⋆｡sofía𖦹 °.

john marston x reader

✦ strangers to lovers, slow burn, john’s pov

Synopsis: John, your lonesome neighbor, continues to pester you every chance he gets. Other than ranching and journaling, he sure seems to have nothing better to do.

Note: finished ! ! ! rdr makes me want to kill myself, but at least john exists (๑و>o<)و♡⁠ finally got this thing out of the trenches, and after requests i’ll follow-up w a jack fic. YAY <3

i kind of imagined the whole thing with a studio ghibli animation in my head. there’s only one inaccuracy: “can’t help falling in love” by elvis presley wasn’t out until 1961. let’s just pretend he was early by a few decades ~

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 17.2k

February 24, 1907

Heard there weren’t much people here, guess they were right. All of this is to retire from all of that business, and live out my remainin’ days in peace. When Arthur gave me his journal, I didn’t expect it to have so much written. He was poetic — in a way. I try my best to recreate the way he drew all those animals and people, even though I can’t pick up a pencil.

For the most part, it has been peaceful here. Not much people to talk to, though. Takin’ care of this ranch ain’t much work, either, I always find myself having spare time. And I’m sure I’ll develop a lung disease with how much cigarettes I’ve been smokin’.

Guess we’ll see, though, how this whole thing’ll work out.

John writes in his journal, flipping the pages without noise. No one disturbs, and there is no one to disturb. Mellow streaks of light from the sun mark on the paper, and from his view are the snowy trees and the ice melting on the grass.

Only faint mooing and baas of animals are heard from the distance, other than rustling of the trees — due to cold wind — that also hits him in the face like a brick.

It was quiet. And as much as John had been searching for that quiet, he found himself doubting — about all of this. About all his actions and choices.

February 28, 1907

I’m not sure if I’m capable of settlin’ down and livin’ a quiet life, at least like this. The only person I can talk to here is Uncle, and he’s a damn leech.

So this is the normal life.

John paused his writing, sighing and closing the journal.

Nothing is quite interesting here. He’s thankful for the peace, however, there’s something that’s always been bugging him since he moved here.

The stillness of everything. How only leaves seemed to fall, how no one passes by, the chirping of the birds as they flap their feathers above. John does ranch work in a systematic manner — and the more he spends time with himself, the more he notices the tiny things he used not to.

He felt alone, but he refused to call himself lonely.

He’s gone out and reeled up fish, attempted to cook — only that didn’t work out, and he found himself sweeping the wooden floors of his home.

For a person that lived alone, the walls seemed to expand without an end.

March 7, 1907

I got a dog.

He’s cute, I’ll say that. Named him Rufus. I’d rather talk to him than Uncle. Nice to have someone here who actually has a contribution in the ranch.

Damn it, I forgot to feed the chickens. John remembers, while he hurriedly walked over to the chicken pen.

“You’ve been hungry, ain’t ya? Sorry ‘bout that.” He talks to the chickens, as if they could understand him.

It wasn’t hard to manage the ranch. All he had to do was to not forget, and he had more time than he needed to do these things. There’s never been a struggle taking care of the cattle, or his horse, or lifting up the crates and sacks.

But someone looked to be having more trouble than he was.

You — his neighbor. One that didn’t talk, nor did he see much. But you seemed to live alone, and worked all day without any help.

“Hey, miss!” John calls, seeing you lift up crates with a posture that would definitely result in a broken back.

“No? Don’t talk much?” He asks softly, walking closely to the fence as his eyes followed you. He rested his forearms on the hard wood, leaning in as he raised a brow.

“That’s… you’re gonna break your back, miss.” He persists, before you finally place the crate on the ground.

You look at him, wiping the beads of sweat that dripped from your forehead. “What?”

John speaks up again. “I… think you need help.” Truly, he wanted to help you, but he couldn’t help that sheepish look of embarrassment on his face. He felt like he was being judged, hard.

“I’ve been ranching for years.”

John thought you were stubborn. But before he could say anything else, you went back to your business with clogged ears.

Huh.

March 7, 1907

In addition to this day, I met a strange woman. I should’ve met her earlier, since her home had already been here before mine — but regardless, I think she doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.

I offered to help her earlier, but she ignored it and stubbornly went back to breakin’ her back. Wonder why she’s workin’ on her ranch all by herself.

And it happened a few more weeks after.

“Hey, missy!” John calls out the second time this morning.

“I really think you should let me help.” He’s leaning on the fence again, the same spot every time. He tilts his head upwards to see what else you’re doing, as he lifts up the brim of his hat slightly.

You respond, this time, which makes him have a sliver of hope.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re somethin’, alright…” He murmurs. “…that was a compliment!”

“Look, miss, you’re gonna kill yourself like that. Why don’t you let me help you?” He insists, a pleading tone seeping in his voice as he watched you helplessly.

You stopped for a moment, catching your breath as you turned to look at him.

“I’m sure you have something else better to do, sir.”

John shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck. “Not… really,”

“And it’s John. John… Marston. I mean, we’re neighbors, aren’t we?”

The silence made him cringe. He awaited your next response with impatience — not because he was irritated, but because he was getting awkward.

Then you said your name. John’s face lit up, almost immediately.

“So let me help you, [Reader]!” He sounded like an eager kid. It seemed he really did have nothing better to do.

But you still insisted and refused.

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

It’s been the same since then. John coming up to the fence to stare at you while you worked. Well, not really stare — but it sure felt like he was. He tried to subtly glance over you while working on his own ranch, but John doesn’t know a single thing about being subtle. So he ends up coming off as creepy either way.

March 27, 1907

I ain’t writin’ down her name here, but she told me it. Yeah, my neighbor. That stubborn one. Told her she was gonna kill herself few days ago because of her stubbornness, yet she still insisted. I really do wonder why she keeps on persistin’ like that.

John writes on his journal with focus and his foreheads knotting slightly. His back is pressed against the wooden wall of his porch.

Every morning she’s wakin’ up to carry ‘round crates and sacks and chasing down cattle. I do commend her for that, though. I just watch helplessly from afar. I got a feelin’ she sees me as some kind of competition — which I ain’t.

Can’t help but feel bad for her, in a way, even though she’s capable. Wish I could help, since I got nothin’ better to do here. Don’t wanna turn myself crazy talkin’ to animals.

His eyes glance over to your figure, again, for about the fourth time. You’re a hard-working one. You’ve always got that hair of yours in a ponytail, and you’ve always been quite neat.

“Missy! Your chickens are escaping!” John says as he notices the open pen and the overwhelming amount of chickens flooding outside.

Your hands were full with taking care of a horse. You had no time to chase them all down before they’d fully escaped.

Seeing your alarmed expression and unfortunate position, John climbs over the fence with haste.

“These damned things,” He mutters to himself while he chased them down. “Hey! Come back!” He scoops them up while some try to protest. The chickens were flailing and batting their wings endlessly, feathers shooting up by John’s eyes in an attempt to resist.

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere,” He continues to talk to them. One by one, all of the chickens are returned inside the coop.

Except for one — which was securing a safe escape to the water.

John hurriedly chased it down, determined to hunt every last chicken.

While it happened, you stood there with awe and a certain dumbfounded expression.

What the hell was he doing?

He looked stupid. He really did. He chased down the last chicken with a tackle, his body hitting the ground with a thud and a loud grunt.

“I gotcha, damn chicken.” He murmurs, getting up as he dusted his pants and made his way back to the pen.

You stood there. “Why’d you… do that?”

He stopped in front of you, with a chicken in hand. “Well they were gonna… escape. So I chased them. I hope you didn’t mind?”

John thought maybe he should have let the chickens escape, with that puzzled look on your face. He was covered in mud and dirt, all from that tackling that he did.

“…Thank you.” You said, looking hesitant. “You didn’t have to do that. I’ve caused you trouble.”

He was surprised of how guilty you looked. John was nothing more than a bored-to-death rancher. You acted as if you took all his precious time.

“I told you, miss. I ain’t got nothing else better to do. Tackling these chickens for ya ain’t trouble at all.” He replied, once again dusting himself off in a futile attempt to get all the dirt off of him. He gently drops the chicken back in the pen.

And his ears perk up at your barely-contained snort behind him. He turns his head to your direction almost immediately, to see you muffling a laugh with your hand.

“What’s so funny?” He asks with confusion.

He didn’t know how incredibly stupid he looked right now. All because of chickens. He looked like he had gone through a storm. A real rough one — with his hair all messed up and his clothes practically drenched in dirt and mud.

“Nothing,” You say, failing to contain your laughter. John puts on a confused smile, taking off his hat as he approached you.

“It’s just… you… look stupid, John.”

He thought your comment was the sweetest thing you’ve said to him yet. It’s degrading, but you’re laughing, and you’re saying his name. Which is more than your usual ignorance — so he’ll forgive you for now.

He lights up for a moment, before he tries to dust off all the mud off of him again. He can hear your chuckles while he did so. “Alright, yeah, yeah… make fun of me.”

He can’t help but smile himself, despite all of that. He was the reason of your laughing, even though he did look stupid.

“Sorry, sorry…” You mumbled with a sigh.

“Well? You saw how helpful I am. Think that makes me worthy of helpin’ you out now?” John says with a small smile.

“I think you need to clean yourself off first.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

March 28, 1907

Made a fool of myself chasing around chickens. You know, my neighbor’s. Ran around the field scooping them up and got dirt and mud all over myself.

She called me an idiot. But I guess it doesn’t really sting much, since she laughed along with the words. Guess she ain’t that much of a stubborn woman, more of a closed-off one.

Today John is by his usual spot — resting on your fence. He’s as early as morning, awaking along the crowing of roosters. Dawn barely cracks and he’s already blabbing his mouth.

“You gonna let me help out?” He asks. You’re off to carrying another heavy sack.

“Depends. Will you?” You said with a huff, panting quietly.

John took that as a yes, and he didn’t need to be said twice. He was already up and going with a sack over his shoulders. He’s swift, already on the job without a single complain.

He already had two in by the time you put yours over the wagon.

The early morning shining on his figure didn’t help, you thought. It distracted you more than it made you work.

