The cold had crept in overnight, turning the dirt of Beaver Hollow to frozen mud and reducing the fire from the pit. Morning had come slow through the trees, gray and pale. Arthur returned just after dawn, boots soaked from the slush, rifle slung over one shoulder and a limp rabbit hanging from the other.
He coughed once, attempting to bury it in his sleeve, before stepping into camp.
No one paid him much mind, most of the camp still asleep. Pearson, who was supposed to be standing guard, muttered something about stew from his spot on a log.
But one pair of eyes lifted.
y/n sat by the fire, fur lined coat drawn tight, hands wrapped around a mug. She didn’t call to him, didn’t smile. She only watched, like she always did. It was quiet and steady, like the way snow falls when you’re not looking.
Arthur dropped the rabbit near the wagon and gave Pearson a short nod. When he turned again, she was already standing.
She held out her mug toward him. Still warm.
He hesitated.
After a beat of silence, he took it, fingers brushing hers. Her hands were cold.
“Thanks,” he muttered, voice rough. Another cough worked its way up his throat, but he swallowed it down with the coffee.
She didn’t press. Didn’t ask where he’d been or why his face looked paler this morning than the last. She just stepped beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and stared into the fire with him.
Arthur sipped slow, as if the warmth might reach someplace deeper. She was close enough to touch, but didn’t. She didn’t need to. It had never been like that between them.
They didn’t spill feelings into the air. They didn’t say “I missed you” or “I worry.” Let alone “I love you.”
They just… stayed.
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. The way her brow furrowed slightly when the wind picked up, slashed her face like airborne needles. The faint red on her nose from the cold. The holed leather gloves she’d never bothered to replace.
She noticed him looking. Didn’t say a word. Just leaned a little closer, as if shielding him from something he wouldn’t name. Maybe the wind. Or even words.
Arthur looked back to the fire.
He wanted to say something—You should stay away from me. I’m not long for this world. But his throat closed around it.
So instead, he finished the coffee she’d given him and handed the mug back.
She took it without a word. Let their fingers linger for half a second longer than needed.
The morning didn’t hold onto peace for long.
By midday, Dutch’s voice had risen over the camp, cutting through the cold. Another botched supply run. Another overgrown trail. Another excuse to send someone out scouting in the snow. Arthur didn’t argue. He just saddled his horse.
It wasn’t until y/n swung up onto her own, already cinching the strap on her rifle, that she saw him stiffen in the saddle.
“You?” she asked, tone light, but not unknowing. “Dutch sent you to come with me?”
Arthur adjusted his gloves, eyes on the trail ahead.
“Didn’t have a choice,” he muttered. “Said he needed someone dependable to ride with you.”
She studied him for a long second, her horse shifting beneath her. “You haven’t wanted to ride out with me in weeks.”
Arthur didn’t answer.
The wind had picked up again, whistling through the trees. He gave his horse a soft click of his tongue and started forward. She followed, wordless.
They rode in silence for the first few miles, snow crunching beneath hooves. Arthur didn’t look back. Not once. But he didn’t ride too far ahead either.
Eventually, the trail led into a ridge line, where a half-buried hunting cabin leaned against the slope. Arthur pulled up.
“Rest here. Get outta the cold,” he said.
y/n followed him through the creaky wooden door, guns drawn, though the cabin seemed to have been empty for some time.
Dust clung to the corners, but someone had left behind firewood, and the hearth looked intact. She moved to light it while Arthur pulled off his gloves, flexing his stiff fingers by the window, pressing it shut.
“Dutch say how long we’re supposed to be out?” she asked casually.
Arthur grunted. “’Til sundown maybe. Just scoutin’.”
“Right.” She knelt by the fire, feeding the growing flame.
“You still won’t look at me.”
That stopped him.
He turned slowly. Met her eyes for the first time since they’d left camp. His jaw was tight.
“Don’t know what you mean.”
