Chapter Text
solivagant [so·li·va·gant]
(adj.) someone who wanders or rambles the world alone; a solitary traveler
//--//--//
John Marston was a wanderer.
Never had the privilege of calling one lone place home, because that felt foreign and wrong, moving before all the local places started to feel familiar, picking up and moving on, that was him. Moving on before a place could give him a chance to feel right in all the wrong places.
Most time he ever spent in one place, was almost a year, holding down a shitty job as a cashier at a gas station before he was fired, and he had to run again because he had lifted almost fifty bucks off the tired half-coherent owner to fuel his own half-beaten up car to rattle on to the next exhausted town.
He town-hopped, town to town to next dusty old broken town, sleeping in his car, because paying for a lease for an apartment would just be a waste of money because if there was one consistent thing he could count on in his shitty, inconsistent life, was the violence and crime that followed his name. Putting down roots, when they were sure to be pulled up violently was a waste of time and money, so he just kept himself comfortable, knew how to live out a trunk, and did laundry every few weeks when he could.
Police reports named him as a criminal, petty larceny, auto theft, and disturbance of the peace highest on his rap sheet. He preferred to call himself fucking desperate, although the one time with the car was when he was barely a day over eighteen, and he had been high off his ass. And stupid too, because he'd only just barely gotten off with a few years, and a bigass fine, his lawyer arguing his sentence down for him from a damn felony to a misdemeanor. He'd even gotten off early on goddamn good behavior.
John Marston, on good behavior, what a joke.
Barely twenty-five, and he's had prison time, already. Pretty sure it was written over the way he stood, hands shoved deep in pockets, back against the wall, waiting for somebody to come by and just look at him wrong so he could just have an excuse. His daddy had been goddamn right about him.
He had just been fired from his last job, something about appearances in the workplace and John wanted to yell back that he was washing dishes for fuck's sake, in the back of a fuckin' burger joint. But he didn't, instead letting that warm anger wash over him, and pushed over the stack of dishes carefully stacked on the side of the stainless sink. The sound of the dishes shattering into little shards soothed him, and he knew it would take the place a long time, and a few pinched pennies to buy those dishes back.
So yeah, now he's got willful destruction of property tacked onto his name, but he was out of town before he could be picked up, getting out before they got wise. He raced along empty wide roads now, windows down because he hadn't had air conditioning for a long painful time. He palmed the worn leather steering wheel in one handle, gazing out at the rolling plains, the other hand out the window tracing the wind.
It was hot, not a humid hot, like in the deep south, where the air had as much water in the air as in the swamps and rivers that made up the midlands of the South. This was a dry heat, long stretches of winds over long stretches of open land that whipped heat in somber waves.
Distantly he wondered if he would bump into one of the highway towns, one of those towns that always had one of those sketchy motels and maybe he could sleep in a bed for a night or two if his money stretched. He could go for a day or two at times, riding the highway, before he saw one of those highway towns, as he termed them, little shitshows of civilization served only to serve travelers, little fast-food chains, and sleazy motels outfitted with prostitutes and drug dealers.
The sun began to set, and he cranked the windows up, the bitter chill always hitting quicker once the sun had set, and shook out a cigarette. It was a vice he couldn't quite shake, smoking, and once, when he did try to quit it, he'd never felt weaker when he'd walked into a convenience store a day later, and a box of Marlboros was staring down at him. He'd paid for them, hands shaking, and walked out. He hadn't tried again after that.
An old worn sign caught his eyes as he let out a yawn, and he squinted at it, trying to read it in the waning light. Valentine est. 1872. He let out a low whistle, glancing again at the sign in his rearview mirrors before turning a highly illegal u-turn and turning onto the exit. He needed gas, his meter reading near empty, and he felt dead tired. He let out a steady breath, waving away the smoke that settled around his head, and hoped this place was far enough from the last place that he had just run from.
//--//--//
Valentine definitely wasn't one of those highway towns. It had barely an operational stoplight, and John counted more grain feed stores than actual people, and he felt out of place, more than he did usually, his old battered car, bumper still wrapped in duct tape sticking out among the trucks he wove around. A worn-down gas station sat slouched off the road, and he pulled in, quickly trying to decide if he had enough to get a full tank or to just put a few gallons in and push his car as far as it could again. He sat for a few minutes, flipping through crumpled bills, muttering softly to himself, and squinting up at the bleary gas display above him.
