John Marston had always been the combative type. He has a habit of starting fights — some he could finish, some he couldn't. This was all the more common after he's had a few drinks.

John stumbled into camp, clearly intoxicated, searching for you. He walks, if you could even call it that, over to you, his bloodied face not hiding that signature smile. "...m‘ sorry, darlin‘..." He mumbled before being interrupted by a hiccup, his cheeks flushed while he burried his face in your chest.