Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Ha! Beat that!" 

You laid out your hand and crowed victoriously while John scoffed and tossed his own cards down on the rough table top. Hosea chuckled and offered the younger man a comforting pat on the back before tossing over a few coins. 

"I'll collect my winnin's now, please," you prompted with a quirked brow, one hand outstretched in John's direction. 

"Joke's on you, I ain't got no money to give ya," John spat, a nasty smirk curling up his mouth. 

"Don't gotta be money. I like the look of that belt buckle."

"I stole it fair and square! I ain't givin' it to you, everyone knows you're a cheat at cards," John accused, pushing his chair back to stand up from the table. 

"You give me that belt buckle, John Marston! Or I'll have you trussed up like a prize hog and dunked in the river," you warned, standing to block him from leaving the table the three of you had situated yourselves around. 

He scowled down at you, dark eyes hardened with frustration under the brim of his hat as he crossed his lanky arms across his chest. 

"Hardly finished my damn breakfast and y'all are already at it like cats and dogs?" 

Arthur Morgan approached the table curiously, one hand resting lazily on his own belt buckle while the other flicked the ash from the end of a cigarette. 

"Arthur, this lousy mouth-bet is tryin' to skip out on payin' me when I won fair and square!" you exclaimed, waving a hand over the table top where your winning cards were still displayed. 

"Jesus," Arthur rumbled, heaving a weary sigh as he raised a hand to rub at his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. "Settle it some other time. C'mon, we got work to do."

You and John were immediately following after the older man like dogs on a bone. It had been weeks since you'd worked a job, and you were sure John was just as anxious as you to get out of camp. 

Not that you didn't like your camp. Situated near a tributary of the Missouri River in southern South Dakota, your current hideout was beautiful but quiet. Too quiet for a couple of young adults such as yourselves that were always ready to rustle up some trouble. 

"Where we headed?" John demanded as Arthur led you both over towards Hosea's tent, where his wife, Bessie, was bent over rummaging through a chest of clothes. 

"Dutch wants information on the train routes. Evidently there's a regular payroll train that comes through every couple'a weeks, gets unloaded onto a boat in that city up the river before headin' north."

You groaned, head hanging back on your shoulders as you drug your feet. Information at a train station meant playing dress up. 

"Quit yer bellyachin'," Arthur griped. "Y'all do good and I'll treat ya to a night on the town." 

That perked you up. Arthur had been promising to take you to a real bar "when you were old enough" for years now, and you knew he had promised John the same and had yet to deliver. Not that either of you were legal drinking age yet, but Arthur said nearing on twenty was close enough– and who were you to look a gift horse in the mouth? 

"Bessie," Arthur called, clearing his throat when the three of you approached the open flap of the tent. 

Bessie Matthews was a beauty, despite her aging looks. Streaks of shimmering silver ran through her long blonde hair that she kept swept back into a neat bun. She greeted your group with a warm smile that crinkled the corners of her blue eyes and left the corners of her mouth creased. 

"Think you could dress up our girl here? Got some information to dig up and could do with some cleanin' up."

Arthur pointedly ignored the side eyed glare you sent him at his jab. Wasn't your fault the river was too damn cold for a proper wash. It was the middle of spring and while the days were pleasantly warm and breezy, the water was still frigid with the last of winter's chill. 

"Of course," Bessie agreed graciously, tugging you into her tent gently by the elbow. "I think I've found just the thing."

"We'll leave you ladies to it then," Arthur said, leading John away after a polite tip of his old hat. 

-----

"Well, look at you," John drawled when you approached the horses in your borrowed blue skirt and yellow dress shirt, a mocking chuckle following his words. 

"Shut your mouth, Marston. I can still hogtie you and throw you in the river," you grumbled, straightening your power blue skirt as you turned to check your horse's hooves. 

"No need for all that," Arthur called from his own horse, a lean chestnut thoroughbred mare named Boadicea. "You'll be ridin' with John."

You dropped your horse's leg and turned to Arthur, ready to argue. 

