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Arthur Morgan had a lot of things he disliked about John Marston.
His attitude, for one – kid never did a damn thing he was told growing up, always managing to weasel out of chores, always tagging along on robberies and hunts where he wasn’t wanted. Second, the amount of times he ended up in scrapes, getting it on with someone in town twice his size, that Arthur would be forced to pull him out of, over and over. Third, he always stole Arthur’s shit, be it his whiskey or his spare bullets or even his goddamn hat. Fourth, the fact that he’d abandoned the gang for a year, walked out on his family, only to be welcomed back two months ago with open arms, and well… that stung a little. Arthur knew he’d never get the same treatment, if it had been him who walked out.
But the thing he disliked the most about John Marston was, despite all of that, you couldn’t help but still love him a little, deep, deep down.
Today, Arthur was tempted to find a bounty hunter in town to search for the part of his soul that felt that way, deep, deep, down, because right now, watching John set up his tent in their new camp not three feet from his own, he was seething.
He didn’t want to throw a fit in camp with everybody’s eyes on him, but he would not stand for this.
“What the hell is this?” Arthur grumbled, leaning against his wagon, watching John smooth out his bedroll in the new tent Hosea had given him.
As soon as they’d rolled into their new camp, about two and a half miles from a little town called Vineyard, Arthur had barely had a chance to inspect the new site before Hosea and Dutch were urging him to go into town with them and scout the places out. Uncle and Javier had joined too, the former using it as an excuse to procure copious quantities of liquor, no doubt, but at least he usually got enough for everyone else to have a couple of beers, too. Grimshaw had assured him she’d get the girls to set up his wagon for him, while he was gone, and she kept her word, the girls tucking his wagon near the back of the site, Dutch on one side, campfire not too far away, and apparently, Marston on the other side.
John was wrapped in a heavy coat, something much too thick for the warm spring weather they’d be grateful to get. Arthur could see the sweat pouring off his face, hint of a sunburn tickling at his ears. Damn fool couldn’t even put a hat on, but a winter coat was fine?
He was making himself right at home near Arthur’s space, and Arthur’s not sure exactly when in the last two months since John returned did Arthur give any indication he wanted to be anywhere near him. In their last camp, he’d been tucked up near the front, by Bill and the horses, since that was the only place there’d been space; it was pretty much as far away from Arthur, Abigail, and Jack as one could possibly get. What, did he think now they were in a new site, all was forgiven and he got to be near the front again? Near Arthur or Dutch again?
Arthur sighed, glancing at the man in question, who was reading a book in front of his own tent, blowing smoke out his cigar. He supposed that was what Marston thought.
“I ain’t want to sleep near you,” Arthur finally said, nodding his head towards a space on the other side of Dutch. It’d be a tight fit, but John could get his tent in there. “Go set up somewhere else.”
John looked up at him with no hint of surprise, almost as if he was waiting for this fight.
“You don’t own the whole camp,” John pointed out, rising from where he was setting up his tent to stand in front of Arthur, using his full height. And he’d never admit it, but it bugged the hell out of Arthur that John was just ever so slightly taller than him. “I can set up wherever the hell I want.”
“There’s twenty other people in this camp,” Arthur said, glancing around to the people in question, some of whom had stopped to watch their argument, but most of them were continuing to set up the camp, working on some chores, or otherwise lost in their own world. “Now, I know only about half of those can stand the sight of your ugly mug,” his gaze lingered in Abigail’s direction. She was pointedly not looking at them, but he could tell by the twitch of her ears she was listening in as she washed some clothes with the other girls. “You can set up by one of them instead.”
John rolled his eyes. “I ain’t packing up all my stuff again just you ain’t wanna be near me. If it bugs you so much, you move!”
Arthur shook his head, walking close enough to John that he could see his forming sunburn ever clearer, it was shaping up to be a nasty one. If he gave more of a shit right now, he’d ask Hosea to make John a salve for that. He knew Hosea had pointed out the plant that sped up sunburn healing, he’d even drew it in his journal, though it’s name was escaping him in the moment. “Nah, I was here first. You move.”
