Author's Note: I had so much fun with this prompt, you guys. Letting John have a good time with his family is just... so awesome. That man deserves happiness (they all do) and I wanted to let him be a little carefree with his family for once. I hope you guys enjoy, and that it did the Marstons (and Uncle) a little bit of justice. :)

Day 7 Prompt: Snowball Fight

Beecher's Hope, Great Plains, WE – December 7, 1910

Ain't too often we get a snowfall down in these parts, John thought to himself as he scooped another pile of manure up with his pitchfork and dropped it into the nearby wooden wheelbarrow. Even less often that it sticks.

From his vantage point inside their modest dairy barn, he could see the blanket of snow that lay over all of Beecher's Hope, the house and the dusty red-dirt acreage around it now buried under a thick layer of white fluff. Even as he watched, an endless curtain of big white flakes continued to float down to the ground, and John shivered at the prospect of finishing the rest of his morning chores out in the middle of it all.

As a child, he'd loved playing in the snow, often badgering Arthur to help him make snowmen or instigating a snowball fight with such enthusiasm that eventually even Dutch and Hosea wound up pulled into their games. Winter was his very favorite time of year back then, and many of his best memories with his family were made in the middle of one snowstorm or another.

Now that he was an adult with adult responsibilities, however, a fresh snow was usually less exciting than it was annoying. At thirty-seven, he still thankfully didn't have near as many aches and pains as Arthur, ten years his senior, always did once the weather turned cold. That didn't mean he didn't feel it, though, as a well-timed throb from the old gunshot wound in his leg so helpfully reminded him. Still, he was pretty sure he'd endure all the sore joints in the world if he never had to carry a dozen bales of hay down an ice-covered path or shovel frozen cow pies out of the slush again.

The only consolation he got during those chores, which more often than not left him freezing and damp and covered in muck from head to toe, was that the animals seemed about as happy about it as he was. Rachel and Old Boy, who John was secretly proud had made themselves the "top dogs" of the Beecher's Hope horse herd, always watched him with sad puppy-dog eyes while he broke the ice in their trough. He could swear, by the looks on their faces as they nosed the floating chunks of ice around, that if they could talk they'd have been asking him why they couldn't have some hot coffee instead.

And speaking of Rachel...

"Hi there, lady!" John greeted as he walked out into the horse pen to dole out the morning feed. As usual, the seal-brown Thoroughbred mare was the first to trot up to him, nosing expectantly at his pockets for her daily sugar cube while the other horses hung back near the opposite fence. "Alright, easy there," he laughed, handing over the treat and stroking her velvety nose. "Maybe I oughta stop feedin' you so many of these, big as you're lookin' these days."

Almost as if she could understand him, Rachel pinned her ears and fixed him with one of the most unamused expressions he'd ever seen on a horse's face.

"Sorry, sorry," he said, throwing his hands up in surrender. "I was jokin'. Don't get mad at me, I ain't the one done this to ya."

"This" was Rachel's rotund middle, too obviously large to be caused by a few extra treats. She was nearly eight months pregnant now, her foal conceived that spring with help from a broken gate latch and an opportunistic Old Boy. As John combed through her mane and brushed the accumulated snow from her back and sides, he could see the small, jerky movements in her flank that meant her baby was feeling lively, already kicking the hell out of her although the sun was barely up.

"Poor thing," he murmured, patting her side and smiling when he felt a kick against his palm. "Bet next spring can't come fast enough for you, can it?"

Around that time her partner in crime apparently decided he'd had enough of waiting for breakfast. Busy playing with Rachel and her unborn foal, John didn't notice Old Boy making his way over until the mare tensed beside him, barely giving him enough time to back up before she wheeled on the stallion and lunged at him with pinned ears and snapping teeth. The silver bay Hungarian Halfbred backed up immediately, head held high and eyes rolling white as he blew through his nostrils in offended frustration. But Rachel wasn't having it, placing herself between John and Old Boy with a squeal and stamping her front hoof until the stallion reluctantly backed off, looking between them both in what could only be described as betrayal.

