Chapter Text
It wasn’t unusual for one of the members of the camp to lounge around in their furrier forms, especially when it came to uncle or the twins.
Hell, Dutch could even be occasionally seen lazing in his tent, ink-black fur sprinkled with sliver and large head resting on molly or more often Hosea’s lap. Uncle complained that his age made it hard to shift back, being 50 when he was bitten but everyone knew it was just an excuse.
Even Sadie ran around in her furry fox form after she stopped mourning.
But the one that never showed his fuzzy side was Arthur Morgan. From what john knew the man was a born wolf, like Dutch, and so had more control over his shifting than the rest of the camp shifters, he got it from his old man who was apparently a bastard.
It wasn’t that he never changed, he just didn’t do it around the camp, they had all seen flashes of fur through the trees, too big to be a deer or the distant glow of blue eyes, but they never entered the camp.
Arthur preferred to stay in human form, even on the mountain where they all preferred their warmer furry forms, sparing the extra layers for other, more vulnerable members of the gang.
After being chased to Clemens point from their old camp of horseshoe overlook by myth hunters they settled more firmly, they were further south than they wanted to be but they were safe enough even though the nearest town of Rhodes was less than friendly toward them, obvious by the fact that they had come through just in time to see the bodies of both a shifter and a vampire strung up in a tree at the edge of town.
Little jack hadn’t understood what they did wrong, but he wouldn’t after all, despite being human his aunts and uncles were all others, not even john could explain it.
Now john and Arthur had a tense relationship and it wasn’t because their kind hated each other, vampires and werewolves had buried that hatchet centuries ago before the war, and it wasn’t because Arthur's not quite mate and pup were murdered by vampires because John had been the first and only person able to comfort the grieving creature when he returned to camp.
No, John was pretty sure it was because of his year-long absence. Mostly because of Abigail, she joined the gang 8 years prior and like a couple of the other girls found herself in a different bed every few nights.
Including John's, although not in that way, they never slept together even though she obviously wanted to, rather she said he made her feel safe, especially after she fell pregnant.
John was assumed to be the father, even though the chance of conception with vampires was astronomically low, and she didn’t help matters by refusing to deny the claims. During this time Arthur got distant, even growling when john claimed to not be the father.
Just before the birth john was pushed past his limit, the looks and disappointed glances, the general air of disapproval everyone had for him, the feeling of being trapped by his own damned kindness, so he left, traveling for a while he tried to return after a few months but the camp had been moved. It took him nearly eight months to track them down again and when he finally did just outside of blackwater Arthur beat his ass something fierce.
Hosea, while tending to johns injuries, informed him that the baby wasn’t a vampire and was also healthy, not holding any of johns scent and Abigail had finally admitted the truth a couple of months prior, that she never slept with john and didn’t know who jacks father was.
The older vampire understood why john left just like Dutch who made a point of apologizing for not believing john and most of the gang, especially Abigail, were cautious of him, refusing to look him in the eye which was its own kind of hell.
But Arthur seemed to be holding a grudge even openly growling at john a few times.
Dutch tried to explain it as the man seeing john as betraying and abandoning the pack with his running away, but John wasn’t so sure.
Their close relationship was destroyed, and it didn’t start to recover until colter, Arthur, and Javier tracking him down after his face was ripped open by wolves that fled at Arthur's roar. John didn’t remember much of it, just that he was put on Arthur's horse, pressed to the man’s chest and he never knew Arthur was so very warm.
Vampires had issues with retaining heat, cursed with something called anemia that apparently meant they didn’t produce their own red blood cells. He needed rest and a drink but, at that moment, he would have given both up to stay tucked in Arthur's chest.
After that, he started acting civil again, but it still wasn’t the best, he didn’t think they’d ever be the way they used to be, best friends maybe something more.
At least that’s what he thought before he and Arthur were cornered by Cornwall’s men, the worst gang of hunters in the area, the Pinkertons were worse than even the o’driscoles and those fuckers were a bunch of savage shifters.
The fuckers had them pinned down behind some stones and tree trunks and the wagon of some poor fucker they had been talking to. He was dead along with his horse and the Pinkertons had scared off old boy and Arthur's Nakota Balu. They kept firing even when john was nearly out of ammunition having only his revolver as his rifle was still on old boy’s saddle.
He ducked behind cover to reload, distracted for a moment until a shadow fell over him “john!” Arthur's shout had him jolting to the side, receiving a shotgun blast to the shoulder rather than his skull.
The shoulder full of buckshot hurt like fuck but he still aimed and fired, killing the bastard that snuck up on him, leaving him with far too few bullets.
John looked over at Arthur who was staring at him and deep down john had a feeling that neither of them would make it out of this alive, that they would be the next set of bodies hanging from a thin rope to warn away others of their kind.
While looking john saw another Pinkerton behind Arthur “watch out!” he called and Arthur spun and got knifed for his troubles, the blade sinking into his side rather than his back.
He and the Pinkerton tumbled down a shallow ravine and out of john’s line of sight, leaving the vampire pinned and panicking. They would die here, have their corpses strung up with their heads sent as warnings to the rest of the gang but he wouldn’t go down without a fight.
Checking his gun, he closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to calm himself before rising to his feet and lifting the gun. Three Pinkertons fell dead, heads exploding, two more dove for cover only to have their throats pierced and johns sixth and final shot missed its mark, hitting the shoulder of a mounted hunter rather than the spine but it didn’t matter as suddenly something huge lept into the remaining four figures, large and angry, the hair-covered creature tore them apart before spinning on john.
Blue was all he saw for a moment before a bullet grazed his ear and the blue spoke “move your ass Marston!” the figure, a huge wolf turned and john ran for it, leaping onto its back moments before it, in turn, lept forward.
“Arthur?!” he demanded but the creature just growled, ribs vibrating between john’s knees “shoot you bastard” the deep voice was Arthur's alright.
Trusting his legs to hold his balance he twisted at the waist and aimed at the Pinkertons behind them, shooting one off their horse and causing the other to start bucking.
While running the wolf that was Arthur howled and his balu shrieked in reply, coming running with old boy’s reigns in her mouth “how did you teach them that” john questioned but Arthur just grunted.
They had been hunting in big valley when the Pinkertons found them, and John could tell that Arthur was aiming for Wallace station and valentine just beyond that.
Valentine was largely populated by others, a safe haven from hunters their species desperately needed, but as they approached little creek river things went wrong. The rapid-fire of a machine gun could be heard from a wagon at the entrance of a road and Balu already flighty shrieked again before running off even though old boy follow them.
Arthur yowled and changed direction while john used his last bullet, something he always saved for himself, on the gunner, allowing them to be out of range before another could take command of the gun.
Arthur grunted with exertion not unlike a horse as he ran, the Pinkertons followed but faltered at the first flakes of snow, Arthur's sweat-soaked into the legs of johns pants where he held onto his sides as the beast kept moving, even as the wind started to whistle and howl and snow built up around them.
He didn’t stop until they reached a frozen lake, a cabin neatly tucked between some pines and the side of a mountain slope, a hunting cabin.
a safe haven.