Author's note: Did you think I was going to leave ya'll hanging? As always, a mature content warning, though we're getting into the use of drugs and the occasional swear than we are with sex, gore, and rock and roll. Get used to some 'paranormal' activity in this tale of tragedy, though it's really more like a psychotic break than our girl Annabelle creeping up from the grave to torment her lover. I know there's a lot of theories about How, why, and when Dutch went off the deep end, but I've always believed it was due to grief and underlying mental health issues from the get go. It just got progressively worse as beloved characters were killed, with the man dependent on numbing himself (I'm looking at you Orville Swanson, you little junkie) in order to 'keep his promise' to Annabelle, albeit poorly. I realize Rockstar themselves never really left breadcrumbs regarding a potential drug abuse issue, other than 'Orville Swanson saved my life', or as I like to believe 'The man gives me drugs so idgaf that he doesn't work or do much of anything for the camp'. We're going from Abigail Roberts meeting John & friends, through Blackwater, the cabin incident with Micah, and finally 'yeet or be yote' at the end of RDR1.

He had been holed up in his tent for two weeks now, barely able to move, sleep, eat, or do much of anything since he had returned to his family. He couldn't even tell them what happened to her, still plagued by the vivid memories of what transpired that day and night. He tried to read, tried to write a little just to improve his mood, but his only salvation was the bottom of a bourbon bottle. Though recently he had also been indulging in smoking opium, however, he tried to keep this secret from the others as best he could, lest they began to suspect he really had fucking lost it. He could hear them whispering about him behind his back, but he didn't give a damn anymore. Nothing mattered now that she was gone.

"Dutch," Susan's silhouette outlined the flaps of his tent as she brushed down her dress and bowed her head, "can I come in?"

He rubbed a hand over his scruffy face, trying to sigh quietly so she would think he was asleep. He didn't want to see them right now, any of them and didn't know if he could for a while. He just wanted to be left alone, without having them making a fuss over him as they had when he returned with The Count, alone.

"We're worried about you, sweetheart. What would Annabelle say to you if she—"

"Annabelle is dead, Miss Grimshaw. I appreciate the concern but I'm tired and need to rest. Please, leave me alone." Dutch replied quietly, his voice coming out as a rasping sound as he tried to take a deep breath and he closed his eyes again.

"I'm here for you if you need anything." Susan responded in a whisper and he cracked a small sad smile as his eyes watered a bit.

"I know." He tried to swallow back his anguish, angrily rubbing his face with the sleeve of his long johns, snarling slightly as his thoughts turned back to his beloved and her last words to him as Susan retreated.

'Take care of our family', she had said. Those words had been firmly burned into him since she died in his arms, our family, she had been talking about the gang and not their family. Not the one that Colm O'Driscoll had stolen from them. Even on her goddamn deathbed, she continued to think of everyone else except herself.

"I can't, Belle." He snarled quietly, rolling over onto his side and biting down on his pillow as he tried to stifle his sobs, clutching it tightly in his arms. Even if he wanted to pick himself up off his cot, even if he wanted to go forth and live like she had commanded him to do, he couldn't. "I would give you anything you ever wanted, but I can't keep this one fucking promise to you, I'm sorry."

"Hey Dutch?" It was John this time, from the backside of the tent. He was sixteen now, still somewhat of a boy but old enough to realize that there was something real bad going on with a man he considered a father. "I, uh, I know that we haven't always seen eye to eye but I'm real…"

He could hear the teenager whimper, tapping his boot nervously against the wooden platform and pacing as he tried to regain control over his emotions. God he's just like me, Dutch thought to himself bitterly, recalling a fleeting comment that Annabelle had once made when they returned from fishing when the boy was younger. He hadn't always agreed with her on raising John, but as always she had been right. Oh my darling, he's so much like you too, sometimes I can't bear to even look at him ever again without seeing you.

"Me too, son. She loved you. God she would've been so—" He couldn't even say it as he tried to curl into a ball and his chest heaved with a sob. Eventually it got to the point where he couldn't contain it any longer and wailed, trying to become smaller and smaller as the pain and anguish burned in his chest and stomach.

