under the western sun
pairing: John Marston/Reader
reader's pronouns are he/him; otherwise, race is ambiguous and no physical descriptors are used.
summary: “That perceptiveness is gonna get you into trouble some day,” you say in a swift exhale. “I reckon it already has,” Marston responds, his fingers tracing the brim of his hat. He’s dipping his head and avoiding your eyes, for some reason. You can’t help but smile at that remark. “Fair enough,” you acquiesce. Marston clears his throat, looks askance.
word count: 5.4k | ao3 version
warnings: canon-typical violence, spoilers to some of Red Dead Redemption 1.
author's note: The reader is male and uses he/him pronouns; expect a lot of “mister”s, mwahahhaa. This was very gender-affirming to me. The reader takes the place of Bonnie, in my time-kept tradition of replacing the reader with a canonical character.
There's a brief implication that the reader's sexuality is a topic of town gossip, but it isn't meant to be prejudiced (the town of Armadillo just has fuck all going on, lmao).
Fort Mercer has somewhat of a reputation around the area. Ever since that gang took the place over, it’s been a no man’s land. Even the prospect of passing by on horseback seems daunting. Your father and you travel past with caution, intent on keeping your distance—until you see a lone figure sprawled across the ground.
You eventually stop and dismount, looking over to find a man bleeding out. It’s a miracle the guy isn’t dead. You manage to get him up into your carriage, with a reluctant promise to your father that you’ll be the one to watch over him.
Your return to the ranch takes a bit longer than normal, on account of the added weight. Fortunately, there’s a spare room where you can put the guy. Once you set him down on the mattress, you get to work cleaning his wound. You have to tear his shirt off to get to it, since the bullets seemed to pierce his ribs. From there, you painstakingly remove the bullets with tweezers. It’s created a gash big enough to require stitches, so you have to fix that before bandaging it up once more. When you’re finally done, you’re exhausted.
You leave the man to rest in the spare room and practically crash onto your own bed across the hall, quickly falling asleep.
A peek across the hall the next morning tells you that the guy is asleep, so you go about your morning by making breakfast and sitting at the dining table. Clean-up is relatively simple, and before long, you find yourself drifting back to the stranger you treated last night. You walk past, only to hear a groan that draws your attention.
“You’re awake,” you blink in surprise, watching as the man regains his consciousness. He’s a pretty handsome guy: shaggy ash-brown hair and a goatee; broad shoulders; a few scars across his face; and a relatively muscular frame. He hisses as he opens his eyes, his wound evidently aggravated by each breath.
You watch as he slowly processes his surroundings, looking over at you warily. “Is this your handiwork?” he asks, his fingers prodding the bandages hesitantly.
“Yeah,” you respond, leaning against the doorframe. “My father and I found you out by Fort Mercer. What were you doing out there anyway? Trying to get yourself killed?”
A slow breath. “Just about,” he says with a shake of his head. “Reckoned I’d try to speak to Bill.”
“Bill Williamson?” you frown. “Why?” From what you’ve heard, the man is not one to be reasoned with. He’s a member of the gang that’s been causing trouble out there.
No response. You raise a brow. “Well, who are you, then?” you ask. “Besides a fool.”
“Marston,” he responds gruffly. “John Marston.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Marston,” you respond, before giving him your name in exchange.
“Likewise, mister,” he responds, groaning as he adjusts his position. His hand grazes the bandaging at his side. “I appreciate your help.” Then Marston pushes himself up and tries to get out of bed.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” you huff, blocking his path by standing at the side of the bed. You look down at him disapprovingly. “You can appreciate my help from right there.”
A sigh. “Yes sir,” he says begrudgingly, clearly a bit annoyed at the situation. Then again, he was the one foolish enough to run out to Fort Mercer and reason with those idiots. That’s his fault.
“You’ll tear up the stitches otherwise,” you explain gently. “I got the bullets out, but you need to take it easy.”
“I’ll try,” he huffs. Clearly this isn’t a man who enjoys being told what to do. But he’ll obey your orders if he knows what’s good for him.