John just laughed, tossing a sugar cube over Rachel's shoulder and onto the ground near Old Boy so he could eat it undisturbed. "She's got you in the doghouse now, ain't she, fella? Trust me, I've been there before. Usually deserved it though, and you probably do too." Old Boy snorted in what John imagined was indignation, and he shrugged and shook his head, making his way over to the lean-to that covered their baled hay.

Their other horses wandered up as he began pulling one of the bales into smaller flakes and spreading them around the pen, and before long even Rachel and Old Boy had seemingly forgotten their lovers' quarrel, once again standing side by side while they munched contentedly on the long stems. Nell IV, Uncle's fat mustachioed Appaloosa mare, had made her way over for mealtime too, though she'd already devoured most of her portion as quickly as she could and was now stretched out on her side, basking in the middle of the snow.

"Would you get up?" John grouched, nudging her rump with the toe of his boot. He got nothing but a dramatic sigh in response before she rolled lazily over to her other side, stretching her neck out and laying her head in the closest pile of hay so she could keep eating. "You're just as bad as your owner! One of these days you'll actually be dead out here and no one will even notice the difference, you know that?"

"Don't you pick on her, John Marston!" Uncle hollered from the sheep pen, where he was currently pouring their daily ration of corn and barley into the feeding trough. "She's a refined lady who's smart enough to know how to conserve her energy for the important things in life."

John snorted and shook his head, reaching through the fence for the horses' bucket of grain and scattering it liberally over the remaining hay piles. "More like you've let her get so fat she can't even stand up anymore."

Uncle huffed indignantly. "Well better that than running 'round 'til she's bony as a starved coyote. Maybe we oughta start addin' some oats 'n hay to your breakfast, John, finally put some meat on ya."

"If you say so, Uncle."

"I do say so."

"Right, well, anyway, you seen Jack around here? He was supposed to be feeding the chickens and gathering the eggs, but he was still asleep when I started out this morning."

"Nah, ain't seen him. But then again, I weren't exactly lookin'," the old man added with a shrug.

John sighed. "If that boy's still in bed this late I'm gonna drag him out of it by his ear."

Realistically, John knew that he likely had nothing to worry about. Despite all the things in their life that probably should have turned Jack into a hard, cynical sonofabitch, he really was a good kid. He was a normal teenager in a lot of ways, prone to being sullen, withdrawn, and snappish at a moment's notice. But he still nearly always did his chores without being asked, and he helped his mother any time she needed it, even after the two of them got crossways in one of their frequent arguments.

His tetchy mood wasn't even Jack's fault. He was just tired, neither he nor Abigail having gotten much sleep after she'd woken up sick to her stomach in the middle of the night. She blamed the new beef casserole recipe she'd tried out at dinner, joking that it must have been a little too rich for her "common blood." None of the rest of them seemed to have suffered any ill effects, but then again, except for maybe Jack, that wasn't really unusual. Honestly, John wouldn't have been surprised to learn he'd developed an immunity to such things. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd gotten a sour stomach, despite years spent eating many questionable items from his satchel, and he shuddered to imagine what kinds of "delicacies" Uncle had survived on over the years.

Regardless, he had dutifully sat up with his wife on the living room sofa while she huddled miserably over an old mop bucket, one hand holding her hair out of the way and the other resting gently on her back. Once she felt well enough to return to bed, John slid under the covers beside her and held her against his chest, slipping into a light doze until the crowing of their old rooster told him it was time to start the day. Abigail had started to get up too, but he'd taken one look at her pale face and the dark circles under her eyes and told her to take the morning off. He could handle the milking and mucking just fine for one day, and she clearly needed the rest - a fact made even more obvious when she barely protested, unable to quite hide her relief.

John shook himself out of his daydreaming as soon as he stepped out of the paddock and around the other side of the barn, making his way over toward the chicken yard in search of his son. Just as he hoped, when he rounded the corner he spotted Jack, right where he should've been. His back was turned to his father, and he whistled a cheerful tune to himself while he scattered an extra ration of corn over the snowy ground for the birds to eat. A full basket of eggs sat just outside the gate, and John smiled when he noticed the coop had even been swept already, fresh straw visible on the floor of the henhouse and the old litter loaded into a wheelbarrow to be disposed of later.

