Chapter Text
When John faced down death in front his own barn, he wasn't sure what he felt most—heartbreak for what he fought so hard to come back to, approval that his family wasn't about to watch this, or shame for not using the chance Arthur gave his family better. If Arthur were here, he would've figured all this out. He would've protected them, gotten Abigail and Jack somewheres a hell of a lot safer than Blackwater. Arthur would've ensured all this peace lasted longer than twelve measly years. It's a lifetime in the life of an outlaw, but they were supposed to be out. They were supposed to be safe, and John messed everything up.
With his family under the gun, he had no other choice. More than that, he should've known better than to think the Pinkertons wouldn't screw him over six ways to Sunday. Like this, John can't help thinking about his brother, can't help wondering if his sacrifice would mean as much to his family as Arthur's did to him or if it wouldn't mean a damn thing in the end.
He would've killed me for parking my ass less than ten miles from where we were wanted dead or alive.
Arthur was smarter than he ever gave himself credit for.
And, oh, how he would hate seeing John now, riddled with bullet holes and soaked in crimson. He'd probably call him a fool. John supposes a quick death would've been a nicety, so ending his life with blood in his lungs and puffing from his lips only fits. He lived as an outlaw far longer than as a kept man. Hell, maybe he deserves it—to die the same way his brother did, wheezing in the last vestiges of his life.
"Is that all you ever think about? Shit, your wolf-eaten brains are a dark, dumb place."
John coughs, tilting his head slightly and finding his brother crouched over his dying body. "A-Arthur?"
"Yeah, it's me, dumbass."
"Sorry," John rasps, his mouth drizzling blood. Pain spiderwebs through his chest with each breath. "Made—ah!— a damn mess of things."
Arthur hums. He scrubs his chin thoughtfully. "A bit, yeah."
John barks a laugh, choking on it and only steadying again when Arthur's hand, too heavy to be imagined, presses against his chest. Although, he could be imagining this. Maybe. He's far enough gone now to hallucinate his brother easing his passing. It hurts.
"Would ya' quit your morose thinkin'? I ain't a hallucination, and I ain't leavin' you once you're on this side. Got it?"
This side?
"Yeah, this side. You'll quit hurtin' here in a bit."
Having Arthur beside him, while dubious in terms of realism, makes it easier, gives him something to hope for even as heaviness spreads over him. He prays Abigail and Jack made it out all right. Guilt pangs in his chest, because he's a damn liar. He told them he'd be right behind them even knowing in his heart he was about to die an outlaw's death on the land he called home.
"John-"
"I tried, Arthur," John wheezes, not noticing right away that his words come easier thanks to the emotion welling up in him. "I tried so hard to do it right for once. Didn't mean to fall back into the life-"
Arthur softens on him, gripping his shoulder tight and pulling him up into an embrace. John shakes in his grip, fragile in a way he hasn't been able to be in years—maybe since he was a child himself. Arthur's calloused fingers hold a little tighter, strong and steady the way he always was before he got sick.
"Easy, Johnny boy," Arthur soothes. His tone is one John hasn't heard since his teens, oftentimes woken in the night by some nightmare or other only to be calmed by gruff but gentle words soon after. "You're all right."
John shakes his head.
Sighing heavily at his brother's stubbornness, Arthur merely holds onto him until the storm in his heart ebbs into a dull ache. John feels guilty for leaving his family, yes, but he feels worse for experiencing the mildest bit of relief.
Relief that his presence will no longer bring trouble down on them, despite his best efforts.
Relief that Arthur is here with him, healthy and at peace.
"I get it, John," Arthur murmurs.
"I just wish it hadn't been so damn hard," John grits out. "Never knew what the hell I was doing, and then them Pinkertons tried to take Abigail and Jack away from me and I-"
Arthur hums, staying with him while the stress of the last several weeks spills out of him like a fountain, cascading over the edges of his wounded heart as he trembles. As always, even when they were fighting or not speaking to one another at all, his brother's presence comforts him.
"Just ain't made to live without me watching your every move, is you, Johnny boy?"
John huffs, swiping at his face and tucking it into his brother's shoulder where neither of them will ever acknowledge his tears falling in the first place. "Shut up."
For a moment, peace hangs between them.
Then, in the quiet space of one breath to the next, John's hair raises on the back of his neck, a sign of imminent danger drilled into him from a young age, and he locks gazes with a pitch black coyote. Its eyes glitter darkly, and it bares its teeth.
"Arthur," John breathes. "What is that?"
Arthur's grip on him tightens. "Something I wish I'd never fed."
Neither of them have even a moment to plan or move before it lunges forward, teeth bared and aiming for Arthur. John doesn't waste any time thinking. As Arthur always said, he's never been all that good at it anyway. Instead, he shoves his brother, taking the bite and howling with pain as Arthur calls his name.
The world turns white.
Snow white.
The clamp of slavering jaws leaves his shoulder and John slumps into something damp and cold. He blinks, shivering in the sudden chill and trying to get to his feet. Instantly, pain spikes up his left leg and he yowls, crashing back onto his side and curling up against a wall of rock. John breathes hard, eyes flicking around as he tries to figure out where he is.
He would have to be a fool not to recognize Mount Hagen.
"Arthur!" John shouts, his breath catching when a low growl nearby is his only response.
The wolves.
John presses a hand to his face, yipping when torn flesh meets his fingers. His scars, once healed as well as they could've been, are once again new and blindingly painful. He takes a breath, dizzy with agony as the reality of his situation sets in. He really is back on Mount Hagen.
Twelve years ago.
As black spots begin dancing in his vision, John shelters his face under his coat the same way he had back then to keep from getting frost-bitten. He pulls his shot leg as close as possible, choking down a cry of pain as he moves it. It's ridiculous, he thinks deliriously. He was shot twenty times all of ten minutes ago, so why does this hurt so damn bad?
Why does his shoulder burn with heat worse than any of the wounds, soon to be infected, from the wolves' claws? What did that coyote do to him?
Where is Arthur?