"But I–"

"Don't argue with me, kid," he cut you off, grunting as he tightened the girth on his saddle. "You two are a newlywed couple lookin' to get outta town quick. John works at a big ranch down the way and you're the rich owner's niece visitin' from a city out east. Rich nieces don't ride alone."

You deflated, knowing there was no arguing with him. You reluctantly allowed John to lift you onto the back of his horse, his large hands lingering on your waist longer than was strictly necessary. You didn't bother to hold back your glare when he smirked at you after catching sight of the flush crawling up your neck. 

"Shut up," you muttered, crossing your arms across your chest and pouting mulishly. 

"Didn't say a thing, wife," he assured you smugly as he swung up into the saddle in front of you. 

He snickered when you slapped him on the shoulder. 

"Could you two try to get along?" Arthur called from the back of Boadicea. "We need this to be believable, y'know."

"Why ain't John gotta dress up all fancy?" you demanded, gripping the leather of his suspenders tightly as the horses were urged away from camp at a quick trot. 

Not that you didn't think John looked good, he nearly always did. But he was hardly wearing clothes nicer than his everyday wear, while you were stuffed into a fancy skirt and blouse that you usually wouldn't be caught dead in. Not to mention you felt unusually exposed without the comforting weight of your gun belt slung around your hips. 

"And why can't I have my gun?"

"Didn't ya listen to a word I said?" Arthur snapped from ahead. "Ladies dress nice and don't carry guns."

"Don't worry," John murmured to you over his shoulder, tilting his head back so you could just see the hint of a smirk tugging on his mouth and a playful glint in his dark eye. "I got your revolver right here in case things go sideways," he assured you, patting his offhand holster lightly. 

----- 

The ride to the city took longer than it typically would. Arthur was insistent that you not move faster than a trot, so as not to kick up too much dust onto your pretty clothes. You whiled away the time making jokes at John's expense and listening to stories from Arthur's early days with Dutch and Hosea. 

It was late afternoon when you finally reached the edge of Chamberlain. The city, founded just over a decade prior, had grown quickly thanks to the development of the railroad and its location on the eastern bank of the Missouri River. 

"Alright, you two head on in and I'll wait out here with the horses," Arthur instructed, hitching Boadicea outside the train station. "Remember, you're a pair of lovesick fools. Shouldn't be too hard for you two," he chuckled, outright grinning when you glared at him. 

Arthur knew how you felt about John, how you had felt about him since you were a young girl just learning what love was. And most days, you really wish he didn't. 

"My lady," John prompted, holding his arm out to you and ignoring Arthur entirely. 

You linked your arm with his, tucking your chin in an attempt to hide the blush rising on your cheeks while your other hand bustled up your skirt to keep it out of the mud that had been churned up by the multitude of horses and wagons traversing through the busy city streets. 

The inside of the train station was a humming throng of activity, causing John to tug you closer until you were pressed into his side. He led you around small clusters of people, heading for the clerk's desk against the far wall. 

"Hey, mister."

"Can I help you?" the clerk replied in a bored tone. 

"I sure hope so," John replied, doing his best to sound anxiously hopeful. "My wife and I are hoping to get outta town pretty quick."

"Next train leaves in the morning."

"We was hoping to get a ride on a cargo train," John explained, lowering his tone and leaning on the desk conspiratorially. "See, we just recently got married but her family don't really agree with us bein' together. We can't have anyone recognizing us."

The clerk quirked an eyebrow in curiosity and frowned, crossing his arms obstinately. 

"I'm sorry for your situation, folks. But you'll have to ride in a passenger train same as everyone else. Please move along so I can help the next customer."

John nudged you lightly with his elbow and you took that as your sign. If there was one thing you had learned since joining the Van Der Lind Gang, it was how to use your womanly charm to get whatever you want. 

"Please, sir. We don't want anyone to recognize us. My uncle's real upset," you clung tighter to John's arm, batting your lashes at the clerk. "I can't stand the thought of what they'd do if they caught us. I'd never see dear Jimmy again," you sniffled, pinching your thigh hard with your free hand so that tears welled along your lashes. 