“You do.” She stood, brushing soot from her hands. “You’ve been distant, Arthur. For weeks now. Barely talk to me. Don’t ride out with me. You didn’t even sit by the fire last night.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been scared.” Her voice wasn’t harsh. “You think I haven’t noticed the way you’re breathing lately? The way your hands shake after a ride? You don’t eat. You barely sleep. And you think if you push me away, I won’t see it.”
Arthur looked back toward the window, snow shooting diagonally beyond. Seemed as if they’d have to wait out a storm.
She stepped closer, not touching him, just watching. His shoulders tensed like he expected a punch but didn’t know how to dodge it anymore.
“I don’t need you to tell me what’s wrong. I just need you to stop pretendin’ I’m nobody.”
Arthur’s throat worked around a knot of words he didn’t say. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, then exhaled through his nose.
“I ain’t scared for me.”
y/n tilted her head. “Then who?”
He didn’t answer. But his eyes flicked toward her for only a second. And that was enough.
She nodded, once, like she understood more than he wanted her to.
“Never needed you to protect me, Arthur.”
“Yeah, well.” He stepped back, putting an inch more of space between them. “Don’t mean I ever wanted to see you hurt neither.”
The fire cracked behind them. For a moment, they didn't speak.
y/n turned back toward the hearth. “Then stop freezing me out.”
Arthur didn’t follow her immediately. But he didn’t walk away, either.
He just stood there, watching the firelight move across her face. He wanted to say I’m trying. But it didn’t come out.
y/n settled onto the warped wooden floor, shrugging off her coat, her expression unreadable as she held her hands towards the warmth.
Arthur stayed standing by the window, arms crossed, as though bracing himself against more than just the cold.
“You always been this stubborn?” she asked, quiet, not accusing.
Arthur glanced at her. “Guessin’ you wouldn’t still be around if I wasn’t.”
She gave the barest hint of a smile at that. It didn’t reach her eyes.
“I’m not tryin’ to make you say anything you don’t want to. But you keep holding me at arm’s length like you think I’m gonna break.”
“I ain’t—”
“Arthur.”
That stopped him.
y/n stood and crossed the room slowly, until she was close enough to reach for him. She just stood there, watching him the way one watches a wounded animal.
“You think I don’t notice the way you wince when you breathe too deep? Or how you start coughing soon as you think no one’s lookin’? You’re hurting. And I don’t know how much of it you’re gonna let me see.”
Arthur swallowed hard. He didn’t meet her gaze. “You don’t get it. If I… if I tell you, or let you in too close... you’ll carry the weight of it. I can’t do that to ya’.”
“You have,” she said, softly. “I’m still here.”
The silence between them pressed close. Arthur looked down at her. There was something in his eyes that cracked. Weariness. Want. Fear.
Her hand came up, gentle, resting against his jaw. He didn’t flinch, but his breath caught.
She leaned in.
He stopped her with a hand on her waist. Not rough, just firm.
“I can’t,” he said, voice hoarse.
His hand moved to her shoulder, pushing her away lightly.
“I don’t know what it is yet. But I’m sick. And I ain’t about to give you whatever’s killin’ me.” He shook his head.
“I just want to be close. Even if it’s just for tonight.”
He closed his eyes like it hurt to hear her speak like that. Like she wasn’t afraid of what he was. Of what he’s done.
He leaned forward—not to kiss her, but to rest his forehead against the crook of her neck. And he just stayed there, letting her hands move over his chest like she was grounding him into the moment.
Arthur didn’t stop her when she reached for the buttons of his shirt. His breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. Her fingers worked slowly, undoing the fabric one button at a time.
When the shirt fell open, it revealed a chest marred by scars and lean with the kind of hunger that came from too many missed meals, her eyes didn’t linger in pity.
Just love. Quiet, steady, unspoken love.
He let it fall, his hands hovering like he wasn’t sure whether to touch her or not.
“Cold?” she asked gently, nodding toward the fire, crackling and seemingly sparking brighter at her query.
