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1891
When you met Dutch Van Der Linde, you were a sixteen year old girl. He had seen you in the saloons, chatting with patrons and often times leaving seconds after they tried to get handsy. He noticed that by the end of the night, you would exit the establishment silently, and he could just barely make out your coat pockets stuffed with bill folds and coin purses. So it wasn’t surprising to him when after a couple nights of him visiting the saloon, that you decided to try your hand at stealing from him. He humored you for a bit, but when you started moving a little closer than what would be considered proper for a young lady, he reached a hand out to stop you. Your eyes flew wide open, and you looked up at him like a child with her hand caught in the cookie jar. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, young lady.” He had whispered, and he saw the fear in your eyes as you tried to step away. Dutch shook his head, letting go of your arm. “Don’t fuss, I’m not angry with you.” He explained, and you donned a confused expression as you listened to him speak. “I’ve seen you work these past few afternoons. Luring those men into a false security, and picking their pockets when they start turning their focus.. elsewhere..” He flicked his gaze to the low cut blouse you wore and back to your face, and suddenly, you felt inclined to cover yourself. “I believe you deserve a secure place to live, a family. I have a few people I run with. My friend mister Matthews and his wife, my sons, a girl, and my other friend Miss Grimshaw. We would be happy to let you be a part of our family.” Dutch watched the gears turn in your head, and you nodded hesitantly, looking down at your shoes. The dark haired man smiled gently, and held his hand out for you to take. The first day with mister Van Der Lindes’ family was a bit overwhelming. You weren’t used to being around so many people that wanted to know you personally, and you found yourself needing a break. Even then, Dutchs’ “sons” weren’t even there to greet you. Mister Matthews told you they had left for an errand that morning, and wouldn’t be back until nightfall. The other girl, you found out her name was Tilly- was thirteen. She quickly became your shadow, and you supposed that made sense. Even when visiting the saloon, you often would follow the working girls around when they weren’t with anyone, given you hadn’t had any luck with patrons that day. You just liked being able to talk to someone who wasn’t twice your age, or a man. Tilly seemed to be the same way. Mister Matthews was right, evidently, and you jolted in response to the sound of a horse squealing as it made its way into the clearing that the camp was settled in. You glanced over and saw two steeds, and two people hopping down from the saddles. They spotted you instantly, and while the taller, blonde man hid his curiosity better, the other, a younger, lanky, dark haired man, was staring at you owlishly. Mister Van Der Linde was walking over to them with a purpose in his stride, and you turned your attention away and back to Tilly, who was showing you how to weave reeds into a bracelet. You still kept an ear out for Dutch and his sons, who you now knew were named John and Arthur. It sounded like he was talking about you, and your suspicions were confirmed when you heard three sets of footsteps approaching. You set down your messy bracelet when you heard your name, and stood up to face them. “My dear, these are my boys. Arthur, John, this is the lovely girl I told you about.” He announced, and you nearly flinched at his booming voice, nodding politely to both the younger men. “Arthur’s about thirty, but Johnny here is only a few years older than you.” The ravenette said with a wink, grinning, and you felt your face warm at the implication. John was also looking away, wringing his hands nervously. You watched Arthur stifle a chuckle. “It’s nice to meet you both..” You said quietly, lowering your head when you didn’t have anything else to say. The other two nodded in response, but you felt Johns gaze linger on you, even when you walked away to return to your seat by Tilly next to the fire. A few days passed, mostly uneventful, the only thing keeping you on your toes being adjusting to a new space. Really, it was more of a new way of life to you.That first night, Dutch instructed that you would be in the same tent as Tilly, and that miss Grimshaw would find you chores to do around the camp. But then, as the days turned into weeks, something changed. Dutch was always seeking you out, often when you were alone. He would complement you on your work, your looks, the dress you were wearing, and every time you shrugged bashfully in response, the older man would laugh heartily and express that it was adorable how shy you were. It didn’t develop past that very much, but one night, he had left his tent, and approached you near your own. You stiffened, smelling the alcohol on his breath. He was even having trouble walking, and you were reminded of your father; the way he would drink until he blacked out after your mother had passed, and you would be forced to answer the door late in the evening, wearing a thin sleepshirt, as some other drunkard with wandering eyes hauled him back to your tiny apartment. And then, not long after he took up that habit, he was blown to shreds in a mining explosion. That very day, you got your things together and left Annesburg without hesitation, leaving your entire childhood behind. Dutchs behavior reminded you of your dad, but his gaze reminded you of the nameless drunks who would look at you like a dog with a slab of meat as they delivered your father home. You shivered suddenly, and the older man grinned as he leaned forward, putting an arm around you. He shucked his crimson vest, and draped it over your form. “Now, sweet thing, we wouldn’t want you getting cold, would we?” He slurred, and you had to manually stop yourself from wrinkling your nose in disgust. You told yourself to just pretend he was one of the perverts you would charm and then pickpocket in the saloons back at VanHorn. You could sneak away once his guard was down. “Sweetheart, why don’t you come to my tent with me? I purchased a few new books, and have some whiskey leftover from earlier. You would love it, dear.” He offered, and you froze, shaking your head quickly. “No!- er- no, I’m alright. I still don’t drink yet, mister Van Der Linde.” You respond, shaking slightly when his grip on your shoulder tightened. You chanced a look back up at his face, and promptly turned your eyes away when you caught him staring pointedly down your nightgown. He laughed quietly. “Come on, sweetheart, just one glass won’t hurt. It’s the expensive kind- won’t get you drunk unless you have as much as I did..” You shuddered, and whimpered in protest when he started moving towards the other side of camp. You reluctantly moved your feet, and felt your heart plunge a bit lower in your chest with each step as Dutch dropped his hand down to your waist, his thumb rubbing small circles in the thin fabric. Then you were outside his tent, and Dutch was opening the flap. Your feet were frozen to your spot in the grass, and you stiffened when Dutch gave you a frustrated look, grumbling something under his breath. Suddenly, there was a hand on your shoulder, and you jumped at the contact, head swiveling to look at your savior.“Hey Dutch, miss Grimshaw asked me to fetch this one here, you don’t mind, right?” John asked, his mouth turned downwards in a tight frown. You reminded yourself to thank the older woman profusely once the brunette brought you to her. You heard Dutch groaning. “Yes, sure, son. You better bring her, then.” He responded, and you followed John as he turned on his heel, trying not to let your speed give away your eagerness to flee. John stopped at your tent, and you looked around in confusion, not seeing the woman who had supposedly requested you. “Johnny- where is miss Grimshaw?” You asked, brows furrowed, and he flat out ignored your question, turning to you. You flinched at the enraged look on his face, and he frowned, schooling his expression. “Are you alright?” He asked, and you tilted your head. If you could, you would spare yourself the humiliation of admitting what Dutch has been doing as of late. John sighed heavily. “Did he.. Do anything to you? Anything you didn’t want?” He continued, and you looked away in embarrassment. The man raised an eyebrow. “N-no, John. It wasn’t like that… Mister Van Der Linde just wanted to share some books with me.. He offered a drink but I said no.” You protested, worrying your lip between your teeth and not meeting his eyes. John huffed in response, clearly not buying it. “Like hell it wasn’t like that. C’mon, I saw the way he looked at you. Sunshine, you’ve gotta tell me if he touched you. He can’t be.. doin’ that.” He pushed, and your shoulders dropped in resignation. “He didn’t.. touch me like that.. But I caught him starin’ down my front.. And he had his hand on my waist..” you mumbled quietly, and John visibly tensed before you. You fidgeted with a loose thread on your dress. “Tell me if that shit happens again, Okay? Dutch is over twice your age- you’re just a kid, dammit!” He snarled, and you tried to hide your discomfort, despite the urge to flinch. John cleared his throat, forcing himself to relax slightly. “Just- let me know, alright? And try to stick near me or Arthur as much as you can. Dutch won’t try anything if you’re hangin’ around us.” He explains, and his voice is calmer, less angry this time. You nod silently, and he sighs. “Now go to sleep, okay?” He asks, and you obey, bidding him goodnight and crawling into your bedroll, squeezing your eyes shut as you attempt to rest. You try to ignore the nausea that was settling in your gut, forcing the thoughts of Dutch from your mind.
