Chapter Text
Working long, strenuous hours under the sweltering sun each day was not John Marston's idea of a good life. Many men said he wasn't suited to the heavy-lifting life of working at a timber company, but that only pushed John further. He was overworked, severely underpaid, and had something to prove.
He limped down the dusty road to home, body sore down to the bone. And, Lord, there was nothing like a pain-stakingly long walk after a hard day to remind him how miserable he was. Just last week, John had to put his horse down. Some big animal attacked her, leaving her within an inch of her life. Another horse was just another future expense John had to add to his list. It was never-ending.
Now, all he could focus on was kicking off his shoes, cracking open some canned peaches, and sitting on his porch for the rest of the evening. His nightly routine and life rarely consisted of more than that- working like a dog, only to come home and try to find peace any way he could.
As he rounded a steep turn, John's humble home nestled in pine trees came into sight. It was about the tiniest log cabin that was possible to make, hardly even enough of an accommodation for one person.
He started to breathe a sigh of relief when he heard the pounding of horse hooves behind him. He didn't pay it much mind, the road by his home received a fair amount of traffic each day. As he stepped up on the rotting porch of the cabin, he spared a quick glance behind him.
The gallops stopped, and amasked man dismounted an expensive-looking Nakota horse right in front of John's home.
"Hey, what business you got here? 'Specially with that bandana on? Go on, get out of here," John called out to the man, who was now sauntering towards him with a mission.
Marston knew this stranger spelled trouble. John busted in the cabin, making a mad dash for his Lancaster Repeater. He heard the floor groan behind him, and he whipped around just in time to see the tall man point a revolver at his head.
John was too slow to get his repeater up, and didn't want to chance getting his head blown off. He slowly set down the rifle, staring into the stark blue eyes of the intruder. He held his hands up, backing up to the kitchen table.
"I'm gonna need everythin' you got," The man drawled, keeping the pistol trained on John as he moved over to John's nightstand, rummaging through with one hand. He found nothing of note- some matches, Bitters, an old pocket knife. He grunted as he slammed the drawer shut.
"I ain't... I ain't got much. Just take what you want 'n leave me the hell alone."
"That much is evident. Where you keep your valuables, boy?" The stranger crept closer to John, snatching up the sweat-soaked collar of his shirt.
John sputtered, "Y-you picked the wrong place to rob. I hate to tell ya, but you're shit out of luck." He knew he was trying his luck mouthing off to a man who had a gun pointed to his head, but then again, who knew? Maybe being shot dead would be doing John a favor.
"Wrong answer!" The bandit growled, socking John in the gut, forcing him to crumble to the floor.
"Ergh, Jesus!" John cried out, cradling his gut. He felt the man's hands in his pants pockets, searching until he found John's weekly wages. He squirmed as the man pulled the money out. He worked far too long and far too hard to earn just ten dollars that week.
"Now, see, that's better. Where's the rest of your money? 'N don't say you've got none..." He quickly counted the money before pocketing it.
"That's all the money I made this week..." John said, hiding his face in his hands. "Please, just..." He wasn't sure where he was going with this. Maybe a week ago, Marston would've been above begging for something. Not now, though. "Please."
"Life just ain't fair sometimes, my friend."
John caved. He'd had about enough of this tormenting. "There's an old pocketwatch in a box 'neath the bed."
"Now, if you would be so kind as to go get that for me." He motioned John towards the bed with his gun.
Marston was hoping the man would get it himself, lower his guard for a moment, and John could blow a hole in his head. That didn't work, so he found himself digging under his bed for that dusty wooden box. He slid out from under the bed, begrudgingly holding the box up to the man.
John sat defeated on the floor, watching the man take the top off of the box. The bandit's eyes narrowed, before he was looking down at John.
"My Lord, boy. You barely got a pot to piss in," He said, chucking the box back down at John. "That pocketwatch ain't worth a damn thing. Be grateful I'm lettin' you keep it, along with your life."
"I- I..."
"You-you-you what boy?" He mocked, shaking his head at the poor sap on the floor. "You keep that mouth gapin' any longer, it's gonna catch flies. You got somethin' to say to me, boy? Or is this transaction of ours over, hm?"
"It's over. I don't got nothin' to say."
"Good. Pleasure doing business with you," He said, tipping his hat. John could practically see the snide smirk under that bandana.
"You shoulda just killed me, that'd've been more merciful," John mumbled to himself, dragging his aching body to a stand.
"What'chu say?"
John, caught off guard, stiffened up. "You should just kill me. I ain't got nothin' to live for, anyhow."