John tore open the tent flap, undoing the strings with tears streaming down his face and relacing them as he stepped inside Dutch's tent. He didn't care anymore, he needed to comfort the boss, his brother, his father, and his friend. They had both lost her and he couldn't suffer alone anymore, and she wouldn't have wanted either of them to be alone. John knelt at the side of the cot and threw his arms around Dutch's neck and shoulders, both of them wailing and sobbing as they clutched one another tightly. It was the first time they had spoken to one another since Dutch had returned from Cochinay without Annabelle.

"I t-t-tried. But s-she—FUCK." Dutch moaned, letting go of the pillow and practically smothering John in his grasp, clutching at the young man's hair and gritting his teeth as he tried to speak.

"I can't lose both of you, you're the only family I got, Dutch." John pleaded from the man's chest as he squeezed him tightly, sniffing and snarling as he shook with sorrow.

"I can't—" Dutch tried to say but gritted his teeth again angrily as his emotions tore through him and clutched his throat tightly. He closed his eyes and felt thankful for John's presence at that moment. One of the best things I ever did for you, turns out I did for me too, Dutch called out with his mind towards oblivion where he knew Annabelle would be, waiting for him to come home to her someday.

"Did she…did…was it peaceful?" John tried to take deep breaths between his tears as they pulled apart from one another. The only thing he knew was what Dutch had told Trelawny in a letter regarding the death of the pregnant woman, as he had been the one to personally take it to a post office and opened it to find out Dutch refused to speak to anyone about what had happened, only able to scratch words onto a piece of paper bitterly. Leaving it outside in an envelope to be mailed out by his tent under an empty bourbon bottle. It had simply read that Annabelle was gone, killed by this Colm O'Driscoll fellow and that they had been betrayed by her old associates Ming and O'Shea.

"No." Dutch whimpered, rolling onto his back and covering his face with his hands. It was the worst possible way to die, he thought horrified, but she endured her pain and suffering to save me. A fucking bastard like me.

"I'm gonna fuckin' make that son of a bitch pay for what he did to my mother." John snarled, falling to the floor on his knees and flexing his hands, grinding his teeth. Dutch chuckled a moment, shocked as the laughter came out like a half snort. It was the first time John had ever called Annabelle his mother. She wasn't, not by blood anyway. But he loves you so much he's willing to make you into his own mother, Dutch thought amusedly. It's why he had laughed in the first place, John was the only child they'd ever have, even if he wasn't truly theirs.

"Yes we are." Dutch removed his hands from his face, staring very intently at John as tears continued to stream down his face. He cupped the side of the young man's face with his hand to turn John's head to look at him. "Thank you for coming to comfort me, son. Be a good boy now and bring me another bottle of bourbon, would you?"

"Yes, Dutch." John patted Dutch's arm as the man let him go and rose from his position, taking the empty bottle with him as he exited the tent and left the heartbroken man to his thoughts.

"Oh Belle…" Dutch moved his pillow over his face, debating whether or not to smother himself with it as he whispered into it.

'Darling.' He swore he could hear her voice and he quickly removed the pillow from his face and desperately tried to find her for a moment. She's gone, you fool.

"I'm fucking losing it." Dutch grunted, brushing his own hair back and replacing the pillow under his head and folded his arms on his chest as he heard John return and set the bottle down on the dining table.

"Hey, Dutch…you'll tell me someday what happened, won't you?" John asked as he slowly put the bottle down and looked over at him lying on his cot.

"Of course. Though, I don't know when. I was foolish, I should've let you come with us, then we might have stood a fucking chance. She fought like hell until the bitter end, son. I'm sorry, I was arrogant, crazy, and I failed the woman I loved the most. I failed to protect her. And I have to live with that, everyday, for the rest of my miserable fucking life." Dutch growled, putting his hands over his face again, practically clawing at his temples with his fingertips as John opened the bourbon bottle and took a long drink off of it before setting it back down again.

"We both failed her. It should've been me that put that knife in Hamish O'Driscoll. You trusted me to protect her when you couldn't. And I let you down." John looked down at the floor, snarling as he gripped the bottle tightly in his hands, shaking a bit as he burned between sorrow and rage.