$2.67
He groaned and checked again, before glancing up at his gas meter wincing at the reading, and breathing in deep, he peeled off a twenty and walked inside the decrepit building. A bell, long gone out of tune, announced his presence and an old man waved at him as he walked towards the counter.
The man was the very definition of old town living, all wrinkles and nicotine-stained beard, cigarette hanging from his mouth. "You new here?" He asked as John approached, looking him up and down.
John sighed, placing the bill on the counter. "Sure," he answered roughly. "How much will fifteen get me on pump three?" He asked, keeping his eyes on the counter.
A worn hand grabbed the bill, dragging it over the counter. "It'll getcha not enough to get out here if that's what you want." The old man cackled and John glanced up at him. "Fifteen bucks'll get ya only..." He paused staring at an old monitor, and John swore he saw the thing smoke. "It'll get you only five gallons son."
John grit his teeth, fisting his hands inside his jacket. "How much can I get with the whole bill, then?"
The old man shrugged, poking at the creaking keyboard, before slowly turning back and shrugging. "Just 'bout two more gallons."
"How far is the nearest town from here?" John asked, suddenly exhausted.
"Long ways." The man said, finally pulling his cigarette out of his mouth to answer him. "Take you a long while to reach it, if you keep on the interstate, at 'most a day if you take the backroads."
He was fucking stranded. Barely had money to put gas in his car, and this was the fucking town he ended up in?
"Just put the five gallons in." He managed, grabbing the five dollars back and looking for a bottle of beer to drown his sorrows in once his car was done. He went back up to the front, placing the bottle down, and pushing the rest of the money over.
"There's a motel 'round here." The old man started, carefully ignoring John's sulking glare. "Not too bad of a place, if you need a place for a few nights."
John took the offered bag, nodding softly, knowing full well he had no damn money to afford a motel room, not now. "Where's it at?"
"If you came down the main drive," he pointed down the street. "You'd've driven past it. Valentine's own bed and breakfast turned motel." He chuckled, and John nodded at him, pushing open the off-tune door. He settled into his car, folding his arms over the wheel for a second, and resting his chin on them, before driving out of the old gas station. He turned back the way he came, retracing old steps before he finally found the Valentine Motel, a two-story building looking about as stable as he felt.
He yanked his keys out of the ignition, and locked his car, feeling a sense of anxiety about leaving his entire life behind as he made his way inside. It was dim inside, with little lamps posted around the place to drag the customer's attention away from peeling wallpaper and wet spots on the floor. The desk was empty, and John was tempted to just grab a key, and give himself a room, before the more rational side of him kicked in and sternly told him he didn't have enough gas in his car to be thinking like that. So he just stood there, blinking kind of slow, staring at what had to be the world's worst painting of a boat, when the owner walked out, brushing her hands on her shirt.
"Oh," she glanced up, taking him in, no doubt taking in his worn appearance. He couldn't blame her, it had been a tad too long since he had actually taken a shower, and now he awkwardly pushed back a strand of greasy hair. Her eyes drifted down to his threadbare jeans, and he stepped forward, hiding behind her desk, away from her piercing stare. He frowned. Hell was wrong with these people, ain't they ever seen someone like him before anyways?
"Hey," he started, twisting his hands like they were going to escape off the end of his arms. "What do you charge a night for a room?"
She cocked her head, flipping through a book, before glancing up at him. "What kind of room?"
"Jus' one bed." He was quick to follow up after his reply, knowing well what she was thinking. "It's jus' me."
She nodded, her finger scanning over the pages. "Goin' rate for a one-bed room? 'Bout forty dollars."
"Goddamn, forty dollars?" He shook his head. "Ain't you got something a little cheaper than that?"
"Than forty dollars?" She stared up at him incredulously, not quite able to hide that look. "You want a shower?"
He blushed, shaking his head. He could go without again, he reckoned, and she nodded, moving her finger down towards the bottom. "Got a room here, goes for 'bout thirty."
"For only one night?" He asked hopefully. She nodded, pen twirling between her fingers.
"You want the room or...." She glanced back towards the door, and he frowned, shaking his head as he backed away, and she shrugged, closing the book up. "Sorry."
He spent the night in his car.
