"I. Am. Fucking. Cold. Fucking cold! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!" you cursed under your breath. The layers of coats and shirts underneath only helped a little. You were shivering, hugging the worn-out leather medical bag which you inherited from your late father. You made your way to a log cabin next door, chanting profanities to the harsh cold of the Grizzly Mountains.
"Oh! How I'd give my left arm for some warmth in the southern heat!" You remarked grimly as you flung the door open to let yourself in.
"Careful now, we still need that left arm o' yers to stitch this boy up!" Hosea chuckled. He was sitting near the fire, Jack cozily sat beside him. You realised that your grim thought came out way louder than you originally intended.
You brushed the snow from your coat and walked towards John Marston who was lying down on a bed. He looked awful and in a lot of agony. His face mangled and ridden with coagulated blood.
He looked exactly as you have imagined when you overheard someone saying something about John being attacked by wolves in the mountains. Arthur and Javier have announced their arrival earlier. You approached to see how John was doing, but before you could take a good look, someone had caught your arm from behind. You turned to see who it was. It was Arthur. He instinctively instructed you to get your things. You nodded and did exactly that.
As you approached John, his eyes met yours. You sensed some level of relief from him knowing that you, the de facto Van Der Linde doctor – whatever they call it, were there to take care of him.
Like clockwork, you dropped your worn medical bag on the floor and kneeled beside him. You worked with an extraordinary sense of urgency. You weren't a doctor, but your father was. You certainly picked up a lot of things from spending most of your childhood and teenage years hanging around his clinic, watching him as he treated his patients day in and day out.
John winced and groaned in pain as you started working on his face.
You had limited medical supplies but given the whole situation the Van Der Linde Gang was in just a few days ago, it will have to do – you will have to make the most out of it. You must – you can't have anyone dying on you again. No. Not after Blackwater. Not after Davey, Jenny, Sean, and Mac.
Abigail watched you impatiently. She caught your attention and you turned to look at her. She looked very worried. Her tearful eyes scanning your face, looking for any sign of hope, for some reassurance from you, that John – his John, the father of her son, will live.
As if you read her mind, you mustered some courage to hide your own panic and worry. You gave her a weak smile.
"He'll be okay, Mrs. Marston." You reassured her. Her anxious face eased a little. You turn to look at John again, and repeated "You'll be okay, Mr. Marston." He winced again as you cleaned the scratches on his face.
"It's Ms. Roberts. We ain't married yet." Abigail corrected you, then she shifted her attention back to John.
After a few good minutes, you were done. You sighed in relief. John had passed out in the middle of it. Abigail had dozed off too a few minutes earlier. She badly needed that, you figured. She couldn't sleep for days, as she was anxiously waiting for John to come back. Heck, everyone needed some rest, after all you've been through in Blackwater.
Your strained eyes scanned the room, realising that you have been so engrossed with your patient you didn't realise Hosea and Jack aren't there anymore. It was just you, John, and Abigail in the room, and you were the only one awake.
You turn to look at your patient again. He stirred a bit, then he was still and calm.
You looked at his face, feeling a mixture of pity and annoyance for the man before you. That familiar feeling of affection you had for John was starting to surface again and you dreaded the thought.
Stop, [Y/N]. You snapped yourself out of it. You reminded yourself coldly that you buried all the love you thought you had for him a long time ago.
"You are an idiot, John Marston." You muttered, shaking your head.
You tidied up and picked up the bloodied pieces of clothing on the floor. You gathered your things and stood up. You turned towards the door. You heard him cough and clear his throat before muttering something behind you. You paused in your steps.
"Thank you, [Y/N]. Appreciate it." He said. You did not look at him. You just nodded instead. You felt your face turn red and you didn't dare show him any of that. Without turning back, you headed outside. You closed the door behind you, and you found yourself back in the cold once more. A groan escaped your chapped lips.
Your stomach grumbled and you were suddenly reminded you only had a single bite to eat yet since that piece of bread you had for breakfast.