“I’ll hold you to that, Mr. Marston,” you answer. “I’m across the way if you need me.” You promptly tip your hat and move to exit the room. Then you remember something and pause in the doorway. “Oh, and there’s a shirt for you on the nightstand there. I had to tear up your old one; sorry about that.”
He just waves you off. “Rather lose the shirt than my life.”
You leave him to rest after that, focusing on the many chores you have to complete around the ranch.
Within two days, Marston recovers enough to be walking around. He seems like a relatively nice guy—you sneak glances at him as he helps your father with the animals. Almost as if sensing your gaze, Marston turns around. You quickly look away, manifesting a sudden interest in the breakfast you’d been making.
“I’m headed into town, if you’d like to join me,” you tell him later that morning. Marston is standing on the porch with a pensive expression on his face; he looks over at the sound of your voice.
“Sure,” he agrees easily. You lead him to the horses and set off for Armadillo. The ride is relatively quick and painless—Marston isn’t super talkative, so your journey is spent in a companionable silence.
Upon arrival, you dismount your horse and tie its lead on the nearby post. “Thanks for keeping me company,” you remark.
“Least I could do, mister,” he responds politely.
“Doctor’s that way,” you instruct him, pointing to the building perpendicular to the one you’re standing next to. “He’s a nice enough guy, should get you sorted.”
“Got it.”
You consider Marston once more, a slight smile quirking your lips. “Don’t get yourself shot; I won’t be there to save you this time,” you say jokingly.
He sends you a salute before heading off. You watch him leave with amusement, before relegating yourself to your own chores.
You hate to admit it, but Marston has been a huge help around the ranch. Your pride wants you to discredit him, but it’s true. And soon enough, your father is taking an interest in him. After all, he’s been taking up residence in your house.
“So, Mr. Marston,” your father drawls, his burly arms crossed over his chest. “My son here says you’re on some secret mission to get rid of undesirables.” You had recounted Marston’s story to him, but…
“That’s not even close to what I said,” you huff, settling on the couch beside Marston. His lips twist at the edges in an echo of a smile. You sit silently through their conversation, quickly losing focus amidst the back-and-forth. Marston doesn’t seem too bothered by your father’s skepticism, which is a relief. Eventually, your father walks off with the promise that Marston always has a place with you, should he need it. A kind offer, despite his misgivings.
“He’s the political type,” you explain as your father ambles away moments later. Your shoulder brushes Marston’s as you speak; your knees are just barely touching. You try not to think about these things. “I’ve tried telling him the federal government isn’t a gang of spies and agents sent from out East, but…” you shrug. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”
“I get it,” Marston says gruffly, civil as always.
“Do you ever have an opinion on anything?” you huff before you can stop yourself. The guy is almost unbearably neutral.
“Sometimes,” he responds ambiguously.
“Of course,” you say with a roll of your eyes.
Surprisingly, Marston doesn’t immediately move to get up… and neither do you. You both know you have better things to be doing, yet you’re indulging in this moment—this brief reprieve from the endless hustle and bustle of life around the ranch.
Truthfully, while you never thought your life was boring before, Marston’s presence has certainly made things interesting. The house feels livelier, the summer air a little less harsh.
You’ve been telling yourself not to dwell on such foolish sentiments. With a reluctant sigh, you end the unspoken moment and get to your feet to return to your chores.
The animals often get spooked when the weather turns foul, and tonight is no different. It’s dark outside, which only makes it more difficult to see where they’re running off to. You manage to saddle your horse and get her back in the corral, but it takes far longer than it should. By the time you’re finished, you’re exhausted and soaked to the bone. You make sure your horse is dried off and well-fed before heading to the house.
To your surprise, there’s someone waiting for you in the foyer. “Mr. Marston,” you greet him a bit breathlessly, lingering in the doorway as you lean on the door to take your boots off. No doubt they would send tracks all across the floors.
“Hey, mister,” Marston responds with a nod. “What’s with all the commotion?” he nods at the door behind you, clearly referencing the storm and your sorry appearance.