He wasn’t anything special. Just an average male with a lean physique, but you could tell he did more than ranching. He lifted those sacks up like they were nothing, and he was more than happy to do so.

As the action prolonged you could notice the tiny beads of sweat forming on his forehead. One trickled down until his chin, dropping down to his throat, dragging itself along his skin.

“I appreciate the admiration, but ain’t it rude to stare?” He says with a small smile, stopping in his tracks momentarily to tease you.

“I wasn’t.” You replied almost immediately, picking up another sack with determination and striding towards the wagon without error.

“Ah you weren’t? ‘M sorry for the assumption.” He says with light sarcasm. You rolled your eyes in response.

It was kind of fun, in a way. More on John’s part. He seemed a little too happy for lifting up sacks and crates.

“You really do have nothing to do, huh?”

“No ma’am,” At this point your work had been reduced by hours. He was an effective ranch-hand, that much was true. “Told ya I’d be helpful.”

But you were far from done for today’s work. You still had a few more things to check on.

“Well, thank you.” You replied, making your way to the pens. You did expect him to say something like another offer of help, but instead the man followed behind you like a puppy.

Maybe it wasn’t that bad to have him here.

Hours upon hours had passed since then. He was insistent in helping with every single activity you had on your list. You could swear his eyes lit up every time you said “okay”.

When the sun set in the horizon, John, who smelled all sweaty and like the sun, leaned on the wall of your porch. “We finished a lot, huh?”

He had a proud smile on his face, but you looked at him with uncertainty. “I’m grateful for your help, but I don’t have anything in return.”

John’s head snapped to you with squinted eyes and a lifted brow. “Did you seriously think I helped you ‘cause I expected somethin’ in return?”

“I ain’t that bad of a person. I helped ya ‘cause I wanted to.”

“But I owe you.” You replied.

“You don’t owe nothin’. Let that be it.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

April 17, 1907

She let me help her. All that work definitely paid off, since I slept one hell of a good night then. Maybe this peaceful life ain’t so bad after all.

I’ve learned a few things, too. One is that she does live alone, but I don’t know why. Second is that she’s got a little cat, but I ain’t that blessed yet to see her.

Note: gotta feed the horses later.

Weeks pass again, and John continues to insist on helping you every chance he gets. It’s a nice deal, honestly — he gets to do something, and your ranch gets more taken care of.

And you’ve become somewhat friends, if he could dare say that. He hasn’t asked yet — but he’s sure you two are.

Like usual, the day is slow. John stares at the blank paper in his journal, taking in his surroundings. Not a single soul in sight he found. All too quiet for his taste. Sometimes his bones still ached for that life or being rough and rugged.

Though he guessed this was better than settling down in those bustling, putrid cities. The civilians and rich politicians would kill him before the smoke and smell did. And he’d convinced himself he was not alone anymore, but the pain of loneliness lingers in his chest from time to time.

He couldn’t slide the pencil in any direction — his eyes remain stagnant on the land before him, while his thoughts move in a state he couldn’t quite describe himself. It isn’t running, it isn’t racing — but he certainly wouldn’t call it calm.

The past few months since he’d met you filled that little gap in his heart, at least, for the moment.

“Hey, Mr. Marston.” He heard you call, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah?,” He tucks away his journal and he sees you leaning on the fence this time. “And just call me John — please.”

“I can’t help but notice you didn’t come?” You asked.

“You’re waitin’ for me?” He replies with slight surprise, his eyebrows lifted. A an impudent smile creeps up his lips — though it remains affectionate.

“Don’t put words in my mouth. I didn’t say that.” You said with a dismissive wave, glancing at another direction.

John stood up, standing in front of you. “Do you need help?”

“No, but you’ve got that lonely look in your eyes.”

“Yeah? How’d you know?” He replied, scratching the stubble of his beard with his index, trying to appear unbothered by your reckoning.

“Seen it somewhere before.”

“It’s nothing, you know. I was just thinkin’.”

He seemed distant, without eagerness to talk about whatever plagued his mind.

There was a fence between the two of you. It was ironic — you spent all this time with him helping you out and you know not a thing about him except his name and a few niche things.

That was the same for him, too. He wondered a lot about you; but he knew asking you was off-limits.

So you opened the fence — along with your mouth, even if it was just a little push.

“My ranch… It’s family-owned,” You started. This grabbed John’s attention almost immediately. “My mama and papa worked on it. I remember them building it when I was a kid.”

With a sigh, you continued. “Papa was a smart man. He paid off his debts with what we were earning at the ranch.”

“But I don’t know, something happened. Mama wouldn’t tell me. Papa almost worked himself to death, but it wouldn’t cover our debts.”

John listened to you without distraction, eyes not breaking contact. You couldn’t help but smile — despite the sorrow that began to build in your heart.

“They told me to live a city life, to marry, and leave this place. But I couldn’t leave, and I needed to take care of papa and work.”

Hesitantly, John asked. “So… what happened?”

“Papa died last year.”

“…‘M sorry to hear that, [Reader].”

“So I know that look. I know those eyes more than anyone.”

John opened the fence a little more, and he let out a soft chuckle. “I ain’t got anybody to talk to, nor a family. Not anymore.”

“Then that makes us both?” You asked with a short laugh.

He shook his head. “No, no. You’re… I…”

“I ain’t exactly the man you think I am. I ain’t a good man.”

He was rough around the edges. He’d gone through a lot, you could see, just from the scars on his face and how he helped you without breaking much of a sweat. Though despite that, you could sense he was better than he described himself.

Your eyes scanned his face a little more, resting on the scars of his face.

He saw not eyes of judging, but curiosity instead; so he decided to open the gate a little more. “…Got attacked by a wolf a few years ago.”

He never talked to anyone about it. Well, not that he had someone to talk to. He didn’t bother to, either way.

“I used to ride with a gang,” His voice quieted down, eyes averting for a moment before they landed on you once again. “We was outlaws. Robbed people, killed people, ran ‘till we couldn’t.”

“Then it falls apart, my family. Them.”

John takes a deep breath. He couldn’t look at you, he couldn’t bear to imagine the face you were making. “I guess I was lucky. Stupidly — even though I argue some of ‘em deserved this life more than I did.”

“Guess I ain’t built for this sort of thing, ranchin’ and livin’ peacefully like I don’t have the blood of countless innocents in my hands.”

John closed the gate.

“…John?”

And before you knew it, he waved you a goodbye.

“…Maybe not today, missy.”

May 2, 1907

I don’t know why I told her about my past. Maybe it’s because she said hers, so I felt indebted to do so as well. But I know that ain’t the case.

Guess I felt bad? Maybe. I couldn’t keep on pretendin’ to be some innocent man next door, either way.

She told me her parents used to own the ranch. She’d been tending to her father before he died last year, so now she’s runnin’ the ranch by herself to pay off all her family’s debts. I guess that’s why she was so hell-bent on workin’ hard every day.

I felt kind of an ass for leavin’ her after that. Scratch that, I was an ass. I just couldn’t look her in the eye, even if I wanted to. It was like I was skinning myself alive in front of her, telling her things I couldn’t even repeat to myself.

But she just listened, I don’t know why. Maybe she was disgusted, or offended, or too shocked to speak. Though I felt as her eyes weren’t judging me at all, maybe that’s why I continued talkin’.

You didn’t think any lesser of him since he said that. In fact, you admired how he was able to bring up his past, even though he clearly looked pained at the thought of it.

He wasn’t a good man. At least he used to be.

But wasn’t it a big step already if he decided to give up on that life? You were sure it was.

Or maybe you were justifying him because you took a liking to him.

Truth be told — you did like John. His company, how he carried himself, how he talked. He made you forget about the problems you were sinking in.

“John, you’re my friend,” You admitted, while the both of you sat on hay bales. With your back hunched and arms on your lap, you continued.

“I don’t see you any lesser because you’ve got a complicated past.”

“Don’t think you understand, missy,” He says beside you, smoking a cigarette. “I killed people.”

“But you’ve quit that life, haven’t you? You’ve got no one to redeem yourself to — but yourself.”

Despite what John said about himself, he himself didn’t have a choice. In a way, to be able to live normally has set him in the right direction. He could understand you thinking that.

“…Maybe, I don’t know.” He inhales the smoke, letting the nicotine fill his lungs.

Could I really live this life? Did I deserve it?

The events of the past few years altered how his brain worked. He was reckless, and avoided responsibility — only caring about himself like the immature man he was.

Have I really changed at all?

“Is that why helping’s been too easy for you?” You asked.

“Why, you think I’m strong?” He replied with a short snort.

You looked at him, as if imagining what he had looked like years ago. He must’ve looked rough — maybe more intimidating than he was now. And now he was a rancher insisting on pestering you every chance he got.

You chuckled.

He looked confused, again. “You’re laughing at me again. You really like doin’ that, don’t ya?”

“Sorry. I just thought you looked a little silly, is all.”

“Silly? I’m the most serious man you’ve met, miss.”

It was as if you saw him for himself. You awfully reminded him of his family. In a way, it hurt, remembering all those things again.

“…Gunslinger.” You snickered to yourself, shooting him with finger guns.

“You’re makin’ fun of me.” He shook his head, resisting the urge to smile.

“So you’re good at shooting, aren’t you? My papa kept a rifle, though he never used it,”

“I keep cleaning it, though. I bet it still works.”

“Are you threatening me?” John asks with mock-offense, laughing.

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

After minutes of persuasion, John caved in and stood behind you.

You aimed with the rifle, closing your right eye as you listened to John’s instructions.

“You need to relax your shoulders.” He says from behind you, adjusting your form. The palms of his hand rest on your shoulders, pressing slight pressure so it would lower. His fingers graze over the soft fabric, gliding through the wrinkles as he spoke.

“You’re really set on learnin’ this thing, huh? You know I can protect you.” John said, both jokingly and seriously.

You huffed, relaxing your shoulders under his guidance and touch. His back pressed nearly completely against you, and his breath soft by your ear.

He whispers you further insurrections, placing your hand on the grip of the gun, careful to let you know not to hover your index over the trigger yet.

“So we’re aimin’ for that rock over there. You focus your eyes near it, but not there exactly.”

“Use this part of the gun for a reference on where it’s pointing.”