Arthur gave a tired, one-shouldered shrug. “Don’t feel much of anything lately, ‘less it’s pain.”
y/n let that settle for a moment, then reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his. “Come to the fire.”
The hearth burned low and warm, casting a soft golden glow across the wood as they knelt beside it, shoulders brushing, then more.
Arthur’s hands were hesitant when they reached for her coat, then her shirt. He peeled it away like it might break in his hands. Every inch of skin revealed made something in him tremble. With desire, but mostly reverence.
She helped him. Let him take his time.
When they were down to bare skin, the chill returned, and Arthur leaned back against the hearthstone, y/n tucking herself to his side, letting his heartbeat steady against her ear.
“I didn’t think I’d ever have this,” he murmured, voice low, almost ashamed.
“What?” she asked, eyes half-closed.
“This.” He gestured vaguely to the silence, to her, to the way she fit beside him like she’d always belonged there. “Peace.”
Y/N didn’t answer.
“C’mere” he rasped, voice low and thick.
She just rose to her knees beside him, straddling his thighs slowly, carefully. He blinked up at her, breath catching in his throat again. Their skin touched slowly, deliberately—thigh to thigh, chest to chest, warmth pooling where their bodies met.
When she kissed the edge of his jaw, he let out a breath that sounded more like surrender than desire.
“You don’t have to—” he started, but she silenced him with a look. Not a command. Just a promise.
“I know you’re tired,” she said softly against stubble. “Let me take care of you.”
Her hands trailed down his chest, then lower. y/n had reached down between them, guiding him to her with a gentleness that felt almost sacred. When he slipped inside, he cursed under his breath, forehead pressing to her shoulder like he couldn’t bear how good it felt. Or how much it meant.
She moved with careful control, rocking slowly, hips rolling with an intimate rhythm that let them feel everything. every inch, every pulse, every shiver. There was no rush.
Arthur’s hands gripped her hips like he was holding onto something slipping away. He looked up at her like she was the last soft thing left in the world.
She moved slowly, as if she could take the pain from him one breath at a time. She cradled his face, thumb brushing over the crease between his brows.
His body wasn’t strong the way it used to be, hips inconsistent as they thrusted up into her, but he gave her everything he had left. His heart in the way he gripped her, his sorrow in the way he gasped her name. And she took it all, held it like a lifeline.
He came with a quiet, guttural groan, holding her flush to his chest like she was the last safe place in the world. His entire body trembled, arms wrapped around her as if she might disappear if he let go.
And still, she didn’t kiss him.
She just stroked his hair, her thighs still wrapped around him, letting the silence settle again between them.
After a moment, Arthur pressed a kiss to her shoulder, then her collarbone, then the hollow just above her heart.
When he spoke again, it was barely a whisper.
“Don’t reckon I deserve this.”
“You don’t have to,” she said gently. “You just have to let me stay.”
And this time, he didn’t argue.
He just held her close, his cheek resting over her heartbeat, and let the warmth sink in.
For when you fall I follow | Javier Escuella x gn!reader
You find Javier before John does and tell him to run in an attempt to save the life of the man you used to love.
Word count: 4.6k
Tags: no pronouns for reader, rdr1 Javier, major spoilers for both games, angst with no happy ending, hurt no comfort, mentions of blood and death, grieving over a loved one, reunion, alcohol consumption
Are you sure you can handle this?
The question John had asked you keeps replaying in your mind like a broken record. Words of a concerned friend, though not for your well-being in particular. Kind of, in a sense, but not quite. It's more his family that he is worried about, Abigail and young Jack and so are you. They're yours too, the bond forged with something thicker than blood and sturdier than steel, otherwise you wouldn't be here and risking neck and nape after hearing that John was shot at Fort Mercer. Those news had reached you as a rumor and you packed whatever fell into your hands before boarding the first train to Armadillo. Tracking down Bill has been easier ever since, until he fled that is.
