The well is—dark. Deep. Damp. Presses in on him in a way that makes his heart quicken in his chest to a drumbeat, only too frantic to qualify—it's as if someone let a child loose on them, echoing loudly for a bit and then suddenly stopping, the quiet lasting just long enough that he begins to hope that maybe he's acclimating, before it returns full force.
The sky above is just barely visible, a tiny pinprick against the black of the walls, but given the time of year, it's mostly cloudy, oftentimes the day barely distinguishable from the night. He wonders if she chose this well with that in mind; wouldn't put it past her. The ring on his finger feels tight.
He's been in here God only knows how long—he tried counting the days at the start, when he still has the faint string of hope coursing through him that this will somehow end. Now, he's forgotten even the bare estimate of how long he might have been in here; resigned himself to the horror of forever. Sometimes he wishes he had turned her away. In some ways, death is a far kinder mistress than eternity. He may not cough, nor die of thirst or hunger or lack of sleep, no outward signs of any normal man's needs, but inside—he burns, like the seven hells have taken residence within.
He lets his head drop against stone. It's far too narrow to lie down, even curled in foetal position, so the only reprieve from standing on his feet is to carefully sit down, back pressed against the curved wall, knees drawn up, the toes of his boots nevertheless wedged against the other side. He can't sleep, not with the way that the enclosed space makes him panic still, but he does endeavour to close his eyes and pretend nonetheless. It's not dissimilar to the many long nights spent wedged between rocks, their horses whickering in the dead of night, trying to keep a cough down and get some shut eye; only Wyatt's figure, radiating warmth absorbed from the fire they had set earlier, no longer slumbers half an arms-length from him, hat low over his eyes, hair windswept from the day's ride, achingly still and beautiful.
He banishes the thought, familiar shame welling up in him; and wonders, bitterly, why she claimed to be able to rid him of illness and yet this still remains.
A rock skitters down the walls, the sound echoing, again and again and again, before it finally lands, hitting him on the knee. It doesn't manage to break through the thick wool of his trousers, but it stings nevertheless, and he hisses on reflex. He'd suspected that the deal didn't preclude the infliction of pain, but he finds himself somewhat disappointed regardless.
"Doc?" someone calls from above, the sound followed by a rain of dust and smaller stones, probably dislodged as the man braced his hands on the rim. "John Henry?"
Doc flinches. It's been a long time since anyone called him John Henry. Since Kate, probably; but he hadn't seen her in...well, some time. And this voice is clearly male besides.
There are two options—either someone has found him—unlikely—or he's going mad, which he unfortunately allows is probably more likely. He has been trapped in a well for at least a few months—it's hardly out of the realm of possibility. Probably closer to 'incredibly likely', actually. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, lungs burning as they expand.
The voice comes again; this time harsher, demanding. "John Henry Holliday, you answer me, you bastard!" He adds something else in a low growl that Doc can't make out, and then says, "If that damn witch lied to me—"
Doc frowns without meaning to. The only person he can think of who knows of Clootie besides himself is Svane, and he doubts the man is likely to have come back for him—especially not with the way he had screamed at Doc about how he didn't deserve the loyalty Wyatt had shown him. Doc wouldn't have painted him with the green brush of jealousy, but death does strange things to good men.
Cautiously, he calls, "Hello? Who's looking?"
"Doc!" Another shower of dust, and the pinprick of light is eclipsed by the shape of a man's face, unrecognisable at the distance; and then a rope snakes down, stopping at his shoulder. "Get up here, Holliday."
Pushing himself to his feet, Doc grasps the rope, a tendril of hope he had thought crushed trickling through him. He hesitates a moment, before bracing his boots against stone and wrenching himself upwards.
It feels like an eternity, but slowly, the pinprick of sky above grows closer, the man's face having disappeared. Finally, he finds himself at the lip, freedom a hair's breadth away—and stops.
He hasn't seen the man who found him yet, but he has a terrifying thought he knows exactly who it is—and he's not sure he'll ever be ready to face him.
The choice is jerked away from him as calloused hands take his, pulling him up the rest of the way, out into the light; the two of them tumbling down onto the barren, rocky ground. He finds himself trapped beneath the weight of the man, squinting up at him and trying to make out his features, his eyes unused to the light; heart suddenly pounding. Scrambling, he drags himself out from beneath him, hands burning from grasping the rope, and wheezes, harsh and fast; afraid.
He stays there, for a moment; trembling; and then there's a hand on his shoulder. "Doc," the man says, rough, and he turns and looks at him without meaning to.
Wyatt Earp looks much the same as he had last time Doc saw him, if with a few more lines, the furrow between his brows practically a ravine. His hair is partially hidden beneath his hat, but there are grey streaks. His moustache has been styled elegantly in a way it never was before. And his eyes, brown and serious, bore into Doc's face. His mouth goes dry.
Wyatt takes his hand away, finally; and the pressure eases as he glances away. "Wasn't sure I'd find you," he says. "Took a hell of a beating to convince Clootie to give up the location."
"You could've left me down there," Doc says.
"Could've," Wyatt agrees; rolling back on his heels. Watches Doc with an admirably blank expression.
"You're still upset at me," Doc surmises; unsurprised but still a touch disappointed. Shoves himself to his feet and twists at the ring without meaning to.
