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The first time Francis tells him, Jack doesn’t believe him.
Another late night spent in Jack’s New York apartment - jawing with Francis about nothing and everything. Anything.
Jack’s just found a publisher for his novel, so they’re celebrating - or planning to.
He’d always heard publishing is harder than writing, he’d always heard many writers just think they want to write - he’d heard many things, and damned if they weren’t true.
A weekend spent somewhere, Francis’s idea. Doing something worthwhile or enjoyable.
“You spend too much time bent over that mill of yours, Jackie,” Francis had told him, and Jack had laughed, told him that was his job, or he hoped it could be.
Jack had suggested fishing, because it’d been a long time since he’d been. Probably the last time he’d been fishing was with his pa, or Uncle, perhaps. He didn’t enjoy fishing too much after his pa passed, just never felt right without him.
Something had made him tell Francis about Arthur being the one to teach him how to fish; his uncle Arthur, to which Francis had leveled him with a slight look of surprise and said, “Oh, I didn’t know you had an uncle.”
Francis probably doesn’t know many things about him, but more than anyone else Jack talks to. Small revelations unveiled with time.
By the time they’re in their sixties, Francis might just damn well know everything there is to know about Jack Marston.
“I don’t - or I didn’t,” Jack tells him. “Just some folk who cared for me.”
Francis knows already that Jack grew up in Blackwater, and up near Valentine. Up near Rhodes and Saint Denis and Annesburg. Then at Beecher’s in Great Plains.
Francis grew up in Big Valley, he’d told Jack pretty early on - every once in a while he travels back there to visit his mother. He’s always tired when he comes back, Jack has noticed but never said anything.
Francis asks him if his uncle Arthur lived up near West Elizabeth, and Jack shrugs, says he guesses. He doesn’t remember much of Arthur but he remembers his pa saying something about him and Arthur never really having a home. Their home was with Dutch van der Linde; Jack doesn’t remember much of Dutch, either, mostly vague glimpses of memories that could easily be stories he heard from his parents.
And Francis, lounged back in Jack’s armchair, not even looking up from the page he’s reading - the final draft of Jack’s novel, says, “I met a fella named Arthur back in Big Valley.”
Jack snorts at this, because it’s a common enough name, and he thinks Francis is just making a jab at some amusing small-talk.
Then, Francis finally looks up, hesitant in that way when he’s thinking about something. “Say, his last name wasn’t Morgan, was it?”
“How’d you know that?”
Francis grins at that, but the hesitance is still there. “Well, he told me, sport.”
“Who told you?” Jack asks, leaning forward a bit in his seat. Francis is still looking at him, still smiling - as if the answer is obvious, as if it’s hanging right in the air above them.
“Arthur Morgan,” Francis says. “real darb, he was - found a few of those rock carvings for me, you remember me tellin’ you about those rock carvings, right? Well -”
“Frankie,” Jack interrupts, holding a hand in the air to stop him. Francis quiets, his mile-a-minute speech halting as quickly as it started, and he’s still eyeing Jack patiently as the other man tries to piece this whole thing together. “you’re not makin’ much sense.”
“Oh,” Francis says, and there’s the hesitancy again. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew, sport.”
“Knew what?”
“About the portals,” Francis says - again, like it’s obvious, all wide gestures, fidgety like he’s thinking about getting up and pacing the room. “you’ve seen my drawings, I know you have, I’ve shown you them.”
“Your drawings?” Things aren’t much clearer for Jack, but luckily Francis is patient. He might not be the best at explaining things but maybe that’s just part of who he is. A human mystery. Jack can’t remember having a conversation with Francis that didn’t leave him with some sort of question. “I thought those were just, just -”
“Time travel, Jackie,” Francis flashes another smile his way. “doors open to all time and space. They’re everywhere, they can take you anywhere you want to go more or less - of course, I haven’t found all of them, but I have found the one that leads to Big Valley in the year 1899, and that’s where I met this Arthur Morgan fella.”
Time travel always seemed to be a thing of fiction to Jack, a thing he’d read about in his books. A chance to alter reality, a dream unrealized.
