Chapter Text
Strawberry
Late Evening
The cards are starting to get a bit boring.
Leaned back, with his legs kicked out and crossed at the ankles, John finds he no longer has to feign the looks of bored indifference as he mulls over the spread in his hand. Not even the thrill of his cheat car manages to rouse him now, not when the big fish had stopped biting an hour ago.
His pockets are already heavy with a substantial pot, and he’s always been good for quitting while he’s still ahead.
He sighs, knowing the hand is too dogshit to win even with his cheat card. So he slaps them down onto the table with a firm hand and a dramatized sigh of defeat. His chair legs screen on the wooden floor, drawing a few eyes to the little card table as he shoves himself to his feet, grumbling under his breath.
“Night lads, ‘ave a round in my honor, yeah?” As he speaks, he fishes out a handful of crumpled-up bills and tosses them onto the center of the table. It’s easy to pretend he doesn’t hear the muffled noises of relief, instead raising a hand to tip his hat before he turns on his heel and marches out of the bar.
It’s a welcome relief to step into the cool night air, savoring the pinch in his lungs as he sucks in a deep breath. Slowly his head falls back, squinting up at the stars as one hand digs around in his pockets. It takes a moment of grumbling and bitching under his breath before he finally finds his quarry, extracting the dented-up tin with a huff of annoyance.
Only to flip the lid and find it empty, minute shreds of tobacco mocking the craving nagging at his twitching fingers.
“Fuckin’ Christ.” He mutters, snapping the tin shut as he rubs a hand over his face and scowls at the ground. He casts a forlorn look toward the darkened shutters of the general store, scuffing the dirt with his boot as he shoves the tin back where he found it. Not even a chance there.
Not enough money in the world to convince a sleepy store owner to wake up long enough to make a sale.
Hanging his head with a long-winded sigh, his shoulders hunch as a particularly chilly gust of wind cuts across him. Best to sleep it off for the night with whatever bottle of booze he can pilfer, he supposes. By the time he wakes with a pounding skull, the general store will be open, and the craving will be back with a vengeance.
Just as he lifts a foot to start walking, footsteps echo in the empty street behind him, a warm, southern twanged voice calling out.
“Lookin’ desperate for a smoke there, brother.” Turning sharply, John’s narrowed eyes land on a pair of men suddenly looming at his back. Stormy grey-blue eyes rake over them, and he doesn’t afford them the courtesy of a friendly greeting. Instead, his hand falls firmly on the grip of his pistol, and he eyes them with evident mistrust. Neither man seems particularly disturbed by this, the older simply raising a placating hand.
“Now, hold on there for a minute, son. No need for that. We’re just hopin’ for a chat, is all.” The older of the pair pipes up, shrewd eyes raking up and down his body. Decidedly, he already doesn’t like him, and John has the feeling it’s mutual to boot. His attention, however, is stolen by the younger of the pair as he coughs, a hand lifted and waggling a pack of… bloody hell, cigarettes.
‘The fuckin’ premium kind’, he thinks, wondering just what it is he’d have to do to get them.
Rocking back on his heels, his hand remains on the grip of his pistol, eyeing them with a glimmer of curiosity and vague annoyance. He could have started on his first glass of Scotch by now.
“Gaggin’ for one, actually.” He hums, chewing thoughtfully on his lip. “Ya don’t look familiar, though, a’spose I don’t live in the area. What’cha want, lads.” They don’t seem surprised by the thick Scottish brogue that rolls off his tongue, and it tickles at the back of his mind as the younger shrugs.
“Well, we aren’t from round here neither brother. Here.” John almost fumbles the pack right into the dirt when it’s tossed at his head, eyes wider than he’d like to admit as he steadies himself. No one just tosses around smokes like they’re fucking candy, not in these parts, at least. However, the more he eyes them up, the easier it is to guess they really aren’t from around these parts. They’ve certainly dressed the part, sharply pressed suits, funny little bowler hats, and dangling gold pocket watch chains.
But they both have muddied boots and a rigid set to their shoulders, telling him they aren’t the usual visiting rich that Strawberry often saw.
John’s eyes remain pointedly fixed on them as he breaks the seal on the pack and plucks out a crisp, fresh roll. Even as he digs into his pocket for a matchbook, he holds their unwavering eyes, lighting up and taking his first drag with a low hum of appreciation.
The craving begins to settle, and his mind only sharpens as he takes another drag.
“Well, out with it then, lads round here don’t go throwin’ good smokes' like currency. What’cha wantin’ with lil ole me?” His thumb flicks off some of the ash before he lifts the glowing ember back to his lips, taking another firm pull. The smoke’s cloying, settling deep into his lungs before he exhales, smoke curling his nostrils and lips.
“Just as observant as they said then.” The older huffs, a glint in his eyes that John doesn’t like. It’s the younger; however, that simply flashes him another one of those smiles and gestures down the street to the only boarding house in town. “What’cha say we take this indoors, eh? Somewhere a bit more private, over drinks, maybe? It’s a bit… Sensitive. You know the deal.”
John can’t help but snort, shaking his head as he crosses his arms over his chest. Fuckers know just how to get to him. Well, one less glass of Scotch before he passes out for the night, he supposes. “Can’t say I do, lad, but lead the way.”
He doesn’t expect them to put an armed man to their backs so willingly, but neither seems to care, breezing past him with looks so calmly assured as John’s forced to fall into step at their backs.
Well, at least no one can say his night wasn’t interesting.
