Elliott had gotten into a fucking bar fight with Clint.
The two had been bickering all night and finally they both snapped.
Swinging punches, a few scratches and eventually Harvey pulling Clint off of Elliott and yelling for the red haired man to go home.
Clint had been fine, both men getting up and staring daggers at each other.
Elliott however, was going to be sporting a lovely scar on his forehead from where his head collided with the cabinet at the saloon.
Elliott was sitting in front of Harvey now in the silence of the beach shack he called home.
"It's always you looking after me." He mumbled, smiling sadly at the good doctor.
"It's always you getting into trouble." Harvey snipped, finally meeting Elliott's eyes.
"True. But such is the life of a writer."
"The life of man with a death wish." Harvey mumbled under his breath as he snipped off the remaining thread from Elliott's forehead.
"What was that?"
"Nothing. Forget it."
"Harvey?"
"Yes?"
"Are you angry with me?"
He had to stop for a moment, it wasn't like Elliot to be introspective.
"Yes. Just a little. But not specifically at you. More so at the little voice in your head that thinks that things like...this, are okay."
"Honest. I like that." Elliott responded quietly.
Harvey stood up and chuckled to himself.
Elliott's eyes perked up, the sadness waning in the edges, but intrigued by the doctor's sudden movement.
"Well, now that you're not bleeding. How about a drink?"
The writer smiled at this, a genuine smile.
"A drink sounds amazing."