"I am." Wyatt is looking at him again; and Doc is trapped in it. "Aw, hell, Doc, why did you—?"
"I was dying ," he snaps. "You will never know how terrifying it is to lay there, your life slowly being wrung from you with each cough, blood splattering your lips. I wanted to go out standing, you knew that—but you denied me that, forced me into bed." It comes out bitter, and Wyatt flinches. Good.
When he speaks, it's steady. "I'd rather you have died in that bed than made that deal with that witch, Holliday. Who knows what the hell you are now."
It stings; and Doc bares his teeth at him. "Wasn't your choice to make, Earp. "
They stand there for a moment, Doc glaring at him, and then he says, stiffly, "We need to get you out of this town. Clootie is going to come after you as soon as she realises that you're not at the bottom of a well anymore. I brought horses."
Doc sneers at him. "What makes you think I'll come with you?" he asks. "No—what guarantee do I have that you actually want to guarantee my safety, and aren't going to try and figure out how to kill me yourself?" Peacemaker probably could, the damn thing.
Wyatt raises his hands in a gesture of surrender, releasing his grip on the gun in question. "I know a place in Arizona you can lay low," he says. "Friend of mine owes me a favour. You'll be safe there."
"Arizona?" Doc lets out a low chuckle. "Thought you said you'd never go back." Too late, he realises his mistake—Wyatt had only said he'd brought horses, not that he would accompany Doc.
He grimaces. "Josephine wasn't fond of it there," is all he says. "Are you coming, or would you rather crawl back into that well of yours?"
Doc follows him. He always has, and probably always will, damn him.
Wyatt's brought horses, as promised, one a stallion splattered with the pattern left on rocks after the barnacles are pried up off of them, white against grey, the other a beautiful black mare, basic saddles strapped to their backs, along with a few sleeping packs and water flasks. Wyatt takes the stallion without asking his preference, and Doc waits a moment before he grudgingly mounts the mare. She whickers at his touch, shifting from hoof to hoof, and Doc pats her neck. "There, now, darlin', settle down."
That only seems to rile her up even more, as she whinnies, jerking up on her hind legs, leaving him pressing against her, holding onto the reins as tightly as he can.
"Rosita," Wyatt says, sharply, clicking his tongue. To Doc's irritation, it does calm her, her legs hitting the ground. She tosses her head, but settles. Doc pushes himself up off her neck; sits ramrod straight; glares at Wyatt.
Neither of them speak as Wyatt leads the way away from the God-forsaken well. They fall into a silent rhythm, plodding along at a steady pace as Doc chews the insides of his cheeks to shreds, hands white-knuckled on the reins, gaze boring into Wyatt's back. For his part, the other doesn't seem to notice, or pretends not to. Not that Doc cares, particularly.
They stop to set up camp hours later, when the sun has sunk low below the horizon and stated that way for hours, the moon full and waxy in the sky. Doc makes himself scarce, finding a small crick for the horses to dip their muzzles into, and leans against the sturdiest tree he can find.
He combs his moustache with his fingers as he thinks. Wyatt has come back for him—but why? What does he want? Surely he wouldn't do so without an ulterior motive—not when Doc had enacted a perceived betrayal of this magnitude. For the life of him, though, he can't think of what it might be.
Sighing, he makes his way over to the horses, taking their reins and leading them back to the clearing.
Wyatt has set up a fire, and found a hare, which is roasting over the flame. He's taken out a flask, and is sipping from it as he gazes into it.
"Always thought drinking was my vice," Doc mutters, tying the horses to a tree, and crouching down on the opposite side of the flame, watching the other warily.
He smiles, more jagged and twisted than Doc remembers; and doesn't reply.
By the light of the fire, Doc notices a starburst scar just beneath his jaw—new, by the looks of it. A gunfight? Probably—a small bullet, and not well made, as it appears to have fragmented as it left the shaft. Did he bleed? Did he fear death?
No , Doc admonishes himself, not Wyatt. The only thing he knows for certain Wyatt ever feared was betraying those in his confidence.
Wyatt stabs the hare with a knife produced from the inside of his coat, humming with satisfaction as he ascertains that it's cooked through. Doc remembers him once leaving the task to a new member of his posse. They'd been violently ill for the next two days. Since then, Wyatt's always checked the meat himself.
He takes it off the spit, cutting into it. They don't have any plates or utensils, so they make do with their hands, the flesh hot against their skin.
When Doc finishes, he rises, taking one of the sleeping packs down and laying it on the ground. Wyatt follows suit a moment later after wiping his hands on his coat.
"You know," Doc says, conversationally, "I never would have thought you the sort of man to turn his back on his friend."
Wyatt scoffs. "And I never would have thought you a coward, but here we are." He snaps his sleeping pack open, spreading it over the thin, yellowed grass.
Doc sneers. "If not wanting to cough myself to death makes me a coward, then so be it. At least I never tan from a fight I started." He lays down, pulling the thin blanket over himself, and stares at the fire, listening to the logs crackle. Perhaps that's what Wyatt wants—to force him to give up his immortality. Well, then, he has another thing coming.
Wyatt's silent, the only other sound that of him rolling over.
