Rated M for attempted rape, time travel AU, swears.
"Well, I think it's high time the cunt pulled 'er weight 'round here—don't you, boys?"
Rousing, drunk chuckles are low in the hazy smoke of a dying fire, and a rustle of movement beyond the reach of flame makes you bolt to steely, upright attention. Blinking fiercely, your eyes water at the haze suddenly in the air—it's hot and thick, smoky in ways that burn down the back of your throat. The desert has ripped any moisture from your tongue—feels like a thirsty piece of jerky hanging out in your mouth. It nearly aches as you try to trace it over your front teeth, to feel something.
Hardly capable of words, your eyes snap to the man stepping over the fire. Twisted, stained fingers work at the buckle of his chaps sitting low on his waist, Ike Canton's gaze all but flickering with obsidian shadows as the fire's light snaps and pops. His tongue skates his lips, leaving behind a thick smear of alcohol-aided spit, and for a second you almost swear to God he's nearly frothing at the mouth.
Beard and mustache slick with the remains of whatever dinner the feral lot has managed, you attempt to angle backwards as he approaches, feet cutting a slow and deliberate path across the cragged earth to you. A swipe of his hand sends his hat back off his head, the string catching on his Adam's apple, which bobs as he stares down at you in the dirt . Your heart immediately kicks to life like a jackhammer, rattling your bones so deeply you fear for a moment your skeleton may crack in half.
Sweat erupts from every well of your skin and you skitter backwards like a frightened rabbit, fingers dragging across the desert floor in your scramble. Ringo's blanket has suddenly vanished from your shoulders, twisting with your heels biting in the dirt as pain rips through your fingertips—the bramble is merciless. Breath coming in short puffs as Ike all but glints down at you, darkness beyond the camp swallows you entirely. And as he steps beyond the light his face is lost to the night—newfound terror rips past your guts, through to your very soul. Like a starved lion tearing at the flesh of prey.
While you've been expecting this for some time, watching this group play cards and pass the time with full stomachs and loosening inhibitions, it suddenly doesn't matter. You'd at one point had a semblance of a plan—wait for them to pass out, steal a knife, cut Viper's hobble and get the hell out of here. Go anywhere, far and fast, it didn't even matter—anywhere is better than here in the desert with Ringo and Curly and their dimwitted sycophants.
You're so turned around, so exhausted, you can't even begin thinking in which direction Tombstone, or any populated area, would even be. But that's not a priority. Survival, getting away from the Cowboys, is all that matters. Or, rather had mattered—until right now. Right now passing breath through the mesh of your lungs, trying to calm your heart is the only thing you can manage as your eyes move from Ike to the distance between the two of you.
Simultaneously you're on fire and freezing cold as you scramble up, feet tangling over one another as you try to balance. Realizing you're shaking more than you want to be, you continue taking steps backward, eyes flitting anywhere that isn't Ike's grinning face—Curly and Billy are laughing behind him. Clapping each other on the shoulder, sharing a bottle of something between the two of them. But you barely register them, only able to feel the hot iron that cuts right through your middle when Ringo peers at you through the flames, blade of a knife cutting through a slice of jerky. Slipping it between his lips easily, he makes a show of eating it slowly—and you swear to God his lip curls into a smirk at the exact moment your eyes cut back to Ike, who has taken a few quick steps closer.
Like a startled rabbit, you dart beyond his grab. A frustrated grunt whistles past your ears before you rip away from him, sweat suddenly stings your eyes and pours down the length of your spine as if the fountain of youth has sprung eternal from the base of your neck. Your bones are nearly vibrating, maybe accounting for the horrible shake that's set into your hands. For a second you expect hot blood to slip from your ears, tracing down your neck, because you're fairly certain hot, thick blood is the only thing rushing through them at this point. Any other sound is missable, unclear. Like you're underwater but trapped in cement all at the same time.
Before there's any time for consequences, to actually think through your situation—you bolt. Break into a run like a racehorse out of the chute, the camp erupts. Shouting, the jingle of spurs and the rough slip of boots against the desert floor as Curly's men scramble from the reach of the firelight, in your direction. Unintelligibly drunk and wobbling, your ears are ringing. Tears bubble up like hot acid in your eyes but you swipe them away, trying to navigate the darkness—praying for Viper. That any of these shadow figures of horses are Viper.
Ike's voice rings forward in clashing tones, but you don't dare stop to discern what he's mumbling. Your hearing is all scrambled, the only thing tangible is the white-hot pain ripping through your fingers from your aching heart. Lungs screaming for air, you slip in among the stationed horses lazily investigating the desert floor for foliage. Able to feel their heart, their succumbed energy does little for your icy nerves—they startle a little when you rush by. Hooves raise dust clouds from the dry ground.
Boots against the earth is all you can hear, even as the horses snort and startle, their bodies moving through the night air almost unreal. Raw, a breath from sobbing, you skid to a stop in the dirt enough to heave a ragged, burning breath of air. It hurts. A stitch erupts beneath your ribs and pinches your eyes closed, and somehow you manage a ragged whisper for Viper. Hoping he raises his head at mention of his name, your hand folds against the zip of pain in your side, hoping pressure will ebb it away.