“It’s nothing,” you answer. “The herd just got themselves spooked in the storm; had to track ‘em down.”
“I could’ve helped,” he frowns.
“Nonsense; gotta leave a man with some pride, you understand,” you respond with a slight smile. The guy’s already swooped in and assisted with numerous tasks around the ranch. You wanted something for yourself again.
“Pride has nothing to do with it,” Marston asserts with a scrutinizing gaze. “You’re drenched.”
“Oh, I’ll be just fine,” you reassure him, “but I appreciate the concern, Mr. Marston.”
You walk past him and head into the kitchen.
…He follows you. You pretend not to notice.
“You need a bath,” Marston then remarks. You freeze from where you’d been getting yourself a glass of water.
You raise an eyebrow. “Should I be offended?”
“You know what I mean,” Marston says with a knowing look. His eyes flit up and down, taking in the pathetic picture you must make. You feel soaked right through to your bones, your shirt and jeans plastered to your skin tightly enough to itch. “A warm one. You’re shaking like a leaf.”
“That perceptiveness is gonna get you into trouble some day,” you say in a swift exhale. You’re definitely not even shaking that hard—just a mild tremor as you bring the glass to your lips. Apparently, it’s still noticeable.
“I reckon it already has,” Marston responds, his fingers tracing the brim of his hat. He’s dipping his head and avoiding your eyes, for some reason.
You can’t help but smile at that remark. “Fair enough,” you acquiesce.
Marston clears his throat, looks askance. “C’mon,” he murmurs.
You stare at him in confusion. He motions impatiently. You follow after him, heading into the bathroom. You’re awkwardly lingering in the doorway as he draws you a bath, getting the water warm before eventually stepping away. For a moment, you’re so shocked that you just stand there helplessly. A pointed cleaning of his throat reminds you of the situation, and you’re quick to brush past him.
“Careful,” you warn him as you sit at the edge of the bathtub. “I’m going to start thinking you’re sweet on me.”
“Get in there,” he huffs, closing the door too quickly for you to notice the blush on his cheeks. You roll your eyes and undress, sinking into the warm water with a relieved exhale.
You cross paths with him in the foyer the next morning. “Morning, Mr. Marston,” you say.
“Morning,” he responds courteously. He regards you for a moment, before nodding. “And John’s fine. Figure we’re at that point now.”
“Are we?” you ask, if only to tease him a bit. He doesn’t take the bait. “All right.” You extend him the same courtesy.
“Any luck with Williamson?” you ask curiously.
“The bastard’s always in company,” he scoffs.
“Yeah, sounds about right,” you remark. “You could try the Marshal’s Office. They’re… well. They’re a bit rough around the edges. Maybe not the sharpest tools in the shed either. And the Marshal really doesn’t care about anything that lies outside his jurisdiction—”
“You’re not making a compelling case there,” John says wryly.
“But they have guns,” you finish with a lopsided smile. “Strength in numbers and all that.”
He sighs. “I suppose you’re right,” he acquiesces. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Don’t mention it,” you respond easily. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you. They’re an odd bunch.”
“I’m starting to think that’s typical here,” John says wryly.
“Pretty much,” you agree.
He chuckles, and you fight off a proud smile as you walk away.
Ironically, a few days later, you cross paths with him on the porch at virtually the same time. “Hey, John,” you greet him cordially.
“Hey yourself,” he nods.
“Heard you’ve been running around fixing everyone’s problems,” you say with a slight smile. “You’re just an everyman now, huh?”
John scoffs. “Hardly.”
“Easier solving theirs than yours, I bet,” you tease.
He puts a hand to the brim of his hat, ducks his head briefly. “Something like that,” John responds.
“I’m kidding,” you remark, resting your arms on the railing of the porch. The summer breeze is gentle, rustling your clothes almost lovingly. You glance over your shoulder at your company. “I’m sure they’re grateful. I know my father is—you’ve been a great help at the ranch.”
