Author's Note: My apologies for the hiatus, I had a bit of writer's block in combination with various 'life' things happening over the last few weeks.

It was still dark out when he scurried out of the house, quickly and quietly donning his black jacket and slowly closing the back door behind him. He carefully let go of the doorknob, listening intently for the click to ensure it was closed before sneaking out towards the barn.

He wouldn't take anything from the house, while he would've preferred wintering alone like he had been since the night the gang fell apart, it would seem God had other plans. As he crept through the shadows, his eyes adjusting to the faint moonlight and frost covered landscape, a familiar figure leaned against the barn door.

Goddamn it.

He stopped, the weight of his foot on the downward step causing it to moan a little and he quickly picked it back up and set it on the solid patio surface. He folded his arms, shivering slightly as the cold air threatened his exposed skin and eyes and growled at the figure.

The man removed his top hat in greeting, straightening up a bit and dusting off his long overcoat. He had to wonder if Death had intentionally chosen to look identical to Trelawny or if the Englishman had purposefully chosen to look like Death. Despite being "in-laws" with Josiah Trelawny for the time he and Annabelle had been together, Dutch realized he hardly knew a thing about the man. Other than he generally had good information, he had a family in Saint Denis, his sleight of hand was practically magic, and had married Annabelle's cousin Margaret. Come to think of it, Dutch thought to himself as he tugged at the end of his long beard. I never did meet anyone in her family except Trelawny and her father…well, before he offed himself thinking his daughter's reputation was ruined. But she certainly decided to meet my family behind my back.

"Hello, Dutch." The Strange Man murmured, leaning against the barn again and replacing his hat.

"So, is this how it ends then? You want me right here, right now? Or, are you gonna make her son do it?" His breath came out in white hot puffs, trying to keep his voice down so as not to wake John or Jack. Not yet, you can't take me yet you son of a bitch, I'm going out like my daddy did with a warrior's death.

"I'm not here for any of you, not–" The figure began but he interrupted irritability.

"'Not yet anyway'? I ain't interested in opportunities to change my circumstances. Or make another deal," He paused as he decided to descend the steps regardless of the grunts and groans they made until he was on solid ground, "while I appreciate spending time with the boy again, he's grown quite well, I ain't interested in sentimentality."

"Oh I wasn't the reason the boy ended up here of all places," The Strange Man picked at his white gloves and inhaled sharply through his nose before grinning widely, "she is."

"She's been dead a long time and last I checked, I still don't believe in that bullshit about ghosts or wayward spirits. She's gone, remember? You took all of them from me, not just Annabelle."

"You made a deal for power, I gave it to you in exchange for being unable to keep a hold of love and yet…you tried to cheat me, didn't you Mr. Van der Linde? I let you keep them far longer than I had intended. Well, the important ones anyway," The Strange Man paused, "your friend Mr. Matthews was already dying from that cough, Mr. Morgan was already dying though he could've been treated if you actually gave a shit, Miss Grimshaw had a lump in her breast that would've killed her eventually, and Annabelle…well…would've died on you in childbirth, I'm afraid. If…you didn't end up killing her or that child yourself given your temperament."

"Colm and his gang doing what they did in front of me wasn't exactly a 'better' way to die. I wish you had chosen childbirth, if I'm being honest. At least she would've bled to death, regardless, but it wouldn't have been to protect me from myself. " He snarled back, stalking his way towards the strange man now.

"A warrior's death, then? Yet, the manner of her death was her choice to make, Mr. Van der Linde, not mine, and she knew how she would meet her bitter end. It was a girl, by the way. I debated letting you keep her, but, knowing you and your temperament, you would've smothered that child to death." Death seemed completely unphased as the imposing man came closer, looking up briefly from the ground and pushing himself away from the barn. Dutch stopped, confused at first but then even angrier than he already was.

"Lovely, guess it's too bad we'll never know whether I was a capable father or not. I'm sure Belle would've named her after my mother just to irritate me, before inevitably dying in my arms, again. So, get to your point or get the hell out of my way." He snarled back, folding his arms once more and hissing as he started to pant a little in frustration.