He isn’t sure he fully believes Francis, but the man’s never lied to him - not once in the entirety of their friendship.
Jack considers this, and he feels Francis studying him, probably expecting Jack to blow it off. But Jack doesn’t, he just levels Francis with a steady look and a nod.
“Show me.”
***
Jack still has his father’s hat on a shelf at the top of his closet, tucked away in a box along with his gun.
He’d left most of his old life behind when he moved to New York. He kept a few words and phrases learned by his parents or Uncle, and a few memories that reappear in his thoughts or in his dreams some nights.
He’d left Beecher’s Hope behind, but Jack always had a sneaking suspicion that no matter how far he ran, he’d never really be able to leave.
Jack’s mind wanders back to Beecher’s Hope while sitting in the passenger’s seat of Francis’s 1924 Pierce-Arrow Series 80. He thinks about his parents’ graves left there - Uncle’s beside them, when Francis parks the car and leads him around back to a building, chattering on about how he came across this marvelous happenstance, his words quick but hushed.
A ripped seam in mid-air is how Jack would describe it when Francis shows him the portal, tucked away just discretely enough that you wouldn’t know what you were looking at if you didn’t already know. The average passerby wouldn’t even bat an eye at it, but Francis always seemed to have an eye for those sorts of things.
With a little dourness, Jack thinks maybe that’s what led Francis to befriend him - some ill-tempered former outlaw running from his own grief and mistakes.
Francis had asked him a few months back, “If you had the option and the desire to do so, what part of history or the future would you like to change or experience the most?”
Jack had told him he’d wished he could prevent his father from dying the way he did, and thus preventing the way his mother died only a few years later, from a steep decline in health and an unmendable broken heart.
And seemingly, Francis had filled in the blanks from there.
“This,” Francis gestures to the portal with a sweeping hand, and all Jack can still do is stare, his mouth agape. Somewhere in his mind, he hears his mother’s voice telling him to shut it before he starts collecting flies. “Is where - or should I say, when - I met that Arthur Morgan fella. 1899.”
***
What hits Jack first is the smells.
The smell of mud, horse shit, and grass - so different than the foul smells picked up from New York’s streets - all motor oil and cheap perfume.
Stepping through that portal, led by Francis literally hand in hand (a gentleman just as always, helping Jack through the portal and making sure he didn’t trip on his way into another world entirely) - it leaves Jack with a nauseous feeling and a headache.
This is only made worse by the smells, and Francis seems to recognize this immediately, because he turns to look at Jack, eyes flickering down to the way Jack’s nose is wrinkled, and says, “Don’t worry, sport, the side effects only last a couple of hours.”
***
Mrs. Sinclair is a polite, skittish sort of woman, bearing a look of exhaustion that is undoubtedly brought on by living in times such as these and raising a son without a father. A look Jack can recognize easily enough.
She isn’t even startled by seeing her fully grown son while the one-year-old version of the same man sleeps in her arms, just beams up at Francis when he gives her a sideways hug. She looks proud, and it warms Jack’s heart to see the two of them. Makes the corners of his mouth twitch up without him even realizing it.
“I didn’t expect you so soon, Francis,” she tells him, and glances over at Jack to regard him with a polite smile. “A man came by looking for you earlier today, I didn’t catch his name.”
It’s then that Jack’s gaze is diverted to the collection of drawings plastered all over one of the walls, right behind where Francis stands. Although they’re a bit hard to decipher from a mere glance, Jack can recognize some familiar images easily enough. Most of these drawings match the ones Jack had seen before in Francis’s book, and one image he recognizes is what seems to be a few drawings of Francis, himself, stepping through portals similar to the one they just came through.
“Well, that’s quite alright, he’s a friend of mine - or, uh - friend of ours,” Francis gives her a small pat on the shoulder, and gestures to Jack, who’s still idling by the door to the cabin. “Mother, I’d like for you to meet an associate and another dear friend of mine, Jack Marston. I’m helping him find someone, thus the reason for my early visit.”
