Chapter Text
One of the first things John remembers after Dutch took him in is… well. Arthur. Just Arthur.
Arthur was two heads taller than him then and had just turned 22 a few days prior. He had this comfortable and effortless nature about him, like he could handle whatever good or bad the world threw at him with ease, and a handsomer face than most outlaws, though John hadn’t met many at that point. Everyone in the gang liked him, that much was immediately clear, and John never stood a chance when Arthur sauntered up to him, extended a hand, and welcomed him with a lopsided grin.
He couldn’t help but like Arthur from that moment onward.
For a while, it was something like hero worship. Arthur was the closest in the group to his age, but still had 10 years worth of experience that John didn’t have. He could shoot a gun with frightening accuracy, charm a beautiful woman, and drink most of the other gang members under the table. Sometimes two, or all three, of those things at the same time. Everything that Arthur did, he seemed like a natural at it, and John envied that about him.
For a few years, he learned everything from Dutch that the man was willing to teach him -- things like shooting (which he had a proficiency for), reading (which he didn’t), hunting, and how to live off the land (by choice or because he’s on the run from the law). When he wasn’t learning from Dutch, he was following Arthur around like a shadow while trying to not seem like one. Arthur had learned from Dutch just like John, and still somehow managed to amaze John all the time with new tricks of the trade.
They spent a lot of time together in those first few years. Arthur referred to John as “the little brother I never wanted”, but he always said it so fondly that John never took it personally.
Those are some of John’s happiest memories, which he’ll only ever come close to admitting out loud if he has a dangerous amount of drink in him and if he’s sure he won’t remember when he wakes up.
Then, sometime just after John’s 14th birthday, he woke up sore all over. His voice cracked something awful when he spoke at breakfast that morning, and Dutch slapped him hard on the shoulder before announcing in that booming voice of his, more than loud enough for the entire camp to hear, “Young John Marston has become a man!”
It was downright embarrassing, being teased constantly for the next year as he sprouted up like a weed and his voice got a bit deeper, but it felt real good when he finally started seeing eye-to-eye with Arthur and stopped having to tilt his head back to look at him.
They were closer to being equals at that point, in John’s eyes. A few more years, give or take, should do it.
Two years later, Arthur Morgan met Mary Gillis and John’s feelings for Arthur transformed from hero worship into something else entirely.
--
John starts coughing on a Wednesday.
He doesn’t think much of it. With as many cigarettes as he smokes, a cough now and then is hardly out of the ordinary. He smothers it in his sleeve and keeps to himself mostly, not wanting anyone to hear him and gather that anything is wrong. The problem with living around so many people is that all of them have opinions, and he doesn’t need any unwanted opinions or ideas on what might be causing his cough.
When it persists for a few days, Abigail puts her hands on her hips, her swollen, pregnant belly framed between them, and makes him promise to lay off the smoking and drink water instead of whiskey until it clears up. She’s the only one besides Dutch who can get him to promise anything. Even then, a promise to not drink and smoke lasts all of a few hours before he’s feeling temperamental and still coughing regardless.
He never told her how long he promised to refrain from smoking and drinking, so he rides out that afternoon to a cliff with a bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes, and he smokes and drinks until the sun goes down.
Technically, he didn’t break his promise.
“Mind if I join you?”
A shiver runs directly up through John’s fingertips, all the way through his arms and shoulders to the base of his skull. He doesn’t make a pained noise out loud, but it’s a near thing.
A voice shouldn’t be able to do things like that to him.
“Of course, Arthur. Have a seat,” John says, waving a hand towards the fallen tree he’s been sitting on for the past however many hours. He moves down to the end of it so Arthur can sit at the other end, leaving plenty of room between them. Better that way, since John’s not able to control these involuntary reactions yet.
After six years of trying, he’s not sure he’s ever gonna be able to.
Arthur gets off his horse and starts walking towards John, with that same slow and steady saunter of his that does crazy things to John’s insides. He’s clutching his own bottle of something in his hand, and if John knows anything about anything (as long as it’s regarding shooting or Arthur, he probably does), then Arthur’s also got a pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket.
John takes a long swig from his bottle and tries not to flinch when Arthur sits down right next to him, leaving an inch or two of space between them. The inside of his throat immediately feels itchy and tight, but he drowns the need to cough with the burn of whiskey.
“Abigail said you rode out a few hours ago,” Arthur begins, uncapping the bottle in his hand, “and she weren’t sure when you’d be back.”
John didn’t tell Abigail where he was going, which means that Arthur tracked him down. It probably wasn’t too difficult for him. This isn’t the first time in the past 10 years that he’s had to -- John has a history of running away, and Arthur has a history of finding him.
“I just wanted some time alone.”
“Mm.”
The silence afterward is an open invitation that John knows very well. If John wants Arthur to listen, he’ll listen. If John wants Arthur to be quiet, then he’ll be quiet.
