Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“What’s happening?” Javier asks as he watches everyone milling about, packing quick as always - they have even built a routine around it with how often they have to leave. He’d just ridden back to camp after trying to gather herbs for the medicine wagon, hitching up just beside where Uncle was lazying about.

“Gotta leave. Some lawman recognized Dutch.”

“Again? We got here not so far ago.”

“Long ago, boy,” Uncle corrects. “We’re heading north.”

“Where?”

“Oregon or Washington. It’s good to hide there in the winter, ain’t no one too keen on lookin’ for outlaws in a blizzard,” he chuckles and elbows Javier.

“A blizzard?” Javier repeats in confusion and Uncle’s eyes widen a bit, forgetting he’s still learning English. He got good at it quickly, he’d forgotten.

“A snowstorm. Bad business.”

“Oh… they have snow?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. You ever see snow before?” Javier shakes his head no.

 “Well you’re in for a ride. It gets bad in November, we’ll be there by then. Hopefully already dug in somewhere nice.”

The boy doesn’t say anything else, wandering into camp to help somehow. He isn’t stupid, he knows what snow is and that it’s cold, that people die pretty gruesomely to it. A man in his village claimed once he’d trudged through snow as tall as a donkey, how he saw a man frozen to death and another lost two fingers to something he called congelación but not before they turned black.

It didn’t scare Javier that much. He’d never seen snow and he wasn’t convinced he ever would. 

Now he’s worried. Snow makes Javier feel like a little kid fearing a myth his parents made up to keep him from doing dumb things. He doesn’t even have any attire for snow. What do you wear? Javier is packing his stuff, thinking that if he layers his clothing, maybe he’ll be fine.

“Mister Escuella,” Miss Grimshaw calls as she approaches, making him jump a bit since she sounds mad about something. What has he done now? Half the time she’s telling him off for something, he’s already forgotten what she wants. He doesn’t have time to reply to her before she continues.

“Uncle told me you’ve never been in snow before,” she says and Javier glances over his shoulder at no one in particular with a nasty look. Everyone doesn’t need to know that.

“Yes,” he replies.

“Let me look at your- “ She wanders up to Javier’s packing and scrounges through it, tutting at his lacking wardrobe. 

“This won’t do, Mister Escuella,” Miss Grimshaw tells him, standing back up and placing her hands on her waist. 

“O…kay?” He hesitates, not sure of what he’s supposed to do about it. It’s quite ridiculous, being a killer and a thief and outlaw but not knowing how to properly dress himself. But it’s not like killing or robbing someone is tied to specific seasons or places that some never get to see. Not like they rob tailors’ clothes anyway.

He’s not sure what Grimshaw wants him to do. She’s like his mother in that way, the way that she says things that are open to interpretation and Javier always seems to interpret it wrong so he doesn’t anymore. He waits until she tells him herself.

Miss Grimshaw sighs and leaves him there, making Javier confused enough to just have him standing by his lean-to shared with Mac and Davey Callander. He used to be by Bill and Uncle but they snore… a lot.

He turns back and keeps packing, thinking that the last traces of anything like Mexico will be gone. Everything will be different in the north. At least he thinks so. Maybe there’ll be thick forests covered in snow all year round. How long will they be up there? Javier doesn’t know if he could live in the cold for very long. He doesn’t wanna lose his fingers or dig through snow like that man in his village. But what he said might not be true anyway. It probably wasn’t.

“We can’t stop on the way so I’ll lend you one of my coats.” Miss Grimshaw comes out of nowhere again, scaring Javier again and he turns around with wide eyes and pausing mid packing.

“Your coat?” He asks sheepishly. He doesn’t wanna be the only feller in camp wearing women’s clothes. He’s already being called a vain, effeminate peacock by the Callander brothers and Arthur (when he’s drunk).

The stern woman shakes her head with an unimpressed look, tossing Javier a thick bearskin coat and waving her hand at him dismissively.

“Men are so fragile,” she grumbles as she goes and Javier shrinks a little where he stands, feeling how heavy the coat is and holding it out to have himself a look at it. It doesn’t look particularly feminine but maybe someone with a more judgemental eye would catch it. 

It’ll do for now. He doesn’t have much else. Knowing that the nights get quite cold, he puts on his poncho and his hat, suspecting they won’t stop to rest unless one of the wagon horses collapses or something. It doesn’t seem entirely fair but Javier thinks that one of the members is gonna do that before any of the horses anyway. A more faithful animal there never was. He doesn’t like dogs all that much and cats scratch him, a horse has never failed him. 

Javier’s horse, Boaz, is the best horse he could’ve asked for. He isn’t troublesome, he’s brave and protective, a perfect steed but a greedy one, he loves treats. If Javier is ever near, just brushing him or cleaning his saddle, he’ll stick his nose into a pocket on his jacket or jeans. One time, the cheeky horse ripped a hole in a jacket he borrowed from Hosea when he had only ridden with them a few months. Luckily, the man didn’t mind all that much, he just laughed like he’d been in this seat too and reminded him that he could just sew it back up.

When he’s finished packing, he puts the most essential things in his saddlebags and the rest in one of the wagons driven by the somewhat neurotic Reverend. Most of the time he’s nice, even when all drugged. 

“Mister Marston, you think you’re gonna survive a winter in those rags?” Miss Grimshaw asks in that harsh, somewhat demeaning tone of hers. It took Javier very long to understand that she does care but she certainly seems tired by having to more or less baby a bunch of grown men. Javier turns in his saddle, looking back at John looking like he’s being reprimanded by his mother and hating it, planning some way to rebel against her.

“I’ll be fine, you old crone,” John complains and gets a firm slap. Javier bites his lip to keep from laughing, resorting to a snort that’s too quiet to hear from that distance. John’s always getting slapped for something. If it isn’t Abigail it’s Grimshaw and one time, it was even dealt by Karen because he’d made some advance on her. He’s a shit father to his and Abigail’s young son.

“You better watch your tongue, boy, or I’ll leave you in the snow. See how long you last then,” Grimshaw warns and takes a bit of John’s thin jacket and pulls on it before stomping away. 

John looks Javier’s way, scowling at the fact he’d seen them. Javier looks back around, pretending like he hadn’t seen them. As if everyone else hadn’t also. 

He doesn’t like Javier. At least it seems that way. Maybe he doesn’t like Mexicans, Javier just doesn’t know. All he knows is that he avoids speaking to him unless he has to and those times he helped Javier with improving his aim. Despite helping the revolutionaries back home, he never actually got to be in battle since he was ‘too young’ and stupid or whatever their reasons were. Not that any of the people he worked for actually saw battle either, cobardes.

It doesn’t make much difference. Javier doesn’t like him neither.

Since it was Pearson’s idea to move north instead of east, he and Hosea ride ahead of the caravan followed by Grimshaw and Reverend Swanson and lastly Uncle and Herr Strauss. The rest either sitting in the wagons or on their steeds.

Along the way, Javier finds himself in conversation with three of the ladies, Abigail, Karen and Tilly. He likes talking to them and it warms him in the chilly evening when he sees how gentle and soft Abigail is with her son in her arms, cradling him and speaking quietly in a way he’s not used to hearing from her. She’s a lovely girl and Javier can’t understand why John is so blind to it. He doesn’t wanna be tied down, like a free roamer. Like a child.

“Ain’t it hard?” Karen asks Abigail, nodding towards Jack who’s finally sleeping after having been fussing ever since they started packing. 

Abigail scoffs. “You tell me. He ain’t no one else’s but you can all hear him screamin’ and cryin’.”

“It ain’t like that,” Tilly is quick to tell her and she means it. She can’t speak for everyone but Javier is sure she speaks for most of them. The last thing on his own mind is some baby crying when he always hears the voices of his family echoing before he goes to sleep where he instead sees them there, feels them and hears them in his dreams.

“Thank you all for your help with him, by the way,” Abigail says and looks between the girls and even Javier even if he’s never done anything to help exactly. Not that he doesn’t want to, it just doesn’t feel like his place to ask. Maybe he should. 

“I know I don’t say it but between havin’ to force Jack’s useless father to even look at ‘im and keepin’ ‘im happy I guess I don’t get much time to say it,” she continues, seeming a little ashamed about something.

Javier doesn’t know if he should be in this conversation but he can’t just leave either. He likes Abigail.

“Any time, Abigail, you know that,” Karen reassures her and the smile on the young mother’s face warms all of them it seems, infecting them to give her the same one three times over. It seems to cement it in her mind that she isn’t some burden they carry with them for charity but someone that they value in the gang.

The exchange turns a little sour inside Javier however. What the hell is wrong with John? He’s got this lovely girl and a miracle of a child and he’s throwing it all away to do what? With the couple’s very public fights, it mostly seems like Abigail wants John to try to be a father in any way he can, not asking him to give up his freedom. There ain’t been a time when Javier’s heard her tell him not to go on a job because he might die, mostly that’s Dutch or Hosea, actually. Then John barks at her that he doesn’t know how to be a father and it all becomes one big cycle of John being defiant and rude.

Yeah, fuck John. Abigail is sweet, she doesn’t deserve that treatment.

“You know what,” Karen speaks up after a little while. “Tilly and I got Jack. You should get some rest.”

“No, it’s fine, ladies, it- “

“I wasn’t askin’, dearie,” Karen interrupts Abigail’s decline and she deflates, proving she really needs the time to relax. It’s not like John’s gonna relieve her of that trouble. Javier doesn’t even know where he is in the caravan. If he’s even in the caravan. Maybe he left and saved them all the bother of his company.

“You’re too kind,” Abigail thanks them, handing Jack to Tilly beckoning him over to her lap.

“Probably. Don’t tell the men,” Karen whispers and they laugh. They remind Javier of his sister and their cousins. They always had a close bond, a lot like this one. Each time he’s reminded of what he left behind in Mexico, his heart weighs a little heavier, sinking closer into the depths of despair.

Javier nods at Karen, announcing his leave to go on watch and to give them some space. She nods back, gentle unlike how she normally is. 

They make a few stops on the way to buy supplies, rob some coaches and to fill up on water wherever they can, seeing as Hosea said most water sources will be frozen in the winter. The plan is to settle somewhere south of some place called Spokane, a name which had Javier recoiling a bit. Davey made fun of how he first read it because of course he did.

Halfway through Oregon, the snow hits. Javier is huddled in Miss Grimshaw’s coat all and every day when it does, folding the collar up to conceal half his face while the rest of it is hidden under his hat and a scarf around his mouth. The first time Javier sees snow and it’s pouring down like rain almost, thick little flakes bunching up on the frozen ground and piling into what might become snow tall as a donkey. 

And the freezing part sure is true.

Even with all his layers beneath the coat as well, Javier feels the cold and the wind seeping into his bones. He’s rattling like a leaf in a storm, unable to shut the cold out. This is worse than any heat wave he’s had to withstand and he thinks it’ll be his end.

Until he wakes up one morning to a quiet he’s never really heard before. It’s almost serene. He’s never seen such a crisp morning in his life where everything seems almost frozen in time. There’s no wind, no sound, no disturbances. The sun glows orange through the trees as it rises to a new day, fog hanging seemingly very thin along the fields, the thick blanket of snow untouched in the distance glittering like billions of pearls. Suddenly, it seems like paradise. 

The trees look like ghosts while snow clings to the branches, barely casting any shadow.

Javier has to blink a few times against the brightness of the snow blanket and how the sun seems to reflect against it. 

It might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He can see for miles where the fog isn’t touching, even spotting a group of deer several yards away clear as day in their brown coats against the pale white snow.

He climbs quietly out of one of the wagons, his footsteps crunching and groaning under the snow. It goes up to his knees, making walking really difficult. He gets a little ways away as to not wake anyone and to get out of sight of whoever’s on guard duty when he digs his hand into the snow, grabbing a fistful of it and realizing it’s compact enough to hold. The more he squeezes, the harder the snow becomes. Javier drops it back into the snow, taking off his glove just then and dipping his hand into it.

He instantly pulls it back at the freezing sensation, along with marveling at how soft and pillowy it felt. He hadn’t felt snow during their travels, having clothed himself good enough and just trying to survive the freeze during the storm. Now he can touch it and enjoy it.

Maybe enjoy is too strong a word but he doesn’t hate it as much as he thought he would. It feels like compact wool, cold yet comforting somehow. Not at all the picture he’d got in his head thanks to that village man. He thought it’d be some frozen over hellscape, dead bodies littered along the paths they’d take to escape the law and their death sentences, limbs blackened like they’d been cooked over a fire that would freeze mid flare, locking warmth within a husk of ice. He thought he’d feel suffocated like walking through fire smoke.

While his nostrils feel like they’re sticking together while trying to breathe, it isn’t any harder to breathe. In fact, the air is refreshing and almost addictive, like cigarette smoke. There’s also the fact that all his breaths puff out looking like he’s smoking, billowing out in fluffy clouds of white.

He doesn’t know how long he just stands in the snow taking in his surroundings and the realization that he knows so little about everything. Long enough to hear Arthur speaking gruffly to him behind his back.

“What’chu doin’, Javier?” One year has passed and Javier still doesn’t understand why all of them keep saying Havier.

“Nothing,” he replies simply since that’s the truth. He's just standing there admiring a world he didn’t know existed nor believed was possible. Is this the same world he was born into? The cruel, hectic, treacherous and corrupt one. It isn’t. This feels like the furthest thing from it. This is what the heavens look like, frozen in people’s best times so they can live and love in them forever.

“You were practically dyin’ yesterday, why’re you out here?” Arthur questions and he sounds like he thinks Javier is sick or suspicious.

“He’s never seen snow before, have ya, tiny,” Davey says and has both Javier and Arthur turning to him. Javier hates his stupid nicknames, especially since Davey isn’t exactly reaching the top shelf either. 

“Pendejo,” Javier hisses at Davey, tired of him only ever contributing to a conversation by calling someone names of whatever nature he thinks he others hold. Luckily, it seems that he understands what Javier said isn’t very kind and eyes him venomously. It isn’t a threat, thankfully, because Arthur’s standing right there. Plus, Javier doesn’t wanna be decked into the snow. Not just yet, at least.

“Why don’t you go do somethin’ useful, you damn fool,” Arthur says, waving Davey in some vague direction.

“We need to dig the wagons out the snow, go do that instead.” Arthur mutters something as Davey scoffs with a sidelong look on his face sent to Javier, clearly malicious. He’s seen scarier Xolos than him but just as rabid, clearly.

“I’ve never seen snow,” Javier confirms then, going back to what he asked before Davey interrupted.

“You ain’t?” Arthur questions and Javier wonders then what he asked that made him say that. Did he accidentally say he isn’t snow? No. He knows that isn’t it. “Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t have,” he thinks, his eyes moving to the pale blue hue in the morning sky.

“When it’s not storming, it’s really nice,” Javier says and Arthur shrugs.

“I guess.”

Arthur’s a man of few words. Javier can appreciate that. He’s the same way. It’s not that he thinks his words have to have meaning every time he speaks he just doesn’t know what he wants to say to most things his friends say. It doesn’t make him feel lonely. He doesn’t think he ever will feel as lonely as he did when he first fled Mexico, even if it took him a while to feel like he belongs with these people.

“You wanna help dig these wagons out?” Arthur asks and Javier nods, always up to be of use. Sadly they only have two shovels, given to Arthur and Davey because they’re the strongest while Javier, Mac, Bill, Dutch and John are left to shovel with their hands. Reverend is in some trance or whatever, induced by his withdrawal, and Pearson just isn’t very efficient while Hosea’s trying to find some proper meat and not canned vege-tables and fruit. 

Somehow, sweating beneath three layers of clothes is worse than feeling like you’re so hot you wanna peel your skin off like a wet shirt. He feels much more trapped, stuck between a shield of sweaty warmth and a biting cold punch in the gut.

He has to open his coat for the first time in two days, letting cold air spread through the fabrics hugging him the tightest.

“Okay, gentlemen, this should do it!” Dutch announces from the first wagon in the caravan, rubbing his hands together since gloves will only keep you warm for so long when shovelling snow with your hands.

“Now we wait for Hosea to be back, eat good and be on our way!” Him sounding so jovial and high in spirits helps Javier take a steadying breath and realize he’d rather freeze and be warm at the same time than dead in a henhouse.

The hours pass, Javier is cold again and his coat firmly sealed up as the wind picks up a bit. The sky is still cloudless and wonderfully huge, that pastel color of early morning somehow though the pinks and oranges have long since faded.

Hosea isn’t back yet, however. Dutch tries to not seem bothered, seeing as the man usually knows what he’s doing in the wild, but even he isn’t immune to worry. If Hosea knew Dutch is doubting his abilities to hunt, he’d call him a hypocrite since he hates being doubted.

It’s Arthur who has to placate Dutch’s worry, reminding him that even before he was a conman, he was a hunter. He grew up in the mountains before he migrated to the east coast, honing his other skills there.

“It’s almost dark, Arthur,” Dutch says then, showing Arthur this pocket watch and how the arms point to 6.15. 

Arthur looks contemplative, wondering if he should trust Hosea or Dutch. It’s always been hard for Arthur to choose. Javier himself is more inclined to trust Dutch and thinks they should go look for Hosea, however he doesn’t insert himself where he isn’t needed or wanted.

“You know he’s gonna be cross with you when we find him,” Arthur relents and Dutch scoffs.

“Of course he will. I can handle Mister Matthews just fine but I’d rather he’d be alive,” he quips without any sign of laughter.

“Alright, men. Me, Bill and Mac stay here, guard the caravan. Arthur, Davey, John and Javier get out there and find that fool, please,” Dutch orders and they get their guns ready. Javier brings his poison throwing knives, in the case that Hosea’s in trouble with something far worse than an animal. He’ll admit, he hasn’t exactly studied North American animals but at least he knows there aren’t any snakes out in this snow.

“You and me, Arthur, eh?” Davey says, pulling Arthur into his side who just glares at him but doesn’t protest. Besides, of course he isn’t picking Javier to go with him but why can’t Davey and John go together and Javier and Arthur? John doesn’t like Javier much neither.

“Sure.”

John doesn’t look pleased.

“See you two later. If you don’t come back by ten I will shoot you both,” Arthur warns and John rolls his eyes.

“You ain’t our daddy, we can do this ourselves. The hell,” John mutters and yet doesn’t move out of their spot in front of the forest entrance running along the trail they’re riding on. In there, it’s too dense to bring the horses so they’re gonna have to wade through the snow. How great. He’ll be all sweaty again.

Arthur and Davey leave while Javier stands quietly by John’s side, wondering what the hell they’re waiting for. Seemingly for the two of them to be out of sight since that’s when John speaks up.

“We’ll cover more ground if we split up.”

Clearly, he knows Arthur would’ve clocked him for that terrible idea had he still been here and there’s a bigger chance John could’ve been convinced not to follow through if he’d still been here. How is Javier gonna tell him that-

“That’s the dumbest idea you ever had.” And you’ve had a fuck-ton of them is somewhere on his tongue but he keeps them inside for now. Maybe he’ll deserve it later.

“It’s one more idea than you’ve ever come up with.”

“Perezoso.”

“Yeah, hide behind your language instead of sayin‘ it to my face.”

“I did say it to your face.”

“You- “

“Fine, estúpido, go that way, I go this way!” Javier relents, not wanting to discuss anything with him anymore. John thankfully doesn’t look triumphant for having won this discussion or Javier would’ve given the bastard a concussion.

“Fine by me,” he holds his hands up in defense as if Javier had started it, leaving John to be the diplomat. 

On his last thread of sanity in such a short time, he raises his hand like he’s about to backhand him like Abigail does, hissing to him “voy a-“ but then lowering his hand and starting off into the west.

Javier mutters to himself, his anger building while having to navigate through trees with barely any space between each other in snow that reaches his knees and slows him significantly and the effort warms him uncomfortably. He keeps complaining about John’s nerve, the snow, the person who put him in this position, cursing all he said about this being enjoyable at all.

He finds some footprints here and there, most of them unknown to him. It isn’t until he’s far into the forest that he takes out his gun, remembering that he knows nothing of what’s out there. Maybe he shouldn’t have left John. That’s stupid. He let John’s stupidity soil him, leading him to agree to being mauled by some unknown beast probably.

The forest is quiet. Just some occasional bird chatter or a call of something that sounds almost like a coyote. He doubts it is. It’s darker in the density of the trees and the pine trees with the blankets of snow weighing them down to create things that look like thick pieces of cloth hanging down to either cage him in or hide something from him. His footsteps creak like before, his feet sinking deep down below the surface of the snow and having to raise his knees above his hips to be able to take another step.

Javier ducks under some pine branches, his hat accidentally touching it and a heap of snow falls on him, showering him in ice that slips between the collar of Grimshaw’s coat and his neck, making him shriek at the sensation of it crawling down his back, along with the snow caught in the fold of his hat brim.

He decides then, snow in his neck, cold and alone and probably not on any trail Hosea’s been on, that he hates the snow. He likes to look at it, nothing else.

Maldita nieve.

Snow is about to be the least of his problems. Sure, the cause of them but the very last thing on his mind. In the distance somewhere he hears something strange, almost like bone on wood. Something hollow being banged against a tree. And footsteps. Slow and heavy and quick, he thinks.

Or many legs.

Four. Like an animal.

Javier whips around, trying to find where the noise came from. The animal wasn’t hiding. It probably knows Javier is there. There’s something that looks like a horse staring at him through the trees. The horse… thing, has something on its head. Antlers or something, like hands of wood sprouting out.

It’s the size of a small hut, thin spindly legs and a body like a bear. What the fuck is that?

Javier backs away as the creature walks towards him, slowly like it’s just investigating or like Javier is simply in its way. He’s slow, his feet get caught in the high snow, he stumbles against the trees, never letting it out of his sight. His heartbeat thumps in his ears, he can feel it hammering on his chest, making it harder to hear if the animal is coming closer. It’s dark, it’s hard to see. He isn’t looking where he’s going, he’s backing away with his back turned.

Then he loses his footing. The ground beneath him disappears, sending him toppling into a small brook, not entirely submerged but doused in ice cold water, his thick coat weighing him down. But the noise of him splashing into the water sends the beast running off.

Javier gasps violently, his breath getting caught at the top of his throat, getting caught like a rock in machinery, staying there as he’s trying to swallow down some air as he tries to ride out the shock of the cold. Then as if the rock was lodged free, his breaths surge in and out uncontrollably instead, leading his limbs to finally unlock from the helpless way they’d been splayed out in the brook, making him scramble out of it and onto the snowy bank.

He’s shivering, rattling like his bones are just flopping about in his body. 

It feels like he’s dying. He can feel every inch of his body and how it prickles, like he’s being stung by needles dipped in fire.

Clutching at the bank while his feet are still submerged in the brook, Javier grabs his gun, nearly dropping it because of the shaking and how heavy it feels. Even his gloves are soaked. He manages to get a good grip on his revolver, aiming it without a target into the woods, hoping that someone’ll hear him.

He can’t remember if he just dropped his revolver or willingly tossed it away but he doesn’t know where it is anymore, too busy dragging himself off the bank and into the snow of stable ground. Speaking won’t do anything. The words are just stutters, his throat is still tight with a defense mechanism or something.

“John? Javier? That you?”

Arthur!

“Ar- Arthur!” His stutters prevent Javier from raising his voice. 

"¡Ayúdame!”

“I hear something.” Davey’s still with him. This is the one and only time he’ll ever be grateful to hear his voice.

“H- help!” 

“This way!” 

Yes! They’re coming for him! Javier’s limbs are wound up tight like they’ve been twisted around a pole, each and every limb tied around one. But at least he can breathe a single collected sigh of relief before he’s back to shivering and feeling like he’s shrinking into himself like a snail retreating into its shell.

The beast he’d seen earlier is far from his mind. As far as Mexico is.

”Jesus.” Javier opens his eyes, flooded by lantern light, soft and warm as if it’s tricking him into believing he’s getting warmed by it. Then the weirdly lit figures of Arthur and Davey come into view.

“What happened to you, boy?” Davey questions.

“Help him outta the snow, you idiot,” Arthur cuts in as he takes one of Javier’s arms and starts dragging him onto his feet with Davey’s help eventually. At least he’s got some semblance of a heart somewhere deep, deep in his hollow chest.

“How did this happen?” Arthur asks this time while Javier’s trying to find his footing, seeing as they’d been longer in the brook and in the water than the rest of him, it didn’t go so well. They drag on behind him as the two burly men haul him through the deep snow.

“F- fell,” Javier shivers.

“Yeah, we guessed that,” Davey comments and Arthur glares at him.

“You’ll be fine. We’re gettin’ you warm soon.”

Javier shuts down a little. He doesn’t remember the way from the brook to the caravan, all he remembers is his body being dropped into one of the wagons and his clothes being peeled off of him like a layer of skin, the flickering of a fire in the background.

He has no idea the fury unleashed on John upon Arthur’s, Davey’s and Javier’s return.

John found Hosea with two bunnies slung over his shoulder and told him Dutch was about to lose his mind with worry unless he’d come back now. Of course he does and they trample through the snow, unaware of Javier nearly freezing to death ten minutes away from their path.

Neither of the three men were there when John and Hosea returned but he figured they would be back soon. He smoked against one of the wagons, his mind entirely elsewhere and not worrying for two capable men and Javier who’s still got somewhat of a good head on his shoulders.

Well, until Mac calls out, “something’s happened to Javier!” And everyone is sprung into action. John tosses his cigarette and follows the other members to find Arthur and Davey more or less carrying a half-conscious Javier between them.

Shit, John thinks and suddenly feels a weird ache of guilt in his chest.

Arthur and Davey explain they find him by a brook, seemingly having fallen in and drenched himself in ice cold water, freezing on his own in a heavy coat and layers of clothes beneath it.

“Put him in the wagon. Give me blankets and all our lanterns. Reverend, help me get the boy out of his clothes,” Grimshaw coordinates and everyone gets to work to be somewhat helpful. Including John. He rushes to the wagon in the back, nearly slipping, and climbs in to find his own clothes, dry and huddled between their supplies. 

He doesn’t get far on his way back to Javier before he’s slammed into the side of the last wagon, luckily quick enough to avoid his head from banging into the wood.

“You fool, Marston!” Arthur reprimands, his hand twisted in his jacket, John’s toes the only thing tethering him to the ground while being pinned to the wagon.

“Sendin’ him out on his own when he’s never been in the snow before, what the hell were you thinkin’?”

“I- “ he doesn’t have a solid reason. At least not one he wants to admit to.

“You weren’t thinkin’ and you could’a gotten ‘im killed!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think… I didn’t think he’d get himself stuck in the water!” He tries but doesn’t get through to Arthur. All he does is stare him down for a second, huff at his stupidity and selfishness before giving him one last shove into the wagon and then taking John’s bag of clothes himself.

“Arthur!” John calls to deaf ears.

Chapter Text

Eventually they have Javier wrapped up in a pair of John’s jeans, two of his shirts layered, one of Uncle’s coats and two blankets. He’s still shivering, feeling like he’s going to forget what warmth feels like. He already can’t imagine what the sun used to feel like by the coast but that’s mainly because he’s a bit disoriented. Everyone keeps asking what happened but he can’t answer just yet.

Dutch orders that they keep going so they can find a place to hunker down, Tilly and Abigail and little Jack keeping him company with low chatter about the biting cold. Abigail curses John out to Javier and Tilly but he ain’t strong enough to make any form of reply.

Javier drifts in and out of it most of the time for two days. The girls have been awful kind to him, treating him like he’s some fluffy animal they gotta nurse back to health. When he’s conscious enough to appreciate it, he really does. He feels like a kid in Mexico, sick and feverish as his mother takes care of him. All that’s missing is some pozole. Verde, specifically. He prefers that one when he’s sick.

It’s been too long since he had pozole.

He wishes he could at least visit home. If it weren’t so goddamn far. If he weren’t a wanted man.

Javier can finally be unwrapped from the blankets and he keeps Uncle’s coat, seeing as his clothes haven’t dried yet in the biting weather. It’s on that day that they find a repossessed farm, abandoned and nearly buried in snow. Means they’re gonna have to do some digging to get in and some breaking to remove the planks in front of the doors. 

He wants to help but Hosea insists he get some more rest, not wanting him to get too warm either since that isn’t ideal. When he’s been sleeping by a fire for a day, Hosea promises he can go back to doing his duties.

According to Herr Strauss, they’re not too far from a town called Ewan and there’s a lake nearby, Rock Lake, that’s got a creek running through it. It’s perfect. They have a source of water and ways to get supplies. They’ll do well there as far as survival goes. As far as making money goes, that’s a lot more worrying. But if they’re ever desperate they could make their way north to Spokane. Spo-kane and not Spo-kan-e, apparently.

There’s a stable for the horses which is in the best shape out of all the buildings. The animals deserve it, they’ve been fighting very long and hard these past few days. Then there’s a supply cabin able to house three people and then the main cabin. Another house seems to have burnt down at some point. Javier is surprised for half a second since he has some doubts in him that this place even has summer. This is literally hell frozen over fashioned to look like heaven to deceive heathens like Javier.

Javier is waiting in the shelter of his wagon for the rest of the gang to set them up so they can move Javier to a nice fire. He sits bundled up in only one blanket now at night.

“Hey,” a scratchy voice speaks to him. Javier comes face to face with John, or well, he’s not in the wagon but standing there in the snow. Javier doesn’t answer. He doesn’t blame John for running into that horned horse but he surely blames him for leaving him alone so Javier fell into a brook and nearly froze to death. He doubts he would’ve been this affected by hypothermia had someone been able to pick him up immediately. 

“You alright?”

“Qué pregunta más tonta,” Javier states sourly, leaving John’s dark blue eyes to flicker towards some source out of Javier’s line of sight. 

“Uh… sure,” he agrees with a shrug. “Well… I wanted to… say- “

“That you wish the horned horse would’ve got me?” Javier says fully serious to the outside world while only doing it to mess with John.

“The… the what?” Well, it’s working.

“A big animal - looked like a horse with horns. What is that?”

John looks like he’s thinking real hard about what Javier could be talking about. He keeps sitting there, tapping his fingers against the wagon while waiting for John to get a grip.

“You mean a moose?” He questions loudly.

“I don’t know, that’s what I’m saying.”

“You asked!” John shakes his hands as if trying to dispel some evil or just their previous conversation.

“That’s not what I wanted to say. I wanted to say I’m sorry. I didn’t think that…” his words fail him, making the apology a little more than useless since he barely seems to know what he wants to apologize for.

“You didn’t think,” Javier agrees, huddling closer into the corner to move the blanket tighter around his shoulders and neck.

John deflates momentarily. “Whatever,” he mutters and leaves with one last annoyed glance tossed Javier’s way. And now that John has to work a little harder without Javier’s help, he feels better about being put in what’s more or less like a straitjacket to keep warm.

Arthur and Davey help Javier inside after despite the fact that Javier is fully capable of being able to walk the short distance between the wagon and the cabin but he can’t say he doesn’t appreciate the help. Arthur is particularly gentle. He doesn’t understand why but again, he isn’t bothered about it so he doesn’t ask.

He gets to sit in a chair, all bundled up. As punishment for leaving Javier all alone in an environment he doesn’t know, Arthur told Dutch to order John he’s got the first watch of the night and it’s set in stone that he will. He doesn’t seem pleased, cold and tired like everyone else.

For the first time in two days, Javier begins to feel warm. He can shed Uncle’s coat and also change back into his own clothes. John is an idiot but Javier isn’t so he still neatly folds the clothes he was somehow kind enough to lend him. But Javier doubts it was out of kindness, it might’ve just been guilt. 

Uncle, Bill and Davey stay in the supply cabin with a bunch of grief thrown Dutch’s way while he and Hosea share a room in the cabin followed by Abigail, Jack and John in the second room. Javier, Pearson and Strauss share the one with the fireplace while Karen, Tilly and Miss Grimshaw have the last separate room.

Lastly, Reverend, Arthur and Mac decide to stay in the stables, given the lack of space and the fact that the horses keep the place so warm anyway.

Javier’s beginning to see his predicament as a blessing when he’s allowed to sleep closest to the fire, feeling toasty and blessed to be in a house after so many days having to brave through the snow.

Dutch is over the moon about their luck, the next morning he’s standing on the porch of the house looking out over the land, bothering Hosea with his smooth talking. Javier used to be confused about their relationship, especially by the nature of it. It cleared up as time went and he found himself not bothered by it. It’s none of his business. Besides, can either of them be that bad if they took in a random boy too thin to work for them for at least a month, knowing no English? Dutch saved Javier, he can’t leave him because he’s an invert. They’re all criminals anyway.

Even Arthur seems less grouchy, happy to be working despite the snow. The sun has been glaring at them for two days, giving no heat in these cold conditions but at least it’s not storming.

Javier still doesn’t wanna leave the house, not suffering hypothermia anymore but clearly not keen on going back out in sub-zero conditions. He’s been offering to help the ladies with whatever they’ve needed help with and assisting Hosea with skinning whatever game Mac brings in. He’s clearly a great hunter given the quality of the hides and the meat. 

He’s currently helping Pearson with cutting vege-tables and the cook corrects Javier’s pronunciation. Apparently it’s not nothing to do with tables. It’s pronounced vecht-abels which makes Javier want to burn the entire English language.

Even that is crazy - lan-goo-wedch? It clearly says lan-gu-ah-ge. Is it fru-it? No, it’s fruut.

Don’t even get him started on Wed-nesday. Wens-day?

No matter. He’s trying to keep himself from cutting into his fingers when he hears some commotion coming from Abigail’s and John’s room. He puts the carrot and knife down and goes to the door, pressing his ear to it. 

“Get out from there, Jack!” Abigail orders though he barely speaks. Javier knocks on the door, asking if she needs any help.

It opens shortly after and Abigail’s holding Jack in her arms.

“We’re fine,” she sighs with a smile, bouncing him on her hip. “He’s finally startin’ to walk but he seems to like crawlin’ better. Little rascal just crawled under the bed.”

“Little devil,” Javier says, gently and Abigail nods in agreement.

“He found that too,” she says and turns in the doorway so Javier can see the neck of a guitar peeking out from under the bed. Javier’s eyes bug out in surprise. He hasn’t seen a guitar since before he left Mexico.

“He’s also a treasure hunter it seems.”

“I used to play,” Javier tells her and she looks almost delighted.

“Did you? Uncle plays the banjo but thank the lord he lost it on one of his drunken escapades. Did you stop or…?” Abigail asks, walking into the room and setting Jack down on the bed, picking the guitar up. It looks dusty and a bit matte compared to the ones Javier’s played before but it’s in shape. 

“It wasn’t a priority when I was starving in the streets, I guess,” Javier shrugs and takes the neck of the guitar out of Abigail’s outstretched hand, holding it in his arms and strumming on the strings. An almost vile sound emits from them, sour and terrible to the ears. Of course it isn’t tuned.

Javier gets to tuning it, the technique still impeccably intact and his ear for the right tune clearly still there. Once he’s done, he plucks a gentle tune on the strings and it has both Jack and Abigail sitting quietly and observing.

“That’s beautiful,” Abigail marvels and smiles, thankful that Jack is sitting quietly and comfortably in her lap for once.

“Thank you.” Javier’s face is warm. He ducks his head slightly because he knows what it means. She doesn’t need to see that. He’s never been good at taking compliments and with a lovely lady giving it it’s not exactly helping.

“You should play some by the fire sometimes so we can escape Uncle’s vulgar songs,” Abigail suggests and Javier waves the thought off.

“No I- I don’t know any English songs.”

“Then sing some in Spanish. It’s a beautiful language.”

Javier chuckles softly, looking down at the guitar and thinking that he’ll keep this and refresh his memory on how to play it. 

“We’ll see,” he decides and Abigail looks pleased.

He has to get back to work when Pearson catches him slacking off, getting a whack on his head for it and Abigail laughs at him for it before trying to put Jack to bed. John is a goddamn idiot for not seeing what he’s got and how lucky he is to have it.

A day later, Javier is tired of being confined to the house and puts on Miss Grimshaw’s coat because it’s thicker than Uncle’s and gets a tip from Mac to wrap some of their smaller hides around his shins and tie them in place since he doesn’t have appropriate boots or pants to keep the cold away. And the coat doesn’t reach that far anyway. 

After Javier is dressed, he steps into the gloomy day, his breath coming out in clouds again and-

“Escuella!”

Javier closes his eyes, heaving a deep sigh while listening to John’s footsteps approaching him in the snow which has mostly been shovelled away on the paths where they guard the grounds. He doesn’t sound pleased. But when does he ever? Javier can’t recall ever having seen John happy unless he’s drunk.

Not even two seconds. He can’t even be outside for two seconds without something going on. Is the universe trying to tell Javier something by sending John his way all the time?

“What?” He questions and John steps onto the porch, a bit too close for Javier’s liking. He steps away in response.

“Stay away from Abigail,” John warns him and isn’t trying to sugarcoat anything. Javier guesses he can appreciate that about John but the list is decidedly limited on likeable qualities.

He’s also not following what John means.

“I’m sorry?”

John scoffs. “I knew you’d try and play innocent,” he accuses and stabs his pointer finger into Javier’s chest trying to emphasise his ramblings. 

“I’ve seen you and her bein’ real sweet with each other and I don’t much like that.”

“Well, you’re not around much, are you? Can’t blame her for wanting company,” Javier fires back, trying to hold back a smirk. He doesn’t usually itch to fight people but John is particularly deserving of a reality check.

He doesn’t look pleased with the reply and shoves Javier into the wall.

“I tried bein’ nice to you.” 

“When?”

“I tried sayin’ I was sorry. I lent you my clothes - I am sorry but goin’ after my girl?”

“I’m not after Abigail!”

“I‘ seen you two.”

“No puedes ser tan tonto, Dios dame fuerza,” Javier says so John can hear him but sounding like he’s speaking only to himself.

“I’m only helping her since you won’t.”

“Then stop helpin’ her, creep,” John tells him firmly.

“Eres increíble,” Javier comments and shakes his head, barely able to contain his chuckles of disbelief over John’s hypocrisy. He won’t help Abigail but he can’t stand when someone else helps her either? What a dick.

He pushes past John, hoping he can get a guard shift as soon as possible so he can look at something other than that weird painting of a naked lady in a lake on the wall in the kitchen.

“I ain’t done talkin’,” John calls after Javier, his footsteps stomping on the wood of the porch and then thumping against the shovelled ground. With his back still turned Javier holds his hand out and makes a yapping motion with his hand.

“Are you ever? Todo lo que haces es hablar y quejarte y- “

“Speak English, goddamnit!” A second later, Javier feels something cold exploding into the back of his neck, flinging his hat off his head and falling into his shirt like it did by the bank by the brook. John threw snow at him.

Javier slowly turns around, shoulders tense and face screwed up from the biting cold melting along his warm back and turning into streaks of water running down. He sees that John can barely keep a grin off his face, satisfied by what he’d just done.

“Is ‘I’m gonna fucking kill you’ English enough for you?” Javier asks with his teeth clenching together. Then John laughs, doubling over and scooping snow up in his hand, cupping his hands around it and pressing it into a ball. A snowball. Javier does the same and doesn’t think twice about launching it at John and manages to hit his thigh before he scampers off, blindly firing his own snowball and hitting Javier on his arm.

They throw them back and forth, sometimes hitting their mark, sometimes missing, but eventually they’ve both forgotten why they started the fight at all and even Javier is laughing in the end. Then Javier hits John with a snowball in the face and it turns red with the impact, John shutting his eyes tight against it while Javier jogs up to him.

“I’m sorry,” he laughs and helps John out of the snow. John isn’t even upset about it when he chuckles too.

“It’s fine.” He’s dusting himself off, squinting at Javier where he stands in front of him. Suddenly, it feels wrong to dislike each other. But they’re both proud idiots, unable to apologize to each other proper and so John just clears his throat and looks away.

“You’re a good shot,” he manages to say, despite actually not wanting to. What good does it do to admit it?

“Thanks. You’re a good target.” Javier is mostly teasing this time, judging by his somewhat sincere smile and John scoffs lightheartedly.

“I’ll… leave you to it,” John says a little awkwardly, stepping away and inside again, into the warmth. Javier dismisses the whole situation as a one off thing, not holding his breath when it comes to befriending Marston. He’s had his moments even with Bill and Davey, he’ll have his moments with John too.

Chapter Text

To his surprise, despite the horrible situation falling into that brook and nearly freezing to death, Javier finds that he mostly likes the snow. It sure is pretty on a sunny day, glittering like jewels and piercing his eyes with its brightness. And it became better once he found out he can throw snowballs at unsuspecting members of the gang. He started another snowball fight between himself, Tilly and Karen, failing since the two of them decided to gang up on him. 

One day, after nearly three weeks, Dutch tells Javier, Arthur and Mac (thankfully, this time) to head into Ewan for some supplies like ammunition and food. There’s plenty of game but not much potatoes and such. Javier just wants to find his own winter coat if he can afford it.

Javier’s happy to be riding with the two of them again, and to get Boaz out of the stables to stretch his legs. Arthur’s got the map, even though he’s been out riding that way he only saw Ewan from a distance it seems. 

They’re about to head off when Abigail comes bounding through the snow.

“Fellers! I’m sorry,” she apologizes for halting their progress. No one minds, however. She stops by Arthur and Boadicea, handing him a note.

“I got some requests. And money for ‘em, you don’t have to pay for those.” Then she hands Arthur a wad of cash.

“You finally write on your own?” Mac questions.

Abigail sighs and shakes her head. “Tilly did.”

“Right. We got it,” Arthur confirms and Abigail smiles, heading back inside.

“Let’s go, gentlemen.”

The ride is just below an hour, even despite the snow. It seems to not sit right with Arthur, the town being so close to their hideout, that is. But it’s such a small town Mac tells him not to bother. But that’s also why Javier wishes he hadn’t come. His presence there certainly looks suspicious. Every inhabitant has skin white as snow, hair yellow like the sun or brown like earth. His skin is like earth, his hair like stolen midnight. They glare at him, some seem confused.

He isn’t planning on being shot by a bunch of suspicious hillbillies today. Maybe someday but that’ll be a day when he deserves it. Not when he’s just trying to shop for his friends.

“No trouble today, fellers,” Arthur informs the other two, his mouth barely moving as if he’s trying to keep their conversation a secret. Like one wrong move would set the town off into a murderous rampage.

“We can’t afford to leave in these conditions.”

“Yessir,” Mac quips and flicks two fingers from his head in confirmation. Arthur doesn’t need to tell Javier twice about that. 

They stop in front of the smallest general store Javier’s seen so far, hitching their horses to the post outside. 

“I’ll find the stables, get food for the horses. You two head in there. Here’s Abigail’s list. Meet back here when you’re done.”

“You got it, Morgan,” Mac says again, Javier being quiet as he mostly is on these outings. He thinks it might be best he doesn’t do too much, even utter a peep. Or perhaps that’ll seem even more suspicious? Like he’s keeping his mouth shut to keep any secrets from spilling out. 

“Come on, Escuella.” Mac pats him on his shoulder and guides him inside the store, the bell ringing to announce them. 

“Mornin’, feller,” he greets cheerfully while Javier just nods his head.

“Mornin’ to you. I don’t recognize you two. We don’t got many visitors at this time of year,” the shopkeeper says and Javier is already on high alert for him to make his own story about them, or maybe even figuring them out.

“We’re just passin’ through. Quite the country up here.” 

Javier browses while Mac talks to the shopkeeper. Javier doesn’t find any winter coats, sadly. He guesses everyone’s been after one and stocks ran out. Eventually, Mac gives Javier the list while he keeps the shopkeeper in good spirits, seeing as he’s been throwing Javier squinting looks. 

Canned foods if the weather turns bad again and they can’t hunt, rifle and revolver ammunition along with some varmint bullets for Hosea, and then in parentheses more blankets won’t hurt and Javier chuckles, he also thinks Tilly and Abigail scraped some dollar together to request sweets and Javier would be cruel to refuse them so he adds that too.

But he can’t find any ammunition. He’s gathered everything else and brought it up to the till but no ammunition.

“Sorry, sir… where can we find ammunition?” Javier asks, the shopkeeper seemingly confused about him speaking English. But his accent is still noticeable.

“We just got a gunsmith, everything’s bein’ sold there now,” he answers to Javier’s surprise. He does so without trouble. He suggests to Mac that he’ll go there to buy it and while he doesn’t seem so sure at first, he agrees in the end. Javier isn’t a child, he can handle himself just fine. Javier doesn’t understand how Mac and Davey are twins when the former is so much more agreeable and sensible than that other fool.

Javier thinks about how he’s supposed to play this. Without a white man by his side, both his silence and his words could be the death of him. He thinks that if he plays the feeble immigrant who barely speaks the language, maybe he’ll be fine or maybe if he plays the jovial guy making it clear he thinks America ‘saved him’ he might also be fine. Or maybe both of them are total shit ideas that’ll get him killed.

The only thing he does know is that this reminds him of Karen, her asking if she should play the ‘lost little girl’ or the ‘drunken harlot’. Maybe Javier should try one of them. Wouldn’t that be a fun way to get shot in the head.

He chooses to seem weak. That usually poses a lot less of even a potential threat than someone cheerful, especially since Javier is not and he’s not really a conman like Hosea that can act his way through any situation.

Javier enters the gunsmith, looking at the shelves and the weapons on display. 

“Hello, mister. How can I help you?” So far so good. He ain’t giving Javier some kind of stink eye yet.

“Hello,” Javier answers, putting on a stronger accent, much like the one he used to have. He also smiles as softly and innocently as he can muster.

“I… look for munición… ammu…?” 

“Lookin’ for ammo, boy?” The gunsmith questions. Thankfully, he sounds kind and willing to help. Javier nods quickly. 

“What kind?”

Javier looks thoughtful for a few seconds. Mostly just thinking of how he’d say it when he was just learning English. It wasn’t so long ago, he can remember.

“Eh… var-mint, y rif-le- I mean ryfel y… revolver?”

“Jesus, who put you up to this? Poor feller.” The gunsmith searches for the different boxes he’s got, Javier points to each one and then how many he wants to buy: two of each. It’s probably too little but it looks suspicious buying more than that since the shop owner doesn’t know who he’s with or how many. Someone else can come in and buy more in the future.

“What’chu doin’ up here? Ain’t you a bit far from… wherever you’re from?”

“México es… very danger.”

The man scoffs as he accepts Javier’s money. 

“America is no stranger to danger, boy. Be careful, most ain’t too acceptin’ to folk like you.”

“Lo sé…”

Javier is definitely pleasantly surprised by the man’s kindness and decides to hand him an extra dollar, from his own pocket of course, and just wordlessly putting it down. The man thanks him kindly and Javier waves dismissively at him, it’s no trouble, he’ll make this dollar back soon enough.

“Adiós, señor… uh… bye!” He waves at the man and leaves with the ammunition.

When he meets up with Mac and Arthur and none of them have caused any trouble, they’re noticeably very proud of themselves. They would be at a great disadvantage if anyone found out who they are, what they do and where they are. 

Back at camp, they load the wares into the house and Karen is so happy to have some canned strawberries she convinces Pearson to let her take one can before dinner, sharing the contents with the other girls. Javier is a bit jealous of how close the ladies seem to each other, the closest Javier is to a friend is Arthur and while Javier definitely trusts Arthur, he doesn’t think the man would want Javier to confide in him about his homesickness or whatnot.

It pisses him off that now when Abigail is showing Javier some kindness ranging from washing his clothes, showing him how to properly wash them for himself, giving him an extra blanket and just greeting him kindly - making room for a possible new friendship - John gets in the way, glaring daggers at him, acting like Abigail’s already been with Javier by being rude to her as well.

He’s real close to beating him with the guitar if he doesn’t back off. Javier told him he doesn’t plan to steal her, she’s made it abundantly clear she doesn’t want no one else - for some weird reason - but he’s still being watchful on baseless speculation. Paranoid prick.

And despite John being vocal about his dislike for Javier, Hosea still suggests that Javier go out and look for John as if the bastard isn’t going to be actively hiding from him if he sees him. Apparently, Hosea thinks he’s gone and gotten himself lost trying to hunt deer, saying that he isn’t great at hunting right now. He’d gotten in another fight with Abigail and in usual fashion ran away to cool down.

Hosea must hate both Javier and John. But he’s too high in the ranks to say no to so after barely having made it back from Ewan, he’s out again, going out into a forest he doesn’t know with more animals he doesn’t know.

Yeah, Hosea hates him. 

Javier isn’t too worried for John’s sake. He can take care of himself just fine, as far as Javier knows. He might be a dumb idiot but even they have their moments.

The forest is quiet and calm. It doesn’t induce any discomfort despite his experience last time he wandered it alone. He’ll keep his eyes open for streams not covered by ice. But it’s still quite beautiful. It feels like he’s entering another world, one where none of his other troubles exist, apart from the fact that his face is cold and he feels the weird prickling the cold brings onto any unfortunate patch of skin exposed to it.

Some branches hang down, creating almost what looks like a walkway. It looks like a trap made by nymphs and yet he keeps walking further in, like the nymphs planned, he guesses. Time feels frozen in there too. Even the tree trunks have frost on them. Javier pictures John being turned into ice, a glittering layer of frost covering him too, sticking to his hair and lashes like the snow did during their travels to the north.

He wanders around aimlessly, easily keeping track of the way back because of his footprints in the deep snow. It almost looks like Javier’s been crawling through it because of the dragging steps as he lifts his feet up high enough to make him tire easily.

“Jooohn,” he calls in a sing-songy manner, mostly carried by a sigh. 

“Where are you, tonto?” Anyone can tell he’s doing a half assed attempt. John isn’t nearby. He’d have seen footprints by now if he were.

“¡Abigail te matará! Será una muerte lenta y dolorosa.”

Maybe he can lure John out of wherever he’s hiding by speaking Spanish, since he hates it so much when he does. Or just being annoying enough to get him to throw another one of those snowballs at him. Just not in the fucking neck. If he does that again, Javier will wring John’s neck.

There are some footprints in the snow a few feet away, at last. Made by a person, judging by the shape at the bottom of the chasm made by crushed snow. Javier follows them, whistling a tune nonchalantly. Maybe Abigail annoys John on purpose because it’s funny to make him mad. He looks like an angry kitten when he is but he’s definitely meaner than one. He’s said some mean things to mostly everyone at some point.

The prints just vanish when Javier is standing in front of a big tree. He automatically looks up, finding John up there like an actual kitten stuck in a tree. 

“Ah! There you are, amigo,” Javier greets him with over the top happiness. 

“What you doing in the tree?” 

“None’a your goddamn business,” he replies but surprisingly sounds pretty unaffected. Unless you count the pinch of stress sprinkled in there but it reveals he’s definitely up there for a reason and not for leisure.

Javier smirks. “Hosea worried for you. Thought you was taken by an animal. Now I see what really happened.”

“I can get down, you piece of shit.” And that’s how easy it is to piss off John Marston.

“Okay,” Javier says. “Bye.” He turns on his heel and intends to get back and warm himself by the fire. Well, nature has other plans for him. He hears ominous thumping in the distance, it’s only thanks to the silence of the rest of the forest that he’d be able to tell because of the snow deafening most sounds.

“Shit, he’s coming back!” John shouts and climbs higher up in the tree. He’s dusted with snow in most places. His holster is empty too. 

“Wait, who?” Javier questions, looking around in every direction because he can’t tell from where the sound’s coming.

“Get up here, you idiot! Come on, move your ass!” 

Javier sprints back to the tree trunk, grabbing the lowest hanging branch and making his way higher and higher until he’s in level with John but on the other side. Charging at them through the forest is one of those horned horses but this one is much bigger and the spikes are double the size of the other one.

It looks up at John and Javier, scratching the spikes on his antlers against the bark of the tree and making a weird noise.

“He made me drop my gun,” John explains eventually as the horned horse circles the tree. If that beast could climb, it’d be over for them.

“Dios mío. This much bigger than the one I saw,” Javier goes on too and John’s eyebrows knit together.

“That what you were talkin’ about? A horned horse?” He asks mockingly.

“That’s exactly what this is,” Javier insists.

“No, it ain’t! This is a moose!”

“Ah! So you think it looks like a horned horse since you were right when I asked you?”

“No! Well- yes, but that ain’t the point!”

“What exactly is the point?”

John sits quietly, contemplating and ignoring the crunching footsteps of a moose stalking them. Do they eat people? 

“I don’t know. There ain’t no point, I guess.”

Javier sighs. “Okay, what do we do?”

“You got your gun?”

“No, I got a gun. I lost my gun when I fell into the brook.”

“Oh, you annoying son of a bitch. Just fire a damn bullet in the air, scare him off. If it don’t work, you’re moose fodder.”

“Hijo de puta…”

Javier fires a bullet into the air, startling the moose but it doesn’t leave, just skitters a few feet away before coming right back. Despite its size and the stalking, Javier thinks it’s quite cute. But that’s about where that ends.

“Get outta here!” John tries, waving his arm and kicking at the moose’s head. He’s gonna stab himself on one of those spikes if he keeps doing that.

“Should I shoot it?” Javier asks.

“I- I ain’t sure how much it’s gonna do. I don’t wanna kill ‘im but we gotta get down somehow,” John sounds conflicted and in his contemplation, his foot slips on the frost and he slams into the branch he’d been standing on and then slides off the side, his body engulfed in snow.

“Shit!” Javier yelps and fires a bullet between the branches and into the antlers of the moose, leaving a hole through it and the moose sprinting off between the trees. He didn’t see if the animal got to make any damage to John before he shot it so he jumps down too, his knees giving out and making him land kneeling in the snow. But it was a soft fall. Kinda.

”You okay, John?” Javier questions as he’s digging his hands into the snow trying to find an arm. He does and drags the man into a sitting position. He’s blinking the melting snow out of his eyes, his cheeks red and flaming.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “Damn, that hurt.” Javier drags him onto his feet. John begins dusting himself off and shaking his shoulders. 

“Got snow in my jacket!” He complains and Javier snickers, trying not to say that he knows how it feels now. He doesn’t need to say anything for John to understand. 

“Shut up.” 

He then whoops, probably having felt some adrenaline rushing through. It was a huge animal, after all.

“Thanks.” It seems almost like John hates to say it. At least he’s raised somewhat correctly.

“Todavía te odio,” Javier says.

“Yeah yeah. You tell anyone, you’re dead, Escuella.”

“Ay, estoy tan asustado.”

“Don’t overdo it.” John smacks his hand onto Javier’s shoulder and forcefully steers him away, back in the direction they both came from.

“We better keep our eyes open for other animals,” he adds quietly and Javier looks at him weird.

“Eh? You think I walk with my eyes closed?” 

“It’s just a goddamn manner of speech,” John sighs and Javier chuckles almost evilly and it’s only then that John understands he asked just to be annoying.

John walks like they’re on the walk of shame, the two of them managing fine to keep an eye out for animals. Javier sees one in the trees, a tiny little elongated cat-looking creature standing on its hind legs on high alert, staring Javier in the face a few feet away like it’s trying to figure out if he’s a threat.

It’s cute. Quite possibly the cutest thing Javier’s ever seen.

“John,” he whispers to the sulking feller a few steps ahead of him. His creaking footsteps stop and he turns to Javier.

“Look. In the trees. There’s a little… creature in there.”

John cranes his neck in a few different directions before he hums, a smile on his face by the sound of it. 

“‘Think it’s an ermine,” he answers, speaking in the same volume to not scare it off.

“Don’t be fooled by the cuteness, they’re vicious as hell.”

“You been attacked?” Javier teases and John scoffs.

“I probably wouldn’t’a been alive if I had.” 

Oh! He can take a joke. How great. This walk might finally be civil. Javier chuckles at the notion that that little cute thing would take down John.

“You know any animals in America?” He then questions.

Javier shrugs. “Not really, I guess.”

“Tell Hosea. He’ll fill you in.”

And now he’s offering advice. Kind of. Javier isn’t looking to be friends with John, but being civil and respectful would definitely benefit the gang. Hopefully he’s understanding that Javier never went after Abigail and never would. Well, not that he wouldn’t, he can’t. Sure, he’s gone after taken girls before, that’s how he ended up in America in the first place, but that was different since the girl liked him too. And she was miserable with the other man.

Chapter Text

They keep doing fine on the repossessed farm. They haven’t had any more snowstorms so they’ve dug out their wagons and made paths in the snow from everywhere. Javier isn’t freezing his ass off every day, Hosea’s been schooling him on different animals, even going so far as to steal a book on them to give Javier pictures of the animals. He’s been playing the guitar here and there, capturing the attention of most members. Uncle takes to teaching him some songs, the chords simple enough.

While he doesn’t sing the English songs, he thinks they’re jovial and it brings a togetherness that Javier’s Spanish songs don’t. But when he sings in Spanish, he enchants because all sit quiet as mouses - or is it mices? - even Davey.

Javier feels like he’s got a place in the gang. More and more every day. Dutch trusts him, Arthur trusts him and he’s pretty sure Hosea trusts him too. The rest of the gang have always been welcoming. Apart from John and Davey - maybe Bill - that is.

He’s stuck patrolling in the snow, now that he’s healed from his hypothermia or whatever. It’s still cold enough to get Javier to lock his shoulders to his ears almost, his entire body rigid with tension that is bound to exhaust him eventually. But he does love looking at their surroundings. The open fields up the road they came from and then the half-circle of woods behind the property, snow coating every inch. 

It’s nearly December, Javier won’t admit it but Bill scared him by implying that December and all the way through March and even April sometimes are the worst months. He’s heard horror stories told by Uncle and Pearson of being snowed in entirely. A lot like what that village man claimed. 

With how much activity, people going in and out of the main cabin all the time, Javier doesn’t think too much on the way the door flies open, slamming into the wall and some decidedly angry footsteps stomping against the wooden porch. Then the crunching of snow closes in on him. With that level of anger, it can only be one person. Javier turns around to be faced with John and is somewhat pleasantly surprised when it’s only Hosea. Well, it’s a pissed off Hosea and, well, it’s definitely more intimidating than John’s angry kitten face.

“Javier. Wanna come huntin’ with me?” His expression is as sour as earlier but his tone doesn’t match.

“Uh… sure.”

“I’ll show you how it’s done - I need to get away from that fool in there,” he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Somehow, Javier knows he’s talking about Dutch. But it could’ve been Bill or Davey, except that neither of them are in the cabin.

“He’s planning another job- here, son.” Hosea hands Javier his varmint rifle and he slings it over his shoulder, still clutching his repeater.

“A delivery of jewelry to Spokane from a town called Pullman. A remarkably skilled goldsmith lives there.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Javier shrugs and they open the doors to the stable to find Arthur and Mac there, talking and caring for the horses. 

“Not in theory but we can’t get into trouble like that now.”

He’s right but they certainly need the money. When winter’s up, if they succeed in a job such as this one, that’s one less job they gotta do in the summer when criminals wake up from their hibernation. And the law too. They only got away because of the weather, Javier reckons.

“What trouble?” Arthur immediately questions when he hears Hosea’s statement.

“Ah, nothing, my boy. Dutch’s bein’ crazy. I’m taking Javier out huntin’, show him how it’s done,” Hosea replies casually, patting Arthur twice on the shoulder as he passes him to get to Silver Dollar.

“You sure you wanna out your true colors to ’im?” Arthur asks, fully serious but a mirthful expression on his face.

“Boy can handle himself just fine,” Hosea dismisses and Javier smiles to himself as he pats Boaz and gives him a treat. 

“If Dutch asks, don’t tell him nothin’. Let him worry.”

Mac and Arthur both scoff with amusement. 

“Sure.”

“Gentlemen,” Hosea bids farewell and motions for Javier to follow him. He does. Boaz struggles a little in the snow, he isn’t tall but he’s strong. The snow reaches his knees while Silver Dollar trots on just fine. He’s a tall beast, like a shire but more nimble.

“How’s the cold treatin’ you, Javier?” Hosea strikes up some conversation. Javier would object but this is what Hosea excels in, it feels almost impossible to reject a conversation with him. 

“I hate it,” he admits and Hosea chuckles. “It’s beautiful but it feels like my bones are cold, you know?”

He nods in full agreement. “Some days it feels like that. You’ll get used to it in the future.”

“I hope I don’t have to. I wanna go back west eventually. It’s a lot like home.”

Hosea nods. He looks solemn and like he’s thinking back too, much how Javier imagines he looks like when he’s missing home. Javier doesn’t ask for now. If Hosea wants to tell him he will.

He doesn’t. He sees some tracks in the snow, theorizing that it might be deer or even caribou. John doesn’t know what a deer is but when Hosea describes it he remembers that it’s ciervo in Spanish. Caribou isn’t too hard since it’s caribú anyway.

Javier tells Hosea about the moose and the ermine, not mentioning that he and John had been chased up a tree by it as requested by John himself, and he seems surprised by him seeing an ermine. They’re hard to spot. Javier just thinks Hosea’s age has gotten to his eyes but of course he doesn’t tell him that.

After a while, Javier finds that he’s enjoying himself in Hosea’s company. He’s like an encyclopaedia with all the knowledge of nature he’s got. He tells Javier he grew up in it, having to learn for himself before he started stealing books and more or less swallowing knowledge that might save his life - has saved his life. Javier can survive. He knows a bit about the wildlife in Mexico. Not America. But Hosea seems to love teaching folk stuff. Just things in general.

But always, as things seem to look up something always has to bring them back down. It always comes in the form of people being in their business. It’s no different when Javier and Hosea find themselves more or less cornered in a clearing by four men. They’re not white. They look a lot like Mexicanos, something that greatly surprises Javier. He really thought he’d be the only one this far north. Probably a stupid thing to think but you can’t blame him.

“Buenos días,” one of the men says. It isn’t friendly. His tone is suspicious, his eyes are calculating and harsh. He’s fixated on Javier.

“¿Qué haces aquí, muchacho?” They can clearly tell Javier’s heritage too. No use hiding. Besides, Javier wants to know why they’re even speaking to him and Hosea. What good will talking to them bring?

“Sólo cazando.” He keeps it curt. He doesn’t wanna accidentally let them in on some info by saying the wrong thing or acting the wrong way.

“¿Tan lejos de casa? ¿Te escapaste?” 

“What’s going on?” Hosea questions. He’s just as on edge as Javier, the side of him that’s obscured from the men he uses as a shield to hide how he grasps one of his revolvers. Javier dismisses his question to be answered later.

“Te reconozco…” the man mutters and as if on cue, the other three aim their guns at him and Hosea, trapping them in a circle.

“Bajarse del caballo. ¡Vamos! ¡Aprisa!” He orders. Javier raises his hands above his head, Hosea doing the same with a deep rooted confused expression as he does, having no other choice than to count on the twenty-something year old under loads of pressure from four men armed to the teeth.

“¡Tómatelo con calma! Él es viejo,” Javier hisses, hoping it’ll win them some empathy. He’s stupid for even thinking such a thing. Javier dismounts, waits for Hosea to follow suit which he does.

“De rodillas. Necesito mirarte bien,” the leader orders and Javier motions to Hosea to lower himself to the ground, most of their lower bodies doused in snow. It gets cold quickly seeing as neither of them have much coverage on their bottom halves apart from their union suits and pants.

The leader approaches Javier, taking no particular interest in Hosea. That’s good, at least. He kneels in front of Javier, getting real close and seemingly studying him like he’s some new species. Then he grabs at the scarf Javier tied around his neck, two fingers wedged between the fabric and his skin and pulling downward while his other hand takes a harsh grip on the young man’s jaw, tilting his head up to see what he’s looking for better.

His blood runs colder than the icy brook he fell into, slowing down and seizing his limbs up as the man nods in a confirming way to his goons. The leader tilts his head back down without letting go.

“Eres tú,” he states like it’s a revelation or a relief that he was right. And Javier knows this man somehow knows him and has found him as far north as you can go in America. 

“¿Eres Javier Escuella, no? Tu cartel está por todo Nuevo Paraíso y todos ellos hablan de esta cicatriz.”

“Los estadounidenses odian a la gente como nosotros. Me hicieron esto.”

“Deja de mentir.”

His heart is hammering in his chest as he’s forced to look at a man who’s either gonna kill him or torture him just enough to subdue him and then send him back to Mexico. But how could these men have found him? 

“¿Puedo al menos preguntar… cómo me encontraste?”

“Hay muchos Mexicanos en California, chico.”

Of course. How could he be so stupid, parading around in past Mexican territory and not thinking people would eventually recognize him. If he could, he’d facepalm. Or fire a bullet into his head.

“Jefe, ¿qué estamos haciendo con él?” One of the men motions to Hosea who hasn’t said a word. It isn’t like him. Usually he’d pull some kind of distraction but he’s probably already figured out he’s out of his depth here, seeing as these men probably don’t speak English. Or at least much of it.

The leader shrugs. “Mátalo, no me importa.”

“Espera, por favor,” Javier pleads with no small amount of despair in his voice. The leader looks very pleased with having this power over a bounty. “Déjalo ir, no sabe lo que decimos. Por favor, te lo ruego.”

“Ah, ¿me lo suplicas?”

“¡Sí! Por favor, déjalo solo…”

The leader doesn’t get to open his mouth before Hosea moves fast like a bullet and knocks one of the men down, burying him in the snow and drawing his guns to aim them at the other two circling them. Javier then draws his gun, pointing it under the leader’s chin. His heart doesn’t slow, the image of them killing Hosea still very much at the forefront of his mind.

It’s a risky choice to make seeing as Javier doesn’t know if the men don’t speak any English or if they just chose not to but Javier says to Hosea, “shoot them,” in a dark and hushed tone. The old man strangely doesn’t hesitate and the other two are too slow to react. They fall limbless into the snow like ragdolls and Javier doesn’t let the leader speak another word until he shoots him too, some blood splattering onto his attire.

“You okay, son?” Hosea questions, helping Javier up as if he can tell his legs are too wobbly to be of service right now. Javier just nods, heaving a sigh of relief and to dispel the shock. It doesn’t really work. It could’ve gone a lot worse than this. What if they’d been smart enough to tie them up? It would’ve been over then and there and it would’ve been Javier’s fault Hosea would die and he’d have to live and die with that knowledge.

“Who were they? What did they want with you?”

“Just… some bounty hunters. Found out I’d been in California and saw a poster of me there.” He keeps it short and sweet, whistling for Boaz while he hangs his head hoping that the lack of future impressions of the world around him will calm him a little.

Hosea looks thoughtful. “Let’s head back. Leave these bastards to the animals.”

Javier spits at the dead men, cursing their afterlives and praying in his head that they’ll remember for their next life not to fuck with him again. They most likely won’t but it doesn’t stop him from thinking it.

They’re silent the whole way back. Keeping his head down just enough to see Silver Dollar’s backside so he can find his way back with Hosea, it actually works to settle his nerves. He doesn’t know why it scared him so badly. He doesn’t flinch in the face of death and especially not when it comes in the form of feeble men like those but the threat of them harming someone else because of Javier’s past and the fact that these are the first people to come after him and not another member in the gang terrified him. 

It’s different if people come after Dutch or Arthur or someone else, Javier protects them with his life if he can but when it could be Javier’s wrong doings harming someone, his mind would fracture under the weight of guilt. It’s the kind of punishment that other people can make mistakes but Javier can’t. In his mind, at least.

The thought of Hosea dying because of Javier and because of something he did two years ago in a country far from here now is deplorable enough to warrant instant execution on Dutch’s part. Javier imagines Dutch would go on some sort of vengeful rampage if he found out Hosea was killed, even if they all claim revenge is a luxury we can’t afford, Hosea certainly would be enough of a loss to pay for it.

“You gonna be okay?” Hosea asks once they’ve stabled their steeds. Javier just nods again, promptly leaving the stables to head back into the main cabin. He’s going to hate the questions that might come seeing as he’s covered in blood. But, thankfully, he has the right to keep it to himself. He shouldn’t and he won’t since there could be more of them lurking up here, he’ll tell Dutch but he hopes he can settle down first. Or even better, Hosea tells their leader for him.

He’s greeted by Abigail, Tilly and Miss Grimshaw when he enters the cabin. The young ladies smile at him but Grimshaw notices instantly that his clothes are soiled.

“What happened to you? Did a boar impale you, boy?” She frets in that aggressive way she does. This womanly fussing is not something he wants right now. He doesn’t want a lecture or to be called a stupid man for whatever reason.

“No,” he answers plainly. “I need to rest.” Miss Grimshaw huffs a bit but lets it go for now. 

“Fine but get out of them clothes so we can wash them.”

“Mhm.”

Javier finds his other set of clothes, washed thoroughly by Abigail’s firm hands. He gets dressed in those, entering the washroom and taking his hair out of its tie. There’s a cracked mirror in there, the only thing that provides any sense of knowing what you look like if you don’t count Karen’s pocket mirror. 

He looks like himself. Tired.

No good.

Javier takes out his knife and takes a piece of his hair and slices through it, always keeping his knife sharp enough for something and today that was to cut his hair. He needs to be somewhat unrecognizable if he’s going to put the gang at risk even thousands of miles away from Mexico. 

He sacrifices piece after piece of his hair which he hasn’t really cut since he left Mexico. His mother used to say it fit him best. He won’t see her again so at least she’ll never find out he cut it.

It’s not a precise job at all, his hair sticking out in spikes as he runs his hand through it a few times, feeling strange about the way the ends come so quickly now instead of him being able to run his hand along it for a few seconds. It feels sort of empty now. And he doesn’t wanna cut his mustache or get rid of it but he has to. He can make it look different, at least.

Davey keeps a straight razor in here, seeing as he’s one of the few keeping himself clean shaven. Javier borrows it and sucks his lips into his mouth to stretch out the skin over them and he shaves right down the middle. It looks… weird. Not bad but different. Strange, probably. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, maybe he shouldn’t have a mustache that incriminates Javier even more since it’s such a crime to be Mexican but he doesn’t wanna erase all that he likes. He isn’t ashamed of who he is, all he has to do now is change a bit to keep his family safe.

Javier sighs, putting the razor back and cleaning up all the hair. It’s a lot of it. It’s just gone. Not his anymore. 

He exits the room into the main one. Luckily, no one’s been waiting for him to get out again so they initially don’t notice his significantly shorter hair and funny facial hair. He puts his hat on and folds the collar of his shirt up to make it harder to notice. He doesn’t wanna talk about it now.

And he doesn’t have to. No one notices or at least they don’t mention it that night, letting Javier settle into the fact that those men are dead and that neither he nor Hosea were harmed. He gets to sleep on it and feels much better when he wakes up, warmed by the fire blazing as if the gang is still worried Javier’s gonna turn into an icicle.

The first to notice his hair has changed is Tilly. He isn’t surprised she did. She braided it once because she asked and he begrudgingly let her. Davey, Mac and Bill made fun of him for how he looked which made him wanna keep the hairstyle because who are they to say when he looks good or not? They look like chupacabras.

“What did you do with your hair?” She asks upfront, alerting many of the other members in the cabin. Most of them have holed up here due to the storm raging outside.

Everyone looks at him. But only Hosea understands.

Javier shrugs. “Cut it,” he answers curtly, nonchalant and maybe even a little snappy.

He’d already gotten some confused compliments on his facial hair but the hair is a different story.