No such luck. Every step, every thunder of your heart behind your ribs stabs pain into your muscle. Face drawn into an agonizing wrinkle, Ringo's "Find her, you idiots!" cuts down your spine more than you thought possible—it's close. He's close. Closer than you anticipated, you come about swiftly, eyes skating wildly through the dark. Nothing but horses and the outline of shrubs, your head tips back just a second to consider the sky. Looking for landmarks in the sky, anything, you swallow a ragged breath—
—the quick arm that snaps around your waist pulls you back roughly. And you shriek with all the power God had intended in giving man vocal chords. It cuts cold through your bones all of a heartbeat for a thick hand claps over your mouth, hard, jerking you back even farther against what you can only assume is a thick, hard chest. Heels dragging the dust, your nails clawinto the arm around your middle. Tears spring forward, unfurled, and the sob that splits the back of your throat all but shatters any semblance of strength you have left.
Trying to fling forward, whoever is behind you wrestles you into compliance. A rough, stubbled cheek brushes against your cheek—there's sweat, cold and clammy against your skin. Yours or his, you're not sure, but the "Easy now, dahlin'," that you swear he's cooed into your ear sends a crack of electricity down the length of your spine like a whip. You know this voice, these arms—the cool slick of sickly, exhausted sweat that's become your own personal fetish. Lingering bites of mint and cigarette smoke swirl beneath your nose from his slightly-chapped lips, which skip along your jaw more than they should. Goosebumps rip down your arms, and you all but collapse backwards, slackjaw.
And suddenly your brain fires off like a pumping piston, with just one word over and over in the gears of your brain. Doc. Docdocdocdocdoc—
All at once you seize to an all stop, like brakes have been thrown on a pistoning locomotive cutting through the open air. Thoughts stop on the steel rails like brakes throwing sparks, ready to set wildfire to the rest of your resolve. Fear all but eviscerated, your claws retract from his arm, fingers instead curling into the muscle possessively, relieved.
Trapped beneath the ocean his words have flung into the atmosphere, your eyes attempting to find him as far to the periphery of your vision as possible—until they burn with pain. Reflexively your body relaxes just a hair, and you manage a little whimper beneath the thick hand clamped over your mouth like a brass weight. From the corner of your eye there's movement—Viper. It's Viper, quietly plodding toward you, beside someone.
"Find your feet for me, dahlin'—keep quiet, now." Smooth, dulcet tones are like bourbon against your ear, almost a chuckle as you nod beneath his hand, trying to understand. Hand easing up, he loosens the arm around your waist and gestures for you to turn around. And you don't need convincing.
Coming about on the ball of your foot, you almost send Doc Holliday staggering with the ferocity of which you wrap your arms around his neck, drawing him close for a fortress of a hug. One that blocks out the world, that erases the Arizona desert. Nose buried into the crook of his neck, you manage a withering squeak. Inhale a chest-heaving breath of his skin. Sweat, cigarettes, and the faintest hint of soap fill your chest, and you nearly melt into his ribs when his arm around your waist draws you close.
You manage an ungraceful cracking "Doc," as a greeting, which is more a sigh of relief than anything else. "You're here." It bleeds into a mewling little cry that you can't even begin to imagine holding back. You try not to sniffle into the shoulder of his immaculate duster, but tears have already stained his shoulder. Your lips part to speak again, but you forget anything resembling actual words.
The full thud of his heart falls against your breastbone, and it's the most beautiful feeling in the world. His breathing is more labored than the average man's, but it's suddenly the most gorgeous sound in the history of the world—you just want to hear him breathe. Feel him move, not let go. Your heart stops when his hand slips up your back to your shoulders, pressing you close. You realize you're trembling violently when his hand rubs down the length of your back. Gently his hand slips into the back pocket of your Wranglers, and you can almost feel his smile.
Every part of you is living color with him, in ways you didn't think possible. Any and all of his harsh words, of your argument hours before this, are carried away on the tuft of cool desert breeze that chases bumps across your skin. There's time to be angry yet, to hash open wounds. And there are wounds—deep ones. So deep you can almost smell them. But they're forgivable, all of them. Holliday will own your soul for this, you imagine—and there's not better torture you can think of.
He rests his head against yours, a little chuckle strangles around a soft cough. "That's the rumor," his arm squeezes you a little tighter, and he leans back enough to catch a glimpse of your face, "and you doubted I would come, dashing to your rescue? Nonsense. And here I up and assumed you were smarter than that, my dear." You don't miss the small smile, the glint in the light of his eyes. As missable as thunder.
Spurs tink against the dust, snap your gaze over his shoulder. Darkness bleeds out a man, also dressed in black, wide-brimmed hat casting even darker shadows over his features. But as he gets close, that stony, unmovable expression can only belong to one man—Wyatt. Wyatt Earp himself, from the pages of history books and Arizona legend, gazes at you with a shred of severity that doesn't last. As hard as it appeared it leaves, the corner of his mouth lifting in what you can only assume is a reassured, relieved tick.