"As you wish." The Strange Man stepped off to the side and opened the barn for him, he blinked in surprise for a moment. It was a mixture of horror, anger, and fear and he took a giant step back. Nearly slipping on the icy surface below his boots.

"Darling," she looked up from the poker table that had been set in the middle of the barn, "it's been a long time…"

"I still can't believe you forced John to get back into this life after I begged you with my dying breath to let them go." Arthur snarled, flopping down his set of cards and leaning back in his chair.

"When could Dutch ever let a good plan go to waste, Arthur? Especially when it came to revenge. Frankly," Hosea looked up from the table now as he stood slack jawed at the sight, "you should've cut Micah loose a long time ago. I warned you. But you wouldn't listen to reason, would you?"

"And you let him shoot me like a dog, Dutch. You didn't even do a goddamn thing either, did you? I gave you the best years of my life and then some, and that was how you repay me! Asshole." Susan shook her head and placed a bet of her own.

"Don't." Was all he could manage to get out in a horrified whisper, stepping backwards further but still facing the barn wide eyed. They seemed physically real to him, as though the four of them were there in the flesh but he knew this was just either a delusion or one of Death's tricks. It had to be his own mind doing this to him. Death didn't seem like the type to just let his harvested souls wander freely to and from Hell. He hadn't anticipated this and their words clawing at his heart and throat.

"You did this to yourself, beloved." Annabelle replied, setting her cards down and leaning on her elbows, looking at him through tight dark brown curls. "We tried to set you on the right path but–"

"I don't need a fucking lecture from you! Leave me alone, I beg you!" He moaned, chewing his lip as he felt his eyes begin to water and he quickly rubbed his face on his sleeve, avoiding even looking at them as he continued to back up. He trembled a bit, feeling his heart squeeze in his chest and his teeth begin to chatter. He wanted to run from them but his body refused to cooperate.

"It's too late for lectures, Dutch. You know that and so do we." Hosea also set his cards down and leaned back in his chair with a grumble, running his hands through his hair a moment before closing his eyes.

"I…" He felt the same as he had when he watched Arthur dying in front of him, unable to find words or the ability to string together a coherent sentence. He didn't want to deal with this right now. This was not the time to be having an episode, he needed to get a horse and get back to Cochinay. Back to the natives. Back to his last stand against the alleged "civilized West". Back to how he hoped he would meet his bitter end. His "warrior's death". Surely she would understand, even if the rest of them didn't.

"If you're trying to apologize, we aren't here for one. You were never one to actually mean it, sincerely anyway." Susan offered quietly, refusing to look at him and staying totally focused on the game.

"I…I tried! I was doing my best!" He whimpered, gritting his teeth and finding his knees failing him, sending him to the ground as he buried his face in his hands. He couldn't even look at them as his teeth squealed in his jaw and he squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could.

"So you keep sayin'." Arthur grumbled, "We're just wasting whatever time that sorry fool has left, Miss Annabelle. Dutch ain't been right in the head a long time now, and he ain't never gonna be right."

"Mr. Morgan, my husband never could fight his true nature. It's why all of us loved him in the end, yourself included. That fighting spirit that never knew when to quit is why we all stuck by him. Darling, I…I just thought…I hoped…" Annabelle paused, resting her chin in her palms and staring down at the table. Ah, he thought as he glanced up a moment through his fingers, she'll defend me despite knowing I'm nothing but a piece of shit, even in death. But, that's what hurt him the most of all. Even in life the woman made excuses for him, contributed to his lies, and defended him tooth and nail in the end. Broken, bloodied, and dying she was never going to give in or give up on him.

"Like you said, Belle, I can't fight my nature. You…" He paused, gritting his teeth so hard he thought he might break a couple of them in the process, "I did care about you, you know, don't you? Somewhere. I'm not so foolish as to believe apologizing or begging for forgiveness will absolve me…I did care. I…loved you. And I am sorry for what happened. But I did try, I was doing the best I could–"

"You sure had a peculiar way of showing it." Susan nodded, placing a hand on Annabelle's shoulder and leaning into the woman who seemed just as distraught as her husband did. She closed her eyes, nibbling her bottom lip a while and he knew she was thinking about something. It pained him to see her anxious about whatever it was, normally she had been grounded and confident in her approach to life. After a while she inhaled sharply and smoothed down the front of her dress and he knew she had figured out whatever it was that was bothering her and how to articulate it.

