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John wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong.
Had to be something, of course. As standoffish as Arthur could be, weren’t like Arthur was the type to cold shoulder him for nothing. And yet: since he’d gotten in, Arthur hadn’t said more than a handful of words to John, just sat, back to the fire, watching the grey slurry of snow fall just outside the mouth of the cave. Left John to sit by himself, stir at the banked embers, stew and wonder just what the hell Arthur was playing at.
He’d been late, getting back. John had already had time to build the fire, only big enough to keep them warm against the blizzard and not signal any pursuers, had time to lay out the bedroll he’d stashed here days before, to clean his guns.
Had time to sit and goddamn think, and that was never a good thing.
Though John knew he likely shouldn’t’ve been worried, the deep knot that settled in his stomach said otherwise, despite the fact that they’d laid this out weeks ahead of time, scouted out the shallow, hidden cave in the hills to hide out in, despite how they’d planned to split into pairs after the job for the express purpose of keeping risk low. Even despite the fact Arthur had Boadicea, and Bo could get him out of near anything.
Thing was, the snow had started hours ago, had already started flaking down by the time the first shots were fired by the law, and the cold had been persistent even before things broke bad. The whole ride John had felt it leeching into himself, despite the warm neck of his stolen gelding he tucked his fingers up against and the layers of wool under his coat. And sure, Arthur had done this plenty before, but things could go wrong in the thick of the snow.
But Arthur had emerged from the darkness after all, Bo puffing and exhausted but unharmed. And when Arthur asked if John had been followed, more snap than question, John only shook his head, muttered, “In this snow?” back.
It wasn’t a question if Arthur had been followed. Weren’t like Arthur would ever let that happen.
John poked at the fire again, embers flickering against the can of beans he’d stuck there earlier. He was hungry enough, that edge to his stomach that always appeared after the stress of a job, but he couldn’t bring himself to eat. Not with Arthur still sitting there, back to him, all broad, unfeeling leather.
Goddamn Arthur Morgan. Weren’t like this was the first time Arthur had given him the cold shoulder, but it was the first since, well—
John made a decision, and let his legs carry him to his feet before he could think better of it. Snagged the can from the fire, wrapping the end of the blanket he’d had draped over his shoulders around it to keep his hands from burning. A quick few steps and he was by Arthur’s shoulder, shaking the can at the other man, asking, “Hungry?”
Earned him a scoff and Arthur turning his head away just like John thought it might, but John took the invitation anyway. Settled down next to him, shoulders just knocking up against each other. Too close, maybe, but that was how it was, these days. After a moment, he nudged the hand with the can up against Arthur as another way of asking, and near immediately was jerking the same hand back with a hiss. “Christ, Arthur, you’re freezin’.”
Arthur snorted and, for the first time in what must’ve been an hour, turned his eyes on John, a glare that John knew Arthur well enough to interpret as halfhearted at best. “It ain’t gonna kill me, Marston. You know that.”
It wouldn’t, sure. What they were, it would take a fair bit more than some cold weather to take them out, not when the law hadn’t managed it so far. Didn’t mean Arthur couldn’t feel it though, and the color of his exposed skin made John shudder. Arthur could pretend to be unaffected all he liked, but the pallid white of his skin where his blood ran thin, the majority of it retreated into the warmth of his core, that told a different story.
“Don’t mean you gotta be a fool about it neither,” John muttered, because that was easier than the rest of it.
“Like you’re one to tell me what a fool looks like.”
“Hey, I ain’t the one who looks like shit.”
John didn’t mean it to come out as harsh as it did, but the thing was, Arthur did look near dead on his feet. Not just the tint to his skin, but the dark rings under his eyes, the far away edge to his gaze, like he weren’t looking at John but through him.
It only earned him a glare, a real one this time, a low, “Ain’t asked your opinion, Marston,” as Arthur glanced out into the storm again, snow still coming heavy and thick. And then, “What?” as Arthur looked back at John, and John realized he had been unconsciously making a face.
“Ain’t what I meant,” John muttered, turning his own eyes away from Arthur this time. “Sayin’ it like that. Just goddamn eat somethin’, would you?”
Arthur snorted, but took the can from his hand anyway, peeling back the top with a still-gloved hand. Steam rose from it, all hot and thick, and Arthur tipped it back into his mouth anyway, regardless of how it must have burned. And John should’ve left it at that, should’ve moved back to his spot in front of the fire, took the victory as it was, getting Arthur to eat after a job like they’d just run. But he couldn’t bring himself to get to his feet, to do anything but sit next to Arthur, legs almost touching, looking out into heavy flakes of snow.