Wyatt's mustache no more than twitches with the ghost of words and "Where the fuck is she!?" cuts through the air so severely that it makes you jump. Whirling away from Holliday, you backtrack a few steps beyond his reach, eyes blown wide at how close Brocius' words actually are. Breathing hard, gasping at the pain of your heart's pace, you manage an ungraceful grunt when Wyatt dips over to grab you around the shoulders, pulling you securely against his side.
Raw tears still trailblaze down your face, but you're not sure why—you can't feel anything.
And out of nowhere, three figures emerge—friendlies, by the way they consider you with a passing glance, moving like shadows. You know them by introduction only—Texas Jack, Turkey Creek Jack. Masterson's leading Viper with a sure hand, keeping the stud quiet. His face screws up in the cowboy-version of horror as his gaze sweeps over you. You don't blame him—sun baked, exhausted, hungry and covered in desert glitter, you're surely the sight. Breath tumbles down the back of your throat like fireballs as you nod to them, all but clinging to Wyatt's arm over your shoulder.
Rubbing your shoulder, Wyatt cuts you a serious look. "You holdin' up okay, pretty?" His hand is strong against your arm and you nod, trying to swallow the quiver you know is hanging out on the back of your tongue. He nods once, as if that is confirmation enough, and looks to Texas Jack. "Well, here we are boys. Anyone got ideas how to get the hell out of this mess? I'm open to suggestions."
"Quite reassuring," Doc manages with a strangled chuckle.
"I say we quit while we're ahead and make tracks before they're sober up 'nuff to think straight," Creek's voice is low as he checks the cylinder on his revolver, clicks it closed. His eyes consider you for a moment before he nods your way, eyes cutting between Holliday and Wyatt as if Earp isn't the hauncho of the search party—he always is. How Vermilion and Masterston tread lightly in his shadow says it well enough.
"Assumin' we can get her and that stud out of here without raisin' hell. Ma'am," his smile is weak, understanding. You nod, understanding—of this posse, you are the liability. And with no usable tack, riding through the desert–in the dark—at pace will be challenging enough. Assuming you can even keep tempo with Earp's immortals.
"Hell yes to that—any amount of desert we put between us'n them is fine by me," Masterson cuts in, his voice barely contained above a hard whisper. Nudging the rope he's managed around Viper's head to step the stud forward, you all but melt as you step out from Wyatt's arm to the Clydesdale. Accepting the rope from Viper, Masterson's hand lingers around the small of your back, properly. "Hope you weren't too attached to any of your gear, ma'am,"
You are—the saddle is beyond expensive, but it hardly matters. Viper's head dips low as you press your palm to the blaze on his face, fingers curling into his slick coat as you nuzzle him warmly. Nothing appeals to you more than just disappearing into his chocolate coat, into the darkness more. Tears of relief—that he's alive, the two of you are reunited and safe, raises fresh tears of emotion to your eyes.
Nodding, you press your forehead against Viper's. "It's okay," you manage, "it's just tack." Masterston nods his understanding and disappears around the draft, back into the darkness he bled from. The twist and moan of leather tells you someone has mounted, and within seconds he's guided his mare up beside Viper, rope twisting about his hands to create a makeshift bridle and reins.
Masterson tosses the contraption to you, nods wordlessly, and brings his horse about at the sound of noise. "We gotta move," he hisses over his shoulder, "should really get—" And Viper's head, along with Masterson's mare, are suddenly in the air, ears twitching in the direction of what can only be movement.
"Well," ice shoots through your veins, rattling up the back of your spine to spike painfully into your temple at the familiar drawl. Drunkenly slurred, the soft ting of spurs on the dirt has you white-knuckling Viper's main as you work the headstall into place. Ringo's chuckle is all but devilish as he bleeds into the periphery, starting Masterson's horse enough to make her snort. "Seems I found me a desert flower in 'mong some rats after all," he takes his time ogling you before his eyes drag over to Wyatt, who is crossed to grab your arm with purpose. "You ride all the way out here to take back some deranged whore, Kansas man?"
"You're damn right I did," Earp's tone is spiteful. Chilled. Venomous as he nods for you to mount, swiftly. "Last I checked, kidnapping and horse thieving were more than hangin' offense, Ringo." Offering you a lift, you swing onto Viper bareback, gathering your reins tightly as Masterson moves in beside you, his mare sending Viper back a few steps. "Don't test me, Ringo."
"I'm afraid he won't get the chance, Wyatt."
Somehow, Holliday has managed to slip from the ether over Ringo's shoulder. Like a perfectly precise phantom he bleeds up behind Ringo on otherworldly-light feet, duster not even managing a rustle. His spurs don't even sing as he plants, flat-footed, square behind the man, whose slow grin is also Chesire with amusement. Holliday's howitzer makes that unmistakable click that has Ringo chuckling, amusedly.