Jack steps forward, takes her outstretched hand, and shakes it. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
***
“Who's this mutual friend of ours?” Jack asks him when they step outside again, and Francis flashes him a smile nearly as bright and blinding as the warm sun looming overhead.
“Your uncle Arthur, of course,” Francis tells him, leading Jack by the sleeve of his shirt towards a couple of hitched horses outside the cabin. “We've become something of penpals it seems. He sent me the locations of those rock carvings and I sent him a letter in return asking him to meet me back at my home.”
They both get on the horses and Jack follows closely behind Francis as they ride towards town.
“Told him I had something that made all this hard work he'd put in make sense,” Francis is still chattering away, sparing Jack the occasional glance behind him to make sure he’s still within earshot. “Seems he dropped by a bit earlier than I expected.”
“What was it?” Jack asks.
“You, of course, sport.”
“Me?”
“Who else?” Francis spares him another one of those million-watt smiles, one that’s sincere and makes his eyes crinkle a bit. “Guess we'll have to go about finding him by some other means.”
***
It takes them a day and a half.
Getting themselves a couple of rooms at a hotel in a small settlement by the name of Strawberry.
Jack falls asleep sitting on the floor of Francis’s room, his head laid back against the door. He can’t sleep at first when they both retire to their rooms, his insides all fluttery and nervous.
He knocks on the door of Francis’s room and Francis, still as bright-eyed as he has been all day, lets him in with a smile. Always smiling at the sight of him, Francis is, warm and friendly. (Hello again, Jackie, long time no see.)
Jack notices Francis is still dressed in his sweater and trousers - guesses he ain’t the only one having trouble catching any shut-eye.
It’s Francis who watches Jack pace the room, a bit of a difference from their usual routine of the crests and swells of their conversations.
Jack falls asleep with Francis’s book of completed drawings in his lap. Wakes up with the sunlight that’s streaming in through the window hitting him directly in the face, and his neck is sore from having used the cold wood of the door frame as a pillow.
They find Arthur at the general store the next day, and it’s Francis who recognizes him first.
***
“Good to see you again, sport,” Francis says, interrupting Arthur’s catalog browsing with a clap on the shoulder.
Arthur startles a bit, but eases when he registers Francis with a sort of familiar wariness. Like he’s got a whole bunch of questions but doesn’t know how to ask them.
“Hey, I know you,” Arthur says, his voice friendly but wondering, and he chuckles. “Feller with the little rock carvings!”
“Yes, thank you for finding those again. You’re a real darb, Mr. Morgan,” Francis says. “Real swell.”
“I’m a what?”
Jack lingers by one of the shelves, and Arthur’s gaze flickers to him briefly before returning to Francis. He doesn’t seem like he might recognize Jack any, but then again, Jack isn’t sure why he would - unless he was to pick up on the resemblance he bears to his father.
Then again, it might just be a knee-jerk reaction to being aware of his surroundings - and Jack, being some stranger that is obviously pretending not to listen to his conversation - it might prove a bit suspicious.
Well, at least until Francis decides to pull him into the conversation.
“Listen, I’d like to introduce you to my associate and my dear friend, Mr. er -” Francis trails off, extending a hand towards Jack as if beckoning him towards the two of them.
“..Ja -” Jack starts, but quickly corrects himself. “Uh, James.”
“Mr. James?”
Francis is looking at him now, somewhere between amused and mildly panicked.
“Er - no, my first name is James,” Jack stumbles over his words. “My surname is... -”
“Yes, James and I were wondering if you knew of a fella by the name of Marston?” Francis picks up when Jack trails off, grabbing at Arthur’s shoulder again as if to steer his attention on him again. “John Marston, I believe.”
And at that, Arthur visibly hesitates. Tenses. But the recognition is starkly clear on his face. He’s looking at Francis warily again.
“Yeah, I know him, but I - uh, haven't seen him in a while now,” He scratches at the back of his neck, but his voice is all steady and smooth. Arthur’s eyes drift to Jack once more before returning to Francis. “What do you want with him?”