"You're a pathetic little thing, ain't ya? Have some goddamn respect for yourself." That was the last thing the man said before he slammed the cabin door shut.
John was left staring at the repeater on the floor. He couldn't comprehend everything that just happened. A week of his life and a week's worth of money, gone in the span of a few minutes. Out of all of the things that could've happened this evening, out of all the people it could have happened to- of course, that was just his luck lately.
---
The bandit, Arthur Morgan, lay in his bedroll aside a seldom traveled road. The campfire he made an hour ago was now reduced to a soft crackle of hot coals, and he stared into the soft orange light. He could feel the press of the folded ten dollars in his pocket, and he couldn't help but thinking terrorizing that man was a bit worthless.
But it was done now. He was a measly ten dollars richer, and he'd damned a working man who was just barely scraping by. If Arthur wasn't so prideful, he probably would've turned tail as soon as he saw what condition the man's life was in, left the money with him. However, Arthur was generally a man who finished whatever he started, and today was no different.
He pressed his eyes shut, drifting off into a light sleep.
---
After work the next day, John found himself in a small bar in Strawberry, staring down the bottom of a shot glass. The bar was busy that time of day, a bunch of fellers from the timber company would flock there, just like him. He sold the old pocketwatch for three dollars. In his mind, this was a fair trade for six fifty-cent whiskey shots.
And, John Marston was a lightweight. Give him about twenty minutes after two shots, he'd be plastered. But six in the span of twenty minutes, however, the damn bar was spinning. He knew his face must've been bright red, as burning hot as it was.
Have some goddamn respect for yourself, the bandit's voice echoed in his mind. It's hard to be a distinguished man when your only things of value is your strength and wit, and well- that was lacking, John thought.
And as his luck would have it, a man walked through the bar door. There was something off about him, John's drunken brain told him. He settled his arms on the bar, just a few feet to the left of John. He ordered up a shot of whiskey, downing it as soon as it was poured.
John knew he let his eyes linger on the man too long when his head snapped over, questioning look on his handsome face.
"Can I help you, friend?" He said, blue eyes boring into John.
Then, it hit him. This man robbed him last night. John stumbled to bring himself to a full stand, putting a finger right in Arthur's face.
"This man is a stealin' sack of shit!" John wasted no time yelling, every man in the bar setting their drinks down and craning their necks to look at the scene unfold.
"Now, listen, I think you got the wrong feller," Arthur held his hand up defensively. "You drunken fool, let's go cool off, hm?"
The folks around the barroom weren't sure what to make of any of that, so they went back to their drinks and raunchy conversations.
Arthur dragged the off-balance John outside and into an alley, crowding him against a filthy wooden wall. "You don't know what the hell you're talkin' 'bout, boy."
John let out a tiny gasp as he was shoved agaisnt the wall again for emphasis. He could feel the handsome stranger's hot breath against him, and his intoxicated head seemed to think that was nice. "You're... You're a goddamn bastard... Shoulda left me to die that night," He lolled his head back, snickering. "You don't know a damn thing. You're- you're the pathetic one. You need to... Have some respect for yourself," His words slurred together.
"You watch the way you speak to me. Tempt me anymore 'n I'll leave you dead in this alley without so much as a second thought," Arthur bared his teeth, leaning closer until their noses were almost touching. "You don't know me, I never robbed you. Is that clear?"
John let his eyes fall shut as his world swayed. He practically melted into Arthur's touch, his head slumping against Arthur's chest. Arthur slammed him against the wall again, pinning his shoulders.
"I said, do I make myself clear?" Arthur snarled, moving a hand to tighten around John's throat.
John clawed at Arthur's arm, before managing a timid, "Y-Yeah."
"N' maybe you'd have more goddamn money if you didn't spend it on bein' a sloppy drunk," He said, hand loosening around John's throat. He stepped back, letting the drunken man drop to the dirt below.
"Maybe..." John began, pointing an accusing finger at Arthur once more. "Maybe I'd have more money if men like you didn't abuse men like me. This country... It takes n' takes and never gives back... Well, I've had it. Had it!"
Arthur hummed in consideration. "I reckon I share the same sentiment."
"The hell you do... Takin' my hard earned money..."
"Listen, boy, you think I do what I do for fun? I do it because I have to. Because I don't have a choice, because that's what this country's created. You can either be a slave to the system or make your own goddamn way."
"You're a slave to your own system, n' you don't even know it," John scrunched his eyes shut, drawing his legs to his chest.
