I know it's been a long time since I've posted anything at all. It's been an interesting however long it's been and I haven't been in the mood to just sit down and write in a while much less anything fandom related.
I'm making this post for myself. Complete self indulgence since no one else is interested in Joe. I played Red Dead Online before the main storyline of the game and my brain just latched onto Joe for some reason and I can't find headcanons or anything. If there is anyone else out there who likes Joe then I hope you enjoy this too. I'll be adding into it maybe until I run out of ideas for it. It is written around my own rdo character and apparently from the lingering I've done OCs are cringe now? But I really don't give a shit so if it's not your thing just move on - it's mostly for me anyways.
With that being said, to the (maybe) two people I've seen on here that have posted about Joe - Hi! Hello!
Joe was never loud. He kept to himself mostly. Followed orders, took jobs that didn't require stability or settling long enough to unpack anything. He preferred it that way but this was different. A small one room cabin in Osman Grove was just the place he needed to lay low. It was tucked in the woods just enough to keep out of sight. A place just big enough for himself. One room large enough for a chair and a kitchen table. In the same room there was a stove and a small sink that had been connected to a well in the front yard. Above sat a loft only accessible by a ladder near the side door, just big enough to fit his makeshift mattress. It was simple. Just enough to get by on and Joe didn't mind one bit.
It was here that mercenaries were sent by one man. An Italian fellow Joe didn't trust one bit but the money was good. He never asked questions, just became a middle man, took his cut, and kept living. Joe himself wasn't a very impressionable man. He was tall and brawny, not built in the fit kind of way but tough. Thick. His skin was rough and textured from a life of harsh living. Hard lines on his face, sunken in eyes all the markings of weathered outlaw constantly on the run.
The scar around his neck was indictive of an old wound he never talked about. Most could only assume it was from surviving a hanging. No one had ever asked and Joe wouldn't have told them if they did.
A few mercenaries that cycled through were regulars. One or two stuck around consistently but most fell off, moving into other places or failing to execute the jobs, Joe didn't care either way. Things stayed this way for a long time. He still slept light, still kept his guns close and ready.
He never really remembered people that came through. Names eludeded him, faces got replaced but there was one he did remember even if he tried to forget. When she knocked on his door he didn't really care at first. Went through the same speech he always did - a rough "what do you want?" And another short speech about how he wasn't loyal. How he didn't look out for anyone but himself. How he wouldn't hesitate to get rid of people or use them for his own self preservation. Joe was many things but a liar wasn't one of them.
He remembered the night he met her, before she walked in his door. Van der Linde. That was who she was with before. The fellow he'd not known long ......Morgan he believed was the name of he could recall correctly. It seemed like it happened ages ago but in reality it had only been a year. A very long year.
He remembered her face in passing. Watching her stitch up that sick bastard's clothing. The way she waited for him to come back, how she would nurse him when she thought no one was watching. Joe didn't know what kind of relationship they'd had and he'd never admit it but he had always been somewhat jealous. Jealous because she's been kind to him once.
He remembered that too. When Micah was bitching at him about something or another - he couldn't recall what exactly. Not anymore. He just remembered her. He half figured she'd just got tired of hearing Micah's voice but she stepped in like it was nothing and then offered him a bowl of stew and a glass of whiskey.
Maybe it was the softness she carried in a world that didn't know how to hold soft things or maybe it was just the fact she was pretty. Either way Joe had thought he forgotten it but the night she stepped through the door was the night he spent trying to forget.
She looked thinner. Heavier, like she'd survived more than just the fall out of the gang but what he'd seen wasn't her body but in her eyes. He knew that look. Whatever she'd gone through in that year had snuffed out that softness he'd seen before and for the first time he'd felt something he had never felt before.
Care? Compassion? Sympathy? Pitty? He didn't know and didn't linger on it enough to try to figure it out.
He never mentioned it to her. Never intended to. Just handed her the next job, told her how he didn't trust the Italian feller, and sent her on her way but one night changed it all.
She came back, tattered, bruised, bloodied with both hers and someone else's. Joe didn't like it. Refused to give her another job. Refused to let her go back out like she was. It was that same feeling again and he'd been more harsh that night because of it.
"You ain't goin nowhere like that, you look like shit, hell I know you feel worse than you look." He'd said. When she tried to leave he grabbed her, too hard, sat her back down. "I ain't lettin you go out there like this so sit still unless you want Ol' Joe tyin' you down." He had told her.
She complied after that but with another look behind her eyes that told Joe all he needed to know.
Scarlet hadn't been easy to deal with. She was quiet too but something in her was still stubborn and determined. She wouldn't normally back down until Joe started making threats - for her own good. At least that's what he told himself and she seemed like she told that to herself too.
When she recovered enough he refused to give her jobs. Once again it was the harshness he didn't use on purpose. He'd told her she was too soft. Wasn't in any shape to do them anymore. Used every excuse even though he knew she could hold her own. Said it wasn't a woman's place to have to live like that.
