It starts at their wedding. Doc and Kate aren't really wedding people , but there are certain legal benefits to marriage, not the least of which being that it allows Doc to escape the scrutiny of being a single man in his mid-thirties whose friends are exclusively other men, and mostly single at that. Doc had to choose a woman, and so he chose Kate—smart, whip-tongued, easy on the eyes Kate.
They're married in summer, when the weather is dry and Doc's tuberculosis doesn't bother him quite as much; she in a pretty blue dress with a white satin sash and hand-made lace veil procured with a month's worth of gambling money, and he in a dark suit with a smartly-patterned red vest. They don't bother with a proper wedding, merely sign the legal documents and then invite their friends over for a picnic at the park—a gay gathering, even if Kate disapproves of some of his friends.
"So," says Wyatt, clapping him on the shoulder, a slow but steady smile creeping over his face, "you've finally gotten hitched, old boy. How does it feel?"
Perfunctory, he doesn't say; because Wyatt, with his high-level government job and picture-perfect life with Mattie in a nice little house with a white picket-fence doesn't want to hear that. "An illuminating experience," he says, instead, and takes a cigarillo out of the pack in his pocket, offering it up to Wyatt out of habit, who declines as usual, before bringing it to his own lips and allowing Wyatt to light it for him. "I hadn't been aware of the beastly amount of paperwork involved," he adds.
Mattie, who's drifted over at some point, laughs, like a metal rod tapping against glass, slightly breathless; clutches onto Wyatt's arm like a limpet. Doc tries not to let his irritation show as she monopolises his attention, and slips away to go simmer silently beneath one of the trees, smoke spilling out with each exhalation.
He stays there a while, watching the guests converse amongst themselves, before Frank Lomeister pulls himself away from the pretty thing he's managed to convince to marry him and makes his way towards him. "Come on, Doc, play a round with us," he says, stopping before him. "Come on—you've had a few glasses and the boys are raring to defeat you for once."
Doc's lips twitch. "They said that, did they?" he asks, and when Lomeister nods, he says, "well, tell them I'll be over in a jiffy—I need to have another glass or two to give them a sporting chance."
Lomeister guffaws; snaps off a mocking two-fingered salute. "Will do, my friend," he says, "just leave some for us, will you?"
"No promises," Doc says, smiling lazily; and watches his friend retreat before he stubs out the cigarillo, and makes his way to the small picnic table they've set the cooler on, and pours himself a dram of whiskey, finishing it off in short order before making his way over to where the boys have congregated on a blanket spread across the grass.
They perk up when they see him, and soon, he's been dealt in. "I'll win back that fifty you took from me," Morgan Earp says resolutely; and some of the other men laugh.
"Sure you will," Doc says, amusedly, and proceeds to beat each and every one of them soundly, though they're mostly good sports about it.
After that, the sun has begun to set, so Doc and Kate bid their friends good-bye, and Doc escorts her to where the Ford is parked, opening the passenger seat door for her before returning to his own side.
They drive back to the apartment they're renting with the radio on, neither talking much except in rote scripts— how were the McAlasters, Katie, my love? I heard Mark was promoted and the Earps have all found themselves nice women to settle with, how nice, isn't it, dear? or, in other words, positively mindnumbingly boring niceties.
When they get inside, Kate wastes no time stripping out of her wedding dress, like a snake shedding its skin, rolling her shoulders and letting out a pleased sigh. "I cannot imagine who on earth could find comfort in that beastly thing," she complains.
"Come, now, darling, surely it isn't that bad," Doc says, mildly.
Kate shudders. "I swear the linen irritates my skin," she says; presenting him with the pale plain of her upper back and shoulders for inspection. There's not so much as a blemish upon them, as Doc tells her, and she scowls at him. "Well, then, try it on yourself," she says, picking it up and thrusting it at him.
He raises a brow. "Why, I think I shall," he says, setting it down over the arm of the settee, and makes quick work of his clothing. Kate looks a smidgeon surprised, but she's not the type of woman to back out of her own pronouncement, so when he pulls it on and asks her to do up the back for him, she does so without complaint.