God, John wishes he could keep his mouth shut. It’s a skill he’s worked hard at over the years, but somehow Arthur Morgan just has to look at him in a certain kind of way and John immediately wants to tell him everything.
“Do you think I’ll be a good father?”
“Huh. Well, that’s a loaded question.” Arthur laughs and scrubs his hand over the stubble on his chin. “Can I get an easier one to start?”
“Arthur, I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
John grunts and moves to stand up, without any immediate idea of where he’s going to go, but Arthur grabs his wrist and stops him. “Hey, c’mon now. I was only teasin’ you, kid. Sit down.”
The spot on his wrist where Arthur touched feels hot, and as soon as John sits back down, he starts to cough. He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket, the light blue one that Abigail gave him when they first got together, and covers his mouth with it as he coughs. His eyes water fiercely, and something wet and coppery comes up after a few moments, leaving John grimacing as he hacks up what is most definitely blood into his hand.
He can feel Arthur’s eyes on him, which seems to only worsen the burning in his throat and in his lungs.
Arthur claps John on the back a few times. “You should head into town and see the local doc. That cough sounds real bad.”
It’s the clear next step, since waiting out whatever this is didn’t seem to work, and now there’s blood, which there hadn’t been before. The only problem is that John hasn’t been to a doctor for anything other than a bullet wound in his entire life and he wasn’t scared then of dying. All of the bullets that have been dug outta him were well-earned. He could handle dying because of those.
He is scared, however, of finding out that he’s dying from some kind of sickness. Something incurable, with his luck. The thought hadn’t occurred to him before. He’s the kind of man that’s going to die young, he knows that well enough, but illness was never a possibility in his mind when he imagined how he’d go out one day.
Arthur snaps his fingers in front of John’s face. “Hey. You’re doin’ that thing, where you get lost in that head of yours. Talk to me, Marston.”
John’s coughing fit had stopped, but he hadn’t uncovered his mouth, lost in thought as he was. Quickly, he wipes at the wetness at the corners of his lips, hoping he’s doing an alright enough job of getting rid of whatever evidence there might be. He doesn’t look in the handkerchief as he pulls it away from his mouth, just balls it up and shoves it deep in the pocket of his coat.
When John speaks, his voice is unmistakably hoarse. “It’ll go away in a few days.”
“That’s what I figured when I first heard you coughin’, but it’s been a few days and it’s clearly gotten worse.”
John doesn’t know why he’s even surprised that Arthur noticed. It’s been Arthur’s job to look after him for the past 11 years, per Dutch’s request.
Besides that, Arthur has some of the keenest senses out of all of them, and John has never been very good at hiding anything from him in the first place.
“If it don’t go away in another day or so,” John starts, cursing himself already before he’s even got all the words out, “then I’ll see the local doc.”
Arthur leans into John in a way that’s meant to be friendly and comforting. For a few seconds, they’re touching from thigh to shoulder.
It takes everything John has not to whine and lean harder into him.
“Good.” Arthur nods, then moves back to his original position and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. John thinks he knows Arthur too well at this point. “I’ll ride with you. I have some supplies I need to pick up.”
John swallows hard and nods. It’s not like he has a good reason to tell Arthur no.
He doesn’t cough again for the rest of the evening.
--
When John was 16, Arthur fell in love with Mary Gillis.
He wouldn’t even have known, probably, had he not accidentally overheard Arthur and Dutch talking about it one night. They were sitting just behind camp, Arthur on one tree stump and Dutch on the other, close enough to John’s tent that if he sat close to the back of it he could hear them speaking quietly between them.
He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He wasn’t.
It just happened to be easy to do so, and he just couldn’t ever seem to make smart choices where Arthur was concerned.
“She’s just… she’s too good for the likes of me, Dutch.”
Dutch laughed. “And who gave you that idea? Her? Her daddy?” Arthur grunted after the second one. There was some rustling before Dutch spoke again, “Let me tell you something about rich men, Arthur: most rich men are poorer than beggars in one way or another. They might act high and mighty, but they’re no better than anyone else, trust me. They bleed like us, they shit like us, and they sure as hell sin like us.”
“He doesn’t want an outlaw bein’ with his daughter,” Arthur rumbled, and took an audible swig of something. “Don’t rightly blame him, neither. I’m not a good man, and she’s too perfect. Too good for this life.”
The way that Arthur talked about himself just then made John cover his mouth to stop from denying the words out loud. Whoever this girl Mary was, she wasn’t good enough for Arthur. John already knew it, without even having to meet her.
John would never give Arthur a scrap of a chance to feel that way.
“Have you asked her to come with us?” Dutch asked. “If you love her like you say you do, Arthur, then she’s more than welcome to join the family.”
Arthur didn’t answer for a suspiciously long time. After a while, John started to wonder if they noticed his shadow in the tent and knew that he was listening. He was in the middle of coming up with a convincing lie when Arthur finally answered.