'Darling…' Dutch tossed his hands to his side and sat up from his cot, scratching his scraggly facial hair bitterly as he tried not to look for her again, even though he was now hearing her voice calling out to him from time to time. I've gone fucking mad, he shook his head, trying to shake her from his thoughts.

"I appreciate that, but we can't change what happened, John. I'm going to go wash up. She made me promise to look after our family and to live, and I've been languishing in my sorrow for long enough." Dutch slid his socks to the floor as John handed him the bourbon bottle and he accepted it, taking a long drink off of it before setting it against his thigh.

That's why she had been calling out to him, hidden from plain sight, to remind him that he needed to get up and quit whining. Annoying him from hell, like she promised she would do from now on. She would be crushed if she saw him in this state over her, somewhere between dying and living, and he couldn't let her down. Even though you lied to me, he thought bitterly, you promised you'd never leave me.

—-

The gang had grown significantly over the last few years and with the various men Dutch picked up along his travels, he found women too. Though, the women didn't seem to last as long as some of the men did. He had taken a few, but they were no substitute for her. Even if he found pieces of her scattered in their personalities, he knew they could never be his beloved. And like Josiah, Arthur, and Hosea he would often disappear from time to time. Returning with some new eager recruit, a poor lost soul wandering the wilderness, or a new whore for the night or until they grew tired of him.

Of course, he had now become almost dependent on opium to avoid remembering Annabelle. Though no one had seemed to notice his habit, it was part of why he disappeared from time to time. Skulking into town to find a dealer or a den somewhere and hide out for a while. It drowned out her voice, which still called out to him from time to time, simply whispering 'Darling' at him. Sometimes he felt he knew the mood her spirit was in just by the way she sounded when she would cry out to him in the dark. He needed more opium now, as he began to see her lurking sometimes out of the corner of his eye, reading or looking at him longingly.

"Get up." Dutch heard Arthur say to the man who simply went by 'Uncle'. The man barely worked, but in order to get even with O'Driscoll, Dutch needed the numbers. But it might not be enough, he would have to be strategic if he wanted to get even with Colm someday. As his enemies' gang had grown significantly larger over the course of time. They have a fucking fort now, Dutch thought angrily, and I have meager tents and still writhe in the dirt.

Arthur, Hosea, Javier, Pearson, Williamson, Mac and Davey, Uncle, and John. Though he doubted that Pearson or Uncle would be willing to fight and die for him, preferring to stick to the safety of camp over everything else. Bill Williamson on the other hand, had been extremely vocal for the last month or so on how he planned to 'live and die' by Dutch Van der Linde. He's one of those men who hates himself for wanting other men the way a man should desire a woman, Dutch snorted as he looked out over the folks in his camp, as it's not 'right or natural' to want to engage in sexual congress regardless of one's equipment. As though God actually gives a shit who you fuck.

"Ugh, what time is it?" Uncle asked, scratching his beard and stretching away from a young dark haired woman sleeping beside him in the dirt. Dutch glanced up over his book, eyeing the young woman carefully. She looks just like Annabelle, he thought mournfully, returning to his reading as Arthur and Uncle continued talking. But she isn't.

"You feed and water them horses yet? Or are ya resting your eyes on account of your lumbago or whatever bullshit excuse you have this time?" Arthur folded his arms and leaned against the wagon where Uncle had fallen asleep.

"It's a very serious condition," Uncle groaned as he sat up and stretched with a loud yawn, scratching his exposed belly, "you didn't answer my question, what time is it?"

"Ten thirty." Dutch replied loudly, pulling his watch out and snapping it open which woke the girl beside the older man. He looked up again, biting his bottom lip as the young woman began to tie up her long dark brown hair and adjusted her clothes.

'Darling.' Annabelle snickered at him and he felt as though if he turned around she would be leaning just behind him, and he waited for her hand to rest on his shoulder but it never came. She was chastising him, he knew, for the whore who had come to camp was now staring at him coyly. 'Never take another woman', he remembered promising Annabelle that as part of her conditions on being together, though she had reneged him of that vow on her deathbed. He felt his cheeks flush a moment as he snapped the watch shut again and returned to his book.