It was silent for a few minutes, Arthur chewing the beans, John unable to do much but sit there awkwardly, listening to Arthur breathe, hoping he wouldn’t say nothing about it. Hoping Arthur hadn’t noticed John hadn’t slept either, couldn’t even move himself to the warmth the fire promised, not with Arthur’s heart beating next to him.
He got his respite, briefly. Didn’t hold out, though, seeing as just as soon as Arthur swallowed the last of the beans, tossing the can aside, he was asking, “What the hell’s goin’ on with you, anyway?”
“You’re one to talk,” John immediately threw back, more habit than anything else.
“Marston,” Arthur warned, but it was half-hearted at best. John knew Arthur, of course, and knew Arthur wasn’t the type to go after him for answers, not unless he was particularly angry.
It was an invitation, though, and just one gentle enough to get John’s goddamn traitorous tongue moving.
“Weren’t sure where you’d been,” John said, slow, quiet. Because he wouldn’t admit the worry, the fear. Least not to Arthur, and Arthur knew it. Because that would be too much, too close, too much admitting to this thing between them, putting words to what they’d been circling in the darkness, to the shared breath and touches they so often pretended didn’t exist in the daylight.
“Christ, Marston,” Arthur muttered, and he got John’s meaning well enough if the tone of his voice was anything to go by. Not annoyed, but sharpened at the edges, something just teetering on the corner of something else, something John couldn’t ever hope to parse.
Instead, John rolled his shoulders, muttered, “Was hours, you were gone.” Because it was, had been hours of sitting at the fire, trying hard not to look into the snow, trying hard not to think, because, hell, this life weren’t nothing if it weren’t gonna kill them eventually, and John had already seen Arthur laid out too many times for comfort.
“Christ,” Arthur said again, and then he was wiping at his mouth with the back of a gloved hand, not looking at John. Was slow, quiet when he said, finally, “Weren’t like that, just—were tryin’ t’make sure things were done. That it weren’t comin’ back here after me.”
Didn’t clarify much. John just found his eyebrows drawing low over his eyes, and the frustrated grunt Arthur made more than enough showed the other man knew that it wasn’t an adequate explanation, that the words weren’t coming right for either of them.
Arthur huffed a breath of air, and it came out in clouds in what little light the fire and the approaching dawn afforded them. Breathed in slow before saying, “Listen, John. Saw you come off of Hickory, back in the thick of it. An’ sure, Javier was there and the two of you got out, but it was a goddamn mess, all of it. What—” and Arthur’s voice cracked, just slightly, and he cleared his throat— “What else was I supposed to do?”
That had been a blur, at least to John. The chaos of the aftermath, law set on them too thick and too quick, as soon as the bullets started flying, John’s world had narrowed to single pieces of information. The kickback of his revolver as he pulled the trigger. The smell of too much burnt gunpowder. Somewhere, distant, Dutch’s voice. A deputy leveling his gun at John’s chest.
And then Hick had tripped, sending John over her shoulder. Too much going on to process, and Javier had yanked him up onto the back of Boaz before John could even figure out if Hick had been shot. Still didn’t know, in fact. Not in the rush to get out of there, not when he had grabbed the nearest abandoned horse, split from Javier as soon as he could as a matter of safety.
No, what had happened to his grey mare, John wasn’t sure.
A moment of looking at his hands, playing at the edge of the lining of his coat, before John couldn’t help himself asking, “She make it out?”
Arthur didn’t have to ask who he was referring to. “Don’t know. Saw some horses down, some bein’ rounded up ‘fore I had to split. Plenty of grey on either side.” And then, lower, “’m sorry, John.”
“Ain’t your fault,” John muttered, ignoring the way the words settled something heavy in his throat. “You ain’t had t’stay, anyway. Ain’t like it’s your fault things went bad.”
“Was a mess, weren’t it,” Arthur said, quiet. And that, that seemed to strike something in him all over, because he made a frustrated noise, dragging a heel against the rock cave floor.
John peered over at him and, because he could never just let things sit, asked, “What?”
“Just— Just, how—” And Arthur jerked his chin away from John, nearly spat— “How long do you reckon we got left?”
John could feel his eyebrows scrunching up, couldn’t help hissing, “What?”