You let out a sigh, eye completely still on the target. Your index finger lay on the trigger without pressure, awaiting for further notice.

“I got it.”

John murmured, behind you, closing an eye as well. He turned the gun a little to the left. You could feel his warm breath on your neck as he spoke, “Breathe in, focus.”

“And when you breathe out — shoot, alright?”

You did what he asked, taking in a deep breath. With the air out of your lungs, and with John’s words of approval, you shot.

A loud noise came echoing through the trees, the bullet hitting the target merely a few inches away. He released his hand from yours, leaning away with a small smile.

“I wouldn’t want to get on your bad side,” He chuckled. “That was clean.”

You faced him, lowering the gun. “You’re a good teacher.”

“I try, I’m far from being great, though,”

“had a friend, or more of a brother — aimed without closin’ his eyes.”

You could see the fondness in his eyes, and how his voice softened when he talked about him. You hummed, nodding your head with a slight tilt.

“Yeah?”

“…Yeah.” He murmured, looking over at the several bullet marks on the rock. “But you’re a natural, huh?”

John borrowed the gun, closing one of his eyes and attempting to shoot another smaller rock.

Bullseye.

He chuckled to himself, looking back at you with a dorky smile. “But you ain’t ever gonna beat me, missy.”

“Yeah?” You shook your head. “Maybe I will, just you wait.”

He chuckled again. “Think you’re gettin’ far too ahead of yourself.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

The next few days John had continued to teach you every now and then. He was great at it, even though he argued the opposite. You could tell he had many mentors, as he told you stories.

With his continuous help, the ranch’s been earning quite a lot more than it did, and you’ve learned to hunt as well.

John was a sweetheart, well, for an ex-outlaw. You always thought his smiles were a little crooked, and his ideas were idiotic — but it was part of his charm.

You found yourself thinking about him more often than you’d admit. This hushed ranch was becoming one of liveliness and laughs.

So, now, as John carried a basket full of vegetables and fruits, you spoke.

“You know, that’s a lot we’ve harvested today.”

John wiped off the sweat on his forehead as he nodded.

“Think it’d do nice for tomato soup,” You added.

John didn’t seem to understand what you were implying, so he continued nodding and humming in acknowledgement as he busied himself with picking tomatoes.

“Are you busy? We could… have dinner, later.”

He froze. He was crouched down with a face full of bewilderment and surprise. “You’re invitin’ me for… dinner?”

His eyes were narrowed, as you smiled. “Do you know how to cook?”

Of course I don’t.

He’d been surviving off of canned beans and fruit half of the year he’d been here. He didn’t know a single thing about the art of cooking.

I really am an idiot, huh?

That’s when John found himself in your humble abode.

Polished wooden floors, painted walls with mild cracks — it showed how you kept it all nice and well-kept. Many rooms of the house were unoccupied, void of any presence — but only remains of what used to be; represented by the paintings and pictures, with the faint smell of of you.

Corners of each room remained tranquil and solitary. It reminded him of his own, however this one had soul.

The first thing he laid eyes upon was a family picture. Not a speck of dust was on it, and it hanged on the wall proudly. There, in black and white — what seemed to be your father, mother, and you, barely a teenager.

He thought it was nice. It reminded him of his own family, as big as it was compared to yours. His eyes laid upon your young self, who grinned widely, teeth showing.

“Hey, you look cute here.” He comments without a thought, letting out a soft snort.

You gave him a look of confusion and a smile. “I looked like a dork.”

“But you were happy.” He replies, his eyes still glued on the picture.

You let out a thoughtful hum, watching him. “Yeah, I was.”

And the other thing he notices, is a menacing look — from a powerful being above: your cat.

Of course.

“Ain’t that…” He says, feeling threatened by its presence. He feels as if he’s being told to leave, unwelcomely and unkindly so.

“Mhm. He never leaves the house.” Your cat approaches you warmly, asking for a pet you generously give.

“Are you hungry, Sir?” You asked, while the cat continued to purr.

John blinked. “His name is… sir?”

“Fits him, doesn’t it? Bossy fella.” You watched the cat avoid John, again, as his tail flopped down. “He’s usually… unbothered.”

John crossed his arm, before attempting to approach the cat gently. “Sir?”

He almost gets scratched, if he didn’t dodge last minute. Your cat growled and hissed, clearly not fond of John.

“He already disapproves of me.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the interaction. Clearly he wasn’t liked — he failed the first impression.

“That doesn’t make you like me less, does it?” John jokes lightly, wary of the closeness with the cat.

As Sir leaves, he gave John one last nasty look.

“I’ll think about it.” You joked back, earning a playful complaint from John.

He’d been helping you all this time, so you decided to return the favor today.

“So you said you were going to cook?” John asked, looking around the kitchen.

“No, we are. You don’t know how, don’t you?”

John stiffened, scratching his neck awkwardly. “What are you planning?”

You shrugged, washing the tomatoes. “To return the favor, of course — to add knowledge in that tough skull of yours.”

He mumbled something incoherent — presumably a weak protest. But you didn’t bother entertaining it.

“Here.” You gave John carrots, onions, and celery.

He looked at you with a confused face. “Thought we were makin’ tomato soup? Where’s the tomato here?”

“I need you to cut this, and we can put this in it, so it’ll have flavor.” You replied.

John looked at the knife for a few seconds, before hesitantly cutting up the vegetables. At least he knew how to do that.

At first he thought so too — and you quickly reprimanded him for cutting it the wrong way.

“What wrong way? There’s a right way? This is too complicated.” He said, frustrated, looking over to you for guidance.

With a sigh, you peered over his work, behind him and your chin barely ghosting over his shoulder. You grabbed the knife from his hands, holding it yourself. “Cut it like this.”

You cut the carrots up, and John tried really hard to focus on that and only that. But with you so close behind him? It was proving to be difficult.

With a shaky sigh, he took the knife again, attempting to cut the way you taught him to. He didn’t understand a single thing, but he guessed good enough that you gave him an approving hum.

But you didn’t let go — didn’t go away. You were still there, so incredibly close, and it bothered John. Not in a bad way, no, not at all.

“You’re still doing it wrong.” You corrected gently. This time, instead of taking the knife — you took his hands, and guided it with the knife. “You getting it yet?”

He nodded. “Ah… yeah, yeah, I got it.”

So when you let go if his hand, lean away — to be honest, John had felt both relief and disappointment.

What the hell is wrong with me? John thought.

You shook your head and chuckled. With a silly and impulsive thought, you draped one of your aprons over John. “Can’t have you being messy, can you?”

He grumbled, watching you put on yours, too. In a way — you matched.

A few minutes pass as you continue teaching John instructions, to which he obeys quite nicely, except for some whispers of complain.

You laugh softly at his predicament. He was stirring the filled pot with a ladle. This was unbelievable.

“I swear you’re jus’ makin’ fun of me, are ya?” John says, but he can’t help but smile himself.

“Well? I think you’ve done a good job,” You grinned, approaching him and the steaming pot. It smelled good, for the mistakes that he had made earlier. “You gotta taste it.”

You took a small spoon, dipping it in the hot soup and lifting it up to your lips, blowing it softly.

“Here.” You neared the food to his mouth.

John stared at the spoon, blinking a few times, before his lips went agape for you.

This is stupid, so, incredibly stupid.

But it tasted good. The savory taste of the soup melted in his mouth — earning a hum from John. For some moments, he let his ego inflate once more at his cooking.

He licked his lips absentmindedly as he nodded. “Yeah… it tastes good.”

You hummed, dipping the same spoon again to taste for yourself. “Mm, this is it.”

“You’re a quick-learner, huh?” You said, stirring the pot a little more.

John watched as you stood over the counter. Of course he was a quick leaner, he had the dumbest luck in history. “Yeah… ‘course, only ‘cause you taught me.”

Still, he wasn’t going to be cooking anytime soon, but it was worth the shot and the lesson. He coughed and fixed his throat, leaning over the counter.

“You always cook?”

“I guess, ever since ma died,” You said. “Had to teach myself or else I’d starve to death. I didn’t want to survive on canned goods, like… maybe you.” You chuckled, pointing the ladle at him.

He feigned offense, preparing a retort. “Hey, I’m… Well, I guess that’s true.” His voice quieted down. And it was adorable.

That night, your once-quiet home, was filled with light teasings and conversations after a long while of silence.

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

John stared at the ceiling in his living room, where he lay on the couch. He rested his hands on his stomach, as the fan continued to circle around his motionless body. He didn’t use the bedroom at all — never did. Never saw a use for it.

He couldn’t sleep tonight, not after what had happened today.

Was he overreacting, or did something else happen, but so incredibly discreet that both of you didn’t notice? He couldn’t put his finger on it even if he tried — his brain would short-circuit at the attempt.

With a sigh, he put a hand over his forehead, desperate for sleep.

June 4, 1907

I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Guess I kind of had to? Hell if I know. But a few days ago she invited me over to have dinner with her. Saw that devilish cat, Sir, who didn’t like me — not one bit

Saw her family pictures, too. Looked real happy then. Her home felt devoid of people, much like mine. I wonder, what’s the point of a big house with only one person living in it? Could that be called a home, either way?

So then we cooked tomato soup — tasted good. Even if I made it.

Her hand brushed against hers a few times, did I mention we shared the same spoon? This is too much, even for me. Feel like a damn schoolboy, fussin’ over small things. Why do I? It’s all confusin’ me.

Well, to be completely honest — John never slept well or had a full night’s rest in the first place. With all that’s happened, and how long it had been since then — he still got nightmares occasionally.

The guilt clawed at his chest, rising up and down in the night to keep his dreaded mind going and his tired eyes open.

The moon lit up the sky with its beauty. Outside the breezes of wind made him shiver ever so slightly, the cold passing through the fabric of his clothes. John looked up at the sight, lighting up a cigarette in an attempt to comfort his restlessness. It had become a habit for him, tapping his feet on the planks, until the nicotine filled his lungs and calmed him down.

Goddamn it, I can’t stop thinking of her.

Ever since those chickens, ever since those crates, I haven’t been able to stop thinking.

Do I really deserve this?

