Chapter Text
John stood with his forehead pressed against the stallion’s, a content smile reaching his lips while his hand gently stroked the horse’s neck. He took a step back, pulling a carrot from his back pocket and holding it out in his hand as an offering. Old Boy's muzzle searched John's palm, gobbling the carrot up eagerly with a satisfying crunch. With his hands free, John moved to unbuckled the halter, slipping it off the horse’s head, before giving him a thorough scratch behind the ears for good measure.
Golden light bled in through the cracks in the wooden barn walls, letting John know that it was late in the afternoon now. He walked to each stall to check they were shut properly and make sure that each horse had fresh water before he hung up the last halter with the others. He did so with a sigh, pushing his hand back through his oily, dark hair and pulling a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his back pocket with the other.
“You headin’ off, John?” came Roy’s scratchy voice, weathered by whiskey and cigarettes. Roy Barlow was the stable owner, John’s boss; a no-nonsense sort of man that had a few decades on John.
“Yeah,” John called back slightly slurred as he placed a cigarette in his mouth while he fumbled, patting down his other pockets looking for a light.
“Here.” Roy offered gruffly as he stepped through the gap in the large sliding barn door and tossed a book of matches at the younger man.
John nodded in appreciation, striking a match against his boot and taking a few good puffs until the end of the cigarette glowed red.
“Now get out of here before you burn the place down.” Roy warned, waving him off.
John grinned “Thanks Mister Barlow, see you tomorrow.” He grabbed his worn hat and jacket from the same rack the horse tack hung from and slipped out through the barn doors, sliding it shut behind him.
It was warm and John had no need for his jacket yet, throwing it over his shoulder as he stuffed his hat over his jaw length hair. He checked his pocket watch while he walked; quarter to five. He was supposed to work at Barlow’s stable until five, but Roy usually let him go early if he finished his chores before then. John was grateful for that, as he needed to walk back to town to be on time for his shift at the Parlour House.
He hated his job as a bar tender, but after a handful of rent increases he needed the extra money. There was a substantial lack of residential accommodation around Scarlett Meadows, and with the town being in such close proximity to the city of Saint Denis, even John’s derelict caravan on the North side of town had relatively high rent. He didn’t mind his place, while it was small it had everything he needed, but he knew he was being ripped off. Still, John figured it was worth it to keep his job at Barlow’s stables which was within walking distance of his caravan. He had always wanted to work with animals, preferring them to people for the most part. It was easier to trust animals, and they were good at listening too. Moreover, working with horses didn’t feel much like working at all, despite how it wore down his body. Perhaps having a few more hours in the day for rest would be good, but aside from that, John didn’t mind being busy with work.
With a few extra minutes to spare, John stopped by his caravan thinking it could rain. The state of Lemoyne was humid, and afternoon storms in the summer were frequent. John twisted his key in the door, wondering why he bothered locking it at all given it was so decrepit anyone could kick it down if they really wanted to. Moreover, there wouldn’t be much to steal either.
Once inside, he did his best to keep the red dust contained to the doormat and went to the bucket of water placed on the kitchenette. He washed his face and hands to make himself more presentable, before standing to pull a clean white shirt out of the drawer, replacing the one he was wearing with it. He ducked outside to throw the dirty water away, returning to the center of the caravan where he knelt to place the now empty bucket on the ground, lining it up carefully with the leak in the roof.
Satisfied his caravan wouldn’t be flooded if it rained, he bundled up his jacket and hat and locked up before heading over to the Parlour House.
“Marston.” came an imposing voice.
It startled John as he stepped down the few steps of his caravan, almost causing him to fall.
“Jesus, Harland.” John exhaled, “Give a man some warning...” He sighed. John didn’t even know if he would have time to come home before his next shift, but somehow his landlord did, typical.
“Rent’s due.” Harland said, ignoring John’s attitude and holding out his large hand.
“What?” John said, brow furrowing in confusion, “I paid you on Thursday!”
Harland stared at John like he hadn’t said a thing, eventually sighing in a long drawn-out way. “You paid part of the rent. There’s an extra charge for quarterly repairs...” He drawled, closing and opening his hand a few times as if to say pay up, before stretching his arm out towards John’s chest.
John chewed the inside of his cheek, deliberating on whether he wanted to argue the point with his landlord and risk being late to work (or evicted). Instead, he stuffed his anger down, “How much then?” He sighed, shoving his hands aggressively into his pockets to produce a few coins.
