Chapter Text
The last week has been unpleasant, to say the least.
Actually, the last month. The last several months, maybe, all in turmoil and moving around and running, and running, and running.
It's not that he don't trust Dutch. He trusts the man with his life, has for years, and it hasn't failed him so far. Has kept him safe and fed and clothed better than probably any other option he had when he came to the states. But all the trust in the world ain't gonna cancel out the fact that he's just plain scared.
People keep dying, keep running off, no matter how hard Dutch tries to keep ‘em all together. He's only a man at the end of the day, and so are the rest of them, fragile and frightened and tired.
Javier himself feels all three and more, especially after the hell they went through in Guarma. Those bastards beat the hell out of him, shot him, poked at him with sticks like some animal in a cage, but Dutch and Arthur got him out. Dutch has never not come through for him. He's grateful to have come out the other side with nothing more than a stiff leg that aches when he stands too long.
In the last week since he's been home, he ain't exactly had the time to do much of anything at all aside from wait and worry, especially seeing as they were sent running from their new camp the night they arrived. Welcome party courtesy of the Pinkertons.
And he knows he looks rough, scruffy beard and too-long hair rebelling against its tie, but he's tired, damn it. He's tired and in pain, and he will get to it soon. It just don't seem a very high priority at the moment.
Dutch is real fired up, and not in a good way. He's quiet and odd, hiding away in his tent all alone for hours, and it's just not how it used to be. He has faith it'll get back to normal, somehow, but there's some little part of his mind that's questioning how exactly. How did they get here? And more importantly, how will they fix it?
When Arthur and Sadie come riding back into camp unexpectedly, a stripe-clad John in tow, the atmosphere in camp takes a strange turn.
Javier's sitting by the fire when it happens, a cold shift like the entire group of ‘em are scolded children gone quiet.
Dutch ain't happy to see John back, which does confuse Javier at first. A member of the group returned without being hanged is surely a good thing, no? But after considering it, it does make sense.
Dutch certainly had a plan for getting him home, and Arthur went against him to do it his way without asking. The risk was too big, and he might've put an even bigger target on their backs than they had before by doing it. Could've even ended up losing three men instead of just one if it'd gone wrong. Well, two men and Sadie. But still.
Later that evening, Javier's sitting on his bedroll, backed up against the wall of stone that leads into the camp. Dutch and Micah are at the table talking in hushed tones, and Javier ain't trying to eavesdrop, but his ear keeps catching tail ends of what they're saying whether he likes it or not.
Talks of rats, of convenient arrests, of betrayal. Betrayal from Dutch's sons- not just Arthur for not following plans, but John.
And it makes sense, doesn't it? He was arrested when the Pinkertons have killed everyone else, whisked away from the gunfire to safety. Kept for weeks and weeks instead of hanged. Abigail made it out safe but not Hosea. Was that part of some deal? Micah certainly thinks so, and Dutch ain't exactly disagreeing.
The whole thing turns his empty stomach violently. He wouldn't, would he?
Could he?
A man he's considered his closest friend for years?
He's not sure what's more distressing- the fact that it's an option at all, or the fact that he don't entirely disbelieve it. Anything is possible, it seems, especially nowadays.
The matching pains in his heart and his leg drive him from sleep and leave him wandering aimlessly across camp while others rest.
It feels strangely unfair that their situation has gone so horribly awry. Sure, they're criminals. Killers and thieves. But isn't everyone entitled to a search for a better world?
Javier spends the night cleaning his guns, sitting at the fire, standing at the edge of the water, circling the perimeter of camp anxiously. Restless.
Just as the sky is beginning to lighten, he walks up the slightly inclined path out of camp. And there, just outside the bounds of their camp, is John- sitting cross-legged on the grey stone of the cliff overlooking the water.
He ain't spoken to him since he returned. Maybe it's cowardice, or something else. But the other man don't seem so threatening right now, all curled in on himself and alone, hiding away from the rest of them.