“I set up my tent here first. The girls put your stuff over here after.” John said, and, well, Arthur had no way to confirm if that was true. “You move.”
“Well, I’m older,” Arthur declared, “so you move.”
“Don’t pull that shit on me, you move.” John shot back.
“You move.”
“YOU move.”
“No, you.”
“No, YOU.”
“No, you move,” Arthur said, standing up straighter, trying to make himself look more intimidating. He hunched his shoulders back in a fighting stance, even though he would prefer not to get in a physical altercation in the middle of camp, only because Hosea would have his head for it. He set his gaze in a scowl, and pulled back his arms, showing his muscle. Majority of people, men at least, since he’d never threaten a woman, backed down once he took on this form. Unfortunately, it only worked on men not named John Marston, who’d faced Arthur’s ire so many times over, his brain and body never sensed the danger.
Probably because John never was in any real danger, not from him at least, but that was neither here nor there, Arthur decided.
“You move,” John just repeated, crossing his arms. Now, a bit more of a crowd had gathered around them, though no one got in between the two of them yet, so obviously they didn’t either was gonna take a swing.
“You move,” Arthur decided, avoiding the eyes around camp that were looking at him, “or I’ll move for you.” He moved forward slightly and motioned like he was going to start ripping John’s tent poles out of the ground, but John stopped him, holding a hand up to his chest, but not touching him.
“Don’t you dare,” John scowled. “Leave my shit alone.”
“Then move your shit so I ain’t have to see it,” Arthur proposed.
“Maybe I’ll move your shit,” John wondered, though obviously not meaning it.
“Try and you die, boy,” Arthur spat, but the threat clearly didn’t land, for John just started to stare him down even harder, opened his mouth to say something but then –
“Now, just what in the good name of the Lord is going on here?” A voice suddenly thundered from the other side of camp, carried by the wind and booming between the trees that surrounded them, making it sound louder and larger than perhaps it was.
Arthur and John snapped their gaze away from each other at the same time to watch the source of the noise boulder towards them.
“Nothing,” both Arthur and John decided, feeling a little bit like kids stuck with a spoon in the sugar jar. Grimshaw came close to them, hands on her hips, face twisted in a grimace, daring someone to tell her why people were arguing in plain sight in her camp.
“Arthur don’t like where John set up his tent, and John don’t want to move,” Mary-Beth helpfully supplied when everyone realized neither Arthur and John were going to elaborate.
“Is that so?” Grimshaw stared, his gaze set on Arthur.
“Nah,” Arthur covered, tapping his hand against John’s back in a show of good measure. “I ain’t care where he sleeps, long as he closes the flaps at night so no one’s got to see his ugly mug whenever they get up to take a piss.”
John glared at Arthur, but didn’t correct him. “It’s okay, Miss Grimshaw, I know you’re just looking out for everyone. I don’t think this spot in the grass is the best anyways, there’s a weird little divot over there,” his gaze drifted somewhere behind him, “so I’m probably going to move tomorrow to the other side of camp anyways.”
Arthur let out a breath as Grimshaw smiled, rubbing John on the arm. Goody two shoes. “Thank you, Mr. Marston, I appreciate your cooperation.” With that, she left the two of them standing next to each other, still looking mad as hell like a couple of idiots.
“Good,” Arthur threw his hands up, “just make sure you do move your shit tomorrow.” He walked away from John, who looked as annoyed with Arthur as Arthur was with him, as if he had the right.
Whatever. Arthur saw the sky just starting to darken in the distance, the sun hitching a ride out further west. It was getting late anyways, they’d all feel better once they had a little stew in them, maybe a drink, then tomorrow, he’d have his space back.
Arthur made his way back to his own tent, throwing his hat on his best, deciding to take a little time to write in his journal while he let the last remains of day wash over him.
