Chapter Text
Arthur Morgan had realised all too late that he may have overreacted. This profound realisation came at the back end of a fist slugging him square in the nose, sending him waywards as the back of his head bounced off whatever was behind him. The sea of whiskey he had partaken in moments before threatened to swallow him — that sweet pull of drunken unconsciousness all too tantalising, but he managed to bring himself back. Just. There was yelling, a lot of it, and the thundering chaos of shoes stomping on wood, chairs scraping against the ground and the occasional glass shattering somewhere in the mess. How many bar fights had he been in now? And just how many of those had he caused? He flicked his head to the side, a satisfying crick! in his neck soothing the pain that thrummed beneath his skin. He locked onto his target — the big ol’ boy with the mutton chops and these outrageously yellow ranch pants — before inhaling sharply and throwing himself forward. Big Guy hadn’t expected such a swift recovery, failing to plant his feet before Arthur came barreling into him. The two went flying, smashing into another tussling pair (was that John?) eventually ending in a huge heap of sprawling limbs. Morgan hastened to get up but a heel like a sledgehammer came down on his back, flattening him like some hunter’s trophy. There was a crack like lightning and the pressure wasn’t there for long. As he turned to figure out why, he saw the large frame of Charles Smith standing over a bloodied man, a half-smashed bottle in hand. A curt nod was all the recognition Charles was granted and with that they each moved on to another opponent, though Arthur didn’t miss the way the other man shook his head and sighed as he went.
Sidestepping through couples locked in who’s got the bigger dick competitions was harder than it used to be, back in his 20s, but Arthur skirted through relatively unscathed until he found Dutch. The raucous was so intense and so stupidly loud it was only a matter of time before the gang needed to swallow their pride and limp away for fear of being apprehended by lawmen. Hell, half the people involved in the fight had nothing to do with the initial confrontation. He told his leader as much. He was met, quite simply, with a glare that read ‘we’ll be having harsh words later’. Arthur’s heart dropped to his knees. The impact to his skull had mangled his brains a tad, and he wasn’t entirely sure what it was he had done. It was Micah who kickstarted his recollection.
“Starting a brawl is a pretty stupid way of covering up a damn crush, Arthur.” And he spits his name out like its poison. Said gunslinger grit his teeth hard and redirected his anger toward the closest aggressive patron he could find, grabbing a fistful of collar and repeatedly swinging with his free hand. Oh, yeah. It was all coming back to him.
The night had been going so well, a hard-earned treat for a job well done. Over half of the gang had stayed at Horseshoe Overlook to take care of the stagecoaches they had stolen and prepare for more festivities later in the night. As such the small number of 7 that set out to town appeared huge in this crowded saloon, though they were still vastly outnumbered by local patrons. It didn’t take long for a cascade of liquor to dull everyone’s senses and provide that famous liquid courage. As is so often the case, Arthur drank too much too quickly. He could handle his alcohol, could damn near drink anyone here under the table, but slamming the shots as he had been tonight, his body seemed to act too fast for his brain to keep up. Mostly, it was his big mouth. He was a little off-balance, warm all over and probably very flushed in the face when he came back from the wash closet and spotted John talking to someone. Even from across the saloon, he could hear the other party proclaim: “Christ alive, that is a serious face.” Gaining the attention, and a few stifled chuckles, from the tables around him.
John had his back to the wall, beer bottle forgotten in his hand as he furrowed his brows at the drunken cowboy in front of him. Someone’s shrill attempt at carrying a tune rang out from Arthur’s left and it became very hard to hear anything else, especially over the energetic buzz of swapped stories and belligerence, so he saddled up to the end of the bar after signalling for another two fingers of whiskey. Close enough to hear, not close enough to arouse suspicion or get involved.
“You always brood this hard, or’m I gettin’ a special performance?”. Cowboy slumped himself sideways against the same wall, thumbs tucked in his gunbelt, head tilted ever so slightly to glare at John under his hat.
“Ain’t broodin’.” The latter hardly acknowledges him, taking a swig from his bottle. Noticing he was losing the attention of the surrounding patrons, Cowboy stood up a little straighter and leaned into the others' space.
“Could’ve fooled me. You look like somebody told you the world’s outta whiskey,” John snorts despite himself, more nervously than in finding any sort of humour. Arthur could see he was tense, shoulders rigid and up by his ears, “there it is. Knew you could smile.” John rolled his eyes at the scatter of laughs that arose around him. He didn’t like being tonight’s apparent entertainment, not one bit. Subtly shifting his weight from foot to foot, Marston blew his hair out of his face and countered.
“You always bother strangers this much?” Instinctively he raised his glass to his lips.
“Well, only the pretty ones.”