"I'm sorry, Miss. Truly. Even if I wasn't at a risk of losing my job, our cargo trains simply don't have the room for any passengers."

"We'll pay extra!" you promised, letting a few tears slip down your cheeks. "My daddy's a real rich man from Chicago!"

The clerk sighed, shaking his head and motioning you both closer. You and John both leaned against the desk hurriedly. 

"We got a cargo train that's almost empty. Comes through every Wednesday at 2pm. I play poker with one of the guards. If I was to slip him a few dollars, he'd look the other way," the clerk explained, raising his eyebrows emphatically. 

"Wednesdays at two o'clock. We'll be there. Much obliged, mister," John said with a tip of his hat. 

"Thank you, sir! You'll get your money, I promise!" you assured, wiping your cheeks and flashing him your brightest smile before John pulled you away from the desk. 

"Good job," John murmured, leading you back out of the station and into the bright afternoon sunlight, pulling his arm from yours to sling it around your shoulders. "But you couldn't have given me a better name?"

You shrugged, not bothering to stifle your giggle. 

"Jim ain't such a bad name."

"How'd it go?" Arthur prompted, flicking away the cigarette he'd been drawing from. 

"We got what we needed," John assured him. "And I think we got a real actress on our hands. Real tears and all this time!" he chuckled, giving you a little shake. 

Arthur chuckled while you tried to hide your disappointment when John retracted his arm from your shoulders to pat his horse. 

"Y'all hungry?"

"Starving," you admitted. 

"And parched," John grinned. 

Arthur rolled his eyes good naturedly and waved you on to follow him. 

"We'll leave the horses here. Bar's just a few streets down, c'mon."

-----

You slumped over the bar, clutching a stitch in your rib while unsuccessfully trying to stifle your laughter. 

"Ain't that funny," John grumbled, sending you into another fit of giggles at the sight of a rough and tumble outlaw on the verge of pouting. 

You had been posted up in the saloon for a few hours. After eating a hearty meal of steak and potatoes, you had propped yourself up on the wooden bar top. John and Arthur, who had drifted off to the poker table on the opposite side of the room some time ago, had each given you a shot of whiskey as a reward for an acting job well done. The liquor had left a pleasant warmth in your belly. Since then you had been drinking beer from the bottle, the carbonation leaving you feeling pleasantly full and fuzzy headed. 

"Sorry. Sorry," you sighed, taking a deep breath to try to fight back your laughter. "I'm just enjoyin' the story."

"Actin' like you've never been ran off with a horse before," he moped, knocking back a fresh shot of whiskey. "Whatever. I gotta take a piss," he grunted, pushing away from the bar and turning away. 

"Aw, c'mon John! I was just playin'!" you called after him, the laughter dying from your voice as you watched him walk away. "Sourpuss," you muttered, rolling your eyes at his retreating back. 

You leaned back on your elbows against the bar, enjoying the rowdy atmosphere of a big city saloon. In a far corner, a man in a fancy trilby hat coaxed a jaunty tune from a piano, and raucous laughter floated through the large room in waves. 

"Well look atchu," a low voice chuckled from beside you. 

Glancing over, you saw a middle aged man leering at you. He ran a hand through his greasy hair and smirked at you, sending a chill down your spine. 

"Pretty little thing like you shouldn't be here alone. Lemme keep ya company, sugar," he purred, leaning in closer to you. 

You reeled back, lip curling into a sneer. He smelled strongly of sweat and booze, the stench of gin rolling off of him and tickling your nose in an unpleasant way. You turned away from him, clutching your drink to your chest and peering around for John. 

"Keep movin', mister. I ain't interested."

"Now, now. That ain't no way to talk to a man interested in a little polite conversation, is it?"

When his vice grip circled your bicep, you were wishing for your gun. You weren't naive to the potentially aggressive voracity of men, but you had never been at the receiving end of it. The men of the gang made sure of that. 