“I asked her to marry me.”
Oh.
In an instant, something twisted real painful inside John’s chest, strangely similar to the pain from being stabbed. He pressed his hand to his sternum, his short, grimy nails digging into the thin skin covering the hammering pulse at the base of his neck, and bit right into his lip to keep from making any noise.
He didn’t realize until much later that the pain in his chest was jealousy.
--
John sleeps like the dead until mid-afternoon.
Arthur insisted they make their way back to camp after the liquor ran out. Together, they leaned on each other and stumbled to their horses, then somehow managed to ride back without falling off and breaking something.
At least, that’s what John thinks happened.
That part is real fuzzy, as are most parts.
He’s sitting up just barely, rubbing his eyes and trying to recall if he said anything stupid when Abigail enters the tent -- her stomach first, of course. Everywhere she goes now, her belly precedes her. She usually doesn’t look happy to see him, but in this case, she looks even more upset than usual. John watches through squinted eyes as she closes the flaps of the tent carefully behind her, and when she turns around again, he notices she’s clutching something tightly in her hand.
“Abigail,” John greets her, and politely nods his head, even though just doing that makes him feel like the world is going to spin out from underneath him.
Without any preamble, Abigail shows him what she’s holding — it’s a blue handkerchief, his blue handkerchief. In the middle of it are splatters of dried blood and wilted yellow flower petals. John stares at it dumbly.
“We need to talk about this,” she says quietly, with a subtle tremor to her voice that tells John she’s on the verge of crying. Maybe she already has. John doesn’t say anything, can’t possibly think of anything to say, so Abigail soldiers on in a hushed voice, “When were you gonna tell me that you’re dyin’, John Marston?”
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t…” Abigail laughs, her voice on the edge of hysterical. She shoves the handkerchief out towards him, giving him a better look at the contents of it. “You didn’t know that you have Blooming Lung? Really, John?”
No. No, he really didn’t.
Blooming Lung is considered a prostitute’s disease. It’s common for young, impressionable girls to fall in love with men who regularly visit them at the brothel and promise them a better life. In almost every case, the man eventually breaks all his promises, leaving the girl heartbroken and coughing. Generally, Blooming Lung goes away all on its own, as long as the person affected can get over their feelings. The other alternative is to confess and hope that the other person feels the same, but there are hardly any happy endings in that situation.
He’s only heard of Blooming Lung plaguing someone after heartbreak, but John hasn’t had his heart broken. Not for a very long time.
Abigail sighs and takes a seat next to him on the cot, clearly waiting for him to say something. He wishes there was something he could say, then, to make this tension between them go away. Wishes he had an explanation to give her.
He’s real tired of fighting with her.
They sit in silence for a while, before Abigail sighs and crumples the handkerchief in her fist. “If there’s any chance she might love you back, you should tell her how you feel.”
“What’re you talkin’ about?”
“All I’m sayin’ is it’s not me that you’re coughin’ up flowers for, John. I know that.” Abigail turns her head away, but not before John catches a glimpse of her watery smile. “And that’s alright. I love you and I don’t want you to die. I don’t know what I’d do without your foolish ass around.”
It hadn’t occurred to John until just then that there’s only one other person he’s ever loved, and while the feeling might be mutual in a familial sense, he doubts fiercely that Arthur Morgan has ever thought of him as anything other than an adopted brother.
Just thinking about Arthur sends a shiver through him, which is nothing new at this point.
“It don’t matter,” John says quietly. He feels Abigail stiffen beside him and readies himself for an inevitable fight.
Instead of shouting, Abigail responds just as quietly, and she sounds… sad. Defeated. “What do you mean, it don’t matter?”
“I mean that it don’t matter what you want or what I want. The person these flowers are for will never feel the same way about me, not in this lifetime. Ain’t no way.”
Abigail presses her fist to her mouth to muffle the wounded sound that comes out.
John hates himself for putting her through this. He hates himself for putting her through a lot of things. It’s not her fault, any of it, including the flowers growing in his lungs.
If he could just love her properly and accept that Arthur is out of his reach, this never would’ve happened.
“I’m going to see the doctor in town tomorrow,” he offers, to both fill the silence and to placate her. He hadn’t been planning on actually going until just this moment, but she doesn’t need to know that. “Arthur offered to come with me.”
The name tastes like blood in his mouth, now, and somehow he can’t stop his insides from burning.
Abigail shifts beside him and gives him a look that he can’t interpret for the life of him. For a few moments, she seems like she’s searching for something in his face, then she looks away. John has no idea what she saw, but he doesn’t get the chance to ask. She stands quickly, as quickly as her pregnant belly will allow, and heads for the entrance to the tent.
“Abigail.”
She stops and glances back at him, her eyes shining. Even on the verge of tears, she’s beautiful.
John doesn’t know what good it will do, but he needs her to know.