John felt guilty, again. With every surge of happiness and joy his heart felt, there came an equal doubt to bring it back down again.

With every waking day, he was beginning to fall deeper and deeper.

It wasn’t a lie, it wasn’t false. He knew it in himself. He had tried to deny the truth, push it down, over and over again — since he didn’t feel worthy enough to feel it.

“You aren’t a bad man,” Your words echoed in his ears. “At least, not to me, and at least, not anymore.”

Maybe he did wake up early and help you because he wanted to see you. Maybe he did all of that work so he could hear your words of thanks. Maybe he did like your smile, too much than he would like to admit.

And the world seemed to revolve around you. It seemed to only move when he was with you, it only seemed to exist when he was beside you.

The next day he stared at his journal, once again. The past few months have only been about you, mostly, aside from irrelevant things that he had been doing himself.

“I always see you writing around in that journal,” You curiously tried to peek over his shoulder. John quickly tucked it away and closed it, leaving you no room to steal even a single glance at it.

“Ain’t yours,” He says, hiding it away.

“I know, I know. You’re always in it, and I suppose I can’t help but be curious. Are you a poet?” You asked, sitting beside him.

He chuckled — no, not at all.

Every time he was with you he felt like a teenager. He felt something indescribable, something so unfamiliar, yet familiar at the same time.

And damn it, he was acting like one.

It never struck him, but he could have sworn someone by your age should have already had someone already. He isn’t complaining.

“No, I ain’t. I just like writing down my thoughts, that are private, and I don’t need ya readin’ ‘em, missy.” He shoos you away.

You weren’t deterred by his actions at all. Instead, you only leaned in further. “Why not?”

“Just because, alright? Don’t get all pouty like that. I’m bringin’ this to the grave.”

He was a an idiot, still is.

Life felt nice. It felt worth it.

If he could describe it, in the best that he could — maybe it was akin to winning the lottery, except even more. Maybe it was the peace of mind. Like he had thought he couldn’t feel anymore better at one point in his life, that he had hit the meter — but you proved him wrong, time and time again. It was like the comfort of a warm blanket on a cold, raining night. It was the feeling of satisfaction in a right after numerous trials of wrong.

It was the clasp that perfectly fit with one try, that click, that feeling.

Everything made sense. Everything had reason, and everything fit together in the complete essence of perfection.

You tried to grab his journal playfully, hands reaching down with haste. Of course, John didn’t let you. “Hey—!”

His other hand grabbed your arm, and your free hand made an attempt to snag the journal again.

With a grunt and a laugh, he let go of the journal, only for his other hand to take yours.

You pulled back, and unexpectedly John’s body followed your force, which resulted in your back hitting the grass.

He supported his body upward, as he was on top of you, and his hands still held your arms. You laughed, persisting still and squirming under to escape his grasp. “Hey, let me go!” You yelled playfully.

John huffed, shaking his head with a goofy grin. “No way.”

His grip was tight, but not too tight to hurt you — just enough to keep you pinned down. “Ain’t you gonna give up? I swear, you’re a pain.”

He looked down at you and saw your flushed face, due to how hard you were laughing and chuckling. You panted, making an attempt to escape once again. “You’re no fair!”

He laughed dryly. “Ain’t nothin’ fair in life.”

As you continued to laugh, John shook his head, eyes still glued on you.

I could do this forever.

Just watching and hearing you like this made him feel giddy.

Of course he noticed he was on top of you, of course he noticed his hands on yours — how could he not? He tried desperately to shake the thoughts off, before his eyes locked with yours once again.

Despite his heart racing, he could swear everything went slow-motion, like a movie. The sun hit your face in the best way possible, it lit up your eyes, it reflected his own face.

It felt like an eternity, and when it ended, it felt like merely a second.

You relented, sighing. “Alright, fine.”

He snapped out of his trance. “That’s what I thought.” and lightened his grip, beginning to sit back up.

You huffed, crossing your arms, still laying on the grass. “One day I’ll get a peek. Mark my words, John.”

“Yeah? I’d like to see you try.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

In a sense, nothing was ever safe. Nothing was ever free of the threatening presence of danger. Nothing was, at least, that’s what he had thought.

But you? You were different. He had yet to find out why, but it just felt so right, and so undeniably safe.

More months pass by like speed. He could barely count the days before fall came.

Leaves turned into hues of orange, every time he walked on piles of them it would leave that crisp sound. Warmth drifted around, the tepid temperature accompanying the falling petals.

October 19, 1907

Feel like I need to bang my head in a hard, rock-wall. I’ve gone crazy, haven’t I? Things have been the same, kind of. No, I can’t say they have been, truthfully.

Guess I’ve always been wrong in the head, talkin’ to myself. But when I say I feel like a fool, I really do. Tell me why do I start smellin’ her scent? Tell me why I picked these flowers up? Damn crazy, I am.

And I went to get stuff in the town today, still reeks of smoke ‘n shit. Just went in and out.

John left the messily-picked flowers by the windowsill in his house, not planning to show it to you.

He kept looking at it. He kept glancing at it. He kept squinting his eyes, he kept thinking about what you’d say.

And damn it, why couldn’t he stop?

Rain fell heavily; it had been, ever since this day started. He wondered what you were doing — he always did. Maybe particularly more today.

He glanced at the window again, his eyes landing on your quiet home — the constant and distant flickering thunder making deafening clamor.

You didn’t need help, did you? And yet he stood up anyway, stuffing the flowers right in his pockets. He tried to rush it, but his hands still gently shook, either way.

And so he grabbed an umbrella, looking for you.

But you weren’t there, at least, not where you usually were.

She ain’t here, you dumbass.

John wanted to punch himself.

But before he turned around and left, he heard a quiet sob.

Just outside by your backyard, there you were, kneeling down in front of two graves.

You were soaked in the rain, completely wet. The rain was particularly harsh today, and John couldn’t fathom at all why the scene before him hurt him, himself.

Without a second thought, he put the umbrella over your head. The feeling of the droplets ceased, and a shadow by you was cast, but you didn’t bother looking at him.

“John?”

“Am I that obvious?” He replies, his gruff voice turned soft and quiet. He looked at you with eyes of worry.

“Are you alright?” He follows up, kneeling beside you. “You’re… wet.”

“I’m fine.” You murmur quietly. “Just…” You took a deep breath, composing yourself before you faced him. “It’s their death anniversary.”

“…After mama died, papa followed a year later. Quite romantic, isn’t it?” You said with a dry chuckle — a forced one, a futile attempt to light the mood.

He didn’t find it funny at all — but if it was how you coped with the matter, how could he blame you? “I’m sure they were great.”

“They were.” You say, facing the tombstones once again.

A long pause passes, and he speaks again. “You can let it out, you know. I ain’t here to judge ya.”

His words echoed in your ears like a ring unable to escape.

John’s voice had always been comforting to you, at least, it grew to be.

So before you even knew it, tears were falling down your cheeks again.

And you did that, for a long, long while — even going silent for what seemed to be half an hour.

John knew you had many things in your mind, just too much to leave your mouth in a way that could be clearly understood. He knew the feeling, and he understood.

And it puzzled you, it confused you. You’d expected him to leave after the first few hours, though even after the rain had hailed, he stayed still beside you and hung that same umbrella over your figure.

He didn’t know exactly why either — he only knew one thing: that he’d stay there for as long as it took, even if rain fell all over again, even if the sun returned to rest.

It felt right to do so.

It was all stupid. He wasn’t a patient man, no, not any of that sort. He much preferred to get things over with and get to chase.

But with you? It was different, somehow. Somehow he’d wait, he’d learn, he’d stay.

In the silence that ensued, you asked him a question. “Why’d you stay?”

Even if you hadn’t uttered a word for those hours, even if he was treated like some ghost — he stayed, like some statue watching over you.

He shrugged. “I wanted to.”

“Y’know, my pa, and my ma — I ain’t had nothing of a close relationship with them like you had, but I understand what it feels like losin’ family.”

Sometimes he felt like he was treading this Earth without any meaning and direction — and truth be told, for some time, he really was.

He was quite glad that he stayed for a bit more, though.

“Thank you, John. Really.” He heard you say, sincerely.

He was never a man so soft. But you made him feel different, and he found himself not minding it at all.

His hand reached for his pocket, where the small flowers are tucked. He brings it out with a slight shake in his hands.

He knows that it isn’t perfect, with it all battered and messed up.

But with it tucked by your ear, he swore he hadn’t seen anyone this beautiful before.

“I don’t like seein’ you cryin’, is all.”

He felt an overwhelming urge to wipe away your tears, to shield you away — to hold you in his arms. He wanted to hold your hand, for his thumb to caress yours, for his hand to cup your cheek.

And of course, he did not do it.

“If I have to keep watchin’ you drool, I swear I’ll load a gun and shoot myself,” Uncle dramatically says, chugging another bottle of beer as his back laid by the porch.

“What do you mean?” John questions, stopping in his tracks as he looked at uncle with a judgmental and confusion-filled stare.

What is he talkin’ about now?

“I got some insight for ya, as a person that’s got many experience with the ladies.” Uncle wipes the remains of beer on his mouth and beard, with a shit-eating grin.

“You’ve experienced everythin’. You sure you ain’t immortal?” John retorts.

“And it ain’t like that, Uncle,” He declines right after, shaking his head with a sigh.

“I ain’t drooling, either. I’m just… simply admiring.” He adds, shrugging, stealing another glance at you.

“Uh-huh. You look like a man beggin’ to be unleashed. A man chained.”

John stutters. “It-It’s not like that. And what the hell does that even mean?”

“Sure it ain’t. I can see smell it from a mile away — you smell like hormones. Disgustin’, but I understand.”

“You’re disgustin’.” John grimaces. Uncle still spews out the most out-of-hand things, despite all’s that happened; he claims it’s knowledge.

Well, to some extent — it is; but most of the time it isn’t.

The man attempts to sling a hand over John’s shoulder, as John swiftly dodges. “You get the girl flowers, and listen to when she talks — and you look at her eyes. ‘S gonna be sparklin’.” He chuckles lowly — eyeing John with a knowing look.

He was sure Uncle was going to say something incredibly dumb, but this time, it was plausible to do.