1898
You weren’t a kid anymore. That much was obvious; Men weren’t nearly as secretive about their leering now that you were “old enough.” However, now you knew dozens of different ways to kill someone, and you also had eleven grown men that you trusted with your life; who mostly happened to be notorious gunslingers, and if not, intimidating nonetheless. But none of them could protect you from Dutch.It had started literally the night of your eighteenth birthday. He hadn’t done more than kiss you, and it wasn’t even a particularly lengthy kiss. He was just suddenly there, pressing his lips to yours, and then he was gone as quickly as he had arrived. You, as well as John, Arthur, and Tilly all sat in stunned silence around the campfire for nearly five minutes, the slices of chocolatey pastry mister and missus Matthews had purchased for you that morning now laying forgotten in your laps. You swallowed thickly, feeling sick, and stood, setting your dessert aside before running off to be alone, ignoring the call of your name you heard from the younger girl. Once John started courting Abigail, things got worse. Arthur was already hardly ever in camp, always running off to spend time with that Mary Linton; you often cursed her under your breath, knowing full well she would toss your brother to the side the second he wasn’t convenient for her anymore. But when John started drifting away, you panicked. Of course he would distance himself from you. He was a father-to-be, he couldn’t be spending so much time with another woman; let alone one that would cling to him the second a certain raven-haired man looked her way. And it all went downhill from there. Dutch wasn't particularly forward, not like he was now, after Blackwater. Now he would call for you practically every other night, sometimes not even bothering to wait for the cover of darkness to hide his actions. The worst of it, was that he didn’t even bother with trying to catch you alone. It didn’t matter to him if you were chatting with the other women, if you were busy with chores, hell, there have been multiple occasions where he approaches you in the evening, when you’re sitting with everyone else by the fire, listening to stories. If Dutch wanted you, he didn’t care who knew about it. It wasn’t as if you, or anyone else for that matter, could stand up to him. No one else ever even said anything about it. The most care you received was a brief nod, or an apologetic smile. No one was brave enough to address what was going on in this camp. John and Arthur helped by giving you distractions as often as possible, or letting you hide away or come on easier jobs with them whenever they could. Once you got back, though, Dutch would tear into you about “where the hell have you been?” Or “Were you trying to run away again?” But you almost snap one morning, when you’re leaving Dutchs tent to get ready for the day. You were crouching before the campfire, pouring coffee into a tin mug, when you heard a familiar, blood curdling laugh, followed by a call of your name. “Well well, if it ain’t Dutchs lil’ whore!” Micah drawled, and you stiffened, hooking the percolator back onto the metal rod above the flames. Micah laughed again. “What, is that pussy exclusive to the big guy?” He sneers, grinning when you push past him and towards the chuck wagon to find the box of sugar cubes usually kept within. Of course, Micah follows you. “I bet it is. You probably can’t even get off unless it’s with him, huh? Bet yer’ all loose even this morning from last night.” You try to ignore him, but then he raises his pitch, whining at you as he makes a poor imitation of your voice. “Ohh~ mister Van Der Linde! Ohh, you fuck me so good! I’m such a slut for a big cock!” He chides, and you find yourself white-knuckling the handle of your mug as you continue your search for the sugar cubes. “Say, darlin’, when are you gonna let me have those sloppy seconds, huh? I bet I can fuck you just as good as ol’ Dutch.” He whispers, and you bristle when you feel his warm breath fan across your cheek. Micah snorts, and the blonde is practically crying with laughter as he leans away, sauntering off. “Oh, and by the way, girlie-“ he hums, and you give him the satisfaction of an annoyed glance. His lips curve into a disgusting grin as he eyes you up and down.
“We’re all outta’ sugar.”
1899
You can’t say you didn’t expect the gang to fall apart. You imagine it has been for a long time, probably since before Dutch even seriously tried anything with you. The situation is dire. You’re very clearly aware of that, having had to see the corpses of six too many loved ones in the past couple months. You hate yourself for it, but you feel a slight relief when you realize Dutch hasn’t forced himself on you in over two weeks. Of course, it’s because of all these horrid situations, yet you’re still relieved. You want your gang- no, your family- back more than anything, but you know you won’t ever have that again. You can’t. It’s a silent ride back from Vanhorn, from finding Abigail and rescuing her, and you can feel a sense of dread hanging heavy in the air. Your fears are taking over your mind, and you nearly don’t register it when Arthur tells Sadie to pull her horse to a stop, getting off and helping Abigail down off his mount as well. You can’t even listen. Your thoughts are of John and John only. When Arthur told you he was gone; that he had been shot on the train, and Dutch said they were too late, you nearly collapsed, sobs racking your body until you couldn’t breathe. He’s saying something. You aren’t quite sure what. But when he’s telling her to go find Jack, telling the three of you that “you’re good people,” you’re flinging yourself off your horse and into his arms before you even register yourself doing it. Fat, ugly tears are rolling down your cheeks faster than you can wipe them away. “Arthur- please- We gotta’ leave, we’ll bring you to a doctor!” You sob, clinging to him and fisting your hands in his shirt, and he’s pushing you away weakly, because of course, he always had to be the strong one, didn’t he? Even now, when he’s nearly too ill to stand. You think you were the first one to know he had tuberculosis, and then, you had been the one to point out his sickly look.You’re still crying, still grabbing at him when he’s pushing you off, and Sadie is pulling you away and back towards your horse. You feel the wet droplets on the back of your shirt and you know Sadie is just as heartbroken as you are. You’re begging him not to leave, spouting nonsense about “Dutch can have his god damn money” but he’s shaking his head and responding with “I know”s and “I have to”s, and you know the man is too stubborn to change his mind. Now you’re just silent, staring blankly as the man you’ve come to know as your brother all these years takes something that Abigail shoves into his hand and stashes it in his coat pocket. It all feels too goddamn final- and now you’re bombarded with fresh tears, and you cant blink them away fast enough to see your brother wave at you half-heartedly before you’re watching him and his horse tear off in the opposite direction; back towards beaver hollow, towards Dutch. You can’t even follow the conversation between Tilly and Sadie and Abigail, and you vaguely notice little Jack, standing next to his mother and clutching her dress as he cries into her side. You had always been fond of the little boy. The day Arthur took him fishing, he ran straight to you after gifting his flower necklace to his mother, elated to tell you all about the fish “uncle Arthur” caught, and the strange men he saw. (Admittedly, you weren’t thrilled about that specific part of the story.) You’re barely aware when Tilly is suddenly pushing something into your arms- You look down and see one of those bags of cash from the train- that goddamn train that started all this. But you know it’s not because of the train. You know this poison has been festering for ages, and this was the one thing that tipped the scale. John dying on that train was the one thing, Abigail being kidnapped and abandoned by the others was the one thing. This whole mess is the result of years of problems and arguments being swept under the rug; of being culminated and culminated until suddenly it exploded and destroyed everything you held dear in this awful world. You’re confused, you’re looking down at Tilly, your sister; and