“How long you reckon we can keep this up, John?”
“The hell you talkin’ ‘bout, Arthur?”
“That was bad, that go ‘round. Ain’t never seen—” Arthur cut himself with a vague noise, something more pained than before, more raw. “Christ, we been runnin’ so long now. How long we got ‘til it gets us? ‘til one of us brings hell on the rest, huh? ‘til we don’t lose the heat and the law follows us home? I ain’t—I ain’t gonna be the one to bring that back.” And then, quieter, “Ain’t gonna—ain’t gonna be the one to bring that on you. Not to you.”
John blinked, and there was too much in his brain for his mouth. Because it wasn’t making sense, was the thing. Wasn’t like there weren’t risk, the lives they led, of catching a bullet and dying swift and bloody, but they knew that going into every job. What made this different? “Arthur, you ain’t—”
“Y’don’t understand, John, I can’t—can’t do that. Can’t lose—”
And Arthur’s mouth closed with a click, the look on his face saying clear enough that he’d said too much, and the thought finally connected in his head.
Arthur had been worried. Worried enough to linger, to make sure the law was well and truly gone before making his way back to John, even to see if he could tell if John’s horse had made it out unscathed.
John wanted to laugh with it, with the idea that here he’d been, fearing for Arthur, and Arthur was fearing for him right back. Fools, the both of them. Worried for each other in a way that hurt, that weighed heavy in the stomach, made them stupid about it.
John couldn’t help the smile that crept up on his face, could feel the edge to it, nearly with too much teeth. Made Arthur lower his eyebrows, though, jerk his chin out in the way that said he thought John was laughing at him, muttered, “What’s that goddamn face for?”
And then John leaned forward and kissed him.
This thing between them, they hadn’t talked about it. All it had been, stolen kisses and fooling around on hunting trips, all of it was much too fragile to put words to. John was no stranger to things ending, after all, and it made sense to expect that this too would come to an end, to not get too involved.
But still: the tentative touch of Arthur’s still too cold hands against John’s jaw, the way the tension slipped out of him as John’s hand went to his hip, as John leaned into him, as Arthur let him. And John couldn’t help the warmth that sparked through him at the touch, at the way Arthur kissed back, at the want in it.
And John knew, Christ, did he know, that there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do to keep this, to protect this thing between them.
Finally, after both too long and not long enough, John leaned back, and he was surprised at how out of breath he was, how Arthur’s chest heaved similarly against him. Didn’t stop him, though, from tipping his head so his forehead touched Arthur’s, from saying, “Listen, you stubborn bastard. I ain’t ever goin’ away, ‘cause I ain’t ever gonna lose you.”
It’s too much all at once, John knew that, knew it even before Arthur pulled his head back, turned away, a look on his face almost akin to being struck. His voice quiet when he murmured, “Can’t promise that, John.”
But it only made the feeling sink deeper in John’s stomach, the knowledge and the weight of it, that he’d fight tooth and nail, fight down to the nail. “Watch me,” John said, because he knew it. Knew he’d do anything to keep Arthur there with him.
Years later, John woke up cold.
It weren’t a feeling he particularly appreciated, not when he’d shared a bed with Arthur for so many years so he would be warm at night, and not when he’d been dreaming of the old days, back when things were desperate and fleeting. Didn’t help when he rolled over, grasping for another warm body, he found the sheets next to him empty, no Arthur to be found.
Reluctantly, John peeled his eyes open.
The house was dark, but not middle of the night dark. If John had to take a guess, it was somewhere approaching sunrise, the grey light just starting to creep into the bedroom through the windows.
He knew where Arthur was, of course, knew where he’d been the past few nights, seeing as no one else wanted to take watch in the barn in the dead of winter aside from sometimes Charles, and Charles was off on some thing or another. And so John reluctantly kicked the blankets off and layered over his union suit the warmest clothes he could find.
John stopped in the kitchen only briefly, the coffee pot shoved next to the coals in the fireplace instead of on the stove, just like he expected it would be. Old habits, all that. Poured two cups before shrugging a jacket on and stuffing his socked feet into boots, pushing the front door open with a shoulder.
They’d gotten a storm it seemed, and maybe that was the reason John had been thinking back on the old days. The last few flakes of snow were drifting down, a soft, thick layer making the prints they’d worn into the older snow into only vague shapes. John trudged through it all the same, crossing the handful of yards across to the barn.