Harland sighed again, even longer than the first time, checking a small journal that he produced from his pocket. It looked absurdly tiny in the man’s large hands. He took a long while reading something— at least John figured he was reading something, or more likely trying to. John tapped his boot impatiently and checked his pocket watch again, worrying now about being late, even though he was within throwing distance of the saloon.
Harland snapped the journal closed and sniffed loudly, “a dollar seventy-five...” He drawled, holding his hand out again.
John gawked at the cost but with no time to argue he slapped some coin down into Harland’s hand. “Roof still leaks.” He grumbled over his shoulder as he marched off in a huff.
It was just a short walk to the Parlour House, two minutes at best. John’s stomach grumbled in protest as he walked by the general store, urging him to buy some bread or maybe just an apple, but John had just given away most of his money. He would need to grab some scraps from the kitchen later in the evening when the dinner rush had died down.
John cut through the buildings and hopped the fence to enter through the back door of the saloon.
“Mister Marston!”
“Miss Grimshaw.” John addressed his boss as he closed the door behind him while the older woman looked him up and down, standing between John and the hallway that led to the front of house.
“Late again?” She tapped her heeled boot, raising an eyebrow as her eyes raked over John, making him feel self-conscious.
He took his hat off and held it with one hand in front of him while the other searched for his pocket watch— five minutes past five o'clock. Resisting the urge to flare up over his bosses’ pedantic standards, he made himself smaller. “Sorry, ma’am, had to take care of something.”
“Mhm. Mister Pearson needs help on the bar.” Miss Grimshaw finished before turning to leave, her boots clacking loudly as she walked swiftly along the wooden floor.
“Yes Ma’am.” John responded, grabbing an apron on his way down the hall. As he passed through the threshold behind the bar, he looped the white apron over his head and tied it behind his back. His boss wasn’t wrong; the place was unusually packed for this early in the evening.
There were several layers of patrons crowding around the bar as John grabbed four glasses in one hand and a bottle of spirits in the other. He set to work, mixing drinks and cracking open beers, placing a napkin neatly under each beverage before sliding it to the customer in question. There was so much commotion as John worked hard to get the queue back down to a manageable size. Someone was playing a mean beat on the piano, the notes mixed with laughs, cheers and jeers, glasses clinking and people dancing— having the kind of fun that John was only ever a spectator for.
Before long John had satisfied the needs of every thirsty patron. Throwing a hand towel over his shoulder, he exited around the back of the bar and set about clearing tables. Weaving naturally through the crowd with a tray in one hand, he loaded up glass after the glass until his forearm started to complain under the weight. At that he headed back to the kitchen to unload the glassware.
Before leaving he caught Pearson’s eye “Hey Mister Pearson, can you put somethin’ aside for me? Gonna take a break soon...”
"Sure thing, Mister Marston." He replied, grabbing a clean white plate down from a shelf.
*
John took his break around nine-thirty, going past the kitchen on his way outside for a smoke. Pearson had put aside a plate of leftovers for John which he devoured on the spot “Cheers, Mister Pearson” John mumbled with a mouth full of food, before he took off out the back, eager to rest his aching legs.
He exited out the back door and leaned against the wall there, listening to the sounds of drunk patrons laughing and shouting from inside and above him on the upstairs balcony. He shuffled onto the stack of crates next to the back door. Digging his free hand into his pocket, he pulled out the remaining money he had on him, counting it slowly to see how far he needed to stretch his budget this week after the unexpected rent adjustment. It wasn’t great; he’d probably have to rely on a few more leftovers from work, worst case he could skip a day.
John leaned his head back against the wall, letting his shoulders relax as smoke filled his lungs. Before he could even exhale though, Miss Grimshaw was slamming the back door open to end his break early.
“—John, can you deal cards? Uncle thinks he swallowed glass and had to see the doctor...” She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
John took a long drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out and tucking it back into the packet— he’d finish it later on the walk home —nodding “Sure thing, Miss Grimshaw.” He jumped to his feet and headed up the back stairs to the poker tables on the upper level. Although he was bummed to be finishing his break early, dealing cards meant he could sit down, and it was actually pretty fun watching the patrons gamble; far better than having to serve messy drunks on the front line.