Crossed the border to Mexico, out of all places and that was when John had uttered the question for the very first time. Some other folk were there as well, like Marshal Johnson and his men. Seth kept himself in the background, fortunately for your nose, and mumbling to the dead bodies. Irish managed to conveniently miss all the action.
"Are you sure you can handle this?", John had asked, after one of Bill's lackeys confessed that the gang leader bolted.
"How very chivalrous of you, Mr. Marston! You do have a heart of gold, just as I always claimed!", Nigel West Dickens had exclaimed, completely misinterpreting the former outlaw's words.
The praise is misplaced, for John did not care for your safety, but more so if you would be able to see the job done.
"Of course I can.", you had lied.
Now tangled up in the web of your false answer, you're riding through the Mexican desert and squinting your eyes against the wind. It whips against your cheeks, drowning out the steady gallop of your horse and drying up your throat. Tonight's weather resembles the storm inside you. Head spinning and roaring with all manner of thoughts, you attempt to soothe your mind together with your racing heart. It drums against your ribcage and threatens to jump out, making it impossible to tell if it's a result from excitement or fear.
Excitement, because, if your source is as trustworthy as you hoped, you might be soon standing face to face with Javier Escuella again. The man you used to love and who used to return your feelings like no other person ever did. Any attempt to move on after the gang fell apart was met with disappointment, for nobody had been able to make your heart sing again. At least not the same way he did. His fingers would dance over your skin like the strings of his guitar, stealing melodies from your lips that have you heat up even now after all these years.
Though the fear lingers, casting it's grand shadows over any possibility of a good outcome. After twelve years, there is no guarantee that Javier is still the same man you have devoted yourself to. After all, he was already nearly unrecognizable at Beaver Hollow, before he had cut all ties and burned all bridges to redemption and essentially you. Consumed by gnawing insecurities that hold you down like iron shackles, you grip the reins so tight that the whites of your knuckles are showing. Steeling your nerves, you silence your anxiety and continue to push on.
In the distance, you see lights and the blurry outlines of a few buildings. The traintracks that you have been following have finally led you to your destination and the closer you approach, the more you can make out voices. Drunken laughter fills the night air, muffled by the thick walls of the bar. Some customers are standing outside, chatting up women in thin gowns and you don't miss the fact that a lot of the men are wearing uniforms. You had refused to believe it at first, that Javier chose to work for a corrupt government, the same one he used to always curse out around the campfire.
He would spit whenever mentioning the Colonel's name. A different one is ruling over Nuevo Paraiso now though, but the tyranny is still the same. Hot rage courses through your veins when you recall how he had made a fool out of you, or rather Captain De Santa did, nearly killing John in Chuparosa. You pinch the bridge of your nose as you hitch your horse at one of the posts and jump off the saddle, kicking up some dust in the process. Finding Javier after that was an easy task, something you might not have been able to accomplish if it weren't for De Santa's betrayal.
Luck, is what brought you here. A fortunate series of events, followed by a more fortunate moment that included you being in the right place at the right time. One of Abraham's informants caught wind of Javier's presence in Casa Madrugada and came to bring the news. John wasn't present at the time, but you were and now you're here to...to do what exactly? All you have been longing for, since you crossed the border, was to see him again. Just once. But dread is pooling around in your guts, heavy and large as if you have swallowed a rock.
If you were able to find Javier, then John won't take long either and then...you don't dare imagine the outcome. The mental picture of your former lover bleeding out in the streets is enough to tighten your throat. And if it's not going to be a bullet, then surely a noose-
Are you sure you can handle this?
Shoving your sweaty hands into the pockets of your coat, you march towards the bar's entrance and peek around the corner. It's packed to the brim with all sorts of guests, but the Colonel's men are taking up most of the tables. The smell of cigarette smoke and booze hits you and you wrinkle your nose. It's nothing unfamiliar, but the space is small and the air inside stuffy and stale. Back in the glory days of the gang, when liquor flowed in rivers, you had at least celebrated under the open sky.