“It’s the least I can do,” John responds, polite as always. He settles at your side, his shoulder brushing yours in his proximity. Despite the sprawling space of the porch, he has chosen to stand this close. “You saved my life, after all.”
“I guess I did,” you smirk.
“Don’t let it get to your head,” John warns you with a huff.
“Too late.”
John is an early riser. He’s usually up at the same time as you, which is pretty surprising—considering you wake up early to tend to the livestock.
This morning is a departure from that routine, though. Because as you wake and head out of your room, you find John’s bedroom door closed. You blink and stare at it for a moment, before coming to an easy decision as you enter the kitchen. Usually, you just make breakfast for yourself. But if your suspicions are correct, John will wake soon. Might as well make him something too.
You whip up some eggs, bacon, and toast. It’s nothing ground-breaking, ultimately—but you’ve always preferred putting effort into meals later in the day.
John has perfect timing, unbeknownst to him. When he heads into the kitchen, you’re just finishing the eggs.
“Morning,” you greet him.
“Morning,” he responds, his eyes finding the plates of food on the counter.
“Here,” you offer, grabbing one and handing it to him.
John seems surprised. “Thanks,” he says with a blink, before settling at the dining table. You take the seat across from him and join him for the meal.
“This is good,” John admits, stabbing at his eggs and taking another bite. “Thank you.”
You get the feeling he doesn’t give praise often—it’s not to be taken lightly. “No problem,” you respond, touched by the sentiment. “You’ve had better, I’m sure,” you say diplomatically.
He’s amused. Huffs before taking another bite. “Not exactly.”
“Really?” you hum, feigning innocent curiosity. In truth, you’ve been wondering about this for a few days now. Now is as good a time as any. “No wife waiting for you at home?”
John shakes his head. Your eyebrows climb up his forehead. “That’s a shame,” you remark. A smile grows on your lips. “You may want to be careful, then. One of the town ladies may just snatch you right up.”
He chuckles dryly. His hand finds his hat and he adjusts it almost semi-consciously. “I could say the same to you,” John then nods.
You hate how your heart leaps at that remark. “I suppose,” you respond casually, “but you wouldn’t. Say it, I mean.”
“Why’s that?” John asks. His fingers tap against the table for a moment in a restless fidget. He leans back in his chair. You try not to look at him.
“You don’t really listen to rumors, do you?” you hum. John is silent.
“Not much truth in ‘em,” he answers.
“Most of the time,” you acknowledge.
He catches your implied meaning quickly. “Well,” John starts, “are these murmurings causing problems for you?”
“No, they’re not malicious or anything,” you reassure him. You convince yourself that you’re imagining the way his shoulders relax. “Just motivated by boredom. There’s not much to do here, in case you haven’t realized.”
“I’m afraid it escaped my notice,” he says with a wry smile.
“Word travels fast around here,” you caution him.
“I’ll be careful, then,” John says good-naturedly. You resist a laugh and move to clean up the dishes, pretending not to notice his eyes burning into your back the whole time.
The nearby bandits are always causing you trouble. There seems to be an endless supply of them, and they’re constantly encroaching on your land. Sometimes, they’re easily intimidated. Other times, they don’t budge—and come back with reinforcements.
Still, you’re a decent shot and you always stand your ground. This evening is no different. You’ve been in a somewhat tense stand-off for a few minutes now, as the bandits leer at you. You leer right back.
Eventually, one of them decides he’s had enough—and fires a shot at you. You’re quick to slide off your horse and shoot at them. You manage to get two of the three, but the third guy hits you near the ribs just as you finish him off. You immediately stumble and nearly fall over, catching yourself on the cracked dirt with a calloused palm. As if sensing your distress, your horse ambles over, bowing her head and nudging you lovingly. You resist a smile at that, even as your bones feel like mush.
You take a deep breath and look back at the bandits. They’re sprawled across the ground and bleeding out. You’ll have to do something about them later. Right now, your priority is getting back to the ranch before you pass out. With that in mind, you get to your feet unsteadily, putting weight on your uninjured side to vault yourself up and onto your house.