“Oh, nothing, sport -”
“- I have a message for him,” Jack steps in, cuts Francis off. He’s earned Arthur’s attention again, his guarded gaze. “It's pretty urgent.”
“Oh, well,” Arthur says, and Jack and Francis exchange a look - almost hopeful. “I'll tell him if I see him.”
***
“You feeling alright, there, Jackie?” Francis asks him a few hours later.
They’re in a saloon in the town of Valentine - not a bit different from the vague, flimsy glimpses that remain in Jack’s memories. Francis sits beside him, his whole torso turned towards him when Jack glances up from where he’s staring into his glass of whiskey.
Not even been here a whole weekend and Jack’s already turning into some sorrowful, lonesome cowboy - probably not unlike the one he was destined to be if he hadn’t put his gun away for good.
“Yeah, I’m okay, just -” Jack starts, then stops himself. Gathers his words, tries again. “strange, is all. Feel like we don’t belong here.”
“Well, we don’t, sport,” Francis says easily, smiling, even. Swipes a hand in the air with that jittery sort of grace that he has, making Jack’s eyes follow the movement, making him focus on the atmosphere of the dusty saloon. “that’s the point.”
“You know what I mean,” Jack mummers, but he can’t help finding Francis’s cheerful optimism contagious. He feels the corners of his mouth quirk up of their own accord.
“I do,” Francis confirms, and he sounds a little more sincere this time. “We could always go back if you’d like. I’d understand - I don’t want you feeling like I’m trying to force your hand here, Jackie.”
“No, I know,” Jack waves him off. “‘s not that.”
He takes a sip of his whiskey, and he can feel Francis’s gaze, watchful and patient as always.
“Just - we’re not exactly gonna make a clean sweep of things, are we? They’ll get wise to us eventually.”
“Who?” Francis asks.
“Arthur, I mean,” Jack explains and meets Francis’s gaze once again. “Should’ve known he wouldn’t just hand my pa over like that.”
“Well, no, but it’s a start, sport,” Francis says, and he reaches out to place a warm hand on Jack’s shoulder, as if trying to convey this sort of hopefulness to him through mere touch. “He just doesn’t trust us - not yet.”
“Yeah, and how’d you suppose we go about that, Frankie?” Jack snorts, and Francis is smiling at him again. “Tell ‘im we’re from the future?”
“Well, it worked on my dear mother,” Francis mutters, his hand still lingering on Jack’s shoulder, warm and comforting - just as Francis, himself. “Of course, she was a bit confused about the whole thing at first, but she came around.”
***
They see Arthur once more on the main drag in Valentine a couple of days later, with a man in tow that Jack freezes on the spot when he sees.
Although he’s younger than the version of him Jack keeps in his memories, lacking a few of the wrinkles that Jack remembers - there’s no mistaking it. His own father, younger than Jack is himself, currently.
Jack sees him first, then Francis does, and without Jack even having to say anything, Francis glances back at him like he knows.
Francis smiles at him, at first, undoubtedly ready with a comment about how that man must be Jack’s father because of the unmistakable resemblance - even more prominent with the closeness in age.
But then he takes in the way Jack’s stopped dead in his tracks, pale and eyes wide like he’s just seen a ghost, and a look of concern flashes over his features, quick and brief.
“You feelin’ alright, there, Jackie?” Francis asks him for the second time on the duration of this trip, and Jack waves him off, much like he did back in the saloon.
“‘M fine,” Jack says, gestures for Francis to go ahead, take the lead.
“- This life, this way? Well, we’re the last, I reckon. And we -” Jack can hear Arthur saying as he follows after Francis, quickly. Step for step.
“Hello, again, sir,” Francis calls out, interrupting their conversation and stepping out in front of them.
Arthur comes to a stop, as does John and the horse Arthur’s leading beside him, all like some sort of domino effect as Arthur first regards Francis, then Jack behind him.
“Hello, Mr. Sinclair,” Arthur gives Francis a polite nod, then glances to John, and he’s noticeably tense again. His gaze sweeps over to Jack again, and then, “Mister..”