Your eyes scan the room, lingering at every table, but not spotting a single familiar face. A few long seconds pass and you begin to wonder if you would even be able to recgonize him. What if he has changed too much over the years? What if the blurred memory of him isn't enough to recognize him? In a panic, you summon his features before your inner eye, only to find big parts of them missing. Was the curved scar under his eye on the left or the right cheek? Were his eyebrows arched or straight? Did he also have a goatee or just the mustache?
Suddenly, an odd feeling travels up your spine, like a cold finger caressing your back. Goosebumps cover your arms from wrist to shoulder and the back of your neck prickles. You cast a quick glance over the tables, but nobody is looking your way or so it seem. In the corner on the far back sits a man, his face entirely covered by the rim of his sombrero. He is slouched over the counter, hand gripping a glass and upon closer inspection, you notice that it's trembling. You lean forward in an attempt to get a better look and then he lifts his head.
All the air is knocked out of your lungs as if you have been kicked in the stomach. The world around you comes to a halt and not even the sting of alcohol, sweat and heavy tobacco bothers you anymore. Javier Escuella meets your gaze, his features derailing like a train with botched breaks and his eyes are so wide that you fear they might pop out at any moment. For the longest time, the two of you simply remain where you are, unmoving statues caught in a silent staring contest. Then something seems to lift the veil off him and he is the first to stir.
You follow only a split second later, your muscles having developed a mind of their own and doing something you didn't think was even a possibility. You have come here to meet him, to confront and talk. During your journey, you have even planned a million ways to greet him, laid out thousands upon thousands of accusations and insults to throw at his head.
Why did you leave?
Why did you take his side?
Why did you never come back for me?
All fiery rage is snuffed out in an instant, bringing down all those questions that have been circling you like vultures and you do the last thing you thought you would. Run. Falling into a sprint, you bolt for your horse and ignore the shouts behind you as you shove a man to the side. Someone yells your name, the voice like a warm knife cutting through butter and immediately stealing a reaction from your body. Muscles flinching and heart jumping into your throat, your feet almost come to a skidding halt, but you successfully force down the urge.
Just as you reach the hitching posts, someone grabs you by your shoulder. The grip isn't strong enough to keep you in place, the fingers barely even pressing against your skin. In an instant, you spin around on your heels, fishing out your gun in the process and holding the barrel up in Javier's face. He lets go of you the very same second and lifts his hands into the air in surrender. Thankfully you're far away enough from the others to avoid raising any suspicion. The little bit of attention you have drawn with the short chase has been directed back to whatever they were doing before that.
Now it's just Javier, you and the revolver in between, it's metal gleaming in the faint glow of the moon. It sits heavy in your hand, cool and almost misplaced like it did the very first time you had held a gun, but that was years ago, long before the gang and Dutch. Everything within you is screaming, begging and pleading to store it back into the holster and your eyes are burning as you stare at him. Tension hangs thick in the air, choking you and you press your lips tightly together, not trusting your voice with a single word, no matter how small.
"You've changed.", he speaks up, breaking the silence and you take a moment to examine the man before you.
He's a vast contrast to what he was in 1899. Proud, vain, free and standing with his back straight. Now he's hunched over a bit as if the weight of life has been slowly crushing him over time. There are some obvious, big changes like the uneven hair strands that must have been cut with a dull knife and the wrinkly clothes that sit on his body in a way as if his closet had chewed on him and spit him out again. Then you soak up the details, the small things, like his collar. The first few buttons are open, revealing his throat together with the scar that he used to hide so carefully with his neckerchief.
Or his beard. The style has remained the same, but the stubbles on his cheeks are longer as if he didn't have the time or energy to do a proper job.
"So have you.", you respond, finally finding your voice and feeling rather pleased at how firm it sounds.
"You look good."
"You don't."
He cringes and scoffs. If you wouldn't know any better then it sounds like he is agreeing.
"I...", he starts and fails. His eyes are fixed on your face, not sparing the gun a single glance like it's not even there. "I've missed you."