"You move light for a hackin' lunger," he shakes his head, eyes flicking up from the desert floor to consider you, smile broadening at the blown-wide look in your eye, "seems you were right, desert flower. More of a man than I reckoned,"
"You'll do well to keep such sweet nothings to your little lonesome, Johnny Ringo." The edge in Doc's voice is unmissable—blade sharp. Amused, but poignant. Like at any moment his tongue is ready to lash Ringo into obedience, though contempt might get to him first. "What a fine surprisethis is, though. Fine indeed—well, fine as can be expected, I suppose, out here in the bramble and piss-all of Satan's playground." Chin lifting superiorly, Doc shifts his shoulders, the corner of his lips ticking a little with a pleased smirk, "Regar'less, seems you've managed yourself into what belongs to me after all—and you do know how poorly I take to losin' what belongs to me, John."
It's so unbelievably Doc. What belongs to him? The thought strikes hot like an iron against your chest, but swells with unmistakable pride as you preen, chin lifting as Ringo's glare blows wide. Peering down at him from the massive height of Viper's full 17 hands, you gently nudge the Clyesdale forward. Angling, you smirk down at Ringo, lean over Viper's shoulder, and manage as much saliva as possible right into Ringo's haughty, lustful face.
"Now dahlin', you know that isn't proper," Doc is all but chuckling over Ringo's shoulder as he step forcefully
forward, muzzle burying deep between the bones of Ringo's shoulder, "but, I suppose, under the circumstances—-"
"I've never been proper," your brow lifts into a smirk at the darkness that passes through Ringo's obsidian eyes, "apologies for your image, Mr. Holliday." Finger sliding under the string of Ringo's hat, you flick it from around his neck easily, dropping it on your own head possessively as you settle into Viper's warmth with a smirk. "Many thanks, Mr. Ringo. Kindly do us all a favor—go fuck yourself."
A few of the posse struggle to contain their laughter, though Holliday looks more amused than the rest of them. "Well—that's that," Doc shakes his head, forcing Ringo forward a step with a nudge of the iron at his shoulders, "Mr. Masterson, if you'd please—see the lady on her way, back to town. I'll be along to collect her once I finish my game here with Mr. Ringo." There's no room for debate in his tone, whatsoever. It's an order—-I'll fetch you in the morning.
Wyatt's hand claps onto your thigh, gives a light pat. Staring down at him, he peers at you from beneath the brim of his hat with a little smirk that says everything—and also nothing—of the rest of tonight's affairs.
"Get movin', sweetheart," he nods once—go. The silent order. No questions, "Think you can keep up with Masterson?" He lightly shoves at Viper's nose, which has angled around to nuzzle him softly, "Not to done in, is he?"
"He's fine," you insert swiftly. Viper is hefty, but he's all muscle. Peering over at Holliday, you try to keep the concern etched deep into your very being as neutral on your expression as possible, but Ringo's lips curling back in a wicked grin say everything words will never have to. "I don't sleep until I see you, Holliday. Remember that." Looking back to Wyatt, "That goes double for you, Earp."
"Then get a move on and don't waste the moon, my dear." It flows like honey. Bites like the wolf at the door. His meaning is all too clear. Hell has come to the deserts of Arizona, and his name is Doc Holliday.
Cheek snugged up the barrel of a stone-cold shotgun, clear as the day is long, he's unmovable. Planted like a fortress. For a moment, Doc's eyes track over to you. The relief on his face is not lost to you, though you're grateful Ringo is only left to speculate the other man's expression as he arches away from the pressure Doc's feeding into his spine.
With a firm nod, Doc's attention welds to the back of Ringo's skull once again, and Wyatt steps away with a firm nod, reaching into his pocket for a wild rag. Stuffing it down Ringo's throat, a punch to the gut sends the man to his knees. You watch his knees hit paydirt all too swiftly before Masterson's mare steps between you and the sight.
"Let's haul," Masterson says quietly, gathering his mare. "Like he said. Wastin' light."
Nodding for you to take point, he nudges at the mare's sides with his heels. You bring Viper around a bit too roughly, in the opposite direction of Doc and Wyatt. And it takes intensive willpower not to look back, even if it would be all too easy.
And by the time you make Tombstone, you wonder just how many souls the devil has taken with him.
XxxX
Something vibrates up into your skull and snaps you from the arms of sleep altogether too roughly. Starting up in bed, you scramble up to your elbow and reach for—-well, air. Your finger breeze through no more than air as you try to blink the sleep crusted in your eyes, to consider the bedside table. There's nothing there, just a table, and you aren't really sure what you expected to be there to begin with as your eyes flit to the door.
"Darling, it's me—Kate." Kate's dialect is unmistakable on the other side of the heavy slab of door, her knocks firm and shooting up through the floorboards, through the wrought-iron bed to the ache currently splitting your temple. With a groan you roll onto your back, arm covering your swollen and aching eyes as you attempt to massage life back into them, aggressively. "Wyatt has sent coffee, and breakfast. You really should eat something."
As if in agreement, your stomach manages a rolling growl that you can nearly feel in your spine as you nod to the emptiness in the room, as if Kate can actually see your response. Throat on fire and half closed from exhaustion, your fingers trace the length of it as you force yourself to sit up, legs swinging over the side of the bed. They find the hard, rough floorboards and you stand, pain ripping up your legs to your hips—you stabilize against the bed frame, wincing at the sensation.