“ - Mansion,” Jack fills in, recalling the name from one Sam Odessa that he’d met back in Gaptooth Ridge so many years ago. One that had amused him at the time, and unfortunately for him, the only one that he can currently think of.
This has Francis glancing back at him, giving him a look that could be read as somewhere between skeptical and amused. (James Mansion...very convincing, sport.) Jack meets this look with a mere shrug and Francis diverts his attention back to Arthur.
“Right,” Arthur says, nearly the same tone as Francis seems to convey into Jack’s thoughts with a mere look.
“And you are?” Francis is asking John now, hand extended out. John looks at Francis’s hand before he takes it in a short but firm handshake.
“Nobody.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s true at all, mister -” Francis is saying, his voice bright and cheerful and patient as always, before Arthur cuts him off.
“You know who he is,” Arthur’s voice is tight, low. He squares Jack with another look. “I know he does. Now, what do you two want?”
Francis recognizes the danger in Arthur’s tone, the sort of patient snarl to it, and raises his hands up slightly in surrender. “We don’t want any trouble, sport, we’re just -”
“Do you know of an Edgar Ross?” Jack steps forward, in front of Francis, addressing John now, in a sort of challenging manner. Tense and shoulders squared, shielding Francis on instinct. The same way Arthur seems to be doing with John.
John looks at him, then at Francis, then back again. His brows furrow. “Who?”
“Edgar Ross,” Jack repeats. “He’s with the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”
“Why?”
“Do you know him?” Jack asks again, a bit more sternly this time.
To which John scoffs, a short amused huff of breath. “No, I don’t know him - why?”
“I’m supposed to deliver a message to you,” Jack tells him, his gaze still strong and unwavering. “telling you to stay away from him, no matter what, do not trust him.”
And John looks to Arthur at that, the confusion and aggravation clear on his face again.
“Why?” John asks. “What’s he got to do with me?”
Jack knows it’s a long shot. He knows his father - his father to a currently four-year-old version of himself, has no reason to believe any of this. That some strange man that he isn’t even aware of could be any harm to him, and that an even stranger man is here telling him about it like it’s some foreboding doom.
But, even then, Jack feels as if he has to take the chance. Drive this prediction somewhere deep into that stubborn will of his - one as stubborn as his own.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, trust me,” Jack tells him. He has the urge to reach out, lay a hand on John’s shoulder perhaps to help emphasize his words or atleast convey them. But, he doesn’t - just keeps them pinned to his sides. “just please, stay as far away from him as you can.”
There are so many ways Jack can think of where his father could avoid the trouble bestowed upon him in future years. Although John never talked much about it, Jack felt like he knew the general idea of what his mother and father went through in their younger years.
Perhaps leaving Dutch’s gang would be a start. Perhaps just killing Dutch, Bill, and Javier as soon as he could would be another one. But, the way Jack figures, most of his father’s problems started and ended with Edgar Ross, so he guesses it’s best to start and end there.
***
Francis finds Jack later, hours later - after the run-in with John and Arthur that just left Jack with a few more questions in his head and an empty, hollow feeling in his gut. He finds him in his hotel room, the one adjacent to his own, and Francis lets himself into Jack’s room with a mere couple of swift knocks at the door - practically the same way he’d always let himself into Jack’s apartment back in New York.
That empty, hollow sort of feeling had eaten away at Jack, made him feel an abundance of feelings he’d squashed so far down for so many years. Anger, grief, anguish - downright hopeless.
All it took was one glimpse, one conversation, one interaction with his father - something he’d dreamed about, had perfected in his mind.
He couldn’t say the things he’d wished to say to his father, not the things he’d say given the opportunity he ever got to see him again. That he missed him, that he was sorry, that he loved him.
Jack supposes if he got to see his mother, all bright-eyed and quick-witted as she was in Jack’s memory - he’d probably break right there on the spot.
But this version of John Marston - still young and arrogant, not quite the same as the version Jack’s mind recalls automatically - all-wise and filled with regrets, an aspiring family man that never could quite be, is enough to have Jack all red in the eyes by the time Francis finds him.
