Chapter Text
John wakes up in an unfamiliar place.
That's unsurprising.
He's naked.
Also unsurprising.
Brambles and goat-heads dig into his ass and thighs when he sits up with a groan. Still unsurprising, given how the midmorning sun is already high and burning in the cloudless blue sky.
The gun aimed at him? That's surprising.
“You the thing that killed two of my sheep?”
“Probably,” John admits, squinting up at the sun. It's too bright to clearly see the man before him but his voice is low and deep. “I– got money, sir. I can pay you for the damages.”
“Why'd you do it?” The man barks.
“Can I get dressed first?” John asks. “Then I'll tell you everythin’ you wanna know.”
The barrel drops but John doesn't fail to notice that it's aimed near his privates instead. Another second passes before the man sighs and turns around.
“Ain't got all day,” he says.
John gets dressed quickly, hopping into his clothes urgently and not wanting to waste any more time. His horse should be somewhere over the ridge and John reckons he could get back to Blackwater by noon.
“Here,” John says, getting into his satchel. “How much was the sheep worth, sir?”
“Keep your money,” the man dismisses. “Come inside. I wanna talk.”
“It's not unheard of,” a dark skinned man with a voice like honey says plainly. “I've heard myths about it before– a man is bitten by a beast and is cursed to become that beast with lunar cycles.”
“You're tellin’ me,” the other man says, “that he got bit by a wolf so now he's a wolf?”
“Kinda,” John cuts in. “It's just when the full moon comes around. I thought I was far enough from the ranch, sir. Turns out I wasn't.”
“The sheep he killed were lame, Arthur,” the first man says. “Uncle and I looked, both of them had some kind of rot inside of them.”
“...could smell it,” John says nervously. “When I did it. I didn't eat ‘em. It felt like I was doin’ a mercy.”
Arthur groans, rubbing his temples. “You could smell that somethin' was wrong with my livestock?”
John nods, fidgeting awkwardly. “One of your horses is pregnant, by the way. I think it's the sooty one but I couldn't tell.”
Arthur and the other man exchange glances, ignoring John. “Tennessee was sniffing around Aphrodite a few weeks ago,” the other man says.
“Charles,” Arthur says to the other man. “Can we talk outside?”
They leave John alone in the house and he thinks maybe now it'll be midday by the time he gets to Blackwater. Still seated at a kitchen table, John looks around the ranch house. It's nice, if not a little shabby, and it's clear that there isn't a woman's touch around the place. There's an empty bottle of liquor next to a rocking chair by the fireplace, the kitchen’s basin is full of dishes, and piles of clutter litter the space.
Something in John itches to right, to tidy, to clear up the space and make it into something neat and clean. But he's not even a guest in Arthur's home; he can't just start washing dishes and sweeping the floors. He can hear Arthur and Charles outside, but their voices are muffled as they speak. John could always leave a few dollars on the table and sneak out the back to find his horse, but that same itch compels him to stay where he is.
“You live ‘round here?” Arthur asks as the front door swings open.
“Not really,” John says. “Don't really have a home. Mostly just travel ‘round, stay in a city for a week or so, and do it again.”
“What do you do for work?” Charles asks.
“Odd jobs,” John shrugs. “Occasionally bounty huntin’.”
“Let me guess,” Charles says playfully, “you can sniff out where someone's hiding?”
John laughs softly at that. “Not always. I'm better with askin’ questions and trackin’ someone into the woods.”
“A wanderin’ man who turns into a wolf,” Arthur says, folding his arms across his broad chest. He regards John curiously. “Is that where those came from?”
John knows he's referring to the scars on his face. He nods, unsure if Arthur is asking for the whole sordid tale or if it's a general curiosity. He doesn't elaborate and he can see Arthur's clear blue eyes narrow as he examines John openly.
“I was goin’ to ride into Blackwater,” John says, unsure if he's worn out his welcome. “Pick up a bounty or two. You sure I can't repay you for those sheep, sir?”
“After you caught your bounty,” Arthur starts, “what's next for you?”
“Probably goin’ southeast,” John says. “Rhodes, Saint Denis, ‘round there. Tobacco fields usually need hands and the pay is decent.”
“Come back in a few weeks,” Arthur says. “If my mare is pregnant, you and I are gonna have a little chat.”
Sweat prickles nervously along John's spine. He knows the mare is pregnant, he just isn't sure which one. If he shows back up close to the moon, he'd probably be able to even narrow down when Arthur last bathed or what Charles had for breakfast the morning prior. Still he agrees and Arthur sends him out the door with a clap on the shoulder and a promise to speak to him soon.
John's dazed and useless the entire ride back to Blackwater. He finds himself outside the sheriff's office with little memory of hitching Esther and he takes a long minute to blink himself back to reality. He swears his can still smell Arthur's palm on his shirt, smelling sweat and earth and whatever soap the man uses. He shakes his head, telling himself that he's just being hopeful before going into the office for the posters.