"Let go of me!"

"C'mon, sugar. I just wanna spend a little time with a pretty lady," he drawled, pulling you into his side and slipping his other arm tightly around your waist. "I got a room at a hotel down the street. We can have a good time. I can even pay ya for your trouble," he murmured in your ear, his sour breath wafting in your face causing you to wrinkle your nose in disgust. 

The man's hand wandered down from your waist to grip harshly at your bottom and you yelped, causing a dark chuckled to rumble in the stranger's chest.

"Get your fuckin' hands offa me!" you barked, shoving uselessly against his chest. "Arthur!" you hollered over your shoulder towards the poker table, where you could just see Arthur's broad back hunched over. 

"Hey!" a familiar raspy voice called out. "Get the fuck off of her," John demanded, appearing in front of you and blocking the front door. 

"Sorry, partner, this one's spoken for," the man smirked, tightening his grip on your arm. "Go find your own fun for the night."

His grip on your arm was bruising and painful, and you couldn't hold back the pained whimper that crawled up your throat. John's eyes darted to you at the sound, glinting like steel and dark like gunsmoke. 

"I ain't gonna warn you again. Get your damn hands off her," John demanded through gritted teeth, his fingers twitching near his holster. 

"What's goin' on over here, fellers?" Arthur's deep timbre intoned from off to your right, feigning polite interest. 

"Back off, mister. Ain't none a' yer business," the man gripping your arm spat. 

"That's real funny," Arthur drawled, settling back onto the heels of his boots and hooking his thumbs behind the buckle of his gun belt. "I'm kinda thinkin' it is my business."

The man let go of you to take a threatening step towards Arthur and that was all the open John needed to lunge forward. There was a sickening crunch as John's fist connected with the side of the man's jaw and he was sent sprawling to the floor, knocking over a couple of chairs. John grabbed you by your shoulders– much more gently than the stranger had been gripping you, and pushed you towards Arthur. He didn't hesitate to wrap an arm around your shoulders and lead you back toward the bar. 

"C'mon, partner," you hear John grunt, as he stooped down and hoisted the man up by his shirt. "I'm gonna teach you some manners."

"Can we get a couple shots of whiskey over here, please?" Arthur called to the bartender before turning back to you. 

His brows knitted together as he watched you. You sniffled, trying to fight the wobble of your lower lip and the lump crawling up in your throat. 

"Y' ok?" he asked tentatively. 

You nodded, pulling your lips between your teeth and avoiding his clear blue gaze. Hot tears started to roll down your cheeks and you shook your head fervently, your cheeks heating in shame. You were an outlaw, dammit. You weren't meant to be a blubbering cry baby at the first sign of trouble. 

"You got a private parlor, or somethin' where the lady can catch her breath?" Arthur asked the bartender when he appeared with your whiskey. 

"Got rooms for rent upstairs, $1 a night," the pot bellied man replied, his mustache billowing out when he spoke. 

"I only need it for an hour or so," Arthur grumbled. 

"It's still a dollar," the bartender shrugged. 

Arthur cursed under his breath as he placed payment down on the table for the drinks and the room. You weren't in any state for another drink, so he downed both of the shots before taking the key from the bartender. 

Once you had made it up the stairs and into the rented room, Arthur led you to the bed and gently urged you to sit. You perched on the edge of the bed, staring forlornly down at the trembling hands resting in your lap. 

"We wouldn't have let that bastard hurt ya," Arthur finally uttered from his place near the window. 

"I know," you replied, voice hardly more than a whisper. 

Arthur seemed to flounder for a moment, seeming to find something else to say before finally resigning himself to silence. The floorboards creaked under his boots as he shifted from foot to foot. 

"Do you think John's ok?"

"Sure. That kid can handle himself," Arthur said around the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. 

"Can you go check on him?" you implored, worry twisting your gut. "He don't know we got a room."