You don't remember being this sore from riding, ever. Suppose that's what a thousand-plus dollar saddle is for, two more sharp knocks have Kate sighing, agitated. Wincing, you manage over to the door, pull the lock, and open it slowly—and certainly enough it is indeed Kate, dressed magnificently in blood reds and midnight blacks enough to make even the daylight question its own purpose. Her eyes shoot up from where she's considering the lace at her bosom, and she offers you a cool, unbothered smile.
"Hi Kate," you manage softly, eyes shooting to the steaming cup of caffeine in her hand. Reaching for it, she hands it off to you and you take no chances—sipping at the near-boiling liquid, it immediately burns at the tip of your tongue, but chases nicely down the length of your throat. Nearly groaning into the steaming bitterness, she extends you the porcelain plate and fork, which you accept. "Thank you."
Her smile is blade thin. "Doc is alive," leave it to Kate to cut straight to the chase, "you'll be happy to hear, I'm sure. Wyatt and his associates, as well. Virgil is recovering quite well with his wife, though his arm is good for nothing." The updates are clipped, mandated by someone, you're sure, that isn't Kate herself—she folds her arms over her chest, brow popped as you sip loudly at the steam rolling from the coffee, peering at her carefully. "Not to be, well—-rude, darling, but you look miserable. Your….clothes." Finger wagging over you, she shakes her dead dismally, "We thought you were dead."
You manage a bereft snort. "Not dead," your brow wrinkles a little, "and my horse? Viper?"
Rolling her eyes, Kate steps back from the doorway. "Boarded up at the stables, with the rest. Wyatt has been taking time with him. Beautiful creature." Brushing her fingers along the lace of her sleeves, she manages a wistful sigh, "I will tell Doc that you're awake, and taken food. He'll want to see you." Her brow pops again, her eyes dripping down your rumpled, half-awake state. "I would say you have time to change, but, Doc is not a man who much minds anyone's time."
"I'm sure I'll manage," offering her a smile, "thank you for the coffee. It's appreciated, Kate."
"Yah," her accent shines through at the exaggerated drawl before she steps from the door, swiftly waving over her shoulder, "I will send Doc to you when I see him." And that's that, she drips down the twisting staircase like something from a dream, her frittering laces and satins all but vanishing from sight until you hear her rough dialect bark across the floor downstairs, greeting some familiar faces or another.
Nudging the door closed with your toe, you plop back into bed to finish your coffee and the simple breakfast. It may as well be Michelin the way you nearly lick the plate clean, stomach all but rolling in delight with the prospect of food. Setting the plate and coffee aside, you slip back down to the stuffing of the bed, melting into the cool sheets a little farther until you're within heartbeats of falling back into the sinfully quiet arms of sleep. You could sleep a dozen years and still not be rid of the ache at your temples.
A heavy sigh puffs out your cheeks as you settle in, arms wrapped around one of the bed's fripperies when the door rattles again with two, sure knocks. Startling, you bolt upright in bed for half a second before you sink back against the headboard, groaning a little—it'll be Doc. True to his word, he wasn't mindful of other people's time. It wasn't in his character—a glance across the room to the mirror in the corner blows your eyes wide.
Embarrassed heat races up your neck to the tips of your ears. Pressing your palms to your cheeks, Kate was pretty accurate—-you do look miserable. Face smeared with dirt and sweat, your shirt and jeans look as if they're ready to stand up and protest on their own. You're sunburned, though you can't really feel past the headache in your skull, and even from here your eyes are red-rimmed and exhaust-ridden. You feel better than you look, though, but your eyes flutter closed all the same as two more strong knocks hit the door, again.
"It isn't locked," you call forward. Instantly the knob twists as you fall back against the headboard, rubbing at your eyes with your fingertips. Stifling a yawn, you offer a cool smile to Doc Hollliday standing in your doorway, duster draped over his shoulder by a finger, in what can only appear to be a fresh vest and shirt, clean trousers. Even his boots are immaculately shined—and by the looks of things he's seen the barber, face all but shining. Fingers floating down your cheek, the brush of his scruff against your cheek as he held you still burns a little too pleasurably against the line of your jawbone. In the crook of his arm something is wrapped in butcher paper, and you have a pretty fair idea of what.
"Good morning," you tease a little smirk at him. "You look well, Doc." And it isn't a lie. He looks ravishing, almost immaculate. But Holliday oozes a charm most men could only ever hope to achieve, even with a foot in the grave. Just in his nature. Cool as a Sunday evening, sharp as a tack. That was Holliday—and history would remember this about him, even in all its adaptations. You could never forget him, will never forget him—if never delivers you from his reach, anyway.
He chortles, brows lifting matter-of-factly. "I look well because the morning has long since come and gone, dahlin'," his smile is slow, knowing, "you're heartbeats away from evening, my dear—slept the day clear away, and you didn't even stir. Not even a sound." Shaking his head, his lips twist into an amused line, "Where you're from, that must be quite the affair."