He found Arthur there scrubbing his hands, the bucket steaming with the warmth of the water. And John knew that Arthur washing up signaled good news, even without the set of the man’s shoulders, the relaxed edge to his body that John knew well enough meant things had gone well.
So he sidled up to Arthur, dropped his chin onto the man’s shoulder, and Arthur didn’t flinch. Had likely heard John come in, and it wasn’t like there was much to flinch about these days. Just chuckled, asked, “Up early, ain’t you?”
John snorted, didn’t admit it was getting too cold in a bed alone that had woken him. Instead, asked back, “She dropped it, then?”
Arthur tilted his head back at John, the edge of a smile just barely visible at the angle John was at, shrugged his shoulders. “What d’you think?”
“Not surprised. She was lookin’ fit to burst.”
Arthur sighed at that, pulled away from John to towel off his hands. “Her own fault, gettin’ herself a winter baby. Keepin’ me up all goddamn night.”
“Went well?”
“All things considered. Baby’s already on his feet.”
When Arthur turned towards him, John pressed one of the coffee cups into his waiting hands. Practiced, as they had time to do. Arthur still have him a nod though, lifted the cup towards John in a gesture of thanks that was more habit than anything else.
“He healthy?” John asked as Arthur took a sip of coffee, more to fill the space than anything else. Wasn’t like he was particularly looking forward to heading out into the cold. The barn wasn’t as warm as the house, sure, but it was insulated, and it had Arthur inside it.
Arthur eyed John at that, and then jerked his head back towards the rest of the barn, towards the stalls where their herd was weathering the storm. Asked, “You wanna meet him?”
It wasn’t like John was anywhere near as involved in the horses as Arthur was. John had his beloved beasts, of course, Old Boy mostly retired but with a few gallops left in him every now and again, Rachel still in her prime and one of the best horses John had ever known, and he would do near anything for them, but he wasn’t anything like Arthur. All these horses, this ranch, that was Arthur’s doing. Training some horses, sure, making a living off of that, but so often just taking in lame or world-weary animals, ones that few others would spare the pasture space on.
Nags or not, Arthur loved them all the same. And that look on his face he got with them, like there weren’t nothing left bad in the world, John would do near anything to see it. The light of it, like looking into the sun.
So he followed Arthur. Down the row of stalls, all the way to the one they’d made double wide for birthing. Leaned on the stall door next to Arthur, arms nearly flush together, and peered at the foal nursing from his dam.
As Arthur said, the colt was already on his feet. Feeding good and strong, seemingly unaffected by the rough life his mother led the first few months he was in her belly. That was thanks to Arthur, the way he’d cared for the mare once they’d found her, before they even knew she was pregnant. Wasn’t a surprise, for sure. That was just the way Arthur was.
“Seems strong enough,” John said, quiet, glancing up at Arthur’s face, the dim lantern light throwing shadows across it.
Arthur just grunted in reply, didn’t look over at John. Focused on the foal, it seemed, because his eyes watched as the little thing stumbled across the stall, nosing at the straw and all parts of his little world. Watched, and then sighed, lightly, before saying, “Looks a bit like Hickory, don’t he?”
Christ, and if that didn’t hit John like a freight train. They had found Hick, all those years back, after the heat died down. Arthur had, in fact, like it was some sort of mission to find out what happened to John’s horse. Turns out, the mare hadn’t gotten hurt much more than a graze, just happened to trip funny in the chaos enough to send John off her back. She’d been taken in afterwards, some rancher who kept her fat and healthy in exchange for ranch work every handful of days. They’d even talked to the man on pretense of looking for work, heard his stories about caring for injured horses in the aftermath of the robbery.
Arthur had talked about stealing her back, had made plans to creep in during the night and take her away with them. He’d been ready, in fact, until John called it off, told him not to bother. They’d left Hick there, left her to the rancher that had taken her in, to spend her days herding sheep and getting warm mash every night.
Since then, John’d never been able to put voice to strong enough a reason to satisfy Arthur in why he left Hick to her new life. Truth was, though, thinking her gone for that week or two, only to find her happy and lazy and not being shot at—seemed a shame, to take her back into a life with as many bullets as they did.
The colt did look like Hick, or what John imagined she might’ve looked when she was younger. Dark in the way all grey foals were, but with the blaze and the two white socks in back visible against Hick’s dapples. Dapples he might have one day, as he grew and lightened.