“Did you cut it?” Abigail joins in, Jack in her arms and John by her side, being the prime example of what a father shouldn’t be.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Now, this don’t need to be an interrogation,” Hosea cuts in. Javier glances at him, the way his eyebrows knit together in an easily missable manner is enough for Hosea to know Javier is grateful. He stands up then, although making it clear that it upsets him to talk about it, and announces he’ll join Arthur in the stables. He could use the company of someone who won’t pry.

Chapter Text

As winter keeps passing, Javier gets more and more accustomed to it. Dutch is forging plans to rob the coach carrying the jewelry despite Hosea’s grievances but it has most other members’ fingers itching to be bad. And to be sure they’ll survive the winter as far as funds go.

The stress of being found by Mexican bounty hunters in Northern America slowly dies off but so does the inquiring about his hair and why he decided to make himself look so different. Things go on as usual for a long time. Arthur keeps to himself, Davey, Mac and Bill brawl, Uncle and Swanson keep being useless, the ladies wrangle the mannerless men around them, John’s a deadbeat, Dutch is planning manically and Hosea tries to stop him. Javier is useful where he needs to be. Right now, he’s sneaking some spices he stole from the general store in Ewan a few weeks back into the stew.

He didn’t think at all of the fact that most of them can handle gunshot wounds better than spice. It shows the clearest for John and Uncle. Weaklings.

It does make Javier laugh the way Pearson gets blamed for putting a ‘pound’ of spice in there. Javier doesn’t say nothing. It’s funnier this way.

The only one keeping track of the date is Strauss and when he tells them new years is upon them, they stock up on drinks and buy sweet foods along with Abigail finding a harmonica. She’s good at sniffing stuff out. To everyone’s dismay, only Uncle is any good with a harmonica but him and Javier make a great team when they play the songs he’s taught Javier as of late.

Dutch and Hosea dance, Reverend drunkenly sings, the girls waltz in a circle while Miss Grimshaw has taken to caring for Jack for the night so Abigail might enjoy herself. They sing and drink and Javier feels truly happy.

Happy enough that when most have turned in for the night, a little after two in the morning, Javier softly strums his guitar and starts singing in his native language on the porch while sacrificing his fingers for it.

La vida, sueño el porvenir, mentira

La amistad y el amor, mentira son

Y mentiras son también los ilusiones

Que se forja delirante el corazón

Es mentira el amor de las mujeres

“What’s all that mean?” Javier jumps and slams his palm onto the strings to shut them up on instinct. 

“Arthur,” Javier greets. “You scared me.”

The gruff man chuckles. “Sorry.”

“That’s fine. It’s basically saying that everything is lies. Friendship, love, even lies themselves are illusions.”

“Well, maybe. That what you think? Don’t tell Dutch, he’ll make a lecture out of it,” Arthur warns somewhat warmly.

“I don’t know. If love and friendship ain’t real, what would we fight for?” Javier questions and Arthur shrugs, looking out into the darkness engulfing the rest of the world apart from the stars.

“There is that,” he agrees. The two of them sat in silence for a bit, just listening to the wind whistling through the trees. Then Arthur speaks again.

“I ain’t had time to ask but why’d you cut your hair and… do that?” He motions to the shaved space between Javier’s facial hair. It has settled a little in Javier that what happened will keep happening to all of them - people will keep recognising them til the end of time if they’re that persistent.

“Some people knew me. Cut my hair and shaved to be less… recognisable,” he explains, keeping it simple. Arthur isn’t one to ask questions anyway so this explanation is probably somewhat satisfactory for him. He nods so Javier was right.

“Smart move. But it suits you.”

“Aw, you’re a bit of a sappy drunk, are you?” Javier understands that just now. It makes sense. He didn’t see it before in the way he sort of sways and switches his weight from leg to leg, his arms swinging a bit back and forth.

“I ain’t sappy. Not drunk neither.”

“Sure, Arthur.”

“You know, you do look handsome with your hair like that.” Javier stops in his tracks as he goes to pick up one of the buckets he and Abigail are filling with water by a nearby stream. Bill found it and said it hasn’t frozen over. She said she’d love some fresh air and wanted to join Javier, leaving Jack with Tilly until they’re back.

“You shouldn’t say that,” Javier tells her. “If John hears you, he’s gonna string me up.”

Abigail scoffs like she won’t believe it until she sees it. Fair enough. The way John treats her sometimes makes everyone wonder why in the hell they even got together in the first place.

“That stupid man. Useless,” she snipes.

“I don’t usually don’t involve myself but he… yeah, he’s stupid,” Javier agrees and smiles when Abigail does too.

“I don’t wanna even think about him. Tell me what Mexico’s like instead.”

Usually, Javier doesn’t speak much about Mexico. He finds it painful and it’s devastating to have the bad memories so surface level and so accessible. He has to dig deeper and think longer to really find those moments that make him miss home so badly. His village was tight knit. Everyone knew each other, shared everything between them, taught each other things from reading, playing music, songs and dances and carpentry, cobblery. 

When the revolution started, most wanted to join the cause and they left, leaving the village to look like something that’s faded out of memory - gray and lifeless, like a graveyard. Then so did Javier when he was old enough. It’s not something he’s going to tell Abigail. His time with the revolutionaries is definitely not something he keeps surface level and that he’s grateful for.

But he tells Abigail about the good things. She asks him a bunch of questions and he asks her a bunch in return. By the time he’s conscious again, he finds that they’ve fetched enough water and that they’ve made it all the way back to the cabins.

Javier feels like shooting John. Not killing him immediately but shooting him. In the dick. Shoot it clean off. Then whip some sense into him for not seeing what a great woman he’s got. He begins feeling like he’s finally making another true friend. 

“Uh, Abigail,” Javier calls before she can get back inside to her son while he handles the water reserves. She stops and turns a few feet away.

“Yes?”

“If you need anything, I’ll be there. You’re always nice to me. Muchas gracias,” he informs her and bows his head a little.

“Anytime. And thank you…”

And a few hours later, while Javier is on watch again, he hears it. John and Abigail, arguing, for the first time where most can’t hear them. But he can. The forest is so quiet you’d think the darkness beyond the lanterns is just nothing but an empty void, besides, it’s not like neither of them ever try to hide that they’re arguing.

“Why are you so damn concerned all of a sudden? You never was before!” Abigail questions. Javier remains where he stands as he suspects the two of them are somewhere behind the main cabin. If he moves, his crunching footsteps will be heard.

“It ain’t none‘a his business!” John argues with his scratchy I’ve-been-smoking-since-birth voice.

Abigail scoffs at him. “You haven’t made it yours neither! He just offered to help me not offered to bed me! Christ, you stupid man!”

They’re talking about Javier. He’s got a loaded rifle and an itchy trigger finger, and impeccable aim it won’t be hard to shoot John in the parts even if they’d be too small to be easy to hit.

“You don’t think that’s what he wants?”

Maldito idiota.

“He just makes you feel small and useless, don’t he? You jealous sack ‘a shit. You don’t give a goddamn ‘bout me or the boy unless you feel threatened. Miserable fool!” 

“Whatchu want from me, woman? I start carin’ and you act like this, I don’t care and you still act like this! What do I do?!”

“You start by being useful, respectful and quit blamin’ others for your damn inferiority complex! Leave Javier alone, he got enough problems when you left him all alone in a place he’s never been!”

“Oh, right, poor Javier, a bounty hunter, a killer and a thief can’t hold his own in front of an animal and falls into some water!”

“Like how he found you cowerin’ in a tree? How’d you feel if you had to flee your country into a place you don’t know the animals!”

“Stop talkin’ about him!”

“It was you who brought me out here to talk about him!”

John seems to say something that warrants a slap given the sound of a palm colliding with skin. Abigail rounds the corner and sees Javier there. He’d been over by the supply cabin before they went out to argue. She looks apologetic but furious and he decides not to say anything about it. But, he prepares himself for John to give him an earful of whatever the hell all that was.

“You was listenin’, huh?” And there he goes. Javier heaves a deep, displeased sigh and turns to face John, approaching with a slow but deliberate pace. Javier doesn’t bother hiding the rolling of his eyes, probably making John’s mood even worse. Who cares? He always sucks the fun out of everything with his brooding, how about he gets some of that back for once? The only one apart from Abigail who seems to at least try to reprimand John is Arthur and that doesn’t really work either.

“Kinda hard not to when you’re yelling like that. They probably heard you all the way to Yucatán.” 

“I don’t know what the hell that is but you’d be wise to remember not to eavesdrop on people,” he threatens but its effect is lost when Javier looks genuinely confused.

“Not to what?” He asks. The tension significantly decreases as John realizes his threat didn’t work.

“Eavesdrop, idiot.” His annoyance doesn’t do much to bring that tension back either. But he’s clearly out to start a fight but Javier could humiliate him just a bit more before that. Just like he did when he told Abigail about John being stuck up a tree like a lost little kitten.

“I don’t know what that is,” Javier says and means it. He’s heard the word before but he doesn’t know what it means or how it’s spelled - nothing. 

“Well, it’s somethin’ you don’t do.”

“Ay, eres el tipo más tonto que he conocido. Y tú también eres malo. ¿Cómo puedes tratar a tu chica así? Vete a la chingada, pinche cabrón.”

“Say it in English, you moron, or what’s the point in sayin’ it!”

“Fine, I said you’re the dumbest man I’ve ever met, you’re mean the way you treat Abigail and that you should go fuck yourself.”

John responds by throwing a fist at Javier’s nose. His eyes water and it feels tingly but Javier sends a right hook into John’s cheek, his head whipping to the right and he stumbles. Javier clutches his nose and staggers back as his vision blurs a bit. There’s a streak of blood running down his mouth from the impact. Not much, though.

John throws another punch with significantly more force that Javier manages to block but sloppily, leading to his own arm bonking into his nose. Javier blindly flails his right arm as he pinches his nose to keep the blood in, hitting John in the side but not doing much damage.

Javier remembers a few places that are extra painful to strike like the kidneys or the liver but he isn’t sure he wants to injure John to the point of causing permanent harm. Just to teach him a lesson. So he kicks him in the shin, hearing how he groans and seeing through his fingers how he’s clutching his shin.

Then John gets back at him by feinting Javier and jamming a foot into the back of his knee, causing his leg to buckle a bit before entirely shoving him into the snow.

Javier doesn’t even really get to think before he’s grabbed a fistful of snow and thrown it into John’s face before he can straddle Javier and beat him to a pulp. His eyes clear up as the pain in his nose subsides and he lets go of his nose, letting the blood flow as it wants to and prepares to push John to the ground, leaving him on his side and sitting down with all his weight thus keeping any of John’s limbs from moving much.

Apart from the fact that John does the same as Javier and throws snow in his face too. But the American isn’t fast enough to escape under Javier’s weight and has to withstand another blow to the same side of his face.

Their tussle alerts the others and Arthur and Bill come bounding out into the snow to separate them but not before John launches a last jab on Javier’s brow bone.

“What the hell are you sons ‘a bitches doin’?” Arthur reprimands as he drags John away while easily withstanding his squirming. Bill doesn’t have to do much fighting against Javier, just steadies him so he can stand straight and dry off the blood from his face.

“That puto started it,” Javier says and spits onto the snow, a little blood mixing with saliva. Everyone’s standing on the porch or watching through the window, perhaps thinking they’d see Javier fending off some intruder and not another member of their gang.

“And I damn well finished it too!” 

“What are you, twelve?” Arthur questions like he can’t believe it. He sounds like he’s been through this before and judging by John’s character, that doesn’t surprise Javier. 

“He’s after Abigail!”

“No, I’m not! ¡Hijo de puta, voy a asesinarte!” It’s a habit of his to resort to Spanish when he’s cursing someone out and it doesn’t stop the more John provokes him.

“Speak English so I can at least understand your insults!”

“¡Te cortaré la polla y se la daré de comer a los lobos!“

“Enough!” Dutch cuts in now, silencing both of them promptly and limiting them to only glare at each other, unrelentingly and furiously.

“What’s gotten into you boys? Why’re you actin’ like this we got women here. Show some respect.”

“He- he’s creepin’ on Abigail!”

“No he ain’t, you goddamn idiot,” Arthur defends.

“If you care so much ‘bout her, go be with her instead of pickin’ fights!” Arthur shoves John in the direction of the cabin and he actually listens, much as it annoys him to give up. Javier makes an ugly gesture his way, his middle finger pointed at him and Arthur signs.

“You too, you dumbass. Get to cleaning that blood.”

Javier also hates to have to do it. Dutch expects him to, Arthur does and so did everyone else sticking their goddamn noses in his and John’s business.

Chapter Text

Safe to say, he and John don’t speak for the rest of winter. Even when they rob the caravan, Hosea had been smart enough to remind Dutch of their situation and that it won’t do to risk their disagreements blossoming on a job so he plans in a way that keeps them away from each other. It works and they rob the goldsmith blind without much error. 

Winter stops being so goddamn unbearable then.

But snow melts, they haven’t had any run-ins with the law, they’ve been mostly good this winter which brings fruit in the spring. Safe to say, Hosea’s in a real good mood recently due to Dutch actually lying low for once.

However, their leader does have a bit of a savior complex, the proof being all them that’s in the gang, and feels like he can ‘save’ John and Javier’s relationship. Or lack thereof. So, he gets the brilliant idea to have them scouting ahead to make sure they can find their next camp so they can gradually return to the wild warm west. He doesn’t say anything to Hosea until it’s too late and while Arthur tried to say it was a terrible idea, Dutch went his own way as he usually does.

He goes to John first which might’ve been the first mistake. Javier is a lot more lenient on Dutch since he wants to be in his good graces while John has known him for ten years and seems to have no problem complaining and whining about his plans. 

Then Arthur threatens to tan John’s hide unless he does as Dutch says and he sulks all through his packing.

He’d honestly prefer fathering a boy that might not even be his than to ride alone with Javier. But that also means he’d rather ride alone with Javier than have Arthur ‘tan his hide’ so the scale has been weighed in favor of doing the thing in the middle.

“Javier, my boy,” Dutch calls while he approaches Javier shining his boots. He shouldn’t, spring is so goddamn muddy even the pigs get enough of it. He’ll have to do it again by tomorrow.

“Yes, Dutch?” Javier answers and immediately puts his things down to listen.

“We’re moving back down south a spell. Hopefully into Oregon. I’d like you to ride out and scout the terrain so we know it’s safe to bring Jackie and the women down thataway,” he explains, leaving the part about John out. 

“Uh, sure. When?”

“Right now, please. The sooner we’re off this land the better, beautiful as it is.” 

“Vale, I’ll get ready.”

“Thank you, son.”

Javier heads into the cabin to pack, unaware that John had been packing earlier too, now saddling up Old Boy and leaning forward to rest his elbows on the saddle, bored and not excited to be riding with Javier of all people. God, he’s fuming at Dutch for this god-awful plan.

All packed he readies Boaz and gives him a few apple slices before heading off, looking at the map he’d been given and marking down one of the paths leading south and through Pullman. They never made it there, unlike the goldsmith who made it there empty-handed.

At the edge of their camp stands John and Old Boy, stationary. Javier doesn’t understand and has to trot up to the sulking idiot to be able to leave but John inhales like he’s got something to say and then follows Javier.

“They gave you the map?” He complains and Javier pulls Boaz into an immediate stop that seems to irk his mount so he whinnies, displeased.

“Huh?” Javier questions confusedly.

John sighs dramatically. “No, it’s not a problem. Can we go now?”

“Now, wait a minute. Go where?”

“Are you slow? Dutch told you we needed a new place to camp, didn’t he?”

“Uh… yeah but why are you here? He asked me.”

“Well, he asked me first. He wants us to go together. Ain’t he tell you that?”

“No,” Javier grumbles and throws a glare over his shoulder as if it’s gonna cast some mild curse over those that concocted this dumb idea.

“Too bad. Come on, let’s not prolong this thing.”

At least they can agree on that. 

They ride in silence for a bit, making sure not to ride into some place called Saint John while doing so. The weather is on their side for now which thankfully doesn’t sour neither of their moods. Javier takes out his map one too many times and John tells him to stop messing with it and that it’s giving him a headache but Javier thinks it’s just his scowling that’s causing it. He chooses not to mention that.

“Hold on,” Javier calls out to John who’s a good few feet in front of him. He actually does stop and turn Old Boy around.

“There’s only two places we can cross Snake River here - either through Lewiston or somewhere callled Meadow Creek.”

“And? What’s the problem?”

“Lewiston’s a city. Not a huge one but a city. Meadow Creek is just… a creek. I think it’s safer we go there.”

“Sure, boss,” John concedes bitterly and Javier doesn’t quiet down his groan.

“We skip Pullman entirely and go to Walla Walla, instead. That okay with you, your majesty?” Javier mocks.

He ignores Javier’s words.

“What kinda name is Walla Walla?” He asks instead.

This is gonna be a long trip.

Turns out, they’ve both got each other’s sparks to ignite their short fuses. A knack for pissing each other off without necessarily trying. They make camp a mile or two east of Endicott. John offered to hunt for them but he returns two hours later with all but a rabbit and Javier swallows the urge to make fun of him for it. But the two of them can survive one night on one rabbit. 

Javier’s survived seven nights with less than a rabbit anyway, he’ll be fine. The evening is warm and Javier is bored out of his mind. So bored, he might even try to talk to John if his brain feels like exploding today. It sort of does and John’s bluster is always a recipe for disaster.

He resorts to just whittling at some stick, making it into a sharp point and envisions himself throwing it at John eventually like a spear. But he won’t. Even if he thinks John doesn’t deserve his family, he’s got one and they’ll need him. He won’t orphan a little boy. Even if it’s real tempting. 

Just the way he sits and sulks like he thinks he’s so enigmatic and mysterious irritates Javier to no end. But he knows that if he tries to make fun of him for it, he’ll let hell loose and then some and it ain’t worth it.

After a while of silence that neither of them feels like they need to fill, thank god, John groans as he stands up like an old man. He has a habit of speaking to himself to some degree, like he’s narrating his actions for someone else. Probably his brain. It has to be some onlooker, it can’t be a decision maker, it’s too… well.

John heads over to Old Boy and starts rifling through his packing, seemingly getting more worked up the longer he has to search for whatever’s gone missing.

“You gotta be shittin’ me,” John complains and rubs his hand over his forehead.

Javier feels compelled to ask in the case that it’s going to affect them both. “What?”

“Goddamnit. I forgot to pack my goddamn tent.”

He shouldn’t have asked. Why does it have to affect both of them? 

Javier pinches the bridge of his nose and signs audibly and irritably. 

“Dios, te odio,” he mutters and his tone seems to transcend the language barrier since John looks quite displeased by his comment as if he could understand him on another plane of existence.

Sure, John is an asshole, Javier doesn’t like him nor does John like Javier but at least he can be a better example than him and offer to share his tent. But he’s not gonna make it easy for him. 

“You can share mine,” Javier says with surprising ease and nonchalance, not looking up from his whittling. Though he sees in the corner of his eyes how John looks up at him incredulously and smiles to himself the best he can. 

“Be warned, I might accidental kick you in your sleep. I do that.” No he doesn’t. He’s stockstill. So much so his little sister used to think he was dead when they were kids and would bawl to mother about their loss.

“Accidentally,” John grumbles, “and no, I’ll be fine.” Javier shrugs like either way doesn’t matter to him and it doesn’t.

So, Javier puts up his tent and lays his bedroll inside, as comfortable as he can be as he listens to John doing the same. Javier used to not sleep when he was on his own, afraid of what would happen if he did. He’d just keep on going until he passed out from exhaustion. He’s come a long way from being skin and bone, fatigued and battered. He was saved the day Dutch took him in. He probably wouldn’t have been alive today. Not because of nature but because of man. He still probably wouldn’t have spoken English had he not been taken in by Dutch and most of the others in the gang.

Sometime in the night, Javier wakes up because he’s rattling in the cold. It’s the bone-deep chill that sneaks inside your clothes and skin no matter what you wear. It’s raining too. He sits up, remembering John’s situation. He sees the man, wide awake, sitting curled up in the rain to keep warm and it doesn’t make him feel that great.

He looks like a kicked puppy, cast out to fend for itself in the rain and mud. His bedroll is soaked too.

Damn it.

“John?” Javier calls, scaring him it seems by the way he tenses and looks up. His voice is all scratchy.

“Why’re you awake?” John questions gruffly as if trying to hide how miserable he feels.

“I don’t know,” he replies casually. He stretches his back out a bit. “You okay there, amigo?” Javier knows exactly how the bastard’s gonna reply but he’ll just use it as a segue.

“Just dandy.” See?

“Yeah, I can see that.” He pauses for a while, really understanding why Abigail keeps complaining about John’s childish sense of pride.

“Look, there’s space in here and the ground’s dry. You’ll be no use to anyone if you catch a fever.”

“I’m fine.”

Javier realizes this has to be on Javier and not John or he won’t get out of the rain.

“Pues, I’m not fine, I’m freezing and I’ll be warm with someone by my side.” Now the idea doesn’t seem too bad for John since it wasn’t him showing he needed something or someone. Javier doesn’t know how he’s come to understand John despite not liking him. Maybe he’s just predictably broody and moody.

“Get over yourself and just come here, gringo.”

John sighs and stands up, abandoning his bedroll to walk across the dead fire to plop down beside Javier.

“Don’t you kick me,” John warns while looking at the tent, hands behind his head to act as a pillow.

“If I do, it’s on purpose. I just said that to fuck with you,” Javier replies and adjusts himself too, laying on his side where his back faces John. He gets no snarky comment from John the wet cat and he closes his eyes to fall back asleep, hoping that their body heat - despite John’s lack there of right now - will warm the tent up a bit.

“Thank you,” John mumbles, barely audible on account of the rain pattering against the tent canvas. Javier doesn’t wanna ruin John’s expression of gratitude by mocking him so he doesn’t say nothing. He just smiles and spiritually says it’s nothing.

In the morning, John is still barely dry. His bedroll definitely isn’t. He rolls it up and squeezes the water out as best as he can, fastening it to his saddle and hoping the sun will warm him and the bedroll up. Not until they get out of the forest, though. Despite that fact, John doesn’t seem so miserable today.

They still don’t really speak but at least when Javier directs them to Meadow Creek, he doesn’t complain or ask if Javier’s reading the map right.

Most of the country around the south of Washington is farmland, it looks like. The area is both flat and rocky at the same time but thankfully very low on spiky mountains. The sky is bigger than perhaps Javier’s ever seen it look. 

It takes them a few more days to reach the small bridge in Meadow Creek where they can cross Snake River and they’ve been travelling for about two weeks. It hasn’t done much for their ‘friendship’. He knows why him and John were paired up, it’s to have them depend on only each other so they can realize that the other ain’t so bad after all. But you don’t have to like everyone and that’s fine. Still, it has helped them to get better at working together.

They’ve robbed a few coaches without much of a plan to get money and something to show for when they return to the gang which’ll take another two or maybe three weeks to get back to when they reach Walla Walla.

John keeps complaining about what a stupid name it is and Javier keeps not agreeing. He’s heard worse. Look at Spokane.

They manage to work well together, against all odds and everyone’s expectations. They can do most of it in silence, seeing as they would mostly argue or pick on each other when they speak. The few times they’ve gone hunting together, since they’ve had enough run-ins with animals on their own, they can communicate well with just their eyes or with gestures. Their pride has collectively lessened somewhat, allowing themselves to make mistakes in front of the other without defending themselves tooth and nail.

They still have many spats. Like how it turns out that John would move in the tent and not Javier, despite warning Javier not to kick him in his sleep like he joked he would. Javier would wake up with John’s hand on his face or a leg thrown over his and would angrily shove him away to wake him up.

Then the fact that Javier has to force John to do any sort of washing most of the time and then he goes on saying that Javier is too pedantic and mockingly calls him mother while being annoyed at the fact that Javier does not feel bad about being called that. It makes him stop. 

When they at last reach Meadow Creek, Javier suggests they stop to collect some water and to wash and John agrees begrudgingly. But Javier sees it as a win because he doesn’t argue. While John is dumb, he’s not stupid. They need water.

The horses could do with some cleaning and resting too. They stop at a river bank, setting up Javier’s tent on the grass before the sand. No one wants sand in their britches. Javier learned the hard way the spelling of that word. Just now.

“No one wants sand in their what?” John questions as he’s holding back laughter of confusion.

“Bitches?” 

John guffaws and it turns into wheezing and the noise itself is funny enough to make Javier laugh too, even if he doesn’t know what he said wrong.

“It’s britches, you dumbass,” John corrects, still laughing. 

“Ain’t you heard the word ‘bitches’ before?”

“Well… yeah but I thought it was a saying. The sand in your bitches part.”

“What kinda sayin’ would that be?” He has to take some deep breaths to calm down.

“I don’t know! English is weird!”

“That it is.” Then John shrugs with a smile. “I guess no one wants sand in their bitches neither.”

This time it’s Javier’s turn to laugh. Now that he knows that isn’t a saying, he can think back on how stupid it sounded and laugh some more. 

Eventually, Javier leads Boaz down to Snake River and pours water on his coat. He seems to like it and cocks his head in Javier’s direction, trying to touch his owner with his nose. Javier gives him some firm pats and encouraging words, letting him know he’s a strong boy and how good he’s been on such a long journey. Some snacks have been given too, of course.

But it doesn’t seem that Old Boy gets the same treatment from John. In fact, John keeps well away from even the sand, Old Boy tethered to a tree just where the sand and grass meet.

“You’re not washing your horse, John?” Javier asks when he leads Boaz up the bank and tethers him too, further away from the sand so he won’t kick any up that’ll stick to his fur.

“Oh, uh, no, he’s- he’s scared of water.”

Oh.

Oh! 

“You sure it’s the horse?” 

John’s eyes harden in that way they do when he feels attacked or found out. Somehow, it always manages to confirm Javier’s suspicions rather than quell them. It’s the way he makes the accusation into a bigger issue than he should.

“‘Course I’m sure. I ain’t scared of water,” he claims but he isn’t convincing anybody. Good thing this bastard will never be a politician.

“Technically I never said that,” Javier points out to try and coax the confession out of him. Everyone’s afraid of something and it’s not like water doesn’t have frightening qualities.

“You implied it,” John mutters and turns his head away from Javier, looking like a brooding child.

“John, it’s fine. It ain’t deep here at the edge.” For some reason, Javier isn’t going to tease him about this. It’s no use, it’ll only get them back to square one. While the desire to be John’s friend isn’t really a driving force in Javier, he certainly thinks that friendliness will make this trip a lot more bearable.

“Okay?” He feigns ignorance.

“You need to wash anyway. We save a lot more time and water if we do it now. And, it’s free. We get to Walla Walla, who knows how much we’ll spend on a bath?” He tries to rationalise but John isn’t having it.

“In a place named Walla Walla, it’s gonna cost a lot no matter what we do.”

“Ya basta del nombre, just get over here, it’s fine just by the bank!”

“No!”

“Yes, you filthy caveman!”

“No, I- it’s- “ the way he’s faltering tells Javier he’s about to crumble under the pressure of him finding out that John’s scared of water while shooting and robbing and killing people as easy as breathing. 

Javier stands beside John, leaning against a tree.

“It’s okay to be scared,” he says calmly, non-accusingly and without any hint of mockery. Also called: sincerity. “I’m scared of things too and just like you I feel stupid for it.”

“Then what are you scared of?” Javier thinks he has to humanize himself to John in order for John to do the same. He’d rather not talk about it but if he doesn’t, he’s nothing but a hypocrite.

“Being on my own,” he answers and sits down, a few feet from John with his back against a tree. “I don’t mean lonely or alone - on my own with no one else to turn to. I had no one when I came to America, no one in my corner and everyone were natural enemies. It almost killed me.”

John nods slowly, looking like he’s thinking it over. 

“Then Dutch found me, took me in and people started caring for me and I know I’m not on my own now.”

John scoffs with a distant smile on his lips, small but detectable. “Even now? When we‘re hundreds ‘a miles away from them, stuck with each other?” 

Javier lets out pretty much the same sound. “Even now.” He decides. He realizes that even back there, where the gang is, the two of them still looked after each other despite their hatred. John lent Javier his clothes when he fell into the brook, Javier helped John escape a moose attack. So, even now he doesn’t feel like he’s on his own.

“I gotta say, you pack a helluva punch,” John admits then and Javier recalls their fight. Arthur’s reprimands had been right. They acted like little boys. Still, Javier thinks John deserved what he got. Then again, John probably thinks Javier deserved what he got too. 

“Thanks.” He remembers the soreness in his nose for nearly two days after John decked him and says “you too.”

John relents then, sighing deeply and bending his knees where he sits and encases his arms around them.

“Got water tortured. Don’t even remember how old I was just that I keep dreamin’ ‘bout drownin’.”

Javier’s blood runs a little colder. He’s heard of that. Heard that the Spanish used to do that.

“Arthur was forced to teach me to swim but I wouldn’t. I couldn’t - can’t - dunk my head in a barrel and wash my hair. Can’t swim, can’t do nothin’.”

“I used to hate the rain but I figured that’s one of the few ways I can get used to water again. Even felt terrible drinkin’ it a while ago. Then I learned the hard way what dehydration feels like.”

Javier knows about that. Of course he does.

“I got off lightly,” he shrugs and Javier shakes his head.

“Don’t sound like it.”

“Well.” He doesn’t say anything else.

A few seconds of silence pass before Javier speaks.

“I can’t swim neither.”

John perks up like this is the first time he’s met someone like himself. He forgets that many people can’t swim. Just not maybe in the gang and it’s not like any of them interact with many people outside the gang to find someone like yourself that goes beyond the view on thieving, killing and scamming.

“You can’t?”

He shakes his head again. John just nods while he doesn’t seem so somber anymore.

“But seriously, you do need to wash. How do you do it when you get around to it?”

“Abigail helps me.”

“That woman is too good for you,” Javier says out loud even if he hadn’t meant to. The right choice isn’t to rile John up any further or this whole thing will have been in vain. Not that Javier told him his deepest fear just go get him to bathe but the reason they got into a fist fight is because of Javier’s ‘treatment’ of Abigail. It’s a delicate subject. But he feels so strongly that the woman is too kind to John that he simply couldn’t keep it to himself.

“I know.” Javier turns to him, surprised. “She always makes sure to keep the water outta my face - always takes the time…”

Well, Javier isn’t sure he can do that. It certainly doesn’t feel appropriate and he won’t ask. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t know how he would anyway.

He can only offer other methods.

“If you stay right on the bank, if I keep close, can you try? If it doesn’t work then… I understand. Now’s not the time to be conquering fears,” he suggests and John chuckles.

“I’ll… try. But you don’t gotta keep close. It’s embarrassin’ so… set us up while I, you know,” John requests and Javier accepts. He goes into the forest, begins setting up his tent they still share most nights unless Javier throws John out, then readies a fire and unravels some meat to cook for dinner. He listens over the crackling of the fire for John in case he’s in some trouble.

John comes back eventually, hair dripping wet and clothes from Old Boy’s saddlebags. Javier doesn’t know how long it took, just that it took long. Can’t blame him, though. 

“Mírate. How’d it go?” He asks as John sits down by the fire.

“Went fine, mother,” John sasses and Javier sees it as just that - fine. He finds he’s proud of John for it, given his explanation of his terrible relationship to water.

“Me alegra.”

“Still don’t understand you.”

Chapter Text

By the end of April, they reach Walla Walla. They had to ask a local what day it was when they arrived and it’s quaint but lively, sprawling like a forest full of animals. The people are chipper too which seems to do a number on John, downcast as he can be. They don’t seem to mind Javier all that much either, unlike some people they met on the road who’d make some rude comment. One person even asked John if he was okay, if ‘that man’ was bothering him or was holding him hostage. John surprisingly told the stranger to clear off but in a much less friendly way and Javier smirked at the appalled expression on the man’s face as they rode on by. 

The John at the beginning of their trip might’ve gone along with that joke.

With the money they got from their stagecoach robberies, John suggests they go stay at a hotel or an inn and Javier doesn’t protest. It’s one dollar a room which suits them fine. They stable their horses, let them have some proper solitude and peace for the night. John is in his room doing god knows what and Javier is reveling in the comfort of sleeping in a bed, sprawled out all over it and just resting his eyes while listening to the creaking of wagons, clopping of hooves and chattering voices.

Not that he gets much peace. John barges in without knocking and stands in the doorway like he’s meant to kill Javier then and there.

“Maldito, just knock, will you?” Javier curses. “What if I was naked?”

“Whatever, ain’t like you’d be much to look at.”

“Is there a reason you barge into my room that I paid for and start insulting me?”

“I need a drink. Bad. We ain’t had a drink this whole time,” John says and he’s right. They haven’t had much time for it between really wanting to get this job done and trying to stay out of trouble.

“Okay? Go have one. Have ten for all I care, I wanna sleep,” Javier declines and lays his head back down on the pillow. A real pillow. Ain’t this the life?

“If you wanna drag a corpse back to Dutch then sure, I’ll go on my own,” he shrugs.

“What do you mean?”

“Unless you go with me, I’ll end up in a bar fight and die.”

“You promise?” 

John huffs while Javier smirks, still facing the ceiling. 

“Just one drink and we’ll be back and then you can go to sleep, grandpa.”

Javier knows he doesn’t mean it, he knows his drinking habits but John will shut the hell up about it so maybe it’ll be worth it.

Javier groans and sits up, pointedly ignoring John’s triumphant smirk and follows the degenerate downstairs and out into the street. Of course the bastard had scoped out a saloon already. In John’s defense, it seems that his room window is facing the main street so he must’ve seen it through there and came up with his stupid idea.

“I’ll make it clear to you, gringo, if you end up in a brawl, I ain’t helping you.”

“I don’t need your help anyway.”

“Javier, help!” John bellows as he’s being chased around the saloon by an enormous feller. With his level of intoxication, Javier is surprised he can weave through other patrons, chairs and tables so nimbly. And with Javier’s level of intoxication, he’s not surprised that he tries to come to John’s aid despite saying otherwise earlier that evening. Not like he remembers saying that anyway. He tries vaulting over a table but his foot gets caught in a chair and he flops onto the floor with a heavy thump and a groan.

Javier stands up on wobbly legs and picks up an empty bottle of which’s neck he grasps with a white-knuckled grip and rushes up to the monster chasing John, slamming it into the man’s head and causing him to stagger to a halt and John to scamper away behind the bar. The bartender tries to force him out of there but he flees too when the big, inebriated man goes into pursuit of John again.

But Javier comes to the rescue again by jumping onto the man’s back like a child asking for a piggyback but trapping him in a headlock. It backfires as the man topples backwards into the ground, trapping Javier between the man and the floor. The wind is knocked out of him and he lays there useless even after the man climbs off of him. Most people have either fled or started their own brawls. The law will turn up sooner or later.

“You little- !” The man shouts and hauls Javier up from the floor like he’s just a sack of potatoes. He’s limbless as his drunken mind tries to catch up and doesn’t register that he’s about to have his head smashed in. Well, that’s until John picks up a chair and slams it right into the man’s back, getting him to drop Javier who barely catches himself from falling again.

“Let’s get outta here!” John announces and drags Javier along with him out of the saloon where they’re met with law on the street, already having detained some drunken brawlers. 

“More of them bastards! Get ‘em!”

“Shit, come on!” John frets and steers them away somewhere Javier doesn’t know. They end up on some small farm a little ways off the main road, John jumping a fence and Javier groggily climbing over it.

“You okay, buddy?” John asks while heaving for breath, chuckling as the realization of adrenaline kicking in earlier hits.

“¿Me veo bien, pendejo?”

“Good, good,” John says and pats Javier’s shoulder, looking around for law or other pursuers.

“Hah, thanks for helpin’,” he laughs as he runs a hand through his hair.

“Or tryin’ to. That feller decked you good.”

“You asshole, I got my ass beat for you,” Javier pants and feels like it wasn’t fair since John was the one who started the fight. Javier doesn’t even know why it started!

“Very noble of you.”

“I’ll strangle- “ and then John gets shoved forward, colliding with Javier and he once again ends up sandwiched between a body and the ground even though this time the body isn’t as heavy. Javier groans while trying to push John off of him. He seems to have gotten hurt in some way too. Then they hear it - goats. John was rammed by a goat.

Suddenly, everything’s fine. With the laughs bubbling out of Javier, he doesn’t bother trying to shove John away. Nor does he bother with the fact that he’s been squashed into the mud, his whole backside covered in it.

"Damn, that hurt! What the hell!” John complains and climbs off of Javier, his hands and knees also covered in mud. Let’s hope it’s mud, at least. Then he yelps as the goat starts running towards him again and John finally gets his like Javier got his. Javier stays on the ground, giggling uncontrollably at the free comedy show taking place in front of him as John nearly shrieks.

He then gets butted by the goat hard enough to fall out of the pen, rendering him safe for now while Javier is still laughing in the mud.

“Yeah, yeah you laugh!” John says, out of breath. “Wait ‘til it gets your sorry ass!” His speech is quite slurred after exerting himself so bad trying to escape the goat.

“You’re gonna be so sore tomorrow!” Javier laughs and rolls to the side to get himself up.

“You’re gonna be so dead tomorrow,” John threatens sourly and flicks the mud from his hands as Javier approaches him, just tittering now trying to calm himself.

It seems like every time something happens to Javier, it has to happen to John too but worse. When Javier was left in the woods and frightened by a moose and then John almost got trampled by one, when they fought at camp and now Javier got crushed by that giant man and John got attacked by a goat. It doesn’t even bother Javier that he’s filthy, the memory of John being terrified of a goat is a memory he’ll never forget.

“You done yet, you bastard?” John mutters as they begin finding their way back to their hotel. Hopefully, the law has found most of the drunks their cells are full so they won’t fit John and Javier so they can get back.

“Never!”

John grouses on their way back and they’re experts at hiding from the law at this point, blind drunk and all. But they come to a mutual and unsaid agreement not to mention this to anyone back at camp and to never set foot in that saloon again when the gang rolls through.

The clerk back at the hotel looks positively confused and appalled by the sight of them, dirty and sluggish.

“Sorry, mister, can we trouble you for a- or two baths?” John asks. Luckily, he seems to think they’re just some youngins causing a bit of harmless trouble so with a sidelong glance he accepts their payment and tells them there is only one room but that they would be fine.

Neither of them care. The mud seeping between their clothes is cold and disgusting, they can’t sleep without washing it off.

“So much for not payin’ for a bath in Walla Walla,” John comments, recalling what meager reason Javier tried to give John to go bathe in Snake River. Javier rolls his eyes and pokes his head then. And he still pronounces the town name like it’s something poisonous, but at this point, it’s a little funny.

Javier gets in the bath first while John sits on a chair somewhere and doses off. He’s the dirtiest of the two of them so he takes the longest. John snores until Javier kicks him awake.

“Go get me some… uh… ropa… qué es… carajo, um… close?”

“Clothes? Fine. Stay here,” John orders and points his finger at the ground like Javier is some disobedient dog.

“I’m naked, where would I go?”

“Funny!”

John returns with some clothes, Javier gets dressed and John cleans his hands and the stains on his clothes. He didn’t really need a whole bath since he never fell in the mud itself, the lucky bastard. Either way, it might’ve been better that way so John wouldn’t have to sit by the tub drunk as a skunk trying to conquer his fear of water.

“I’m never going drinking with you again,” Javier tells John when they’re back upstairs, both of them standing outside their respective rooms.

“You say that and yet,” he doesn’t finish his sentence and Javier rolls his eyes, waving at him dismissively and then going into his room and flopping on his bed, sprawled out again but on his stomach this time. He falls asleep just as his head hits the pillow.

In the morning, Javier has to drag John out of bed. Literally. He grabs his arm and pulls him out, bedding and pillow going with him. He isn’t too happy about it but Javier reminds him that they have a job to finish. They’ve scouted ahead and the road hasn’t been particularly troublesome which means they can go back to the gang and take them down here so they can finally get back south.

John says he’ll stay behind and pack for them if Javier goes to get the horses and Javier agrees, seeing as speaking to a hungover and morning tired John is like having someone picking at your skin and irritating you until you’re at your wits end.

Boaz and Old Boy seem rested and well fed, even groomed by the staff. Javier has some extra money to give them for the service and leads them to the hitching posts by the hotel, leaning on the wall while smoking and waiting for Mr. Sourpuss.

When he’s out, John tosses Javier’s things to him in silence, expression half-dead like. That was John’s idea, of course he should get the brunt of the pain dealt by it. It makes him real satisfied but saying it out loud won’t do him any favours with John in this mood. Javier thinks that when they’ve left town, they’ll set up a quick camp and have some coffee and maybe that’ll help a bit.

His hair’s getting long again. He doesn’t wanna cut it, it doesn’t feel right, but if it makes it harder to recognize him then he has to. Hosea could’ve been killed because of those bounty hunters recognizing Javier from a time when the two of them didn’t even know each other. He knows that’s how the world works - nothing gets forgiven or forgotten. Now, they’re headed south again where there’s bound to be more Mexicans that know Javier.

Two hours out from Walla Walla, Javier says they’ll stop and just make camp since John is riding too slow and keeps complaining about his pounding head. They should eat and have coffee anyway. 

John is quickly off Old Boy setting things up.

Maybe they should’ve stayed another day. Too late now.

While John’s slowly drinking his coffee and rejoining the real world, Javier is rifling around for a mirror. He also probably needs to shave. John certainly does, he looks like an idiot. Not that he doesn’t otherwise as well. He does. He just looks like an unclean idiot now.

He doesn’t have a mirror. Why would he? He’s not a lady, carrying a handheld with him anywhere he goes. He’ll cut his hair when they get to Meadow Creek. Shaving he’ll have to wait until he can borrow Davey’s straight razor, he’s not risking slicing his lip open by doing it with a knife even as sharp as Javier’s.

Then again, it’s just hair. The worse it looks, the less likely it is bounty hunters will recognize him. But there likely won’t be many women eyeing him with unruly spiky hair under his hat. Whatever, there’ll always be women but he’s only got one life and a whole gang to keep safe.

Javier takes his knife out, checks its sharpness and isn’t satisfied so he’s got to sharpen it. John’s fallen asleep against a tree and is snoring. Good for him.

With a sharpened knife, Javier takes a piece of hair and holds it as best he can to his face before he slices through it with some difficulty. The sound it makes is like tiny little branches being broken apart which it kind of is, he guesses. The edge is uneven but it was before as well only this time it’s worse. He’s gonna be quite a sight.

He figures some pieces in the back are left longer because he can’t see back there and doesn’t wanna risk stabbing himself in the neck either. He brushes himself off to get rid of all hair and runs his hand through the spiky tufts. Feels weird again.

John wakes up and seems like a human being and not a slug again. His eyes are a little red but he’s somewhat coordinated unlike earlier today. He sits down by the fire like Javier, on the opposite end and he picks up a stick and pokes the fire out of boredom. Javier cooked some rabbit over it that he tosses to John and it gets the man to look at him.

“The hell d‘you do to your hair?” Oh. It’s really that bad? 

Javier runs an anxious hand through his hair again, feeling a little self conscious about it. He has no idea what he looks like. If John is just being his mean self or if he actually looks like a wreck, like a madman trying to tear his hair clean off his skull. He likes looking his best, he always wants to but he’s owed the gang to keep them safe from his past mistakes and he’ll do it any way he can.

John’s gonna ask why he did it and he’ll have to tell the whole story - another, less understanding, person in the gang knowing that Javier being with them will cause them to be in danger on two fronts instead of one. If he lies, it’s gonna be easier.

“It… touched the fire and… burnt.” That’s not a great lie. And judging by John’s expression, it was a terrible one even.

“What, d’you dunk your head in the fire?”

“No, I just cut it! I felt like it. Long hair ain’t my thing.” Lies. But it’s a different lie and this seems a tad more believable.

“Lookin’ like a badger mauled a skunk that it then glued on your head isn’t really your thing neither.”

“Insults like that from someone that looks like he’s dipped a wet mop into oil and put on his head is not valid,” Javier fires back and didn’t realize John had only been poking fun. Given their history, it’s not such a surprise he’d jump immediately to hostility.

Not that John thought of that.

“Jesus, I was jokin’,” he mutters and Javier looks away, feeling his hair once more before hiding it under his hat.

It’s John that suggests they should keep going. Javier’s not gonna object so they pack up again and get going. Not much, actually no, conversation is made as they travel all day back to Meadow Creek which is looking like a spring paradise by the time they make it back there. This time, they make camp on the other side of Snake River but they stay there for the night again and collect water and wash the clothes they wore on their night out.

As the sun begins to set, Javier is bored out of his mind. The river is calm over here, barely looking like a river and more like an oblong lake. He heaves a sigh as he stands up from being seated by the fire, John looking curiously after him.

“Whatchu doin’?” He questions and Javier replies as he walks.

“I don’t have nothing else to do, might as well teach myself how to swim.”

“Wha- are you crazy?” John exclaims and stands up too, following Javier to the bank.

“What kinda question is that?” Javier fires back casually and kicks off his boots and unbuttons his shirt.

“You wanna die? That enough of a question for you?”

“How hard can it be?”

“Seriously, why can’t you just wait ‘til someone who can swim could teach you? If you drown, I can’t help you!”

“If I drown, I help you!” He jests and John scoffs.

“Real funny - get the hell away from the water, I’ll lasso your dumb ass and tie you to a tree!”

“Go ahead!” Javier dips his feet in the water, jumping away by how cold it is. But he can’t stop now. He’s too proud. He takes his pants off too and takes his first full step into the river. He can’t help the surprised yelp and the slight shivering that comes with the temperature.

“It’s too damn cold, you’ll freeze to death, Javier!” 

“You sound like my abuelita!” He laughs as he pictures John in his abuelita’s clothes.

“Sounds like your a-bo-lida had some sense!”

“Not at all!” She did but Javier would rather mess with John. It distracts him from how cold the water is. He’s waist deep in the river, feeling a gentle current pulling on him. Javier bends down so his entire chest gets submerged and he whoops from how the cold is sort of adrenaline inducing. 

“¡Hace un jodido frío!”

“Don’t ask me for help when you drown,” John grouses and crosses his arms across his chest and walks back to the fire.

Javier slowly gets used to the cold but not without shivering a little. He gets the weirdest feeling ever, one that sort of forces his teeth to involuntarily clatter despite how much he clenches his jaw shut. It doesn’t hurt but he can’t stop it. It has to have something to do with the temperature. He shouldn’t be in the water but he can’t leave without at least trying to swim, it’ll wound his pride too badly and he doesn’t want John to make some snide comment about it.

“Bien… no puede ser demasiado difícil… “ he mumbles to himself. Some person had to be the first to swim a long time ago and they figured it out just fine, right? He begins by staying at the shallow parts of the river and tries to figure out what would keep him afloat. He’s seen animals swim before, dogs and cats and even frogs.

He keeps those methods in his mind and slowly makes his way deeper to test them out, see which one works best. Though Javier feels like a complete fool for even thinking a person can swim the same as a dog and look dignified. He’s damn glad John didn’t see that. Besides, it failed anyway. Then the frog swimming, the one that he’s pretty sure is the correct way for a person to swim.

But Javier gets humbled when he tries to stay flat in the water so he can try and his whole head gets dunked in the water and he gasps when he resurfaces and flails to get his arms to take him back to the shallow part. He isn’t too keen on drowning. Whatever. John was right. Damn bastard.

Javier walks back to their camp, soaked and dispirited and none the closer to learning how to swim. Anything could happen, they both should know how to swim. Though Javier understands why it’s harder to get there for John, given what he’s suffering and been through.

“How’d you get on?” John asks when he’s back by the fire, sitting close to it and hugging his legs close to his chest to keep what little warmth he’s got.

“Fine,” Javier answers and his curt tone tells John all he needs to know.

He gets up and brings Javier his winter coat, throwing it over his shoulders and patting one of them encouragingly before sitting back down where he sat before. Javier mumbles something that sounds like ’thank you’ and they sit quietly and enjoy the evening. 

“So… uh,” John begins after a while of listening to the river and the birds. “D’you miss Mexico when we was all snowed in?” He asks.

Javier shrugs. “I always miss México,” he replies somber-like, hugging himself tighter and thinking it was his mother that put the coat on him while he waits for her to give him some pozole.

“‘Course… sure, I mean. Whatchu miss most ‘bout it?”

“My family. For me, they’re México. My neighbours, the workers and farmers, the people. Not those maldito cerdos that rule. They steal and they kill, I steal and I kill and yet they would be fine. I’d be hanging or getting… mauled by dogs or my family would.”

Javier spits harshly on the ground at the mention of the Mexican government he had to flee. He did it to keep his family safe but he doesn’t even know if it worked - if it was worth it in the end.

“America’s not much better,” John says and Javier agrees. “What a shitty world we live in.”

Javier hums his agreement and wishes he doesn’t ask more. He dreams enough horrifying dreams of different ways the government could be dealing with his family, even more so the vicious army, seeing as they have a lot more freedom in wandering about the countryside. The government sits in their mansions, calling for some poor servant to do their bidding at every step.

Clearly, Javier could be doing much worse than running with a gang and having to run when things get heated. He’d already be dead and nameless had he stayed in Mexico. 

Once he’s dry, he gets dressed again and can leave his coat aside. John goes to sleep, claiming that he’s bored and it’s the easiest way to pass time. He’s right, of course. Javier just thinks he needs a little longer to stare into the fire, to reminisce on good times with his old family and what might come to be his new one. They certainly act like family a lot of the time. Sure, the gang has many spats between singular members (John and Javier are prime examples of this) but it’s clear that they would all still do most anything for each other.

Sounds like a family to Javier.

And no matter how much he dislikes John, he won’t let him die when he’s got a girl and a son, even if he doesn’t take care of them like they deserve, he might change his mind in the future. 

To forget about time for a while, Javier starts humming a song Karen taught him. She taught him a few, so far. Three. His favorite is Lorena but that’s only because Karen sings it so beautifully. It suits a woman’s voice best so Javier decides to start humming his second favorite one.

I ain’t got no father, I ain’t got no father, I ain’t got no father to buy the clothes I wear

I’m a poor lonesome cowboy, poor lonesome cowboy, I’m a poor lonesome cowboy long way from home

I ain’t got no mother, I ain’t got no mother, I ain’t got no mother to mend the clothes I wear

I’m a poor lonesome cowboy, poor lonesome cowboy, I’m a poor lonesome cowboy and a long ways from home

The pair of them fight a lot less on their trip back to the gang. Mostly they don’t speak at all so that might be a contributing factor, and they’d usually fight on which path to take but now when they just have to go back the same way they came, there’s not much of that.

Javier even begins to miss Pearson’s cooking because just eating cooked meat and not much else is not that great anymore. The canned vege… vecht-ables are a savior at this point. And the few berries they can indulge in if they grow close to the trails.

Only approximately one day out from the gang, Javier has just handed Boaz a sugar cube for his great job getting him so far in the surprising heat that followed that day when both him and Old Boy get spooked by an agonizing wail coming from somewhere off the trail and into the forest. 

“Tranquilo,” Javier soothes and strokes Boaz’s neck as his mount whinnies and stomps, “cálmate.”

“What the hell is that?” John asks as he too tries to settle his horse. 

“Someone’s in trouble,” Javier states the obvious and John rolls his eyes.

“Obviously.”

“You asked!” 

“Shh! He’s sayin’ somethin’.” The two of them quiet down and try to make out what’s being shouted so perilously. Something about a pox or a plague or both, something like ‘it’s taken him’. It sounds more like possession. There was a woman in his village, claiming she’d been possessed. Maybe.

“What’s a pox?” Javier whispers.

“Sickness, I guess.”

“Well, should we help him?”

“No. Definitely not. If he’s some kinda sick, we don’t go near.”

“He sounds crazy not sick,” Javier says and John shrugs while they keep somewhat hidden in case the man is closer than they think.

“All the more reason not to do nothin’,” John argues. Javier doesn’t like it. If Dutch had thought this of him, seeing a starving, skeletal foreign fella that looked sickly, he wouldn’t have been alive today. 

“If we all thought like that, neither of us would’ve been alive,” Javier reminds John who knows just as well that he would’ve been left to hang had Dutch not saved him.

“Okay, stay here then. I’m helping.” He slips away and out of cover, draws his gun as a precautionary measure and scampers over there through moss and root.

“Wait- Javier, you- “ John groans, “goddamnit,” he hisses and follows behind.

“You okay in there, friend?” Javier questions once he’s reached the tent, choosing to not acknowledge John tagging along anyway. For a split second, the tent is quiet and Javier’s heart jumps. Next thing he knows, he’s got a shotgun in his face, poking through the tent flaps.

“You gotta be- “ John complains and sighs heavily, raising his hands and surrendering at the same time Javier does. Javier manages to look at him and see the raging expression staining his face, luckily keeping his gaze away from Javier in favor of seeing what the man faking illness would do.

Another guy joins from behind, aiming a revolver at Javier while John stands as if he isn’t there.

“My my, what we got here? Two little lambs,” the one standing behind teases in a scratchy, sleazy tone that reminds Javier of someone speaking with their mouth full of liquid. Judging by his rabid expression, maybe he is doing just that.

John aims his cattleman at the man in the tent, keeping his eyes on the one standing behind Javier. That one then turns his gun on John instead which has Javier’s heart hammering even harder than before. He can hear it all the way into his ears. It would be better if Javier got killed and John survived - he’s got a woman and a son and while he isn’t close to them now, maybe he’ll grow to be. He needs to be alive to do that.

“One for the spit,” the tent man points his shotgun at Javier first, then he moves the barrel to John, “and one for the dogs,” he says and the two crazed men titter like excited little boys almost. Javier sees his opportunity and takes out his own gun in a split second, firing it under the tent man’s chin and making him drop dead instantly while the other one fires blindly in that general direction, causing John to leap away towards the trail and out of the line of fire.

Javier gets tackled to the ground by the other man and has to fend off a knife. The man presses down with all his might, Javier only has his arms to keep him away while the man has all his weight focused on that damn knife so it might take Javier out for good. It leaves him vulnerable but Javier spits in the man’s face and he recoils a bit, both Javier’s and the man’s grip loosening on the knife and it slips, slices clean through Javier’s right eyebrow.

Then John comes to the rescue, kicking the man away from Javier and without hesitation, shooting him dead. His whole head explodes from the force of shotgun slugs, surprising Javier enough so he has to face away from the sight, despite seeing much worse being done to a person.

“You goddamn idiot,” John swears at Javier while he sits on the ground, tapping his fingertips on the cut across his eyebrow and looking at the blood coming off on them.

“You could’a gotten us killed!” 

John’s right. Javier doesn’t say anything. He’s right and he knows Javier thinks he is. He stands up with a sigh and walks over to his saddlebags with his head down, ignoring John’s existence. He brings out a handkerchief and douses it in some water, all in complete silence.

“I told you,” John says after he’d decided to loot the men, not surprised that he didn’t find much on them apart from the ammunition in their weapons and the machete one of them was carrying. He stands by Javier and snatches the handkerchief from him.

“Let me,” he sighs irritatedly and starts swiping away the blood running down by Javier’s eye and then pressing it to the wound. Javier hisses.

“You’re not gonna say nothin’?” 

“What you want me to say?” He mumbles, keeping his eyes miles away from John’s.

“Somethin’. Anythin’. That you were stupid for wantin’ to help that man.”

“Helping people is stupid now?” 

“Sometimes.”

Javier rolls his eyes and takes the handkerchief back then, stepping away from John and muttering a quiet ‘thanks’ before mounting Boaz, staring straight ahead waiting for John to mount Old Boy so they can leave. He presses the handkerchief onto the wound himself.

“Why’re you mad at me, you did this,” John questions.

“Shut up for once in your life,” Javier bites back and starts trotting away.

“You’re just like Abigail. You’re mad and you expect me to read your mind like some goddamn magician!”

“No! Leave me alone when I tell you!”

Then they don’t speak for a while. Javier can tuck away the handkerchief after a short time and forget about the small cut. It isn’t deep enough to stitch up so he doesn’t care.

He’s trying to calm himself. He knows that people are treacherous, he knows they lie and kill because he lies and kills so why can’t he move past those men? They mean nothing in a sea of evil men, they’re bygones. They would’ve done this to anyone. Well, maybe it’s more the fact that it disturbs him that John was right. Javier’s been helped so much, he wanted to help someone too. And what did that get him? John could’ve died and he got himself a cut in his eyebrow that could’ve gone in his eye and blinded him.

Chapter Text

The two of them endure the rest of their time together in silence as they often have on this trip, both of them rejoicing inside about the fact that they’ll be back with the gang tomorrow. It’s been a long month and even if they’ve had their moments of something you could call friendship, Javier thinks it was only a matter of circumstance and the fact that they had no one else in the world apart from each other.

The repossessed farm looks decidedly different in the spring, not as cozy and more like exactly what it is; a place filled with ghosts of those having to move. Nature is always beautiful, in all its forms as usual. John and Javier return looking like wet cats, having ridden in a steady but warm rain shower. 

John mentioned a while ago he used to be scared of the rain after being water tortured but that he had eventually worked through it. To Javier, it seems so foreign that John would be scared of water out of all things and he’d even suffer dehydration by not being able to drink. It’s a damn brave leap after torture like that. That feels like one thing that made the trip worth it. While he and John might never get along, there’s something very human about his fear and his vulnerability now.

But this rain is very pleasant because it isn’t cold. The volume of which it comes down is another story.

It’s Bill who’s on watch when they return, clutching a new rifle that he points at the two of them before realizing who they are.

“Marston and Escuella, you made it back in one damn piece,” he greets them, sounding genuinely surprised. How many of them thought they’d died?

“Davey, Mac and I bet you’d kill each other,” comes the reason for his surprise. It’s a sensible bet to make and somehow it feels strange they’d lost that bet now. Whoever bet against them - payday is due.

“Somethin’ like that,” John mutters and steers Old Boy towards the stables, Javier nodding to Bill and following. He gives Boaz some firm pats and words of encouragement for his hard work, for always staying strong. If he has no one else, at least he’ll always have Boaz.

When John has hitched Old Boy and patted him down too and given him treats, as a final seal to their experience and the end of that chapter, he glances at Javier and nods - a universal sign to acknowledge what they’ve been through. Javier does too, slow and deliberate. It’s behind them but it’s not forgotten. 

Javier stays in the stable a little longer, not looking forward to having the gang hound him about his return. Of course it reminds him of what his family would do when he’d come back after some escapade and he is beyond grateful to have something like that to return to in the time he needs it most, but he honestly just wants to sleep. He’s been sharing his tent with John most nights, he can’t wait to get so sleep on his own even while he: surrounded by others, at least they won’t be able to whack him in his sleep.

He’s first greeted by Tilly who comes up to hug him, leaving him in a suspended state and his arms barely embrace her before she can let go and say she’s happy to see him alive. He chuckles sheepishly and hides beneath the brim of his hat to hide his blush coming from not knowing how to respond. He is warmly welcomed by all, even Davey who only makes fun of him a little, claiming that someone so small can worm his way through any trouble anyway. 

Dutch asks jovially how they got on, John and Abigail along with Jack perched more or less in the corner of the main cabin by the door to the room they sleep in.

“Just fine,” John answers and it’s so unhelpful Javier rolls his eyes and adds the details.

“Didn’t see no law once, we robbed some coaches without a fuss, there’s Snake River half way - we went to Walla Walla and not Lewiston for, you know, any-anim… amon…?”

“Anonymity?” Hosea asks and Javier nods.

“Friendly people,” he adds as well. It was mostly true. At least until he and John got drunk and they started brawling but the less the gang knows about that the better.

“Perfect! Well done - both of you!” Dutch praises. “Hosea and I wanna get us down to Arizona. Somewhere near Texas so we won’t meet no more bloodthirsty Californios.”

Javier is seized by the claws of fear. He feels them tapping along his back, carrying memories in the cuts they slice through his skin like canyons cracking open. The first state he escaped into, the first one he fled and he fled it fast. There’s a lot of Mexican people in the southern states, a lot like Javier and fleeing death and prosecution along with those hunting them for either sport or pay. But what does he have against Dutch and Hosea? What can he offer as a solution instead?

The whole gang doesn’t have trouble in Arizona, they can’t not settle there just because one man will have trouble there. It isn’t even a certainty that Javier will have trouble there. He might, but maybe not.

Javier’s just going to have to be a lot more careful and definitely not end up in drunken fights or caught somewhere unawares. He’s going to do a lot more things on his own, he figures. If only he gets captured, that’s ideal. Unless people start forgiving and forgetting, that’s Javier’s life. And from his experience, they do neither of those things.

They all start packing. Javier’s head throbs a little, his mouth is dry. He hasn’t been drinking much water. Forgot about it. He carefully puts his guitar in one of the wagons, leaving it laying on his own bedroll. 

“Javier!” He turns around at the call, finding Abigail there with Jack on her hip of course. He smiles warmly in response. “You okay?” She asks, not sounding so urgent as much as curious.

“Uh… yeah! Yeah, I’m fine. Yourself?” 

“Yes, me too. I was, um, worried ‘bout that big angry cut on your eyebrow. What happened? Was it John?” Her gaze hardens and Javier climbs out of the wagon. 

“Oh, no, no it wasn’t John. We… got ambushed. I thought someone was in trouble and wanted to help and we got ambushed.”

Abigail frowns, noting the sad tinge in Javier’s voice. She places a hand on his shoulder and pats gently.

“You handled yourself okay if you walked away with only a cut,” she tries to comfort and Javier dies a little at how sweet she is. 

“John. He, uh- “ John walks by a little ways back, carrying some crate, watches them venomously, suspiciously. “He saved me.”

“He did?” Abigail asks in disbelief. “You two fight at all?”

“Yeah. More than once,” he mumbles.

“You’re friends now?” She sounds sort of hopeful. He doesn’t know why she would.

He can’t help but huff at the notion of them being friends. It won’t happen. Sure, he’ll save and care for John if he’d need to but that’d be mainly to save the gang a lot of grief, not because he’s so attached to John himself.

“Not exactly.”

“I figured,” Abigail admits. Jack blinks awake after sleeping with his head on Abigail’s shoulder. He’s a cute creature. “I’ll help you with your cut when we’re off, okay? Don’t want it to get infected.”

“What about John?” Javier lets it slip out. She doesn’t need to be reminded about his baseless jealousies towards the two of them. Ain’t nothing going on between them because against all odds, Abigail loves John.

“John? What’s he gonna do?”

“Nothing,” Javier settles with. “Thank you.”

Abigail smiles again and leaves while she’s starting to talk to Jack. Abigail keeps her word and while the horses plow on through the rain, Javier sits in one of the wagons getting the cut cleaned. It stings pretty bad, his head pounds harder than earlier but hopefully not from thirst. She then asks Javier to stay a little longer with her since she wants to teach him another song, a favorite of hers that they usually don’t play around the fire.

“Oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’ Clementine, you are lost for me forever, dreadful sorry, Clementine. Her noble father was a foreman of a very valued mine, and every miner and ranchman was a brother to Clementine,” she sings, her voice is soft and full of emotion like she was speaking of a sister or a loved one she personally knew. Javier listens intently. He always does. Everyone always seems to listen closely to Javier’s songs, even if they don’t understand them.

Eventually, the two of them sing together a little, their voices blending well. 

“It’s a nice and… sad song,” Javier says and Abigail nods.

“It is.”

“Reminds me of John,” he says then for no reason. Abigail chuckles.

“Why?” She wonders.

“Well, he can’t swim neither. Can you swim?” 

“Yes. I can. Glad for it too.”

“Great, then you won’t drown ‘cause John can’t save you. Like for Clementine.”

She laughs at him then, tells him to go away and he does. He thanks for the song and for her help with his cut, jumping off the wagon and moving out of the way of the wagon behind, ambling over to Boaz who’d been walking by himself for a while now. 

On their first stop on their way to Arizona, Tilly and Karen discuss the nature of Abigail’s and Javier’s relationship and don’t bother doing it too privately. Davey and Mac listen on, hidden by some trees and they’re both known for stirring the pot. Davey is almost always the instigator but Mac is an enabler so he isn’t much better.

They never said anything directly to John but they’d talk about it where they could be sure he’d hear them. It’s subtle like erosion, something that John barely notices he’s still bothered with anymore. It builds and it builds in their weeks on the road, creating a bitterness even John has never had in him before.

If Javier is so great, why can’t Abigail bother him? Why can’t she just take up with him? If he sings mournful, romantic Spanish songs that swoon the ladies and capture the fellers, if he’s so nice to Jack and so great at everything, why’d they need John?

The conclusion is; they don’t. At least according to John. Javier’s good at being a little pet. He’ll do anything to please Dutch and Hosea and even Arthur. John ain’t never been good at being dignified but that level of pathetic is deeply below even him. They don’t need John if they’ve got some boy in the same age with the same capabilities, only with a lot more ‘sense’ or whatever.

It becomes enough, eventually. So hard to endure and just watch, because if he ever said anything about it, it was always him being irrational and out of line, that he offered to take the night watch, packed his things, unhitched Old Boy and just took off. Without so much as a word to anyone. Not to Dutch, not to Hosea and especially not to Abigail. 

He’s finally free. Or something. 

Ironically, Javier is the first to find out. He should’ve taken over after John on watch but while they’d all normally fill each other in on what happened on watch, John was nowhere to be seen.

As to not worry people in vain, and to not irritate John, Javier kept it to himself and used his time on watch as an excuse to go search for him. But it’s only when he makes it to where the horses are hitched that he sees that Old Boy isn’t there anymore neither. He’s gone somewhere. Somewhere out of camp, out of reach with just his own two feet. It’s really strange. Javier isn’t a great tracker. He’s fine at shooting animals or even people that they’ve tracked but he never does the tracking.

Who’s gonna give the most subtle reaction to John’s strange disappearance?

Hosea, probably.

Not that he gets to talk to Hosea before Abigail is on his case.

“Where’s John?” She asks and she actually sounds worried.

“I don’t- “ Javier tries to answer but in her discombobulation she doesn’t hear him.

“He was on watch before you, wasn’t he?” 

“Yeah, he was supposed to be.”

“That stupid little man,” she grumbles and resorts to calling his name really publically.

“John Marston! Where the hell are you?”

At the crack of dawn, Abigail has woken most of the gang who exits their lean-tos and tents with jumbled, sleep-drunken minds. Dutch is the one who first asks what’s going on. 

“John ain’t here,” Abigail hisses, having to rush back to John’s tent where she’d put Jack to sleep when she heard him fussing and crying.

“Ain’t here?” Dutch repeats. “What do you mean ‘ain’t here’?” 

While Abigail’s away, Javier takes to answering instead.

“I was gonna get his briefing from his watch but I couldn't find him. And his horse’s gone too.”

“His things aren’t in his tent, Dutch!” Abigail says, holding Jack in her arms and stroking his head softly.

Dutch stands quiet. His hands land on his hips then he runs a hand down his face. Hosea stands by his side and Dutch turns to him for a possible answer to what the hell is going on. He doesn’t know either. He had no idea what John had been planning, halfway down to Walla Walla.

“So the bastard just left his wife and kid?” Arthur speaks up, not holding back on showing how angry it seems to make him.

“Now, we don’t know if he left,” Hosea tries to defend. He looks thoughtful, as if he’s somehow going to try and imagine where he’d gone or why he’d done it. No one understands John, no one’s gonna figure it out.

“Bullshit, ‘course he left. He ain’t never wanted to take care o’ them.” Arthur gestures to Abigail and Jack, Abigail who’s scowling in a way that makes Javier note to himself never to cross her in any way and Jack not understanding anything but the fact that his momma and the others are on edge. 

“But why’d he leave now?” Bill asks. 

“We don’t know if he left!” Dutch cuts in. “He might’a just found a bear and needed to chase it away, fact is: we don’t know.”

“We’ll know,” Arthur persists. Hateful, almost, as he turns on his heels and decides to take the next watch for himself. “All them years,” Javier thinks he hears Arthur mutter as he goes.

Dutch tells everyone to get on with the day’s work, that they can turn in earlier tonight for being woken at this time. Javier does his tasks mindlessly all day, acting on automation. He’s trying to figure out why Arthur has always been particularly harsh on John, especially when it comes to caring, or not caring, for his family.

He’s not gonna get any answers. Arthur is probably the most reserved in all of the gang. Javier knows more about Strauss than Arthur and Strauss creeps him out a bit. He’s a decent man but… everyone’s got an energy.

It takes the rest of the gang three days after John’s disappearance to finalize that, yes, he had in fact left them without a word to anyone. No one had heard so much as a peep about leaving. No one knew if he was ever coming back or taking a little ‘vacation’ from them. No one knows.

The months pass, the gang make it to Walla Walla, Uncle, Mac and Davey love it there, the women too, Jack grows, he learns how to walk and talk a bit and he sounds a lot like when Javier first started learning English. They don’t stay long enough for people to recognize them, on their best behavior so they won’t get involved with the law. Needless to say, Javier does not go drinking with Uncle, Bill, Mac and Arthur that one night they asked him to come. 

Dutch changes the route of their journey, making them just barely grace Oregon before they cross into Idaho and into Utah. It’s a long tedious road filled with unpredictable weather and people, they’ve almost gotten robbed three times by people underestimating them due to the women and old men in their company. They’re dead now anyway. You don’t cross the van der Lindes.

They stay to the west of Great Salt Lake, away from civilisation. That also means having to traverse the Great Basin Desert and that isn’t done with much ease. Lucky them, they’d filled up their water reserves and used more or less every single container available to store water as they keep on traveling to find their temporary home for feeling safe and eventually making money again that’ll do more than just barely see them through a month.

“We gotta move into Nevada,” Hosea says at some point, him and Dutch conversing in Dutch’s tent, neither of the two bothering to shut the flaps to induce some sense of privacy in such a small camp.

“We just fled that place a couple months ago! You think the law forgot about us yet?” Dutch argues.

“No, of course they haven’t but do you wanna lead this gang through the Grand Canyon? It won’t work. Abigail and Jack are already struggling and Swanson he- “

“So we go in through New Mexico.”

“We can’t be camping out in eastern Arizona, the terrain is terrible.”

“We’ve done it before.”

“Sure, when it was just you and I. We got thirteen people to take care of now! And if we go in through western New Mexico, we’ll just have to travel close to too many cities and towns.

“And if we wanna come in through eastern Nevada, we’re gonna have to ride right into Las Vegas.”

Javier decides to stop listening. He has no idea where these places are. He can’t remember. He’s heard of Las Vegas, they were never there because of obvious reasons. He thinks that all this arguing might have them compromise to head further east or to stay up here, still pretty far from Mexico. But he’s being stupid. Dutch and Hosea agree on going to Arizona, just not on how they’re meant to get there.

It’s been so long that the only time when Javier thinks about John is when he wants to step in to help Abigail in some way. In any way at all. She seems to prefer the ladies’ help which he respects but she’s no stranger to asking Javier to help her with other things. 

At this point, the gang has even taken to learning some of the songs in Javier’s repertoire. Well, two phrases. But it’s better than nothing. They picked up on canta y no llores pretty quick when Javier started singing Cielito Lindo around the fire. He plays like he used to, sure of every chord, of every trick his uncle taught him, of the tips the Mariachis rolling with the revolutionaries shared.

With that said, Javier enchants by the campfire, despite no one knowing what the songs are about. Even Bill and Davey sit like hypnotized snakes when they’re drunk and a quarter-witted instead of just half-witted.