"Can you make me another promise, Dutch? Before we see each other again." Annabelle murmured, wiping the tears from her eyes with a finger and turning her head to look at him. He pulled his hands from his face but closed his eyes. He didn't want to see that tender and loving gaze of hers, he would fall apart the way he had every time he recalled it. The memories of the day Colm attacked her stirred in the background of his mind and he tried to shake those events from his head.

"Of course, darling. Tell me what you desire and I will make it so. Or die trying to." He pleaded, inhaling and exhaling sharply through his nose as he tried to find whatever composure he could.

"Don't punish John, Dutch. Fight all you want, darling, but do not hurt him or that boy in your machinations. If you send our son back to me…I can never forgive you. He's the last of our family, darling."

He opened his eyes again and nodded, still trying to avoid eye contact with her. He swallowed a couple of times, realizing that there was subtext in her request though he didn't want to think about it. He smirked a bit, she reminded him of the way her cousin used to pass on information to either of them, speaking intentionally but vaguely enough that no one would understand. This was the way they had spoken plainly to each other in front of others and eventually John had caught on too. Their own secret language.

"I…won't. But…he betrayed me, woman. You can't expect me to forgive what I can't–"

"Always capable of conjuring an excuse, huh Dutch? You instigated the downfall of the gang! You can blame me, blame John, or Hosea or whoever you want to blame, Dutch. But you did this to yourself!" Arthur folded his arms and gave the man a rather cold look.

"I'd rather we reunited under happier circumstances, instead of the four of you antagonizing me over the transgressions I committed when you were with me. I did the best I could with the hand I was dealt with!" He spat back, but Annabelle surprised him by slamming her hand on the table, rattling the chips and cards. She had no use for subtext now, nor tenderness.

"Get a goddamn grip, Dutch Van der Linde!" She seethed, snarling back at him and clawing her open hand into a fist. "The time for your sorry ass excuses is over! You're still pandering to the lot of us like we're fools! Take some goddamn accountability for once in your miserable life!"

"Annabelle—" He rubbed his face in his hands and snorted indignantly, earning a rather reproachful look from her as she stood up from the table and folded her arms.

"You can lie to yourself but don't you lie to us, Dutch. You did that plenty already when I was with you, and them too. Now, swear it. Swear to me you won't punish John." She huffed, shaking her head and glaring down at him like he was nothing more than an insect. He couldn't help but chuckle a little as he caught her cold hearted stare, he missed it, even though it had been years now since he had seen it. Oh, he thought, but how I want you to be real right now, Annabelle, instead of a figment of an overactive imagination.

"I just said—" He shook his head with a laugh and lowered his hands, but when he looked at her his smile faded. He had only seen her this angry with him twice, the two times he had nearly destroyed whatever love she had for him and he quietly nodded. He couldn't refuse her, he knew, the way he couldn't refuse her when she was living and breathing beside him.

"I swear it to you, darling." He muttered and lowered his gaze away from her again. She stepped forward, standing just at the threshold of the barn now maybe four feet away from him.

"I'll be waiting for you." Her expression changed, back to that tender and warm gaze he knew well when she was alive.

"Of course you will. I will be home soon. I am sorry I kept you waiting so long, but…" he gestured to the three still seated behind her, "at least you're in good company."

—

"Thought you'd be gone by now." John leaned in the breezeway as Dutch tended to the horses. The older man didn't turn around, he simply continued to brush the painted mare he had stolen off the men he had killed. His dark eyes glazed over in thought.

"Thank you—" John paused but began again as he slunk closer to the stall.

"Don't." He hissed, aggressively brushing the mare now and actively trying to ignore the man who had stepped towards the stall.

