#ch. 17 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sednonamoris · 2 years ago

Text

once bitten

Pairing: John Marston x gn!reader

Summary: John and Abigail’s relationship continues to deteriorate as Arthur begins a clumsy courtship. You and John run off hunting to get away from it all, but things don’t exactly go to plan.

Warnings: Angst, emotional constipation, canon-typical violence, animal violence, hunting, strong language, weird and complicated love square pt. 2, brief dream sequence, more wolves

Word count: 3,551

A/N: I’m sure in a few days I’ll like this but right now looking at it any longer will make me cry - bone apple teeth :) Covered a lot of ground with this one 😮‍💨

Series masterlist • AO3

—

There are fresh wildflowers hanging around the entrance to John and Abigail’s tent. Jack has new clothes, unfrayed and free of patches. There’s a healthy flush to Abigail’s cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes that’s been missing for you don’t know how long - ages. Arthur walks around camp with a jaunty step and whistling tune. Even Uncle says something about how happy he seems.

John isn’t happy at all.

In fact, you’re sure he’s never been madder.

Every time Arthur walks by he sneers or makes a rude, too-loud comment to whoever he’s talking to. When he spies Abigail or Jack he snipes a nasty word their way or disparages any kindness Arthur has done. The flowers are ugly. Half-dying. Why the hell did Abigail have to put them up, anyway? And those new clothes look stupid. Can’t Jack be grateful for what he has already? This ain’t a life of luxury here. And so on.

“That boy is lost,” Dutch says to you one afternoon, shaking his head while cigar smoke curls around him. John is chopping wood across camp like each log has Arthur’s face on it, chest heaving and sweat dripping down his brow. “Running once again, though he remains here among us.”

You frown, arms crossed. “He’s an idiot, lettin’ things get this bad in the first place.”

“Maybe,” Dutch chuckles softly, “maybe. He’s blind, certainly, to miss what’s right in front of him.”

He looks meaningfully at you when he says it, and you shift under the scrutiny. You’ve always known that Dutch knew - Hosea knows, and there are no secrets between them - but he’s been kind enough not to say anything over the years.

Until now, you guess.

“What do you think he ought to do?”

You know what you want him to do, but it’s silly and selfish and Dutch has always been better at this sort of thing.

“I think,” he says, like he’s been waiting for you to ask, “I need this family whole again. John has a choice: to step up and be father, or to let Arthur do it in his stead. Love catches us all, in the end - one way or another. But maybe you’re asking me what you should do.”

“Maybe,” you admit on a sigh. “I’m afraid I might be lost, too.”

You’re scared to look him in the eye but feel him stare right through to the heart of you anyhow. He grasps your shoulder with one hand and tilts your chin to face him with the other. His brows are pinched together over strong features that feel like home after running with him for so long. Your own father’s features have long since faded to dreamlike memory.

“You, Arthur, John,” Dutch says, “you’re the children I never had. Figure this out before you break your old man’s heart, will you?”

There’s something you can’t place in the depths of his gaze - a love or a warning or a promise. It doesn't really matter because whatever it is he’s right; this has to be fixed sooner than later.

—

Things come to a head when Abigail kicks John out of their tent in the middle of the night. In nothing but his longjohns and the pitch dark he shouts every obscenity he can think of at the tent flaps, but she doesn’t budge. Worse, she doesn’t even shout back, and half the camp is woken anyway.

After sulking by a campfire that isn’t much more than embers he tries again. Her rejection is even quieter, this time, but no less apparent.

So he tries your tent instead.

John pokes his head past the flaps and you blink through sleep to see him flushed, equal parts anger and shame with just a shred of hope in his expression. “...You got room in here?”

Sometimes you wish you were a worse friend.

“Jesus, yes, fine,” you grumble. “Hurry up and shut up.”

He steps in with his bedroll and sets it on the ground beside your cot while you roll over and pretend to fall back asleep. Still, you don’t miss his quietly mumbled thanks or way his breathing evens into soft snores in a matter of minutes. You eventually close your eyes to the sound and sleep away the few lavender hours before dawn.

—

He is not forgiven by morning. If anything, more time to think about it has made Abigail even less compromising.

“The hell did you do to her?” you ask over breakfast, but he only glowers in response.

She’s giving him the silent treatment, going about her day without so much as a glance in his direction. It’s driving him crazy. Especially because she makes a point of talking to Arthur instead every time he tries to start a conversation.

“That woman,” he seethes. “And Arthur is no better! What did I ever do to deserve this?”