The short walk to the boarding house is silent. Even as they slip through the crowded downstairs and climb to the second floor, no one says a word. At the fifth door down the hall, the older of the two produces a key, and John can’t help but shoot a longing glance toward his own door down the hall.
Hopefully, this fuckery won’t take all damn night.
The pair split as they step into the room, slipping off their hats and overcoats as they go. The old man, a baldy (he has to suppress a snort as his own internal monologue), settles into a rickety chair by the window as the younger, a sandy blonde, moves to the wardrobe across the room.
The clinking of glass can be heard as John steps into the room and shuts the door, leaning back with his shoulder against it. It feels good to have somewhat of an upper hand now.
Even if they both make a go for him, he’s in the only viable exit and still very much armed.
“You’ve got a hell of a reputation, MacTavish; you know that?” The blonde speaks over his shoulder, rummaging for a long moment amidst a few bags settled on the floor. John simply grunts in affirmation, eyes dark and narrowed. They know his name, and it sends nails down his spine. The feeling of eyes boring into the side of his head has him turning, finding the older one still staring, like he’s trying to get a read on him and failing. So he keeps his expression neutral, his eyes impassive.
A challenge, a dare.
The bastard's face twists into something curiously smug, and John finds himself barely fending off a frown.
Then the younger man moves into his line of sight again, holding out a whiskey glass and brandishing the bottle at him. He takes it, scrutinizing the label as it’s poured. Not really his preference, but it’d do. “Suppose introductions are in order. A bit rude of us not to share, eh boss?” A sharp snort fills the room, and John simply rolls his eyes, taking a sip of the amber liquid as the younger continues. “You can call me Graves. The grumpy bastard is Shepherd.” John can’t help but raise a brow sharply in question, and the bastard--Graves, chuckles in response. “We’re Pinkerton Agents, John, and we’re hopin’ you can help us out with somethin’, given your… talents.”
Like the snap of a finger, John’s spine straightens, and the smug aura the old geezer has been giving off suddenly makes a hell of a lot more sense. Fuckers are practically untouchable, and John’s willingly walked himself right into the lion's den.
“If your Pinkertons, the fuck you needin’ a Bounty Hunter for, lads?” Despite his surly tone, John is curious. The Agency was famed for its work, its being the keyword. The idea that they might be desperate enough to seek outside assistance was honestly… A little shocking. Taking another, far-angrier sip of his whiskey, he watches as Graves turns away again, bending to fetch a sheaf of papers from the duffle on the floor.
He turns and silently holds them out.
John eyes him warily before he slugs back what’s left of his glass and hands it back, taking the papers from his hands as he goes.
Giving them a quick flick in his hands, he drops his eyes to the paper and feels his breath catch against his teeth. Five familiar busts glare back at him, five varying degrees of pissed off and murderous. Each one wears a shoddily sketched hat and face covering, all except the man in the middle. Silently he flips through each page, the individual busts staring back at him like they might leap off the paper to fucking strangle him where he stands.
“Steamin’ fuckin’ Jesus.” He blinks sharply, eyes snapping back up to Graves before dancing towards Shepherd. Suddenly they both look deadly serious, eyes fixed sharply on him like fuckin’ hawks. “No offense, lads, but I’m not bloody fuckin’ suicidal.” He growls as he thrusts the papers back toward Graves, glaring hotly at him.
John knows he’s good, and while his reputation might be a bit embellished in a few places, he definitely isn’t a fucking eejit. You don’t get work if your name isn’t known or if your achievements don’t outweigh your fuck ups.
So being asked to hunt one of the most notorious gangs on this side of the Country? It’s endearing, but only someone with a fucking death wish would even think about it.
Graves doesn’t take the papers, giving a sharp shake of his head. “Lemme explain, John. We don’t want you to hunt the entire gang. Just one of the bastards. He’s separated from the others right now, and we need all hands on deck to catch the fucker before he goes to ground again.” Wide gray eyes settle on him, and he knows the bastard is just trying to appeal to him. His eyes flick back to the wanted poster, frowning darkly.
Even if the fucker is on his own for the time being, he’s still a member of a vicious gang, vengeful bastards from what he’s heard. They don’t have a bit of mercy in their souls for the lawmen who come after them, and he knows he’d be no exception.
He’s a lucky bastard to have not crossed the 141 yet, having managed to steer plenty clear of their usual hunting grounds. Despite the size of just the individual bounties, he doesn’t think he can justify the risk of the 141 coming down on his head for skelping one of their demented little pals.
“If you bring him in, son, we double the bounty.”
His head snaps sharply toward Shepherd, eyes wide and hands clenched in tight fists. Doubled bounty, a doubled bounty for a man who’s running on his own until he finds his group of deadly friends again.
So that begs the question…
Can John find him first?
Silently he mulls over that thought, eyes falling on the poster that holds crudely sketched versions of each face.
“Which one?” His eyes dart back up to Shepherd now, and the fucker has the audacity to grin at him, knowing full well that they’ve got John hooked now.
“The creepy bastard with the skull mask, Ghost.” Shepherd hums, nodding to the papers.
Silently, John sifts through them until he finds the poster he’s looking for, eyes narrowing.
Two dark eyes glare back at him from the crinkled paper, squinted and hooded like he’s pissed and half asleep. His nose is off-center, broken too many times, and never healing quite right. His hat rides low on his sketched face, a few curls of hair poking out from beneath its wide brim as he glares at whatever bastard was stupid enough to try and memorize his face.
One-on-one, those were damn good odds for John, even against the famed Ghost.
He can’t help but think that he’s going to come to regret his next words.
“Alright, where was he last seen?”