Chapter Text
So I'll love whatever you become
And forget the reckless things we've done
I think our lives have just begun
I think our lives have just begun
John gets to Chuparosa under the scalding midday sun. He's greeted by three men ready to skin him just for being american, which he expected, and an old childhood hero, which is a surprise.
Ricketts proves himself to be the invaluable ally John was all too aware he needed. The locals are skittish and quite clearly don't trust John, and he had no illusion that the Irish was going to scurry off to hide as soon as they set foot on mexican soil. It's thanks to Ricketts that he's able to find a place to call home while he stays in Chuparosa.
The old man tells him that Javier Escuella is known around there, but that no one has actually ever seen him. He has a militia of fiercely loyal men on his side, and captain De Santa and Coronel Allende are gunning for him almost as severely as they are for Reyes, the other head of the revolution currently taking place in the land.
The Irish had told John to speak to De Santa. When he mentions this to Ricketts, the wrinkles on the old man's face deepen in a frown.
“I'd think real long and hard on who I'd want to be my ally on a foreign land ravaged by war,” he says around a glass of tequila.
“Not all mexicans are willing to fight, but they all hate the army. And Escuella and Reyes are helping people.”
John says nothing as he nurses his own glass. The town is silent at the moment. Most of the locals are either in siesta or holed up in their homes (or in the saloon, like him and Ricketts are) to escape the unforgiving early afternoon heat. It's John's third day in Chuparosa and still he hasn't learned anything on Bill's whereabouts.
He hears the sound of shuffling cards; when he turns to look at Ricketts, the gunslinger is already distributing cards for a three people poker game. John notices the barman, the only other person present, exit the bar to join them.
“You mentioned,” the old man goes on, “that you and Escuella used to be friends. The army wants him dead, son; if you ask them to help you find him or Williamson, you'll ruin any chance of having a civil conversation with him.”
John says nothing. The barman sits beside them, and the chips are distributed.
It's weird, hearing Javier mentioned so frequently after not speaking with and about him for over a decade.
A conversation, Ricketts said. John has no idea if he himself wants to have a conversation with Javier. He knows they're bound to meet anytime now; he just doesn't know what tone the visit is going to take.
He was almost out of his mind with adrenaline and pain when it all fell apart at Beaver Hollow, but he remembers very clearly what happened. Remembers Javier's stricken face as he stood behind Dutch, his gun the only one not aimed at John and Arthur. Remembers hearing him scream his name as he rode off with the man he once considered his father, inciting him to go with them. As if John could've ever left Arthur behind.
Javier hadn't fired his gun at them, but that's just about it. He’d abandoned them, just like Bill and Dutch had.
John helps around Chuparosa while he tries to gather more information about where the hell Bill could've holed up to. It's a frustratingly slow progress; the locals still don't trust him much despite his friendship with Ricketts (John understands them, he does, but he can't afford to waste this much time) and the language barrier doesn't help a bit.
But then he and the old man rescue a young lady, Luisa, that had been kidnapped by the army with the accusation of aiding the rebel forces. She's lively and fierce despite what she's been through, and reminds John so much of Abigail that the longing for her feels like a bullet hole in his stomach.
He's starting to dislike the army quite a lot. John still hasn't contacted this captain De Santa. The conversation with Ricketts made him hesitate at first, but it's what John has seen up until now of what De Santa’s army is doing to the people that is holding him back. He's not keen on meeting such a cruel man.
Things turn around a bit for him, after he helps Luisa. The people of Chuparosa significantly warm up to him, but still no one will tell him where Javier or Bill are hiding.
The second time he meets Luisa, she's preparing to leave her home indefinitely to join the rebels wherever they're hiding, and asks him to escort her little sister Miranda to safety. Her mother and father are openly crying as they give her one last embrace. The girl can't be more than two years older than Jack. John accepts the job and tries not to think about it.
His conviction to avoid captain De Santa is solidified during the perilous journey to the docks as he does his utmost to protect the girl (she's just a goddamn girl, how can those soldiers fire their rifles at her with such hatred in their eyes?).
He's exhausted as he watches the tiny boat sail away with Miranda and her relatives. The simple thought of riding back to Chuparosa is draining, so he resorts to lighting a fire near the riverbank and spend the night under the stars, like he and Arthur used to do.
He jolts awake an indefinite amount of hours later. The embers of the fire are dying down. For a second John thinks that the crackle that woke him must've been a piece of wood breaking from the heat, but then he hears it again. He's reaching for the gun at his hip when the very distinctive sound of a cocked rifle stops him. A beat of silence, then a man steps out from behind a rock, moonlight glinting off the rifle he's pointing at John. John sits very still.
“John Marston?” the man asks, accent thick, rifle carefully but surely aimed at John's head.
