The lighting in the establishment is dim, flickering gas laps affixed to brick walls; an attempt by the commissioner of the building to give the interior a more rustic look, one suiting the inn's name—the Cowboy Saloon , a name as absurd as anything Doc has heard, but it's been doing steady business for all the years he's had occasion to stop by Fort Hope, so he figures they must be doing something right.
He's foregone the playing tables for the night, having no fortitude to exhaust on the intricate game cards require him to keep in his head, always three steps ahead of his marks. Tonight, his vice of choice is a gin on the rocks, which he's been sipping steadily for a good fifteen minutes, at least, by how dilute the flavour has become. His eyes flick, not for the first time, across the room to where his erstwhile companion sits in his chair, surrounded by a handful of women hanging onto his every word and rare, easy smile. Doc doesn't even begrudge them it—Wyatt Earp's smile, uncommon as it is, is a sight to behold.
Wyatt says something, lips twisting around the words, unintelligible at a distant, too quiet to glean, and one of the women laughs, high enough to cut through the soft cacophony bleeding into every corner of the room; leans forward, eyes lowered half mast, glancing up at Wyatt through thick lashes; hand finding Wyatt's atop the table; says something. Wyatt's lips twist up at the edges.
Doc twitches. His earlier generosity be damned, there's little more he'd like to do right now than stride over there and subtly imitate to her that she out to find some other man to try and ensnare. He doesn't rise, though; has better sense and self control than to do something that would bare his hand like that. No—Doc may not be content, but he's no fool. He knows better than to assume such a crass, uncouth interruption would be appreciated—no matter how high her hand has found its way up Wyatt's forearm, or the way she keeps angling herself to better bare the top of her bosom to him.
He takes a measured sip of his gin, lips curling at the watery taste. Damn Wyatt for harping on about how straight spirits do no good for his constitution, and damn Doc for paying it any mind. He should have ordered a neat bourbon and been done with it—better to enjoy life as you go out than constantly court death before turning your cheek to him at every possible opportunity.
Wyatt would call him a cynic; but then, it's not Wyatt who has grown to find monotony in the cyclical occurrence of spitting up blood. After a certain point, one gets bored of it.
He sets his glass down on the lacquered countertop, wrenching his gaze away from Wyatt's table. "Whiskey, neat, two fingers," he tells the barkeep; a compromise.
She serves him duly; amber liquid filling the clear glass; and he picks it up, eying it a moment, considering his options. He can wait here, an unwilling party to Wyatt's paramours, or he can go back to their room and try and pretend that when Wyatt comes back it's because of him.
It's not a hard decision, truth be told. Doc has chosen the other route before, and knows he'll only slink off before the night is through, shame and bitterness warring in his chest—hardly a gentleman's behaviour. Then again, he supposes, what with his desires, he hardly classes as a gentleman anymore. Damn Wyatt Earp.
Choice made, he finishes up his drink, and pays, leaving a ten under his empty glass for the barkeep, and makes his way down the street towards the motel they're staying in, the brim of his hat casting his face into shadow—not that it needs to try much, given how dim the street lamps are. Not for the first time, he muses that they only seem to frequent town of ill funding and ill repute—and Fort Hope certainly qualifies, with the number of annual murders. Mostly tourists, in all fairness though.
He digs the key to their room out of the depth of his coat pocket, turning it with a click; and flicks the lights on, stepping inside. It's cool still, a welcome reprieve from the crushing warmth of the inn; and Doc tosses his coat and hat onto the coat rack, sitting down on his bed, the sheets rough beneath his fingers. His insides ache, ribs especially—not in uncommon experience, but right now, tired as he is from driving for eight hours straight, it presses against his skin more than usual.
Wincing, he pulls open the drawer to the bedside table, taking out a yellow prescription bottle, swallows two of the unconscionably large tablets dry with practiced ease, and then puts it back away, laying down across the bed; stares at the ceiling.
There's a new crack, he thinks, joining the spider's web painted in cracked plaster. He ought to take a photo. He doesn't; just lays there waiting for the pressure to abate. Considers pushing himself up and flicking on the television in an attempt to distract himself from the memories of Wyatt surrounded by women and openly accepting their attentions in a way that Doc sometimes fantasises about Wyatt accepting his. Not that he'd ever be so foolish as to try—he knows better than to risk their friendship. Still—sometimes his gaze gets caught on the thin strip of skin between Wyatt's collar and jaw, the breath of his face, and his eyes, so dark it's easy to get lost in them.
The door opens, startling him; and he fists his gaze, half expecting to see an intruder, hand halfway to his hip before he realises it's only Wyatt. "You're back early," he observes, "courting not go favourably for you?"
Wyatt sighs. "When you say it like that you make it sound like I seek out attention on purpose, Doc." It sounds a bit rueful, but there's no bite to it. "How are you holding up? I noticed you slipped out early."