“So, Arthur wins then?” Mary-Beth asked quietly, turning towards Abigail, Tilly, and Karen.
“Ah, I don’t think so. It’s not over yet.” Abigail pondered, “let’s give it another day or so.”
--
Arthur tipped the last of his beer into his mouth, savouring it like it was better than cheap fuel Uncle had picked up, tossing the bottle to the side once he was sure he’d gotten the last of the liquor.
Satisfied and full from a pint of beer and bowlful of Pearson’s rabbit stew, made with fresh rabbits and carrots they collected (stolen) in town, Arthur bid his farewells to the few stragglers who weren’t in bed yet, still sitting around the campfire, and dragged himself off to rest.
He caught a glimpse of John, flickering through a book of some kind, paying no attention to Arthur as he slipped off his jacket, boots and satchel. Arthur always kept his holster wrapped around his waist as he slept, even in camp, but he loosened the grip on it a bit, so it didn’t dig into his stomach all night. He laid down on the bed, stretching his limbs out a bit and groaning as he heard crack after crack, his joints protesting as he turned his wrists over and over, still sore from a day of doing nothing but riding. Though they’d also be sore if he’d done camp chores all day. Arthur was getting old, and he supposed that was just the kind of thing your body did when you got old – hurt.
He turned away from John’s tent, glancing up at the sky as it twinkled with stars and planets. He’d never take for granted being blessed enough to see the galaxy so clear when he slept every night, the cosmos unimpeded by the smoke of factories and din of the city life that never settled no matter the hour.
After a few moments of lying there, he heard a slight patter of feet behind him, before the unmistakable sound of tent flaps closing. He was used to having no privacy in camp, hell he’d basically had no privacy from others his whole life unless he was camping in the middle of the deep woods. But it was times like these he wished he could have a tent to close up too, just to give him some extra space away from John.
He just couldn’t help but still be angry at the man for leaving like he did. He hadn’t even bothered to leave a note, simply gathering up the bare minimum of cash and supplies and heading out. At first, they’d assumed he was just camping on his own for a few days, to get away from Abigail who kept insisting he come over and hold their son for a bit. It wasn’t usual for John to camp on his own, but it wasn’t terribly uncommon. When he hadn’t come back after five days, they’d started to worry, especially when they caught wind from a copper at the town they’d be near that O’Driscolls had been spotted nearby.
Arthur and Hosea had spent nearly three weeks tracking him down, turning over every town they came across on their way, sticking to the trails and forests, as far from lakes and rivers as possible.
Then they’d found at him at some town Arthur couldn’t even remember the name of now, drunker than Uncle in some run down saloon, complaining to anyone who’d listen how a whore he knew got herself knocked up, and everyone was blaming him.
Hosea made John take a room at the saloon for the night to sleep it off, forcing some water down his throat before he passed out on the bed for ten hours. The next morning, when he was nursing what looked like one of the worst hangovers Arthur had ever seen, John told him that he was leaving for a while, and he wasn’t sure he was ever coming back, and to leave him the fuck alone. He refused any attempts from Arthur or Hosea to see reason. Hosea kept Arthur from punching John in the face right then and there for saying the whore and her kid wasn’t his responsibility. Hosea left John some extra cash and some extra bullets, looking sadder than Arthur had seen him since Bessie passed, and he shooed Arthur away from the scene.
The second John walked back into camp two states over from there, a year later, admittedly looking a little sheepish, Arthur didn’t hesitate to slug him one over. It didn’t make him feel any better, even when John sported a black eye for an entire week.
Since he’d been back, John had avoided Arthur, Abigail, and Jack like the plague. Arthur’s gut bubbled up in anger every time John walked in the vicinity of a haggled Abigail, trying to feed the boy, face lighting up with something like hope, only to be ignored.