Your horse immediately gets moving, sensing the urgency of the situation. You dig your heels into her sides gently, a shaking hand brushing her mane as you try to keep conscious. She knows where she’s going—has been with you for more than long enough to recognize the ranch as home. You owe her a carrot or something as a treat. Later, when you can see straight.
As the ranch gradually appears on the horizon, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding back.
Of course John is there before you can even get off your horse and head to the barn. Which, secretly, is very fortunate for you—you’re not even sure how to get down.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” you respond. Swinging your leg over and getting down feels like an arduous task. John’s hands find your shoulder and waist respectively, helping you to the ground. You stumble a bit, the momentum of the movement combining with the pain ripping through your side. John’s hand is still at your waist, which on any other occasion would be cause for celebration. But it’s conveniently located right over your wound, reminding you of the pain. You watch as his brows furrow, his hand pulling back in a crimson blur.
“Don’t move,” he says sharply. John guides your horse into the barn before returning to you. He’s quick to wrap your arm around his shoulders, tucking your uninjured side into him and beginning to walk up the steps of the house. “The hell were you doing?”
“Came across a few bandits,” you respond, your vision already starting to grey as he guides you through the house. “Took care of ‘em.”
John is silent as he deftly maneuvers you into the nearby room, shaking his head in evident disbelief.
“Damn it,” you mutter as he guides you down to the bed. You’re probably getting blood everywhere; hell, there’s still blood splattered across John’s hand.
“What?” he asks, preoccupied with gathering medical supplies. You give him some directions on where to look and he departs momentarily, returning with bandages and adhesives.
“Now we’re even,” you realize aloud. He raises a brow. “More than even, probably.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Just repaying the favor.”
John approaches and tugs your shirt collar towards him; you blink. “Whoa, take a guy to dinner first,” you say jokingly. Your head is spinning and you feel like your usual mental filter is completely gone. Oh well.
John just rolls his eyes, grabbing the knife at his belt. “Hope you weren’t fond of this one,” he remarks, swiftly ripping through the fabric and pulling it out from under you.
“Not really,” you respond, your eyes feeling heavy all of a second. It hurts to blink.
“Stay with me,” he says, his voice suddenly a bit louder. You wince, your head aching and nearly pulsing in pain. You’re trying very hard to stay awake, but your adrenaline’s definitely crashing and the fatigue is taking over. Each blink is a struggle, each return to the waking world a fight. It’s only inevitable that you fall unconscious.
The rest is a blur. You know John manages to wake you up again, shaking you by the shoulders harshly. From there, it’s all a daze: wound treatment and cleaning, bandaging. You’re semi-conscious through it, trying and failing to understand what’s happening. John’s voice keeps dipping in and out of your ears, and you swear he almost sounds concerned whenever you start to slip. But even his attentiveness isn’t enough to keep you awake, as you finally fall into unconsciousness.
You wake up feeling like shit. And that is not an exaggeration. Your side hurts like hell, you’re dizzy despite being stationary, and you feel like you didn’t sleep at all.
John is at your side the moment you breathe, preventing you from pushing yourself up into a sitting position. “You can appreciate my help from right there,” he says, a call-back to what you told him all those days ago. You roll your eyes but stay seated.
“I didn’t need stitches, right?” you ask.
“No,” he agrees. Even though that’s good, he doesn’t seem pleased. You soon discover why. “Why were you out there by yourself?” John frowns.
Well, bandits wait for no man. That’s what you want to say, but John’s intent gaze is holding you accountable to tell the truth. You sigh. It’s kind of embarrassing, now that you think about it. “You remember how I joked about pride?” you hum. He nods. “It wasn’t really a joke.”
“I’ve told you this before, but you’re making life a lot easier here on the ranch. It has me thinking. All this shit used to take me, like, a whole day. And then you just swoop in and solve all our problems before dinner,” you huff.
“That’s definitely an overestimation,” John says firmly. You’re a bit too dazed to notice the frown tugging at his lips, or the way he’s been almost pacing the room.