If he only knew. Sleeping until noon was commonplace in the 21st century, something this time period probably couldn't fathom—by noon, half the day was truly gone. Life hinged on early rising. You don't get up, you don't eat. It was a fact you'd learned fairly quickly. Even Doc, a man with prestige and money and the most insouciant approach to his days still got up with the sun. To drink and recover from a hangover, but with the sun, no doubt.
His fingers smooth over the moustache shadowing his upper lip. For some reason, it sends a botl of wild pleasure up your spine, which sounds off with a lascivious smile. "You afraid I'll bite or something, Holliday? You make a better door than a window," you tease, situating cross-legged in the center of the bed. "And I'm willing to bet a fair amount that you've got something for me." The mention of a gamble lights up his eyes, and your brow lifts as your elbow drops to your thigh, chin plopping in-palm.
You offer your brightest smile, which makes him hum. "What did I tell you about makin' deals with devils, young lady?" It's a rhetorical question that sends a pang of heat low to the center of your gut, the reverberations of his drawl all but rendering your spine into a gelatinous mass, "You shouldn't play games you aren't likely to win, ma'am."
Calling you ma'am sends a burst of heat to your face, and you shake your head. Waving him inside, you roll your eyes flirtatiously and shift on the bed, dragging your hair over your shoulder. Beginning to pull it into a loose braid, you chuckle at him, "Don't just stand there, Doc. Get in here." Crooking a finger, you bid him come with a slow smile.
"The lady doth protest," his brows wags a little suggestively. And you know exactly what he wants, given the way his gaze lingers on your mouth, takes his time considering the length of your throat. But Holliday is a cunning man—he likely hasn't forgotten the events that had spurred you out of his arms the day before.
It isn't that you've forgotten either—the argument is still there. It matters. It simmers, like a dust-crawling rattler. Waiting to strike with one wrong step. And the events of yesterday have left you raw, flayed—ripped parts of you open that you're not sure sleep and a few flirtatious looks can stitch back together. There will be a time to continue the argument—and you will. Tenacity demands as much. But reality has left its mark, and you aren't quite ready to navigate the path back to what existed yesterday. Would much rather exist here, in this room, blissfully unaware of life's demands and drawing off room service for the foreseeable hours.
Doc's light eyes take their time over your face, the cut of your filthy jeans and how they're likely soiling the linens of the room. How the t-shirt leaves not nearly enough to the imagination than this century would usually allow. Your messed hair, the dark circles under your eyes. Sunburn lighting up your skin like you've been painted a piglet pink. There's a hundred things about you right now that are the stark contrast to beautiful, but Holliday doesn't look at you like he sees them. He just looks. At you. Not through you, not exactly at you, but—considerably. He studies. And he makes a show of it, doesn't try to hide it.
Not shying from holding your gaze with his own, every bit of moisture you may have hoped for in your mouth all but evaporates when his gray eyes all but gleam with darkness. That wolfish lasciviousness is back, calm and cool like a dagger—it's the same look that Ringo had given you. Well, the same intention is written there, but with Doc it is different altogether. He doesn't have a thief's eyes, like he wants to destroy or probe or take. He wants something from you, but the expression in his eyes says he wants you to give it to him—he wants to share it. Create something worth exploring, worth giving and actually taking together.
Keening, you bite the inside of your cheek. It would be a lie for you to say you didn't want to share, didn't want to give him what he's so willing to accept from you. You've wanted this since that first night at the theatre, when Kate had looked so beautifully and you'd felt so—different. Doc had looked at you and the world had emptied of meeting. Life itself changed form. Time itself had dripped down the cragged rocks of circumstance, into a raging river of nothing but him. You had cursed Kate, thought little more of tying her to a wild horse and sending her out among the wolves.
From the jump, he'd consumed you—transfixed you like some kind of hypnotist. On purpose. Doc Holliday played wild and unhinged games, games without rules, and he had played you like a hand of poker. You'd thought you'd had the upper hand, the ace in the hole—cards to play up your sleeve. But when it came to putting everything on the table, he knew. Knew and called your bluff—tried to tell you everything you though you knew, and had bested you.
Knocked your pride flat backwards, off your high horse—and from the pedestal of your own upper hand you'd crashed and burned. "You play games you're not prepared to win, my dear—-and damn you, you're quite good. But you can't pretend to slip aces from the man who's got 'em all, dahlin'." No amount of batting your lashes, smiling pretty, or sashaying away had rattled him. But Doc was a dying man, not much scared him—"Tell me you won't dance this dance, sing this song—you tell me, with your own words, that you ain't playin' games and aren't enamored with me, and I'll believe you. I'll take it to my grave—but don't play games if you aren't ready to draw, dearest."
And it was true, he was right. You weren't ready to tell him you loved him. Not then, maybe not even now— he'd called you out. And you despised the ease of which he'd so easily brushed it off and laughed about it, kicking back on the barber's front porch like it was just another Sunday easy. Dismissed you like you were little more than the horse you'd come in on, and you'd despised him for it. Had told him so. Rushing to retrieve Viper, you'd needed out of Tombstone, out from beneath his ostentatious, knowing gaze—couldn't bear another second breathing the same air as Doc Holliday.