He ascended the stairs to balcony above, weaving through the clusters of happy drunkards laughing and chatting outside in the warmer night air. Thunder echoed distantly as he walked past a particular rowdy table, one of the men there grabbed John by the ties of his apron and tugged him back. Surprised, John took a staggered step backwards and faced the man in question.
“How’s about you bring me another drink, hmm?” The drunk said, slurring and holding his empty beer in his free hand, shaking it vaguely. “Or maybe, you wanna bring me somethin’ else...” He continued, moving his hand to the small of John’s lower back and dropping his eyes lower.
“Ahhh...” John started, an eyebrow creeping closer to his hairline, scanning the balcony for help when he spotted her “—Abigail!” He called “Would you mind grabbin’ this gentleman another drink?” He said, keeping his professional composure despite the blush rapidly spreading on his cheeks. John wasn’t unfamiliar with being hit on at work, but usually it was by older women and not a man.
A pale, young woman with dark hair and light blue eyes snapped her gaze over to John, eyes darting between him and the man who still held onto the now undone apron ties. She clocked the situation instantly, sauntering over with a hypnotic sway to her hips, and expertly squeezed herself in between John and the drunk “Now what can I get for such a handsome man.” She purred, taking the empty beer bottle from his hand.
“Thanks” John whispered, touching Abigail on the shoulder before retying his apron and shouldering through the rest of the crowd.
John pushed the French doors open, spotting the empty chair on the dealer’s side of the poker table. He grabbed a fresh deck of cards and settled into the chair, nodding at the four gentlemen who were already seated. John ignored the way their eyes wandered over the scars on his face as he cut the cards twice and shuffled them with deft hands. He spoke up “Texas Hold’em, Gentlemen. Blinds in.”
As the men posted their blinds John dealt each player two cards, sliding them smoothly across the table face down. It was hard not to let old habits creep in as John read the table; already he could tell the man on the far left had something, but he kept his face neutral and worked the table long into the night.
*
It was well past midnight before the saloon locked up, and John was finally free to head home. He walked downstairs, hanging his apron back up on the wall for tomorrow’s shift. He rubbed his eyes harshly and grabbed his jacket and hat, stepping out the back door.
Abigail was nowhere to be seen, and John figured she must have a client. Not waiting around, he re-lit his half-finished cigarette and placed it between his lips before throwing his jacket over his shoulder. Holding a half-empty bottle of beer loosely in one hand. He took off down the red dirt path back to his caravan, letting his eyes close as he walked, exhausted from the day.
He stepped out from under one of the many live oak trees that dotted Rhodes, with its sprawling branches covered in Spanish moss, John felt a few drops of rain land on his skin. He held his arm out, white shirt sleeve rolled up to his elbow, and checked if it was rain, spying the few specks of water on his tanned skin. He sighed, taking a swig of his beer, the sound of liquid sloshing around in the bottle was loud in the quiet of the night before another low rumble of thunder rumbled.
As he walked out onto the main drag towards the station, he noted a group of men chatting in a circle by the steps that led up to the train station. John eyed them over the edge of his bottle as he took another swig. They looked a bit rough, but in the dark it was hard to see if he recognized any of them and decided to pay it no mind; if they wanted to cause trouble they’d probably have looked his way by now.
John took a right through the alley next to the general store, reaching his caravan after a few short minutes. He jammed his key in the shitty lock and shouldered the squeaky door open. Making his way through the narrow space, he nudged the bucket he had left earlier a little further over with his toe before kicking off his boots. He moved to the back of the space where his bed just fit, pressed up against all three sides of the end of the caravan— cozy. He hung up the clothes he would wear tomorrow, and threw the soiled ones into his laundry pile. Grabbing the almost empty beer, he fell back onto his bed, legs dangling lazily off the edge as he swallowed down the remnants of booze.
It wasn’t long until the sound of rain could be heard on the metal roof of his caravan. John groaned as he swung his legs up onto the bed and tucked himself under the thin bed sheet, falling asleep in seconds.
*
He woke at the same time he did every day. No matter how badly he didn’t want to open his eyes and crawl from his cozy nest tucked away from the world at the back of his caravan, he knew he had to. Once he was up, it wouldn't be so hard, and the prospect of getting to work with the horses made his lips curl into the slightest smile.
As he wearily opened his eyes, he noted the steady drip coming from the roof, now also bringing his attention to the plonk it made when it landed dead center in the half-full bucket.