Jack remembers the look on his father’s face when he’d found him outside of the barn. Peaceful despite the state of himself, a contraction that seemed cruel at best. For the longest time, when Jack would close his eyes at night, that’s all he’d see.
Shot down like a dog.
For years, he dreamed about his father every night. Still alive and happy and well. When Jack woke up, sometimes, it took him a minute to realize that’s all it had been - a dream.
He’d wake up in his apartment in New York thinking he was still in his small bedroom back on Beecher’s Hope.
And with Francis there, in his hotel room, Jack can’t bring himself to look at him.
But he can feel Francis’s gaze, all warm and concerned and just too goddamn much.
“Jackie,” he says, hesitantly, at first taking in the state of Jack - sitting on the edge of his bed, a complete mess, undoubtedly. Then, “Jack.”
Jack looks up at him, exhales a shaky, small breath, and Francis is crossing the room, hauling him to his feet, and pulling him into a hug.
Jack falls into the embrace, leaning heavily against Francis and wrapping his arms around the other man, his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. They say nothing, only Jack’s still-shaky breath fills the room, a bit ragged and worn.
Jack’s chest feels heavy, like his ribcage is closing in too tight, and for what seems like the longest time, he just takes in the weight of Francis against him, holding him up. His face pressed into Francis’s shoulder, his hands still clinging to the back of his shirt.
It’s not the first time the two of them have shared a moment like this - Jack’s own grief and regrets catching up with him and Francis being there to help him through it, but it is a rare one.
It’s not often that Jack allows himself to open up enough, and Francis is the only one he’s allowed to see him like this. But Jack’s grateful for Francis, in so many ways. Ways he’ll never be able to put into words, but he’s sure Francis already knows.
***
They’re talking about fishing again - twice within the same week. Jack is telling Francis again, about Arthur taking him fishing, going through the memories together like it’s a picture album they’re flipping through. All sentimental and nostalgic.
They’re still in Jack’s hotel room, both of them seated on the floor with their backs up against the side of the bed. Jack’s got his head thrown back, looking to the ceiling, and he tells Francis that he doesn’t have a single idea in the world as to how he could save his parents.
(Ross - I should’ve shot that bastard the moment I laid eyes on him.
Well, when exactly was that again, sport?)
Eventually, Jack makes the connection - a resumption from their previous conversation back in New York.
A “well, what’s stopping you?” left unsaid.
He hadn’t told Francis where he first saw Edgar Ross, but he does, now.
(Frankie, you’re a genius.
Well, I don’t know about all that, now.)
Somewhere in Jack’s photo album of memories, he can recall one, or two, or three men showing up one afternoon when he and Arthur were fishing together. Their faces are hazy, and Jack isn’t even a hundred percent sure these men were Pinkertons, but he’s almost sure he heard later on - somewhere, somehow - that they were.
One of these men, when Jack dwells upon it, watching the ceiling with Francis in the midst of a peaceful bit of silence - had to have been Edgar Ross. That same smirk, the same mustache, the same beady eyes - Jack’s not a hundred percent sure, but he’s sure enough.
***
They eventually find Arthur, along the Dakota River and nearby the camp that Jack vaguely remembers as Horseshoe Overlook. Most of his happier early memories originate from there, sorted out through his younger recollections like the warm sun peeking through clouds.
Jack spots Arthur’s horse, then Arthur, then the four-year-old version of himself - which is, undoubtedly, a little jarring to see. As the two ride closer, Jack sees that Arthur seems to be having a quiet altercation with two other men, one of which Jack recognizes almost immediately.
Jack motions for Francis to slow up, and then points to where the three men stand, along with his younger self, right along the edge of the river.
Both of them, still mostly hidden by the trees and bushes, come to a stop and dismount from their horses.
“You see, I haven’t done anything wrong,” Jack hears Arthur say, his voice about as tense and hostile as his stance - shoulders a taut line, fists at his side, one holding tightly onto a fishing rod. Four-year-old Jack standing behind him, peering out at the two men from behind Arthur. “aside from not play the games to your rules.”