Doc lets himself fall into semi-lucidity, one hand pressed against his cheek in a mockery of a pillow; coldness seeping into his bones.
He wakes up hours later, the fire burnt down to embers. Wyatt's out cold on the other side of the fire, and Doc has no intention of waking him—partially out of spite, since he's sure that leaving him there for longer than necessary is going to make his joints ache.
Instead, he rises, returning to the crick to give himself a whore's bath with his handkerchief. It feels like a desperate measure, but he hasn't so much as touched water in Lord knows how long, and he's not about to turn away the opportunity.
A throat clears, and Doc, who's shimmying into his trousers, squints in the early-morning light to see Wyatt Earp standing at the crest, looking mighty awkward.
"What, are you afraid my condition is catching?" he mocks. "I can assure you, if it was, I would do my best to force you to take part in my sin. "
Wyatt averts his gaze. "Came to water the horses," he says, gesturing to them. It's probably a trick of the light, but it almost looks like there's a light flush across his cheeks—strange, since he's seen Doc in more revealing situations than this. If it is there, it's probably the cold.
Doc pulls on the rest of his clothes as Wyatt leads the horses down to drink, cupping his hands to take a few gulps of his own as well, and then fills the flasks. He's rolled the sleeping packs back up and strapped them to the saddles—clearly, he wants to get moving as quickly as possible.
They ride the rest of the day, and the two following, without exchanging more than a scant few words. Rosita, the black mare, is still skittish of Doc, but she doesn't try anything like she had again, for which Doc appreciates.
On the fourth day, they come to a small town, just a saloon, a few shops, and two or three other buildings, by the name of Hope. Dry and dusty, it looks about the last thing from; but Doc's been itching for a bottle of liquor—Wyatt hasn't been in the sharing mood, not that Doc would ask—and maybe a few games. It never hurts to put coin in his pocket.
He leaves Wyatt to find a stable, and makes for the saloon, creatively named Main Street Saloon . Inside, what has to be half the town is gathered, in various states of drunkenness, nursing bottles and hands of cards. Doc pastes an easy smile on, tipping his hat to some of the women, and makes for the nearest table. "Gentlemen," he says, "would you be so kind as to deal me in?"
They play one round, and then another, both of which Doc wins. By the third round, the others are beginning to mutter amongst themselves, glaring at him as the pile of coins before him grows higher.
Finally, one of the men snaps, "Damn you, you cheating son of a whore," and pulls out a pistol, cocking it and aiming it at his heart. Doc sets his cards down, raising his hands.
"Now, there, my good sir, I think you'll find that I've been winning quite fairly," he says, smoothly. "If you'd like, you can count the cards again. I assure you, I do not need to resort to cheating—"
Unfortunately, the gentleman in question doesn't seem to be willing to be convinced, as he squeezes the trigger.
Doc leaps to the side, the bullet hitting the wall. Some of the patrons begin to yell. "Well, now, look at what you've done," Doc admonishes, seizing a gun from one of the men near him and training it on the other man. "It would be a disservice to paint blood across these walls, but I am willing to do so."
His blood is thrumming hot through his veins. Maybe he didn't come here for a game—maybe he came for a fight. Putting a hole in the man across from him right now sounds like the prefect thing to do.
"Doc, damn it!" comes Wyatt's voice, his hand seizing Doc's wrist and forcing him to angle the gun at the floorboards. "No one will be shooting anyone ," he says, sternly, looking from Doc to his opponent.
The man wavers for a moment before lowering the barrel grudgingly. "Only 'cause it's you, Earp," he says. "Keep that friend of yours in line, though—or else I might have to do it for you."
Doc bristles. "I can keep myself in line just fine, thank you kindly," he snaps. "It's not as if I was the one who accused you of cheating by drawing a gun on you."
" Doc ," Wyatt says, warningly. "Take your winnings and leave. I've got a room booked for us." His grip is tight on Doc's wrist, eyes biting into his.
Finally, Doc snaps, " Fine, " and snatches up the stack of coins, jerking his hand out of Wyatt's grasp. "Don't try and fight my damn battles," he growls, once they're outside. "If I want to get shot at, that's none of your business."
Wyatt's face goes through a complicated series of expressions before settling decisively on annoyed. "You, John Henry, are a fool and a selfish idiot," he says. "Have you ever, for once in your life, thought about anyone but yourself? Considered how—"
Doc's patience snaps; and he whirls, slamming the other against the wall they've been walking beside; stolen gun in his hand, cocked and loaded, shaft pressed to the centre of Wyatt's forehead. "You," he snarls, "don't know shit about selflessness. Remind me again, Wyatt, which one of us called the other a monster for doing what he had to?"
Some of the townsfolk have gathered around them at a distance in a haphazard ring, watching. Doc itches to to pull the trigger, see Wyatt's brainmatter blown across the wooden planks. His vision is hazy with red.
Wyatt's eyes meet his; dark and deep, boring into him. "Do it, Doc," he says. "Show the world you're nothing more than a criminal and a murderer."
Doc jerks back as if he's been slapped. "You—" But that's as far as he gets before his eloquence fails him.
One of the braver townsfolk steps between them, turning to Wyatt. "Deputy Marshal Earp, if I ain't mistaken," he says. "Do you want us to run this man out of Hope?"