He was still very much avoiding those two, but for some reason, had broken his self-imposed isolation from Arthur once they’d moved camps. They’d been stuck in the other camp, near an up-and-coming town called Whisper Creek, for a few weeks longer than Arthur would’ve preferred. At least they’d had a good amount of time to pack their stuff up when they left, having not had gotten into any shootouts on their way, but they wanted to avoid starting one once those business owners realized they’d been scammed. Whisper Creek had been a pretty little town, tucked between creeks and lakes and rivers, vast mountain range framing it on the other side.
He wasn’t quite sure how John had found their campsite when he came tumbling back in that night, tipsy and barely apologetic. Arthur figured he was just lucky Bill was on guard duty. If it had been one of the Callendar brothers, who they’d picked up not long after John had left, they might’ve shot him on sight, not knowing him from a hole in the wall.
Arthur knew John was expecting him to break any moment now, and forgive him like he had when John was a kid, and been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to, but this time around, Arthur didn’t feel in a forgiving mood.
With so many anger thoughts plaguing his mind, Arthur found it hard to fall asleep. He tossed and turned for a few hours, watched as everyone else aside from Sean, on guard duty, turned out their lanterns and went to bed.
He fell asleep at some point during the night, only to be woken suddenly. He immediately shot up, unable to determine at first if he’d woken up due to danger or just from someone making too much noise when they’d gotten up to go to the bathroom. He sighed, unable to recognize anything amiss, just his own stupid brain then. Just as he was debating getting up to find another beer, hoping to lull himself back to sleep with a bit of liquid love, he heard an odd noise from just behind him.
It sounded a bit like a whine, and at first, Arthur decided it must be a small animal, and it was likely what had woken him up. He hoped it was a rabbit, they’d gone through the meat they’d picked up in town already, maybe if he approached it carefully he could get it with his knife, no need to wake anyone up by bringing out his varmint rifle. Plus, it would be a lot easier to clean.
He slowly rose from bed, slipping on his boots, and lighting up his lantern so he could see better. He grabbed the knife off his holster and tapped the blade to confirm it was sharp – nothing worse than when the knife didn’t go clean through the animal on the first go. Everyone made fun of him for sleeping with his weapons around his waist but he never cared. It had kept him safe on more than one occasion, especially when he was out camping on his own. He just needed to get close to the animal and –
He swung the lantern all around, but there was no animal of any kind in sight.
Just as Arthur was starting to think he was going crazy, eyes squinting in the distance to see if something had pattered off and he somehow had missed it, he heard a noise again, a soft rustling, the same as before.
He couldn’t quite tell where it was coming from. He hoped he wasn’t losing his edge. He’d always been a light sleeper – waking up at the slightest step in his vicinity. It had been engrained in him at a young age, living on the streets. He’d always had to be on alert for danger, it wasn’t like there was any kind of map that would tell you where or when it was coming. He briefly remembered being fourteen years old again,, weeks before he’d met Hosea and Dutch. It had been a tough, brutal wind, the town he was staying near covered in a blanket of snow, which further softened the sound of footsteps, from people or animals. He’d constantly had his head on a swivel for danger. If he hadn’t met Hosea and Dutch when he did, he thinks he would’ve died of exposure, he hadn’t even had a jacket that fit properly back then.
His sleeping habits didn’t improve much even when he began to share a camp with others. Even knowing Hosea or Dutch would stay up to keep watch while the others slept if they were running from something, those kinds of instincts didn’t go away. He’d always been annoyed with those tendencies that he’d never been allowed on guard duty until he was twenty, since he hated being treated like a child and was eager to improve his worth. He understood a bit better once they’d brought John into their ranks – which, hell, bringing John into their ranks was one of the reasons his sleep became even more restless, what with the kid’s occasional –
Arthur paused. Looked back towards John’s tent, flaps fully closed. He sighed. He was a cruel heartless bastard, but he wasn’t that cruel or heartless. Besides, Arthur had dealt with enough of these in his younger days to know if he didn’t wake John up soon, John might wake up everyone else in the camp, and then he’d been embarrassed plus Hosea would probably yell at him for allowing it. John’s nightmares always started off real quiet, but could quickly get loud if he didn’t wake up in time.