His dam, unsound and unwanted and currently content to groom her newborn in the safety of their barn, Arthur had picked up on a trip into town for supplies. He’d never said exactly how he’d gotten her, but the anger in him on that first night said plenty about what sort of situation he’d pulled the mare from. They hadn’t even known she’d had a baby in her belly for months, not until she’d gotten so round it was impossible she was just bulking up on the last of the summer grass.
It was fitting, maybe. Her dropping a foal that looked the way Hick did, after Arthur had rescued her from a life that might as well kill her, so long after Hick was taken in from a life much the same. Only now, after Arthur and John had found peace.
John couldn’t find the words to say, and so things were quiet for a time.
And then, Arthur murmured softly, “You can name him.” A shrug, and even quieter, “Y’know. If you want.”
John couldn’t help himself snorting. “You’re gonna let me name him? Me?”
Arthur shrugged, but there was an edge of a smile on his face this time. “Figured you oughta get a second chance. Been near three years since Rachel.”
“Rachel’s a fine name.”
“Sure, if you want t’call your horse and have half the housewives in town think you’re talkin’ to them.”
“Shut it,” John muttered, but he leaned into Arthur anyway, because the bickering was more for keeping up appearances than anything else. Racked his brains, trying to find a name that would fit, and would satisfy Arthur.
Finally, “Aufeis.”
Arthur blinked at him. “’scuse me?”
“Aufeis. S—s’from some book Hosea had me read, ‘while back. Type’a ice, I think.”
“Sure,” Arthur said, and John could hear the amused edge to his voice.
“Quit laughin’, Arthur.”
“I ain’t,” Arthur said, insistently, like he hadn’t been near enough it a moment before. “Aufeis, then.”
“Listen, ain’t no Boadicea, but—”
And that did make Arthur snort, bump his shoulder into John’s. “S’fine, John. S’nice.”
“Sure,” John said sarcastically, but it wasn’t for anything more than the point of it. He didn’t mind, not really. Was the way things were now, the quiet rhythms of their lives.
It was cold now, and, looking over at Arthur, John could see the weariness in his face. Not anything like the dark, hard tiredness he used to get back in the gang days, when he was carrying the whole weight of all of them on his shoulders, but the sort of weary that came with being up too late in their average, everyday lives.
Still, “You look terrible, y’know,” John couldn’t help himself saying, nudging Arthur with an elbow.
“Ain’t so easy on the eyes yourself,” Arthur shot back, but there was no bite to it. Not when his shoulder was still pressed up against John’s, when his voice came soft and easy.
“C’mon,” John murmured, and drew Arthur’s hand into his. “Ain’t about to watch you make yourself sick.”
Arthur snorted, muttered a, “Ain’t gonna get sick,” but let John pull at him, towards the front of the barn, towards the warm bed they shared together and, if John had anything to say about it, towards some time tangled up in each other.
First, though, Arthur pulled open the door to the barn, and the bright light of the sun rising struck John right in the eyes.
Seemed the sun had done its job rising since John had come to the barn, and the last of the snow had cleared, the clouds with it. Now, the eastern horizon was awash with colors, from orange all the way to purple.
Arthur paused at it, and the soft glow that often came with light on fresh fallen snow was nothing compared to his face, all light and beauty. And the warm pinks and blues of the dawn, the way it spread across the surface of the snow, and Arthur standing there with his arm shading his face, half-stupid smile on his face.
Christ, it was overwhelming. So perfect and quiet, here with Arthur in the snow on their own ranch, away from all that came before. So overwhelming, John couldn’t even find words in his goddamn mouth. And then Arthur was turning towards John, that goddamn grin on his face, saying, “That’s somethin’, huh?”
John couldn’t help it; he was kissing Arthur near instantly.
It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t harried. Wasn’t the brief and desperate touches of their younger years, when they lived thinking each day could be their last together. No, this was soft, sweet, holding each other just for the sake of it, for the sake of their quiet little life on this quiet little ranch. And goddamn if John didn’t think this was near about perfect, the sort of life he wouldn’t trade for goddamn anything.
Finally, Arthur pulled back, only enough for John to look him in the eye, and there was some amused light there as Arthur said, “Wasn’t you the one tryin’ to go back to bed?”
John laughed, but it wasn’t enough in the space of the dawn. And then, “Ain’t no life else than this,” John said, only the words really meant I love you.
“Sure ain’t,” Arthur spoke back, and the weight in his voice, the way his head tipped forward to press his forehead against John’s, said well enough his reply more than words ever could.