Chapter Text

In July comes the decision that they move into Colorado by the help of Arthur mediating as he does pretty well when it comes to Dutch and Hosea’s spats. He reminded them that there are many states between them and the far east and they’d seemed to have forgotten about that while being so caught up with their idea to get to Arizona. Javier is definitely on board with this idea. It’s one step further away from Mexico. But he doubts he’s out of the woods given the fact that they had bounty hunters all the way up in Washington.

In any case, the gang packs up again and journeys to Grand Junction. Or near it. It wasn’t preferable but one of their wagons said ‘goodbye and good night’ and made their travels a lot more difficult by forcing them to move everything from that wagon into the remaining three and it made it significantly harder on the horses.

They make camp a few miles away from Grand Junction, due south from Fruita.

The terrain is hard to ride through but it sure is pretty. Javier found himself so distracted by the woodlands and the mountains standing proud like monuments in the distance, dusted in snow at the peak, that he accidentally steered Boaz off the trail and Mac laughed at him when Boaz bucked him into the grass. They don’t stay that long before they head towards Durango, close to the border with New Mexico. They’re gonna ride on through there, just passing Farmington and then finally get into Arizona.

So, Dutch got what he wanted. 

At the end of July, Javier and Mac are the ones riding ahead. The first thing on their mind is to see if any of them have any bounties issued in Farmington since they have to come through to make it to Arizona. Javier is nervous. His hands grip the reins hard enough to whiten his knuckles and to cause Boaz to whinny at him from the strain. Javier blinks out of his reverie and pats Boaz down, handing him a mint for the trouble. 

“God, I’m tired of all this movin’,” Mac complains as they ride on through Farmington, already having to withstand some impatient wagon and coach drivers telling them to move and some men glaring suspiciously at Javier. 

“I just wanna stay somewhere for more than a few weeks,” he says and Javier is inclined to agree.

“You think Arizona’s that place?” Javier says but with doubt. Mostly because the threat of him being hunted down here is a lot higher and more real than in the northern states, despite what happened. 

“No,” Mac admits. “Sometimes I wonder if any of them have been to Arizona. It’s crazy. They plannin’ to march us straight into Tombstone?”

“Tombstone? To our graves, you mean?” Javier asks.

“That too,” Mac chuckles then but shakes his head. “No, the town. Tombstone. You ain’t never heard of the O.K Corral gunfight?” Javier shakes his head.

“I guess you hadn’t come to America then.”

“Probably not.”

The town is sprawling but unwelcoming, a stark contrast to when they rode through Walla Walla and even Durango. But either way, they keep to themselves, to show the locals they aren’t here to rustle their cattle or shoot up their homes. Yet anyway. Let’s see what Dutch comes up with.

The two of them find the sheriff’s office and the board is filled with bounties ranging in prices from ten dollars to five hundred. None of them are theirs. Not even Dutch or Hosea. Javier breathes a sigh of relief, thinking that the craze around Javier’s capture might’ve died down a bit so it’s mostly limited to Mexico again. He can only hope. He doubts it deep down - because people never forget - but it feels good at this very moment.

Well, his good mood is instantly smothered by Mac lifting one poster out of the way of another and looking at the poster hidden beneath. 

John Marston - Wanted Alive - Reward $60

John? Javier keeps reading, seeing that Farmington law specifically wants him. He must’ve done something around these parts at some point. 

“What the hell’s Marston been up to?” Mac questions and rips the poster off the board. Somewhere in the soup of text it says where he’s been seen last. But it isn’t in or really close to Farmington. Some place called Blanco.

“We gonna look for ‘im?” He goes on.

Javier shrugs, albeit a little absentmindedly as he weighs in the consequences and the facts that he left them for a reason - to get away. He is away and he did it on his own volition and his own terms. At least it never seemed like he ratted on the gang.

“He left,” he answers plainly. Their task was to ride ahead and make sure they won’t get into any trouble when riding through Farmington, if they insert themselves into the search for a man who don’t want nothing to do with any of them they might jeopardise their anim- damn it, anonymity. 

“So? He could be in trouble,” Mac says.

“Of course he’s in trouble, he’s on a poster,” Javier argues and points at the prize on his head.

“I’ve known him for years, Javier.”

“And he still left.”

“You been talkin’ to Arthur or somethin’?” Mac sighs, “look, I know what he did was wrong but, wouldn’t you want someone to help if you were in trouble?” He goes on and Javier rolls his eyes.

“If John wanted to be helped he shouldn’t have left his family,” Javier stands firm on his belief that John abandoned them all with a clear conscience.

“You didn’t even like him,” Mac protests. Javier doesn’t know what John has done for Mac in the past, or the others, but seeing how Arthur and Abigail reacted to John’s disappearance tells him more than enough that John doesn’t care about nobody. And Javier doesn’t believe Dutch’s bluster about him seeing sense one day and returning to them on his own good will.

“Am I wrong for that? He’s a dick, he’s a deadbeat, he betrayed Dutch and Abigail and Arthur.”

“You think that’s what your family thought about you when you left?” Mac challenges and Javier whirls in on him, unsheathing his knife and pointing it at Mac’s throat.

“I left them to protect them! John left ‘cause he’s selfish. No sabes nada.”

Mac raises his hands in a gesture of peace. Javier puts his knife away and steps back, mind reeling from the reminder of how he ended up here, what he had done to end up in this godforsaken country.

“You don’t gotta look for ‘im. I will. Blanco ain’t far. Go back to the others and tell ‘em we’re fine.”

“¿Estás loco? You don’t know what you’re getting into,” Javier warns Mac as he mounts his horse.

“So, you comin’ with me then?” Mac isn’t letting this go and apart from John, Javier cares about the people who became his family in all but blood and doesn’t want Mac to get himself killed. So,

“Fine! Maldito seas, John Marston, te mataré,” he mutters as he mounts Boaz and trots on behind Mac trying to locate Blanco on the map.

Javier is decidedly quiet when Mac starts making plans for how they should go about this. He doesn’t care. He’s not here for John, he’s here to keep Mac from getting himself killed in the name of saving John from trouble he got himself into. It’s been a year of nothing and the years were going to pile on had they not found John’s poster. If only he’d gone with Arthur and not Mac, then they would already be heading back to the gang.

The sun is hidden behind foreboding clouds, grey as a wolf’s coat with rain. They ride along San Juan River, according to Mac’s map, through tilled farmland. Mostly they run into lone travelers on the road, sometimes men with wagons packed with supplies or with nothing, other than that, it’s calm and hot. Maybe those clouds bring thunderstorms. Let’s hope not. 

But amidst the silence that follows Mac understanding that Javier wants no speaking role in this shitshow, it quickly gets pierced by what sound like dozens of thumping hooves on the road approaching. Voices hooting too. Just poking out from the crest ahead of them are five heads, hats in different shapes and colors and the men wearing them sitting in their saddles. 

Mac and Javier know to make themselves seem harmless to avoid trouble. They’re just two men on the road. Nothing off about them at all. But that’s not the case for those men. On the back of one of the horses, there’s someone stowed. They’re alive, given the rigidity of the body bobbing about back there.

While Mac buries his nose in the map, understanding they are bounty hunters, Javier only slightly tilts his head downward to hide beneath the brim of his hat. As the bounty hunters ride past and the target becomes visible, Javier’s head snaps instantly towards the target.

His eyes are locked with John Marston’s. After a little more than a year, he’s staring straight at a tied up and gagged John goddamn Marston. To hell with subtlety, Mac wanted John back, this is their chance.

“Mac!” Javier calls but keeps his eyes, wide as plates, on John’s dwindling form. Mac looks at Javier quizzically.

“John!” He shouts and points to the bounty target, badly beaten and bruised. 

Mac squints at first, looking as best he can. They can’t wait. Javier flicks Boaz’s reins and spurs him on with a “yah!” And gallops ahead. He can hear Mac following closely behind at last. John knows it’s them. He saw Javier too so he starts wriggling, hands tied behind his back and feet tied too. The movement seems to agitate the horse he’s stowed on and it aids John’s escape by rearing the slightest bit, John landing on the ground with a thud as sand and dirt veils him as it’s kicked up by the animals.

The bounty hunters notice them then. They turn their mounts around but Mac and Javier have already started shooting before they’re halfway. Between the two of them, they’re quick and confident, leaving only two of the bounty hunters any time to fire a few bullets in return. Mac shoots one of them down, missing the other, Javier kills the last and watches as the horses dash off in fear, without masters to guide them anymore.

The two of them get off their horses, Javier slicing through the rope around John’s ankles and Mac those around his wrists. John pushes himself off the dusty ground and tears off the gag, huffing like he’d just been in a gunfight. He’s badly beaten. An ugly black eye over his left eye, a swollen and busted lip, scratches on his arms and tears in his shirt. And a limp that makes him stumble into Mac.

“Holy hell,” Mac sighs like he isn’t believing his eyes. “John-fucking-Marston.”

John chuckles weakly and allows Mac to steady him. 

“Mac Callander. It’s goddamn good to see you.” The two of them share a firm embrace while Javier keeps his eye out for travelers coming and seeing this massacre.

“How’d you end up on the back of that feller’s horse?” Mac asks and John heaves another deep but seemingly pained breath.

“Got myself into a fight in Chama. Had to run - holed up in Blanco and, well,” John holds his arms out to say that’s how he ended up here.

“You’re damn lucky we found ya or you’d be in jail, brother.”

“Again,” John claims and Mac blinks at him briefly but then chuckles, smacking a hand into John’s back and patting him firmly. 

“You got a lot to fill us in on.” Mac saying ‘us’ seems to remind John of Javier’s presence. He looks at him, their eyes meet and they exchange nothing but a nod each. John does look thankful, and Javier does look resigned instead of furious.

“You… you fellers still runnin’ with…?” John asks, allowing Mac to help him to his horse, a white standardbred named Tundra.

“‘Course. Javier and I were sent out to scout ahead. You know.” Mac replies and then mounts too. Javier stays on the ground, opting to search for something valuable the men might be carrying. Comes down to fifteen dollars total and a few useless trinkets that might be of value selling to a fence. Javier mounts Boaz, pretending like he isn’t listening to John’s and Mac’s conversation.

It’s almost like John simply got lost over a period of two weeks instead of fourteen months, speaking to each other like they’re just catching up.

Maybe if Javier was John’s friend it would be the same. But he’s not so it isn’t. 

“You, uh, headin’ back with us?” Mac asks with a raised eyebrow. Javier is certain John’s gonna decline and say he’s got his own thing. To just take him to some town where he can patch himself up and keep on roaming the country on his own.

“You think they’ll have me back?” John sounds tentative, like he’s testing the waters he’s so scared of. Speaking of water, it looks like he hasn’t touched any for a week. He didn’t learn a thing from when he and Javier talked in Meadow Creek.

“Most would. But-uh… maybe beware of Arthur. And Abigail. Definitely beware of her,” Mac warns.

John scoffs but with a faint smile on his lips. “Yeah,” he agrees easily. It almost looks and sounds like John missed her. Javier isn’t convinced. John didn’t care before he left, why would he care now? What, is he supposed to believe he got a case of ‘he didn’t know what he had until he lost it’? He lost nothing. He abandoned everything.

The details of his time away from the gang, John keeps to himself. He mostly tells Mac and Javier where he’d been, what crimes he’d added to his belt of the pre-existing ones. Javier doesn’t need the details. But a curious part of him wants them. He wants to know what could be out there that made John compelled to stay there and not try to find his way back.

“Go through Bloomfield,” John says after a while as the sun begins to set. The clouds still hang heavy above them, the air humid and electric almost. Javier can feel it through his bones. “It’ll get us on the road to Durango.”

“How’d you know that?” Mac wonders.

“Been through there. Been all over,” John answers and Mac shrugs. Javier scoffs to himself.

They don’t get far. They get caught up in the rain, having to put their tents up and hide in those. Javier would strangle Mac but that means having to put up with John entirely on his own so he doesn’t, but he wants to when he says he’ll keep watch first, rifle at the ready as he sits in his tent while that leaves Javier having to care for John and his injuries. Reminds him of Dutch, Mac does, as he seemingly wants the nature of their circumstances to right some wrong in Javier’s and John’s relationship.

Javier takes a rag from his packing, he pours some moonshine he stole on it and gives it to John. More like slams it into his hand. John gives him an unappreciative look but there’s something soft behind it that Javier doesn’t notice. He sucks in air through his teeth at the sting from the alcohol on his split lip and hisses at Javier as he ties a bandage around a deep cut on his underarm too hard, glaring at the way Javier is pointedly ignoring all his declarations of discomfort.

“You still remind me of Abigail,” John huffs and Javier ignores him. “Tough love.”

Javier looks up at John then, stern gaze, hard and accusing. “Ain’t love,” he states plainly. “You got people that care for you, even if I don’t know why they do. I do this for them. Not for you.” 

Then Javier mutters, “hijo de puta.”

“You’re just like her,” John keeps going, a little annoyed too. “She always says she keeps me around for the sake of the boy.”

“That boy has a name and he’s your son, maldito idiota.”

They fall silent then, John glaring at Javier and Javier ignoring him and reluctantly caring for his wounds.

“Your hair’s long again,” he comments and doesn’t seem to know why. Javier still doesn’t look at him but his weary expression wondering why they’re still talking is very visible to John.

“Tends go grow,” Javier sighs and pours more moonshine on another rag and dabs it on the smaller cuts too, not before taking a swig of the alcohol that causes his face to twist in disgust and a cough to force itself out of his mouth. 

“You don’t even like me, why you so sour about it?” He’s already had this discussion with Mac, he’s not having it again with John of all people.

“Others are gonna be a lot meaner than me,” Javier tells him and is happy with John hissing an ‘ow’ at him dabbing the rag on a deep cut again.

They don’t speak more. Javier lets go of John like he’s a rod of red-hot iron or a rat with the plague once he’s done, getting out of the tent to sneak into Mac’s and steal a shirt John can borrow, or take for all Javier cares. Mac owes Javier that for making him be the one to take care of the bastard, he isn’t lending him one of his shirts too.

John does thank Javier when he’s done before he understands that this is his tent and needs to leave the sulking man alone tonight. Javier doesn’t care to listen for what John gets to doing but if he runs off after wasting more than a half a bottle of moonshine then he’s gonna have a lot more than bounty hunters and law to worry about.

Chapter Text

He sleeps through the night, the morning that follows only leaving space for some sprinkling of rain. John and Mac had apparently spent most of the night talking about what the gang had been up to so far.

Javier provides no insight to what he’s done as they ride on up towards Durango, John still on the back of Mac’s horse looking more presentable apart from his goddamn hair. They reach the gang within a day, quicker than anyone had expected them to since they were meant to go a little beyond Farmington. Davey’s on watch, happy to see his brother and tolerant to see Javier. 

Definitely surprised to see John on Tundra’s back, bruised in the eye and a thick lower lip with a split down the side. But otherwise, outwardly, fine.

Davey greets John like he’d just been on a trip, like he’d written a letter and said he’d be going to Barbados, to the sun and to the women and the lawlessness, like everyone knew he needed time away. Not like he’d just upped and abandoned them all - his wife and child. Or something like his wife. 

It draws the attention of Karen and Tilly, Tilly a lot more inclined to rush up to him and hug him tight than Karen who just nods at him with a smile and a pat on his back. Pearson gives him an unreciprocated bear hug but gets a laugh in return for the crushing effect it had, Uncle sounds all jovial and makes his jokes about John being dead or having died in some embarrassing way. Eventually, the news reaches Miss Grimshaw and Hosea. One is happy, the other not so much. Hosea is resigned in his relief, clearly happy to see John though expecting to never do so again and having settled on that notion. Susan grabs him by the ear and reprimands him for leaving without any word and for having the gall to come back. 

Then there’s Dutch. And beside him Arthur. Dutch blinks a few times, stricken by confusion and surprise but his expression morphs into something elated. 

“My second son! My boy has come back from the dead!” He rejoices and grabs John by the shoulders, shaking him lightly and patting his palms on them. John smiles.

“Good to see you, Dutch.”

Arthur doesn’t move. He stands with his arms over his chest, crossed and veined from held back rage. Javier thinks he’s like a cobra, waiting to strike at the right moment, but his anger is silent and while easily detected, also easily dismissable since he often looks like that. But there’s something in his eyes Javier can’t mistake for anything else but fury.

Then comes hellfire.

Abigail has just swished by Javier when he notices her and when she slaps him to hell, forceful enough to get John’s head to whip to the side and for him to lose his balance a little. It makes a terribly loud and audibly painful sound too. Javier is very happy to not be on the receiving end of that. 

“You goddamn pig, John Marston!” She shouts, not caring at all for John’s barely-there dignity and taking their issues to the public. Good riddance. Abigail then turns to Dutch as John nurses the itching, tingling red patch on his cheek, close to where his black eye is.

“You ain’t gonna take him back, are you? He should rot!”

“Nice to see you too, darlin’,” John replies and sounds sarcastic. It’s enough to get Hosea to rap his knuckles against John’s vulnerable side and he groans.

“Now, Abigail- “ Dutch begins to try and make an excuse for John but Abigail isn’t having it.

“He left me to raise a boy on my own!”

“You wasn’t on your own! You had the ladies, you had everyone!” John argues and Abigail huffs in disbelief.

“You’re his father! Ain’t nobody else’s responsibility but yours!”

“Am I? Is it?” Abigail is just about ready to jump John at the accusation but Davey manages to sling his arms around her and stop her from doing so while John skips away a few steps, bumping into Hosea as a result.

“Okay! We’re all - almost - happy you’re back, John,” Dutch announces as Abigail tells Davey to let go of her and that she won’t do nothing. 

“Let’s all settle down and get used to this again, shall we?”

Old habits die hard. It became a habit to not have John around and that balance is broken now, for Javier. Two weeks later Arthur has still not said a word to John and Abigail has just about given up on trying to force him to be a father to Jack. The boy is two years old, he’s going to start understanding soon that something’s wrong.

Most of the other’s spirits are high, apart from Abigail’s of course, but even she is excited about the fact that Dutch and Bill find another girl to save in Flora Vista while searching for supplies. She was caught by a shopkeeper trying to steal a pen. She’s kind and she takes to the ladies quickly, like women usually do. They have to band together. Javier’s family was just the same.

Mary-Beth’s her name. She’s beautiful. Javier finds himself looking at her from time to time, as she reads a book or laughs with Tilly. Like a coward, he doesn’t talk to her much. While he loves women, Javier isn’t no charmer. He finds it a great deal easier to hold a man at gunpoint than hold a conversation with a pretty lady.

They get closer and closer to the Arizona border and each time they pass through or near a town, someone goes there to check the bounty boards. Javier runs into some trouble. Twice. All the while being stuck patrolling their camp. The first time, Davey and John head out into Shiprock, not too far from the border to Arizona. There, they find a poster written in Spanish and in English, both with Javier likeness and name on it. They ripped the posters off, brought it back and had it burnt. 

There’s a fire under his ass. It gets increasingly embarrassing each time they bring a new poster in, they bring in new evidence that dragging Javier with them might cause problems, problems they already have. Javier sits with the one in English. Reads it again and again like he’s back two years ago, struggling to learn a new language, just having left his family.

“The hell’d you do?” 

Why is John speaking to him?

Javier sat on his own in the firelight, drowning the faint ghostly glow of the moon in its brightness and warmth. Javier might’ve been able to get out of his funk of the past if John hadn’t come creeping up on him. Why would he do that? They haven’t spoken since Mac and Javier saved him.

“What we all do?” Javier responds, not intending to provide any clear answers. If John so wants to know, he can read the poster himself. Everything is in line with what he’s done, according to the government. 

“Surprised only you got bounties down here.”

And now he’s sitting down, across the fire, barely visible behind the flames.

“Apart from yourself.” The comment makes John roll his eyes. “Nothing gets forgiven. Don’t matter how far you run, apparently,” Javier sighs and crumples the poster, tossing it into the fire and hoping it’s one step closer to being less of a threat to the gang. He doesn’t wanna be like John. He doesn’t wanna hurt these people.

“I know,” John then responds with a sigh of his own following the statement. “Didn’t matter how far I ran, still couldn’t forgive myself for leavin’.”

Javier scoffs. “Am I supposed to feel sorry?”

“No,” John says firmly, a stern expression on his face amplified by the natural shadows cast by the fire. “Time just kept goin’ and then it was too long since I left to come back.”

“Yeah, you don’t wanna hurt your pride by coming back to them that love you.”

“Why you keep actin’ like that? Like I done somethin’ to you, when you don’t even like me?” John questions, his voice getting increasingly riled up.

“You have done something to me,” Javier admits bluntly and John’s eyebrows knit together and lip curls - confused and angry about it.

John’s arms go out in an incredulous way, waiting for Javier to elaborate. “Okay?” He chuckles but without any mirth in tone or expression. “You gonna tell me or is this another guessin’ game?” Javier says nothing. He takes out his knife and picks up a stick from the ground, beginning to whittle off the thin, flexible bark like he’s skinning an animal. John scoffs then. “I hope you and Abigail will be happy together,” he says in disbelief but doesn’t get up to leave but instead sits and fiddles with his fingers

“I ain’t after her. When the hell are you gonna get that through your damn brain?” Javier hisses. “Even if I was, she only wants you. Ain’t like it’s too much of her to ask when you got her pregnant in the first place.”

“Woah there, I ain’t do that to hurt her!” John protests.

“That makes it worse, don’t it? Pinche perezoso. You leave Abigail alone to take care of a child neither of you planned on having.” Javier even goes so far as to spit on the ground talking about it, talking about him. 

“What the hell did I ever do to you, you fuckin’ asshole?” John rises out of his seat and sidesteps the fire to stand in front of Javier who stands up too, thinking he should just do everyone a favor and push him into the fire. But he doesn’t, for the same reason he’d ever saved John from something - maybe he’ll see what he’s been avoiding and what a dick he’s been some day? Abigail and Jack deserve better but if this is all they got, they at least deserve the hope that he’ll man the hell up.

“I have no family. I have no one. You do and you throw it away willingly. You got a girl you don’t deserve but you got her.”

“I- “ John fumbles a bit as he glares into Javier’s eyes, glimmering with pain that is long from settling in him, long from feeling like something old, frail and buried. “It ain’t- it ain’t my fault you…” John can’t be compelled to finish his thoughts. He was about to be real mean. 

It ain’t my fault you left.

It ain’t fair to say. 

“I’m… sorry,” John manages to squeeze out of his throat, tight with guilt as he watches Javier’s eyes flicker over his face. 

“Don’t say sorry to me,” Javier hisses. “Of all the goddamn people- “ he continues but doesn’t go all the way before he pushes past John, too riled up to bear talking to him without strangling him.

“No, Javier, wait,” John says and keeps him in place by grabbing his arm. “I am sorry. I’m an idiot,” he admits and Javier rips his arm out of John’s hand.

“You’re not even a terrible person,” Javier says then, still angry, still about a second away from actually pushing him into the fire, consequences and conscience be damned. 

“I’m- “ John stumbles again, not understanding what it means since it so clearly isn’t what Javier thinks. “What’s that even mean?” He breathes.

“Means you got a stupid heart somewhere. Ain’t in the right place, but somewhere.” Don’t be fooled. The words may sound encouraging and kind but Javier is far from trying to be kind to John. He’s a grown man who doesn’t know who he is nor who he wants to be. And he can’t be bothered with trying to find out neither. 

Javier keeps his distance. Avoiding John at all costs. He’d even rather go hunting with Davey than hang around camp with John. 

He gets no signs that John had been genuine in his weirdly timed and placed apology and Javier doesn’t quite know what he was apologizing for. Especially to him. Apart from the fact that Abigail seems lighter in spirit, her eyes brighter and bluer unlike how Javier had ever seen her. 

She sings around the fire more, Uncle accompanying her with his harmonica and Javier being asked to join too. Jack is prone to wander around his mother, now that he’s learned to walk and sometimes talks too, though he’s pretty quiet. Javier wonders why that is.

Until one night when he’s by the fire, strumming his guitar while Karen and Mary-Beth are in a discussion, and he can see Abigail carrying Jack into John’s tent instead of their usual lean-to. John’s on watch and Javier keeps his eye on the tent in case the bastard’s gonna get sour for the two of them barging in.

But nothing. Not even when Javier’s turning in for the night and lying awake does he hear any complaints from John when his watch is over. 

That’s why. Did something Javier say get through to John? Did he really get that stubborn mule to see what kinda father and partner he’d been? What kinda person he’d been by not seeing what a privilege it is to have a family. Sure, the gang is their family too, and while Javier isn’t entirely truthful when he thinks he doesn’t have a family unlike John, he technically isn’t right. He does. He just wishes he didn’t have to leave Mexico on the terms he did.

While it seems like John is trying to better himself, there’s still bumps in the road. You can hear them arguing. John still has no idea what to do or how to be a father and Abigail is so fed up with it she doesn’t give him clear answers his Neanderthal brain can understand. But maybe, people can consider cutting him some slack for upgrading into a reluctant father.

The gang is in desperate need for money as September closes in on them. So when Karen and Mary-Beth come back to camp with intel about a train, Dutch starts making his plans. Dutch’s fits of passion regarding robbery and dreams always sends Hosea into a breakdown trying to keep him from delving too far into it, trying to keep him eating and drinking and socializing. The train doesn’t run that close to Gallup which means all hands can’t be on deck. Luckily, Hosea seems confident he can defend the camp with the help of Karen and Uncle. Javier is surprised to learn that despite Uncle’s laziness, he’s still got a good shooting arm. They have to be careful, given that along with cargo like food and valuables are also civilians who no one deliberately wants to hurt. 

Dutch gives them a briefing with the help of Arthur and Hosea who pokes Dutch’s bubbles of passionate rambling by adding information their leader might’ve missed. Given the fact that Javier, Davey and John have the fastest horses, they’re the ones who need to jump on the back and stop the train. Then Bill and Mac are in charge of shuffling the civilians out and keeping them in check, making sure no one can get away and alert the law. Dutch and Arthur collect the money.

Easy, right?

In theory it’s great.

In practice? Human error comes into play.

Chapter Text

Javier, with a mask covering his face, spurs Boaz on, closing in on the flat carriage at the back of the train. Davey and John follow close behind, identities hidden as well. Javier balances on Boaz’s back only for a short second before he launches himself onto the carriage with a thud and a groan. That hurt a lot more than he thought it would. He waves his arm violently to get Davey and John to hurry the hell up, getting his knife out of his sheath just in case of… something.

Neither John nor Davey seem to be doing much better after body slamming a train carriage but they have to be quick on their feet. Through the other carriage, a lower class carriage, is a closed door and beside it a ladder. To avoid potential panic, the three of them will just walk on the roof to prevent any civilians from getting in their way like a pack of disoriented and petrified chickens before they’ve stopped the train.

“I’ll go first,” Davey tells the two younger men, pushing past Javier who’d made it to the ladder the fastest. 

“Why?” John questions angrily.

“‘Cause I said so. You boys just keep a lookout for law,” Davey goes on and begins to climb.

“Wha- that ain’t the plan, idiot!” John shouts over the whistle and the huffing and shrieking of the train. Seriously, why is Javier always being paired with these two? Why is it always him?

“Just let him stop the train,” Javier mediates for once. “We’ll provide cover. That okay with you, Mister Marston?” He asks with an annoyed tone. The eye roll he gets in response is more than visible above the mask hiding the rest of John’s face, almost highlighting it because of lack of other facial features.

“But when I break the rules,” John stops himself halfway through.

“Just climb!” Javier exclaims, feeling like he’s suddenly fathering children. He turns around waiting for John to get to the roof, gazing into the open desert-like country and seeing nothing but heat waves, shrubbery and cactuses. Apart from a moving dot in the distance. It might be Dutch and Arthur falling behind for some reason… apart from the fact that the dot almost seems to propagate into a herd of them. Dots turning out to be men on horses, men without badges authorising them to hunt the train robbers.

“Shit, is that law?” John questions from up top. 

“Don’t think so,” Javier answers and ducks behind some crates to try and get a clearer look. They seem like a crew, dressed almost exactly alike - all of them wearing some kind of green accent in their attire. Association, probably.

“O’Driscolls!” John calls, waving to Dutch and Arthur about the new developments, staying a good distance away from direct line of fire and detection.

“Oh-what?” Javier questions before he has to nosedive onto the carriage floor to avoid whizzing bullets fired from those men’s guns.

“How the hell did Colm find out ‘bout this?!” Arthur shouts to Dutch who looks just about ready to explode with fury. He doesn’t get a response from Dutch, instead Davey calls that there’s a lot of them coming. 

“Take cover! Get on the train, all of you!” Dutch orders and rides ahead to make sure Bill and Mac heard him. Arthur jumps on the train as well, barely missed by the bullets still raining down on them.

“Who are they?” Javier asks while Arthur presses Javier’s head as close to the carriage floor as possible to provide cover.

“O’Driscolls- can somebody shoot those goddamn bastards?!” Arthur shouts to John and Davey who do their best trying to gun their pursuers down. Shots ring out from all directions and Javier begins crawling backward, Arthur following suit, so they can get behind cover and get the hell off the floor.

“Get up here, Arthur, they’re gonna board!” John says and provides cover fire for Arthur and Javier to try and climb the next carriage. 

“There’s more on the side!” Davey informs and starts shooting to the left. Arthur climbs the ladder and Javier would do the same if a rival hadn’t jumped on the carriage, suffering the same hard landing as the others on here. No one knows what happened to Bill, Mac and Dutch. The man who made it on the carriage charges at Javier. He doesn’t look like much and Javier plants his feet firmly on the wooden floor and crouches like he’s just waiting for a child to run into his arms and hug him.

Javier takes out his knife and in the last second veers to the right, making the man crash into the next carriage, sadly being able to catch himself with his hands instead of just banging his head into it. The man slips his own melee weapons from its holster - a hatchet. 

“Wha- that’s not fair!” Javier complains and dodges a swing that if it had hit him would’ve off’d him instantly, having to constantly step back between the less nimble swings from a heavy hatchet than a knife. He’s eventually gonna run out of room to dodge. Not that it matters when there’s another man coming up from behind and placing Javier in a headlock. 

He thinks he’s gonna be killed in some gruesome way at the blade of a hatchet. Or maybe a bullet or a knife. Never did he predict the man keeping him headlocked would drag his ass to the edge of the carriage and full on throw him from the speeding train.

“Javier!” Someone yells in the distance as Javier tumbles and his skin scrapes against the desert dirt and his left side aches from hitting the metal tracks. When he stops rolling and the hooves of unknown horses sprint by, Javier is left in silence, in a flurry of dust, in a cocoon of pain. His body feels like stone. Like he’s an ant trying to carry a bag of stones. He lays motionless on the tracks, sight blurry and face scraped to hell. 

When he wakes up, he’s surprised. He gasps then rasps and then coughs like he’d swallowed a pound of sand. Someone’s hand is on his shoulder, offering him quiet comfort and keeping him stationary.

“You’re fine. Shh, you’re back.” Mary-Beth, he thinks. It’s her sweet, southern lilt urging him to calm down and compose himself so he guesses he’s got to. His eyes adjust, they move from the white canvas of Arthur’s tent to the heavenly being by his bedside, ringlets of light brown cascading down her right shoulder, eyes glimmering.

“How’re you feelin’?” She asks gently.

Javier swallows. Bone dry. His voice is buried beneath the sand. Mary-Beth gives him some water and he can thank her as it washes away the sand like a tidal wave.

“Fine,” he answers - lying, of course. He’s cold and his body is aching, that pulsating ache like hanging upside down with a head wound.

“Do you need anythin’?” 

To die, preferably. To know why they went back for him. Who went back for him and if they considered not coming back for him. That, he can’t ask of Mary-Beth. He shakes his head no, offering her a smile of gratitude, hoping she can tell that’s what it is. Not that he had any idea what she’s done for him, if she’s been his primary caregiver or if she’s just watching him. Doesn’t matter, she’s here now.

“Dutch’ll wanna talk to you,” she says and stands up. Javier is backhanded by the thought that it must’ve been such a disappointment, that Javier getting himself injured must’ve jeopardised the whole thing. He can’t face Dutch after a failure like this one. Maybe Arthur, maybe Hosea… 

“No one’s dead, right?” Javier finds himself asking, wondering if something even worse happened because of him. Maybe Arthur’s dead?!

“No,” Mary-Beth answers and Javier nods, sighing with relief. “It’s only really you that got hurt.”

Javier groans and looks away. Why would she have to know that? Why does everyone have to know how pathetic he is? Letting himself be thrown off a damn train.

“Puta madre,” Javier grumbles beneath his hands, shielding his face from the look of a woman who probably thinks he’s a sissy. It’s not like he’s forgetting Mary-Beth is a sweetheart and doesn’t possess the fragile pride of a man. 

“You… sure you’re okay?” She asks again, a little more concerned this time. 

“Quiero morir, but sure,” he replies. 

“Okay. I’ll let you rest a while.” Mary-Beth plants a hand on his shoulder before exiting the tent. It feels almost like she could understand him just then. He hopes she can't. He can’t swear like that in front of a lady. Even if that lady is a thief and a criminal but whatever, don’t they deserve some respect too? 

Javier ain’t weak. He ain’t no yellowbelly. He somehow survived, that ain’t nothing. Javier sits up, feeling like his rib cage is about to collapse into itself, like his lungs are being compressed. He lifts his dusty shirt up, seeing the litany of dark and worrying patches of bruising all along his upper body. He swings his legs over the edge of Arthur’s cot, pressing on his thighs and shins to feel out more bruises. There are a few. His arms are littered with scrapes, some scabbing and some still shiny with that fluid looks like water before it dries.

He touches his face. It must be an ugly sight. He first feels his scar running through his eyebrow, then the other two slicing through his face, along with some scrapes spaced between them all.

Even his hands, palm and back roughened up too.

But standing he does just fine. Bruises and scrapes, if he can survive his throat being slashed, he can survive this. Javier is on his feet then, limping out of the tent and into the sun. He might be close to Mexico, too close for comfort, but that means he’s also closer to the sun. Not actually closer but it’s warmer, stronger, more familiar. No more winters, no more snow - beautiful as it was, Javier is not made for that mess.

“Javier,” someone greets beside him, footsteps on the dirt crunching beneath their boots. He turns to find Arthur there, looking surprised Javier is on his feet.

“Arthur,” Javier says back. He buries the pained tone under his wounded pride he’s gonna have to mend stitch by stitch. 

“You’re alive,” he states and Javier stretches his arms out.

“Seems like I am.”

“You got banged up quite bad,” Arthur tells him while crossing his arms over his chest. It makes him look bigger than he already looks just standing there. There’s a reason frail, starving little Javier speaking no English was terrified of him.

The acknowledgment of his huge flunk makes Javier not wanna say anything. What is he supposed to say? Everyone saw it. Someone had to go get him and stow him on their horse and waste their medical supplies on him. He’s embarrassed - humiliated. Javier’s been at the mercy of a humiliated man, he knows how poisonous it can be. Luckily, Javier isn’t exactly feeling any venomous vindication for anyone. Apart from that feller that put him in a headlock and tossed him overboard. And himself. But venomous snakes don’t bite themselves, but maybe they do wanna die like Javier. Who knows.

“Not letting it stop me, brother,” Javier then says, putting on his bravest face. The way to feign confidence is to act like it doesn’t bother you. Nevermind if it’s convincing or not. Javier’s plenty bothered. In one second, Arthur’s gonna clock Javier’s uselessness and give him the chance to leave with his head attached to his neck and to never cross their paths again.

Or Javier is being a massive drama queen.

“Good. We was worryin’ for you.”

Yeah, definitely a massive drama queen.

He blinks then. “Were you?”

“‘Course. You had John losin’ his hair piece over it.”

Without any hesitation, Javier questions Arthur’s legitimacy - as a whole. Ain’t no way John-

“John? You mean Marston? Who… hates me?”

“He claimed Abigail was gonna kill ’im.”

Well… it’s nice to know she cares so much. She really is such a good friend. Even better if she chooses to threaten her husband over it. He’s gonna have to do something nice for her. 

“You two ain’t…?” Arthur asks.

“No! No, god no. She’s great, she deserves better than John but…”

“John’s who she wants,” Arthur finishes, sounding like he can’t fathom why. Neither can Javier. Then again, ain’t like there are many other options in the gang either. 

“Arthur,” Javier calls out before he can leave to do whatever he was gonna do. He stops in his tracks and Javier sees that as his cue to keep going. “The robbery… did I… did it… work?”

“Went fine,” Arthur reveals with a wave of his hand. “Got a decent take. Nearly a thousand.”

Javier gapes. “¿Qué? How?” 

“Them O’Driscoll boys ain’t nothin’. We took care of ‘em.”

“And that,” Javier points out. “What are oh-driskull boys?”

“‘Nother gang. Dutch’s been feuding with the leader for years and been stealin’ each other’s scores even longer.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“So I didn’t… ruin nothing?” 

“No. Not at all. ‘Fact, I think Dutch wants to know you’re okay.”

Alright. Okay. Went fine. Dutch is not about to throw Javier out or have him killed. Again, drama queen - he has never seen or heard of Dutch shooting someone point blank over a failed, or in this case successful, robbery.

“Is he in…?” Javier wonders and points to Dutch’s tent across the camp. Arthur nods and Javier gives him one in return, making his way, limping a bit, to it. The flaps are open on both sides and Javier can see their leader on his cot, reading something, while Hosea sits in a chair outside but close by.

“Dutch,” he speaks up, clearing his throat seeing as it sounds scratchy. His eyes shoot up to meet with Javier’s and he holds his arms out before he stands up.

“Javier, my boy!” He rejoices. “You are alive. I knew you’d pull through.” He pats Javier’s shoulder firmly, reminding Javier of his uncle. Hosea’s attention has been grabbed too, the old man making his way over too. Javier gives him a nod in acknowledgment.

“I’m sorry.” The apology almost bursts out of Javier’s mouth. It came as a surprise to all three of them, it seems. 

“For what?” Dutch questions.

“I didn’t wanna ruin anything.”

“You ain’t ruined nothin’, son. We got on fine. Your cut’s been safe with me.”

“My… cut?”

“Well of course, boy! Hosea, get him his slice.” Hosea does as asked and Dutch pats Javier’s shoulder again and afterwards begins to light a cigar.

“A hundred-forty to you, Javier,” Hosea says and holds out a wad of bills. He gapes again and blinks some more, stunned out of words he knows in English.

“No- that’s… I didn’t help,” Javier protests but Dutch grabs Javier’s hand and holds it flat so he can smack the billfold into his palm. 

“I’ve already heard this from Bill and Davey. I don’t need it from you too,” Dutch says. “Go do somethin’ useful - or don’t - with the money.”

“Uh…” Javier’s gaze flickers between the two leaders, waiting for someone, anyone, to reveal it ain’t real. But it is. He just nods and bows a little, uttering a sighed but delighted “thank you,” before leaving them.

He stuffs the money in his pocket for now, intending to save it. First, he gets breakfast from Pearson and an earful of teasing from Uncle and Davey about Javier needing fixing like a damsel in distress. He can handle their jabs just fine, especially when they don’t seemingly mean any of it. Not even Davey. If Javier didn’t know better, he’d think the bastard had been a little worried for him.

“Javier!” Abigail comes walking towards him as he’s eating his breakfast, relieved and smiling wide. Jack is a little ways behind, playing in the dirt with a tiny tumbleweed. That’s quite cute.

“Abigail,” he greets back with the same kind of smile. 

“I’m so glad you’re doin’ fine,” she says and pats his shoulder before rubbing his upper back. Reminds Javier of his mother and how she’d comfort him. He almost leans into it but given that John could be lurking about, he doesn’t. He doesn’t wanna be decked into the ground again for ‘going after his girl’ or whatever. 

“Thank you. I, uh… heard you were gonna do some bad things to people otherwise,” he chuckles in return and Abigail nods like she’d been caught somehow. 

“Maybe,” she admits readily and Javier has to look away. He can’t fathom why she likes him so much. “You’re one of the few men I can stand in this place.” She scowls a little but there’s something lighthearted in her eyes anyway, hidden deep. It reminds Javier of John a bit. He won’t tell her, she’ll change her mind and skin him for saying so but there seems to be things they hide behind a mask. Somewhere deep within. It’s nice to look at.

“Wow, the others must be terrible then.”

“You have no idea.”

Abigail sits with him while he finishes his stew, the two of them watching as Jack plays and struggles, but manages, to walk towards them. As time passes, a hole chips away in his chest. A deep dark hole of uncertainty and regrets. If his sister’s alive, maybe she’s got a family, maybe she’s back home with her own baby, sitting just like here on her own, partner gone off to fight the revolution and taking care of a child. Maybe she is but has taken an orphan under her wing. Maybe their mother is proud of her - maybe they all are, dead or alive.

They can’t be proud of Javier. If they knew who he had to become. 

He isn’t there to see them. He isn’t there to protect them or provide. He’s here because he got cocky, he fell in love and risked the safety of the woman he loved, his own life and the lives of his family. Selfish bastard.

Selfish bastard.

Javier’s eyes previously on Jack, smiling both with his lips and with his soul, die out. Like he’s been slowly decaying by Abigail’s side, unbeknownst to her. Like he’s a dead man in a living husk. 

Selfish bastard.

The image of John drinking himself into a stupor, coming onto Karen, throwing away what he’s got. He’s the only one that’s got it. Arthur and Javier are the only ones apart from Abigail really calling him out for it. It becomes clearer to Javier why Arthur keeps away from his brother in all ways but blood.

“Javier?”

He blinks awake, his husk clicking into place like a bullet in a chamber, the cracks showing mending in a second. 

“Yeah?” He watches Abigail with Jack in her lap, hugging him to her chest as he seems to be rapidly losing his energy.

“You disappeared for a minute,” she tells him, as concern glitters in her eyes. They’re blue with a ring of honey brown around the pupil.

“Sorry.”

“You’re not dizzy, are you? We never thought to check you bein’ concussed.” She reaches her hand out and holds up three fingers. “How many am I holdin’ up?”

“What?” Javier questions.

“Just- tell me how many fingers you see.”

“Uh… three?”

“You feelin’ nauseous or a strong headache?”

“No, I- I’m fine! My skin feels weird but just when I move!” 

“So no ringin’ in your ears? No vomitin’?”

“No, none of it! I don’t even know what most of those things mean!”

“What things?”

“I don’t know what naw-shus is. And cun-cussed?”

“You know, when you feel sick to the stomach, like you wanna throw up. And concussion’s like when you hit your head real hard some way.”

“I’m okay, Abigail, I promise.”

“Right. Good. I’m gonna put Jack to bed. See you,” she settles with and gets out of her seat next to him but bends down to press a kiss to his cheek, Javier leaning in a bit to receive it. He hopes the warmth spreading across his face is a symptom for concussion and not a goddamn blush.

That was stupid. Even more stupid because Davey saw it. He was creeping around and he’s probably itching to tell John. Javier isn’t scared of neither Davey nor John but avoiding another fist fight in the middle of camp is of utmost importance. They can find a time and a place outside, however. Javier makes sure Davey knows he’s seen him but only slightly cocks his eyebrow in acknowledgment before turning back to his empty stew bowl.

Chapter Text

He’s bored out of his mind when it’s finally his time to go on watch. He gets dressed in something other than a shirt and his pants he’s been unconscious in for almost two days and he clutches a litchfield rifle in his arms when he switches with Mac. 

Most everyone in camp has been saying they were worried for him, many of them in their strange ways. Grimshaw was harsh but caring, Tilly gave him a little flower, Karen shared a bottle of whiskey with him, Uncle claimed they couldn’t lose the second source of entertainment in the gang and so on. It did make Javier feel appreciated. Hosea even said the two of them should try their hand at river fishing nearby soon. Javier likes fishing and thinks he’s good at it so he said yes, naturally. 

Javier doesn’t get much peace as he guards the premises. His ears feel assaulted by the fact that small critters keep scuttling around, like armadillos, lizards and a badger trying to sneak into camp. There’s a muskrat too that bit his boot. Stupid creatures.

Speaking of creatures.

“Javier?” What on earth is John doing here? They haven’t spoken since John decided to be weird and apologize to him for something. He still hasn’t quite figured out what John could possibly have wanted to apologize for. Sure, Javier is tired of John’s nonchalance and ignorance regarding the privilege he’s been given but just because Javier hates him for throwing it away doesn’t mean John has any obligation to say sorry to him for it. He should’ve apologized to Abigail.

“John,” Javier greets plainly, keeping his eyes on the darkness beyond the comforting campfires and small signs of human life. Out there is just as lively, only hidden and prowling. It’s fascinating and terrifying but definitely more captivating than John.

“You… doin’ okay?” 

“I’m fine.” It’s Javier’s catchphrase at this point.

“Even with the…?” Javier turns to the right where John had joined up, his body facing the abyssal desert night but his head turned to Javier. He’s alluding to the scrapes and the bruises.

“Yes, John,” he sighs and looks away again. “I’ve had worse.”

“Right.”

And now it’s quiet. The scampering critters have quieted down to, or just stopped bothering to pass on by the camp looking for scraps to feed on. He’s still keeping his eyes out for coyotes. Since John doesn’t seem like he’s gonna say anything else, Javier intends to take another lap around the camp, strolling along with a loaded rifle.

Maybe John’s out here so he can go again? So he can leave his family without a trace. It doesn’t seem like it, given that he isn’t carrying any sort of equipment or provisions. But their history says that if John tried to leave now, he knows Javier wouldn’t stop him. He’d be furious, he’d probably try to shoot him, but he wouldn’t stop him. If John wants to abandon what’s most important in life, that’s his choice. That means Javier’s gonna do what he can to help Abigail in John’s absence. They all will.

“Now you met the O’Driscolls.” His voice right now is the most grating, unwanted thing in the world. It disrupts the peace of the night, it disrupts Javier’s will to live. Can’t he do this some other time? Or better yet - not at all.

“I didn’t meet them, they threw me off a train,” Javier replies bitterly, pointedly keeping his eyes away from John who feels like it’s his place to follow Javier on his next lap.

“That’s usually how they greet people.” 

“If you’re trying to make jokes, save it, I am clearly busy.”

“Busy doin’ what? Protectin’ us from tumbleweeds and rabid possums?” He asks with a hint of mockery in his voice. He seeks Javier out and has the gall to mock him? He didn’t want to talk to John, he never does! 

“We ain’t some traveling crew of circus freaks, we’re wanted men, idiota,” Javier hisses at him, hoping he’ll just get the message and get the hell out of here and bother someone else.

“Countin’ the animals.”

“John.” Javier whirls around to face him. “Leave me alone. I don’t wanna talk to you.”

“Thought you said I ain’t a terrible person.” Javier wants to smash his own head in. What does that have to do with anything?

“That- “ Javier sighs trying to compose himself. It won’t do to shoot him in the gut. No more murder cases under your belt, Escuella. “That’s not why I don’t wanna talk to you.”

“Then why?” He questions, sounding like he’s also getting riled up.

“No, why do you wanna talk to me? You never did before.”

John doesn’t say anything. His eyebrows furrow as he thinks on it, probably not able to offer an answer to that at all. Javier rolls his eyes and waves his hand dismissively as he goes back on his patrol.

“Well, you- “ John begins and starts after Javier again. “I wanted to say I’m sorry for bein’ a dick about you n’ Abigail. That night. I want better for her than me. I ain’t no kinda father, and definitely no kinda man for her.”

“Have you told her that?” Javier presses on.

“I don’t know how!” 

“The same way you just did to me.”

“I have said sorry. She just tells me to make an effort and I don’t- “ John stops himself mid sentence, probably thinking that if he just prattles on he’s gonna do what he always does and say something stupid.

“Then just make an effort!” Javier then smacks his hand to cover his eyes, sighing heavily. How has it become Javier’s job to be John’s life coach? To teach him how to take care of a lady and a boy when he himself has neither? “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he complains with a whiny voice. “All you gotta do is help when she asks you. Don’t she deserve a break? The other girls are stuck taking care of your child- “

“How do I know he’s mine?”

Javier fixes John with a furious stare, stands like he’s just one more uttered word from decking him in the face and separating his head from his neck.

“Me retracto. Eres la peor persona de este campamento.”

“Here we go again. If you’re gonna insult me, do it in English.”

“Why did you come here? Why did you come back?” 

“I was tired of bein’ on my own.”

Javier nearly thinks he’s gonna die of laughter. He doesn’t make any indication of this outside of his own head but he finds it incredibly ironic and moronic that he’d do that after leaving Abigail on her own, after leaving his entire family. There ain’t a loyal bone in his body. Before John left, Javier at least thought he’d be loyal to the gang if he weren’t gonna be loyal to Abigail

But it seems like a pure and simple scoff of utter disbelief slips past Javier’s defenses and it angers John.

“Like that ain’t your worst fear, asshole,” he comments, making them both think of their time getting to Walla Walla, stopping in Meadow Creek and talking almost like they were friends. About John’s torture, about Javier’s regrets and it was sincere. From both of them. Everything always is. Javier is always candid when talking to John. Including now.

“I think you’d feel better if you stopped worryin’ what I do. Abigail ain’t your problem, me leavin’ ain’t your problem.”

Then John speaks again before Javier can counteract his diabolical statement. “I shouldn’t’a saved you from the tracks. Should’a just left you there!”

“Yeah, maybe you should’a,” Javier agrees.

Means you got a stupid heart somewhere. It ain’t in the right place, but somewhere.

No. Saving Javier doesn’t mean he’s got a heart. He’s quite literally heartless. He must’ve lost it on his little escapade. Must’ve left it somewhere to rot. Or maybe that’s it? He left his heart somewhere down the road, let it fester and rot and decay and then picked it back up, now poisoned with stupidity and cruelty and selfishness.

Selfish bastard.

Javier doesn’t give a damn whether John felt alone or not. He has no sympathy to spare. He left his family on his own accord. Javier was forced away. Sure, it was his own doing, he has to live with it, but now that he got a new chance to be a part of a family, he ain’t throwing that away any time soon.

Abigail ain’t your problem. The level of disrespect, talking about a lady like that, like she’s a weed in your garden or a rat in your pantry. She ain’t a goddamn problem, she’s a mother, left to her own devices. If she didn’t have the gang, she would’ve been done for. Jack too.

All Javier knows for sure regarding John, is that he was a fool for assuming John was bettering himself. He probably only lets Abigail and Jack sleep in his tent because he feels bad. Because while that might be true, feeling bad actually does squat to keep your woman and child safe and happy. But Abigail being Abigail and loving John meant that she’d take a crumb of happiness like that. Can’t blame her for it. Javier wouldn’t ever.

They don’t say nothing. Just glare at each other. Hellfire blazing in their eyes. Javier’s quite certain everyone’s been woken up to hear their arguing. Then again, it ain’t no secret they’re not friends. 

Javier wordlessly goes back to his duties, listening for the expectation of John’s retracting footsteps that never gets fulfilled. He seems to have remained in his spot. Not for long though, given that when Javier’s lap is done John is nowhere to be seen.

It would’ve been an easy way out to die during the robbery, like John said. He wouldn’t have known anything after. It would’ve all just been over. But if John was the one who saved him, that’s what it is. Javier is alive and unlike that useless man back there, he will take care of his family, blood bound or not.

Chapter Text

Karen’s about to go mad staying in camp another day and being the way he is, Arthur worries over the women who wanna go out causing trouble. Mac and Davey then turn it into a thing, telling Hosea that it’s to ‘raise morale’ to have an outing. Hosea doesn’t like the idea but he can’t exactly stop a bunch of people from wanting to have fun. He promises to convince Dutch they won’t cause any trouble in the neighbouring town.

The ladies are happy, Abigail can’t come with them and anyone can see she wants to. But she insisted like the terribly lovely and left out woman she is that they should go and enjoy themselves and not worry about her. It’s when Javier asks her why she’s so down that he catches wind of this outing.

He offers to stay with her and would gladly do so. They can sing together, she can teach him new songs, he can teach her some too and they can laugh about her butchering the pronunciation. But as Javier is watching Abigail playing and talking sweetly to Jack, with a dumb smile on his face while thinking of his sister, Arthur approaches.

“You comin’ with?” Arthur looks at Abigail too when he asks. Javier didn’t think Arthur would go with them. He likes drinking but has been staying away from saloons as of late.

“I obviously can’t,” Abigail says apologetically and tickles Jack under his chin, causing him to let out that infectious laughter. Arthur has the hint of a heartbreaking smile, his eyes telling stories Javier can’t begin or fathom to try and decipher.

“S’a shame. Don’t suppose Miss Grimshaw can take care a’ him for the night?” 

“No, I- I couldn’t ask her that. He’s my responsibility,” Abigail says.

“Maybe John should get off his ass and stay behind. He’s his too,” Arthur grumbles and Javier can’t but give him an agreeing nod. 

“You both know he won’t. He’s a stupid man.” Abigail sighs. Arthur agrees. Then he looks to Javier.

“You comin, then? You’ll be the only sane person in that whole building.”

Javier opens his mouth to respond but Abigail does it for him. 

“Yes he will.”

Immediately no.

“No, sorry, Arthur. Someone’s gotta keep Abigail company,” he declines and while Arthur looks a bit suspicious, he seems to understand.

“I got all the company I need, Javier. Go do somethin’ fun,” she encourages and Javier wants to die because of her kindness. Maybe he would be with her if he could. Maybe John’s right. If Abigail didn’t love him, perhaps she would Javier. But it doesn’t matter much. She doesn’t. Foolish as it is, she can’t control her emotions. If she could, she would’ve left John long ago.

“Being with you’s already something fun,” Javier shrugs but he hasn’t spent much time with Arthur in a while so he begrudgingly accepts, looking at Abigail one last time as if asking if she’ll be okay. She always is in the end. She’s got people who love her, and people she loves back. Javier’s sure she’ll end up in some meaningful, existential crisis by Hosea’s side as Jack falls asleep not understanding anything.

Arthur seems to still believe Javier about not having something with Abigail, even though it was a while since he asked. Though he guesses that’s more because of Abigail than Javier since Arthur keeps having to hate the fact that Abigail can’t seem to let go of John even though she is so fed up with him.

The bastard is also going with them. He’s talking to Mac and Davey. They’ve always gotten along really well. That’s fine. John is terrible, Davey is too and Mac is fine, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve someone that likes his company. He just doesn’t deserve Abigail’s company.

Bill joins Arthur and Javier in conversation while the ladies keep together, singing songs.

The one saloon in Gallup is crowded with patrons, clambering for seats and grasping at drinks while the bartender looks just about ready to collapse. Arthur tells the ladies to be careful and that they gotta be armed with something if they wanna rob some fellers or keep them off their backs in general. Karen scoffs at him that they ain’t stupid and they can take care of themselves.

Arthur knows it’s true but he worries all the same. Davey’s generous enough to pay for their first drinks. Javier doesn’t like beer all that much. He prefers the sourness and the sting of stronger things like whiskey, tequila, bourbon, you name it. Besides, you get drunk quicker with less liquid in you. 

One time, back in Mexico, Javier drank beer and a lot of it because he just couldn’t get drunk after eating a hefty meal with some friends, he went to pee and then he just couldn’t find his way back. He stumbled around the desert at night, ending up passing out on the outskirts of the village and being bit by a snake. Beer in moderation is fine but when he’s out for a good time, the strong stuff is the way to go.

It’s actually quite entertaining to watch the Callander brothers playing poker and doing terribly. The pot is decidedly small but it’s fun nonetheless. Bill’s in some corner rambling to some strangers about something or other while Arthur and Javier stand by the bar, looking superior in the way they would, to a drunkard, look like they think they’re better than everyone else by not being rowdy. Technically, they would, right? 

Javier remembers the last time he went out on the town. It was obviously with John. He doesn’t remember much of what happened, only that John got in some type of trouble and asked for Javier’s help. Then he got bodied and they fled. Everything else is sort of fuzzy and veiled with whiskey-veiled fog.

Against all odds, Javier thinks he remembers he had fun. John becomes a tad more bearable when he’s drunk. At least that one time. Speaking of him, no one seems to know where he is. Arthur seems annoyed by his worry, wanting to mask it by being harsh.

“I ain’t lookin’ for ‘im,” Arthur shrugs but his voice has a dark note to it.

“I might,” Javier does the same but sounds nonchalant instead. Arthur turns to him with wide eyes yet furrowed brows. “Maybe I’ll get to beat his ass,” he theorizes and elbows Arthur, wiggling his brows.

“There is that,” Arthur agrees and clinks his bottle with Javier’s

“We probably should go look for him,” Javier goes on, drinking the rest of his beer and slamming the bottle down on the bar, sighing and flipping his hair back.

“Little John’s a big boy now, he can take care of himself,” Arthur says sarcastically, like he’d heard this before and been proved wrong. He probably has. He can almost hear Dutch’s voice embedded in Arthur’s mocking words.

“Big boy with a tiny brain,” Javier counters. “He’s gonna get himself, or someone else, killed.”

Arthur groans. “Fine.”

“I’ll look in the street. Maybe he’s face down in the mud,” Javier suggests and Arthur just murmurs a displeased sound while Javier goes outside. He doubts John is anywhere near being unconscious since they’ve only really had a few drinks, and Javier only the one beer so far, but anything could’ve happened. He could’ve been trampled by a horse or kidnapped straight off the street. Or in jail for the night. 

Será mejor que estés bien. No te ayudaré si no lo estás. 

The darkened street leaves much to be desired. If anyone’s looking for someone tonight, they’re gonna run into the same problem Javier has. If John is actively hiding, planning another escape from his family and the gang, Javier isn’t finding him. 

Javier squints through the dark, seeking light that can provide insight. Or some semblance of it. He peeks around every corner, spotting men pissing and scheming and trying to woo ladies. An- hold on a minute-

“John?” Javier questions and walks into the alley between a residence and the gunsmith. John jumps away from a lady that certainly doesn’t look like she’s a working girl. He’d just been standing there, trying to smooth-talk her. It doesn’t seem like it was working.

“The hell are you doing?”

“Being robbed,” the lady states easily, pulling out a revolver and pressing it to John’s stomach. Then she pulls out a second one, aiming it at Javier who’d barely grasped his own. “Your money, ’andsome,” she orders and looks smug. She sounds French. 

“Ay, John,” Javier sighs as he keeps his hands up, John looking at his companion and not at the lady as he takes out the twenty dollars he’s got on him.

“Come ‘ere, you,” the woman cocks her head in her direction while looking at Javier. If John’s the reason he’ll lose his money, Javier’s gonna make good on his promise and castrate him.

“I’m gonna kill you,” Javier hisses when he’s standing beside John.

“Yeah yeah,” he sighs in defeat and a little embarrassment. 

“Cerebro pequeñito.”

“Your money as well. ‘Urry up.”

Then there's a deep chuckle rumbling from the corner behind the three of them, a man in a hat with a wide brim covering his eyes shows himself, looking nothing short of loaded with cash but down on his luck so he resorts to theft.

“Good girl. Combien?”

“Cinquante, je pense.”

“Gentlemen. Thank you for your… charity,” the man mocks and ushers the woman to him. They do the stupid thing and turn their backs on the two of them. 

“I got the lady,” Javier whispers furiously while John nods with some shame in his eyes. 

John and Javier charge the pair of French idiots, tackling one each. Javier ties the lady down, her dress being soiled by the mud while John beats the man to a pulp. Not without a fight but with the lady tied down, Javier can offer his furious assistance. The two of them take back their money, and the rest of what the French had stolen from god knows where. Javier drags John out of there and is instantly reminded of his own mother when he smacks the idiot upside the head.

“Why’re you always up to something? ¡Estúpido, podrías haber sido asesinado!”

“Wha- she was just a pretty lady and then suddenly she’s robbin’ me!” John tries to defend. He won’t ever be a lawyer, that’s for sure.

“First of all, pendejo, you have a lady, second of all that’s what robbery is; someone fooling you to get your money!”

“Like you’re such a saint - ain’t you ever been seduced?” 

“I weren’t robbed!”

John huffs and rolls his eyes. Moody. “Whatever.”

“Get back inside,” Javier grumbles and more or less shoves John back inside the saloon. As to save everyone’s mood and sanity, Javier elects not to mention the conditions of how he found John. It seems like the idiot is thankful not getting an earful from Arthur too. Luckily, the ordeal was quiet and quick, and without injury. They have deniability.

When Bill claims the next round of drinks should be on him, Javier declines and buys his own. A whiskey, since this damn saloon doesn’t carry tequila. What a shitty place. As it happens, the drinks don’t stop coming. To keep drunken feller away, Javier takes Tilly and Mary-Beth with him and stands a little ways away, conversing with them to make it seem like they’re already occupied by him. Karen’s having the time of her life, having snuck onto the poker table to challenge some dudes. Little do they know she’s a master at both distraction and manipulation. 

Tonight, she seems to have chosen ‘the lost little girl’. 

“What you two been up to?” Javier asks, clearly a little inebriated. Tilly and Mary-Beth chuckle at him. The bartender wouldn’t sell alcohol to women, saying that it does terrible things for their health. Bullshit. Karen gets drunk all the time in camp, he ain’t never seen her throwing fights nor fits like Bill or John.

Either way, they seem to have had fun.

“We robbed a feller of this,” Tilly says and pulls out a fancy, engraved pocket watch that looks like it came from another time but the upkeep’s been impeccable.

“That’s beautiful,” Javier nods with an impressed look on his face. Completely forgetting his silent pledge not to mention it, Javier leans closer to the ladies and whispers about catching John being robbed by some French people. He’s also dumb enough to mention himself too. But at least it made the pretty ladies laugh and if that’s not Javier’s purpose in life, he doesn’t know what it is. He manages to get Mary-Beth to dance with him too which has him floating in clouds even after the fact.

He thinks he’s permanently scared her away because he stepped on her toes but he can’t tell in this state because she was so nice about it.

Somehow, Javier gets roped into a game of five finger fillet and he wonders, what in the hell is that? Mac and Davey spur him on, saying he should, while Bill, Arthur and Karen don’t seem so keen on it. Javier has lost some of his coordination which is the whole point of the game.

“How’d you play?” Javier asks, his speech slowing down and falling down an octave while his head reels and his eyes droop.

“You… get your knife and you- “ the man flips a thin blade out of his ass or something and looks directly at Javier when he jabs the tip of the knife into the table. Or at least it should’ve been the table except that it ends up in his finger instead, leaving the man to let out a yelp of pain and clutching his finger. A bunch of ‘oooh’s’ leave the crowd watching while the man flees the scene with blood leaving a trail behind him.

“That’s a lousy game,” Javier comments.

As the night is meant to come to a close soon, Bill has already been beaten black and blue, along with Arthur who’s actually let loose too, ending up in that brawl to help their friend. Mac and Davey are thick as thieves still, trying to play the last fellers using the poker table, the ladies decided to head to the hotel to sleep, and break into some rooms probably, and Javier is stuck trying to find John again.

“John! We- we’re heading back!” He shouts all throughout the saloon, nobody batting an eye. Everything is soupy and swaying, sort of blurry fog. Javier’s mouth is dry and he’s so tired he could just collapse right on the floor and close his eyes and be gone.

“John, you bastard, if you’re- “

“Quit shouting, will you!” The bartender suddenly calls out to him. Right, he’s still here. “If it’s that rat lookin’ feller, he went out the back.”

“And you let him?” Javier questions but doesn’t stay to listen to the reason. He stumbles and trips over some crooked floorboards as he heads for the staff doors in the back. The door he opens as he faces the eternal darkness of night sits beneath a staircase up to a second floor. 

“John?” No answer. “John! We’re leaving! You- you better not be talking to some French lady!” 

Javier decides to struggle up the staircase and to swerve around the corner to get back to the front of the building. He finds John’s silhouette leaning against the wooden railing with grey smoke billowing around him like a cloak. He’s so moody tonight. 

“¿Por qué no me respondiste, éstupido?” Javier asks, knowing John doesn’t understand but figuring he might anyway. 

“What’s wrong? Why you up here sulking?”

“I ain’t sulkin’” John mutters and keeps his gaze firmly away from Javier’s as his cigarette burns smaller and smaller. Since the brain shrinks or whatever when you drink, Javier takes the cigarette and takes a drag of it, handing it back when done. John doesn’t seem to mind, apparently. 

“Fine, get down then and go home,” Javier shrugs like it’s easy while John acts like he’s been confined to this space or exiled from being anywhere else. Like he’s trapped.

John scoffs. “Home.” Then he chuckles dryly to himself, fed up with something. “I ain’t got no home,” he says, fully serious, without a hint of anything but conviction. He knows what he’s saying unlike earlier tonight. 

“The hell?” Javier wonders and pulls a confused grimace.

“My home ain’t with you folks,” John begins. “I love ‘em. I love Dutch and Hosea. Arthur. Even Abigail. She deserves better than me. They all do. I left because they got someone better than me,” he says with control and detachment so pointed that Javier is almost inching away. He means every word and he means them fiercely.

“They got you.”

Javier gapes. “What?” The genuine surprise doesn’t go hidden in his tone.

“You got Arthur, you got Abigail, they both feel good ‘round you. You’re so good at fishin’ and listenin’ that Hosea and Dutch love you- I was nothin’. Became nothin’. So I left. Seems you did fine without me, like I thought.”

Javier tsks at John. “Stop being dramatic. It was never like that,” he says.

“Felt like it.”

“Well, it wasn’t.”

“It felt like it!” John repeats, louder and angrier but still not loud enough to draw attention to them and their whereabouts. “That’s all I know. It felt like it. So I left.”

“You gonna leave again? That’s why you’re hiding and being mysterious?” Javier had thought he’d blurt out a raging ‘no’ because of the accusation but all he does is shrug, simple yet seemingly a little conflicted. At least judging by his expression as he lets his eyes bounce around the street below and the men return back to their bored, sleeping wives.

Javier tries his best not to slap him right then and there. It won’t make John any more clear-headed about his decision so he doesn’t. If John’s gonna go, he’s gotta do it with his head intact, if he’s gonna stay, he’s gotta be sane all the same.

“If you try to come back…” Javier stops himself, takes a deep breath but tries so hard to make sure John won’t catch it but thinks he failed when John turns his face halfway, showing the left half of his scruff and inner conflict.

“I ain’t… goin’. Just thought about it. But it’s a damn big world to be alone in.” John offers the last of his cigarette to Javier who accepts it, almost like a peace offering. Javier feels sobered up immensely and begins to wonder if drunkenness is just something the mind makes up to justify releasing your inhibitions. He’s not even tired anymore. Wobbly on his feet? Absolutely.

”Unlike many others in it, you ain’t alone. At least you don’t have to be,” Javier lets him know so he can weigh his choices. Both of them offer fruit, both of them offer ruin. Alone, it’s John’s rules, his way, his path, with friends and family it’s living for someone other than yourself - helping someone and being helped in return. And loving. Love’s all they got.

John scoffs but with the faintest evidence of a smile. “You’re the expert on loneliness.”

Javier nods. “Hell yes, I am.” He cocks his head in the direction of the staircase. “Come on, Lone Wolf,” he chances a joke and that faint smile grows a little, somehow infecting Javier. There’s always some trepidation lingering between them. They care for each other and while Javier doesn’t understand John, he is a part of the gang. 

“Okay,” John accepts and motions for Javier to go first which he does, listening closely for his footsteps behind. He doesn’t have to do that. If John chooses to run off anyway, that’s on him. Javier wouldn’t stop him even if he could, which he couldn’t have. 

“It’s nice how you protect Abigail,” John says out of nowhere before they’ve made it back to the others. It’s a long pause between John’s acceptance and then his newest statement. 

Javier doesn’t bother hiding his confusion.

“Honestly… you’re a lot alike.”

He doesn’t understand any better than before but he tries his best.

“So you’ve said.”

“She’d do better with you.” It’s a plain and simple statement but Javier shakes his head. “She would. You know it too.”

“She don’t want nobody else. If she did, she would’ve left your ass a long time ago. Let it go. Either break it off with her or step the hell up. No one can make that choice for you. Not me, not Abigail,” Javier lectures him sternly, keeping his eyes forward as they walk. The conversation dies out as they regroup with Arthur, Davey and the girls

“Where’s Williamson and Mac?” John asks.

“The drunk tank,” Davey chortles. 

“What? Mac and not you?” John’s confusion spreads to Javier too. Usually it’s the other way around. 

Davey looks proud of this fact. “They started a fight, we pretended not to know them,” he claims and John scoffs humorously.

“What a caring family we are.” Javier notes the glance John throws his way and rolls his eyes, not making any effort to hide it.

“They’ll be fine,” Arthur dismisses. “If they ain’t back tomorrow, we break ‘em out.” He makes it sound like they’re just stuck behind some wooden bars, breakable with a good jab in the middle. It might be easy, might cause a shootout, who knows. The life of an outlaw is surely colorful.

The rest of them travel home to find the camp just the same as they left. Javier doesn’t mind the silence that follows, surely making it easier to have to nurse a bad headache in the morning.

Chapter Text

Javier has dreams he can’t remember when he wakes up. He was somewhere, or nowhere. Who knows. He heard voices sounding like they was speaking in tongues all the while he figured he should’ve understood. Like a distant relative to a language he speaks.

He doesn’t remember anything else. How useful. 

Probably stems from the fact that Mexico seems to be creeping closer and closer, despite the fact that land masses can’t move. He feels like prey, stalked morning, noon and night, already walking the path of death and unable to stray from it. It’s a feeling that permeates his mood, poisons his movements and his mind so he becomes jumpy, looking like he’s scared of a little mouse skittering past him on watch or of a metal bowl made for stew when it crashed to the ground.

Bill finds out not to disturb him in this mood, to not try his patience. Javier will give it to Bill that he’s an outright fool so how could he understand how terrible his mood is but still, now he’s learnt himself a lesson.

He comes to Javier, drunk as usual, and laughs at his cleanliness, at how he pays attention to his looks, that he should stay in camp and sew with the girls. Javier knows he doesn’t know what he’s saying but he’s said it while sober too. Most of the men have commented on it. Usually, Javier doesn’t pay it any mind. He respects the ladies and their work - this gang would’ve fallen apart if it weren’t for Miss Grimshaw’s tyranny. He doesn’t mind helping them where he can. But that day, he just wanted Bill to shut the hell up. 

While Bill keeps a hand on the table where he leans, standing by Javier and spreading his drunken smell, Javier stabs the tip of his newly sharpened blade between the spaces of his fingers, just nicking the skin connecting his pointer and middle finger.

“Leave me the hell alone,” he warns and watches as Bill lifts his hand and presses his dirtied finger to the cut, grumbling something about Javier being pissy and making a point to spit on the ground. Drunken idiot.

He’s avoided by most. Only Abigail really has the guts to speak to him. Javier isn’t surprised in the least. Mostly because he lets her speak to him. He likes her. He likes most in camp, but that’s kind of why he’s made it clear to everyone to leave him alone until he can work out this feeling of being watched and preyed upon.

“What’s gotten into you?” Abigail reprimands him like Javier’s her child. She stands like his mother would, with her hands on her hips, looming over where he sits. Just something ingrained in mothers’ mannerisms, he guesses.

“What?” He asks and sounds a little too much like he’s sassing her.

“You’re actin’ like John,” she claims and Javier looks at her like she just called him a toad and cursed his mother.

“You know ya are, so why? A snake bite you? What?”