You can think of an itemized list, but you don’t tell him that. You’re still busy feeling sick for telling Arthur to go for it in the first place. Christ alive, you’re more guilty now than you ever have been about robbing and killing folk your whole life. It might not be so bad if Arthur didn’t take every opportunity to rub his intentions in John’s face, but the two of them are worse now than when they were kids.

You want to confess, to make yourself the villain instead, but what if John will never speak to you again afterwards?

…What if that’s what you deserve?

“That’s it,” he stands so abruptly the table rattles. You jump, startled from your spiraling thoughts. “I’m gettin’ out of here.”

“John Marston if you tuck tail and run again you can forget Abigail, I’ll kill you myself.”

“Not like that,” he says. “Hunting trip. Just a couple days; I need to kill something other than Arthur. Would you—” he cuts himself off, squirms in place. Can’t quite look you in the eye. “Do you wanna come with?”

“Sure, yeah,” you hear yourself agreeing automatically. “Someone’s got to make sure somethin’ doesn’t gnaw off the other half of your head.”

He scrunches his face. “Real funny.”

You allow yourself a faint grin. “I know.”

—

It’s quick work to get the horses tacked while he packs rifles and food enough for a day or two and triple checks the location with Hosea, who looks like he can’t decide how exactly he ended up raising such a bunch of fools. His brows raise when he catches your eye past John’s shoulder. You can feel the helpless expression on your face in response.

Arthur makes a point to wish you luck. Not John, just you. Abigail keeps busy with Jack at the far end of camp without so much as a word. Dutch steps into place beside Hosea and sends you off with a meaningful stare you feel long after camp has passed out of sight.

—

“Apparently some feller told Hosea about some real big elk in that forest out past Valentine,” John says as the two of you trot along. Moonshine takes two steps to Old Boy’s one, but you’re making good time. Even the pack horses you’re ponying along keep pace just fine.

“Cumberland?”

“Yeah, that’s it. I figure between the two of us we can take at least one down - maybe two - and bring ‘em back to camp. Pearson might even happy with us, for once.”

“He’s plenty happy with me,” you scoff. “Charles, too. We bring in game all the time.”

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

You smile to yourself.

It’s a fine day for it, if a bit cloudy. Looks like it might rain later. Cumberland isn’t quite as green as you like, but the spruce trees stand tall and proud and the grass is coming in full, sprinkled with deceivingly pale and delicate flowers for what you know it takes to survive out here. Still, it’s not too sunny, not too warm, and the faintest whisper of a breeze fans your face with the scent of late spring and coming rain. Hard to complain about that.

Even skirting around Valentine you make it to a decent campsite before the evening goes grey and the drizzle begins. Muscle memory makes quick work of striking up the tents and unpacking the bedrolls. John gathers the driest kindling he can find while you hobble the horses. You warm a can of beans over the newborn fire while he scouts around for a rabbit or squirrel to complete the meal.

“Feels like I can breathe again out here,” John says once dinner is ready and the two of you are settled around the campfire.

Something about being out in the wilderness makes even bad meals taste better. If Pearson tried to serve this up you’d riot, but here? Rabbit and beans is about the best thing you can think of.

“No such thing as bad country,” you agree.

“I don’t know about that. You remember Ohio?”

You groan. “Don’t remind me. That was a terrible winter. I ain’t built for cold like that.”

“You ‘n Javier both,” he snickers. “I’m surprised you didn’t complain so much in Colter.”

“Colter was different. So many people gone, and the rest half froze and scared,” you look away and sigh deep. “Wasn’t my place to complain.”

“I guess,” he blows out a loaded breath. The tin plate resting between his knees is all but forgotten. “Still hard to believe we lost people like that. Do you think Mac is alive out there?”

“Hard to kill a Callander. Still, I don’t fancy his chances. Those Pinkertons are mean sons-’a-bitches, and the law was on us out there like stink on shit.”

John snorts out half a laugh. “Sure were. Feels like the whole thing was a setup. And Dutch—”

“Dutch what? Javier said he didn’t have much of a choice.”

“You weren’t on that boat,” he shakes his head. “He says it was her or us, but I can’t help feeling like that girl didn’t have to die. He spent our whole lives tellin’ us not to kill in cold blood. Weren’t nothin’ hot-blooded about that.”

A shiver runs down your spine remembering the glacial calm on Dutch’s face as he dragged John to shore, spattered in blood and a bad situation. Not regret.