And maybe, no matter how twisted his feelings towards the kid right now, it was too easy to slip back into the role of big brother.
Another rustling noise came just then, confirming Arthur’s suspicious. He slipped into John’s tent quietly, closing the flaps behind him. He placed the lantern gently on the ground, about five feet away.
He crept close to John’s bed – the man was asleep, and he looked alright, but Arthur could see the slightest shake of his head, eyes crunched up, indicating that he was indeed in distress.
“John,” Arthur whispered, more gently than he’d ever said the man’s name in over a year, “John, wake up.”
John stirred a bit, seemingly recognizing that there was a presence near him but he didn’t calm down or wake.
Arthur sighed, getting down on one knee to kneel in front of the bed. He shook John with a little force just as John turned his head to the right, clearly spooked about something.
“Come on now,” Arthur said softly, “wake up.”
Getting no response once more, Arthur finally leaned over John, grabbed both his shoulders, noticing ugly purple bruising around his collarbone he hadn’t noticed before with John’s jacket on. Briefly, he wondered where they had come from, before regaining his composure and shaking John with more of his strength.
At this, he immediately woke up at the speed of a lightning bolt, and settled down just as quickly as one too. Once his gaze reached Arthur, kneeling to his right, Arthur could see a look of shame overtake him.
For a moment, neither of them spoke, before Arthur finally cleared his throat, prompting John to rise from bed and swing his legs over to the side, facing Arthur, but with his gaze directed at the floor.
“Uh,” John looked like he very much didn’t know what to say. “Thanks for that,” he mumbled after a beat.
“Ain’t no problem,” Arthur returned, and really it wasn’t. Arthur stared at John for a moment. He looked so much younger in this moment. It reminded Arthur of all the times when John was younger, still a skinny kid, and had gone to him at some godly hour, unable to sleep due to a nightmare or an illness.
And it hurt that it was both that young kid Arthur saw when he looked at him now, as well as the man who abandoned his child and its mother, their gang, and, well, him.
“I didn’t realize you still got those,” Arthur said, breaking the awkward silence that had started to permeate the air. It was kind of a lie, he knew John’s nightmares often sprung up in the waning days of spring. He thought it had to do with the dry air and the chill that still could nip at you in the night. It just seemed to poke at bad memories.
John shrugged, hands shaking in his lap. He was still avoiding eye contact. “Now and again,” he responded.
“Hold on a second,” Arthur mumbled, unsure of what else to say. He shuffled back out into the camp, the wind hitting him hard without a jacket on. He dug out a half-open bottle of whiskey out of satchel and walked back in John’s, presenting it with a slight smirk.
He noticed while he was gone, John had grabbed his jacket and pulled it back over himself, hiding those bruises Arthur had been previously wondering about. Arthur chose not to comment, deciding everyone was entitled to their secrets, and that if something was broken, John would confide in Hosea.
“Whiskey chased bad dreams away,” he said, holding out the bottle to John. It was something his father used to tell him, in his rare sober moments. Arthur discovered it wasn’t really true, but it did make sleep easier when you were in pain.
John didn’t make a move to grab the bottle, so Arthur opened it and held it out real close. John took the bait, taking a sip as Arthur tipped the bottle upwards so more liquid could fall out. He brought it back down after a moment. It had been a long time since Arthur had held a bottle out for him to drink. It had mostly been around the time John turned sixteen, insisting he was mature enough to drink while Hosea and Dutch disagreed. Arthur did too, but he was always quicker to give in. He’d hold the bottle for John just so the stupid kid didn’t down half of it in one go and pass out in a puddle of his own vomit.