“No,” Javier answers. “Just been feeling weird,” he admits. He doesn’t feel averse to tell her. He thinks she might be able to offer some sort of comfort or insight. Not that he needs or craves her comfort, he’ll do fine either way but since she asked, she seems to care enough.

“‘Bout what?” She asks and sits down next to him where he’d just been sharpening his knife. A different one from the one he used to get Bill to leave him alone.

“This place.” Javier isn’t sure if that is the core reason for his concern but it has a role in it. “We’re really close to México.”

“Ain’t that good? Thought you missed it.” Abigail’s tone is softer now. Like a caressing spring wind.

“I do,” Javier tells her. “I wish I could go back every day but… well… a while back, when Hosea and I went out hunting, some people knew me,” he begins to tell her.

Abigail’s eyes go wide. “What kinda people?”

“Bounty hunters.” Javier remembers he never told Dutch. He isn’t sure whether Hosea did but fact of the matter is; he doesn’t know. Dutch may have no idea Javier is being actively hunted by Mexicanos and probably also Americans alike. Sure, three years have passed since Javier left but it’s only been a year since he was found in Washington. Nothing gets forgiven. He’ll be hunted to the end of time if the pay is good enough and he suspects that it is.

“They almost killed Hosea,” Javier explains, quiet, ashamed. He’s putting them all in danger.

Abigail draws a breath of surprise. The thought of Hosea dying, even though he’s clearly sick with something, scares everyone in camp on most days. And especially since Abigail and Hosea seem close. 

“And that was in Washington. We’re on the border with México. I can’t stop thinking that things are gonna…” Javier stops himself, thinking that Abigail understands him anyway.

“We’ll be fine,” she says and places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“I never told Dutch,” Javier reveals like it’s some dirty secret. Like he should be ashamed to have kept it to himself. Abigail doesn’t see the issue with that. Surely Dutch doesn’t need to know every single thing going on at all times? 

“Alright, and what trouble has that caused as of right now?” Abigail asks, sterner than before. Javier looks away, stares out into nothing important while he tries to come up with something. He just shrugs in the end.

“He don’t need to know everythin’. You tell ‘im when you think it’s necessary.”

Javier nods. “Okay.”

Abigail smiles in return and places her hand on his and Javier wants to die because she’s just like his sister - firm and strong yet capable of the gentlest actions. Maybe… just maybe, he could visit his home. If he’s real careful, if he can hide in plain sight. Just to know how they are, his neighbours, the other villagers, his family. Or maybe to find that the village is empty, pillaged and abandoned by the army trying to quell revolution.

He thinks on it back to back for a few days while on watch when he can be in his head a while. He considers every possibility, every consequence, every mistake he can make. He thinks his best bet is to visit a nearby town that might know what happened, if that is still standing, that is.

Maybe it’s too close? And how’s he going to leave? Is he somehow gonna convince Dutch that he needs to go to Mexico just to see his family, when they have a destination to reach? They’re still a long way from where he and Hosea settled on going. Javier doesn’t wanna leave forever, but traveling there will take time and he’s going to have to do it alone. And he’s going to have to change his appearance in some way again.

Boaz can’t come with him, someone might recognize him given that he stole him from a soldier while crossing the border. He’d been mistreating the poor animal. They do that too. Not just people, innocent or not, they hurt animals. 

Another day passes, that same foreboding dark sky at the horizon of Javier’s mind, just out of reach to know if it’s just a patter of rain, a monsoon or a thunderstorm. He can’t tell yet. But it’s gnawing at him, making his thoughts scatter like little critters meaning to bury in the ground to avoid the storms.

He can’t focus. He makes plans to leave, what to say to justify his decision, what to do when he finds someone who can tell him what’s happened to his family, what to do when his new family finds out he’s gone. It pains Javier to have to consider leaving his past behind, letting it settle down and keep his family safe or to be like John and abandon his new one.

The plans never come into play, however. Not for a while. But the fire is growing, the fires lit under his ass to make a decision. It’ll be all the harder to reach Asención if he follows the gang to Arizona. It’s the town he chose to travel to if he goes through with it. It’s close but not too close to Janos, his home. 

For now, his thoughts remain just that; thoughts.

One day, hot and dry and debilitating for some of the gang members, Javier’s on his patrol and sees Jack at the edge of camp where Susan and the ladies’ lean-tos are. He’s sitting in the shade, Abigail probably close by. Javier stops by Jack, the child looks up at him and smiles.

“Hola, peque,” Javier greets and bends down to Jack’s level, patting his brown hair. “What you up to?”

“I found a book!” Javier still has to strain his ears to understand what Jack says, given that he talks in that slurring way a child still learning to speak does. But he usually manages. Javier takes a close look at the book that he doesn’t think is a book at all. It’s got a leather strap around it and its spine is soft. More like a journal.

“It’s nice,” Javier comments. 

Jack gives the book, journal, to Javier and asks him to open it. He does and it reveals a blank first page. Javier flips to the next one and there’s a sketch of a bobcat and in quotes written “bob” and nothing else. It’s a detailed sketch, like whoever drew it had the opportunity to get in real close and do a portrait like it’s a human person.

“Mira, it’s a nice drawing, right?” Javier asks Jack who nods and flips the next page himself to reveal half a page filled with text in a nice handwriting and another sketch but this time of a person. It… looks like Miss Grimshaw in her characteristic scowl. Javier chuckles. “You know her?” 

“Miss Grimsaw!” He rejoices and Javier lets himself laugh a little louder. He then quickly skims over the other pages, not focusing on the text but of the

sketches. Some depict animals, others places and things, many of people. Javier even finds one of himself. His hat covers his face, fingers holding the brim and he’s drawn in Miss Grimshaw’s coat he wore in Washington. Dots on the page look like snowflakes.

Javier is tempted to read what the text next to his sketch says but he’s already intruding on someone’s privacy so he doesn’t. He tells Jack the same.

“Where did you find this?” He asks afterwards. Jack just points to across camp, his finger landing on Arthur’s tent. Damn. Somehow, Arthur had forgotten his elusive journal while galavanting or whatever Hosea calls it and was lucky enough that only Jack found it. If maybe Davey or Uncle, even the girls, found it, who knows what would’ve happened. That journal has been the subject of at least three campfire chats, more like gossip sessions, that Javier has been present on. 

He likes Arthur and he wants Arthur to like him so until he’s back, he’ll keep it safe. But, one night, Javier finds himself flipping through the sketches. He mostly sees animals and plants and places. The most recurring person, however, is a girl he’s never seen. She looks lovely, she’s got dark, kind eyes and a pretty mole. She’s marked down as M. but Javier doesn’t read much further than that. 

“Whatchu readin’?” A sing-songy voice comes from behind. Javier jumps and slams Arthur’s journal down over his chest where he lays. It’s Karen, tailed by Mary-Beth. He should’ve known they’d be sniffing about.

“A book,” Javier answers plainly, sitting up and closing the journal. 

“Arthur’s biography?” Karen scoffs. She’s known Arthur longer, of course she’d know this is his journal.

“I was just looking at the drawings,” Javier tries to justify. Mary-Beth looks about ready to burst with curiosity. Ever since their new lady started showing interest in Arthur, Javier took a step back. Not that he was pursuing her anyway but, you know. But judging from how frequently this M. lady shows up in Arthur’s sketches, he doubts the feeling is mutual.

“He’s got drawings?” Mary-Beth wonders excitedly. Do they expect Javier to just hand it over to them?

“Give it here.” Karen snatches at the journal but Javier pulls away in time. She crosses her arms over her chest. “You think you’re so high and mighty, keepin’ Arthur’s secrets but readin’ ‘em yourself?” She questions with a raised eyebrow.

“I weren’t reading! Just looking at the pictures. And I’m not the one gossiping around the fire,” he tries to justify. 

“So, you like to listen to gossip and think you’re better ‘cause you don’t say nothin’?”

Maybe. Maybe he does.

“So what?” Javier challenges.

Karen rolls her eyes and groans. “You’re no fun, you noble little shit.” She waves dismissively at him and Javier shakes his head as Mary-Beth trails behind again. That woman is just like Mari. 

The thought of Javier’s sister gets him into that same rabbit hole as his family always does, making him forget the journal and think even more on what to do about it. If he should stay or go. 

But he’d come back. 

But he wouldn’t say anything. He would leave like smoke, like John and he’d disappoint them all. Arthur, Abigail, Hosea, Dutch. 

There must be something he can do. He ponders all night.

When Arthur comes back to camp, Javier brings the journal back to him, pretends he hasn’t seen any of the sketches and feels a tad better when he thinks he did the right thing not to read the text. He isn’t good, but at least he’s not all bad. 

“What you been up to?” Javier asks Arthur when he’s around the fire by his side, eating stew.

Arthur shrugs. “Explorin’. Meetin’ some strange people,” he says but with some level of fondness - no… bewilderment. Like he means ‘strange’ in an interesting way more than maliciously.

“Dutch just lets you do that? Come and go as you please?” Maybe Javier can do that too. The thought hadn’t crossed his mind before now.

“He knows I ain’t goin’ nowhere. I always come back.” Arthur and John still never went back to how they were before. They were always acting like brothers before John left. From what Javier’s heard, that’s how they grew up basically. But Arthur still hasn’t forgiven John, months later. 

He was gone a while. Fourteen months. Javier can’t blame Arthur for feeling betrayed. And knowing Arthur, maybe he blames some of it on himself. But Arthur also isn’t a pitiful fool, he knows it was no one else’s business or fault but John’s that he decided to leave.

Arthur is simply one big ball of oxymorons. Of contradictions. And muscle.

“Sounds like fun,” Javier says, thinking nothing more’s gonna come out of it.

“What, you thinkin’ of leavin’?” Arthur asks in turn, a bushy eyebrow raised at the implication.

“Uh,” Javier stutters, “no. No, just… made me think of when I was on the run,” he lies. Though in truth, most of the people he met weren’t strange, they were straight up terrible, creepy and rude. For him, it was strange when people showed him kindness. 

“Wasn’t you starvin’ while you was on the run?”

“I- “ is Arthur trying to dig out some hidden truth from Javier? Has he somehow figured out what Javier’s planning? If he’s even planning. He doesn’t know what the hell he wants to do. “Yes, I was but… “ Javier stops himself. What else is there even to say, anyway?

“Hmm,” Arthur hums as he lets it go, to Javier’s relief. He sounds like Hosea when he does that. Clearly, that’s where Arthur gets his interrogation style from.

Arthur is quickly done with his stew. He walks over to his tent and Javier promptly looks away. Might seem suspicious if he sits there and stares, hoping to see if Arthur finds his journal Javier hid under his blanket upon his return. Having been sitting by the patrol campfire, Javier’s left alone and in silence. He can hear discussions around the main fire, can hear laughter and some snarky remarks echoing. 

The noise blends with something else. With memories. The most prominent one being when he was a child, his sister by his side, the two of them pressing to opposite sides of a door, peeking and listening to the adults celebrating Día de los Difuntos, thinking they’d be asleep. Hard to sleep when there’s a bunch of music and partying in the courtyard.

Javier and Mari snuck some Pan de Muerto and Javier, thinking it was water, drank his first bit of tequila. He thought he was gonna die, that his soul was being sucked out of his mouth for trying the adult drinks.

He blinks awake. Back in the desert. Back in the dark of the big, bad world beyond the firelight. The world that seems smaller and smaller each day, justice running faster than Javier’s sins, catching up every day. It was a long time ago. Five years. But he’s been chased longer than that. All his life he’d been chased by something or other. If not the older kids in the village then the army invoking their power and tyranny on them. 

Still, he finds that he’d much rather be out here, free, than some rich man’s toy or workhorse. At least this ‘job’ pays him enough to afford clothes and food and offer him another family that he loves. He can do for these people what he couldn’t do for his own.

He can weigh his choices. Both of them offer fruit, both of them offer ruin.

Makes him not wanna leave. Makes him think he’s stupid for even thinking he should go back. The one singular thing Javier could do for his family was leave them to save them from the consequences of Javier’s actions. 

Javier doesn’t wanna be useless. He hates it. His only use after killing that official was leaving, then he was starving and abused in the streets of any American town he reached, without a purpose, without a trail to follow. Then he had a use. He could provide, care for, be cared for, make a difference in other people’s lives.

There’s a silhouette in the darkness ahead. Hard to tell but it looks like it’s walking away from camp. It stops eventually, starts pacing back and forth but in a contemplative and rather calm way. Judging by the fact that most are by the fire, singing something or other (Davey even seemingly trying to sing Cielito Lindo and failing) Javier thinks it’s John.

He’s been somewhat of a black sheep to many. At least them that he cares the most about. Arthur and Abigail. Javier still doesn’t understand that man. He isn’t happy without them, yet he left them. John left because he thought Javier was replacing him. He can’t be happy or feel included without them and yet he hurts them.

Another reason not to go nowhere. Javier considers himself closest with Arthur and Abigail too and while Arthur is harder to read, Javier knows his absence would wound Abigail. He can’t do that to her, can he?

Something in Javier… twists at seeing John on his own out there, swallowed in darkness, without the light of a fire to warn him, to embrace him into the group again. Wonder if he thinks Javier stole his spot at the fire. If he hates Javier for sitting where he sits, even if he’s on his own now too.

He doesn’t know what compels him to approach John like a predator stalking him in the night. Same thing that compels John to sneak up on him like that too, he guesses.

Just a few meters away, John hears him and twists around, ready for action as he must be, he points his rifle at Javier who instantly raises his hands.

“Sorry,” Javier says and John is quick to lower his rifle again, sighing like he’d been genuinely worried he was being snuck up on by some enemy. He might not be entirely wrong. “You know Mac’s on watch, right?”

“Can’t hurt to…” John doesn’t finish his sentence and just turns back out into the desert, calm and teeming with little noises. Bushes rustling, wind whistling, animals chittering. You can still hear the gang and their celebration of something. Just the fact they’re all still alive is celebration enough. Out of nowhere, John seems to open up to Javier. “I’ve tried to… be with them,” he says and turns only his head to look at Javier.

“With who?” It’s kind of obvious but Javier wants to be sure.

“Abigail and the boy,” John sees Javier’s blank glare and what emotion flames behind it, he’s seen it before in Arthur, “Jack,” he reiterates yet Javier’s gaze doesn’t let up. “They don’t want nothin’ to do with me. Well, at least not Abi. I do want better for ‘em both. Better than me.”

“Who’s that gonna be? Davey? Dutch? Hosea?” Javier asks and John’s shoulders sink. John opens his mouth but Javier stops him. “Not me. I’ve told you, Arthur’s told you, Abigail’s told you it’s gotta be you.”

John sighs irritatedly. “You come here to give me a lecture? Don’t wanna hear it from you too.” This statement makes Javier wonder who else has lectured him recently. His money’s on Dutch or Abigail. He’d be right. 

“No,” Javier answers truthfully. “Thought you looked miserable.”

“You takin’ pity on me?” 

“No, zoquete, calm down,” Javier defends. John huffs like a pissed bull but doesn’t say nothing else. Javier maybe wishes he would have spoken to John about the way he left, why he decided to come back so easily. Mac didn’t even have to convince John, he just came with. What made him strong enough to go? But he doesn’t wanna make John suspicious of him, or think him a hypocrite. 

Then again, with John’s current position in the gang, he doubts John would say anything to anyone about it.

John is the only one who knows what it’s like.

They’re one coin but different sides. 

“It’s one big world to be alone in,” Javier says, the words quiet enough to slip into the breeze and be forgotten in the vastness of the desert, plain and treacherous as it is.

Is Javier leaving different from John leaving? If Javier knows he’ll come back, is he better? Different? Did John know he was gonna come back or did he simply decide to since he had the opportunity when Mac and Javier saved him?

But John doesn’t see this as home when Javier is there. Or is that the only reason John feels estranged? Is Javier the reason why John’s never liked him, ever since he got taken in? He thought he lost his place with Arthur and Abigail because of Javier, as if their hearts are only spacious for a certain amount of people.

Javier’s head is spinning. He doesn’t know what is going on in neither his nor John’s head. His own even less than John’s since he’s usually his most vulnerable when he’s doing nothing at all with his face.

John is conflicted too. About staying. About going. About braving those new steps out of here again.

“What… was it like out there? On your own?” Javier asks, sounding more soft than he intended to. 

John looks at him. “Thought you’d know. You was on your own too.”

“I ain’t like you.“ John doesn’t understand at first. It takes him a few seconds of studying him to realize what Javier means and nods then, looking away again and clutching his rifle, readjusting his grip on it.

“Wasn’t hard at first. Could do what I wanted, go where I wanted, run with who I wanted. Was my rules. Then I saw people ain’t like this gang, they’re cruel and real fuckin’ mean,” John explains, keeping his gaze pointedly into the black horizon, speckled with stars like a freckled face. “They treated women bad. I know I ain’t no saint but… I ain’t never put my hands on ‘em.”

Javier nods. “I know.”

“You seen it too?”

“Yeah.”

“Felt like a ghost near the end,” John continues. “Always doin’ the same things. Drinkin, stealin’, cheatin’. I was real bored. Wanted to feel somethin’ real again.”

Javier thinks John might be disappointed now then. He hasn’t gotten much of something real after getting back. That’s his own fault. And while Javier is thinking of going to see his family, or at least hearing if they’re alright, he doesn’t understand why John would leave. He claims he thought Javier would replace him but that can’t be the whole reason. If Javier had his family here, he’d never even consider leaving.

But he used to say that. Initially. When John left. He couldn’t imagine himself doing that. And now he is. Maybe that’s what John used to think too? That he’d never leave. 

“Feel what?” Javier wants to know. What does he wanna feel here that was so absent out there? The love of his woman? He’s never accepted her love. The love of his son? The one he doesn’t think is his and actively avoids? The love of his brother? Who feels betrayed and doesn’t understand?

John shrugs and the weight of it makes him look hopeless. Drained and unsure. 

“Guess I can’t figure that out. All I know is I won’t find it out there.” John cocks his head in the direction of the wide world. Javier agrees. Maybe John is getting closer to seeing sense. “You ever feel alone here?” He goes on, speaking in a quiet, almost soft way.

“Here? In camp?” Javier asks.

“Mhm.”

“Well… no,” Javier answers confidently. “Nothing is as lonely as being out there with nowhere to turn. Not even your own country.”

“Even now?” John asks and it feels familiar. The tone, the setting. It’s different but the same. Javier doesn’t remember from where he knows it.

“Now?”

“With me. You don’t feel alone? Even now?”

Right. On the road to Walla Walla after Javier told John about his fear of abandonment, of having to roam a country that wants nothing to do with his kind, forced to flee the one place he felt like he belonged. Then John told him about his fear of water. How he’d been tortured. 

Javier remembers having said that he didn’t feel alone in John’s company. He didn’t. He trusted that they’d take care of each other. They did. Now, he’s not so sure. But maybe he’s a fool. If someone tried to attack him now, wouldn’t John protect Javier?

He would. He’d protect anyone in camp. That’s why he’s out there. Partly. 

“No,” Javier settles with. “Sé te los protegerías.”

John blinks. Javier isn’t surprised when he then rolls his eyes. “Stop sayin’ things in Spanish to me. I wanna know what you said.” 

“I know you’d protect them. So, I don’t feel alone. ¿Eso suficientemente bueno para ti?”

John scoffs but while Javier chuckles, a small grin grows on his face. “I heard ‘bu-ey-no’ so I’ll take it as a good thing.”

“Sure, John.”

Chapter Text

“Marston’s a goddamn fool,” Arthur states easily as usual and as usual, Javier agrees. He doesn’t have much choice in the matter though. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere without someone with a little sense, at least. Dutch don’t understand,” he goes on and Javier nods.

“I’m flattered,” Javier jokes and Arthur scoffs. 

“Don’t celebrate yourself, it don’t take much to be smarter than the Callanders and Bill,” he comments and Javier laughs, agreeing with him again. 

“Sure,” Javier says and Arthur quickly pats Javier once on his upper back, more in a guiding way than anything else.

He’d come to Javier in the middle of his morning coffee, talking to Tilly and Reverend when Arthur asked to speak to him then tells Javier that Dutch and Hosea are forcing Arthur to take John with him to a homestead he’s planning to rob, getting tipped off by some feller in town. Arthur had fought tooth and nail to try and convince the leaders to let him take someone else but they’d been firm. Seems like they’re mighty fond of putting John Marston haters on blast by forcing them to be close to him, thinking it’ll patch things up.

Either way, Javier accepts, thinking he doesn’t want Arthur to live through much the same fate Javier had to a while ago. It’s going to be a damn awkward ride there and back. Not that Javier has any idea where this homestead is.

“You told John yet?” Javier asks as he and Arthur walk to their mounts, Arthur giving Boadicea a treat and Javier, lacking any at the moment, offers Boaz a firm pat on his neck. It seems to suffice for now. Arthur shakes his head with a sigh.

“Was hopin’ Dutch would but I weren’t so lucky,” he says.

“I’ll do it. Best not to end up in a fight again,” Javier offers and Arthur scoffs at him. 

“That was you, not me.”

“Cállate,” Javier mutters and goes to John’s tent. He peers inside, not worrying about what he might see for doing so. It’s just Abigail and Jack. Javier smiles as Abigail turns around at seeing the sliver of morning light glowing through the slit of the tent flaps. The tent is impressively dark and oppressively warm so one can decide which outcome they like better.

”Buenos días, you two,” Javier greets.

“Mornin’, Javier,” Abigail follows with and Jack stirs on his bedroll, making some disapproving noise for being woken up. A lot like John. 

“You know where John is? Dutch wants him to join me and Arthur on a robbery.”

“Hell if I know,” Abigail sighs exasperatedly. “I think he’s somewhere out there. Thinkin’ of leavin’ or somethin,” she says. It wouldn’t surprise Javier. He’s mostly found patrolling when he doesn’t need to - patrolling being another word for ‘finding the right opportunity to leave again’, Javier bets.

“You okay in here?” 

“Fine. Jack’s been coughin’ ‘cause of the dust. Asked John to let us stay in here.”

“Right. Maybe John’s- “ Abigail stops Javier mid sentence.

“He ain’t changin’. S’just temporary.” Her shoulders slump and she strokes Jack’s hair out of his face, like Javier’s own mother used to do. “Go on now. Don’t keep Dutch and his plans waitin’.” She still offers him a smile.

“Right. I’m here if you need anything.”

“I know.”

Javier is tired of always looking for John. He shouldn’t have offered to look. He can’t find him. His horse is still here unlike last time when he left, people seem to have seen him this morning just not now.

¿Dónde carajo estás?

He starts calling for the bastard, walking outside the camp’s bounds now. It takes a minute of two for John’s head to peep out from above a plateau, wondering what Javier is shouting at him for.

“Get down. We’re going with Arthur to some homestead.” 

“Why?”

“To raise puppies, what do you think?” John huffs. “What’re you doing up there anyway?”

“Saw someone lurkin’ about. Actin’ strange.”

“You spoke to them?”

“No. Just watched ‘im. He looked suspicious.”

“Okay. Think about that later, come on. Get down.”

Like coaxing a kitten down a tree. Except that the kitten wants to stay in the tree. And that kitten is real ugly. Like really rugged and aged and greasy. Anyway. John and Javier join up with Arthur who’s sitting in one of the wagons. Javier doesn’t know why, seeing as he hadn’t gotten many details out of Arthur thus far but he suspects they will. 

“Right, Javier, you’re with me,” Arthur says and holds out his hand so he can help Javier up, “and you’re in the back, Marston, keepin’ low,” he explains as he’s turned to the back.

“Why?” John questions confusedly as he climbs into the back, laying down flat on his back and staring into the sky. 

“‘Cause I say so. Don’t make a sound, you hear?”

“That’s gonna be hard,” Javier mutters but not quiet enough, given that he feels something small being chucked at the back of his head. A pebble. John looks displeased from his position and Javier glares at him for daring to throw a rock at him.

“What are we even doin’?” John asks from the wagon floor, getting comfortable by crossing his ankles and laying hands behind his head. 

“Miss Grimshaw wants us to get rid of this wagon ‘cause it’s bad, buy a new one, and Dutch said we should rob a homestead I’d scoped on my travels,” Arthur says factually. Javier is surprised. Arthur doesn’t sound seething, like he normally seems when John is near, but he is concise and seemingly always rushing to end his talks with John. Still, it’s progress in some way.

“And we need John for that?” Javier wonders and Arthur shrugs with a hefty sigh following.

“What Dutch says goes,” he murmurs and Javier nods. It’s sadly true. 

The sun is glaring down on them as usual, making heat waves in the distance, distorting the ground and shrubbery beyond it. Javier fares just fine, it’s getting to Arthur and John, however, who bicker and bicker. Javier sits and listens rather than thinks about his own things. He’s going to think about Mexico again if he lets himself get stuck in his head.

John complains about Arthur riding too slow and that they’ll be vulture food before they get to town so to be defiant he starts driving a bit recklessly to make the back as uncomfortable to John as possible. They hit rocks and small holes, shaking the whole wagon and making a whole lot of noise. The wagon’s gonna break if he keeps riding this way.

“¿Qué te pasa, idiota? You’re gonna ruin the wagon!” Javier complains.

“It’s Marston’s fault, tell him to shut up,” Arthur grouses and John sits up for the first time, his head poking out when he does. 

“I ain’t done nothin’!” John protests. What is Javier, their mother? Why does he have to be some kind of mediator all of a sudden?

“Can you shut up?” Javier groans. “And drive. On. The road!” He reminds Arthur harshly, reminding himself of his mother now. He can’t afford to think about Mexico for another second. It’s been like a plague on his mind, a treacherous thing with ill intentions, coated in sweetness and trust and hiding the sin beneath. 

The trio decide to stake out the homestead at night so first they head into Gallup and make a deal to sell their wagon to a butcher who doesn’t mind the bad wheels since he knows a feller ‘good with wood’ or whatever weird shit he said. They end up not finding anyone that’s willing to sell them a wagon. At least not on that day. Arthur says they aren’t in a rush for a new one unless they need to leave tonight all of a sudden.

Javier hopes they don’t. He hates packing on the clock. Better when they just decide to move and pack over two days instead of a few hours. 

Arthur’s on one of the wagon horses while Javier has John sitting behind him. Oh joy. The bastard’s gonna strangle him at some point, he can feel it. He’s probably already holding his fingers curled like claws, waiting to lock them around Javier’s throat. Javier was too nice to Arthur when he decided to let John sit behind him instead. Javier suggested they’d just lasso John and drag him behind one of the horses but John was very firm in refusing that. Boring.

At nightfall, after setting up a small camp and eating and resting, they pack up and follow Arthur towards the alleged homestead just ripe to pluck for the money tree or whatever.

It’s nestled far away from folk - that’s perfect. Also, it's a little too perfect. It feels like a trap, something they’ve been led into. 

“What’s so special about this homestead?” John asks as they watch it from behind a rock. There’s only really one way in, the rest of the place is surrounded by those rock walls. It’s straight at them or nothing. They can’t exactly jump down from the rocks and onto the roof.

“Heard talk of gold bars and nuggets,” Arthur whispers and John looks scandalized. 

“You heard ‘talk’? You mean we robbin’ this place without knowin’ if there’s any gold?” For once, Javier agrees with John’s question. 

“When I went past here, I ain’t seen no one. No smoke in the chimney, no lights in the windows, no nothin’,” Arthur tries to justify but John ain’t letting it go.

“So you think a homestead, down here, don’t have no people, got gold in there? Are you stupid? Someone must’ve taken it already!” 

Arthur stops for a moment. He seems to think on it but is loath to admit that John’s thinking might be right for once. Javier never thought John would be the voice of reason on a robbery but John has surprised him before.

“And if there ain’t no people, who we robbin’? Either someone lied or… well, someone lied!” John goes on and Arthur scowls at his reasoning.

“You see anyone over there?” Arthur argues and points to the indeed dark and seemingly empty house. 

“If I was ambushin’ some stupid fool about a house full ‘a gold, I wouldn’t put up a sign!”

Javier thinks this arguing is getting them nowhere closer to knowing if there is gold or not in there so he pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs as Arthur and John keep bickering.

“I’ll go make sure, okay?” Javier suggests exasperatedly.

Both the others blink at him momentarily.

“Why?” Arthur questions.

“‘Cause I’m the lightest and the quietest. You two can sit here and yap all you like,” Javier says and gives his rifle to John to reduce noise, keeping his revolver in his hand. The two brutes accept Javier’s plan, or whatever you would call that, and quiet down, thankfully. “If I see something… “ Javier pauses briefly, “well, you’ll know if I see something,” he decides and sneaks out of hiding, feet light like a cat’s.

Sometimes, Javier thinks he was born to be this. To be what he’s become. He likes how his senses sharpen, how his hands don’t shake under pressure, how accustomed he is, the adrenaline surging through him in a shootout. He likes how he can hear every scuff in the dirt, even if it isn’t his own feet, he thought he could hear a slithering snake in the grass once, up north after the thaw. He hears no people. He likes that. It’s quiet. Almost eerily so. His eyes narrow, try to get more used to the dark. The way they flicker onto every inch of the world he can perceive. Nothing.

It’s never nothing. It’s either animals or people. Even both. This is somehow the same thing and totally different from when Javier found himself alone that morning after the snowstorm let up. Quiet, lonely, otherworldly. Only now it makes his skin crawl whereas then it made him smile. 

He turns back to the rock where Arthur and John are hiding and sees them watching too. He thinks they’re disturbed by this moment too. Hard to see them in the dark. He continues his journey to the homestead. Happens without a fuss, without another sound but his boots crunching in the dirt and his hand making a soft movement that jangles the chamber in the revolver.

Javier leans against the wall beside the door, keeping away from the windows. He hears nothing from inside but he can smell smoke. It makes him stick his head up, makes him peer through the window only to find the fireplace totally put out. It looks like it hasn’t been used in a while. Javier smells the smoke. Where is that coming from?

Around the corner of the homestead, he sticks his head out, finding that side empty too apart from some crates and such. Nothing in them. There’s an outhouse a little ways away he doesn’t pay much mind to. Especially not when he can smell… cigarette smoke?

This is the less fun part of what he does. His heart freezes in its spot for a second. Then it jumpstarts again and hammers away, leaving his limbs to tighten up instead. There are people here. Somewhere. And they’re close or else Javier wouldn’t have smelled the smoke. It wanes pretty quickly after this point, making him think that whoever lit it, must’ve just put it out after. Why?

Do they know he’s here? Is it just one person or several? Do they own the land? Is this an ambush?

The sound thing would be to go back to Arthur and John and not risk anything, but if this is an ambush, it is better if more people don’t get dragged in. Arthur means everything to most people in the gang and John has a family who deserve to have him alive. 

Javier takes a deep, steadying breath that almost feels like a cold breeze in his body, running through it smoothly and settling his nerves. He grips his revolver tighter, his knuckles whitening from the force. While pressing himself as flatly to the wall as he can, he sneaks to the back of the house. Bad move. He’s so surprised by the two men standing there that when he’s trying to tuck back into the corner, his foot slips and disrupts the silence, alerting the two men to his presence. 

Javier ducks away but doesn’t get far as someone steps out from behind the outhouse with a loaded rifle, finger on the trigger. There’s a stubbed out cigarette on the ground still glowing, barely touched. Probably made a mistake to light it and had to put it out immediately after.

“Stay still, boy,” the man warns, slowly approaching. “Hands up.” Javier does as told, puts his revolver in the holster and raises his hands. He deliberately steps beyond the corner of the homestead, hoping John and Arthur can’t see his predicament and try to play heroes to save him and insert themselves into trouble they don’t need.

The one of the men behind Javier comes up behind him and takes the revolver out of his holster, inspects it with an impressed look Javier can barely see in the dark. 

“Where’d you get this, boy?” He asks, his voice nothing special apart from that accent southern people got.

“Gunsmith,” Javier answers. “Bought it.”

One of the men scoff. “You? Bought it? You bought them clothes too?”

“Ain’t no way. He prolly stole ‘em like he was thinkin’ of stealin’ from here.”

“I ain’t stealing nothing,” Javier tries to defend. “I was just looking for a place to sleep so I can go back to México soon.”

“Mexico? Yeah, I figured you was one o’ them.”

“Look I- I don’t want no trouble, señores. I’ll go.” His main tactic when he’s outnumbered is acting innocent and meek, like he just doesn’t understand what America’s like and like he thinks Americans are big and scary and superior.

“Yeah, you will go,” the man in front of him says at first. “You will go with us and not make a scene, won’t you?”

“Go- go where?” That stutter was all him. Not some character.

“You… look familiar. Hard to see in the dark and someone forgot to bring a goddamn lantern!”

“Oh, come on, not this again.”

“Shut it!” The rifleman barks. “Take off his gunbelt. And, for God’s sake, Richards, don’t forget the goddamn knife this time!”

Richards, the man accusing Javier of stealing, takes his gunbelt and his knife while grumbling something he can’t hear, stripping Javier of anything that can defend him from being taken in. This is not where he thought this would go.

“See, mister, we know you’s a thief ‘cause there ain’t no gold in there, friend. We been usin’ this to catch bounties and criminals for months. Only the locals know not to believe it. We catch a lot ‘a travelers like you. Down on they luck,” the rifleman, seemingly the leader, explains and Javier feels like a fool. Enough so that he tilts his head back in annoyance for being so stupid, for not thinking deeper on what John said earlier.

The men laugh at his reaction. Javier doesn’t know if they’re bounty hunters or law. It doesn’t matter, Javier is fucked either way.

“Not so smart, is you?” 

“Just take me in,” Javier grumbles and his hands get pushed down behind his back while they tie them together. 

“No funny business now, mister,” one of the men warns and Javier just glares at him. Like a sack of potatoes, Javier’s thrown on the back of a horse. His head is luckily on the side where he can see Arthur and John’s heads sticking out from behind the rock. He can’t see their expressions but he firmly shakes his head so they can see him. He’ll be fine.

“What the hell is he doin’?” John hisses as they watch Javier shaking his head, and trying to hear what the three mysterious men are talking about. They’re too far away.

“I don’t know. Bein’ a goddamn fool,” Arthur hisses as well. Both of them wanting to give Javier a smack each for being so stupid. They should’ve gone all three. They shouldn’t have gone here at all.

“We gotta help him,” John says and just as he starts stepping out of cover, Arthur drags him back by the collar, twisting his fist in it.

“He told us not to!”

“This is your fault, Arthur! I knew it was too good to be true. Pfft, gold bars in an abandoned homestead beside the road - Javier’s taken now ‘cause of you!” 

“Damnit, I know, Marston!” Arthur says. “I know it was stupid but it’s even more stupid puttin’ Javier in danger while tied on some feller’s horse.”

“Shit,” John sighs as he realizes Arthur’s right. He watches as the men ride away with Javier, thinking that it wasn’t long ago that he was in that position himself, seeing Javier on the road and him not hesitating, or maybe hesitating a little, to save him despite their differences. Javier saved him but he couldn’t save Javier.

“You think it’s law?” John asks.

“Seemed like it. ‘Nother gang would’ve done somethin’ worse to ‘im,” Arthur speculates and John nods with another sigh. They gotta save him somehow. “We get back to camp and make a plan to get him out.”

“We don’t even know where they’re takin’ ‘im,” John butts in.

“If it’s law, I guess to Gallup.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Fine. I’ll go after them bastards and you tell Dutch and Hosea.”

“Why me? You do that, it’s your fault Javier’s stuck there!” 

“‘Cause you’re actin’ real strange and erratic right now, boy. Just do as I goddamn tell you to!” 

John huffs and mounts one of the horses, smacking the reins and squeezing his legs around the animal to make it gallop away at great haste.

Erratic. John’s not goddamn erratic, he’s pissed. Javier was just trying to keep them safe, to do a good thing, and he ends up kidnapped by some random fellers and Arthur expects him not to do anything about it? And somehow, John’s the selfish, emotionless one. 

When John comes back alone, Hosea is alarmed immediately. 

“How’d you get on?” He asks, voice steady and sure but expression faltering slightly.

“Arthur’s a fool!” John doesn’t sugarcoat it. He never does. He dismounts the horse and walks up to Hosea like he’s the father John is about to rat on his brother to. Basically, that is how it is. Or maybe exactly how it is.

“Why? Where is he?”

“That homestead, the one with the gold, was a trap, Hosea. A goddamn trap set up by some folk - some bounty hunters or lawmen, I don’t know, but they got Javier,” he explains, not minding his tone or his volume.

“Is he…?” Hosea begins. John barely registers Karen, Abigail and Uncle lurking nearby, listening to them.

“He’s fine. Arthur stayed behind to follow ‘em but- Javier went there alone. He wanted to keep us safe and then they just- “ John says while trying to keep it together.

“Whatchu do?” Abigail comes bounding over, having heard their discussion. She marches right up to John, face wrung up in fury, hand ready to strike him like it’s a habit. 

“Nothin’!” John defends loudly. “I wanted to help ’im!”

“You? Help Javier? Yeah, sure, knowin’ you you just fled the scene, let Arthur do the dirty work!” Abigail mocks and John feels like he’s been set on fire. How dare she accuse him of that? He wishes no harm on Javier! It was a long time since he did that. So long he can’t even remember when it was.

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, woman!” Hosea steps in between them as Abigail swings her palm out, the old man managing to catch her arm and tuck it away.

“I’ll put you in the ground if Javier dies!” Abigail threatens while Hosea has to placate her like she’s some rabid animal. John breathes like he’s out of breath, glaring at Abigail just the same as she glares at him. If Abigail loves Javier so much, she can have him. John is tired of her treatment of him. Does she really think John would leave Arthur and Javier to their own devices willingly? If she does, she’s a moron.

“Calm down, both of you!” Comes Dutch’s booming voice. Finally someone that has some sense. He’s gonna tell John to go after them, to bring the cavalry and break Javier out of his bonds before they even get put on. “Now, tell me what happened, son,” he says to John, calm and collected so far. John looks at Abigail over Dutch’s shoulder, eyes narrowed and lip curled as her own eyes blaze with fire, ripping her arm out of Hosea’s grip and stepping away like a defiant little girl.

John explains as more and more members join them to listen to the ruckus. Tilly comes carrying Jack who she’d been watching, Abigail holds her arms out to take him for her and the small boy hugs his mother, clearly not enjoying the raised voices judging by the sniffles he presses against his mother’s chest.

Dutch swears to himself, looks down at the ground in contemplation for a while when everyone is standing in silence waiting for the verdict.

Dutch runs his hand over his face as he sighs heavily.

“We wait ‘til Arthur comes back,” he decides but doesn’t seem fully content with this plan.

“What?!” John’s expectations fade, along with a stern yet hopeful look transforming into frustration and guilt. He couldn’t even help Javier. “We gotta do somethin’!” John protests. He doesn’t see the confused faces on his peers’ faces, listening to John telling other people to go save Javier, instead of him being the one to say they should wait for Arthur.

“John, we can’t be too quick about this,” Dutch tells him. “We let Arthur find out where he is and we make a plan. Alright, son?”

“No!” John says. “The one time we need to get off our asses, you wanna make a plan, Dutch? Damn the plans, we gotta do somethin’!” He feels like a broken clock, saying the same thing over and over, trying to get people on his side. He’s never been good at that.

“John- “ Hosea speaks up but John shuts him down.

“He would’ve gone after you people,” he claims. “He went after me and he hates me!”

Chapter Text

“You hang tight now,” the lawman, after a long while of pondering between that or a bounty hunter, mocks and pats the cell door of the jail he’s been placed in, awaiting some form of punishment. He just hopes none of them have seen his bounty poster or his chances of walking out here alive will reduce significantly. Or entirely more like. Javier slumps down on the hard floor with a hefty sigh. The only warmth in the sheriff’s office being two lanterns glowing, shutting out the dark. 

Javier had briefly seen another person in the other cell but didn’t pay them no mind. Maybe tomorrow. For now, he’s just gonna sulk about the whole thing. 

In the morning, Javier is woken up by the sheriff and his deputies crashing into the building, purposely loud and mocking. 

“Didn’t I tell you boys them foreigners are trouble?” The sheriff asks the deputies, getting laughs out of the three of them. Bootlickers. Pansies. “Two on the same night. Well done. We deserve to have some fun.”

Javier looks up from his spot, probably a lot more surprised than he wants to look at that statement. Lawmen are not in the business of harming prisoners. Least not that he knows of.

“Agh, don’t be afraid, boy,” the sheriff placates mockingly. “That fun won’t be ours. That’ll be up to the judge.”

“I didn’t do anything,” the voice comes from the other prisoner, a noticeable Mexican accent coating his words. Javier immediately twists to look at him. Black hair, curly, skin a little lighter than Javier’s with a sharp gaze. 

“You stole a wagon,” one of the lawmen claims.

“No, I didn’t, it was mine!” The prisoner growls.

“Folk like you don’t own nothin’ in this country!” The same lawman shouts, the joking air between the Americans declining rapidly. The prisoner spits on the floor between the bars, the lawman he just spoke to surging forward to try and grab the prisoner’s collar but is stopped by the sheriff and another lawman.

“Settle down, you buffoon,” the sheriff says. “We got work to do. Leave these sorry sons ‘a bitches think ‘bout what they done.”

“I can’t ‘cause I haven’t done anything!” The prisoner pipes up again.

“Quiet!” Sheriff barks. “I hear so much as a peep from you two, you’re done, with or without trial!”

Javier’s heard worse threats. From his mother. From his damn goat. From Jack and he can barely speak. All of them leave as well, which makes Javier think that the sheriff is a simpleton. How is he supposed to hear them making noise if they ain’t in the room?

“Chinga tu madre, puto cerdo,” the prisoner growls and then spits on the floor again. As he turns around, their eyes briefly meet before the other prisoner turns around and starts pacing in his cell more out of boredom than out of anxiety for being locked up. 

Javier is satisfied with himself. Arthur and John are okay, knowing Arthur they’re probably cooking up some plan to break him out. He hopes. But the doubts haunt the corners of his mind. Maybe they won’t? Maybe they think it’s too much of a risk to get involved with the law this close to Arizona, their goal? Javier wouldn’t blame him. He would be disappointed up to the very moment where the noose strings him up but he’d understand.

“¿Qué hiciste?¿Respiraste?” The prisoner frustratedly asks and Javier scoffs, smiling a bit.

“Estaba intentando robar una casa. Me atraparon.” The prisoner chuckles. 

“¿Qué casa?”

“El que está cerca de Church Rock, un lugar un tanto escondido.”

“Sí, lo sé.”

“¿Y tu, amigo? ¿Qué hiciste?”

“Nada. Nada en absoluto.”

“¿En serio?”

“Ya sabes cómo son esos americanos. La gente como nosotros siempre está haciendo algo.”

Putting someone in jail for doing nothing seems to be the American way of life. Javier nods in understanding. 

“Soy Xabiani. ¿Cómo te llamas, amigo?”

“Javier.”

Xabiani sticks his hand through the bars for a handshake. Javier accepts and feels a lot calmer in here with him. He hasn’t interacted with anyone like him since Washington and it’s a breath of fresh air. He’s been missing Mexico so badly he thought he needed to go back… well, he still wants to but maybe he’d been rash in thinking he should leave the gang. Right? He can’t do that. He ain’t John.

“Bueno, Javier. ¿Quieres salir de aquí?” 

Javier tilts his head a little. Then he nods slowly. Of course he wants to get out of here, he needs to get back before anyone gets a dumb idea to rescue him and get them in trouble again.

“Con alegría,” he accepts and Xabiani starts digging through his clothes. Javier watches him with his head slightly tilted.

“Esos idiotas no me registraron. Solo se llevaron mis armas.”

Javier scoffs mockingly at those idiots. Makes him think he should carry around a smaller blade and stuff it somewhere in case of emergency and in the case of being captured by absolute morons.

But his eyes bug out of his head at the sight of a stick of dynamite having been hidden in Xabiani’s boot. 

“¿Estás loco? ¿!Por qué tienes dinamita en tus pantalones?!” Javier questions in a hissing manner. Xabiani just laughs and smirks, planting it on the wall behind them. He’s gonna kill them both!

“¿Tienes alguna cerilla?”

“¡Vas a hacer que nos maten!”

“Al menos eso es mejor que morir en sus manos.”

He’s got a point. Javier huffs and searches his pockets. He has a match box. He always does. My, what a pair they’ve become, even only a few minutes into their partnership. He prays to something that he’ll make it out and not blow up.

“¡Ahí vamos!” Xabiani warns and presses as far away from the wall as he could, Javier doing the same. He cups his hands over his ears and think he’s jumped out of his skin at the explosion, or like his skin jumped off of him and ran away, leaving him entirely exposed. He feels almost like he’d been thrown against a wall but then somehow also fased through it after.

He… is alive, at least. He feels like he’s covered in a layer of dust and he thinks he had some rocks throttled at him at full strength. It’s like he’s been digging his way out of his own grave. 

“¡Javier! ¿Estás bien?” Xabiani’s voice echoes and Javier peels open his eyes. He’s made it into Javier’s cell through the hole he blasted between their cells, crawling inside with great haste since probably all of Gallup heard it.

“No,” Javier answers with a groan as Xabiani helps Javier up and out of the sheriff’s office. “Me doy cuenta que estás loco.” Xabiani laughs as they escape, bruised and battered and very obviously guilty of something. 

“¡El caballo!” Xabiani shouts and points to a horse left outside of a general store. Javier feels like a wuss for barely making it up on the horse without Xabiani’s help but at least he doesn’t slow them down. The lawmen come quickly, guns blazing but to the outlaws’ luck, most horses ran away due to the explosion. 

“¿Tienes algún lugar donde ir?“ Xabiani asks as they gallop out of town, dodging bullets and placating a terrified horse. 

Javier hesitates for a moment. Xabiani seems like a good guy, he helped Javier escape without a second thought and didn’t leave him behind when he could barely move after that crazy explosion. It makes him realise that he won’t be able to go back into Gallup ever again now that he’s been caught by the law. That’s just great.

Besides, he doesn’t seem like he’s in luck either. Doesn’t seem worried about things. Makes Javier wonder if he’s got a family or not. So, he tells him where the gang is holed up, getting ready to do… something if Xabiani ends up recognizing anyone. 

Xabiani follows Javier’s directions as the latter gets increasingly worried about what the gang’s gonna think of this. Sure, Javier was picked up while down on his luck but he was picked up by Dutch, their leader. He made a choice to bring in Javier and people had to accept that but Javier is just a member with a gun, his word doesn’t mean much. His fingers start tingling at the tips, his heartbeat picks up and he doesn’t doubt Xabiani can feel it against his back.

The camp sticks out like a sore thumb in the rather flat surroundings. But it’s okay, people don’t usually travel out here in the heat. But it also makes it increasingly easy for the person on watch to see them coming and to point their gun at them. It’s fine, Javier couldn’t count on Davey to hit anything anyway.

Davey sees Javier sitting behind a stranger, both of them full of dust and some small bleeding cuts scattered about their limbs.

“Dutch! Hosea! Javier’s back!” Davey calls to the others over his shoulder while rushing over to the horse and to Javier, surprisingly trying to help his fellow gang member down and off the horse.

Most of the others come to meet Javier and his new acquaintance, looking perplexed and worried at the same time. Mostly, the focus remains on Javier now while Xabiani is smart enough to keep quiet until people are gonna pay attention to him.

Except that most are already paying attention to him, dusty and cut like Javier and a total stranger.

“Javier, it’s good to see you made it out alive!” Dutch says and pats Javier on his shoulder like he often does. All Javier does in reply is nod and smile weakly, faintly. Miss Grimshaw calls for the Reverend and Javier can barely blink before he feels some arms thrown around him, squeezing and stinging. He hisses in pain and the arms let him go. Javier’s eyes meet Abigail's, who seems over the moon about seeing him again, despite it not being long since they met last.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes quickly and Javier waves it off. 

“We’ve been worried,” Dutch speaks up again, his eyes flickering over to Xabiani who’s been sort of cowering behind Javier until now when Javier feels like he’s got some explaining to do. “We sent out Arthur, John and Mac to find you,” he adds and rubs his face.

“We should’ve waited a bit,” Hosea admits since it poses a risk for the three of them to leave and what conclusions will they come to if they find Javier isn’t there, in the ruined Gallup sheriff’s office. “But our boys will be fine.”

“Come, son,” Dutch puts his arm around Javier’s shoulder, casting another glance at Javier’s friend and hoping he understands he should follow them. The touch bothers Javier, makes him feel trapped, but in fear of offending Dutch he does nothing.

Swanson and Miss Grimshaw do a fine enough job, with Abigail as extra help, cleaning their cuts. It thankfully isn’t a lengthy process and Javier explains the situation as they get taken care of, Xabiani keeping decidedly quiet. Might be for the best until Dutch speaks to him directly.

And naturally, he does.

“Thank you for helpin’ Javier,” Dutch says and those that decided to follow to the medical wagon, Tilly, Karen and Abigail, nod along. “Why were you in there?” Dutch refers to jail and him being in the cell beside Javier’s.

“Of course, señor. They- uh, they accused me of stealing a wagon but I didn’t, it was mine and I figured they’d be lying about what Javier did so… I thought we should both get out. Help each other,” Xabiani explains, his voice a little shaken up and stuttery but his eyes speak truth. Or at least enough truth for Dutch to accept the explanation.

“Well, if you need anythin’ feel free to indulge yourself. We save fellers as need savin’ or feed ‘em as need feedin’. That counts for all downtrodden folk,” Dutch says and sounds as proud of that motto as he always does when he says it. Except that he doesn’t mention the ‘shoot as need shooting’ part, probably to avoid frightening the man.

“Thank you, señor. Dios lo bendiga,” Xabiani says and lowers his head in gratitude. Despite not knowing him long or well, Javier notes how differently he acted around the sheriff and around Dutch and the gang. Maybe it’s smart. He doesn’t know how they’ll all react to a new face. Besides, it’s more likely you end up dead and picked apart by vultures if you anger a bunch of outlaws than real law. 

“Come on,” Karen urges when they’re done being patched up, “let’s get you two some dinner.” This is the first time Javier thinks Pearson’s stew is fine. Not because it’s tasteful or enjoyable at all but because it feels like his stomach has been beaten to a pulp and he can’t keep down real food anymore. Xabiani seems to have much of the same sentiment.

Chapter Text

Abigail is sitting next to Javier around the main campfire when Jack comes running towards them, previously taking a nap but probably somehow sensing his mother ain’t near. Javier can swear that children and their mothers have some brain connection. But he ain’t no scientist nor does he yearn to become one.

“Hola, peque,” Javier greets and ruffles the boy’s head of brown, straight hair. Like both his parents. 

“Momma said you died!” Jack says as he hugs Javier’s shin and rests his cheek on his knee. Javier turns to Abigail with wide, confused eyes.

“No, I didn’t say that!” She counters. “And definitely not to you, what did I say ‘bout listenin’ to private conversations?” Abigail grabs Jack and pulls him towards her despite his meaningless fight against it, having to withstand an attack of tickles.

“¿Este tu hijo?” Xabiani asks after a little while, keeping his voice down like he’s still scared of being acknowledged. Fair enough. Javier imagines he used to be just the same. It wasn’t even that long ago that he started feeling comfortable to start his own conversations instead of just joining an already existing one or being spoken to directly first.

“No,” Javier replies. “Su padre está ahí afuera buscándome.”

Xabiani nods slowly. “Entonces… ¿ella no es tu mujer o algo así?”

“Nonono. Sólo una amiga.”

“Bueno.”

Xabiani doesn’t seem to believe him and Javier shakes his head. It’s a little too early for an outsider to joke about that, even if he seems decent enough. Dutch offers the newcomer to stay and thus Javier offers to lend him his bedroll for the night. He’ll go on watch to keep his limbs running like they should. He has a strange feeling they’re gonna lock up during the night if he doesn’t stay moving.

But when Javier was in Xabiani’s place, he couldn’t sleep the first few nights either. Not that he knows anything about where he plans to move on or wants a chance at staying.

Then again, Javier has come back to that struggle recently. Sadly, being on watch opens up for loads of opportunities to overthink and to fret or whatnot. He’s got all the time in the world thinking about his weirdly familiar yet foggy and distant dreams, the voices he recognizes and thinks he misses. The storms at the back of his mind which he doesn’t know if they tell him the storm is coming for him or something beyond the horizons of his mind. Like his family. 

While on his second lap around camp, he hears the thundering of hooves approaching. Javier closes one eye to look down the sight, catching Arthur on Boadicea and figuring out it’s John and Mac on their horses behind him.

“That you, Javier?” Mac calls out, a laugh tainting his words.

“It’s me!” He confirms. The three of them stop in a line beside each other, next to Javier.

“You got out,” Arthur states. “We saw the sheriff’s office - whatchu do?”

“Met a man in there. He helped me. Kept dynamite in his pants like an imbécil,” Javier says while chuckling. “He’s still here… think he might wanna stay. Don’t think he has anywhere else to go.”

“You know ‘im?” Mac asks.

Javier shakes his head. “Not before today.”

“Can we trust ‘im?” John wonders this time. Javier looks at him. 

“I think so,” Javier vouches for him and for now, tired and irritated, John lets it slide and doesn’t bother arguing. John hitches Old Boy and drags his feet while trudging over to his tent, finding it blissfully empty tonight. Mac hitches Tundra with a firm pat and some encouraging words while Arthur stays behind. “Thanks for coming after me. Even if I wasn’t there,” he says to Arthur.

“Believe it or not, it was actually John who cooked this whole rescue together,” Arthur reveals and sounds just as surprised as Javier looks.

“I choose ‘not’,” Javier jokes but with a tone that matches his expression.

Arthur scoffs and steers Boadicea to a hitching post where there’s a free spot between Uncle’s and Bill’s horses. 

Javier adjusts the grip on his rifle and clears his throat, looks over his shoulder at John’s tent, finds it shut just like before. He can’t tell if John’s in there or not but whether he is or isn’t, Javier mulls over what Arthur said.

John cooked this whole rescue together, he’d claimed. John Marston, who hates him. Or… maybe they don’t hate each other anymore. Javier doesn’t think he hates John anymore, he despises the way he’s still not taking care of Abigail and Jack but… well, he does know a little bit why he left. And he’d be a hypocrite to still hate John for leaving when he’s been planning to leave as well.

Sure, under different circumstances and he’d come back immediately after finding out if his family’s okay but still. 

Javier’s gonna have to thank John and not Arthur for once. Recently, he finds he might not feel terrible doing that. Or maybe he will. Probably. Has to do with his pride  he thinks and the fact that he thinks John’s gonna gloat about it or tease him for it.

But, he isn’t an idiot. John saved him, or wanted to try, so Javier owes him his thanks. When switching his watch with Bill, Javier takes a trip to John’s tent, finding the flap closed but not tied shut. He takes a deep breath, hoping he isn’t interrupting something when he knocks on the tent post.

“John?” Javier calls out softly so he wouldn’t disturb those sleeping. Including John, maybe.

Javier doesn’t think he’d been sleeping since he opens the flap quite quickly and he’s fully dressed, though his eyes droop and he blinks sluggishly. It looks almost like he’s been drinking himself into a stupor but there’s no smell of alcohol on him or any bottles in his tent.

“Evenin’,” John greets in his gravelly voice. Smoking since birth or whatever Javier dubbed it.

“I wanted to thank you for- uh… planning that rescue. Even if I was already out,” he chuckles slightly and John nods.

“Good you had… what’s his name?” John asks and the two of them both look over to Javier’s bedroll occupied by their potential new member. 

“Xabiani.”

“Sha-biany?”

Javier shrugs. “Sure, John.” John scoffs while smiling, Javier following suit before they fall into silence again. They just look at each other or their eyes flicker to someplace else to be able to bear the silence. Javier figures that’s the end of that then.

“Right… thanks again. Didn’t expect that from you.” He turns around to leave.

“What?” Javier stops in his tracks at this, just having started to walk away. 

“What?” Javier repeats.

“You didn’t expect that from me?”

Javier feels cornered all of a sudden. He didn’t mean it like that. He just didn’t think John would ever come to his aid. 

“Well… can you blame me? We haven’t exactly been friends here, have we?” Javier chuckles awkwardly while John’s eyebrows knit together, the corners of his lip falling into a sort of frown.

“No, we ain’t,” John states firmly. Javier blinks at him.

“Come on, John, you know what I mean. I didn’t think you’d save me,” he tries to explain but to no avail.

“You don’t think I’d save someone. ‘Cause I left,” John reiterates but he’s wrong. If he wasn’t so emotionally constipated, maybe he would’ve understood the look on Javier’s face saying he’s incorrect. 

“No- what- I didn’t say that, Jesus,” Javier defends uselessly. 

“You been sayin’ that a lot.”

“John, what,” Javier questions. “I didn’t mean it like

“You always do.”

“Wow, well, okay. Sorry for bringing it up. Goodnight.”

Well, that backfired. Why was John acting like that? Javier was simply thanking him, how could he just switch it so fast to Javier making fun of him or it somehow being backhanded. He’d meant it. He was thankful. They’d smiled at each other. What did Javier say that made John switch up?

Didn’t expect that from you.

Javier knows it’s that, he just doesn’t see the problem with it. He didn’t expect it from John. What, is John trying to say that he’d expect Javier to save him if it came to it? Javier would save him, has saved him but-

Oh. They have saved each other. Over and over. Ever since their scouting trip so long ago.

But Javier wouldn’t be upset if someone said that to him. He’d just take it as a joke. John’s just got a stick up his ass. He’d claim it’s because of Abigail and her insistence he needs to be a father. She hasn’t done much of that anymore. Instead she avoids John as much as she can, seeks help from others willing to help her since he isn’t and never will be. 

“Javier, dear boy,” Hosea says behind Javier’s back, getting him to turn around from where he’d been sitting, sharpening his knife within an inch of its life. Javier gives the old man a nod of acknowledgement and Hosea sees it as an invitation to sit down beside him. He usually forgets to give Javier his space but recently he’s beginning to pick up on his hesitancy to be touched.

“What’s your verdict on our new member? Xabiani’s his name, right?” 

“Yeah,” Javier confirms. “What’s vur-dickt?”

“Your judgement or decision. What do you think of him?” Hosea reiterates and Javier nods in understanding, his eyes flickering away from Hosea’s and out into the desert beyond the camp, collecting his thoughts of what’s happened the last few days.

Xabiani’s been reserved but helpful, much like Javier himself at the beginning, but more than cheerful in his company given their connected roots to Mexico. Finding out the man’s from Ascención has done bad things to Javier’s mind and his torn brain, thinking that he has a real shot at getting there with Xabiani’s help or he might even know something about the people of Janos. Of course he won’t mention that to Hosea… or maybe… Hosea’s always been understanding.

He’s also been subject to much of the same distrust and side-eyeing from other members as Javier once had but he can’t blame them. Javier doesn’t know if they’ve been infiltrated but naturally, even if they hadn’t, they’d be suspicious. Most of the members have been betrayed by someone they knew. 

Javier feels like a fool for being inclined to trust Xabiani easier than he’d like to but he sees himself in the boy, sees someone scared and yet fiery. Though he’s different from Javier in a way. While Javier hates law, he prefers to keep quiet and observe while Xabiani spat insults and jabs at the deputies and sheriff that arrested him. 

So, Javier decides to tell Hosea, “think he’s fine. He’s doing what I used to do,” with a shrug and a small smile when Hosea nods at the statement with a smile of his own, thinking back to the scrawny, almost innocent-seeming whippersnapper Dutch had picked up in a chicken coop. “Why do you ask?” Javier questions Hosea.

“Did the same to the others when you first joined us,” he admits easily, a light tone in his voice. “Can’t be too careful. Mostly just ask to make sure no one’s seen anythin’ suspicious.”

Javier nods slowly. “Sure.” Sometimes he wonders how Hosea isn’t their leader. And right now, Javier wonders if Hosea’s their leader behind the scenes and just lets Dutch do the rest that comes with leadership. Like the pride and the fancy words. Though Dutch is more than that, those things are also a building block in that man’s makeup.

“He’s from a town close to where I’m from,” Javier reveals to Hosea then, walls almost torn down by those deceivingly kind eyes of someone Javier has forgotten used to be a killer and who remains a thief and a conman well into his fifties. From what Javier’s been able to pick up in talks around the fire, Hosea used to be quite the terror around the east before he fled west with Dutch at some point.

But Javier’s always felt safe around Hosea. Ever since he became more integrated with the gang, at least. 

“Where’s that?” Hosea asks and seems a bit intrigued. Javier guesses he’s never mentioned that to anyone. He’s never wanted to. He’s never wanted to think more about his family than necessary, given how badly his heart aches when he does. Xabiani’s presence has brought Mexico closer to him again and it doesn’t give Javier as much of a searing pain as before.

“Not too far from the border. We’re… pretty close to it. Just a few days. Maybe a week.”

“Hmm,” Hosea hums. “That must be hard for ya.”

Javier shrugs. “It is. But… I feel closer to my family through Xabiani.”

“I bet. You act different when you speak Spanish.” Javier’s eyes widen, his shoulders slightly raising towards his ears and Hosea laughs. “It’s not so drastic. Just know that Abigail picked up on it and told me.”

Oh, Abigail. Sweet thing that she is. Javier hopes that the blush on his cheeks won’t be taken in the wrong way by Hosea as it is by everyone else. Hell, the very first day Xabiani joined them he asked if Jack was Javier’s and if Abigail is too. Perhaps Javier can’t blame John for being so jealous early on. Apart from the fact that John never seemed to like her anyway and his hostility towards Javier seemed out of left field for him.

“Anyway,” Hosea says and Javier is thankful he at least doesn’t mention the color in his face. He smacks his palms on his thighs and leans forward like he’s gonna get out of the seat. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Gracias.”

Javier has just grabbed himself a bowl of stew when Xabiani approaches him after having helped Karen and Mary-Beth with some chores. Mac and Davey made fun of him for it but Javier’s going to tell the newcomer not to mind them. They’re all bark and no bite to people in camp. He doesn’t have a bowl for himself. 

It’s like Javier is staring into a looking glass. He never used to do that either in the beginning, never wanting to take someone else’s food, never taking too much space.

“That man over there,” Xabiani says to Javier and points to John and Dutch speaking about something, “the one without the mustache,” he goes on and Javier nods, understanding he means John.

“He’s… un poco grosero.”

Javier scoffs with amusement. “Ni siquiera sabes la mitad.” Xabiani joins in with the laughter though he keeps his profile low as always. “No nos llevamos bien,” he adds.

“¿Por qué?” Xabiani asks.

“No le gusto y es un perezoso. Es el padre del niño.”

When Javier looks back at John, he’s already looking at them, squinting, and while his body is turned to Dutch, his head is slightly turned in their direction, clearly not focused on what Dutch is saying. It makes Dutch look at them as well which instantly makes Xabiani look away. 

Javier raises an eyebrow at John and his sour expression, tosses in a glance at John’s body, a stink eye if you will. John rolls his own eyes and returns to paying attention to Dutch.

What is his problem? This is just the same way he’d been looking at Javier. 

But this time, Javier isn’t scared to call him out. He knows John is pathetic, he knows he doesn’t punch that hard, he knows why he’s acting this way. Sort of. Maybe. No. The reason John didn’t like Javier is because he’d been jealous of him (how stupid of him) but what about Xabiani does he have to be jealous of? 

"Hablaré con él,” Javier promises and like a petulant child, John whips around from Dutch and stomps off while leaving their leader there, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then after seemingly collecting himself, he offers Javier and Xabiani a tired wave.

“Eh, ¿Deberías hacer eso ahora?” Xabiani asks and his voice sounds unsure like how it does whenever he speaks to other members. 

“Yes,” Javier answers - consequences be damned. What’s the worst thing John could do? Throw him on the train tracks or punch him? Leave him in a cold stream? Feed him to the vultures maybe but that’s about it.

“Uh, Javier you don’t- “ Xabiani stops himself as he watches Javier go in the same direction as John. 

“¡Consíguete un poco de guiso!“ Javier says over his shoulder before he disappears behind a lean-to.

He’s a little stunned at the fact that John seems to have almost disappeared out of thin air. His head’s on a swivel to find him, to tell him to leave the kid alone and stop acting like that. Like he used to act with Javier. He doesn’t anymore. While they don’t talk regularly, John isn’t throwing Javier dirty looks or hounding him for talking to Abigail. Why would he do it to Xabiani?

His confused and irritated bubble bursts when he bumps straight into another person, finding it to be John looking just as confused and suddenly aware as Javier.

“What’s your problem?” Javier asks and sounds strangely casual. He’s annoyed at John, not furious. But he might become furious but that’s entirely dependent on John’s response and behavior. As it usually is since it’s almost always John that starts with the biting remarks.

“Chronologically or alphabetically?” John counters in much the same casual tone Javier bore.

“What?” Javier has to question, his head tilting a bit to the side trying to understand that those words are. John already speaks like he’s slurring with the help of his horribly ripped up voice that sounds like it’s been scratched to hell by cats, saying words like that at that speed won’t help Javier.

“You wanna hear my problems in order or from a to z?” John reiterates. He speaks mockingly clear when he does and Javier’s expression sours.

“I’m assuming all of them start with a big, fat ‘U’,” Javier fires back in defense of himself and maybe even his patience but that’s already wearing thin so it won’t do much to help him there. “As in ‘U cause your own problems’ in case you’re too dumb to understand,” he goes on insulting. 

“I cause problems?” John scoffs in disbelief. ‘I ain’t the one blowin’ up sheriff’s offices or bringin’ in people we don’t know nothin’ about,” he says plainly. Not that John isn’t always speaking his mind as straightforwardly as possible. He always is. He’s got no tact when he needs it.

“What else were you gonna do when you came looking for me?” 

“Shoot the lock, pick the lock, steal the key- whatever, but who even is that guy?” John gestures to Xabiani’s general direction.

“Without him, who knows what would’a happened!” Javier comes to his defense. “You said yourself it was good I had him.”

John huffs, realizing he’d forgotten that thing. Has Xabiani done something? Maybe he made a move on Abigail, that used to do John’s head in. No, it isn’t that. John barely pays her any mind. He’s surely kinder to her but not enough to make up for anything he’s done in the past.

“That’s more attention we don’t need,” John says and Javier rolls his eyes. He sounds like Dutch without meaning it like Dutch does. John doesn’t care about noise as long as he doesn’t get caught he doesn’t care. It’s never about the future, always about the now. Damn John Marston.

“I ain’t discussing this with you just- if you don’t like Xabiani, stay away from him!” Javier tells John who scoffs again, mockingly this time.

“What are you, his guardian? His nursemaid? He’s grown.”

“He’s nineteen!”

“So? What was you doin’ when you was nineteen? Killin’ officials!”

Javier slips his knife out of its sheath and puts the sharp point against John’s neck, John whose body barely flinches but his eyes flicker and his Adam’s apple moves as he swallows trying to escape the blade.

“People with more power than you, puto. Te mataré, ¿me oyes?” John glares at him. Wisely, he decides against demanding Javier speaks English, opting only to shove him off and spit at the ground by his feet. 

In the aftermath, Javier is beyond confused. It’s always one step forward followed by a thousand steps backward with John. Every conversation with John is open for interpretation, almost like you’ll either fail or succeed by saying the smallest thing. This time, Javier failed on two counts: he pissed John off and still didn’t get him to leave Xabiani alone. At least that’s what it seemed. Javier doubts John’s gonna listen to him.

Chapter Text

Xabiani comes to Javier two days later while he’s having a smoke after gathering shrubs and tumbleweeds to burn, along with some damn herbs to sprinkle in Pearson’s tasteless stew. He’s holding something that looks like a jorongo, something Javier really hasn’t seen in a while. Not like Americans parade around in those, even if they should because they look great. 

He gifts it to Javier.

“Para ti,” he says.

Javier takes it and inspects the patterns. It’s nice. Makes him wonder how much it costs. And why the hell he would spend it on a gift to Javier.

“¿Qué?” Is all Javier manages to say.

“Se lo robé a un tipo. Los estadounidenses no tienen jorongos, así que él se lo robó primero,” Xabiani explains and it makes a lot more sense to Javier than the boy spending money on it. It’s nice. Javier accepts the gift gladly.

“¿Por qué me das esto?”

Xabiani shrugs. “Porque me salvaste. No lo habría logrado solo.”

Javier is sure that’s a lie but he’s trying to be humble. He thanks him again and puts it on. It reaches his mid thighs. Xabiani says it looks good on him and they sit together for dinner as always, talking to each other about their pasts, why they left, who they left.

Xabiani left because he had no one. He lost them to an army ambush when they took control of the north. He’s been a long way from home but he claims he doesn’t wanna go back, that he thought he could live a better life in America who’d already had their revolution. He was wrong, he realized but he didn’t go back to Ascensión. And he doesn’t want to. He’s an only child to a cruel mother and a complacent father, he hates his parents - Javier begins to understand why he’s snappy with law and why he’s made it on his own for so long.

Javier is lucky that he can talk about his mother, his uncle and his sister. That they had it decent growing up. They were struggling, and his mother could be fanatical sometimes, giving their money to the church controlled by the state, forcing Javier out in labor on the fields of a rich man, toiling away while Mari stayed at home to care for their uncle.

His dear Mari. He’d call her Mariposa. They did everything they could together. A few times, she dressed up as a boy so she could help Javier in those fields so he could get home faster. 

And after he’s said so much, reminisced so far, he thinks he hasn’t revealed any of this to anyone. Sure, Abigail knows a few bits and pieces of his past but not the hardships. Not the reality of a boy not even ten years old burdened with calluses on his hands, his skin burned and peeling off from the relentless sun, the way he had to watch his uncle’s remains being fed to pigs. How he had to stand half naked in the rain at night because he tried to take bread from a soldier to give to his mamá.

Though, he doesn’t mention that to Xabiani either.

While in town, Davey tells Dutch and Hosea he’s seen multiple wanted posters depicting Javier and Xabiani. Already having made plans to leave, Dutch sees this as the incentive to finally pack up. It’s no secret the two Mexicans in camp get along so he deliberates with Hosea, deciding to send the two of them a couple of days ahead to make sure these posters haven’t spread beyond Gallup. 

Sure, it seems cruel to send the two most wanted out of them all into territory where they’ll be hunted but… they’re capable fellers. Besides,

“There ain’t been no incidents when you’ve gone ahead,” Dutch tells Javier, as if he was ever gonna decline Dutch’s ideas. He’s wrong, though.

You okay, buddy?

¿Me veo bien, pendejo?

Good, good

Hah, thanks for helpin’

Or tryin’ to. That feller decked you good

You asshole, I got my ass beat for you

Very noble of you

It’s small compared to other members.

“Of course,” Javier accepts without hesitation. “When are we leaving?” He asks.

“As soon as possible, my boy. Tell this to your friend and pack your things.” Dutch pats Javier on the shoulder and then heads off. Javier’s heart beats strangely hard with the feeling of this being some kind of test of fidelity. It feels like Dutch is doing this to test if Javier’s going to leave for Mexico in search of any sign of his family’s fate. But deep down he knows it’s just guilt. He’s cooking this up because he feels like a traitor for wanting to do something other than what he’s been asked, for wanting to follow his heart and be selfish instead of doing something for the gang.

Still, it feels like Dutch knows. It always feels like Dutch knows everything. And yet here Javier is, considering just that: leaving. Not forever, not indefinitely, but selfishly nonetheless. Like John. All the times he’s ribbed John for leaving, for abandoning his responsibilities. He’s a goddamn hypocrite.