“Sometimes there ain’t no way out but the hard way.”

Never regret.

“Yeah,” John says. “Maybe.”

When you make your way into your tent for the evening the staccato beat of rainfall lulls you to sleep. You dream of storms. Rain comes down red and thick as blood. When you look down it’s covered your hands. Stained them. When lightning strikes you hear a woman scream. Instead of thunder, Dutch’s laugh echoes.

—

The next morning you lie on your stomach on a ridge overlooking the Dakota. Pale dawn light filters through the mist and makes the morning shimmer. You breathe deep and steady and quiet and try to focus on the elk at the other end of your scope and not the way John is pressed so close to your side, his own sighted rifle at the ready. A whole herd lies below. They take turns keeping watch and grazing and drinking their fill from the pebbled shoreline. Hosea’s man wasn’t wrong; the smallest cow among them is easily six hundred pounds.

The both of you rose with the sun to start tracking them through the wood. Last night’s rainfall made their muddied hoofprints easy to follow. Through the brush and down to the river you scouted and crouched and checked for scat and broken branches. Now they’re settled on the riverbank for the morning,

“I was hoping for a bull,” John mutters.

“Meat is meat,” you roll your eyes, “and these are damn big cows, besides. Which one you dropping?”

“I’ll take the one by the tree. You?”

“Other side of the river, head down drinking.”

You feel him nod beside you. “On three?”

“One…”

Inhale.

“Two…”

Exhale.

“Three.”

C-Crack!

Your shots fire off almost simultaneously, scattering the herd all at once, save the two that are dead before they hit the ground.

John whistles for the horses and you make your way down rocky paths to the riverbank. You settle on dressing them at camp and hoist the bodies onto your pack horses whole, heaving with effort. It’s a good thing the little Morgans are sturdy.

“We should head back,” John scans the ridge, shifting in place, “before anything smells the blood.”

“Sure.” You swing into your saddle and take the lead of one pack horse.

John ponies the other off of Old Boy, and you pick your way back up narrow pebbled deerpaths to the main road. It’s early yet, and you’ve only been gone a night, but meat is best fresh and it’s not too far a ride back. Still, you’re slower now than you were coming out here. You tell yourself it’s because the horses have a much heavier load this time around, but it rings false even to your ears. What it is is selfishness. Out here in the wild things are simple and John is all yours. Back at camp life is far, far more complicated.

“Wish we could’a stayed another night,” John breaks the silence, voicing your own thoughts. He glances at you sideways from his saddle. You pretend not to notice.

“Too bad we’re not worse hunters.”

He sighs and rubs his jaw. “Yeah. Just not sure if I want to see Abigail so soon. Or Arthur. The pair of them—”

“Can’t we talk about somethin’ else?” Your shoulders hunch, defensive, and your lip curls somewhere between a plea and a snarl.

“Really?” John turns his head to you fully and pulls his horse up. The closer you get to camp the harder it is to forget the tensions that wait for you there.There’s a mean shine in his eyes, clouds before the storm. “Seems like you been happy to talk to Arthur about it all. Karen said—”

“That’s different.”

“How the hell is it different? Last I checked it was you ‘n me, not you and him.”

“It’s different,” you insist, arms folded and glare full of thunder. You open your mouth to say something more - something mean - something you’re sure to regret, when a rustle in the brush snaps your gaze past John and any argument to the forest behind.

The horses dance beneath you, spooked and snorting. Their eyes roll white. The commotion gets closer. In moments a blur of brown and tan and desperation comes barrelling out of the brush; the biggest bull elk you’ve ever seen. You swear it looks right at you before puffing out a frantic breath and galloping away.

“What the—” John curses, but you aren’t left to wonder what was chasing it for long.

A bone-chilling howl cuts him off. One, then two, then three wolves emerge from the forest in hot pursuit. If they hadn’t called you might not have noticed them until it was too late; their grey-brown coats blend into the brush perfectly, and each padded footfall is all but silent. Powerful muscles ripple through their shoulders as they run. It’s as beautiful to watch as it is terrifying. You don’t think you even breathe. John is just as petrified beside you, face blanched and hand straying up to clutch at his still-healing scars.

They’ve almost passed entirely when your pack horse rears up, whinnying desperately at the scent of a predator. You shush her but it’s too late; The wolves stop their pursuit and stare at you instead with their hungry golden eyes. Saliva drips from their maw. Midmorning sun glints off their canines.