she’s saying something about “you need to take the money.” and “go start a new life,” but all you can think about is this being it- you’re never going to see any of these people again. The last decade and a half of your life is coming to an end and it will be like your family never even existed. Tilly is waiting for a response, and you feel your stomach twisting in despair. “Tilly, no- don’t say that- We’re going together, right? We have to stick with each-other.” But she’s just shaking her head, and you don’t understand how she’s not as visibly upset as you are. Her eyes are glassy, her cheeks a little red, but other than that and her expression, she looks like the same Tilly Jackson you’ve known since she was thirteen. “I’ll find you. I promise.” She whispers, and your throat is too tight to respond with anything more than a distressed noise paired with a meek nod. You look over at Sadie and Abigail, little Jack, the three watching silently with distant faces, and you say goodbye. Your plan is to return to Blackwater. You were never actually there with Dutch and the others, so you know no one will recognize your face, or your name. That, and you and John had a dream about sharing a big house with everyone, back in the day. The money Tilly gave you was enough for the down payment on a nice, secluded, comfortable house, and more. About a month after you arrived, you start feeling awful every day. You’re barely able to get out of bed, and can hardly look yourself in the mirror above your bathroom washbasin. You hate the way you look, that you’re so obviously feminine. And while these feelings aren’t new, now you’re alone with them. You’re able to sit and relax for once, but now the dysphoria is back, and you can’t focus on things like hiding from Dutch, or loading your schedule with back-breaking chores and jobs to forget about it. You try as hard as you can to keep busy, with minimal luck. You even decide to start wearing baggy clothes, pants made for the “stronger” sex, and you cut your hair, too. Things, as always, change. You’ve missed your cycle. You thought maybe it was just a fluke, an irregularity, and you wait impatiently for two weeks, dread building up inside you after each day of not seeing even a drop of blood. But it never happens. You pray that maybe you’re just sick, that it will come back once your body is acclimated to a life of not constantly being on the run. That has to be it, right? There’s been stories of women missing their cycle, only to find out that something in their diet was causing the phenomenon, or that a change in routine had screwed up their system. You convince yourself that this is the case; for a measly three days, that is. Then the morning sickness began. You unhitched your horse and tore into the city the moment you stopped puking, and felt so blessed when you entered the doctor’s office and no one was sitting, waiting for availability. Of course you were pregnant. The doctor must have mistaken your nerves for excitement, and as he was putting his tools and papers and whatever else away, he asked if you will be telling your husband. You answer, too quickly, and say “he’s dead,” and the atmosphere in the little office quickly changes. Obviously you can’t say the truth; It wouldn’t even be wise to leave it at “he left you,” because then the pity you’re receiving now would turn into judgement. Word would get out, inevitably, and you would be known as the local woman who couldn’t keep her husband, even when she fell pregnant. So you leave it at that, and the doctor doesn’t speak a word more to you, not even when you pay him a few dollars for his time. You make the trip back to your home, and you can’t help but wonder what you did to deserve all of this.
1906
Everything has changed in the last seven years. Your daughter, Bessie, has just turned six, and you’ve been able to look at her without thinking of Dutch for five years now. Something clicked on her first birthday; A moment that you could only describe as healing.
You had been watching her as she stuffed her face with handfuls of the soft dessert you made special for today; a simple bread pudding, made with peaches you bought from a local farm, ground oats, and a few other easy ingredients. But she was tearing into it with the voracity of a hundred grown men, making a mess of her face, clothes, the table, truly, any surface within reach.
You suddenly felt full, more content than you ever had in all your years with your family. Sure, she was his child, but he would never be a part of her life, as long as you were around to have a say in it. In that moment, seeing Bessies little face smeared with warm, gooey peach sauce, you realized you would do anything for her. You told her so, and even though she couldn’t understand your words, your heart warmed at the way she babbled excitedly, smooshing more pudding into the tablecloth and reaching for you with her tiny, messy hands.
But Bessie wasn’t the only change. After she was born, you changed yourself too. You got a haircut. An actual haircut. Not just from your own hand with the rusty scissors you kept in the house, but at a real barber, and you got it cut short, granted you paid the man a bit extra since he gave you a strange look when asking for a mens haircut. Gone were your days of having long hair, of trying to fit the standards of a mother. Hell, Bessie even called you “dad” when you weren’t in town. You were lucky enough to have a smaller than average chest, and you could often skip binding it with bandages altogether, so long as you weren’t wearing a fitted shirt. You had been practicing lowering your voice for at least three years now, and it wasn’t all to difficult to near-perfect it, since you’ve been smoking practically your entire life. (Or at least since your mother died.) It was relatively easy to avoid mens unwanted advances, since you almost always had your daughter by your side. Being a single parent had its perks in that respect, you suppose.You’ve never left her home alone. Even when you’re just working in the garden, the little girl was close by, or at least never out of earshot. She was often playing with the hens, or pestering the cows, but she was such a gentle child, never pushing the animals too far, and always giving them their space as they needed it. Even with you, she never caused a fuss, never argued with your decisions as the adult. That said, you also never pushed her to do things she dislikes. Of course, there was the occasional griping when you reminded her of an undesirable chore that still needed doing; but you knew when you had to lay off, and give her something else to do. You liked to think her sweet nature was a product of your parenting skills. You were in your usual early-morning spot, humming softly as you read the newspaper, ceramic coffee mug in your free hand. The sun was just starting to poke out above the trees, but for now, all was quiet. Bessie hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet, the early-bird that she is. Then you heard the tell-tale sound of hoofbeats approaching, and you saw a single horse trotting up the dirt path to your home. You couldn’t see the face of the rider due to the sun behind them, and your hand inched towards one of the many shotguns you kept hidden around the property, currently tucked away between the window edge and the doorframe. You cleared your throat when the person was close enough to see, but not enough to recognize, and you grab the firearm, pacing to the edge of your front porch.