"Well," she says, "you certainly look peculiar . And—"
Whatever she's about to say is cut off as a cough bubbles up in Doc's throat, and he grasps for something to hold onto, hand finding the wall, and leans against it, trying to ride out the hideous, painful coughs.
Finally, they abate, leaving him slumped, exhausted, against the wall, lips wet with blood. "Handkerchief," he rasps, and Kate pulls one from the pocket of his suit jacket, folded and placed at the foot of the settee, and hands it to him. He closes his eyes, waiting to no longer feel like the world is spinning, and then wipes his lips, the white of the cloth pinking.
"You should get out of that and into your nightclothes," Kate says, hovering before him, "you need to rest, dear—"
Doc holds up a hand, curbing her words. "In a moment," he rasps, and opens the bedroom door, gingerly entering, and makes his way over to the full-length mirror hung on the back of the closet; takes himself in.
Pallid skin and rosy-cheeks with deep, red lips, and sharp, angular features, as well as the shoulder-length hair already paint him delicate, but his icy-blue eyes pair with the blue of the dress to make him look distinctly feminine . He looks, almost, comfortable , somehow; the fabric like armour.
"Well, now you've seen," Kate says, sounding exasperated, breaking the spell, "will you get out of that damn thing and into bed already?"
"I suppose I shall," he murmurs, feeling almost in a daze; and allows her to help him out of it and into his night clothes; doesn't protest when she ushers him into bed, despite it being Friday and only a bit past sunset.
Kate leaves him a few months later, absconding with most of the money he had in the apartment, as well as a pair of his ruby cufflinks, eloping with Johnny Ringo, a man who Doc has had the unfortunate pleasure of playing many a game against since they relocated to Montana—the man is a cheat, and not even one who has the decency to be tactful about it. Doc has hated him since the moment he opened his mouth and spilt forth honeyed Latin; he suspects Kate has been gone on him just as long, and decided the benefits of eloping with Ringo were better than staying married to Doc.
Wyatt takes the day off and takes him to the courthouse to fill the documents for divorce of a spouse in absentia; watches him out pen to paper with a hawkish gaze.
"Honestly," he says, "I don't understand it—you were always good to her, fulfilling her every whim and desire. Why would she run off with Ringo , of all men?"
"You are forgetting one key thing, my dear Wyatt," Doc says, scrawling the last signature and handing the paper to him to sign as witness, "unlike myself, Ringo is not afflicted with pthisis."
Wyatt scoffs. "They found a cure for it, don't you know?" he asks. "Just a few months ago. Why, you could be cured in a year or less!"
Doc raises a brow. "I may not be destitute, but I hardly have that sort of money," he dismisses. "Besides, I can hardly ask for her to stay on a faint possibility. No—Ringo is better suited to her, I think."
"Ever logical," Wyatt chuckles, and sets the pen down, and they hand the papers over to be filed away.
"Let's get a drink," Doc suggests. "I could use a whiskey."
"Well, alright," Wyatt says, "but only to ease the pain of the open wound of heartbreak."
Ever poetic , Doc thinks, fondly, and steers the other down the narrow streets until they find themselves before Shorty's, a bar Doc had the good fortune to stumble upon while on a midnight walk.
The inside is almost cozy, and they take one of the booths towards the back, requesting their drinks from the pretty waiter who comes by—a whiskey for Doc and a club soda for Wyatt, as per usual.
They lean over their drinks, conversing in quiet tones between sips; and Doc finds himself asking about Mattie out of perfunctory curiosity, and watches Wyatt's brows crease and his lips thin beneath his moustache.
"Those headaches of hers have worsened," he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. "And the other night, I went to retrieve something from the dresser, and found three empty bottles of laudanum—all of them new, along with the two i found beneath the bed and the one in the armoire. It's getting out of hand, Doc."
Doc hums. "And the doctors still say there's nothing physically wrong?" he asks; and Wyatt nods. "Well, then, I'd suggest gently confronting her about it—make sure to emphasise that you're doing do out of worry, and not judgement, or else she might turn sour."
