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sweet-by-and-by · 2 years

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Full of Cheer - Arthur Morgan x John Marston

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summary: John finds Arthur’s festive spirit a little lacking as he struggles to move on from the past.

A gift for @yeehawpurgatory for the @rdrevents 2022 Secret Winter Exchange

pairing: Arthur Morgan x John Marston

a/n: For those whose Christmases are a little harder some years ❤️ Happy Holidays everyone

1907 was gone as quickly as it had come, and Christmas was in full swing at the Marston’s.

The moon hung high over Beecher's Hope, its residents blissfully unaware of the night chill. A fire roared in the stone hearth, filling the teeming ranch house with a warmth that matched their festive spirit.

Smiles were shared all around, faces warm with drink in celebration of the folk that gathered. It was a long journey for Charles and Sadie both, coming from opposite ends of the country to spend the holidays at the little homestead.

Laughter swelled again at a wry quip from Charles, sending Uncle into a fit of defensiveness that only made everyone laugh harder. Chairs had been dragged in from the living room, wooden legs scraping against the floorboards as they took their seats at the feast Abigail had prepared for them.

The sounds poured out of the house merrily, falling on deaf ears of the resident that sat alone on the big wooden porch.

A star-filled sky stared down at him; great luminous bulbs against the inky-black night. The wooden chair creaked as Arthur leaned back, taking a long drag off the cigarette that rested between his lips. The cherry glowed bright, just as bright as the stars, smoke filled his lungs. Pulled at the edges that never felt quite right after his illness.

His gaze fell to survey the ranch, searching for any signs of trouble hiding beneath the cover of dark. Not that he’d find any. But the spot on the porch, his preferred scout location, offered a sense of comfort that relieved the fears long embedded in the back of his mind.

Old habits die hard, he supposed.

The quiet of the night was interrupted by the sound of the front door squeaking hinges. Heavy boots thudded across the wooden porch, their occupant given away by a stride that Arthur would recognize until his last breath.

“John,” he greeted gruffly. The man nodded as he settled into the seat by Arthur’s side.

Arthur reached into his chest pocket to grab another cigarette, holding the tip to his own before passing it over wordlessly.

“Doctor says you ain’t supposed to smoke these things no more,” John chided pointlessly, his fingertips brushing against Arthur’s as he took the offered smoke.

The older man scoffed, returning his gaze up toward that big, dark sky. “Already gotten more time than I should have, no use getting greedy,” he huffed.

They fell into silence, nothing but the burning of paper and howl of coyotes in the distance, yelps that reminded the world they were there.

“Been out here a while,” John finally said. “Got Abigail all worried.”

Arthur only grunted in response, offering no explanation. His gaze was pointedly fixed as he continued to scan the horizon.

“Been out here the last couple of nights too,” John tried again. “Everyone’s sittin’ down to eat. Abigail’s got a plate set out for you.”

“Yeah, well I ain’t been much company as of late,” Arthur relented. He grabbed his hat from its place on his knee and placed it atop his head. Rising to his feet, he kicked at John’s boot where it rested on the wooden porch. “C’mon,” he motioned. “Let’s check fences.”

John held back his protest that they’d checked fences hours before and lifted himself out of his chair. Arthur grabbed the repeater leaned against the railing and the two men started towards the front gate.

The horses nickered as they passed the stables, tempting Arthur to abandon his chore and take solace in the privacy of the barn. Should have known better than to stay close to the house, where prying eyes could linger on him. He tossed a longing glance at his mount, the desire to tack up and ride away without a word of explanation making his fingers twitch.

Pushing those thoughts away with a frown, he returned his attention to the task at hand. They worked in darkness, both aware of the futility of the job. But neither brought it to the other’s attention, walking the perimeter under the guise of purpose.

When they’d put some distance between themselves and the house, Arthur broke the weighted silence.

“I ain’t trying to worry Abigail,” he said roughly. “I just…ain’t trying to ruin everyone’s Christmas spirit.”

John listened patiently, keeping his stare on the fence line as he waited for Arthur to continue.

“Christmas…it’s not like it used to be when we were kids. Nothin’ seems ‘merry and bright’ anymore. Not after everything that happened. I…,” he paused. “I miss them.”

John let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, nodding solemnly. “I understand,” he said. “I miss them too.”

“D’you remember that year Hosea sent Dutch and I out to get a tree? Said it was important that camp had a big ol’ tree to decorate for you and Tilly.”

“Sure,” John answered. “Bessie adored it. Looked just like the Christmas cards, she said.”