"Are you the Dutch Van der Linde?" The young woman asked, rising up from her sleeping place and trying to make herself presentable.

"I am." He replied, snapping his eyes up over his book at her and looking her over. But you are not her, he told himself, though I will take you to my bed anyway for a while because you remind me of her. The young woman flushed a moment, swaying on her feet a bit as she noticed him eye fucking her.

"I admire your work," she said, looking at the ground before looking up at him again, "you're a real hero to the poor folk in town."

"What's your name, sweetheart?" Dutch shut the book and set it down on his lap, raising an eyebrow at her as she took another tentative step closer.

She was a little younger than John, maybe eighteen or nineteen. With long dark hair and soft brown eyes, pale and soft skin, and spoke with a sort of drawl on certain words. She giggled a moment and looked down at the ground, she was nervous, and he liked that. It made her easier to bend to his will.

He had spent the last few years really digging into his original intentions of being a Robin Hood type figure. He had gotten bolder with it, after all, in the end it was just an act. His woman had commanded him to 'save poor souls from the dirt', and he did so with gusto. It was easier to ask a man to die for your cause when his belly was full. He had borrowed Annabelle's softness and tender disposition, though it had become more like his own personality as he tried to emulate her loving nature. And it was working out very well for him these days.

"Abigail." She tried to curtsy to him a little and he hummed in amusement, picking at the patch of hair just below his bottom lip.

"What a lovely name for a lovely young lady." He purred, causing Arthur to shiver a bit as he pointed at the horses again and shoved Uncle towards them.

"We got work to do, Uncle."

"It was uh, nice to make your acquaintance, what do I owe you for…" Uncle's voice trailed off as he eyed Abigail and Dutch for a moment. He didn't want to actually pay the whore and was hoping that she was distracted with the boss enough that he could slip away unnoticed. He had been too drunk to actually do anything with the young woman, but the company was rather nice.

"Thank you." The young woman blushed and continued to sway slightly, enamored with Dutch as she fidgeted with her dress a bit. She ignored Uncle completely, as though the man didn't exist and the old timer began to try to slink away by taking a few small steps backwards.

"She's got a nice body on her, don't you think?" Susan had crept up behind Dutch, leaning on his shoulder as she eyed Abigail coldly. He gently touched his old girlfriend's hand as she rested it on him, kissing the tips of her fingers for a moment before looking over the dark haired girl again. He knew that what Susan had really meant to say was, 'I see what you're doing, you pervert.'

"This is Miss Grimshaw. She takes care of the womenfolk in my camp. Stay a while, help yourself to anything you might need whether it's a warm meal or a warm bed." Dutch murmured as Susan pulled away from him and gestured for the girl to follow her.

"Thank you." The young woman giggled, earning another cold stare from Susan who seemed annoyed and she quickly followed the older woman away.

"Uncle," Dutch rose from his chair, setting the book down and stalking the two men who had begun to walk away from him, "what's her story?"

"Now I know you don't like it much when I bring a night woman home to camp, but in my defense, I was rather drunk and plum forgot." Uncle chuckled nervously as Dutch slowly stepped closer to them after he and Arthur had paused.

"Oh, that's alright." Dutch patted Uncle's shoulder, squeezing it a little as he and Arthur exchanged a look. Arthur could tell that Dutch was already planning on courting the poor prostitute, based solely on the mischievous look to his eyes, and this was his way of telling Arthur he didn't care if everyone else had a taste of her either. It wasn't the first time Dutch had taken a whore for a few nights before spurning her off to the others, though usually the women were much closer to his age. This seemed wrong to Arthur somehow, but he knew Dutch would always be in mourning and this was simply how he dealt with his grief.

"She reminds me of Miss—" Arthur began quietly but stopped, realizing that comparing her to Annabelle was the last thing he wanted to do even if the woman was on his mind. Especially to Dutch's face. "She's awfully young, Dutch. Maybe, what, seventeen or nineteen? You repulse me, Uncle. Bringing an innocent girl like that to sleep with a parasite like you."