Your eyes break first, and Doc's tongue clicks off the inside of his cheek, as if he's read your mind. Relived the same scene, peered past your ribs and into your heart. Looking pleased with the rush of color on your face, his eyes lid to half-mast when he sweeps his hat off his head, making a show of bending at the waist in compliance to your order.
He moves gracefully, like an easy wind against the desert—graceful, with movement, but power. Poignant. A little scarlet color has returned to his features—Doc looks well, as compared to the night before. And you wonder if he's rested at all since arriving back, or instead just an expert at concealing his own weaknesses. History tells you it's the latter more than the former, but the idea he's been up, away from much-needed rest because of you sits like a hard stone in the bottom of your chest.
Slipping into the room on light feet, he barely upsets the boards of the floor. Deposits his duster and hat in the room's chair, shifts the parcel in the crook of his arm. Hands brushing over the sleeve of his crisp, white shirt, he turns and tosses the parcel on the bed at your feet with little more than a flick of his wrist. Thumbs finding the pockets of his trouser, his smile is coy.
He wants to discuss last night. That much you see in his face, but you know he won't beat a dead horse. "Let me guess," you flick the partial braid over your shoulder, stretching for the brown paper he's deposited to the bed. Crinkling as you pull it on your lap, your fingers skim over it easily as Holliday moves to nudge the door closed with the toe of his boot, "my usual Wranglers and a cotton shirt are too much to hope for?"
Doc's amusement is evident as he draws out a cigarette, lights it, and takes a full drag. Instantly the room ignites with the warm tones of the cigarette, and you unfurl the paper. Sure enough, it isn't what you expect—but it isn't standard either. Your brow lifts a little at the trousers and the cotton shirt, before looking at him with a full, blown-wide expression of surprise. "Not exactly cosmopolitan," you insert.
This makes him laugh. "You hardly fit the description, I think you'll agree," and he's right. Again. "You'll forgive the forwardness—between Kate and Virgil's darling little thing of a wife, I do believe you'll find them to your liking. Be warned, however—folks around here won't hide their goggling." His brows lift as he drags the cigarette again, removing it from his lips to offer you a thin smile, "But I don't precisely believe you mind too terribly."
You make a teasing face before rocking up from the bed, clothing tucked under your arm. "Aren't you so perceptive, Doctor?" Your tone is playfully mocking before you brush by him, to the mirror in the corner of the room. Glancing out the partially-opened window, you take a breath of the fresh air before checking over your shoulder—he's moved to the bed, stretching out on it, feet crossed. Back against the headboard, you don't miss the weight of his condition rolling off his shoulders when he closes his eyes for another chestful of his cigarette. More sweat than you'd noticed before has dotted his brow, and you are quick to look away from him.
"So what's my prognosis, Doctor," you chime, changing the subject quickly, "am I cleared from bedrest, or would you require me to stay locked up in this room like some kind of ward?" Turning from him, you bend to remove your boots from your feet, heavily.
"Quite amusing—as if you'd actually listen to what I have to say, dahlin'," he tsks, and you don't have to find him staring at your ass to know that he is—you could feel that from Mars, you think. "I suppose I'm deranged, but—-I reckon if you're well enough to eat, and talk back to me like the spoiled thing you are, you're well enough to resume whatever duties and responsibilities may come your direction."
There is a distinct innuendo that's lost in the words, but you ignore it. You chuckle, offering him a sparkling smile. Instead, "Deranged?" You make a show of pondering the statement, eyes rolling to the ceiling, "An interesting choice of words, Doc. I don't think you're deranged nearly as much as I think you just like the sound of the word." Standing, you kick your boots to the wall, toe off your socks.
You find your next words very carefully. Softly, "Thank you, by the way," toying with the end of your braid, you move to the end of the wrought-iron bed frame and wrap your fingers around the cool irons. Shifting to your toes, you make a point to stare him in the eye. He's about to ask you why when you stop him, quickly. "I owe you and Wyatt a great deal. You came for me when you had no reason to, not after—-" your jaw burns with the apology, "—-I wasn't exactly kind to you, John. Would've been well within your rights to leave me to my own stupidity."
Pondering expressions pass over his face. He doesn't move, the cigarette just burns to ash between his fingers for a few heartbeats. Heat has leapt into the room like a lion gunning for the throat, leaving sweat racing through the ravine of your spine. White knuckling the bed frame, you gnaw on your bottom lip as the words just hang there, in the ether of his gaze. Doc spins the words around the tongue skipping over the front of his teeth, smacks his lips together, and makes a deliberate show of outing his cigarette on the headboard before folding his hands across his abdomen. Smirking. Looking pleased with the apology, with the sheepishness you've offered him. Greedy bastard.
"Well. I'm not sure whether to be flattered or humbled, my dear—correct me if I'm wrong, but, do I dare spy an apology hiding somewhere in there?" Brows lifting in exaggerated surprise, you roll your eyes and push off the bed frame, the olive branch you've extended all but eviscerated under the icy tones of his jibe. He's smirking, chortling at you with a knowing whit, "Hell must be freezin' over as we speak."
