growled out low and raspy with a terrible scowl at Milton, "You enjoy bein' a rich man's toy, do ya?!"

"I enjoy society, flaws and all!" Milton quickly retorted with an unceremonious point at his chest as the two of them began crowding each other, stiff and enraged. "You people venerate savagery, and you will die. Savagely," he emphasized with a clench of his fist. "All of you."

"Oh, we're all gonna die, agent," he grumbled smooth and slow with an indignant shake of his head.

"Some of us sooner than others." He turned to walk back to his horse, one that he probably abused regularly, if Arthur had to guess. "Good day, Mr. Morgan.

"Goodbye," he bit out.

"Enjoy your fishin', kid," Ross smirked as he slung his rifle against his shoulder and walked backwards towards his mount. "While you still can," he chuckled.

The last snide comment only served to enrage Arthur further. The sheer audacity of addressing Jack at all, much less taunting him. How twisted and sadistic a bastard did you have to be to derive glee at the thought of a child's playtime—or life, for that matter—coming to an end? It was sick, and Jack didn't need to worry himself over it.

"Who are they?" the boy finally came out from around him to look out after them as they left.

He quickly brought both hands to rest atop his brunette head, gently turning him to the left to look away. "No one to worry about, no one at all," he said calmly and quickly. "C'mon, let's pick up your things and get home."

He might not be the boy's father, he might've been a terrible one himself, and as it was, he might not have the slightest idea how to be a good one. True, he'd probably never be one again. But he'd be damned if he didn't do everything he could to keep Jack safe and sound. To help him thrive.

He could be a good uncle.

"It's gettin' late, Jack. Your mother'll be worried, let's head back."

.

Dear Readers,

Thank you so much for being patient with me, if you're still here. Especially if you're here as a guest! I'm sure it's pretty lame having to check back every now and then and finding nothing. :/ Please please know I have not at all forgotten! Thanks so much for hanging in there with me. I hope this chapter was okay after the long wait.

I know I sound like a broken record, but phew! Life sure has been rough and bumpy lately. I've been thinking about all of you guys, and I hope you're doing okay.

For quite a while, I've had some core scenes plotted out that I wanted to include in the coming chapters. Then, I kept adding to them, bc there's such a wealth of in-game material to work with. To be honest, in combination with...life... I think what might've had a hand in slowing my writing progress was that I ended up gathering too many scenes, and it got pretty darn intimidating and daunting. I'm going to try to pare back down to the scenes I'd originally wanted to write for.

Thank you so, so much to LJ, Raven, Allison, Ariana, David, Will, Tyler, Janie, and each guest reviewer for your wonderfully kind words! I read each of them, and they really do bring genuine smiles to my face and fill my heart with warmth.

To ALL: as a reader, if you ever have questions about anything or want to reach out for any reason between chapters, please feel free to pop by on tumblr. My username there is rivetingrosie4. A reader from Ao3 anonymously pops into my ask inbox every now and then to say hi. You can always be anonymous if you want. :) I know I seem sad and tired on here, haha! but I always, always try to be kind and sunshiny. 💛🌻 Just wanted to open that up to you guys!

Love to all,

Rosie