“Spare me the philosophy lesson,” the other man is saying. Jack crouches down a bit to remain hidden, as does Francis, and the two move in a little closer. Step by step. “I’ve already heard it - from Mac Callander.”
“Mac Callander?” Arthur says, and there’s some obvious recognition in his voice. Jack, himself, vaguely recognizes the name - although not as prominent as some of the others.
“He was pretty shot up by the time I got to him, so really it was more of a mercy killing.”
“Slow, but merciful,” the taunt in the other man's voice is clear, the vileness of it. Something about it makes Jack’s hand hover over the gun in its holster. Shiny and brand new, bought a couple of days back at the gunsmith in Valentine.
And with that, Arthur is provoked enough - throwing the fishing rod to the ground, which causes Edgar Ross to raise his gun up and aim it directly at where Arthur stands. A chain reaction. Jack moves in closer, pulling out his own gun, Francis follows closely and silently behind.
“You enjoy being a rich man’s toy, do you?”
“I enjoy society, flaws and all,” the man grits the words out, and Jack turns to Francis with a whisper of a “get your gun” before the two of them step out of the trees, but still out of anyone’s line of sight. “you people venerate savagery, and you will die - savagely. All of you.”
“Oh, we’re all gonna die, Agent.”
“Some of us sooner than others,” The man says before turning away and heading back towards his horse. “Good day, Mr. Morgan.”
“Goodbye,” Arthur offers the farewell without any hint of a pleasantry. Jack pulls back the hammer on his revolver, the slight click of it not loud enough to draw anyone’s attention just yet. He hears Francis do the same behind him.
“Enjoy your fishing, kid,” Ross steps back, his weapon no longer aimed at Arthur, and addresses four-year-old Jack, who still lingers behind where Arthur stands. “while you still can.”
“Oh, he will, Agent,” Jack calls out, speaking up for his younger self and stepping out into view, his gun aimed directly at Ross’s chest. In his peripheral, he sees Francis come to a stop beside him, his own gun aimed at the other agent. “don’t you worry about that.”
Jack glances at Arthur, who stands just as stock-still as he did before - under any other circumstances, Jack might get a chuckle out of how bewildered he looks right now. Instead, he remains with his gun aimed at Ross, and nods back towards Arthur’s horse.
The two agents begrudgingly raise their hands in surrender, with Ross even dropping his own weapon without having to be told so.
“Arthur, take Jack and get out of here,” he tells Arthur, and still, Arthur hesitates. “Now.”
Arthur moves then, quickly picking up the child still lingering behind him and carrying him over to the horse. Jack doesn’t see him mount the horse, or pick Jack up and put him in the saddle with him, but he waits until he hears the sound of hoofbeats fading off in the distance before he makes his move.
“Who’re you -” Ross starts, and Jack fires one quick shot and then another at the other man as he reaches for his gun.
Jack thought maybe it’d feel different this time - shooting Ross all over again, but it doesn’t. But, then again, truthfully, he isn’t sure how it would feel.
***
“You need to leave,” Jack’s telling Arthur when they catch up with him about half a mile away. He’s still got four-year-old Jack sat in front of him in the saddle, and he’s still got that bewildered look on his face - more prominent, more irritated. “You, John, Abigail, and Jack - you all need to leave - I don’t know how Dutch van der Linde and the rest will take it, but -”
Like a man who demands answers - and Jack intends to supply them, as difficult as that may be.
“Now, just hold on a minute,” Arthur cuts him off, his voice low. Something close to a growl, dangerous - like an animal being backed into a corner. He leans forward, his voice drops even lower, like he’s trying to keep from young Jack hearing him. “Who the hell are you two? How’d you know those Pinkertons was gonna show?”
“I’m trying to help you, that’s all I’ve been trying to do,” Jack tells him, and he glances back at where Francis lingers near him, still on his horse. “That’s all we’ve been trying to do.”
Arthur glances at Francis too, and then back at Jack - his look still as flat and irritated and stormy as ever.
“Who. Are. You?”
