Notes:

I've noticed that I've made a few mistakes in my writing, specifically with some characters' dialogue. I won't be making changes right now, as it's not too severe, but I do realize there are some errors. When I was watching a walkthrough, I was mainly listening to the characters' voices, but I missed a few things along the way. The walkthrough had subtitles, but it didn't display the characters' names, so I had to rely on identifying them by voice, which led to a few missteps. I only realized these mistakes when I replayedRed Dead Redemption 2and enabled the option to display characters' names in the subtitles.

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Chapter 2: H. Overlook Part 1

John was finally able to leave his bed, much to his own relief. Abigail wasn't much help, if he was being honest. She had tried to insist that he rest longer, but John was done with that. He felt fine enough, and no matter what anyone said, he wasn't going to lay around camp all day any longer. Sure, his wounds weren't fully healed yet—there were still stitches holding them together—but he was sick of feeling like he was made of glass.

Every now and then, while eating or talking, he'd feel the sickening tug of those stitches pulling at his skin, but he tried his best to ignore it. He wasn't about to let that stop him. The truth was, he needed fresh air—real fresh air—away from camp and all its noise. Just a bit of time to clear his head. He'd already told Abigail he was stepping out for a while, making sure she didn't think he was running off again. No, he wasn't planning on leaving her or Jack like that ever again. Just because he made that mistake once didn't mean he was about to make it again.

But damn, sitting around doing nothing was killing him more than the wounds ever could. He needed to move, to feel useful again. He wasn't cut out for just laying around like an invalid. Not when there was work to be done and things weighing heavy on his mind.

He saddled up a horse he'd picked from the extras the camp always had with them. It wasn't like his old horse—this one was bigger, a bit older too, with a calmer temperament. The horse didn't fuss much, just stood there, patient and steady. John appreciated that, especially with his wounds still healing. He needed something reliable under him, something that wouldn't spook at the first sign of trouble.

John hadn't put much thought into a name for the horse, so he just settled on calling himOld Boy. It seemed to fit, and honestly, he wasn't one for coming up with fancy names. Besides, the horse didn't seem to mind. Old Boy was solid, dependable—just what John needed right now. The saddle creaked as he tightened the cinch, and for the first time in what felt like forever, John felt a bit more like himself.

John had noticed a few of the gang were out too—probably off doing whatever it was they did to keep busy. He figured he might run into someone before long, maybe out by the river or along one of the trails. The wagon was gone as well, and he knew some of the girls had headed out earlier, along with Uncle. That gave him pause. Uncle wasn't exactly known for being useful or for tagging along unless he had no choice. The old fool usually preferred to sleep the day away rather than do any real work.

Probably headed into town. John thought, shaking his head. The idea of Uncle taking charge of anything like the wagon made him chuckle. More likely, the girls had dragged him along, probably to keep him out of trouble or to make sure he didn't drink all the whiskey while they were gone.

"John."

He turned around to find Hosea standing there, a book in his hand. "Hosea..." John's voice came out raspy, a reminder that he hadn't had anything to drink yet. Hosea noticed immediately.

"Want me to fetch you some coffee?"

John hesitated for a moment, debating whether to say yes. But in the end, he figured he might as well accept the offer. He had time.

He watched as Hosea took a metal cup and the coffee pot from the campfire, pouring warm coffee into his cup. The rich aroma filled the air, and John could almost taste the comfort it promised. Hosea crouched down to set the pot back on the ground before standing up and walking over to John, who was now standing by the big table set up in the middle of camp.

"Thanks, Hosea." John said, taking the cup and savouring the warmth against his palms. It felt good, grounding him a bit more in the moment.

"You're going out?" Hosea asked, settling into one of the chairs.

John stayed standing, leaning one hand on the table while holding the coffee mug in the other. "Sure. I need some fresh air. I let Abigail know too. Not that she'll think I'm leaving again."

Hosea nodded at John, his expression thoughtful. Despite John having been easily let back in, there was still tension lingering between him and the other members of the gang. Hosea couldn't quite understand why John chose to isolate himself. He didn't get why John never came to him to talk about his struggles, why he preferred to run away from them instead of leaning on his family—his real family: Hosea, Dutch, Arthur.

"John, you know you can talk to us, right?" Hosea ventured, trying to bridge the gap that seemed to stretch between them. He wanted to reach out, to help, but he also knew that John had to make that choice for himself.

"I know. I just... I felt cornered." John admitted, his voice low. "I needed to get away for a moment. It felt like everyone was expecting me to step up and be a father for Jack, and I just don't know how to do that. I haven't exactly had the best experience with my own family."

He shifted, a mix of frustration and vulnerability evident in his posture. "It's a lot to take in, and I didn't want to let anyone down. But every time I look at him, I just... I don't know if I can be what he needs."

Hosea shifted to stand up, placing both his hands flat on the table and leaning forward slightly. He looked John dead in the eye, and John didn't see anger or disappointment—he saw understanding.