"Maybe you're right. But I'd much rather do things my way than work for some blood-sucking billionaire. One day, you'll learn."
"Mhmm..." John trailed off, body going limp. Arthur shook his head with a smile when he realized the man had passed out.
He bent down, scooping John up like he weighed nothing. Carrying the man over to his horse, he said, "C'mon. Let's get you home, ya fool."
---
John shot up from where he laid, head throbbing and eyes straining. He peered around, realizing he was home in his bed. He had no idea how he got here, or what happened after the bandit took him out to the alleyway. Surely, it wasn't him who brought John home. Men like that only ever think about themselves, John reckoned.
Marston shielded his eyes from the bright morning light coming in through the dirty windows. He pushed himself up and out of bed, regretting many of his decisions as he usually did in the mornings.
He headed to the kitchen for a quick breakfast, but his attention was drawn to a pitcher of water on the table, along with several cans of food. His mouth fell open, wondering who could've brought him back safely and went the extra mile to do this for him. John was puzzled. The bandit and maybe two or three of his coworkers knew where he lived, nobody else. The men from the timber company certainly wouldn't help him out like that. They insisted to the foreman that giving John a job was a waste, the bastards.
Slowly, John reached for a can of corned beef. That would do for breakfast. All John could think was- bless whoever did this. He wasn't sure how much food was left in his cabinets, and was well-prepared to ask his boss for a small advance in pay (to which would surely be rejected).
Though with an ungodly hangover, John left for work with a lighter heart that morning.
---
Weeks had passed since that whole ordeal at the bar in Strawberry. John felt on-edge. Like there was something more to come from that situation, to come from the bandit or whoever returned him home. Whether this gut-feeling nagging at him was good or bad, he could not tell.
In general, he couldn't get the image of the outlaw out of his head. John felt like a freak for admitting it, but the man was attractive. The way he drawled his words, those eyes, the mannerisms, the full package.
If he temporarily forgot about him, there were always wanted posters to remind him. Arthur Morgan, he remembered. What a way to find out somebody's name.
He wasn't crazy, he assured himself. It was alright to find another man attractive. John convinced himself he just wanted to be like Arthur, as strong and assertive as he was. That was all.
---
Arthur Morgan was the fool himself, he realized. A few hours ago, he stumbled across an old homestead full of O'Driscolls. Maybe eight or nine, Arthur thought- nothing he couldn't easy take care of. His plan was to pick them off one by one. Wait for one to come out for a smoke, sneak up, kill him. The O'Driscoll's friend would come out, wondering what was taking so damn long. The cycle would repeat, right?
Wrong. He picked off about three, when the biggest bastard Arthur'd ever seen had tackled him, pinning to him to the ground. They knew exactly who Arthur was, even sent another man rushing off on his horse to go inform Colm. Now, the other four men were taking turns hurting Arthur as he was pinned down.
It was supposed to be a short, easy clearing of the house, Arthur thought. But now, he'd got himself captured, and for what?
Well, he knew exactly what. Arthur was getting sloppier, more braindead than ever before.
He was gathering a bit of extra money to take to that scarred man he'd robbed not so long ago. He didn't know why it was weighing on him so badly, but he couldn't get him out of his head.
"Dumb son of a bitch! Colm's gonna skin you alive if we don't get to it first," The man on top of him spat on his face, slamming his head back into the rocky ground.
"We oughta take 'em inside," A scrawny man suggested. "Heat up an ol' iron, brand him. Lest he forget who he belongs to."
Arthur felt his stomach flip, but he tried to not let it show how much that very thought got to him. "Goddamn you," Arthur's throat strained from the angle. "You're sick."
"Alright, we'll take 'em inside," The big man said, relieving Arthur of his weight. He grabbed Arthur's feet, dragging him and letting his head flop against each splintered stair of the porch. Arthur dug his nails and hands anywhere he could to slow the man down, but to no avail. He groaned as his head and fingernails bled.
"Dutch- Dutch is gonna find out about this," Arthur said as they flopped his body in front of the fireplace. One of them ripped off his shirt, the buttons flying to random corners of the room. He felt rough and frayed rope loop around his wrists, securing them together above his head. They moved to his feet, tying the ropes so tight he was convinced his feet would fall off.
"Have you ever considered that's what we want?" One of the O'Driscolls smirked as he heated the fire iron.
"They're gonna kill every last one of you. Finish what the hell I started," Arthur spat.
Crack! His ribs popped as a steel-toed boot smashed into him. Arthur cried out, hands struggling against the ropes as he attempted to cradle his broken ribs.