“You won’t believe me if I tell you. Please, just go - find a ranch somewhere,” Jack is pleading now, his own desperation clear in his voice. “live out the rest of your lives quietly. You won’t survive if you keep this up.”
“Try me,” Arthur’s as calm and collected as always, despite that slight frustrated edge in his tone. “I know you’re no James Mansion or whatever phony name you tried passin’ off.”
Jack pauses, glancing over his shoulder at Francis before returning his attention back to Arthur. He sighs, a long-winded breath of air.
“Jack, my name’s Jack,” He tells Arthur, his words paced out. “I’m John and Abigail’s son, Jack Marston.”
Arthur takes this bit of information just as Jack expected him to. Even glances down at the four-year-old seated in front of him with furrowed brows while the kid peers up at his future self with just as much uncontained confusion. “What?”
“I told you, you wouldn’t believe me,” Jack continues, glancing back at Francis once more. “I - we’re from the year 1925, alright,” He turns his attention back on Arthur, gestures to Francis who idles by with a jab of his thumb. “he helped me get here, to save you - to save John and Abigail.”
“What is this? Some kinda joke?”
“Huh, I wish,” Jack chuckles humorlessly. “You gotta trust me. You can’t live out this life forever, and you definitely won’t if you keep it up, so please - just, leave.”
Maybe he can save his father and his mother, maybe he can save Arthur and spare his father the pain from grieving that he so rarely spoke about.
Maybe he can save his sister, maybe he can save Uncle from dying on their front porch in a condition no better than the one his father died in - shot down like a dog.
Maybe he can save himself, and his own grief that ate him alive, made him into a person his parents didn't want him to be and spent the rest of his life trying to make up for it.
***
(“You’ve come a long way, Jack. You were so different when we met,” Francis says to him, sitting on the steps of Mrs. Sinclair’s porch. Slouched over a bit, forearms propped up on his thighs, and his words are painstakingly sincere - all sentimental like the version of Jack that arrived in New York for the first time was anyone to be wistful over. “all hard-boiled and angry like you’d bump off the next fella that looked at you funny.”
He watches Jack where he stands, looks at Jack looking down at his own shoes like he can’t quite meet Francis’s gaze just yet. Jack knows Francis isn't rushing him to, either - he can look when he’s ready.
“I haven’t, not really,” Jack shakes his head, hands in his pockets, still looking down at the ground. He sighs, lets his eyes wander up a little ways, and he watches a couple of trees in the distance as their branches are jostled slightly by the wind. “Seems I still got blood on my hands, revenge is nothing but a fool’s game.”
“Maybe so, but this isn’t revenge, sport,” Francis says, and Jack glances over at him with that. The corner of Francis’s mouth quirks up, as if in a silent celebration of gaining Jack’s full attention. “It’s redemption.”)
***
The letter is the first and most significant sign that Jack finds when they are back in New York. Back in the year 1925. Back home, in Jack’s ordinary little apartment. The thing that shifts all Jack’s doubts and worries to the back of his mind, dismisses all the thoughts about the past few days being something he’d dreamt.
Technically, Francis is the one to find it.
He finds it on Jack’s coffee table - a neatly folded piece of paper. He opens it, his eyes scanning the page while Jack is searching his surroundings for any sort of difference or confirmation.
He clears his throat to get Jack’s attention, refolds the paper, and hands it over. At the time, Jack isn’t sure what it is that Francis is handing him, but Francis is smiling, all subtle like he’s trying to hide it but not quite succeeding. So, whatever it is, it must be good news.
And that, it is.
A letter addressed to Jack, written in familiar handwriting, asking him to come visit at Beecher’s Hope for the weekend.
Jack already knows who the letter is from when his eyes glance down at the bottom of the page, and yeah, sure enough.
His mother, father, and uncle Arthur.
“Well, sport,” Jack says, the words coming out in a short relieved little breath, and Francis is still smiling when Jack glances up at him. “Guess it’s about time I introduced you to my family - properly, I mean.”
Francis chuckles at that and reaches out, placing a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Couldn’t imagine a finer way to spend the weekend.”