"What happened to you, Dutch? Did I…did…shit…" He wasn't sure how to ask, it had been a long time since he had felt comfortable enough to let whatever guard down he had. Dutch certainly didn't want to engage in conversation either, as he continued mindlessly achieving his task even as the painted mare turned her head to look at him as he aimlessly groomed the same spot on her shoulders.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, son." He murmured, hesitating on the downward stroke with his brush and leaving it to rest on the mare's withers.

"After Blackwater, you weren't the man I knew. The…father I knew. And I think I ought to know—"

"A lot changed after she died, John. I don't have an interest in idly chatting about a past that we can't change. We had our moment when we took down Micah. Just move on with your life, son…you don't owe me anything, not anymore anyway. I didn't come to you directly on account of, well…I doubt I need to explain it to you. You and the boy need to go or I need to go. We can't go back, John. No matter how much you believe we could, I am not a man who needs redemption or forgiveness. Nor have I ever been. You've known that about me all your life." He slowly lowered the brush and pretended to inspect the mare's coat for places he missed.

"But we could move forward. I know you don't think much of Abby but—"

"I am a disease to the kind of lifestyle that woman desires for you and that boy to have. I ruined my own life John, so don't allow me to ruin yours. It's over. It's been over for a long time now too," he straightened up and tossed the brush out into the breezeway to slowly turn around, "what will you do when they ask you to crush us like ants in front of you?"

"I…can we…" John folded his arms and uncomfortably began to pace a little. More of Dutch's subtext, his paranoia causing him to speak in that coded language that he and Annabelle had taught him.

"There's always a dragon to be slain, son. So I'll ask you again, what will you do when they ask you to crush me like an ant?" He raised an eyebrow and folded his arms against his coat tightly.

"I have a family, Dutch." He responded, unable to make eye contact.

"So did I, son." He replied bitterly and John looked up from the floor of the barn for a moment, rubbing his chin with the palm of his hand and shaking his head. His long graying black hair had fallen over his eyes again, giving him a disheveled and somewhat feral appearance.

"Do you want me to apologize? Is that it? That I get to have a family and you don't?"

"No, son. I want you to understand that someday, whether it's you or that boy, someone is gonna ask you to choose between that family and the one we had. That woman, that…whore you married, made you choose between a fairytale ending that never existed and your loyalty to me. You are always going to be perpetually choosing between one family and another. Don't make my mistake thinking you can have both, because I promise you, you can't. If I had chosen to stay in the security of our little crew before Colm got Annabelle…" he paused and took a deep breath, brushing the hair from his eyes, "they're still hunting me, John. Hunting Williamson. Hunting Javier. And hunting you. And they will absolutely use your weakness for family against you. So when that time comes—"

"What are you talking about? More paranoia? More of your delusional bullshit? Who is they—" John scoffed and shook his head, snorting a bit in disbelief. Dutch hadn't changed at all, not really, it seemed. He was still balking at shadows and caught up in delusions.

"SHUT THE HELL UP FOR A GODDAMN SECOND JOHN! AND JUST LISTEN TO ME!" He finally snapped, bits of saliva flying from his mouth as he grabbed John by the shoulders and clawed at his shirt. Marston didn't move a muscle, his good eye wide for a moment with fear which prompted Dutch to let go and flex his hands. He closed his eyes, dropping his shoulders and took a pause as he inhaled sharply through his nose and leaned his head back towards the ceiling before opening his eyes again.

"It's…it's because of you that I know everything I needed to in order to survive. You're…I…I would've followed you to hell and back, if that's what you wanted me to do. But—" Even if he had been demanded to hunt down his former comrades, he doubted he could. Especially not Dutch, considering all that they had been through. It wasn't hate that John felt for Dutch, even if the older man would've preferred being loathed and despised, but grief that this man had lost sight of himself and who he had wanted to be once.

"You were always my favorite, John. You may have all called yourselves 'Dutch's Boys' but you were my boy. And that ain't gonna change. But, Pinkerton's and all of our sins are gonna catch up to us someday and I'd like it if you would keep what I said in mind when the time comes. And it is coming." He replied quietly, looking down at the floor a moment before looking back up at John. The man seemed to understand because all he did in response was nod and avoid eye contact. John folded his arms and the two stood in silence for a long while until he decided to break it by looking up and trying to blink his emotion from his eyes.