//--//--//
Job hunting when you've been fired from most any job you've ever held makes it incredibly hard, but job hunting in a town where everyone grows up knowing everyone makes it almost near difficult.
John wasn't really a proud man, not really, he figured life had humbled him enough, and as he looked into the rigged compartment where he kept his savings, he felt another universe-humbling punch as he realized he'd have to start dipping into that sooner than later.
So he rattled around town, leaning on counters talking to more people than he wanted to, asking more gnarled face old men if they needed help, asking more tired, chewed-up shift managers if they wanted more help, and getting shot down every damn time. He had a ghost of a promise with the local grocery mart, with unloading local produce, but he flaked on them when the owner had asked for a background check. He was almost in with a little despondent ma'n'pa's restaurant everyone swore by, but one look at his resume had sent him away, and now he was back in his car, cigarette in one hand, yellow pages in the other. Reading was never his strong suit, he stumbled over words for as long as he could remember, and even now he shoved the book away from him after trying to puzzle out the local businesses names.
His fault for not finishing high school.
The night was setting in, heralded by a chime of crickets whining in the distance and John got out of his car, the itch to move set in deep in his bones. He smoked as he walked, shaking a little trail of ash as he went, and weaving a trail of smoke behind his head. He passed the local grocery, closed now, big once-white letters stained from the years gleaming in the night. It was barely eleven, and the town was closed down tight, businesses closed almost a whole hour before except for the quiet little emergency clinic. As far as John could see, the light stayed on, flickering through the drawn curtains.
He didn't really know what he was looking for. He just walked until he tossed his cigarette over his shoulder, shoving both hands into his jacket, and moved on, thoughts heavy in his brain. The familiar sounds of drunken singing cut through his thinking and he glanced up.
A bar, a goddamn bar. Finally.
He hadn't stumbled across one on his search for a job, but maybe he could get a drink, or a job, or maybe both if he got lucky. He crossed the street.
It was a sort of subdued loud inside, kind of loud that settled in around people too friendly with each other. John made his way up to the bar, squeezing to find a seat to collapse into, and pulling out some of his few remaining bills.
The bartender, a smiling black girl, came over to meet him, shouting over her shoulder at one of her customers before turning to him.
"What can I do for ya?" She said, leaning back, hands heavy on the counter behind her, and if John had to guess, she was taking pressure off her feet. He could relate, having worked long hours with little thanks many times before.
"Jus' a whiskey, neat." He said, nodding at her as she poured him a fingerful of the stuff. She slid it over the counter and went off to serve another customer while he stared down into his drink. A shoulder hit his, and he jolted back, adrenaline kicking in as he reared back, glancing around hastily for the person who had hit him. No one came forward, and feeling like a fool, he dropped his raised shoulders and settled back around his drink.
"Want another?" The tender's voice cut through his own daze and he glanced up. She was back over to his side of the bar, checking up on her customers.
He glanced down at the glass, whiskey still untouched, and blushed. "Still workin' on the first one, I reckon." He said softly, before raising the glass. The woman laughed, her hands moving fast as she shook up another drink, pouring two drinks quickly.
"Thought you fell asleep on me." She said, pushing the glasses towards two men who picked them up, sipping at them carefully. "Had to make sure."
John forced a laugh. "Takes more than one shot of whiskey to knock me out."
She laughed. "'Course. Always is with your type." She reached a hand over the bar, and John hesitantly shook her hand. "'M name is Tilly Jackson. You not from around here."
She staged it as a question, but he could read the accusation in her voice. He sighed, and nodded. "No, jus' got here, yesterday about."
She nodded, pouring him another drink. "It's on me." She said, at his look. "Consider it a 'welcome to Valentine' drink or some shit." She poured herself one and held it out to him, and they knocked glasses clumsily.
He glanced back at her. Tilly was just shy of petite, long braids swept back in a faux yellow bandana, matching her yellow shirt.
She liked yellow, he thought, as he slammed his glass back down. "John." He offered, not all too eager to offer up his last name. Not yet. She didn't push for it either, just nodding before mixing up another drink shouted across to her.
"Well, John," Tilly turned back to him. "What you doin' here in ol' Valentine?"
John shrugged. "Ain't got much of choice, you know? Jus' kind of stuck for now, til I can move on to the next town, and then on to the next." At her look, he let out a strained laugh. "I like it, it's how I live."