He's close to John's sleeping cot, but he should still be able to get him. John knows he's fast enough. Then he hears another weapon get cocked, and the cold feeling of the metal tube of a revolver poking at his neck.
“Who wants to know?” he asks, raising his hands slowly.
The man slightly lowers his weapon. His expression is guarded, hostile.
“Javier Escuella wants to speak to you, gringo.”
The feeling of the gun at John's neck disappears, immediately followed by a cracking pain in his skull, and he blacks out before his heart rate can pick up.
When he awakens again his head is throbbing something awful and it's still dark, but this time it's because he's locked inside some kind of room instead of it being night. It could still be night– he doesn't know how long he was out for. The pain makes it hard to think clearly but he remembers what the man said before he passed out. He has to guess Javier has him captive.
John slowly regains full consciousness of himself. He's horribly thirsty. He's laying on his side on some thick fabric that softens the hardness of the floor and his hands are predictably tied behind his back. His feet aren't bound though, and with some effort and a fresh wave of throbbing pain in his head he's able to sit.
He can't make up much of the room, pitch black as it is. There isn't even a window. John vaguely remembers Ricketts mentioning that some of the rebels would use the natural caves in the mountains surrounding Perdido as hideouts. That's probably where he's been brought.
His thoughts are interrupted when a door opens right in front of him and he's momentarily blinded by the sudden light. He tenses and blinks his eyes rapidly, trying to put the silhouette on the threshold into focus, but it's difficult to make out the details.
“You're awake. Bien.”
Javier’s voice rattles John in a way that shocks him. Because that's his voice, he has no doubt about it. He's heard it so many times, with so many different inflections– happy, angry, drunk, nostalgic, singing, screaming–
“John! C’mon, they're everywhere, come with us! John, please! John!”
The man - Javier - lights up a lantern and closes the door. The light is less violent this way, and the firelight illuminates Javier starkly so John (finally) has a chance to see him.
He looks– in disarray, John wouldn't know how else to describe him. Even when everything was going to hell with the gang, those last terrible, uncertain weeks of fear and despair and constantly looking over their shoulders, even then Javier always made sure to keep his clothes clean, his face well shaven, his appearance in order. The man that stands in front of John right now, regarding him like he's seeing a particularly troublesome ghost, is vastly different from the one he remembers.
His hair is shorter, and grayer. He's wearing simple clothes, much similar to the ones John has seen many other bandidos wear, nondescript beige jacket and shirt and worn, ruined work pants.
The moustache is the same. The eyes aren't. They're almost sunken in and sport an impressive pair of dark bags under them. The revolutionary life indeed appears to be as ungrateful as Javier used to describe it back when he and John would talk around the campfire. John's heart clenches.
He realizes that a couple of minutes of complete silence have passed by, during which neither of them has done anything but stare at the other.
“Long time no see,” John says. He ignores the way his voice cracks. He must be thirstier than he thought.
Javier keeps staring at him silently for another moment before setting the lamp on a table that John hadn't even noticed. He takes a seat right on the table, legs dangling just above the ground, hands clasped loosely in his lap.
“Sure. What are you doing here, John?” he asks, cutting to the chase, not once taking his eyes off John. His voice is a little different, John notices. His accent is stronger than it used to be.
“You are the one who had your men pay me a social call. Why'd you bring me here?” he retorts.
Javier probably already knows a great deal more than he lets on anyway. He doesn't look nervous, but he's always had that quiet air of danger about himself. Like a coyote stalking circles around a prey, waiting for the right moment to strike.
John feels unbalanced, off kilter. He's watching Javier’s face but he's seeing another man, one he's not sure is even alive anymore. A man who saved him from a pack of wolves. A man who shared his bottle of whiskey with him during those long, boring nights patrolling the camp’s perimeter. A man who was the first to ride out with him when Jack had been taken, who rode right beside him and offered him a steadying arm when the terror of what could've happened to his son had threatened to throw him off. A man who'd watched him one last time, face streaked with tear tracks, before riding off with Dutch and leaving him and his brother to die. John wonders if that man is still alive in Javier, when he knows the John Marston he used to be died a long time ago.
Javier smirks a little, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
“Can’t a man want to meet up with an old compadre?” he quips, pulling a cigarette out of his breast pocket and lighting it.
His movements are unhurried, his pose relaxed. John feels like snarling in his face like a rabid wolf.
“So this is how you treat your friends then, paindeko?” he grits out instead.
Javier's eyebrows quirk at that.
“How long have you been here for?¿En Chuparosa?”
John fumbles, confused.
“About two weeks?”
“Your Spanish is terrible.” Javier comments, and he has the gall to snicker, like this is just a little joke they're sharing. John tugs at his restraints angrily.