“Right,” Arthur smiled. “‘Cept Dutch didn’t quite tell the whole story that night. We’d been looking for hours for the perfect damn tree. Kept passing over some decent ones so that Dutch could find one that was just right. Couldn’t tell me what it’d look like when I asked, but he promised he’d know it when he saw it. So we kept looking and looking. Dragged those horses probably 15 miles trying to find the thing!

“Eventually he found it, but it was right in front of some poor bastard’s house. ‘Course Dutch said he had plenty of fine trees and shouldn’t mind sharing. So we waited until they left and started cutting it down. Had it just about finished when the old coot comes flying out the front door, waving his shotgun around and just hollerin’! I’m half-stuck beneath a damn spruce tree while Dutch’s trying to spin some yarn so the fella don’t shoot us right then and there!”

Arthur’s laughter bubbled over as the story unfolded, the sound like music to John’s ears after so long without it.

“What the hell did he do?” he asked.

“He convinced him that we were sent out by the town’s orphanage to find the perfect tree. Said we were lookin’ to lift the children’s spirits or something like that. Even helped us load the thing out and sent us back on our way, damn near ready to anoint us saints!”

“Sounds like Dutch,” John laughed, his smile wide as he shook his head. “Never could figure out how he came up with that nonsense. How come I never heard that story?”

“Dutch asked me not to tell anyone,” Arthur admitted, scratching his chin through the greying hairs there. “We were so young, you remember how everyone used to worry.”

“All that seems so long ago,” John said somberly, his voice heavy.

“Sure does,” Arthur agreed. “A lifetime ago.”

A thousand memories flashed through their minds, the faces of loved ones lost dancing amongst the stars.

“It ain’t just them I miss this time of year,” Arthur added, the lightness of the story not enough needed to lift the heaviness in his heart..

“I miss the rest of them too,” John agreed. “Susan, Javier. Hell, even Sean.”

“Eliza and Isaac,” Arthur added, his gaze far beyond the horizon.

John frowned, hesitant about his next words. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Should’ve remembered.”

“Don’t be,” Arthur dismissed, ducking his face beneath the brim of his hat. “Weren’t your wrong to right. But God, some days I look at Jack and can’t help but think about him. He’d be damn near a man now, same as your boy’s coming to be…Watching the two of you work this ranch together fills my head with all kinds of foolish dreams. Hell, I should’ve buried those next to them long ago.”

John knew there wasn’t much he could say that would bring Arthur peace. Arthur would never allow those wounds to heal; keeping them open as some kind of penance for the sins he believed he’d committed. Instead, John closed the distance between them and raised his hand to grip Arthur’s shoulder.

“Dreams ain’t foolish, even if an old fool’s the one dreaming ‘em. Just because you ain’t in the dirt with him, don’t mean you can’t dream for him. Do them things for him. You live, you work this land with us. You carry him with you so he works it too.”

Arthur took in a shaky breath, placing his hand on top of John’s and squeezing tightly. Their fingers interlaced, the feeling of scarred knuckles against rough calluses keeping him grounded.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“‘Course. Now come up to the house before Abigail drags you up there herself. Not sure who I’d be more scared of barging out here; her or Sadie.”

“Aww, they mean well enough. Least they’ve got Uncle to pick on for now.” Arthur chuckled, slinging the rifle over his shoulder and starting back towards home. “Abigail cook up that charred beefsteak again?”

“She did,” John winced.

“Christ, I thought she’d forgotten how to do that to beef.”

“Cattle across America hoped she had,” John teased.

As their boots thumped back up the steps of the porch, Arthur glanced over his shoulder to take one last look out at the homestead. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, an honest one for the first time in days.

Their homestead.

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sweet-by-and-by · 2 years

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Heart on Your Sleeve- Arthur Morgan x John Marston

summary: Arthur spent 20 years working his ass off to become the top artist at Van Der Linde Ink, the high-end traditional shop founded by Dutch Van Der Linde and Hosea Matthews. Who does John think he is, showing up with his ignorant style and calling it art? A modern tattoo shop!AU

pairing: Arthur Morgan x John Marston

a/n: Did writing this make me want to get another tattoo? You bet your ass it did. Inspired by the same art by StrawBaby as my 2021 Reverse Bang x, along with the incredible art of Veradia x. Tattooed John just seems to awaken something in me. Love as always ❤️

AO3

The buzz of a tattoo machine always riled John up.

The thrum of the coils vibrating sent electricity down his spine; filled him with a rush that no drug could ever replicate.

He had found tattooing young, having spent most of his youth in shitty basements listening to even shitter music with friends. Bouncing from house to house, desperately trying to find something that made him worth keeping around.

So when someone thrust a machine in his hand and told him to draw, he did his best. Luckily, they were both so fucked up that neither of them minded how terrible it had turned out.