"That's why we're here for you, John." Hosea said, his tone steady. "You think this is easy for Abigail? She hasn't exactly had the best family either. It's her first time being a mother, just like it is for you to be a father. She's just letting her instincts take over, same as you should."

He paused, letting the words sink in. "You're not alone in this. We're all learning together."

John's gaze dropped to his hands, the coffee in front of him now cold and untouched. He watched as Hosea straightened up, carefully picking up his book before sinking back into his chair, a quiet sigh escaping him.

"Anyways," Hosea said, his voice calm and measured, "if you're heading into town, you might run into Javier, Bill, Charles, Uncle, Arthur, Tilly, Karen and Mary-Beth. They're always buzzing about, looking for something to do."

He leaned back slightly, a knowing smile creeping onto his face. "Just remember, John, you don't have to figure everything out all at once. You're still family, and we'll all get through this together."

John nodded and finished the last of his coffee, placing the mug on the table before turning on his heel toward his saddled horse. He mounted up smoothly, feeling the familiar weight beneath him as he kicked Old Boy gently in the side, urging the horse forward. He turned the reins toward the path that led to the main road.

The world around him was silent, almost serene. The only sounds were the gentle chirping of the birds overhead and the rhythmic thud of Old Boy's hooves hitting the dirt road. As they moved along, John took a moment to appreciate the view. The landscape stretched out before him, a captivating blend of rolling hills and open skies. It felt good to be out here, away from the camp and the weight of expectations, if only for a little while.

The sun burned in his eyes, and John cursed himself for not grabbing a hat before heading out. He didn't always wear one—his head tended to get too sweaty under the brim. Back in Colter, he'd been cooped up inside, almost freezing to death. Just a simple pair of pants and a shirt, with a thin blanket barely covering half of him. He remembered shivering, feeling like he'd never warm up, and he even caught a small cold during that time.

But the moment they arrived here, the warmth had worked wonders. He'd healed faster than he ever could have in Colter, and for that, he was grateful. Now, though, he'd gotten so used to not wearing a hat that it often slipped his mind altogether. Maybe next time he'd remember; for now, he just squinted against the bright sun, pushing forward along the path.

Besides, the warmth felt good against his skin. John had missed the sun, the way it burned into him, a reminder of life outside the confines of cold and darkness. He just wasn't made for snow or the biting chill that came with it.

The West was where he belonged, where he had spent most of his life. It was where Dutch had saved him, where he met Arthur and Hosea. It was the place he learned to be a gunslinger, a life that had shaped him in ways he couldn't fully articulate. Every mile of open land brought back memories—both good and bad—but they all anchored him to who he was. This was his home, and despite the struggles that came with it, he wouldn't trade it for anything.

When John arrived in Valentine, he'd expected the town to look just like this: a simple livestock town. There were farms, a train station, a few shops, saloons, and stables dotting the landscape. It reminded him a bit of Blackwater before it decided to become more modern, before the place started upgrading its dirt roads to stone and replacing old wooden structures with sturdy stone houses.

John hitched Old Boy by a saloon next to a church, deciding to explore the town on foot from here. He dismounted and tied the reins to the wooden post, giving Old Boy a gentle pat on the neck. "Stay here." He murmured, and the horse just looked at him, calm and understanding.

He stepped inside the saloon, the door creaking slightly as he entered. The warm air and lively chatter enveloped him. John approached the bar and ordered a drink along with some oatmeal. He slid his coins across the counter to the bartender.

"You can sit; I'll bring your food and drinks shortly." The bartender said, and John nodded, moving to a table off to the side. He settled into a chair next to the window, giving him a view of the bustling town outside. As he sat there, he took a moment to observe the people passing by, each absorbed in their own lives, and felt a sense of calm wash over him.

The moment also gave him the perfect opportunity to reflect on everything he'd been feeling over the past year. John didn't think he had made a mistake leaving the gang, and in many ways, he believed it had been the right choice. Still, guilt nagged at him. He'd apologized to everyone as much as he could, trying to show that he was sorry and that he didn't want to leave. He wanted to be back in camp, to feel that sense of belonging again.

When he returned, Dutch had welcomed him back without a second thought. That had shocked John. He'd expected a different reaction—maybe anger or disappointment. Instead, Dutch had only asked if John had even talked to anyone while he was gone, and the truth was, he hadn't. He hadn't had the time for it, nor the will. He'd been too absorbed in his own struggles, just trying to survive and figure things out on his own.

Besides, John knew he'd never betray his gang—he'd never betray Dutch, Hosea, or Arthur. They were his family, and family sticks together, no matter what. He believed that. Loyalty was everything, especially to the people who had saved his life. Dutch had pulled him from the noose that day, kept him from swinging. That wasn't something you forget. It wasn't something you walk away from without feeling like you owe a debt.