“And your English has gotten worse.” he retorts. It's childish, he knows, but he's willing to try anything to break Javier's composure.
Javier seems to not pay the comment any mind, exhaling another puff of smoke.
“I don't speak much English anymore hermano.”
John recognizes that word, like he'd recognize the stabbing pain of a knife wound. It had been one of the firsts Javier had taught him and Arthur, some time after he'd joined the gang and started truly trusting them. Brother.
“You don't get to call me that anymore, Escuella.” he says lowly.
Javier goes still. For the first time since entering the room he takes his eyes off John, staring off to the side while the cigarette keeps burning away between his fingers. John feels the absence of his gaze like a hot poker being removed from his skin.
Javier says nothing for a while, and John is content letting the silence stretch on. It gives him more time to look at Javier openly, to try to reconcile his memories with the present. He feels vindicated by the bitter expression on Javier's face, and distantly realizes that he's uncovered his teeth, an imitation of a snarl that pulls on his old scars. His hands are shaking.
“No, I guess I don't.” Javier finally sighs out.
He seems to suddenly remember about the cigarette between his fingers and carelessly flicks it away before it can burn him. There's a fleeting second– his face crumples, a fraction of a moment of unabashed sadness flashes in the slope of his eyebrows, his downturned mouth– but then he turns to look at John again, expression steely.
“What are you doing in Mexico, John?¿Qué quieres?”
Unbalanced.
John answers before he realizes he is.
“I'm looking for Bill Williamson. And I think you know where he is.”
Javier nods like that's exactly what he was expecting to hear.
“I don't. I did see him,” he adds as soon as John opens his mouth to start arguing, “and that's how I knew you were here. But he's gone. He didn't stay.”
John feels lightheaded.
“What the hell do you mean? Where's he gone?”
Javier opens his arms like it explains everything. He’s irritated.
Something ugly and vicious stirs in John's stomach, makes him wish his hands were free so he could clench them around Javier's neck.
“Significa qué no lo sé, John. It means I have a revolution to take care of, I can't waste time on Bill pinche Williamson. Never was the best of friends with him, if you remember.”
“What I remember,” John starts and this time he knows why his voice is shaking, “is the both of you ridin’ off with Dutch and leaving me and Arthur to die. You can see why I thought you'd help an old buddy in need.”
(What I remember, he wants to scream until his throat is raw, is that I was your friend. What I remember–)
Javier flinches. The beast howling for vengeance in John's belly sings with joy.
Javier hops down the table, angrily pointing a finger at John.
“Not my fault you decided to stay,” he says. He starts pacing. “There were Pinkertons everywhere, how did you think it was going to end?”
“Might have ended differently if you weren't a coward, running after Dutch like a dog with its tail between its legs.” John bites back. Javier throws his hands up in the air, visibly frustrated.
“Ay you haven't changed, you're still the same stubborn cabrón you used to be.”
“And you're still a fucking coward.”
“Call me coward un otra vez, Marston, lo juro por Dios…”
“Oh yeah? Untie me, then. Show me how much of a man you are.”
Javier looks at him silently for a moment. He's fuming, but there's something else in his eyes too, something John can’t quite make out.
Javier takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.
“Bringing you here was a mistake,” he says, “tomorrow I'll decide what to do with you.”
Something like panic squeezes John's lungs as Javier starts moving towards the door.
“You just gonna leave me here?”
“Si. We ain't getting anywhere anyway.”
“Wait, goddamn you!”
Javier stops, hands on his hips. He still looks irritated and John still wants to punch him, but if he leaves he'll be abandoned in the dark of this cell again, and he can't just sit still as a prisoner while his family is waiting for him to come rescue them. He sighs deeply.
“Just let me go. I won't come back looking for you, I ain't got time for it, I'm just looking for Bill.”
Javier looks at him for a long moment, frowning.
“Mira…even if I agreed, and I'm not, my men wouldn't just let you leave. A gringo like you could run to De Santa to squeal off where we're hiding. My men are loyal to me, and they have trust in me, but they aren't blinded by it.” he says finally.
John can't help neither the rebuttal nor the venom in his voice.
“Like you were blinded by Dutch?”
Javier takes the blow about as well as if John had actually punched him. His fists clench at his sides. He glares at John.
“Tomorrow I'll decide what to do with you.” he says again, and turns to the door.
John realizes with frightening clarity that this moment has the capacity to determine not only his life, but Abigail and Jack's too. If Javier leaves right now, angry and bitter as he is, as they both are, there will be no coming back. Worst case scenario (though for some reason, John believes it to be the least likely scenario) Javier will kill him and throw his body in a ditch somewhere.