He stays in Blackwater for 3 days and manages to easily find two decent bounties back to back. The cash is heavy in his satchel and John wonders if he'll even need to pick up fieldwork down south or if he can afford a few days off. He opts for the days off, riding further south to ensure that the nights aren't too cold. He could head towards New Austin, but that's a place he doesn't want to be after dark.
He makes it 3 weeks before he rides back to Beecher’s Hope. He spent a week around Rhodes and another week in Saint Denis, picking up bounties in both cities, and spent the rest of the nights camping in the woods. Something about the ranch makes him itch in a way he's never felt before and it feels like the only way to scratch it is to go back there.
Charles greets him as John rides up to the property. He smiles, broad and warm, and beckons John closer to where he can hitch Esther with the other horses out front. John finds a half smashed apple for his horse and she happily accepts the treat before nudging into John's palm for more.
“You were right,” Charles says. “Aphrodite is pregnant. You can't by chance sniff out the father, can you?”
They both chuckle at that, Charles's hand rubbing the already swollen stomach of that sooty mare. John has about a week until the moon and he isn't sure if he should tell either of them that his plan is for the night. He already feels different, feels his blood pump a little more irregularly, and he catches a whiff of leather and spun sugar when Charles passes by him. He cleaned the saddles, if John had to guess, and had some hard candy while he did so.
It's a deep smell, heady and welcoming, and part of John does want to press his nose into the hollow of Charles's throat to inhale it from the source. That's gotten John into trouble before; he thinks with his senses and suddenly some poor shopgirl finds herself pinned against the counter all because John got a sniff of fresh violets and anise candies from her soft skin.
But if Charles smells welcoming, then Arthur is downright intoxicating. John follows the trail like a bloodhound (like a wolf) into the house and finds Arthur coming out of what must be his bedroom. Heady, like Charles, but deeper with the hint of something sweet underneath. It takes John's brain a second to catalogue it but he settles on raw honey and Kentucky bourbon once he can think straight.
John immediately wants. He wants to shove his nose against Arthur's throat, his underarms, his groin, and inhale that dark sweetness until he's dizzy with it. He throbs, just slightly, beneath his jeans and his throat goes dry as he tries to act natural and unaffected.
“Neat trick with ‘Dite,” Arthur rumbles. “You gonna tell me my fortune next?”
“You will meet a wild wolfman,” John tries to play.
“I don't believe you, John. I think you got lucky,” Arthur says, serious as all hell. “But Charles believes you, and I trust that man with my life. A man who turns into a dog, huh? Who sniffed out that two of my sheep were rottin’ and that one ‘a my mares is pregnant?”
“I…don't know what to tell you,” John says before adding a quick “sir.”
“Three years ago, I w-was ridin’ up north,” John says quickly, looking everywhere but Arthur's eyes. “Wolves, sir. They got me. But they weren't no usual wolves. I burned, sir. Burned and froze for days. Woke up somewhere near Annesburg a week later. My horse was dead. I was naked and found my bag ‘bout two miles from where I woke up. Thank God for the homesteadin’ widow who weren't scared of a naked man covered in blood.”
“You was naked,” Arthur says, “when I found you outside.”
“You found my clothes,” John offers. “I– I thought I was far enough away from anyone. Guess not. I…I am real sorry about your sheep, sir.”
“Figured only a fool would willing roll around naked ‘round these parts,” Arthur softens. “You find any goat-heads in places you don't want?”
“I'm surprised I didn't,” John huffs a laugh.
“Charles wants t’ hire you,” Arthur says. “Personally I feel like there's enough hands around here, but like I said. I trust him with my life.”
Two men living alone on a ranch outside of town isn't eyebrow raising, but John wonders just what kind of relationship they must have if Arthur willingly defers to Charles for this around his own ranch. They clearly have history, and a deep one at that, but John can't tell if they're old Army buddies or clandestine lovers. Arthur leads them back to the main rooms, sniffing around that messy kitchen sink with a grimace as he throws two old tin cups from the table in with the mess.
“I could do some washin’,” John says without thinking. “Clean the place up a bit?”
“You cook?”
John makes a vague noise. “Passably.”
“Clean?”
John nods. “Been on my own for years. Used to scrubbing clothes in the river, but lye don't sting like it used to.’
“Mend? Sew? Read?”
“Y-yeah,” John stammers, unsure why he needs to darn socks or read books if he's helping around a ranch. “I ain't neat like a seamstress but I can do it.”
“Spare room’s up in the loft,” Arthur points. “Moon’s next week. What's your plan?”
“Ridin' out towards New Austin,” John explains. “Lotsa space ‘round there. Coyotes, rabbits, things like that.”
“Outlaws,” Arthur says with a strange smirk. “You eat them, wolfboy?”
“No?”
“Don't sound too sure,” Arthur plays, a weird sparkle in his clear eyes. “You could smell the rot in my sheep, yeah? Who's to say you could sniff out a man's sins?”
“Ain’t ever tried,” John says, stiff and not following whatever private game Arthur is playing with him.
“None of your bounties ever smell rotten?”
John snorts, if anything to try and clear the tension that he imagines. “Yeah, like stale piss and cheap liquor. Scrubbed vomit out of Esther's saddle more than once.”