Doc winces. He hadn't meant to worry his friend unduly, even if that hadn't been why he had left. "Fine, now that the medication's kicking in," he reports. "But don't trouble your head about me—I'm sure there are better ways you could spend your time." He means it jestingly, but it comes out a bit more self-deprecating than intended—probably the exhaustion.
His friend sighs again. "How many times do I have to remind you that caring about your health is hardly a burden," he says, and sits down on the end of Doc's bed. It's not the first time they've had some variant of this conversation.
Doc doesn't say anything; just keeps staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, before, against his will, his gaze drifts down to Wyatt. He looks handsome even in the terrible yellow lighting of their room, hair and moustache well groomed, laugh lines etched into the corners of his mouth, and Doc wonders, not for the first time, if the women Wyatt kisses understand just how precious an experience they've been afforded.
Wyatt's eyes lock on his. "You know that I see you, don't you, Doc?" he says, gently; and Doc's stomach hollows out, gaze snapping away, cheeks flushing; and he shoves himself upright.
"If you do, it's only a trick of your eye," he snaps. He's too worn out, and not nearly tipsy enough, to hear Wyatt reject him. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. He'd rather keep on pretending he isn't looking, isn't imagining; that his thoughts have always been and always will be strictly friendly in nature.
Wyatt reaches out; seizing his arm before he can rise. "Don't," he says. "We have to talk about it at some point, Doc."
"Maybe when you win a game against me," Doc dismisses; heart suddenly hammering in his chest. His mouth tastes coppery, a tickle in his throat. It's the worst possible time, he thinks angrily as a cough pushes past his lips, blood spattering against them. He reaches into his pocket with his free hand for a handkerchief and finds nothing; curses between wheezing breaths.
"Here," Wyatt says, summoning one out of nowhere, a white cloth that he presses against Doc's lips, wiping away the blood, before offering it to him. Doc coughs a few more times before giving in.
It takes a long while for the fit to abate; and when it does, he finds Wyatt's hands at his shoulder and back, steadying him; hopes that the sudden, involuntary interruption will force Wyatt to abandon his course of conversation.
No such luck; Wyatt leaves for a moment before returning from the bathroom with a plastic cup of water, and says, "It seems strange you would shy from an honest conversation. How unlike you."
Doc resists the urge to mutter something uncomplementary. His companion is a right bastard sometimes. "I'd rather not have my failings laid out before me, if you don't mind."
Wyatt gives him an incredulous look. "Not exactly the term I'd use," he says. "Though if that's how you see it, I can understand your reticence—though I am a bit offended to hear you describe your attraction to me as a failing. "
Doc gives a wordless growl; low and full of irritation. Damn Wyatt Earp and his indomitable perceptiveness—it's helped them out many an occasion, but now, Doc can't help but resent it. "Alright, then," he snaps, "forgive me for wishing to preserve the friendship that is between us—next time, I'll be sure to destroy it from the start." He can't help the sarcasm that seeps into his tone. "Now that you've informed me of my unfortunate lapse in control, I'll do my best to rectify it."
Wyatt stares at him; and then, slowly, shakes his head. "Doc," he says, and reaches out to press his calloused hand to Doc's jaw, "you really are shit at anything that doesn't involve shooting or cards." He sounds untenably amused; and Doc flinches; a sharp retort on his tongue, before he continues. "I've known the way you look at me for years. I'm hardly blind."
"More's the pity," Doc mutters; the action prompting Wyatt to stroke his thumb across his cheek; the action juddering through his skull and down his spine. He wishes Wyatt would just get it over with.
"Have you considered that I hadn't said anything because I was afraid I was misinterpreting things?" Wyatt asks; and Doc blinks; stunned, suddenly, into silence. "I thought it would be better to let things carry on as they had, lest I offend you—until tonight." He smiles. "Liquid courage, as they say." He leans in.
Doc turns his head sharply, face burning—this time, with embarrassment. "I will not," he spits, "be some ill thought-out— dalliance of yours, Wyatt."
Wyatt frowns at him; the easy satisfaction suddenly gone, replaced by utter seriousness; and he shakes his head. "Hardly my intention," he says, "all I meant was that it gave me a moment to reflect and decide a new course of action." His eyes are beseeching; and Doc finds his resolve breaking. "I've desired the same thing you do for at least half as long," he says, quietly; and strokes Doc's cheek once again; gaze flickering to his lips for a brief second before meeting his eyes once more.
Doc swallows. Nods, minutely. His heart is thundering again, his palms sweaty. Wyatt's face eclipses his vision, lips pressing to his. It's chaste, aggravatingly so; but a moment later, Wyatt is pushing him down against the bed, free arm bracketing his head; teasing his lips open with practiced ease, as if he's been kissing him for years.
Doc lets his eyes slip shut; hands coming to the back of his companion's head, finding purchase at the nape of his neck; lets himself sink into the sensation, barely believing it's actually happening.
When Wyatt breaks away to breathe; he grins at Doc. "Satisfactory conclusion to our conversation?" he asks, breath ghosting across his lips.
A smile twists at Doc's own lips; and he tugs him back down.