John hurt Abigail and Arthur the most, they’re also the people he’s the closest to in camp, what’s to say they won’t be just as pissed this time? 

Because this time, Javier’s been given permission. 

Dutch says he and Xabiani can go, under the guise of finding somewhere to camp out, ending up in trouble, staying in trouble for a while and then coming back roughened up. 

So.

Lying.

That’s Javier’s plan. Or one of them. Either he does what his heart desires or he follows his head like a man’s supposed to.

The only one he can trust not to freak out or to tell anyone else is Xabiani. The only one who might possibly understand.

Javier goes looking for him, finding him with Swanson, discussing something about the bible. He’s never mentioned anything about faith to Javier but he guesses the kid’s got his own secrets he wants to keep like Javier himself. He walks up to them, offers them a curt nod and he clears his voice to prepare it for speech.

“¿Puedo hablar contigo?” Javier asks and sounds uncharacteristically timid. Anyone could tell he was struggling with something.

“Sí, claro,” Xabiani accepts and excuses himself from Swanson’s company, following Javier to the outskirts of their camp. They stand in the shadow of one of the wagons, hoping that despite it being midday no one would see them. Not that anyone could understand them anyway, thankfully.

“Dutch quiere que exploremos el área para encontrar un nuevo campamento. La última parada es Arizona-“

Xabiani cuts him off. “Pero no quieres ir allí.”

Javier blinks and feels exposed. He hasn’t outright told Xabiani he wants to go back, or at least not that he’s planning to go back but he must’ve figured it out. He doesn’t care to go back to Mexico, he knows how someone who doesn’t care acts and it’s not like Javier.

His shoulders slump, feels like a weight has been lifted when it gets out there. When it’s put out in reality.

“No, no lo hago,” Javier sighs. “Quiero saber si mi familia está bien.”

“Te entiendo…” Xabiani agrees but doesn’t sound convinced so Javier presses him to voice his thoughts.

“¿Pero…?“

Xabiani seems to catch himself almost. He lightly shakes his head as if dispelling a thought before he straightens his posture, looking up at Javier with eyes that don’t seem so unsure anymore.

“Nada. Podemos hacer una parada extra en el camino.”

Javier barely is able to contain a smile. He purses his lips instead, nodding and saying ‘Gracias’ after. 

He goes to find Abigail and Jack, the two never separated. He finds them while Abigail is looking at some books, four to be exact. Javier recognizes them - they’re Hosea’s. He reads a lot these days since his lungs have started acting strange. At least it sounds like they are the way he coughs and the fact that he can’t seem to get out much recently. 

“Hola, preciosa,” Javier greets and sits down beside her keeping an eye on Jack as well, hoping to offer her some respite. He would do it more often if he knew how. And if it wasn’t unsafe to bring a child with you on patrol. 

“Hi,” Abigail replies somberly. She sounds far away, yearning, almost.

“How are you?” He goes on asking, sounding as casual as he can, hoping she might open up to him if it feels less like he’s trying to pry her for secrets and more like he’s just a friend wanting her to feel good.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Livin’ at least.”

Javier scoffs with a faint smile but worried eyes. “I hope so,” he says first. “Why wouldn’t you be living?” Has she seen something? Did something happen to her or Jack?

“I love Jack. More than anythin’. More than all o’ this,” she begins and looks out over camp and everybody in it, “I want more for him. I want him to be different from me ‘cause I ain’t smart, can’t read, and different from John ‘cause he’s a killer. I just don’t know how- “ she stops herself, touches the cover of one of the books, runs her finger over it. The Woman in White Javier reads. He looks at her while she stares at the book, brows furrowed in distress of something. 

“You are smart, Abigail,” Javier reassures her. “Reading don’t make you any smarter. Look at Bill. Bastard can read, don’t make him no smarter,” he says and Abigail laughs, nodding at that. “And I don’t see how you’d make it on your own if you left.”

“I just wish I could give Jack somethin’ better.”

“I’m sure you will. With or without John.” 

Abigail looks up at Javier and smiles, embraces him firmly. Javier holds her just as tight, tight like how he held his sister the last time he saw her. Mariposa.

“I’ll ask Hosea to teach Jack some readin’ soon,” Abigail says with the same determination Javier remembers. If there is one person who’ll make it out of this, it’s Abigail. She’s got more conviction and determination than all of them, she’s got the heart of a warrior and a mother combined. 

“Sounds good, mariposa.” Javier’s chest stings. He shouldn’t have called her that. Not because it’s inappropriate to but because it isn’t just ‘butterfly’ to Javier, it’s synonymous with his sister, what they went through, what he left, how he failed. But Abigail seems satisfied with it, seems to know it’s something kind.

“I also wanted to say I’m going away for a while,” Javier says. Her smile immediately drops. “Not forever. Not long. I’m scouting ahead. Dutch’s orders. Xabiani’s going with me so I’ll be back without a scratch unlike when I was traveling with John, eh?” He comforts and Abigail seems placated. 

“You better get back. I’ll skin you if you don’t,” she threatens lightheartedly and Javier nods in confirmation that she’ll be allowed to and that he won’t come back to haunt her after. 

Javier stands up and heads over to Jack.

“Peque, you be good now. No trouble, right?” He says and Jack seems mostly uninterested since there’s a lizard scuttling around trying to escape the premises.

“Okay,” is all he says and Javier huffs before standing again, offering a last comforting look to Abigail before turning around and trying to pick up the frayed pieces of his past falling down like shedding skin.

Mariposa.

He’ll see her again. He hopes.

Javier packs during the day, sits with his new family in the evening, says nothing about leaving to anyone else than Abigail really. The others will find out. Maybe he wants to tell Arthur but he leaves unannounced here and there anyway so Javier doubts it would bother him.

To Javier’s surprise, as he’s stocking up on ammunition, Strauss approaches him. They usually never interact and when they have, it’s been something about work. Javier is thankful that he’ll have good grounds to decline since he’ll be gone for a while. Or that’s what he thought.

“Herr Escuella,” he greets and Javier gives him a nod in acknowledgement. He’s carrying the records of those he’s lent money to in his arms, a rather sleek looking pen in his right hand.

“Herr Strauss,” he decides to say back just to be polite.

“I heard you and your friend, Herr…?” 

“Benítez,” Javier answers and Strauss nods.

“I heard you’re heading west. I have a debtor trying to flee who’s reportedly going that way. If you find a man named ‘Florian Valentín’ then please, extract the debt and bring it when you return.”

Florian Valentín. Right.

“Sure. You’ll get your money.” Javier tries to keep his expression neutral, trying not to hold Strauss to the same standard as those sharks traveling around northern Mexico like a circus collecting taxes just because he’s a part of the gang. This is why he never does work like this. He despises it. He doesn’t know how Arthur does it. Speaking of Arthur-

“Don’t Arthur usually do this?”

“Yes. But I figured we need every man in camp in case those lawmen find us,” Strauss answers and Javier nods.

“Bueno. I’ll get it done,” Javier assures him and Strauss leaves and thanks him, Javier taking this opportunity to glare daggers into his back, really remembering that the most dangerous fellers in the criminal industry are those that don’t look the part. Those that are smart, those that are civilization-adjacent, that can fool anyone that they’re legit when they’re just common crooks, thieves too cowardly to get their hands dirty.

But those damn ledgers they got, filled with names and families in debt drip red. 

And yet Javier does nothing to stop it. Sometimes he wonders who he’s become. Then he’s reminded that he didn’t have a choice. Either he’d die by the hand of some racist American, starving on the road or die fighting. He chose fighting. His mother wouldn’t be proud.

He pushes the request out of his mind for the night. The last night with his family for a few weeks, maybe more if they make that stop by the place Strauss marked on a map. Round Rock. It’s close to the Arizona border but pretty far north. Opposite their direction.

Javier will have to delay Strauss’ request for now.

To make the best of this night, he sings around the fire, a song he hasn’t sung before followed by some he has sung before and some in English. Everyone is entertained and glued to their seats listening.

Davey and Mac try to drag Miss Grimshaw to dance but she smacks them upside the head, Swanson sits and sways along while Strauss lurks in a corner, Karen holds Jack’s little hands and dances with him while Abigail gets a well-deserved break while sitting next to Javier, Dutch and Hosea stand in the space between the dark and the light emitting from the fire, arms pressed together in a subtle display of affection, Bill is drunkenly ribbing Pearson about something, the two of them probably discussing their times in the army and Tilly and Mary-Beth dance sloppily together.

Without a band, and without much else emotion than yearning, most songs have a mournful sorrow to them, despite the lyrics and how the songs’ are supposed to sound. He sings his grief through songs that speak well of most things. But the few happy songs he can muster playing because of how fun it is to watch his family come alive after a few hard days of work in the scorching sun.

He doesn’t have to look at the strings when he plays usually, he just does to give himself something to look at other than glassy eyes either serenaded or confused. He thinks he can hear Xabiani humming under his breath. 

It’s not the first time dinner is enjoyed without John in recent weeks but it’s the first time Javier wants to know what he’s doing. When he puts away his guitar for the night, followed by some disappointed sighs from Tilly and Mary-Beth, he goes searching.

John’s been mostly hovering around like a shadow, like one of those storms Javier kept envisioning in his mind, wreaking havoc. He’s the embodiment of a thundercloud. Dark and unpredictable, raining on people’s parades, voice cracking and mood-crashing folks. Mainly Javier but recently Xabiani if you don’t count the years he’s been terrible to Abigail.

Still, Javier wants to know what he does and where he is when he isn’t visible. Why? Who the hell knows?

He doesn’t have to wonder for long when Javier goes to his lean-to and finds John there, lurking but nearby Xabiani’s things. Javier is surprised enough that he lets out a surprised “John?” Without thinking.

It makes John jump and the rifle on his back makes a shifting sound. He doesn’t say anything in response, he just stands there.

“What’re you doing?” Javier asks.

“Patrol,” he answers curtly but with a tinge of surprise in his voice.

“In camp…?” He goes on questioning. 

John shrugs. “Can’t be too careful, can we?”

Javier eyes him, squints and his head slowly leans forward. John’s eyes flicker to the side in what can’t be anything but confusion and discomfort combined into one big lie on John’s front.

“Why’re you looking through Xabiani’s stuff, eh? He’s barely got anything for you to take, pinche roedor,” Javier says and doesn’t hide his irritation. Xabiani’s causing less trouble than Javier ever did when he first joined so why is John acting like this? His paranoia is worse than Dutch’s was when those oh-driskulls? Was that the name? Whatever, when they nearly stole their train job. 

“You could own nothin’ but a stick ‘a dynamite but it’s still a stick ‘a dynamite,” John claims and Javier rolls his eyes. 

“Well, he doesn’t have that so get the hell out of here,” Javier waves his hands at John like he’s ushering away a chicken from a pile of seeds. Except that it doesn’t work, of course. His mother used to do that to him and Mari, only they skittered away like little roaches in fear of what might come if they wouldn’t listen.

“He broke you out with dynamite,” John defends.

“John,” Javier takes a deep breath to keep himself calm, to not do what he would’ve before the whole Walla Walla mess and jump him instantly. “Just go. You can interpret that how you want, by the way,” he jokes but without any sign of joking in the tone.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John asks harshly.

“Whatever you want it to. Go away or go and never come back, I don’t know! You do what you want - you usually do.”

“You are so fucking strange, Javier. You know that?” John says with exasperation. It seems to have worked, though. He turns around and walks away, turning back once to find Javier stalking him with his eyes until he’s out of sight and that’s when he decides he’ll call it a night. He flops down on his bedroll with a deep sigh and falls asleep quicker than he thought he would.

Chapter Text

It feels like betrayal and it feels rancid in his chest, feels like rot, decay, death. Loyalty is everything and here he is, promising Dutch he’ll go west while he’s trailing behind Xabiani going south. He doesn’t need to feel so terrible. Or does he? Would Dutch accept Javier going to Mexico if he’d asked? He doubts it. He’d let Javier down easy but he’d let him down nonetheless.

His skin crawls, his skin itches and burns, his eyes flicker like they’re trying to worm out of his sockets, his hands grip the reins, painting the knuckles white against the strain.

Xabiani had agreed on forgoing Strauss’ debtor, despite not wanting to go back to Mexico he seems eager to. He doesn’t know if it’s for some dubious personal reason or if he just really wants to help Javier. It didn’t really help with the heaviness in his chest, or the fuzz in his head.

“We’ll make it to Puerto Palomas in a week or more if we keep a steady pace during the- “ Xabiani says and turns around then, faced with Javier and his obvious struggle with leaving on a lie. “¿‘Stas bien?” He asks, one eyebrow raised.

“Sí. Se siente extraño mentirle a Dutch,” Javier admits and takes a deep breath through his rotting insides, feeling like his exhale smells like death - betrayal. 

“Él no necesita saberlo,” Xabiani waves it off. “Vaya, una semana más o menos si nos movemos rápido, ¿sí?.”

“Sí.”

“Genial. ¡Aprisa ya!”

Due to Javier being wanted, in their first camp they talk about avoiding the cities entirely. So they‘ll veer away from Puerto Palomas, camp out somewhere and Xabiani travels into town to perhaps buy supplies or find out anything about anything. Any information on the current state of the country is useful to them.

Xabiani seems to get along with his shire, the one he got to borrow, or have, that Arthur rode when him, Javier and John went into Gallup to sell a wagon. Javier smiles when the horse accidentally starts trotting off trail and eating some shrub to Xabiani’s dismay. Still, he keeps a smile on his face, patting the horse’s neck and joking about her not being a follower, that she gets what she wants no matter what.

“¿Cómo se llama?” Javier asks as he gets more and more grateful for Boaz’s tact and obedience. 

“Hambruna,” Xabiani answers without fail. 

“¿En serio?” Javier chuckles and Xabiani pets Hambruna’s neck again.

“¡Sí, claro! ¡Come como si tuviera hambre desde que nació!” Xabiani tells Javier and he gets a laugh in return, thinking that there ain’t a horse on this planet that don’t act like that when they have people who take care of them and spoil them. Even Boaz, despite his usual manners.

Now when Xabiani is out of camp, free from eyes that don’t trust him, he’s a different man. Hardly a man but not really a boy. Javier has been more or less the only comfort Xabiani’s had in camp apart from Mary-Beth and Tilly who’re mostly nice to everyone. They’ve grown close, talking about things the others don’t understand in a language no one but them speak.

They camp close to a town called Grants. Xabiani tells Javier there aren’t any bounty posters of either of them there but that they shouldn’t hold their breath about it, there might be a deputy or a rumor headed this way slowly but surely. Still, this doesn’t stop Xabiani from suggesting they should have a drink in the saloon, something that has not ended well once for Javier since joining the gang. 

“No that’s a terrible idea, man,” Javier tells him like it is. 

“What? Can’t hold your alcohol, ¿viejo?” Xabiani teases and Javier scoffs. “Let’s have a drink, maybe you’ll find yourself a lady since you can’t have Abigail,” he suggests and wiggles his brows.

“I ain’t looking for a lady. And I’m not after Abigail,” Javier says and waves him away dismissively.

“I doubt you’ll have to look for one, amigo. Come on, let’s go!” He doesn’t mind the Abigail comment.

Javier laughs a little as he decides to give in without much of a fight. “You’re really acting your age, you know.”

“How old are you?” Xabiani asks, his voice confused.

“Twenty-three,” Javier answers.

“AY, why you act like a old man!”

“Cállate.”

As the day goes by and they find a badger to cook, Xabiani decides that he wants to eat something good for once, given that he hasn’t been with the gang for long but still manages to hate Pearson’s stew more than anyone else. Javier can sympathize with him. He goes on again about going into town and drinking some, eating some, getting some and Javier feels like an old man indeed when he sighs and gives in at last.

“¡Ándale, viejo! ¡Hagamos algo divertido!” 

“Bueno, chico, cálmate,” Javier chuckles and really thinks Xabiani is more different from himself than he thought. In camp Xabiani seems almost meek, more in tune with the ladies and what they do, alike Javier in that way at least, but outside of it he’s a lot like a less bigoted version of Davey. Javier can’t blame him for being cautious around the gang members.

Being a little closer to the border, Javier can hear a few men with accents when they speak English - Mexican accents. And Xabiani had been right, no posters of either of them. Still, Javier has to be careful. There only has to be one Mexican that recognizes him for this whole thing to fail miserably.

“Here’s good!” Xabiani says and points to the saloon, bounding up the steps and then opening the swinging doors for Javier jovially and it makes Javier laugh. He slips his arm around Javier’s shoulders and they waddle to the bar. “What is it Americans drink?”

“Uh… “ the bartender replies and his eyes flicker between the two young men. “Whiskey?” He answers but it’s more like a question.

“Then two whiskeys, señor,” Xabiani orders and puts forward two dollars, gratefully accepted by the bartender. Then he sighs like he’s content, he turns to Javier who just looks at him with a raised brow. He’s a wanted criminal and he’s acting like life is all sunshine and flowers. Xabiani scoffs at him with a smile and takes a sip from the glass the bartender shoved in front of the two Mexicans. “You’re wired a little tight,” Xabiani comments and Javier looks offended.

“No, I’m not?” Javier protests, knowing that he can relax and be fun. Keyword that his ego’s missing: he can, not that he regularly does.

Xabiani snorts at this. “Yes, you are. You stand here all, “ and he straightens his back, looks rigid like someone shoved a stick up his ass, raises his chin a little like he’s claiming Javier is some snob, looking down at people and scanning the room like a snake looking for someone to strike. It’s not a flattering image and it reminds Javier too much of the superiors in the army. “You speak so dark,” he goes on and speaks in a dramatized version of Javier’s voice which, yes, is dark and kinda slouchy but not like that. 

“¡No tienes vida, hermano!” He says at last.

“Tengo vida,” Javier persists and tries to keep up a grown, sensible image, not realizing this is exactly what the boy means. 

“Bien,” Xabiani smacks his hands together once. “Enséñame cómo se hace entonces. ¡Vives un poco!” He encourages and Javier thinks he’s right. 

“Okay! I’ll play your little game, Xabianito,” Javier accepts and he looks triumphant when he raises his glass to clink it with Javier’s, the two of them downing the whiskey completely. They order more and more drinks, beer, wine, even pulque which Javier hasn’t tried since he was twelve and stole it from some man in his hometown with the help of a friend.

They order drinks for many of the other men, dumbing them down with the help of drink so they can rob them without much consequence or risk, using that stolen money to bet on the poker table and to line their own pockets. Nothing big.

When the dark has settled beyond the walls of the warm candle like glow in the saloon, Xabiani sees Javier being drunk enough to go find himself a good time. He gives him some extra money to pay a girl good, tells him to strike while he’s still young or whatever.

“Strike?” Javier questions. His speech is slurred much like everyone else tonight. “I ain’t a snake, chico,” he goes on and Xabiani laughs.

“You’re not trying hard enough!” Xabiani rejoices and scopes out an unoccupied lady. He finds one. He blinks, thinking he’d just witnessed some otherworldly being and without taking his eyes off her he pats Javier’s chest absentmindedly. “Mira. ¿No es esa la chica más bonita que has visto jamás?”

Javier stops in his tracks too, tries to focus his eyes to figure out if Xabiani was talking about that lady by the steps or the old man digging his finger into his ear and itching. One might say it’s obvious but come on Javier doesn’t know what Xabiani likes.

“Ay, ¡ve ha hablar con ella, tonto!” Xabiani pushes Javier in her direction and he stumbles over, just catching himself on the post of the staircase, trapping the lady between his arm and his body. She jumps and looks down at first but follows Javier’s bewitched gaze as he straightens his posture.

A blue-eyed lady with dark hair, intensely carved and conniving and entrancing. Her hair cascades down her shoulders in waves, delicate and deliberately styled for trapping fools like him in her web of complexities she hides when she’s not working the bars and the men in those bars.

“Ho- hola, señorita,” Javier stutters as he straightens his posture and flips his stray hairs out of his face. 

“Hello, sugar,” she replies, her voice silky smooth and her eyes far away - hiding, dreaming. Without Javier being able to say anything else, she has already decided his fate. Javier can pay. It isn’t that. He just didn’t think it’d be that easy.

Javier blinks again. What now? What the hell now?

The lady seems perplexed but entertained. “You okay, mister?” She asks and Javier swallows before he nods.

“I’m perfect. I mean- I feel perfect, I ain’t perfect. You are. Perfect, I mean. Beautiful woman- uh…” what? He might as well shoot himself right here and now. The lady laughs, she holds out a hand, silky smooth and unsoiled by labor. Javier gives her all he’s got and she takes his hand, his calloused guitar fingers weaving with hers, as soft as they looked to the touch.

She guides him to a room where she doesn’t let him undress her, does it herself while probably thinking Javier is inexperienced and nervous. He might be a little nervous since she’s so lovely, so confident and self-assured. This is worse than having a gun to your head, than dueling.

Javier, however, allows her to undress him, revels in the sensations she provides, skilled and soft. Ladies deserve care, intimate care for Javier is giving kisses but she doesn’t let him. He tries and he’s rejected, he takes her hand and kisses the back of it which she against all odds allows when seated on his lap, his lips travel further up the arm but she doesn’t let him near her upper body.

It’s embarrassingly clear that he’s not been with a lady in a while. Hasn’t had the time or the will, really. Or been in proximity to get around to find one. 

“John!” Abigail calls and John can hear the quick footsteps approaching him. Can’t he ever get a moment's peace? He tries to read and he’s always disturbed. John sighs and throws his head back a little, closing the newspaper from two months ago and awaiting whatever reprimand he’s gonna get next.

“Abigail,” John greets with an annoyed tone.

“This yours?” Abigail asks and holds up his hunting knife, pointing it at him. It is his. He knows by the engravings on it, the skulls he wanted when he was sixteen.

“Sure is,” John answers nonchalantly and just to annoy her even more for disturbing him he leans further back on his chair and puts his foot up on his knee, lounging instead of sitting now. “Why? You gonna fillet someone?”

“Yes, you, you stupid man.” Abigail steps up to him, covering the sun. It’s the best thing she’s done all week, John was getting overheated. “Jack was playin’ with it, you think that’s okay, do you?” Her voice is raised, much as it always is when speaking to John. 

“There’s guns and sharp things everywhere, woman, ain’t my fault,” John says and it makes Abigail scoff. 

“Other men keep their knives and guns in their belts. What the hell else do you brutes use those for?” She gestures to the gun belt on John’s waist, his gun in the holster but knife out of its sheath, of course.

“Jesus, lady, whatchu want me to do? I got other things to do than- “ Abigail cuts him off.

“Than watch your son? Oh, I know, you do everythin’ else. You’ll outlive god before you take care o’ that boy!”

“Then how ‘bout you stop tryin’ to make me? I don’t know what the hell to do.”

“I can’t deal with this. With you! Just keep your damn weapons to yourself.” Abigail throws the knife on the ground, not at all caring for the blade and John glares at her furious back frame, picking it up and feeling the sharpness of his knife, hoping it ain’t too bad.

John keeps his knife on him at all times now because he doesn’t want Jack to get hurt and he doesn’t wanna have this talk with Abigail again. This makes him wish Javier and that new kid, Shabeny?, hadn’t been the ones chosen to leave. When Javier’s around, Abigail is in a significantly better mood. It used to bother John a lot. It used to boil his blood, hell, it sent him running out of camp out of jealousy until it just… didn’t. 

He doesn’t hate Abigail, he hates being tied to her. He hates that he can’t be for her what she needs - unlike Javier. Yeah, they’d be perfect for each other, they're just the same. They like to blame everything on John, they think the worst of him, they’re stubborn, snippy, cocky, tough loving, like to pretend they ain’t affected by nothing. Maybe they should just get married on the spot and that’ll be it.

Standing on patrol, eyes sharp and focused, everything but the sound of the wind dies out. John needs to focus. Does he see the right things out here or does he need to retire from doing patrols? 

There’s been a terrible gnawing in his stomach for a while, one he hasn’t voiced to anyone in fear of what might follow. People see John as rash, as someone you can’t trust, he left them once, he can do worse if he wants to. At least according to what Arthur and Abigail probably preach in John’s absence from camp on missions or long ranged patrols. Maybe they don’t even have to preach nothing - maybe it’s a fact everyone’s already thinking.

But John can swear on his life that that morning, when him, Javier and Arthur went out to sell a wagon, when they tried robbing a homestead, that the figure he saw out there in the desert, lurking, looked just like him. The new guy. Sha- whatever. 

Similar clothes but face covered, no hat, curly hair. What was that feller doing out there when he ended up in jail with Javier a few hours later? John ain’t trusting by nature, every member that came after him he’s distrusted at some point and in the beginning he wouldn’t trust Hosea, Dutch or Arthur either. But now he does. And while there are many fools in this gang, himself, Bill, Davey, Strauss, Abigail, he thinks sourly, he doesn’t want nothing bad to happen to them at the hands of some strange man.

Javier’s been on John’s case in favor of this stranger. John can’t understand why they get along so well, why they speak Spanish so openly. Nobody can understand them, it ain’t right. John knows him and Javier ain’t best friends but he met this man a few weeks ago, how can Javier expect John to just trust him? So what if he snoops, there’s something up with that feller. 

He’s a bootlicker, sucking up to everybody he can. John don’t trust those he don’t know the opinions of. He knows nothing about what Shabany believes in. Nobody really does. Bill has his beliefs, he’s a damned buffoon but everyone knows where he stands.

Javier ain’t a loud feller, he’s bold, John’ll give him that, but at least John knows where Javier stands.

So, John does the most logical thing to do; he goes to Hosea.

At dinner, when most are sat around the fire, listening to Karen and Miss Grimshaw singing something and Javier’s strumming is eerily absent, John goes to Hosea - stands by his side, takes his empty plate and stacks on his own. Hosea thanks John.

“Can I talk to you?” John asks then, trying to keep his voice down and not raise any suspicion. 

“‘Course, my boy,” Hosea accepts readily and John nods, listening to Hosea walking behind him as he puts the dishes in a bucket of water and leads them away from prying ears. “Somethin’ wrong?” He asks - ever the observer of all. He might as well be Odin.

“Maybe,” John’s reply surfs on a sigh and he rests his hands on his hips, looking down at the dark dirt. He decides to just let it out, to not keep Hosea on a leash about this. If Arthur was there, he’d claim he was trying to be enigmatic. He ain’t. “I don’t trust that new feller.”

Hosea doesn’t seem surprised. “I know. Everyone knows,” he reveals and John thought he’d been at least somewhat subtle but apparently not. “It’s good you’re being careful, son, but- “ damnit. Hosea is under that kid’s spell. He always walks around when there’s a new member, trying to find out what everybody thinks of them to see if someone’s picked up on something he hasn’t. He never approached John since he’s apparently been real clear on what he thinks of the new guy.

“It ain’t about bein’ careful,” John says even if it kinda is. He’s telling Hosea as a precaution and because he trusts him not to make a big deal out of it and to blame it on John’s paranoia or him being some kinda racist. “There’s somethin’ ‘bout him I don’t like. And I think I saw him before he came here.”

Hosea scrunches his eyebrows and his lip pouts slightly. “When?”

“The day when Javier was taken. When he came to get me on watch. Saw a feller out in the middle of the desert, real close to camp with no supplies, no nothin’ but a gun on his hip. Face covered, hair like Sha- shaby-“

“Xabiani,” Hosea says. John nods.

“I ain’t like the look of ‘im. He sucks up to everybody, I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout him.”

“I don’t know, John, you haven’t exactly been speaking to him, have you? You been sneakin’ around, scarin’ him,” Hosea rationalizes. John rolls his eyes then.

“What is he, ten? I been scarin’ him? I’m the only one not blinded by whatever he’s got goin’ on,” he persists and Hosea looks thoughtful. It isn’t easy poisoning Hosea completely to your side, it takes a while, but he has gained a lot more empathy for people down on their luck unlike John. 

“What exactly do you think he’s got goin’ on, John?” Hosea questions.

“I’m tellin’ you, I don’t know, but it’s gonna be even harder to find out if nobody believes me. If I ain’t got nobody on my side willin’ to find out!” Hosea nods slowly.

“You think he’s a rat? That it?” 

“I- “ John sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. Maybe. I think he’s too friendly. Gets along with folks too well. You know how distrusting Mac can be and he’s got nothin’ bad to say ‘bout Xabani.”

“I understand, my boy,” Hosea decides after some deliberations. He’s scratching his chin while his other arm supports that one. He’s got a complicated contemplating look. “It’s hard to figure out when he ain’t here. We gotta wait.”

Wait? John can’t wait. He gotta find Javier and Xab- Jesus, when is he gonna learn? Xa-biany? Maybe it’ll be too late? Javier’s got enemies - hell, all of Mexico is his enemy, it could already be too late for him. Javier ain’t his friend, but he’s somebody’s friend and he owes it to the family he’s been let back into to help.

Hosea sees John’s dislike for that plan. “Ain’t much else we can do.”

“I gotta find them. I ain’t never been good at followin’ my gut but this time, I’m right.”

“Don’t be rash now, John. Sending out three men- “

“They can’t have gotten far. It’s only been a few days.”

“John, if this is about getting a break from your responsibilities- “

“Hosea, please,” John groans. Of course. What is a conversation with someone in the van der Linde gang if they’re not bringing up his less than satisfactory duties as a father and partner? “This’ll help ‘em in the long run. If Javier dies ‘cause of that feller, Abigail’s gonna kill us. At least me.”

“I’ll discuss the matter with Dutch,” Hosea says but doesn’t sound convinced. 

“He ain’t gonna listen,” John tells Hosea. 

“I can’t just let you go without a word to anybody else. They’ll think you’ve left again.”

“Well, that’d be the least surprising thing to happen this week, right? Listen, where did Dutch send them?” 

Hosea sighs. Defeated. John won. “West. Towards Flagstaff.”

Without much pushback or suspicion, John starts packing the next morning. The sun has barely risen, painting the edge of the east in just a vibrant orange fading into dark blue. He’ll find food on the way so he doesn’t pack any, he wants this expedition thing to be as quiet as possible. Besides, their numbers are rising, they need all the food they can get. John’ll just buy some in Gallup. 

John is checking his ammunition stocks when he hears some steps approaching him. He’s thinking it might be Hosea coming to tell him to be careful and to not be stupid, that he isn’t as stupid as he likes to seem. 

“You don’t have to worry for me, Hosea. I’ll stay outta trouble,” he says quietly, opening the chamber in his revolver to make sure it’s full and then flicking it closed again before he turns around to face Hosea who hadn’t replied yet. But it isn’t Hosea. It’s Arthur. Arms crossed over his chest with a disdainful look on his face. John sighs. “What’re you doin’ here?” He asks exasperatedly. He doubts Hosea said anything about it, Arthur probably just heard him packing. Bastard barely sleeps.

“You leavin’ again, are you?” Arthur questions, his tone littered with disgust almost. He’s so sentimental. He should take a page out of Davey’s book and not care so much for others. He always pretends like he doesn’t though, which is even more pathetic to John.

“No,” John answers plainly but doesn’t bother hiding his irritation with having to deal with this right at the dawn of his rescue of Javier. 

“Then what’chu doin’?” Arthur presses on.

“I gotta go help Javier.” If he doesn’t tell Arthur the truth, he’s going to deck him and that’s another day that Javier has to ride with someone who ain’t to be trusted. 

“Why? He don’t need your help, Xabiani went with him.”

“That’s exactly why he needs my help,” John says. “I don’t trust him. The new feller. I think he’s strange and- “

“You’re jealous again, ain’t you?” Arthur cuts him off. John feels struck through the heart with this statement. He isn’t wrong. Not entirely. John left the first time ’cause of jealousy, and he has been jealous of the fact that Xabiani seems to have slipped past everyone’s defenses so easily. Especially Arthur’s. He seems to like the kid. Arthur still hates John, barely speaks to him no more. Dutch thinks he’s bold, thinks he’s a good kid, the ladies like him.

John still feels like a ghost, months after returning back with them. 

“No,” he decides to reply. “I think he’s lyin’‘bout somethin’ and if I let anything happen to Javier, you know Abigail’s gonna kill us. Mostly me.”

Arthur scoffs. “So now you give a damn ‘bout your woman? And you still ain’t helpin’ her.”

“Arthur,” John nearly barks but stops himself. He doesn’t wanna wake the whole camp. “You hate me. Why do you care? If you like Abigail so bad, marry her yourself.” John shakes his head as he stuffs his revolver in its holster and he slings his satchel over his shoulder. “I gotta go. Somethin’ ain’t right about that feller.” 

John leaves without saying anything else and without letting Arthur get his two cents in. He’s already gotten five dollars in this conversation but money ain’t time and time is all Xabiani might need to do something terrible. It must be something bad. Xabiani is attached to Javier in a way either a brother or only a worst enemy would. An enemy trying to get close, to create a false sense of security only to strike when most unexpected.

The very few times John gets a gut feeling, he always feels he should trust it. Only because he doesn’t get it often, there must be a reason he’s got it now. If only Javier hadn’t interrupted John’s search of Xabiani’s things, maybe he would’ve found something.

John approaches Old Boy, pats him firmly on the shoulder. “One more time, boy,” he says and at this point, the huff coming from Old Boy makes John think he’s understanding that this is a lie but he’s always ready for adventures with his rider.

Chapter Text

“¡Ahí estás!” Comes Xabiani’s voice out of nowhere, feeling like it’s coming from beside Javier’s grave. He’d had a lot to drink last night and a girl who had her goddamn way with him. Where exactly is he? Maybe the lady actually buried him? And how can that little bastard sound so chipper? “Creí que nunca te encontraría.”

Javier opens his eyes, more like pries them open and finds he’s still in the room where he had the lady. The ceiling is peeling away. The room needs some air. Javier needs some air.
“Ojalá no me hubieras encontrado,” Javier groans as he lifts his head from the pillow, finding Xabiani leaned against the doorframe. He looks like hell more than he sounds like it. He must’ve had a rough go at something last night by the looks of him. 

His eyes are red and barely open, his smirk is tired and only halfway committed.

“Será mejor que nos vayamos,” Xabiani whispers, still fully facing Javier but his eyes look to the right as if he can see something or someone lurking where they shouldn’t. “Un grupo grande de Mexicanos pasó por allí esta mañana. Nadie te mencionó pero… nunca se sabe.”

“Lo entiendo,” Javier answers and sits up, thinking he’ll never do what this little shit tells him to again. No more drinking and no more fucking during this trip - it can wait. Javier was being stupid, thinking he can afford living like this when he’s nearing a country where everyone and everything will be gunning for him. 

The two of them avoid Albuquerque and all that mess by traveling through the Acoma Pueblo and given the clouds covering the desert and shrublands, Boaz and Hambruna can take them as far as beyond a little town called Datil. Closing in on home is strange. Javier feels more and more unsure with what the hell he’s decided to do.

Is this like betraying Dutch? He lied to him, lying can be betrayal too. It most often is, depending on how severe it is. Javier would rank the severity of this lie particularly high given the fact that he said he’d go west in search of a safe place to house the gang and scope out new leads but here he is riding south in search of selfish agendas and goals. His family. His family who he left behind to protect in the first place, and now his new family who he left behind too. 

He’s been needling John for leaving, for lying and abandoning his wife and child. 

Now he’s done the same. Not a wife and child per se, but friends - family. The principle is the same. Javier’s a hypocrite. Xabiani tries to justify it by reassuring him that they will be going west, they’re just taking a detour. He’s got a knack for cooking up lies that might just work. He suggests they’ll say that they’d been pursued and hunted, made to turn south and then swerve back west towards Flagstaff, as intended.

It sounds plausible. The whole reason they’re out there is because of blowing up the sheriff’s office in Gallup and Javier understands why Dutch would send the two wanted men out, better that they go who’re already known than more guys in the gang getting known. It makes sense. And the fact that Dutch thinks Javier’s never had any trouble on his little expeditions. He’s wrong, of course, but it’s never been big enough to mention.

Apart from Hosea and those bounty hunters up north but it seems Hosea hasn’t said anything either so Javier settles with thinking it’ll do Dutch better not to bring it up.

The air is damp, almost tangible at this point. Javier thinks it might rain and he’s grateful for it. It’s been a while since he last felt the rain on his skin. Besides, he could do with the lower temperature. It’s been unbearably hot for a few weeks, feeling like his skin is made up of only a buildup of sweat and no actual skin. He doesn’t like feeling grimy but given their limited water supply he can’t wash as often as he could when they were wreaking havoc in the northern states. 

It makes the ground smell weird. Not like how it smells on soil it’s more like if you could smell dryness, this is what it’d be. It still sort of stings in Javier’s nose but if he puts up a scarf over his mouth and nose, no air will make it in given how thick it feels.

Boaz doesn’t like rain very much. He’s pulling his reins, whinnying and huffing, being disobedient. Hambruna is surprisingly calm, even when there’s distant calls of thunder from the east. Thunder never scared Javier. Maybe lighting used to if the story from that old messed up feller living in Janos’ cemetery was ever true - that his friend, an American - had been struck by it and died instantly. Come to think of it, poor feller died when Javier’s uncle did. Accused of spreading lies. Fed to the pigs. 

He was scared of a lot when he was a child. Not other people, not heights or venomous animals but fantasies. Stories of spirits that wanna steal children away, stories of El Charro Negro, El Cadejo, La Lechuza. Javier used to sleep with a candle in his room because of it, until they ran out of them and couldn’t afford new ones. Then Mari slept in his room and they could be scared together.

There was no way for him to know then how much more evil real people are. But he does now. He knows it far too well. He wishes he didn’t. He wishes he could protect himself from the knowledge that no matter how good someone is, they can always do terrible things to benefit themselves. Javier promised himself to never follow someone like that, to never become someone like that. So far, he’s done good on his promise.

He isn’t scared of the dark, he’s scared of those hiding in it. Like himself, he guesses. He’s been one of the creatures folk fear, hiding, waiting for the right moment to strike and possibly ruin someone’s life, maim them, rob them. Oh, how his mamá would hate who he became. 

If she can even hate anymore. If she’s alive to feel anything. But, she’ll hate him in the afterlife and he’ll find out just how much some day.

As the rain starts pattering down, too spaced out to soak you but given the dark tint of storm clouds in the east, Javier and Xabiani decide on setting up camp. Javier scoops holes for the hitching post, Xabiani’s in charge of the tent and for now, they’ll forgo the fire. But it isn’t cold yet. It’s midday, it won’t be cold until the sun’s down.

The horses get blankets thrown over them and the riders remove the saddles for now, not wanting the poor creatures to wear them for too long. 

After securing the hitching post, Javier sits down next to Xabiani in the tent, a little cramped but easier to pack and less to carry plus heat distribution. He’s eating some dried meat given to them so graciously by Pearson who makes better dried meat than that mess in his stew. It might be better since dried meat isn’t so tampered with weird seasonings that don’t go together and the fact that the meat is impossible to chew.

Without a word, Xabiani offers Javier a piece of the meat and Javier gives him a nod as thanks. Xabiani chews loud. He bites into the meat like a caveman. Definitely a boy raised by a father and not a mother.

“What was your father like?” Javier finds himself asking, now that he’s thought of it. Xabiani hasn’t said too much about his family. A little. He remembers Xabiani saying his father was complacent with his mother’s abuse. Still, sentiments can hold true and hard even if you don’t necessarily like someone.

Xabiani stops chewing for a moment, like he’s in deep thought. His eyes look beyond what’s here, beyond the desert, beyond the tent. 

“Cuando mi madre no estaba, él era amable,” Xabiani says, his chewing starts back up while pointedly ignoring eye contact. He usually doesn’t. Sometimes, Javier even gets uncomfortable with the amount of eye contact Xabiani demands to keep himself living almost.

“Él es quien me cuidó, él me hizo quién soy y me hizo un sobreviviente.” Xabiani pauses, something comes up again that’s worth the dignity of swallowing one’s food and speaking clearly. “Lo amé y vengaré su muerte.”

Javier nods. “¿Cómo murió?” He asks.

“Fue asesinado.” Xabiani’s answer is curt and his voice is harsher. Just thinking about it seems to get his blood boiling. “Cometió un maldito error y lo mataron por ello.”

“¿Era tu madre?” 

Xabiani scoffs, a sound of disbelief. “Aunque sólo. ¡Habría tenido más sentido! Me habría sorprendido menos porque ella lo odiaba, pero…”

“¿Un soldado?”

“Supongo.”

It makes Javier wonder why Xabiani wanted to go with him. He could’ve said no, he has no real loyalty to Dutch yet, maybe he just needed some temporary shelter, but he accepted. He said he doesn’t wanna go back to Mexico yet here he is, on the road back home. Maybe Xabiani decided that going back with Javier brings him something good; he can avenge his father and kill some soldiers just for the sins of their camarada.

As Javier said, they’re not saints. They kill people. Revenge is expensive, it costs many lives, but avenging is cheaper. To Javier, at least. At least there’s some nobility in it.

“¿Esto fue en Asención?” Javier asks. If Xabiani’s father was killed in those parts, Javier is more than happy, almost obligated, to assist Xabiani in dishing out this vengeance. 

But Xabiani shakes his head. Ultimately doesn’t answer. His head hangs, shoulders slump. His hands cover his face.

“Lo siento, Javier,” he answers tearfully, his voice catching in his throat. “No puedo…”

“Está bien,” Javier reassures his new friend but doesn’t offer physical comfort. He’s never been good at it and besides he doesn’t know if Xabiani will appreciate it anyway. “I’ll help in any way I can.”

Xabiani lifts his head again and his lips pull into a small smile. Then he turns back to the desert, the rain falling harder and the thunder growing closer.

They sit in silence for a long while. Eventually, Xabiani falls asleep, probably serenaded by the rain’s melodic sounds. Javier steps out of the tent then, to give Xabiani some privacy, straight out into the rain where he stands to feel something other than fear and regret. Fear for what he’ll find when they get to Asención, regret for what he did long ago that made him have to leave Mexico, for what he did just a few days ago - leaving his new family and becoming a hypocrite. 

He concentrated on the cold rain mixing with warm air, the rumbling thunder, the distant flash of lightning. The jorongo stayed in the tent to keep it dry, to keep Xabiani warm. Despite the age gap between them not being very big, Javier feels protective of him because of all he’s been through. He didn’t have anyone to protect him when he had to flee Mexico, but Xabiani can. 

Rain seeps down Javier’s face like tears and it feels peaceful instead of something intrusive, as unexpected rain can feel sometimes. It makes Javier feel like he’s letting out emotions he never could. He doesn’t cry. Probably hasn’t since he was a boy, that last time his uncle told him not to. 

Te convierte en un objetivo. 

Los débiles mueren primero.

Javier is strong. He has to be. But sometimes, he thinks his uncle was wrong. Javier’s example is his uncle’s own death, gruesome as it was. The weak don’t die first, it’s the strong who die protecting the weak who do. But there’s honor in it. Weakness isn’t always a flaw.

Men think women are weak. They cast away women’s empathy, their quiet intelligence, their connection with others and their emotions but there is no weakness in empathy. The elderly are not weak. They are wise and the very embodiment of survival.

Cowardice is weak. Selfishness is weak. Greed is weak.

Javier is strong.

The strong protect the weak, and they pay the price. His uncle protected Javier and he paid the price.

Mexico is done protecting the weak, so they rebelled.

He doesn’t cry. He lets the rain wash away the grime of the blood on his hands, innocent and guilty alike. They’re almost home. He’s close to finding out what happened to his family.

A memory pops up in his mind. A lot like this one but different. On the road through Washington state, a man sulked in the rain, refusing to wound his pride by admitting he was cold.

John Marston. 

Bueno, I’m not fine, I’m freezing and I’ll be warm with someone by my side

Get over yourself and just come here, gringo

Don’t you kick me

If I do, it’s on purpose

I just said that to fuck with you 

Thank you

Stubborn fool. 

Javier doesn’t know what to make of John. He’s weak because he’s selfish for leaving his family, a coward for fleeing from his responsibilities, greedy for thinking he can have it all his way. But there’s strength in him too. He protects the gang, he provides for it, he’s saved Javier many times despite their more than complicated relationship. 

…John Marston…

Strange feller. But a good one maybe. Distrusting, complicated, opinionated, brave, reckless.

Soaked to the bone, Javier stays outside the tent so he won’t douse the whole tent in water. He’s cold but he’ll be fine. He can hear faint snores coming from Xabiani, thunder still rumbles in the distance and lightning keeps well away from this side of the desert. Alas, feeling the rain on him and his clothes sticking to his skin is somehow grounding. It roots him in reality so he doesn’t get in his head so bad, so he doesn’t dwell on his guilt for lying to Dutch and the gang or his fear of what he’ll find in Mexico. Either he’ll be found by bounty hunters or find out his family is…

Javier falls asleep. He doesn’t know how. Who falls asleep in the rain?

John is beyond confused. He’s been fast, he’s probably worked Old Boy too hard, but he still hasn’t caught up with Javier and Xabiani. He’d asked a local in Winslow if they had seen someone looking like the two of them but they said no. The two of them probably stay out of the towns but still, John is confused.

Xabiani was by no means a loud person in camp, but John thinks it’s all an act to make him seem one way. People trust someone quiet, someone willing to do their best despite having no loyalty yet. Dutch likes people like that. He broke Javier out with a stick of dynamite, drawing attention to them and their escape, ain’t no way he’s a meek little lamb. There’s a difference between being cautious and being suspiciously quiet. He’d gladly help out around camp yet he would rarely speak to anyone but Javier. 

John plays with the thought that if Xabiani were a bounty hunter, given that he’s from Mexico he might know who Javier is, wouldn’t he take Javier somewhere they’d never come looking for him? This is obviously the first place the gang would go if they thought Javier was in trouble: the direction Dutch had told them to scope out.

Or he’s overthinking this whole thing but as he thought earlier: this is one of the few times John’s gut feeling has really derailed his sense of reality. He’s out here risking life and limb, maybe, for Javier Escuella. They don’t like each other and it ain’t a secret but Javier’s got people that love him, and despite what it seems, John loves the gang. If he can help Javier out of the claws of death he will, just to keep grief away from his family.

Abigail would kill John, even if there was proof it wasn’t he who did it.

The same thought whirls around in John’s head amongst all the theorizing and brainstorming. The one about Xabiani lurking around camp before. The curly hair, the skin tone, the walk. It’s too similar to be coincidental to John. He ain’t smart, look at his life choices, but he’s right about this. 

He’d hope it wasn’t so. That he’d be wrong about Xabiani, even if he hates being wrong more than he hates law. Maybe he needs to lighten up and think the best of people. But he can’t. Not now. Xabiani will have to prove himself somehow. He’s gotta bring Javier back in one piece for John to think he’s being genuine to the gang.

Still, when John should’ve stopped for the night, he keeps going towards Flagstaff. Old Boy is not happy but with this day having milder weather, unlike the past few days that have been unbearably hot, he figures they can get at least within an hour of Flagstaff before resting.

He feels like he’s mulling the same things over and over in his head, ruminating like a cow trying to chew through metal. He’s getting nowhere close to figuring out where Javier and Xabiani are. If he goes back to camp without having found Javier, what will they think of him? Incompetent? Will Abigail accuse him of something stupid again, like when Javier was jailed in Gallup?

In any case, it will be a failed mission. Another one.

A little ways outside of Flagstaff, John settles down. He apologizes to Old Boy for overworking him by giving him lots of pats and treats and promises himself to never do it again. The tent provides little shelter from the cold night but it’s not worth revealing himself and his loneliness to those that might wanna hurt him. 

You gotta be shittin’ me

What?

Goddamnit

I forgot to pack my goddamn tent

Some Spanish nonsense

You can share mine

The memory echoes in John’s head just by the brink of sleep. He recalls the trip to Walla goddamn Walla as a good one, now in hindsight. At times, it was probably the most fun he’d had with anyone in the gang for a while. Despite being drunk off his ass, John clearly remembers Javier’s laugh when John got rammed by a stupid goat. How mirthful and free it sounded, how he seemed to have let go of his inhibitions and the pressure of having an image in camp. Everyone does. Even Dutch. Even Arthur. John wonders how differently they act outside of the borders of the gang.

John never had any dignity or inhibitions in the first place so leaving the gang didn’t make him act much different. But Javier was talkative, even when he and John fought. Makes him wonder what they’d get up to if it had been John in Xabiani’s stead now. 

John’s wide awake again. The ruminating doesn’t stop, it just shifts. Each blade of grass a new sentence he needs to dissect.

Javier never did get to learn how to swim, did he? Maybe he will now. Maybe he’ll find some body of water and learn. Xabiani might teach him, if he can. Or he might take the opportunity to drown him, depending on if John is right about him or not.

So… uh… D’you miss Mexico when we was all snowed in?

I always miss México

‘Course… sure, I mean. Whatchu miss most ‘bout it?

My family. For me, they’re México

America’s not much better 

What a shitty world we live in

What if he’s gone to Mexico? What if he just up and went like John. Maybe the yearning for home grew too powerful, too hard to resist? 

Hmph. No. Definitely not. With how insistent Javier’s been and how angry he was with John leaving the gang, he’d never sink to that level. John’s level. But… the thought is there. It lodged itself into John’s list of possibilities. 

His sleep is fitful. Barely sleep at all. He doesn’t sleep well alone, not having done so since he was twelve. He didn’t sleep well when he was on his own either. He wasn’t made to be alone. It’s his own curse. He forces himself to be comfortable with being alone. He ain’t.

But enough self pity for tonight.

Chapter Text

It’s safe to say that Javier has likely not been in Flagstaff. There’s a bounty poster of him there, many of his crimes listed there, including his escape from and destruction of Gallup’s sheriff’s office. John’s just grateful that there isn’t a poster of him put up there. He’s been lucky. They’ve been laying somewhat low as of late so the law he ran into during his time away from the gang might believe him to be dead by now.

It would make sense that a criminal like John would’ve made enemies and might’ve been killed. Maybe he’s fallen off the face of the earth. He won’t complain about it. He takes a trip into the general store and looks for a saloon but doesn’t find one, curses all the dry towns in the country and gives Old Boy a brush-off and two apples. He wishes he could just let Old Boy roam free and eat some grass but that won’t be likely.

Then John sits on the stairs up to the hotel, mulls things over again. How could he have missed Javier and Xabiani? He’s been riding like a fool, overworking Old Boy too much for it to not be considered animal cruelty. Where would they have gone? If they went back, he probably would’ve met them, unless they wanted to be extra careful and travel off the trail but John hasn’t seen many bounty hunters out and about to ever grow concerned for his own or their safety.

Maybe they’ve already made it to Strauss’ debtor. It was north west, wasn’t it? Somewhere on some ranch Tohachi Den. At least John thinks that was it. He should go there. He should, shouldn’t he? If Javier has been there, the debtor will tell John and if he hasn’t been there yet then at least John will know something’s wrong.

He tries to not dwell so much on everything. He tries to entertain himself by humming some songs, despite thinking he sounds like shit even though he isn’t opening his mouth at all. Javier doesn’t sing so much around the campfire anymore. John has never actively had a sit down and listened but interest has been shown in the shadows in the form of John staying hidden, listening from where no one can see him.

Admitting that he thinks Abigail, Karen and Javier sound good together is deplorable to himself but deep down he thinks they sound like a trio of angels. Their voices fit together, their energies sort of merge, Javier being reserved in a crowd, Abigail being able to adapt usually and Karen giving no fucks. Whenever Javier is around the ladies, which he is a lot and was something John used to find suspicious, he’s laughing with them, playing songs for them - a real softy.

He didn’t understand why at first until it clicked that he used to have a sister. Or hopefully he still does. This fact contributes to John realizing that Javier never was after Abigail, even if he stopped caring after a while since he simply stopped wanting to be around her. 

It makes it all the more important that John brings Javier back in one piece, hopefully leaving Xabiani behind in the process. He doesn’t wanna see Abigail hurting because one of her best friends died when it could’ve been preventable, hell, he doesn’t wanna see Javier dead in general. Not anymore. He annoys the shit out of John, thinks the worst of him, pesters him about responsibilities and everything else there is about being a grown up but there are worse people than Javier to deal with even on the daily. Like Arthur, who still barely speaks to him.

Tohachi Den isn’t far from Flagstaff. An hour and a half if you ride like the wind and Old Boy sure can do that if he wants. He did, almost like he knows something is wrong. But Old Boy must know just like John knows. Something’s wrong and John is hopefully about to figure out what it is.

A few steps into the farm has John’s neck hairs standing up, making him feel a little cold despite the scorching sun. He takes out his gun, presses down the hammer and keeps his finger ready on the trigger. Usually, on a farm, you’d see or hear a bunch of animals. Maybe chickens, cows, horses, goats or pigs, anything or all of them. But John can’t hear anything. Just the breeze in his ears fluttering past. 

John could hear himself swallow better than any signs of life. He decides to check the house first then the barn will come later. It’s a sizable farm, makes John wonder why the owner would need to borrow any money. Maybe he’d been robbed. 

He reaches the door and knocks on it. He usually wouldn’t offer that courtesy but maybe the man is off somewhere with his animals while he left a wife and a family here. 

“Florian Valentin,” John calls from outside, hopefully alerting someone on the inside. “I’m just here to ask some questions. I ain’t here to rob you,” he reassures, listening closely for some kind of shuffle or noise from inside. Nothing. Just as quiet as the outside.

“I’m comin’ in. I ain’t hurtin’ anyone.” He twists the knob and the door opens without a fuss, without any resistance. 

Well, John is punched in the face by the most vile smell he’s ever smelled, making him cough and feel sick. 

“Goddamn,” John forces out of his throat between the coughs and through the barrier of his hand covering his lips and nose. He refuses to swallow, the scent is so thick John feels like he could chew on it, mold and death crumbling like old cheese in his mouth. 

Death. 

Shit.

John gets back inside, pinching his nose shut as he scans the first room. There is someone there, on the floor by the table, halfway hidden under it. That’s when John hears the buzzing of flies, probably hundreds of them judging by how unbearably loud it is now that John’s noticed it.

“Eugh, that’s bad,” John says to himself, folding over to collect himself. He’s never been on this side of death. He’s never stuck around to find out what happens to dead people. He can barely keep what little food he’s got in his stomach. He fights vigorously to keep it inside. 

“Damnit.” John runs a hand through his hair.

This can’t have happened recently. The body is purple and there’s little maggots on it. This was a while ago. It wasn’t Javier and Xabiani, they didn’t even leave camp this long ago. Maybe they’ve still been here? John searches the house for any sign of something valuable being taken but there’s nothing. Everything seems to still be here. It’s almost like the man just collapsed and started decomposing.

Did he have a family? What happened to them? 

The house has two additional rooms apart from the one where Florian died in, both of them are furnished. There must’ve been someone else in this house, unless they’ve fled far away by now. 

John rushes out of the house and into the barn then, thinking that they might still be here if there is a family. Hopefully, they made it to Flagstaff and were helped there but you never know. John pushes up the barn doors, struggles with them both but manages.

Unlike at the house, John is immediately met with the sound of a clicking gun. Here he’s faced with the barrel of a shotgun and he’s honestly much more comfortable with that than what he saw at the house. It’s a woman, tousled hair and pale, darkness under her eyes, the whites all reddened, wide open in a crazed and terrified way. 

“Hey, Miss,” John greets, hands up and far away from his own guns.

“You animal,” she replies, almost spits it out. John lets her say her piece, then he can say his. “Ain’t you people had enough? You gonna take it all now?” 

“M- ma’am I ain’t here to take nothin’,” John reassures her. Nothing in her face or demeanor changes - she doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t blame her. She shouldn’t trust nobody. She’s filthy. Skinny. She likely hasn’t been able to enter the house again after whatever happened to Florian. Who is she to him? She’s young but older than John. “I was lookin’ for Florian Valentin. The feller in- “ John cocks his head towards the house. 

The woman nods slowly, defeated and bitter. “Shot. He’d borrowed some money but instead of acceptin’ what little treasure we had, they killed him. Animals!” She says again. John feels some strange feeling in his chest. Surely it hadn’t been Javier. He would never have shot a man if there was another way. Unless he’d been a threat that is.

“Who killed him?” John emphasises the ‘who’ and it alerts the woman who steps closer to John, nearly pressing the shotgun to his chest.

“You know ‘em?” She questions. The eyes show a lust for payback, for a merciless killing like the man in the house had suffered.

“Know who, Miss? Who shot him?”

“Mrs, you crook. Florian was my husband and some gang from goddamn California killed him!” Mrs. Valentin shouts, tears welling up in her tired blue eyes. But John finds he’s breathing a sigh of relief, hoping that the lady doesn’t notice. At least it hadn’t been Javier.

Still, this lady is down on her luck. She’s all alone in a world where lonely women get killed or used. John can’t leave her like that. He won’t. 

“Mrs. Valentin,” John speaks slowly, calmly. He’s kept his hands up since she first aimed her shotgun at him. He will keep doing so to make sure she knows he won’t try nothing. “I’ll take you into town. You can speak to the police, have ‘em clean out your house and take care of… your husband. I ain’t come to harm you.”

Mrs. Valentin seems to consider it. Her eyes soften, she finally has to let go of the tears and they seep down her dirtied cheeks. John wonders how long she’s been in here, how she managed to survive the robbery. The gang can’t have known she was there or they probably would’ve taken her with them and done unspeakable things.

He gets the brief idea that this downtrodden soul could stay with the gang but given her reaction to the robbery, he doubts she’d wanna deal with criminals ever again, good or bad. 

Eventually, the cold barrel is lowered from John’s chest and the lady nods slowly, her head and shoulders slumping. John whistles for Old Boy who comes trotting carefully into the barn, tall and huge as he is he doesn’t fit well in there but it works.

“You got someone I can take you to? ‘Nother family member, a friend?” John questions as he mounts Old Boy. Mrs. Valentin shakes her head. John holds his hand out for her so she can climb up on the horse as well, guiding her hand to hold John’s middle so she won’t fall.

“Go to the sheriff’s office first. Get justice for your husband. Then I’ll help you get settled for a night.”

“Mister, I can’t- “ she begins to protest but John shakes his head now.

“I’m sorry this happened to you, ma’am. I’ll help you.”

John does just that. He helps her find the sheriff’s office, leaves her alone while she talks about what happened to her husband and decides to go buy her a satchel and some provisions. She won’t make it unless she gets all the help John can give her. 

He finds her again outside of the sheriff’s office. Her face is tear-stained, eyes just as red as before but bereft of that fury from earlier. John gives her the provisions and the satchel, along with the rest of his pocket money. He can just rob on his way back or regain it somehow. He’ll be fine. 

“I can’t take that, mister,” Mrs. Valentin refuses but John takes her wrist and opens her hand, smacking the money into her palm. 

“I’ll be fine,” John insists and steps away from her so she can’t try to give the money back. “You’ll be back on your feet. And I hope them bastards ‘killed your husband get what they deserve.” John feels like he’s talking about himself. He might be. He should be better but he isn’t. But he hopes she can be.

“Thank you.” Mrs. Valentin sticks her hand out, waiting for John to accept the handshake. He does.

“You take care, ma’am.”

“You too, mister. You too.” Mrs. Valentin turns around with a solemn but thankful look on her face and starts heading towards the hotel. John nearly sprints back to where he hitched Old Boy and on his way there sees one of Javier’s wanted posters on a wall, decides to rip it off and stuff it in his own satchel before speeding off back to camp. 

Where in the hell is Javier if he never made it to neither Flagstaff nor the debtor? 

John rides back to camp. Takes him another day to reach since he can’t overwork Old Boy any more than he already has. The first person he meets is Davey, who questions where he’s been and what he’s been up to, also throwing in a not very funny remark about thinking he’d left them again. John doesn’t laugh. He only answers where he’s been and then asks where Hosea is. 

“Readin’, as usual,” Davey replies with some jealousy. Hosea’s really the only one getting away with not doing much around camp. But he makes up for it by bringing them good leads and scores the easy way by scamming and swindling. While Dutch doesn’t do much of that as before the gang got bigger, Hosea still holds strong to his abilities. 

He ignores most of the greetings he gets apart from when Mary-Beth, Tilly and Mac offer them. He strides right up to Hosea who smiles at first when he sees John but it fades just as quickly as it came.

“You’re back quicker than I thought,” Hosea states and doesn’t hide his surprise. “And alone.”

“They were never there,” John says plainly. “At least I don’t think they were. There’s bounty posters of Javier in Flagstaff and Florian Valentin, one of Strauss’ debtors, is dead. Long dead.” His mouth shoots off quicker than Hosea is able to catch up with. He takes a deep breath and tries again.

“How can you be sure they didn’t visit him?” 

John didn’t wanna reveal Mrs. Valentin’s existence in the case that Hosea would declare the debt go to her instead but given that he doesn’t much enjoy Strauss’ business either, John takes a chance and trusts Hosea to keep quiet about it.

“Debtor had a wife. Found her in the barn, don’t know how long she’d been there, said they was pursued by other debt collectors but they ain’t take nothin’. Just killed him. Left him there to rot while she was starvin’,” John explains and Hosea’s expression contorts into discomfort. He never did like hearing of women suffering.

John has purposely lowered his voice now. Hosea, as usual, gets the message.

“Everythin’ was left behind you said?” Hosea asks. John confirms with a nod. “They didn’t go there…” his voice sounds detached and he’s long since put down his book, his hand scratching his stubble.

“What if they’ been taken by bounty hunters or the law, Hosea,” John speaks up while Hosea looks deep in thought. 

Hosea sighs. His eyes squeeze shut like he’s just figured something out, something he’s annoyed he didn’t figure out sooner. He rubs his eyes with his index and thumb. John waits for a reply.

“I should’ve known.”

“Known what?” John questions.

”I think they’re goin’ to Mexico.”

Holy shit. John was right.

All the times Javier talks about Mexico surges back in John’s head, at the forefront of it, crowding his mind. All the times he’s sung mournful songs from his home country, how comfortable he’s been with Xabiani, the poncho thing he wouldn’t take off after it was given to him. 

“Javier said Xabiani makes him feel closer to home,” Hosea begins to say, “I don’t think that means they went but- “ he stops himself then, trying to think in another lane to see if he’s still wrong. No way would Javier leave them. He just wouldn’t. But he did. 

“He’s talked to me about that too.” John doesn’t mention the countless talks they’ve had about John not treasuring his family, that Javier would do anything to be with his own but he can’t - that John is selfish. But John adjusts his satchel and the hat on his head and gives a determined nod.

“I need to find him.” 

“I… don’t think that’s a good idea, John,” Hosea says.

“Why? He wouldn’t abandon you.” John means them all, just not himself. He isn’t included in Javier’s family. That’s fine. It is.

“Then he’ll be back. You’d better- “

“No. No, stop. I- I haven’t done much for my family and I still probably can’t. But Javier can. And I don’t want him to die at the hands of Xabin- damnit, whatever his name is!”

“John, this isn’t the right time- “

“We gotta tell Dutch. And Arthur. We gotta tell ‘em all. Maybe I won’t have to go on my own. Flagstaff is safe for everyone but Javier. Go west and we’ll find you- “

“This is just guilt talkin’, not your head. Use your head, son,” Hosea cuts him off in his tangent. John won’t bend. Not this time. Javier means a lot to the people John is meant to live his life with. Despite… what it seems, John loves these people and wants them safe. They’re no safer without Javier. 

“Hosea… we can’t leave anyone behind,” John says pointedly.

John knows Hosea. Known him for years. So he knows Hosea, when he stands up, is walking towards Dutch’s tent to deliver this truth, to tell it like it is this time.

John trails behind him, afraid of what might happen when Dutch finds out Javier has left. He didn’t react much when John himself left or when Trelawny leaves for a while but this might be different. Who knows.

Dutch himself is reading when Hosea walks into the tent without notifying him. He doesn’t mind. Of course he doesn’t, it’s Hosea. 

“John! You’re back from what little escapade you went on.” Dutch sounds a little miffed at the fact he wasn’t privy to what John was doing and Hosea probably kept the real reason hidden but he tries to keep a chipper frame.

John doesn’t have much tact to begin with so he just tells it like it is. “I think Javier and Xabiani went to Mexico.”

Hosea turns to John with an annoyed expression and John shrugs and says, “he’s gonna find out sooner or later.”

Dutch blinks and shuts his book, putting it on his cot. “And why do you think that, son?” He asks.

“They weren’t in Flagstaff - Javier’s got bounty posters there and Strauss’ debtor is dead. For a while. Longer than they been gone,” John states bluntly. If John wants to catch up, he needs to get this over with fast.

“How do you- “ Dutch begins but John feels bold enough to cut him off.

“It’s a long story. Hosea’ll fill you in but Dutch, I gotta go find Javier. I think he’s in danger. I don’t trust Xabiani and neither should you. Besides, Javier stayed away from Mexico for years and now he’s suddenly going back? Despite being so insistent on staying away for their safety?”

John came up with that last one on the spot. He’d never thought about it like that either. Xabiani has been some form of enabler on Javier’s part, not understanding or not caring how dangerous it is for Javier to go there both for himself and for his family. They’ve all been so foolish. Hoodwinked by that little nineteen year-old.

“So you think Javier’s gone to Mexico?” Dutch asks.

John nods quickly. Come on. Come on, he gotta go now.

Dutch doesn’t say anything. Hosea knows what it means just as much as John does. He jumps in, being more articulate than John anyways.

“I’m sure he’ll do his part. It might be a detour - I think he’s comin’ back.”

John feels like he’s got ants in his brain, skittering around and making it impossible to stay still. Dutch and Hosea can discuss this without John being present, he’s got to get himself ready. Maybe he can even convince someone to come with him. Arthur, maybe. He likes Javier, always has.

“Pensé que nunca tendría que hacer esto otra vez,” Javier grumbles as Xabiani playfully cuts the air with the scissors they stole from a barber. They have no mirror at all, only Xabiani’s judgement and when it comes to fashion, Javier doesn’t trust him in that regard. 

“Es tu culpa que tengas un vello facial tan raro,” Xabiani laughs and Javier rolls his eyes. He’s right. He shouldn’t have had such recognizable facial hair. Now he needs to get rid of it and cut his hair again. 

In the end, he looks weird without the facial hair, he looks like he did when he was sixteen, but his hair looks kind of okay. Shorter but still long enough to reach his shoulders and the front pieces that are too long to put in a ponytail cover most of his face. 

“Chavoruco,” Xabiani laughs and Javier turns around where he sits with his jaw open.

“Chavo- discúlpame, pendejo, te apuñalaré,” Javier jokes.

“Te ves más joven que yo ahora,” Xabiani takes the joke further than Javier cares to himself but it’s not like he can do much about it. He still chuckles. “Qué bonito.”

He makes his voice sing-songy but Javier smacks the kid’s arm. “Basta,” he grumbles in response and Xabiani decides to let it go finally. Javier thinks he looks ridiculous and like he’s trying too hard to seem younger than he is but if it gets him through northern Mexico unseen then it’ll be worth it. Facial hair grows out fast anyway.

They’re camped two hours from Puerto Palomas and have avoided trouble for most of their trip, save a few fellers giving them headaches down the road like three men trying to steal their horses, a crying lady scaring the shit out of them because they thought she was La Llorona, they were chased off some scary old couple’s land a few days ago and honestly, that might’ve been for the better since Xabiani claimed he saw some form of pentagram drawn in the dirt somewhere.

The world sure is strange.

After a while of traveling with such good company, the guilt and the worry festering inside Javier mostly faded. He’d been distracted by Xabiani’s crazy ideas and when they’d sit calmly around a campfire, they’d discuss and Xabiani would reassure Javier he’d be fine. Now, as they get closer to the border, the fear returns. 

He knows he’s being irresponsible for going back, risking his neck and the necks of his living family but he hasn’t had a chance quite as safe as this one since he first left Mexico to go back. It probably doesn’t justify anything but… well, he’s come so far he can’t go back now at the brink of success.

Getting across the border is easy when you look somewhat put together. Javier has vague memories from when he’d been on the run out of the country, far to the west, chased by coyotes, weak and dirty he got to the border, constantly being denied entry because he looked suspicious and ghastly and they kept asking why he was running. He heard those voices in his dreams for three weeks after he made it into the US. He managed to hide in a stagecoach, behind a bunch of crates and later escaped by knocking out the driver and stealing one of the wagon horses. 

They get across the next day without any fuss, without anyone recognizing Javier or Xabiani. It feels the same for the moment, when Boaz took his first step on Mexican soil. Of course it wouldn’t feel different, northern Mexico and southern US have much of the same climate. But of course, along the way, they hear Spanish spoken on the road, spoken by strangers in passing, see Spanish signs.

Javier has barely spoken a word of English since they left camp, him and Xabiani. He can’t describe how good it makes him feel to be able to speak his own language with someone who also understands his struggle, who’s been pursued too, accused of things, looked at like you’re a disease. And now he’s back home, in country he grew up in, in country he wished he could die peacefully in.

“¿Estás bien?” Xabiani asks after a while of simply trotting on the road, taking in the arid air of a warm evening. He must’ve noticed Javier’s silence, must’ve noticed his faint smile, the relief in his eyes.

“Sí. ¿Y tú? ¿Cómo te sientes?”

Xabiani’s lips widen into a smile which shows his teeth.

“Mejor de lo que pensé que sería,” he answers and Javier’s shoulders slump a bit. He completely forgot about the fact that Xabiani never wanted to go back to Mexico. Either he’s telling the truth or he’s lying to keep Javier happy but whichever one it is, Javier owes Xabiani a lot for wanting to help Javier in the first place since he didn’t wanna return.

“Xabiani,” Javier begins, pulls on Boaz’s reins to make him stop. His friend does the same to Hambruna and they stand in the middle of the road. “Sólo quería agradecerte. No querías volver a México pero lo hiciste por mi. No sé cómo compensarlo.”

Xabiani laughs, uninhibited as he often does. “No te preocupes, quería ayudarte, mi amigo.”

Javier doesn’t know what else to say. Xabiani knows he’s grateful and he truly is. His one shot at going back home. Everything could’ve gone so differently. If he didn’t go with Arthur and John to rob the homestead, if he hadn’t gotten caught and jailed he wouldn’t have met Xabiani, if Dutch hadn’t welcomed him into the gang. He would’ve been sitting back there in New Mexico, shining his boots, whittling a dagger, sharpening his knife, planning some score, drinking himself into a stupor, singing with Abigail, arguing with John. 

Don’t get him wrong, he likes all of those things and he probably would’ve been content doing that anyway but now that he’s here, he’s glad things ended up this way.

Faltan dos días. Dos días para Ascensión.

Janos is close. Javier hasn’t been this close to home in, well, forever. It feels like forever. He doesn’t know anything about what happened to those that live there or his family or the other families of his former friends. Nothing. How would he? No one talks about Mexico unless it is to call it some lawless country of criminals and gangs, as if the US isn’t just the same.

He can’t sleep. His brain is wracked with good and bad memories flickering through the surface of the deep waters that have trapped them, to keep him safe, to keep him sane. The men he watched being flayed, peering out from behind a corner of his abuelita’s house as a child, seeing skin being peeled from a scalp. The nightmares that followed, the feeling of flies being able to eat his skin. 

Playing with Mari. Picking flowers for his mamá’s birthday, the other villagers scrape their pantries to make some capirotada for her. Listening to his abuelito playing the guitar, his uncle singing songs, feeling happy amidst some of the hardest years of his life.