"And I should shoot you where you stand.", you bite out through gritted teeth, nearly doubling over from all the pain and ache washing over you at once.
Seeing him like this, listening to his voice after years of nothing, but silence and abandonment, you feel something in you break. It rumbles in your ears like thunder right above your head, flies off the hinges like a door being kicked down and bursts beneath the pressure of a million pounds.
"I wouldn't blame you. I deserve it.", he mutters, not moving any muscle, not attempting a single effort to rip the gun out of your hands.
The finger hovering over the trigger starts to cramp and your arm begins to grow heavy. You're not holding a revolver anymore, but what was and what could have been. Breathing out through your nose, you lower the weapon and slide it back into the holster in defeat. Another round of quiet passes over the scene, dreadful and loaded with unspoken words. There is so much on your mind and heart, eager to be voiced and one glance is enough to tell you that Javier feel the exact same. The battle inside you is reflected in his own eyes.
"Do you want to head inside? Drinks are on me.", he suggests, reluctant and careful as if you're a minefield ready to blow up the walls that form Casa Madrugada.
"I'd like that actually.", you relent in the end, as you always do.
Are you sure you can handle this?
Inside the bar, you follow him to the far corner, which he was sitting at when you first walked in and he pulls a stool out for you. With a nod, you make yourself comfortable and turn your back to the rest of the room. You don't fear an ambush. Javier orders a round for the both of you and you sit there, awkward and stiff. The liquor will do good in helping you relax, you hope.
"I didn't know you were in Mexico too.", he comments and only now do you notice how his accent has changed.
It's gotten a little thicker, much like it was in the early days when he joined the gang.
"I was helping John with Bill.", you answer, curt and clipped.
Bringing the glass up to your lips, you take a sip and relish in the burning sensation as it slides down the walls of your throat. Immediately, a cozy warmth swells up inside your chest and spreads.
"So the two of you are...", he says and trails off.
"We're not together.", you chime up, faster than a bullet.
"I meant hunting down the other gang members."
"Oh." Heat shoots up into your face and you hide behind the rim of your drink. "Yes, we are."
With each passing second, you feel more at ease and you can't quite tell if it's from the drink as anticipated or if he simply still has that effect on you. After all, it has always been easy talking to him. You recall the many nights you have sat around the campfire and laughed during the late hours, exchanged secrets and tales.
"I heard you've been looking for me too.", he comments, averting your gaze and you gauge his reaction.
Even now do you find yourself able to read him like an open book. As much as he is trying to play it off cool, the nervousness is written all over his face.
"You're helping Bill.", you respond, as if it's obvious and it is.
If it weren't for him offering Williamson shelter, John would have never added him to the list. Oh, but who are you fooling? It would have been only a matter of time for the Pinkertons to show up at the ranch's doorstep again to demand Javier's head. If you're not careful then they might come for you next.
"And why are you here?", he asks, voicing the same question that has been haunting you for the past few hours.
"I don't know." You empty your glass and watch Javier signal the bartender for a refill. "I guess, I wanted to see if it's really you."
"That so?", he mumbles and briefly glances over to you. This time it's impossible to read his expression. "And you ain't here to stall? Make sure I don't run while John is on his way?"
While the bartender pours another round, you remain silent, doing your best not to throw yourself at Javier. His words, this blatant accussation that you would help drag him to the gallows, invoke a wild flame inside you. Furious, yet still shockingly patient, you wait for the man behind the counter to leave you alone again and even then do you not utter a single word. Instead, you glare daggers at your ex-lover in an attempt to have him magically drop dead.
"That's your opinion of me then? A traitor? I'm not you, Javi.", you hiss, the jab escaping you just as easy as the old nickname.
He flinches, clearly hurt by your insult, but he doesn't rush to defend his honor. Not that there is any left anyways.
"John doesn't know that I'm here, but he will soon find out that you are.", you quietly add, not quite believing what it exactly is you are doing at the moment.