He was about to call out to Jack, not wanting to startle him, but suddenly stopped, an idea slowly forming in his mind and a devious smile pulling up the corners of his lips. As softly as if he were hiding from the law and not his teenaged son, he scooped up a handful of snow, molding it into a sphere between his gloved hands. It might have been years since he'd last done this, but his muscles remembered what to do just fine. With practiced ease, he lobbed the snowball across the distance between him and his son, watching as it traveled in a perfect arc up, up, up... and then collided with the back of Jack's head in a burst of powder. He couldn't help the wolfishly gleeful grin that spread across his face, baring his teeth and stretching the old scars on his cheek.

Bullseye.

Jack yelped in surprise, nearly tripping over his own feet as he whirled around to find the source of the projectile. But John had already ducked back around the corner out of sight, hands working to mold another snowball as his son's footsteps crunched closer and closer through the thick powder. As soon as Jack's head poked around the corner of the chicken coop, John launched the second one too, this one getting him directly in the face and eliciting an offended squawk from the teen before he hurriedly brushed the freezing crystals off of his nose and eyelashes.

"Pa, what are you doing?" Jack cried, blinking owlishly at his father.

John gave a wheezy chuckle and shrugged, gesturing to the white flakes which continued to fall all around them. "Startin' a snowball fight with you, boy, whatchu think I'm doin'?"

"Oh, yeah?" Jack narrowed his eyes, keeping his gaze locked on his father while he knelt down and scooped up a large handful of fluff himself. "You think you can still hit me without sneaking up on me first?"

"I know I can. Can you?"

Jack raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge. "I guess we'll find out." He advanced toward John, arm raised as he did his best to aim, and John backed away slowly, not wanting to make himself too easy a target but not making it impossible to hit him either. Brow furrowed in concentration and tongue poking out one side of his mouth, Jack took aim and then chucked his snowball as hard as he could. It sailed through the air and managed to land a glancing blow on John's shoulder.

Just like that, the game was afoot.

The pair of them took off running, John around the side of the chicken yard and Jack in hot pursuit, each of them stopping periodically to gather more snow and try to pitch it at the other without getting hit himself. Jack was actually a surprisingly decent shot, and before long John found himself breathing hard as he ducked and dodged and darted around his son. The twin tracks of their boots left deep zig-zagging furrows in the fresh powder, twisting into strange loops and swirls. He had just barely escaped a well-aimed throw from Jack and lifted his arm to return one of his own when something hit him from behind, knocking his hat from his head and leaving a dusting of ice like powdered sugar over the top of his long dark hair.

"What the hell?"

John whirled around to face his new adversary, only to immediately receive a second hit directly to the face. Gasping at the cold sensation, he quickly scrubbed a hand over his eyes and nose, glaring when he saw Uncle standing a few yards behind him holding an entire armful of snowballs.

"Just what do you think you're doing, old man?"

"I'm comin' to rescue my great-nephew, you menace!" Uncle shouted. "Hurry, Jack, get over here where it's safe, I'll hold him off!"

"Agh, shit!" John laughed, doing his best to mold another few snowballs while dodging the combined throws of both Uncle and Jack. The barrage never seemed to end, Uncle having apparently made not only the ones in his arms, but a small pile on the ground as well while Jack and John were focused on each other. "Where'd you get this kinda energy, huh?" the elder Marston shouted, getting a few good hits in but receiving just as many in return as the three of them drew closer to the house. He'd tried putting his hat back on, but it had almost immediately been knocked off again, so he'd deemed it a lost cause for the moment. "What happened to your terminal lumbago?"

Uncle tossed another snowball and tipped his head down so the top of his hat could block John's return shot. "The lumbago marked me for death years ago, John, might as well go down swingin'!" He ran up toward the front porch, clearly aiming to use the railings and the sides of the house as protection.

John waited and aimed carefully, smirking as he watched the older man line himself up for a perfect hit. A few more steps... just a little more... Finally, Uncle reached the top of the porch stairs, and John pitched a snowball as hard as he could. "Got you now!" The front door swung open behind Uncle, and the icy sphere curved wide -

- smashing straight into the shocked face of an unsuspecting Abigail.