Toiling away in the fields, the sun burning him bad, his mamá coating his neck and arms in aloe vera, Mari’s feet hurting from delivering letters across the village and nearby settlements. 

Mari caring for a butterfly for a few days before it passed, somehow the creature got attached to her and she to it. She was nearly inconsolable. Then their uncle told her that one day he’d take her to see the migration of the Monarch butterflies in Oyamel. 

Him never getting to take her. Javier and the other members of his family and others having to watch the torture of his uncle, finding out his remains was fed to pigs.

Javier sees it all. Can’t sleep. He drinks a lot of coffee in the morning, Xabiani gives him his cup too, claims he looks like he needs it, the smug bastard.

”¿Estás seguro de que estás bien?” Xabiani wonders, noting how quiet Javier has been since the moment he woke up. Javier isn’t a morning person but he might speak a few words. Then as the night washes off his skin and brain, he’ll happily go along with Xabiani’s jokes.

“Por supuesto. ¿Por qué no lo estaría?” Javier tries to deflect. Xabiani gets the memo and simply shrugs, leaving Javier to his own thoughts.

In the distance as they close in on Ascensión, Xabiani draws a breath of surprise, quiet and probably meant to be hidden but too much of an instinct to control. Javier hears it. What’s happened? Without a word, Xabiani flicks his reins to make Hambruna galopp away, Javier following suit in confusion.

“¡Xabiani! ¡Más despacio, maldita sea!” Javier shouts and when his friend jumps off his horse before slowing her down, he’s really beginning to think he’s crazy. Until it becomes clear why his shock was so apparent.

The first half of the town they can see is in ruins. Half-standing buildings, jagged and blacked by fire and destruction. The revolution must’ve made it here. Why? There doesn’t even seem to be a train station here, why would the army attack such a place? 

Javier simply follows Xabiani through the rubble of the eastern side of the town. They don’t say a word. Javier can guess where he’s going anyway.

A house. Intact and safe at the western most part. Xabiani steps inside without any care for who might be there now. Not that there was anyone or anything in there. Xabiani sighs shakily, runs his hand over his face. Javier isn’t great at offering comfort, he isn’t entirely sure what he’s offering comfort for but he wants to try for the sake of his friend. He puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

“¿Quién vivió aquí?” Javier asks softly.

“Yo hice.” His answer is curt, almost detached despite how his voice trembles in a way Javier hasn’t heard before. “Allí estaba mi habitación. Lo compartí con mi papá cuando mamá lo echó de su habitación.”

“Vaya… tu madre no era muy agradable, ¿eh?” Normally, Javier doesn’t comment on other people’s parents, no matter how rude they are, but given that he know Xabiani doesn’t like her very much, he thinks he might be able to say something. Again, he isn’t great at words or actions of comfort.

Xabiani shakes his head. His face twists up like he’d taken a bite out of a lemon when he says, “La odiaba. Debería sentirme mal porque el ejército la mató, pero…”

“Okay,” Javier says, offering him some more pats. “Se acabó. Ella ya no puede hacerte daño.”

Chapter Text

Before John gets to Arthur, Strauss approaches him. He knows why. He doesn’t wanna speak about it. But he spent a lot of his journey back to come up with ways to absolve Valentin’s debt. It was easy, he just couldn’t choose which one to go with. In the end, John tells Strauss,

“Florian is dead. So is his wife. Found ‘em both shot, must’ve been by some thieves.” 

Strauss blinks, his head lightly jerking backwards. No money on that end. Usually, loan sharking is probably the most successful of their businesses given their high success rates but even there someone can make a mistake. Strauss just has to accept that sometimes, money disappears and there ain’t nothing you can do to bring it back.

John isn’t taking a risk by mentioning Mrs. Valentin is alive, making the debt fall to her instead. He doesn’t want Strauss to convince Arthur to pursue her.

Luckily, it’s a short ordeal. Strauss seems to accept it, or at least act like he is and leaves John without a word, firing all John’s theories and plans back up to the forefront of his mind, crowding his senses in a way he can’t understand.

Javier Escuella’s ‘disappearance’ causing such an uproar in his head is something John doesn’t have time to pinpoint or deal with. He thinks he just owes Javier, after all they’ve done for each other, even if the dislike is probably too strong to overcome.

Approaching Arthur about this again makes John’s fingertips tingly. He’ll think John is ridiculous again. They all do. They think because they don’t like each other that they’ll kill each other instead. They’ve said so, implied so, threatened to but never have. John can guess why Javier has spared him and it’s because of Abigail and Jack, which is also why John has spared Javier too. 

The sour bastard is in his lean-to, on his cot, drawing in that little journal of his. He’s always doodling things, everything he sees. He used to be worse at sitting in places where he could conceal what he’s drawing or writing. He remembers when he was thirteen or fourteen, climbing a tree where Arthur sat down to sketch, he remembers spying on it and seeing him sketch birds, flowers, Hosea and that girl he likes; Mary. John snickered at finding out some things he seemed to treasure. 

Arthur found him and told him to get his ass down from there and that he’d beat John black and blue once he did. So, naturally, he did not get down. He stuck to that tree like a kitten, shouting for Dutch or Hosea to come rescue him. 

Sometimes, John misses Arthur. Even when he’s right in camp. He’s too proud to admit it in any way, seeing as he understands why Arthur’s so pissed at him but doesn’t wanna, well, admit it. Everyone’s worst enemy is the embarrassment of being wrong. John isn’t exempt from the haunting of that enemy.

John approaches Arthur, hoping he’s in a decent mood, hoping he’s up for searching for Javier - someone who everyone thinks is in safe hands. Xabiani’s a kid, what does he know? 

“Arthur,” John says and clears his throat after, keeping his eyes out towards the desert. Arthur looks up, closes his journal and instantly tucks it away. He looks after that journal more than his own life.

“Little Johnny’s back,” he teases but without much mirth. In fact, the glare he sends John’s way completely erases any joke ever made in history.

John decides to not make a big deal out of it, thinking he’ll definitely need Arthur’s help with this so he lets it slide by holding out his arms in showcase of himself and his presence and saying, “I’m back,” and letting his arms flop back down.

“What‘chu get up to out there? Lookin’ for Javier and Xabiani,” Arthur asks. John resists the urge to say that he isn’t looking for Xabiani. He doesn’t want that suspicious man back. He needs to unveil what the hell his motives are ‘cause he sure has some. John realizes that his grounds for thinking this are pretty much non-existent but again - his gut. 

“Oh, you know, avoidin’ folks, findin’ dead debtors, that sorta thing,” John replies somewhat casually. He hopes Mrs. Valentin is okay. She seems tough. Like she can become even tougher. 

“Dead debtors?” Arthur questions.

“Florian Valentin, Strauss’ latest victim. Found ‘im dead in his home. Been robbed and killed. Couldn’t reclaim his debt,” John lies effortlessly. If you ain’t a good liar, you ain’t a good criminal. Or outlaw. John doesn’t know the difference, even if Dutch says there is one.

Arthur doesn’t say anything. John has always figured Arthur doesn’t like Strauss’ business. He carries it out because he has to, because he’s got a front to show, a role to play. He doesn’t have much choice.

“Anyway, I, um… I think Javier’s gone back to Mexico,” John says.

“Mexico? Why’d he do that, he says he can never go back,” Arthur doubts as John expected him to. They all do. John can’t blame people for it but he knows he’s gonna keep having to explain himself because he is voicing these concerns because he is an idiot and he hates Javier and he doesn’t care about this gang.

“‘Cause I was fast, Arthur. Nearly worked my poor horse to death to get to Flagstaff but Javier ain’t been there ‘cause there’s bounties of ‘im there. I should’a met them on the road but I didn’t and they haven’t been to the debtor either. They ain’t on their way back,” John explains, thinks he’s got a good case going on.

“They ain’t on their way back ‘cause they ain’t made it where they wanted to go. Which is Mexico.”

Arthur blinks.

“Well,” he sighs, “you thought somethin’ through for once, that’s for sure.” He stands up and crosses his arms over his chest. John sighs and rolls his eyes. He should’ve expected some hilarious comments from Arthur. They haven’t spoken for real in so long John feels like he’s forgetting what their dynamic has been for the last ten years. 

“Why, what’s got you so on edge by Xabiani? He’s just a kid, you can’t tell me you’re scared of ‘im,” Arthur keeps saying.

“I ain’t- “ John groans. He ignores Arthur’s amused expression at figuring out that he’s getting on John’s last nerve, not at all aware that this isn’t the time for that. “This ain’t about fear. I know he’s up to somethin’ ‘cause I saw ‘im in camp before Javier met ‘im!” John reveals and doesn’t lower his voice. Anyone could hear him if they were listening but at this point he doesn’t care, the more people that realize something’s up with Xabiani the better.

“Whatchu mean ‘before he met ‘im’?” John watches the way Arthur’s shoulders tense, thinks that maybe he’s starting to see the possible danger this could pose.

“I didn’t see ‘im in camp but I think I saw ‘im lurkin’ about. Saw someone in the desert while on patrol, had the same hair, same walk, same skin color.”

“That don’t mean nothin’ though, John. Could’a just been wanderin’ the desert.”

John scoffs. “Now, who the hell is wanderin’ the desert for fun? Kid said he had a wagon, right? That the law thought he stole. Why’d he walk if he got a wagon?”

The gears are turning in Arthur’s head for a few moments while John feels proud of how elaborately he can plead this case. Normally, he ain’t a fine talker, normally he doesn’t fight for others like this, but now when it really matters, John doing it right makes him proud of himself.

“And why’re you tellin’ me?” Arthur questions suddenly. John doesn’t rightly know. Arthur’s better at tracking if they’d need to do that, he’s a great marksman, the most capable of them all probably, of course John would wanna bring him to Mexico.

“‘Cause I want your help in gettin’ Javier back before they reach Mexico. Ain’t no way he’s makin’ it outta there with how he’s been talkin’,” John answers plainly. Arthur doesn’t look entirely convinced. He’s thinking, still thinking, but John needs actions not thoughts and prayers. 

Arthur’s too slow. John groans and leaves him there. Useless. They’re all useless when it counts, they claim John never cared, he left, he never cared, he left, he’s selfish, he left- but now when Javier is in possible grave danger nobody bats an eye? Nobody takes him seriously because he’s John and he hates Javier and Xabiani.

There’s the crux of not knowing where the hell Javier could’ve gone. Most likely home. Home to his mother and sister. But where are they from? The person closest to Javier, Abigail, would know. Except that John doesn’t wanna talk to her. He has to.

He asks Mary-Beth where she is, after greeting her and explaining vaguely where he’d been, ignoring the lighthearted comment about her thinking John wouldn’t come back. He thanks her before he goes to find her behind Strauss’ wagon, washing clothes. She probably heard of John’s return and simply didn’t care. John can’t blame her for her indifference, he’s been giving her the same treatment. It sure feels better than fighting in the open.

“Abigail,” John interrupts. Her back is turned on him, she’s sitting on a box with the washboard in her hands, sighing deeply at the sound of his voice. 

“John,” she replies coldly, keeps doing her chores.

John closes his eyes to collect some strength for himself. He’ll need it. “I gotta help Javier. You know where he’s from? Where he used to live?” He asks blatantly. It’s better to be direct so he can get this the hell over with.

“Why?” She questions.

“Why what?”

“Why would you help him?”

“Abigail,” John’s tone is warning, “Just- do you know or not,” he says. He’s exhausted by this already.

“Yes, I do, but if I tell you you’ll probably burn it down,” she grumbles and scrapes the shirt in her hands harder against the washboard, almost hard enough to make him think that she’ll cut her own hand off if she slips just an inch. John opens his mouth to tell her off but she stops washing and holds out a dripping wet shirt, one of John’s. A black one. It’s ruined. “Oops. Must’ve worked it too hard,” Abigail gives a deadpanned look.

John takes a deep breath.

“If you care about Javier, tell me where he’s from.”

“He’s from a place called Janos. J-A-N-O-S. You happy now?” She gives in, clearly not believing in or knowing how important this might be for Javier’s survival.

“Yes, very.” John instantly twists around and wants to shout at Abigail to be quiet when she calls for him in what sounds like shock. He’s gotta go.

He’s rushing to find Arthur but Strauss finds him first.

“Herr Marston,” he greets and John gives him a nod in greeting. “I heard you visited my debtor, Florian Valentín. Was he- “

“Dead, yes,” John replies, voice labored and a little higher pitched than normal, jittery under the pressure of time, compressing him into a ball of guilt. 

“What a shame.” John nods again, face slightly screwed up like he’d eaten something sour. So devoid of emotion, so factual. Strauss has always made John uneasy. “Did he have any family? So the debt can be passed- “

“I’m sorry, Strauss, I gotta find Javier. I ain’t seen nor heard ‘bout no relative or loved one. He was all alone on the farm,” he lies effortlessly, already so prepared to protect Mrs. Valentin’s existence from loans and the sharks that force them on the poorest. He has no trouble lying for her sake, to give her a chance to start over after the horrible things she’d been through. He offers another nod before Strauss can object and hurries off to find Arthur by Boadicea’s side, brushing her down while she’s in full tack.

John stops a few feet short of where Arthur is. He hears his footsteps and puts the brush away, offering his steed a treat before turning to face John with a deep sigh.

“Where we goin’?” He asks.

John breathes a sigh of relief. “Hanos. J-A-N-O-S.”

“Then mount up.”

A full two nights in Mexico and Javier is still kicking. He’s not come across anyone that recognizes him and they’re all the way down in Ascención, staying on the outskirts of the ruined town. They walked through the ruins, Xabiani explaining what used to be where before the army got here, what he did when he was a child and where he went. 

It made Javier think. They’ve been fine so far, nothing bad has happened during most of the trip, Janos is less than a day away if they hurry. Maybe he can actually go all the way back. If they’re extra careful, if they keep masks over their faces, they might make it. It’s been windy, sand and dust billowing all around, coating their equipment, guns, clothes and hats in a thin layer of the desert sands. 

Javier proposes the thought to Xabiani, who doesn’t seem too keen at the start. Javier can’t blame him. They’re both taking huge risks by being here. Javier is hunted by not only bounty hunters but the army itself, he’s essentially running from the government and that is never easy. You never know who’s a sympathiser and who isn’t. Xabiani’s taking a huge emotional risk by exposing himself to his past again, having promised himself that he’d never return and subject himself to those memories again. 

But he did. For Javier. It’s all a risk. Maybe someone’s after them both at this very moment? Javier understands why Xabiani is doubtful.

“Tal vez podría ir solo,” Javier suggests while taking down their camp in search of a villager who might know something about the state or people of Janos.

“No,” Xabiani instantly dismisses, sounding like he’s the elder of the two. “Moriremos si nos separamos. Ya nadie viaja solo.”

“Claro, pero no está lejos. Iré más rápido por mi cuenta.”

“¡Javier, no seas idiota, es demasiado arriesgado y lo sabes!”

Javier sighs. Of course he’s right but he’s so close to his childhood home, to all his bad and good times and memories. He’s too close to stop now, so close to the finish line, so close to knowing what happened after so many years. Xabiani stands beside Javier and puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes, offers comfort and Javier understands why he does it. He’s telling Javier he can’t go, that this is where the journey ends, that this was their plan, that they’ll find out what happened through locals.

“Lo siento, amigo,” Xabiani says lowly. Javier shakes his head, bites the inside of his cheek to hide how his lips wanna tremble at the notion that despite being this close, he won’t make it back. If Ascención looks like this, who’s to say Janos looks any better?
“Espera aquí, iré a ver si alguien sabe algo sobre Janos,” his friend offers and Javier would protest and say this is his own duty but he feels heavy, like he’s growing roots into the cracked and dry ground.

Xabiani pats Javier’s back before he brings Hambruna with him riding back into what’s left of the town and its people. 

Sitting here useless as two shits, Javier thinks he regrets coming here. He compromised his own, Xabiani’s and the gang’s safety by exposing himself in this way, by leaving safety of numbers, by leaving his family like John, by risking everything only to have to stop at the finish line. But Javier has always been reckless. Many who know him now think he’s usually thinking things through, that he’s calculating everything down to a science. 

His whole childhood is filled with mistakes he made due to never thinking shit through, never thinking further than what he’s feeling in the exact moment. 

Like now.

All there is is this moment, this one where he’s disappointed and demoralised. Where he feels like he’s been defeated by a force he can’t see or feel or touch, the force of fear. He can’t touch it. It doesn’t need to exist. Javier isn’t scared for his own sake but for his friend’s, Xabiani’s. If he isn’t careful, he might do what happened with Hosea and put him in danger.

Admitting defeat has never been Javier’s strong suit neither. He’s at the last hurdle. All that lies between him and his past, maybe his family, is a desert he’s conquered more times than he can count. All that lies between him and them is Xabiani and his trepidation.

But Javier can protect him. If Xabiani stays behind. If he doesn’t come with Javier, the only one who can be harmed if it comes to that is Javier. 

Xabiani will know where he went. He won’t be missing. He’s going straight down the road, fast like the wind, light as a breeze. He’ll be easy to find and easier to scold. Javier wonders if Xabiani is older than him after all, given his act.

Javier tacks Boaz back up, feeds him some corn, promises that he’ll get a long period of rest when they find the gang again. But Boaz has never craved stillness anyway.

Javier doesn’t look back when he leaves the least essential things, doesn’t even bring a lantern to be able to see anything in the dark night, blanketing him in near absolute darkness. But he ain’t scared of the dark, or what’s in it. If it gets him in the end then he can’t stop it from happening, he’ll go down fighting, as always.

He can see the faint outline of the road, the only way he can keep track of where he is as he swishes past the environment, the nocturnal animals and critters that spy on him, eye him up and think it isn’t worth the trouble when he’s perched on top a horse that’s faster than a flicker. At night, he’d turn his face skyward, taking in the stars as Xabiani and Hambruna walk by his side, safe to take his eyes elsewhere.

Not tonight. It’s forward or nothing. No matter the brightness of the galaxy cutting the sky in half or the twinkling stars, Javier is not doing this wrong or failing. 

He thinks he’s fast enough to stay off other travelers’ radars, that they’ll simply think he’s in a rush to get back home, since no one’s chasing him (yet). Not many are out on the road at this time of night, though. There are criminals and outlaws, predators and myths, no one wants to die due to any of those. Not even simple superstitions is worth risking. 

Javier makes it to Janos by dawn, the sky painted yellow in the east, the outline a light blue until it fades into the dark abyss he’d just galloped through. He nearly slips off Boaz, doesn’t bother tethering him to anything. His foot does get stuck in the stirrup, he twists his foot out, huffing like he’s a horse too as he lands on the dusty ground, scrambling to get closer to what he sees in the morning rays.

Nothing. 

Nobody!

Only skeletons of buildings, like an unfinished painting, a prime example of destruction, of a ghost town. Javier thinks he’s going crazy. He follows some sort of melody as he staggers through his hometown, grabbing at any surface that can offer him some stability. In his mind’s eye he sees the homes and what they used to look like, who used to live there, the places he used to love to go, the church is in ruins, Javier’s running so much he thinks he’s a child again, barefoot due to his shoes wearing out.

He jumps small craters, scales debris, vaults hurdles, his heartbeat is like a drum banging in his ears, synced with his steps, his knee gives out, makes him stumble and crash to the ground but he scrambles back up like when he got stuck to the stirrup.

The houses that used to have soft lighting and laughter emitting from them swish past in a blur like a morning fog, his footsteps are loud and they grow louder still the closer he gets. He knows what he’ll find. Or at least he knows what to expect. Maybe he’s wrong, maybe he’ll find something worse than he thinks. 

Everything is gone, all signs of this being a people’s home erased from existence, no bodies, no remnants, no trinkets, nothing left behind. Maybe burned. Bodies burned. Their bodies burned.

¡Mamá! ¡He vuelto! ¡He vuelto a ti!

He can run with his eyes closed.

Silence has never been as penetrating. Not even a gust of wind, like he’s been suspended in time, particles of dust he’s been kicking up in his mad dash don’t even flurry around him. He can’t even hear the crunch under his boots as he ducks inside of his abandoned home, faced with ashen remains of something. The town set on fire, the stone foundations of their feeble homes the only evidence something’s even existed out here. 

Love existed here. Brutality alongside it but weaker in comparison. For a while, anyway. But as it often does, evil and malice wins. 

The wooden roof was cracked, giving Javier glimpses of the brightening sky, honestly convinced that the sun wouldn’t rise on a land so devoid of empathy and reason. 

When did it happen? Who orchestrated this? 

Is Javier the cause of it?

Mamá… he vuelto… a ti

Javier exits his home, feeling choked by all that’s been left within the walls, unable to escape and move on. He doesn’t wanna suffer the same fate. Not until he can understand what happened.

This early in the morning, the sun shouldn’t scorch his skin but it does. He hides his face beneath the brim of his hat, his arms hidden in the fabric of the jorongo Xabiani gifted him. His breaths remind him of someone dying, labored, weak, devoid of hope.

It’s not until he’s further out of the ruins that he spots what he at first thinks is a field of dead shrubbery, the reality of what it is shrouded by the waves of heat flare against the ground, fogging up the distance. Javier dreads to walk closer. There’s gotta be a reason that he’s even investigating something so insignificant as a bunch of bushes, something inside him that knows who did this and what the aftermath became.

There is.

He tries to swallow down the lump forming in his throat, finding that it’s lodged there and it hurts, the tears in his eyes blind him, incapacitate him, make him fall to his knees, unmoving as he stares out over the mass of crosses in the soil. 

There’s no use trying to halt the sob that exits his clenched throat, no use trying to play tough in front of nobody left to judge him. He’d rather be judged by god himself if that’s how it’ll work than the mass grave of people he might’ve known. 

His mother’s there. He knows. She never wanted to leave Janos, even when they were under military threat. She wouldn’t have done so now either. She would’ve sent Mari away, Mari would’ve gone to please mother but she always praised that god made this her home and it would stay this way until her death.

Javier cries. He presses his hands against his chest, trying to mend the pieces of his heart shattering and ripping up his insides like shards of glass. He wails, his throat hurts, he hasn’t been drinking water, his chest hurts from the pressure of his fist, tears well down bus face like a broken dam.

He vuelto.

“¡Allende!” Javier screams when he stands back up, searching for him as if he’s there, hiding somewhere.

“¡Te voy a matar, joder!” His throat hurts worse now. He’s spent. He heaves like he’s been drowning, just now resurfacing for air, coming back from the depths of the underworld’s rivers trying to take back his mother from the deep.

But his grief can’t last long. 

“¡Manos arriba!” Someone shouts behind him, several clicks from hammers sounding after the command.

Bounty hunters. At least that’s what he thought until he stands upright, hands in the air and is told to turn around. The army. A small group of them, apparently in the business of hunting down singular people.

“Javier Escuella,” the man at the forefront, ranked Lieutenant, says, proud of himself to the point of prideful expressions on his ugly face, “te encontramos,” he continues with a foul smug look, making Javier unable to hide his hate. It amuses them all.

“Chinga tu madre,” Javier says, despite the fury in his eyes, his voice sounds like a man riddled with grief, weakened by his shock, by his hope being squashed so hard he might never recover fully. No one seems deterred from approaching, rifles aimed and ready to fire at the slightest misstep.

At this point, he doesn’t care. He’d had hope he’d see them again. He did like Dutch and kept hope, kept his faith, ignoring reality. They’re gone. Mari could be anywhere, she could even be in the grave too, beside mamá, forced to go before their time, forced to stay and bound to the land.

Javier lets the bootlickers take him. Doesn’t even need his feet bound, gets to ride with Boaz, hands bound and Boaz tied to the last horse in the line. He’d expected torture for what he did. Maybe Allende himself wants to have that privilege. Not that he’ll find it much fun to torture someone who’s mind is already fractured.

There’s no more damage he could do that isn’t already done.

He thought that leaving Mexico would protect them. All it did was make it all worse. He couldn’t protect anyone. They were all murdered with no one to fight for them. 

He hears talk of some general Benítez, doesn’t listen much.

The towns close to the border are useful. Many Americans and Mexicans manage to live alongside each other, making it easy for John and Arthur to find a map that can direct them right. The heat is unbearable for John, still not so accustomed to the south.

Arthur’s the one to remind John they can’t overwork their steeds, internally asking himself why the hell John is so determined when they’ve never been friends. He knows that if anything happened to John, Arthur himself would go through anything and anyone to rescue him, even though he’s loath to admit it. But they’ve known each other for more than ten years, John grew up like he was Arthur’s little brother, annoying and picky and caked with dirt all the time.

But Javier. What were they to each other? Reluctant acquaintances. Barely. Always at each other’s throats, John treating Xabiani bad, accusing him of being ‘strange’ without much to go on, pissing Javier off by not taking care of the family he’s got that Javier lost.

Arthur thinks that’s where Javier’s anger stems from, why it’s flared up by John’s cluelessness. He doesn’t seem to understand why Javier has been so insistent on John taking care of and cherishing what he’s got, not once thinking that Javier doesn’t have one, that he lost it. Lost his chance to be with them. John still has that possibility. If he wants to put in the effort to be in Abigail’s good graces again which is gonna take a hell of a long time.

It makes it all the more strange, Arthur guesses, that Javier left in the first place. He’d called the gang his family for a while now, since he got more comfortable, claimed he couldn’t and wouldn’t go back to Mexico in fear of what might happen to him and both his families.

Granted, nothing’s happened since he left, they’re all safe, but if Javier and Xabiani made it across the border, who knows what trouble they’ll be in.

“Why’d you think he cracked?” John suddenly asks, lifting his nose from the map, having tried to make sense of the names of northern Mexico. It’s southwest of Puerto Palomas.

“What?” Arthur questions.

“Javier.” John rests the map in his lap while he lets Old Boy simply walk on his own. He follows the road like he knows how. “Why’d you think he decided to go back? He always said he wouldn’t.”

Arthur sighs. “I don’t know, John.” He really doesn’t. He heard nothing of Javier planning to head back, hadn’t even noticed any signs he was. Maybe he should’ve but Arthur isn’t the observant type, and he hasn’t been in camp as much as he probably should. “I guess… he missed them too much. Wanted to make sure of… somethin’,” he offers but it doesn’t actually offer a lot.

“I think Xabani influenced him,” John says plainly, like no matter what Arthur would’ve come up with, he already had his theory. That’s fine, he’ll just find out he was wrong.

“Do you now?” Arthur says sarcastically.

John clicks his tongue in annoyance. “I ain’t wrong this time, Arthur,” he persists with an unusually calm tone despite not hiding his irritation. “They been talkin’ a lot ‘bout Mexico. Singin’ a bunch of songs, Xab- Xabiani gave Javier a poncho-thing. It wouldn’t exactly dampen Javier’s homesickness, would it?”

Arthur’s eyebrows knit together. His eyes flicker away from John’s form as he figures that, no, it wouldn’t dampen it. But does Javier lack that much self-control? He usually doesn’t. He’s never as level headed as Dutch thinks he is but this level of desperation is rare for Javier to put on display. Clearly he had been itching to go. Might’ve even been grateful that Dutch picked him to go scout ahead.

“Still, it don’t explain how different you been actin’,” Arthur comments. John raises an eyebrow instead of dragging them together.

“Whatchu mean?”

“You care a lot for someone who used to beef with Javier over everythin’.”

John remembers what Javier has been saying. He took it to heart but in the wrong way.

“He’s got people that love ‘im. Abigail, Dutch, you, the boy. It’d be wrong of me to… well… you know,” John says and, well, Arthur understands. He offers a single nod, using it as a way to inform John that he agrees, that he approves this message.

Chapter Text

The men taking him away are cocky and they knew exactly what they were doing. How, he has no idea. He thought they’d been careful entering Mexico but he must’ve been wrong. The one thing Javier knows is that they had to guess that Javier would pose no threat, that the news of his dead family and neighbors would render him useless, limbless, devoid of a will to fight.

They’d simply been hoping. Alas, Javier didn’t fight. Lucky them.

He was led back to Janos, to one of the houses near what used to be the plaza, forcing him off Boaz and whipping his neck and it made him shriek and run away. Javier struggles for the first time, tries to shout to his companion that everything’s fine. But he can’t. He’s struck by a cold hand, the sting flaring out from his cheek.

There’s a cellar on the left side of the house. Javier remembers there used to be all kinds of stuff fermenting in there, mostly goddamn pulque and he and Mari used to joke that a troll had taken a shit in there, cursing it to forever smell terrible. Although empty, Javier thinks he can still smell remnants of what’s either his childhood or just permanent damage to the walls - a curse.

He’s on his knees in the cellar, hands tied but feet free to do something about his current predicament. But he doesn’t. What would he fight for? He can’t protect anyone; not his family, not his gang, not nothing.

The least surprising thing to Javier is the torture that follows his capture. Before they bring him to justice, might as well have some fun, eh? That seems to be a pattern with people in power. 

They punch him bloody, tell him that this is what he deserves after what he did to that general he killed. Javier doesn’t say a word, just endures the punches and later the kicks, followed by threats of something worse when he gets to Allende. 

When he falls asleep, when he’s been left alone, it’s mostly exhaustion. His face is pulsating with pain, his ribcage hurts with every breath, his spine has a scratchy pain, having been dragged across the floor without his shirt on, the spine taking the brunt of the scraping. It’s a fitful rest, waking up every half hour because someone purposely bangs on the doors to the cellar.

He hears bellowing laughter every time they wake him and it gets harder and harder to stay awake and he has to fight his own eyelids, somehow they’re heavier than any box Javier has ever carried. But the next half hour he’s back awake.

The one after that he can’t even fall back asleep, the darkness in the cellar so penetrating that he somehow starts seeing figures and shadows, moving like a flame shrouded in black, trying to get to him and do something but he crawls away, his feet doing most of the work, his left arm pressed into the cold, scratchy floor as he drags himself away from the shadows.

Torture is nothing compared to the pain of losing everything you love, of failing to protect them. Allende can do whatever he wants with him, he already has, there’s nothing else for Javier to lose. The difference between his family and the gang is that the gang can survive without him, it seems that his family couldn’t. He’s failed as a son, as a brother, as a man.

“I think it’s nice!” John complains to Arthur who keeps eyeing him like he’s the definition of ‘the pits of fashion’. He’d only bought a poncho when they were in Guadalupe Victoria, a sandy color with red and black stripes along with a sliver of a white pattern that looks like upside down ‘v’s’ paired with regular ‘v’s’. John likes it a lot.

“Yeah, well, I ain’t much of a looker myself, I guess,” Arthur concedes and John scoffs, agreeing heartily. 

Somehow it’s easier to cope with the heat with the poncho on. It’s more like something casting a constant shadow than something to keep John warm. He’s had way too many drinks of their limited supply of water, even if the sips are few they aren’t as far between as he should space them. Luckily, Arthur has his own supply, meaning that John doesn’t have to feel kind of terrible if he drinks it all seeing as it’ll only affect himself.

They mostly ride in silence, listening to the sounds of nature which are surprisingly limited in a place that should have lots of wildlife. Then again, most noticeable creatures come out at dusk to hunt. Daylight is too unbearable sometimes. 

“You think Javier planned on comin’ back?” Arthur’s question surprises John. Would he react the same way he did when John left? Will he be just as hurt and just as unwilling to admit it? John used to believe Arthur had just always hated him but acted like he didn’t to please Dutch and Hosea but recently, he’s come to theorise on the fact that maybe John had hurt Arthur some way. 

“I don’t know,” John answers. “I hardly know nothin’ about him, you know that,” he says and Arthur nods. 

“What’s the deal between you two? I don’t even know anymore.” John wants to retaliate and ask what’s the deal between them. Himself and Arthur. How come he’s fine talking to John now but they never reconciled or ever spoke about… well… anything. But he doesn’t ask right now. Doesn’t wanna shift the focus since he might find something out from Arthur, seeing as he’s Javier’s pal or whatever.

“Honestly, me neither.” John knows why he used to be hostile towards Javier but it’s different now. He used to hate how all attention was on him, how he was like a new prized possession, how Abigail stuck to him so quickly, how he got along with most of the gang apart from himself and his moody personality. 

Then he realized it was only his own fault that he felt alienated by his own family, or the closest thing to a family he’ll ever get. He still isn’t perfect but maybe he’s been trying to be better. Apart from where it really matters, with Abigail and Jack. But he ain’t no kinda father and that isn’t changing any time soon.

“‘Guess we just… don’t get along.”

Arthur shrugs. “Some don’t.”

What an eye-opening conversation.

John collects the strength to ask,

“And us? What’s the deal between us?”

Arthur doesn’t look at him now. Just straight ahead, patting Boadicea’s neck to either distract himself or to come to his senses. Maybe both. Knowing how he can get stuck with his head in the clouds and not admit it he thinks it might be both.

“Arthur,” John persists, really curious to hear what he could’ve possibly done to hurt Arthur so bad. All he can hear out of Arthur is a sigh and sees him shaking his head. He ain’t ready to say or something, even if it’s been a damn long time since John came back.

Whatever. He can survive without knowing. All they gotta do is get Javier back and then they can go back to hating each other.

John is surprised at how long it takes for the two of them to be approached by locals of dubious morals. They don’t even speak Spanish to them, they just know the two of them are ‘gringos’. John’s been called that by Javier before but he still doesn’t know what it means. He suspects it’s not something kind.

“What you up to, americanos?“ there’s four of the locals, two Americans. They’re in a situation, for sure.

“Just ridin’,” John replies coolly, his eyes flickering to Arthur’s. “Enjoyin’ this lovely country you got,” he adds. He does it mostly to offer some form of courtesy so he might keep them away from trouble. Arthur hasn’t intervened yet so he’s doing well so far. Hosea always had an easier time learning Arthur his tricks than John. 

“I don’t trust in gringos.” A man with a very American looking cowboy hat and with a bandana covering half his face steps forward on his horse, just two steps but too close for comfort nevertheless. “here they always causing troubles,” he keeps going in broken English. 

“Ridin’ causes trouble now?” John questions and sounds far ruder than he intended and promptly ignores Arthur’s weary side-eye aimed at him. 

“No tienen modales,” one of the men hisses but it sounds almost like a snarl. John is always Dutch’s first choice for patrolling areas, given that he has somehow been gifted, or somehow honed, the ability to tiny movements in his periphery which others usually don’t. His eyes are sharp, always on the lookout. It wasn’t long ago that he saw a tiny scorpion crawling towards Karen while she was repairing a shirt, while he pulled what was possibly the most impressive thing he’d ever done by throwing a knife through the venomous creature and killing it.

So, he sees Arthur moving to clutch the handle of his gun while it remains unseen by the rest of them.

“No ha-blah ing-lays either, feller,” John lets slip and tries not to let his heart sinking into his stomach affect his expression when he keeps talking through the collectively hardening stares of the men of dubious morals. “We just wanna keep goin’. We don’t bother no one, including you so just- “ 

One of the men whips out his gun and fires quicker than anyone can react, apart from Arthur. The bullet hits something, making a squelching sound as it penetrates whatever it hit. It takes a few seconds for John to register that it hit him. In his shoulder. He clutches the wound with his hand, presses it against the breach of his skin and halts the bleeding while Old Boy makes a run for it while John hears four separate shots fired before a deafening silence more worrying than a shootout.

“Easy, boy!” John soothes as his voice strains, trying to contain the noises of pain he feels like will make him burst if he actually keeps them in. But he does. He takes his left hand off his wound and pulls on Old Boy’s reigns as hard as he can, making his mount whinny and stop and John can finally turn around to find out what happened then.

Arthur's riding his way, unharmed, gun holstered again. No horses of the dubious men remain, only their dead bodies on the ground, their blood soaking into the sand. There’s movement from one of them but John doesn’t care. Arthur’s fine, John’s fine. But his shoulder is doing a number on him. Fuck. Why now? He knows how hard it is for injuries in the arms to heal because what does someone do about their arms being incapacitated in some way?

How is he meant to shoot? If Javier’s in trouble, what use will John be of? None. He’s a danger to Arthur and to Javier when they find him and they better or they’re just failures letting their friend die and getting themselves killed in a different country, letting their gang down in their time of need.

Shit. How could John let this happen?

“You okay, John?” Arthur asks after having pulled the most impressive gun fight John’s seen him in. Four men shot before they could react much to Arthur. John knows Arthur is one hell of a marksman but he always said he was never a good dueler. Though it wasn’t technically a duel, those men didn’t stand a chance anyway, it seems.

“Yeah,” he groans and blinks heavily, trying to stay awake. They have no time to waste. They’ll bandage his arm and then be on their way. “That was some damn fine shootin’,” he compliments after, breaths of stifling pain piercing through the pauses. 

Arthur just nods in acknowledgment as his expression falters a bit seeing the blood seeping through John’s shirt in a string of crimson.

“You good there?” He asks then. His eyebrows are drawn together, making John think Arthur has no idea he’s looking like that - concerned for him, that is. Then again, John judging Arthur for caring for someone he allegedly hates is definitely probably unlawful since John is now in fucking Mexico looking for Javier.

“Dandy. Let’s get goin’,” John dismisses and removes his left hand from his shoulder and puts them both on Old Boy’s reins, flicking them and then failing to contain how bad it hurt. There’s a sting surging through him that forces a yelp out of his throat and for him to reflexively claw at his wound again, probably accidentally squeezing out more blood and his grip slips due to his blood-slicked fingers.

“Don’t think so,” Arthur disagrees and brings Boadicea closer to Old Boy. “We gotta do somethin’ ‘bout that wound of yours.”

“Arthur, we ain’t got time to- “

“If Javier’s in trouble, like you said, then don’t you think you’re gonna need your good shootin’ arm to get him outta there?”

“I got two arms.”

“Yeah, and the other one’s shit. Let’s just get that bullet out and wrap it up and we’ll get goin’.” Arthur then mutters something under his breath, something that sounds like ‘stubborn fool’ but John elects not to care too much.

“Arthur,” John sighs and watches as Arthur dismounts Boadicea and starts rifling through his satchel. John understands it’s useless trying to fight this and gives Old Boy some grateful pats before more or less sliding off his saddle and thumping onto the ground, scaring his steed when he has to steady himself on his horse. He’ll get extra treats later.

John takes a look at his left hand, lifts it a little off the bleeding and stinging wound. Coated in blood, seeping into this nails, every crevice of his skin. The wound is small and John can see the faint glimmer of the bullet lodged in there. He winces. It looks kind of disgusting like that.

“Little Johnny Marston,” Arthur mocks, somehow sounding like he’s doing a lighthearted joke, “can’t handle a little bullet,” he goes on and John scoffs.

“It’s you who wanted to stop and act like a nursemaid,” John mumbles and Arthur makes a point to pull on his arm a little harshly so it jostles the bullet in the wound and it feels disgusting having something just in there. “Ow!” He yelps and Arthur rolls his eyes as he starts to dry off the blood. “Bastard.” John takes his shirt off, lets Arthur do whatever sloppy bandaging and dressing he can achieve with his limited medical knowledge.

“You’d better take it easy, cowpoke,” Arthur advises after bandaging the wound, John is sulking like a cat crawling out of a bucket of water, all soggy-looking and disgruntled. Removing the bullet went fine, other things have hurt more though John can’t really recall. He’s grateful, though. “It’s gonna take a while to heal if you use it too- “

“I know how bullet wounds work, Arthur. You’re actin’ like Hosea,” John complains moodily like he never left his teenage temper behind. Arthur shakes his head and knows that he should probably drop John off in the nearest town to recover while he tries to find Javier but that would never fly with John. He’d never lay down and die, he’d never just do the smarter thing. He never has before and he won’t now.

“Well there’s a reason Hosea’s still alive,” Arthur mutters and knows that John heard him but no punches are thrown yet. He manages to mount Old Boy despite his arm but jostles it in a way that causes him to make a pained noise and huff a steadying breath. Arthur shakes his head yet again before he asks Boadicea, “what to do with him,” and mounts her, the two back on track to find their friend.

John finds himself feeling more and more frustrated under the scorching sun, blaring its intense heat onto his back, somehow making the pain in his arm worse. It feels like aftershock but persistent all the while his back is being fried under his black clothes. But if he undresses, he’ll get sunburnt to hell. It doesn’t help when John keeps beating himself up over basically everything going on in his life. 

He’s been horrible to Abigail, he should feel something other than remorse, maybe guilt, for leaving her to take care of a child on her own, maybe he should feel grateful that she’s the one who gave him a son. But he doesn’t. He knows she’s working hard, he knows she’s actually a good woman, fair and headstrong, fiery to the point of stubbornness. But he doesn’t love her. He means neither of them, Abigail and Jack, any harm but he can’t be what they want him to be.

As he thinks about all the times Abigail has smacked him for his insensitivity, he’s reminded of what he’s actually doing out here and that the cause has somewhat brought him and Arthur a fraction closer to what they used to be.

He’s out there searching for Javier who’s also so goddamn stubborn and fair and not even his friend. Not really. They’ve fought on more fronts than the confederates and the yankees, even when they’ve tried to be sincere to each other, there’s always something twisting the narrative, always something getting in the way.

In the way of what? There’s nothing to get in the way of, in reality. Since neither John nor Javier have any connection to be severed apart from the ties that bind them to the gang.

The closest thing would maybe be that he’s close with Abigail and Jack but since John isn’t, it doesn’t matter much. He doesn’t truly know what he’s doing out here, burning alive and getting shot - for what, for Javier? To keep Javier alive because of Abigail and Jack, his family that he’s never bothered to care for.

But he’s here now. Something drove him to intervene and to make sure Xabibi isn’t out to get Javier. 

When they camp for the night and Arthur offers the first watch, John sits in his tent, thinks he’s glad he doesn’t need to share with Arthur, remembers how Javier had offered to share his when they went out for the first time, causing trouble all along southern Washington. He takes the map out and reads the compass in Spanish. 

Sur

Norte

Este

Oeste

They’re close to a place called Ascención, a day away and further south is Janos, underlined by three straight lines in smudged pencil strokes. 

John sighs. He takes off his jacket and the vest, leaving himself in only his bare chest and re-bandages his arm, tighter to numb the pain a little. He sits in the middle of his tent for a while, completely shielded from the outside, the only sign of life being the fire Arthur put up earlier. Arthur is nowhere to be heard. John isn’t worried.

His eyes droop. John can fight most things in life - people, animals, inanimate objects probably, but he can’t fight himself. He can’t resist the urge to close his eyes and fall asleep. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t try. But his attempts fall short and John rests while sitting up, seemingly in some sort of middle ground between asleep and awake.

He hears the faint plucking of strings, a harmonious strum, a timid hum. It’s softer than anything John thinks he’s allowed to be near, given his tendency to destroy beautiful things around him. He’s never been good at any type of preservation. He’s never had an item of his own for longer than three years and he cares so little he doesn’t even know what it is when he knows Hosea’s got Bessie’s ring from even before he knew Dutch. His nonchalance doesn’t prevail in his flight between dreams and reality. 

Like he’s watching something unfold behind a curtain but only partially obscured, John sees a sitting figure, legs criss-crossed, silhouette sort of foggy at the edges, smudged and undefined. Unlike the sound it emits, a melancholic and gentle hum. 

John reaches out to touch the curtain and it turns to dust, fluttering away like snowy butterflies. The figure isn’t any clearer. He rubs his eyes with the tips of the fingers on his uninjured left hand - maybe it’s just him. 

But he can walk closer. So he does. The curtain is down but when John reaches out again it’s like bumping into a pane of glass. He knocks on it. He doesn’t know why. Maybe he’s locked out. Maybe he just wants to come inside.

The humming stops, the strumming quiets down. The figure moves. Looking like it’s turning around, surprised and unhappy about it by the looks of how the back goes from an alerted straightening to a disappointed curve. John can’t see any eyes but he can feel them. Brown. Deep like the earth, rings even darker in the middle of the iris, like Saturn. 

His breath catches at their intensity. 

He’s back in his tent. Awake, unnerved, confused. He’d sprawled out over the ground, arms and legs in a star shape over his bedroll. 

John blinks trying to expel the fatigue but secretly hoping he’ll just erase those eyes from memory. He doesn’t remember much else when he wakes up in the morning.

But they were brown. 

Chapter Text

“Respóndeme, ratóncito.” 

Javier tilts his head up, feels like the whole room’s being tilted. His neck is weak, bruised, his throat’s aching and his voice is useless - croaky, itchy, gone. The motherfucker is messing with him, demanding he do something he can’t anymore. 

The commander of this small band of soldiers grabs Javier by the neck like he’d often do and yanks him forward, forcing Javier to gasp for air that won’t reach past the squeezing of the man’s fingers.

“Dije, ¡respóndeme!” He shouts and Javier coughs.

“A… ¿a… qué?” Truthfully, Javier hadn’t been listening to whatever that man had been ranting about. He’s been working for days on detaching himself from what’s going on to ease the pain of their torture, to somehow disappear into the abyss while they slice up his old scars, leave them to bleed before the body slowly starts closing them back up, soaking his clothes in sticky blood, while they pull out his toenails, forcing him to sit up and feel his toes press into the floor without the nails to protect them, to endure the marking of cigarettes they place on his back.

It’s been efficient, especially since he’s been having to battle the eternal emptiness of his stomach and the unbearable thirst drying his mouth, making it even harder to speak. 

The man chuckles. It’s a mix between a triumphant one and one that can’t stand any more defiance. Not that Javier was actively trying to defy him, he was simply constantly on survival mode, thinking about everything but what’s going on in the present.

“Esto es lo que no entiendo,” he goes on, circling Javier. “¿Cómo alguien como tú logró matar al general Benítez?”

Benítez? 

These are his men? 

He shouldn’t be surprised. He heard them talking about ‘general Benítez’ and they told him they ‘found him’ like they’d been actively searching for him. He thought they were bounty hunters at first but that was squashed pretty quickly.

Especially now.

“Eres tan débil y pequeño,” he keeps going, his tone mocking and bewildered at the same time. “¿Lo mataste mientras dormía? ¿Como un pinche COBARDE?” Javier’s head whips to the right, his cheek stings, his hair has clumped together due to dried blood coming from his head, streaks of his unwashed hair feeling like tiny whips to add onto his suffering.

“Ahora…” sighs and digs a hand into Javier’s hair, ripping Javier’s head back in the direction of his wretched face. “Respóndeme.”

If it were days earlier, Javier would’ve spat him in the face. But he doesn’t think he can take anymore torture.

“No… puedo…” Javier pushes past his wheezing throat, barely audible beneath the constant scratch of boots walking on gravel. The man and his accomplices burst out in mocking laughter, loud and obnoxious like old men do. 

Javier coughs, wheezing and weak, making his chest hurt as they just keep coming. 

“Cierra la puta boca, alimaña.” One of the men orders and shoves Javier to the ground, more laughing commences before it fades along with the heavy bang of the cellar doors closing, drowning him in darkness apart from a tiny candle perched on a box and it's gonna burn out soon.

Javier is tired. He knows he’s not dying. He’s weak, he’s hungry and thirsty and he’s gotta get the fuck outta here. Javier writhes on the floor like a bug stuck on its back, trying to flip himself back onto his side and get himself up somehow. There’s got to be something down here that can help him escape.

His shoulder clicks as he lays on his right, he groans at the sound more so than the pain. 

This general, the one he killed. He should’ve known it would come back to haunt him. He should’ve known not to return to Mexico, he shouldn’t have faltered. He’d been so good at staying away and then he meets Xabiani and it’s like he’s seduced back to what he’s been missing so bad. But it’s not like he can blame Xabiani for his lack of self control. 

How could he let them find him?

Javier uses what little strength he’s got to rip off his bonds, to twist his hands out of the rope. It’s old and sort of spiky due to the fibers snapping off, it feels like little needles scraping into his wrists. If he’d been fed, maybe he could’ve slipped free. But his arms give out. Javier has to keep twisting his wrists the slow, less painful way.

He jumps at the sound of the doors opening again.

Round two-thousand or whatever. Javier has lost count.

“Ese chico es un genio. ¡Convirtió la venganza en un arte!“ one of the men praises a nameless kid, barely paying Javier any mind as another man throws a water skin onto the floor. But it was open and it spills onto the ground, filtering out like it’s meant to paint a tree. A thin trunk and a majestic crown of leaves.

“No es sorprendente, dado de quién es hijo.” They don’t even laugh. It’s like Javier is some dead flower their mother told them to water while they’re on their way to work, something forgotten, something discarded. They leave like nothing happened.

Javier prefers it to the torture. Javier sits up, his back barely able to carry itself. He slides across the floor to where the water skin is, twists his torso and grabs it. Tricky part is that it’s stuck back there like his hands. 

It’s useless. He can’t reach that with his mouth when it’s all the way around his back.

He’s useless.

All he’s got is a pair of pants and his suspenders. They took his socks, his shirt, his vest, gun belt and weapons - all of it. He has no clue what they’ve done with it. Simply stolen it? Burnt it? Javier just knows he won’t be getting any of it back.

And… a candle.

Javier whips around, creating a whiff of air that causes the tiny flame to flicker. He’s on his feet in an instant, seeing how it’ll only be minutes until it burns out. There’s candle wax all over the box.

Completely out of options, Javier places his hands over the flame and tries to line it up with his bonds. It’s already hot. Doesn’t matter the size of the flame it’ll still burn the shit out of you. And it does. Javier hisses as he reflexively pulls away, despite wanting to keep his hands there. He’s been burned more than the surface of the sun, surely he can take a little more.

Javier takes a deep, steadying breath and sucks his lips into his mouth to stifle any noise he might make. He shoves his hands back to the flame, remembering he has limited time.

“¡Puta madre!” Javier groans as he once again pulls away from the little flame. He can’t feel it yet but he knows his wrists are gonna burn. That’s the worst part about them; the burning comes a few minutes after the fact, almost like it wants to lure you into a false sense of security by making you think you’re fine. Javier goes again, takes a few more deep breaths and hypes himself up to endure so he can be free. “Vamos, pinche idiota, has pasado por cosas peores,” he whispers to himself as he closes his eyes and shoves his hands back over the flame again.

Nothing. No heat, no pain - no light.

Javier twists around to find that the candle has burned out. 

“No… nononono, fuckfuckfuck.” Javier starts frantically pulling at his bonds, hoping that at least some fibers had been burned off and he might break free. “Joder, !no me hagas esto, por favor!“ 

He struggles, keeps struggling, thinks he can feel something pop and fall loose. It brushes against his hand and he rejoices. It’s working! 

Not that he can go at it for long until he hears voices coming back. He falls to his knees, far away from the candle to reduce suspicion. The cellar is bathed in light, making Javier squint to the point that the three men that enter are only blurry blobs in his eyes.

“¿Te gustaría visitar Hermenegildo Galeana?” The leader, his most enthusiastic torturer, asks. Javier’s heart sinks, it feels like it’s bringing all his insides down to his stomach, he’s wracked with memories of that place. He laughs at Javier’s expression, how he swallows nervously. “Sí, creo que sí.” His cheerfulness is a front. His gaze has got a sinister undertone that actually manages to frighten Javier.

“¿Quieres ir allí? Hm?” 

Javier shakes his head minutely, even though he knows he has no choice.

“Ya veo,” the man says thoughtfully and paces the room slowly. “¿No quieres afrontar lo que hiciste?”

“S- señor,” Javier huffs. He shuffles a bit to conceal how he’s still working on slipping through the ropes which are gradually loosening up. “Estoy cansado… y… no puedo caminar.” 

“Sí, y me alegro de que mis hombres hicieran lo que les pedí,” the man says and pats Javier firmly on the shoulder, the force of it bordering on a hit. It was meant to hurt him. Of course it was. They want his every breath to cause him pain. They’ve succeeded. He doesn’t show it, though. He doesn’t wanna give them the satisfaction. Admitting that he was tired is the only thing he can take.

“¿Quieres ir de viaje, ratoncito?” The man asks, softening his voice in a mocking way. Javier still declines but knows that if they plan to take him somewhere, he’ll have no choice but to go. “¡Que pena! Salimos al anochecer. Intentas cualquier cosa y estás muerto,” he warns and Javier nods then, lowering his head to stare into the floor.

The man scoffs with amusement and turns around, starts talking about wanting to get him even further from his family. But his family is already dead. He can’t be any closer to them if he was standing on their mass grave. They’re gone. They took them from him. And he’s too tired to fight for their honor, to offer them maybe some comfort by punishing the purge of Janos. 

To Javier’s dismay, one guard stays behind. To watch him. Why they decided to do that now and not earlier is beyond him but the guard is turned away, still leaving a window open for Javier to work the ropes off his hands and escape. 

Keeping the pained noises from escaping his lips is hard. He burned himself and he isn’t sure how bad but the constant scraping and scuffing from the harsh ropes has scraped up his skin too, likely drawing blood.

“¡Callarse!” The man hisses at him without turning back to see what he was up to. Javier is tired of being their toy, of being something they can abuse without consequences. He’s tired of submitting to the people that killed his mother! 

“Tu pinche- “ Javier growls as he uses all his half-hearted strength to yank one last time before his bonds snap. Javier has to momentarily catch himself with his hands against the cold floor before the guard turns around and barely gets to take out his gun. Javier takes the rope he’d previously been tied with and loops it around the guard’s neck, kicks him in the shin when he starts fighting it. 

“Los voy a matar a todo por lo que hicieron a mi familia,” Javier says through gritted teeth while he chokes the life out of the guard, watching his eyes flutter shut, how his skin turns red, how he grasps fruitlessly at the rope.

The man collapses shortly after, falling face first into the floor, bringing a significantly weakened Javier with him. Javier rolls off the dead body, staring up into the ceiling while he catches his breath, assesses the damage to his wrists. It’s hard to see in the faint light but there are scrapes where the rope had been rubbing into his skin, along with shallow burns that likely won’t scar too bad.

He stands up, labored breath echoing in the dark cellar and looks down at the dead man, desensitised to any type of death after years of dealing it out like it’s just a simple deck of cards. He spits on the fucker, hurries to take off his shoes and socks. He’s not gonna escape these idiots without protection to his feet, especially now when they pulled most of his toenails.

The shoes are too big but it’ll do for now. 

Javier searches the body for anything to protect himself with but all he finds is attached to his belt - a whip. A goddamn whip. Good enough… sort of.

His feet hurt, his hands feel like they’re still on fire, he trips on his way up the stairs, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and biting down to silence his sounds. He swears under his breath as he closes in on the door they have so stupidly forgotten to lock. Or they were just so ignorantly confident that they thought they wouldn’t have to. That they’d eventually break Javier’s spirit.

Someone has to pay for his family’s death and he’s not resting or giving up before he can avenge them. 

He can’t hear anyone nearby when he stands below the doors. He stands there for nearly five minutes just to make sure. There’s nothing. Just distant voices.

He opens one of them, peers out, finds the coast clear and steps out. His back is hunched, his feet light like a cat’s, swift like a hummingbird, ferocious like a puma. He’ll be ready to kill someone with the whip. If he can.

The sun is high in the sky, Javier isn’t a great navigator but he’s pretty sure he’s meant to go northeast to reach Ascensión eventually. But one thing at a time, first, he needs to successfully make it out of Janos without being caught or collapsing under the knowledge of what they did to this place (and that it might be Javier’s fault).

Would they have known Janos existed if Javier murdering a general hadn’t put it on the map? Sure, there were soldiers in almost every town, abusing their positions and the fact that they had weapons, but usually, the towns were left as is due to the fact that the soldiers would have housing they could steal, food they could demand.

If Javier could, he’d burn all these men. He’d kill a thousand generals for this. This atrocity justifies Javier to go and slit Allende’s throat and force his subordinates to drink his blood, to leave his deteriorating body to the coyotes while they feast on him. 

His feet hurt. It feels like he’s had his toes hammered on each step he takes in the shoes he stole that are too big. He’s a lot less stealthy in them. But he figures he isn’t making it out of here without getting his hands dirty anyway.

In the skeletal remains of his hometown, there are many spots to hide behind or below. Most men are distracted by a cock fight, the terrified animals being forced to fight while sweaty, violent men make them do things they don’t understand. It’s cruel, through and through. Javier feels the sizzling hatred beneath his skin, the primal urge to kill them all, to fucking devour their souls like he’s the devil. 

He can’t recall ever feeling rage quite like this before. Seeing them act this way towards animals - he makes the mistake of imagining what they did to the people who lived here, apart from mass murdering them. The poor women, the defenseless, the forgotten, the ones kept alive the longest.

There’s a certain relief in Javier’s heart when he realizes that there are no women kept alive here. It feels sick and twisted to be relieved they’re dead but it is a kinder fate than being kept alive solely for pleasure - which has never been beyond any of Allende’s men. It’s a dark mercy.

The closer he gets to the edge of the town, the harder it becomes to think that these men’ll get away with this. That they’ll go scot free and repeat these crimes over and over until all of Mexico is rid of los palurdos.

Javier becomes desperate for a way to kill them all. The determination gives him strength to stand tall, to dismiss the pulsating ache in his toes, to walk like he has never known pain at all. The boots scuff against the ground, making unnecessary noise. He takes them off with his hands, his toenails no longer there to do it. He stalks around in just the socks he stole, quiet as a mouse.

“Pinches Alimañas,” Javier hisses, teeth bared like he’s a starved wolf. They’ve made some form of lousy base out of the ruins of people’s homes, people Javier knew and loved. “¿Creen que ustedes, hijos de puta, pueden hacer lo que quieran, eh?”

Having snuck around to the north side, where the road leads to Ascensión, he finds a setup meant for defense. Sandbags circling a gatlin gun. Javier is close to setting his jaw into his prey, to blow their brains out.

“¡EY, CABRONES!“ Javier shouts, too worked up to think of a real plan that might keep him from biting the dust too. But at this point, as long as he kills all of these men, he can die peacefully knowing he avenged his village. Most men duck their heads out from the ruins, some come wandering up the main road. “¡No puedes atravesar el infierno quemándote!” 

Various looks of shock and anger split the men into groups, Javier focuses on the angry ones, the ones that will put up a fight. The cowardice of the shocked, he might be able to shoot point blank, while he stares into their soulless, greedy eyes.

Blindly, Javier fires into the crowd of ten men, able to shoot eight of them down in an element of surprise. The other two dive away and hide like the rest, firing blindly at Javier who will run out of ammunition far later than they will.

He can’t even tell how long he’s been standing there until he hears a familiar voice right by his ear, dragging him away from the frantic fire of the gatlin gun. 

“¡Javier! ¿Qué carajo estás haciendo?” 

“¿Xabiani?” He somehow manages to figure out really before he can look at him, before the two of them have to duck enemy fire because he stopped shooting so erratically.

“Sí, idiota, ¿que estás haciendo, eh?” He asks again, grabbing Javier by the arms and shaking him like he needs to snap out of some episode. Javier is completely sane. He’s doing this out of his own free will, they deserve it!

“Los mataron a todos. ¡Tienen que pagar por lo que hicieron!” He tries to stand up and get back to shooting since the soldiers are closing in on them but Xabiani stops him.

“This isn’t the answer!” He shouts in English for some reason. 

“¡Vete a la chingada! ¡Merecen morir!” Javier shoves Xabiani off of him and warns him that if he gets in the way, he’ll kill him too. Javier takes this moment when most of the men have come out to shoot their shot to fill their chests full of lead, blood soaking the ground, men falling onto each other as they collapse.

When the others cower, Javier twists around to Xabiani, still on the ground with wide eyes, flickering between Javier’s eyes and the whip in his hand. Javier’s huffing like a bull, breath coming out sharply through his clenched teeth. Like a monster. Like them. But Javier doesn’t care. He can’t find himself giving a single fuck about how he massacred those men.

But Xabiani does. 

He looks at Javier with frightened resignation. Like he’s finally seeing who Javier is. He’s wrong. But maybe not entirely. But isn’t this who they all are? Xabiani said he wanted to avenge his father, how else would he do it than to deal the same heavy hand of death his father had been dealt?

Javier scoffs. “¿Crees que eres mayor que yo?” Xabiani doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything to defend his childish expression of disappointment. “¡Mataron a mi familia! ¡Todos los que vivían aquí fueron enterrados sin dignidad!”

“Hay otras formas de- “ Xabiani begins, voice quiet and almost inferior. 

“¿Cómo qué? ¿Justicia? Sólo el diablo puede juzgar a estas ratas.”

“Javier?” 

He looks up towards where the other voice came from. 

Fucking Arthur and John, the bank robbers, the sons of conmen, the outlaws looking at him like he’s a monster. With concern for his fucking well being. Why is he the only one able to see the justice in this?

Javier stretches his arms out in a showcasing manner, like a painter at his own exhibition. 

“My life’s work,” he says with a dark flourish, aiming his statement at Xabiani and making sure they all know he feels no remorse for what he’d caused here.

Chapter Text

Unexpectedly, Javier’s front falters as the adrenaline he’d barely noticed fades. He’s been tortured for days, he couldn’t take this any longer. His knees give out, doesn’t even get to catch himself falling. Xabiani drags himself off the ground, dusting himself off and inching away from Javier. 

He’s still young. He’s been through it, but he’s still young.

“Jesus,” Arthur says and dismounts, John follows suit, his shoulder still fucked up but slowly healing. Arthur’s been thorough when cleaning the wound, too thorough. He walks over to Javier, his right arm not of much use for anything, really. He kneels beside him, finds that his eyes are fluttering like he’s fighting to either keep them open or to close them. He’s only got socks on his feet, his wrists look like they’ve been chewed on by a ferocious dog, his skin is pale, stubble growing back from having shaved it, it seems, along with another haircut.

“How long was he gone?” John asks Xabiani.

“Four days. I tried asking around the neighboring village but nobody knew anything. Didn’t know where to look so I just… figured he’d gone here,” Xabiani explains, surprised at how civilised John is acting with him right now. Arthur helps the boy stand up first, tells him to step aside while he and John help Javier onto Old Boy. 

“What happened here?” Arthur asks while glaring out at the dozens of bodies attracting flies and outlines with blood and bullet casings.

Xabiani shrugs, Boaz tethered to Hambruna by his right side, seemingly aware of Javier being on the back of John’s horse. “This is his hometown. Janos. I… couldn’t gather much but it seems like the soldiers killed everyone who lived here and did something to them. He said they ‘buried them without dignity’.”

Arthur hums. “Bad business,” he offers little comfort but Javier isn’t conscious enough to receive it anyway.

“Mhm,” Xabiani agrees and he sighs deeply. It seems like worry, like he somehow knows Javier well enough to worry for his psyche. John watches him while he can, while it isn’t suspicious to do so and Xabiani leads them back the way they came. “We shouldn’t have come here,” he claims after a while, looking back at Javier still being unconscious, patting what little of Boaz fur he can reach while mounted on his own steed.

John is quick to reply. “No, you shouldn’t have,” he agrees with a steeled expression, firm and unemotional. He doesn’t know why he has such a strong opinion on this, it would barely affect him. Even if Javier died out here, it wouldn’t impact John much. Not even if they ever found out what happened to Javier if he’d died. He’d hear Abigail mourning him, maybe Hosea would speak forlornly about him with Tilly and tell stories around the campfire, maybe Dutch would mention his death not being for nothing, that he died for their cause.

But nothing would happen within him. 

So why does it sound less like John wants to collect information on this escapade and more like he genuinely thinks they were reckless and selfish for leaving the gang in a vulnerable position, for Javier to put himself in danger needlessly.

He could’ve gotten himself killed just now, despite the gatlin gun and the sandbags curved around it. 

“If it weren’t for us helpin’ you in Ascension, you’d have died and then Javier as well,” John reminds him readily, like he’s searching for credit when in his mind all he wants is to tell the kid off for luring Javier into this trap of empty promises to see his family again.

“John, not now,” Arthur warns. 

“What’s your problem with me?” Xabiani groans and turns around, bringing Hambruna with him to face Old Boy. 

Neither gets another word in.

“I said not now! Jesus. We’re here to get Javier somewhere safe so we can take him back to the America. Shut your asses up,” Arthur admonishes them like they’re some random kids, sounding just like Dutch used to when John was thirteen and picking petty fights.

John huffs and lets it go, thinking he hasn’t said all he wants to that fool over there, the one he refuses to trust until he has something to show for. How is he supposed to trust him when he left Javier, let him be taken and tortured?

When they’re back in Ascension, or however they spell it in Spanish, Xabiani gets the help of an acquaintance, granting Javier a bed. With all their horses hitched, they stay in a house with half its roof trashed, leaving a gaping hole into the clear sky. Luckily, there’s no rain and minimal wind and there’s a fire closeby.

Arthur and John carried Javier to the bed and Xabiani took off his own poncho and put it over Javier. John suspects that Javier won’t get his poncho-thing back, that the men he killed stole it. He also has no weapons and no shoes.

The woman living in this small house with two children and a younger woman speaks to Xabiani. John wonders how the hell they can understand each other when they speak so fast. The way John speaks to Arthur makes it sound like they’re two toddlers just figuring out how to talk compared to them.

The woman leaves briefly before returning with a bucket of water only half filled and a rag, only half clean. Better than nothing. Xabiani takes the supplies and seemingly thanks her the way he dips his head and says ‘Gracias’ in a grateful way. She doesn’t offer much in reply.

He sits by Javier’s bedside, carefully grabs his right arm and flips it over so his wrists are visible. He takes some water and dabs it on what seems to actually be burns of some kind.

John glares at him. Waits for him to see something fishy going on. He doesn’t know what that fishy business would be. A knife to the throat, poison injected in his system - anything. John doesn’t trust him.

“Arthur,” Xabiani speaks up. He’s so comfortable talking to them, despite his short time in the gang. Arthur doesn’t seem bothered more than at the fact that he’d been disturbed out of resting his eyes. “Remove his socks.” Xabiani then points at them, as if Arthur wouldn’t know where a pair of feet sits on a person, “he’s bleeding,” he states calmly.

John had been standing parallel to Javier, only able to see the dirt under the soles of his feet. He sidesteps a bit, stands beside Xabiani and sees the blood soaking through the socks. It isn’t much, but it’s alarming considering the pattern of it forming. Small patches where his toes are, at the tip.

Arthur does as requested and winces at the sight of a complete absence of toenails. John’s face involuntarily scrunches together like he’d eaten something sour, he looks away, sighing out of empathy. He can’t even imagine the pain he’d gone through.

Xabiani clears his throat uncomfortably. “We should check for more damage,” he suggests and looks up at John from where he’s sitting, asking for help. John is willing to help Javier, not Xabiani. But for now, they go hand in hand.

He’s come far from who he used to be.

John holds Javier’s slack upper body aloft while Xabiani lifts his dirty shirt and finds the markings of cigarettes there like he’d been spit roasted by cigarette stumps.

“Jesus,” Arthur says again, all in a troubled exhale.

“Goddamn animals,” John comments too. Xabiani doesn’t say anything, he just keeps checking his torso for more imminent injury but finds none, signaling to John that he can lay him back down.

His fingers are poisonous. Get away. Leave Javier alone.

John needs to sleep. For the past few days, those faceless brown eyes have haunted his steps, have shown themselves in his rest, making permanent residence in his mind. Maybe he’s simply exhausted from all the running, from how far from all they knew they were.

After deeming Javier’s wounds somewhat taken care of, Xabiani stands up. He stares at the ground for a few seconds. If John didn’t know better, he’d think the kid was feeling ill at ease over what Javier had done. Arthur and John saw it too, when Xabiani told him to stop. At least it seemed that way but John couldn’t understand anything they said anyway. 

Granted, John has no proof Xabiani isn’t being truthful, he may be feeling terrible about Javier’s episode but there is something John can’t put his finger on that makes it hard to trust him. 

Xabiani looks up at Arthur first, then turns to John. “I have people I love here. I need to see them before we go,” he says, barely awaiting a reply before heading out like he’s got something to hide. Once he’s out of sight, John moves over to Arthur.

“Arthur,” John whispers, in case Xabiani’s nearby, “I think we should go now,” he suggests shamelessly and Arthur turns to him, expression surprised.

“Why?” He asks incredulously.

John sighs. “I’ve told you already!”

“Right.” Arthur scoffs and bounces off the wall with his shoulder. “‘Cause you don’t trust ‘im but you got no proof,” he mocks.

“He ain’t here,” John ignores Arthur’s mockery, “we could just go. What do we lose by leavin’? He ain’t done nothin’ for us, Arthur.”

“And what have you done for us lately, huh?” Arthur challenges. This is exactly what John didn’t want. 

“Don’t start,” John groans. “I know I fucked up, I know I shouldn’t have left but… please trust me on this.”

Arthur is a softie. Sometimes. He has folded many times because of the word ‘please’ over the years John has known them, especially if they came from Mary or Hosea. John spits that faint doubt, the thing that makes Arthur wanna at least hear John out.

“How you think Javier’s gonna react when he wakes up?”

“He’ll live.”

“But you won’t. He’ll kill you if he finds out.”

“That’s fine. He’ll kill me someday anyway.”

Arthur opens his mouth to speak but he’s interrupted by Javier drawing a fast breath that startles John a little, causing him to twist around and Arthur to swerve past John to get to their friend. 

His shoulders slump. There went that plan. It’s not like John can convince Javier to leave Xabiani, that’s like trying to separate Tilly and Mary-Beth or Hosea and Dutch. It just won’t happen. How did they get to that point? When did they get so close?

Neither of them can make anything close to a decision before they hear a loud gasp emitted from Javier. Both men turn at the sound to find Javier awake and dazed for a few moments before he has a grasp on reality. Neither of them gets to ask Javier if he’s okay or what happened before he pierces the tense air with his own question.

“What the hell are you two doing here?” Is what he asks. He looks around after sitting up, looking like he’s convinced this isn’t where he actually is. One moment Javier is massacring soldiers and the next his gang members appear out of thin air.

“We thought you’d be in trouble down here,” Arthur answers and it isn’t very straightforward but Javier doesn’t seem to need details yet. “We thought you said you’d never go back here so we thought you’d been taken or something,” he goes on, not mentioning that it had all been John’s paranoia that sent them down here on a wild goose chase.

Arthur keeping what little pride John’s got in a sort of respectable stage is greatly appreciated by John who wishes he knew how to thank him but doesn’t. At the moment, at least.

“I’m… “ Javier sighs and rubs his left wrist, “I’m sorry. I just… it felt so- “ he tries to explain but gives up, knowing that the two of them could never understand. Not fully.

“Nobody hates you for it,” John decides to say and it’s seemingly foreign enough for Javier to get him to look up at him in confused surprise. John knows what it’s like to be hated for abandoning those you promised to protect, to stay close to. He’s felt it firsthand. Hopefully, Javier realizes this and understands that unlike with John, there are people back in the gang who are waiting for him — Hosea, Tilly, Abigail, Dutch.

Nobody waited for John.

“We’re glad we found you,” Arthur then says.

“Yeah,” Javier replies absentmindedly before he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, searching for his boots so they can just get the hell out of Mexico. He never wants to come back, never wants to give the soldiers a chance of capturing him and getting their revenge. 

“How did you find me?” He wonders.

“Abigail told us where you’re from. We got a map and followed the road downward until we found Xabiani here in Ascension,” Arthur explains — simple as that. Javier nods, switches over to rub at his other wrist. 