Javier's eyebrows shoot up in disbelief and he gawks at you, his expression mirroring your own shock.
"And you're telling me all this, because..."
"To give you enough time to get the fuck out of here.", you finish his sentence, skillfully ignoring the guilt that begins to gnaw at you.
How rich of you. Calling him a traitor in one breath and then stabbing a knife into John's back in the next. The moment he finds out that you warned Javier, that you compromised this entire mission...you don't dare imagine the hell he will unleash upon you. You would have to present Abigail and Jack on a silver platter to regain his trust.
"I thought you're mad at me.", Javier argues, ripping you out of your thoughts and you meet his gaze.
"Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm fucking pissed." You lean closer to him and attempt to hide the way your body reacts to his hot breath on your cheeks. "Not only did you leave me alone, but you never came looking either. I was waiting for years. You could have at least send a goddamn letter."
Something in him clicks and his features shift. Suddenly, the passive air surrounding him vanishes and the look in his dull eyes clears up. They sharpen and for a split second, you're staring at Javier Escuella again. Your Javier.
"I did look fo you."
"And I'm supposed to believe that?"
"You live on Beecher's Hope together with the Marstons close to Blackwater. John built a small cabin for you on their property and you've been working there as a ranch hand for a couple of years now.", he rattles down and you go completely rigid.
The bar spins at a sickening pace and you suddenly regret having ordered a second glass. Grasping at the edge of the counter, you attempt to steady yourself while not breaking eye contact. Javier must have noticed that he had ripped the floor from underneath your feet, because his hands shoot forward to hold you. His warmth seeps through your clothes and into your skin and you can't help but melt into the close contact. The first one since 1899. Glancing down, you note that the wedding band is still on his finger.
"So you did show up.", you mumble, the words sounding slurred.
"I did, but I couldn't approach you. I just...couldn't." For a short moment, he closes his eyes. "I wanted to, believe me. God, how I wanted to. You must understand why I didn't."
You do. His bounty was unbelievably high, still is.
"And then I heard that you changed your last name and I assumed that you re-married.", he adds, speaking as if he has something stuck in his throat.
"I didn't."
Relief washes over him.
"You should have.", he still says, because after everything, he has lost all claim on your heart.
"I know."
Turning your head, you catch a glimpse of the sky outside and realize with dread that your time is running out. The sun is slowly starting to rise.
"You need to leave. They might show up at any moment now.", you tell him and slide off the stool.
Javier is quick to follow when you march towards the exit, stopping when he touches your elbow.
"Meet me out by the hitching posts. I just have to get a few things done here.", he let's you know and you nod.
You linger for a few moments, watching him approach a table of uniformed men and exchanging words. They're speaking in hushed voices, so you can't make out what they're saying. Deciding that it's not worth trying to listen in on it, you make your way to the horses and wait by the wall. Some of the white paint is chipped and you scratch at it, peeling off a small chunk. The sound of footsteps draws your attention to the side and you almost smile when you see that it's Javier. There once was a time where you would have. Stepping aside, you make room for him to mount his horse, when he suddenly takes your hands in his.
With a calloused thumb, he caresses your scarred knuckles and you part your lips in mild bewilderment.
"Come with me.", he then says, absolutely flooring you with his request.
"What?", you breathe out, unable to grasp a single coherent thought.
"Come with me. We don't have to part ways again.", he answers and you barely catch the pleading tone underneath his words.
" I can't, Javi. I wish I could, but I just...I can't do this again. I have a life now. A good one and there's no room for-" For you.
Slowly, you slip out of his grasp and step away, out of his reach. The look he gives you is like a knife to the heart, burying its blade deep into the muscle and twisting. All those tiny pieces that were left after Beaver Hollow are breaking once again. After all those years of blood, sweat and tears just to put them back together.
"I understand.", he whispers, not fooling anyone.