“I’ll take it, but that don’t mean I’ll do it, alright?” John says, and Uncle pats his back with a laugh.

“This old man’s got a lot more to offer, if y’wanna get right into that action—”

“No thanks.”

That night, John talked to the stars, and himself.

He couldn’t help but keep replaying Uncle’s words in his head. He surely didn’t feel that way, did he?

Maybe he was too scared.

You were something pure. You were like life and light itself. But he? He was the complete opposite. He could taint you and your goodness.

He put a hand over his head, ruffling and messing up his own hair in annoyance.

I’m so confused. I don’t know what to feel.

One part of me wants me to let go, wants me to acknowledge the truth.

But the other part is nagging me, yellin’ at me to keep quiet and push those thoughts away — since I could never even begin dreaming about it.

Feels like I have to cut my body and soul in half. Feels like I already have.

Being with her makes me want to smile, but I’ve always felt bad for doing so.

With another, quieter sigh — John closes his eyes, with an attempt to calm down his thoughts.

And before he knows it, he drifts into sleep; and this time — his mind does not think of nightmares.

It’s a warm, mellow feeling. He feels like he’s being coddled, and he feels the warmth of the morning sun on his skin.

He breathes, and it feels fresh, it’s not of smoke — but freedom.

He hears voices. Faint, muffled ones. It was all too familiar.

He could still hear them. The voices of what he had done, and what people see him for. They are distorted, low, some more recognizable than others as his brain continued replaying and racking itself for that taste of sweet taste of guilt.

But one voice overpowers them all, coming into a clear tone.

“I don’t see you any lesser because you’ve got a complicated past.”

“But you’ve quit that life, haven’t you? You’ve got no one to redeem yourself to — but yourself.”

“I think you’re… good.”

He remembers the scene without an error.

You were beside him, sitting on those hay bales. It was barely a few months ago, and yet it was stuck in his mind.

It was beautiful, that day — he was just too blind to notice it. To notice how deep your words cut through him.

He bled, and he covered himself back up. And somehow, while you continued prying away his ribs, one by one — it felt as if his heart was close to beating again.

How can you look at me and see good, when I’ve looked at myself and only known bad my whole life?

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

He awakes the next morning with Rufus licking his face, barking and panting excitedly.

He groans, wiping the saliva of his face. “Good morning, boy,”

“Ain’t you excited…” He rubs his eyes. “What for? You hungry?”

He too, was strangely excited. He fed Rufus, undoubtedly in a good mood as he combed his hair, looking at the mirror.

He showed his teeth, wiping it quickly and flashing an attempt at grinning.

No, that wasn’t quite right.

He tried again — it was a little too crooked.

That wasn’t quite right, either.

He smiled awkwardly at himself.

Now, this was stupid. He looked stupid.

He sighed, fixing his hair and trying a softer smile this time.

“Y’know what? Good enough.”

And then he sets off, after tidying himself up, working on his ranch, with a light-hearted tune — humming around.

For once, he doesn’t mind cleaning up the horse’s manure, or any other animal’s — to be exact. He goes about his early morning without a care. No complaint leaves his lips this time, even as the stench hit his nostrils hard.

Today was a normal day. It should be, but it felt different. Like he’s made some kind of breakthrough; and yet he doesn’t know exactly what it is.

He catches himself staring at you, again.

And Uncle’s words repeat in his mind again, even while John busies himself with sweeping off the fallen leaves on his courtyard.

When your eyes meet his, he feels like he’s been caught red-handed. So he coughs to himself, quickly snapping his head back down and pretending that he wasn’t doing anything.

Then afternoon comes — he rides his horse, trotting over nearby fields and rivers with his mind in the clouds.

Flowers, flowers, flowers…

And before he knew it, he’d made himself a bouquet of flowers that looked… alright — to say the least. He tried his best to make it look presentable.

They did remind him of you. Surviving out here in harsh winds and weather, and yet being able to bloom ever so beautifully.

In that moment, he thought: maybe he was a poet.

And his hands picked them up softly, with attention to how the petals could fall off if he did it any harsher.

Now, he didn’t have an eye for these things. Not at all.

He knows you aren’t easy — not that he thinks you are, not that you ever were. And that’s just another compelling part of you.

But he was willing to go through this whole unfamiliar thing. And damn it, Uncle was right.

He’s never had much experience with women anyway.

So when evening came, and he knocked on your door — hell, he wanted to bury himself in a hole right then and there.

You opened the door to a John that rubbed the side of his neck, attempting to smile — and obviously hiding something within his back.

“Good evening, John,” You said, hands on the doorknob.

“Good… evenin’,” He greets back, standing up straight now as he fixed his posture and his hand grasped by his own collar.

“I just… I…” Now he was trailing off, stuttering and stumbling over the words he so religiously practiced earlier. He decides to simply put out the bouquet, or if you could say it was even one — right in front of you.

“…‘S for you. Thought you’d like ‘em. Picked up a few, it doesn’t look much — but I hope it’s still by your taste.” He added, pushing the flowers closer to you.

If you squinted your eyes, you could see how shy he looked. His hands shook, unable to stay still as his eyes darted frequently away. He definitely was not made for this.

“I don’t believe there’s an event?” You said softly, taking the flowers with a small smile.

He smiled back sheepishly. “Do I have to have a reason to give you flowers?”

“You have a point.”

“And I got this for Sir, too.” He says, grabbing a fish he had gotten earlier by the river. “Thought I’d try to get his approval, this time.”

Giving fish after a flower was certainly not romantic — but it was the thought that counted.

It looked like the mention of his name alerted him, as Sir climbed over your shoulder and peered over the fish in John’s hands — carefully, as if examining it.

You looked at your cat with a smile. “Is it good enough for you, Sir? Or should we send him back?”

“Please don’t do that.” John playfully quips back.

Sir meowed in response. He seemed to approve of it, this time. “Looks like he likes it. Lucky you, huh?” You laughed quietly.

While chuckling back, John’s gaze continued to glance over how your fingers clutched the flowers. It was of delicacy. Despite it being in a less-than-fortunate look, you handled it with care and fragility.

“Thank you, John.”

He’s getting all sweet on you now — not that he wasn’t already in the first place.

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

He couldn’t stop himself. Not after he saw how your eyes twinkled. Shortly after he gave you those flowers the both of you indulged in conversations that lasted hours — despite feeling like minutes.

He notices the little, seemingly unimportant and specific things about you. He notices the touches, and how he finds his own mouth tumbling out excuses just for it to prolong.

John starts to see your name in the stars.

He starts to smell you in the flowers he gives.

He starts to hear your voice in every waking day.

November 21, 1907

I did follow Uncle’s advice, even if I said I wouldn’t. I did see sparkles in her eyes, and how she lit up when I looked at her. I don’t know why I’ve been trying so hard to impress her these days. Hell, I’m lookin’ in the mirror every time I go out.

And I’ve been giving her flowers when I see some on the way. Is it so wrong for my fingertips to linger a little bit? It probably is. I realize I’m even more of a fool than I thought I was, stumbling and stuttering with my words the moment she looks my way.

It’s changed, the way I look at her. I know it has. But I ain’t sure if I can admit it to myself yet.

He doesn’t look at you with hearts for eyes, does he? He prays you couldn’t tell.

For this afternoon it was a simple supply run. Of course, he had offered to take you there with him — the reason of some company you might like.

The road stretched out until it reached the outskirts of the nearby town, and while on the journey — you two talked casually about how your days have been.

He tells you stories of fellers he occasionally meet, all the while he remains seated on next to you on the wagon, with your hands gripping the reins.

But most of the time he is quiet. Not that he was a talker in the first place — with comfortable silence ensuing on the way, you repeated your checklist internally.

You did visit Blackwater occasionally, as he did. Most of the streets are covered in cobbled roads, lamps littered by the sidewalk. You looked over to the river nearby, as the slightly salty air hit your nostrils.

Civilization had truly improved — with all of these shops and restaurants lurking about, standing tall with pristine designs and walls. Although it was definitely more busier at this time, the distant chatter and business of people heard throughout each corner of the town.

You stopped the wagon, facing John. “I’m gonna stop by the store, I assume you have something to get, too?”

He nods, helping you off. “Yeah, I’ll just check sumthin’.”

With one last look, you made your way to the general store as you bought supplies, food, and fertilizer.

“That’ll be ten dollars and fifty-two cents, miss.” The cashier says, looking at you while he opens his palm.

“Ten dollars?” You repeat. Had the prices gone up? You didn’t remember it being this high — not since the last time you came for a supply run. With a sigh, you grabbed money from your pocket — looking at the cashier with doubt.

“Sir, it can’t possibly be that high. I got a ranch to handle. If every supply run is this expensive, then the debts would—”

He sighs. “Ain’t nothin’ you could do about it, miss. If you want to, you can lessen some of the things you bought.”

“But I barely bought anything,” You replied, biting your lip in worry.

That was when a voice came from behind you — a quite unpleasant tone. You could smell the booze coming off from him, as he stumbled across the plank floorboards with a grin of a bastard. “You havin’ trouble payin’ there, sweetheart?”

The drunk man leaned over the counter — while the cashier grunted in distaste.

“Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout it, I could lend you some money, yeah? A woman like you…”

“I don’t need your money, sir.” You interrupted, not wanting to hear anything out of his nasty mouth. You stepped backwards, furrowing your eyebrows.

“Awe, don’t be like that now,” He stumbled ever so closer, trying to put his hands on you before you swat him off and give him a glare. “Feisty, huh? I love it when ya women do that, playin’ hard to get.”

Looks like you were going to have to stab someone today.

Although, someone had probably done it for you already. “Hey! Get your hands off of ‘er, you Goddamn creep.” John snapped, walking in the store closer and closer to the man.

With every closing step, the drunk man raised a brow higher. “Ain’t doin’ nothin’ to her. Who’re you, huh?”

“I’m your old friend amnesia.” He answers both seriously and sarcastically.

The man avoids him and tries to look at you again with a smile. “I don’t see a ring, miss.”

“Not yet you don’t,” John says, cutting him off. “She’ll punch you alright, but not before I beat you the hell up.”