But even luckier for him, he had found his niche.

Tattoos were everywhere nowadays. Having grown from the prison ink he knew as a kid in the streets to a real, viable career path if he played his cards right.

The first step was to get himself clean. After being turned away by as many shops as he entered, dismissed as “just some junkie”, he found someone to take him on. On the condition that he quit all the shit that had led him there in the first place.

He’d been six months sober, and had been tattooing for just as long. Worked to make himself a place at Van Der Linde Ink, a high-end name in these parts of the city. Why on earth Dutch and Hosea, the owners, had given him a shot was beyond him. But he knew he didn’t want to let them down and throw all of this away.

Drawing had never been one of John’s strong points. He’d barely even doodled since his days in middle school. He was just as confused as anyone on the day that machine was shoved in his hands. After finding a love for the act of tattooing, no matter how badly the ink had turned out, he struggled to reconcile his abilities with his dreams.

And then shitty tattoos came into style.

It was perfect timing that he couldn’t have planned even if he tried. People heading to shops for tattoos that any idiot with Amazon could do in their basement, minus the hepatitis. Instagram loved his ignorant tattoos, and Van Der Linde Ink had been looking to bring themselves into the new age of trendy ink.

So he landed a station within a lineup of history. The traditional shop was trying to break away from their uptight, rigid image, and their hope lay with John and the slew of new artists they had brought on.

A shout from across the shop dragged him back to reality, breaking his concentration on the leg he was currently tattooing.

“Yer’ lines are lookin real sloppy there, Marston!” Arthur jabbed. John could hear the smirk in his voice, and didn't need to bother glancing up to confirm that Arthur was heading his way.

“Don’t worry about him,” he assured his client, who had shot upright at Arthur’s critique. “He’s just bored since no one wants his old man style today. You’re doing great, we’re almost finished here.”

The client huffed before resting back in his seat, grimacing as John returned to his work.

“Aww, don’t be sore, Marston. It’s good to get opinions from all the artists here. Even if your work barely falls in that category,” Arthur continued, his sarcasm cutting straight through to John’s nerves.

“Yes, but maybe we can keep our opinions to ourselves until the artists are finished,” Hosea interjected, glaring at Arthur from over his newspaper. “And perhaps until the clients have gone,” he whispered harshly, only audible to John’s listening ear.

It was wise to heed Hosea’s warnings, so with a roll of his eyes and a grumble under his breath, Arthur grabbed a cigarette from his shirt pocket and stepped out for a smoke.

John relaxed at his departure, trying not to let the older man’s comments get to him. His linework wasn’t perfect, but what artists’ was? John may not be the best in the shop, but he was damn good at hiding his mistakes. Besides, he’d never had a client complain.

Not yet at least. Today might be a first, if Arthur kept at it.

He glanced up at Hosea as he came to stand beside the client, leaning back to take a break and give the man a better view. He tapped his foot nervously when Hosea leaned in to study the piece closer and give his own critique.

“It may not be my taste necessarily, but your technique is good. Your hand is steady and your line weight is consistent. You’re doing a fine job, John. I assure you, you’re in good hands sir,” Hosea schmoozed the client on the table, clapping John on the shoulder and appeasing his customer with a reassuring smile.

The corner of John’s mouth quirked up in thanks, the praise bringing back some of his confidence. He finished the tattoo with no further interruption, Arthur choosing to spare him even further humiliation. He wiped down the tattoo, snapped a quick shot for his portfolio, and sent another happy client on their way with an aftercare sheet and his thanks.

“I ain’t never met someone so grateful for every tattoo they do,” Arthur ribbed, returning to his teasing now that the customer had left the building. “I swear, you look this close to blowin’ every client before they leave.”

John stammered at Arthur’s crude comment, speechless and flustered. He stomped back to his station to resume cleaning up, eager to get away from Arthur’s sharp tongue.

“Yeah, well at least I still like doin’ my job. Why you always gotta be such a sourpuss to all of your clients?” John glowered, busying himself with re-capping his ink bottles.

“A sourpuss?” Arthur asked incredulously, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline as his lips stretched into a cheshire grin.

“Yeah, a goddamn sourpuss,” John snapped back. Arthur couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him at the phrase.

“Well I’m sorry, Princess,” he chuckled, “I’ll make sure to get you some salt to cut that sour next time.”

“And maybe some tequila if you two don’t shut the hell up,” Karen interjected, rolling her eyes at the two bickering men. She tipped back in her chair, crossing her arms and shooting a glare at them from across the room.

