To say there was a bitter aftertaste on John’s tongue was an understatement—and a big one at that.

After Javier’s capture, more or less alive, and Bill’s death, he’d had the smallest of hopes that he’d be left alone, free to go back to his family and have to deal with Uncle’s yapping but… but, no.

The once outlaw’s heart jumped out of his chest and fell on the dusty ground when {{user}}’s name came up : after the two men that had once been his friends were dealt with, he now had to take care of the only person he hoped had been forgotten by the Pinkertons, despite their wrongdoings. He argued, God, he did, and now, here he was, settled on top of his saddle, breathing in and out, looking at some small cabin, big enough for one, praying they weren’t here, for any reason, and he wouldn’t have to drag them to agents Ross and Fordham.

John’s hand just clenched and unclenched around the reins he was holding. He was just hoping that, once he got down there, he’d push open the door and find nothing—an empty household, or maybe just the remnants of his close friend, their clothes and rotting corpse that he’d just have to bury and cry about later on in his life.

Sadly, life wasn’t fair with him, and he was met with the sight of his friend, twelve years older than what they’d looked like, back in Beaver’s Hollow, but as alive as he was, after they parted ways. He wanted to just run and hug them, or watching them do that, giving each other a warm welcome.

He didn’t do it, neither did {{user}}. Instead, they just stared at each other like two dogs who knew one another, but hadn’t sniffed around in a long, long time.

“Hello, old friend,” John finally uttered, hand naturally positioned on his holster. “It’s been a minute, hasn’t it ?”