"Sounds lonely." She said, twirling a glass under her thumb. "But Valentine ain't too bad, not really, if you have to stay a while."
"'M lookin' for work," John said, propping his head up in his hands, staring at the pictures she had tacked up in the back of the bar. Unknown faces smiled back at him and he glanced away.
"You're in luck then."
"Huh?" He eyed her, luck being the last word he'd tack onto his situation. "Ain't feel much like it."
Tilly laughed, holding a finger up, rushing off to pour more drinks. John waited, eyes drawn back to the pictures on the wall, those cracked happy faces staring into his soul.
"We're in the middle of bumfuck nowhere," Tilly said as soon as she had a moment back to him.
This made no sense to him, and he glanced back at her, brow raised. "I knew that. How--"
"You ain't listenin'." She said impatiently. "We're in the middle of nowhere, so we got people raising and sellin' things like horses and cows." At his look, she sighed. "Ranches. John. Ranches."
He shook his head, disappointment settling in his gut. "I ain't good with that sort of stuff." He said slowly.
She barreled on over him. "Now to be fair most of us got some modest places, don't really hire hands, don't have a reason to, but we got two big ranches up near here, the O'Driscoll ranch and the Matthews ranch."
"I ain't that good with horses." John glared down at the table. "Jus' ain't cut out for it."
Tilly stared at him, lips screwed up as she thought. "You know how to fix an engine, things like that?" She said finally.
He'd coaxed his old car along for this long, he'd reckoned he was fairly okay with engines. "Sure," he shrugged. "I'm decent."
"VDL Car Shop, a few miles away, they might take you if you know your stuff."
"VDL?"
"Yeah," she didn't meet his eyes. "Out past the church, take a right and it should be near if you keep driving a few miles."
"Okay," he handed her a few bills to cover his tab and to thank her for her help, none of which he felt he rightly deserved. "Thanks then."
"No problem John. Reckon I'll see you back here?" She flipped through his bills, glancing up at him, and he nodded.
"More than likely, yeah."
She laughed, stuffing the bills in her apron pocket, and waved him out the door.
//--//--//
He drove up to VDL Car Shop the next day, his own car barely holding on, and he hoped nobody heard him as he drove into the parking lot rattling and popping. He'd actually barely made it through the front door before a dark man approached him, greased all the way up his forearms, and practically shoved a clipboard into his chest.
"What's wrong with it?"
"What?" John glanced down at the clipboard, realizing the man thought he was here to get his car fixed, and then panicked when he thought about the amount of money that would take and that he definitely did not have.
"Your car." The man said calmly, still holding the soiled clipboard at him. John glanced at the name tag sewn hastily to his once-blue uniform. Charles Smith.
"I, uh, I ain't here for a car job." He said, looking away from the uniform and back up into that passive face.
"You aren't." Charles seemed surprised, and John shoved the clipboard back with a fit of barely restrained anger as he remembered at the very last second he was trying to get a job here.
"No," He took in a calming breath and looked around the place. A little radio played some old country tunes in the back, a wheezing fan blowing papers across the office. "I'm gonna sound real forward, but I'm lookin' for work."
Charles stared at him. "We ain't hirin'." He said finally.
John shook his head. "I can do whatever, fuck, I can even clean the damn toilets, jus' I was told that you were hirin'."
"Who told you we was hirin'?" Charles eyed him, and John suddenly felt small.
"Uh, shit, you know, the bartender in Valentine?" He said, suddenly not wanting to rat Tilly out.
Charles's face changed perceptively, and he eased slightly. "Tilly Jackson, was it?"
"Reckon that was her name." He said, lying through his teeth. "Sure."
"Boss ain't in right now," Charles said, scribbling something down on a piece of paper. "But we'll get back to you in a bit." He glanced up at him, and John stared at him, wondering where the sudden change had come from. "What's your name?"
"John." At Charles's long pause, he added on his last name. "Marston."
"John Marston," Charles drew his name out, writing it out, and then faced him again. "We'll call you up again if we're interested. You got a phone number?"
John rattled off his number, thanking Tilly silently for her help as he did so, and Charles nodded as he went over it again.
"Thank you, Mr. Marston." John shivered at the formality, reaching to shake Charles's hand. "We'll be in touch I hope."
//--//--//