Wyatt shakes his head. "No, Sheriff, that won't be necessary. My friend and I were just having a petty disagreement—no harm, no foul." He raises his hands, smiling that disarming smile of his, the one that makes women flock to him and Doc's knees go weak. "We were about to make our way to our room, in fact."
The sheriff nods. "Well, then, gentlemen, I hope you enjoy your stay. I'd recommend the full breakfast—the sausages come straight from Germany."
"I shall keep that in mind," Wyatt says, agreeably, stepping away from Doc and making his way down the street.
After a moment of hesitation, Doc follows after, simmering silently.
The room is in a building not far from the saloon, and Wyatt nods to the man sitting behind the bar, and takes the stairs, unlocking the door without speaking to Doc. Inside, there's a small sink with a shaving kit and a single bed. Wyatt makes his way over to the sink and rolls up his sleeves, splashing water on his face.
Doc walks the perimeter of the room, inspecting the God-awful yellow wallpaper. He's never been particularly choosy about his accommodations, but this is a bit too far even for his tastes.
The sun's begun to set, casting the room in an eerie glow. The sound of a scissors opening and closing permeates the space. Doc turns to find Wyatt eying himself in the mirror, trimming away the raggedy, too-long tips of his moustache, acquired during their past few days camping in scraggly patches of forest.
He looks...tired; his brows low with exhaustion, and his normally steady hands carrying the faintest tremor. Doc wonders, suddenly, why the hell he even came. Why he decided to accompany Doc, rather than give him a horse and take off. He has a wife to return to, unlike Doc—so what could have driven him to seek him out, after he had called Doc an abomination? He his blinding rage would return so he didn't have to hurt his head thinking about these things.
He sighs. "Give me that before you cut yourself, you dumb bastard," he says, roughly, taking the scissors from Wyatt's hands, brushing calloused palms. The other doesn't resist. Doc thinks he might retch, with how reminiscent this is of when they actually cared about each other. Instead, he purses his lips and takes the tips of Wyatt's moustache between the fingers of one hand, carefully snipping at them with the scissors.
When he pulls back, Wyatt looks a bit more presentable, and Doc hands the scissors back with a nod; hangs his coat and hat up; settles on the bed.
A thought comes to his mind, not for the first time; and he's spoken before he can think. "How long?"
Wyatt starts, turning to face him, hands stilling beneath the water where he's washing the blades. "Since—?"
"I was trapped down there, you fool," Doc snaps. "Surely you hadn't thought I would leave the question alone."
Wyatt chews on his lip before answering. "Three years. Kate buried an empty casket. Called you a scoundrel and a liar and wept over your grave. She's remarried—Robert Ingrahm, the blacksmith. Moved out of town last winter."
Doc laughs humourlessly. "With how often I was gone, I suppose I did deserve that." He doesn't ask whether Wyatt attended his funeral; figures that asking is too much like admitting he gives a damn.
Wyatt puts the shaving kit away, shrugging his own coat and hat off. "Move over."
Doc waits a moment just to watch him frown, and then acquiesces. "You had better leave my portion of the covers alone," he warns. "I do still have a loaded gun, and I ain't afraid to aim it at you again."
Wyatt rolls his eyes. "Ever dramatic," he says.
"Shut up and let me get to sleep."
Wyatt, surprisingly, does as asked, rolling over so his back is to Doc's; and soon, Doc hears his breath even out into a slow, shallow rhythm.
He rolls over, taking in the figure of his once friend and closest confidant. His greying hair pools on the pillow, and he looks almost peaceful. Does Josephine know, he wonders, that her husband took off to escort a man he probably hates to safety? Or had Wyatt invented some fiction to excuse his absence?
He sighs. Either way, it's none of his business. He rolls back over and closes his eyes, thinking of sitting at a card table, a flush in hand, and a pile of coin growing larger before him.
Doc wakes up trapped beneath muscled arms, hot breath billowing across the nape of his neck.
It's not the first time they've shared a bed by any means, but it is the first time he's woken up in this particular position. It's—tempting. So damn tempting to just close his eyes and sink into his old friend's grip, pretend that he meant to wrap his arms around Doc, and ignore the shame and terror roiling in his gut; pretend his skin isn't crawling.
So he closes his eyes, waits a moment, letting the heat of Wyatt's skin linger on his for a beat, and then snaps his eyes open, gently lifting Wyatt's arm.
He manages to creep out from beneath Wyatt's arm, shoulders slumping as he leans against the wall, and lets his head fallback against the wood.
The light of sunrise peaks through the crack in the curtains, skittering across Wyatt's prone form. He looks achingly beautiful like this, spread across the sheets; his thick eyelashes fanned out across his strong cheeks. Doc could kiss him, if he wasn't certain that would get him shot, right after he spends half an hour throwing up with self disgust.
He heads downstairs. The man from the day before looks up as he enters, and Doc tips his hat. "Morning, good sir," he says. "Might we trouble you for a plate of breakfast? English, full, if you don't mind. And may I ask, do you happen to have a bottle of whiskey for purchase?"
"That we do," the man says. "A '68, in fact, if you have the coin for it."
Doc roots around his pocket, pulling out the stack of coins from his game the night and setting it down on the counter. "This enough?"