John finished cleaning his station and packed his tools away, grabbing his sketchbook and throwing himself onto one of the waiting room couches. The big comfortable cushions all but swallowed him, and he stretched his long limbs over the arm to make himself comfortable as he settled in to work on some flash. Abigail, the shop receptionist, watched on with an arched brow, clicking her tongue as she busied herself at her computer.

“You know it’s my job to clean between clients, you didn’t have to do all that,” she mused, stealing a glance at the lanky man.

“Didn’t feel much like standing around and gettin’ berated,” John muttered.

“Oh, you know he just does it ‘cause it gets you so riled up. He’s like a school yard bully; just don’t give him a reaction and he’ll leave ‘ya alone,” she teased, trying to keep the smirk off her face. Anyone with sense knew that Arthur was picking on John more than any other artist that had come through these doors. Most blamed his style, not seeing his scribbles as the same breath of fresh air that Hosea and Dutch did.

But Abigail knew better. She’d been here long enough to see all kinds. Had heard enough whispers when people thought no one was listening.

Arthur Morgan was sweet on John.

And he had no clue how to show it.

The rest of the day passed by uneventfully, clients rolling in and out for their scheduled appointments. One by one the gang folded up their stations and took off for the weekend, excitement buzzing as they discussed their plans. Abigail was the last to leave, throwing John a pointed look as she locked the front door and said her goodbyes to Arthur, insisting that he finish up and get himself home at a reasonable hour.

Arthur liked the quiet of the shop at the end of the day. It gave him a chance to relax, to work without prying eyes and the commentary of his coworkers. This place had been a home to him for close to twenty years, and in its quiet moments gave him the peace he needed to get his best work done.

Half an hour deep into a drawing for an upcoming session, a sheet of paper was shoved angrily in his face. He was startled by the intrusion, deep in focus on meeting all of the appointment’s needs.

Arthur righted himself quickly, taking a better look at the page pushed at him. John grinned as he watched the older man take in his latest design, satisfaction fuelling him even further as Arthur’s lips fell into a frown.

“Really?” Arthur tsked, his brow furrowing as he looked over the piece.

“Really,” John replied cockily. “I’m thinkin’ it’s my best work yet.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, but said nothing to contradict John’s statement. He took the sketchbook page from John, careful not to smudge the wet ink as he examined the piece.

The dark image of a black cat, its face screwed up in a wince, stared up at Arthur from the table. Big bold letters, encased in a crude rendition of a traditional banner, spelled the words “SOURPUSS”.

It was certainly no American-traditional panther, but Arthur had to admit that the design was at least legible. There was no question of its subject, and even Arthur would give credit where it was due.

But of course, never to John.

“You know, this actually ain’t your usual lineup of terrible scribbles,” he admitted, the compliment sounding too good to John’s ears. “Too bad you couldn’t tattoo it if ‘yer life depended on it,” the older man jeered.

John scowled, fuming at how easily Arthur had turned him around. “I can so!” he protested, “I reckon’ that’d be the best tattoo I ever did!”

“Prove it then,” Arthur challenged, pushing himself away from the desk and gesturing towards his arm. “Why don’t you show us all just how great of an artist you can really be, Johnny.”

John prickled at the suggestion, snatching the paper from Arthur’s hands and shoving him out of the chair. “Fine,” he conceded, “go sit yourself at my station, and don’t touch any of my stuff!”

–

It wasn’t long before John had the stencil completed, determined as he stormed across the shop. Arthur rolled his eyes and stood from where he was lounging across John’s chair.

The older man gestured towards a gap in his sleeve that the design could go, tucked away in a barely visible space on the back of his left bicep.

“This ain’t much room to work with,” John complained, but applied the stencil anyway.

“Yeah well I ain’t putin’ it anywhere the world gets to see it,” Arthur snipped back.

“Could’a put it on your ass for all I care,” John muttered, the comment slipping out before he could give it a second thought. Arthur averted his gaze as his cheeks tinged red, surprised by his reaction to John’s boldness. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched John smooth down the stencil and graciously ignore Arthur’s fluster.

Once the design was on, John adjusted the chair to lay flat and instructed Arthur to stretch out at his station. The older man huffed as he lay face-down across the saran wrapped leather, settling into position so that they could get started.

John rolled his stool up beside the makeshift bed and set to work, the buzz of his machine making Arthur’s heart lurch as his body caught up with what was going on. No matter how many times he’d gone under the needle, nerves still flooded him before every tattoo. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on his breathing, letting his thoughts wander to keep his mind occupied.

He hadn’t really thought that John would have such a strong reaction to his teasing. For all of his prodding, the kid had come a long way from his first days in the shop. He was excited to learn and worked twice as hard as the rest of the artists in the shop, something that Dutch and Hosea must have recognized when they decided to bring him on.