Arthur heaved a sigh, flicking the butt of his cigarette into the dead fireplace before walking over to the bed and drawing one of his revolvers. 

"You take this, lock the door behind me," he instructed, handing you the revolver and key he had received from the bartender. "Don't open that door for nobody that ain't me or John, alright?"

You nodded, gripping the revolver tightly and feeling comforted by the weight of the weapon in your palm. 

------

John was panting, grunting with each punch he threw at the man underneath him. His hands throbbed, blood splattered up his arms and onto his face with every blow. He wasn't sure what was his own blood and what was the blood of the heap of trash beneath him. It didn't matter. He knew what this man would have done to you if he hadn't intervened. 

It turned his stomach, made him see red. Made him blind to the fact that the man had stopped fighting back some minutes ago. John always felt on edge, just on the precipice of letting go of all of the anger he had caged inside since he was a boy. He had discovered years ago that one of the only things that brought him peace was your presence. Seeing this asshole with his hands on you, seeing that twisted look of fear on your face– he didn't need any more persuading to let the unbridled rage out. 

"John, stop!"

He snarled, pulling away from the hands trying to pull him away from his personal punching bag. 

"Dammit, boy. He's dead! I said stop!"

Arthur finally managed to hook his arms under John's armpits and haul him off of the nameless stranger that had tried to steal you away. John struggled against his hold until Arthur spun him around and shoved him roughly into the wall of the alleyway. 

"I didn't– I didn't mean to kill him," John wheezed, looking down at his still clenched fists and then zeroing in on his mangled victim. 

"I know, kid," Arthur intoned quietly, dropping a gentle hand onto John's shoulder. 

"I was just so… angry."

"I know. It's alright, we've all been there," Arthur assured him. "C'mon, I'll help you hide him."

"Wait, where–"

"She's fine, just about. In a room upstairs." 

John nodded, huffing out a grunt of effort as he hefted the man's shoulders and Arthur lifted his feet. Together, they dumped his body further down the alley behind a stack of wooden crates. 

"C'mon, let's take the back stairs," Arthur sighed, beckoning for John to follow. 

"Wait, Arthur. Don't tell her I killed him," John said, causing Arthur to regard him curiously with one brow raised. "Please," he muttered, scuffing the toe of his boot in the dirt, face hidden beneath the brim of his hat.

"Alright," Arthur agreed. "But maybe you should think about telling her how ya feel about her."

John's head shot up, brows raised in surprise and Arthur chuckled. 

"I know y'all like to think so, but I ain't dumb," he said, beginning for the stairs again. "'Sides, pretty sure she likes you too, for some ridiculous reason. More worried about you than she was herself when I left."

John didn't reply, following Arthur with a small grin on his bloodied face. 

-----

The familiar rasp of your name from the other side of the locked door had you jumping up from the bed, the revolver dropped on top of the worn bedspread forgotten as you raced to the door. 

"John! Are you alright? Jesus!"

You opened the door and stepped back to allow John and Arthur to enter the room. John's face, arms, and hands were splattered with blood. 

"I'm more worried 'bout you," John murmured, hands gripping your face lightly and turning it from side to side. "You alright?"

You nodded, gripping the front of his shirt tightly and inspecting his face for any sign of injury. 

Arthur cleared his throat from near the door and you both turned to look at him. 

"I'm gonna go get the horses ready. You get him cleaned up and meet me there soon as yer ready," he instructed, sidling back out the door with a secretive smile on his face. 

"John," you gasped, grabbing one of his hands and inspecting his knuckles once he had dropped his grip on your cheeks. "Your hands."

"It's fine. Just a little busted up," he insisted, pulling his hand from yours. 

"Sit," you ordered, pointing at the bed. 

John sighed and lowered himself to the edge of the bed while you moved to the vanity, pouring water from the supplied pitcher into the basin before carrying it along with a handful of clean rags to the bedside table. 

You took one of his hands in yours and carefully began wiping away the blood on his knuckles, apologizing softly when he hissed in pain. His knuckles were busted, swollen and bruised. You took care to be as gentle as possible, working in silence as guilt swirled in your gut. 