You only manage a nod and when he cups your cheek, your body betrays you for the upteenth time tonight. Assuming that he is going in for a kiss, you lean forward, but he doesn't meet you. An apology is written in his eyes, regret edged into his features.
"I'm sorry.", he says, voice breaking at the end.
"Me too."
"I hope you know that I've never stopped...I've always..." ...loved you.
"I know." I love you too.
You watch him leave and then disappear in the distance.
---
El Presidio is engulfed in flames. Shouts fill the air, shouts of rage and pain as the men wrestle and gun each other down. Adrenaline is pumping through your veins, blood rushing in your ears and eyes watering from the stinging smoke. Black, thick pillars reach high into the sky and you press your sleeve over your mouth and nose to avoid breathing in too much. You enter through the broken main gate with Abraham and his men, when John rushes past you on his horse. Boards, corpses and ashes are scattered over the ground and you grip the revolver in your hand so tight it hurts.
You watch your friend slide off his saddle in an instant and make a run for one of the wooden stairs. He is making a beeline for the building, throwing himself against the front door, undoubtedly in search for Javier. Fearing for the man, who seems to still hold an iron grip over your heart, you immediately move to follow. Zigzagging through the fighting crowd, you keep your eyes fixed on the door that John had vanished behind, when a pair of arms wrap themselves around you. Yelping in surprise, you attempt to wiggle free, scared that it's one of Allende's men.
"Don't make this difficult now.", a familiar voice speaks close to your ear and you freeze.
It's Abraham Reyes who is keeping you from going after John.
"Have you lost your mind? Let go of me!", you roar, confused by the situation you have found yourself in.
Why would he go against you, when you are on the same side with this? Unless...they found out. They know that you were the one to warn Javier. You are the traitor and it's out now. Realizing what this means for you and Javier, all your strength comes rushing back at once. Breaking free from his grip, you bolt for the stairs in a second attempt, but Abraham is on you again in an instant. Screaming, punching and kicking, you fight him with all the force you can muster up. Images of Javier pop up inside your mind, images of him being handed over to the Pinkertons and you feel your sanity slip through your fingers like sand.
It takes Abraham and three more men to wrestle you down. There is nothing you can do but accept defeat as they pin you onto the ground and you grunt in pain at the knee that is being pushed between your shoulderblades. Before you know it, they're twisting your arms behind your back and tying your wrists and ankles together. The rope is tight, cutting into your skin, but you couldn't give two fucks about the pain. No earthly torture could come close to the aching in your soul.
"It's only temporarily. We'll let you out when John is back with Escuella.", Abraham tells you after dropping you into one of the cells, as if it's any consolation.
A tirade of threats are dancing on the tip of your tongue, begging to be unleashed, but you remain silent and trembling with blind rage. A voice in the far back of your mind is whispering encouraging words into your ears, giving you hope and telling you that Javier might have escaped. For a brief second, you let yourself get lulled into false safety, decide to drink up those lies as if you are parched. Parched for any kind of comfort.
An earpiercing squeak cuts through the air from the cell next to yours and you twist your body to catch a glimpse. John's boots enter your line of sight and a dull thud follows. When he steps aside and gives way to the horror infront of you, a terrified shriek tears from your throat. Tears well up in your eyes, blurring your vision much to your own relief. All life has left your former lover and the sight of his dead body is burning itself into your mind, promising to haunt you for the rest of your days.
Only a short while ago, he had begged for you to run away with him. You could have grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and kiss him one last time.
"Murderer!", you cry out, not even recognizing your own voice.
John doesn't look at you, keeping his gaze on the ground, but you don't miss the way he flinches. His lips form a tight line, regret gleaming in his eyes.
"He forced my hand.", he simply explains, but it falls flat.
"Javier!" John is already forgotten. " Please wake up. Javi, look at me. Oh God...wake up...please."
You beg and plead at the heavens, at anyone or anything that is willing to listen. Fighting against the restraints, you stare at what is left of him and you are met with only silence. His lifeless eyes are staring back at you while his blood taints the dirt beneath him.