“What do you want?” You grunted, and held the weapon up against your cheek as you aimed the barrel toward the trespasser. “This is private property, y’know.” You continued, and the stranger had the nerve to laugh, and jumped down from his horse. “I know, and you’re pretty damn serious about people not bein’ able to find you, too. Took even me nearly a week to figure out.” He said, and your face went slack with recognition. That low, raspy voice, the scar on his cheek-“John Marston?” You yelped, and cringed at the way your voice cracked. The man laughed heartily, and you felt tears prick your eyes as you dropped the shotgun into your chair, practically leaping over the three steps down from the porch as you bolted toward him. You collided with an “oomph-“ from both sides, toppling into the sparse, dry grass underfoot. Tears were streaking your face, and you even think you saw a few leave Johns eyes. You held him tightly in a bone-crushing embrace, as if he might disappear once you let go. “I can’t believe it- You’re here! I-we all thought you were dead!” You sobbed, and John just groaned, tapping your shoulder twice, and you let go immediately, apologizing as he rubs his ribcage through that denim vest you recognize from seven years ago. The man hasn’t changed one bit. Well, aside from the new beard; you had to restrain yourself from laughing when you remembered the younger man that couldn’t grow anything past a bit of stubble. He’s broader, too. You can’t imagine what on earth he’s been doing for the last several years, but you look away when you find your eyes drifting down his torso. You thanked God he hadn’t noticed. “I know, I know. I didn’t die on that train- didn’t abandon you lot either.” He started, and you scoffed. “Well clearly you didn’t kick the bucket. What happened!?” Your hands were shaky, and John took them in his, squeezing gently. “I fell off the train- was shot. Dutch and the others left. Arthur..” he looked down, and you nodded solemnly. You knew he was gone, have for a long time, but when John says it, you can’t help the way you get a bit choked up. “I caught up with Abigail and Jack. Sadie and Tilly, too. They said you had just left. Said you didn’t look too good, ‘neither. I’d just missed you..” he revealed, and you feel guilt sinking low in your gut. “I’ve been thinkin’ the past seven years- that maybe if I had just been a little faster.. I would’ve found you too.” He admitted, and you swallowed around the lump in your throat, changing the subject. “How are Abigail and Jack? Are they here too?” You asked, and the look of guilt on John’s face made you instantly realize you’ve made a mistake. “Uh.. She left me. Took Jack, too. I was bein’ stupid, trying to run from our days with the gang, but I couldn’t let go of some of it.” You nodded encouragingly when he paused for a deep breath. “She left then, said she’d come back if I got my act together. I started to, even bought the property she was looking at, built a little house on it. She had talked about having a ranch one day..” he looked down. “But?”“But she didn’t stay. Said something about it being “too little too late.” Not that I blame her, I was an idiot for doing what I did.” He replied, and you sat in silence for a moment. “I’m sorry. About all that, John.” You said quietly, and he shrugged, waving the apology off. He cleared his throat, looking straight at you and stretching his legs out from under himself on the ground. He put out a hand, and you both got to your feet. “I like the new look, by the way. Suits you.” He said, and you were about to reply when you heard the door to your house creaking open, and a quiet yawn sounding to your right. “Daddy?” Your daughter called out, and you turned quickly to see her standing on the first step, rubbing her eyes and shivering as she held tightly to the stuffed purple rabbit doll you had given her for her third birthday. You heard Johns breath catch, and you smile at your little girl, walking forward and reaching your hands out for her to jump into as she darted nervously to your side. You picked her up, one hand behind her legs and the other over her midsection as she tucked her face into your shoulder, clearly wary of this strange man in your front yard. “Good morning, sweet girl.” You hum softly, rubbing her back soothingly. “Did we wake you?” You asked, and felt her shake her head against you. “Nuh-uh. I woke up because Cherry got on my bed. And then you weren’t in your room, so I came out to sit with you on the porch, But you were talking to this man.” She whispered, and you chuckled because her “whisper” was really just her usual voice, but closer to your ear, and with a hand brought up to cover her mouth. You spotted Cherry, a tiny diluted calico cat with wide, bright blue eyes, strolling out through the open door. “I know, I’m sorry baby, but I had a surprise visit from an old friend.” You explained, and turned your body so Bessie could peek out and see John standing stock-still, wearing the same shocked expression you left him with. You had to hold in a laugh when you spoke again. “This is John Marston. He and your daddy grew up together. He’s a good man, sweet thing, so don’t worry about him, okay?” You said, and John finally moved, nodding his head but not changing his ram-rod posture. Your daughter said a quiet “hello,” and pat you once to have you put her down. She stood up, now holding her rabbit toy to her chest. The little brown button-eyes glittered in the morning sun. “It’s nice to meet you, mister John.” She said, always such a polite little girl. He nodded once more, and she toddled off to find Cherry (the latter having wandered off), still rubbing her eyes sleepily. You looked back at John, and already felt dread building up in your stomach. He spoke first. “Is she..?” You nodded, folding your arms. “My daughter, yes.” He nodded. “Whose.. Is she.. His?” He asks, voice uncertain. You sighed, tipping your head towards the two chairs on the porch. “Yeah, she’s Dutch’s. You better come sit down.” You say quietly, and John makes a noise of agreement, following you onto the porch. You tell him everything; about you leaving that day, finding out you were pregnant, and knowing it could only be because of Dutch. You told him about her, her personality, how good and kind she is to everyone she meets, and eventually you know you have to tell him about you. About why your daughter calls her mother “dad.” You’re shocked by how well he takes it. He’s a bit confused at first, but he’s nodding along, focused. You almost laugh at the idea when you imagine that if he had a pen and paper, he would likely be taking notes. He asks questions, and you give him answers. By the end, the sun is about halfway overhead, and you hear Johns stomach growl. He looks humiliated, but you laugh quietly. “Would you like some breakfast?” You ask, and he shrugs. “I don’t want to impose, I was planning on getting something in town..” you wave the notion away, digging in your feet. “John. Would you like some breakfast?” You repeat, more insistent, and he’s nodding quickly. You see the embarrassment redden his cheeks, and you grin. “I’ll make some eggs and toast.” You all ate fast, and your girl is surprisingly the last one finished. You lean in, licking your thumb and sweeping a few crumbs off her cheek. This earns you a giggle, and you lean away, catching John watching you fondly. He turns his gaze from you quickly, and looks at your daughter. “I’ve just realized I don’t know your name yet, young lady.” He exclaims, as if not knowing your little girls name was a criminal offense. You smile when her giggling starts back up. “It’s Bessie, mister John.” She replies, and you watch him freeze for a split second, recognition evident in his gaze. He nods once, and smiles, tipping the ghost of the hat he had left hanging on the coat rack. “It’s nice to meet you, fair lady Bessie.” The six year old nearly falls off her chair from laughing. “Easy now, sweetheart. Don’t need you wasting all this excitement so early, do we?” You said, putting a gentle hand on her head, and petting the soft, dark strands of thick hair. She nods in response, and you raise an eyebrow. She hesitates, tilting her head in confusion for a moment, and you laugh when she gasps loudly, jumping out of her seat at the table and darting to the door to put on her shoes. “I’m gonna go feed Strawberry and Peanut!” She announces, and the door slams shut behind her as she sprints off the porch, and past the windows in her effort to get to the cows quickly. You sigh, leaning back in your chair and taking a sip of your coffee. You hear John chuckle. “She’s a ball of energy, isn’t she?” He hums, and you smiled, nodding. “She sure is. Makes me wonder if I’d ever get through any work without her always asking what chores need to be done. It sometimes feels like she’s the parent and I’m the kid.” John laughs genuinely at this, and you tilt your head up, opening your eyes. He then looks like he’s debating saying something, and you make a face. “What is it?” You ask, and he clears his throat. “I.. Found uncle. And Charles Smith. Well, uncle found me, but then we both found Charles. Found Sadie, too. I was doing bounties with her to make ends meet for a while. Then she.. found