He also hadn’t exactly thought about the location he’d chosen; on the back of his bicep directly beside a poorly drawn heart with the word “Mary” inside inked by dainty, inexperienced hands.

Apparently he was developing a habit of offering himself as a practice canvas.

John’s touch was light, gentle in a way he would never have predicted. He wanted to criticize the man, poke him and tell him that the ink wouldn’t stay if he didn’t go deep enough. But he knew he was reaching, and that John’s touch would make the process less painful.

He quickly halted that train of thought and let his eyes roam around the room. It had been a while since he’d been tattooed there, and it was strange to see the place from the eyes of a client. Bill’s collection of animal skulls nailed to the walls, Karen’s grotesque watercolours pinned around her station. The details that he missed in his day to day, but the ones that showed off the shop’s misfit personalities.

He caught a glimpse of John in a mirror hanging on the opposite wall. He was hunched over Arthur’s arm, working diligently for his chance to prove himself. Arthur couldn’t help himself from staring. John’s hair hung low, the shaggy cut framing his face and complementing his sharp features. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration, his piercing catching the light when he cocked his head. Deep scars added intensity to his slight frown. He looked serious and passionate and beautiful, and Arthur couldn’t look away.

A flash of pain dragged him from his thoughts as John worked towards his inner bicep. He sucked in a sharp breath at the sensitive spot, tensing involuntarily against the needle’s touch.

“It’s okay,” John soothed, his voice gentler than Arthur was used to. “I won’t be here long.”

Arthur only nodded in response, favouring silence to ignore the fluttering feeling in his stomach and the tightening of his chest. He cursed his body for betraying him. For making it impossible to deny the impact John had on him.

The rest of the tattoo went smoothly and quickly. Arthur could feel the smug grin John fixed him with as the younger man leaned back in his chair, declaring his masterpiece finished as he shut off his machine.

“Think I was right,” he boasted. “This damn well may be my best tattoo ever.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and pushed himself up off the chair, crossing the room to examine the finished product in the mirror.

He twisted himself around to get a better look, picking it apart as he eyed the tattoo. He scowled and opened his mouth to let his commentary roll, but stopped when he caught sight of John in the mirror.

The man was beaming with pride, cocky as all hell and wearing it well. His confidence only added to the attraction Arthur always felt, and he couldn’t find it in him to tear into John like usual.

It was a ridiculous style that Arthur loathed to call art, but the linework was clean and free of blowout. The design may not have been some show of all that tattooing could be, but it demonstrated an improvement in technique that Arthur couldn’t ignore.

“It ain’t terrible,” he finally said, his face softening as John’s smile grew wider. “I ain’t waxin’ poetic, and I’m still glad it ain’t anywhere anyone’s gonna see, but you’ve gotten better. Seems like you’ve been absorbing some wisdom through that thick skull of yours after all.”

“I told you, I’m not awful!”

“And I’ll tell you that you’ve still got a lot to learn. Your design is sloppy, that’s barely what I’d call shading, and I can see where your hand got tired halfway through. But I’ll take you on, show you what Dutch and Hosea showed me.”

“You’ll what?” John’s smile faltered dumbfoundedly, his expression turning to one of confusion.

“I’ll teach you how to draw, you idiot,” Arthur huffed, turning to face John. “We can practice after work when the place clears out. Can’t hardly learn a thing with all those morons running around, and you’ve sure as shit got some hard work ahead. But we’ll make an artist of you yet, if you’re willing.”

The younger man’s mouth hung open, his eyes wide like a deer stuck in headlights. Arthur fought back the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips, refusing to acknowledge how adorable John looked in that moment.

“I…I don’t rightly know what to say,” John remarked, wary as he seemed to mull over Arthur’s proposal.

“Why don’t you start with ‘thank you’,” Arthur scoffed sarcastically. “Now get this thing wrapped up and clean your shit before I realize what the hell I let you do to me.”

John rolled his eyes as Arthur returned, reaching for his alcohol bottle to clean him up. He wiped away the blood and ink just as gently as he tattooed, and Arthur felt the hair on the back of his neck stand at John’s tenderness.

“Thank you,” he heard John say, voice barely above a whisper. He couldn’t control the shudder that went down his spine, making him freeze in place as John bandaged his arm.

Arthur all but ran away once he was finished, turning on his heel and fleeing to the draft table to collect his things before John could notice the red colour in his face. John watched him dumbfoundedly, his own blush rising to turn the tips of his ears pink.

Abigail was definitely going to have to explain this one to him.

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