It had happened to Arthur once, before he’d met Hosea and Dutch. He’d stolen a bottle of whiskey and a pair of gloves off a stagecoach when no one was looking, remembering a fellow street kid had told him a touch of alcohol could help warm you up a bit if you felt chilly.
In fairness to that kid, he did warn Arthur to only drink a little.
John nodded after another moment, indicating he wanted another shot, so Arthur obliged, holding the bottle out again as John drank, until he titled his head forward and, with still shaking hands, pushed the bottle away.
Arthur took the last shot in it for good measure, tossing it the side once he was done.
“You gonna be alright?” Arthur asked, quietly.
“Yeah, yeah,” John said, redness leaking into his cheeks. “Sorry if I woke ya.”
“Everything wakes me,” Arthur reminded him. “Don’t worry about it.”
John laughed a bit at that, real quiet, but Arthur was just relieved to see anything but pure misery on the kid’s face right now.
“I’ll be fine, really,” John said again, “just go.”
Arthur hesitated for a moment, but he knew John was a grown man, and he was real docile right after waking up from a nightmare, but he’d gain his composure quick. Last thing anyone needed was for ‘em both to start yelling at each other. He nodded at John. “Alright.”
Slipping back outside, he noted that the wind had died down a bit, even in just that short amount of time he’d been protected by it. He laid down on his own bed and tried to not think too hard about the past and the present.
--
The next morning, Arthur knew it was about noon by the time woke. He felt too warm by the time he woke up, interesting contrast to the chill that had bit the night air. The mid-afternoon sky hung high in the sky, greeting everyone with its bright rays. Arthur glanced over to John’s tent, just as the man was coming out, uncurling the flaps. Guess he did get back to sleep.
Mary-Beth walked by his tent just as he was grabbing his hat. “Arthur,” she said sweetly, “do you think you could take us into town today?” She nodded over at Tilly, Karen and Abigail, holding Jack in her arms. “We’ve all been doing chores since seven this morning, and Miss Grimshaw’s still on after us!”
“Yeah, course,” Arthur waved. He had six million other things to do today, but he could never say no to Mary-Beth. That was probably why the girls had gotten him to ask. “Ask Bill to help you get the wagon ready. I’ll be around in a few minutes, just need some coffee.”
“Thank you!” She said giddily. “Maybe we can get some more thread when we’re in town, repair that old shirt of yours there,” she stared towards Arthur’s black undershirt, which was pulling around the collar.
Arthur hadn’t even noticed it was doing that until she’d pointed it out. “That would be mighty nice of you girls if you could, thank you, Mary-Beth.”
“No problem!” She hopped away, calling to Bill to come help her.
Arthur walked over to the campfire and poured himself a mug of coffee. It was still piping hot, so it had been pretty freshly made. After a moment on his lonesome, he watched John approach and pour his own mug before standing beside him, one foot planted on a log while the other was on the ground.
“I’ll, uh, move my tent while you’re gone.” John said quietly. “There’s a spot open near Bill.”
Arthur felt the eyes of everyone in camp on him as he took in the statement. The girls seemed to take a special interest.
“Ah,” Arthur resigned, taking a sip of coffee. “Don’t bother, it’ll be a pain in the ass to move everything now.”
A “told you,” rang up from somewhere, and Arthur looked around for the owner of the voice before just shaking his head. Tilly and Mary-Beth exchanged something, the former looking quite pleased with herself.
John nodded. “Thanks.”
“It don’t mean I forgive you though,” Arthur suddenly felt the need to add. “Let’s get that clear.”
John let the hurt flash across his face only for a second. Arthur wanted to reach out and pat him in the shoulder, before remembering why he said what he said in the first place, taking a glance across camp at Jack, wriggling in his mother’s hold. “Yeah, course, whatever.” He walked off, sat at a table across from Hosea, finishing his drink there.
Yeah, Arthur sighed, taking in the sights of camp in front of him. His least favourite thing about John Marston was that, no matter how hard he tried not to care, he did.