The Angel Butcher of Rio Bravo: An RDR2 Story

xl. Rest

John.

John, and Arthur and Tine behind him, found a campsite soon enough; hidden and sheltered from the wind. It was abutted by a small creek run with ice-cold water, where they washed the blood and dirt from their faces, their hands; John lifted his shirt to examine his torso, a blossoming bruise on his ribs that Tine touched gingerly with her fingertips.

The men elected themselves to set up the camp, leaving it unspoken that Tine was to rest. John pitched the tent from his saddle for Tine to sit beneath and Arthur wandered into the nearby trees to forage for wood and twigs, building a fire for her to warm by, for John to put a dinner together out of a few tins of food in his saddlebags.

Old Boy snorted when he went to retrieve his skillet and Tine started at the noise, staring wistfully at the big Halfbred. John connected the two, gave Tine a pitying frown. "Sorry about your girl, Tine, Darling." He said, remembering how proud she'd been of the horse when they'd first met, showing off the Paint's pretty features to John, the splotch of white on her minky flank, half-hidden by Tine's saddle.

Tine looked up and away, blinking heavily. "She was with me a long time," she said to the stars overhead, then forced herself to look back to the men across the fire, John's cooking abandoned. "Since the beginning, you could say. She took me out of Rio Bravo."

It was a part of Tine's moniker, letterpressed under her sketch on every bounty poster, but John had never put together that she'd actually been there, never given it a second thought. Next to him, he also sensed Arthur straightening out, his ears perk with interest; it was likely he hadn't heard Tine speak to her past, either.

"Took you out of trouble, you mean," there was a kind smile in Arthur's voice when he said it, but Tine only half-returned it, touching the handle of her knife before placing her hand on her knee instead. John watched it there, her fingers tensed, claw-like, hardly at rest.

"The worst trouble," she said, and on worst, John heard her voice catch. He wordlessly crossed their little camp to join Tine at the mouth of the tent, Arthur following soon after, so that she was sat between them, all three staring at the fire.

"I was just little when I lost my family, don't know how old," she said to the flames. "Don't know my birthday, as a matter of fact. Don't suppose you do?" She glanced at them both, the saccharine smile she gave at her own joke unsettling, but it faded without their reception. "Didn't think so."

She added: "I know how cruel those men were, though." Tine's voice broke, and she carried on in a whisper, as hers was the kind of story that could only be borne in whispers. John and Arthur took turns wiping the tears from her cheeks, holding her. John pressed his lips to the crown of Tine's head and looked to Arthur, his eyes shining, heartbroken.

"And that's when I found Darling. We rode out of town and never looked back." She concluded, glancing again at Old Boy and then each of them, laying backwards into Arthur's chest, her eyes sliding closed. John met Arthur's gaze before the older man fell into sleep, and he soon followed, slumber finding him quickly, safe among his gang of three.

*

Milton burst into the boatshop, his alligator's grin twisting into one of rage when he saw John not only freed from his bindings and upright, but armed.

"Impossible," he growled, raising his own sidearm to John.

"Maybe for you, friendless bastard," John said, tightening his grip on the gun Lenny'd left him.

"You have fewer friends than you think, John Marston," Milton sneered. "You've been running with Dutch Van der Linde since you were just a boy, and even all that history didn't stop Dutch from turning you in."

John considered telling Milton that was old news, that he'd come to it himself, but it was more satisfying to shoot him, so he did, perfunctorily, and with little joy in it.

John startled awake, the gunshot from earlier that night ringing once again in his ears. He exhaled slowly, calming his heartbeat, noting movement on the other side of the tent.

It was Arthur, stroking Tine's hair until she woke and turned her face to his. They kissed each other, Tine's face held in Arthur's massive, roughened hands like she were some precious thing; breakable china, a ring thought lost.

The pair were bathed in the limited light of the dwindling fire, amber-hued and treacly. John watched as Arthur helped Tine carefully remove her shirt, wind the one sleeve around her injured arm and off. He pulled her into his lap, kissing her more roughly, and John felt a heat grow around his collar, embarrassment and want all at once causing him to fidget where he lay.

It was enough for Arthur's gaze to snap to him, and Tine followed his eyeline, pausing on John with a smirk.

"You going to join us, John? Or just lie there?"

John gulped, looking from Tine to Arthur, afraid. In their youth they'd fought over women before, it seldom ending well for John. In the firelight, though, Arthur smiled slowly, his eyes heavy-lidded, but with a flash of startling blue just glimpsed through them.

"Don't she look delicious," he drawled, and John swallowed again, indulging himself a more diligent survey of Tine, bared to them both. She was a confection, white hair and skin made pale in their time in the mountains lit to honey, all of her extremities blushed pink.

John shuffled toward them on his knees and Tine fell forward into him, anchored in Arthur's lap but clung around John's neck. He kissed her hungrily, different from their kiss the morning before, what with all they'd come to know. John was somewhat aware of Arthur's hands rubbing along Tine's back and around to her thighs, but less so as they continued, Tine's small moans into his mouth much more deserving of his attention.

Arthur had begun to undo the buttons on her fly but John finished them, pressing her back into Arthur's chest and helping ease her pants over her hips, down her legs, and off. John captured her mouth again, relishing her thumb along his jaw, the small bite of her fingernails against his throat.

He kissed down her neck and sucked on a nipple before pressing his forehead into her sternum, marvelling at how differently they were behaving, how he'd always wanted Tine like this. He glanced up and saw her smile, almost bashfully, down at him, encouraging him along with the fingers of her good hand wound into his dark hair. But she didn't pull, or scratch his scalp. As if the three of them had silently agreed that after all of their brutality, it was time to be gentle to one another.

John continued kissing down Tine's stomach until he was level with the blonde thatch of hair under it, then bypassed it, teasing along her inner thighs, feeling her twitch under his lips. He glanced upward again, watching Arthur kiss against Tine's collarbone, her own lip held between her teeth and quivering. John smiled to himself, pressing his mouth against her and savouring the small jump in her hips, her stifled "oh!" of surprise.

He was heady with the smell and taste of Tine's sex so close to him, his stubble wet and chilling in the early-morning air. Tine moaned again - how vocal she was, he noticed - and John smelled tobacco, leather; the scent of Arthur's middle finger curling up and into her. She squirmed, balanced on Arthur's palm and looking to John for guidance, for support, so he broke off and kissed her again, holding her elbows to keep her upright.

Arthur had removed his shirt and his chest gleamed with sweat, a glazed look of contentment on his face to counter Tine's flustered expression as he added a second finger. She twisted, hurtling backward to collapse back into Arthur, turning her face to his. The pair of them looked so beautiful together, John thought, his heart breaking in one beat and mending anew in the next, remembering that he'd made Lenny promise to get his family out, that they were safe.

He caught Tine looking to him again, her hand reaching for him, felt the stroke of her thumb along his scarred cheek. Her mouth neared his for another kiss, but he pulled back, a tiny movement that she nonetheless caught, her eyebrows furrowing. John mirrored her touch, caressing her cheek.

"Arthur's got you, don't he, darlin'," he whispered, and even in the dim, he saw the tears spring to her eyes, both of them knowing what he meant.