“Those men,” Javier starts and his voice is the polar opposite of what it was when he was awake last, murderous and vengeful. “Are they… did any of them…?“

Arthur shakes his head. “I’m pretty sure you got every last one,” he answers plainly. They’re all used to mayhem like that, maybe not as used to how emotionally charged it was. John won’t judge Javier for it. Maybe he would before, when they were at each other’s throats simply for existing, just to have something against him. But he can imagine that the massacre was justifiable, given Javier’s history.

Javier nods firmly, in a determined way. Maybe even prideful, like he’s accomplished something great, done someone a great service. John thinks he might think it is that; great service to those of his hometown. John doesn’t know what happened to the people that lived there but he can paint a pretty clear picture since the town was in ruins and overrun by men torturing Javier by pulling out his nails and marking him with their cigarettes.

“Where’s Xabiani?” Javier questions. He looks around the room, as if his friend would’ve been hiding somewhere until mentioned.

“‘Said he got people here to see ‘fore we go,” Arthur answers.

“Yeah… this is his hometown,” Javier says.

“You met him before?” John wonders. He sort of already knows they haven’t but it might be worth asking.

“No,” is the reply. “When I joined the revolution, I only ever really went south or west. I killed the general in Hermenegildo.” As if that’s a place either of them is gonna know about. John nods slowly.

They don’t get to say much more until Xabiani returns. He wasn’t gone long. Maybe there aren’t many people left for him to speak to. It seemed pretty desolate here too to John.

“Javi, you’re awake. Good,” he says in a hurry, finding Javier’s boots for him and placing them in front of the bed. 

Javi? What the hell?

“Xabiani, what- “

“El ejército llevó a las mujeres a una prisión. Tenemos que liberarlas o- “

“Cálmate, amigo,” Javier huffs, barely strong enough to stand after the draining of his adrenaline.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asks brusquely.

“The army captured women of the town. Young women. One of my friends is there, we need to help them or I don’t know what they’ll do,” Xabiani stresses.

“You think Javier’s in any position to pull off a rescue mission?” John butts in, causing the other three to turn to him, two of them baring a confused expression - Arthur and Javier. Especially Arthur. He’s probably asking himself since when did John give a damn about Javier’s health?

In his head, John tells himself he says this simply to ruin something for Xabiani, seeing as he doesn’t trust that idiot.

“Cállate la boca, gringo- “ Xabiani hisses and Javier places a tired hand on his shoulder, holding him back from jumping John. But John stood ready, he’d gladly fight him if he’d have to.

“Stop,” Javier says. “He’s right, I don’t think I can…”

“You don’t have to,” Xabiani reassures him and briefly turns to look at Arthur. “Arthur and John can help me. Just stay here - rest. ¿Vale?”

”Vale.”

It’s bold of Xabiani to assume that John would help him but he thinks for an extra moment that he isn’t helping Xabiani, he’s helping those women. That makes it worthwhile. Had it been anything else, John wouldn’t lift a finger to help him in any way.

Xabiani turns to them both, leaving Javier on the bed to listen to what his plan is. 

“It’s not long. Fifteen minutes with horses. They’re cocky so they may have small guard detail,” he explains briefly and Arthur nods along while John glares unabashedly.

Minimal details, John thinks. Sounds like one of Dutch’s plans.

But they’ve made it out of worse situations before, to be sure.

Arthur sighs and looks at John who rolls his eyes and nods back, accepting the plan and the odds they might die. Anyone can do something noble once in a while, unless their moral compass broke and there’s no looking back. John isn’t a saint but some things he can’t ignore.

”Okay,” Xabiani huffs, “let’s go. We don’t have much time.” He turns back to Javier one last time, a hand on his shoulder that has John glancing at them sideways. It’s closer to Javier’s neck now than earlier. “Duerme un poco. Te despertaré cuando regresemos.”

“Bueno.”

Javier does as told, he watches the three of them leave before he carefully lays back down, eager to forget what has happened for a little while. As long as he doesn’t dream of it

He hopes they’ll all be fine, that they don’t have to do what Javier did. Still, despite the images of heaps of dead men, bleeding and tainting the ground with their dirty blood, Javier can’t feel anything but good about it. Something inside him tells him he shouldn’t feel good about murdering men who might’ve only followed orders, but to Javier, it seemed like they followed their orders with too much vigor.

The way they tortured him like they’d get off to it after leaving him in the dark, how they murdered the people Javier once knew, how they spoke of those people - they liked what they had done to Janos, they believed that they got a fair punishment for simply resisting injustice.

Javier is proud of what he did and it far outweighs the part in him that tries to make him feel bad. He isn’t as bad as them anyway. If he was, he’d find these men’s families and harm them, like they would. They found the families of the revolutionaries and punished them for the ‘crimes’ committed by their families and friends.

They killed Javier’s mother for the sin of birthing a murderer, even if she had no control or say over Javier when she was all the way back home and Javier was in Hermenegildo, courting a girl.

No, Javier doesn’t feel remorse. He feels he has been served as much justice as he can. He might never have closure, but he will have justice and it started with this massacre of army men. Justice won’t be truly served until Allende and his gaggle of criminals can be overthrown and killed slowly, torturously.

The fire in Javier drains him in his weakened state. He eventually doses off without meaning to, halfway in bed.

When they reach the prison, which looks more like a badly barricaded encampment, they hitch their horses behind a small incline, out of sight for possible patrolling. John makes a comment on his doubts that this place even has a guard detail and Xabiani justifies his lack of knowledge on the fact that it came from a petrified villager whose daughter is among the captured.

“What’s the plan? We can’t lure ‘em all away,” Arthur whispers as the three of them lay on the ground with binoculars at hand. Despite the moderate size of the encampment, there are more men than they can possibly take on. There might even be some patrolling the general area and not just around the encampment too.

“Two other villagers are helping,” Xabiani answers. “They should be on the east side of the camp.”

“That might’a been useful to know,” John criticises. “We could’a made a plan with them before we left, you know.”

“Your comments aren’t helpful, John,” Xabiani hisses.

“I’m just sayin’.”

“Say less.”

Oh, if only they weren’t in such a precarious position John would’ve punched the daylights out of Xabiani for sassing him. 

“I’ll go talk to the others. They don’t speak English. You two wait here.”

“Are you kiddin’- hey!” John tries to stop him but doesn’t reach his arm in time, the idiot slipping past him and stalking along the edges of the light coming from the camp. John groans and rests his forehead on his forearms, stuck laying on the ground beside Arthur who seems just about ready to do anything for those women.

He’s like Hosea in that way, always worrying after women.

“God, I hate him,” John mumbles against his own arms. He thinks it might be muffled enough for Arthur not to hear him but judging by the scoff he emits, he must have. Whatever. Arthur can’t stop John from feeling how he feels. The two of them will just have to wait while those poor women suffer with each passing second.

Puta madre…

His head hasn’t hurt this bad in a long time. Along with his back. Sure, he didn’t exactly sleep in a fine hotel but this much pain in all his body is unusual for him. 

Javier tries to sit up but finds that his hands have been bound again, harder this time, with no space between his hands and the rope. It’s digging into his sensitive wrists, cutting deeper and deeper into the scabs forming over the burns with each jostle of his body.

He’s moving. He’s been loaded into something like he’s cargo, tied up in the back of a stagecoach, even his feet are bound this time, the tips of his socks drenched in blood from the lack of toenails.

Has he been taken again? Seriously? How the hell did they find him?

Who found him?

“Hey,” Javier coughs, thankfully not gagged, “¿quién eres? ¿A dónde me llevas?”

He gets no reply. 

Right. He’s dealing with one of those types that do evil things but hates himself for it, like it's something he does just to live. It’s always the enigmatic silent types that think they’re better than everyone, who stays silent because he’s so tortured inside. 

Javier rolls his eyes. He doesn’t even bother trying to ask anything else. He’ll eventually find out where he’s going and why he’s been taken. He can only guess it’s either the army or someone else he’s wronged somehow. Maybe it’s an American finding him on a whim after seeing him on a poster in a state.

He tries to get comfortable but with all the bumps in the road it’s incredibly hard. 

“Where the hell is he?” John whispers after what must’ve been between fifteen to twenty minutes of absolutely nothing from Xabiani. Arthur has turned fidgety even.

“I don’t know. Somethin’ must’a happened,” he answers.

“Like what? We would’a seen if something happened this isn’t a fortress.”

“Shut up,” Arthur groans. “Let’s just get these women outta here and get back to Javier so we can go back to America.”

“First decent idea you ever had.”

“Shut it.”

They should’ve had Hosea with them. He’s good at distracting people. But even if he was there, and no one speaks English, then they’d be fucked either way. 

It’s nighttime when the stagecoach jostles to a halt and Javier bumps his head into one of the crates in there filled with what must be bottles of alcohol. His head’s not gonna be okay after all this, he can bet. 

The cover on the coach has prevented Javier from cooking alive under the sun and also kept him completely blind to where he’s been taken. The driver hasn’t said a word and Javier hasn’t noticed any sign there’s someone else present, so it’s just the driver and Javier out in the middle of nowhere.

The driver appears at the end of the coach with a rifle in his arms, pointed directly at Javier. Javier has been hungry for days, tortured, massacred a village of army men and now tied up in the back of a coach, he has the urge to not be cooperative because if this puto kills him, so be it.

“Salir,” the man orders. He can tell the idiot is purposefully deepening his voice. 

“No puedo,” is all Javier provides. The masked man huffs and with only one hand grapples onto the bonds tied around Javier’s ankles, dragging him closer and cutting the bonds. 

“¡Vete!” He shouts and Javier gives in, rolling from his side to his back and sitting up, dragging himself closer to the end of the coach.

“¡Fuera de aquí!” He goes on again just as Javier is exiting.

“¡Me voy! Dios mío, qué temperamento,” Javier mumbles like a fussy child. 

The man motions for Javier to walk to the left of the coach and he does as silently instructed. When he rounds the corner, he sees that the horses leading the coach are Boaz and Hambruna. Stolen but unharmed.

“¿Dónde conseguiste esos caballos?” Javier questions as he begins to imagine that the story about the women had been a way to lure everyone away, to leave Javier vulnerable and for the taking like wounded prey. But Hambruna. What is she doing here? Xabiani left with John and Arthur. Did they get sent into a trap as well? Are they dead? 

No reply comes from the man, unsurprising but frustrating. 

“¿Qué pasó con el dueño de ese caballo?” He demands, fearing the worst might’ve happened. Javier knows Xabiani had enemies too, they might’ve already taken care of him.

“Something happened to Xabiani. He ain’t nowhere. And I ain’t seen no other two people neither,” Arthur says while they help the women flee, all seven of them. 

“Yeah, he left us, Arthur,” John nearly shouts. “He left us in the dirt, he went somewhere else.”

“Why would he do that?” 

“I don’t know! I never did, but now we know he’s a goddamn rat who wanted us to get killed here!” John argues and Arthur listens for the first time it seems.

“Why?” 

“Arthur, I don’t know but we gotta go!”

“Go where? Whatchu think’s gonna happen?”

“All Xabiani’s ever done while being with us is cater to Javier. The bastard called ‘im ‘Javi’, there is somethin’ ‘bout Javier that Xabiani is out for!”

“You’re crazy, you know that? None’a that makes any sense.”

“I’ll explain on the way back! Let’s go!” John whistles after Old Boy and Arthur after Boadicea, the two of them accompanying the women back so they can return to the village safely. John thinks this whole thing was a setup. A way for Xabiani to get to Javier while Arthur and John are gone.

Chapter Text

“Giro,” the voice demands without answering Javier’s question. He does as told and turns so he faces the side of the coach while keeping his eyes on the horses. What the hell happened to Xabiani?

His suspicion makes it impossible for him not to turn his head to catch a glimpse of what’s going on behind him but the man jams the rifle into Javier’s back and forces him up against the coach with a bang, making everything in it rattle. 

“No te muevas.” Javier is about to ask why when he feels the sharp tip of a knife grace his thumb and then how the bonds loosen around his wrists. He hadn’t realized how bad it was hurting until he could roll his wrists and flex out his fingers, he found out that the ropes had once again dug into his skin and pierced the scab forming from the strain Javier went through trying to escape from Janos.

“¿Por qué me dej- “ he attempts to wonder but is cut off by the burning pain of being stabbed except that this time it flares out from the palm of his hand and through his entire arm like a bolt of lightning flickering beneath his skin. He shouts in surprise and pain, looking at the blade piercing his hand and into the wood of the coach.

It’s jammed hard enough to render it difficult to pull the knife out without causing more pain. His hand is stuck to the coach. He bleeds, it flows down the wood like a river, dripping onto the sand below.

Javier stifles the sounds by biting his lip while the man brings out another knife which he holds between his fingers, testing out its sharpness by nicking himself on the tip of his pointer finger. 

“Matar gente es fácil.” In Javier’s state, the obvious altering of his own voice becomes unbearable and he moves his free hand to rip the knife out of his hand and the coach but the man decides to jam the other knife into the other hand. Javier cries out in pain again like a wounded animal.

“No hace falta ser inteligente para quitarle la vida a alguien. Eres prueba viviente de ello, Javier Escuella.”

Javier scoffs, having to force it out of his throat, his chest stuttering as he fights to breathe through the pain. The blood is running like a flashflood, he feels faint at the sight when he usually doesn’t. He’s seen terrible things, done worse things. 

“Gracias, amigo,” he huffs with a weak, mocking smile. The way the man tilts his head makes Javier think he’s irritating him.

“¿Quieres enumerar todos tus errores estúpidos o debería hacerlo yo?” 

“Pareces impaciente. Adelante, por favor.” 

Javier saw no signs that the man wanted to reveal himself this early on, if at all, but Javier’s persistence to be a bother even while he’s probably dying seems to reawaken some spite of his own. The man takes off his hat and rips his mask off his face, lifting his head in an attempt at seeming menacing and Javier blinks through his pain and his oncoming exhaustion to find Xabiani there on the other end.

He’s stabbed knives through his hands, like nailing him to a cross. 

“¿Qué…?” Javier breathes, his breath picking up, all the way up to making him hyperventilate and feeling dizzy, having a difficult time standing upright and not moving his hands and making the wounds worse.

Why is Xabiani, his friend, doing this? Has he been paid by the army? By bounty hunters? How long… has he been wanting to harm Javier? 

“‘¿Qué?’ ¿Hablas en serio? Hasta John, el pinche tonto, lo sabía,” he insults and all of a sudden, him speaking ill of John isn’t so funny anymore. He tries to take a swing, feeling how his world crumbles for the second time in a very short while but the knife stops him, he senses every movement, how it slides further into the blade as he moves it. He whines trying to stay quiet and Xabiani glares at him.

“Benítez. El general.” When Javier can’t respond, Xabiani laughs. Uninhibited, sounding like an injured fox.

“No puedes ser tan estúpido,” he says. He’s mocking Javier, he’s pointing to his own head, tapping his finger against it. 

Is it… was Xabiani one of the men in the army that he killed in Janos? Is that why he wanted him to stop? Did Javier kill his friends? But did he care for them that bad when he was in the US, having been there for a few years after his father was killed? He hates Mexico. He never wanted to return, he said he’d do it for Javier, to help him.

Javier blinks at him, completely fooled. 

John and Arthur return to Ascension. Everything seems the same, the women get home safely and they find the woman back in her home where they’d kept Javier. But neither him nor Xabiani are anywhere to be found. John asks in broken Spanish where they are, the lady answers in broken English that she doesn’t know and that they were all gone when she returned.

This is also when Arthur starts understanding what John had been going on about. This whole thing had been weird. When the two of them came across Xabiani in Ascension, he was definitely not as meek and unconfrontational as he was while with the gang. He didn’t even seem useless, like he would with the gang. 

“Shit,” John sighs, hands on his knees as he tries to collect his thoughts. Arthur paces around, scratching his beard.

“Their horses ain’t here,” Arthur states confusedly. “You think they left to go back to the gang?”

“Why would they do that? Ain’t no way Sha- fuck his name, had to leave us in the dust just to take Javier back to the gang. And he was in no position to be moved anyway,” John explains and Arthur begins to wonder if John would actually make a decent investigator, like someone in one of Hosea’s books.

“We ain’t got no clue where the hell they might’ve gone,” Arthur reminds him, scraping for any information he might’ve caught somewhere but coming up empty-handed. 

“So we’ll ask,” John answers almost before Arthur is done speaking, rushing out of the house and hurrying away.

“John! Where the hell are you goin’?”

“Keep an eye on the horses! I’ll be back!”

Arthur toys with the thought that John’s gonna pull the exact same move as Xabiani did. He has before but maybe not so obnoxiously.

John goes back to find one of the women he rescued back at the military encampment. She spoke some English, she might know something or know someone who knows something. She lives near the ruined square, the broken statue of a man in ancient clothes from before a time when America was even formed.

Her name. What the hell was her name again? He can’t keep forgetting things, it won’t save Javier and he might not have much time. 

“¡Benítez, pendejo! ¡El general que mataste por culpa de una chica!” He exclaims and sounds angry, mad with repressed rage finally able to unravel at this moment, all alone, after their long and perilous journey. But Xabiani knows about the girl, talks about it like it means something to him.

Does he know her?

“Él era mi padre.”

Javier feels like his breath was just punched out of him. He can’t stand upright as his vision blurs and his stomach churns, the knives feel like bee stings in comparison to the sensation of a gunshot splitting his head open, revealing the void of a brain inside.

How couldn’t he connect the dots? 

How could he be so fucking stupid? 

“Vuestra revolución inútil,” Xabiani scoffs as Javier heaves for breath, almost hallucinates a knife in his throat.
“¡Mírame!” He demands and grabs Javier’s hair, tilts his head up and revels in the tears forming in his eyes. He seems satisfied even.

“John tenía razón,” Javier whispers and Xabiani basks in these three words. He’d been doing his utmost to seem harmless, to make anyone suggesting he’d be a monster seem like a monster instead. He’d successfully fooled everyone and isolated John again, making him feel crazy for believing something was wrong. 

“Sí. Tu enemigo tenía razón,” Xabiani confirms. 

Javier has never felt like such a fucking idiot in all his life.

What’s your verdict? Hosea had asked him a while ago. He believed the kid had brought him closer to Mexico, that his insistence on finding and getting closure came from a place of understanding and wanting the best for him because they came from the same hardships at the core.

I feel closer to my family through Xabiani.

My family.

Javier’s head snaps up, eyes fierce and no longer dimmed with tears. They’d already slipped past his defenses and dried up in the arid air.

“Mi familia… ¿fuiste tú?”

Xabiani shrugs. “Ojo por ojo.”

“¡TU PINCHE- “ Javier screams and attempts to lunge at the bastard who had his family killed so cold heartedly, only offering a shrug as a reply. The knives in his hands stop him from doing anything, crying out in pain and grief as he’s been fooled again thinking he can’t shed any more tears. Wrong. 

It’s like he’s losing them again when he looks into Xabiani’s once warm eyes, eyes he used to find comfort in, find home in and now he finds that the home is empty and it’s his fault. Xabiani did this to Javier for killing his father.

“Hice que los hombres de mi padre los mataran a todos,” Xabiani reveals, a dark note to his otherwise so chirpy and easygoing voice. His eyes are frozen over with murky unfeeling, hiding a fire that’s been fed by his lust for revenge each day he’s been by Javier’s side, pretending he’ll keep being there all their lives.

Javier can’t remember having been betrayed before. Mistreated, cast out, abused - yes, but betrayed… this is a first. He can’t stand upright. He doesn’t know if it’s only because of the knives in his hands and the pain and the loss of blood that weakens him or if it’s the heartbreak or if it might be both combining into a stew of utter misery.

It makes sense what one of the men said when they were holding Javier captive in Janos. Calling a kid a genius, saying it made sense because of who his father was. They’d been talking about Xabiani. 

He’d somehow cooked up a whole plan that made sure he’d find Javier, get beneath his skin, make him feel like they could do anything together - even travel through a country Javier had to leave.

There’s never been a more clear example of how you often end up facing what you fear the most in the end. Javier feared his past would catch up to him so he avoided it until it caught up quiet as a mouse, unassuming as a gray cloud that turned into a lightning storm. 

“Maté a mi madre. Se lo merecía,” he says without much emotion. Javier isn’t surprised, actually. What with how he spoke of her. He keeps going, holding a tighter grip of Javier’s hair. He’s glad he cut it since there’s not much for Xabiani to grab onto. Javier hisses still, trying to turn his head to avoid his disgusting accusatory gaze.

“Quería matarte donde mataste a mi papá pero la diligencia tenía otros planes.”

“Adelante,” Javier wheezes. 

“Hmm… “ Xabiani feigns thinking over his options. He knows exactly what he wants to do. “No. Necesito saber por qué hiciste.”

Javier huffs, “¿Por qué debería hacer eso? Mataste a mi familia, no te debo nada.”

Xabiani nods slowly, making a noise of acceptance at first. He turns around from where Javier is nailed to the coach and takes a few steps away. This isn’t the end. Not when the fire in his eyes or the determination in his hunt for revenge is so strong. 

Quick as a flash of lightning, Xabiani twists around and rips one of the knives out of Javier’s hand and he yells, trying to keep himself steady so he won’t fall forward and make his other wound press against the hilt of the knife. He presses the palm of his hand to his thigh to stifle the bleeding that’s gotten much worse at the freeing of the hand.

“Entonces morirás,” Xabiani tells him darkly, getting in a fighter’s position. “He estado esperando para matarte… pero… hagámoslo divertido.” 

A smirk spreads on Xabiani’s lips as he seemingly gets an idea. He leans forward, his hand rests on the hilt of the other knife but doesn’t pull away. He just stands there at first, acting a predator.

Javier doesn’t regret killing General Benítez. He hurt Lena, the girl he loved, and he would do it again. He wanted to take her, a young girl, as a wife, a girl that wanted to live and be with someone she loved too. Javier. 

Lena must be gone. Long gone. Probably hunted down by the army. God, he just hopes she got a quick end. Quicker than the one Xabiani plans to offer him. 

“Tu estupidez será tu fin.”

“Acabar con ello de una vez,” Javier sighs at Xabiani’s need to be dramatic. He’s been a talented actor, pretending he’s so sensible and kind and patient. He might be right, however. 

How could he not see? And now did John see when nobody else did? Why had he kept trying to warn Javier when it clearly never worked? They didn’t care for each other, they didn’t look out for each other.

Except for the fact that he and Arthur came all this way, they figured out that Javier had lied and ran off to Mexico on a lie, they’d come all the way to Janos and helped him.

John goddamn Marston is smarter than he looks.

John Marston…

Strange feller. But a good one maybe. Distrusting, complicated, opinionated, brave, reckless.

Javier is such a fucking fool.

“Vale. Ya terminé de esperar,” Xabiani says and rips the other knife out of Javier’s palm, grabbing him by the neck in his unstableness and pulling him forward fast and hard enough that he falls, catching himself with the help of his hands.

Javier lets out a pained sound as small rocks press into his skin and the blood leaves handprints in the sand. Xabiani picks up the other knife too, flips it like he knows how to use it.

Then he bends down to Javier’s level and puts the blade under Javier’s chin, tilting it up to get him to look at Xabiani.
“Pelea conmigo. Morirás sin importar lo que hagas pero… lucha contra mí.”

Javier doesn’t like the odds of that. Fight him how? He can’t even grasp anything. 

But does Javier have it in him to give up? To just let this idiot, this little piece of shit, kill him after what he done? 

He killed his mother. He killed his sister, he massacred his hometown. Javier killed one man, this was not an eye for an eye, it was a full upper body for an eye. Javier can’t let him get away with killing Mari, his mariposa. He loved his mother, more than anything, but his sister had been his everything, his soulmate.

The thought of her and her death, however it happened, and how carelessly she was handled after it makes his blood boil. 

“Entonces dame el pinche cuchillo,” Javier demands between clenched teeth, sitting back on his knees slowly, purposely dragging his hands along the sand and creating long stains of blood as he goes. Xabiani smirks and stands, holding it out to him blade first. 

Javier grabs it and turns it, grips it so his knuckles whiten and he winces at the sting, blood dripping down the hilt and blade like he’s already stuck it into Xabiani.

“Muéstrame quién es Javier Escuella, el temible asesino.” 

Javier takes a quick step forward and throws a fistful of sand into Xabiani’s eyes who stumbles backwards and while trying to rub his eyes free of dust Javier lunges and slices Xabiani in the arm, leaving a long cut straight down. He grasps it and it begins. He can see it in his eyes.

“¡Asesino!” Xabiani cries out and throws the knife he’d been holding, Javier jumps aside and it misses, but as Javier tries to fight the woozy feeling he’s getting from all the bloodloss, Xabiani takes out a handgun and pistol whips him - twice - and Javier loses his footing, causing him to fall on his back and dust kicks up all around him as the air is knocked out of him.

“¿Crees que puedes matar gente sin consecuencias?” Xabiani shouts and aims the gun at him from above.

Cop out. Xabiani’s gonna shoot him now, when he’d wanted a knife fight?

“¿Crees que masacrar un pueblo entero equivale a matar a un solo hombre?” Javier counters equally as loud, equally furious. Xabiani holsters the gun and stomps his foot on Javier’s stomach. Javier curls in on himself and can’t do much else than groan as the air escapes him, he coughs dryly, probably also having inhaled some dust earlier.

“Asesino. ¡Asesino! ¡ASESINO!” Xabiani kicks Javier with each cry, his age finally starting to show as his anger starts looking more like a tantrum, showing more desperation than calculation. He’s a kid who misses his father, who wants to avenge him. 

But he’s a kid who massacred a village, trying to justify it.

Curling into a ball to protect himself, Javier lays there and rolls with the punches while the pain in his hands matter less and less as adrenaline kicks in.

In a single moment of respite for Xabiani, Javier unfurls himself and kicks his opponent in the shin and trips him, sending him into the sand as well. He drags himself through the sand so he can straddle Xabiani and hand out punch after punch that rattles the bones in his hands, that split open his knuckles and Xabiani’s nose, making it bleed into his hairline,

“¡TU eres un pinche asesino! ¡TU!” Javier yells until Xabiani lifts a leg and manages to lock it in front of Javier, enabling him to kick Javier off of him and for him to tumble into the sand again. Xabiani copies what Javier had just done to him, hitting him again and again and it feels like his very brain is being shaken up in his head. 

His mouth tastes like blood, his eyesight is blurry, his head aches. He hears the shing of a blade and registers the tip of a knife being pressed to the scar across his neck, previously covered by a neckerchief but lost somewhere in the fight.

“¡Esa gente se merecía lo que les pasó! ¡Eran revolucionarios y traidores!” Xabiani counters after a while as he starts cutting the scar open again.

Javier’s breathing picks up rapidly as the same sensation from the first time someone tried to slit his throat comes back. He feels the small stream of blood filtering through the pierced skin, he tries not to move so much to make it worse, he tries to remain calm but he can’t. He wants to reply that the real traitors are those fighting for Allende, fighting against the revolution.

He doesn’t. He won’t change Xabiani’s mind on that. That wasn’t the plan, the plan was to win the fight and to kill Xabiani. 

But he can’t. One wrong move and he’ll open up a wound worse than the one Javier already suffered once.

Xabiani is pleased to see Javier’s fear, the way his eyes widen, the way he breathes like a frightened bunny, how his eyes flicker back and forth, how he tries not to swallow as one does when they’re wracked with fear.

He basks in the sounds of pain escaping Javier, like they’re rays of comforting sunlight, like this pain is something that brings Xabiani peace. It probably does. If Javier was in his stead, he surely would feel that way.

The cut has made it to his Adam's apple and it hurts so bad Javier has to scream, the same pain felt twice over as the memory blends with reality and makes it worse to endure. There’s nothing to offer him strength, not the thought that he’d make it back to his family, to the gang, that he’d end up where his mother, sister and uncle did after dying, that he’d have killed their killer, killed another traitor to the Mexican people. There’s no comfort to hold his hand as he starts walking the path of death he’s so familiar with.

With the blood accumulating in his mouth, the one thing he can think to do that might gain him an advantage again would be to spit it at Xabiani. He does so without thinking much, seeing as thinking too hard on something in a fight to the death is rarely beneficial. Xabiani recoils as he gets blood in his eyes and his concentration wanes for just a second which gives Javier enough time to grab Xabiani’s hands and wring the knife out of his grip. In a single second, he plunges the blade into Xabiani’s stomach and due to the shock of it, the boy on top of him stills and opens the door for Javier to keep jabbing the knife into his stomach over and over and over as blood spills out over Javier’s clothes, coating it in dust and blood.

“¡Esto es tu culpa! ¡TU culpa!” Javier cries as the look on Xabiani’s face grows distant and slack-jawed, his breaths stuttering. Javier shoves Xabiani off of him like he’d been a sack of rice, leaving the boy to bleed out on the ground beside him, staining the sand blood red.

You goddamn idiot, Javier thinks as he turns his head where he lays, watching Xabiani as he fades away. He sees everything they did together, the smiles they shared, the jokes they made, trouble they caused and how it slowly began to be tainted by their mixing blood, by the blood of their relatives, by the lies that’d been hidden.

There’s no answer to why Javier finds himself crying. Maybe it’s relief, maybe it’s just the way it feels when vengeance has been taken, maybe it’s a strange pressure of grief relieving itself. It does make him feel better. It does make him feel weird too. 

Nothing is ever straightforward. Not even justice. 

He stares into the sky. The sun is just about ready to climb up the horizon, chasing away the stars from view. 

He asks himself what happens next? What comes after this? Does he just move on? Does he let it take him too? Does he shove the knife into his own throat? Does he let himself go?

After speaking to some helpful people in Ascension, John and Arthur journey towards Hermenegildo Galeana. They ride quick and hard, like they’re escaping a failed robbery. They’re experts at those kinds of escapes. Arthur has finally decided to trust John, to realize that they’d been more or less hoodwinked by Xabiani if not since the beginning then at least this time.

But John has never trusted him, and now that Xabiani must’ve kidnapped Javier, it's ever more evident that he’s been right all along. Christ, the journey they’ve had. What’s Dutch and Hosea gonna say when they find out? And Abigail. If anything’s happened to Javier, who knows how she’ll react.

John would think she’d be a hurricane of anger, she’d take it out on him and he’d take it, riddled with the knowledge that he couldn’t save him, that all the work he put in would be for nothing, that he’d disappointed everyone by not succeeding. But he isn’t so sure. Maybe Abigail would be quiet, grieve in silence to spare Jack, to not distress him. Maybe she’d seek comfort in John’s tent, hide in there at night and let herself feel terrible.

He would let her if she needed to do either of them. He’d take it, unlike otherwise. He’d agree with her, he’d say the same hurtful things she would to himself in the dead of night.

The sun has just poked out from the horizon when the pair of outlaws come across a coach in the middle of the road, along with two bodies sprawled out nearby. Even mounted on Old Boy John could see the blood blooming out over the sand. Maybe a robbery.

Arthur is the only one who thinks to stop and investigate but doesn’t dismount Boadicea when he does. Well, until he alerts John who’s already made it several feet away.

“John! Get your ass over here!” He shouts and waves him over, kneeling beside one of the bodies. John gets off his horse and it isn’t until then that he looks at the horses still tethered to the coach. One of them is Boaz, the other belongs to Xabiani.

That sends John sprinting to Arthur, he understands then that he had nonchalantly passed Javier on the ground. 

Javier’s neck is covered in blood along with his hands. His face is swollen in places along with faint bruises. A trail of blood can be seen running from his mouth along with small splatters of red dotting his face like freckles.

He’s dead.

“Damn,” John huffs as he kneels in the sand, finally seeing the thin but long gash in Javier’s throat. Arthur places his hand on Javier’s still chest and then retracts it almost like he’d been burned by it. John looks at him in question but doesn’t ask anything yet.

Without explanation, Arthur leans forward and hovers just above Javier’s face, like he’s listening for something. 

“He’s alive! Christ, the bastard’s alive!” Arthur exclaims as he takes off his own neckerchief and begins tying it around Javier’s neck to stop the bleeding and John starts ripping his sleeves off his arms, tying one on around a hand and another on the other hand.

“How the hell is he still alive?” John asks as he witnesses the carnage-looking scene in front of them. What had caused what look like stab wounds going through Javier’s hands? Who’d started slitting his throat like he’s a goddamn animal?

He turns his head to the other figure, the one with the worst injuries.

Xabiani. 

John can’t see his face but he knows those curls. He’d been memorising them since he saw them, knows exactly what they look like. 

He has to know if he’s really dead or if he’s like Javier, barely holding onto some lifeline. John walks over to the body, sees his face eventually. It’s easy to see that he’s gone - his eyes are open, glazed over with something all dead people have, like they’re looking beyond where they used to be and what they used to see. His mouth is slightly ajar, devoid of breath. Then there’s the dozens of stab wounds no longer bleeding scattered on his torso.

“It’s Xabani,” John alerts Arthur who looks up from Javier, craning his neck as if that’d make him see clearer.

“Somethin’ bad happened, that's for sure,” Arthur claims quietly. John glares at Xabiani’s body, thinks that whatever he did that got him killed was justified. He spits on the ground beside him, thinks that he hopes Javier won’t feel terrible for what had probably happened here. Xabiani brought this upon himself.

This isn’t about Xabiani. That bastard is dead and Javier isn’t, he needs their full attention so John returns to Arthur and Javier while the former is in the process of lifting him. Usually, you’d toss them over your shoulder and carry them easily, but with a bleeding wound in the neck that isn’t the best option so John mounts Old Boy and tells Arthur to bring Javier to him.

“He’ll ride with me,” John says as he sits further back in his saddle, making space for Javier’s limp body. Arthur gives him a strange look but it doesn’t last before they, with considerable effort, manoeuvre Javier to sit almost slumped together in front of John.

His back is inevitably pressed against John’s chest, his head hanging loosely backwards against John’s right shoulder. It feels strange. Feels similar to holding someone in bed, the weight feels good somehow, reassuring in a way John can’t explain.

No matter. He doesn’t need to explain it. 

Arthur takes a look at Xabiani’s body himself. They decide to leave it there, untouched. Not even looting it. 

Chapter Text

“Give ‘im here,” Arthur says from beside Old Boy, standing ready to receive Javier as they’re setting up camp for the night. They’d been riding from dawn ‘til dusk, the blazing sun finally taking its leave for the night. It was time to let the horses rest, including Boaz and Xabiani’s horse. 

John hoists Javier down and Arthur catches him, lays him down on Arthur’s own bedroll. The neckerchief he’d tied around Javier’s neck was no longer soaking up anymore blood, the bleeding had slowed but it still dripped. John’s shirt sleeves had been soaked too which means they’d have to change all of it.

When they’d ridden through Nuevo Casas Grandes, they stopped for some health cures, more food and materials to clean Javier’s wounds and to properly care for them. It isn’t John’s nor Arthur’s strong suits but between the two of them they can surely work something out.

While Arthur removes the old makeshift bandages John feeds the horses, gives them some love. Then he rifles around his saddlebag to fish out the gin they’d purchased to clean the wound along with the new bandages.

The wounds on Javier’s hands don’t look too good. There’s sand smeared with the blood and John isn’t too stupid to know that foreign things in cuts like that, especially those piercing all the way through the skin. Arthur begins by pouring water into it but there’s still sand stuck inside, a little can do a lot of damage. 

“The hell do we do?” John asks as he takes Javier’s other hand and starts cleaning the outside.

“We gotta get in there somehow.” Arthur looks around for something. He takes a throwing knife out of his satchel, along with one of the clean cloths, he covers the knife with the cloth and looks at John with pinched eyebrows and curled lips. John sighs heavily but nods.

Arthur sticks the cloth-covered knife into the wound, the thin blade fitting through without a hitch. 

Except there's a huge hitch; Javier’s eyes fly open and the second he wakes up he’s wailing with pain. John jumps at this and quickly wraps his neck with a new cloth. His right eye is lined with blood, making it look like his iris is floating in a pool of it.

“Calm down, Javier,” John tries to soothe but he has never been good at that. “It’s just me and Arthur, we gotta clean your wound.”

“STOP! Please!” Javier cries and John grasps his shoulders where he lays, just trying to offer comfort by simply being there. Luckily, despite Javier’s heartbreaking sounds, Arthur keeps going until it looks better. 

It had hurt Javier enough to wake him from his brief sleep. 

When Arthur stops cleaning Javier instantly settles down. He resorts to simply heaving ragged, stuttering breaths, not saying a word while Arthur twists the cloth around the hand, readying himself to clean the second hand too.

“John,” Javier exhales in a pained sigh, tears forming in his eyes, immediately they escape and they flee into his hairline. John swallows as he tries to figure out how to offer comfort to someone who’d hurt him physically before, not to this degree, but they’ve never seen eye to eye, how is he meant to be something good?

“You’re fine. He’s gone. We just gotta clean your wounds, okay?” He thinks being straightforward and telling Javier the facts he might be unsure about. It seems to do something at least since his shoulders relax a tad beneath John’s touch.

“He killed them,” Javier sobs then, not even trying to hide his misery anymore. Arthur figures he can use the distraction that Javier’s evident grief offers to get him to open his unclean palm and let Arthur clean it.

John casts a quick glance at Arthur who nods to Javier to signal to keep him talking. He does.

“Killed who?” John asks.

“My family.” He sounds like a lost child, crying unabashedly and it blends with yelps from the pain offered by the wound cleaning. John feels sick. He’s never quite heard someone in such terrible physical pain being in worse emotional pain, someone whose soul is being extracted and ripped into the past where the only traces of his family’s existence remains.

“He paid his price,” John reminds Javier. He doesn’t know what happened but judging by the state of Xabiani’s body, they’d been fighting and luckily Javier came out victorious.

Javier’s mournful howls drown out those of the pain inflicted by Arthur, his left hand in Arthur’s grasp while his body curls the other direction as if he wants to shield himself. John just sits there useless as a knife in a gunfight, watching Javier crumble in ways he could never understand, due to him not knowing his family.

He lets out a scream at last as Arthur extracts the throwing knife and tosses the dirtied rag away, finally able to return to the real world and register Javier’s anguish. Javier passes out. He’s done for now.

John and Arthur look at each other, doing nothing but searching for words or blinking at each other.  

They don’t speak for a long time. Only when Arthur, after they’ve set up their tents and made a fire, says he’ll keep watch, even though their surroundings are flat enough to ensure no one could sneak up on them. But John won’t fault Arthur for his cautiousness. He stays by Javier’s side, goes from staring into the fire, trying to dispel his heartwrenching screams from his memory, to making sure he’s okay.

God, what a mess this turned into. How had Xabiani managed to plan this out so well, so intricately? He’s a boy. He was, anyway. Something led him to try and kill Javier, something John has no clue of why and he hopes he’ll find out soon.

But what had John expected? Ever since Javier and Xabiani first left he’s been worrying like a distraught mother, hadn’t he already prepared himself for something terrible to go down? Then again, he hadn’t expected that Xabiani would’ve more or less kidnapped Javier. This whole thing was possible through manipulation, John is sure of that at least.

Javier’s head had slumped to the side when he passed out, leaving only one side of his face visible to John. The side with the scar that runs like the beginning of a circle drawn by a child, the one close to his eye. The left one. The right one, beneath his eyelid, is bloody. It looked strange but not unfamiliar. John’s seen it before.

As he sits there with only his thoughts and the fire making noise, he senses drops of rain falling on his skin. He looks up, rapidly blinking to protect his eyes from the rain. Javier, looking strangely at peace in sleep, is softly pelted with the drops, unaffected in this state.

John stands up and lifts Javier into his tent. It’s a tight fit but he places Javier on the ground, beginning by setting down his legs, smoothly laying down his upper body and then taking extra care to softly place his head down on the ground, his hands nearly cradling his head so as to not jostle the cut on his neck too badly. 

Staying in the tent reminds him of when Javier offered to share his tent when they went on their first scout together. 

So he doesn’t stay in the tent. He crawls back out, sits at the front so he can block the entrance and feel the cold rain on his skin. He hasn’t felt it in so long. 

As he sits there, he begins to feel strange. It’s like Javier is a looming presence, his body laying limp in sleep behind John, sheltered from the rain, like he’s got a warmth surrounding him. John can sense him, somehow. He feels like an idiot. Looking back on it, why did they ever argue? John used to be jealous, territorial, almost, but it has long since dissipated. He used to dislike how Javier always thought the worst of him, like when he said ‘I never thought you’d do that’ after John had tried to rescue Javier from the Gallup jail.

In hindsight, maybe John could understand why Javier thought that way but it hurt to hear him say it. What will he say this time, when his pain-fogged mind clears and he can make somewhat rational decisions again? Or does one even come back from something like this? He said Xabiani killed his family, Xabiani said when they found Javier that the people of Janos had been massacred.

Did Xabiani do that? How the hell did he manage that? John doesn’t know what people Javier had in his family but they seemed to have meant a lot to him. 

It would explain why Javier hates John for leaving, it makes him understand better the times when Javier preached that he couldn’t abandon the family he had. 

It does pain John to think about, Javier more or less begging John to not let go the way he had, that he’s gonna regret it in the end.

Remembering their trip to Walla Walla, John thinks of their time together fondly. More fondly than he used to. His fear ‘being on his own’ ties well into Javier’s insistence that John needs to get his shit together with Abigail and the boy. And he hadn’t judged John after hearing about his fear of water.

John turns as much as he can while keeping his butt planted where he sat, only managing to see Javier in the corner of his eye, asleep and gathering his strength hopefully.

Dutch found me, took me in and people started caring for me and I know I’m not on my own now

Even now? When we’re hundreds ‘a miles away from them, stuck with each other?

Even now

Even then. Even now, after weeks of relentless searching and overworking themselves and their horses, of constantly staying determined enough not to collapse under the pressure of knowing it might all be for nothing, that Javier had simply left or that he was dead.

They managed. Arthur and John managed just fine.

It reminds John a bit of his time with Javier. Him and Arthur not getting along but being forced together on a long journey, making it easier to see that they need each other, that they can overcome their differences. But Arthur’s cold shoulder this evening feels sort of like him remembering what John is to him, that he did an unforgivable thing.

John’ll wait and see. Maybe he can reconcile with both Javier and Arthur. Maybe even Abigail - perhaps at last Jack.

“John.” He jumps and turns forward again, not even realizing he hadn’t turned back earlier. He’d been staring at Javier while he’s resting. He finds Arthur in front of him, soaked thanks to the rain. “You got the next few hours? I’ll look after ‘im,” Arthur nods his head towards Javier. John nods as well and stands up, taking his rifle off his back.

Javier’s been awake for some time. He doesn’t know how long but he’s been listening to the rain pattering against the canvas of the tent he’s been resting in. He can’t bear to move. It simply reminds him of how he got here, what it cost to end up in this shelter provided by Arthur and John. It cost him more than he’s worth, it cost him everything. He feels like he has fractured, like all his memories - happy or otherwise - have shattered into pieces that won’t fit together again.

Like they’ve all been poisoned or cursed to never be reassembled. Even if he could reassemble himself, there’d be cracks all along his frame, visible to anyone to criticise or judge. Is this what all betrayal feels like? Is this what his family thought in their last moments? That Javier had abandoned them, thus betrayed them too? 

Did they hate him in their last moments? Not knowing causes him as much pain as it would if he knew they hated him in the end. And he’ll never find out either. Maybe not even if he died here and now because who knows what happens after death. Maybe they’re turned into ghosts, bound to the earth for eternity in another plane of existence, maybe they’re in hell or heaven, maybe they’re nowhere. Maybe they’re simply waiting to cross the cempasúchil bridge.

Not that they could. Javier doesn’t have a picture of anyone. There wasn’t anything left in Janos to bring with him either.

They’d be stuck in the world of the dead.

As silent as he’d been, not even alerting Arthur sitting outside the tent, he couldn’t keep the tears away as he imagined his family being stuck behind some wall trying to reach Javier, maybe to comfort him despite his mistakes, but they can’t. They watch on as he commits crimes as well as selfless deeds, either hateful or proud.

But he will never see them again.

Javier’s breath turns jagged and becomes hard to control. He lays straight on his back, the wounds on his hands feeling squashed by his hands as they lay limply at his sides. His face hurts but it’s nothing he was used to. He can’t really swallow down his sorrow due to the pain in his throat. 

Xabiani really cut his scar open. He intended to kill him the same way someone else did. But Javier would like to think it’s some kind of curse touching that scar, anyone trying to reopen it dies at Javier’s hand. That treacherous motherfucker. All this time… he’d known all this time who Javier was and what he’d done, how he’d wronged people.

He must’ve planned it all in great detail. He must’ve found out about Javier being close to Mexico and began cooking up an evil plan. Javier had many questions and no way to get answers.

When did he massacre the people of Janos? How did he find Javier? 

How could Javier let himself be fooled this gravely? 

His throat hurts when the tears fall without mercy, some muscles in his face twitch as he’s trying to keep them neutral, he presses his lips into a line to stifle any noise, air blowing harshly out of his nose as he keeps on unraveling in silence. 

When he hears his sister’s voice in his head, he thinks about ending it here and now so he can be with her. The pain she must’ve gone through in death, taking Javier’s place in that kingdom when it should’ve been him. He could just take Arthur’s sheathed hunting knife, end it the way he was supposed to go - slitting his own throat.

It’s the only way to break the curse, to do it himself.

There’s no telling when Javier fell out of reality and lost his sense of containment but he does and he ends up sobbing again, alerting Arthur to his presence in the waking world.

Arthur thinks Javier is in physical pain and given the state of him he should be, and is, but it pales in the shadow of his emotional and mental suffering.

Despite his open eyes, Javier is acting like he’s crying in his sleep, like he’s in a coma but somehow his eyes never got the message. It’s a sight that has Arthur sort of just staring at Javier, seeing recognition somewhere in the glazed over stare he’s throwing into the tent canvas.

“Javier,” Arthur tries and shakes him at first. Nothing. Just cries. “Hey, Javier,” he tries again, this time patting his cheek, his eyes responding by the lids fluttering like they think he’s gonna get something in them. “Wake up now, cowboy, come on,” he keeps on urging.

“¡Déjame en paz!“ Javier finally answers, screwing his eyes shut like he’s trying hard to squish his eyes into his skull. “Ya no quiero hacer esto.” Like since they found him, he cries in a pleading way, like he’s asking Arthur to do something he desires the most. By the sounds of it, it’s not something pleasant.

“Calm yourself, Javier!” Arthur demands and forces him to be still by pressing his shoulders into the bedroll with his hands. John hears the tumult and dashes over, watching what might as well have been an exorcism. 

“Leave me alone!” 

“Arthur!” John alerts him and Arthur turns to look at John briefly while pressing Javier down. “Do as he says! Let him go!” 

Arthur instantly does as advised and Javier rolls over on his side, his bandaged hands covering his face. John dares to touch Arthur’s shoulder and pulls him backwards, prompting him to get out from under the tent and out into the rain again. The pair of them look at Javier curling in on himself, then at each other with looks they’ve never really shared before: discomfort. Genuine helpless discomfort. 

Neither of them are the most intelligent people but between the two of them they can get out of pretty much any situation with at most a bullet lodged in an arm or a leg or something but this is something way beyond their talents. Offering comfort to anybody is already a challenge but offering it to someone who’s suffering mentally has them completely in over their heads.

So they end up leaving Javier alone with the torture of faint sobbing coming from him barely drowned out by the rain still pelting down. It’s unbearable to listen to after a while, it makes John’s skin crawl and the mere concept of the anguish Javier has been subjected to makes John almost emotional as well. 

He’s been staring at the tent opening and at Javier’s exhausted form for about fifteen minutes before he decides to more or less propel out of Arthur’s tent and over to his own again. Javier has passed out, deep breaths still sort of jagged. 

John gathers up a rag and collects some rainwater and ducks into the tent again, sitting down beside Javier.

He dips one corner of the rag into the water and then runs it over Javier’s face so he can wash away the splatters of blood on it. His clothes are dyed red because of what must be someone else’s blood, probably Xabiani’s. John wishes he could do something about that but he can’t so he doesn’t. He’s careful not to be heavy handed or clumsy in his movements as he cares for Javier, not wanting to wake him from possibly the only respite he’ll have from his pain for a while.

He also changes the bandages again, just in case. They might not have to again.

Javier looks sort of like himself again. No sign of his rampaging on his resting face, his jaw unclenched, eyes just resting closed, eyebrows and forehead smooth, lips not pursed. Apart from the short hair and the stubble, he’s Javier Escuella. 

John sighs, wishing he could somehow help Javier. “What a goddamn mess,” John mutters to himself as he gathers the rag and wrings the blood out of it into the rainwater. With one last glance Javier’s way, John exits the tent and throws out the water. The rain feels cooling on his skin, it numbs the itch of helplessness crawling in him like poisonous spiders.

“Give this to ‘im,” Arthur suddenly says and John twists around, finding him standing there with his own bedroll. 

“You do it,” John counters. Being near Javier makes John feel useless and like a failure. He meant to come save Javier and he couldn’t. When Javier returns to his right state of mind, he’ll realize it and hate John even more.

Arthur sighs. “You been doin’ everythin’ else, just do it,” he demands and dumps the bedroll in John’s arms and shoves him in the direction of the tent. He glares at Arthur before he hurries over, to keep the bedroll as dry as possible. He ducks one last time and puts the thing over Javier, ready to leave for good this night. 

“John…” this scared John worse than Arthur creeping up on him, scared him worse when a deer jumped out outta nowhere while he was hunting rabbits a while back. Javier’s eyes are open. He’s tucked into the bedroll John put over him.

“Yes?” John replies.

“John.” 

“Yeah? I’m here,” he tries again and kneels by Javier’s side again, seeing he’s opened his eyes. He looks like an otherworldly being with his other eye all bloody.

“Why are you here?” The million dollar question. John knows the answer. He always has. And yet he finds himself questioning whether it makes sense why he’s all the way down in Mexico. He said it’s for Abigail, that she’ll kill them all if Javier is harmed needlessly but he never cared much for what she wants, did he? Why is he here?

Guilt? Wanting to feel like he’s doing something for the gang? Sport? The thrill?

“Ain’t you glad I was?” He sort of deflects, Javier doesn’t answer. His eyes flicker back to the canvas above him, stares mindlessly into it.

“I don’t know.”

Oh. 

“Javier,” John says like he can’t believe him but quietly, like he’s reprimanding him in secret.

“Fine,” Javier deadpans, “why are you here?” And this is what John didn’t want to be asked. It’s too upfront, too specific. 

“Arthur asked me to come.” Right, hiding behind Arthur works every time, even though John’s ego shrinks every time he’s done it so he usually refrains from it. He couldn’t today. “He said so, didn’t he? He thought you’d been taken.”

“I guess I was.” His voice is devoid of life, so much so that it might as well have been words said by a skeleton. 

“Uh…” John hesitates to ask. But he’s never been good at knowing what’s best for himself so he takes the least lethal chance he’s ever leapt to take. “How are you…? You been through… a lot.”

“I’m obviously doing fine.”

“You ain’t.”

“Why did you ask?” At least his sarcasm is intact.

“Do you even remember what happened a while ago? You was like a wild animal. We couldn’t even talk to ya.”

“Cállate.”

John feels somewhat comforted that Javier is showing signs of his regular self. He’s even hiding behind his Spanish as the two of them bicker. John knows Javier isn’t okay, but at least he isn’t beyond saving. 

“You want me to leave then? ‘Cause I’ll happily do so.” Not that John can rest tonight anyway, hearing Javier’s pleas to make it stop and to leave him alone and his grief-ridden howls as the pain of knowing his family’s fate combined with the pain of his injuries.

Javier doesn’t immediately reply. John tilts his head at this, thinking he might be hallucinating hesitance in Javier’s eyes. 

“Yeah. You do that. Happily.” Always an attitude. For once, it doesn’t piss John off. Javier isn’t gone, he’s buried beneath pain that will take him years to overcome but there are glimpses of himself to be seen.

“Goodnight.”

Chapter Text

Arthur had to force Javier to get out of the tent in the morning. Javier was back to square one, back to his state of half-life, back to replicating nothing but a hollowed out shell. Though he was fragile like a walnut shell, dried out by the sun. One wrong touch and he’d crumble again.

But Arthur succeeded, John standing nearby and just watching, wishing he could’ve helped. He held onto Old Boy’s reign, his horse evidently noticing his strange emotional state and nudging his arm with his nose, wondering if some love might brighten John’s spirit. It briefly did. He turned to Old Boy and scratched behind his ears along with running a hand over his dark nose.

“You’re a good boy,” John whispered to his trusty steed. His focus shifted away when he heard a faint cry. These past few days, John has grown forcibly accustomed to that sound, as heart wrenching and unfair as it is. Javier had mounted Boaz and instantly started showing his horse love and gratitude. At least someone who’d been with him since the start was still by his side.

John blinked out of his stupor then. He mounted Old Boy and rode behind Arthur and Javier, unable to let his eyes stray far from where the thin frame of Javier sat. John almost felt like he could mourn the missing strength and vigor from Javier’s body, from his whole essence. He didn’t though. He knew it’s stupid to take on someone’s burdens, he knew empathy won’t do him any good.

Still, it didn't make much of a difference as he thought he’d seen Javier’s shoulders moving, like he was doing his utmost to conceal sobs.

Javier was ripped to shreds. He couldn’t be sewn together again. 

Later, about an hour into their trek back to the gang, John is the one who vaults off his horse and dives to Javier’s side when he collapses and falls sideways off Boaz, thumping onto the ground and kicking up a dust storm around him. Arthur turns at the sound of John’s scuffing boots and dismounts Boadicea as well.

“Javier?” John tries but doesn’t get a response. John turns Javier so his back is against the ground. He’s pale, the usually vibrant color of his skin dimmed and dulled, faint specks of sweat dotted along the edge of his hairline. His lips look lifeless.

Arthur is faster when he realizes he must be suffering from some sort of infection.

They need to hurry. Neither of them are apt caretakers of any kind. They need help and they need it fast. They were too deep into Mexico to make it to America within the week but there must be some northern town with an English speaking doctor.

“Arthur, give him here,” John says and mounts Old Boy again, waving frantically to the closest thing to a brother John will ever have. Arthur picks Javier up and carries him over to John, doing the same as when they initially found him - making him sit with his back against John so he wouldn’t be jostled in uncomfortable ways while ill.

For extra protection, John slings an arm over Javier’s midsection, not caring for the desert dust transferring from Javier’s clothes.

John isn’t used to physicality. He’s never one to provide apt comfort by simple touch and never been particularly comforted by it himself either. It feels strange, softness hasn’t ever been anything he’s known. Not even when he was with Abigail. They never got along well. Just fine. Other than that, John hasn’t had much touch to revere. 

But this might be a first. He feels like he is touch can do something other than destroy, that his touch isn’t only a finger on a trigger or a curled fist slamming into a jaw - an abusive power. Javier might not be awake to agree or disagree but John feels, for the first time in a long time, like he’s useful. Like he has something to offer to this world that isn’t worth damning him for.

He’s using the vessel he’s got to carry out good, to assist someone in need, to try and do something that might end someone’s ailing. He’s using his arm for something that isn’t choking someone to death, he’s using his chest for something other than breathing so he can stay vigilant and focused in a gunfight, he’s using the warmth he creates to share it in a time of need instead of cursing it for making him overheat when running from his consequences.

John is not just a herald of chaotic beliefs or a vermin trying to eradicate injustices, he’s also a human longing for connection, a human longing to offer anything that means something. Even if the person he’s offering something to isn’t awake to receive it - or ultimately decline it given the nature of John’s relationship to Javier.

It is strained, at the very least. But there are hints of trust woven into their blurry dynamic. 

Arthur is to say very surprised when John offers to stay by Javier’s side when they’ve found a doctor’s office willing to help Americans. He tells Arthur to get some sleep, that John will stay in case Javier wakes up. He even asks the doctor to show him how to properly change the bandages when needed.

It might be guilt. It probably is. John isn’t used to feeling that way either. Whatever foreign emotion of usefulness he’s been blessed, or cursed, with is enough to give him strength to stay here. To overlook all the hardships him and Javier have endured. But it might be guilt. As if John had caused any of this. He knows he didn’t. He tried to warn Javier about Xabiani but the guilt that he should’ve done something earlier, something drastic that would make Javier hate John, that would make him a cold blooded killer in all the gang but that would at least protect Javier from this mental anguish he’s been subjected to.

There was a time when John didn’t mind Javier’s jabs and accusations. Sure, they pissed him off but they never made him doubt himself and his actions or intentions. Not until recently. Javier didn’t believe John had it in him to rescue him from jail, he didn’t believe John had it in him to rescue anyone. He thinks he’s selfish, that he doesn’t care about anything or anyone, that he left the gang to have his own way and to make his own rules.

John is selfish. He left the gang because he felt inadequate and useless, he disguised it under yearning for freedom but if he wanted it that way he never would’ve returned. He does care about them all. He definitely isn’t versed in showing it.

His care and his physicality are equally matched in how terribly they’re conveyed - if conveyed at all.

But he’s just a man. He breaks too. He just has to learn how to piece himself together again before it happens.

Now, however, it feels like he’s taken it upon himself to piece Javier back together, despite not having a clue as to how. The guilt makes it his responsibility to do so, not once imagining that Javier might have a journey similar to his of his own where he needs to learn how to piece his shattered heart back together.

At some point, John falls asleep in the chair situated by Javier’s bedside. His long legs stretched out and hand perched under his cheek to keep his head up while he breathes slow and long as he was born to do. Javier, John’s polar opposite, wakes while John sleeps. His eyes flutter open to be met by a mostly dark room apart from a small candle on the other side of it. Javier briefly envisions a staircase similar to the one he scrambled up while in his hometown. He blinks the sight away.

Javier is cold all the while the outer layer of his skin is damp with sweat. The meager blanket thrown over him doesn’t offer much heat. His right hand is pulsating with pain. 

A soft inhale scares him. He turns to his right and sees a barely lit up figure seated in a chair, snoozing in what must be a very uncomfortable way. For a split second, it looks like Xabiani. Like it was all a dream he hallucinated while being ripped up from the inside out, mental sickness digging its claws into his head at last.

But it isn’t him. The hair is too flat and straight. The limbs too long and gangly. 

John Marston. Asleep by Javier’s bedside.

Where are they? Why is it… them in here, wherever here is? 

He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t trust this. Where is Arthur? Him and John don’t know what Mexico is like, they could’ve taken Javier anywhere, anywhere that’s gonna get them all killed.

Despite his probably infected hand, Javier reaches out to John’s sleeping form and manages to grasp onto his left arm, the one simply hanging by his side. He…

Javier pauses without knowing why. He holds John’s forearm for a moment, or many. He’s real. His arm is a little thicker than Xabiani’s, it’s colder and their shirts are different materials. Javier’s fingers tremble as he remembers he shouldn’t hold too hard, the pain in his hand stabbing when he tries it,

John Marston..

“John,” Javier tries but his voice gets caught beneath a layer of what could be dust or simply dehydration. He clears his throat and swallows, trying again and adding a light squeeze to his forearm. This causes John to stir. His calm breaths hitch for a moment as he gets used to being awake, the outline of his body shown in the faint candlelight as it moves to sit up straighter in the chair.

It would be hard to see if Javier was truly awake and not just doing some weird things in his sleep. Javier makes it known he’s very much awake.

“Where…?” Javier begins to ask but the will to finish dies halfway through. 

“Hey,” John greets curtly, his voice harsher without meaning it to be. He clears his throat too. “We’re in a doctor’s office. Some town. Don’t know the name.” John doesn’t leave space for Javier to add anything before he asks, “are you okay? Your hand’s… well… it ain’t doin’ so well.”

“Cold as hell,” Javier replies. John seemingly inspects Javier’s face, what little he can see of it. 

“Right. You got a fever, I think.” 

Javier nods. He’s still holding onto John’s forearm, forgetting he even placed it there until John rises from the chair and starts shedding his coat off. 

“It ain’t much,” John says while he drapes it over Javier with a gentleness so foreign between them, “but it’s all I got,” he manages to not sound like this pains him to do. That it feels like a chore to care for Javier. Not that it does. It probably never did.

“Thanks,” Javier musters to say and he shuffles a little where he lays. “Sorry, I… “ Javier starts then before he can really think on it. “I don’t know why I woke you.”

John watches him for a quick moment before he replies. “No, it’s… it’s fine.” 

“And Arthur?” Javier’s voice is weak. He doesn’t wanna be awake but falling asleep is hard and when he is sleeping, he can never stay in it anyway. He can’t escape in his dreams. It’s not like the real world.

“Had to force him to get a room somewhere. Bastard’s gettin’ old and tired,” John attempts to jest but Javier has no energy to indulge in jokes. 

Javier doesn’t know why he admits he can’t sleep in the next moment. Maybe he still believes John’s not gonna do anything about it, that he’s just gonna listen and maybe make some vaguely snide comment. But he doesn’t. He nods and looks at his hands as he fidgets with them where he sits.

“Can’t blame you,” John says with faint nods following. “You’ve been through hell. I can’t even imagine what it’s like losin’ your family like that.”

“Let’s hope you never find out,” Javier whispers and while he’s laying on his back, his head is turned away from John. After a while of silence, the atmosphere tentative like both want to say something but don’t, John actually gives Javier a piece of his mind. A piece he has never given before.

“I never really… had a family before.”

Javier turns his head then, back to look at John while he’s still leaning his elbows on his knees and looking at his hands, picking at a hangnail. He must’ve noticed Javier looking since he continues.

“I grew up in an orphanage. Never got out, ain’t nobody wantin’ bastard children,” John scoffs, bitterness laced in his tone as he thinks on what life he might’ve lived if he’d been adopted.

“I ran away and lived on my own for four years. Then Dutch saved me and took me in. I met Hosea, Arthur, Susan, Pearson… I liked ‘em well enough but I didn’t see ‘em as family.”

“Not for a while. I didn’t know what havin’ a family was like. I thought the gang was just nice to me ‘cause I was a kid. It took… “ John chuckles lightly, “it took me maybe three years to think of ‘em as somethin’ other than friends.”

Javier listens intently. The two of them had never shared much about their personal lives. Especially not the details of what happened before the two of them met.

“I know I been… an absolute mess of a father. I never had any family values to derive my own from.”

John looks at Javier at last, instantly seeming to regret it when he scoffs and turns away again. 

“I’m not makin’ much sense, am I?”

Javier hesitates. He’s in the habit of saying things in ways that sets John off, like he’s mocking him. Not now. Not yet.

“It’s not that,” he assures John.

“Javier, what I was tryin’ to say is that… I never knew what a family was like. How they acted towards one another. And I’m sorry about yours. I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose yours.” 

“John,” Javier tries to sit up but the bruising on his torso hurts. He refrains from doing it and just lays there. “I don’t need your sympathy. I’m… glad you can’t imagine it.” John shies away from his gaze again. Javier has to work on some form of shock value to make him look back. He places his hand on John’s forearm again. That does the trick. 

“I don’t want you to do what I did. To leave them. I left them and look where that got me. Got them…”

“It ain’t your fault,” John corrects him quickly. 

“It is.”

“You had no choice. You had to leave to keep them safe.”

“It didn’t matter. The army knew who I was, who my family was. I killed Xabiani’s father, he wasn’t gonna just let it slide.”

John blinks at him. “What?”

“The general I killed. He was Xabiani’s father.”

John exhales like he can’t believe what he’d just said and Javier nods slowly. He can’t stand to look at John anymore. He can feel the other looking at him but he won’t look back. “How the hell did he find you?”

Javier shrugs. 

“He had your village burned, he took you down here knowin’ you’d want to find your home and then he tried to kill you? What a sick bastard,” John recounts and Javier wants him to stop talking about it but if he realizes things himself, at least Javier won’t have to say it.

“I came down here ‘cause I thought somethin’ was wrong. Had to beg anyone to be on my side.” Including you is on John’s tongue but now is not the time to say ‘I told you so’ so he holds it.

“You said it was Arthur who asked you to come.”

Busted.

“I… well… I asked him. I had to convince him you were in danger,” he admits but not happily. He doesn’t look at Javier.

“Why?” Javier more or less interrogates.

“Uh… why what?” John tries to play the oblivious card but John has never been a good actor. Not in the way that he’s got all those cards on the table faced up or that he’s emotional, he just can’t be anybody but himself.

“You don’t like me. Or you didn’t when I left, right?”

John sighs like he’s been caught, like he’s unwilling but forced to hand something he stole back to the owner, bitter that he got caught in a lie.

“I don’t know. Didn’t feel right to leave you in the jaws of that snake. And, well… you’re a good friend to Abigai, I think she’d have burned all of America if you died.”

Javier smiles then. The first one John’s seen for a while. It’s been almost a month and a half. It’s nothing more than what looks like a twitch of his facial muscles. Could’ve been anything, really, like a spasm or a response to pain but the glitter in his eyes tell a different story. 

“You like her, don’t you?” John finds himself asking, for no other reason than wanting to know. At least that’s what he tells himself. He also tells himself it pulls up these scratchy tiny wounds in him saying so as if it’s any of his business. He doesn’t know if it really matters. He wishes neither Abigail nor Jack any harm but perhaps that’s why he’s distancing himself from them - to protect them from who he is. John cares about everyone in the gang, but he doesn’t think he loves Abigail like she wishes he would. 

So, whatever Javier answers, it doesn’t matter. Either it’s all friendly or it isn’t. But what is that weird, pressure over his chest indicating? Discomfort? Uncertainty?

“How many times do I have to tell you, John? I love Abigail like a sister. She’s my friend. You don’t gotta worry about me,” Javier replies honestly, a bit harshly. 

“I ain’t worryin’,” John counters his statement with. “I just wanted to know.”

Javier looks at him. His eyes are steady on John, something sort of threatening in them. He might be a fool speaking like this to a volatile man who’s been mentally fucked by everything around him for weeks. John blinks and looks away.

“Do you even like her?” John should’ve seen the question coming. It’s equally sort of not important until John realizes that to Javier it is important. The most important thing in the gang, probably. He wants to know if John will do as Javier hopes he will or if Javier will have to pick up the pieces when Abigail understands it’s hopeless to try and win John over.

“They’re all important to me,” John answers truthfully. Javier sighs, understanding what it means. “If you wanna know if I love her… I don’t.”

“You love no one.”

Javier’s being difficult and frankly quite rude. He said less than thirty seconds ago that the gang is important to him, all of them. And besides, even if John didn’t love anybody, what difference does it make? He provides for them, drinks and eats and has a fun time with them. The love’s in the actions, isn’t it? 

John scoffs at Javier. “Then what the hell is love to you, Javier? I thought it was takin’ care of others, regardless of who they are, what they do for you - all that unconditional shit. What do you want from me, you tell me you don’t want me to end up like you and yet you tell me I don’t love no one!” He raises his voice, flies out of his chair and looks down at Javier who has his head turned to the wall beside him.

“You…” John diminishes a little, shoulders slumping and heaving an exhausted breath. Rage isn’t a welcome thing in this conversation. “Keep restin’. We leave in the morning.”

Thinking that Javier is doing fine given his endless and easy critique of John, he decides that Javier is fine on his own and is at no risk of dying if left alone. So John exits the doctor’s office to get some air, some cigarettes and clear his head out of all the confusion and hurt he doesn’t know how to process.

What Javier said didn’t feel good. It’s like implying John has no emotions, that he’s just that selfish son of a bitch who left his family because he was tired of taking care of others, that he had no freedoms, that he wanted no responsibilities. Javier doesn’t know jack-shit. John left because he thought he wasn’t wanted. Thought he was being estranged, left in the dust, constantly insulted and thought to be crazy for disliking Javier when everyone’s free to dislike anybody they want.

John never did anything right. The one thing he thought he could do that was unselfish, like coming back to the gang, like finding Javier, had been twisted into John coming back because he was missing security, John wanting to mooch off others, John wanting to leave and see Mexico and then never return like before.

Why is it always him? 

Why can’t he swallow his fucking tears!?

Hidden in a little shed made for farming tools, John smokes his cigarette in the dark and lets tears of frustration, confusion, and misunderstanding roll down his face like flash floods, trying to push them down at first but failing. 

John can’t even remember the last time he cried.

He didn’t even cry when he was nearly hanged.

It’s cold in the shed, surprisingly so given the heat of the day but John still doesn’t wish he’d taken back his jacket because… he cares. He fucking cares for Javier Escuella.

Chapter Text

The doctor who helped Javier with his wounds told him they might be infected. Javier wants to leave and this time he doesn’t ever wanna come back. The doctor advises him not to, to stay for a few days just so the infection won’t worsen. He refuses. Arthur and John stand a little ways away, listening in out of habit more than interest, given that they can’t understand anything anyway. 

But Javier’s decline to the doctor’s advice is clear enough. He purchases some supplies from the doctor, gives him extra money for the trouble of helping a wanted man and then exits the building, the two Americans in tow. Javier marches up to Boaz tied to a hitching post and strokes his hand along his head. 

He thought he’d lose him. He just wants to get away from it all. Maybe he’ll do a John and leave for real, tell Arthur and John that if they follow him this time he’ll kill them. It’ll just be him and Boaz against the world again.

“What did the doc say?” Arthur asks while untethering Boadicea, keeping a weather eye on Javier like he’s about to bolt or snap. He’s not a nutcase. Wanting to die is nothing but justice at this point - fair even. He’s hurt a lot of people, maybe it’s time to stop.

“Nothing important,” Javier says and it’s kind of not a lie. He just said Javier needed to be careful holding the reins and to clean the wounds every day if possible. It won’t be possible but he might try. He does need his hands.

“Seemed sorta important,” Arthur mutters like he wants it to be just for himself but he doesn’t know how to do it.

Javier sighs, gives in. “Just that I need to clean the wounds every day.”

“Right…” Arthur doesn’t believe him. But what difference does it make? He doesn’t need Arthur to believe him, he doesn’t need anyone. At least he shouldn’t need anyone. When he first came to America, he needed so much. He needed food, water, means of transportation, company, someone to teach him English, ways to defend himself - a shoulder to lean on. But he isn’t a scared boy anymore, he isn’t starved or dehydrated, he knows English, he’s got weapons. He could go it alone.

Except then he’d be a hypocrite. He’s on John’s ass for leaving, for not taking care of his family. Look what happened to Javier’s own family that he didn’t take care of. He shouldn’t leave the gang, he shouldn’t abandon them. Not because they need him, they can find others like him, because they like him.

This sense of disorientation is jarring, even more jarring than the injuries he sustained, even more jarring than his scar, than the bloody eye he’s sporting. He doesn’t know what he wants to do. He’s been preaching and preaching and trying to get it through John Marston’s thick skull that he can’t leave and now he’s thinking of doing the same.

Is this how he felt? Lost?

What do you want from me? He had asked. Javier himself doesn’t seem to know anymore.

Javier was right though. John doesn’t love Abigail nor his son, not the way he should, at least. But maybe he went too far stating that John doesn’t love anyone when he had just opened up about the fact that he learned real late how to love people. Or at least how to see them as family.

Maybe… maybe an apology is in order. He fears, however, that John’s gonna twist his words again, like he had when Javier thanked John for trying to rescue him from Gallup jail. It’s not a debilitating fear - if John chooses to see everything Javier does as something hostile then that’s his problem. He is grateful they came, both John and Arthur.

He would’ve already been dead if they hadn’t. He would’ve bled to death next to Xabiani, their souls would’ve been tied to the same stretch of road, forever intertwined by the atrocities they’ve committed against each other. Or he’d just finally occupy his reserved spot in hell. Sometimes, multiple times a day, Javier wishes he could join his family. It’s been so long since he’s seen them and now it’ll be even longer. 