“You her husband or sumthin’?” The man kept pressing, hissing and slurring his words.

“Yeah, hands off. Stop botherin’ my wife.”

The man stumbled over his own feet — trying to keep himself uptight as his legs wobbled. “I don’t see why I can’t borrow ‘er.”

“That’s enough!” That was when John landed a punch straight to his face — which was enough for the man to land on the ground.

You stopped John before he could kill the guy — seeing as he’s just about prepared himself for another punch, rolling up his sleeves.

He sighed, getting up as he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth — result of the man’s broken nose.

Bastard.

All sorts of condescending nicknames he muttered to himself, looking at the body on the floor. “You alright?” He asks softly.

You nod, as the man behind the counter sighed. “You gonna buy this or not, miss?”

You shook your head, counting the money you had on hand. “…Just lessen the food, sir. We’re sorry for the trouble.”

He stood beside you, looking at what you had bought — confused. “What do you mean?”

“No, we’ll buy it,” He answers. “I’ll pay.”

Walking back to the wagon with him, you spoke, thanking him. “I’ll pay you back.”

He shook his head. “Don’t got to.”

His tone left no space to argue. But you were starting feel like he’d done too much for you. “I’m not a maiden in distress. I can pay you back.”

“Just treat me to a game of poker later, then?” He looked at you with a charming grin as he helped you up the wagon.

Idiotic, reckless, and unnecessarily charming: that was what you’d describe John. You were sure some of what happened earlier — although impressive, were his theatrics and bravado. You couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Sure, husband.”

He choked on his own saliva, as his confidence simmered down.

God, he truly was an idiot, wasn’t he? He argued it would’ve been more effective that way — but the words that left his mouth were indeed satisfying.

“Yeah, wife.” He replied, looking elsewhere.

When you played poker with him, he saw you stealing the chips sneakily. You both would erupt in a fit of laughter and chuckles once he called you out, but his hand that captured yours would linger, reluctantly pulling away.

There are times when his thoughts get ahead of him, when he would think about crossing a line. Impulsive thoughts make his mind a home, thoughts that he wouldn’t dare to do. Even though his hands itched to capture yours, or to simply stare at you.

Every subtle and accidental touch he was aware of. Every time you’d say his name, every time you were there.

January 28, 1908

There was this bastard from the day before. Reeked of alcohol. Tried to touch her. Men really are damn fools.

Wish I could’ve beat that piece of shit, but he went unconscious from one punch. Still irks me when I think of him.

I didn’t mean to agree when he asked me that question, but somehow it just left my mouth. I called her my wife. She teased me ‘bout it after. Was it a bad thing that I enjoyed doing so?

Now I can’t stop thinkin’ about it. Have I really lost all logic and reason?

There never was a need for the two of you to talk. Sitting beside each other, on some rocks — perhaps by the riverbank, were enough words spoken.

The wind whispers to him all thoughts of impulsiveness and irrationality. By then the cold water smoothly laps against his skin, feeling your knee brushing next to his.

Quiet fills the atmosphere. Thoughts run adamant, hesitation wins over.

Perhaps by the grass, laying down and looking at the stars. You point out and tell him of the Big Dipper, of the stars — but the only thing his eyes rest on is you.

Breezes of wind compose songs, melodic harmonies that murmur in his ear. Blades of the pointy grass tickle his skin — the moon above peering over his pathetic figure.

Or another could be by home, simply discussing over things that don’t matter. Chuckling over the smallest things. Telling stories that get lost in night.

“You have a phonograph?” He asks, looking at you with curiosity, his hands behind him.

“That? Was my mama’s. She liked to dance, my papa would dance was with her even if he didn’t know how.” You chuckled at the memory, trying to see if the thing still worked.

With the blessings of whom above, it started playing.

♪ Wise men say

He hummed to the tune, as he spoke with a small smile. “We used to have one of those, too. My family.”

Only fool rush in ♪

“So you know how?” You let a smile curve up your lips.

♪ But I can’t help,

He huffed a short, quiet laugh. He saw your eyes twinkle with hope — but he shook his head. “Hell no. I don’t know a single thing ‘bout dancin’.”

Falling in love ♪

“I don’t believe you.” You mused, smiling fully now as every step of yours synched with the music.

♪ With you.

Soft, slow, piano played, a sweet melodic tune ringing by his ears. The voice continued to sing out, in a slow manner, as smooth as dripping honey.

Shall I stay? ♪

“Well, I’m no good at it,” He shrugged, shoving his palms in his pockets.

♪ Would it be

“How can you be so sure?”

A sin ♪

He froze, watching you start slowly approach him, as your feet swayed with the music.

♪ If I can’t help

He heard your soft query, that rendered him speechless the moment he heard it. “Dance with me?”

Falling in love ♪

John refused, shaking his head as he waved his hands. “I ain’t good at it — I got two left legs.”

♪ With you.

But to no avail was his pleadings. You took his hand in yours, dragging him gently across the living room — now filled with easy swaying. “Don’t complain when I step on your feet!”

Like a river flows ♪

“You’ll be alright! Dance with me!”

♪ Surely to the sea

With a reluctant sigh and the tiniest hint of a smile, he took his hat off, placed it somewhere he wouldn’t remember before your left hand interlocked with his.

Darling, so it goes ♪

It was so soft — he thought. Palm to palm — fingers wrapped around each other. If he wasn’t going to step on you, he’d fall down instead.

♪ Some things

He feels heat rise up his neck, feeling your hand gripping his shoulder languidly.

Are meant to be. ♪

And without a single thought left in his head, his shaky hand twined around your waist.

♪ Take my hand

“Now follow me. Just sway.” If you hadn’t had your head faced to your feet, he would’ve sworn you’d saw his embarrassing predicament of utter inexperience and bewilderment.

Take my whole life, too ♪

He followed your footing, merely swaying back and forth along the tempo of the music. Slow and steady he went, although his heart was otherwise.

♪ For I can’t help

“Like this?” He asked.

Falling in love ♪

You lift your head up, eyes meeting his in an endless gaze. “Mhn. Hey, you aren’t stepping one me yet?”

♪ With you.

He snickered, face all scrunched up with emotion. “Not yet I haven’t. Don’t trust me too much.”

Like a river flows ♪

You hummed with the melody. John couldn’t fathom the situation — hence his quietness, as he needed to absorb the fact that you were holding his hands, your hand placed on his shoulder, and his own rested around your waist.

♪ Surely to the sea

Time seemed to slow down.

Darling, so it goes ♪

He thought to himself, now that he could formulate one.

♪ Some things,

You looked happy. Your grin was most wide as he’d ever seen — almost reaching the ends of your ears.

are meant to be. ♪

He wished this moment would last forever. He wished he could see you smile like this every waking day.

♪ Take my hand

All the while the music continued to play in the background, John finally let a smile slip on his lips.

Take my whole life, too ♪

A long time it was since he’d met you. He couldn’t imagine a day without interrupting your day, without thinking what to pester you with each time.

♪ For I can’t help,

As the chorus came by, you swayed with him with more emotion, almost as if you were in synch.

Falling in love, ♪

He felt alive.

♪ With you.

With a large grin, he tightened his grip on your hand, letting go of your waist as he spun you around.

Like a river flows ♪

You let out a brief laugh of pleasant surprise, as your body dipped down — his hand back on your waist to support you.

♪ Surely to the sea

While stagnant, eyes were locked onto each other, breaths were kept. With close and suffocating proximity — you jested lightly. “Didn’t know you could do that.”

♪ Darling so it goes,

John, at first, couldn’t reply at all.

Some things, ♪

In that moment — the way you laughed, the way you felt in his arms felt so incredibly right — he never wanted to pull away. He didn’t.

♪ are meant to be.

And damn it, damn it all — he thought.

Take my hand ♪

I love her.

♪ Take my whole life, too

That was when John Marston realized he truly had been an idiot, all his life — even until now.

For I can’t help, ♪

“I didn’t know either.”

♪ Falling in love, with you.

You smiled, watching his dumbfounded expression fade into one of calmness and content.

For I can’t help, ♪

“Let me spin ya around again?”

♪ Falling in love, with you.

“Next song, then.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

John Marston, turned lover boy — was sat on his porch, with his cheek on his palm and his elbow on his knee.

The realization shouldn’t have hit him as much as he did — but here he was.

He feels the weight of the world fade from his mind and shoulders, words ever the clearer now in his mind.

I love her.

He let out a shuddering breath.

Damn it, I love her.

Now, like all things — he didn’t know what to do about it. These feelings, once more confusing, it seemed as if after solving them there would arise more problems.

The thought of you made his heart beat a million times. Did you love him back? Or perhaps he was merely holding onto a weak, unsupported thread of delusion.

Even if months passed by, his eyes would dart to you, his hands would shake near yours — but that was all it was.

John knew he loved you in the spring — and until by late summer, he couldn’t quite get the words out of his chest the way he wanted it to.

Rain fell heavily, as John had just come back from errands — saddled up on his horse — wet from the rain.

“Damn this rain…” He mutters irritatedly, hitching his horse by the stable, rushing a dry cloth over his wet hair, entering his home with small puddles building up on the floor.

Thunder clapped roughly, a reminder of the terrible weather outside. After he had dried himself up, he had to go outside once again to herd the cattle somewhere drier; the slippery and muddy dirt and the loud noise of lightning a reason.

Then he caught a glimpse of you, working still, even under the heavy rainfall. Covered in wet clothes, hair all soggy — and stubbornly walking around even with exhaustion prominent from far away.

When he approached you, he yelled out, “Why are you workin’ out in this rain?”

“You’re wet as a hen! You’re gonna get sick.”

“I have to.” You replied, not indulging in any more talk.

He saw how red your nose was, how you shivered under the cold.

“Alright, you stubborn woman, come on. Let’s go inside.”

“I have to get this done,” You protested weakly as he stopped you from continuing any further, his hand gripping your arm.

He let go of you momentarily, pressing the back of his hand on your forehead.

“You’re hot.”

“I mean, temperature-wise.” He adds after, looking at you with concern.

“I feel fine, John.”

“You could’ve had me fooled,” He says sarcastically, lightly flicking your forehead. “Ain’t stoppin’ the workin’ to death business, huh? That can wait.”