With a groan, he threw the sheet off and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and hanging his head low between his shoulders as he gathered the strength to move. Sluggishly, he slid onto the floor near the bucket. Exhaling long and slow before inhaling sharply, he grabbed both sides of the edge of the bucket and leaned forward, submerging his whole head under water. He squeezed his eyes shut and blew bubbles steadily out of his nose for a good while before his lungs started to burn, and then pulled back out. Hovering over the bucket so as not to get water all over the floor, he closed his eyes again while he waited for his hair to stop dripping. Slowly, he rose, grabbing a cloth to finish drying his hair before using it to lazily wash the rest of his body.
John stepped into yesterday’s pants and pulled on the white shirt he’d hung up the night before. Noting the audible grumble from his stomach as he tucked the ends in and fixed his suspenders. He wished he’d had the presence of mind to keep something from last night’s leftovers to have for breakfast. There wasn’t enough time to get something from the general store now and John resigned to going to work on an empty stomach. Maybe Roy would have some fruit to share from the neighboring ranch. Pulling his ranch pants over his boots, John grabbed his jacket and hat, locking the door behind him as left for Barlow’s stables.
*
The day was like any other, John opened the barn with a great heave, digging his heels into the ground and stretching his body out, using both hands to push the barn door open.
The horses nickered at him as he stepped inside, “Good morning to you, too.” He said with a smile on his lips, grabbing a pair of gloves before heading over to the bales of hay. One by one he picked up the bales and walked them out into one of the paddocks. By the time the sixth and final bale had gone out, his back ached and his chest heaved as he caught his breath. He headed back into the stables, taking the gloves off and then set about opening each of the stalls so the horses could freely roam in the paddock.
It took most of the morning to clean out the stalls, by which point the horses had lost interest with the paddock and had returned to John’s side, more interested in what he was doing. They circled around him curiously while he worked, whistling a chipper tune and pausing every now and again to stroke a wither or scratch an ear. “What are you doing, Old Boy?” He said with a wide grin as the Hungarian Half-bred tried to dig his muzzle into John’s back pocket. “Those ain’t for horses” He laughed, bucking his hips out of the way before the horse could get stuck into the packet of cigarettes he had tucked away.
Around midday he heard the approaching chatter of men talking, there was quite a few of them by the sounds of it, and they seemed in good spirits. As their voices grew louder it sounded like they were laughing and teasing each other. John felt a small pang of jealousy; it would be nice to have a group of friends to hang out with. Growing up in an orphanage, living hand to mouth on the best of days, meant John didn’t have the same opportunities to grow connections. At least he could rely on Roy, not that he was very friendly, but he was a man that meant what he said and that suited John just fine. Abigail was nice too, but he always felt like maybe she wanted something more from John that he wasn’t sure he wanted to give. He needed time to think that one through.
John could hear the voices right outside the wall of the stall he was working in.
“Maybe if you named your horse after something more formidable it wouldn’t have bucked you an’ ran off...” A rough voice goaded with a hearty laugh.
“Oh. So, you think ‘Brown Jack’ is a formidable name for a horse? Okay, okay.” Retorted a man with a Mexican accent.
A few of the men laughed.
The same rough voice became agitated “Hey don’t talk down about Brown Jack he—”
“—Don’t get me started on Brown Jack, damn horse eats better than half the camp!” Another low voice cut him off.
“—He is a growing boy! Don’t let them shame you like that, Jack ...”
The voices trailed off as the men walked around the back of the stables towards the other side. Enjoying the banter, John left the stall he was cleaning to move to different one he knew would be closer to where they were headed. He slowed his movements as he shoveled hay, listening intently for their voices, and after a moment he could hear their conversation pick back up.
"—I'm just saying, for a man who claims to be a good shot—"
“—I AM a good shot—”
“Buddy, you’re lucky Micah wasn’t on that job. Downright shameful aimin’.” Came a low chuckle.
The Mexican accent returned “Would you call that aiming? Was more like- more like you just closed your eyes and...”
He didn’t finish his sentence, but John heard many voices laughing at whatever happened.
“—Gentlemen” Roy’s no-nonsense voice cut through the air and the laughter stopped “Y’here for the horse?”
“Mister Barlow I take it...”
The voices trailed off again, and John noticed the smile that had crept onto his lips, laughing at the banter he had just heard as if he was included. He frowned at that thought, but it didn’t last long before Old Boy nudged John’s ass with the bridge of his nose, searching for the packet of cigarettes again. “Hey! What did I tell you?” He said, rubbing the horse’s forehead roughly.