“I love you.”
Abigail’s expression softens a bit, and she smiles sadly.
“I know.”
--
The doctor in Good Enough is a dark-skinned man who seems far too intelligent and cultured to be practicing medicine in a backwater shithole town like this one. Just like Arthur promised, he’d ridden into town with John and made sure that John went in to see the doctor. John has a sneaking suspicion that Abigail talked to Arthur after they spoke in their tent, but he can’t prove it.
He doesn’t know what she told him if anything at all. He doesn’t think he wants to know.
“Well, it’s not the worst case of Blooming Lung I’ve ever seen,” Dr. Green says as he hangs his stethoscope around his neck. “What is strange, though, is that you say you haven’t had your heart broken.”
John gave this whole Blooming Lung thing a lot of thought over a bottle of whiskey last night. He was probably about 16 when he realized that he was in love with Arthur, and years of trying to cope with that realization haven’t dulled his feelings any. He’s never had his heart broken because he’s never given Arthur the chance. He doesn’t need to -- he already knows how that will go, and he’d rather suffer in quiet than know that Arthur hates him.
“You said this whole visit is, uh… completely confidential, right, doc?” John asks.
“Absolutely, son. I’m here to heal, not to pass judgment or spread rumors.” Dr. Green flashes him a toothy smile and takes a seat on a stool in front of him. “There’s a church just down the street if that’s what you’re after.”
“I’d probably go up in flames if I set foot near it.”
“Like I said, I’m not here to judge.”
John’s heart hammers in his chest. He doesn’t exactly know why, but admitting it out loud after 6 years of keeping it to himself feels like an impossibility. The doctor is patient, though, and waits for him to get the words out.
“I’ve got a girl, a good girl,” John explains, trying to keep his voice steady. “A great girl, honestly. She’s pregnant.”
Dr. Green nods. “Congratulations.”
“I don’t know if the kid’s mine. But I want it to be.”
The doctor doesn’t comment, just waits for John to continue.
“I love her. I do. And I’d do anythin’ for that kid growin’ inside her. But I’ve been in love with someone else for a long time.”
“How long?” Dr. Green asks, pulling out a notebook from his coat pocket and a pen. John’s jaw tightens, and Dr. Green holds up a hand. “For anonymous notes only, you have my word. I actually find Blooming Lung fascinating, and I’ve never heard of a case anything like yours.”
John relaxes back into the examination chair, if only slightly. He doesn’t like being studied or poked at in any capacity, but he needs to see if there’s any way out of this that doesn’t involve him dying. “6 years.”
“Now that is interesting.”
“Why is that?”
Dr. Green jots down a few things and looks up at him. “Blooming Lung is known for being an acute disease commonly contracted by prostitutes. You’re aware of this, correct?” John nods. “Well, a case of Blooming Lung developing over years of unrequited love is unheard of. I assume it’s unrequited. Have you told the person?”
“I’ve never told hi--them,” John catches himself, and if the good doctor notices, he has the decency not to say anything. “I’ve just lived with it because I know the feeling ain’t mutual.”
“I see.” The doctor takes more notes, including some crude drawings of the flower petals that John showed him earlier. He shows it to John and compares it to the flowers in the handkerchief. “And they’re prairie poppies. Very interesting.”
“I guess. What happens if this thing runs its course, doc?”
Dr. Green gives John a considering look and taps his pen against his notebook. “Well, as the flowers grow and fill your lungs, you’ll find it more and more difficult to breathe. The strain that will put on your heart is inevitable. Eventually, you’ll die from lack of oxygen or your heart will give out. Either way, it’ll be very painful.”
John expected an official prognosis from the doctor to feel a little more shocking, but instead, it just feels like he’s getting what he deserves. And truthfully, he’s been in love with Arthur for so long, it’s almost nice to know that there’ll be an end to it soon.
He just doesn’t know what he’s going to tell Abigail.
“How long have I got?” John asks, unsure if he actually wants to know the answer.
“Once the coughing starts to produce flowers, the prognosis isn’t good. I’d say you have a year if it suffocates you, perhaps a little longer if your heart fails.”
“... Your bedside manner really leaves somethin’ to be desired.”
“You know, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”
--
John doesn’t tell anyone about his diagnosis from Dr. Green. Not Arthur, Abigail, or anyone else.
Of course, Abigail knows because she saw the evidence, but after he snaps at her for asking, she leaves it alone. The distance between them grows along with the baby inside her. John takes to drinking and sleeping outside, leaving the tent to Abigail. Most nights he passes out drunk and wakes up with a blanket covering him.
He never thanks her and she never brings it up.
Within a few weeks, John starts to cough more frequently. He carries the blue handkerchief around and hacks up blood and flower petals into it, then balls it up and stuffs it into the depths of his pocket. Whenever he comes back to camp, Abigail fishes it out of his clothes, washes it, and puts it back, folded neatly.