Arthur stops toying with him. Genuine amusement reaches those pale blue eyes and John's heart creeps up into his throat. There's that smell again, that fresh, raw honey and that expensive, smooth bourbon. If John ran his tongue over Arthur's pulse point, would he feel like he just took a shot at a saloon? If he put his lips to the inside of Arthur's thigh, could he get drunk off the other man's body?
And why does this ranch house already feel like where John belongs? It's more than a home, it's more than a place to crash for a few nights. It's like his bones ache to settle here, like his body burns to fix the space up into something like a true home. Is it the wolf? It's not like John got a book explaining all the things that would happen to his body after those monsters got him.
Arthur insists on carrying John's small pack up into the loft and that same strange feeling curls in John's blood. It's private, relatively, and cozy with a small bed with a dresser and a smaller nightstand tucked away. John can see into the whole living space from this point of the house and his mind tries to make sense of where to start cleaning first.
“Here, let me grab y’ some extra blankets,” Arthur says as John starts putting his few extra sets of clothes into the dresser drawers.
John's mind flashes with thoughts of a den, of a hidden alcove that John tends among the furs of Arthur's kills. Nude, carefree, wild; Arthur would hunt and John would maintain the den for when he returned home.
“Ugh,” John grumbles, rubbing his eyes.
“Feelin’ alright?” Arthur asks.
“Yeah,” John lies. “‘s just a headache.”
Arthur drops an armload of blankets onto John's mattress but doesn't press. Out of his periphery, he sees Arthur fuss over the mattress, layering two extra blankets down with precision before folding the other three to set underneath the wooden bedframe.
Maybe Arthur maintains the den.
No!
John could slap himself. What den? What are they, wild men from some kind of penny dreadful? Jesus Christ, this is why John avoids other people whenever he can. So John clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck nervously.
“I'll get started downstairs,” John says, voice trying to stick. “I'll let you know when supper is ready.”
“The wolfman,” Arthur smirks again. “Domesticated already.”
John chuckles nervously, unsure of what to say. Arthur grants him mercy and exits the loft with a wave and silence, already shouting for Charles before he's outside the backdoor. John collapses onto the mattress, groaning loudly and rubbing his eyes again. He should go. He really should go. John's a freak, on multiple levels, and he can't presume to think that Arthur would accept him for any kind of deviant that he truly is.
Shamelessly, John thinks about Charles and Arthur. They're both so big, so broad, and John isn't sure if he wants to see them playfully tussling while shirtless on the back of the property or if he hopes they forget he's in the loft before they fuck on the floor of the living space. John wants to hide under Arthur's blankets upstairs, knuckles between his teeth as his other hand works painfully between his legs while he listens to Arthur pant and moan downstairs.
It's too easy to start cleaning. The kitchen is sparkling in less than an hour, piles of dishes set aside to dry as John dumps the dirty basin water into the brambles outside the window. He opens windows while the woodstove heats up, trying to dispel the extra warmth as he busies around the living space. It'll take him days to get this laundry done, and he's not sure if it's Charles's or Arthur's clothing, but that makes John's brain hum happily at the thought of keeping the den for his m–
His new friend.
Just a friend.
Friend.
Only friends. Nothing else. No, Arthur isn't like that. He and Charles are nothing more than fire-forged friends; there's probably a girlfriend in Valentine or a wife visiting family overseas. Arthur won't, won't smell like raw sweetness and good liquor, won't rip John's tattered clothes off and get John's legs over his shoulders, pressing him into that cheap loft mattress and fucking him like an animal.
No, John's just here for a few days. He'll get the house clean, sniff out any more abnormalities in the livestock, and ride off to New Austin for another painful full moon. Then it'll be back to bounties and tobacco fields and whatever else it takes to keep Esther fed and John functional. And if they cross paths in a year or so, then John can come say hello but otherwise?
He will leave this ranch behind. Even as much as the thought burns a hole in his chest.
On the night of the full moon, Arthur sits out in a rocking chair on the back porch to look at the night sky. He knows before he sees it, knows that something is prowling along the property. It's huge, the wolf is. Larger than any cougar that Arthur has ever seen, with shaggy dark fur that matches John's shaggy dark hair. The eyes are gold, shining in the silver moonlight, and the wolf regards Arthur curiously.
There's a shotgun next to Arthur, just in case, but the wolf yawns, not unlike a pup, and worms his way into the horse paddock. It goes straight to Aphrodite, sniffing her belly and ignoring how the other horses nicker and keep their distance. Something howls in the distance and the wolf jerks, eyes at the moon as it matches the howl with its own supernatural cry. The horses startle and the wolf tears out of the paddock and across the ridge.
Arthur waits. And waits. He hears the wolf panting as it crosses back over the ridge, dripping blood as it finds a patch of sandy dirt next to the back porch. It's tired, those gold eyes weary, and Arthur clicks his tongue while pointing to the patch of earth. With a huff, still so like a pup, the wolf curls in on itself and soon snuffles in sleep.
“Yeah,” Arthur says softly. “I think you're home now, boy.”