You fire your pistol at the ground near their feet, hoping the sound will scare them off. Two shy away and take up the elk’s trail again instead, but the biggest of the lot jumps back for only a moment before circling the horses once more with a savage snarl. Fuck. You don’t have a spare hand to reach for your rifle, and neither does John if you have any hope of keeping hold of the pack horses and your respective kills. Another bullet does nothing to deter it this time. It circles even closer and snaps at Moonshine’s heels. He squeals and kicks out, narrowly missing the wolf, which pins its ears and growls at the close call.

Everything in you screams to run, to get far far away from this predator that stalks closer and closer still, but you know that even if Old Boy and Moonshine take your direction, in their panic the pack ponies will flee every which way, tearing the leads from your hands and making themselves easy targets.

“Go on, get!” John shouts hoarsely.

The wolf’s lip only curls in response.

This time when you fire your gun, your aim is true. Big as it is, a single bullet from a pistol is only enough to make it mad, but you’re desperate. It lunges forward, and you empty the chamber into its skull. The horses scream. Your pack pony tears away into the wood. Moonshine nearly skitters out from beneath you. Old Boy rears up on John.

But with a final whimper the wolf lies dead.

“Shit,” you curse. “Are you alright?”

Now that you can finally turn to look at him, John seems about as rattled as you feel. All the blood has drained from his face, making his scars stand out even more, stark pink against white. His grip is white-knuckled and shaking ever so slightly around his reins and the lead of his pawing pack horse.

“I fucking hate wolves,” he says.

It’s easy to agree.

“C’mon,” you say, “that pony can’t have got far.”

“What should we do with the wolf?”

You shrug. “Skin it if you want, but I doubt the hide is any good after I shot it full of holes.”

“You think that elk got away?”

“I dunno.”

You tilt your head at him, eyes squinted, but other than scared he seems fine. Still, he stares at the wolf’s prone corpse just a moment too long before following you into the brush to retrieve your missing horse.

—

The rest of the ride back is silent save for the creaking of saddle leather and occasional snort from one of the horses. John keeps looking over at you like he wants to say something. Every time you look away and spur your mount forward before he can.

—

“Hey, you’re back already!” Javier calls from midway up the path to camp. He whistles lowly when he sees the haul you’ve brought with you. “What’s with the faces? This will feed us for weeks.”

“Long story,” you say.

John just shakes his head.

“Siempre algo con ustedes,” you hear Javier mutter as you pass. You wish he wasn’t right.

You hitch the horses as close as Ms. Grimshaw will allow and begin the huffing and puffing process of getting both carcases strung up near Pearson’s station for proper dressing. John takes one end while you take the other and heave it off the horse.

“Take a look at that - what a beauty!” Pearson says when he sees the size of the cow.

“Quit lookin’ and help us get this damn thing up,” you grunt. “Jesus, it’s heavy.”

The work is cumbersome and awkward, but between the three of you it gets done. Jack appears somewhere between stringing the first and second one up, staring with wide, innocent eyes. He doesn’t say a word, content just to watch. You flash him a small smile. John ignores him entirely.

At least until Abigail joins him.

“Surprised you’re here,” he jabs. “Got tired of Arthur while we was gone?”

“No,” she huffs. “He’s gone to Strawberry to fetch Micah. I— The boy, I mean, was worried ‘bout you is all. Didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

“Didn’t plan to be.”

She puts her hands on her hips and he glares, forced into some sort of stalemate.

You busy yourself with Pearson and try to look everywhere but at them. Both keep glancing over to you for something. Support? Vindication, maybe? Abigail’s eyes are heartbreak blue, and you feel yours widen when they meet hers, backed into a corner you still don’t fully understand. When you finally manage to break away the grey of John’s waits for you; ash and ruin.

Like the coward you are, you tuck tail and retreat with the excuse that the horses still need to be untacked and cooled out, nevermind that Charles has already started the job. You hear Abigail say that she and John ought to talk, if he can get his head out of his ass long enough for a serious conversation. You’re out of earshot before his retort comes stinging.

“Are you okay?” Charles asks when he sees the look on your face.

You sigh and manage a grimace. “Sure.”

He glaces back to where John and Abigail stand before meeting your eyes once more, all sympathy. Left without something to say - because what is there to say, really? - he puts a strong, warm hand on your shoulder. The solidness of his touch should be reassuring, but it only reminds you of how fragile and broken everything else feels.

#john marston x reader #rdr x reader #rdr2 x reader #ghost story #ch. 17

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