But even after being gone for a year, trying to make it on his own, that sense of loyalty never left him. He may have run off, but in his mind, it wasn't about turning his back on them. He just needed to figure things out. He didn't know how to be a father, or how to handle the weight of everything being thrown on him all at once. But he wasn't a traitor. He'd come back because, deep down, this was where he belonged. Even if he questioned Dutch at times, even if things felt different, this was still his family.

"Here you go." the bartender said, placing a glass of beer and a bowl of oatmeal with a wooden spoon in front of John. He nodded in thanks, not really saying anything, and began to eat without much thought. His mind was still wandering, barely registering the taste of the food.

He hadn't seen anyone from the gang yet, but that was fine. He wasn't really here to socialize, just to get some air and clear his head. After all, he didn't have much money on him anyway—just enough for the basics, like a meal and a drink. No sense in staying too long. Once he was done looking around town, he'd head back to camp. It wasn't like he had any reason to linger.

John stepped down the porch stairs and made his way toward the center of town. As he scanned the area, he spotted a familiar figure—Uncle—and a group of women Hosea had mentioned. He quickened his pace, catching up to them just as they were about to move on.

"Hey, Uncle. Ladies." John called out, nodding his head slightly. "What are y'all doin' out here?"

Uncle turned around with a grunt, his face as tired as ever. "Well, was gonna have a nice look around this fine town, but ran into a bit of a problem."

John raised an eyebrow, signaling for Uncle to explain further. "What kind of problem?"

"Some feller knew Arthur from Blackwater, so Arthur's gone after the person." Uncle said, looking a bit worried.

John's eyebrows shot up. That's not a good sign, actually. "Now? Already? Shit. That ain't a good sign."

"No, it wasn't." Uncle replied, shaking his head. "The man practically yelled it out."

Karen stepped forward, placing one hand on her hip. "We've already got enough trouble here. Some man was harassing Tilly, and one hit me. Arthur took care of it—killed the man easily with one punch. We were just gonna head back."

John's gaze flicked to her bruised lip and the bluish bruise on her arm. He furrowed his brows, concern creeping into his voice. "Ain't good. Let me join. I'm headin' back too."

John walked over to Old Boy, untying the reins from the hitching post before mounting up. With a gentle nudge, he guided his horse toward the wagon where the girls were helping each other climb aboard, while Uncle settled himself up front, taking the reins. John adjusted in the saddle, giving the group a nod. "Let's get movin'."

The ride back was mostly peaceful. Mary-Beth, sitting beside Tilly, glanced over at John. "How're you feeling, John? With your wounds and all?"

John shrugged, keeping his eyes on the trail ahead. "Doin' better now. Ain't all healed up yet, but good enough. Just need to stay movin', I reckon." His voice was casual, but the undertone of discomfort was still there, the reminder of stitches tugging with every movement.

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John lay in his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling of his tent, exhaustion weighing on him, but sleep just wouldn't come. He must've been tossing and turning for an hour or more, the weight of the long day pressing into his body but leaving his mind restless. When he first got back to camp, dizziness had crept over him, forcing him to bed early. But now, no matter how hard he tried, sleep stayed just out of reach.

He didn't know what was keeping him up. Maybe it was the pain in his side, the tug of his half-healed wounds. Or maybe it was something deeper. Guilt, frustration, worry about the gang, about Abigail, Jack... About himself.

He clenched his jaw and shut his eyes, trying to force sleep, but the second he felt himself slipping into the darkness, a voice broke through the stillness.

"John?"

His fists balled under the blanket. Of course, just as he was about to drift off.

"John? You awake?" Abigail's voice cut through the quiet again, more insistent this time.

John sighed, rubbing his face before answering, his voice low and tired. "I am now. You woke me when I was just about to fall asleep." He sat up slowly, feeling the dizziness hit him harder than he expected. His hand instinctively went to his head, massaging his temples, but he quickly masked the discomfort. The last thing he needed was Abigail fussing over him.

He glanced toward the entrance of the tent, his tone a little sharper than usual. "Now tell me, Abigail, what do you want from me in the middle of the afternoon? You could see the tent was closed—meant I was tryin' to rest."

If she noticed his irritation, she didn't show it. But John knew that if she saw how badly he was feeling, she'd insist on caring for him, wouldn't leave his side. And right now, he wasn't sure if he could handle that.

"I'm sorry. You want me to leave?" Abigail's voice was soft, a hint of concern slipping through.

"Yes, please." John's response was curt, his patience wearing thin. "I want to sleep."

He could sense her hesitation, and he felt a pang of guilt for snapping at her. But the dizziness was nagging at the edges of his mind, and he needed quiet.

"Just... let me rest for a bit, alright?" He leaned back against the bedding, hoping she would take the hint and let him be.

She luckily did, pulling the flap of the tent closed. Finally, John allowed himself to close his eyes, letting the darkness envelop him. The exhaustion of the day washed over him, and he slipped into a peaceful sleep, grateful for the quiet and the brief escape from the chaos around him.

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