Time seemed to stand still, John finding all the air in his lungs had mysteriously vanished as his wife slowly blinked and reached up to touch the already-melting snow on her face.

"Oops," Uncle muttered, hands raised in surrender when Abigail turned and cast a scorching look at him.

"Darlin', I am so sorry," John said immediately. He started to walk toward her, but stopped when she just held up a hand, eyes locked on his and expression blank and unreadable. She began walking toward him, slow and purposeful, and he heard Jack gulp nervously a few feet behind him.

Without a word, Abigail marched over and stopped just a few feet in front of John, keeping him pinned with her gaze as she slowly reached down and scooped up his fallen hat from the ground. She held it in her hands for a moment, seemingly contemplating, and then closed the distance between them and flipped it onto his head - along with the entire pile of snow that had collected inside.

John could do nothing but stare at her for a moment, slack-jawed and silent. Then a tiny dollop of snow dropped out of his hair and onto his nose, and Abigail snorted, her stony expression cracking into a crooked smile at the ridiculous sight he made. She reached up and wiped his nose with her thumb, he swiped some off of her eyebrow, and then the two of them burst into laughter, Jack and Uncle soon joining in as well. John was nearly in stitches before long, his chortling so intense his voice cracked an octave higher. This just made it worse, and soon he was laying his head on Abigail's shoulder and wheezing so hard could barely get a breath in, the sound more than a little reminiscent of their old teakettle in the kitchen.

"You silly man," she giggled along with him, not having heard that sound very many times in their life, and almost never without copious amounts of alcohol involved. "A little snow and you're all of five years old again."

John snorted and fought to gain control of himself, coughing on his next few laughs as his lungs finally began to protest all the abuse. "Guilty as charged, darlin'," he finally managed, taking off his hat and shaking his hair like a dog's to rid it of all of the snow piled on top. "I really am sorry for catchin' you in the crossfire, though," he murmured over Uncle and Jack's lingering chuckles. "You feelin' any better?"

"I'm fine, John," Abigail said softly, kissing him and brushing a hand through his damp hair. "Like I said, dinner was just a little too rich for me, 's all. After that little rest I'm right as rain. I was actually comin' out here to tell you boys breakfast was ready. Better hurry up and come eat, before it gets cold. That is, unless y'all still ain't declared a winner?"

"Nah," Uncle said, having immediately perked up at the word "breakfast" and begun making his way over. "Johnny knows when he's outmatched. Jack and I had him on the ropes from the minute we teamed up, ain't that right?"

"If you say so, Uncle," Jack said, rolling his eyes and grinning at his father behind the old man's head.

"I do say so."

John just shook his head and joined them as they filed in behind Abigail, a little confused by the turn the morning had taken but amused nonetheless. He wasn't sure how he'd managed to lose at his own game, exactly, but he also found he didn't care. It had felt good to let loose for a change, to be a little playful when he knew he often tended to be far too serious for anyone's good.

Being able to connect with Jack in a way they both enjoyed was always rewarding, as rare an occurrence as it could be, and knowing Abigail was alright also eased a weight he hadn't known he was holding from his shoulders. It warmed his heart to get to share a moment like this with her; so long ago, when he was a different man living a different life, he would never have imagined such a thing to be possible, let alone that he deserved it.

Unfortunately, he would no doubt have to listen to Uncle rib him about his "victory" every time they got a single inch of snow after this, possibly for the rest of the old man's life.

Still, though he would never admit it out loud, in John's opinion even that was more than a fair trade.

Notes: I based John's laugh on the one he has in-game, but also on Rob Weithoff's (John's MoCap actor) insanely wheezy smoker's laugh. If you haven't heard it, seriously, go listen to one of the compilations online. He is so happy and giggly all the time, it's contagious.

(I've never smoked, but my asthma makes me laugh like a wheezy teakettle a lot of the time, too. I feel a kind of kinship with Hosea and John over the way our laughter sounds like we're casually dying, lol!)

Also, besides the family fluff, there are some main-story plot points developing in this chapter. I wonder what they could be...?