He volunteers for more jobs, particularly the ones that take days and don’t involve Arthur, but it doesn’t seem to matter how much distance he puts between himself and Arthur Morgan. No amount of distance or time apart makes the coughing lessen or stop.
The doctor did give him a cough suppressant, which he had immediately tucked away inside a leather pouch and decided to save for when his coughing gets too hard to handle. If Dr. Green was right, which John is certain he was, then the end of this is going to be real painful and he’s going to want to be drugged for it.
He manages, for a while. The other members of the gang ask what’s wrong with him, but neither he nor Abigail ever says anything. Dutch never asks, probably because he always seems to know everything he needs to know. John halfway suspects that he figured it out somehow, but Dutch doesn’t bring it up and John keeps his mouth shut, except when he’s coughing.
On the way back from a successful stagecoach robbery, bags stuffed with cash and gold, John rides into camp and hears Abigail screaming.
He doesn’t need anyone to tell him why.
--
When John was 18, he got into a heap of trouble on a botched heist and got himself arrested. He was pretty sure that the sheriff only pushed for hanging because John caught him in the jaw with a fist during the struggle, and mouthed off after that.
He was young, then, and angry at himself for being in love with Arthur, so he kept on fighting and killing to make the ache in his chest a little more bearable.
There was a lot of time to reflect on that, sitting behind iron bars with nothing else to do.
“You’re facin’ the noose tomorrow, boy,” Sheriff Caine said, feet propped up on his desk as he picked bits of dinner from his teeth. He sounded pretty damn pleased with himself, despite the blooming purple bruise on his chin.
John looked up from beneath his lanky, unwashed hair and said nothing.
“No smart last words? That because you think your gang is gonna come save you?” He laughed. “I’ve got men stationed all over this town. If any strangers so much as blink wrong, they’re gonna have a bullet in their head.”
Being in the gang for almost half of his life, he knew that someone would come for him. That was part of being a family of outcasts -- looking out for each other because nobody else would. Nobody got left behind if there was a way to save them.
Some small part of him hoped it would be Arthur.
A much larger part of him hoped it would be anyone else.
Even so, it couldn’t be Arthur that saved him. He wasn’t part of this heist. Instead, he was off on his own, scouting out a homestead per Dutch’s orders. It wasn’t likely that Arthur was even back yet.
Without the prospect of Arthur saving him, suddenly John’s outlook seemed a little bleaker.
Sheriff Caine got up from the desk and walked over to the jail cell. He tossed something at John that hit him right in the face and fell into his lap -- a chicken bone, picked clean. “Your last meal,” he said, with a particularly pleased smile stretched across his bruised face. “Eat up. Go on.”
He laughed all the way back to his desk and spent the rest of the night talking about how much he was going to enjoy killing anyone who came to John’s rescue.
John decided then that if he did make it out of the noose, he was going to put a bullet through each of this man’s knees and watch him writhe in agony for a while before putting a bullet in his head.
He wasn’t completely in his right mind, back then.
Everything burned too hot inside him -- his anger, his love, everything.
In the morning, he was marched out to the gallows with a boy even younger than him who had talked with John some and a wanted criminal from another gang who had kept entirely quiet. The three of them stood with their hands bound behind their backs while the charges were read and the nooses were put over their heads.
Two dozen people from the town came to see them hang. Not one of them was anyone John recognized.
If somebody was going to come for him, they were definitely cutting it close.
John swallowed heavily against the rope and looked at the kid beside him, who was shaking and trying to keep himself together. He was going to hang for killing his father, who beat him senseless every day for 14 years. John couldn’t for the life of him remember the kid’s name until his charges were read. Josiah. His name was Josiah.
“This your first time?” John asked calmly.
The kid sniffled and looked over at him. “First time?”
“First time starin’ death in the face.”
A look passed over Josiah’s face, then, one that John wished he couldn’t read as well as he did. “No,” he said with a pained smile and stopped trembling. “No, it ain’t.”
This wasn’t the first time John had stared death in the face, either. But it was looking a lot like it would be the last one.
The hangman got into position and put his hand on the lever. Everything was quiet, then. Anticipatory. John’s heart calmed as he realized that this was it. He was really going to die, and that would be the end. All these people were going to watch his neck snap and his lifeless body dangle from a rope before it was cut down and dragged away to be buried in some unmarked grave somewhere.
He’d always known that he would die young, he just hadn’t expected it to be quite this young.
John turned his head towards the kid and said, “Hey, look at me.”
Josiah had his eyes squeezed shut and he was shaking again, but he complied and opened his eyes to look at John. “You did the right thing,” John said, and he meant it. The only thing he was more certain of was the fact that he was hopelessly in love with Arthur Morgan. “Your daddy shouldn’t have ever laid a hand on you. He deserved to die for what he did and you did the right thing by killin’ him. Now he can’t hurt nobody ever again.”