The proprietor smiles. "Oh, certainly," he says, reaching under the counter for a bottle and a glass.
Doc drinks as he waits for breakfast to be ready. He had thought he had his affliction under control; had beat it into submission; but his earlier near lapse of judgement proves otherwise. If only Wyatt had been of the fairer sex—then all of this would be easy. Normal.
Well—if Wyatt had been a woman, Doc would probably never have saved his life, or ridden with him on his ride of revenge, or become his closest confidant. Women may be charmed by him, but Doc knows they never trust him—which, he supposes, is fair enough. As Kate put it best, he is a scoundrel and a liar.
He tips the glass back, letting the amber liquid burn its way down his throat.
The sound of someone coming down the stairs makes him look up. "Wyatt," he acknowledges, gaze snapping back to his glass. "Breakfast will be ready soon."
Wyatt raises a brow. "Drinking before nine? Did you have bad dreams?"
"Something like that," Doc mutters, and knocks back the rest of it; squeezing his eyes shut and letting out a harsh breath. The truth of it is, he doesn't think he can look at Wyatt without remembering what it felt like to be in his arms—voluntarily on Wyatt's part or not; and the shame and pulsing desire in his chest are warring in a way that makes him feel sick.
Wyatt slides into the bar stool next to him. "Well, we can visit the doctor, if you want—apparently one lives right down the street."
"You mean the only street in this forsaken town?" Doc scoffs; and jerks the bottle of whiskey away from Wyatt's attempt to take it. " I paid for that, and damned if I'm sharing."
"With the money you took from those men at the saloon, you mean?" Wyatt says, with a raised brow.
Doc shrugs. "What can I say? Lady Luck favours me. Ah, there's breakfast."
Indeed, there it is. The proprietor brings out a large plate stacked with eggs, toast, potatoes, and sausages that smells simply divine.
They take the plate over to one of the booths, and dig in. Doc keeps his gaze firmly away from Wyatt's, nursing glass after glass until the bottle is half empty, and he feels pleasantly tipsy; which helps slightly with the shame.
Unfortunately, it only makes him notice Wyatt more—his hands, with thick, blunted nails; his thick, muscled arms, from his days spent boxing. His gaze drifts upwards, until, inevitably, it locks with Wyatt's.
It's like he's a fly trapped in amber; pinned beneath the weight of his gaze. "You've had a lot to drink," Wyatt says, setting down his fork. "Hey, Hank, can you get us a cup of coffee?"
"Sure thing, Mr. Earp," the proprietor says.
"I'm fine," Doc says stiffly, shoving himself to his feet. "I'll go get the horses—we can get on the road. No need to delay any longer."
Wyatt frowns at him, reaching out. "Are you sure—?"
" Don't, " Doc snaps, jerking away, and sweeps out of the inn, bottle in one hand, the other resting on the butt of his pistol.
It takes him a bit to find the stables, and when he dies, he sets to quick work readying the horses, drinking between motions. He's gone from lightly tipsy to roaringly drunk by the time Wyatt catches up to him, and his temper is as fiery as a dragon's breath, so when someone sets a hand on his shoulder, he whips around, pistol drawn and cocked before Wyatt can do much as blink.
"I thought I told you to leave me be," Doc growls, pressing the tip to the other's forehead. He meets his eyes steadily, too drunk to be captured by them anymore.
Wyatt shrugs. "When have I ever listened to anyone when it comes to you?" His stance is open; lax. Doc could shoot him here and be over with it.
"Perhaps you ought to start doing so," he says, and takes another swig of whiskey, letting out a sharp " ah! " as it burns its way down, settling into his stomach like a poker iron. "You know, I ought to take these horses and leave you. You've never brought me anything but trouble."
"Or you could put that gun down and we can talk like civilised adults," Wyatt suggests. "And maybe lay off the whiskey."
Doc sneers. " Civilised. You called me an abomination. You left me there, in that damn well, for three years. And now, you try and touch me like I am some woman of yours who you can order about."
Wyatt raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I never called you an abomination," he says, calmly.
"Oh, sorry, no—you just implied it. Then again," Doc says, mockingly, "you've always been too much of a coward to say what you mean. Spent a years lying to my face about how you were my friend, and then abandoned me at the moment I needed you most—"
The punch comes out of nowhere, knuckles against his jaw, throwing him against the stable wall, his gun and bottle going skittering. " Shit, " Doc gasps. "You spilled my damn whiskey, you son of a whore!"
Wyatt grabs him by the collar, dragging him to his feet and slamming him against the wall. "If you want to fight, then fine," he hisses. "But I ain't fighting a man who's drunk off his ass, and I sure as hell ain't standing here and listening to you insult me."
Doc slams his forehead against the other's, his head snapping back with the force of it. It only makes the other's expression more resolute, and he snarls, tossing Doc to the floor. Doc pushes himself to his feet, lunging at him, and manages to graze his knuckles across the other's cheek.
Wyatt gets as good as he gets, and soon they're both bloodied. Doc wipes a hand across his split lip, snatching the bottle up from where it fell, throwing back what whiskey remains. "Thought you weren't going to fight a drunk man," he sneers, throwing the bottle to the ground at Wyatt's feet just to hear it smash to pieces.
"Changed my mind," Wyatt growls, and comes at him again, the horses whinnying behind their gates.
