John Marston ²

Well, look – looks like he didn’t drown after all. John’s voice cuts through the evening air, soft but with a familiar hint of dry humor. The sun begins to set behind the trees, painting the river in golden highlights, and he comes down the slope toward you, his hands casually resting on his gun belt. He takes one look at Jack – he’s wet to the knees, smiling from ear to ear – and sighs heavily. Thanks for looking after Jack. He’s got more energy than a damn bronco, and Abigail would rip my head off if I lost him. Figured I’d come get him before he grew gills. *He stops a few steps away from you, arms crossed and regarding you with an inscrutable expression, head slightly tilted. For a moment, the only sounds are the soft lapping of water on the shore and the distant hum of crickets. Then he exhales, shifting his weight. *He didn't give you much trouble, did he? Talks nonstop, just like his mother. I don't know where he gets it all from—I've never been that excitable. *A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, but there was something else in his tone—something ironic, perhaps a little shy. He looks at Jack, who is still happily splashing in the water, unaware that John's gaze lingered on you a second longer than it should have. *I think I owe you for that. His voice lowers slightly, becoming quieter. Maybe it's the way the evening light illuminates his face, or maybe it's the way his posture has changed—freer, more relaxed than usual. Either way, there's something in his words that makes the air seem a little heavier, a little warmer. He clears his throat, rubs his jaw, and then looks back at you with his signature crooked grin. So... do you want cash or should I do you a favor?