"Dutch," John began, still trying to clear his eyes of the misty sensation, "what I said yesterday…about the boy…I would stay out of your way. I—I don't know how to relate to him. He's…shit, he's smart, like you. Just for the winter, could you teach him the things you and Annabelle taught me once? Those moments…that…I…"

"I can't." Dutch pleaded, sucking in a deep breath and folding his own arms while shaking his head. "Son, I'm telling you—"

"You left me for dead not once but twice. I know, I know…but like you said, I can't ask her. Just you and the kid. I'll keep watch from a distance, keep an eye out for Pinkerton's or whatever you believe is coming for you." John shook his head too, picking at his bottom lip nervously and worried about making eye contact again.

"Jackie…"

"Dutch, I never asked you for—"

"Jesus Christ, don't start with that shit, again! You think you can plead with me like she did? I might have a soft spot for you because you're our son, but don't mistake me for a tenderhearted fool." Dutch shook his head more and started to walk towards where he kept the tack stashed away when John grabbed him by the shoulder. He was chewing his lip, his body language tenser than Dutch could remember it being except maybe when he had returned without Annabelle.

"I ain't," he let go of Dutch's shoulder, "listen, Dutch, I know he's mine. I know you kept your word to me about Abigail. At least, I want to believe you. Rest of 'em, no. But…"

"I didn't know how to be a father either, son. Look at how I fucked things up! For you, for Arthur, for all of them…what happens if I ruin that boy the way I ruined you, John?" He swallowed hard, pausing in his stride. "Doubt your whore of a wife would forgive me for dragging that boy into this bullshit."

"You…shit, Dutch…you didn't—"

"I ruined you." He murmured, "I molded you into who I wanted you to be. Arthur too. I played the lot of you like puppets on a string. I mighta insisted I was 'saving you' all from the harsh reality of life, and I wanted to believe that, but–"

"Bullshit," John snarled, shaking his head angrily, "that's fuckin' bullshit and you…you know it. If you hadn't pulled me off those gallows—"

"If she hadn't. Belle was the one who insisted we save you, not me, John. And if she had lived instead–"

"She didn't, you did. She might've been the reason you took me in, might've been the reason you taught me how to survive, but you were the one who taught me the difference between poison hemlock and—"

"Enough. I've heard enough. We're just wasting time, son." He turned away, slipping back towards the rack with the tack laid upon on it, fidgeting with it as he tried to remember what the mare had been wearing. He needed to leave, he needed to get back to Cochinay.

"I miss her too, you know. And Hosea, and Miss Grimshaw, and Arthur. Hell, I miss 'em all, Dutch. Mac, Davey, Jenny, Kieran, and Lenny. I try not to think about 'em too much these days, on account of my being a 'family man' and all that. I don't want the kid to grow up the way I did, but, like you…I don't know how to be anything but an outlaw, Dutch. Now, come have breakfast with the boy and I at least." John rubbed the back of his head, practically clawing at his hair a bit as a bit of light snow began to fall outside.

"No." He replied flatly, lifting a bridle off one of the pegs and giving it a quick brush with his gloves before turning back to the painted mare to slip it over her face.

"At least have the decency to say goodbye to the boy." John grumbled, folding his arms again as he watched Dutch return to the tack and heave the saddle into his arms. The older man paused, his back still turned as he chewed his bottom lip for a moment.

"No. That bearskin ought to be dry by now, sell it for a decent price or keep it, I don't care which. And John?" He finally turned his head a bit to look over his shoulder.

"Don't you follow me. You and her…you two always believed I could be redeemed, you'd stick by me through thick and thin regardless of the shit I put you through. But she ain't here, John. Her faith in me is what got her killed. So don't you go making the same mistakes your mother did. I already broke my promises to her, so don't you keep putting me in a position where I'm liable to break the one I made to her on her deathbed, son. And remember, John," he turned back to the painted mare and launched the saddle onto her back with a grunt, "our sins are gonna catch up to us someday."