Unfortunately for Doc, despite his dedication and greater experience with scrapping, Wyatt does have one advantage—he's not drunk out of his mind. For all his skill, Doc can only move so fast with the alcohol depressing his reactions, which is how he finds himself thrown up against the wall once again, Wyatt's forearm pressed to his throat. "Pull yourself together, you bastard," he hisses. "This is getting embarrassing. "
"Oh, let me see—I don't give a fuck ," Doc wheezes.
Wyatt's eyes flash. "You couldn't have done the honourable thing and died , could you? You just had to drag me into your mess—"
Doc snarls, and, without thinking, kisses him; biting down hard, sweet coppery blood spilling over his tongue as his teeth pierce Wyatt's lip.
The other lets him go with a yell, jerking his head away. Doc lets him go, watching his blood drip down his chin with dark satisfaction. "Serves you right," he says, spitting at Wyatt's feet, the saliva more blood than spit.
Wyatt holds a hand to his mouth. When he pulls it away, it's stained red. He gives Doc one look before stumbling out of the stables—hard and filled with anger, edged with disgust.
Doc slumps down, back to the wall, and closes his eyes, breathing heavily. He can still taste Wyatt's blood on his tongue.
The sun rises, and then begins to dip down, the temperature dropping, before Doc begins to come to his senses. He has the mother of all hangovers, his head pounding and his mouth cottony, but he can't banish the memory of the look Wyatt gave him before making off, and shame is pooling heavily in his gut.
He waits an hour, and then another, before he pulls himself to his feet. He can barely stand without swaying, but it's better than nothing.
He finishes readying the horses before hunting down the doctor. As it turns out, he didn't bite that deeply, which is something of a relief—he had been afraid he had swallowed a chunk of Wyatt's lip. Cannibalism isn't something he's particularly keen on adding to his repertoire.
They don't speak as Doc leads him out of the tiny office and to where he's tied up the horses, and they don't speak the rest of the day, riding in silence until they make camp that night.
By then, Doc's sobered up, though his eyes sting from the light of the fire; and he opens his mouth to—well, he's not quite sure what. Wyatt cuts him off. "Whatever you are about to say— don't ."
Doc shuts his mouth, teeth clicking. That night he lays awake on his sleeping pack, trying to figure out how the hell he's going to fix this.
He doesn't have experience fixing things. His usual solution is to shoot at his problem until it goes away, but right now, that problem is Wyatt Earp; and Doc finds himself suddenly mighty reluctant to do the deed, despite his earlier actions.
Now that he thinks about it, though, the problem isn't just Wyatt—it's also him. Him and his stupid, stupid tendency to try and drink away his frustrations—for all the good it's ever done him. After all, he is the one who kissed Wyatt, even if he did bite him moments later.
Actually, that probably just makes things worse, not better.
He blows out a sharp breath and rolls over on his side, determined not to think of Wyatt and kissing is conjugation any more.
The next few days they don't exchange more than the bare necessities of conversation. Rosita is finally warming up to him, for which Doc is grateful—it's never good to have your horse skittish of you. That's the sort of thing that can get you killed. They stay in a few more towns before they reach the border, crossing into Arizona without fanfare.
Ten days after pulling Doc from the well, they're once again holed up in a small room in an inn. This town is about ten times the size of Hope—not that that's hard.
Doc's finally decided to do something about the horrible, scraggly ends of his moustache, as well as that of his hair. He's squinting into the dirty, cracked mirror, head turned, trying to get a piece of hair on the side of his head.
"You're going to look like a Cowboy if you carry on like that," Wyatt snaps from the door. He's brought a bottle of champagne and two glasses. The sound of the other patrons drifts up from downstairs and through the open door. He closes it, setting them down on the bed, and motions for Doc to give him the scissors.
Doc hesitates. "I was under the impression we were not on speaking terms," he says, tightly.
Wyatt shrugs. Opens the bottle of champagne, disregarding the glasses and drinking it straight. "I may have had a few rounds already," he admits.
"I hope you haven't gambled away the money meant to get us to wherever we're going," Doc says. He still doesn't let go of the scissors.
Wyatt sighs, taking another swig of champagne, his throat bobbing. Doc tracks the rise and fall without meaning to. "Drink," Wyatt commands, prying the scissors from his hands, and sets to work.
Doc does; mostly because alcohol is the only thing that is going to let him withstand Wyatt Earp's fingers brushing the nape of his neck without him doing something momentously idiotic. Champagne isn't his drink of choice, but it does soothe the burning sensation beneath his skin.
They trade the bottle back and forth, and by the time Wyatt exclaims "Ah-hah!" they're pleasantly tipsy. "Now you look like yourself again," Wyatt says, words slurring slightly—he was always more of a lightweight than Doc.
"I'm sorry," Doc blurts out. "For—everything I said and did in Hope." He rakes a hand through his hair.
Wyatt bats his hand away. "Don't do that," he commands. "You'll only ruin the effect." He hesitates, before adding, "I know you didn't mean it. You were drunk, and angry, and—" He shrugs, trailing off.