Josiah tilted his head down and started to cry. John knew those tears -- they were tears of relief. He cried the same tears when Dutch saved him from hanging when he was 12 years old. They were the tears of a young man who didn’t have to be afraid anymore.
“Hey. Hey, keep lookin’ at me. It’s gonna be alright, kid.”
Josiah sobbed, snot and tears running down his lips and chin, and did as he was told.
The wanted criminal on John’s other side spat onto the floor of the gallows. “You two are makin’ me sick. I’d rather be dead than listen to this for a second longer.”
Distantly, John heard the signal from the sheriff and he held Josiah’s teary gaze. Took his last few breaths. Tried to remain calm for both of their sakes.
“It’s okay, kid. It’s gonna be alright. Don’t look away from me.”
The floor dropped out from beneath them, and John fell.
The rope pulled tight around his neck. He swung there for long seconds, croaking and trying to gasp for air he just couldn’t get, vision blurring.
Then, two gunshots cut through the otherwise silent town and John fell face first onto the ground below.
Around him, he heard more gunfire and shouting. He took several deep, gasping breaths, and sputtered when he inhaled dirt.
Through his haze, he heard someone calling his name. “Marston! Marston, are you alright?”
John felt someone kneeling behind him, and he struggled until he realized the person was trying to cut his hands free. He rolled over onto his back, still ready to fight, when he found himself staring up at none other than Arthur Morgan.
“Arthur. Shit. You took your damn time.”
“Yeah, yeah, but I got you, didn’t I?” Arthur had a grip on one of John’s wrists, probably to keep John from swinging at him in his confusion. “We’re late, I know, but you ain’t got time to lie around and recover right now.” He released John’s arm and pulled out a revolver from the holster on his hip, offering it to him. “Can you shoot? Or am I carryin’ your ass outta here?”
John was already in the process of pulling the noose over his head. He spared one glance to look for Josiah, and frowned when he saw the boy’s body hanging above him, neck clearly broken.
“Yeah, I can shoot. Gimme the damn gun.”
“Good. C’mon, let’s get you home.”
John accepted the revolver and Arthur helped him get to his feet. The rest of the gang was holding off the law, giving them time.
He never did get to put a bullet in the sheriff. Arthur did it for him as they rode out of town, the hole in Sheriff Caine’s head appearing as quick as John could blink. Then, Arthur looked back to make sure John was still behind him, and grinned.
“Keep up, Marston!”
It was just one of many times that John realized he was doomed to love Arthur Morgan forever.
--
Despite the many horrible things John Marston has done, he thinks one of the best is helping to make Jack Marston.
Jack is fragile, and tiny, and wrinkly. He coos and burbles when John holds him, and John knows he’d do anything for this little creature, even die for him. He takes to his son immediately, wanting to spend as much time with Jack as he can manage, and for the first time in a long time, Abigail seems happy with him.
They have no shortage of help. Miss Grimshaw is an expert on babies and teaches Abigail everything she needs to know while giving John no small measure of shit when he messes up. Most of the women in camp love Jack and offer to watch him for small stretches of time.
It’s the closest things have come to feeling perfect. It’s a shame, honestly, that John is still growing flowers in his lungs and dying.
For the first few weeks after Jack is born, John hardly coughs at all. He thinks maybe he’s been able to get over his feelings for Arthur, as stupidly hopeful as that is.
Three months after Jack is born, John’s cough returns and gets progressively worse again. He spends more time with his face buried in his handkerchief than he’d like to, but every time he comes back to camp, Abigail still washes it for him and doesn’t say a word about it.
John starts to lose weight that he can’t afford to because he just can’t keep anything down. He avoids Arthur as much as he can because it feels like the only thing he can do. Even if he knows it won’t help.
He just pretends he doesn’t notice Arthur’s curious stares from across the camp.
Close to a year after Jack is born, Dutch forms a group to rob the homestead of a rich family that he’d heard about around town. Heavily guarded with lots of gold stashed in a safe somewhere on the property. The patriarch of the family is going to be out of town on business, making his home a prime target for robbing.
John balks a little when Dutch tells him to go along, but he doesn’t dare protest. Dutch is their leader, and he owes his life to the man. He doesn’t want to make trouble when there isn’t any need to.
He just hopes he can hold it together around Arthur.
--
“What do you see, Marston?”
John lowers his binoculars and points towards the house. “Two armed men guardin’ the front door. Looks like two more around back, but I can’t tell for sure. One of them is smokin’ and it looks like he’s talkin’ to someone.”
“Alright,” Arthur says, motioning for Bill and Javier to move up. “Looks like two of us should hit the front door and two go around back. Take out the guards outside and then we’ll worry about whoever is waitin’ for us inside.”
“Can we do it quietly, you think?” Javier asks.
Simultaneously, all three men look at Bill.
“What?” Bill huffs. “You don’t think I can be quiet?”