“You mentioned that you and Escuella used to be friends.”
They did. They used to care about each other. They used to have each other’s back through thick and thin.
A whirl of emotions blows like a tornado in John's head as he watches Javier's back retreating, and what he finally blurts out is the panicked, terrified truth.
“They got my family, Javier. They took Abigail and Jack.”
And, like a miracle, it works. Javier stops, his fingers squeezed around the door’s handle. John can feel them as if they were circling his throat.
Javier doesn't turn, but he heaves a sigh and his shoulders slump.
“¿Quien? Who took them?”
“The Pinkertons. Agent Ross, that bastard who used to ride with Milton. Came to the ranch one day, with an army, and took them away.” John grits out. The memory of the day his family's life was upended is still fresh, despite how many months have passed.
“No puedo creer que ese hijo de puta siga vivo.” Javier mutters, hanging his head.
“They took them as hostages,” John goes on, “told me I'll only see them alive again if I bring them Bill– and Dutch.”
He hopes Javier didn't notice his hesitance, but the man has always been sharper than he lets on.
Javier turns to look at him. His expression is unreadable.
“What about me?”
“They said as long as you're only causing problems for the Mexican government, they ain't interested in you,” John says.
It's easy. Second nature. Javier nods, and the knot around John's throat tightens a bit.
They're silent for a while. Javier's fingers clench and unclench around the door handle, his eyes shifting from one place to the other as he thinks.
John can't figure out what's going on with himself as he watches him. He remembers when he almost died as a kid, when they were about to hang him. Remembers what it was like to have that noose around his neck while the sheriff read the reasons for his hanging, waiting for any moment for the trapdoor to open and drop him to his death. He was still just a kid and he felt impotent and desperate and terrified. John doesn't know what exactly is wrong with him, because even if the situation is eerily similar to all those years ago, he doesn't feel nearly as scared as he did back then.
Javier sighs again; he turns to look at John fully, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks possibly even more pissed off. John braces for impact.
“Okay, John. I'll help you.” Javier says.
John sways a bit, unbalanced.
“You…what?” he croaks intelligently.
Javier bares his teeth. A coyote backed up against a wall with no escape, snarling in the face of danger.
“Pendejo, I said I'll help you. Don't make me think about it too much.” he barks out.
One of John's worst traits since he was a kid, as Arthur would yell at him in moments of frustration, is his incapability of leaving things the hell alone, like a dog with a goddamn bone. Javier doesn't want to speak about this. Everything in his tone and demeanor says so. But it's been years. Over a decade of silence, of assuming Javier believed him to be dead, of having any good memory he had of his gang, his old family, tainted by how it all ended.
For the life of him, this isn't something that John can just let go.
He sees the growling fangs of the coyote. He extends his fingers anyway.
“Why?” he asks, whispers really.
He expects a bite. He expects blood and pain and growling.
Javier stares at him angrily for a long moment, as if he's trying to hold on to something. He finally deflates.
“John…you were my closest friend. And Arthur…” Javier closes his eyes and sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I'll help you. I have to make it right by you…and by Arthur. I owe him that much.”
That's not at all what John was expecting. In fact, none of this conversation is what John was expecting from this meeting. He sits silently like an idiot while Javier scrubs a hand over his face tiredly.
“If I untie you now, would you please not punch me?”
“Can't promise it,” he hates that his voice breaks again. Hates that it's not just the thirst.
Javier cracks a small smile. He makes his way towards John anyway, and kneels down beside him to untie the rope binding John's hands. That's when John gets a glimpse of the man Javier used to be: a faint whiff of cologne. The same one he'd used to wear back then.
His hands twitch when they're free, but he doesn't punch Javier. Truth be told, he doesn't know what he would do if he touched him.
“Here,” Javier says.
He unties something from his belt and hands it to John; a canteen of water. John snags it and immediately chugs down in huge gulps. Javier is still crouched beside him.
“Eres tan hermoso como el día que te perdí.” he says, like an afterthought.
“What does that even mean?” John asks, wiping his mouth with his wrist.
Javier looks away from him quickly and stands up.
“It means I have truly lost my mind,” he mumbles. He walks to the door in long strides and opens it.
“I'll speak to my men. Someone will bring you some food.”
John frowns.
“So I do have to stay locked up in here.”
“Technically you are our prisoner but sure, feel free to wander around if you have a death wish.” Javier snaps back.
Illuminated by both the outside light and the lantern he's left on the table, he turns to look at John one more time, like he wants to say something. He opens his mouth and closes immediately after. He leaves without another word.
John stares at the closed door, unmoving, for sometime. He's still reeling from it all, from seeing Javier again. A ghost plucked straight out of his past, as haunting now in the present as he had been during all those years.