His lip is still slightly swollen and shiny. His hat is hanging on one of the bedposts, his hair free, grazing his shoulders. The grey streaks suit him, Doc thinks. Wishes he could tangle his fingers in them even as revulsion rises in him at the thought; the memory of Wyatt's disgust. He sits down on the bed, taking another sip of champagne. "What does Josephine think about you taking off?" Doc wonders. It's a question he's been pondering for over a week.
Wyatt lets out an inelegant snort and takes the bottle from him, downing a gulp. "We divorced," he says. "She came to realise certain truths about me that she was less than willing to live with."
"What, you had an affair?" Doc asks, reclaiming the bottle. His limbs feel heavy.
Wyatt sits down next to him, kicking off his boots. They're closer than they've been since the fight. Doc should feel leery of him, but he doesn't; just finds himself leaning against his shoulder. Wyatt's smiling a small, secretive smile. "No," he says, quietly. "She wouldn't have cared about that."
"What, then?" Doc demands. "Did you start hanging dead animals from the rafters? Shooting her friends—?"
Wyatt cuts him off by crushing their lips together messily. Doc freezes, eyes wide; and then, coming to his senses, shoves Wyatt away. "You're drunk," he says, firmly.
"Doc—" he starts, reaching for him; but Doc shifts away.
"You're not thinking straight," he says; chest aching. "You're disgusted by this. By me. You don't want this." He rises, grabbing his hat.
Wyatt watched him with dark eyes, standing to follow him, his motions slow, like honey in winter. Doc shakes his head. "Get some sleep, Earp," he says. "You'll come to your senses in the morning, and then we can pretend this never happened." He slips out the door, pushing it closed behind him. Wyatt doesn't try and follow him.
He makes his way downstairs, finding the first table of men playing cards. It turns out to be a game of faro, which Doc has more than a bit of experience playing.
The night drags on, and Doc loses a few rounds to put the men at ease before he wins the next few, bowing out with his winnings.
"Aw, hell, at least give us the chance to try and win our money back," one of the men says.
Doc offers an easy smile. "I'm afraid you don't want that," he says, tipping his hat. "Good night, gentlemen." The victory feels hollow.
When he returns to the room, Wyatt's passed out. His expression, though, is far from peaceful; rather, troubled, as if he had fallen asleep thinking disturbing thoughts. Doc finds himself hoping that it wasn't what he had done. As much as he's certain that Wyatt will come to the correct conclusion of regret and disgust for his strange lapse of sense, a part of him can still feel Wyatt's lips on his own, and savours the sensation.
He sighs, setting his winnings down on the small desk shoved into the corner of the room, and strips off his hat and his coat, balling the fabric up to use as a makeshift pillow, and settles down on the floor. It takes him a long, long while to steady his mind and sink into the bliss of sleep.
They don't talk about it. That's fine by Doc, who feels more than a bit relieved by Wyatt's avoidance of that particular topic.
The rest of their journey takes them through various towns, and in each one, Doc spends the night playing cards and divesting the men of their coin, and then sleeping on the floor with his coat as his pillow. Wyatt doesn't suggest they share the bed, for which Doc is grateful. He can still feel the warm press of his arms around him, and his breath at the back of his neck. The last thing he needs is a more concrete reminder.
Finally, they ride up to a familiar sign, proudly proclaiming they are now entering Tombstone, Arizona.
Doc tugs on his reins, turning Rosita so he's facing Wyatt. "Your safe place is Tombstone?" he asks; incredulous. Last time they were here they killed Clanton, and wound up riding for revenge for over a month at the ensuing retaliation.
"It's the last place anyone would ever think to look for you," Wyatt says, and clicks his tongue, leading his horse past the sign. After a beat, Doc sighs and follows after.
The town is fuller than he remembers it being; but then again, it's been a few years. A few people recognise Wyatt, doffing their hats to him, but mostly they just leave them alone, which is fine by Doc.
They tie the horses up in a stable, and make their way to a three storey, newly constructed building. Wyatt digs around in his pockets and comes up with a key, pressing it into his hand. "Your room is on the second story, to the left," Wyatt says. "Don't worry about paying rent—they owe me a favour, and recently came into some wealth besides."
Doc shifts on his feet. "So I suppose this is where we bid our farewells, then."
Wyatt nods. "That it is." He hesitates, looking as if he's about to say something; and Doc's chest tightens; but in the end he closes his mouth and shakes his head, walking down the street towards the stables.
Doc watches him until he disappears from view, and then he goes inside.
The room isn't very large, but it's larger than the ones they've been staying in the last two weeks, with a vanity and a desk and a dresser and a plush, newly made bed topped with a mind-boggling number of pillows. The door even has a lock. It's a room for two, quite clearly; and his chest burns.
Turning on his heel, he makes his way back out into the street and heads for the closest bar.
Since no one recognised him as Doc Holliday, he's no longer banned from the tables; and soon he's drinking shots between hands of cards, the gas lamps flickering on the walls. He loses half his coin in laying a trap for one of his opponents, Harry the Snake, who ran him out of this fine establishment the last time he was here, taking all his winnings; and wins it back tenfold, leaving the man cursing and throwing down his cards on the table, storming off. Doc smiles with vicious glee.
Finally, the table dwindles down to him and two other men, a cousin of Clanton's and a newcomer he doesn't recognise. Doc checks his hand discreetly, mentally counting off the cards that have already been played, and clears his throat. "Raise."