“I guess I’ve never really been the hero type, though,” you mumble. You’re not even sure who you’re talking to, at this point. Something feels a bit off. Your skin feels prickling hot. Your hands are trembling from where they’re tangled in the sheets. You blink hard and try to clear the spots forming in your vision.
This remark makes John frown, for some reason. Suddenly he’s leaning in and pressing a hand to your forehead. You silently rejoice at how cold his hand feels—a welcome reprieve from the heat crawling up your skin.
“You’re burning up,” he states. “Damn it.” He hisses, withdrawing for a moment. In the blink of an eye, John is pressing a cool towel to your forehead.
“Thanks,” you respond quietly, resisting the urge to latch onto his wrist and keep his hand there. The cold temperature is a relief. It’s getting difficult to keep your eyes open.
“Fuck.”
“Did you just curse?” you ask dazedly, a hysterical laugh leaving your lips. “That’s funny…”
“Hey, don’t you dare,” he demands, his voice suddenly louder. “Don’t close those eyes.”
Your eyes flutter. John shakes you a bit roughly and you groan. It feels like you’re wading through a thick sludge, your surroundings blurring and sharpening at a dizzying pace.
This is weirdly humiliating. Sure, this is how you first met John. But he pretty much walked it off, bouncing right back the next day. But here you are, practically a puddle of limbs fused to the bed. You just have to lie here like a useless piece of shit.
“Enough of that,” John chastises you sternly. You blink, realizing you must’ve been talking to yourself. “You’re not useless.”
You don’t believe him. Your father is relying on you to get your chores done around the ranch, but here you are, out of commission and just lying here. You’ve had a bullet wound before, so why is this one knocking you out? Have you been overworking yourself that much? Maybe. You wouldn’t be surprised. The truth is, ever since John arrived, you’ve been battling feelings of inadequacy. He’s been doing so much to help people around the town, running around and saving this person, helping that person, blah blah blah.
Maybe you’re just not the selfless hero type.
That should be okay. But your fevered mind is practically ripping your every action apart, berating you for being a selfish bastard who only cares about himself.
John has a hand on your shoulder and another on your back, guiding you into a sitting position. “Here,” he says, pressing a glass of water into your hands. You take a few sips before he’s taking it from your hand. You try to chase after it, but John gently pushes it away. “Don’t make yourself sick, sweetheart.”
Unfortunately, you are far too dazed to even notice him calling you that. You just see the slight flush to his cheeks and idly wonder if he’s also getting sick.
Fortunately, your fever doesn’t ascend into worrying territory—and it breaks within a few hours. You spent the next day resting, trying and failing to fight off feelings of helplessness. John reassures you that the ranch hands are pulling their weight, that they’re only worried about you. You can’t find it in yourself to take his words to heart, despite knowing that he isn’t one for empty reassurances.
“Glad you’re back on your feet, son,” your father nods at you when you emerge from your room. “You had us worried for a second there.”
Who’s ‘us’? Maybe him and the ranch hands? That would make the most sense. And, well, if you wish that a certain rugged man were included in that us, well, no one needs to know.
Your father has always been good at reading your thoughts, though—and now is no exception. “The boy was by your side the whole time,” your father informs you. The boy, you note with amusement. As if the two of you aren’t both grown men. “Had half the town thinking he up and vanished.”
You stare at him for a bit. “Oh,” is all you can get yourself to say at that moment. Did John really stay by your side while you were recovering? That’s very kind of him. You didn’t even do that for him—although the circumstances were different, as you had just met and he wasn’t feverish. But still.
“He cares about you, you know,” your father states gruffly.
You want to embrace that statement, but you don’t want to get your hopes up. You won’t believe it until you hear it straight from the horse’s mouth. “He was just repaying the favor, I’m sure,” you answer loftily.
Your father just raises an eyebrow, that insufferable knowing expression on his face. He always enjoys having information that you don’t, and it’s clear that now is no exception. You huff and he laughs, throwing an arm around your shoulders and embracing you in an uncharacteristic show of affection. You pretend to fight him off, secretly appreciative of his compassion and support.