something.” He says, that last sentence uncertain. You prod at him, wordlessly, and he continues. “She found Micah.” You feel your heart drop, and you’re almost ready to stand up from your chair, when John interrupts your thoughts. “We killed him. Er.. Dutch killed him.” The momentary relief at his death is crushed instantly, and your fear is brought back tenfold in seconds. John is starting to panic. “I don’t- Sadie and Charles and I think he left the country. Mexico, maybe. Wherever he is, he’s not here. You’re safe. Bessie is safe.” He explains, stumbling over his words as he frantically tries to calm you. You force your breathing to relax, and look back up at John, who’s now half-knelt in front of your chair, hands resting on your knees as he watches your face. “That’s… good.” You whisper, not trusting your voice not to betray your feelings. John seems to deflate, and stands up, taking your hand. “If you.. want.. to, you and her can come to our ranch. It’s real close to here. You can stay as long as you like, and if that ends up being forever, that’s fine too. I want you to feel safe.” He offers, and you find yourself tensing. “I.. I don’t know, John. Visiting is one thing, but moving in? I’d feel like I’d be a burden- a hassle.” You admit, and John isn’t having it. “You could never be a burden. You wanting your child to be safe won’t ever be a hassle.” He says, and you have to admit it feels wonderful to be cared about this way. Your belongings are packed up into crates in record time. Everything fits in the back of your wagon, and there’s even space for Bessie to put down a few blankets and be comfortable for the ride. John helps with moving the few pieces of furniture that you want to bring, and with making sure the hens and cows are settled for the journey. The hens are even relatively quiet, nestled in their brood boxes that have been turned into carriers. The cows are temperamental as usual, but at least somewhat content with being hitched to the wagon and following along behind it. By the time you say goodbye to your house, you’re a bit emotional, and Bessie even waves goodbye to the empty ranch, while Cherry is tucked into the small space of thick blanket between her and a crate. The trip, as John said, was pretty short. He said it would be about twenty minutes now, and you nodded, realizing that it’s only been around thirty five since you left the ranch. You noticed John staring at you, and you glance his way, raising a brow in question. “Sorry, It still hasn’t completely sunken in. You being.. here.” He confessed, and you smiled warmly.“S’alright. I’m thinkin’ the same thing. I thought you all were.. Gone.. That I’d never see any of you again. Tilly has written once or twice.. I found out she got married because of some loud mouth from Saint Denis visiting a restaurant in Blackwater..” You scoffed, laughing at the memory.
In the moment, you thought you had been hearing things, he couldn’t have just said Tilly Jackson was getting married. But then he repeated himself to the bartender, and you told Bessie to stay put as you walked over and introduced yourself.
When you said you knew her from a few years ago, the man was slightly suspicious, but you told him your given name, and his face lit up. He had laughed loudly, saying “yes, of course! Tilly has said a great many things about you! All pleasant, not to worry!” And the mans personality reminded you a bit of Trelawny, who you also wondered about time to time.
The man, who you discovered was named Marcus Harrington, was quick to give you Tillys’ mailing address, and you thanked him profusely before returning to your daughter and your meal.
John listened to the story, and laughed a couple times. He asked if you’ve seen her, if you’ve visited, and nodded in understanding when you admitted that not only could you not make the trip with Bessie being so young, but you also haven’t yet told Tilly about your “new look.” He dropped the topic, and you stared at the road for a few minutes, the sound of the wagon wheels squeaking bringing a sense of relief to the otherwise quiet day. “I do like it, you know. I wasn’t just saying that. I wasn’t just saying I didn’t mind you.. being this way, either, just because I didn’t want you to think otherwise. I meant it. You look happier than I’ve ever seen you before. I’m happy that you’re finally happy.” His words left you speechless, and you were going to thank him, but then he steered the horses by the reigns through a gate, and you looked up to see a sign with “Beechers Hope” carved into it. “Here we are.” John said, and you leaned back to tell Bessie to get ready to get out of the wagon. In seconds, she was peeking her head through the crates closest to you, and looking around with wide eyes. “Woah! There’s so much space here, Daddy!” She gasped, and you chuckled quietly, patting her head and kissing her temple. A few minutes passed, and the wagon was pulling to a stop in front of the house. John clearly decided not to mention how big this house was, and you found yourself gaping and just as wide-eyed as the six year old to your right. You all filtered out of the wagon, and laughed at Cherry clinging to Bessie when the girl tried to set her on the ground. She opted to just keep holding the feline. Then, you heard a door swing open, and looked up to see Charles, uncle, and Sadie all rushing out the door. You raced over to meet them, hugging each one, and not even having the heart to shoot uncle a look when he commented on you “growing into a fine woman, even if your hair was all chopped off.” The three stopped momentarily, and you knew their attention was on Bessie as she helped John with the chickens, without even turning to look. You cleared your throat, and three sets of wide eyes turned back to you. “That’s my daughter, Bessie.” You said, and the three nodded silently. “She’s Dutch's’.” You added, and they nodded again, a bit slower this time. You pat your hands on your thighs, and turned around. “Bessie, darling, won’t you come greet my friends?” You called, and the ravenette girl spun around, letting go of the crate she was “helping” John carry as she darted to your side. She grabbed onto your shirt, looking up between the three strangers. “Hello.” She chirped, and you rubbed her shoulder encouragingly. “It’s nice to meet you all. Thank you for letting us stay!” She added, and you looked up to see Sadie and Charles smiling sweetly down at her, and the older man positively beaming. “Well, darlin’, it’s a pleasure to meet you, too! You can call me uncle.” He said, and took her tiny hand in his to shake. Bessie smiled brightly, and you couldn’t contain the fond smile as you watched her bounce against the balls of her feet. Charles and Sadie introduced themselves too, and shortly after, the six of you were getting to work on emptying the wagon. It was almost evening by the time you were finished, and John offered to cook dinner, but you, Charles, Sadie, and uncle all collectively shouted a resounding “No!” Leaving John to pout and flop down on the couch next to you as he let Charles take his place in the kitchen. You were all sitting together, telling stories about the last seven years apart, and when Bessie practically dragged uncle to her room to show him her collection of “interesting” rocks, sticks, and other things she’s found on her adventures outside, you laugh softly, watching him follow her with zero fuss. You turn back to Sadie and John. “That girl of yours has uncle wrapped ’round her lil’ finger.” Sadie announces, and the three of you laugh, taking close to a minute to catch your breath. John sighs. “I reckon she’s the only one who’s ever been able to get the old bastard to do anything he didn’t think of himself.” He proposed, and you and Sadie nodded in agreement. “She has a gift.” You say in response, and you all lean back, relaxing for a few minutes until there’s suddenly a delicious, savory smell wafting from the kitchen, and Charles pokes his head out to let you know dinner was ready. You fetch Bessie and uncle, grinning when you peek into her room and see her placing little glittering pebbles or brightly colored buttons into the old mans hands, which he examines enthusiastically before setting them back into the little tin box they had come from. You clear your throat, and they both look at you, a faint hint of annoyance in their expressions at being so rudely