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John glared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. It was a sad little place he and his family had taken over, some long-abandoned shack buried deep in the grizzlies. However desolate, it did its job to keep them out of the harsh winter conditions and away from the prying eyes of the law.
John just wasn’t used to the quiet.
Sadie and Abigail had taken to going on their supply runs, claiming they’d be less recognisable around town, leaving John to watch Jack and nervously pace around the room until he was dizzy. He could never manage to calm himself while they were out, imagining everyone they’d lost, everything they’d fought for being lost over a shopping trip.
This is the thought that finds him grimacing at the reflection of his scraggly beard in the candle light. He’d never grown out his beard before, usually the mocking he’d get would be enough to stop him from persevering, though he’d thought maybe something covering his face would allow him to take back the responsibility of riding into town every week. Besides, there wouldn’t be anyone making fun of him anymore. Though his attempt at a “disguise” was laughable. He idly traced the raised scars on his face, indents where his beard would not grow. Wonders how common it is for city folk to walk around with huge claw marks across their faces.
Damn fool. His ridiculous mistakes preventing him from keeping his own family safe.
John sighs and takes off his hat, running his fingers through his hair. The dark strands are pulled back off of his forehead, curling slightly on this neck, and John is hit with such strong emotion it makes him flinch.
It reminds him of feeling comforted and safe, fitting in and being protected, being taught how to read, going on fishing trips, of a deep voice and deeper, rumbling laugh, of shiny gold rings and the rattle of spurs. It reminds him of betreyal, fresh and painful, stinging in his chest and in his eyes. Of endless plans, a sneering, cold voice, of rotting away in a jail cell and staring down the barrel of a gun.
John remembers a time when he felt honoured over his resemblance to Dutch. When he was years younger they’d pretend to be a real father-son duo, planning cons that set them up like a perfect little family, and Dutch had put his arm around John, called him “my son” and “my boy”, and when those names carried on after the cons it had only added to the warm, safe feeling in Johns chest. John thinks about the sorrow in Dutch’s voice when he accused him of leaving him in that prison, then thinks of how quickly he had turned his guns on John and Arthur, his boys, his sons. He’s kept awake at night by the memory of Dutch’s bullets whizzing past his ears as they escaped up the mountain.
John’s gasping in breaths now, frowning in disgust at the thing in the mirror. Hardly thinks about it when he grabs the scissors and begins hacking roughly at his hair, long strands falling to the floor and in the bathroom sink. He thinks he hears knocking on the door but ignores it in favour of attacking his slightest connection to Dutch.
When he glances back at the mirror, he’s struck by how different he looks. He can’t remember ever having hair this short, black tufts of hair sticking up everywhere, just shorter than Jacks. John knows he’s never been a great sight to look at, but this choppy work just adds to the growing resentment he feels towards himself, and he’s not surprised when Abigail bursts into the room and immediately gasps, hands over her mouth. Christ, John disgusts his own wife, wouldn’t be surprised if she took Jack and left him, like he left her all those years ago, she could surely find something better without him, without a husband who can’t even take care of her, who sends her out into danger every week over a few cans of beans, and-
“Oh, John..” Abigail pulls his scruffy head to lean against her chest, wrapping her arms around him securely. She’s crying, and John thinks he might start crying soon, too. They stay that way for a few minutes, John’s breathing slowly calming, Abigail running steady hands over his back. He could stay like this forever, wrapped up in safety and, oddly, the smell of home.
“Want me to even it up for you?” She asks quietly but kindly, pulling away but keeping her hands on Johns shoulders. He nods wordlessly.
John has to admit his short hair looks much better once Abigail had delicately clipped it into shape, and is just relieved that she said nothing about the silent tears that he let out while she worked.
“You,” Abigail begins, admiring her work as she walks around to stand in front of him, “-are a handsome man, John Marston.”
John gives a small smile in return, and Abigail beams as she goes back to running her hands through Johns hair.
“You know, I’ve been thinking… ain’t no use both me and Sadie going into town every week. I’m sure she’d be real fine picking up those supplies all on her own.” She tries to sound casual, but Johns face crumples with hurt at the idea of Abigail thinking she needs to babysit him. If he were a bigger man, or perhaps if he were feeling less emotional, he would’ve tried to argue it, though he knew Sadie was probably more capable at defending herself than he was.
But John can’t bring himself to speak, and instead lets out a sigh of relief when Abigail draws him into an embrace, still stroking through his hair and murmuring quiet words of comfort. He wonders what he ever did to deserve her kindness, and resolves to be the man that she deserves.
He’s not Dutch. He’ll never leave his family again. He swears he’ll protect them until his dying breath.