Or not. Who knows, maybe he gets caught then hanged. 

They don’t speak much as they travel, Arthur occasionally asks Javier which way is the closest back to New Mexico and Javier answers that it’s the same way they came. Javier finds he’s glad he wasn’t awake when Arthur and John inevitably rode past Janos again.

Arthur is always the first one on patrol around the desert when they camp. He says it’s because John gets like a hissy cat if he doesn’t sleep and Javier’s gear is gone so they only have two tents. Not that they need them much given how they live otherwise but the shade they provide is much appreciated when the wind usually dies down in the afternoon.

As the sun dips below the horizon, casting a regal mix of pink, orange and purple in the small fluffy clouds, Javier wishes he had something to fiddle with. When he said his gear was gone, he meant it. All of it. His guns, his knife, his supplies. Xabiani took it and when Javier was found, Arthur and John didn’t think about retrieving it. It saved Javier some time, probably, so he should be grateful. But he liked his things. His knife had been engraved with art to honor Día de Los Muertos, his sister’s favorite holiday. 

He doesn’t have something to fiddle with, though, so he settles with watching John fiddle and cleaning his gun. Javier, as soon as he had the money, took his gun to a gunsmith and engraved it. He wanted it to be personal, something that didn’t feel like a gadget you could just pick off a dead person or something that would be more than a plain gun but Javier’s gun. Something to be remembered by, even if it’s a cruel reminder. 

John’s gun is plain. Just a tool to kill. He doesn’t need to be remembered. At least Javier doesn’t think that’s something that he wants. Javier can’t judge him for that, to each their own. John seems like he doesn’t need worldly things, he feels more like a ghost or perhaps a vengeful spirit. He seemingly doesn’t need love, even though he gives it in his own way, he gives Arthur and Javier most of his provisions, he’s quiet when he wants to both around a campfire and in battle.

He’s quick. He’s sort of ruthless, he’s definitely in his element. Hey John didn’t make it long on his own. Longer than most, Javier thinks, but he came back. 

My home ain’t with you folks.

I love ‘em. I love Dutch and Hosea. Arthur. Even Abigail. She deserves better than me. They all do. I left because they got someone better than me.

John’s voice as it comes out of his mouth is faint, a memory nearly buried. 

They got you.

It’s a damn big world to be alone in.

Unlike many others in it, you ain’t alone. 

At least you don’t have to be.

They’d been out drinking. Some of the gang members had gone out on the town. Javier thinks it was late when he sought out John as they were leaving, late or maybe early. The idiota had been robbed by some French lady and her accomplice, dragging Javier down with him until they robbed their cash right back. Does that even count as robbing? It would be reclaiming.

Javier smiles then. Faint but detectable. 

Not for long, though. Javier barely remembers discussing John’s escapade. Granted they were drunk so maybe John doesn’t remember much either. 

I love ‘em.

Chingada madre, Javier said to John he loves no one. He said it not even a day ago. No wonder he’s barely said a word the entire journey so far. He loves the gang, just like Javier.

He gets the dumbest idea in history when he starts searching Arthur’s saddlebag, coming across his journal again and getting the urge to look through what new entries he’s made but he’s on another mission. Besides, maybe John would tell on him. 

But he does find what he’s looking for. He inspects a bottle of Guarma rum and figures he can buy Arthur a new one next time they pass a general store, or steal one since he doesn’t have any money.

Then, despite the ache from his bruises, Javier stands up, wobbles a little but doesn’t alert John, and walks over to his tent where he sits, illuminated by fire when he picks at his gun in different ways - like he’s never seen one before.

Javier takes a quiet but deep breath before he speaks up.

“Have a drink with me.” 

John looks up, not surprised at all to be asked this. Like he’d known this was gonna happen. Maybe he also remembered that night when Javier learned the reason for John’s disappearance.

Maybe Javier shouldn’t have stated it, maybe he should’ve asked and make it sound less like a demand. It’s as easy for Javier to push John’s buttons as it is for John to push Javier’s after all. 

John accepts with a slight nod and aversion of his eyes, Javier taking it as a sign that he can squeeze in beside John. He realizes that he can’t and sits down a bit in front of him instead, so he can’t see the man at all, unfortunately. If he concentrates hard enough, he thinks he can feel John’s breaths. 

Javier twists around, albeit it’s very uncomfortable but it might be worth it in the end, and hands John the honor of the first swig. John takes it without question and drinks enough gulps for Javier not to keep count. It’s like he’d been waiting for this moment. Javier figures John drinks a lot but he never knew how much, he never cared to find out before.

He gives it back to Javier by patting the bottle against his shoulder, lightly, so lightly it seemed almost soft like he’s weary he’d hurt Javier. It’s considerate, given his injuries and the slow rate of which they heal. Javier drinks less, knowing he’s had too little food to not get drunk off just one shared bottle.

His plan is to get back to that non-violent lull they reached when they went out drinking with the gang. Maybe John’s lips would loosen up again and Javier’s ire and sourpuss attitude would dim. Fighting with John all the time is getting tiring anyway.

He’s not fueled by spite anymore, he doesn’t have room for petty feuds nor the energy. 

For the two of them to get along, they clearly have to understand each other and they don’t. They come from polar opposite worlds, have different views on things though they share the core values of the gang or else they’d be somewhere else, wouldn’t they?

John was an orphan, grew up without love, on his own, always relying on himself, probably even when he was picked up by Dutch and Hosea too for a while until he felt comfortable enough to trust them. He’s been around crime a lot longer than Javier - of course he’d be a hardass.

Javier was loved by his family, his neighbors and other villagers. He never got a moment’s peace and he liked that, he liked being around people all the time when he was a child. Then the army turned up and everything changed. Javier had to work in fields to support the family, his uncle was injured and then later fed to pigs, his father disappeared. He still had his mother and sister, and the villagers still in Janos wanting to fight.

Javier wanted to fight. He joined the revolutionaries against his mother’s wishes, didn’t get to do much fighting, he was more like a squire in an old story. He met Lena when he was stationed in an outpost near Hermenegildo Galeana, which is also where he ends up killing General Benítez. 

Then here he is today. He still grew up with a lot of love, despite the monstrosities he witnessed starting from a young age.

But John had those monstrosities done to and by him way earlier, with a lot less love in his corner.

God, it sort of makes Javier feel like an idiot.

You love no one. Who says that? Why the hell did he say that? 

And still John speaks first. “How’re the hands?” He asks.

“Better,” Javier answers without pause. He opens his palms to look at the bandages not covered in blood, grateful that he didn’t have to suffer an infection thanks to the doctor. For some reason, the next thing he does is thank him. 

John scoffs but Javier can hear the smile bleeding into the sound. “I ain’t done that.”

Javier copies the sound and shakes his head taking another sip of the rum before contorting his arm in a weird way to hand the bottle back to John. He takes it, of course. 

“No, I meant… for coming for me. Don’t think I said it before.”

John doesn’t say anything and Javier doesn’t blame him. He’d been too busy crying for death, mourning his family and then telling John he loves no one to say anything like that after it all went wrong with Xabiani.

No more words are exchanged, only the bottle. Then, wordlessly, John takes out some bourbon he’d stolen from some house and they share that one while Arthur is around somewhere, scouting like a vulture soaring in the sky.

It’s not clear how long they’d been sitting there drinking but eventually, John abandons his little perch and joins Javier’s side, their shoulders pressing together. He holds the bottle out for Javier, swirling the remaining liquid inside which can’t be more than two gulps. Javier really doesn’t need it, given that his head is already spinning and his fingers feel fuzzy.

Naturally he takes the bottle and chugs the last of it before he jams the bottle onto the ground, just perfectly inebriated to do… he doesn’t remember why he wanted to get drunk but there might as well always be a reason to do so anyway.

“I wanted to go,” Javier says almost matter-of-fact, spoken almost like a child saying he found a scorpion he wasn’t afraid of. John looks at him, his eyes are having a hard time keeping up.

“Where?” John questions and they sound like they’re two regular farmers going to the general store.

“To go die,” Javier corrects.

“Die? Why?”

“I wanted to die because, you know,” Javier then says, equally as casually as before. John’s expression doesn’t change much either. This is the effect he wanted. They’ll keep talking and talking about things they never wanted to tell each other or even others, get some weight off their shoulders.

“I wanted to see my family but I realized there is no way I’m ending up there,” Javier points to the sky and clicks his tongue as some form of signal as he talks about ‘upstairs’. “I don’t think I’m ready for hell yet so… I chickened out.”

“When was this?” John is thankfully taking Javier as seriously as Javier is so it means not at all which makes this even easier.

“Yesterday. You went somewhere, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, for a smoke,” John replies and starts rifling around his pockets ‘speak-of-the-devil style’. “What’d you do when I was gone, huh? Try to go die?”

“I thought of it. Wanted to but I couldn’t.”

“After all I went through to find you,” John tells him and Javier thinks he said something wrong again when John starts chuckling in a wheezing way. “I would’a crawled down to hell and kill you again for that. I was bustin’ my ass in this heat tryin’ to understand the locals for your ungrateful ass.” His words would worry Javier but they don’t. He’s still amused.

It doesn’t take long for Javier to join in. “Imagine how crazy it would be if we fought each other in hell. And since it’s hell, you’d win. That’s my personal hell, John Marston,” Javier jokes and John makes a mock-offense sound as he bumps his shoulder into Javier’s.

“We’ll get there eventually,” John quips and they both stare into the fire without words again. Javier still so badly wants to say sorry to John for what he said but that would dampen the mood in case John doesn’t wanna talk about it. They’re not there yet in the night.

“You got any more to drink?” Javier asks.

“Arthur’s gonna be the devil on earth if we get drunk, friend,” John warns but does twist around and reach for his saddlebag, rifling around in it.

“Ach,” Javier dismisses. “He can join us. He likes a drink, doesn’t he?” 

“Nah,” John sits down again, a small bottle of what-the-fuck-ever sloshing around as he plops down next to Javier, as close as before. “Let’s get drunk together. I think…” John briefly pauses and he holds the bottle to Javier. His face is illuminated in the orange light, his eyes seemingly swallow the color, like a pool of bourbon is stuck in them, swimming, like Javier’s eyesight.

They’re close together so his eyes are probably crossing a little which isn’t helping his case in trying to focus. Or it’s John. 

“Damn, your eye is fucked,” John says like he’s picked up a new thread, leaving the other sentence he meant to say before locked away forever for both Javier and even John himself given the state they’re in. Javier takes the bottle again and takes a sip, coughing and instinctively spitting it out over his own pants.

“Fucking- moonshine?” Javier complains and John tries to cover up laughter but fails and it bursts out before it becomes his characteristic wheezing thanks to his smoking-since-birth voice.

“It’s good to have on hand,” John’s laughter dies into a chuckle as he pats Javier’s back to try and aid somehow. 

“Good for taking people out.” Javier sighs.

“Exactly.” He still laughs, taking the bottle from him and drinking some as well. He can’t stifle a reaction either but isn’t as surprised as Javier given that the bastard knew what was in there in the first place.

John places the bottle somewhere beside his own thigh, out of reach for Javier now. It’s signal enough that he has decided they shouldn’t drink more. Javier agrees. He’s just that perfect amount of buzzed to not hate his current situation, to forget why he wanted to die, to not accidentally fuck his mind up further by thinking about Xabiani. 

Then he huffs and tips backwards onto the ground, staring up at the sky. Javier does the same but his head hits John’s arm which he’d let flop straight out but in this state he isn’t gonna complain about it and accepts the arm as a pillow. It’s basically a luxury to have anything supporting your head and Javier is only a half idiot so he uses the arm even if it belongs to John Marston.

“You can’t go, Javier,” John says quietly, barely audible amongst the crackling fire. Javier turns his head to face John who does the same, seemingly unbothered by his arm being used as a pillow.

“Ever since we met you been tellin’ me I can’t leave my family. I don’t think you didn’t wanna die ‘cause you was scared of hell - you ain’t scared of made-up stories. You don’t wanna die. You still got people you gotta protect.”

Javier nods. “I do,” he answers and looks up into the clear sky again, wanting to get lost in the stars and join them in whatever they do up there. “But I do wanna go, John. I won’t… but I wanna.”

A smile of resignation twitches on John’s lips before he does the same as Javier and studies the night sky.

When it becomes clear Javier isn’t going anywhere, John nods. “Stay,” he repeats. “We got this, ain’t we?”

“Sure,” Javier decides.

We? As in you and me? Javier is surprised even in his drunken state of openness that John said ‘we’ as if the pair of them is some unstoppable force and like it’s them against the world and always has been. He’s even more surprised that he agrees, that he decides to accept John’s words. This might be the closest to an apology Javier’s gonna get, given what he said to John the day prior. 

Maybe it hadn’t bothered John as much as it could’ve. Javier’s glad for it.

The hilly shrub lands are quiet, only the sound being some nocturnal animals sticking their snouts out to scavenge for food, some predators getting ready and praying for hunter’s luck tonight. Hopefully, those predators want nothing to do with three men armed to the teeth. And the fire, glowing and warming and healing.

Javier wants this to be real. He doesn’t wanna escape anywhere. He’s stuffed away things he wants to forget, he’s already decided to let John drag him back out of his stupor.

“It’s quiet out here,” John comments, his voice hushed and all the raspier for it. Javier listens. No voices. No arguments, no footsteps. Just them and nature and her wonders. Wind strokes softly at their faces, unlike before when Javier felt assaulted by the sand and its coarseness.

“What’s ‘star’ in Spanish?” John wonders, looking at the brightest dots showing up at last. 

“Estrella,” Javier replies. He likes the night sky. More than daylight.

“E-stray-ah?” He repeats and Javier nods with a faint chuckle, almost quiet enough to be carried away by the breeze. John follows with a similar one but it sounds more like a scoff. “Sounds like Escuella.” Javier shrugs, his shoulders nearly colliding with John’s arm-pillow. 

“When said right, yes,” Javier agrees and he’s quieter, as if he’s weary of predators listening in on them too, like they’re prey. “It’s Es-cue-ya. Not Es-cue-lla.”

John ignores him, knowing he’ll deliberately never say it correctly. No one will, it’s just how the gang says his name, it’s become routine. “And… moon?” He goes on instead.

“Luna,” Javier sighs, knowing he has to drop it and accept his fate as Es-cue-lla.

“Pretty.”

“Yeah.”

“How ‘bout… sun? And, uh, earth?”

“Sol y tierra.”

John keeps asking Javier what’s what in Spanish, keeps trying valiantly at pronouncing the words and failing miserably. But he isn’t deterred from keeping on. It feels like a whole Spanish lesson at some point and Javier gets a little tired. John’s not gonna remember most of it anyway and Javier doesn’t need him to. He speaks English, it’s fine. 

“It’s a beautiful language,” John settles for eventually, a wide smile of what seems like genuine happiness on his lips. “I like hearin’ you sing.”

Javier blinks wordlessly like he does when he’s surprised. “You do?”

“Anyone who doesn’t is fuckin’ strange,” John says like it’s obvious, as if Javier having a nice voice isn’t just an opinion but the objective truth. “‘Least you got a talent other than killin’. Be proud o’ that.” 

“John…”

“No, I ain’t say that for you to feel bad,” John waves the thought away with his free hand. He looks at Javier again. “I ain’t say it to make you feel good neither. I mean it.”

“Cállate,” Javier mutters and pointedly ignores his gaze, not knowing how to react at the praise coming from John goddamn Marston. Alcohol really is the way to the man’s heart and his civility honestly. And that applies to Javier too, evidently.

Chapter Text

“You two look cozy.” Javier’s eyes fling open and he’s assaulted with the sight of Arthur and the morning sun and the instant feeling of guilt - he fell asleep, Arthur’s been awake all night since John is passed out right by his side, not even roused by Arthur’s remark. 

Javier blinks furiously to chase away the fatigue and turns to his side, finding that he’d at some point fallen asleep in the last position he remembers himself being in, his head resting on John’s arm. That arm probably needs to be amputated because Javier’s been laying on it for so long. It must be numb as hell.

“Marston!” Arthur calls and kicks John in the side, making the man jump awake and groan, trying to sit up but being held back by Javier’s head. It instantly makes Javier sit up, hoping it isn’t something that crosses John’s mind. When did they fall asleep?

“You bastards been drinkin’ all night you best believe you’re repayin’ me.”

“It’s only fair,” Javier agrees and stretches his back, letting out an equally exhausted and pained grunt as John had earlier. He feels like an old man having slept on the rocks. John lifts his arm and then starts patting it awake, trying to dispel the numbness.

“Sorry, Arthur,” he adds and looks up at him, guilty eyes of a sad puppy.

“It’s fine,” Arthur dismisses but his tone doesn’t match his words. He sounds annoyed anyway. Javier can’t blame him. He can’t help but think that it’s a blessing that Arthur chooses not to go off on them. Javier thinks it might be because he’s found himself in a similar situation before, not that he’s sure he has been but he can guess.

“We ain’t too far from America now so we ride until we make it. Then we head back to our old camp and see if they left some note on where they headed next,” he explains and Javier nods.

“Wasn’t it supposed to be Flagstaff?“ John questions as he stretches as well before standing up.

“Back there? Weren’t there posters of Javier in Flagstaff?” Arthur asks and crosses his arms over his chest.

“What?” Javier goes on then, looking between them. “What’re we talking about?”

“Dutch sent you west, ain’t he? Flagstaff was west, where that debtor was livin’,” John begins explaining and Javier gets an instant image in his mind where Strauss was asking Javier to visit some debtor out west. Florence or something.

“Shit, I forgot about that,” Javier admits and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I took care o’ that so don’t worry ‘bout it,” John says quick and dismissive, Arthur glancing at him afterward and probably thinking he was being subtle. When Arthur shows emotion, it is never subtle, at least not to Javier.

“Took care? What- “ 

“A gang stole the debt ‘fore I made it there, they shot ‘im dead.”

“Oh…” Javier then shakes his head as if to will himself to forget the shot debtor. “What about the posters of me?”

“For blowin’ up Gallup jail,” John answers plainly. “But it’s been a while now, maybe it ain’t there no more.”

Arthur cuts in then. “You been in Mexico for a while now, nobody’s found you, right? I think you’ll make it past Flagstaff without trouble.”

Javier nods. Arthur’s right. Javier has been in Mexico for weeks and he was never found. Well, he can guess that Xabiani made sure the army wouldn’t come for him because he’d want to get revenge himself but they’d evaded bounty hunters expertly. 

“Then let’s go. We been out here too long,” Arthur rouses and they’re back on the road again. Javier will say, he doesn’t remember why his head ended up on John’s arm but he certainly wants to know how his arm is doing after being flattened all night. It makes Javier think about the first time he held Lena while asleep. The conditions were similar, they’d stolen pulque, drank a bit, laughed and reminisced and then she fell asleep in his arms. Until he woke up in the middle of the night with his arm feeling tingly and hurting.

John lasted all night, somehow. They can’t have gotten that drunk - Javier’s doing fine and apart from the fact that John always looks like a wet cat, he seems to have escaped a hangover. They don’t speak much, occasional comments, the Americans glance at Javier to make sure he’s doing fine, that makes him wanna check if he himself is fine too.

His bruises don’t bother him, it still feels weird not having toenails and it’ll take god knows how long it’ll take for them to grow back, his throat feels tight but it always does, like there’s always something pulling it in different directions to remind him that it’s there. He hates that he let Xabiani open it back up. He spends a lot of time in the morning to tie something around it to conceal the rawness of it, to let no one wonder what caused it or what he did to deserve it. And besides, it makes him recognizable, just ask the bounty hunters that identified him back in Washington. 

He hates that he let Xabiani in at all. Hates that he trusted him so quick when it took him two years to sort of trust the other gang members, three for him to feel like he was a part of their family-like dynamic, for him to feel like he belonged (something that his dumbass brought up to Xabiani) and despite his years of distrust for Americans after all he’d been through he decided to trust someone after less than two weeks. All it took for Javier to let his guard down was that he was someone younger than him that acted sort of inexperienced and rowdy like in the town when they went to a bar and that he had a connection to Mexico - something that made Javier feel closer to home.

But he took it too far. He should’ve stayed in America. He would rather not know what happened to his family, given their terrible fate. Then again, he managed to avenge their deaths by killing Xabiani and it’s the only consolation he could ever feel about that whole trip to Mexico. He missed Mexico more when he couldn’t step foot in it, when he could romanticize it and miss the old days and dream from afar. 

At least he’s alive to come back to where this version of him belongs. Maybe some part of him belongs in Mexico, maybe only his past self belongs there. Whichever way it is, who he is now is who he’ll have to be while roaming America with the van der Lindes however much of a tag-tag bunch they may be. John had been right, this is Javier’s new family, the one he shouldn’t leave or he’ll be alone again.

They didn’t talk about what happened two days ago, did they? Briefly, when Javier admitted to wanting to join his family in the afterlife. Javier didn’t think about apologizing for what he said, for claiming that John doesn’t love anyone. Now is definitely not the time, on the road, they’re all cooking under the sun, on their last rations, on their last nerves, Arthur’s listening - yeah, there’s many reasons to leave that on hold. At least John didn’t misread his words when he thanked John for saving him and without saying so also thanking him for listening to his gut feeling and not giving up on Javier. He went all the way to Mexico for Javier and he doesn’t even know what hardships he went through on the road.

If they keep riding, they’ll make it out of Mexico tonight and Javier can try to let it all go. He will still miss it, he will mourn his family forever but he has to remember that they will watch over him somehow. Maybe they can’t visit him but at least they can live on for as long as he’s alive. 

He got his revenge, it made him feel good, now he can let it go. Or begin trying to. Xabiani’s rage and his determination, his whole plan to reel Javier in had all worked in perfect harmony and might spur the army on to grow bolder and dirtier than it already is. They have no jurisdiction in America but if the army starts putting out bounties on Javier for killing a general and then his son, the rewards will undoubtedly be a lot higher.

Not that he needs to worry about that now. All they need to worry about is getting back to the gang safely and they will. No taking any risks on the road on their own, despite the fact that they’re three very capable men but last time they tried to pull something clever, Javier was jailed so he is firmly refusing any spontaneous work on their own. That is unless John gets jailed instead, that’d be a little funny. He’d probably been locked up for drunken violence at least once while on his own.

The next time they camp, Javier volunteers to go on watch. He wants to listen to the quiet desert, to the wind thrusting sand into the air, the strangeness of thinking you’re listening to nothing when you’re actually hearing everything. Most of it Javier just can’t name, like a quiet hiss or some form of buzz of simple existence. This calm hasn’t been around him for a while, not even when he was traveling with Xabiani. They told stories funny and sad around every fire they built and when they didn’t do that they sang songs from their homeland or drank together, there was never a quiet moment and at that time Javier didn’t mind.

It’s not until now that he realizes that he missed it. His journey to Mexico was so different to the journey he made with John which was mostly charged silences and not-so-subtle glares of disdain but Javier can’t repress the fact that there were many moments that he enjoyed on that trip. Eventually, the two enemies found a good sort of rhythm. They knew when to leave each other alone, when to not press buttons, when they had to press them.

Javier thinks he’s not the first one to overlook the deep and hidden nature of John and he certainly won’t be the last. John is good at concealing himself, good at not blaming people for not seeing things in him - Javier remembers telling John that he has to withstand a lot of shit from most fronts, though he can’t recall when it was. He thinks the first time he really saw John was when he told him about the water torture he suffered through, when Javier was told and shown why he finds it hard to clean himself and how even the rain used to bring him back to that time.

In hindsight Javier should’ve listened to John about Xabiani. He just wanted to help. Javier dismissed him again, the way he is always dismissed. All these times John just wanted to be seen and Javier has been blind. Not anymore.

God, Javier really said ‘you love no one’ like a fucking fool. John isn’t perfect, he’s far from it and he’s a sour bastard who takes all the shit he’s told and bottles it up thus creating a frankly unlikeable front because he thinks he’s nothing more than what they all make him - he sees no point in proving them wrong either. Until recently. John isn’t perfect, he’s a terrible partner to Abigail and he’s a worse father but he’s not beyond salvation.

He’d asked Javier to stay, told him that they got this like they’re a team, like there’s something the two of them can ward off, a threat they haven’t faced yet but that he’s confident they can take on together. It was some form of John admitting he needs help, a great start when it comes to John Marston. He needs Javier by his side to make it, or maybe it’s more that he wants Javier by his side. Whichever one it is, Javier will be there - he will stay.

After patrolling the outskirts of the small camp they haphazardly put up, Javier quietly turns back to camp, rifle at the ready in his arms which grew a little tired. The fire is dying slow, not weak enough for Javier to try and revive it anyway. He sees John sleeping on his stomach with his head poking out of the tent, feet hidden beyond the canvas. He thought Arthur was asleep until he spotted him sitting inside his tent, his journal in his lap while he’s sharpening his pencil with his knife.

He read that thing and Arthur never found out. Javier is lucky he didn’t. Though he kept his promise to himself not to read any of the actual text, he wishes he could ask who that woman was, the one with the mole and the pretty eyes. There might be some way to squeeze the information out. Or he just missed talking to Arthur. They haven’t had much time to interact recently, especially not when they’ve been in Mexico. Arthur hears Javier approaching, he closes his journal and looks up with a simple nod of his head as a greeting. Javier copies it and sits down on the ground cross-legged, rifle held more loosely to give his arms a break. This old-ass thing doesn’t have a strap, it just sits wedged in Boadicea’s saddle when it’s not used. 

“How’s things?” Javier asks casually. It makes Arthur huff with a faint smile.

“Great,” he lies but it doesn’t seem to bother him that much that they’re here, miles and miles from the gang. “You?” He ends up asking to Javier’s surprise. Then again, the few times Arthur opens up about anything is after the sun sets. 

“Just fine.” There’s no need for a deepdive, except that that’s sort of why he approached Arthur tonight anyway. He likes talking to Arthur because it doesn’t have to mean something, it doesn’t have to be something important because he’s Javier’s friend. Sometimes it feels like talking to John has to lead to a conclusion, like Javier has to, at the end of the conversation, decide what John is to him, what his motives or thoughts were. Not with Arthur. Well, as closed off as he is, Javier might leave most conversations with Arthur wondering what he’s thinking but he’s rarely confused about the aftermath or what he learns.

“Had a rough couple’a weeks, ain’t you?” Arthur asks but it sounds more like a statement. This makes Javier wonder if Arthur had wanted to talk to him too but couldn’t get around to leaving or looking for him in the dark. He didn’t think about the fact that Arthur might also have his questions about what happened while Javier was gone. He hadn’t explained much, nor had either of them really asked until now.

Javier nods as a reply, staring into the fire and how it slowly dwindles with every flame licking skyward like a hand reaching to breach the surface of a lake.

“You kill ‘im?” He goes on, the lack of tact somehow making it easier to gather up another response. Makes him have to face it head on, makes Javier have to take a blow to the face and be cool with the consequences. Not just some tippy-tapping around the subject.

He nods again, trying to remember what they’d been talking about during those last moments. He doesn’t, he can’t. He probably doesn’t wanna remember, some part of him smarter than himself wanting to protect him. 

“Was he a bounty hunter?” Arthur isn’t known to ask personal questions so blatantly, he knows he wouldn’t appreciate being approached in that way and won’t do it to others but Javier needs it, otherwise he won’t at all. He’ll keep it locked up. He only managed to tell John because the wounds were so raw, mentally and physically. 

“No,” Javier replies, not liking the way he keeps cutting his responses short for what seems like dramatic effect but is simply Javier trying to collect his thoughts to make himself understandable. “He was in the army.”

“Him? Wasn’t he a kid?”

“He was. Smart as hell. He fooled me. He… what is it you say?” Javier speaks and then looks at Arthur quizzically. He isn’t getting it either. “Fiddled like…?”

Arthur huffs. “He played you like a fiddle?”

Another nod from Javier. “I let him get under my skin ‘cause he’s from home. Let my guard down and I couldn’t see what his plans were.”

“His plans?”

“He wanted to kill me. He wanted revenge for what I did to his father.” John already knew this. He told him two days ago. He feels numb, numb enough to bring it up again. He doubts he’ll feel like this again, thinks he’s going to lock it up in a box and maybe almost forget about it before the box starts letting the contents rot and fester and he’ll never fully forget it, no matter how much his brain wants to forget. Arthur didn’t need to ask out loud for Javier to understand he’s wondering what that means.

“I killed him. I killed him for what he did to Lena, a girl I…” 

Now it’s Arthur’s turn to nod, slow and oddly understanding.

“My family…” Javier accidentally opened his own wound, stuck a knife into it and started prying it back open. It’s easy cutting it open, given that it hadn’t closed yet. He could see the mass grave, all the crosses jabbed into the earth like knives, no names or other ways of identification, just plain inhumanity - just the unfathomably evil act of murdering innocents in their homes.
“I don’t know what happened to them.” He shrugs, his lip starting to wobble as he’s forced to imagine their fear and their confusion. Why now? Why now when they’d been occupied by the soldiers for years. It was Javier’s fault in the end.

“Probably shot, probably violated, brutalized, murdered,” Javier hisses. He swallows the lump forming in his throat, feels the cut in his throat straining at the movement.

“Then he deserved what he got,” Arthur speaks up, his voice quieter, harsher, like he’s picturing these atrocities as well but with clarity a random person wouldn’t be able to. What has Arthur seen? Been through? Done?

“I lost family too. Bandits got ‘em. Couldn’t bury ‘em.”

Javier looks up at him and he’s staring into the fire, watching the whole world pass by as Hosea so poetically claimed once. Faces flicker in there, moments appear in the jagged flames, disappear as quickly as you saw them, trying to remind you how quickly the torture ended and yet how long it stays with you if you leave yourself in the flames. You’ll be burned if you don’t let go but you’re a moth to a flame, yearning to go back to where you once were. 

“We shouldn’t have left them,” Javier whispers, never having known Arthur would know so intimately what Javier was going through. Makes sense why Arthur is so loyal, why he’s so adamant on John taking care of his family, why he’s always been on Javier’s side in that regard. They’re just the same, they made the same mistakes, had the same outcomes, the same wish to have died with them.

Javier thought he’d get to ask Arthur about happier times, about that girl, about growing up with Hosea and Dutch but in their bubble of regret it would be hard to let go. The bubble has to pop on its own before they can unlock the less grave secrets they harbor in their broken souls. Another time. For now, they enjoy their night. For now, John is faintly snoring where he lays, a blunt force trying to pop that bubble but failing. He looks at John, someone whose family situation he knows, someone who has never had to grieve others this way.

If John knows what happened to Arthur’s family, maybe it could explain why he’s so goddamn afraid of getting close to them. Maybe Javier’s been wrong about his intentions this whole time. On one end, John kept his distance to protect Abigail and Jack from himself, hoping there’ll be someone else who’s better for them than him, on the other he’s protecting himself from ever growing attached enough to feel the hopelessness and the emptiness Arthur must’ve gone through.

It’s better to have loved and lost. Javier used to see it one way, now that he knows his family is truly gone he doesn’t like it. Maybe John is onto something. Except that he loves folk. He’s not exempt from that saying but he’s surely done a better job of avoiding it, especially when he manages to isolate himself. Still, maybe John is onto something. 

Arthur was watching Javier watching John. He’d pressed his legs to his stomach and cradled them with his arm like he’s freezing, looking at John uninterrupted for a few minutes. He hadn’t meant to say anything more to Javier that night but something about the way John and Javier keep chasing each other when the other isn’t looking is compelling him to be a bad friend and say shit in a twisted way that is still sort of true.

“John fought like hell to get here,” Arthur says, catching how Javier jumps at the sound of his voice despite its softness. Not gentle, never gentle, but soft. “Took a lotta convincin’ Dutch and Hosea, he rode all the way to Flagstaff on a hunch. Figured out you’d taken off to Mexico.” Javier’s brows furrow, he blinks but doesn’t say anything. 

“And it ain’t a trip with John unless he gets himself shot, the bastard.”

“Shot?” Javier asks and turns back to look at John momentarily, probably looking for some sort of sign he’d taken a bullet somewhere.

“In the shoulder. Just some trouble down the road. He’s also the one who figured out where Xabiani took you. Or he embarrassed himself speakin’ terrible Spanish askin’ folk if they’d seen anythin’.” Javier couldn’t hide a faint chuckle. He also couldn’t help seeing John running around like a headless chicken speaking in that horrendous accent to the locals. 

But his smile fades when he thinks about how little he knows about what the two of them went through to get here. If he’d only listened to John they wouldn’t have been in this mess, Javier would live in ignorant bliss of what happened to his family, John wouldn’t have gotten shot and Arthur wouldn’t have to be dragged across two countries.

“He’s also the only one who knew what Xabiani was. And I didn’t listen.”

“Nobody listened,” Arthur tries to rationalize but it makes Javier scoff.

“That makes it worse,” he says and Arthur knows he’s right but it isn’t anybody’s fault, really. They should’ve been smarter, they should have realized but it’s easy to say after the fact. John never stopped believing in his gut feeling and that’s what got the two of them here, what got them to Javier. Even if nobody believed John, he kept going.

“I think we should… take John more seriously.” That’s Arthur’s limit.

“When he starts actin’ like a decent man, I will. Bein’ right this time doesn’t excuse what he did.”

Javier doesn’t answer. He looks at John again and this might be the first time Arthur doesn’t see any underlying dislike. He shakes his head and offers to take the next patrol shift but Javier tells him he can’t sleep anyway and that he’ll do the next one too. He shouldn’t allow Javier to do it given his numerous injuries and his mental state but he can’t stop him either, he’s a grown man.

Arthur falls asleep eventually, more confused than when he found John and Javier close together this morning. He doesn’t know what’s developing there, doesn’t think he wants to either and he can sleep while confused.

Chapter Text

They didn’t want to end up too close to Phoenix but none of the men had washed in nearly two weeks. Javier was beginning to go crazy with it, thinking that he could feel the grime and dirt (and blood of his family) on him like an extra layer of skin. And his clothes were a mess. dirtied by tumbling on the ground while fighting Xabiani, the fact that it didn’t fit and just how much simpler it would be to wash their clothes in a lake or something.

Arthur made it known that there’s a lake nearby, not too close to the city. Javier flicks his reins to make Boaz ride like the wind, excited to feel water on his skin for the first time in forever. It takes them about two hours to reach the lake and Javier has never seen any sight more beautiful, the sky is clear and wide. The only interruption in the eternal sky is a few mountains but they do nothing but add to the mighty sight. The water isn’t clear nor eerily murky, simple water simple lake but it’s gorgeous nonetheless.

The three of them all dismount their horses by the water, letting their animals drink after a long day of riding. Arthur starts searching for any form of soap in his saddlebag, the thing that seems to have infinite space for random shit. Javier doesn’t even have a saddlebag anymore so he doesn’t bother and despite Javier’s lack of belongings it is still less likely that John has a bar of soap with him. 

“Since you’re so goddamn excited to do this, you go first, Javier, and John and I set up camp,” Arthur suggests and Javier just hums quickly while starting to unbutton his shirt.

“Uh, Arthur,” John begins and he sounds almost like a shy child trying to get his father’s attention so he can beg him to go home. Arthur and Javier both look at John expectantly.

“Javier can’t swim.” The look of utter betrayal on Javier’s face is almost funnier than the exposeé John might as well have written in spoken word. Arthur purses his lips trying to hide a chuckle but John seems serious, not like he’s mocking Javier, thus seems utterly confused by Javier’s glare.

“Then you got somethin’ in common, don’tcha,” Arthur teases them both, elbowing John who stands to his right. 

“I mean he shouldn’t be- “ John keeps going but Javier cuts him off, stomping over to them and while holding his shirt in his hand, he points it at John.

“I ain’t a child, idiota,” he hisses and Arthur keeps thinking it’s so funny. John has dug his own grave, where did he honestly think saying that would get him? “I did just fine when we were in Snake river or where the hell we ended up,” he reminds John and Arthur has no clue what they’re talking about anymore. But he does know how to piss people off and especially John.

“A’right, if you really wanna watch Javier have a bath be my guest, I can set up camp myself.”

John’s jaw drops open. “Arthur!” He shouts, clearly embarrassed. 

“You set yourself up for that,” Arthur shrugs and walks off while John glares at his waning figure before twisting around to face Javier who’s got a raised eyebrow judging him severely. John rolls his eyes and is almost fast enough to leave the scene before Javier makes a frankly quite rude comment.

“You do need a wash, John.” 

John scoffs, crossing his arms and scowling like a child. “Mind your business,” he fires back and Javier isn’t having it but not in the way that he wants to throttle John just to mess with him.

“Mind your smell, just- the water’s shallow, you’ll be fine!”

“I’m startin’ to think you’re the one who wants to see me havin’ a bath,” John teases but with more bite and doesn’t give in to smiling despite the fact that this is a lot more pleasant than most of their interactions overall. Well, drinking with Javier always seems to make them loosen up, don’t it? First time in Walla Walla, which John barely remembers but he’s pretty sure it was a great night, the second time when John was robbed but they had a somewhat productive conversation that he sadly can’t recall much of given his level of intoxication and then two days ago when Javier opened up to John.

The thoughts of what Javier endured while in Mexico are sprinkled here and there throughout a day. He never thinks it’s the right time or place to ask while Arthur is in front of them, able to hear the sound of a speck of dust breathing if it could. Unless Javier told Arthur about his wish to die too, of course. 

In any case, despite the absurd notion that John would want to watch Javier bathe, he’s okay with how okay they are these days, even while Xabiani was haunting Javier’s steps before they disappeared off to Javier’s intended slaughter. They butted heads then over the integrity and trustworthiness of Xabiani but there were attempts to be kind to each other. Javier tried to thank John for helping him after the train robbery a while back and he’d misunderstood like the idiot he is, not able to picture that the remark hadn’t been malicious since it came from Javier. Then John had wanted to make up for everything by trying to save Javier from Xabiani but he’d ultimately, and sadly, failed at Javier’s expense.

He should’ve done more. He doesn’t know what that would be but he should have anyway.

“And what if I do? What if I’m tired of you reeking of whatever puddle of mierda you rolled in? You bathing is an ‘I’ll believe it when I see it’ phenonemon at this point,” Javier jokes and he actually can’t keep a smile or a snicker away from his face and voice.

“It’s pheno-me-non, smartass,” John mutters. “Why you gotta be so mean, huh?” He keeps going, nearly pouting as he realizes this isn’t a half-bad conversation to have. He’s enjoying it, actually.

“I said that!” Javier tries to defend and ends up trying to say it again to feel it on his tongue. “Phen- phemn- phenonen- “ John doesn’t bother stifling his laughter, lets it burst out like a river held behind a dam. “Wha- cállate, you bastard!” Javier complains and dips his hand into the water, splashing John with it. It’s cold, colder than the air but not as cold as the lakes in the north he can guess. It definitely seems refreshing. But being splashed with your clothes on is anything but pleasant so he makes a sound of surprise.

Before he can register anything else he’s already retaliating. He feels like a kid, having a water war while wading into the shallow lake, the two of them fully clothed. For some reason, John doesn’t care and he doesn’t hold back when he shoves his two palms against the blue lake and pushes a whole wave of water at Javier. 

Javier retaliates by kicking after him, trying to reach and land his boot against John’s leg but missing. He keeps trying and John keeps dodging, both of them way too slow to get far enough away from each other. Still, John finds that laughter is bubbling out of him instead of being deliberately let out. John even shrieks when he feels a big wad of seaweed slip against his leg, thinking it’s a big fish out to get him. Javier, the bastard, folds in half laughing and he even has to steady himself. John brazenly picks the seaweed out of the water, and it’s a lot heavier than he anticipated but still manages to chuck it toward Javier. He evades it in time and points at John laughing and mocking him for missing.

By the time they feel like their water war has reached a stalemate, their laughter is still shared and enjoyed equally even as it dies out. John feels lighter despite how heavy his clothes are, like he’d been drinking all afternoon and decided to have a nap in a soft field of grass as he imagines himself floating away like a ship.

“They’re gonna take forever to dry,” Javier complains but with a smile on his face as he passes John and heads back to shore, dripping wet. 

“They needed a wash anyway,” John adds and Javier turns around, raising a pleasantly surprised eyebrow, the one with the slit going through it. The two of them undress to simply their underwear as it’s too hot for a union suit and Javier doesn’t have one anyway. John tries not to look too close at the slowly healing gashes in Javier’s hands along with the strangely cigarette scars dotted here and there over his upper body. Javier even removes the yellowed bandage around his neck, showing the long slit reopened from an old scar, telling a silent story of the things he’s gone through.

John has his fair share of scars too, lacerations from past knife-fights both for sport and to protect himself, the faint marks from a knife on his fingers from playing Five Finger Fillet in camp along with the multitude of gunshot wound scars, including the one that isn’t fully healed yet. But the marks on Javier’s body look less self-inflicted and more like actual torture.

The sand clinging to their clothes flows out into the water like a dirty cloud and John copies Javier’s way of scrubbing the clothes against themselves, though he isn’t nearly as fast or coordinated. There’s a bar of soap on John’s saddlebag placed on shore by Arthur and Javier takes it gladly. John is still rubbing his jeans together when Javier walks through the water to hand him the soap. His hair is short again, his facial hair gone. He’s still quite handsome, he understands if Abigail likes him.

“Thank you,” John mumbles and takes the soap from him. Despite not wanting to go too far out, John finds that he’s quite comfortable in the water with Javier - someone - nearby. He knows he’s got someone to help him if anything were to happen, the water can’t hurt him on a sunny, windless afternoon in the Arizonian sun. 

There’s no telling why he speaks, seeing as there really isn’t a reason to but John turns to Javier again, faced with him a few feet away dragging a piece of cloth across the skin of his arm, tanned by the sun of his homeland. 

“Javier?” John starts and immediately wants to dig himself a hole in the sand and never crawl out of it again. He turns around, skin glistening, his frame depressingly thinner than last time they’d seen each other. “Could you help me clean this?” He lifts the shoulder where he was shot, regretting it as he winces and his whole face scrunches up like it's trying to bury itself in the skull. John doesn’t really need help with it so he doesn’t know why he asks but he fucking does and Javier fucking accepts. Reluctantly but accepts nonetheless.  

Javier takes John’s cloth and dips it in the soothing lake water and starts dragging it over the exit wound on John’s back. It’s surprisingly gentle, everything else surprisingly quiet apart from the water slowly rolling ashore. He tries telling himself that the gentleness of Javier’s movements are so foreign to them that John has to think about it in depth but it isn’t. John recalls Javier’s weight against him in his own saddle, how he’d carried Javier into his tent.

He doesn’t know how often he hears their exchange from their trip down south from Washington and how they become more and more true each day to his own great surprise. He never would’ve guessed where the trajectory of their reluctant friendship would lead.

Then what are you scared of?

Being on my own

I don’t mean lonely or alone - on my own with no one else to turn to. I had no one when I came to America, no one in my corner

Then Dutch found me and people started caring for me and I know I’m not alone

Even now? When we’re hundreds ‘a miles away from them, stuck together?

Even now.

Even now? Your family gone, your mind fried, your trust torn apart? Does he feel alone again? John thinks he might, given that he said he wanted to die so he could be with his family so badly that the people he’d been preaching for John to care for had been an afterthought in the shadow of his loss. 

“Javier.” John has no clue what compels him to speak again. Maybe urgency to reassure him, that despite Javier saying he won’t go, John suspects he’s still thinking about it. He turns around and so Javier drops the cloth and stands bare-chested with water to his knees just like John, for once not focused on what harm water can cause but what possibilities it brings. “You’re okay, right?” It’s not what he wanted to ask but maybe it’s what he had to.

Javier blinks at him before his expression fades into something more sullen. “Sure,” is all he says.

“You can’t let them win.” What the hell is he talking about? Javier doesn’t know either and doesn’t reply. John tries to explain himself without sounding like he is just as confused as Javier is. “Xabiani and his dogs. They’ve taken enough. They’ve given you a reason to fight.”

Javier chooses to diminish the meaning of John’s words by huffing humorlessly and letting his eyes drop down to the markings on his body. “Wow, pretty words, John. You a poet now? You wanna be a public speaker?” He jokes without any mirth in his tone. Almost like the water stole it from him slowly but surely.

“No. I’m just sayin’ that you can’t forget you ain’t alone,” John hurries to explain. “Even now.”

Sparks of recognition ignite in Javier’s eyes, meaning he remembers that old exchange too. It was so long ago but John thinks about it so often that he’s forgotten how long ago it really was, way before John came back to the gang and even before he’d left in the first place. 

“I’m trying,” Javier whispers almost like John had said something to hurt him, something that wounded him from deep within.

“Uh… I know,” John admits. He hadn’t said it to be informative, he’d said it as a reminder, as a reassurance to himself that he needed in order to remember that Javier really wasn’t planning on committing the same mistakes John did out of grief and how easily it corrupts you.

“Okay, John,” Javier sighs and hands him the cloth, walking by him with his gaze locked to the murky waves lapping at their legs and the shore. John sure is talented in not speaking when he’s meant to and speaking when he isn’t meant to.

After a few minutes, John starts wading out of the water as well, faced with Arthur standing nearby with his hands on his hips and head slightly tilted to conceal his face. John takes this opportunity to give back the soap, Arthur has a small pouch for it and puts it in there. He watches while John puts his dirty clothes on a few rocks to dry.

“That was sad,” Arthur comments.

“What was?” John asks nonchalantly, pretending like nothing happened. He doesn’t know why. Javier hadn’t been rude, nor had John, but he’d evidently failed to cheer him up after he seemingly fell back into the memories of his family. 

Arthur scoffs and shakes his head while tilting it downward, shielding his face from John’s view with his old-ass hat he’s barely ever seen without. “I ain’t got a clue what’s the deal between the two ‘a you but it sure is entertainin’,” he says like he’s never been more amused in his life. John’s entire face scrunches up in confusion, his head even tilting as if he needs to physically move to see what Arthur said from another point of view. It obviously doesn’t help.

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” 

“You been doin’ this wild goose chase for weeks, tryin’ to find Javier and tellin’ yourself it’s ‘cause of Abigail.”

What the hell?

John blinks at Arthur, can’t really find any words to say because he still hasn’t grasped where Arthur is going with any of this.

“I ain’t good at none ‘a this stuff, you know I ain’t, but what’s goin’ on witchu two?”

“Yeah, you’re terrible at this stuff ‘cause what the hell do you mean by that?” Instantly, John goes to what he knows best and what is safe in this seemingly unknown and unnerving conversation; defense mode.

And also, John just wanted Arthur to stop speaking in riddles, to not just dance around what he so clearly wanted to say. Not that John has a clue nor a guess as to what Arthur actually wants to say. He doesn’t bother trying to guess.

“I don’t know, he seems to mean a lot to you,” Arthur goes on nonchalantly and John instantly regrets wanting him to speak clearly. He’s been clear enough on how ridiculous that is. What the hell is he implying, that he’s some invert? Or is John reading into it? What if he just meant that they’re becoming something adjacent to friends.

“Shut up,” John grumbles and walks right past Arthur, wanting to forget whatever that brief and unnecessary conversation was. 

What did Arthur mean about that? Is wanting to find Javier something bad? He’d made so many mistakes and had no clue they were mistakes but he was right about Xabiani, he wasn’t about to let things play out when he could finally do something right even if it had been Javier he was helping. He’s said that he cares about everyone in the gang, he just ain’t that good at showing it and now when he showed it, Arthur gets some stupid idea that Javier ‘means a lot to him’. 

But maybe he keeps being a fool. It never stops. Arthur had set up camp by a large rock that would act as a wall to protect their backs either from predators or people, lending them some shade in the afternoon. Javier sat outside one of the tents, cradling himself like he wanted to preserve heat. He has no clothes of his own, just borrowed scraps. John thinks they should head into the next town they pass and give him the courtesy and decency to own his own clothes. And a gun, if they can afford it. Though Javier is skilled with a blade it isn’t much use in anything but hand-to-hand combat.

He looks different from what John is used to. His eyes speak of distance from reality or maybe even forgetting it entirely, he looks vulnerable in the way a deer would look having lost its mother which, when John thinks about it, he had. He hadn’t gotten to see her one last time, or say goodbye. She was just sharing a few crosses hammered into the soil with a bunch of other disgraced souls, including his sister.

Something must’ve made John a goddamn bleeding heart, something down the line or maybe even a curse or some form of sickness. His heart thumps harder in his chest, must be him trying to process the sympathy he’s always trying to conceal to make his life easier. It gets people killed. But, come on, Javier is his… friend. Or something like a friend. He does trust him more than he used to, the only thing is that John suspects Javier doesn’t want sympathy. Who cares what he wants now anyway? 

John rifles through his things and finds the poncho he’d purchased a while back, the one Arthur mocked him for. It’s not the epitome of fashion but it’ll keep him warm in the afternoon. Like Javier is a sensitive explosive, John approaches slowly as if stalking an animal and hoping it won’t turn around and maul him. Without saying anything, John places the poncho over Javier’s naked back. The fabric barely makes Javier stir, only his eyes, the other one still bloody and quite horrifying to look at, flicker to look up.

He expects nothing. Not even a thank you. He just wants Javier to accept the help. He’s been fighting demons to offer it in the first place, given how it’s never been in his nature to be nurturing in any way. It reminds John of Hosea. He’d been vicious while John grew up, fiery and ambitious like Dutch but he mellowed with age. Maybe the same thing will happen to John. He always wondered why Hosea seemed to care so much, now he understands a bit more. 

Alas, John hears a quiet “thank you,” flutter past Javier’s walls and defenses. All John can do is nod, unsure of whether he saw it or not. It’s still strange. Maybe it always will be. But some corner of John’s conscience whispers that it won’t, that things have already changed between them, that things have already stopped being strange regarding the two of them. Maybe it’ll just evolve. 

John finds that he isn’t going to try and fight that evolution if it comes. He doesn’t even want to, despite his first instinct always being to fight the unknown.

Chapter Text

“Why the hell is the place named Globe?” John asks as they ride past a sign telling them they’ll be skirting through another town in a few miles. Javier feels like he’s back at square one hearing John complaining about that.

“Here we go again,” Arthur comments and Javier turns around to look at Arthur mounted on Boadicea, seemingly aware of this habit of John’s.

“Right?” He says to Arthur who slightly perks up at the confirmation that he hasn’t been the only one having to withstand John’s strange wailing about town names. 

“What was that?” John questions them with an offended tone, displeased with the fact that they seem to have something on him that he doesn’t know about.

“You keep moaning about the damn town names like you can do anythin’ about it. It’s annoying, John!” Javier complains. “First Walla Walla now Globe? Leave the towns alone.”

“Oh, come on, seriously? But who comes up with those names? Arthur, remember Separ? What the hell is even that? I saw a town on the map named Winkelman. WINKELMAN. It’s literally Rip van Winkle… man!” He tries to defend but all Arthur does is smack his palm against his forehead and Javier throws his head back with a groan. You can never argue with John Marston. Not because he’ll outsmart you or charm you with his wit or actually put forth arguments that make sense but because he’s so infuriating in his persistence and stupidity it’s just not worth your ire. 

Javier is itching to reach the town. He wants a real meal, not whatever meat they hunt through desert critters, and he wants new clothes of his own. And guns. But just one is fine too, they have a few rifles in stock with the gang. Whenever they will find them.
If they find them a small voice in Javier’s head supplies. He tries to overwrite the thought with saying that John found them even without looking, surely the three of them can find them while actively looking. It works to keep his hopes up.

For the past few days, Javier has been working tirelessly to either not think about what happened in Mexico or to tell himself that his family is watching over him, that they’ll always be with him, that he can’t let their memory be confined to a mass grave, that he wants them to see all the beautiful places he sees. It works during the day, imagining that they can somehow cross over from the realm of the dead any time they want and go with him on his trek back to a sinful life of crime. It’s at night when the shadows creep in, when he’s all alone in the silence with nothing to distract him, vigilant to danger and to the ghosts of the loved ones he failed. They finished the last bottle of bourbon two days ago and Javier has been wanting to drink himself into a stupor for even longer than that. Just to forget for one night.

In the desert, you get drunk and you get dead, in a town you get drunk and then you get home. Or a jail cell but you know, that depends on you not poisonous animals like in the desert. Now, Javier knows that whenever he drinks, especially with John, something always goes John. Shit, wrong. It’s the same, anyway. When he drank with Xabiani, nothing outstanding happened. Javier and Arthur can have a nice time while John stays mad about a town name not fitting his standards. Knowing him, he’d probably name a town Chelonia or something. 

Javier is appreciative when John and Arthur scrape together enough money to buy Javier two sets of shirts, a new pair of jeans, a satchel and a nice dark blue vest. Then they buy him a revolver and some ammo and he thanks them deeply, telling them he owes them and Arthur joking that ‘damn right you do’ and John not even hearing it. It’s a quaint little town, surprisingly diverse, everyone knows everyone apart from the three outlaws barging in. They have to be on their best behavior lest they wanna be impaled by a bunch of hillbillies and fed to their livestock. He knows pigs would do it. Knows it all too well.

They stable their steeds, Javier giving Boaz some extra love and some carrots before they decide to get rooms for the night. A dollar each, or two for John who pays for Javier’s room. 

He has been wondering how so many instances can remind Javier of his scout with John. It was a while ago, more than a year. He remembers so clearly how John barged into his room telling him he needed a drink and how they ended up in a brawl, how Javier got decked by a huge brute and John got headbutted by a goat. He had bruises on the backs of his legs for weeks and even though Javier was covered in mud he couldn’t stop laughing. Despite all those drinks, he could never forget that. Then there’s the time they drank when John roped Javier into getting robbed by a french lady. But their teamwork always seems to get them out of pickles. It’s still surprising, all this time later.

They’d come so far from what they used to be. Javier thinks about the strangeness of it at least once a day since it gets easier and easier to be around John, even when he’s acting sour as week-old milk, like a snake with a toothache. From fighting each other in the snow to fighting others in the sand. It’s definitely strange. Arthur’s acting weird too, always glancing between them, always watching as if he’s observing something Javier can’t see, something he’ll jot down in his journal later and reflect on. As if there’s something there to be reflected on. 

Javier is just one second from falling asleep on the rickety bed when there’s a knock on his door. He sighs before he catapults himself off the bed and towards the door, opening it to find John there. Greasy, a little sunburnt, in dire need of a shave and a bath. But he still acts like a rabies-infected cat whenever he’s near a larger body of water, even just a bathtub.

“Here,” he says and without ceremony takes one of Javier’s hands and presses a piece of fabric into it. Javier looks down, finding it to be some form of neckwear in the same color as his new vest. The one he’s wearing now. 

“What is this?” The back of Javier’s hand is still resting in the palm of John’s. No big deal. He isn’t even thinking about it. 

“Just a- something to cover up that scar,” John replies and lets go of his hand, pointing to the scar along Javier’s neck. The one he’s been hiding ever since he got it, the one that makes him feel worse every time his neck moves since Xabiani opened it back up. It’s redder than it ever was, still not entirely healed despite it being nearly three weeks ago.

“I know you used to do that. Figured you’d still want to.”

Javier nods, his throat working automatically at the mention of it. He looks up at John, hates that he’s shorter than him, hates that someone with a temper like John’s has the body of someone who should be the pinnacle of quiet confidence.

“Thank you,” he still says despite his musings. They were all in his head anyway. And they’re inconsequential. He’s always giving Javier stuff. His alcohol, his assistance, his clothes, his money. What has Javier given him and Arthur? A whole heap of trouble in the form of a treacherous teen and an involuntary trip to a country they’ve never been to. And he doesn’t even know when he’ll be able to pay either of them back. 

“Nice color.”

John smiles. It’s very slight, very private. Almost hidden.

“You think so?”

“Yeah,” Javier answers. He rakes his eyes over John and his monotone clothes. And while he does look decent in them, “You could use some color in your life.”

“You’re funny,” John deadpans and Javier scoffs, he smiles too. It doesn’t feel as heavy as it has for the past days, doesn’t feel like there’s something fighting against his happiness. But the two of them don’t say anything for a few seconds, their eyes flickering back and forth from each other and elsewhere. Then Javier clears his throat.

“How’s your shoulder?” He asks, voice rough with something.

John’s eyes widen. “Huh?” He thinks for a moment, then his brain catches up. “Oh, that. It’s, uh, fine. It ain’t given’ me no trouble. I should be the one askin’ you that.”

“Please don’t,” Javier groans. “Arthur’s been on my ass, tells me I’ve been acting weird in my sleep. He probably thinks I’m gonna sleep-walk my way into a bank and get myself arrested again.” This earns a snicker from John. Not that he needs John’s approval when he’s making jokes but Javier can’t help but grin back at the thought of Arthur as a mother with how he’s always tasked with keeping everyone in line. 

“What? He tells me to just ‘man up’,” John says, offended.

“Hey, I’m not saying he’s giving me breakfast in bed and pouring me hot baths,” Javier stops him before he can barge into Arthur’s room. He doesn’t seem to have made a habit out of knocking given that every house he enters is one he doesn’t wanna be discovered being in. In and out with money in his pockets. The silence stretches again, weird but not unpleasant or tense. Javier thinks he has things to say, that he wants to say but can’t think of anything, like they’re anonymous entities swirling about and making a mess. He fiddles with the fabric of the blue scarf-like thing John gave him before he gets some clarity, one thing he’d like to bring up.

“Do you wanna- “

“I’m sorry, John.” 

They spoke at the same time, expecting different outcomes. They choose Javier’s path, the path he’s wanted to take for a few days though John doesn’t seem to have any idea why Javier wants to travel down it. 

“About what?” 

Mostly everything, a quiet voice in his head muses, one that doesn’t quite reach his lungs or his tongue, one that isn’t ready to be said without feeling like something that’ll cut his mouth into pieces. 

“For what I said a while back, about… you not loving anyone. It was wrong and stupid.” There’s many things Javier can’t excuse John for but there are many other things that have come to light that he can understand more and more, that makes his motivations less shrouded in confusion. Javier figures another apology is due, remembering what he and Arthur talked about a few days ago. 

“And for not believing you about Xabiani.” He has half a mind to explain why, to tell him like he told Arthur that he longed so badly for Mexico that he needed just one thing to remind him of what he left behind to throw reason and duty out the window. But he doesn’t need to. It doesn’t matter.

John is quiet like he doesn’t know what to say or how to say it. Neither of them are used to sincerity, most things in the gang said with playful ire, unserious jabs, maybe even insincerely. Not this time. It’s foreign but real, very real. A bridge over the gap between them that seems to shrink every day they spend near each other, a bridge that keeps on getting shorter and steadier to tread over. 

But John tries to do something to let Javier know he accepts the apology. It’s lackluster but real and it’s all Javier asks.

“Thank you,” is all he offers for now. “And… Xabiani tricked us all. Ain’t your fault. I know, I mean we all know, how much your home means to you.” 

“He didn’t trick you.”

John huffs with that faint smile that sends a twinge through Javier’s chest. “He tried too hard. Didn’t seem real at all.”

“I see that now. Even if I was too late.” John’s lips press into a thin line, a ghost of a smile this time. That reminds Javier, “What did you wanna ask me?”

“Hmm?” John hums.

“You started asking if I wanna- ” and he gestures haphazardly since he has nothing to fill in the blank. It could be ‘do you wanna rob a bank?’ or ‘do you wanna burn down a house?’ or any other heinous crimes. 

“Oh, that.” John scratches the back of his neck. “Tonight. We should head to the saloon, like old times an’ treat Arthur for some fine whiskey for the trouble,” he suggests with a chuckle sprinkled in here and there.

“‘Like old times’?” Javier quotes and John nods. “We’ve been to a saloon twice together and both were total disasters.”

John rolls his eyes playfully. “Hey, we got our money back and then some, how is that a disaster, I see that as an absolute win,” he says as he’s laughing, referring to the second time they went out with some of the others in the gang. He remembers that very clearly, the next thing that comes to mind is one of the first somewhat sincere and calm moments Javier had with John, when he said he loves them and that they deserve someone better than him, that he left because he thought that if they had Javier, why would they need him?

They’d come full circle, he realizes. Back then, John had been the one having to reassure Javier he wasn’t leaving, he’d be the one wanting to go somewhere else, to get to a place where he thought he’d belong. Now John had been the one to tell Javier to stay.

It’s a damn big world to be alone in.

I’m just sayin’ that you can’t forget you ain’t alone.

“I swear, idiota, if you get me in trouble again,” Javier warns John who chuckles warmly, a weirdly sort of comforting sound despite the rarity of it. Maybe that’s where the comfort stems from.

“I swear,” he promises with a hand above his heart.

“And fuckin’- have a wash. Dios, do you sweat prehistoric moonshine or what?” For once, there’s no argument on his personal hygiene coming from John. He looks down at himself and seems to assess that he’s right. Finally, not everything in Javier’s life is pushback against his massive intellect.

“You’re evil. Get outta here,” John says and waves his hand dismissively while turning to leave. Javier almost makes a playful comment about him telling Javier to leave and then doing it himself instead but opts against it, knowing that the smallest thing can trigger them two of them misunderstanding each other. Or at least it used to be that way, when they weren’t so close to reaching something like a middleground. Javier just watches as John walks down the stairs, their eyes meeting on his way down and he gives Javier the finger before he disappears. He rolls his eyes and retreats back into his room, the blue scarf still in his hands, now twined around his fingers like a tangled vine. 

Javier stands in front of the full-body mirror clad in his black jeans, a white shirt and the blue vest. He ties the scarf around his neck, the color almost an exact match to the vest. It covers the scar, covers his shame and his mistakes, makes it easier to forget. His facial hair has started to grow out again, making him feel like how he used to, making him feel like himself. His hair never grew fast but it’s at least growing past his ears. It’s that weird stage where he almost looks like one of those weird people on paintings of European highbrows with no fashion sense. (He says while being a broke-ass outlaw)

The scarf is nice. Javier wonders where John got it from. Did he steal it or did he buy it? If he stole it Javier would applaud him for doing it so discreetly that neither Javier himself nor the store owner noticed and if he bought it secretly… yeah, Javier doesn’t know what to think about that. That would be a different kind of gift, wouldn’t it? Not just something John thought would suit him that he saw an opportunity to take but something that he felt was important enough to pay for and conceal from him, as a surprise. That faint twinge pulls at the strings in his chest, a feeling that blooms like blood through his clothes, that has roots in very unknown territory. 

Javier decides not to think too much on the scarf or John’s intention with it or how he got it. He needs some shut-eye. Another weird expression the Americans made up along with so many others. It’s fun to listen to Uncle and Dutch talk in their analogies and their double meanings but Uncle’s are definitely easier for Javier to understand.

He’s never had thick covers when sleeping. It feels like a trap, like something holding him down. He doesn’t wanna sleep under the covers, he flops down on top of them, grabbing the bedding he uses when they set up camp. Inside his new satchel he also finds John’s poncho, the one he lent him after their time by that lake. John hadn’t asked for it back and Javier had forgotten he still had it. It’s in a right state, dusty, riddled with small holes even though it isn’t that old. It was warm and it was home, like an embrace from his past when his uncle would sit with him by the fire when he couldn’t sleep, wearing a jorongo and pulling Javier closer when he wouldn’t speak.

Javier sighs. He takes the poncho with him along with the bedding and settles on top of the covers, pulling them over him while the poncho is just there with him, the shapes in the fabric warping into houses with candlelit windows under a starry sky, spicy smells, laughter and familial arguing about too much salt in the food. Javier hears the voice of his sister, distant and unreachable, wanting to offer comfort from a distance like she’s trying to protect herself for now. Javier isn’t ready to face her or what happened to her. Lena is there, a marigold in her black hair, visible, tangible, unlike his sister. He avenged her, he killed the two Benítez haunting her. His mother is nowhere to be found and even if he looks for her everywhere it’s like she never existed.

And Abigail is there. She’s stuck in one spot, a gaping forest behind her. He can see her but she’s out of reach like Mariana. Arthur is by his side, the ease in his shoulders sort of unnerving since he’s never seen it before. He doesn’t know what’s happening or why they’re all there, why they’re not speaking to him and why he isn’t either. He moves like it’s just what you do here, move and look at each other with knowing looks, hear the voices of those you lost and will never find and ask yourself why you can’t even try. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world John joins to stand next to Abigail. Not close, not like they’re okay or like they’ve reconciled, more like something being handed over. Like an exchange. But it isn’t Abigail who joins him wherever he’s going. It’s John. They walk side by side into whatever place they’re traveling to, no questions asked, no doubts to be had, no room for confusion. Just plain instinct.

It’s weird enough to make Javier simply open his eyes like he’d closed them for a few seconds. Like he never fell asleep, like he ate a weird mushroom. He’s in the hotel room, alone, the room dark since he hadn’t bothered to light a candle during daylight. Javier sits up, feels the dream already slipping through the grates of his memory, tries to keep his hands tethered to liquid and inevitably fails. His collar is askew, the vest ridden up a little, pants too high up. 

Javier even leaves his room, peeking his head out of the door to find and empty corridor. Is Arthur still there or has he gone to cause trouble he’ll blame someone else for? He does that more than he thinks. He’s gonna find some way to twist his faults into coming from John or Javier and he will be taken seriously because they’re ‘young and reckless’, as if they aren’t all reckless enough to be criminals, risking life and limb for often obsolete amounts of money compared to the work they put in. Javier goes to Arthur’s door and without much thought or reason decides to knock, sure of the fact that he’d be resting with his hat covering his face. 

Instead Arthur opens the door fully awake, lead stains on his fingers from writing in his journal. Bastard still has no idea Javier knows about his little drawings of animals and relatively flattering portraits of not only the members of the gang but of strangers he meets on his lengthy disappearances. 

“If you think I’m goin’ drinkin’ with the two a’ you, you’re goddamn mistaken,” is the first thing he says and Javier deflates. Compared to his usual mood, Arthur is a lot of fun to be around when he’s had a couple of drinks. 

“Not what I came here to say but now that you mention it, why?” Javier asks. Can he handle being alone with John, handle his antics alone? Nope. He needs a responsible adult by his side. Or just Arthur is fine too. Any responsible adult would not be in the saloon right now.

“‘Cause have you been drinkin’ with John? The bastard always gets himself into some trouble and I always get the short end of the stick,” he answers and Javier laughs.

“I have. I’ve been beaten to hell by that short stick for drinking with him,” he says and Arthur huffs a laugh. “But, come on, what’re you gonna do in here all night? Sulk, drink on your own? Come up with new ways to rob a stagecoach? Maybe come up with new ways to sulk,” he teases, for once doesn’t fear the dead-eyed stare Arthur gives him. 

“I might,” Arthur counters. “John’s just gonna come up with new ways to get his ass beat.”

“And we’d get front row tickets for free!” Javier still tries to convince him.

“And a side of broken ribs when we inevitably have to step in.”

“We’ll make John pay up with his spare ribs, it’ll be fine.”

Arthur is convinced after another five minutes. Javier thinks of Hosea then wonders if he’d be proud of Javier for convincing Arthur at such speed. He’d probably be proud of Arthur kicking John’s shins in his sleep when they barge into his room too. 

“First round’s on you,” is the first thing he says to John while he blinks away the bleariness and haziness of sleep. He puts his hat on his head without much thought before he can bemoan that decision and argue that they should do it depending on who’s the oldest and then work their way down. John, conveniently, being the youngest. But only by a few months. “It was your damn idea,” he then adds and John does that dismissive wave again before the three of them leave the hotel.

Arthur, maybe eager to get this night over with, walks ahead of them as they keep their eyes on the saloon sign up the street. John stays by Javier’s side. For the first time in nearly an hour, Javier can recall something that happened in that dream. This, them walking side by side somewhere. It can’t have been to a saloon, that’s way too obvious to be in a dream. 

“D’you like the scarf?” Javier exits his brief reverie to remember that he’s still wearing it. Not that he would’ve taken it off if he’d remembered it earlier. He likes it. 

“Yeah,” Javier answers plainly, confidently. “Covering the scar became part of my routine so… not doing it made me think of it more,” he admits, surprising himself with his level of candor. John nods slowly, like he’s letting the words sink in even if they aren’t necessarily hard to digest. Javier knows John wants to ask how he got it but he isn’t going to talk about it, not ever. It’s easier to just forget.

“I gotta ask,” Javier keeps going, “did you steal it or buy it?”

“Uh,” John hums. “I bought it. Don’t wanna get us in more trouble. Not when we’re so close to findin’ the others,” he explains and Javier nods. Yeah, he should’ve figured that.

Arthur waits for the two of them outside the doors of the saloon, glaring at them for how slow they’re being, even able to take a few drags of a cigarette before they join his side. Arthur offers Javier his cigarette and he takes it, inhales a deep breath of smoke and exhales the excess. Then Arthur offers it to John who’d been watching them and to their surprise he declines, without any further words he enters the saloon. Arthur’s eyebrows raise briefly before he cocks his head towards the swinging doors to get Javier to follow him. 

John has already found a spot at the bar and caught the bartender’s attention, speaking to him in that characteristic sulky way he usually does. Different from before when they’d just gotten to the hotel, when they’d spoken easily, when no amount of loaded silence made it feel wrong. Maybe he’s tired. They did just wake him up and drag him out, anyone would be tired from that.

“Let’s keep ‘im away from the ladies tonight, a’right?” Arthur tells Javier and elbows him in the side.

“Why?” He asks. He thinks Arthur might want to protect John from either getting robbed or from causing Abigail more harm, even if she’d never found out. She already doesn’t think she has any dignity because of John, she doesn’t need to think less of herself than she sadly already does. Javier is excited to meet her again. He remembers her in the dream, it made him miss her more. Soon. Unless they fuck this up again.

“We’re broke as it is,” Arthur says.

“Oh. Right.”

They join John at the bar, he’s purchased three whiskeys and even paid for a double for Arthur as a way to cheer him up. Javier is sandwiched between the two of them and while John is thinner than Arthur, he’s not exactly a string bean so it makes Javier feel like a little kitten. And it’s not helping that Arthur is standing next to someone who’s already drunk and keeps making over-the-top motions with all his limbs, thus making Arthur inch further and further away from the man and thus closer and closer to Javier so he has to scoot closer to John. He doesn’t seem to notice since he doesn’t move away. Whatever.

As the night goes on, Javier realizes that despite the alcohol surging through them, making the edges of his vision all fuzzy and his movements and speech a little sluggish, he isn’t having the same fun he’s used to. Last time when he was at a saloon was with Xabiani and he paid that working girl to sleep with him and he’d had fun before and after that. Javier was just out of it, the feeling of alcohol controlling him just a reminder of when it happened last time and what came after, what he saw when they reached their goal, what he went through, who had fooled him. Somehow, Arthur has let loose even more than Javier, currently standing next to the pianist and about one inch from being punched in the face for touching the keys mid song.

It seems like a repeated offense that John just disappears whenever he’s out or even has a drop of alcohol along with the encouragement to cause trouble by a large group of people. Javier can’t be bothered. They’re all grown, if Arthur and John get themselves thrown in jail for the night then that’s on them. Javier thought that maybe if he drank enough he would forget but the more he drinks, the worse it gets. He sees so many faces, sees a few crosses lodged into the wooden floor hidden beneath a poker table, he can feel the extraction of his own fingernails like it’s happening again, the burning sting of a cigarette against his arm.