“Not if your goddamn life depended on it,” Arthur says, ignoring Bill’s indignant sputtering. “Don’t worry about bein’ quiet. Javier and Bill, hit the two guys in front. When the guys in back realize what’s goin’ on, John and I will take them out. Then we go in together and rob the place.”
Javier nods and puts his mask on. Bill grumbles about it but does the same. They both respect Arthur, that much is clear. John doesn’t blame them. Whenever Arthur is taking lead on a job, it feels like they’re going to get it done right.
“Alright, let’s make some money.”
Javier and Bill go first, creeping through the bushes leading up to the house. John follows Arthur towards the back, waiting for the other two to open fire. John puts his mask on and readies his revolver.
“You got somethin’ you wanna tell me, Marston?”
Apparently, Arthur decided that now is the time to have a heart to heart.
“Like what, Arthur?” John asks, playing dumb even though he knows exactly what.
“Like why you look and sound like you’re dyin’ in front of my eyes.”
Perceptive. Arthur is so fucking perceptive. It’s really annoying when John wants to keep something hidden from the man.
“I’m sick, obviously.”
“Sick with what?” Arthur asks quietly, eyes narrowed. “Is it tuberculosis?”
If only. At least then John wouldn’t be tormented with knowing that there’s a cure. He could just die in peace, then, as his body failed him, instead of growing sorely tempted to confess to Arthur for the small chance that he might feel the same and fix him.
Shamefully, the thought has crossed his mind. He doesn’t particularly want to die, now that he has an infant son and a real family. But he’d rather die knowing that Arthur doesn’t think any less of him, instead of dying knowing that Arthur hates him and feels disgusted by these feelings that John can’t help.
“No. No, it ain’t tuberculosis.”
Arthur doesn’t get the chance to question him any further. A fight breaks out in the front of the house, and they both rush forward as the two guards in the back of the house start to move towards the front.
John puts a bullet in the spine of the guard on the left, and Arthur shoots the one on the right in the back of the head. There’s shouting inside the house, meaning there’s probably guards inside, so they regroup with Javier and Bill at the front door.
It takes Bill three well-placed kicks to the front door to bust it open.
“This is a robbery! Anyone who surrenders peacefully gets to go on livin’!” Arthur hollers, revolver poised to shoot.
“Arthur!” John shouts, ducking for cover behind a door frame. “From the kitchen!”
Javier already has them covered, dual pistols flashing as he guns down the man coming through the kitchen door. Bill charges up the stairs, pumping a shotgun round into the chest of a man rushing down towards him.
“John, help Bill clear out the upstairs,” Arthur says, waving him on as he joins Javier in searching the downstairs for any stragglers.
John hurries up after Bill and finds him trying to kick open a locked door. It takes him three or four tries before he’s panting.
“Gettin’ tired already?” John asks.
“Shut your damn mouth, Marston,” Bill snaps, going back to kicking the door.
John leaves him to it, checking the other rooms. All of the open rooms including the largest bedroom seem empty, from what he can tell. Maybe this guy doesn’t have a family or took them with him. That’s always preferable to finding some unarmed rich civilians and having to hold them hostage while they ransack the house.
He’s checking in a crawlspace when he hears the click of a gun and feels the barrel press to the back of his head.
“Don’t move.”
John doesn’t move. It’s a female voice -- probably the lady of the house if he had to guess. He has no idea where she was hiding.
“Drop your weapon.”
He sets his revolver on the floor nice and slow, careful not to make any sudden moves. For good measure, he raises his hands in a gesture of peace. He doesn’t feel any tremble in the barrel. Whoever she is, she’s got a steady hand.
“Let him go, Miss.”
John can’t see Arthur, but he shudders in sheer relief at the sound of his voice.
“Why would I do that?” the woman asks, her tone angry and spiteful.
“Because two of my friends have your young son in the hallway, and if anythin’ happens to my friend there, both you and your boy will die tonight,” Arthur rumbles, the deep timbre of his voice making him sound incredibly reasonable, even when he’s threatening someone. “It’s your choice. You can let him go and we’ll leave quietly after we take what we came for. Or you can kill him and your son will be next. Then you.”
John knows how much Arthur hates to kill women and children -- it takes extreme circumstances for him to go that far. Apparently, John being held at gunpoint counts as an extreme circumstance.
The woman is silent, and for the first time, John feels the gun quiver.
“You can die for nothin’ or you can go on livin’. Make your choice.”
Out in the hall, a small voice cries out. John knows that Bill wouldn’t hurt the kid, not when he’s under Arthur’s direct order not to, but he probably shook him up for effect. It does the trick. The woman sighs and lowers her gun, and John turns around in time to see her hand it to Arthur.
“You’re all disgusting, low-life thieves,” she says, looking up at Arthur. “Take me to my son.”