The newcomer snarls. "You bastard. Raise." He's bluffing—his hand is shit, but he thinks Doc doesn't know that. It's his funeral.
Clanton's cousin raises a brow. "Raise," he drawls, pushing forward another pile of coins and bills. His hand isn't as shit as his companion's, but he's too stupid to realise that it's still shit. Then again, he is Clanton's kin. They play a few more hands, neither of the others folding, the pile before them growing larger. Finally, they draw the last few cards.
Doc smiles internally, and sets his hand on the table, revealing a royal flush. "Gentlemen," he says, tipping his hat, and collects his winnings; orders another shot.
He's just stepped outside when a pistol presses against his back, and Doc sighs. "Clantons," he says. "You never know when to step away, do you?"
The man sneers. "I don't give a shit," he says. "Hand over my money or get shot."
"I shall remind you that that is my money," Doc says, sharply. "I did win it fair and square, Harry." His hands go slowly to his hips, disguised by the low light.
Before he can do anything, though, a shot echoes, whizzing past Doc. Harry lets out a cry of pain, stumbling away, clutching at his ear, blood streaming down his jaw. "You keep your hands off my friend, Clanton," a familiar voice calls.
Doc's eyes flick up, landing on Wyatt Earp. He sighs. "I don't need you to fight my damn battles for me, Earp," he calls.
Wyatt shrugs inelegantly. Hops off his horse, passing the reins to one of the bystanders and pressing a few coins into his hand, and makes his way towards Doc. "We need to talk," he says. "I hope you have not wrecked your room."
Doc snorts. "Doing what? I haven't been in it more than five minutes, friend ."
Wyatt ignores the jab; puts a hand on his shoulder, steering him towards the boarding house. "I would not put anything past you," he says; and it sounds more teasing than serious.
Doc left the door unlocked, seeing as it's not like he had brought any precious items with him, so Wyatt simply turns the brass knob and pushes it open.
"Well, I thank you kindly for escorting me back to my quarters," Doc says, tipping his hat mockingly, "but I do believe you have other places to be, Wyatt."
Wyatt sighs. "I see you've won yourself a pretty penny," he says. Walks around the room, clicking the lock into place; runs his hands over the walls, before he settles on the bed.
Doc shrugs. "Luck was in my favour," he says. "If you aren't about to leave, then at least tell me what you want."
His friend pulls a flask from his coat, holding it out to him; and Doc, after a moment, steps forward to take it.
Wyatt doesn't let go; seizes his wrist and pulls him closer; gently. His lip has healed, and his calloused fingers press against his skin carefully. "Doc," he says, quietly, "you never did let me say what I meant to that night."
Doc's knees are weak; and it takes all of his willpower to snap, "You were drunk . I told you, we need to just forget about it. It doesn't mean anything."
Wyatt shakes his head; runs his thumb across the soft skin of his inner wrist. "Do you think that I would lose control of myself, of my senses, just because I had a few glasses?"
"Try a third of a bottle," Doc mutters; and then raises his voice. "You're disgusted—I saw it. With me," he adds, quietly, bowing his head. "You should leave."
"Not with you," Wyatt says. "With myself. For letting it happen. I nearly—" his voice cracks. "I nearly kissed you back, you know."
"Then why did you kiss me in the inn?" Doc demands; finally looking up at him. His knees are still weak, and he finds himself kneeling. Wyatt's dark eyes capture him once again.
"Because I needed to know," he says simply. "Had you truly been opposed, I have no doubt you would have shot me."
A laugh bubbles from Doc's throat. "I am not worth getting shot over," he says. "You of all people should know that. I am a liar, and a murderer, and a scoundrel—"
Wyatt cuts him off without warning, pressing their lips together once again. This time, Doc doesn't pull back. Shame may be roiling within him, but he'll be damned if he doesn't take this opportunity. Wyatt's lips are soft despite the harsh winds and the dry, cold weather; and his other hand comes up to Doc's neck, tugging at the shorter strands, and making him gasp.
The floorboards are digging into his knees, but he can't bring himself to care. His hand is still trapped in Wyatt's grip, and he pulls it away regretfully, tossing the flask aside; presses his hands beneath Wyatt's coat, shoving it off his shoulders; unbuttons his waistcoat with trembling fingers and tugs his collar open. Wyatt's hand is cupping his jaw and he can barely think.
He pulls away, taking a deep breath, trying to steady himself. When he opens them, Wyatt is staring at him with concern. "I'm fine," he says, the words coming out breathless, and kisses him again.
When they pull apart again, Doc's hat has been knocked off, and Wyatt's halfway to a state of undress. Doc's fingers are playing across his back, and Wyatt's are buried in his hair. "I never stopped looking for you," he says. "I never would have. And...I am not upset at you for what you did. Not anymore."
Doc's breath stutters in his throat. He hadn't—hadn't known how much he needed to hear those words.
Wyatt tugs him up onto the bed so they're lying face to face; takes his hand and kisses his knuckles gently. Doc closes his eyes, breathing out. The weight that has settled into his chest the last few days has finally lifted.
They fall asleep like that; and the last memory Doc has before the darkness welcomes him is of Wyatt slipping an arm around him, holding him close.