"Annabelle was unique. It would be like comparing a wild rose to a humble dandelion. Miss Abigail is young, too young even for me. But most whores are when they first start out." Dutch scratched his chin, he was lying through his teeth. He hadn't been this attracted to a woman in some time, even if she was barely a woman.

"Local whore. Was getting harassed by some ne'er do wells at the saloon the other night. Told her I ran with you and she followed me back here. Might be nice, having another woman around besides your personal night woman." Uncle teased as Dutch glanced back over at him and cracked a smile.

"There's nothing between Susan and I. She knows I am a man with needs for the pleasures of the flesh from time to time. She is near and dear to me, but she will never be my woman again. She knows that," Dutch picked at his chin again for a moment before looking back over at where the two women had gone to, "the girl is a lot smarter than you give her credit for, you know. If I had to guess, I'd say she purposefully got you intoxicated just to leave with you and never return to her Madam."

"That ain't my problem. It's yours." Uncle chuckled, smacking Dutch's back as the dark haired man growled a moment and snapped his eyes back to the old fool.

"Arthur, take Uncle here into town with you and make arrangements with the madam. I'll have Miss Grimshaw join you boys later and see about freeing our new recruit of her contractual obligations." Dutch sneered as Uncle flushed red and seemed flustered, Arthur snickered, pushing the old timer away from Dutch excitedly.

"It would be my pleasure." Arthur cackled with a menacing gleam in his eye.

—-

"It's not Yarrow, John, this is Poison Hemlock. See," Dutch pointed at a section of the plant with his knife as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knee, "the difference is in the leaves."

"I mean, I don't." John grunted angrily, folding his arms as Dutch took the knife away and set it back in it's holster.

"Yarrow leaves are smaller than hemlock, and," he bent down to pick the plant up and rubbed the leaves between his fingers, "softer to the touch. It's an easy mistake to make, son. But one you can only make once if you're not careful."

John took the plant from him and felt the leaf between his fingers before letting it go and realizing that Dutch was right. The man had asked him to go into the woods and gather herbs, but he felt embarrassed that he had forgotten a lot of the bushcraft that Dutch had taught him. Then again, there was a new woman in camp and John had been distracted by her presence. But, he realized, Dutch always gets what he wants. There was no way the girl would pass on the leader for some stupid simpleton like him.

"Yeah, okay." John grumbled, pushing himself away from the table to stand up when Dutch put a hand on his shoulder.

"What's wrong, son? You've been real broody the last couple days."

"I…It's nothing," John debated whether or not to tell Dutch that he wanted a chance to court the new woman in camp, but he knew if he did that the man would just laugh at him and tell him to wait his turn, "I'm just restless is all."

'Darling…' Dutch heard Annabelle whisper in his ear, he could almost feel her lips on it and smell her perfume as he shut his eyes for a moment and tried to regain himself. You told me to take other women, beloved. Even if I know I'm taking a chance at romance from our son.

"Of course. If you're not working on anything with the boys, maybe we ought to go on a hunting trip for a while, just the two of us. Go over your herbalism skills." Dutch chuckled as John slid away from the table and stood up, nodding at him but unable to look at him.

"Can we talk about her? About–" John looked up and Dutch bit his lip nervously, picking at his facial hair for a moment as he pondered over it. He deserves to know how it happened, though I don't know if I'm ready to relive it again. Well, he could, but he would need poppy first to steel his resolve and he had been running low. He would need to go to town first, find a den or a dealer, get some supplies and then return and take his boy out for a weekend.

"I can try," Dutch murmured, shivering a little as he thought about his next fix but he tried to hide his withdrawal symptom as best he could from the young man, "I need to go into town first."

"I'll come with you."

"No!" Dutch snapped before he realized the words had just come out of his mouth and he panted a bit, flustered by his sudden irritation. "No…I…I'm sorry John, I haven't been sleeping well lately. I just need a little quiet time to myself is all."

"Dutch, you know if you need anything, I'm always–" John looked a little wounded by Dutch's sudden outburst but he tried to swallow it down as Dutch grew somewhat pale and sweaty now, running his hands through his hair.

"I know. I know. It means a lot to me, son." He pressed his hand onto John's shoulder and pulled the young man to him in a paternal embrace, but John was hesitant about hugging him back at first.