They sip at their drinks, watching the act currently on stage bow, adding their own applause in, before they leave the stage. A moment later, the proprietor, Svane, takes the mic in hand. "Gentlemen, gentlemen," he greets, "we have a very special treat for you tonight—a talented group of individuals will be performing a dance number for you all. Please welcome Heaven's Gaze!"
A moment later, five people emerge from backstage, one taking the seat before the piano, the others pairing up. At first, Doc's surprised by the inclusion of women—it is a gentleman's club, after all—but a moment later, he picks out the adam's apples and square jaws and wide shoulders and realises they're men in dress. "How peculiar," he finds himself murmuring, an echo of Kate's own words from months ago; but he's leaning forward, chest aflame—and not, for once, due to his cough.
Across from him, Wyatt chuckles. "You've never seen transvestites before?" he asks, sounding amused.
Doc shakes his head, hypnotised by the scene. "I suppose not," he says. "Wyatt, how do they...?"
Wyatt shrugs. "I wouldn't claim to know," he admits. "The same as women, I suspect—makeup, women's clothes, and wigs, if so required. Why? You thinking about taking up in that manner?" It's teasing; gentle; like he won't judge, regardless of what the answer is.
Doc waits for the number to finish before he replies. "It is certainly an... intriguing prospect," he allows, trying not to sound too convinced one way or the other; and then thinks, to hell with it , and adds, "well, yes, actually, I suppose."
His companion smiles at him; reaches out to put his hand over Doc's. "Well, then, in that case, there are a few men I can put you in touch with, if you'd like. And," he adds, eying Doc appreciatively, "for what it's worth, I do believe you would look rather stunning in a dress."
Doc's cheeks heat; the point of contact feverishly warm. "You've never even seen me in one," he protests.
"Irrelevant," Wyatt dismisses, withdrawing his hand and finishing off his drink. "You look ravishingly in anything, Doc."
When Mattie dies a few weeks later, Doc is the one who leads Wyatt from the now-buried coffin, from the drizzling outdoors to the small building at the edge of the graveyard. The others have already left, Virgil and Morgan last, patting Wyatt's shoulder comfortingly before sweeping away beneath black umbrellas, which only leaves him to console his friend.
Doc doesn't try and make him talk, just lets Wyatt press against him, breath juddering, head bent so his face is in the crook of Doc's neck, wet tears soaking the fabric of his suit jacket, Doc's arms hooked under his and around his torso.
They stand like that, half hidden in one of the alcoves, for a long while; and when Wyatt pulls back, he says, voice a touch nasally, "Really, I don't know why I'm crying. I don't even feel very sad that she's dead—which is horrible, I know," he hastens to add, "but Doc, I simply don't ."
"Perhaps you're mourning an ideal," Doc suggests. "What she represented to you—that ideal life, even if deep down you knew it would never really make you happy—no, don't protest," he says, sharply. "I know you weren't happy with her."
Wyatt grimaces. "No, I suppose not," he says. "I do miss her, though, in a way. I miss pretending I could have a normal life."
Doc offers a consolatory smile. "It'll get easier," he promises. "Hey—why don't you come over and we can drink something and watch those terrible soap operas you pretend to hate. That'll make you feel better."
The other considers it a moment, and then says, "Well, alright," and lets Doc hold one umbrella up for the both of them, escorting him to his car before returning to his own.
Wyatt knows where he lives, though he hasn't actually been inside before; and when he follows Doc up the stairs and inside, he raises a brow. "Bit small, isn't it?"
Doc shrugs. "Least expensive place I could find that actually had running water," he says, and makes his way behind the bar counter to pull down two glasses and take out the whiskey and the seltzer water and returns to Wyatt, who, in the meantime, has turned on the television. Doc directs him to the proper channel, and, soon enough, they've become embroiled in a dramatic family feud.
There's only the one settee, so they wind up sitting next to each other; and as the hour wears on, Wyatt begins to lean, before, finally, his head finds its resting place in Doc's lap, his glass forgotten on the floor. Doc's still drinking, but his free hand has come up to card through Wyatt's light brown hair.
