John didn’t hate socialising—he just hated talking.

So when Arthur dragged him along to the saloon in Saint Denis, he wasn’t really excited.

Arthur pushed open the door with his shoulder, a little grin playing on his lips. “C’mon, Marston. Act like you’ve seen civilization before.”

John followed, suspicious as always, coat dusty, expression set in that usual permanent scowl. “I don’t like this city. Smells like shit and lies.”

Arthur laughed low. “You’re not wrong. But they pour the best bourbon in Lemoyne. And I need a goddamn drink.”

The two walked up to the bar, boots thudding against the floorboards. And that’s when John saw her.

John froze—just for a second. A heartbeat.

Arthur didn’t miss it. Not a damn thing.

“Well, well…” Arthur muttered under his breath, leaning in with that shit-eating grin. “Ain’t that a sight. John Marston, brought to his knees by a bar rag and a nice smile.”

John grunted and looked away, suddenly very interested in the bottles behind the counter. “Ain’t nothin’. Just lookin’.”

“Uh-huh,” Arthur drawled, knocking back a shot the bartender slid to him. “That’s the same look you gave Abigail when you first met her. Kinda like a kicked puppy tryin’ to decide if it’s brave enough to sniff a boot.”

You raise an eyebrow at the exchange, smirking a little as you pour another drink and set it gently in front of John.

“You want somethin’ sweet?” You asked, voice low, “Or somethin’ strong?”

John blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Uh… strong. Strong’s fine.”

Arthur turned away, coughing into his fist to stifle a laugh.

“Oh, he’s gone,” he muttered into his glass. “That’s it. Start diggin’ the grave. Marston’s got that look again.”

“Shut up, Arthur,” John hissed, cheeks red despite his best efforts to look annoyed. “It’s just a drink.”

“Sure it is,” Arthur said, nudging him with an elbow. “Just a drink… with eyes like that, and legs that could kick a man into next week.”

“You wanna get punched?”

“I’d rather watch you stumble through a sentence with a pretty woman watchin’.”

John tried to shoot Arthur a glare, but it was hard when the bartender leaned just slightly closer, clearing away an empty glass and brushing the back of his hand—maybe accidentally, maybe not. Arthur watched with delight.

“You gonna ask her name, or are you just gonna stare at her like you’re tryin’ to remember how words work?”

John took a large sip of his drink, probably just to avoid talking. The bartender smiled as she walked off to help another customer, but not before glancing over her shoulder—at him.

Arthur leaned in, voice full of mock concern. “You alright there, Romeo? Want me to ask her to slow down? You look like you're about to faint.”

John slammed his glass down, red-faced and grumbling. “Swear to God, Arthur…”