"Dutch's pet... I can't hardly believe it. Must be our lucky day, fellers," The man with the fire iron said, grinning ear to ear as he realized it was ready. It was blaze orange, hotter than the hubs of hell. "Get ready for a whole world of hurt, boy. Make him keep still, boys. Don't want him thrashin' around on me."
Arthur felt the blood drain out of his face when he realized this was really happening. There wasn't going to be any miraculous rescue just before the fire iron brands him, no escape. He had to lie there and take it.
He felt the heat even from several feet away, and his skin screamed in protest. He struggled against the bindings and the men who did their best to hold him still, but the hot poker only inched closer.
His eyes shot open as the brand seared into his right side, blood and skin bubbling. It etched its way deeper as Arthur thrashed. Between the burn and his broken ribs, his brain was overwhelmed, and he was reduced to hyperventilating.
His side wasn't the only thing that burned after the branding was over. His face burned red hot as tears unwillingly streamed down his face.
"Look at 'em! If he's bawlin' now, good Lord, we're gonna have fun later."
"Bastards..." Arthur said under his breath, praying for his escape.
---
Arthur wasn't certain how long the torment lasted. He'd been in and out of consciousness, feeling like he was barely hanging on to his life. Surely, he'd been through worse. But he couldn't remember when.
He cracked his eyes open, only seeing one of Colm's men asleep in a chair. He had to be cautious and quick if he were to act. Only God knew where the other O'Driscolls had went for the time being.
His broken ribs made his pant uncontrollably as he wriggled over to the fire. He'd move his shoulders, hips, then legs, and repeat. Slowly, but surely, he got there.
He raised his bindings overtop of the small fire still burning.
It felt like it took hours to get the rope to burn, shrinking it smaller and smaller until Arthur was able to snap it apart. He rolled his wrists, finally free from the ropes around his hands.
Next was his feet, which, with in-tact ribs and a clear mind would've been a whole lot easier. He propped himself up as best as he could, untying his legs as fast as humanly possible.
His head throbbed, pulsing his vision along with it. Arthur clawed at the stones of the fireplace, hoisting himself up to stand as best as he could. He hobbled over to the O'Driscoll, breaking his neck with one swift motion. Arthur grabbed the revolver in his holster, and snatched his destroyed shirt from off the table. He slipped it on, what was left of it, and headed outside.
It was pitch black, the lantern light shiding out from the inside being his only guide.
The gentle yellow light caught the glint of a horse's eye, and Arthur made a mad dash for it. It took everything in Arthur not to wail as he put his foot in the stirrup, slinging the rest of his body over the saddle. "C'mon, girl," He whispered, and he hoped the horse would get him out of this mess. He nudged her sides, and she broke into a gallop.
Arthur groaned, vision blurring the shadows around him. He knew where he was going. Camp was nowhere close, and he needed help. And soon.
---
With a lantern lit on his nightstand, John relaxed on his bed. He listened to the tiny rain droplets drip on the tin roof, closing his eyes for a moment. He'd finally gotten paid for the week, and maybe after next he'd be able to buy a cheap horse. He was relieved at the thought of not having to walk everywhere anymore. Maybe one of those days he'd even become wise enough to just pack up and leave.
If only a better life were in the cards for him. He wanted to believe it was.
Maybe if he had the guts to rob somebody, like his outlaw. John's heart panged, and he sat up in the bed at the realization. His outlaw. What the hell did he mean by that? He scrubbed a rough hand over his face, jaw steeling shut. He wasn't... He didn't like men. He couldn't like men. He reassured himself once more, he just wished he was like the outlaw. He wished he could be so free, so unbothered, so relentless. He was tired of being used like a doormat for people to walk all over.
Minutes rolled by, when a pounding against the door shook John from his thoughts. John, a rightfully paranoid bastard, clambered out of bed and onto the floor. He snatched the repeater next to his nightstand, and he braced himself next to the door.
"Who's out there?!" He hollered out, hair at the back of his neck standing up as he awaited a response.
He was met with a low groan, and he squinted his eyes. John wasn't sure if the trespasser was human or animal. He dared to peer out the window, only to see a dark figure collapsed against his door.
Gritting his teeth, he got up, and yanked the door open. He kept his gun trained on the limp body that toppled in.
"Jesus!" He startled, before cautiously investigating the body.
He barely looked human with the way he was beaten, bloodied, bruised, and burned. But when John noticed the dirty blonde hair, big and dumb stature, slivers of blue eyes under drooped eyelids, he knew it was his bandit.
(To be continued in Chapter 2, coming out very shortly)