The men at the closest table guffawed so loudly half the saloon stopped in their tracks, heads perked and searching eagerly for what was so funny. John nearly choked on his drink, all the while Cowboy wore this self-assured grin and continued, encouraged.
“Aw, don’t look so nervous, I ain’t proposin’.”
“Good.” John’s jaw was set so tightly his teeth squeaked in protest. Arthur wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t socked the guy already and been done with it.
“Though I might if you keep lookin’ at me like that.” More laughter broke out nearby and at this point John was pink all the way up to his ears. Someone hollered ‘Cowboy’s got him blushing’, loud enough to be heard but not so loud the heckler could be identified, at least not from Arthur’s position at the bar. It was maddening, the publicity of it all, and Morgan couldn’t help but bristle when Cowboy’s hand found itself on John’s shoulder as he chuckled. As if he had in any way earned the right to steady himself that way. Arthur tightened the iron-like grip he had on his whiskey glass, knuckles turning white as the tendons in his neck bounced angrily along with his dangerously rapid heartbeat. Just being witness to this humiliation was enough to see him seething, resentment brewing with each mockingly flirtatious quip from Cowboy.
Though, it’s not just that, is it. It’s the way John has begun to relax, in the way laughter comes easier to him, the way he leans into it. He’s being made out like a God-damn fool and the idiot doesn’t even know. Or, if he does, he likes it. Arthur mutters under his breath (‘Goddamn it, Marston, what’re you doin’?’) and knocks back his drink, slamming the glass down a little harder than anticipated and garnering a few more stares for good measure. Cowboy had let slip another flirtation, and by God, the effect was instant. Heads turned, eyebrows raised, a group of gentlemen halfway through a game of cards paused. The worst of it? John was actively fighting a smile — obvious in the slight quirk of his lips and mischievous glint to his eyes. Arthur saw it so plainly on his face, that sense of amusement, and felt his stomach flip. John had abandoned him in his embarrassment, defecting to the other side.
Every instinct in him demanded he get up and make that cowboy leave John alone, to get the hell away. Yet, Arthur didn’t move, eyes glued to the exchange and cursing himself for the tight coil of heat curling in his chest. The slight tremor in his hands had nothing to do with the whiskey and everything to do with… Well, Hell, he didn't even know.
It was at this point Cowboy winked. The wrongest damn wink Arthur had ever seen, like he was performing — showing off and daring the whole room to laugh at John.
“I’d quite like to hitch my horse to your post.” The bastard smirked, brushing the back of his hand over John’s lapels as if to ‘fix him up’. The surrounding laughter was akin to a physical assault on Arthur, crawling over his skin in waves and settling in his stomach like lead. It wasn’t until Cowboy’s other hand swiftly traveled from John's shoulder to the small of his back that Arthur’s tether snapped. He surged through the crowd like a knife through butter, shoulder-checking patrons who yelled and staggered after him. Paying them no mind, a choir of anticipatory ‘oooh’s’ followed his trajectory toward the two men of the hour.
“Keep your damn hands to yourself.” Arthur's voice came low and dangerous, carrying across the saloon anyway. The cowboy looked up at him, that same shit-eating grin plastered across his smug face and all the signs of a bully getting their way. He replied almost lazily: “Jealous, partner?”
That was it. That was all it took. It wasn’t even a conscious decision for Arthur. Cowboy had barely any time to register it before the fist came flying at his jaw. Chaos erupted. Patrons shot out of their seats — itching for an opportunity to brawl all night — bottles toppled, chairs flew like small, wooden missiles. John yelled something about laying off, it was all harmless fun anyway, but it barely cut through the roar of blood in Arthur’s ears. Someone’s hat went spinning across the floor. The honky-tonk pianist hit the keys with renewed vigour, sending discordant chords into the melee. Arthur was moving before he even realised he had, blocking the reactionary blows with his face before sending a lethal strike to Cowboy’s stomach. A flying chair narrowly missed their heads as the saloon was transformed into a storm of arms, legs and ill-thought insults. His rage blinded him and he barely even registered Sean yelling (‘Good work, Arthur, you’ve made everyone cheer for the cowboy. Top marks’) from under a table as the Irishman grappled with two of the local whores that had decided to join the squabble.
Arthur thrust Cowboy up against the wall, pulling him in towards himself and then slamming him back again by his collar. Arthur’s hands moved of their own volition, snaking around the neck and squeezing as he pressed his entire body weight against the other to keep him pinned. It was then that Big Guy decided to come play hero, and the rest was history.
Dutch soon waved the white flag and the Van der Linde’s funnelled out from the back of the saloon. To make matters worse, Arthur was one of the last out and had slipped in the mud on his way. There was a cacophony of laughter from his gang and locals alike. Damn, he felt like a fool. The long ride home had been gruelling.