"You are such an asshole," you mutter, grabbing for the hem of your shirt. "You know what? Forget I said anything, Holliday. I wouldn't apologize to you if hell or high water came and smacked me upside the head—ungracious prick." Pride all but combusting, he dares to laugh at you as you rip your t-shirt over your head, balling it between your hands to toss in the corner of the room. Wrangling into the other one, it's a size too large, but the looseness of it feels marvelous against sunburned, near-boiling skin.
Grabbing the rest of the clothes from the floor, you go to stalk to the door on heavy, angry feet. Pinning him with a severe look, you almost are slackjaw with the unbothered expression on his face. Like he's expected this reaction, has timed it to the absolute second, "I'm leaving," you announce for some reason or another, mouth twisting around semblances of an explanation why that doesn't quite arrive. Then, after a few gaping moments like a fish beyond water, you add, "I'll pay you for the room and clothes," though you're not exactly sure how, at the precise minute.
Ripping open the door, you're about to stalk through it when Doc is on his feet, slamming it closed with a firm hand. Towering over you, his expression is all but stony—firm in an attempt to reason. You realize all too quickly it's his poker face, the one you've seen half a dozen times in the day's you've been here, one that's unreadable and unmissable. And your heart kicks behind your ribs when he grabs your arm, forces you back against the door.
"That will not be necessary," the words rumble around his chest, strangling with the attempt to hold back a cough. Sweat has all but soaked the collar of his shirt. His breathing is a little rougher than it had been minutes ago, and his eyes are fierce as they pin your blown-wide ones, pointedly. "And I'm not quite through with you yet, dahlin'—"
"You're not anything with me," you manage back, with a bite. "You've made that quite clear—"
"I beg to diffah," the slow drawl is nearly growling as he steps closer, hand still firmly planted on the door. The other lifts to box you between him and the slab of wood behind you, and instantly your stomach flips with something you're not sure of. Withering back against the door, he is within breathing distance—within kissing distance. Immediately your tongue burns with the taste of what you've already had of him, your toes all but curling on the floor, "We started a game we've yet to finish. And I always intention to finish what I start."
Your brows shoot into the air. Scoffing, you sink back against the door and it takes immaculate willpower to hold back an eye roll. "Is that right?" Shoving at his shoulder, you send Holliday back a half step, brows furrowed telling as you step forward, nearly into his chest. "Well, you can intention all you like, Holliday, but I am not so easily—"
Gunslinger speed has him crowding you against the door in a stroke of lightning, a bruising kiss ripping a squeak of air from the back of your throat as your head knocks hard against the wood. And before you know what exactly has happened, you're fisting the material of his fest with white-knuckles, fingers carding through his slicked hair as his hand presses hard along the back of your neck, forcing you forward against his mouth even harder.
And he is divine in all the ways history leaves out—the contrast of cigarette and whiskey on his tongue is all but dizzying as your tongue slips past the seam of his mouth, rolling against his like you've never felt. Doc's chapped lips, his cool and feverish skin are so at odds with the absolute burning inferno that simmers beneath your flesh that it almost sends you keening.
You all but moan into his mouth when he bites at your bottom lips, and the idea of his consumption doesn't even register in the back of your head until his mouth moves down the line of your jaw, hotly, to vein throbbing in your neck. A full, searing kiss to your flesh as you whimpering. Collapsing back against the door, you almost forget your legs keeping you upright.
His hands move with all the haste and ferocity of a man not on death's front door, and he has the shirt you'd donned moments before off of you and at his feet within minutes, if not seconds. Like a pro, he doesn't even break his stride. Preening beneath the rough care he's giving your neck, you pull him forward, against your chest, an arm slipping around his neck as you fold against him with an uneven, greedy whine.
Fingers curling into the defined muscle of his shoulder, your other hand pushes at his shoulder, sending him back for a breath. Refusing to break contact, his mustache is divine as he drags his mouth up the length of your throat, chapped lips pulling against your skin perfectly enough that it tips your head back against the door. Eyes floating closed, he pays careful attention to the hollow of your throat, the sunburn from the v-cut of your t-shirt. It burns in the most delicious way, and you gnaw pleasurably on your bottom lip. One of his hands plays at the waistband of your jeans like they are ivory keys. Suddenly all too aware of the emptiness between your legs that it aches, your brow furrows when he traces a finger up the inside of your thigh.
He chuckles at the look on your face. "Greedy little thing, aren't you?" He likes the sound of it and frick ifyou're not within a breath of slapping that tone right out of his mouth, "Tell me, my dear—would you still like to continue this game of fire irons, or would you rather try your hand at another hand entirely?" Angling his head, his lips skip along your jaw to your ear, "I'll be happy to explain the rules, dahlin',"
You manage a groaning chuckle before you draw him back to your mouth, purposefully. "To hell with you, Doc," you try not to smile against his mouth, into every one of the hard kisses he captures you with, "Kate was right. You really are the devil," it's a pathetic argument, not more than a whine when he grabs a fistful of your hair, forces your head back, and all but glints into your mouth with a keening, knowing smirk.
"You should be so lucky," the chuckle is all too dark, but agreeable, "now. About this game, my dear—let me show you how to play."