"I'm sorry," you muttered, moving from his hands to washing the blood from his forearms. 

"I'm not," John replied simply. "That bastard had no right to touch you."

Grabbing a new rag, you began wiping his face, admiring the sharp planes of his cheekbones and jaw as you did. John has grown into his features over the last couple of years, and you found him almost painfully handsome to look at. His dark eyes swirled and glinted with mysteries and promises that you were dying to unearth. 

"Did he hurt you?" John asked suddenly, once you had set aside the dirty rags and rinsed your own hands of the residual blood. 

"Just bruised," you promised. 

His jaw clenched, a vein ticking in his neck. 

"I never shoulda left you alone."

"It's alright, John," you assured him, cradling his cheek in a shaking hand. "I'm fine."

"Don't know what I woulda done if ya hadn't been," he admitted, covering your hand with his own as he leaned into your touch, sending your heart galloping full speed in your chest. 

He breathed your name, hardly above a whisper and you watched his Adam's apple bob when he audibly swallowed. 

"I–"

"John?" you asked hopefully, leaning closer subconsciously. 

"We should get back to the horses."

You smiled sadly, trying to hide your disappointment as you agreed with him. 

-----

"Alright, you two?" Arthur asked once you had joined him. "Good. We'll find somewhere to camp for the night once we're a little ways outta town," he grunted, pulling himself into his saddle. 

Once more, John's hands wrapped around your waist and lifted you up behind his saddle before he took his place in front of you. 

"Here's good," Arthur muttered quietly a little more than an hour after you had left the outskirts of Chamberlain. 

Your camp for the night was a small thicket of trees that butted up to a small cliff face. You slid from the back of John's horse, his hands hovering around your waist until he was sure you were steady on your feet. 

"Alright you two, let's try to get some sleep," Arthur instructed once a fire had been started and his bedroll was laid out, settling himself to the ground with a tired groan. "We'll head out with the sun," he sighed, laying down and settling his hat over his eyes to block the light of the fire. 

You sat with your back propped against a fallen log, arms wrapped around your knees with your chin propped so you could watch the flickering of the flames in front of you. 

"You hungry?" John asked, settling next to you and offering you an opened can of peaches. 

"Thanks," you said quietly, shaking out of your trance to fish a peach slice out of the can. 

You shared the sweet snack in silence, both peering into the flames. John's leg was a comfortable warmth against your own, your fool heart wouldn't let you forget that he was sitting closer to you than usual. The quiet of the night was only broken by the chattering of nocturnal varmints and Arthur's occasional grunting snore. 

"Tired?" John asked when you yawned. 

You nodded, stretching and groaning as you watched him get up and walk to his horse. He returned with a bedroll under his arm, a sheepish grin on his face. 

"Didn't plan on roughin' it tonight," he admitted, shaking out the bedroll and spreading it out next to the log. "Didn't bring an extra bedroll. You can have mine."

"Oh. No, I'll be alright without."

John placed his hands on his hips and glared down at you, mouth set in a firm line. 

"Would ya just let me take care of ya, woman?"

"John, I can't–"

"Don't argue with me," he said, voice softer now. "Just lay down, darlin'."

Your heart thumped and you felt your skin flush at his use of the nickname. You nodded, not trusting yourself to argue more in your flustered state, and crawled to lay down on the thick bedroll. 

"Good," John nodded, sitting back down against the log near your head. "Get some sleep. I'll keep watch."

John sat with his arms sprawled across the log and you gnawed on your bottom lip, heart fluttering nervously as you laid your head down on his thigh, staring into the flames once more. He tensed momentarily, but just as you had begun to curse yourself internally and decided to move, he relaxed. You felt his hand ghosting over your hair before settling on the slope of your shoulder, his thumb moving in soothing strokes. 

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"Anytime, darlin'." 

You smiled, allowing the hypnotizing swirl of the flames to lull you to sleep.