You let John drag you inside your house, as you took off your coat and he went rummaging for a clean cloth to dry you off with.

You sat on a wooden chair just by your door, afraid walking in more would make a mess. With a sneeze, you let out a quiet groan, as your eyes followed John’s figure — who slowly approached you.

John kneeled down on one foot, getting on your level as the cloth lightly dabbed around your face. Although focused on the task, he couldn’t help but notice how tired you looked, how warm your skin was.

There was no denying it — you were sick.

After drier hair and drier clothes, you sat on your sofa, watching John struggle but pretend not to.

“You have to wash it.” You say, voice slightly groggy.

John groaned softly, nodding. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Just sit there, alright?”

What the hell was he doing, trying to cook soup?

After learning that you had no medicine, but rather herbs, he tried to cook something up with his prior knowledge.

He boiled the water, standing over the counter with a hand on his hip. He was determined, even though he had made a mess of your kitchen — much to his own dismay — but he was going to clean it. He promised.

With a sneeze, you stood up, approaching him. “Here, let me—”

“Hey, didn’t I just tell ya to rest? Uh-uh. Get back.” He said, stopping you before you could even got close.

“You’re always helping me,” You murmur.

Your voice quieted down. “I swore I could take care of myself, but I’m still as useless as I’ve always been.”

“You ain’t… useless, alright? You’re sick.” He says, watching you stumble, holding your head that throbbed. “Come on. Go rest.”

He wish he could’ve said more, but the words couldn’t leave his throat. With a hand on your shoulder, he guided you back to the velvety cushions of the sofa — to which your body sank in when you laid quietly.

She’s burning up.

The soup tasted like shit — after a reluctant taste test. He grimaced at the flavor; bitter, harsh, and unforgiving.

With a bowl of piping hot soup in his hands, he approached you slowly and sat beside where you lay. The putrid smell hit your nose, but you knew this was how it normally was.

“C’mon, sit up,” He tells you softly.

He stirs the spoon in the bowl as you did so, blowing out air from his mouth.

“It tastes awful, but you’re gonna have to take this so you get better,” He says, inching the spoonful by your mouth. “Say ah.”

If you weren’t going to die from exhaustion, you’d die from food poisoning. “This is terrible.”

“Yeah, it is. Ain’t nothin’ we can do ‘bout it, though.”

You grabbed a blanket, wrapping it around yourself as he continued to feed you. With every passing second, you’d get colder, and your head would continue to drill inside you.

“Don’t be difficult,” He sighs as you tried to minimize the amount of soup you’d drink.

“You don’t have to do this.” You protest.

“No, but I want to—”

It was like you were swallowing nails and fire.

“—‘cause I care for you.” And I love you.

He confesses, a little too quick. He coughed right after, rendering himself speechless.

“I thought I was doing pretty well by myself,” You mumbled. “I thought had it all under control.”

“Turns out I really hadn’t.”

He furrows his brows lightly. “If you push yourself more, you won’t be able to do anythin’.”

“Grief’s swallowed me whole, then.” With another spoonful of soup, you grimaced.

“Look, I don’t want ya to kill yourself, workin’ so hard,” He looks at you with empathy. “Why were you out in the rain? You knew you’d get sick.”

“Maybe I…” You trailed off, shaking your head. “The debt collectors came to visit a few days ago.”

Hearing this, his eyes narrowed slightly, the words ringing in his ears.

“The money I had wasn’t nearly enough. I-I thought I’d been doing well, but even with all your help, it wasn’t enough.”

Your words were barely above a whisper as you continued. “Am I really that weak?”

“No,” He answers — quicker than he could think. “You ain’t weak, no. You’re…”

“You’re more than you think you are,” He adds, clutching the now-empty bowl in his hands as he looked straight in your eyes. He could see how you shook, how you looked so hesitant to talk — but you did, anyway.

“You’re the strongest woman I’ve met. You remember that.”

You stole my heart, that’s what you did. You brought me back from the dead.

You looked away briefly, as his hands came to softly graze over your cheek. “Look at me.”

The words poured out of his mouth involuntarily, though it felt so good. “You’ll get through this, alright? I’ll help you.”

“Why are you so insistent on helping me?” You asked. “I don’t deserve even half of what you’ve done.”

“Hell, I don’t deserve what you’ve done either.” He replies.

He wanted to say more — he wanted to say how much you meant to him. How much he’d done to you. You took his rotting heart and nursed it back to health.

He wanted to say how much he loved you — but he couldn’t.

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

Now, he sits beside your sleeping figure, running a cold cloth over your forehead and neck.

The bags under your eyes weren’t getting much better, either. You were sweating, as his fingers swayed over the wet strands of hair on your forehead.

Without much thought about his actions, his fingertips continued to caress the strands of your hair.

I swear, she’s gonna work herself to death.

I wish I could do somethin’ about it. If she keeps this up, I don’t know what’ll happen to her.

What a stubborn woman I’ve fallen for.

You were soft, so much so. He could keep caressing you like this until he couldn’t.

His eyes glanced over you, darting over your lips.

It wasn’t a good time to let his feelings get ahead of him.

And suddenly, the words “I love you” threaten to leave his mouth. Even as an inaudible whisper, he hoped he could let it escape, fade into the never-ending rain.

Inside him were two different people. He wished he could let himself go, let those words leave his mouth — but he couldn’t help it. He was a coward, he knew that.

Even until now, where you couldn’t possibly hear anything he could say.

He couldn’t keep watching you beat yourself up like this.

His fingers trace down your cheek, down to your jaw, as your chest heaved up and down slowly in deep slumber.

When the cold cloth traced down your warm arms, you shifted. “Hold me.”

Did I hear that right?

He froze when your fingers intertwined with his. “‘S cold.”

He let a warm smile creep up his lips as your antics. “Yeah, alright.”

His thumb grazes over yours, slowly tracing small circles on the skin, watching you fade back into unconsciousness. Hell — you probably weren’t conscious when you asked for that, too.

Hours pass by until then — John falls asleep next to you, sitting down on a chair, with his hat draped over his face — and his hands still intertwined with yours.

You got better a week after, though John told you to lay off working for a bit — promising you he’d do your work instead.

But he noticed it — he noticed how despite he told you to rest, you were counting coins in the night. You were barely eating — buying provisions only for the animals.

He sat by your porch, watching as you hid and flicked away a cigarette.

“You know I see ya, right?”

You huffed, placing your chin on your palm. “I’m just… stressed.”

He plopped down beside you and sighed. “I know,”

“But I don’t…” He trailed off, taking a moment to gather his own thoughts and words before he said something stupid. “Look at you.”

He tucked the loose strands of hair covering your face behind your ear.

You didn’t look the best.

“You need rest, and you need to stop thinking about it.”

Your feet tapped against the wood rhythmically fast. “I can’t.”

“‘S hard to not think about, John. One day, they’re gonna come, and everything I’ve fought so hard for will disappear like nothing.”

You considered taking it all, running away, leaving your problems there in that ranch. But you didn’t; you stayed, and you worked so hard to bring it all back to life — to make the most of what was left.

The only thing your family left for you was that ranch, after all. And other than that, what was your place in life? What was your identity — your reason?

Even while the day, it seemed so gloomy. Clouds hovered over the place, all dark and moody.

“But it won’t. Trust me, it won’t.” John said — even though he knew nothing about comforting, he knew not of what was going to happen.

He could tell, any more of this, and you’d spiral back to a hard shell. Back to when you’d push everyone away.

August 9, 1908

Things ain’t goin’ good. I don’t know. She ain’t doin’ good — as far as I could tell.

Debt’s a nasty thing. I fear she might work too hard these days and somethin’ bad’ll happen. Am I worryin’ too much? No, I think I worry just the right amount.

She was sick the other week, I had to take care of her. Still stubborn. Wish I could tell her.

I’m a damn coward and a fool.

It’s been raining more than ever. The clouds are constantly dark — along with the moist air.

And you’ve been worser than ever, as well — much to his dismay.

Only weeks after that whole ordeal, it seems the debt collectors finally had enough.

Today, it didn’t rain.

When you sat next to him, he felt something somber.

“You alright?” He asked softly — almost immediately, upon noticing your quiet nature.

You’ve been more quiet then usual, of course, but today was different.

With a deep and sharp breath in, you spoke. “Can you take care of Sir?”

He felt confused. More than it.

What were you asking for?

“Sure I can, if he doesn’t claw my face off. Why… do you ask?”

“Can I ask you a favor? Just one.” You asked, hesitant. “Can you take care of him? When I leave.”

Cold, unforgiving breezes of wind brushed against the both of you — filling in the silent and palpable atmosphere.

You added, when he went quiet. “It’s alright if you can’t.”

“You’re leaving?” He asks — the mere idea of you doing so made his entire world go still.

You looked at the clouds. No sun, no light — just shadow and fullness. You were afraid of what he would say — so you looked in front, you kept your eyes glued away when you nodded.

“They came back. And… I was still short, so… I don’t think I have much of a choice.”

He looked at you, no he had been looking at you, with confused eyes and furrowed eyebrows. “Where will you go?”

You shrugged. “I’ll get by.”

“Do you have to leave?” He asked. It was a stupid question. He knew you were set on leaving, and he knew you had nothing else to stay here for.

In his heart, he really meant, “Do you have to leave me?”

Which, once again, was a stupid question. He was only your neighbor. Only a friend — only a man.

But he did see it in your eyes. You had to leave — but you didn’t want to, either. He knew how much the ranch meant to you — and now after inevitably losing it, you had no other choice.

Could his words mean anything to you? If he tried — if he held your hand, if he pulled your arm, if he told you, with pleading eyes “Don’t.”

For some time, he thought he could. But in the end, he couldn’t.

He took your hand in his.

Stay with me, please.

You intertwined your fingers with his — looking at him with warm eyes. “They… took everything,”

Not even in a physical way. Memories, they took. You wanted to say more — to cry in his arms — but you wanted to make your leaving clean and short.

You didn’t want to regret it all. Except you already did, in a way; could it possibly be worse?

“Here, John,” You took something from your pocket. “It was papa’s ring.”