"Did you ever get in touch with those men?" Wyatt asks,turning his head to stare up at him, apropos nothing. "Only, I noticed that you've been lining your eyes lately."
"Oh," says Doc, feeling slightly embarrassed, "well, yes. But only lightly. I don't really want to draw attention to myself, you understand."
Wyatt hums. "I doubt anyone besides me noticed. You look nice, though."
Doc swallows. "Thank-you," he says; and then, "actually, I did manage to get my hands on some things—went shopping under the pretence that it was for my wife."
That makes Wyatt chuckle. "Kate would drop dead if she knew about it," he says, humorously; and then, when Doc hesitates, "well, go ahead, show off, old boy—it's only me."
"You'll have to move your head," Doc warns; and when he does, he rises, making his way to the bedroom to pull the neatly-folded garments from the bag at the back of the closet. He sheds his clothing, replacing it with a white blouse with a tie and a floral skirt; and then runs his hands through his hair, wishing he had time to style it, rather than leave it fluffed as it is.
When he emerges from the bedroom, it's to Wyatt's head craned to get a good look at him; and the other lets out a sharp whistle of appreciation. "You," he says, "look simply marvellous, my friend. Come here, let me get a better look."
Feeling emboldened, Doc does so; even going so far as to twirl so the skirt flares out, which makes Wyatt laugh and his eyes twinkle. "Marvellous," he repeats.
A few months later, Doc finds himself abed with fever and a cough that wracks his frame, and isn't able to make rent, his landlord going so far as to threaten turning off the heat and water.
Wyatt, as soon as he hears of the predicament Doc is in, offers him the guest room in his home. "It's the least I can do," he says, when Doc tries to protest. "You've gotten me out of many a tight spot—let me return the favour, old friend." He says it so earnestly, kneeling at the side of Doc's bed, hands clasping Doc's, that he can't do anything but accept.
It takes less than three days to get everything moved—Doc doesn't have many personal items, so it's a fairly easy move. Wyatt helps him from the apartment to the car to the house, settling him into the obscenely large bed. In a moment of weakness, Doc wheezes out, half-delirious from fever, "If I die, don't let them find my clothes."
Wyatt sits down on the edge of the bed, pressing a hand to Doc's cheek. "You're not going to die," he says, firmly. "You hear that, Doc? You're not going to die. You're not allowed to die, do you understand?" The last bit is edged with hysteria; and Doc finds himself mumbling promises and assurances before he passes out from exhaustion.
The intervening time passes in a blur; and when Doc finally comes to full lucidity, Wyatt's dragged the chair from the desk to the side of the bed, a book in hand. "What time...?" Doc finds himself mumbling through parched lips.
"About nine," Wyatt says, putting the book down to peer at him worriedly, and then gets up for a moment, returning with a glass of water. "You've been in and out of lucidity for four days. I was..." He hesitates, before continuing, "I was afraid you weren't going to make it."
"Well, I'm fine now," Doc says, and then closes his eyes as he downs the water, the soothing, cool liquid a balm to his aching, burning throat.
Wyatt frowns at him. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that," he says. "I wanted to tell you that I'm willing to pay whatever the treatment costs are for the cure. They've proved it works multiple times now," he adds, and then, more quietly, "I don't know if I can stand to watch you like that again—or, worse, lose you. You're...you mean too much to me, Doc." His expression is vulnerable; more so than Doc has seen in years; and, combined with the pain he's in, has him nodding.
"Alright," he says. "I—alright. I'm game."
The smile that unfurls across Wyatt's face is like a blossoming lotus, beautiful and oddly delicate; and he says, "As soon as you're cured, I'm going to kiss that wonderful mouth of yours, Doc."
"Oh, well, if that's all it takes to win a kiss from you," Doc says, feigning solemnity; and Wyatt bursts into laughter.
When it abates, his eyes are twinkling, and says, "We can go shopping, and you can pick out anything that suits your fancy, and then when we get home, you can get all dolled up while I make us dinner, and then afterwards I'll kiss you senseless."
Doc's heart feels fit to burst. "I'd like that rather much," he says; and takes Wyatt's hand in his own, squeezing it gently, just to watch his expression soften.