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John was the most annoying child Arthur thought he had ever met. Undoubtedly.
Maybe Arthur had been so annoying when he was twelve, but he felt he hadn’t been. Beyond maybe starving half to death. Arthur Morgan had been a raggedy little thing at that time that snarled more than he spoke. John on the other hand seemed to have traded his death at the noose for a new lease on life — and a lease on at least 500 words out of his shit-eating mouth per second.
It was every five seconds with the boy, every day there was some new reason for him to rattle Arthur’s ear off. Every day without fail. It was always something. The horses pooped a lot, Hosea said John was a faster learner, Dutch said raccoons can be pets, can he shoot yet, how come Miss Grimshaw and Dutch weren’t married, how many years until he was as ugly as Arthur, his hands hurt, he was bored. The complaints and needs and thoughts were endless!
It was everything all the time.
Except today.
It was quiet when Arthur returned from a trip to town. Today, John didn't scurry over with something new. Today, the two older men played dominoes at the table in the modest abandoned cottage.
There was no twiggy boy walking out of the room he and Arthur shared, nor any sign of some pathetic attempt to punish his poorer behaviors. No, instead it was almost peaceful in a way it hadn’t been in months.
“Where’s John?” Arthur set the bag of supplies down, eyeing Hosea for answers.
“Now that you mention it,” Hosea hummed, “I don't know.”
Arthur's eye twitched.
“Ah, he just ran off somewhere. It'll be fine, son.” Dutch waved a dismissing hand.
“I’ll go find him,” Arthur grumbled, replacing his scarf with a small huff, "I guess."
Dutch laughed, the kind that probably meant something but that Arthur was not going to pretend to understand. Some untold truth, a subtle irony, and for a second Arthur felt he could understand it. Then he pushed the thought aside and marched outside.
It wasn’t as silent as it could be, the blanket of snow had melted down with a few days of un-awful weather. The world remained basked in white, and for early January? It served Arthur just fine. Hunting down a twelve year old boy? A little harder.
They still hadn't gotten a horse for John, and while Arthur was positive he couldn't have made it anywhere deadly, it itched his chest to think of where John might be. They were away from anywhere, in the foothills — a storm away from being snowed in. It wasn’t like John couldn't wind up frozen solid, or like he couldn't get eaten by an early rising bear. Eaten by wolves. Eaten in general. He was small enough.
Arthur followed a trail, watching as it wound where Arthur did not want it to.
The pond—Arthur would not give it the title of a lake—nearby had hopefully frozen fully over. Otherwise he'd return with no John and a tale of how he must’ve fallen in and-
“You damn fool!” Arthur barked, clambering off of Charlotte as he saw John shuffling toward the middle of the pond.
John flinched, jerking his head to look back at Arthur.
“Get over here, now!” Arthur stepped out, testing a path on the testy ice. It complained, but Arthur didn't need to worry about that.
“Don’t scare people like that!” John shouted back, planted right where he was. “Asshole!”
“God damn it, Marston! Just get your ass over here before I drag you off!”
“How're you gonna do that, huh?”
“With my rope around your neck!” A growl sunk into Arthur’s words with the first crack, “Get off the ice.”
“No! You get off, you're fatter!”
Arthur took a breath, trying to remember what Hosea and Bessie had been on about with patience. Patience just happened to be particularly difficult with a child who refused to listen.
He'll ignore the irony in that.
John slipped, but like the gangly shit he was, he righted himself almost immediately. For a second he held his arms out at his sides, testing, but soon those angry eyes were on Arthur.
“Kid,” Arthur said with the tension of holding himself back, “Come on back to the cabin. We need your help.”
John scoffed, “Yeah right.” He waved an arm and shuffled further out.
“John!” Arthur took a few steps, pausing as the ice groaned under him. “I'm serious, kid! Get your ass over here!”
Nothing, not even a flippant wave. Instead, John was marching further, slipping his way too far out for Arthur to go. This wasn't just annoying anymore, and Arthur didn't have the time to unpack the fist playing ball with his heart.
“John!”
“I ain’t comin’!” Finally John turned again, gesturing, “I'm havin’ fun! That's what y’all are always on about,” he argued across the pond.
Arthur should have grabbed his god damn rope and reminded the little shit of what he owes them. Maybe then he'd learn some sense, fix his attitude. He’s such a little shit!