*
A while later Roy appeared in the entrance to the barn “John.”
“Hey, what’s up” John said, flicking his hair out of his eyes and leaning on the pitchfork he had in his hands.
“Can you bring that American Paint ‘round the front?” Roy drawled.
“Sure thing, boss.” John nodded, hanging the pitchfork up. He crossed the stable and hung his gloves up, picking up a halter and rope instead.
Roy was a bit older and a bit slower than John. Wrangling horses wasn’t always so easy— although John made it look like it was. A lot of the time the horses seemed to know when they were being sold, and it made them skittish. John felt a little bad; he loved their animals and always made sure they were cared for, but he couldn’t always know if they were being sold to responsible owners.
John left the stables and walked out to the paddock, vaguely aware of the group of men standing up hill from where he was walking, but kept his eyes to himself; feeling a bit of shame from eavesdropping before. He spotted the American Paint standing down the back corner of the paddock and admired his grey and white coat. He clicked his tongue to get the horse’s attention “Hey boy, you’re going out on an adventure...” He cooed, trying to act like this was any other day, but he already knew the horse was going to bolt. His ears flattened, hooves pawing at the ground while his giant eyes stared back at John like deep wells. Roy wouldn’t like it if they had any trouble catching the horse; it would be a bad look given he was supposed to be trained.
“Alright, buddy” John started, focusing intensely, waiting to make his move. He knew he had to catch the horse on his first try or it would be a challenge to bring him in once he got a head start on John. He slowed his pace as he approached the horse, watching the beast’s body language. Waiting for the exact moment when he could act. As if time slowed down for John, he saw the nervous glance, the twitch in his withers, the flick of his tail.
John reached his arm out to one side, hoping the horse would take the bait, and he did, twisting his hooves and dashing to the opposite direction of his outstretched arm, trying to evade him. John moved with real athleticism, anticipating the direction the Paint would run in and deftly threading the loop of his rope around the horse’s head. He anchored himself against the tug of the rope, pulling it firmly towards himself until he had the Paint’s head at his chest. Turning with the horse as it trotted in a tight circle around John.
“Hey now, hey.” John cooed and the horse stopped turning. Still gripping the rope tightly, he quickly haltered the horse, attaching the rope under the horse’s chin, John used his now free hand to soothe along his neck and pat his withers. “That’s it, good boy.” He praised, smiling; pleased that he could get the horse under control quickly so as not to stress him out. Even more pleased that he didn’t make an ass of himself in front of his boss and his clients, because despite trying to ignore it, he could feel every single one of their eyes on him.
He fastened the halter, keeping his eyes low as he walked the American Paint back up the hill to where the men stood. As he got closer, he could hear their banter start back up.
“See, Javier, why didn’t you just do that?” A man chuckled.
“Hostia puta, if I could do that, I would be married.” Said the man with the Mexican accent.
John barely held his laugh in, feeling a faint warmth on his cheeks that wasn’t from exertion.
“Can you idiots shut up.” A low voice drawled.
John felt his skin vibrating at the sound of that voice and looked up to see who it came from. He wasn’t too far now, and his eyes searched the group of men before they landed on a pair of piercing blue eyes staring right back at him. He had a handsome face, framed nicely by dark blonde hair cut short and swept back. John liked the short moustache he kept, his eyes following the lines of his strong jaw and shamelessly letting them wander further down to the planes of his broad shoulders. The man stood tall with his huge arms folded over the expanse of his massive chest, black shirt rolled up to the sleeves. Brown leather suspenders ran down to his gun belt. Armed.
John looked back at the man’s face and found him still staring too. He felt his cheeks getting warmer under the heat of this man’s gaze as Roy stepped between them, breaking their line of sight. “Thanks, kid.” He said, taking the horse from John.
“Ah, Mi amor” the man with the Mexican accent came forward too. John was impressed by his stylish blue jacket paired with a brilliant red and orange poncho. He saw that he was armed too; in fact, they all were. They must have been a posse, or a gang, outlaws?
John nodded at Roy, feeling ten years younger in that moment and not trusting his voice not to crack if he spoke. He passed over the rope and headed back to finish his chores.
On his way, John took one last look over at the group of men. Mister blue eyes had his back to him now and John let his eyes wander a fraction, feeling a little warmth on his cheeks; He really was a fine man.