Your father’s words, unsurprisingly, linger in your mind long after your conversation with him. And you can’t hide your curiosity for long. When you catch John alone on the porch the next day, you broach the subject.
“My father told me you stayed with me,” you say, trying and failing to sound casual.
John doesn’t respond. You can see the way his jaw clenches. He isn’t denying it, so it must be true.
“That was awfully kind of you,” you continue.
There’s still silence. John has his arms resting on the railing; he’s looking out at the yard. It’s hard to tell if he’s even listening.
“Okay, well, thank you,” you stammer a bit awkwardly. Overtaken by a brief wave of courage, you lean in and kiss him on the cheek. Then you turn on your heel to walk away, your heart racing in your chest.
Only you don’t get far, because John’s hand is soon grasping your wrist gently. You turn back to find him with a conflicted expression on his face. You stay where you are; he comes to you.
“You scared me,” he says gruffly.
You’re stunned into silence. When you can finally attempt to get words out, John is already continuing to speak. “I’ve seen death plenty of times,” John maintains. “This shouldn’t have been different. But…” he breaks off, almost seeming pained as he utters the words, “...I care about you. Far more than I should.” His hand traces your wrist, finding your hand and tangling your fingers together.
“Says who?” you squint. Who’s dictating how far his concern should stretch?
“Says me,” John huffs. “A guy like me’s no good for you.” Despite that, he hasn’t moved his hand. It’s a silent challenge. He wants you to pull away. Unfortunately for him, you are far too stubborn for that. Selfish, too.
“I killed those bandits,” you blurt out instead. John’s eyes snap to yours with dizzying speed. He looks surprised. Self-conscious, you continue speaking. “How’d you think I got the bullet wound?” you say wryly, dragging your eyes away from him.
“You killed them,” John repeats, taking a step closer. His hand is suddenly cradling your cheek, tilting your head so you’re looking at him.
You nod slightly in response. You would’ve taken their horses back to the ranch too, if they hadn’t run off in your distraction.
“You’ve killed before,” John continues.
Another nod, even more hesitant.
You’re not sure what he’s getting at here. And you certainly aren’t expecting him to lunge forwards and kiss you. His hands bracket your cheeks and yours slip to his waist.
When you break apart, you think your eyes must be popping out of your head in surprise. And John takes one look at you and starts laughing, actually laughing, in a way you’ve never seen. It’s not that dry huff or sarcastic quirk of his lips, but a genuine laugh. For a few seconds, you just stare in disbelief. This only seems to amuse him further.
“What?” you eventually ask, not sure if you should be offended or endeared. Maybe a bit of both?
“I’d be worried if you weren’t a killer,” John says.
“Oh,” you say relievedly. Good.
John’s hand settles at your waist. There’s something almost like a smile on his face. You find yourself smiling back at him.
“Don’t bother pretending, boys,” your father drawls, his arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the doorframe. Your heart drops to your chest at his unexpected appearance.
“Uh…” you try to say. And if your father wasn’t convinced before, he certainly is now. You resist the urge to face-palm at how obvious you’ve just made it. John’s hand is still on your waist. You’re still standing far closer than socially appropriate.
Your father just stares for a moment, evaluating you. Then, just as the tension threatens to be too much… “Take care of my son, Mr. Marston,” he says firmly.
“I will,” John promises.
You’re offended at the thought. And maybe a little touched, but mostly offended. “I can damn well take care of myself,” you scoff defensively, crossing your arms over your chest.
“That’s the problem,” John smirks.
You roll your eyes. Your father, being the traitor he is, just laughs.
©2025, @defectivevillain | @defectivehero, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.
thanks for reading! <3
check out my other works, sorted by fandom.
general taglist: @its-ares @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @the-ultimate-librarian @gayaristocrat @always-lying-to-you @moss4ev3r @hottskull
friendly reminder that i don't give permission for my writing to be shared to other sites, stolen, copied, translated, or used in any way. thanks!