“Have fun off the ice! Make somethin' with the snow,” Arthur growled, throwing his arms up. “I ain’t dealin’ with the consequences if you fall in!”
John was silent for a moment rolling his eyes with that usual scowl on his face. He made Arthur feel like a child, arguing over stupid points. John was so lucky Arthur wasn't like his old man. So lucky.
“J-”
Arthur straightened when he saw her meandering out of the trees on the far side. He'd be grateful it wasn't a bear tomorrow, given John doesn't get trampled today.
“Marston,” a quieter shout, “come over here slow.”
John wasn’t stupid, not really for all the times Arthur wanted to say it. He was smart, quick to pick things up. So when he looked over his shoulder, instead of moving, Arthur wanted to skin him alive.
It wasn’t worth the wide eyes and wonder twenty feet from Arthur. It wasn’t worth it at all.
“John,” Arthur barked and flinched when the cow turned her gaze to the sound. Arthur met her eyes and prayed she'd just go on her way, there wasn't a single calf in sight. It'd be fi-
Her ears went back.
“Here!” The ice was too slick to run to John, but it was better to distract her, so Arthur bolted off of it. Running opposite of John, that massive beast kicked up powder in chase.
John cracked against the ice as he fell in a panic, crawling in Arthur’s periphery. Somewhere between that and yelling more, Arthur tripped over something under the snow. He hit the ground hard and scrambled fast onto his back. He drew his revolver and shot at the ground before she could trample him. It worked, she bolted downhill and Arthur looked to see John scrambling up into the snow.
The weight left in a wordless way, reality setting in with relief before the rage. He watched John, those ever-wide eyes looking after where the moose had run. When they reached Arthur the boy sprang into a sprint that had him tripping more than running.
The wet of snow seeped into Arthur’s back, grounding him as a blaze lit too strong to be instantly doused with the chill. Or the drip of snot from John's nose.
“Are you alive?” John asked, maybe more chilled with his tremble.
Arthur huffed, “You are so god damn lucky.”
John’s face contorted again, into that usual scowl as he kicked a puff of snow onto Arthur. “Shut up. Wish you got trampled.”
Arthur jutted an arm out, grabbing around a too thin shin, too easy to yank so the boy plummeted into the snow he walked through. The screech lightened Arthur’s mood a bit, along with kicking feet and a garbled list of curses he probably learned from a drunk at a saloon — or Arthur himself.
John's feet managed to escape his snare, a screech of complaint, then quiet, then knobby knees settling in the snow by Arthur’s head.
John needed a haircut.
When had Arthur fallen anyway?
“Arthur?” John asked, and Arthur realized he closed his eyes.
“Hmm?”
“Are you okay?”
“Mhm.”
“Arthur,” John said with an urging shove. “Ain’t you gonna yell?”
“Nah.”
“You ain’t mad?”
“Nah.”
“… Did you hit your head?”
“Dunno, just give me a minute.”
“Um…" John looked up, wide-eyes and worried brows. He searched, and thanks to Arthur's efforts, John found. "Dutch!"
The scramble of noise mixed with sudden movement had Arthur groaning. The blood dripping under the collar of his shirt was met with screeching worry, but it was flesh wound. They always were. He wasn't all that dizzy, just suddenly sapped by every inch of snow. He could do with a nap, which Hosea rejected so strongly that Arthur regretted getting up off the ground. He hated being helped up like he had gotten hurt, but he accepted it nevertheless. The whole ride home.
Bed rest and hot coffee was the treatment. That and, of course, stitches.
John kept his distance, watching when Hosea stitched the gash on the back of Arthur's head closed. Dutch laughed about the possibility of a bald spot. It was the usual, and Arthur tried not to glare at John for it.
"What were you thinkin'?" Hosea sighed, turning finally to look at John. "We told you not to go on the lake."
Dutch cleared his throat, "Be nice, Hosea."
"Don't." An angry finger reached Dutch and birthed silence so firm the sip of his own coffee was quiet. "Say somethin' to him, please Susan."
The woman was in the midst of cleaning the mess from the stitching, wiping the back of Arthur's head off with warm water, "That was foolish and reckless, John."
"Yes!" Hosea agreed noisily.
"I said I was sorry!" John yelped in his corner far away from everyone else, "It ain't my fault he fell!"