*
Roy finished up the transaction by himself, and John was only mildly disappointed that he wasn’t able to see the gang again before they left. On the upside, he was mildly pleased that they hadn’t robbed their humble stable at gunpoint, given they would be mostly defenseless. Although part of John knew Roy probably wouldn’t go down without taking at least one of them with him. He chuckled at the idea, in a good mood after the relative excitement of the day.
“Something funny?” Roy's rough voice came from the back door of the stables.
“Was just thinking about those guys you sold the horse to.” John confessed, grabbing two buckets to go fill up at the water pump.
Roy grunted in response “Them lot are nothin’ but trouble, John.”
John tucked the bucket under the outlet and started pumping out cool, clear water. “Yeah?” He said, voice straining from exertion.
“Yeah.” Roy confirmed. After a beat of silence he spoke again “Good work today, kid. Admit I was nervous ‘bout the ‘Paint... but you handled it... Like always.”
John preened under the older man’s praise “Thanks, Mister Barlow.”
Roy grunted in a way John knew meant finish up with that and you can go.
John was just about to leave the stables when his stomach growled loudly. He had forgotten to ask Roy if he had any food to share with him and was only now realizing just how hungry he was. He tentatively grabbed his hat and jacket before awkwardly turning back to Roy. “Hey uh, don’t suppose you have anything to eat in the office?” John struggled through with a bashful smile.
Roy stared back at the younger man, calculating him before he wordlessly turned and walked back towards the office.
John figured he must have something or the older man would have told him to scram by now, and a few moments later he returned with an orange, and something wrapped up in a piece of cheese cloth. He grinned at the sight and took long strides over to where Roy was, accepting his offer gratefully “I owe you one, Boss.” John said, holding up the goods with a nod of his head in a gesture of appreciation.
“More than one.” Roy said, but there was the faintest hint of amusement in his rough voice that John knew meant you’re welcome, kid.
*
John scoffed the orange down, throwing the peel into the brush as he walked back to Rhodes. He flipped the cheese cloth open, finding a few pieces of jerky inside that hit the spot. It wasn’t a huge amount of food, but it would do him for now before he could get his fill at work. Now that his mind was able to focus on something other than the empty cramps in his stomach, John found himself thinking back to the men— the gang —Roy had sold the horse to. Specifically, the man with the blue eyes. A blush rising to his cheeks remembering their fleeting moment of eye contact. The warmth in his cheeks only spread further as he thought back to the way his voice sounded when he spoke; deep and rough, but with something warm weaved seductively around his vowels. John wondered what his own name would sound like in his voice before he caught himself.
Calm down, Marston. How desperate are you? Fawning over a man who looked at you once.
You never even talked to him!
Still, John smiled to himself all the way back to the Parlour House. He opened the staff door around the back and slipped inside, wiping his hands on his pants and grabbing his apron for another night.
“John Marston, if you can’t be on time I’m going to dock your pay, last warning.” Miss Grimshaw approached from the kitchen, hair done up in her usual wild bun. John wondered how many secrets she was hiding in that thing. She looked like the kind of woman who had led an interesting life.
“John!” She snapped her fingers in front of his face.
“Ah– Sorry. Must have lost track of time.” John replied, brow furrowing as he pulled his pocket watch out and checked the time; ten past five. He must have been dawdling.
Thankfully things were a little more subdued that evening, and John had time to hear himself think as he took orders and cleaned tables. He wondered what the gang was up to now, if the Mexican man liked his new horse or if he had named him yet. What would they get up to tonight? What is it that gangs do anyway? Were they laughing and joking even now? Or were they up to no good as Roy had warned.
Do you think Mister Blue-eyes has thought about you tonight?
...As if an outlaw would ever take an interest in you.
During a lull in customers, John slipped around to the kitchen “Hey, Mister Pearson...”
“I got'chu” Pearson said with a grin.
John clasped his hand over his heart dramatically, as if to say I’m eternally grateful for this gift and took the plate with him out the back to eat on his break.
“Hi John.” Abigail floated around the corner in her long skirt.
“Hey Abigail.” John said, lighting up a cigarette after finishing off his plate of food.
“Mind if I have one?” She asked, nodding at the pack of cigarettes John was stuffing into his pocket.
He nodded, passing her the one he had already lit and pulling out a second for himself.
“Thanks” Abigail said, “Quiet night, huh?”