That was the wrong thing for Joe to say.
He'd seen women's anger. Flaring temperaments, big fusses and the like but she was different. If anything scared Joe it was her quiet anger. The glare behind her eyes that suggested she wasn't reacting because she was afraid of him, but because she was afraid of what she would do herself.
Joe hadnt tried to stop her when she stormed out. He wanted to, but doing so made him look like he actually cared - and he didn't....
So the relief he felt a few nights later when she showed back up at his place wasnt a surprise so much as it was irritating.
Here she was, slamming the door open and stumbling in. Her hair falling in places out of whatever updo she'd had it in. The sleeves on her corset hanging off her shoulders, skirt sinched up in the front, and the way she stumbled in like she's been three bottles deep.
Joe could smell it on her. Whatever liquor she'd drowned in. Whatever man she'd bedded.
Whatever man she had bedded.
That thought struck a nerve he didn't like too much. He was at the table, cleaning a sawed off shotgun, cigarette hanging between his lips with that deepset frown he always wore like it was just natural now.
He set the shotgun down, pulled the cigarette from his lips with two fingers and sat back, watching her.
"The hell you been?" He frowned like he didn't care.
Her voice was deeper, raspy and tired, her words slurred and her brows furrowed, in confusion or anger though Joe couldn't quite tell.
If he wasn't already frowning he would have. His eyes dropped to the cigarette and he put it back between his lips. He picked the gun back up, started polishing a spot he'd already went over.
When she came to the table and sat down he didn't look up. Forced himself to keep looking at his hands.
"I remember you, you know." She said. Her voice had sobered up, leaving Joe to wonder if her drunken state was just put on. He kept working. Kept ignoring her even though he could see how serious her face got. How blue her eyes were.
"Do you know where he is?"
He looked at her. It was something about the way she asked. He knew it was off. He knew what she wanted.
"Who?" He pretended he didn't.
"Don't fucking play with me Joe. You know who."
She didn't have to say the name. Joe remembered. He remembered Micah and he knew he was responsible for the death of that Morgan fellow she was with. He took a long draw of his cigarette and out it out in the empty bottle beside him.
"Ain't gotta clue and even if I did I wouldn't tell ya."
"Cause I know what you wanna do." He snapped firmly. "And I done told you, ain't a game a girl like you sh-"
"Then what should I do Joe?" Her voice rose. Unlike last time. "Look at me." She said, leaning forward. And he did.
"What am I supposed to do?" She asked, her voice dropping, quiet this time, but still laced with venom.
She stood at that, reached for his bottle that was half empty and turned.
"Hey!" In the same motion he slammed the gun on the table and stood, reaching out to grab her by the wrist to pull her back.
He jerked the bottle from her hand and slammed it down next.
"You ain't goin nowhere." He barked and pulled her over towards the ladder to the loft. "You ain't bringin no trouble back here, you hear me?" He pointed his finger at her, his eyes dark.
She shifted as though planting herself where she was like she'd stay.
"This what you want Joe?" She asked, standing a bit taller, pushing out her chest.
Then she stepped closer, pulling her arms up to his shoulders before he pushed them down.
"You ain't nothin' but trouble."
"You ain't told me to leave."
He didn't know how to respond. He stood for a moment and then turned his back to her.
"Sober up." He said, moving back to the table. "Then get the hell out." He added.
She stood there, watching him. Then after a moment she was up the ladder, crawling into the bed in the loft. He listened. And when she was still and settled he reached for the bottle, taking a long swig before he moved to another cigarette and sat back down, heavy in the seat.
He leaned back, smoke curling from up from between his fingers. He didn't want her to leave. Didn't understand why. Didn't want to understand why.
After a moment he put the cigarette in the bottle, his eyes shifting to the ladder before he stood and went up himself. Her clothes were scattered. His jaw ticked, half annoyed. Her corset, and the saloon skirt, the garder belt and stockings, he picked them all up and drapes them over a a trunk in the corner.
When he moved closer he could see the scars over her back that said more than words ever could and he pulled the covers over her shoulders before he settled next to her. He didn't touch her. Didn't look at her. Instead be laid back, staring at the ceiling. Sleep hadn't come easy for him lately. Not since she showed up.
But tonight he felt relieved she was back and he wasn't sure he was going to just let her walk out tomorrow morning. Somehow he had to make sure she stayed.
"I remember." He finally said. Hoping she was asleep already. There was a pause before he felt her shift. He didn't have to see her to know she was watching him now.
"That what this is about?" She asked, almost a whisper. Joe didn't answer.
"Then what?" She asked. "You protecting him?"
That question rubbed him the wrong way.
"Last I heard he went north you wanna kill yourself over that bastard go ahead." His voice was rough again. Snappy.
"Ain't about protectin' Micah."
It slipped out but she didn't press. He felt her shift again before he turned his back to her and tried not to care what she did.
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