interrupted. Their faces brighten immediately, however, when you tell them dinner is done cooking. Charles cooked some roasted fish for dinner, and the heavy seasoning on it was clearly enough for even John to tolerate it, if his twice emptied plate was enough to go on. Your daughter loved it so much, that she had seconds, and even then, you ended up giving the last few bites of your own to her. Soon after, Bessie went off to bed, and you tucked her in. Your chest swelled with pride as you took in the events of the day, and looked around her room. Her own room, all to herself. You knew why she had her own, that it would have been Jacks, had he and Abigail chosen to stay. Even with that context, your heart felt light- airy, with joy. Going back to the living area, you joined the rest of the adults for some drinks- Uncle had gone into town earlier, when everyone had been unpacking- and bought an expensive bottle of European brandy for the occasion. You sat down on the sofa, gladly taking a glass from John and cheers-ing with the group. It had been a little over three months since you and Bessie moved in with John at Beechers Hope. Things had become more of a routine, and Sadie had eventually taken off, going back to her preferred life of collecting bounties and living on the road. Charles left too, but visited as often as possible from his stead up in the Grizzlies. Of course, uncle stayed, and John so generously built an addition onto the house so you had a room to yourself. You had told them you didn’t mind sharing with Bessie, but one look her way told you that she certainly did. So you politely thanked John, and often took it upon yourself to go into town for groceries when you were quick enough to notice a lack of supplies before John did. Recently, though, John had been inviting you out to run errands, asking if you would join him in Blackwater, even when there wasn’t anything new needed at the ranch. But you never commented on it, just satisfied with spending time with the man. Not everything was perfect, though. You knew Dutch was alive. Before you reunited with everyone, the only thing keeping you from looking over your shoulder every waking minute was the thought, (however delusional) that he was gone. But he isn’t. John confirmed that fact. John had approached you around nine a.m. You were seated in the rocking chair by the window, watching Bessie as she ran about, scattering feed for the hens. John rounded the corner, exiting the kitchen with two mugs of coffee in hand. He offered you one. “Mornin’.” You greeted him, and John nodded in response. He never was talkative in the mornings, even years ago when you were in the gang together. John sat on the couch across from you. “You wanna’ go into town with me today? I’m leaving soon.” He offered, and you spotted the thread-bare parts of his current button down. Most of his clothes were old and worn, and you had been pestering him for weeks to buy some additions to his wardrobe. Maybe today you could really push him to get something new. “Sure.” As always, the ride into Blackwater was uneventful. There were a few lone riders that passed your wagon, and one oil cart, but otherwise nothing. John was currently going on about things you needed to buy, but you had just checked the pantry and shed yesterday morning to see if anything new was needed. There wasn’t. “Should probably get some feed for the chickens.. Last I checked, we were running low.” He continued, and you hummed. “Yeah, John?” You asked, interrupting his rambling. His attention snapped to you. “Unless Bessie fed the hens fifteen pounds of dried corn this morning, I don't think we need anymore feed.” You finished, an eyebrow raised as you watched his expression shift to a more humble one. He cleared his throat, and you sighed. “John, you invited me to come to town with you not three days ago. Is there something going on?” You prodded, and he shrugged. “No, nothing. I just figured you might like to have a break once in a while. Thought shopping would be a good distraction from the ranch every so often.” He admitted, and you smiled as you watched him fiddling anxiously with the leather reigns attached to his horse. You hummed again in amusement. “You could just start with that, next time. That way we don’t gotta worry about tirin’ poor Rachel out with this heavy wagon.” You told him, and the brunette nodded quickly. “Okay.. I just didn’t want to give you the wrong idea, or come off too strong.” You saw him visibly fluster at his own words, and you found it quite endearing, so you decided to tease him a bit. “What would the wrong idea be, Johnny?” You ask, and you stifle a laugh when he jolts in his seat. “I- Just figured you wouldn’t want it to seem like we were courtin’ or anything.” He explained, and you frowned. “Why not?” John was looking at you incredulously, brows furrowed. You tilted your head in question. “I thought you- Aren’t you interested in ladies?” The question made you snort out of instinct, and you suddenly felt bad when John turned away, face reddening. You pat his shoulder gently, shaking your head. “I’m sorry- sorry, John, you just caught me off guard.” You turned him back to face you. “Why would you assume I prefer women?” “I dunno’, I just thought you would.. since you’re a man and all.” A wave of realization hit you, and you blinked at him. “I don’t fancy just women, John. Sure, I might, if I met a lady who I thought was right for me, but I got no issue with the right person bein’ a man.” If possible, John looked even more embarrassed, but he nodded quickly in understanding, and you both turned to look as you approached the town of Blackwater. “Well then.. Do you want to shop, still?” He asked, and you chuckled softly. “Yeah, but we’re getting you some new clothes.” You agreed, and John rolled his eyes, earning another laugh. You were able to trick John into letting you pay for his purchases, much to his dismay. You had even tipped the shop clerk, asking him not to let the man try to pay instead while he was in the changing room. You weren’t even sure what the big deal was, since you only bought John a few new work shirts, some pants, and a jacket. But clearly, he wasn’t going to let you hear the end of it any time soon. The two of you were walking down the busy road about fifteen minutes later, and John was still complaining about you paying for him. The saloon came into view, and you had an idea. “John, how about you let it go, and I’ll let you pay for dinner and drinks?” You said, interrupting his current rant. He seemed to consider it briefly, before grumbling a “fine” and following you into the building. You sat at the corner of the bar counter, a fair distance away from other patrons still busy with their drinks. John ordered food for the both of you, which you ate ravenously, and now you were both knocking back your fourth and his third shot of whiskey. “You ever wonder why they make you pay every time you order a shot? Why don’t they let you keep a tab anymore?” He slurred, and you sighed. John never was able to hold his alcohol well, often getting tipsy off of just his first shot. You were always the designated babysitter whenever Arthur wasn’t joining you at the saloons all those years ago. That, or when Arthur drank a bit more than he should, Hosea was the one who would bail (or break) the three of you out of the sheriff’s office that night. After which, he would nag you all the way back to camp for being so irresponsible. “Probably so pricks like you don’t get shit-faced without spendin’ a cent.” You sneered, and he made a noise that sounded more like that a child would make when being scolded than that of a grown man. You snickered quietly, ignoring the face he made at you. “Two more, sir.” He shouted at the bartender, sliding a dollar towards him, and you had half a mind to smack him upside the head for being so loud, especially when the poor man nearly jumped out of his skin from the sudden exclamation. “I don’t want anymore.” You sighed, and John shrugged, nodding to the now irritated server, who nodded back. “I’ll drink yours, then.” John said, and you groaned, knowing you would be dragging him back to the ranch or a hotel sooner or later. He took the drinks once the man set them in front of you two, and you grimaced when he downed both immediately. “Johnny, c’mon. I’m gonna have to scrape you off the floor at this rate.” You