Jack had never been accustomed to flirting with proper, poised ladies. Sure, he could have a go with whatever tramp approached him whilst he was drifting from town to town - he'd toss out something half-hearted, they’d laugh or sneer, and by morning he’d be gone before the sun had properly risen, boots in hand and no intention of looking back.
There was a rhythm to those encounters, something simple and transactional. No expectations, or lingering looks, or a reason to stay. Jack had gotten good at leaving - it was easier that way.
But women? Real women? The kind that carried themselves like they were worth the world were a different matter entirely.
They'd critisize every little thing he did to hell and back. The way he hesitated before speaking, the rough edges in his voice and the way his words whined like how bullets whistle in the wind. They'd stare at his hands, which never quite knew where to go unless they were busy with something practical, or the way he'd pull the brim of his hat just a little too low. They’d know, plain as day, that he didn’t belong in their world.
So he stopped trying. He learned where to stand, how to speak just enough to get by, when to walk away before anything resembling familiarity could take hold.
Still, every so often, Marston would catch sight of something that didn’t quite fit into that carefully kept distance. A woman stepping out of a shop with gloved hands and a straight back, eyes forward like she knew exactly where she was headed. Someone who didn’t belong to the passing glances of the places he drifted through.
He watched from across the street, or from the corner of a saloon, hat tipped low and shoulders set like he had somewhere else to be. Told himself it didn’t matter. That people like that weren’t meant for men like him anyway, it was easier to turn away before the thought could take hold.
And yet, despite all that, there was a quiet, persistent part of him that wondered - against his better judgment - what it might be like to try.
Blackwater wasn’t a place Jack ever planned on staying long. Still, he found himself there all the same - drawn in by nothing in particular, or maybe just worn down enough to stop moving for a while. It was a decent town, cleaner than most, with fewer questions asked so long as a man kept to himself. So he took a room, told himself it was temporary, and let the days stretch a little longer than they had any right to.
The place was quieter than most - just a small saloon tucked along the edge of town, the kind people only wandered into when they had something specific in mind. Jack had never cared much for silence, not really, but he preferred it to noise that overcrowded his mind. In places like this, a man could exist without being noticed.
He lingered near the back stalls, turning a coin over in his hands. Could’ve been a nickel, could’ve been a dime, but really it didn’t matter - the motion was enough. Something to keep his hands busy, his posture casual, his presence forgettable.
The murmur of voices at the front carried on, low and indistinct. Jack tuned it out easily, the way he always did. He shifted his weight slightly, setting the coin down and reaching for his drink without much thought. Dust clung to the table, catching in the fading light that filtered through the front windows. Late afternoon, by the look of it.
“…just askin' polite-like.”
The words from the other side of the bar slipped through, clearer this time. Jack stilled.
There was something off about the voice.
“…ain’t no harm in askin', is there?”
“I’ve already answered you.” A womans voiced blurted out in response. Jack didn’t look right away. Exhaling slowly through his nose, thumb brushing absently along the edge of the glass in his hand. He told himself to leave it.
People handled their own matters. Stepping in where you weren’t asked rarely did anyone any good. More often than not, it just made things worse.
“…no need to get short with me,” the man went on, voice carrying a slur now that hadn’t been as obvious before. “Ain’t done nothin' wrong.”
Jack’s jaw set but he still didn’t move. He angled his head just enough to catch a glimpse across the bar. The man had her near the counter, one arm braced against the wood, cutting off the easiest way out. Making it clear she wasn't meant to leave without going through him first.
Her shoulders were set, chin level, eyes fixed on him, but her hand, resting against the counter, had curled slightly into the wood.
“…just a conversation,” the man pressed, leaning in like he expected her to give eventually.
Jack moved before he’d fully decided to, boots steady against the worn floor as he closed the distance.
“Whorehouse’s that way,” he said, voice level as he stepped into the space infront of the two, nodding vaguely toward the door, “You’re barkin' up the wrong tree.”
The man blinked, thrown by the interruption.
“Wasn’t talkin' to you,” he snapped.
Jack shrugged, easy, like it didn’t matter one way or another. “Didn’t say you were. Just helpin' a stranger out.”
The man looked him over, weighing something - pride, maybe. Or the effort it’d take to push the situation further. Jack just waited, staring intently. That, more than anything, seemed to settle it. With a scoff, the man pushed himself off the counter.
“Whole town’s gone soft,” he muttered, brushing past Jack hard enough to make a point as he headed for the door. It swung shut behind him with a dull thud as the saloon settled back into it's quiet rhythm.
“That sort usually doesn’t take a hint,” he muttered, more to the room than anything else. Avoiding eye contact with the young woman infront of him, his glance scattered across the room. He reached for something on the counter - nearest object, didn’t matter what - turning it over in his hands just to have something to focus on that wasn’t… this.
“You handled it fine,” he added after a moment, voice quieter now. “Just figured I’d save you the trouble of repeatin' yourself.”
Jack hesitated, then glanced up. She didn't look shaken. But she didn't look particularly relieved either. She was pretty too, which was a bonus. Her hand loosened slightly against the wood.
“I would’ve been fine,” she said, a slight soft, anxious chuckle in her voice, “But… thank you very much, sir.”
A slight smile spread across her face as she looked him in the eye. It threw him, more than the man had.
Jack nodded once, shifting his weight like that settled things. “Right.”
He set the item back down, already turning slightly, the familiar instinct to leave settling in before anything else could take hold.
“Still,” she added, just as he stepped away, “you didn’t have to.” He paused just enough to glance back over his shoulder.
“Didn’t,” he agreed. Then, after the briefest hesitation, like hadn’t meant to say it aloud, “Did anyway.”
It wasn’t clever or the smoothest comment to make, and he knew that he would sneer at the memory later. He saw the way her eyebrows tensed with an amused confusion and for a second, it seemed like there might be something more to say, hanging between strangers who didn’t quite know what to make of one another.
Jack broke it first. He tipped his hat - a small, absent-minded gesture - and turned for the door without another word.
The late light hit him as he stepped outside, the quiet of the street settling in around him like it always did. He didn't look back and yet, as he walked, he found himself just slightly out of step with his usual pace when it didn't have a reason to.