Hosea stood, "What if he had cracked his skull open!? Would you be sayin' the same then!?"
"I don't care!"
The squawking was proving too much, and Arthur groaned against his pillow.
Once upon a time, Arthur was the same. Wasn't he? Whining and yelling and fighting tooth and nail like he had never had a decent lesson in manners. He used to claw and kick and scream. If Hosea yelled at him like this then? The way he would have frozen up. He used to fear these people. He feared them more than a hungry belly. Hell, when Dutch started boxing with him he nearly called him pa.
If Arthur was so much like him, maybe John needed a little grace.
"Stop yellin'." Arthur turned his head, accepting the hiss from Miss Grimshaw.
Hosea stilled, sighed, and sat down. "This could have been very bad, John." He didn't look from Arthur, "For both of you."
The standing silence lasted until nightfall, a tense hum in the air. John stayed in his corner, a pouting pup, and Arthur watched from his spot on the bed. There would be hell to pay in the future for when John decides he wants to torment Arthur for getting him in trouble. A stolen shoe, a lost trinket, but certainly hell. Yet, Arthur felt… fine with it. For some reason.
Arthur wasn't happy about the way his head had little fists coming at it from the inside, or how the back of his head howled in protest whenever he moved, but he didn't mind if the kid decided to shift blame. Not because he was soft, God no. He was going to get John good for this. Dump him in a snow bank and watch him swim out of it, or maybe pour water on him before he goes inside. There would be a consequence, but the rage was so mellowed that Arthur just watched John shifting about on his bedroll.
Restless.
As expected, the small body slipped out and crawled across the floor. No promise of sharing this time as John stopped at Arthur's bedside. He watched Arthur, for a minute, then he touched Arthur's shoulder. A little jostle, so small it wouldn't really wake anybody, but Arthur rubbed his face anyway.
John sniffed, sniffled maybe, and shifted a little closer.
"I swear if you want in my bed again…" Arthur glanced at the boy, eyeing him for a moment to watch those hackles rise.
"No. I ain't a baby." John crossed his arms on the edge of the cot, putting his head atop them, much too close to be seen properly.
A silence grew.
"Well?" Arthur whispered.
John hesitated, but grumbled, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah."
"Are you… Are you sure?"
"I've hit my head a hundred times, Marston. I'll be fine."
"… What if you aren't?"
"Well, I am."
"But-" John's voice took that stupid pitch it did when he said he wasn't scared but certainly was.
Arthur sighed, adjusting awkwardly around the small head so he could ruffle messy strands. "I'm fine. You're fine."
"Hosea's mad at me."
"He was worried. Folk get mad when they worry."
"He hates me."
"He does not."
"You hate me."
"I don't."
"You-"
Arthur sighed, pushing himself up a bit, just to look at John. "You ain't bad for this. No one hates you. You-" Arthur sighed, "When you do somethin' stupid, you learn from it so you don't get stupid. So are you gonna go play where we tell ya' not to again?"
John shook his head.
"There you go. You got smarter, you learned." Arthur took a deeper breath than needed, and ruffled the boy's hair.
John's lip trembled, "… I'm sorry."
How few times had John ever apologized in his thousands of words? Arthur could probably count it on one hand. He was so headstrong, and so defensive. Arthur didn't remember being so feral once, but apparently Hosea saw too much of the same in both of them. Apparently, they were so much alike that Hosea refused to be the cold man Arthur barely remembered from so early on. The kid was something else, and the mirror of it made Arthur a worse man.
The blanket rose, Arthur looked at John, and the boy climbed up against Arthur's side. A little icicle. He never was warm, and Dutch went on and on about how Arthur ran like a furnace when he was a boy. Another stark difference. Another thing to separate them. Yet still, the way John always laid was so familiar. He made himself small in all the same ways. He hid his face like Arthur would have. He grabbed Arthur's arm as a life saving measure, and Arthur tucked him in like he had a thousand times now.
"You're alright," Arthur promised.
John sniffled, and this time Arthur knew it was, "Don't tell them about this."
"Sure."
John's eyes glinted slightly when he looked at Arthur, the quiver harder to see with the covers blocking the light. He wiggled closer, held Arthur's arm tighter.
"Goodnight, Arthur."
"Night, John."