snapped, nudging him with your elbow. John just rolled his eyes, swaying slightly, and you took his unsteadiness as your cue to leave. You put an arm under his, propping him up as you swiped an extra two dollars from his coat, tipping the bartender with an apologetic nod. “Where we going?” He drawled, and you huffed as you kicked the saloon door open with your boot, and pulled him through. “The wagon. But honestly, you should probably have a bath before we get back to the ranch. I don’t need you reeking like a drunkard around my daughter.” You explained in a pinched voice, and John seemed to find your tone menacing enough to shut up. You opted to haul him over to the hotel, shooting him a glare whenever he would groan about his feet hurting. You did so without much interference, and booked two rooms for yourselves, paying for a hot bath to be drawn. Of course the damn idiot needed help even with bathing. You debated asking for a bath maid, but figured that even a minute of washing the drunk man would be worth more than the fifty cents for her troubles. For a brief moment, (one you were immensely guilty of having) you wished that Abigail were still around, and wondered how the hell she put up with Johns antics when they were together. You swallowed your pride, and helped him undress, keeping your eyes focused high above his waist for the sake of your own mind. Getting him into the tub wasn’t as difficult as you expected, and for that you were grateful. Bathing him was another story entirely. “Dammit, John, stop fidgeting when I’m trying to clean you! How the hell did you even get this grimy?” You snapped, and John pouted when you held up the wet towel that was already tinted gray from washing both his arms. “What happened to calling me Johnny?” He slurred, and in any other situation you might’ve laughed, but right now you found yourself thankful that the bath water was clouded with bubbles to shield his lower half. His face was a deep shade of red, and you found that every few seconds his eyes would drift away from your face and further south. You could feel your own cheeks heat up from the attention. “Shut up.” You said quietly, scrubbing up over his shoulder. Your hands paused for barely a second when you reached his chest, and you kept scrubbing. “At least now you don’t smell like an entire case of booze was poured over you. Would it hurt to bathe a little more often? I know damn well your hair isn’t this greasy just from a few days.” You grunted, and used the pitcher provided by the hotel to rinse the suds off his torso. “Lean forward a bit. I’m gonna try to tackle this rats nest.” You ordered, and John did as told, but not without a grumble of annoyance. You started with pouring more water over his head, not even realizing that you covered his eyes with your free hand the same way you would when you helped Bessie in the tub. “You don’t have to treat me like a kid. I’m four years older than you, anyway.” He argued, and you scoffed, rolling your eyes.“I wouldn’t, if you didn’t act like one.” You responded, and John sighed loudly. “Drama queen.” You thought, and lathered his hair up with some earthy-herbal scented soap. He moved again, and you tugged his hair to keep him in place. “Hold still, dammit! It’ll sting like a bitch if you let it get in your eyes.” You scold, and when you think his hair is sufficiently washed, you dump more water over his head, repeating the process until there aren’t any bubbles left in his dark locks. You set the pitcher down with a content sigh. “There. Was that really worth acting like such a child over?” You ask, and you yelp when John spins around in the water to face you, and you flinch, falling onto your backside when your front is sprayed with water from the sudden movement. “I told you to stop talking to me like I’m a kid. I’m not.” He growls, and you take a second to discover that his blush has spread up to his ears and down his throat, and now the man’s eyes are trained on your lips. “John..” you whisper, and trail off instantly because you can’t even remember where you were going with that sentence. He steps out of the tub, and you’re quite literally fighting to keep your eyes on his face when you can clearly see how excited he is in your peripheral. “You need me to show you that I ain’t a kid?” He snaps, and your throat constricts when he gets on his knees in front of you, and puts one hand on your leg, the other splayed on the tile floor. Your heart races when his face is suddenly a few inches from your own. His eyes flick between your lips and your own eyes, and you don’t pull away when the brunette closes the gap between you. His lips are rough, chapped, but you find that you can’t get enough of them. A noise threatens to leave your throat, but it’s drowned out by the possessive growl John makes as he lifts the hand on your leg up to your face. His calloused palm feels electric on your skin- you wonder why it feels so different than Dutchs. It doesn’t make you want to run away. It’s like that, gentle, for a few minutes, but then Johns hand is drifting down from your face to your shoulder, and over your chest, and as much as you want to continue, you pull away frantically when a wave of fear floods your mind. Looking up, for a brief moment you see Dutch- his face, leering down at you with that grin you always dreaded seeing. You would often keep your eyes closed during these moments, and now you remember why. You feel lightheaded, and squeeze your eyes shut as you scramble to back away from him. He reaches out, and you feel a sob wrack your body when you feel the cold metal of his rings settle on your wrist. Except, it’s not cold. You open your eyes again, and John is sitting in front of you, eyes filled with a worried, and maybe even frightened, look. His hand isn’t even on your wrist, and of course there aren’t any rings on his fingers. You blink, and suddenly feel the tears that managed to escape while you were in that state of panic. John is still silent as you recover yourself. “I need to go.” You said abruptly, and now his eyes are confused. You stand on shaky legs, wobbling slightly and catching yourself on the edge of the tub. You grab your coat, your satchel, and gun-belt, making for the door. “I’m sorry- I’m just gonna get a ride home. I’ll leave the wagon here.” You explain, and don’t even stay long enough to hear John shouting your name. The ride back, and the next morning, is hell. You can’t get Johns worried expression out of your head. The more you try not to think about it, the more the look in his eyes hurt, and the more you want to throw or break something. It’s nearly afternoon, and you haven’t left your bedroom. Uncle briefly knocked on your door, letting you know he was taking Bessie down to the stream to teach her to fish, but other than that, you weren’t bothered. You regret not giving your daughter a hug and kiss goodbye, and knew she would likely be upset with you for it later. You mind ran rampant with thoughts of what to do. You considered apologizing to John, but even the thought of facing him made your blood run cold. You imagined him being angry with you. Angry that you rejected his advances last night, and that you were even slightly under the impression he would forgive you. But that isn’t how he would react. He isn’t Dutch. You then imagined a more realistic response. John would probably shake his head. He would hug you, telling you “it was okay”, and that he wasn’t angry. Hell, he would probably apologize to you for trying anything. That was the type of person he was. The idea of that sort of response was even more upsetting to you than an angry one. Your heart ached at the thought of him being the sorry one, when everyone knows he would never force himself onto anyone. You wondered how he was feeling now- if he was frustrated with himself for doing something he wasn’t even sober enough to even realize he was doing. You shook your head, and got up from your mattress, running around your room and tossing things into a bag. You have to leave Beechers Hope. You could just gather the necessary things, and bring Bessie back to your house on the edge of Blackwater. You couldn’t stay here, not now that you’ve gone and made a mess of your relationship with John. Bessie. You froze, looking down at your satchel. You can’t make her move again, not when she’s just begun to settle down here. You couldn’t force