Snake Skin | John Marston

Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood

A few days passed, and Y/N found herself swept up in a whirlwind of emotions that she could hardly keep track of. Each time John entered her field of vision, her heart raced, and her mind spiraled into a chaotic dance of longing and uncertainty. Those foreign feelings surged within her like the wild river rapids, both thrilling and terrifying, leaving her breathless and disoriented.

It wasn't just her who felt the shift; the folks around camp began to notice too. Whispers floated through the air like smoke from the campfire, eyes darting between her and John with knowing glances. The once-familiar camaraderie of the camp had shifted into something more charged, an unspoken tension that crackled like the flames they gathered around at night.

Even Tilly, who had once been the first to share a laugh with Y/N, now observed her with a mix of amusement and curiosity. "You've got it bad, girl," she teased one afternoon, her hands busy mending clothes while casting sly glances Y/N's way. Y/N could only chuckle nervously in response, the heat creeping into her cheeks betraying her.

Y/N returned from Rhodes, her mind still swirling with the day's events, and made a beeline for her tent, eager to drop off the unnecessary baggage she had been carrying. After tossing her belongings aside, she felt a pull toward the camp's communal table. The sun was high in the sky, casting sharp shadows across the ground, and sharpening her knives felt like a productive way to pass the time.

As she approached, she noticed Bill and Micah already seated, engaged in their usual banter. Micah's reputation as a troublemaker didn't intimidate her; in fact, she saw through his bravado to the insecurity that lay beneath. The way he acted out was just a façade, a method of keeping everyone around him on edge—something she understood all too well from her own past.

Taking a seat at the table, Y/N pulled her knife from her belt, ready to focus on her task. Micah turned to her, his expression smug, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Oh look, Williamson, Miss Marston has blessed us with her presence," he remarked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Excuse me," she replied coolly, her focus on the blade as she began to sharpen it. "If I slip and stab you in the eye, Micah..."

His laughter boomed in the open air, a harsh sound that cut through the tranquility of the camp. "You know what throws me off, Bill? When pretty women have dirty mouths. I mean, why the hell do we need a gaggle of girls who won't even fuck you if you put a gun to their head?"

Y/N felt her irritation spike at his crude words, a familiar anger simmering just below the surface. Bill chimed in, "I'm sure you've tried," which only fueled Micah's tirade.

"Is it too much to ask, considering they get a piece of every damn dollar I bring in?" Micah continued, his voice dripping with disdain for women.

"I don't see you lifting a finger around camp," Y/N interjected calmly, meeting his gaze with a cool, steady look. The sound of metal scraping against stone filled the air as she focused on her knife, her hands steady despite the rising tension.

Micah's gaze drifted to Y/N's hands, fingers still poised over her knife. He frowned, as if trying to dig for an angle. "Swanson does his share? Or Molly? Come on," he said, casting a dismissive wave in the air.

"That's different," Bill interjected, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

"See, this is what I mean," Micah continued, his tone sliding into that familiar, smug cadence. "I've always liked Abigail, though; that's my kind of girl. Sullied but strong," he said, a gleam of admiration in his eyes.

Williamson sighed, shifting his weight. "Well, I don't sense the feeling's mutual," he replied, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"You just don't understand women, Bill," Micah proclaimed, throwing a knowing glance toward Y/N, as if he had just unveiled some grand truth.