Javier approaches carefully, or as careful as he can manage on very tired, very sore feet. Gathering the courage, he stops far enough behind to keep them both safe, and speaks.
"John."
John jumps, startled, turning his head to frown at him.
"Javier." He greets. His eyes scan Javier from head to toe.
"Welcome back."
"Yeah. Home sweet home." He grumbles, then just turns away again.
Javier ain't sure what exactly he was expecting in the way of conversation.
He stares at the back of John's head. He's not doing anything, just sitting there quietly, and it strikes him that he's so unbothered by Javier's presence that he'd turn away from him entirely. Not just a dismissal, but a communication of trust, whether he means it that way or not. He knows Javier's the last man on earth who would cause him harm. So if he trusts Javier so much, why doesn't Javier trust him back anymore? The question alone is enough to squeeze his heart in his chest.
They're both hurting. May as well hurt together, just for a little bit, if John will have him.
So he takes a step forward, hesitant, and goes to sit at John's side. He stretches his stiff leg out in front of him, kneading at it with the heel of his hand, and he can feel John's eyes on him as he does.
"Cuba ain't treat you well, huh?" John questions, ever so quiet.
" Guarma… and no."
It's not so much that he doesn't wanna talk about it, ‘cause he does. The stress of the whole thing sits heavy in his mind, and all he wants is to share it with a sympathetic ear. Something John's always been for him.
But something's stopping him, a cork in his throat made of eroding trust, and fear, and exhaustion, so he keeps it in. They will discuss it together some day, more likely than not. Right now ain't the time for it.
"I'm sorry."
The misplaced apology comes so softly from John's mouth, and it feels real, feels genuine and remorseful, and it hurts him worse than any bullet could. Really has him thinking.
The way they've drifted apart since Blackwater has weighed on him for months. He couldn't really put a finger on why it was happening, between all the fits of chaos in their lives, but in his downtime the fact of it would cross his mind- he felt truly alone, sometimes, instead of alone together.
As soon as Javier turns to meet John's eye, he wants to apologize back. For what he ain't entirely sure- for everything, he thinks.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
"Yeah." Is all that comes out.
John just stares at him, tired grey eyes locked onto his own.
He's dressed in his normal clothes, but his skin is burnt and dirty, his cheeks hollow, his beard grown out longer than Javier's ever seen it.
He looks exhausted. He looks haunted, really, and there's nothing Javier can do to help.
One last time, Javier thinks. One last time, just to comfort John, maybe to comfort himself, just a distraction from everything that's been screaming and tearing at the corners of his mind lately.
Javier leans forward, real brief, and pecks a kiss to John's lips.
Why he did it he doesn't know, but he don't really have more than a moment to think on it before John's dragging him close again by the nape of his neck.
He shuts his eyes, but instead of being kissed again, he just feels John's warm breath across the skin of his lips as he whispers.
"Just… let me have this." John pleads.
He's never been good at saying no.
So he leans in, closes the distance between them, what little there is.
It feels like it used to, almost. Almost.
John tastes the same, smells the same, feels warm and human against his lips and his tongue and it occurs to him with a slight delay how much he'd missed this.
John's other hand circles around to rest against his back. It's been an awful long time since anyone's held him.
So he moves closer, puts his hands on John in return, more cautious than he's touched anything in weeks. Feels the push and pull of his ribcage through his vest as he breathes.
When they finally break apart, John drops his forehead down onto Javier's shoulder, clearly unwilling to end whatever it is they're sharing here.
His fingers brush against Javier's, asking for something he ain't sure he can give, but he does anyway. He covers the back of John's hand with his palm and keeps it there.
It shouldn't hurt, none of this should, but it does. It feels like the last of something, the end of something, and his battered heart gallops uncomfortably in his chest over it.
He misses something- many things- he ain't even really lost yet, and it tugs and beats at his soul in a way he's never felt.