her to leave Uncle, and John, and how would she feel when she found out that she wouldn’t be here when Charles visits next month? You sigh, and let your bag fall out of your grasp, hitting the wooden floor with a loud thump. What the hell are you doing? Any choice you make now will just mess things up even more. You lower yourself to sit on the floor. “You alright in there?” You hear through the door, and you jolt. Of course John’s back. Why wouldn’t he be? You didn’t hear him and Rachel ride back onto the property. You bite your lip. “Yeah, I’m fine.” You cringe when your voice cracks, and you curse yourself for not hiding your feelings better. The door knob turns, and you wipe your damp eyes furiously. Johns head appears around the door. “Don’t sound like it.” He mumbles, and you have to admit, he hides his confusion at you sitting on the floor surrounded by your belongings pretty well. You wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t waiting for the scrutiny. But rather than asking, John joins you on the ground. “Going somewhere?” He asks, nodding to the half-full bag. You shrug. “I don’t know. Thought maybe Bessie and I have overstayed our welcome. I would assume it isn’t exactly ideal to have a mother and her six year old living in a single mans house.” Johns face scrunches at this, and you look away. You don’t notice the way his eye twitched when you purposefully misgendered yourself. “I told you, you don’t have to leave if you don’t want to.” He clarified, and you shrugged again, crossing your arms over your knees. You don’t know what it was about this man that made you feel so small in moments like this.“Just thought that after last night.. I might have ruined everything.” You admit, and John sighs. “That was on me. I shouldn’t have done that, even if I was drunk. I know you don’t feel that way for me, but I still came onto you.” He grumbled, and you frowned at him, putting your hands back down. “I never told you I didn’t, it’s not your fault I didn’t stop you. You weren’t aware of what you were doing. I shouldn’t have encouraged it as much as I did.” You argued, and you both fell silent for a minute. John looked conflicted until he spoke up. “I knew what I was doing.” He whispered, not looking your way. Oh.
Oh.
“John.. What are you saying?” You pushed, and he inhaled sharply, forcing his head up. You realized his face was dusted pink again, though lighter than last night. His eyes glassy, and brows pinched. Your heart ached. “I have feelings for you. Have since before Dutch.. Before he..” John shook his head, as if forcing the thought from his mind. “I’ve been sweet on you for a long time. Didn’t know how to approach it because of him, and I guess I just.. Decided Abigail was the easy way out. She said Jack was mine, and it weren’t like I was able to be sure, so I just went with it, and I messed that up too.” Tears were pricking at your eyes, and you didn’t trust yourself to speak. John was looking at you expectantly, though, and you needed to respond. With the most confidence you could muster together, you leaned forward, pressing your lips to his. John froze for a second, and you debated pulling away until he kissed back, gently. His hand found yours, and you intertwined your fingers, letting your free hand lift to rest at the junction of his jaw and throat. The kiss was so different from last night. There was no sense of urgency, no drunk fumbling when he lifted his other hand to curl into the hairs at the nape of your neck. Everything was slow, a long-awaited harmony of emotions that have been building up for so many years. John swept the tip of his tongue across your mouth, and you parted your lips willingly. Your heart pounded as his breath fanned over your face upon pulling away for air, and you tipped forward to rest your forehead against his shoulder. “John..” you began, and a quiet noise was your only indication that he heard you. You placed your palm on his chest, and you realized the first few buttons of his shirt were undone. “I need you.. Let me show you how much..” You felt his breath hitch at your words, and the man swallowed deeply before speaking. “No, I don’t need anything from you right now.” He whispered, and you felt your heart sink for a split second before he continued. “Let me take care of you.” He proposed, and you shuddered when his mouth brushed over the sensitive skin below your ear. A barely audible whimper was all you could manage to respond with, and John inhaled through his nose. “I don’t know what to do. I’d only ever been with him, John.” You admitted, and the brunette shook his head. “It’s alright. I’ll take the lead.” He hummed, voice rasping as his hand smoothed your ruffled hair back into place. You nodded in response, and John stood up, guiding you over to your bed. Your heart nearly skipped a beat when you locked eyes with him. His gaze felt like it was burning into your skin, and you felt the urge to look away. Your body warmed under his hands, and then you were leaning in to kiss him again. It was more heated than before. The brunette had one hand cradling the back of your head, the other on your waist as he pulled you in. Everything felt as if you were on fire, and something inside you stirred when your mind finally connected with the notion that John is nothing like Dutch. His caresses were gentle, almost benevolent, as he worked the buttons open on your shirt. You nearly laughed at his demeanor, such a contrast from the mans usual attitude towards anyone. But his actions were careful whenever he touched you. Before long you were left in only your underwear and the bindings on your chest. John had so kindly asked if you wanted to keep your torso covered, and you nearly cried when he didn’t complain about you saying yes. He had stripped down to his own briefs; and you were pointedly ignoring how his length was pushing at the fabric in a way you could only imagine was torturous for him. Night had fallen. Uncle and Bessie had long since returned from their fishing, and you were thankful when neither of them knocked on your bedroom door. You faintly registered Uncle saying goodnight to her a few doors down, and a small voice replying with “Goodnight!” as the door creaked shut.You and John were laying on the bed side by side, him with his arm around you and smoothing a hand over your mussed hair. You tugged the sheets further over yourselves, a grin appearing on your face when John yawned loudly and pulled you closer into his embrace. You could tell when he fell asleep; his breathing slowed and deepened, and the hand in your hair stopped its movement. You took the opportunity to turn your head, examining Johns restful state. A fond feeling settled in your body as you did so. His eyes were closed, naturally, and the moonlight that filtered through the window curtains fell over him in soft rays, catching on his eyelashes and casting shadows over his skin. The wrinkles that were so prominent during his waking moments had virtually disappeared, and you fought the urge to run your fingers over them. Those pale pink lips of his were parted slightly, the bristles of his mustache covering half his upper lip. Your eyes wandered over to his scars, tracing along their faded ridges slowly as you were reminded of how they came to be. You had been terrified when Arthur and Javier had come back with him from the mountain, all those years ago. How you forced yourself not to sprint over, knowing Abigail- the mother of his child- should be the first face he saw upon his return. You went nearly a week of restless nights before you could sleep somewhat soundly, worrying about how his injuries would heal, and if the mental scars would ever fade. You blinked the memories away, returning your focus back to the man in front of you. John had fixed something inside that you weren’t even aware was broken. It was something Bessie couldn’t even fix, a space in your heart that Dutch never once even wanted to fill. In the back of your mind, you wonder how you never realized Johns feelings earlier. You were even more confused that you never truly realized your own feelings before today. But you tuck yourself further into his arms, a pleasant, warm feeling fluttering in your chest; you think about your daughter, fast asleep in her own room down the hall- and your mind takes very little convincing of the notion that everything might just be okay.