John hummed at that, nodding and leaning back against the side of the building as he took a drag of his smoke “Sure is.” He didn’t really want to engage in small talk on his break, but he didn’t have the heart to tell Abigail to leave him be.
She leaned back on one of the wooden struts supporting the upstairs balcony. “'S bad for business” Abigail mused.
John shrugged, “Seems like the parlour is raking it in...”
Abigail cocked an eyebrow at him and smiled slyly.
“Oh, your business. Yeah, yeah, I can see that.” John said scratching his forehead to obscure the slightly uncomfortable look on his face.
She hummed at that, and got a bit closer to John “Not long til we close up, I could walk you home if you wanted...” She placed hand on one of his knees where he sat on top of the stack of crates next to the back door.
He shook his head, “Sorry, Abigail. I ain’t—”
Before John could finish that sentence, Miss Grimshaw came out through the back door, eyes darting between him and Abigail. “John Marston, stop distracting the workers. Abigail, back inside!” She scolded the two.
“Sorry ma’am” Abigail said, she smiled cheekily at John before looping back up the stairs with a swish of her long skirt.
“John, I need you on cards again... Uncle thinks someone shit in his shoes and went to get another pair.” She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
The corner of John’s mouth curled into an amused smile, and he took one last drag of his cigarette. “Yes, ma’am.”
*
Soon enough it was time to head home. John couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed that the gang hadn’t shown up tonight. Still, he was pleasantly buzzed by the single beer Uncle had bought him for covering the card table, and he was all the happier being paid in beer for a job he preferred to do anyway.
He swung by the kitchen on his way out, all the lights were off except for the hallway light which provided just enough light for him to see as he hung up his apron, and pinched two apples which he shoved in his pockets. As he turned to exit the kitchen he jumped in surprise, Miss Grimshaw stood there with her arms folded and an eyebrow cocked.
Oh fuck— was she going to fire him for stealing food?
She held one hand out and John took the two apples from his pocket guiltily and placed them in her palm without a word, sure that the embarrassment written in his body language was enough to cover for the fact he couldn’t think of anything to say. Miss Grimshaw took the apples, studying them carefully before sighing and handing one back to John, taking a bite out of the other.
John’s mouth fell open a fraction at the gesture.
Miss Grimshaw chewed her mouthful of apple with a certain kind of sass and swallowed, “Next time, ask.”
“Ah, y-yes, Ma’am” John said, feeling sweat forming on his brow.
She looked him up and down like he was some street urchin who’d shown up on her front doorstep begging for food, then walked over to the pantry, turning to look back at him as if to say are you coming or what?
John shuffled over to look at what she was pointing to.
“If we can’t sell produce in time we need to throw it out, Pearson keeps it here…” She looked over John again “Such a skinny thing.” She tsked and left him standing there in the dark.
As soon as his boss was out of sight he grabbed a few pieces of stale bread and some old sausage, stuffing them into the crook of his arm and getting out of there as quick as he could.
Abigail was waiting for him outside, her eyes picked up the bundle of food stashed in his arms “You stealin’ food now?” She asked.
“Something like that." John said, stuffing the apple in his mouth and taking off towards his end of Rhodes.
“We didn’t finish our conversation before.” Abigail pointed out.
Damn, she remembered. “Ah, sorry but not tonight… really tired. ” John replied vaguely with a half-smile and a shrug of his shoulders.
Abigail looked disappointed but John didn’t try to comfort her, he was tired.
He walked home slowly, remembering to grab a few canned goods at the general store before weaving his way around the roots of a live oak tree all the way to his front door. Shuffling his selection of pantry items, dropping a few in the mix, he jammed his key in the lock and pushed it open with his boot. Too tired to care, he threw his bits and pieces on the counter inside and collapsed on his bed in an exhausted heap.
John lay there motionless for a few minutes, becoming one with the bed. After an exaggerated sigh, he kicked his boots off and stripped down to his drawers, curling up under the thin sheet of his bed. His mind ran through the events of the day, hitching on the gang and the man with the striking blue eyes. He wondered what he was up to now; was he asleep or was he the type of man to take advantage of the opportunities the night provided. John shivered at that thought and rolled over on his bed, but when he closed his eyes again, all he could see were those nameless blue eyes. He wondered what it would feel like to be wrapped up in those muscular arms, being chest to chest with him while he stared back up at him.
But John was a simple man with a simple life who woke up every day to work for someone else, to make money for someone else, so he could come back home and do it all again.