He put the gold material between the tips of his index and thumb, looking at it briefly before his eyes landed on you again.

“I’ll take the train by tomorrow.”

“Will you—” He shifted, squeezing your hand. “Will you write to me?”

Right now, he wanted to kiss you. He wanted to push his lips softly against yours, and murmur prayers of denial.

He felt bittersweet. All about this. It didn’t feel right, and yet he couldn’t do anything about it. This time, he was truly helpless.

“Always.”

౨ৎ 𖦹₊˚⊹

August 10, 1908

Did she enter my life and fix me just to leave me broken and helpless?

Is she gonna take my soul with her, too?

It’s like… I got all close to her, and life rips her away once she’s close enough for me to hold. Goddamn cruel.

With Rufus on his lap and Sir on his shoulder, he couldn’t seem to write anything that night.

With a woof from Rufus, he patted his head. “I know, boy. We’re back to zero.”

And a meow from Sir, he sighed. “You ain’t the only one missin’ her. Hell, she hasn’t even left yet.”

You smell exactly like her, Sir. That’s a problem.

He lets the pen fall from his hands. The journal is tucked away by his side. He stares at the ring you gave him — drowning in his own thoughts.

His fingertips feel the engraving on the ring.

“Home.”

The thought of her leavin’ sickens me. My stomach churns, and I feel like I might drop dead the next second.

I should’ve said it, huh?

He continues fiddling with the ring.

That’s it? That’s what happens? That’s what happened?

It ain’t her fault she’s leavin’. Maybe I could’ve done somethin’. Hell, I know I could.

What the hell is wrong with me?

The ring in his fingers continue to jog around, as more of his relentless come to attack him.

Even if we weren’t all of that, I believed we were at least somethin’. It ended so suddenly, like all things. I was a fool.

With everything now so quiet, his thoughts are loud again.

God, I don’t deserve anything good. I don’t.

But if You believe I’ve redeemed myself, even just a little bit — could You bring her back to me?

I know… I’ve done bad things. But I don’t want to lose her. I can’t lose her.

The ring drops to the ground — the clinking and clammer echoing in the empty room. For a light ring, it was loud.

God, I can’t.

He doesn’t sleep that night. Morning showed itself — roosters howled, light cracked from his window, rain fell heavily. And yet he still rotted in the comfort of his couch.

His heart felt heavy, it felt like it was dragging down every inch of his body. Like his flesh had turned into weights, like his lungs were under water.

He was the rain himself — sulking around the walls of his house.

He was beginning to truly drown in his own guilt and regret — until Uncle slapped him in the face.

“Ouch! What was that for?” He asked, sitting up straight and nursing the pain with his hand.

“You get up, John,” Uncle says, unamused.

John wanted to say something snappy, or poke fun at him — but he wasn’t exactly in the mood. John grumpily retorted with a “What?”.

“I can’t stand you sulkin’ ‘round here.”

“What do you mean?” John says, confused.

Uncle fumes, slapping him a second time. “Don’t ‘what do you mean’ me, dumbass!”

John let out a yelp of hurt, as Uncle continued, with a mocking tone. “You’re lookin’ at me with a face that says ‘it’s all over’,”

Uncle tries to slap him a third time, “Of course it is! And it’ll be, if you don’t do anythin’!”

But John swiftly dodges, finally standing up now.

Uncle continues. “You try to use that brain of yours, or it’ll rot.”

“Hell, maybe we could use it as horse-food so it’d be used,” He just kept going.

“I’ve seen children with greater will. Hell, I’ve got more will than you!”

“Point is, I could run after her m’self. And I can’t even run.”

John looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. He was getting what Uncle was pointing at, but he didn’t have to be that cruel, did he?

“I can’t… do nothin’ ‘bout it. She’s probably left already.”

Uncle interrupts him. “She is gonna be gone, if ya don’t try! Get your head outta the gutter, John!”

“It’s embarrassin’ and all, but ain’t nothin’ gonna happen if you do nothin’!”

Despite being quite hypocritical, John still felt attacked. “I get it—I get it,” He raised his arms up in surrender. “What d’ya want me to do?”

“I’m tellin’ ya to go after her before that damn train leaves.” Uncle shakes his head, looking serious for once.

John finally realizes. He did have one last chance. Uncle made sense. Instead of sulking around all day, he could do something one last time.

“Right now?” He asks, before answering the question himself.

Of course right now, John. Damn idiot.

“Right now! I’m—going—you’re right!” John hurries away, putting on his coat and hat — which he knew was ineffective against the heavy rain, but he’ll be damned if he let that stop him. He’s already let too many chances pass.

When he leaves, he can hear Uncle yelling one last time — faintly now. “I’ve always been right — you just been too dumb to comprehend!”

With every second passing, he swore he could hear the honking of the trains get louder. He didn’t want to hear it at all.

If he doesn’t do this right, he might just be lonely for the rest of his damn life.

He murmurs an apology to his horse for riding out in this ridiculous rain. “Real sorry for this, boy. Won’t take too long, alright?”

Already completely soaked from the downfall of rain — he didn’t care. At this point, the sun was about to set — and he wouldn’t make it.

Damn it. I should’ve done this a long time ago.

He’d go faster than ever. Like his life was on the line. Because truth be told — it is — to some extent. His horse understands that this is urgent, its hooves clacking along the dirt and mud without stopping.

Please be there, please be there. He repeated internally, gripping the reins so much his knuckles had gone white.

Still on his horse, he sees the train just about departing — slowly picking up the pace against the rails.

He was late.

He cursed under his breath. Desperation filled his very being.

Not this time. Please.

“Hey! Stop!” He shouts at the train — even though it’s useless — with the loud honking and rain. It muffled his voice.

It wasn’t stopping. It wasn’t slowing. But he wasn’t going to, either.

He’d never see your face, your smile. He’d never hear your laugh, your voice, your taunts and sweet voice again.

So, without you, who the hell would he wake up for in the morning?

Who would drag him to dance?

Who would he write about in his journal?

Who would soothe the lonely ache in his heart?

Who would he love?

He couldn’t live with the thought that you would be gone. That you would just disappear — like thin air. Like you had never existed at all. Like he wasn’t in love with you.

John was right by the tail of the train — but he had yet to catch up with it. He yelled out again, louder, this time. “[Reader]!”

Of course, he had foreseen that he would look like a lunatic. Like he’d lost his mind.

Inside the train, passengers seemed to have noticed his chasing figure outside the train. Some of them sticked their noses by the window — murmuring amongst themselves — who was this man yelling for?

With all the fuss and talk, you looked outside the window of your seat.

It was all too familiar, that man.

Your heart raced, along with your feet that stepped outside the moment your heard a faint calling of your name. Running to the outside of the last car — with the many passengers you bumped with — with every sorry — you could feel your heart beat faster.

There he was, John Marston, chasing the train on his horse — wet by the rain.

And you swore he was shouting your name.

Your hands gripped the railing, watching him struggle to keep pace. But he was yelling, and you knew he was saying something incredibly important — but you couldn’t hear it.

“John!” You yelled.

He yelled out again, muffled by all the noise. “Don’t go!”

But you couldn’t hear him. You tried to — but it seemed everything was against the two of you at this very moment.

“I can’t hear you!” You yelled.

You couldn’t hear what he had just said — you could only attempt to make out the words he was saying with his mouth.

“Damn it, STAY!”

You could finally hear him.

“I LOVE YOU!”

“STAY! STAY WITH ME!”

He could only watch as you froze, before you ran back inside the car. Just then, while John’s heart seemed to explode — everything made sense for you.

It all clicked.

“Ex—Excuse me, sir!” You ran to the conductor, panting heavily. “I need you to stop the train, please!”

“I made a big mistake.”

When the train slowly stopped, you thanked the conductor profusely as you made your way out. People’s eyes followed your steps, they watched as you ran outside in the cold rain right to John.

In that moment, he quickly got off his horse, running to you himself.

You jumped right in his arms — he caught you. He always did.

With his arms supporting your weight and your limbs wrapped tightly around him, he spun you around like a princess.

He exclaimed your name, grinning so widely.

“John, you idiot, you…”

“I love you too.”

When you settled down, he still held you up in his arms.

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. But was he complaining? No.

You loved him back.

You soon followed with a light scoff. “Chasing a train… who does that?”

“Who wouldn’t?” He asked, before leaning in and capturing your lips in a kiss.

He never thought he’d be able to do that.

March 7, 1913

In honor of our marriage anniversary — I decided to transfer all those journal pages to a new one. It’s been years since then. I never thought I’d actually use Arthur’s ring.

I still remember the moment I met her. Still remember that whole dramatic process. If you asked me, was it worth it? It was worth every damn penny. It was worth the universe.

I love her so much. I really do. I wouldn’t change a thing. Despite everything that happened, sometimes, even to myself — I can’t believe that she’s here with me. That she stayed — that she accepted my offer — and even married a man like me. I’m the luckiest man alive.

I’m right here, makin’ tomato soup. Rufus and Sir are fightin’ for the food. Ain’t nothin’ separates the two. And th—

“Oh, darlin’, please,” John sighs, watching you steal his journal from his hands.

“What, John?” You said coyly, reading it in front of him as you flipped the pages.

With an over-exaggerated gasp, you spoke in disbelief. “Are these love letters? Oh, you poet, John Marston,”

♪ Take my hand,

“I married a poet!” You giggled.

Take my whole life, too ♪

John tries to take back the journal — was he blushing? Yes. Like a schoolboy that had confessed to his crush. “Shut up. Stop readin’ it.”

♪ For I

“And your first impression of me was strange and stubborn?—” You followed up.

Can’t help ♪

He shrugged after, attempting to steal it back with a light lunge forward. “Of course. And hey—give it back!”

♪ Falling in love

“You try!” You chuckled, watching him fail miserably — before kissing you instead.

Summary: John may have slipped up and called you his wife after you failed to rob a drunken man.

Tags: hyper-feminine female pickpocket reader, John Marston x you, fluff, one derogatory name used.

a/n: I'm feeling super uninspired and am struggling to come up with new ideas but I just know I'm craving husband/father/family man/epilogue/rdr 1/protective John Marston BAD.