Doc wakes up to the sound of his phone ringing; blaring in his ear, some pop song he had set it to in a drunken haze a few weeks back. He groans, pressing his hands to his face, knuckles digging into his eyes. A few moments later, it's still ringing, so he rolls over and grabs it off the window ledge, squinting at it. The caller ID reads Wyatt Earp.
He considers letting it go to voicemail. He's tired and cranky and it would serve Wyatt right for disturbing him this early. Nevermind that it's past ten.
In the end, his sentimental streak wins out over his irritation, and he presses answer. "What is it?" he asks.
"Found you some lamps," comes Wyatt's voice, attractive as ever, if tinny. He's not in the city, then. Before Doc can turn down his offer—he has overhead lighting that works just fine, even if it does get a little flickery sometimes—, Wyatt continues. "I'm on my way there now. I got bagel sandwiches."
"...alright," Doc says grudgingly; and then hangs up on him. He spends an indiscernible number of minutes scrolling through his email, and then feels a cough begin to bubble up in his throat. "Damnit," he grumbles, stumbling to his feet and hunting around the room for the box of tissues, finally finding it underneath some rolls of socks.
He presses the flimsy paper to his lips, lungs burning as he coughs, trying to breath in between, wheezingly. His medication is—somewhere. He's not quite sure where. The room is a bit of a mess.
Predictably, that's when the door creaks open, Wyatt's voice drifting in. "Where do you want me to put these?" he asks, coming into view, a lamp on each hand; and then catches sight of Doc through the open bedroom door and frowns. "You shouldn't sound that bad," he says, setting the lamps down on the table and coming in. "Where the hell is your medicine? Have you been taking it, even?"
Doc wheezes into the tissue. "Yes," he grits out. Not technically a lie—he did take some about five days ago, the night before he moved in. It's just been so— hectic since then, he hasn't found time to.
Wyatt pinches the bridge of his nose. "Have you been taking any of your medication?" he asks. " Recently. As in, within the last few days."
Doc thinks about the antipsychotics buried somewhere beneath the pile of clothes. "No," he admits, finally. The coughing fit is abating, which is good; he yanks his hand from where it's resting, white knuckled, against the wall; steps forward, and promptly trips over a stack of books. "God damn it!" he snarls, shoving himself off the ground and glaring.
"Have you even started putting things away?" Wyatt asks, sounding exasperated. "It's been almost a week, Doc. Are you—well, you know. Low?"
Probably not. Maybe. God, he doesn't even know. Does it matter? Not particularly. He's doing just peachy. So what if he hasn't answered the calls from dispatch telling him to get his ass in gear and hunt down some escaped convict in over a week, so what if his shit is strewn all across his tiny new apartment, so fucking what if he hasn't taken his medications for anything in days. It doesn't really matter. He has more pressing concerns. Namely, finishing the newest season of House Hunters and avoiding the very man who has just started picking up the stacks of books and shoving them on the bookshelf. "Don't touch them," Doc says, irritably, moving to grab Wyatt's arm. "They need to be alphabetised, damnit—"
Wyatt pushes his hand away with practiced ease; grabs another stack of books. "You can do that later," he says. "Right now we're getting your room put back together. Get with the plan, Holliday."
"It's fine the way it is," Doc argues. "Besides, you do not need to 'put it back together' right now—I was going to get to that soon enough."
"Soon as in in an hour or soon as in maybe a few weeks? " Wyatt challenges, staring Doc down. Damn the man, but he does know Doc well.
He sighs. "Fine," he says. "But leave the books. I will take care of them."
Two hours later, nearly everything has been put in, if not its rightful place, then at the very least, a place. They even dig out Doc's medications, which Wyatt practically forces him to take, though he does at the very least have the decency to fetch him a glass of water from the kitchen.
Doc takes it, downing the four assorted pills—one and a half blue, chalky olanzapine, plus one isoniazid and a rifampicin; letting out a hiss of breath as they go down. "I will be mighty glad when I no longer have to take those damn antibiotics," he grouses. "They leave the most horrible taste in my mouth."
"So take them regularly, like you're meant to, and it'll be over before you know it," Wyatt says, reasonably. He's always been the more grounded of the two of them. To be fair, Doc has spent the last decade or two fucked in the head one way or another, but he figures Wyatt probably had a head start anyway. He reaches out, taking the bottles from Doc's hands and sets them on the window ledge. Doc eyes them for a moment and then reaches out and straightens them so that they're all hitting the edge, labels turned out, in a neat row. He feels—marginally less terrible.
When he's done, Wyatt takes his hands. "Hey," he says, squeezing them, "you're going to be okay, alright?"
Regret suddenly crashes through Doc. He's spent the last two or so weeks pushing Wyatt away, ignoring his calls and dodging his visits, and yet Wyatt came today, still, and helped him. He presses his eyes shut, letting out a shaky breath. Opens his mouth to speak, before Wyatt cuts him off. "Hold that thought," he says, "I forgot about the sandwiches. I will be right back," and bustles off into the other room, giving Doc a fine view of his ass, which Doc stares after for a moment before ripping his gaze away. He tries his best to be a gentleman, really, he does.
Wyatt walks back in, handing him one of the bagel sandwiches, and gives him a sly look; moustache twitching with a smile. "I know you were staring at my ass, Holliday."
Doc takes a bite, letting his gaze sweep over the other. "Can you truly fault a man for appreciating the gifts God has given his lover?" he drawls.
He laughs; low and clear; sets his sandwich aside and hooks his fingers in Doc's belt loops; waits a moment for him to set his own sandwich down and tugs him close. "No, I could not," he says; warm gaze boring into Doc's. "I would be a hypocrite if I did."
A quiver of heat thrums through him; and he leans up, kissing Wyatt squarely; the other's moustache managing to tickle his lip as it always does. When he pulls away, he says, "Darlin', what did I do to deserve such a fine creature as you?"
"Saved my life, for starters," Wyatt retorts; and then kisses him, adding, "and I," before kissing him again, "could never," and again, "resist," and again, "you," one last time. This time he lingers; hands drifting to Doc's hips. Their chests are pressed together, and even through the sweater Wyatt's wearing, the warmth seeps through and against Doc's skin.
Doc smiles; pressing into it; just about to dig his hands into Wyatt's hair when his phone rings for the second time that day. He leans away, sighing, and grabs it. "Holliday speaking."
"We got a runner, about ten miles from you—arsonist, skipped on bail. You think you can handle him?"
Doc hesitates a moment, and then nods. "I do believe so," he says.
She rattles off a location and vehicle description and then hangs up. Doc grimaces, pulling away. "I should probably get that. I haven't brought anyone in in almost a week."
Wyatt takes his hand; worry writ clear across his face. "Hey. You sure about this?"
Doc nods. "I do not feel top of the line, I will admit, but I can get the job done."
"Alright." Wyatt hesitates a moment, and then says, "do you want to come over for dinner later—?"
He cuts Wyatt off with a kiss. "I would quite like that." He steps back, grabbing his keys and coat and heading for the door.
"Great!" Wyatt calls after him. "It's a date, then. And stay safe!"
"I will do my level best," Doc calls back, swinging the door open and stepping outside, making for his car; a smile on his lips and a lightness in his step.