“Javier,” Arthur calls, and Javier appears in the doorway moments later, “you and Bill escort this nice lady and her boy to the kitchen. Keep an eye on them while John and I look for the gold, and don’t hurt them unless they try somethin’.”
“Of course. This way, Miss.”
Once Javier and Bill are headed down the stairs, Arthur gives John a look that he can’t really interpret.
“She was really gonna blow my brains outta my skull,” John laughs weakly, rubbing at the back of his head where the gun had been pressed. He already knows he’s going to die from Blooming Lung, but he’s certain if Arthur hadn’t shown up the lady of the house would’ve claimed that honor.
In a way, by saving him, Arthur is actually killing him. The irony of that is pretty funny to John, in a screwed up sort of way.
“What brains?” Arthur grumbles, offering John a hand up. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you get yourself held at gunpoint. What were you thinkin’, Marston?”
John doesn’t answer, just reaches out to take Arthur’s offered hand. The moment their hands touch, the overwhelming urge to cough wells up in John’s throat and he lets go, scrambling for the handkerchief in his pocket.
He can’t do this, not in front of Arthur. Arthur can’t know.
He’s too late. Blood and petals come up immediately, spattering onto the floor. John heaves and coughs until his eyes are watering, and when he thinks he’s done, another coughing fit starts. He can only try to breathe in between harsh coughs, but the petals get stuck in the back of his throat and he has to shove his fingers into his mouth to pull them out.
The worst part is that John can feel Arthur’s eyes on him.
When it finally ends, John stays on his hands and knees, blood dripping from his lips and tears running down his face. The evidence is clear as anything on the floor in front of him.
He waits for Arthur to say something. Anything.
“Come on, Marston.” Arthur rests a hand on his back, between his shoulders. John shivers and tries not to lean away from his touch. “Let’s get you cleaned up and head back to camp.”
“The gold,” John rasps, wiping blood off his mouth with the back of his hand. He can’t be the reason that they failed a job. He can’t.
“The safe is in the kid’s room.” Arthur puts his hands under John’s arms and hauls him up. John goes willingly because he doesn’t know what else to do. “We’re not goin’ back empty-handed. And I don’t think Javier and Bill are gonna have any problems keepin’ a woman and a child hostage for a couple of extra minutes.”
Arthur leads John to the bathroom, where he leans John against the sink and snags a cloth from a rack nearby. There’s a basin filled with water there already. He dunks the cloth into it, gets it soaked through, and then wrings it out.
John reaches for it, expecting Arthur to hand it over so he can clean himself up.
He doesn’t expect Arthur to dodge his hand completely and start wiping at John’s face.
“What are you doin’?” John asks hoarsely, flinching under Arthur’s touch.
“Takin’ care of you,” Arthur explains, in that patient way of his, and he turns the cloth to the clean side as he starts on the other side of John’s mouth. “You used to not mind, but then you grew up and started gettin’ made fun of for it.”
John’s heart sinks. He wants to correct Arthur -- tell him that he only started to mind because he fell in love. But what goddamn good would it do?
He sits there, still as he can be while Arthur cleans his face, and waits for him to bring up Blooming Lung. Waits for him to ask why he hasn’t confessed to whatever girl he’s in love with. Waits for him to ask why Abigail isn’t enough.
Arthur never does ask any of those things. He’s quiet the entire time, until he’s satisfied that John’s face is clean. Then he drops the cloth into the basin and nods his head towards the door. “Help me with the safe.”
John nods dumbly and follows Arthur’s lead.
What else can he do?
--
They make it back to camp sometime before dawn. It takes all of a few minutes after they get back for John to make his decision.
It’s not an easy one. But then again, nothing in John’s life has been easy.
He takes a third of his share of the loot from the robbery and stuffs it away in his bag, along with a few other essentials. The rest he puts into his stash in the tent, where Abigail can find it easily. Abigail and the baby are sleeping peacefully, and he kisses Jack’s forehead first. It’ll be better if he disappears, for Jack’s sake. Nobody will know what happened to him, and he’ll just have an absent father, instead of a lovesick fool of one.
He kisses Abigail next, just barely ghosts his mouth over hers so he doesn’t wake her up.
When he pulls back, her eyes are open. She looks wide awake, like she wasn’t really sleeping in the first place.
They stare at each other for long moments.
“How long are you gonna be gone this time?” she asks quietly.
John swallows. “Until this thing kills me.”
Abigail exhales shakily and squeezes her eyes shut. “What about Jack?”
“It’s better if he don’t know how his daddy died.” John slings the bag higher on his shoulder. “Tell him whatever you want about me, but don’t tell him about this.”
Abigail doesn’t say anything for long moments. Then, she covers her face with her hands and says, “Alright. Go.”
John knows what she means -- go, before she changes her mind and tells the gang he’s leaving. Go, before she makes a scene.
He doesn’t think twice or look back, heading out of the tent and whistling for his horse.
He’s gone before sunrise.